Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE OLD INSTITUTE BELL. 
lines; which I take to be compliment enough for 
any brooklet not swollen with vanity. 
But Cossack has moved on, and now looks back 
as if to ask, “ Have you forgotten the Azaleas?”— 
True, we started out in search of Azaleas, and it 
is full time we pass on; but I expect that Cossack, 
like his betters, has mingled motives, and that a 
certain repast at the hour of high-noon, though 
“ lost to sight ” is still “ to memory dear.” 
Allons, brave comrade!—and now for the full 
glories of that sweet, love-flushed flower, the wild 
Azalea. b. 
the skies, or he will prefer to fold his pinions in 
the vale of Indolence rather than spread them for 
“ the upward flight.” 
And in all our intercourse with children, it 
would be well for us to remember that their feel¬ 
ings are but our own, with a tropical growth of 
luxuriance. The sun shines warmer on the plains 
of childhood than away up on the mountain-tops 
of maturity! the flowers of hope which spring 
there, although, perhance, more tender and tran¬ 
sient, have deeper tints, and yieldaricher, sweeter 
fragrance; the birds of joy that warble there are 
melodious, and wear a brighter plumage; 
are the serpents of passion 
Silent and still is the oldggchool bell, 
Hushed are the peals of its musical strain, 
Notes that the heart of the student would thrill 
With joy and new life will awake not again. 
We have loved the old school-house for scenes of the 
past, 
For the friends who have died that were once gather¬ 
ed there, 
For the bright happy hours, for the hopes that they 
cast, 
For the walls that long echoed the accents of prayer. 
But the time-hallowed form we shall see never more, 
Yet its influence sweet in each spirit will dwell, 
And its image will live for long years in the soul, 
While fond mem’ry shall hear the old Institute bell. 
Tho’ the gondolier’s notes are so sweet on the river 
When ’tis night on the waters, thy music is still, 
But when night on life’s ocean our spirits will ever 
Still hear the sweet sound of the Institute bell. 
Farewell, then, old school-house! another can never 
Fill the void in our hearts that was once filled by 
thee; 
In our joys, in our griefs, thou hast cradled us ever, 
As the sea-bird has slept on the tempest-lulled sea. 
Yet a soul was within thee that never can perish, 
And thine influence pure for long ages shall dwell; 
While the East and the West thy remembrance shall 
cherish— 
Till the sun has gone down on life's mountains — 
Farewell. 
Nunda, N. Y., 1559. Lyra. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
SABBATH MUSINGS. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
KIND HEARTS. 
“Thou fool, that which thou sowest is not quickene4 
except it dies.”—Corinthians xv.: S6. 
TnE beauteous bud, so fair to human eye, 
Unblossomed yields not fruit or flower, 
As hopes In life are often wont to die, 
So fades this beauty of an hour 
And yields not seed to propagate its race, 
Nor leaves a tablet of its lowly grace. 
The Christian sou!, like modest rose in bloom, 
Unconscious of its jewels rare, 
Yielding rich fragrance in the sick man’s room, 
Sweet foretaste of the upper air f 
Sows its good seed upon earth’s weedy soil, 
And we regret when death shall end its toil. 
The heart, like stream whose pearly waters flow 
Towards the ocean of its rest, 
Encircled in its winter's ice and snow, 
Forever would remain nnblest, 
Did God not kiss it with his warming light, 
And bid it leave its dark and wretched night. 
The eve, which moon adorns not with her smile 
To guide our spirit on its way, 
Without a star to light the weary mile, 
And strengthen hope beyond decay; 
Indeed ! would be a sad and sorry sight 
If morn should gild it not with golden light 
And thus with mortals, they who do good deeds, 
And make the darkest spot most fair, 
Sow in the field of Christ immortal seeds 
Which blossom in this world of care, 
But ripen not and are not garnered in 
Till death shall free them from their earthly sin. 
Dedham. Mass., 1859. E. W. K. 
I more 
: and so also, perchance, 
l which lurk there more ready to inflict their poison. 
| For all this we should make aliowauce, and not 
attempt their government altogether by our own 
j cold standard, but we should go back to the child- 
j years of our own lives, think of their smiles and 
i their tears, think how the one, gushing into our 
heart like the Spring’s early sunshine, was as 
quickly followed by the other as the weepings of 
April dispel it—think how, to our inexperienced 
minds, there was no happiness like our happiness 
and no sorrow like our sorrows. We should go 
back again, and feeling how love was a full cup of 
gladness to our hearts, and unkindness the bit¬ 
terest draught that we could drink, govern gently, 
govern lovingly, govern svmpathizingly, with the 
full belief, that, as a general thing, 
“ He who checks a child with terror, 
Stops its play and stills its song, 
Not alone commits an error, 
But a great and moral wrong.” 
We may prune and direct the vine we have 
planted, but let us be careful lest by a too free use 
of the former means—efficacious if used prudently 
to promote a noble growth—we destroy its vigor. 
One or two severe applications might be useful, 
but five or ten might prove its ruin. One may be too 
strict in family government, as others are far too lax, 
insisting upon uprightness 
Let but the heart be beautiful 
And I care not for the face, 
I heed not that the form may want 
Pride, dignity, or grace. 
Let the mind be filled with glowing thoughts 
And the soul with sympathy, 
And I care not if tire cheek be pale, 
Or the eye lack brilliancy. 
What though the cheek be beautiful, 
It soon must lose its bloom; 
The eye's bright lustre soon will fade 
In the dark and silent tomb ; 
But the glory of the mind will live, 
Though the joyous life depart, 
And the magic charm can never die 
Of a true and noble heart. 
The lips that utter gentle words 
Have a beauty all (heir own, 
And more I prize a kindly voice 
Than music’s sweetest tone ; 
And though its sounds are harsh or shril!, 
If the heart within beats free, 
And echoes back each glad impulse, 
’Tis all the world to me. 
Northvillc, Mich., 1859. M. M. C 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
SURAL LIFE. 
Ix the simple life of the farmer there is, per¬ 
haps, more happiness, usefulness, and content¬ 
ment than among any other class of people. 
Many are unaware of this fact, and often the tiller 
of the soil feels discontented with his calling, and 
envies the lot of others whom he deems more for 
tun ate in the choice of an occupation than himself. 
But he who entertains this opinion is unacquainted 
with the high station to which he has been called. 
Man was appointed to it before he was compelled 
to roam on account of sin ; for when the framer of 
the universe first fashioned this beauteous world, 
and everything therein, according to his divine 
pleasure and pronounced it good, he created man 
in the image and after the likeness of himself, and 
placed him in the delightful Garden of Eden “to 
dress it and keep it.” 
If we would seek for the nearest approach to 
that Eden from which man was expelled, where 
would we find it sooner than in a rural site, the 
abode of some peaceful aud happy farmer, whose 
domain is his empire, and whose greatest pleasure 
is the right cultivation of his fields and the embel¬ 
lishment of his home. Go to yonder cottage, sur¬ 
rounded by trees planted either for utility or 
ornament, and there you will behold the abode of 
Industry—the home of Cheerfulness and Content¬ 
ment. Here we see marks of thrift and prosperity 
—always the result of labor properly directed and 
cheerfully performed. He rises with the dawn, 
and, as he walks over his fields smiling with beau¬ 
ty and presenting the appearance of a rich and 
bountiful harvest, sees more to raise his thoughts 
and feelings, and to give him a just conception of 
Nature and her beauty, than he who, living in the 
city and shut in by human crowds, would see in a 
whole lifetime, did he always remain pent up in 
his prison. He sees the glorious sunrising—the 
innumerable diamonds of dew scattered upon 
every blade of grass, sparkling amid his glittering 
rays—the fields clothed with their mantles of ver¬ 
dure—the meadows covered with the blossoming 
clover—all about are “colors that please and 
charm the eye,” and upon his ear falls the sweet 
music of the feathered songsters issuing forth in 
the joyful notes. No other occupation is better 
adapted to him who is the lover or student of Na¬ 
ture. His life is with her, surrounded on every side 
by her works, from which he may read instruction 
in every object. 
But the farmer’s life is one of incessant toil and 
labor. Each hand is employed—idleness finds no 
home here. From one season to another new la¬ 
bors present themselves from which there is no 
respite; but from being habituated to them he 
learns to love them, so that, instead of their being 
a task, they become a pleasure, lie follows the 
plow behind his “smoking team” round after 
round, as the sun ascends the heavens and moves 
on until it sinks behind the western horizon. 
Through the long and sultry days of harvest he 
swings the glittering scythe, and in the autumn¬ 
time husks the yellow corn. 
In every age the farm has been the birthplace, or 
the farmer’s life the chosen occupation of men who 
have reached the eminence of distinction. Cin¬ 
cinnati's, the savior, at one time, of the Roman 
Commonwealth, sighed to leave his little fields for 
the dictatorship of the “ Mistress of the World.” 
Washington, after fighting with the enemies of 
his country and gaining its freedom—after presid¬ 
ing for eight years as its Chief Magistrate, retired 
to liis peaceful farm home, aud there passed the 
remainder of his days. It has ever been “the 
nursery of great men.” Orators and statesmen, 
poets and scholars, have had their early training 
in its school. Some one has beautifully and truth¬ 
fully said: 
“ Would you be strong, go follow up the plow; 
Would you be thoughtful, study fields and flowers; 
Would you he wise, take on yourself this vow 
To go to school in Nature’s sunny bowers. 
Fly from the city, nothing there can charm ; 
Seek wisdom, health, and virtue on a farm.” 
Yellow Springs, Greene Co., O., 1859. II. D. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
Plain Talks to American Women.-No. 14. 
Bf MRS. M. P. A. CROZIER. 
not too strict perhaps in 
and integrity, but too exacting in the requirement 
of attention to non-essentials. Especially should 
the parent be careful when the child approaches 
the period of life spoken of by Hugh Miller, in 
the following passage from his “ Autobiography 
“ There is,” says he, “ a transition time in which 
the strength and independence of the latent man 
begin to mingle with the willfulness and indiscre¬ 
tion of the mere boy, which is more perilous than 
any other, and in which many more downward 
careers of recklessness and folly begin, that end 
in wreck and ruin, than in all the other years of 
life which intervene between childhood and old 
age. The growing lad should be wisely and ten¬ 
derly dealt with at this critical stage. The severi¬ 
ty that would fain compel the implicit submission 
yielded at an earlier period, would probably suc¬ 
ceed, if his character was a strong one, in insur¬ 
ing but his ruin. It is at this transition stage 
that boys run off to sea from their parents and 
masters, or, when tall enough, enlist in the army 
for soldiers. The strictly orthodox parent, if more 
severe than wise, succeeds occasioually in driving, 
during this crisis, his son into Popery or infidelity; 
and the sternly moral one, in landing his in utter 
profligacy. But, leniently and judiciously dealt 
with, the dangerous period passes,—in a few years 
at most, in some instances in even a few months, 
—the sobriety incidental to a further development 
of character ensues, and the wild boy settles down 
into the rational young man.” 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
FROM THE WOODS. 
Employments and Amusements of Children.— 
Little restraint should be placed upon the boister¬ 
ous merriment and activity of early childhood. 
Those exuberant spirits which constrain the little 
one to run, jump, climb trees, shout, laugh, and 
sing, are the wise provision of Providence, not 
only for its happiness, but for its physical devel¬ 
opment. Following out its native impulses, its 
limbs become strong for the labor of after years, 
the lungs are strengthened for their important 
work, and the whole body acquires a perfection 
which, under the “ quiet ” system of management, 
it is not possible for it to attain. 
One of the most effectual means of promoting 
the happiness of children is to “keep them em¬ 
ployed.” But the employment must not be dis¬ 
tasteful ; their playful inclinations must be greatly 
consulted, and all labor or study made attractive. 
For very young children, perhaps all employment 
should be really amusement, but when a few years 
have passed over them, it will be necessary that 
they be taught patiently to endure toil, although 
they become weary, and the task be unpleasant. 
In how many ways may be effected the combi¬ 
nation of labor and play, in a manner to promote 
the child’s enjoyment,—not alone from the stimu¬ 
lus of agreeable exercise, but from the idea of be¬ 
ing useful! A child, rightly trained, will delight 
to feel that he has done some good—that he has 
added to the happiness of others. With what a 
keen pleasure will he sit down by the glowing fire 
on a stormy winter’s day, when sliding, skating, 
snow-balling, and the like, are impracticable, to 
roast chestnuts, parch corn, and crack nuts, not 
only for his own eating, but his dear mama, who 
is too busy to spend time for this pui'pose herself! 
How will he delight to sit by her side and pick out 
stitches, or read stories to her while she Sews! 
One kiss from her sweet lips is an ample reward. 
Then, the gathering of snow to wash—the filling 
of the wood-box, for her approbation, become 
pleasant labors—amusements, even. 
But oue of the most 'useful entertainments for 
children, and one in which they may be led to 
take great delight, is gardening. A spot of ground 
a If their oivn, a hoe, a rake, a spade, their own 
property, and how assiduously will they work at 
digging the soil, laying out beds, sowing seeds and 
removing weeds. If required to keep it all in 
order, they may tire of the requisite labor, but if 
encouraged by the desire to do something nice in 
the way of furnishing the table with vegetables— 
of cultivating fine flowers for mama’s vase—or, if 
allowed the proceeds of their toil for pocket-money, 
how faithfully will they labor for the reward ! The 
hope of reward is always a stimulus to effort. It 
may be a parent’s smile, or a pocketful of pennies, 
but some inducement must be offered, or the 
energies will flag, and a habit of indolence obtain. 
Even in maturity we do not work without am o- 
tive. The back-woodsman who, axe in hand, enters 
upon the stern labor of subduing the wilderness, 
sees spread out before him, in some bright future, 
a beautiful home for his wife and children. The 
farmer who plows his ground in the storm, expects 
to reap golden harvests. The citizen who bends 
over his folios in the counting-room, till his brain 
is weary aud his eyes are dim, is, perchance, look¬ 
ing forward to future wealth, days of independence, 
aud retirement from business to the bosom of his 
family. The Christian, in the faithful occupation 
of his post, has his eye on “ the mark of the 
prize.” The philanthropist who, with his pitying 
heart, denies himself the comforts of life that he 
may relieve the “ weary and heavy-laden,” hears 
softly in the distance the approaching voice of his 
Master, the largest-souled philanthropist the world 
has ever known, saying, “I was an hungered, and 
ye gave me meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me 
drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me in ; naked, 
and ye clothed me; I was sick' and ye visited 
me; I was in prison, and'ye came unto 
me 1” The reformer, who, alone, braves the 
derisions of the world, aud “ presses the battle to 
the gate,” hopes for the time when" the truths he 
loves will be appreciated, and govern human ac¬ 
tion—when might shall 'be on the side of right. 
The student who grows palejvvith his midnight 
watchings, grows pale for the meed of glory, or 
of usefulness. The warrior who dares the sword 
and the cannon’s mouth, is urged onward by the 
hope of victory. Even so must it be with the 
child; some bright star of promise must shine in 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE SPIRIT OF LOVE. 
A busy “New-Yorker,” whom I met this morn¬ 
ing, a most enterprising Squirrel, quite animated 
me with a desire to secure him as an agentfor your 
“Rural.” His activity and industry were amaz¬ 
ing. What wonders he could accomplish if his 
energies were only directed wisely. Ah! he was a 
squirrel of capacity — he had ideas above his fel¬ 
lows, and their “ quips, and cranks, and wanton 
wiles.” 
Ossian makes the ghosts of his heroes bewail 
their lack of fame, and I fear that this little grey 
Knight is treated in his realm of squirrel-dom, 
much as we often treat our best authors. Most 
certain it is, that the “root of his fame will never 
be in his dead body.” However, he is a gentleman 
farmer, and superintends the servants upon his 
estate; ants build, and dapper crickets work, while 
he, trusty bailiff, watches by. 
“ Wad ye see him in his glee ? 
For mickle mirtlehas he.” 
A hermit Toad, who dwells in a dismal cave in 
the hollow, turns out Squirrel comes, and 
the two are as merry as the Curtal Prior and bold 
Allan-a-Dale. 
Imaginative, say you? Well, why should one 
not be, such a day as this, for no fairer was ever 
born in Tuscany or Attica. June is the violin 
month of the year—for the year is like an orchestra, 
and the months are the instruments. June is the 
violin, that mystical “violet-violin” of Seraph ael, 
which breathes of song, aud poesy,—answers in 
all its fullness of melody to the beat of human 
passions; is nearest allied to love and life—the 
very Skylark of music, that 
“ Singing still doth soar, and soaring ever siDgest.” 
In June, above all times, should the heart re¬ 
joice, and up-wing itself on airy pinions. For 
then all Nature is full of gladness; waters laugh, 
birds sing, wild lily-bells ring. Oh ! “ what is so 
rare as a day in June.” 
This morning our intelligent Cossack, nodding 
his sagacious head, took his own way into the 
woods, and stopping short under the thick shade, 
looked at us with a wink, as to say, “ ben trovato.” 
And now to lie perdue on this slope, soft with 
pine straws, an easy couch, backed by a gigantic 
sky-pierciug pine. Exquisite mosses drape the 
stump close by, aud there are ginsengs, and nod¬ 
ding Solomon’s seals, and the glistening cornel, 
and viburnums, and vigorous green pines shooting 
up, proud as young palms. Hark!—the little, shy, 
plaintive notes of the Wood Sparrow. And there, 
twirling now here, now there, among the bushes, 
is that little sprite, the Chewink. You know him 
by his spots of white, red, and black, and his two 
long notes, and his squirreliy nimbleness. 
Listen — amid the din of insects, and whir of 
grasshoppers, and sighing of the pines, and all 
those soft sounds that vitalize the solitude of the 
forest, hear that slender note, scarce more than a 
shrill vibration. It is that of the Speckled Creep¬ 
er, as he goes further into the depths of the forest. 
But a rush of song comes now, like the last trills 
of the Canary at home. It is that of the Golden- 
Crowned Thrush, sitting on the topmost oak 
bough, who “ lets his illumined being o’errun with 
the deluge of summer it receives.” And far off in 
in the wood resounds the voice of another Thrush, 
called the Cat Bird. And there wheels the gay 
Red Mavis, aud involuntarily we cry, with dear 
old Scott, 
“ Oil merry it is in good green wood, 
When Mavis and Meiie are singing.” 
What a vivid consciousness of life these brilliant 
songsters awake for us, in the quiet, I had almost 
said the solitude of the forest. But that is an 
error, for no place is more populous than the depth 
of a forest. There are lessons to be learned of the 
tenants there, and good to be had for the wishing, 
such as we find- no where else. And we realize, 
too, how full the world is of life, God-granted life, 
and we go home to understand more keenly how 
noble minds are stirred to utter great thoughts— 
how sublime life is to those who feel its deepest 
pulsings, and in whom action and thought are in 
harmonious balance. 
All this while the birds are singing, rushing, 
flowing, outpouring notes of such vivid, intense 
joy, and the brook ripples on an accompaniment 
as melodious as one of Tom Moore’s best flowing 
We should cultivate the spirit of love if we 
would enjoy the present and have hope for the fu¬ 
ture, for this alone will re-create in us the image 
of God. We are interested when we look upon a 
noble rolling river, and think that it has been flow¬ 
ing on for six thousand years, slaking the thirst 
of a thousand generations, giving life and beauty 
to all within its reach, and yet showing no sign of 
waste or want; and when we see the sun rise above 
the crest of the mountain, draped with golden cur¬ 
tains, we wonder to think that he has melted the 
snow3 of so many Winters, renewed the verdure 
of so mauy Springs, painted the flowers of so many 
Summers, ripened the fruits of so many Autumns, 
and yet, shining as brilliantly as ever, undimmed, 
unabated in strength—nor are the fountains of light 
less full for coming centuries of boundless profu¬ 
sion. These are but images of love as exhibited 
in all the works of God, and especially of the lore 
of Christ to a fallen world. This principle is 
eternal, for “ God is love.” And when judgment 
flames have licked up the flowing stream and the 
light of the glorious sun shall be quenched iu 
darkness, the love of God will flow on, in all its 
fullness, throughout the endless ages of eternity. 
Those who receive the image of love in their hearts, 
in this life, will hereafter enjoy a fullness of the 
love of Christ, in whose presence is “fullness of 
joy, and pleasures forever more.” 
Then let us seek the holy mountain 
Whence flows love’s stream, a gushing fountain, 
For ’tis the fount of life’s fair river, 
It flows to all, and flows forever. 
Devillo Reynolds. 
Mt. Pleasant, Wayne Co., Penn., 1859. 
THE OLD-FASHIONED MOTHERS. 
The old-fashioned Mothers have nearly all pass¬ 
ed away with the blue check and homespun woolen 
of a simpler but purer time. Here and there one 
remains, truly “ accomplished,” in heart aud life, 
for the sphere of home. 
Old-fashioned mothers — God bless them—who 
followed us with heart and prayer, all over the 
world — lived iu our lives and sorrowed in our 
griefs; who knew more about patching than poet¬ 
ry; spoke uo dialect but love; never preached 
nor wandered; “ made melody with their hearts,” 
and sent forth no books but living volumes, that 
honored their authors and blessed the world. 
The old homestead! We wish we could paint it 
for you, as it is—no, we dare not say, as it is—as it 
was ; that we could go together from room to room; 
sit by the old hearth, round which that circle of 
light and love once swept, and there linger, till all 
those simpler, purer times returned, and wc should 
grow young again. 
And how can we leave that spot, without remem¬ 
bering one form, that occupied, in days gone by, 
“the old arm chair,” that old-fashioned Mother— 
one in all the world, the law of whose life was love; 
one who was the divinity of our infancy, and the 
sacred presence in the shrine of our first earthly 
idolatry; one whose heart is far below the frosts 
that gather so thickly on her brow; one to whom 
we never grow old, but, in “ the plumed troop” or 
the grave council, are children still; one who wel¬ 
comed us coming, blessed us going, and never for¬ 
gets us — never! 
And when in some closet, some drawer, some 
corner, she finds a garment or a toy that once was 
yours, how does she weep, as she thinks you may 
LITTLE SINS. 
Let us be on our guard against little sins; 
against what men call little sins,'for thefe is 
nothing really in the way of sins. Watch against 
anything that wounds the conscience, however 
slightly. Conscience is a sacred thing. Guard 
well your spiritual life. Watch against the little 
siDS that insensibly may wound and thus iu the 
end destroy. You can easily kill a man by stab¬ 
bing him with one blow to the heart. But may 
you uot easily kill a man also by opening a little 
vein in his wrist ? The blood may only flow drop 
by drop, but if you don’t stop that wound, you 
will bleed to death, and just as surely as if one 
plunged a dagger into your heart, and sent you 
iuto eternity in a moment. Beware, then, of the 
little things that keep the wounds of the soul open; 
guard against little sins, which, if not guarded 
against, will as surely destroy the soul as one 
great sin. 
John Newton says Satan seldom comes to 
Christians with a great temptation, or with temp¬ 
tations to commit a great sin. You bring a green 
log and a candle together, aud they are very safe 
neighbors. But bring a few small sticks and let 
them take fire, and the log be in the midst of them, 
and you will soon get rid of your log. And so it 
is with little sins. You will be startled with the 
idea of committing a great sin, and so the devil 
brings a little temptation, and leaves you to in¬ 
dulge yuurself. “ There is no great harm in this,” 
“no great peril in that,” and so by these little 
chips we are first easily lighted up, and at last the 
great green log is burned. Watch and pray, that 
ye enter not into temptation.— Rev. Newman Nall. 
A BEAUTIFUL FIGURE. 
Rev. Mr. Barnes, in his sermon on “ Life at 
Three Score,” illustrates the magnitude of eternal 
things as he approaches the end of life, compared 
with those which ordinarally occupy the attention 
of mankind, by the following beautiful figure: 
“ The earth, as it moves in its orbit from year to 
year, maintains its distance of ninety-five millions 
of miles from the sun; and the sun, except when 
seen through a hazy atmosphere, at its rising or 
its setting, seems at all times to be of the same 
magnitude—to human view, an object always small, 
as compared with our own world. But suppose 
the earth should leave its orbit, and make its way 
its way in a direct line towards the sun. IIow soon 
would the sun seem to enlarge its dimensions!— 
IIow vast aud bright would it become! How soon 
would it fill the whole field of vision, and all on 
earth dwindle to nothing! So human life now ap¬ 
pears to me. In earlier years, eternity appeared 
distant and small in importance. But at the period 
of life which I have now reached, it seems to me as 
if the earth had left the orbit of its annual move¬ 
ments, and was making a rapid and direct flight 
to the sun. The objects of eternity, towards which 
I am moving, rapidly enlarge themselves. They 
have become overpoweringly bright and grand.— 
They fill the whole field of vision, and the earth, 
with all which is the common object of human 
ambition and pursuit, is vanishing away! ” 
Cultivate Domestic Peace. —To those scenes ot 
domestic peace which pure religion created and 
adorned, the thoughts of the youngest member of 
the family will cling in after years; they will be¬ 
come a kind of hallowed ground in his memory; 
they will exert a restraining and sanctifying power: 
and thus we may expect to see the promise ful¬ 
filled :—“ Train up a child in the way he should go, 
and when he is uid he will not depart from it.” 
Value of the Scriptures. —As the beauty of the 
world is set off by a graceful variety, so is it iu the 
Scriptures. There are sublime truths, that the 
most aspiring reason of man cannot overtop; and 
there are more plain and easy truths, on which the 
weakest capacity may converse with delight and 
satisfaction. No man is offended with his garden 
for having a shady thicket in it; no more should 
we he offended with the word of God, that among 
so many fair and open walks, we here and there 
meet with a thicket that the eye of human reason 
cannot look through .—Bishop Hophins. 
"Yjf ell-spent Time.— Spend your time in nothing 
which must be repented ef. Spend it in nothing 
on which you might not pray for the blessing of 
God. Spend it in nothing which you could not 
review with a quiet conscience on your dying bed. 
Spend it in nothing which you might not safely 
and properly be found doing, if death should sur¬ 
prise you in the act.— Baxter. 
Nature is a pattern man-of-all-work, and does 
best when least meddled with. She knows her 
work, and does it, if let alone. 
How often do men mistake the love of their 
opinions for the love of truth. 
