PSTili 
An hour before she spoke of things 
That memory to the dying brings, 
And kissed me all the while ; 
Then, after some sweet parting words, 
She seemed among her flowers and birds, 
Until she fell asleep. 
’Twas summer then, ’tis autumn now, 
The crimson leaves fall off the bough, 
And strew the gravel sweep. 
I wander down the garden walk, 
And muse on all the happy talk 
We had beneath the limes; 
And, resting on the garden seat, 
Her old Newfoundland at my feet, 
I think of other times; 
Of golden eyes, when she and I 
Sat watching here the flushing sky, 
The sunset and the sea— 
Or heard the children in the lanes 
Following home the harvest wains, 
And shouting ip their glee. 
But when the daylight dies away, . 
And ships grow dusky in the bay, 
These recollections cease; 
And in the stillness of the night 
Bright thoughts, that end in dreams as bright, 
Communicate their peace. 
I wake and see the morning star, 
And hear the breakers on the bar, 
The voices on the shore— 
And then, with tears, I long to be 
Across a dim, unsounded sea, 
With her forevermore. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE OLD TRUNK. 
We have got one!—and its physiognomy has 
grown brown and defaced with age. The brass¬ 
headed nails have become tarnished, but I can 
distinctly perceive my father’s initials upon the 
top—“H. D.” I write these letters very reverent¬ 
ly, for they are upon his tombstone in our country 
graveyard. There is a large padlock attached to 
this trunk, which has traveled over land and sea, 
but has now arrived at its “haven of rest”—“the 
garret.” If it could tell its own story, I presume 
that it would call our attention to the many hard 
knocks upon its battered sides, and we should hear 
of long nights upon the stormy deep, when 
mighty winds lashed the waves into huge drifts 
of foam which swept down upon the rocking ship 
like an avalanche from the mountain height. But 
I love to look over the contents of this old trunk, 
for there are many sacred relics stowed away in 
its capacious corners. 
“ I must burn up some of this rubbish,” said 
my sister, one day, when we were trying to reduce 
the mass of confusion to something like order. 
“No, you shall not! for Time has been busy 
here, and I never liked to obliterate his dusty 
foot-prints.” 
It was ever my delight to pore over old dusty 
books, which were printed when literature was in 
its infancy. What changes the “ age of progress” 
has wrought! Our own generation “ takes time 
by the forelock,” and marches through difficulties 
in a moment’s period which our forefathers were 
all their life working to overcome. Here is an 
almanac twenty-two years old; 1837 is marked 
upon it, and busy fingers turned its pages to find 
“the day of the month,” long before I was born. 
I will look in the glass of history to discover what 
important events are reflected upon it from that 
year. First I behold “ a great commercial crisis, 
which was brought on by a madness of specula¬ 
tion, when city lots, real or imaginary, were so 
bought and sold that fortunes were made in a 
day." Idleness and extravagance stalked through¬ 
out our land, but after this public fever had 
subsided, numberless families were reduced to 
hopeless poverty. Upon the 4th of March, 1837, 
Martin Van Buren sat down in the Presidential 
chair for the first time, and his eyes looked over 
a nation that was sunk in pecuniary distress. But 
“whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth.” Our 
country has been brought low many times, and as 
it sat weeping and bewailing in sackcloth and 
ashes, with bowed head and pride humbled, a 
great lesson was taken into the hearts of her 
children — how soon it was forgotten is testified 
by the recent calamities which have befallen them. 
We hope for better things now, for Aristocracy 
has laid aside her “royal purple,” and condescends 
to appear in a “ calico dress” at the house of God. 
But what is this!—my father’s little, time-worn 
hymn-book! It has black morocco covers, and 
the leaves are yellow with age. The lines look 
blurred, too, but perhaps it is my eyes, for the 
tears are brimming over them, and my hands 
shake so I can hardly read the first verse of this 
hymn: 
“ On Jordan’s stormy banks I stand, 
And cast a wistful eye 
To Canaan’s fair and happy land 
Where my possessions lie.” 
I can almost see the gray head keeping time, 
while my father sang this in his own old-fashioned 
way. But there was melody in his voice, and a 
prophetic light in his eyes, for they seemed to be¬ 
hold the possessions he has gone to claim. Ah! 
will his beloved companion and children join him 
there? He went down to the “dark valley” great¬ 
ly comforted, for the angels sang to him, 
“ Come away, come away, to thy rest in the sky, 
The tear, the last tear, wipe away from thino eye; 
The wife of thy bosom, thy children so dear, 
Bid adieu! till in heaven they all shall appear.” 
Here is “ The Family Guide!" printed 1833, 
“comprising many useful directions for cookery, 
pastry and confectionery,” from the best authori¬ 
ties, it says. Well, I can testify that they were 
extraordinary recipes, for my memory can tell 
about a tin oven in which many delicacies were 
“ done to a beautiful brown,” after this cook-book 
had been duly consulted, and various condiments 
stirred up and turned into the little heart-shaped 
cake-dishes “ to bake.” Those were the good old- 
fashioned days, when we had but one room, which 
served for parlor, dining-room and kitchen during 
the early settlement of our prosperous Western 
country, and the forest trees wrapped their green 
arms all around “our home.” Now, broad mead¬ 
ow-lands stretch away to distant woods, which 
encircle our horizon with a narrow belt. 
But this June afternoon is going down to clasp 
hands with the night, and I must finish my explo¬ 
rations in “the old trunk” at another time. 
Michigan, June, 1859. A. P. I). 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
WOMAN’S EQUALITY AND “RIGHTS.” 
There is much contention in these days with re¬ 
gard to woman’s equality and rights with man, 
and men are denounced as “ monsters,” “ tyrants,” 
&c., which seems to me somewhat ahead of the 
truth. True, men have enacted some laws which 
are not favorable to us—abridging our right to 
hold property, and this they did thinking women 
were incapable,by nature or practice,to manage and 
control business, and contend for and preserve their 
rights. And how far wide of the truth did they 
get? How many women are there who are fitted, 
by nature or education, for accumulating and con¬ 
trolling property. And as for her having the right 
of suffrage, if we were to take time and enter in¬ 
to the public arena of strife and corruption, what 
becomes of our homes and families? Things are 
better as they are. Men are men, and women are 
women, and we are no more fitted to fill their po¬ 
sition than they are ours. What half of the wo¬ 
men are hallooing and haranguing about I cannot 
imagine—we weak, defenceless pigmies of women! 
What have our race ever done worthy of a monu¬ 
ment? True, we are patient, enduring, gentle, and 
all that—but man is great, wonderful! He is, 
truly, “the noblest work of God!” His genius 
reaches to the clouds and spans the universe! He 
discovers planets and measures them, and calcu¬ 
lates space and distance—even the lightning comes 
and goes at his bidding! His steamships traverse 
the boundless seas. Men build our railroads—they 
design and erect our temples, our churches, our 
buildings, and their art and ingenuity furnish and 
adorn them. They invent our machinery, con¬ 
struct our factories, weave our cloth, till the earth 
for food, and to their energy, strength and skill 
we are indebted, directly or indirectly, for every 
convenience or luxury of life—even to the small 
items of pins, needles, &c. Our legislators, states¬ 
men, our orators, our editors, sculptors and paint¬ 
ers, are men—with, perhaps, one or two excep¬ 
tions. 
And amid all this power and greatness, there 
are few who are not noble, generous, gallant, and 
considerate of the weak and unfortunate, as our 
public institutions for the relief of the distressed 
abundantly testify. And everywhere we women 
are feted, honored, protected and guarded against 
insult or danger, and every arrangement made for 
our comfort and ease that ingenuity can devise or 
expense accomplish. And what do we? We 
grumble because we do not receive more attention, 
and are not considered of more consequence! We 
receive all the benefits we enjoy as our just dues, 
and scarcely deign even a polite acknowledgement. 
And yet, what have we ever done—or the most of 
us—except to wear gracefully, or otherwise, the 
splendid and comfortable fabrics their industry 
and means have given us, and to eat, or, perchance, 
to cook the food furnished for us, and to stay in 
and order the sumptuous houses they build for us, 
and ride in their carriages, and perhaps take care 
of our children, &c., &c.—a multiplicity of multi¬ 
tudinous nothings. What more we have ever 
done, or are likely to do, I have not discovered. 
All honor, say I, to the strong and superior intel¬ 
lect and the toil-hardened hands! Heaven be 
praised that the world is not full of women ! We 
are well enough—perhaps we act our part, and 
fill the niche nature intended; but to assert or 
assume an equality with man, in strength or in¬ 
tellect, how vain, how futile! Queechy. 
PLEASURE FOR A CHILD. 
Blessed be the hand that prepares a pleasure for 
a child, for there is no saying when and where it 
may bloom forth. Does not almost everybody 
remember some kind-hearted man who showed 
him a kindness in the day of his childhood ? The 
writer of this recollects himself at this moment as 
a barefooted lad, standing at the wooden fence of a 
poor little garden in his native village; with long¬ 
ing eyes he gazed on the flowers which were bloom¬ 
ing there quietly in the brightness of a Sunday 
morning. The possessor came forth from his little 
cottage; he was a wood-cutter by trade, and spent 
the whole week at work in the woods. He had come 
into the garden to gather flowers to stick into his 
coat when he went to church. He saw the boy, 
and breaking off the most beautiful of his carna¬ 
tions, which was streaked with red and white, he 
gave it to him. Neither the giver nor the receiver 
spoke a word, and with bounding steps the boy 
ran home; and now, here at a distance from that 
home, after so many events of so many years, the 
feeling of gratitude which agitated the breast of 
that boy expresses itself on paper. The carnation 
has long since withered, but it now blooms afresh. 
— Douglas Jerrold. 
Beauty is always a charm. It may be a cheat. 
The fruit which follows the flower gives character 
to the tree. A sweet, gentle heart crimsoning with 
its modest blush the face of beauty, is that finer 
touch which God impressed upon human nature, 
when he took a rib from the side of Adam and of it 
made woman. 
Had I a careful and pleasant companion that 
should show me my angry face in a glass, I should 
not at all take it ill. Some are wont to have a look¬ 
ing-glass held to them while they wash, though to 
little purpose; but to behold a man’s self so unnatu¬ 
rally disguised and disordered, will conduce not a 
little to the impeachment of anger.— Plutarch. 
Sad it is when fate kindles the funeral pile of 
hope that Remorse should bring the torch.— Jean 
Paul Bedford. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A SILVER LINING TO EVERY CLOUD. 
BY MRS. MINNIE WELDON. 
Sitting by my window gazing out into the West, 
Where the lingering rays of sunset beautifully rest, 
Where its arrows swiftly speeding gleam like burnished 
gold, 
And rest them in the billows which the snowy clouds 
unfold; 
A ray of peace steals o’er me, and a joy I cannot tell 
Has lighted up the shadows that o’er my spirit fell. 
Distant sounds of music gently greet my listening ear 
Like the harpings of the angels coming ever near; 
And so heavenly in its tones, so divinely sweet, 
As its murmurings and swellings softly blended meet, 
That the sorrows of life’s pathway quickly pass away, 
And the flowers of existence fill each coming day. 
Life need be no lengthening shadow flitting in our path, 
Every night, however dark, a brighter dawning hath, 
“ Every cloud a silver linglng,” every leaf a light, 
If the woes that thicken round us do not dim our sight, 
And if we would catch the radiance of each glimmering 
star, 
Hope must send its beacon light to guide us from afar. 
Friendship’s laurels may entwine us, and her genial 
smile, 
Beaming ’neath a crown of roses, sorrow must beguile; 
Let us win her favor and endear her to the heart, 
Let the thorns that now surround us evermore depart, 
And breathing in a purer air show that we have been 
Where the lights are ever gleaming shadows in be¬ 
tween. 
Wilmington, DeL, 1859. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
LITERATURE. 
Literature is a natural and necessary attendant 
on civilization. The wandering savage may pos¬ 
sess his rude songs,—interpreters of the heart,— 
and his wild traditions, chronicling the glory of 
by-gone ages, but a scientific, aesthetic and reli¬ 
gious literature he cannot have, from causes inher¬ 
ent in the nature of things. The trifling productions 
named, spring rather from an emotional nature 
than from a mind redeemed from its bondage to 
matter, developed, strengthened and matured by 
ages of intellectual culture. What is there in the 
calm, eventless, monotonous character of savage 
life, flowing idly by with scarce an ebb or ripple to 
arouse the nobler part of man, to cause the unfold¬ 
ing of the hidden wings, and the steady, resistless 
flight onward and upward to those serene, cloud¬ 
less regions where the Day-Spring has its place? 
The daring adventures of the chase,—the simple 
tales of passion,—the exciting incidents pertaining 
to “the wager of battbf’»—form the staple of the 
legends that the dark^t’I Arab maiden listens to 
in the quiet tent at tfl^^Bfse of day. 
There is no more investing study than the pro¬ 
gress of literature from these offsprings of nature 
and impulse to the chastened and carefully pruned 
productions of brain and soul — it is “first the 
blade, then the ear, then the full corn in the ear.” 
It is said that the discovery of the use of iron was 
the first step from barbarism to civilization, and 
this is true in a certain sense. Iron is the lever 
which moves the mechanical world. But there is 
something of infinitely more importance than 
anything which merely elevates the physical 
condition. The invention of letters, or hiero¬ 
glyphic symbols of whatever kind, has done more 
for the advancement of society than any mechani¬ 
cal art or science could do. The thinking mind alone 
is competent to guide the working hand. It is said 
that in Scotland they could compose elegant Latin 
verses before they could make a wheelbarrow. The 
characters traced by the hand of Cadmus, were the 
germ of all the noble inventions which have since 
blessed the world so abundantly; and if ever man 
is able to pierce the veil that separates the known 
from the unfathomable, 
“ To tread unhurt the sea’s dim lighted halls, 
To chase day’s chariot to the horizon walls,” 
it will be traceable to the same general cause. 
When thought has been awakened, and a way 
found to express it, it grows and matures most 
gloriously, and no human hand can arrest its pro¬ 
gress. 
The preservation of the memory of the noblest 
achievements that have shed lustre over the annals 
of mankind, is due alone to the embalming power 
of literature. All the chivalrous daring of the 
high-souled patriot,—the exalted calmness of the 
martyr dying for conscience-sake,—the lofty hero¬ 
ism of absorbing love,—would be forgotten and the 
example be lost to future generations were it not 
for this preserving power. The vast monuments 
of art in Egypt, designed to commemorate those who 
erected them, have been powerless to effect that 
purpose, while the intellectual monument reared 
by the genius of Boswell, will convey the fame of 
the Ursa Major of English literature to untold my¬ 
riads. The nations destitute of a written language 
and a literature, have utterly perished, and their 
very names are forgotten on the earth; but 
were Greece and Italy stricken out of existence to¬ 
morrow, they would still live, to all practical pur¬ 
poses, and possess the same influence over the 
thinking of all coming time. 
The process of building up a national literature 
is often discouragingly slow, but it should be 
remembered that it is a work destined to last,—not 
a fleeting bubble, bursting as soon as formed.— 
The appreciation of literature grows with its growth 
and strengthens with its strength. England was 
content to listen for centuries to the simple hymning 
of untaught rhymesters before she was prepared 
to understand the rare philosophy embedded like 
pearls in the rough bed of Shakspeare’s mind, 
— Greece, when first emerging from the shades of 
barbarism, (say for example in the heroic age,) 
would have derived little instruction from the pure 
metaphysics of Plato, —the majestic strains that 
Virgil drew from his sounding lyre would have 
fallen on unheeding ears had they been poured 
forth when Romulus laid the foundations of the 
Eternal City. That which has cost much toil and 
labor and wasting of the midnight oil, cannot be 
understood without some preparatory culture of the 
mind. Before literature can perform its rightful 
task of civilization and refinement, education must 
be general among the common people. They must 
hold in their hands the key to this choice mental 
treasure, otherwise, when the gifted few who guard 
it are gone, the blessing of it will perish with 
them, and those whom it would have benefited 
sink back into rayless night. It was so in ancient 
Egypt where the priests carefully closed every 
avenue to learning from all but themselves,—it 
will be so in any country daring enough to repeat 
the experiment. The true glory of literature, and 
the conditions of that glory, are but imperfectly 
understood. To be worthy of the name it must 
adapt itself to all parts of man’s nature, and not 
only instruct him how to conquer the opposing 
elements, but also how to gain that noblest of all 
conquests, the victory over self; not only how to 
use this life, but also so to employ it as to gain a 
better,—not alone how to tread this earth, but also 
how to ascend into heaven. Literature is but the 
handmaid of religion, and the nation who converts 
her into the mistress, is sure to reap the reward of 
such folly. It is the violation of a most sacred 
law. A celebrated divine remarks that literature 
has a much feebler hold in America than is gene¬ 
rally imagined, and would die out were it not for 
religion.” It is well that it is so. Far distant be 
the day when religion is driven from our happy 
land; but if that day ever comes, literature will go, 
too; for God has joined them together, and man may 
not put them asunder. L. E. Weld. 
Cohocton, Steuben Co., N. Y., 1859. 
THE PRINTER. 
The printer is the Adjutant of Thought, and this 
explains the mystery of the wonderful word that 
can kindle a hope as no song can — that can warm 
a heart as no hope—that word “ we,” with a hand- 
in-hand warmth in it, for the Author and the Prin¬ 
ter are Engineers together. Engineers indeed!— 
When the little Corsican bombarded Cadiz at the 
distance of five miles, it was deemed the very 
triumph of engineering. But what is that paltry 
range to this, whereby they bombard ages yet to 
be? 
There at the “ case” he stands and marshals in¬ 
to line the forces armed for truth, clothed in im¬ 
mortality and English. And what can be nobler 
than the equipment of a thought in sterling Sax¬ 
on—Saxon with the ring of spear on shield there¬ 
in, and that commissioning it when we are dead, 
to move gradually on to “ the latest syllable of re¬ 
corded time.” This is to win a victory from death, 
for this has no dying in it. 
The printer is called a laborer, and the office he 
performs, toil. Oh, it is not work, but a sublime 
rite he is performing, when he thus “ sights” the 
engine that is to fling a worded truth in grander 
curve than missile ere before described — fling it 
into the bosom of an age unborn. He throws off 
his coat indeed: we but wonder, the lather, that he 
’’does not put his shoes from off his fee *. for the place 
whereon he stands is holy ground. 
A little song was uttered somewhere, long ago— 
it wandered through the twilight feebler than a 
star — it died upon the ear. But the printer takes 
it up where it was lying there in the silence like a 
wounded bird, and Jie equips it anew with wings, 
and he sends it forth from the Ark that had pre¬ 
served it, and it flies on into the future with the 
olive branch of peace; and around the world with 
melody, like the dawning of a Spring morning. 
How the type have built up the broken arches in 
the bridge of time. How they render the brave 
utterances beyond the Pilgrims, audible and elo¬ 
quent— hardly fettering the free spirit but mov¬ 
ing — not a word nor a syllable lost in the whirl of 
the world — moving in connected paragraph and 
period, down the lengthening line of years. 
Some men find poetry, but they do not look for 
it as men do for nuggets of gold; they see it in 
Nature’s own handwriting, that so few know how 
to read, and they render it into English. Such are 
the poems for a twilight hour and a nook in the 
heart; we may lie under the trees when we read 
them, and watch the gloaming, and see the faces 
in the clouds, in the pauses; we may read them 
when the winter coals are glowing, and the volume 
may slip from the forgetful hand, and still, like 
evening bells, the melodious thoughts will ring 
on.— B. F. Taylor. 
THE BEST SEWING MACHINES. 
The following, from Punch, contains an admirable 
description of an old-fashioned but invaluable 
sewing machine: 
“ The very best sewing machine a man can have, 
is a wife. It is one that requires but a kind word 
to set it in motion, rarely gets out of repair, makes 
but little noise, will go uninterruptedly for hours, 
without the slightest trimming or the smallest 
personal supervision being necessary. It will 
make shirts, darn stockings, sew on buttons, mark 
pocket handkerchiefs, cut out pinafores, and man¬ 
ufacture children’s frocks out of any old thing you 
may give it; and this it will do behind your back 
just as well as before your face. In fact, you may 
leave the house for days, and it will go on working 
just the same. If it does get out of order a little 
from being overworked, it mends itself by being 
left alone for a short time, after which it returns 
to its sewing with greater vigor than ever. Of 
course sewing machines vary a great deal. Some 
are much quicker than others. It depends, in a 
vast measure, upon the particular pattern you 
select. If you are fortunate in picking out the 
choicest pattern of a wife—one, for instance, that 
sings while working, and seems never to be so 
happy as when her husband’s linen is in hand—-the 
sewing machine may be pronounced perfect of its 
kind; so much so, that there is no makeshift in the 
world that can possibly replace it, either for love 
or money. In short, no gentleman’s establish¬ 
ment is complete without one of these sewing 
machines in the house! ” 
The culture of social feelings, under the dew 
and sunshine of religion, is a duty as well as a 
pleasure. 
MOURNING PILGRIMS. 
BY 8PENCER P. TOOLEY. 
Mourning pilgrims, 0, how many 
Groans of anguish waft afar; 
Night of sorrow, without failing, 
Comes on black without a star. 
Hopes and prospects now are blasted, 
Flower-gems lie ’long the plain, 
Giant oaks the storms resisted, 
Struggled hard, but all in vain. 
Mourning pilgrims, marching slowly 
To the quiet church-yard grave; 
Heads bowed on your bosoms lowly, 
While upon the airy wave 
Music, doleful music’s wafting 
To the closets of your hearts; 
O, what throbs of anguish ever 
Does the tolling bell impart! 
Mourning pilgrims, cease your wailing, 
Weep not for the dear ones gone; 
All earth’s fairest gems are passing 
To their higher, better home. 
There no gushing tears are falling— 
There no mourning heart is riven— 
Life is given everlasting— 
There’s no tolling bell in Heaven. 
Marshall, N. Y., 1S59. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker, 
THE BIBLE. 
An, Holy Book! shall pen like mine 
Bear witness of thy truth divine ? 
Unworthy worm like me engage 
To tell the beauty of thy page ? 
Father, forgive my feeble pow’rs, 
And with it bless departing hours. 
Yes, who does not love the Bible?—and who 
shall say that it is not divine? It is a complete 
text-book of moral philosophy. It furnishes a 
complete index—as it were a chart of the human 
mind. The different characters that are brought 
to notice in the varied scenes of action, each har¬ 
monizing with the other, in that they act upon 
each other, and, combined, produce one grand re¬ 
sult, the revealing of the human heart, intricate 
labarynth as it is, full of deep mysteries inexplo- 
rable to us. This, we say, is one grand argument 
in favor of its divinity. For who but He that form¬ 
ed the never-dying soul, could understand its 
wants, and direct us in the path of duty? 
With what clearness of expression and vivid 
coloring is each scene and each transaction brought 
before the mind calculated to stir up every emo¬ 
tion of the soul. No book since the world began 
has ever equaled it in sublimity of thought, har¬ 
mony of sentiment, concise reasoning and moral 
grandeur. Still it is only clothed in plain words 
—words which convey a world of meaning, and 
come home to the heart with a power that the pro¬ 
ductions of man could never exercise. Yes, our 
Savior, in his teachings, spake thus to man. His 
were “Words fitly spoken,” like “ apples of gold 
in pictures of silver.” Ah ! few and faint are our 
words to tell of its glories. He that loves the Au¬ 
thor of it, loves the book. 0! could we all feel 
its truth. We are all ready to admit that the 
Bible is true, but do we feel it to be true ? 
Indeed, it is a message of love to a sin-cursed 
world, with “ healing on its wings.” A message 
of love from God. Y ea, such love as man never 
knew; a guide and a comforter, that we may know 
His will concerning us. Oh! precious book! Did 
we all perfectly obey its teachings, this world 
would be a paradise. Then let us read it more 
diligently, with a prayerful heart, that we may un¬ 
derstand and obey its precepts. Jane E. H—. 
Piffard, N. Y., 1859. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
“It Might Have Been.”— ’Tis a common ex¬ 
pression, and oft-times lightly spoken, yet how 
chillingly it falls upon the heart! It has a deep 
meaning; its words are eloquent of grief. In 
their little sum is contained the history of thou¬ 
sands. What sorrow, what agony, what desola¬ 
tion of heart, hath earth’s vain promise wrought! 
Disappointment stalketh abroad as a giant, and 
stricken souls are murmuring everywhere_“It 
might have been!” 
’Tis the dirge of fondest hopes, the lament of 
the soul. I rom the frozen pole to the burning 
clime, the Angel of Grief spreads his leaden 
wings, and the note of wailing, like the plaintive 
cry of the dying swan, goes up from earth’s myri¬ 
ads of broken hearts. It hath no pause, no change. 
The passing hours repeat its mournful music 
through the day, and darkness taketh up the strain 
through the night-watches. 0! how often has the 
spirit caught the sad refrain, and echoed back 
amid its wild complainings, that death-knell of 
hope—“It might have been.” —Bertha Mortimer, 
Stanardsville, Fa., 1859. 
That one Single Verse.— An old negro in the 
West Indies, residing at a considerable distance 
from the missionary, but exceedingly desirous of 
learning to read the Bible, came to him regularly 
for a lesson. He made but little progress, and his 
teacher, almost disheartened, intimated his fears 
that his labors would be lost, and asked him, “ Had 
you not better give it over?” “No, massa,” said 
he, with great energy, “ Me never give it over till 
me die;” and, pointing with his finger to John, 
third chapter, and sixteenth verse: “God so loved 
the world,” etc., added with touching emphasis: 
“ It is worth all de labor to be able to read dat 
one single verse.” 
- -- -* ■• + - 
A Tender Conscience.— It is an inestimable 
blessing to have a conscience quick to discern what 
is sin, and instantly to shun it, as the evelid closes 
itself against a mote.— Adams. 
A great part of mankind employ their first 
years in making their last miserable. 
