front” and marble houses, the summer heat bears 
them to sea-shore resorts, and far away to the 
green valleys and picturesque scenery of a moun¬ 
tain home. But the Greek mammomites had 
summer vacations, and watering places, and quiet 
seats, remote from dusty streets and undisturbed 
by the hum of crowded cities. There was no sea- 
washed Newport, or healing Saratoga, or Baden, 
in the catagory of Theban and Athenian pleasure 
rolls, but there were cool groves, and famous 
walks, and inspiring scenery, and isles of the 
deep, to while away estual hours. Where the blue 
Egean laved the shore, a princely Newport had 
the ocean-breeze, and the smooth beach. Healing 
waters—waters of forgetfulness and inspiration— 
gushed forth from Parnassian heights; and on 
adjacent hills and groves were the villas where 
tired throngs resorted. 
The Greek theology was aharmonious faith. One 
church code satisfied the heart, and Zeu3 was the 
spiritual Bishop. No unhealthy qualms of con¬ 
science, or stinging remorse over an unregenerate 
heart, soured the temper, or brought on hypo¬ 
chondria. The age was not blessed with divinity 
schools aDd orthodox quills to lay bare Polytheism, 
and expose the pseudo-tenets of the Jovine disci¬ 
ples. The heavens and earth were their testa¬ 
ments. The thunder was the voice of their Great 
Father; and earth had mansionson mountain-tops 
and caverns in the deeps, where his satellites 
dwelt, and obeyed his nod. Whether that graft 
upon the old tree of evil, which has now blossomed 
in its youth—that last work of the Parent of Dark¬ 
ness—entered “the land of genius and of lovely 
women,” and invisible hands rapped on tables, 
and chairs danced, the historians of the age have 
not informed us. Nevertheless, the manes some¬ 
times made a flying visit to the abodes of men, and 
held colloquies. Had ingenuity been as largely 
developed in the Greek brain, as in Yaekeedom, 
there might have been Salem tribunals, and worse 
than “scarlet-letter” penalties enforced. 
While we know not futurity, and can only move 
forward by a gradual march, it is possible to 
return to other days, and view the ancient world. 
The distant in time throws off its vagueness, and 
the old marvels, myths and wonders of the past 
mingle with the present. We are indeed remote 
from the days of Homer. But through the gates 
of poetry and history we may visit them, still fresh 
and vivid to the inner eye. We are ushered into 
the age of mythic glory, free thought, fertile con¬ 
ceit,— an age of heroism and sensualistic beauty. 
Clinton, N. Y., 1859. Wm. G. Winslow. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE SNOW-ROBE. 
shore?” I hope they do; I am so jealously fond 
of the old place that I cannot bear to think of you 
as forgetting it. I wandered down to the sea¬ 
wall at the foot of the garden last night, and 
everything was so strangely like, and yet unlike, 
the days that are gone forever, bearing with them 
many of those we loved and cherished, that I 
threw myself down on the dewy grass and cried, 
and I believe I am crying now; but those were 
happy days—“ do you remember?” Do I remem¬ 
ber?—as though the hills and dales, and wide 
expanse of sunny waters, nay, everything, even 
the tree and flower pertaining to that olden home, 
were not engraved upon my heart with a fidelity 
that mocks the limner’s pencil! Ah me, the 
“exile yearnings” visit me full often with but 
sorry cause for awakening words. How Often 
does memory transfigure these gloomy November 
days with her witchery, as she drapes the bare 
hills with the flushful garniture of Summer, 
spreads a soft sapphire over the dismal sky, 
and changes the cold gray rime to a golden haze, 
and I a child again, roam over the summer 
meadows with sunshine on my heart and brow, or 
peep over the mossy well-curb to catch a glimpse 
of the brightness at the bottom, or swing beneath 
the swaying branches of the graceful willow, 
transfigured with the purple sunset glory, or 
climb the Aipine summits of the misty hills to 
watch for the coming uf the gallant ship that bore 
the beloved sailor brother, or-but the twilight has 
deepened around my musiDgs, and Albert coming 
in scans me with his roguish eyes, and with 
unparalleled atrocity declares that I have fallen 
asleep over my embroidery! Well, there are “two 
lives,”—“ to seem” and “ to be,” and what care I 
if this busy, practical world confounds the one 
with the other? Laura E. W. 
Cohocton, Steuben Co., N. Y., 1859. 
BY ALLEN J. CURTIS. 
Last night as wo slept, 
And the vigils were kept 
By the spirit of a roguish star, 
In garments of white, 
Resplendent and bright, 
Came the angels in cloud-wrapt ear. 
But the star never spoke, 
Nor from sleep us awoke, 
To tell us that angels were near; 
So we slept right along, 
Nor heard we their song, 
Though sweetly they sang and clear. 
And they came for this 
From their homes of bliss, 
To present to our Mother Earth— 
At which each of the band 
Had wrought with her hand— 
A new robe, as a token of worth. 
Both softer than silk, 
And whiter than milk, 
Was the stuff from which it was spun; 
And the shuttle flew 
As the thread it drew, 
Till the splendid robe was done. 
The warp was white, 
And the woof was light, 
Through their mystic fingers run ; 
And I’m sure it was made 
To wear in the shade, 
For it soon would spoil in the sun. 
Then fold after fold 
They quickly unrolled 
Of the ample garment they’d wrought; 
And it sparkled bright 
In the stars’ clear light, 
Like the gleam of a brilliant thought. 
Then away to the earth 
With a song of mirth, 
Came the beauteous angel baud, 
And the light of a smile 
Lit their faces the while, 
For their joy at what they had planu’d. 
And they spread it out, 
Without murmur or shout, 
O’er the hill, and the wood, and the plain 
Then basted away, 
Ere the break of day, 
To their glittering homes again. 
When we opened our eyes, 
What a glad surprise 
Was the view from our windows caught, 
Of the spotless white 
And the sparkling light 
Of the robe by the angels wrought. 
Kalamazoo, Mich., 1859. 
THE HEAVENLY SOWING. 
NOW I LAY ME. 
Sower Divine, 
Sow the good seed in me, 
Seed for eternity; 
’Tis a rough, barren soli, 
Yet, by thy care and toil, 
Make it a truthful field, 
A hundred fold to yield ; 
Sower Divine, 
Plough up this heart of mine. 
Sower Divine, 
Quit not this humble field 
Till thou hast made it yield; 
8ow thou by day and night, 
In darkness and in light; 
Stay not thy hand, but sow, 
Then shall the harvest grow; 
Sower Divine, 
Sow deep this heart of miue. 
Sower Divine, 
Let not this barren clay 
Lead thee to tarn away; 
Let not my fruitlessness 
Provoke thee not to bless; 
Let not my field be dry, 
Sower Divine, 
Water this heart of mine. 
Tiie dreamy night draws nigh; 
Soft, delicious airs breathe of mingled flowers, 
And on the wings of slumber creep the hours ; 
The moon is high,— 
See yonder tiny cot, 
The lattice decked with vines—a tremulous ray 
Steals out to where the silver moonbeams lay, 
Yet pales them not! 
Within, two holy eyes, 
Two little hands clasped softly, and a brow 
Where thought sits busy, weaving garlands now 
Of joys and sighs 
For the swift-coming years! 
Two rosy lips with innocent worship part;— 
List! be thou saint—or skeptic, if thou art,— 
Thou must have ears ; — 
“Now I lay me down to sleep, 
I pray the Lord my soul to keep; 
If I should die before I wake, 
I pray the Lord my soul to take.” 
Doth it not noiseless ope 
The very flood-gates of thy heart, and make 
A better man of thee for her sweet sake, 
Who, with strong heart, 
Her sweet task ne’er forgot 
To whisper “ Now I lay me,” o’er and o’er, 
As thou didst keel upon the sanded floor— 
Forget them not! 
From many a festive hall 
Where flashing light and flashing glances vie. 
And, robed in splendor, mirth makes revelry— 
Soft voices call 
On the light-hearted throng, 
To sweep the harp strings, and to join the dance, 
The careless girl starts lightly, as perchance, 
Amid the songs, 
The merry laugh, the jest, 
Come to her vision songs of long ago, 
When by her snowy couch she murmured low, 
Before her rest, 
That simple infant’s prayer; 
Once more at home, she lays her jewels by, 
Throws back her curls that shade her heavy eye, 
And kneeling there 
With quivering lip and sigh, 
Takes from her fingers white the sparkling rings, 
The golden coronet from her brow, and flings 
The baubles by; 
Nor doth she thoughtless dare 
To seek her rest till she hath asked of Heaven 
That all her sins, through Christ, may be forgiven— 
Then comes the prayer— 
“ Now I lay me down to sleep, 
I pray the Lord my soul to keep ; 
If I should die before I wake, 
I pray the Lord my soul to take.” 
The warrior on the field, 
After the battle, pillowing his bead 
Perhaps upon a fallen comrade, dead, 
Scorns not to yield 
To the sweet memories of his childhood’s hour, 
When fame was bartered for a crimson flower— 
The statesman gray, 
His massive brow all hung with laurel leaves, 
Forgets his honors while his memory weaves 
A picture of that home ’mid woods and streams, 
Where hoary mountains caught the sun’s first beams,- 
A cabin rude—the wild fields glistening, 
The cattle yoked and mutely listening, 
The farmer’s toil, the farmer’s fare, and, best 
Of earthly luxuries, the farmer's rest;— 
But hark! a soft voice steals upon his heart— 
“ Now say your prayers, my son, before we part 
And, clasping his hands—a child once more — 
Upon his breast, forgetting life’s long war— 
Thus hear him pray:— 
“ Now I lay me down to sleep, 
I pray the Lord my soul to keep; 
If I should die before I wake, 
I pray the Lord my soul to take.” 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE SABBATH. 
“ In six days the Lord made heaven and earth, the 
sea and all that in them is, and rested the seventh day, 
wherefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day, and 
hallowed it.” 
How like a strain of sweet music seem 3 the 
remembrance of the Sabbath, as it mingles with 
all the wearisome sounds and annoying scenes of 
six tedious busy days. And when it comes with 
its quiet hours and hallowed influences, whose 
heart does not soften and expand with emotions of 
love and reverence for the Being who blessed this 
day, giving it to man as a faint type of a rest 
which remains for those who cheerfully and 
lovingly learn life’s most difficult lesson. Other 
days may bring with them happy hours, and 
pleasant thoughts, but they are never free from 
care, for there are ever miDgled with them 
thoughts of the morrow. 
To my mind no greater misfortune can befall a 
person than that they should lose their rev¬ 
erence for the Sabbath,—that it should become 
to them as other days, never whispering to them 
of God and Heaven,—only regarded as a day 
excusing them from physical labor, and to be 
enjoyed as best pleases their fancy. To such there 
comes no fresh baptism of holy influences which 
shall rest upon them as a mystic spell, effectually 
guarding them from temptations, and strengthen¬ 
ing for life’s duties and responsibilities. 
“Life has a crown of care for all.” 
To the Christian the Sabbath is a holiday in 
which he lays aside this crown, and eDjoys a fore¬ 
taste of “the rest which remains for the people of 
God.” He who does not love God may lay aside 
this crown, but it is replaced by one heavier and 
more cumbersome, even the displeasure of God, 
and the reproaches of conscience. 
“ Life is a teacher cold and stern,” and methinks 
we sadly need all the ennobling influences which 
our Father places in our reach, and shall we turn 
carelessly away, and while each tiny leaf and 
blade of grass seems to whisper “ Remember the 
Sabbath day to keep it holy,” pass on regardless 
of all these holy teachings? Let ns, instead, 
sacredly treasure each God-given aspiration for 
purity, and, perseveringly pressing onward and 
upward—may each reader of our much loved 
Rural enjoy a Sabbath which shall never end, 
the joy and peace of which, is only equaled by its 
duration. Jennie, 
Bath, N. Y., 1859. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
“I’M WEARY.” 
“ I’m weary, mother,” and with these words, a 
sweet child of but four short summers raised her 
tear-filled eyes to those of her parent, as if longing 
for one sympathizing glance. “My flowers are 
faded, my bird has hushed its song, the gold has 
left my butterfly’s wings, and I am weary; let me 
rest.” This was the sweet child’s first lesson in 
the mutability of all things earthly,—her lovely 
treasures had been touched by the finger of 
change, and no wonder that her heart was sad¬ 
dened. She was weary—well might she ask for 
rest. 
“ I’m weary, mother,” and a dark-eyed, intellect¬ 
ual-looking girl gazed sadly on the bright sun¬ 
light, as she thought of the time when she, too, 
was joyous and free as a sun-ray; but those bright 
days were gone forever. She thought of the time 
ere her young heart had bowed beneath the weight 
of much thought, but wild ambition had fired her 
soul,—she had been lured onward by the enchant¬ 
ing rays of the star of fame, and over her it had 
exerted a strange, wild power. Night after night 
had she wandered in pursuit of some hidden 
thought of ancient philosopher, and the morning’s 
rosy light still found her at her chosen task. 
Step after step had she progressed through the 
long years of her collegiate study; only one year 
remained, and she would graduate with all the 
honors. With gladness she looked forward to the 
time when she should stand on the upper round 
of the ladder of fame,—still, mingled with sorrow, 
were her thoughts of childhood’s hours exchanged 
for the student’s life. As she reviewed the weary 
years of toil and suffering, both of mind and body, 
no wonder that she was weary, and sighed for sest. 
“I’m weary,” said a rosy-cheeked, laughing 
maiden, as she unclasped the pearls from her 
snowy neck, “I’m weary, let me rest.” All the 
night long had she whirled in the mazy dance. 
Not only one night, but her entire existence was 
one continual round of pleasure. At times she 
longed for something nobler, higher,— she was 
almost sick of her aimless life, still she lived on 
for pleasure alone, and sometimes, when her heart 
called loudly for purer purposes and aims, she 
sighed for rest. 
“I’m weary,” said a high and noble statesman, 
as he bowed his head on his hand, “ I’m weary, 
let me rest.” He whose tread awoke the stillness 
in halls of State,— he on whose slightest words 
hung an admiring multitude,—asked rest. From 
all such scenes of magnificence, he turned with a 
weary heart and an aching brow to the remem¬ 
brance of the happy past,—all the glory of the 
present he would gladly renounce for rest. 
“I’m weary,” said a dying Christian. With 
these words upon his lips and a satisfied smile 
illuminating his countenance, the soul sought a 
refuge in the bosom of his Savior. He ba"d found 
the promised rest. l. l. 
Hillsdale, Mich., 1859. 
WINTER SCENES. 
The following from the Chicago Journal is 
worthy of being placed beside the winter sketches 
of Jacob Abbott and N. P. Willis: 
That old red sleigh, with its long box that 
never was full, for down in the straw, wrapped 
in the robes, or on one or another of the four seats 
it contained, there was always room for one more. 
What a grouping of bright young faces there 
used to be in it! Faces in hoods, in caps and in 
blankets; hearts that have loved since; hearts 
that have broken; hearts that have mouldered. 
And away we went over the hill, and through the 
vale, under the moonlight, and under the cloud; 
when the stars were looking down; when the sun 
kindled the world into a great white jewel; but 
those days have gone forever away, and the sweet 
old necklace of bells, big in the middle of the string, 
and growing small by degrees, has lost its power 
over the pulses. 
In that old sleigh, brides have gone away be¬ 
fore now—those that were married to manhood, 
those that were “ married unto death.” Great 
ship3 have gone over the waters with less of 
hope and happiness than that rude craft has 
borne over the billows of winter; swan-like 
shapes now glance along the arrowy way, but give 
us, for its sweet memories of Yesterday, the old 
red sleigh. 
Then, the days when we were “coasters;” and 
down the big hill, by the maple wood, through 
the little pitches, far into the valley we came with 
merry shout, each the solitary Palinurus of his 
own small craft. How like a flock of swallows 
we were, dashing down the declivity, in among 
a group of sleds, side by side with a rival, shoot¬ 
ing by like an arrow, steering in gallantry ahead, 
like a jockey, and on our way up with a sled in 
tow, ere the party had reached the valley below. 
And then it was, when the wind had swept away 
the snow from pond and stream, and the ice was 
glare, that we put on the “rockers,” and darted 
hither and thither, and cut sixes and eights, and 
curves without number, and drew the girls that 
we loved, and whirled them like leaves over the 
highway of crystal. 
And the schools where we pelted each other down, 
and the schools where we sang Windham and 
Hear, and the schools where we ciphered and 
wrote, and “went up;” gone, all gone, teacher 
and taught, like the meltiDg snows, under the 
rainbows of April. And when, sometimes, after 
the great snow, the winds came out of the north 
for a frolic, what wreathings and carviDgs of the 
cold alabaster there were. Wbat Corinthian 
adornings surmounted the fence posts; what 
mouldings were fashioned beside the way; what 
fairy-like caves in the drifts; what flowers of rare 
finish and pendants of pearls on the trees. 
Have you quite forgotten the footprints we 
used to find in the damp snow; as delicate, some 
of them, as a love letter; the mysterious paths 
down to the brook or the old hollow tree, that we 
used to wonder over and set “ figure fours ” by, 
if perchance, we might catch the makers thereof? 
Have you quite forgotten how sorry you were for 
the snow birds that fluttered among the flakes, 
and seemed tossing and lost in the storm? And 
there, in the midst of that winter, Christmas was 
set, that made the Thanksgiving last all through 
the night of the year, and what wonder the stars 
and the fires burned more brightly therefor! 
Christmas, with its gifts and its cheer; its carol 
and charm; its evergreen branch and its bright 
morniDg dreams. Christmas, when there were 
prints upon the chimney tops if we were only 
there to see them, where Santa Claus set his foot 
as the clock struck twelve. Christmas, when 
stockings were suspended by hearth and by pil¬ 
low all over the land ; stockings silken and white; 
stockings homely aDd blue, and even the little red 
sock, with a hole in the toe. Blessed forever be 
Bethlehem’s star. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE HOMERIC AGE. 
The tired way-farer of to-day sometimes imagines 
a golden past, and fondly recalls the fifth act of a 
drama whose scenery was the heavens and earth, 
and the actors illustrious mortals. Some think of 
those far-distant days as mysterious hieroglyphics, 
strange and unaccountable; othei s as dreamy mar¬ 
vels and fable-given. But let him who pan, turn 
aside, and give his ffimrs to that land of strong 
men and iron charac> 
now known only in story, 
— to that elegant people and marble splendor of 
the city of wisdom,—to those Grecian skies where 
modern beauty-lovers resort,— and the old Greek 
isles where incense perpetually smoked on altars 
consecrated to the heavenly synod. To such as 
care to turn away from the bustling now, and seek 
the retired then, there are cool retre its, and 
refreshing waters, where heated energies may 
calm, and thirsty lips moisten. Also, profit and 
treasures of intellectual wealth, and rich examples 
are found to help and fertilize the mind. But the 
multitude are not thus influenced. Drawn on by 
the great human tide, they look beyond, but never 
behind. For them there are no pleasures in 
remote days, when epic song drew infant breath, 
and romance had reign over the Greek heart. 
With such the cry is—we toil for daily bread, and 
care not for the old theories, the sweat of Olympic 
sports, the tales of Spartan Leonidas, the talk 
of colloquial Plato, and polished atticisms—or 
whether the theatre had green curtains, and how 
many Atheneums were on the street corners,—we 
think of to-day, and look up to-morrow. This 
prevails with not a few intelligent, but practical 
men. 
There were no modern doctrines and improve¬ 
ments in that spring-time of intellectual glory, nor 
the thousand-and-one inventions of an ingenious 
age. No Manchester thrived on the water-courses 
of the green vallies, or by the great cities, with 
myriad looms and busy shuttles working for the 
million. But we read of those who wove the sea- 
purple threads of wool all the day, and prepared 
the vesture. Nor were there heard the shrill notes 
of steam amid hills, and around the temples—but 
had not Greece her Calliope? We know not that 
dinners were served in the nabob style of modern 
fashion lovers, but dinner was as indispensable to 
ancient as to latter-day stomachs. Quite minutely- 
are we informed as to the nature of the feast, and 
the dishes. Boiled goose, served up in sauce, 
satisfied the keen appetite of the old epicureans, 
and why not our turkey-lovers ? Pickled livers, 
with a pottage of pigeons, delighted Theban 
gourmands—and why not modern clubs? We 
are Dot informed as to whether pumpkin pies 
served as dessert, but roasted poppy seed, mixed 
with a hock of pork baked in honey, was a com¬ 
mon dish. The land of song had no Drake 
or Raleigh, instrumental in polluting the pure 
atmosphere and classic promenades with fumife- 
rous mouths,—nor were the public enlightened on 
“ the confessions of an opium-eater,”—so that we 
presume the entertainment did not conclude with 
those unwise, sense-gratifying pleasures of latter- 
day civilization. Those Greeks were not puny 
and sallow, but given to a healthy vigor, and gene¬ 
rous circulation of blood. Probably the Greek 
idea of a public dinner was not Americanized. At 
any rate, it is improbable that on the following 
day, the newspapers announced that “ the tables 
literally groaned with the delicacies of the season” 
— for where were Faust and Hoe at that period? 
While winter keeps the fashion-devotees and 
voluptuaries of the present age in “ brown ston 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
REMEMBERING. 
GONE, BBT NOT MISSED. 
There are some professors over whose graves it 
would be difficult for devout men to find great oc¬ 
casion for lamentation. Such persons would 
doubtless be missed in their families, places of 
business, and accustomed places of recreation; 
but as to her peculiar and noble offices, the church 
would he compelled to say of them, “Gone, but 
not missed.” She would not miss their charities 
for Christ and his poor; she would not miss them 
in her circles of praj er and benevolence; she 
would not miss them at the bedside of the siclf, 
nor in the house of the mourner; she would not 
miss them when great trials were to be borne, or 
hard labor to be done for the extension of the 
Gospel. In her Sabbath School efforts, and tract 
distribution — in her endeavors to evaDgelize our 
city, our land, our earth, with truth and holiness 
— she would not miss them, for they have not 
cheered those labors of love with their presence, 
their counsel, their charities, or their prayers.— 
Like the haDgers-on of au army, they move with 
the host to share the results of victory, but are 
absent when martyrs are to bleed upon the field. 
The loss of such to the Church by death would be 
graded by the benefit which their lives confer up¬ 
on the world; and hence you can judge whether 
devout men would make great lamentation over 
them. Stephen fell at his post, and this pointed 
the grief at his loss.— Dr. Btainerd. 
! murmuring, with something very like a tear in 
I your eye, and something more than a pang in 
your heart, 
‘Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing, 
1 0, far-off grassy dell,—and dost thou see 
When Southern winds first wake the vernal singing, 
The 6tar gleam of the wood Anemone ?’ ” 
To all such sentimental inquiry I can answer 
yes, though the outward aspect of our bonny town 
of Fairhaven is much changed. Ancient, moss- 
covered houses, which are doubtless part and 
parcel of your recollections of home, have been 
torn down to give place to new dwellings, dis- 
greeably white and glaring,—dusty roads wind 
through the sunny fields where we were wont to 
gather red-lipped clover blossoms, and the golden 
chalices the buttercups hold up so temptingly,— 
that grove of “ Oriental plane trees” which rested 
on the green hollow on the eastern side of the bay 
has perished beneath the chopper’s axe. But, 
i after all, it is still as of yore, “the beautiful town 
that is seated by the sea.” The forests still 
harbor those trembling little refugees from a fairer 
] clime, the fairy wood blossoms, and the wild bees, 
dreamy chime riDgs out from beechen slope and 
mossy dell. And those lovely Columbines that 
used to bloom on the crag overhanging the tossing 
sea,—looking as bright and fresh as Mary 
Chilton, when she stood on “ Forefathers Rock” 
with the blue Atlantic waves dashing around 
her,—are yet there, though many a sunny head 
; crowned in by-gone summers with their scarlet 
\ glory, is laid low in the church-yard. The wood- 
jT bine still drapes the walls of the * old homestead’ 
with its pendant masses of verdure in Summer, 
S' and its gorgeous leaves and scarlet berries in 
jfi Autumn, and the dandelions in the front yard 
J glow in the deep grass like stars reflected in the 
1 emerald water. 
jjL Do my descriptions awake in you any of “the 
H exile yearnings, under the willows of the stranger 
A CITY’S PRIDE IN ITS WOMEN. 
The Philadelphia City Item thus admonishes 
that our patriotic pride should not be exclusively 
“hero worship:” — “Cultivated women are as 
much an ornament and honor to a city or a State, 
as cultivated men. France has as much distinc¬ 
tion from Madam DeStael as from the most bril¬ 
liant of its philosophers. Fanny Burney, (Madam 
D’Arblay,) Mrs. Macauley, Agnes Strickland, and 
numerous other females, shed the highest lustre 
on England. The Irish boast of Miss Edgeworth, 
of the Porters, of Lady Morgan and of Lady Bles- 
sington, with a spirit indicative of the highest 
appreciation. Scotland, too, has gained in honor 
through the educated genius of more than one of 
its'bonnie, bright-eyed lassies.’ Every country 
in Europe has been benefited by talented women. 
So has our grand America. Our female poets 
and fiction writers have done as much for our 
intellects, morals, tastes and honor abroad, as our 
literary men. Miss Sally Bridges, of this city, 
Mrs. James Campbell, (Chief Justice Lewis’ 
daughter,) Mrs. Hale, Mrs. Sigourney, and twen¬ 
ties of others, have written poems that America 
will be forever proud of. The nation whose 
women are cultivated, cannot but be one of happy 
families, of the best and finest description of great 
men for all departments in its government, and 
of glorious, increasing, perpetual power and 
existence.” 
Improve the Time.— The lights of heaven do 
not shine for themselves, nor for the world of 
spirits, who need them not; but for man, for 
our pleasure and advantage. How ungrateful and 
inexcusable then are we, if, when God has set up 
these lights for us to work by, we sleep or play, or 
in a manner trifle away the precious moments 
given us, and thus burn our Master’s candles, but 
mind not our Master’s work. 
Ingratitude is so deadly a poison that it de^ 
stroys the very bosom in which it is harbored. 
