“I All WAYS COVERED MOTHER.” 
[The following incident bas been made the theme of 
the beautiful song, which is subjoined, from tbo pen of 
tho poet Webb “ A young lady had taken the solo 
care of her mother during a long and painful ill¬ 
ness. After her mother’s death, she performed the 
last duties previous to interment with mechanical 
precision, and without shedding a tear. Her first 
words were spoken at the grave, when the sexton had 
raised his spade to throw earth upon the coffin. “ Nay,” 
cried Katie, arresting his arm and showering a lapfal 
of flowers into the grave, “I always covered mother 
up, and she used to say I did it so gently.” There were 
few on the ground but wept:] 
I have always covered mother 
Since the pain came to her brow, 
And she said I did it gently— 
None else shall do it now. 
freedom carol their matin and vesper midst the 
woodbine boughs that clamber o’er the cottage 
roof. The mowers are in the hay-field yonder, 
securing summer’s wealth to store for winter a 
use. The cheerful cow-bell, made mellow by the 
distance, awakens the music of contentment in the 
heart, as it “tolls the steps of the tripping hours, 
and sounds the notes of rural bliss.” But happy 
voices within, and the busy hum of the spinning- 
wheel tempt us to enter, for surely happiness wit 
love must mingle where industry smiles o’er all.— 
We are unseen visitants and do not interrupt the 
various occupations of those within, nor the cheer¬ 
ful song they are singing. ’Tis pleasant to be 
poor, for they know that though they inhabit a 
I have always smoothed her pillow, 
And drawn the curtain fold; 
And I’ll not forget thee now, mother, 
When thy limbs are all so cold. 
’Neath the willows, deep and natrow, 
They have made thy bed I know, 
But they shall not soil tby robes, mother, 
"With the damp earth-mould below. 
Bee, I’ve plucked some wild flowers, mother, 
And I’ll strew them on thy breast; 
But the buds shall fall so gently 
That they may not break thy rest. 
I’d bring the brighter flowers, mother, 
But the roses fled with June, 
And the daises and anemones 
Went with the sweet May moon. 
But the buds fell from the stem, mother, 
To be caught by hands on high— 
Now they blossom in God’s garden— 
Pale lilies of the sky. 
And ’tis thus with souls like thine, mother, 
For they pass from life to love; 
And they loave this dark earth-garden 
For the golden walks above. 
Oh, the sweet star-lilies blossom 
Where no hand may pluck them down, 
Or I’d weave, to grace thy brow, mother, 
A purer, fairer crown. 
But the angel's wings are free, mother. 
And yon can wander there, 
Where the flowers are blooming ever 
With a fragrance like to prayer. 
Now the counterpane is spread, mother, 
You’ll wake to morning light— 
God’s hand has drawn the curtain, 
So, mother, sweet, good night! 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE UNWEARIED SUMMONER. 
BY A. H. BULLOCK. 
An Envoy, with message no one can avoid, 
Comes bearing the ensigns of woe, 
By whom strengih and beauty are rent and destroy’d— 
Embitters and poisons all blessings CDjoyed — 
To whom dearest treasures must go. 
He comes in a ghastly and terrible form, 
Beheld with a soui-thrii)ing awe; 
Appears at all times, in the eualight and storm, 
When stern Winter is raging or Summer glows warm— 
Is governed by no human law. 
No place is exempt from bis cruel display 
r —,— — v , Its witnessed on ocean and land— 
Cottage here, they will be received with as muc Tbe hal)g of a nobleman Qtls with dismay, 
splendor in heaven, if there they have stored their Th0 tlirone of n0 m0 narch proceedings can stay 
treasures, as though they came Irom a mansion on j n tbe cot 0 f i ow iy will stand. 
The children here have ample 10 cm to Now boomg f rom the cannon, or gleams from the sward, 
frolic and sport, and are up in the morning o sec And tben in dark 8 ;i ence draws nigh— 
the sunrise, not from behind brick walls and t 0 gome sends a herald like ancient proud lord 
clouds of dust, but in the crimsoned eastern sky. To otberg approacues without sign or word, 
With such a picture drawn, with such a contrast, And none from his summons can fly. 
who would exchange his Cottage, his contentment ^ ^ tim0 ig 5dle) by Eight or by <jay, 
and pleasure, for a mansion, with luxury and dis- j a m { ga j 0ns 0 f mourning and sighs, 
content! For though the elegant abodes in which IIag agentg , n gtubborn and countless array, 
our country abounds, may add some of the fairest c aa neither be flattered or bribed to delay, 
ornaments and sweetest attractions to our charm- And in slaughter, all tyrants outvies, 
ing landscapes, still these external attractions dif- though m0 nster so frightful, in memory dear 
fer materially from moral loveliness and internal We cber j gb the scenes of his wrath, 
beauty; for there are a thousand unpretending E’en while it wrings from us the heart-swelling tear, 
joys in the cottage, where Jesus presides, far ex- We engrave on our tablets, unfading and clear, 
celling those of the royal edifice where the Savior Tne acts which have darkened his path, 
is not; and it matters not how rural the cot, or p ardab ty marks his ferocious career 
how sequestered its site if there be happiness, Some skies oft bedimmed by his breath, 
holiness and peace within its walls. Then give Leaves others till twilight, resplendent and clear,— 
me a home in a snug little cottage where though No appeal from his sentence, however severe, 
other sheaves bow not to mine, I may, more blest For he is the Angel of Death, 
than kings, bask ever in a Savior’s smile ; and, jjj g labors suspended, so heartless and rash, 
when this earthly tabernacle I forsake, who will And man would but seldom know fear, 
ask whether in a lonely cottage or a splendid man 
sion I was reared; or whether in some Thessalian 
vale I dwelt, ’mid beauties peerless to the eye, or 
in some green and sunny spot, where Matures 
works arose in majestic grandeur and striking 
sublimity. J - M * s 
wie fiuchtig 1 ” Ah, how vain ! ah, how fleeting ! 
The flight of Time, which is silently, but surely 
and uniformly, bearing us from scenes, perhaps 
loved too well, cannot be too accurately marked. 
The worth of one moment is far above rubies, for 
upon it depends all; the moments that are past 
are gone beyond our reach; those that are in the 
future may never come. All is uncertainty—not 
the least part of time is insured to man. One 
moment he may bloom in health, and the next be 
struggling with the monster Death. As time rolls 
cn changes will take place. All are hastening on, 
and soon the present generation will rest in the 
grave. Yet time 
“That steals, from day to day. 
With slow, unseen, unceasing pace, 
Moments, and months, and years away ; 
Eight onward with resistless power, 
Its stroke shall darken every hour, 
Till Nature’s race be run, 
And Time’s last shadow shall eclipse the sun.” 
Fluvanna, N. Y., 1859. IL A. Wiiittemore. 
Portland, Mich., 1859. 
WOMEN AND LITERATURE, 
The shock of an earthquake, the hurricane’s crash, 
The horrors of shipwreck, the swift lightning’s flash, 
But Nature’s grand pastimes appear. 
Yet why should we tremble who feel his embrace, 
Or shrink from the graep of his hand ? 
Our earthly abode is a bleak, dreary place, 
And with the Death Angel we hasten, through grace, 
To our home in a beautiful land. 
Burns, N. Y., 1859. 
Written for Moore’3 Rural New-Yorker. 
REMINISCENCES. 
All vainly thought my wayward heart 
The misty veil of time to part, 
And look beyond. 
With wistful eye and earnest gaze, 
I sought to know the unknown ways 
Of future years. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A REVERIE. 
But closer shut the veil between 
My anxious eye and the unseen 
Of life before. 
Nor yet an echoiDg sound I heard 
From out those realms, or ans’ring word 
Of good or ill. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE COTTAGE AND THE MANSION. 
Op Cottages and Mansions vre all have often 
heard, and possess some knowledge of the splen¬ 
dor and regal magnificence of the one, and the 
homelike beauty of the other. Though peace and 
contentment may dwell in the Mansion as well as 
the Cottage, yet this is the exception and not the 
rule. Follow me, reader. In the city of B. stands 
a stately mansion,—wealth and magnificence reign 
around, and the heart of its proud owner is as cold 
and formal as the marble columns that adorn its 
freestone front. So icy is the atmosphere that 
pervades the mansion grounds, that it freezes the 
flowers until they dare not lift their rosy cups to 
receive the rays even of the noonday sun, and 
they hide their perfume in their heart’s secret urn 
until the mansion occupants have passed by, and 
then give it to the wooing breezes or the beggar- 
child who pauses by the garden paling. And if, 
perchance, a woodland songster strays so far from 
home as to enter the rich man’s garden to purloin 
a tempting cherry, he hushes his warblings as he 
nears the proud mansion, for instinct teaches him 
that happiness reigns not where all so studied and 
so stately is; and the love-music that gushes from 
his throat might not accord with the selfish hearts 
around. And the song-bird in the mansion sor¬ 
rows in his gilded cage, and pines for freedom and 
a humbler homo. Thus as even the glad things of 
Nature feel the chilling influence of wealth and 
selfishness; so the inmates of the mansion, wrap¬ 
ped in this world’s pleasures, pursuing the laby¬ 
rinthine path to earthly honor and. glory, feel not 
the heavenly peace and happiness of the soul that 
knows that “ in his Father’s house are many man¬ 
sions,” in glory and splendor, excelling all Earth’s 
crumbling palaces. 
But listen —there’s music—let us advance. Ah! 
we have it now. There’s a grand festival given to 
introduce the heiress “Some one” to “Mr. Some¬ 
body” just arrived from “Somewhere.” Youth, 
The literature of three centuries ago is not 
decent to be read; we expurgate it. Withiu a 
hundred years woman has become a reader, and 
for that reason, as much or more than anything 
else, literature has sprung to a higher level. No 
need now to expurgate all you read. Woman, too, 
is now an author; and I uncertake to say, that the 
literature of the next century will be richer than 
the classic epochs, for that cause. Truth is one, 
ere, absolute; but opinion is truth filtered 
through the moods, the blood, the disposition of 
the spectator. Man has looked at creation and 
given us his impression, in Greek literature, and 
in English, one-sided, half-way, all awry. Woman 
now takes her stand to give her views of God’s 
works, and her own creation; and exactly in pro¬ 
portion, as woman, though equal, is eternally 
different from man, just in that proportion will 
the next century he doubly rich because we shall 
have both sides. 
You might as well plant yourself in the desert, 
under the changeless gray and blue, and assert 
that yon have seen all the wonders of God’s 
pencil, as maintain that a Male Literature, Latin, 
Greek, or Asiatic, can he anything but a half-part, 
poor and one-sided; as well develop only muscle, 
shutting out sunshine and color, and starving the 
flesh from your angular limbs, and then advise 
man to scorn Titian’s flesh and the Apollo, since 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
TIME. 
From old Eternity’p mysterious orb 
Was Time cut off, and cast beneath the skies. 
[Youno. 
TrME is but a meteor glare, which we see as it 
passes, and it is gone forever. We know not 
whence it cometh, or whither it goeth; one mo¬ 
ment cometh and quickly passeth away, while 
another and another rush in to fill up the place 
of its predecessor. “Time,” says Young, “is the 
stuff that life is made of,” and we would do well 
not to waste such a precious possession. IIow ap¬ 
propriate the inscription on the dial in the temple 
at London, “Begone about your business." A 
wholesome admonition to the loiterer. 
Time has wrought many changes. Nations 
“ How long shall the land mourn for the wickedness 
of them that dwell therein. They have made it deso¬ 
late and it mourneth untome: they have trangressed 
the laws, changed the ordinances, and broken the ever¬ 
lasting covenant. Truth has fallen in the streets, and 
equity cannot enter.”— Bible. 
Hardly has the world grown wiser—surely, 
not better, in all its long sin-freighted centuries 
of experience. Secure in the invulnerable mail of 
selfishness, man isolates himself from charity- 
sacrifices brotherly kindness—wipes out sensibil¬ 
ity—buries love, and prostitutes that intellect 
with which Omniscience crowned him an image of 
Himself, to groveling passion and sordid gain. 
With iron fingers, icy-hearted, strong-eyed 
want, clutches the vitals of millions, gloating in 
fiendish glee at the mourning and wailing of its 
countless victims, deep-toned and terrible in their 
bitter anguish. Gilded misery, in flaming ap¬ 
parel, stalks abroad in unshamed calmness, only 
to pass on, unsaved, in its path of wretchedness 
and crime down to the gates of death. The 
hatchet unburied, the emblem of friendship and 
peace ignored brotherhoods are changed to 
feuds and never ceasing strife. 
With as little compunction or regret, birth¬ 
rights are bartered for pottage to-day, and no 
mediating angel to wrestle us into repentance and 
restitution. Our nativity and life’s holy relations 
denied and renounced that our heritage may be 
enlarged, or one more be numbered on the 
calendar of our days—and bo piercing conscience 
wakens to contrition and confession. The blood 
brothers unavenged, crieth out from the 
ground. Slowly dragging misery’s chains, the 
earv nations toil on in their pollution. Seeth¬ 
ing u p from suffering human hearts, the feeble 
moaning prayer for light,—the bitter wailing of 
error burdened millions—the agonizing groan of 
earth’s oppressed nations,—swells a tide of woe 
unutterable, surging onward to the mercy seat, 
Mercy bends in tearful supplication. Pity plumes 
her quivering wiDgsin trembling haste to liberate 
and gave. And onward drag the leaden years. 
In silence each bleeding heart folds its crushing 
anguish to itself, the spirit bows in utter desola¬ 
tion, gropiDg in a labyrinth of woe. 
Is there no sufficient power, that, wakened from 
its apathy of years, shall yet stretch forth its 
arms to burst tbe fetters from im- 
But, one by one, unfolding years 
Full soon unsealed its fount of tears, 
I Is joys decayed. 
Then bowed my unsubmitted will, 
Nor wished to know, if good or ill, 
My destiny. 
The dove of Peace then sought my breast 
And gently calmed my soul’s unrest, 
My al! of fear. 
Butler, Milwaukee Co., Wis., 1659. L. 
CONFESSIONS OF INFIDELITY. 
have fallen, cities have sunken in ruin, Prince’s 
you* havTexhaus ted manly*beauty” as think'to stir palaces have become hovels for the poor, while 
all the depths of music with only half the chords. Time, cruel Monster, has markedthousands upon 
Tbe diapason of human thought was never struck, 
till Christian culture summoned woman into the j 
republic of letters; and experience as well as 
nature tells us, “ what God hath joined, let no 
man put asunder.”— Wendell Phillips. 
HOW VICTORIA TRAINS HER CHILDREN. 
tens of thousands with decay! What changes has 
he not wrought? The youDg have grown older, 
the middle aged and aged have grown old, and 
dropped one by one into the narrow house pre¬ 
pared for all living. Gray hairs are whitening the 
heads of millions, and the first silver hair, like a 
truant nymph, is sown by the hand of old Time 
among our own locks. The rose tints that painted 
the cheek of some fair lady have been vanquished 
A rBMAET regard i« paid to mor.U.d religious vtbewrinkics of r , per ye ar., aid ttevigorwd 
duties. They nse early, breakfast at e.gbt, and by tbe wr is ' foi ,’ wed b tolt<ili 8teps , 
dine at two. Their various occupations are allot- strengi o y 
ted out with almost military exactness. One and slow an measured rea <* 
tea oui wibu u J , , , Many that embarked on life’s tempestuous sea 
hour finds em engage in e s u1 ? . h and enjoyed much of pleasure, happiness 
ancient another of the modern authors, the, wlth „ „„ mM e Th,v bar. 
acquaintanceship with the languages being first ana joy, wm . . 
founded on a thorough knowledgeoftheirgrammat- 
folly and fashion meet to “chase the glowing 
hours with flying feet,” and in this giddy whirl 
they circle to the grave. The children of the man¬ 
sion read of the beautiful country, of trees and 
sunshine, and wonder if it can be more beautiful 
than the Park. The rich miser, the mansion’s 
owner, has gained his wealth by fraud, deceit and 
robbery; by crushing to the earth bis brother, and 
by reaping where others have sowed and toiled.— 
The multiplication table is his “ Creed, bis Pater 
Noster and his Decalogue,” and he bows to “ no 
idols but his money bags.” His heart is shriveled 
within him, and the mendicant eyes with scorn 
and derision the nabob who, but yesterday was 
poverty’s child, robed not in ermine as now, call¬ 
ing not a palace Lis home but clad in rags, and 
occupying not a mansion but a cottage. Yet, 
when life’s taper flickers and dies, he will be ush¬ 
ered from the world with pageantry and show, 
amidst the false laments of those professing to be 
friends. He lives unloved, he will die unwept.— 
But, let us turn from the mansion and its unhappy 
inmates, and tarry by a more congenial fireside. 
Ah! here is a snug little Cottage on the hill¬ 
side. A noble river makes music as it glides 
through the rural vale. Sweet flowers adorn the 
door-yard and lend their fragrance to the passer¬ 
by. Wildwood blossoms unfold in the morning 
sunbeams here, and forest songsters with glad 
ical construction, and afterwards familiarized and 
perfected by conversation. Next they are trained 
in those military exercises which give dignity and 
bearing. Another hour is agreeably filled up with 
the lighter accomplishments of music and dancing. 
Again the happy party assemble in the riding 
school, where they may be seen deeply interested 
in the various evolutions of the menage. Thence, 
—while drawing and the further exercise of music, 
and the lighter accomplishments, calloff the atten- 
They have 
already been cut down by Time’s unsparing hand 
and gone to join the millions of the dead. They 
have launched their barks on the unffithomed and 
unbounded sea of Eternity. The golden moments 
of childhood fly quickly by, and we heed them not 
until it is too late, and we think “ Of Time, soon 
past; soon lost among the shades of buried years 
Time is ever making rapid strides; and should 
pass as the idle wind and we heed it not? Solo 
mon says there is a time for everything under the 
sun. The duration of a moment is hut the swing 
it is short, 
n • a r>f the nendulum, the tick of the watch; 
filted “ p “T&,*: nsu -i* •* -«*-Sr* 
Royal consort, win. . Xatronome'r has already measured the distance to 
tools essentia to a borough knowledge of the Astroj £ ^ ^ ug tbeir aQnual 
craft. They thus early become, not enly theoreti- ™ aU > revolution s. Would that we knew 
cally, but practically acquainted with the useful 
arts of lifo. A small laboratory is occasionally its velocity, 111 a t vr e in i g h t be p rep a re ^ *o “eet 
brought into requisition, at the instance also of 
their Rojal lather, and tbe minds of the children 
are thus led up from a contemplation of the curios¬ 
ities of chemical science and the wonders of nature 
to an inquiry into their causes. This done, the 
young carpenters and students throw down their 
saws and axes, unbuckle their philosophy, and 
shoulder their miniature percussion-guns—which 
they handle with the dexterity of practiced sports¬ 
men—for a shooting stroll through the Royal 
at its calling. Time is ever moving onward; 
waits not for youth or old age; its pace is firm 
and steady; it is true to its purpose; its motto ‘ 
onward; it turns aside for no one, but is ever on 
on! until it reaches the vast and unbounded ocean 
of Eternity, and there it bathes its never-wearied 
limbs in its unfathomed depths. This is 
“Tho sparkling cream of all Time’s blessedness, 
The silken down of happiness complete.” 
Time is from everlasting to everlasting, but 
gardens. The evening meal, the preparation for moment comes like some truant nymph and steals 
the morning lessoop, and brief religious instruc- j 
tion, close the day— Selected. 
Courtesy.— No woman can be a lady who would 
wound or mortify another. No matter how beau¬ 
tiful, how reQced, how cultivated she may be, she 
is in reality coarse, and the innate vulgarity of 
her nature mmifests itself here. Uniformly kind, 
courteous and polite treatment of all persons, is 
one mark of a true woman, and of a true man also. 
upon us unawares. It is so short we liard'y realize 
its approach until it is past and gone forever 
It is said there is a moral in everything to the 
moralizing mind. Since, then, Time once gone 
never returns, let us make the best use of it; not 
sad or serious tnere'y, but sober and reasonable 
ready to labor in the hour of labor, and rest in the 
hour of rest. We shall not, then, look back on 
misspent moments, with that feeling so apdy ex 
pressed in the German “Ach evie uichtig, 
An unbeliever in the Christian system rarely 
has any clear or well-defined faith, or any sure 
ground of comfort in hours of trial and depres¬ 
sion. Rejecting Christ as a Savior, he is left to 
walk “in darkness, not knowing whither he 
goeth.” The Lutheran Observer compares very 
strikingly the experiences of Voltaire and Hume 
with that of Paul: 
I seem,” said Hume, “affrighted and con¬ 
founded with the solitude in which I am placed 
by my philosophy. When I look abroad, on every 
side, I see dispute, contradiction. When I turn 
my eye inward, I find nothing but doubt and 
ignorance. Where am I? or what am I? From 
what cause do I derive my existence ? To what 
condition shall I return? I am confounded with 
questions. I begin to fancy myself in a most 
deplorable condition, environed with darkness on 
everyside.” Voltaire says:—'“The world abounds 
with wonders, and also with victims. In man is 
more wretchedness than in all other animals put 
together.” How did he judge of it? By his own 
heart. He adds:—“Man loves life, yet he knows 
he must die; spends his existence in diffusing the 
miseries he has suffered—cutting the throats of 
his fellow-creatures for pay—cheating and being 
cheated. The bulk of mankind,” he continues, 
“are nothing more than a crowd of wretches, 
equally criminal, equally unfortunate. I wish I 
had never been born.” Here what St. Paul says : 
“I have fought a good fight, I have finished my 
course, I have kept the faith. Henceforth there 
is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which 
the Lord, the righteous Judge, will give me at that 
day.” 
SHUTS OUT THE WORLD.” 
A few years since, on visiting a mother in Israel, 
mighty arms to burst tlie letters irom lm- one wbo wrestled and prevailed in prayer, she led 
prisoned nations, and bid the captive soul once me t 0 a small room in a retired part of her low- 
more breathe the free, gladsome atmosphere of roo fed dwelling, and showing me the hasp which 
purity and hope. Shall Mercy plead in vain? fastened the door of that quiet retreat, said“ I 
Shall Pity fold her wings and wait ? Shall tyrant often think that this little piece of iron is more to 
error yet trample truth to earth, and ignorance me than all the treasures of the rich in yonder 
and misrule hold despairing nations in abject c ity are to them — for this ‘shuts out the world."’ 
slavery. Thou who “taketh away the captives of j t W as a sacred spot, that room of prayer. For 
the mighty, and delivereth the prey of the terri- more than fifty years it had been a Bethel to the 
ble,” may thine Omnipotent arm save us from gou i 0 f this aged disciple; and how many in that 
degradation, desolation and ruin. 
Out West, Nov. 1859. Ben. Burdock. 
mountain village, aye, and in the world, are in¬ 
debted to the prayers offered there, eternity alone 
will reveal. It seemed to me holy ground, hard 
by the very gate of heaven. 
Reader, have you any bar, or bolt, or key, which, 
for lack of beauty.— Taylor. 
Lines for Meditation. —Beautifully and ten¬ 
derly wrought out is the comparison of the 
long suffering of God, to the affectionate care 
of a nur 3 e, in these lines from one of Quarles’ 
Meditations: 
Even as a nurse, whose child’s imperfect pace 
Can hardly lead his foot from place to place, 
Leaves her fond kissing, sets him down to go, 
Nor does uphold him for a step or two. 
But when she finds that he begins to fall, 
She holds him up, and kisses him withal— 
Bo God from man sometimes withdraws His band 
Awhile to teach his infant faith to stand; 
But when he sees his feeble strength begin 
To fail, he gently takes him up again. 
Engaging Manners. — There are a thousand 
pretty, engaging little ways, which every person 
may put on, without running the risk of being wben you enter y 0ur place of prayer, keeps away 
deemed either affected or foppish. The sweet tb e intruding cares and perplexities of the world 
smile, the quiet, cordial bow, the earnest move- wit h 0 ut? Alas! alas! how many weary, aching 
ment in addressing a friend, or, more especially hearts, burdened with earthly treasures, would 
a stranger, whom one may reeommend to our gi ve a n they possess for the “little piece of iron,” 
good regards, the inquiring glance, the graceful the something which would “ shut out the world,” 
attention, which is so captivating when united and tbe su bHme repose which He gives to 
with self-possession — these will insure us the « jjis beloved .”—Trad Journal. 
good regards of even a churl. Above all, there 
is a certain softness of manner which should be jj ot Discouraged.— Hope on, hope ever, 
cultivated, and which, in either man or woman, p roS p ec t s may appear to you dreary and 
adds a charm that always entirely compensates un j nv jting; life’s realities may be painfully op- 
than gold, and safer to tie to than the best State 
stocks. 
sch 
TriK Sleep of Youth.— Oh! let youth cherish 
tbe happiest of earthly boons while yet it is at its 
command; for there cometh the day to all, when 
“ neither the voice of the lute nor the birds, shall 
bring back the sweet slumbers that fell on their 
young eyes, n 3 unhidden as the d Q7,a. L>UjWcr 
Lytton. 
pressive to your sensitive feelings; but with trust¬ 
ful confidence, believe that He who made a way 
through the Red Sea for his redeemed ones to 
pass over, can easily light up your path with sun¬ 
shine, and strew it with fairest flowers. He who 
forms tbe night, creates also the day; He who 
directed the course of the storm-cloud also sends 
the fair weather out in the north. The railway of 
life docs not always lie through tunnels. Another 
moment and your gladdened spirit may be enjoy¬ 
ing the fine balmy air, and revelling in the 
beauties of earth and sky. It may be that you 
are even just now upon the verge of God’s choice- 
est blessings. 
Be Prepared.— No man knows what mercies a 
day may bring forth, what miseries, what good or 
The papers say there is a great demand for w h a t evil, what afflictions, what temptations, what 
women in Oregon. Isn’t there a demand for liberty, what bonds, what good success, or what 
women everywhere? There are plenty of Mies— bad success, a day may bring forth; and, there- 
dainty creatures with soft hands and softer heads, j. Qre ^ & man need eTer y day be in hi3 closet with 
puffed with hoops in the lower story and nonsense ^ ba t he may be prepared and fitted to enter- 
in the upper—but genuine, sensible women are tain ’ and improve all the occurrences, successes 
in demand all over creation. They are scarcer acd emergencies which may attend him in the 
than diamonds, and far more valuable-better coursc 0 f his life.— Thomas Brooks. 
Time and Eternity.— There are two words which 
should take much of our thoughts and cares, time 
aud eternity ; timo, because it will soon be at an 
end; aud eternity, because it will never come to an 
end.— Erskine. 
i 
The strength which the hour of trial brings 
| often makes the Christian a wonder to himself. 
