MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
Iforfiml. 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
SPRING RAl^f. 
BY IDA FAIRFIELD 
Softly fall the pattering raiu drops, 
Welcomed by the thirsty ground, 
Coming to the car that listens, 
With a gentle, music sound. 
Tender blades of grass are springing, 
Moistened into life anew; 
Leaf-buds ope their tiny foldings 
To admit the genial dew. 
Prom the rose-bush, faintly gleaming, 
Bursts a glimpse of sweetest red; 
And the three-leaved purple violet, 
Half iifts up her modest head. 
On the boughs the birds are swinging, 
Pouring forth a joyous strain. 
Every form of nature gladdened 
By the spring's delicious rain. 
High in heaven the gorgeous rainbow. 
Circling all the arch above, 
Like the great arm of Jehovah, 
Round the children of his love. 
Cfjt Huml Ikrfrlj ®ook. 
THE RED OAKS SCHOOL 
THREE YEARS AGO. 
BY MARION BIX SULLIVAN. 
, [Concluded.J 
“Well, how do you like the little man, 
Joo ?” asked John Beal, as they turned into 
the Liberty road. “ You seem to bo watch¬ 
ing him.” 
“Yes,” replied Joo Downer, “'I have 
watched him all day, hut I don't make up 
my mind till I see how he treats Julien.— 
That poor fellow is as smart as anybody, 
but just because he is as brown as an Indian, 
which he can’t help, every blockhead of a 
master takes it upon himself to knock him 
about, and call him Cuff and Pompey, or 
ftt best . Julius Caesar. The poor fellow had 
made up his mind not to come to school 
this winter, but I persuaded him, and prom¬ 
ised to see that he was well used. He’ll be 
at school to-morrow, and I’ll be there too, 
—and then the master must look out.” 
Harry had remarked Julien Seaver at 
church, and inquired his name. He was 
first attracted by his sweet alto voice, and 
then interested bv the deep melancholy, al¬ 
most despair, in his beautiful features,—and 
then astonished, that so sombre a veil should 
be spread over so fine a face. Ho was glad 
to see the boy at school, and, as soon as the 
reading was over, he went directly to his 
desk, which was next to Joe Downer’s, the 
latter having secured it for him the day be¬ 
fore, in order to protect him from insult. 
“ Good morning, Julien,” said ho, kindly; 
“I am glad you aro coming to my school.— 
I heard your voice in church. You have a 
very fine alto, and we are going to have 
singing in the school,-—not only sacred music 
but songs and glees. I shall depend on you 
for the alto.” 
Julien’s dark faco brightened with pleas¬ 
ure. and the tears started into Joo Down¬ 
er’s eyes. He hastily brushed them off, and 
began to study very hard, as Harry continued, 
“ But we must not neglect the more im¬ 
portant matters. Will you let mo see your 
’ books ?” 
Julien was proud to show them. They 
were quite clean, and his progress was not 
exceeded by that of any one of his age, in 
school. 
Harry left him, with a few kind and en¬ 
couraging words; and, as he departed, Ju¬ 
lien turned, with a look of delight, to Joe; 
but Joe was using his handkerchief, and his 
face was not visible. 
“ Tim, mind you,” cried one of the small, 
bad boys, “ the master leaves his big ferule 
at homo, and he don’t dare to whip anybody. 
Let us cut a few shines, now.” 
“ So we will,” said Tim. “ Let’s rub his 
desk over with charcoal!” 
“And I'll pin a newspaper on to his coat¬ 
tail !” cried Jerry. 
“ And I ll make faces at him !” said Bill. 
“Hollo, you young rascals,” criod Joe 
Downer, “ look at me ! I rather guess I’m 
pretty big and strong. If I am not, I rath¬ 
er s’pose I could get some help.” (Looking 
round.) 
“ I rather guess you could,” said Will 
Barry. 
“ Shouldn’t wonder,” said Clare Maris. 
“ Well,” continued Joe, doubling his fist, 
and shaking it in the faces of the astonished 
rebels, “ I tell you this,—one and all of you. 
The first ono that begins to cut up a shine, 
or to insult the master, in any way— mind, 
in any way,—shall bo knocked on his coast¬ 
ing ground, and specially flogged by me, 
every day, for one- week or more.” 
The rebellious party shrank away in ter¬ 
ror, and the subject of shines was never 
again alluded to. 
“ Mr. Downer,” said Harry as they come 
out of school that night, “ have you time to 
walk a little way with mo ?” 
This happened to be the first time Joe 
had ever been called Mister, and it pleased 
him mightily. Ho was gratified that some¬ 
body had at last discovered that he had ar¬ 
rived at manhood, and was candid enough 
to own the fact. 
“ Certainly, sir,” he replied. 
“ I want to ask you about the boy who 
came with you to-day. He is not a negro?” 
“Oh no, sir. Though the people here 
call him so, and think very ill of us, because 
we treat him like ono of the family. They 
take no notice of him. He is so miserable 
bocauso ho is black. He says he would 
gladly bo skinned all over, if he could by 
that means become white.” 
“ Poor fellow ! It is really sad.” 
“ Yes, sir. Wo want to keep him until his 
education is finished but ho thinks ho must 
go home dii’eetly. 
“Where is bis home ?” 
“ The Sandwich Islands, or one of them. 
His mother was a native, and she married 
an officer of a French ship, which was stop¬ 
ping there. She was related to the royal 
family. Her husband callocl himself Julian 
Seaver, or, Julien Sivre, as my uncle says it 
should he. He went away with tho ship, 
promising to return within a year; but lie 
never came. When Julien was old enough 
to walk alone, he used to go to all tho ves¬ 
sels that came in, to inquire for his father, 
hut he never could hear from him. 
“ When he was ten years old his mother 
died, and as ho could not persuade any one 
to take him on hoard a vessel, lie managed 
to get into my uncle’s vessel, just as she was 
about sailing, and conceal himself for seve¬ 
ral days, till they were far from land, when 
he camo out, almost starved. My uncle 
heard his story, and pitied him very much. 
“ He brought him homo to bo educated, 
and he says ho shall he treated like a prince, 
and a gentleman, as ho is—at least ho should 
not bo shunned' on account of his color.— 
But you cannot force people. They say he 
is a negro, and ho is the only one in town. 
He is never invited anywhere with the other 
boys. Uncle did get him into tho singing- 
school. 
‘ lie reads music as he would a story, but 
lie won’t sit in the singing seats, because he 
says everybody stares at him.” 
“ Who is your uncle, Mr. Downer ?” 
“ Oh, he is the Committee, Capt. Downer.” 
“ Indeed ! Well, I thought that man must 
have a noble heart. I thank you for this 
information. We must talk agai^ about it. 
Will you come in, sometimes, imthe eve¬ 
ning, to see me V 
“ Thank you, sir. Good night, sir.” 
It was a mild, January morning. After 
the children were all assembled in school, it 
began to rain heavily, and continued pour¬ 
ing. The recess was unavailable. Nobody 
went out farther than the hall. Harry 
heard an extensive rustling, and looked up 
from a sum he was correcting. Tho small 
children were thrusting themselves into all 
imaginable attitudes, in order to obtain re¬ 
lief from the pain produced by continuing 
too long* in one posture. 
They looked miserable and ill-natured, 
as though any change, a fight, or a whipping, 
would bo preferable to tho cramped and 
wearisome situation in which they wore held. 
“ Poor children !” said Harry, compassion¬ 
ately ; “ you cannot keep still aiiy longer. 
Aro you tired of sitting, Tommy T' 
“Is, sir,” said tho little child, just begin¬ 
ning to cry. 
“ Well, stand up, all of you; walk across 
to the door ; now como hack; go again once 
more; come back; clap your hands ; laugh 
as loud as you can.” 
This they did, all the school bearing them 
company. 
“ There, now, do you feel better ?” 
“Is, sir,” said Tommy. “Is, sir,” said 
they all. 
“It seems to me you all look tired, and 
this is really a very todious morning. Wo 
have such a large room, wo might as well 
have a little exercise in-doors, seeing it is 
too damp to play out. You may all of you 
—that is, all who wish to—come down into 
the floor, and inarch a little. I have my 
flute in my pocket, and all the boys who can 
may whistle. Please range yourselves two 
by two; first the boys, then the girls. We’ll 
march just five minutes, and then wo shall 
be ahlo to study much better. Begin with 
tho left foot. JYow!” and away they went,- 
to the tune of “ Jefferson and Liberty,” 
which Harry played, tho boys whistled, and 
the girls hummed. 
“ Stop ! turn right about all ! There 
now; march the other way.” All tho school 
joined in this, except John Beal, tho young 
man, who sat entirely engrossed by his 
arithmetic. 
“ Now you may take your seats quietly, 
and study as fast as possible.” 
All cheerfully obeyed, and a dead silence 
succeeded, which was interrupted by an 
angry knock at the door. One of the boys 
opened it. It was Mr. Maris, who was 
prowling about in the hopo of boing ablo to 
make himself useful. 
He sternly observed, “ I thought you 
seemed to navo a riot here, and did not know 
hut you might want some assistance.” 
“ Oh, dear, no, sir,” cried Harry, laugh¬ 
ing. “ You, see, sir, it is such a wet day 
that tho scholars cannot go out to play; and 
they cannot study without some exercise.— 
So I let them march for five minutes ; and 
you see how nicely they are making up the 
time. I am sorry you did not come in a lit¬ 
tle sooner to see them.” 
“ I don’t know,” said Mr. Maris, shaking 
his head; “ I think it is rather an innovation.” 
“ An improvement, sir ? Yes, sir, you aro 
right. It is a great improvement on the 
dark days when poor children were whipped 
because they could not possibly sit still any 
longer. This improvement, with many 
others, was introduced into tho common 
schools by a most successful teacher,—Thos. 
A. Bolder, Esq., from tho city.” 
“ I don’t know,” said Mr. Maris, doubtful¬ 
ly shaking his head. “Well, you haven’t 
sent for mo yet ?” 
“ No, sir, thank you; wo have no occasion. 
Won’t you step in and hear us read ?” 
“Well, I don’t care if I do. I may find 
some opportunity of being useful.” 
As the hoys took their places on the floor, 
there was as light disturbance, and Mr. Maris 
exclaimed, “ There are two boys crowding 
and whispering.” 
Harry hastened to them, and said, in a 
low, kind voice, “ What is the matter, my 
boys T They hesitated a moment, and the 
ono who stood lowest replied, “Enoch miss¬ 
ed a word yesterday, and I spelled it, and 
went above him; but I don’t think it was 
quite fair that I should have taken his place, 
because ho misunderstood the word. I had 
rather he should keep his place.” 
“Well, Enoch?” said Harry, turning to 
the other. 
“ I was very sorry to lose my place ; but 
I was inattentive, and I think I ought to go 
below James.” 
“ I had rather he should keep his place,” 
said James. 
“You are both of you very honorablo and 
generous, and I am exceedingly pleased with 
your conduct; but I can’t decide between 
you. Where there aro plenty of witnesses, 
it is sometimes well to decide the case by 
vote of the class ; but as this seems to be an 
affair between two, we must settle it by lot. 
Clare, will you find two sticks of unequal 
length, and let them draw ?” 
This was soon done. Enoch drew the 
longest stick, affd so retained his place. 
“ Perhaps,” hinted Mr. Maris, “ my boy 
has cheated: Enoch and he are great, 
friends.” 
Instantly the blood rushed to Harry’s face, 
and tho lightning flashod from ids eyes.— 
Ho stood up, indignantly confronting Mr. 
Maris, and looking, to his amazed pupils, as 
tall as Goliath. With an evident struggle 
to master his anger, and speak respectfully 
to Mr. Maris: 
“No, sir! you are mistaken. Your son 
does not cheat, or lie. I do not believe I 
have ono scholar hero who would cheat.— 
They all study well, and treat me well; and 
I would rather any one should speak against 
me, than against them.” 
There was a momentary silence, and then 
John Beal (who usually sat motionless, and 
inattentive as a stone post to everything ex¬ 
cepting his arithmetic) hastily rose, and re¬ 
quested permission to speak, which was read¬ 
ily granted. 
“ I have attended this school,” said he, 
with some agitation, “these eighteen years. 
I was feruled every summer by the mistress, 
and flogged every winter by the master, un¬ 
til I was strong enough to defend myself.— 
Until this winter, no one has ever tried to 
make me understand my studies? otherwise, 
I should not have been here now, when 1 
am almost twenty-one years old. I never 
saw a master try to mako his scholars hap¬ 
py before. I never before saw a master 
stand up for his scholars to save them from 
blame and punishment. I think we ought 
all to do the very best we can to make his 
task light and pleasant. I should like to 
know how many thero are in the school 
who intond to behave well and help the 
master!” 
Harry stood up, with a bright smile, and 
said, “ Every one who means to do his duty, 
hold up his right hand. Here is mine.” 
Every one immediately elevated a hand. 
Some of the girls by mistake held up tho 
left ono and the children held up both, in 
their zeal to do something popular. 
Then Joe Downer, who could no longer 
restrain his enthusiasm, proposed, “ Three 
cheers for Master Somers !” and, in the 
deafening hurrahs which followed, Mr. Mar~ 
is effected his escape, somewhat ashamed of 
himself, and exceedingly puzzled with this 
new state of things. 
Tliero was one boy whose enthusiastic at¬ 
tempt at a most signal and surpassing hur¬ 
rah failed, entirely, and was choked into a 
sob, which was, fortunately, unheard in the 
uproar. This was Clare Maris. It was the 
first time anybody over stood up for him, 
defended his honor, and stood pledged for 
his truthfulness. “ I am not the good boy 
ho thinks me,” said ho to himself: “hut 
henceforth, I will be. He shall not trust 
me for nothing.” 
From that tiino, his whole conduct and 
deportment were so changed for the better, 
that his father, to his great surprise, never 
again found an opportunity to chastise him. 
Indeed, such was the master’s influence on 
his brothers, that the rod soon fell into dis¬ 
use in that family. 
Harry Somers, finding on inquiry that 
Saturday, though not holy time, was the un¬ 
occupied evening of the week, informed his 
school that ho “ would always ho at home 
at that time, and would be happy to see any 
of them at his room. It was rather small 
—would not comfortably seat more than fif¬ 
teen ; hut any number not exceeding that 
would be very welcome. He would he glad 
of the opportunity to talk with them about 
anything which interested them, excepting 
their studies, which had better he laid aside 
from Saturday noon till Monday morning, 
as the mind requires rest. But they could 
sing, or tell stories, or whatever they 
pleasod.” 
This invitation, kindly and simply given, 
was accepted with much pleasure, and the 
Saturday evenings thus distinguished, were 
so ardently anticipated, and heartily enjoy¬ 
ed, that they were obliged to “ tako turns,” 
so as not to exceed the specified number.— 
Julien Sivre was with them, no longer des- 
pisod and neglected, hut joyous and hopeful 
as any. 
As the school-girls, and tlio small hoys 
could not participate in this enjoyment, 
Harry obtained for the school, by the influ¬ 
ence of tlio Committee, the liberty of Wed¬ 
nesday afternoon, which was thenceforth 
devoted to tho singing of songs and glees, 
ending in a contra dance,—so all wore de¬ 
lighted, and nobody found time to quarrel 
with the teacher or any one else. 
And with all this liberty, and music, and 
sociability, without punishment, without 
compulsion, the scholars of tho lied Oaks 
Village made greater progress in their 
studies than ever before during many years. 
Besides this, the influence of Harry’s kind 
and gentlemanly manner had entirely chang¬ 
ed tlio rough habits, and coarse feelings, of 
the young people under his charge. Pro¬ 
fanity and evil speaking were banished, and 
contentions were hardly known among them. 
So thoroughly convinced wero the parents 
of this result, that they yielded to tho earn¬ 
est solicitations of their children, and, at the 
close of the term, ongaged Harry to teach 
them again, the next winter; and, hecauso 
he seemed to hesitate a little, before reply¬ 
ing to their proposal, they offered him a 
larger salary than they ever before had given. 
So they gave him a hearty, affectionate 
farewell, which some of them could not ut¬ 
ter, lest the voice should break into sobs, 
and othors could not look, because the eyes 
were blinded by tears. 
But he came back to them the second 
winter, and the third, and eacli term was as 
happy and useful as the first. Now he can 
teach them no more, as he is studying a pro¬ 
fession, and after a while we are going to 
have a grand wedding,—two weddings in 
one. Hetty and Jenny Bolder will he the 
bridesmaids, and King George and Julien 
Sivre the groomsmen. 
Tlio latter is no'vv receiving a thorough 
musical education, with a distinguished Ger¬ 
man teacher, through the munificence of his 
old friend, Captain Downer. When he re¬ 
turns to his island home, it will he as a gen¬ 
tleman, and a professor of music, with let¬ 
ters of introduction, with a spotless charac¬ 
ter. and elegant manners. We shall hear 
of him again.— Sartains Magazine. 
Into Jiqmrtmrat 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
COUNTRY SCENES AND PLEASURES. 
Through all this long, weary day, I’ve 
been sitting beside an open south window, 
inhaling tho breath of spring flowers, as they 
are borne to me by tho passing breeze,—for 
the air is laden with the rich perfume of aro¬ 
matic-current, hyacinth, deep-bluo double 
violets, cherry and peach; and these same 
violets must bo the kind of which tho poets 
sing, for nothing can equal tho delicious fra¬ 
grance of these unassuming flowers. 
As I sat here, wondering what I was good 
for, what I could do, (for I am slightly dis¬ 
abled just now,) the thought ran through my 
brain, that perhaps I might write, either 
something useful or comic ; but that tho’t, 
like thousands of others, was there and 
away, with lightning speed, leaving me with 
the perfumo of flowers, tho warbling of 
birds, the rippling music of the stream, and 
my own “ throbbing heart and thinking 
brain.” 
Yet, I am not unhappy, for friends that I 
lovo are hero, in fact all that I dearly love, 
are round me ; for our family circle has been 
a charmed ono. Death has not entered its 
sacred precincts, to bear from out- midst,- 
father or mother, sister or brother; we are 
all hero, a perfect band : nono of us have as 
yet gone from neath “ the old roof-tree,” to 
battle alone with tho cold, heartless world ; 
our interests are ono, our home is one. 
Perhaps it is* more from this, than from 
any other reason, that wo feel so happy and 
contented, in our retired home. We see 
beauties and attractions, where those ac¬ 
customed to tho busy, jostling life of cities 
and crowdod villages, would see noth¬ 
ing hut the most dull, ordinary, common¬ 
place, and country affairs; perhaps they 
might reluctantly admit that tho sky is blue, 
and the fields green, and possibly, the air 
purer and tho flowers fresher, sweeter and 
moro abundant than in their crowded, dusty 
streets; still they would think “ ’tis only 
country, where is the beauty ?” They see 
not beauty in tho rich emerald, donned in 
the spring-time, by harvest-field and mead¬ 
ow land; they see nothing glorious in na¬ 
ture’s arousing from her winter's sleep, 
bursting the icy chain that has so long bound 
her, and stopping forth into new life, robed 
in her livery of green, garlanded with flow¬ 
ers. They cannot understand how it is, 
that wo can enjoy working with our own 
hands in tho garden, at tho risk of thoir 
being soft and white; nor how we can en¬ 
dure to make pets of horses, dogs, &c., for 
we must confess a weakness for pets, from 
the horses before the carriage and tho cows 
in the pasture, to chanticleer in the barn¬ 
yard, and the kitten on the hearth. 
From my window, the landscape, though 
not'the most picturesque, is sufficiently va¬ 
ried, to give it a cjiavm to my home-loving 
eye; gentleffiills aro in tho distance, crowned 
with the ver\ A i;reenest grass, with here and 
there, beautiful groves'of hickory, maple 
and beech. Between mo and the hills, is 
spread the smoothest, broadest meadow, to 
be found for miles around, reminding one of 
descriptions given of the rich meadows of 
Holland, so evenly and rank grows the grass, 
and of such deep, rich color. Round the 
foot of tho hills, just beyond tho meadow, 
runs a stream, pure, but cold and swift aS 
man’s ambition. Its source is found away 
to the South among tho hills, in a small 
spring, that one day’s sun, it would seem, 
might evaporate; but hurrying on its course, 
it receives the tribute of numberless little 
brooklets and tiny springs, increasing in 
breadth, in depth, and in speed, until it is 
able to turn the pondrous machinery of the 
various manufacturing and milling establish¬ 
ments scattered along its hanks. It rushes 
along over its rocky bed, heedless of imped¬ 
iment, broaking occasionally into small cas¬ 
cades, some of them possessing much natu¬ 
ral beauty. But from the prononess of man 
to mako tho beautiful subserve to tho use- | 
ful, they have turned many of them into ! 
mill-dams, cut down the natural groves by i 
which they were surrounded, and left them j 
—heaps of rocks, with water running over, j 
and one such I can see from my window. 
A few rods to tlio east of my window, 
stands a tall, graceful locust-tree,—not that 
locust-trees are anything unusual, or oven 
graceful ones rare; ’tis not the tree itself I 
deem worthy of notice, hut its occupants. 
My iprd and lady Robin Rod-Breast, have 
taken up their abode near tho centre of said * 
tree ; for days I have noticed my lady was 
exceeding busy in carrying straws, hair, 
strings and feathers; to-day, I seo she is 
nicely settled in her new homo. Success to 
her as a housekeeper. 
That beautiful bird, the Baltimore Oriole, 
is with us once again, with his clear merry 
voice, his brilliant plumage and glancing 
movements; but his stay is so short, it is 
scarce more than a provocation. Of the other 
birds, and numerous attractions that mako 
a home in the country pleasant, I fain would 
speak, but I seo night, with her dusky wing 
is hastening o’er tho earth so rapidly, I shall 
be obliged to close, with good wishes to all. 
Good night. Annie Linwooo. 
COLORS IN LADIES’ DRESSES. 
Incongruity may ho frequently observed 
in the adoption of colors without reference 
to their accordance v/ith the complexion or 
stature of the wearer. We continually seo 
a light blue bonnet and flowers surrounding 
a sallow countenance, or a pink opposed to 
ono of a glowing red; a pale complexion 
associated with a canary or lemon yellow, 
or one of delicate red and white rendered 
almost colorless, by the vicinity of deep red. 
Now. if the lady with the sallow complexion 
had worn a transparent white bonnet; or if 
the lady with tho glowing red complexion 
had lowered it by means of a bonnet of a 
deeper red color: if the pale lady had im¬ 
proved the cadaverous hue of her counten¬ 
ance by surrounding it with palo green, 
which, by contrast, would have suffused it 
with a delicate pink hue; or had the lace 
Whose red and white, 
Natiire’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on, 
been arrayed in a light blue, or light green, 
or in a transparent white bonnet, with blue 
or pink flowers on the inside—how different, 
and how much more agreeable, would have 
been the impression on the spectator ! How 
frequently again, do we see the dimensions 
of a tall and embonpoint figure magnified to 
almost Brohdignagian proportions by awhito 
dress, or a small woman reduced to Lilipu- 
tian size by a black dress ! Now, as the op¬ 
tical effect of white is to enlarge objects, 
and that of black to diminish them, if the 
large woman had been dressed in black, and 
the small womqn in white, the apparent size 
of each would have approached the ordin¬ 
ary stature, and the former would not have 
appeared a giantess, or the latter a dwarf. 
—Mrs. Merrijicld in Art-Journal. 
JENNY LIND GOLDSCHMIDT. 
Well do we remomber the first evening 
we heard the “ fair songtress it made too 
deep an impression to bo easily forgotten. 
There is a charm in her voice that throws 
around the heart of every true lover of 
music, a spell that entwines itself in fond¬ 
ness around memory’s shrine and lives fox- 
years. A friend who heard her, thus beau¬ 
tifully writes: 
When evening came so calm ainf still, 
We went to the place of prayer, 
And she in her robes of spotless white 
Stood alone before us there. 
And there she sang as the angels sing 
In then- celestial bowers, 
“ I know that triy Redeemer lives,” 
And we felt that her God was onrs. 
And we blessed her again with streaming eyes. 
And hearts that were filled with love; 
For we knew when she ceased to sing on earth, 
She would sing in the heavens above. 
We have listened for the last time to her- 
gentle strain, and now, as we Avrite, she is 
far on tho bosom of the broad Atlantic, 
bound to her “fatherland.” May gentle 
gales waft her speedily onward to her jour¬ 
ney’s end, and guardian angels hover around 
and protect her “ through changing years.” 
A Beautiful Prayer. —Lord ! bless and 
preserve that dear person whom thou hast 
chosen to he my husband; let his life be long 
and blessed, comfortable and holy ; and mo 
also become a great blessing and comfort 
unto him, a sharer in his joys, a refreshment 
1 in all his sorrows, a meet helper for him in 
; all the accidents and chances of tho world ; 
1 make me amiable in his eyes and very dear 
■ to him. Unite his heart to me in tho dear- 
? es t union of love and holiness, and mine to 
•him in all sweetness, charity and eoinpli- 
’ ance. Keep me from ail ungentloness, all 
! discontontedness and unreasonableness of 
pasSion and humor, and mako me humble 
and obedient, useful and observant, that wo 
may delight in each other according to thy 
blessed word and ordinance, and both of us 
may rejoice in Thee, having our portion in 
the love and service of God forever.— Lady 
Basil Montague. 
' We have seen young ladies so radiant 
! with the splendors of rings, pins, and boads, 
1 that they might almost be mistaken for tho 
> daughters of savages. Wo have been tempt- 
■ ed to wish that they might have ono other 
; pieco of jewelry—the fabulous ring of Cy- 
ges. which is said to have rendered the wear¬ 
er invisible. 
’Tis better to have loved and lost, than 
l nover to have loved at all.— Tennyson. 
