4 * 4 * 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
293 
THE COTTAGE. 
)!Y JAMES I'tTMMILL. 
I saw a cottage in a little vale, 
Shut out from tumult, ’mid the waving trees, 
Here came the birds, the butterflies, and bees, 
Through all the days of summer, without fail; 
And music—fairy music—on the gale 
Was ever stealing, in such gentle train, 
That mortal spirit melted at the strain. 
With joy, a g assy streamlet told its tale 
Unto the listening zephyrs that went by; 
And, climbing lazily to the smiling sky, 
The smoke came from the chimney, calm and pale. 
O, Inmost rustic! in his quiet spot 
Methinks (lie glory of contentment dwells, 
Joy breathes a beauty through these fragrant dells, 
And I.ove is keeper of thy humble cot! 
Cjje Hard |kttr|r 38ook. 
THE MISER SOFTENED. 
A PARISIAN TALE. 
Not long ago, I heard a little story in 
Paris, which may possess some interest for 
readers beyond the circle who knew and 
appreciated the narrator. 
The conversation, shared by authors, ac¬ 
tors and editors, had taken a metaphysical 
turn, and some one was trying to prove that 
our character and destiny were controlled 
entirely by our original constitution, and 
that it was, therefore, impossible for us to 
eliange. "No man,” said lie, "can ever bo 
cured of his vices or evil, passions; who ever 
heard of a miser made generous ?” 
“ I have !” said a deep voice at my sido. 
“I am a living witness to the reality of a 
change you have pronounced impossible— 
for 1 was once a miser!” 
Wo all turned towards the speaker; I 
recognised him at once, as ono of tho most 
successful dramatic writers of the day, and 
whose liberality was tho theme of every 
one. 
“ And who performed this miracle ?” in¬ 
quired the first speaker. 
" A tear shed by a child !” Hero our at¬ 
tention increased, and we drew around the 
speaker. 
‘•It was in 1834,” said ho, “I had just 
given to tho theatre of La Porte St. Martin, 
a drama, which, thus far has brought me 
tho most money, and—why should I not 
say it?—the most fame as a dramatic wri¬ 
ter. I received, by tho samo post, two let¬ 
ters from Marseilles. Ono was from tho 
manager of tho theatro in that city, saying 
that, to secure tho bettor performance and 
consequent success of my new piece, he 
desired my personal aid at tho rehearsals. 
The proprietors of the theatre left the sum 
to bo allowed me for my counsel, time and 
expenses, to be named by myself, but I 
must certainly go. and go immediately. The 
other letter was in these words: 
‘ The widow and child of your late broth¬ 
er are in sickness and nearly dying of want. 
A few hundred francs would save their lives, 
and your presence hero would restore them 
hack to health. 
(Signed) Victor Lambert, M. D.’ 
I said to you at first, and I do not shrink 
from repeating it, (for I can now make the 
avowal without shame,) that I had the flinty 
heart of the demon of avarice. The physi¬ 
cian’s letter put me in a rage, and I crushed 
and toro it in pieces—for tho proposal from 
the manager required an immediate answer, 
and 1 started the very next day for Mar¬ 
seilles. My journey was one long sum in 
addition. I noted down to a centime my 
expenses, I estimated the value of every 
hour of my titno, I fixed upon tho sum to 
be asked tor my advice—each word was 
weighed and had its price, and nothing was 
omitted by which I could swell up tho 
amount of my demands. My poor sister-in- 
law I thought of as littlo as possible, and 
when her image, in sickness and in poverty, 
did force itself upon my memory, I quickly 
banished it. Oh ! it was vile in mo, it was 
infamous, for I had long ago intentionally 
ill-treated my poor kinswoman. 
Years before the period in question, I had 
received a letter from my only brother, (a 
true hearted sailor, now, alas! buried in tho 
ocean.) informing mo that ho was deeply in 
love with, and about to marry tho daughter 
of a fisherman, who would bring him a val¬ 
uable dowry, made up of an excellent heart, 
a fine person, eyes of tho greatest beauty, 
and an entire absence of roady money. To 
this letter i replied as follows: 
‘You are in love, it appears, and you 
would marry a foolish girl who has tho rare 
merit of being poorer than voursolf. Be 
happy with your mermaid if you can, but, 
between ourselves, you are going to do a 
very foolish thing—if not too late, break it 
off. Adieu.’ 
This letter was certainly short, but not 
sweet. 
My sister-in-law was a native of Norman¬ 
dy, which implies, which we all know, that 
she was extremely proud; and she was. bo- 
sides, virtuous, resolute, and especially 
headstrong. 
Sho never forgot this unfeeling lottor. 
and at heart she nourished a thorough and 
deep-seated contempt for the writer. When 
therefore, her husband perished at sea— 
when, without support, without hopo for 
tho future, sho found herself reduced to 
penury, and in sickness, sho determined to 
suffer everything, even death itself, rather 
than seek my aid—and sho might have died 
without writing to me, without pardoning 
me—which would certainly have boen very 
headstrong, not particularly wise, and not 
at all in a Christian-like spirit; but sho was 
7wt (done in her destitution—sho had a child, 
a lovely littlo girl, who lay on tho miserable 
bed with its dying mother, daily wasting 
away, and enduring the pangs of hunger 
with tho resignation of an angel. Notwith¬ 
standing all her obstinacy, my sister-in-law 
loved her child with a mother's doating 
fondness, and she soon saw that if sho would 
save its life, an effort must bo made to soft¬ 
en tho heart of tho cruel brother. She 
made the avowal to her physician, a kind- 
hearted and charitable man, who had already 
ascertained that poverty was tho Jirst disease 
to bo cured, and, to this end, he had con¬ 
tributed his small but insufficient aid, for 
he was nearly as poor as his patient. The 
physicians of the poor possess every talent 
but that of getting paid for their services. 
It was this excellent man who took upon 
himself the task of writing to me, and on 
my arrival at Marseilles, he was waiting for 
me in the coach office yard. As I had not 
replied to his letter, ho had presumed in 
tho simplicity of his heart, that I would of 
course come. Generous hearts are always 
thus influenced; they judge from themselves 
and bolievo in goodness. He hastened to 
meet me, saying, ‘ You have lost no time, 
my dear sir; you foresaw that delay would 
be equivalent to a sentence of death. God 
will j oward you for the good act.’ This un¬ 
merited praise was bitter, but I had not tho 
magnanimity to say it was undeserved—and 
what man ever refused to be flattered ?— 
what ass but would pass for a lion ? 
My first visit, which I had determined 
should bo to the manager of tho theatre, 
was made to my sister-in-law. I found her 
in tho miserable garret of a dilapidated 
j house, situated in a narrow street, with not 
! even a x-ay of sunshine to cheer her lonely 
| hours. Near the bed, with its scanty cover¬ 
ing, was a little girl—sho had largo and 
lustrous eyes, arched eye-brows, already 
finely formed ; her hair profuse and in care¬ 
less ringlets, so beautiful in childhood, en¬ 
circled regular features full of intelligence, 
and stamped with that serious resignation 
which early suffering gives to the counte¬ 
nance. Oh ! how sweet was that child even 
then, and how eloquently her thin, pale 
cheeks plead for her ! I gazed upon her in 
silence—I began to feel that there is in 
childhood an irresistible attraction, a fasci¬ 
nation which we feel and acknowledge, al¬ 
though our hearts may have been for a life¬ 
time closed to every benevolent or tender 
emotion. 
I longed to clasp the dear child in my 
arms, but sordid avarice whispered, if you 
suffer your heart to be. touched with pity, you 
are lost! I felt that I should incur obliga¬ 
tions which, during my whole life, I had 
studied to avoid. I should be compelled 
to relieve effectually tho accusing misery 
which surrounded me. Like one who sees 
an abyss at his feet I recoiled at the thought. 
The benevolent physician could not com¬ 
prehend my detestable selfishness, and ho 
believed my strange demeanor the effect of 
pity. Tho cold hesitation of a miser at the 
sight of suffering he would avoid, he would 
fly from, but ho supposed my emotion that 
of a softoned heart. A melancholy smile 
irradiated his features. Approaching mo 
more closely, he pressed my hand in his 
with warmth, and said, ‘Tho sight of so 
much misery, I sec, affects you deeply. In 
our profession, if wo would do our duty, wo 
must become but too familiar with such 
scenes; you, however, are tho only physi¬ 
cian wanted here —let us go nearer.’ We 
went closer tc the bedside. I was in a cold 
sweat, for shame was at work at my heart, 
and my mean and sordid subterfuges tor¬ 
tured mo. 
When my sister-in-law saw me so near 
her bedside, she rose with difficulty, and 
sat up in tho bed, leaning upon tho physi¬ 
cian’s arm. There was visible in her coun¬ 
tenance both pride and resignation; she 
would have commanded but she did not 
dare to command, and it wa» a painful task 
to ask aid and protection from tho only 
person in the world she had despised. She 
did not, therefore, descend to solicitation, 
but, trembling with emotion, she pointed 
with her attenuated finger to her child, say¬ 
ing, in heart-rending tones, ‘ My poor child 
will soon be motherless!’ 
This simple but powerful appeal to my 
compassion did not conquer my stubborn 
heart. I carefully avoided looking at tho 
child, for fear of relenting, and said as 
coolly as I could, ‘Why do you indulge such 
melancholy forebodings ? You are still 
young, and in the care of a skillful physi¬ 
cian — we ought never to despair.’ Any 
other human being would have said, ‘Your 
brother is here—he has come to wipe away 
your toars, and to mako you forget his for¬ 
mer unworthiness; rely upon him, for he 
will be a father to your child.’ But I said 
no such thing; I had but ono wish— to fly. 
Oh, worship of tho golden calf! how flinty- 
hearted, how infamous it makes us ! 
While thus undecided in what manner to 
offect the shameful retreat I meditated, the 
sweet child had steadily fixed her eyes upon 
my iron countenance, appearing more sur¬ 
prised than abashed, when, coining close to 
mo, sho took hold of my hand, pointed to 
tho foot of her mother’s bed, and in tho 
most touching accent, said, * Sit down there 
—you are so tall I can’t kiss you, if you 
don’t take mo in your lap.’ I sat down, and 
sho climbed up to a seat upon my knees. 
Tho mother seeing this, clasped her hands 
raisod her oyes to heaven, as if in prayer. 
For myself, I felt that tho decisive moment 
had arrived, and I cased my heart in triple 
steel. ‘ What is this woman, and what this 
child to me V thought 1. ‘ I am under no 
promise to support them—they have no le¬ 
gal claim upon me—they cannot oblige me 
to feed them—my riches, so long and so 
patiently toiled for, are mine, yes, mine 
alone—the future is dark and uncertain; to 
give away a part, evon, would be foolish and 
imprudent?’ In short, I gave myself all 
the excellent reasons which tho love of 
hoarding can bring so triumphantly into tho 
field of argument. My resolution onco taken. 
I resolved to be firm, and calling to mv aid 
a savage scowl, I looked steadfastly into 
the face of the child. Sho too, looked into 
my face steadily and boldly, and appeared 
considering in what way she could break 
through tho icy rampart behind which I 
was entrenched. At length, throwing her 
littlo arms around my neck, sho said, in her 
childish manner, 4 Will you bo my papa ?— 
Oh, I will love you so ! You look just like 
my dear papa ; sometimes he looked cross, 
too, but he was so good, if he did look cross, 
I wasn't afraid—are you good too T 
I cannot describe to you tho touching 
effect of this artloss appeal; yet I faltered 
not, but making a strong effort to maintain 
my stern and unyielding aspect, I rudely 
unclasped her little arms from around my 
nock. and. without a word in reply, placed 
her upon her feet beside me. In an instant 
she turned deadly, frightfully pale, then a 
single tear roiled slowly down her marble 
cheek, and fell, vet hot, upon my tremblin')- 
hand. 
A change, sudden and entire came over 
me—my greedy avarice, my brutal conduct 
appeared before mo in their revolting de¬ 
formity—I felt degraded in tho dust—I no 
longer tried to strugglo against the princi¬ 
ples of goodness implanted in us all. I no 
longer reasoned— l fell —and giving way to 
the happiness of being guided by the heart 
alone, I placed my hands upon the child's 
head, and in a fervid and solemn tone ex¬ 
claimed, ‘I call Heaven to witness that, here 
in thy mother’s presence I do swear to be 
to thee as a father, and never daughter was 
more tenderly loved than I will love thee, 
my child.’ Oh; I could wish you had seen 
the mothor when she heard these words.— 
Her eyes appeared to gleam with light, her 
features were radiant with joy, her breast 
heaved convulsively, and she tried to speak, 
but there was no sound—not a word could 
she utter. The physician was alarmed, and 
we feared she would actually die of joy.— 
But joy seldom kills—sho soon breathed 
more freely, and tears came to her aid.— 
‘Brother,’ said she, ‘I have wronged you;’ 
she added much moro which I would not 
hear. I believe, (Heaven pardon me !) sho 
would have asked forgiveness for my bru¬ 
tality towards her—it would have over¬ 
whelmed mo with remorse. I interrupted 
her thanks by saying that in her feeble 
state sho ought to avoid the exertion of talk¬ 
ing. The physician, who was of my opin¬ 
ion, enjoined silence and quiet, and after 
giving some directions, was about to take 
ieavo of his patient, when I called him 
aside, and handing him my purse, desired 
him to take the necessary measures for her 
immediate removal. I knew no person in 
Marseilles, and the worthy man took upon 
himself the task of finding a suitable resi¬ 
dence. ‘ Though,’ said he, ‘I fear sho will 
not need it long.’ ‘ If but for a day,’ said I, 
‘it will be ono day snatched from years of 
misery.’ That very evening everything was 
accomplished, and tho next day found us in 
the occupancy of a small house beautifully 
situated in the midst of trees and flowers, 
and near the sea-shore. 
There, during three month3, I clung to 
tho fond hopo that my sister-in-law might 
regain her health, and, lor a time, 1 had 
good reason to indulge in the expectation. 
She was ever calm and tranquil; she would 
smile sweetly as I would forget my fifty 
years, my gray hairs, and become a child 
again to please tho being I had sworn to 
love and cherish—but, alas ! my hope was 
not to be realized ; her struggle with pov¬ 
erty and disease had been of too long dura¬ 
tion ; tho sources of life wer# exhausted, 
and medical scienco, with tho tenderest 
care, could not avail. Sho well knew that 
her life was drawing to its close, and she 
contemplated the melancholy certainty with 
holy resignation. If sho rarely spoke of 
her approaching end, it was to spare our 
tears. 
The fatal hour arrived but too soon. It 
was ono of those moonlight nights, so beau¬ 
tiful in that climate, when the mild sea air, 
* That cools tho twilight of tho sultry day,’ 
came gently into tho room. Seated be¬ 
tween her dear child and myself, she seemed 
to enjoy the freshness of tho breeze, when 
her hand convulsively grasped mine, and I 
turned quickly towards her. Her face was 
as white as marble. Looking first at her 
child and then at me, with calm serenity in 
her countenance, sho said, ‘ Your kindness, 
dear brother, has made the closo of mv 
life happy. I die without a pang, for you 
will love my child.’ Sho ceased speaking, 
and soon was no moro. Shall I avow it"? 
Her death, to mo, had nothing of the terri¬ 
ble, of tho appalling. In her last words, in 
her calm serenity, in the ray of hope bright¬ 
ening her features as she passed away, there 
was a mysterious, an unseen power, which 
seemod to say, I go to a belter world —it was 
not tho eternal sleep succeeding ‘life’s fitful 
fever,’ hut the dawning of a joyful day. 
From that hour my brother’s child has 
been mine, our joys and sorrows interming¬ 
led. and to her happiness I have devoted 
my life. Her beauty and loveliness have 
increased from year to year. The joyous 
smile, and the words of sweet welcome 
which over await my return to my once 
lonely dwelling, are now more dear to me 
than all the world beside. 
Like tho dew drop which falls upon the 
bud and expands the flower, that precious 
TEAR drop has opened my heart to the 
claims of kindred, and of man upon his 
fellow man; and tho flinty-hearted and 
grasping miser of former days, is no longer 
tho degraded being who would have bar¬ 
tered his very soul for a bag of gold.” 
One of the greatest evils of tho world is, 
mon praise rather than practice virtue.— 
Tho praise of honest industry is on every 
tonguo, but it is very rare that the worker 
is respected more than the drono. 
bio to redeem his reputation, and, though 
innocent, tho stain can not be removed. 
| Old friends, with whom he has spent many 
happy hours, now shun his society, and tho 
vile and abandoned cast their reproach up¬ 
on him. His sun is clouded;—it is a gloomy 
day in his history. 
Or, perhaps, his cheeks lose their rosy 
blush, and become wan and sunken; his 
pulse, bounding once, is sluggish and dull; 
his eye has lost its firo ; his brawny arm is 
i powerless ; his boasted strength is vanished; 
disease has fastened itself upon his frame, 
and ho looks forward sorrowfully to weary 
months, — years, perchance,— of suffering 
and anguish, terminated, it may bo, by 
death; or, which is scarcely less to bo dread¬ 
ed, left with a broken constitution, and 
dragging out a miserable existence, beset by 
pain and distress. Then will ho bethink 
him of “ tho days of darknessfor many 
indeed are his portion. 
Pressed down thus by accumulated mis¬ 
fortunes,—bereaved of friends,—deprived 
j of property,—spoiled of roputation,—un- 
! dormined in health,—it were not strango if 
j despondency should seize upon his mind, 
and completely unfit him for exortion to 
better his sad lot. Ilis ambition, that onco 
soared so high and plumed its wings for 
such daring flights, crest-fallen and unnerv¬ 
ed, may trail its gaudy pinions in tho dust; 
hope, whoso inspiring words in former times, 
rang upon his ear like the tones of a trum¬ 
pet, is silent now ; or, if that silence is oc- 
| casionally broken, it speaks but in whisper¬ 
ed words, and with faltering accents; lovo, 
that in more propitious seasons warmed his 
heart and vivified, his whole nature, has 
yielded up its dominion to stern and sullen 
misanthropy; and life itself may seem to 
him a burden too heavy to be borne. Ah, 
how dark and cheerless are such days ! 
But far moro deplorable is the state of 
for the eyes to bo greeted by tho light of ! him, who, having run through life's brief 
tho returning sun, or how awful would be ’years in the sweet sunshine of comfort and 
the results, if that great luminary should ! earthly happiness, comes at length to the 
sink some evening beneath tho western hoi’- | unwelcome hour when Death summons him 
izon and never moro bo seen by tho dwell- j away, and who, as ho glances his spirit’s 
ers upon earth? Read Byron’s poem J eye through the vast futuro that awaits him, 
They are all gone into a world of light. 
And I alone sit lingering here; 
Their very memory is fair and bright, 
And my sad thoughts doth clear. 
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, 
Like stars upon some gloomy grove; 
Or those faint beams in which the hill is dressed 
After the sun’s remove. 
I see them walking in an air of glory, 
Whose light doth trample on my days; 
My days which are, at best, but dull and hoary, 
More glimmerings and decays. 
O, holy hope and high humility, 
High as the heavens above 1 
These are your walks, and you have showed them me 
To kiudlc my cold love. 
Hear, beauteous death! the jewel of the just. 
Shining nowhere but in the dark. 
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, 
Could man outlook that mark! 
lie that hath found some fledged bird's nest, may know 
At first sight if the bird be flown; 
But what fair field or grove he sings in now, 
That is to him unknown. 
And yet as angels in some brighter dreams 
Call to the soul, wheu man doth sleep, 
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes 
And into glory peep. 
O, Father of eternal life, and all 
Created glories under thee. 
Resume thy Spirit from this world of thrall. 
Into true liberty. 
Written for the Rural New-Yorker. 
“DAYS OF DARKNESS.” 
“ Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for 
the eyes to behold the sun : but if a man live many years, 
and rejoice in them all; yet let him remember the days 
of darkness; for they shidl be many .”—Ecclesiastes li : 
7, 8. 
Solomon was a poet, as well as a wise man, 
and it was easy for him to discover a beauty 
and glory even in the common and familiar 
events of daily life. Has it ever occurred 
to you to think how “ pleasant ” a thing it is 
on “ Darkness’’ and then you will be ready 
to exclaim with tho preacher, “ Truly tho 
light is sweet!” Or would you gain some 
faint conception of tho feeling of one whose 
oyes, sealed forever against the influence of 
sun, and moon, and stars, “ roll in vain,” to 
behold 
“ Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn. 
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer’s rose, 
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine ? ’ 
peruse carefully the opening sentences of 
Milton’s Third Book of “ Paradise Lost 
then may you partake of that sublimo feel¬ 
ing which drew from him the exclamation, 
“ Hail, holy Light! offspring of Heaven first born !” 
But “sweet” as is tho light, it may not 
be enjoyed uninterruptedly. Wo livo in an 
atmosphere where clouds are no unfrequent 
visitors, spreading a gloomy pall over tho 
most beautiful works of tho Creator; and 
much as we may enjoy, as tho nimble-foot¬ 
ed hours trip merrily by it is wise to remem¬ 
ber that sadness and disappointment, and 
affliction will come in their turn. 
Behold that young man just leaving the 
parental homo to work out for himself the 
deep and intricate problem of human life. 
Health blooms upon his cheek,and nerves his 
arm; hope inspires his breast; and fancy 
beguiles him with enchanting prospects. 
The light is golden that illumines his morn¬ 
ing sky, and its roseate hues rest beautiful¬ 
ly on the western lull-tops, over whose crag¬ 
gy summits lies the path which ho must 
tread, foot-sore and weary often, when 
clouds meet above his head, and thunders 
roll, and lightnings flash, blasting perhaps 
tho beloved objects that ministered to his 
comfort and happiness. Trace him in tho 
scenes of busy life;—there is a mark of 
sadness on his countenance ;—why is it ? A 
day of darkness is approaching. A parent, 
a brother, or sister, a child, or wife, it may 
be, is lying on a bed of death. Grief 
bows him to tho dust, — gloom gathers 
around him,—pleasure has lost its charms; 
tho season of calamity has como. And this 
is but tho “ beginning of sorrows;” for the 
days of darkness shall be many. 
Opulence has rewarded his toils; he 
counts gold and calls it his own; he dwells 
in a luxurious mansion ; ho has houses and 
lands, and flocks and herds. But the raging 
flames sweep away his structures ; tho thief 
purloins his treasures ; reverses swallow up 
his substance;—he is penniless. Adversity 
weighs him down; friends forsake him; 
servitude is his portion; and ho eats the 
bread of poverty. It is a day of darkness. 
Ho has gained the respect and esteem of 
his fellow men; his integrity and upright¬ 
ness have earned for him the confidence of 
his neighbors ;—but suspicious rumors are 
sees no cheering light, no rising sun, to glad¬ 
den his endless career, and remembers, with 
bitterness of soul, that although ho has re¬ 
joiced in many years upon tho earth, many, 
many “days of darkness” now lie before 
him, even an Eternity of sorrow and una¬ 
vailing repentance. 
Thrice happy he, whoso path is that of 
the j ust, which, beaming brighter and bright¬ 
er day by day, is lost at length in the noon¬ 
tide splendors of tho Heavenly Glory ! 
Lockport, N. Y., August, 1 852 . j. -yy. 
THE APOSTOLIC EPISTLES. 
That so large a portion of the New Tes¬ 
tament should consist of epistolary corres¬ 
pondence is a striking phenomenon ; still it 
was natural and necessary in tho circum¬ 
stances. The early Churches often needed 
counsel, warning and instruction. They 
had no written oracles to appeal to, anil 
therefore the apostles, as tho living deposi¬ 
taries of inspired truth, were obliged to 
communicate with them in tho form of 
“ doctrine, reproof, correction, and instruc¬ 
tion in righteousness.” These letters are, 
therefore tho fervent out-pouring of pasto¬ 
ral zeal and attachment. They arc not ab¬ 
stract impersonal treatises—mere systems 
of theology. Like other letters, they have; 
their peculiar charm. They are written 
without reserve and in unaffected simplicity. 
Sentiments come warm from tho heart with¬ 
out the shaping, pruning, and punctilious 
arrangement of a formal discourse. There 
is such a fresh and familiar transcription of 
feeling, so frequent an introduction of col¬ 
loquial idioms, and so much of conversa¬ 
tional frankness and vivacity, that tho read¬ 
er associates the image of the writer with 
every paragraph, and his ear seems to watch 
and recognize tho very tones of living ad¬ 
dress. These impressions must have been 
often deepened by the thought that the let¬ 
ter came from “ such an one as ” Paul, al¬ 
ways a sufferer, ami often a prisoner. If 
he could not speak, he wrote; if he could 
not see them in person, he dispatched to 
them thoso silent messages of love .—JYorth 
British Review. 
TRITE PHILOSOPHY. 
I saw a pale mourner stand bonding over 
the tomb, and his tears fell fast and often. 
As ho raised his humid eyes to heaven ho 
cried, 
“ My brother ! O, my brother.” 
A sage passed that way, and said : 
“For whom dost thou mourn 7* 
“ One,” replied ho, “ whom I did not suf¬ 
ficiently love while living; but whoso ines¬ 
timable worth I now feel” 
“ What wouldst thou do if ho were re¬ 
stored to thee?” 
Tho mourner replied, “That he would 
never offend him by any unkind word, but 
ho would take overy occasion to show his 
friendship, if he could but come back to his 
fond embrace.” 
“ Then waste no time in useless grief,” 
said tho sao-e, “ but if thou hast friends, eo 
Everybody likes occasionally to take ref¬ 
uge in a gentle shade of misanthropy, and 
to feci ill-used when there is nothing to 
amuse him. 
and cherish the living, remembering that 
covertly circulated in the community, tend- j they will die one day also.” 
ing to disparage him in tho estimation of ( 
tho good ; foul slanders gain currency, black¬ 
ening fearfully his hitherto fair character; 
circumstances are against him; ho is una- 
One ounce of practice is better than a 
pound of precept. 
Nobody oversees an action as very wrong 
when under tho excitement of doing it. ° 
