MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
>897 
A HOME PICTURE. 
One autumn night, wheu the wind was high, 
And the rain fell in heavy plashes, 
A little boy sat by the kitchen fire, 
A popping corn in the ashes; 
And his sister, a curly-haired child of three, 
Sat looking on just close at his knee. 
The blast went howling round the house, 
As if to get in ’twas trying; 
It rattled the latch of the outer door, 
Then seemed it a baby crying; 
Now and then a drop down the chimney came, 
And sputtered and hissed in the bright red flame. 
Pop, pop—and the kernels one by one, 
Came out of the embers flying; 
The boy held a long pine stick in his hand, 
And kept it busily plying ; 
He stirred the corn and it snapped the more, 
And faster jumped to the cleau-swept floor. 
A part of the kernels hopped out one way • 
And a part hopped out the other; 
Some flew plump iuto the sister's lap, 
Some uniter the stool of the brother ; 
The little girl gathered them into a heap, 
And called them a flock of milk-white sheep. 
All at once the boy sat still as a mouse. 
And into the fire kept gazing; 
He quite forgot he was popping corn, 
For he looked where the wood was blazing, 
He looked, and fancied that he could see t 
A house and a barn, a bird and a tree. 
Still steadily gazed the boy at these, 
And pussy's grey back kept stroking, 
Till his little sister cried out, “ why Bub, 
Only see how the corn is smoking 1” 
And sure enough, when the boy looked back, 
The corn in the ashes was burnt quite black. 
“ Never mind,” said he, “ we shall have enough, 
So now, let's sit back abd eat it; 
I’ll carry the stools and you the corn; 
'Tis nice — nobody can beat it.” 
She took up the corn in her pinafore, 
And they ate it all, nor wished for more. 
[American Union. 
€\}t JUlrul |krttl; ®oak. 
[The story of “The Three Maxims,” in different forms, 
has “been the rounds” of the newspapers ever since their 
first issue, and was popular with the old story tellers 
of centuries before. The present version is that of 
Hazmtt from the Gesta Romanirrum, the oldest collec¬ 
tion of tales in the Latin language, and a prime favorite 
in monkish cell and knightly hall, as well as modern 
parlor.— Eds. Rural.] 
THE THREE MAXIMS; 
A Christmas Tale of the Emperor Bomitian. 
There was an emperor of Rome named 
Domitian, a good and a wise prince, who 
suffered no offenders to escape. There was 
a high feast in iiis hall; rite tables glittered 
with gold and silver, and groaned with plen¬ 
teous provision: his nobles feasted with 
him— 
“ And ’twas merry with all 
In the king's great hall. 
When his nobles and kinsman, great and small, 
Were keeping tiieir Christmas holiday.” 
The porter in his lodge made his firo blaze 
brightly, and solaced himself with Christ¬ 
mas cheer; every now and then grumbling 
at his oliice, that kept him from the gaieties 
of the retainer’s hall. The wind blew cold, 
the sleet fell quick, as the bell of the king’s 
gate sounded heavy and dull. “ Who comes 
now ?” grumbled the porter; “ a pretty 
night to turn out from tire and food. Why, 
the very bell itself finds it too cold to clank 
loud. Well, well—duty is duty, some say 
it’s a pleasure—humph! Hilloa, friend, who 
are you ? what do you want, man ?” 
The traveller whom the porter thus ad¬ 
dressed was a tall, weather-beaten man, 
with long white hair that fluttered from be¬ 
neath his cap of furs, and whoso figure, nat¬ 
urally tall and robust, seemed taller and lar¬ 
ger from the vast cloak of bearskins with 
which he was enveloped. 
“ I am a merchant from a far country,” 
said the man ; “ many wonderful things do 
I bring to your emperor, if ho will purchase 
of my valuables.” 
“Well, come in, come in, man,” said the 
porter: “the king keeps high Christmas 
feast, and on this night all men may seek 
his presence. Wilt take some refreshment, 
good sir ?” 
“ I am never hungry, nor thirsty, nor 
cold.” 
“ I ni all — there — straight before you, 
good sir—tho hall porter will usher you in 
—straight before,” muttered the old porter, 
as ho returned to his fire and his supper. 
“ Never hungry, thirsty, nor cold—what a 
good poor man he would make ! Humph ! 
he loses many a pleasure though,” continu¬ 
ed the porter, as he closed the door of the 
lodge. 
The strange merchant presented himself 
to the hall porter, and was ushored by him 
into the presence of tho emperor. 
“Who have wo here?” said Domitian, as 
the strange visitor made his oboisanco.— 
“ What seokest thou of me ?” 
“ I bring many things from far countries. 
Wilt thou buy of my curiosities ?” 
“Let us see them,” rejoined Domitian. 
“ I have three maxims of especial wisdom 
and excellence, my lord.” 
“Let us bear them.” 
“Nay, my lord; if thou hearest them, 
and likost not, then I have lost both mv 
maxims and my money.” 
“ And if I pay without hearing them, and 
they are useless, I loso my time and my 
money. What is the price ?” 
"A thousand florins, my lord.” 
“ A thousand florins for that of the which 
I know not what it is,” replied the king. 
“ My lord,” rejoined the merchant, “ if tho 
maxims do not stand you in good stead, 1 
will return the money.” 
“ Be it so then; let us hear your max¬ 
ims.” 
“Tho first, my lord, is on this wise : Never 
BEGIN ANYTHING UNTIL YOU HAVE CALCULA¬ 
TED WIIAT THE END WILL BE.” 
“ I like your maxim much,” said the king; 
“let it be recorded in the chronicles of the 
kingdom, inscribed on the walls and over 
the doors of my palaces and halls of justice 
and interwoven on the borders of tho linen 
of my table and my chamber.” 
“ The second, my lord, is, Never leave 
A HIGHWAY FOR A BYE-WAY.” 
“ I see not tho value of this maxim ; but 
to the third.” 
“Never sleep in the house where the 
MASTER IS AN OLD MAN AND TIIE WIFE A YOUNG 
woman. These three maxims, if attended 
to, my lord, will stand you in good stead.” 
“ We shall see,” said tho king: “a year 
and a day for the trial of each : at the end 
of this time wo will settle accounts.” 
“ Good master,” said the king’s jester, 
“ wilt sell thy chance of tho thousand flo¬ 
rins for my fools’s cap ?” 
“ Wait, and see what the end will bo,” re¬ 
joined tho merchant; “a year and a day 
hence I will return to see how my first max¬ 
im has fared. Farewell, my lord.” . . 
The year and a day were nearly elapsed, 
and yet tho first maxim had not been clearly 
proved. Domitian remained severely just, 
and the ill-intentioned of his nobles plotted 
his destruction in the hopes of indulging 
their vices more freely under the rule of his 
successor. Many wore the plots they con¬ 
cocted to put him to death, but all were 
foiled by his foresight and prudence. 
“Every failure,” said the conspirators at 
a midnight meeting, “ brings danger nearer 
to ourselves.” 
“ Even so, brothers, but this time we will 
not fail,” said one of tho numbor; “do ye 
not mind that I am tho king’s barber; every 
day he bares his throat to my razor: it is 
but ono slash, and we are free; promise me 
tho crown : in return for this, I will give you 
freedom by tho king’s death, and free license 
during my reign.” 
“It is well spoken,” cried all the conspir¬ 
ators ; “ the barber shall he our king.” 
On the next morning, tho barber entered 
the chamber of Domitian, and prepared to 
shave the king. The razor was stropped, 
tho lather spread upon the royal chin, and 
tho towel fastened round the royal breast. 
On the edge of the napkin were these words 
in letters of gold, “ JYever begin anything 
until you have calculated what the end will 
be.” 
Tho barber’s eye fell on these words, they 
arrested his attention, he paused in his 
labors. 
“What am I about to do ?” thought ho to 
himself, “ to kill the king, to gain his crown; 
am I sure of the crown ? shall I not rather 
be slain miserably, and die amid unheard of 
tortures and infamy ? whilst those that plot 
with me will turn against me, and make me 
their scape-goat.” ; 
“Art dreaming, sir barber ?” exclaimed 
the king. 
At the king’s voice, tho barber trembled 
exceedingly, he dropt the razor from his 
hand, and fell at his sovereign’s feet. 
“ What means all this ?” 
“ Oh, my lord !” exclaimed tho barber, as 
ho knelt at Domitian’s feet. “ this day was 
I to have killed thee : but I saw the maxim 
written on the napkin; I thought of the con¬ 
sequences, and now repent mo of my wick¬ 
edness. Mercy, my good lord, mercy !” 
“ Be faithful, and fear not,” replied the 
king. 
“ The merchant, my lord the king,” said 
a servant of the chamber, who entered at 
that moment, followed by the old merchant. 
“ Thou art come at a good time, sir mer¬ 
chant; tho first maxim has been proved; it 
has saved my life: it was worthy of its price.” 
“Even as I expected, my lord—a year 
and a day hence expect me again.” 
“ We will trust no more to a single hand,” 
said ono of the conspirators, when they met 
again, after the barber’s repentance; “ this 
time we will all share.” 
“ I propose,” said one of the rebel lords, 
“an ambush on the road to Naples. Every 
year, on the day after Christmas, the king 
journeys thither; tho bye-path near the city 
gates is the nearest road, peradventure he 
>vill go that way.” 
When the Christmas night was over, the 
king prepared to journey to Naples ; a great 
company of nobles, knights, and men at 
arms, went with him. Not far from the 
city, ho came to the place where the high¬ 
way and bye path diverged. 
“My lord,” said an old noble, “the day is 
far spent, the sun sinks fast in the horizon; 
will not my lord turn by tho bye-path, as it 
is far shorter than the high road ?” 
“ Nay,” said tho king, “ it’s a year and a 
day since the merchant’s first maxiin saved 
my life; now will I test the second admoni¬ 
tion. ‘ JYever leave a highway for a bye- 
path, but go part of ye by that path, and 
prepare for ino in the city ; I and tho rest 
will pursue the highway.’ 
Onward rode the knights and the soldiers 
by the bye-path, and hastened towards tho 
city; as they neared tho ambush, tho trait¬ 
ors sprang upon them, for they thought the 
king was among them. Every man slew his 
opponent, and there remained not one of 
the king’s company, to bear the tidings to 
the king, but a youth, a little page, whom 
tho conspirators did not remark during tho 
attack. 
At tho city gates, tho king found tho mer¬ 
chant who had sold him his maxims. 
“Halt, O king!” said ho — tho second 
maxim has been proved.” 
“How so ?” replied the king, 
“ The company that rode by tho bye-path 
are slain, every one of them save this little 
page, who is here to toll the sad talo.” 
“ Is this so, good youth ?” 
“Alas, my lord, it is too true: from be¬ 
hind the trees they rushed upon our com¬ 
pany as wo rode lightly and merrily, and no 
one, save your poor page, lives to' tell the 
tale.” 
“ For a second time is my life saved by 
tho maxim: let it be inscribed in gold, 
‘JYever leave a highway for a bye-way .’ ” 
“ For a year and a day, O king, fare thee 
well.” 
“A murrain on the old fool’s maxims !” 
grumbled the chief of the conspirators, when 
they discovered that the king had escaped 
their wicked design: “ we are beaten out of 
every plot, and had host submit to his do¬ 
minion.” 
“ Nay,” exclaimed a young and licentious 
noble, “ there is luck in odd numbers, let us 
have no more trial,—a sink or a swim.” 
“I care not if wo try once more,” said tho 
old rebel; “but come, who suggests a 
scheme ?” 
“ I, and I, and I!” exclaimed several at 
once; but their schemes were pronounced 
futile. 
“What say ye to this ?” said the young 
man who had before spoken: “ every year 
the king goes to the small village town, 
whero his old nurse lives; there is but ono 
house in the village where he can be lodged, 
let us bribe tho master of tho house, that he 
slay our tyrant while ho sleeps.” 
The plan was approved by the rebel lords, 
the bribe offered and accepted by the old 
man, to whose house the king always came. 
The king came as usual to tho village town, 
and to his old lodgings. As he entered tho 
old man received him with humility aud 
feigned delight, and a young damsel, not 
eighteen, attended at the door step. The 
king noticed the damsel, he arrested his 
steps, and called to the old man. 
“ Good father,” asked ho, “ is yonder dam¬ 
sel your daughter, or thy niece ?” 
“Neithev, my lord,” replied the old man, 
“ she is my newly-married wife.” 
“ Away, away,” said the king to his cham¬ 
berlain, “ prepare me a bed in another house, 
for I will not sleep here to-night.” 
“ Even as my lord wishes,” rejoined the 
chamberlain; “ but my lord knows there is 
no other house in this place fit for a king’s 
residence, save this ono; here everything is 
prepared, everything commodious.” 
“ I have spoken,” replied the king: “ re¬ 
main thou hero; I will sleep elsewhere.” 
In the night, the old man and his wife 
arose, stole on tip-toe to the chamber which 
was prepared for the king, and where the 
chamberlain now slept in the royal bed ; all 
was dark as they approached tho bed, and 
plunged a dagger into the breast of the 
sleeping noble. 
“ It is done,” said they ; “ to hod, to bed.” 
Earley the next morning, tho king’s page 
knocked at tho door of the humble abode 
where the king had passed the night. 
_ “ Why so early, good page ?” asked the 
king. 
“ My lord, tho old merchant waits thy 
rising ; and oven now strange news is come 
from the village.” 
The merchant seemed greatly elated, his 
eye glistened with joy, and his figure ap¬ 
peared dilated beyond its ordinary height. 
The messenger was pale and trembling, and 
staring aghast with fear. 
“ My lord, my good lord,” exclaimed tho 
pallid messenger, “ a horrible murder has 
been committed on your chamberlain; he 
lies dead in the royal bed.” 
“ The third maxim is tried and proved,” 
said the merchant. 
“Give God the praise,” said the king; 
“thy reward is oarned : a robe of honor, 
| and thrice thy bargained prieo; to the old 
; man and his wife, immediate death.” 
TRUTH IN A WELL. 
A correspondent writes to the Editor of 
the Knickerbocker as follows:—“You have 
dug into a great many things curiously 
enough, but did you ever dig a well ? — a 
real genuine well, at the homestead, thirty 
to forty feot deop, plumb down into the 
breast of Mother Earth, until you struck a 
secret conduit of the pure element ? Of 
course you never did; but suppose you had, 
and just at tho point of tho glorious issue 
of your patient and hopeful toil, laid your 
ear down and heard the pulsing of the cir¬ 
culation in tho old maternal bosom, and 
fancied that you could bear and feel tho 
measured throbbing of her great benevo¬ 
lent heart ? And then, from this deep and 
solemn recess, suppose you had looked up 
through the long dim shaft to the clear sky, 
and seen at noonday the bright stars shin¬ 
ing as at midnight ? You will own, my 
apocryphal friend, that under such circum¬ 
stances thoughts might and must have come 
crowding and congregating in the chambers 
of tho brain, which would not bo likely to 
depart quite as suddenly as an impatient 
congregation before tho benediction is fairly 
said, but would have tarried long in earnest 
inquiry, until you perchance had become a 
graver and ‘ a wiser man.’ ” 
Curious Anagrams.— How much thoro is 
in a word — Monastery, says I; why that 
makes nasty Rome; and when I looked at it 
again it was more nasty —a very vile placo, 
or mean sty. Jly, monster, says I. you are 
found out. What monster ? said the Pope. 
What monster : said I; why your own image 
there, stone Mary. That, he repliod, is my 
one. star, my Stella Maria, my treasure, my 
guide! No, said I, you should rather say 
my treason. Yet no arms, said ho. No, 
quoth I. quiet means suit best, as long as you 
have no mastery; I mean money arts. No, 
said he again, those are Tory means; and 
Dan, my Senator, will baffle them. I don’t 
know that, said I, but I think one might 
make no mean story out of this one word—- 
monastery. — Maitland. 
Punch, speaking of the influence of good 
dinners, says there is no diplomatic dispute 
in this world so large that “ it cannot be 
covered with a table cloth.” 
Modesty in your discourse will give a lus¬ 
tre to truth, and an excuse to vour error. 
(0ssiu]tst. 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
FLATTERY. 
Wiiat a subtle power hath flattery ! IIow 
like a delicate incense doth it insinuate 
itself into the mind, stupefying the facul¬ 
ties, and obscuring the mental vision, until 
the soul is bound and subdued completely. 
What a delicious intoxication it imparteth 
to the brain, making sober Judgment to reel 
upon his throne, and erudite Reason to 
stammer and speak foolishness. IIow doth 
it cause the callow wings of Imagination to 
sprout forth, and expand, and to be clothed 
with pinions, enabling them to bear it away 
into tho absurbest realms of vain glory! 
IIow gently doth it still the low voice of 
Conscience, lulling it in a quiet and dream¬ 
less sleep. IIow marvelously will it clear 
the eye of Fancy, presenting in quick suc¬ 
cession kaleidoscopic views, made up of 
rainbow fragments, and gold and diamond 
stars,—forms beautiful beyond description, 
but evanishing all, when the delirium has 
subsided. 
With smooth words and a pleasant coun¬ 
tenance tho Flatterer approacheth his vic¬ 
tim. With consummate skill he spreadeth 
his nets in the way, and then with dulcet 
tones he beguileth the unwary and thought¬ 
less. He weareth the garb of honesty; no 
malignity kindles in his eye; but frankness 
displays itself in his face; he beareth tho 
warm hand and cordial grasp of friendship; 
his tongue discourseth sweetly, and yet de¬ 
ceit dwells in his heart and hypocrisy cloak- 
eth his blemishes. To tho beholder he 
seemeth an angel of surpassing loveliness,but 
beneath his fair exterior he hideth the char¬ 
acter of a fiend. His praise is prompted by 
selfishness,—his kindly acts are vitiated by a 
hope of gain to himself. He layeth siege to 
tho heart by stealthy approaches, having 
Pride for his confederate, who, traitor liko, 
openeth the secret passage from within, and 
secureth an easy victory. 
llo praiseth guardedly at first, but at 
length, when the poison has infected deeply, 
he lavisheth it upon the devoted one. He 
telloth the fair maiden of her charms;— 
hath she black and sparkling eyes, ho in- 
troduceth many a compliment to them, and 
freely declareth his preference for such.— 
Doth her gentle soul look sweetly forth from 
windows of heavenly blue, then he hath at 
his tongue’s end many a poetic fragment in 
honor of the blue eyed lass, and as freely 
declareth that he liketh blue far beyond all 
others. Is she the possessor of raven locks, 
with such he is specially pleased ; or do 
golden tresses float over her alabaster neck, 
he is in an ecstacy of delight, and praiseth 
them without measuro. Hath she a white 
and delicate skin, through which the crim¬ 
son blood taintly betrays itself, imparting a 
rose-blush to her dimpled cheek, he scru- 
plcth not to liken her to the ruddy angels 
blooming in perpetual youth : or doth her 
complexion carry the mark of a tropic sun, 
then passionately ho talketh of the beauties 
of a brunette. 
Great is his sagacity. He readeth char-* 
acter in the countenance, in the words, in 
the actions, as men read a book. He stu- 
dicth the weak potnts, as a skilful general 
marks tho defenceless places in the walls of 
a besieged city, and thither doth he direct 
his assaults. 
His tact is unfailing. He lacketh not 
some remark that will please tho vanity of 
his hearer. Offence he giveth not design¬ 
edly; for he speaks not of faults, but of 
virtues;—and who delighteth not to hear 
praise of his good qualities ? To Truth he 
is a stranger: they parted company long 
since; ovon from the time he commenced 
to use his tongue to flatter. He stieketh 
not at a falsehood; and when he utters 
truth it is for the purpose of deceiving.— 
Therefore, bo thou ware of the Flatterer.— 
Mistrust him who spoaketh much of thy 
goodness before thee ;—’either he is simple 
or he hath designs upon thee. Hast thou 
virtues?—Be content to cxerciso them in se¬ 
cret, and seek not the applause of men ; for 
they yield their own rich reward, and bloom 
not unnoticed of the wise and good. 
J. Wilbur. 
Ix)cLporfc, N. Y., December, 1852. 
Reputation after Death. — It is very sin¬ 
gular. how tho fact of a man’s death often 
seems to give peoplo a truer idea of his 
character, whether for good or for evil, than 
they have ever possessed while he was liv¬ 
ing and acting among them. Death is so 
genuino a fact, that it excludes falsehoods, 
or betrays its emptiness ; it is a touchstone 
that proves the gold, and dishonors the baser 
metal. Could the departed, whoever he 
may. he, return in a week after his decease, 
he would almost invariably find himself at 
a higher or a lower point than he had for¬ 
merly occupied, on the scale of public ap¬ 
preciation.— Hawthorne. 
The gratitudo of tho world, is but the 
expectation of future favors ; its happiness, 
a hard heart, aud good digestion.— Walpole. 
XiiMtf Jkj.mrtmrat. 
Written for the Rural New-Yorker. 
LIFE-LINES. 
How goes our life ? As a swift-winged bark, 
As a breaking wave’s last gleam; 
As a star gone out in the midnight watch, 
As an unreturning dream. 
Though bright the skies they are changing still 
O’er the flowers of earthly bloom; 
And lost like birds of swiftest flight, 
Our hopes in a sky of gloom. 
By our trembling steps that downward tend 
To the grave, where’er they roam; 
By our thoughts unanswered here, we know 
That tlxis earth is not our home. 
But up and down in lifes tangled paths, 
We wander in darkness here; 
We lose the light of the far-off Heaven, 
And forget that our home is there. 
We clasp the hands of our kindred ones, 
We gaze in the love-lit-eye; 
Nor think that their cheeks’ rich bloom must fade 
As the roses of summer die. 
We must lay the loved in low green graves. 
Away to their dreamless sleep; 
And turn the tears, though they scald our hearts, 
Back to their fountain’s deep. 
By early blight on our hope-buds cast, 
By sundering earth’s dear ties, 
By idols broken, are bright loves gone, 
We are fitted for the skies. 
Camillus, N. Y., 1852. C. S. Brooks. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE SEVEN SISTERS. 
Some one said he often had heard of three 
and sometimes of five sisters, but a band of 
seven ho had not seen. Whether it be 
strange or not. they may be seen if not 
generally recognized under that name. 
When persons wish to make a comparison 
that shall seem antiquated, they sometimes 
say, “ As old as Adam.” But tho seven sis¬ 
ters claim an origin even older than that. 
And what may appear strange, is the fact 
that, though they be so old, they look quite 
as fresh and ruddy as in youth. Time, 
which brings so many changes, seems not 
to have laid his hand on them. 
We find them mentioned in tho most an¬ 
cient book of which we have any knowledge, 
whilst history has never recorded any 
change. Ever since tho Almighty gave 
them existence they have been performing 
the work given them, with untiring diligence, 
never having been known to take an idle 
moment for gossip, or otherwise ; still they 
have the same bright and cheerful Qounte- 
nance, never looking wearied, and always 
greeting us with a sparkling eye, as much 
to say, “ Wo are really glad to see you.”— 
We should be happy in a more intimate ac¬ 
quaintance, but will bo contented in learn¬ 
ing what we can respecting them. 
As they are of such venerable age, and 
have been tho witnesses of whatever has 
happened since man’s creation, we think 
they must bo very wise, and should be de¬ 
lighted with some of their stories of olden 
times. Although they are so situated that 
we cannot converse by the living voice, their 
presence has often raised our thoughts to 
objects above this world, and many an eve¬ 
ning hour has been pleasantly and we trust 
profitably spent in contemplating not only 
these seven but an innumerable number of 
kindred sisters. 
What would our nights bo wore wo to 
receive no light from them ? It would seem 
as if Madam Luna would hardly be able to 
perform her journey without these attend¬ 
ants. But from the Seven Sisters, known 
as a band by the name of Ploiades, we can 
take many useful lessons in industry, &c. 
As they always remain together, never hav¬ 
ing been known to separate, we conclude 
they are poaceful and happy, and that they 
think the home given them is their right 
sphere and therefore they are content to 
live and do in it. e. h. w. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
I WILL NOT PRAY TO-NIGHT. 
“ I will not pray to-night,” thought I, as 
I closed the book in which I had been read¬ 
ing, and folding my arms across the cover, 
sat gazing wisely at the candle, “ I am sure 
it will do no harm to neglect it this once. 
It is such an exertion, when one does not 
feel in the spirit of it; and besides, I don’t 
think of anything to pray for to-night.” 
Such was my reasoning, but Conscience 
replied in this wise, “ Oh, ungrateful child ! 
If by the kind providenco of Almighty God, 
your cup of earthly blessings is so filled 
that you have nothing more to pray for, 
surely, surely, your gratef ul thanks should 
rise for these unnumbered blessings. Re¬ 
member whom thou art, and what are thy 
deserts, and then, let the long suffering, and 
lengthened mercies of your Heavenly Fa¬ 
ther, fill your heart with repentant, grate¬ 
ful praise. Elizabeth. 
Under the most depressing circumstances 
woman’s weakness becomes fearless courage* 
all hor shrinking and sinking passes away,* 
and her spirit acquires the firmness of mar¬ 
ble — adamantine firmness, when circum¬ 
stances drive her to put forth all her energies 
under the inspiration of her affections.— 
1 Webster. 
