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32 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKEJl: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
' JAN. 23. 
Written for Moore’ft Rural New-Yorker. 
FIOLEt ANI) I. 
nr KATE CAMKRO.V. 
We wore loving friends together, 
Violet and I; 
And our hearts were warm and trusting. 
In the days gone by; 
Little thought we Time could ever 
Break so strong a tie,— 
That we e'er could be divided, 
Violet and I. 
Violet was a sweet maiden, 
With bright beaming eye, 
And a voice whose gushing music 
Gaily floated by 
We have laughed and wept together, 
Shared each smile and sigh, 
In those d >ys still unfurgotten. 
Violet and I. 
But there came a dark, dark shadow. 
Coldly did it lie 
On our hearts so warm and loving, 
Blighting every tie; 
Causing us to meet as strangers, 
Violet and I,— 
Why should such dear links be riven: 
Ab! I wonder why! 
There were loved ones whom we cherished 
In the days gone by, 
But of this cold world a-weary, 
They lay down to die! 
Now we know that they arc gazing 
On us from the sky, 
Mourn they not to see us parted, 
Violet and I? 
Yet I feel the time is coming, 
Even now is nigh, 
When once more we’ll meet together, 
Violet and I. 
Earth-wrongs then shall be forgiven, 
Joined each broken tie, 
We shall be true friends and lasting, 
Violet and I. 
For this Life, with all its changes, 
Swiftly glideth by, 
And the hour still draweth nearer. 
When we, too, must die, 
And I know when the Death Angel 
Bears our souls on high, 
That we shall be re-united, 
Violet and I. 
Bose Cottage, Jan., 1858. 
like pearly gates. And Archie thought how like 
it was to the sunset on the eve of his departure 
from home and his soul was overwhelmed. Then 
the sound of voices fell on his ear. He saw a little 
group assembling. In its midst was a missionary, 
telling the oft-told story of the Cross to the be¬ 
nighted children of eastern climes. Long and 
earnestly did he plead with them, and then with a 
pitying love for them, 
“ He ended in prayer, 
His hands clasped above him, hie blue orbs upthrown, 
Still pleading for sinB that were never his own.” 
The large tears gathered and rolled down the 
cheeks of the wanderer for he had heard the touch¬ 
ing words, and they had sank deep into his heart. 
Now like the prodigal he resolved to return to his 
father’s house. Only a few more words were writ¬ 
ten and those in a tremulous hand after long days 
of sickness. But how dear were those words to a 
mother's heart. They told of an unclouded future 
and an earnest desire to be with his Redeemer._ 
Now the mother seemed to hear the angelic music 
from the golden harp as the fingers of her angel 
child swept over its strings. Tears of love, of 
gratitude, of joy, fell on that precious letter; for 
they felt that though the link was severed on earth, 
it would be re-united in Heaven. 
“ So shall we pass, the joyous hearted, 
The fond, the young like stars that wane, 
'Till every link of earth be parted, 
To form in heaven one mystic chain." 
Wyoming Co., N. Y., 1858. x. r. 
SMART CHILDREN. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE BROKEN LINK. 
A gleeful child was sporting among the flow- 
era, joy had stamped its impress upon his brow and 
his merry laugh, mingling with the wild caroling of 
birds, made sweet melody. He had a valued chain 
which, ever and anon, he threw upward, sparkling 
in the sunlight, and as it fell he caught it in his dim¬ 
pled hands. But suddenly the chain was broken, a 
link was severed. The beautiful child wept bitterly. 
Now the flowers, the tinkling fountains, the music 
of birds were all unheeded; sorrow’s heavy cloud 
rested on his childish heart. 
Have you never heard of Archie Linwood? He 
was the golden link that bound in love the hearts 
of a happy family circle who dwelt in a far off 
doll. It was a bewitching place, that little cottage 
encircled with wild roses and snugly nestled be¬ 
neath the hillside. A jasmine clambered over the 
lattice about the door, through which, at even, the 
laughing moonbeams stole softly in, roguishly 
coquetting with the little flowers, while the sober 
EDUCATION OF WOMAN. 
, .... i 0uR P eo P le at large take too little thought about 
leaves, wearied with the caresses of the balmy the infinite importance of education, especially a 
vnnhuro nolnnvi A A Al._ * _. I . . . ..... 1 J 
A writer in Blackwood's Magazine thus dis 
courses on the habit of trying to stick “ book 
lamin’’ in the heads of children while they are yet 
“ babies: ” 
“How have I heard you, Eusebius, pity the poor 
children! I remember you looking at a group of 
them, and reflecting, ‘ For of such is the kingdom 
of heaven,’ and turning away thoughtfully, and 
saying, ‘Of such is the kingdom of heaven.’ 
“ A child of three years of age! What should a 
child three years old—nay, five or six years old_ 
be taught? Strong meats for weak digestions make 
not bodily strength. Let there be nursery tales 
and nursery rhymes. 
“ I would say to every parent, especially to every 
mother, sing to your children; tell them pleasant 
stories; if in the country, be not too careful lest 
they get a little dirtaupon their hands and clothes; 
earth is very much akin to us all, and in children’s 
out-of-door play soils them not inwardly. There is 
in it a kind of consanguinity between all creatures; 
by it we touch upon the common sympathy of our 
first substance, and beget a kindness for our poor 
relations, the brutes. 
“ Let children have free, open air sport, and fear 
not though they make acquaintance with the pigs, 
the donkey, and the chickens—they may form 
worse friendships with wiser-looking ones; encour¬ 
age familiarity with all that love to court them— 
dumb animals love children, and children love 
them. 
“ Above all things make them loving—then they 
will be gentle and obedient; and then, also, pa¬ 
rents if you become old and poor, these will be 
better than friends that will never neglect you._ 
Children brought up lovingly at your knees will 
never shut their door upon you, and point where 
they would i’ave yon go.” 
MUKIC OF LABOR. 
The banging of the hammer. 
The whirling of the plane, 
The crashing of the busy saw. 
The creaking of the crane, 
The ringing of the anvil. 
The grating of the drill. 
The clattering of the turning lathe, 
The whirling of the mill, 
The buzzing of the spindle, 
The rattling of the loom, 
The puffing of the engine, 
The fan’s continual boom, 
The clipping of the tailor’s shears. 
The driving of the aw!— 
These sounds of honest Industry, 
I love—I love them all. 
The clicking of the magic type, 
The earnest talk of men, 
The toiling of the giant press, 
The scratching of the pen, 
The tapping of the yard-stick. 
The tinkling of the scales, 
The whistling of the needle, 
(When no bright cheek it pales.) 
Tho humming of the cooking stove, 
The surging of the broom, 
The pattering feet of childhood, 
The housewife’s busy hum, 
The buzzing of the scholars, 
The teacher’s kindly call— 
These sounds of active Industry, 
I love—I love them all. 
I love the plowman’s whistle. 
The reaper's cheerful song. 
The drover’s oft-repeated shout. 
Spurring his stock along; 
The bustle of the market man 
As he hies him to the town; 
The halloa from the tree-top 
As the ripened fruit comes down; 
Tho busy sound of threshers 
As they clean the ripened grain; 
The busker’s joke and catch of glee 
’Neath the moonlight on tho plain; 
The kind voice of the drayman, 
The shepherd’s gentle call_ 
These sounds of pleasant Industry, 
I love—I love them ail. 
Oh, there’s a good in labor, 
If we labor hut aright, 
That gives vigor to the daytime, 
A sweeter sleep at night; 
A good that bringeth pleasure, 
Even to the toiling hours; 
For duty cheers the spirit, 
As dew revives the flowers. 
Then say not that Jehovah 
Gave labor as a doom; 
Not—’tis the richest mercy 
From the cradle to the tomb. 
Then let us still be doing 
Wliate’er we find to do, 
With a cheerful, hopeful spirit, 
And free hand, strong and true. 
the attention of readers among all the arts, trades 
and professions. A great number of biographies 
are yearly published that possess only a class in¬ 
terest. The special concern the followers of any 
vocation feel in the histories of those who have 
attained high rank in their particular line of effort, 
warrants the preparation of scores of biographies 
of second and even third and fourth-rate men— 
The student regards with wonder and reverence 
those who by superior talent or industry have gain¬ 
ed unusual scholastic lore; the speculator knows 
no greater hero than him who has made a fortune 
in a day; the retail trader finds his god in the mer¬ 
chant prince; the lawyer, doctor and divine each 
yield high honor to the men who stand at or near the 
head of their several professions; and doubtless 
even the housebreaker and prize-fighter find in 
lueir respective ranks those who command their 
special admiration. The great extent to which 
class-hero-worship exists, creates the demand for 
perhaps the majority of biographies. For evidence 
of the justness of this estimate, we need only turn 
our eyes to the religious press, which is particular¬ 
ly fruitful of this species of literature, and 
shall find hundreds of lives and memoirs that are 
seldom or never read beyond the sects to which 
their subjects belonged. 
Biographical literature owes its favor with the 
great reading public to a variety of causes. It 
would not be difficult to instance biographies that 
attract many readers rather by the names of their 
writers than the names of their subjects. Certain 
authors make themselves so indispensable to their 
particular public, that whatever they choose to 
offer is sure to find acceptance with their habitual 
readers. Again, details of tho domestic lives of 
the gifted men and women who have devoted 
themselves to our instruction and entertainment, 
cannot but possess a charm for us. Especially are 
their letters eagerly sought for, as containing a 
fuller expression of their every-day lives, and giv¬ 
ing a truer idea of their relations with common 
humanity than do their more elaborate writings in¬ 
tended for the public eye. (Query: How many are 
now writing letters designed to form material for 
future biographies?) The likeness between certain 
characteristics of Biography and Fiction accounts 
for the interest novel-readers take in works of a 
biographical character. And, finally, that trait of 
human nature that delights in acquainting itself 
with the experiences of others—in penetrating the 
motives that govern the lives of individual men, 
finds its fullest satisfaction in the field of Biograph¬ 
ical History. 
South Livonia, N. Y., 1858. 
MIND YOUR STOPS. 
Riding in a railway 7 car, not long since, our oyes 
chanced to light npon a litlle book, in the hands 
of one of the passengers, which he seemed to be 
intently study ing. Ashe lifted it somewhat nearer 
to his face we saw the title “ Mmd Your Stops 
stamped in large letters upon the cover. It was, 
doubtless, a small treatise on punctuation; a most 
needful, much-neglected art. But the title to ns 
was suggestive of other things. It might be intro¬ 
duced, not unwisely, we thought, into practical 
morals; and, as we sped swiftly on, we busied our¬ 
selves in thinking of the classes and persons in 
whose ears, if we could, wo would breathe the words, 
“ Mind your stops.” 
Weighty words of warning are they, especially 
to the yonng men. Setting out as you are, young 
brother, on the great highway of life, we say ear" 
nestly and emphatically, “ Mind your stops” 
Bo not “ slop' at the bar-room. Merry laughter 
may ri D g out from it as you pass by, and voices of 
friends an<^ companions may call you to enter— 
Within it .may shine brightly with light, thrown 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
BIOGRAPHY. 
zephyrs, were fast asleep. And this was Archie’s 
home, where nature had lavished her costliest gifts. 
But despite its loveliness, he had longed to roam in 
foreign lands. For him, there was a fascinating 
charm in the blue, rolling sea But how could pa¬ 
rents part with one who was the dearest object of 
their hearts? how trust him to the love of stran¬ 
gers and let him, a lone wanderer, con life’s dark 
lessons? At length a sad consent was gained and 
farewell words were breathed from sorrowing 
hearts as Archie departed. .An occasional mes¬ 
sage was received from the wanderer, to gladden 
home friends and though fraught with love, always 
brought tears as well as smiles. 
Many months had passed since that sad leave- 
taking and it was New Year’s eve. The merry peal 
of bells was borne on the evening air, and all 
seemed joyous, for a Happy New Year had come 
crowned with a rosy garland, whose leaves were 
hope-and whose flowers were joy. But were there 
no sad hearts within the sound of those festive 
tones to which the spirit of love could minister, no 
tears to wipe away? Yes, the inmates of the cot¬ 
tage in the dell were wrapped in gloom. That day 
intelligence had been brought them, that their ab¬ 
sent darling bad died while far away, that there 
were none to smooth his pillow when the fever was 
raging in his veins, none to receive his message to 
the loved ones at home, and when the last, sad rites 
were done, there were none to weep over his grave. 
There were bitter tears shed in that cottage home. 
The golden link that bonnd the family circle was 
sundered forever and the gentle words and loving 
smiles of friends were alike unheeded. As the 
fragrance of flowers, the music of birds to the 
mournful heart of the child, so were they to the 
stricken mother in this, her sadness. No comfort¬ 
ing hope had she of a future meeting. 
Again it was New Year’s eve, but how changed 
the scene within the cottage. The cloud that had 
so long hovered over its inmates had given place 
to a holy light, for precious tidings from Archie 
had reached them, words penned by his own hand. 
They were dated many months before and told 
much of his wanderings, of his visit to the vine- 
clad fields of France and the ruins of ancient 
Rome. He had also climbed the lofty Alps, until 
at last, heart-sick and weary, he resolved to return 
to the home of his childhood. He spoke of one 
lovely eve, when, after being tossed long weeks 
upon the restless waves, he sat in a light skiff, weari¬ 
ly resting on his oars. Not a breeze was stirring 
except an occasional zephyr, that stole lightly 
along just rippling the waves, and then playing 
among the locks of his hair, wet with the dew of 
even. He was gazing at the gorgeous sunset until 
his soul was filled with a quiet joy. How sweetly 
did the sun sink to rest beneath the waters. Like 
a sea of gold was the ocean, and the far off clouds 
right one, for their children; and this is more emi¬ 
nently true in regard to their precious daughters, 
the women of a soon coming age! Neglect women 
—and ruin men! 
What use in educating a woman? What use?— 
Let barbarism in Madagascar, or profligacy in 
Utah, or all manner of pollution in the dark realms 
of heathendom, be left to ask; what all civilization, 
and all Christian philosophy answers with rational 
and conscientious triumph. Woman is the crite¬ 
rion of society. To improve and elevate the sex, 
is to advance and meliorate the species. What 
great and good man can you ordinarily show us, 
who had not a great and good mother? Is the in¬ 
fluence of a mother, that is a mother, less potential, 
when excellent, because bores, and fops, and fash¬ 
ionable simpletons, never think of it? because 
infidels, who believe in Fourierism and communism, 
in polygamy and seraglios, in Turkish and Circas¬ 
sian slave-marts, and Oriental sensualism, utterly 
forget or discredit it? 
Should we not educate the greatest educators in 
the world? A mother first influences a man_; 
son or a daughter, born into the world. For the 
infantile and formative years of life, she develops, 
nurtures, forms, impresses, disciplines, and blesses 
—or curses, a poor human stranger. What if every 
mother was a Eunice, a Lois, a Hannah, an Eliza¬ 
beth, or, I had almost said, a Mary; what, in the 
constitution of God, might we expect, with his 
own added blessing, on their duties and services 
and pieties, in educating our successive genera 
tionsof mankind!— Rev. XV. Cox. 
The Female Temper. — No trait of character is 
more valuable in a female, than the possession of a 
sweet temper. Home can never be made happy 
without it; it is like the flowers that spring up in 
oar pathway, reviving and cheering us. Let a man 
go home at night, wearied and worn out by the toils 
of the day, and how soothing is a word dictated by 
a good disposition! It is sunshine falling upon the 
heart He is happy, and the cares of life are for¬ 
gotten. A sweet temper has a soothing influence 
over the minds of the whole family. Where it is 
found in the wife and mother, you observe kind¬ 
ness and love predominating over the natural feel¬ 
ings of a bad heart. Smiles, kind words and looks 
characterize the children, and peace and love have 
their dwelling there. Study, then, to acquire and 
retain a sweet temper. It is more valuable than 
gold, and captivates more than beauty, and to the 
close of life retains all its power. 
To know, and to think that we know not, is the 
highest pitch of merit Not to know, and to think 
that we knoiv, is the common malady of men. If 
you are afflicted at this malady, you will not be in¬ 
fected with it. 
In no direction does the literary activity of the 
present day show a more generous development 
than in the field of biograph'cal history. The curi¬ 
osity we feel to know the ^circumstances under 
wjjiich onr her^s have risqjij** eminence; what 
advantages of Nature and j-Lsf ortune they have 
enjoyed; what helps and whait hindrances they 
have encountered in their work stimulates the in¬ 
dustry of the writing class to gather and arrange 
in attractive form every attainable fact concerning 
botli the outer and the inner lives of those who 
have so distinguished themselves as to render such 
particulars of them interesting. 
The demand for biographic narrative is, perhaps, 
too recent to have already built up a class of writers 
specially devoted to that kiud of composition._ 
Certain it is that, from some cause, the Life-writing 
serv ice has been and still remains in great measure 
dependent on volunteers from other departments 
of letters. Within these last years, in answer to 
the public craving for an intimate knowledge of 
the characters and opportunities of those who by 
their words or deeds have engaged the world’s at¬ 
tention, some of the foremost of European and 
American writers have, for a time, left their usual 
studies and applied themselves to recording the 
histories of eminent departed ones. And, perhaps, 
none of them have achieved greater literary suc¬ 
cesses (estimating success by popularity) than in 
tracing, for the gratification of the curious, the 
mental qualities, the personal appearance, the 
habits of thought and of action, the partialities 
and the aversions, the aids and the discouragements, 
the defeats and the triumphs of certain children of 
genius. The deepest thinker in America has writ¬ 
ten no more cherished book than his truthful me¬ 
moir of Margaret Fuller; the great thunderer 
against shams is engaged on a Life that will doubt¬ 
less be more extensively read than any of his for¬ 
mer works; and what novel of Mrs. Gaskell’s pos¬ 
sesses equal fascination for the reader, or evinces 
greater power in the author, thauthe Life of Char¬ 
lotte Bronte? 
The great and increasing encouragement extend¬ 
ed to biographical publications is evidently turn¬ 
ing the attention of certain rising members of the 
literary ciaft toward Life-writing as a profession 
Doubtless a fortunate career lies waiting for many 
a diligent worker in this field. Yet the fact that 
persons whose usual literary pursuits bear little re¬ 
semblance to the preparation of lives, memoirs, 
&c., have been signally successful in occasional or 
single attempts thereat, suggests reasons why they 
who make a business of biographical composition 
can never quite monopolize that branch of letters. 
Circumstances, such as the sympathy growing out 
of a likeness of pursuits and the juster apprecia¬ 
tion such similarity renders possible, will often point 
out the person best fitted to undertake a proposed 
biography; while personal acquaintance with the 
subject of a life-narrative always gives an advan¬ 
tage that the greatest skill in working up materials 
obtained at second-hand can hardly counterbalance. 
Few individuals so distinguish themselves by 
their genius or public services as to make the 
record of their lives sought by the general reader. 
Only the acknowledged leaders of mankind—they 
who have in some way outdone their fellow-work¬ 
ers and opened up new possibilities for the human 
race, form the subjects of histories that command 
MAN’S DESTINY. 
The appearance of a man upon the scene of be¬ 
ing constitutes a new era in creation; the opera¬ 
tions of a new instinct come into play —that in¬ 
stinct which anticipates a life after the grave, and 
reposes implicit faith upon a God alike just and 
good, who is the pledged “ rewarder of all who dili¬ 
gently seek Him.” And in looking along the long 
line of being—ever rising in the scale from higher 
to get higher manifestations, or abroad on the low¬ 
er animals, whom instinct never deceives—can we 
hold that man, immeasurably higher in his place, 
and infinitely higher in his hopes and aspirations 
than all that ever went before him should be, not¬ 
withstanding, the one grand error in creation—the 
one painful w orkcr, in the midst of esent troubles, 
a state into which he is never to enter—the befool¬ 
ed expectant of a happy future which he is never 
to see? Assuredly no. lie who keeps faith with 
Ilis humble creatures—who gives even the bee and 
the dormouse, the winter for which they prepare— 
will to a certainty not break faith with man—with 
man, alike the deputed lord of the present creation 
and the chosen heir of all the future. We have 
been looking abroad on the old geologic burying- 
grounds and deciphering the strange inscriptions 
on their tombs but there are other burying-grounds, 
and other tombs—solitary church-yards among the 
hills, where the dust of martyrs lie, and tombs that 
rise over the ashes of the wise and good; nor are 
there wanting, on even the monuments of the per¬ 
ished race frequent hieroglyphics and symbols of 
high meaning, which darkly intimate to us, that 
while their burial yards contain but the debris of 
the past, we are to regard the others as charged 
with the sown seed of the future.— Hugh MUer. 
THE FAMILY CIRCLE 
back fron* polished mirrors, and gleam from crys¬ 
tal bottles, and the voice of mirth and gayety may 
be heard there; but “stop” not; there is danger in 
its brightness. Those gleaming bottles contain 
potions that may lead to poverty, dishonor and 
death. The merriment there is the laughter of the 
maniac. “ Avoid it, pass not by it, turn from it, 
and pass away.” 
Do not “stop ’ at the gambling house. Those 
closed shutters conceal treacheries and fascina¬ 
tions you may find yourself too weak to resist.— 
There are callous hearts there, whose delight it 
w ill be to lure your feet into coils from which you 
cannot escape. They may be fair to your eye, 
when covered by a fair address, but the nether 
millstone is not more hard, or the;serpent more 
crafty. Keep far from the clutches of these de¬ 
stroyers. Risk no money upon their tables. The 
money is little worth, indeed, but you may be 
playing with honor, with happiness, with your 
soul s life. The stake is too high; the gains are 
too insignificant. 
Do not “ slop ” at the theatre. It is “ the school 
of morals,” say they who love it We add, it is the 
school of bad morals. Before the foot-lights, and 
behind them, corruption reigns. It is the mart of 
the shameless representations of vices, and of 
shameful caricatures of goodness. Virtue owes it 
nothing, and religion disowns and opposes it— 
“ Stop ” not at its open doors. Yon may enter to 
have your souls defiled, and your heart tainted; 
you may sink from its “pit” to a lower, deeper, 
more dreadful pit 
“ Stop” notany where where conscience forbidsor 
temptations beckon. “ Turn not to the right hand 
or left.” “Let thine eyes look on, and let thine 
eyelids look straight before thee.” There are many 
places to seduce you by splendor, and to beguile 
you by their fascinationa Take care lest you pause 
in them. They are bright ante-chambers of the dark 
prison-house; gilded gateways to hell. Watch your 
thoughts. Take care of yonr associations. “ Mind 
your stops.” 
ANSWERING LETTERS. 
The Baltimore Sun alluding to the prevalence of 
crime among boys, very properly asserts that one 
of the main causes of the decline of morality is 
the decay of parental discipline. The family circle 
the domestic hearth, is the true fountain of purity 
or corruption to public morals. Most people be¬ 
come what they are made at home. They go forth 
into the world, to act out the character they have 
formed in the first fourteen years of their lives. It 
is alleged, in excuse, that children have become 
more unmanageable than they used to be? We re¬ 
ply, that human nature and human relations are 
unchanged. 
Children are just as amenable to authority as 
they ever were. This is the main purpose for which 
Providence has made them helpless and dependent 
that they may be trained to obedience, to order, to 
udustry, to vii tue. It is not true that parents have 
not as absolute control over their children as they 
ever had. When there is dependence obedience 
may be enforced. The real fact is, that parents are 
too indolent, too negligent, too indifferent to take 
the pains to train up their children in the way they 
should go. It requires perpetual vigilance, and 
they get tired. It requires self-control to exercise 
proper authority over others. Self-conquest is 
the greatest victory of alL There can be no just 
parental discipline when there is no character to 
back it. 
“Malice,” says Seneca, “drinks one half of its 
own poison.” And Des Cartes, in his treatises on 
passions, says:—“ Hatred is never without sorrow.’ 
W hat must have been the wretchedness of John 
Lillburne, of whom Cromwell quaintly remarked: 
—“ He is so quarrelsome, that, if he could find no 
one else to quarrel with, John would quarrel with 
Lillburne, and Lillburne would quarrel with 
John.” 
There arc few things so much neglected in tho 
so-called polite world as answering letters. This 
prises from an indifference in some people, and a 
dislike to writing in others. The latter feeling is 
often so much indulged in, or, rather, it is allowed 
to influence the possessor to such an extent that a 
letter requiring an answer will be left for days and 
weeks, a constant and ever-rccurring source of an¬ 
noyance and reproach, on account of the unpleas¬ 
ant remindings it gives from time to time of the 
neglect 4 meets with. This repugnance to wTiting 
might soon be overcome, by observing the follow¬ 
ing rule:—It is simply to answer a letter at the 
very first opportunity that offers; if looked upon 
as a disagreeable task, the sooner it is got rid of 
the better; but its advantage would not rest here, 
for this practice, if resolutely pursued, would break 
down the barrier, and the difficulty would vanish. 
The same plan applies to indifference. It might 
soon be replaced by a tone of writing. There is a 
fascination attending the use of a pen that repays 
any trouble attached to it, for we find the oftener 
we put our ideas on paper, the more easily wo are 
enabled to express them; and at length, “thought 
follows on thought,” in such quick succession, that 
the treuble is not what to say, but how to keep 
within the necessary limits. 
Extravagance. —A purse which does not possess 
the clasp of discretion. 
The Art of Being IIappy.—T he art of being 
happy is less cultivated in this land than almost any 
other. We make extravagant preparations for it; 
we give no bounds to our enterprise, we heap up 
material; we go through an immense experience 
preparatory to being happy. But, in the main, it 
is the very thing which we forget to extract from 
an abundant preparation. Contentment is a qual¬ 
ity which few know how to reconcile with aspira¬ 
tion, and still less with enterprise. Satisfaction, 
therefore, is the bright ideal of the future. It 
never blossoms to-day. It is always to-morrow— 
Men never come np with their hope. The short 
and intense excitements which we mis-name en¬ 
joyment are paroxysms, not steady pulsations. At 
length, it comes to pass that men do not enjoy life 
in the midst of heaped-up prosperity. And amid 
leverses they bemoan themselves when the top¬ 
most leaves of the banyan tree are plucked by the 
wind, and refuse to shelter themselves beneath the 
vast breadth of what remains.— IT. Ward Beecher. 
Thoughts Wanted— We tell you, reader, that 
man has lived to purpose, who has penned for a 
paper three lines of stirring thought Let the 
clergy, then, and all persons of intellect, leisure, or 
a heart for good, make it a weekly task to compose 
few lines which paint some burning thought as it 
leaps from the brain — a thought which shall kindle 
up humanities in the living, now scattered over 
land and sea, and will continue to do it, may be, 
until the last wave of time has been lost in Eterni¬ 
ty’s ocean.— Hall's Journal of Health. 
The passions of mankind are partly protective, 
partly beneficent, like the chaff and grain of the 
corn; but none without their use, none without no¬ 
bleness when seen in balanced unity with the rest 
of the spirit which they are charged to defend._ 
Ruskm. 
