176 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER, 
MAY 29 
MAGIC MIRRORS. 
A pair young child, with heart of glee, 
Stands prattling by its mother's knee, 
And as her eyes reflect the smile 
Brightening her darling’s face the while, 
“ Oh, mother dear,” the cherub cries, 
“ I see a baby in your eyes!” 
The mother stoops aud playfully 
Raising the infant to her knee, 
Gazes within the azure deeps 
Where joy's bright meaning never sleeps; 
A pale sad woman she descries, 
Out-gazing from her baby’s eyes. 
“ Ah! eyes tell truth,” she sighs at last— 
“ Yours speaks yopr future— mine my past; 
For in your radiant orbs I see 
A prophecy of days to be, 
And in my own dimmed eyes appears 
A glimpse of childhood’s vanished years." 
Written for Jlooro’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A “RURAL” PANIC.—THE SPRING BREEZE. 
Mr. Moore: —Are’nt you delighted to see me 
again? I am sure your are, though I come with 
the news of an awful “ panic,” such as you 'never 
heard of in your life before. 
You may well tremble with apprehension! The 
world has hardly taken breath since it was shaken 
by the clangor of arms which echoed from the 
walls of Sebastopol—the public cheek, made pale 
by the near approach of last year’s comet, and the 
later horrid stories of the Indian mutiny, is but 
just recovering its lost color. The public nerves, 
so terribly shattered by the recent cri-“sis,” which 
made all the brothers cry too, from Mr. Plow- 
handle, of Kart-Tail Cottage, to Mr. Buchanan, in 
the White House, ought not to be agitated by any 
new shock. 
Our panic, for it is private property, was caused 
by a failure of paper, not one of specie, and hap¬ 
pened in this wise. It was Saturday, holiday, and 
a little girl listened eagerly for the ring of the bell 
that should announce the arrival of the Postman. 
At every vibration, the little feet went flying to the 
door, but each time returned with the heavy step 
of disappointment. 
“Ma, why don't the Rurai. come?” 
“ Perhaps it has been left in Twenty-Fifth street. 
Wont the Times, Ledger, Presbyterian, Ac., answer 
your purpose?” 
“No ma am; I want the Rurai..” 
For three long days the little one was a prey to 
suspense, but on the fourth, as she came in from 
school and repeated the stereotyped question, “Ma, 
has the Rural come?” it was quickly followed by 
a joyous “I know it has, I know it has, you smile 
so.” I will not attempt a description of the gyra¬ 
tions and pirouettings that were performed as she 
hunted up the truant, and finally settled, or rather 
lost herself in the arm-chair, to have a good time 
with her favorite. 
Perhaps you care.nothing for children’s opinions, 
but if I w'ere an editor, it would give me no small 
pleasure that a little delay of single number of my 
paper had caused such a panic. [We do care for 
the appreciation of the Rural by the young, and 
are often made glad and encouraged by evidence 
of the fact that it is ever a welcome and highly 
prized visitor to their homes, in both city and coun¬ 
try, from Maine to Minnesota and Canada to Cali- 
ornia. Hence, we strive to enterain, instruct and 
benefit the juniors, as well as the seniors.—E d.] 
But I am not spoiling this nice sheet of paper 
merely to initiate into the causes of this little do¬ 
mestic drama. I am in a quandary, and if you 
never saw a quandary with a woman in it, you 
have’n’t seen me since some of my correspondents 
have insinuated that I write for your paper. If 
I could pocket the praise with a clear con¬ 
science, I should be delighted to do so, hut I know 
I should be robbing some one of their just dues, 
so I must “ fess,” as Topsy calls it. I presume—I 
think I may say with certainty, that there are 
several people in this city besides myself, and if 
some one of them is coining thoughts which re¬ 
ceive the stamp of negotiable currency at your 
mint, I would not willingly rob him or her of a sin¬ 
gle laurel leaf. Do let your readers know that all 
the articles of your New York correspondent are 
written by the author, and not by the conscience 
stricken— e. k. p. 
The sweet, out-door influences which spring is 
dispensing so bountifully, suggest sending the fol¬ 
lowing lines which are worth just what they cost— 
nothing. If you find the “ ring of true metal” in 
them, you will make a discovery worth chronicling: 
THE SEEING BREEZE. 
The suu came forth one morning early, 
From his house of gold, aud its gates so pearly; 
With little of modesty and less of grace, 
And darted his beams right in the face 
Of a little spring breeze, 
That had nestled dawn for a cozy sleep, 
In a shady dell where the wild vines sweep. 
She rose in haste from her morning nap; 
She threw on her robe, and threw off her cap; 
And followed with speed the vision bright, 
That burst with such glory on her startled sight. 
“I’ll catch a sunbeam,” she gaily cried, 
As a truant ray left the day-god’s side; 
And out she rushed from her hiding place, 
Away she flew in the exciting race. 
O’er the tops of the mountains she gaily sped then; 
The beam had just kissed them, and gone to the glen; 
The breeze followed quickly, but stopped ere she pass’d 
To shake up the flower-buds bow’d by the blast. 
She smoothed out their petals, and fluttered their leaves, 
She danced like a fairy in the tops of trees; 
But the beam left the glen, and was leagues away 
Ere the idler was done with her pleasant play. 
The morning was wasted by her delay, 
High noon was above her when she went on her way, 
Nor could wishes or tears bring back the hours 
So needlessly wasted among the flowers. 
She breathed a sigh to the balmy air, 
Which exhaled to heaven the odor of prayer, 
And she vow’d that henceforth her task shonld be 
To soften the anguish of misery. 
New York, 1858. E. R. D. 
We discover great beauty in those who are not 
beautiful, if they posses genuine truthfulness, sim¬ 
plicity and sincerity. 
Written lor Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
ABOUT THOSE GIRLS. 
; « Red chekrs are only oxygen in another shape—girls 
anxious to wear a pair, will find them where the lilies do 
—out of doors." 
Why, my dear sir,—of what are you thinking? 
Don’t you know that red cheeks are very unfash¬ 
ionable—and that ladies (there are no girls in this 
day and generation) prefer to look pale and spirit- 
uelle ? It is much more genteel ! 
From her infancy, Arabella Augusta is a mini¬ 
ature lady—the careless grace and beautiful inno¬ 
cence of her embodied soul—fresh from angel-land 
—is remoulded by the unartistic hand of a fashion¬ 
able mother, every burst of childish feeling sup¬ 
pressed as “unladylike”—the pure heart stream 
forced tumultuously back to its fountain, to be 
locked up forever. 
Physically—as well as mentally and morally—is 
she restrained. She must not go out to romp and 
play in God’s blessed sunlight, for fear of injuring 
her complexion, disarranging her curls, or soiling 
her fine clothes; but must remain shut up in the 
house—a little martyr to appearances. But nature’s 
laws cannot he violated with impunity. A plant 
reared in the shade cannot he healthy and strong,— 
! it may thrive for awhile if carefully protected, but 
i wo to bright prospects, if the “winds of winter 
visit it too roughly.” 
From the nursery this lady-child goes to inhale 
the poisonous air of an illy-ventilated school-room 
—from thence to a boarding-school, and in a few 
years comes forth into society an accomplished 
young lady, with a smattering of French and Ger¬ 
man, a little wretched Italian, a few elegant ideas, 
and a great many artificial airs. 
What does she care for oxygen or rosy cheeks? 
The one but reminds her of irksome school-days— 
the others are “very vulgar.” She never felt the 
glad life-blood dancing through her veins, and 
therefore does not note its sluggish course—she 
never felt the exhilarating influence of a canter on 
horseback, away, away, over the dew-spangled 
grass before breakfast—never learned to love the 
bright flowers blooming in beauty beneath her feet, 
and loving them, to care for them tenderly, watch¬ 
ing their growth ’till their loveliness repaid her af¬ 
fection a thousand fold. Thus does she refuse her 
purer nature nourishment by wilfully shutting out 
the beautiful, the true, and her soul is left a mere 
earth-worm groveling in the dust, trampled and 
crushed by fashion and her votaries. Oh! if our 
“young ladies'' would only throw aside their self- 
imposed fetters, and springing forth into the life 
prepared for them by their Creator become wo¬ 
men —learn to be what they strive to appear —true, 
beautiful; perfect in person, mind and heart, how 
much healthier would be their influence in society 
—how much purer and more enduring their own 
happiness? Carrie Covington. 
Baygide, N. Y., 1868. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
OUR YOUNG LADIES. 
In the Rural of March 27th, “Amelia,” a cor¬ 
respondent from Cayuga, thrusts at the young men 
of ’58, some sharp thorns by way of retort for their 
having expressed, as an excuse for “chewing the 
cud of bachelor meditation,” the “ lamentable fact 
that the female education of the present day is 
sadly defective.” This “lamentable fact,” Amelia 
does not attempt to deny, but seeks to place the 
blame upon the shoulders of the sterner sex. 
That many of the young men (not generally 
speaking,) of the present day, are “perfect fail¬ 
ures,” we will not deny. It is too true! But 
whence arises the cause? Why are not the young 
men of 1858 as hardy and robust as were our pio¬ 
neer fathers, before whose sturdy axe the towering 
oaks of the forests were wont to cower and fall?— 
The answer of the fair correspondent to these in¬ 
terrogatories is, in substance, evil habits, early 
contracted, and an innate desire to avoid labor. 
We think we discover another cause for all this. 
Were our country less encumbered with these 
pretty-faced, flirting, and sentiment-talking young 
ladies, there would be a perceptible decrease in the 
number of our young men of the “ perfect failure” 
order. But as long as our young men are silly 
enough (and they ever are) to he guided by wo¬ 
men, they should be led in the right direction.— 
Hence, it is necessary that the young ladies of our 
country should commence the reform, inasmuch as 
they are the capt.ivators of man. Return ye daugh¬ 
ters of fashion to those good old days of yore!— 
“ When good stout waists were all the rage, and 
cheeks were never painted.” Then we will have 
“ no fears for the future of our country!” Our 
young ladies will then be what they should be — 
strong, both in intellect and constitution. Then, 
too, will our young men “see the folly of their 
ways,” and return to the sturdy habits of their an¬ 
cestors, thus becoming “ noble specimens of man¬ 
hood,” and making in the end industrious, intelli¬ 
gent and respected husbands for all those young 
ladies who shall engage in such a laudable reform. 
Chenango, N. Y., 1858. Diogenes. 
Pride and Vanity.—I t was a clever remark of 
somebody—we do not remember who—that he was 
“too proud to be vain!” Yet the two are very 
commonly confused, so as to almost lose their 
identity. No person who has much real pride can 
be foolish or trifling. Self respect often prevents 
men from doing wrong actions, when morality, 
religion, or love of approbation of others, would 
be powerless from the same end. 
This love of approbation is the foundation of 
vanity, and prompts the most insincere, thought¬ 
less, and sometimes cruelly selfish conduct It 
should be avoided as fatal to the finest spirit. It 
is incompatible with independence, and makes 
slaves, and cowards of all who succumb to its in¬ 
fluence. Pride, on the other hand, if it he not 
haughty, is one of the best of human attributes. If 
a man thoroughly respects himself, be sure that 
others will respect him also. 
Infants count by minutes; children by days; 
men by years; comets by revolutions of ages; 
nations by revolutions of systems; the Eternal 
meditates in a perpetual present. 
The child is the mirror of the adult. Men learn 
their own nature by watching the development of 
children. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
TWILIGHT. 
Behold yon light and fleecy cloud 
So richly burnished o’er with gold, 
Day’s parting beams it doth enshroud 
Within its beauteous, magic fold; 
While far above streams up the light— 
To heaven’s high dome it darts afar, 
And greatly dims the lustre bright 
01 yonder distant, twinkling star. 
Ah yes, the sun's wide streaming hair, 
Thus waving o’er the upheaved cloud 
Is beauiiful, naught can compare 
With its disheveled lock", which crowd 
So closely pressed as first they fall 
Upon those misty, wavy bars, 
From tbence diverge, and fade, till all 
Above is studded with bright stars. 
What would the jealous artist give, 
If he might paint each hue aright? 
What finer task might he achieve, 
Than grace the canvas with twilight? 
And thus tbe btautiful is found, 
With grand, majestic power displayed, 
‘Tis seen above, below, around 
In ample gorgeousness arrayed. 
Asha way, R. I., 1858. Riio. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
M UJS I C. 
Music was cultivated by the children of Israel in 
the earliest period of their existence as a people. 
Moses and his sister Miriam, the prophetess, after 
the passage of the Red Sea, assembled two choruses, 
one of men and the other of women, with timbrels, 
who sang and danced. The facility with which 
the instruments were gathered together, and the 
skill displayed in using them, give abundant proof 
that this art had long been cultivated by them. 
It may not be going too far to believe, that in 
those days this art was successfully applied to the 
cure of diseases. To the skillful performances of 
David upon the harp, may be attributed his power 
over the disorder of Saul. We read in Samuel I, 
chapter 16 , that Saul’s servant said unto him,— 
“ Behold now, an evil spirit from God is upon thee. 
Let our lord now command thy servants which are 
before thee, to seek out a man who is a cunning 
player on the harp; and it shall come to pass when 
the evil spirit from God is upon thee, that he shall 
play with his band, and thou shall be well.” To 
this Saul assented; so the son of Jesse, the Beth- 
lehemite, was sent for and stood before him. “And 
it came to pass, when the evil spirit from God was 
upon Saul, that Dayjd took an harp, and played 
with his hand: so Saul was refreshed, and was 
well, and the evil spirit departed from him.” 
When David ascended the throne, we find that 
he appointed 4,000 Levitesto praise the Lord with 
instruments. It is related by Josephus, that Solo¬ 
mon made 200,000 trumpets and 50,000 instruments 
of music, with which to praise God. There is but 
little doubt that musicians accompanied the Jewish 
armies, and contributed not a little towards gain¬ 
ing the victory, by their animating strains. 
But there is one portion ol' Holy Writ which 
bears an affecting testimonial of the love of music 
which prevailed in Jerusalem. It is found in 
Psalm 137, as follows:—“ By the rivers of Babylon, 
there we sat down; yea, we wept when we re¬ 
membered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the 
willows in the midst thereof. For there they that 
carried us away captive, required of us a song; 
and they that wasted us required of us mirth 
saying sing us one of the songs of Zion.” Though 
their beloved city was sacked, iheir temple destroy¬ 
ed, their homes made desolate, and they themselves 
taken captive, yet their harps were not forgotten. 
It would also appear, from this request of a song 
of Zion from them by their Chaldean corfquerors, 
that the skill of the Hebrew musicians was known 
and appreciated by other nations. But they ask, 
“ How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange 
land?” Music, with them, seems to have been the 
language both of joy and lamentation; and so it is, 
to a great extent, with us at the present day. It 
was once remarked by an eminent divine, that music 
never roused a low sentiment in the human heart. 
And is it not so? Who has not noticed how the 
younger childien of a family are influenced by the 
performances of sweet pieces of music by an elder 
sister?—how they become more refined and obedi¬ 
ent—more sensitive to the true, the beautiful, the 
good, than children in families where music is 
not cultivated? 
The thrilling strains of martial music arouse 
every spark of patriotism in the human breast — 
Under its influence the old veteran is incited to 
undertake and overcome barriers which before 
seemed insurmountable. 
But musio does not consist altogether in songs. 
There is music in the voices of those we love—in 
the merry laugh of a child—in the murmur of the 
brook, and the roar of the waterfall. Music is, as 
it were, the language of Heaven, bidding the faint¬ 
ing, world weary pilgrim-soul to look to a world of 
unfading glory, where he may rest from his cares 
and labors. 
If there is one soul that deserves pity, it is that 
one in which there is no music. To such an one, 
the sweet songs of birds are an annoyance—the 
perfumery of flowers an offense—the loud peals of 
Heaven's cathedral a terror. Life is stripped of 
its joys, and death is no deliverance. il r. s. 
Oberlin, Ohio, 1858. 
Attitudes in Men. —It is very certain that no 
man is fit for everything; but it is almost as cer¬ 
tain, too, that there is scarcely any one man who is 
not fit for something, which something nature 
points out to him by giving him a tendency aud 
propensity to it. Every man finds in himself, 
either from nature or education (for they are hard 
to distinguish,) a peculiar bent and disposition to 
some peculiar character; and his struggle against 
it is the fruitless and endless labor of Sisyphus.— 
Let him follow and cultivate that vocation, he will 
succeed in it, and be considerable in one way, at 
least; whereas, if he departs from it, he will, at 
least, he inconsiderable, probably ludicrous.— Lord 
Chesterfield. 
It is a noble sight to see an honest man “ cleave 
his own heart in twain, and fling away the baser 
part.”— Charles lleade. 
THE GROWING WORLD. 
The trees are bursting into beauty, and fringes of 
delicale green beginto show upon the distant woods. 
Sheltered places, nestling away out of the prairie 
woods, begin to be sprinkled with tiees in white 
favors—so many brides our late, reluctant Spring 
has won and decked. 
Millions of leaves were horn last night; raveled 
out for the morning to smile on. The silver leafed 
maples glow as if they were standing in perpetual 
sunset, and the graceful elms begin to show 
“colors.” How beautiful the trees are planted in 
these lines from an old “Knickerbocker” poem: 
The statelier beach and maple 
To the hillside group withdrew, 
Where the old oak, vast and rugged, 
In his simple grandeur grew. 
There the pines in solemn voices, 
Speak the oracles of fate, 
And the walnuts, like old warders, 
Guard the archway of the gate! 
And the spectral Lombard poplars, 
Stately as old giants stand, 
Wasting with the woe of exile, 
Slowly in a foreign land; 
While the aspen all a tremble 
With a trouble never told, 
Seeks the sweet acacia, swaying 
With its fringing bloom of gold; 
And the elms above the threshold 
Drape the old and mossy eaves, 
And the maples feel the sun-light 
Streaming on their silver leaves. 
We, in the city, know very little of what Natare 
is doing country ward in these days — how busy 
she is everywhere, opening a little family of tinted 
and fragrant leaves here; adorning the daik and 
bare frame-work of a tree there; rolling away the 
stone from the sepulchre of buried and forgotten 
life yonder. 
Everything, when one thinks of it, is full of 
mystery. What strong hands they are that man 
tbe pumps at the great bases of oaks, and send 
up through the stately columns, and out to 
the extremities of the spreading arms, the tide 
of life. What delicate fingers those, that unravel 
the most delicate leaves of the flowering grasses, 
opening and adjusting them, to the up-coming sun. 
What a day yesterday was for the growing world, 
and how busy was Nature in garden, and wood¬ 
land, and field. Such building and painting and 
gilding — such unpacking and opening of cases 
and closets, that had been bidden away in the bo¬ 
som of the earth. The bees came out of their 
house, and wrought too, while their humble cousins, 
the dwellers in mud hovels, were murmuring about 
the early blossoms with the same old summer hum 
—the herald horns of the advance of tbe floral 
year. Many a pair were busy from the rising sun, 
in fashioning and furnishing rural residences. We 
noticed one couple who had selected a Lilac bush 
for a residence, and in their little brown suits were 
busy praising God and building a home all the day 
—stopping en route for materials, upon a fence or 
a bough to sing a little anthem; so their home 
with its curving and wonderful wallp, went up like 
Thebes of old, to the melody of music, aud by and 
by a happy family will lift their young voices under 
the leafy roof of the Lilac. 
So it was everywhere — something going on, 
something being done—rearing the dwellings of 
song, building up the temples of summer, and all 
without the sound of hammer or trowel, silently as 
the shining of stars or the floating of clouds.— R. 
F Tuylor. 
THE DREAMERS. 
Men are sent into this world to work not to 
dream. Those individuals are not answering the 
purpose for which they were created, by simply 
imagining or even planning out great and useful 
actions. They must act as well as imagine, and 
work as well as plan. Castle builders are of no 
value to the world. They may adorn their irnagi 
nary structures with even fabulous splendor—they 
may purpose and plan out benevolences that will 
astonish the world by their apparent usefulness— 
yet if they never work —never create anything how¬ 
ever small — they have not performed their duty in 
their day and generation. This day-dreaming is the 
greatest enemy to the world that it can have, and 
the greatest enemy to a man’s own progress in 
duty. It satisfies a man’s conscience, with the vain 
excuse that he will accomplish something when¬ 
ever a favorable opportunity occurs, and there the 
man stops and dreams, and plans on a large scale, 
and never works. In benevolence, in works of real 
usefulness to the world, the dreamer “ despises the 
day of small things.” He has no appetite for de¬ 
tails—he will not move until a splendid occasion 
offers of doing an immense work, and waits often 
a lifetime for such an opportunity. The way to be 
a great man is to begin with small things. The 
way to pass life usefully and pleasantly is for every 
one to do and to do well the little, every-day tri¬ 
fling duties of life. The heart will then be prepared 
for great duties and great sacrifices should God lay 
them iu our path. But he may not even do that. 
Such duties and sacrifices fall only to the lot of a 
few. But all can perform the ordinary duties of 
life well and be careful in tbe world. 
Lipe. — Life is no speculative adventure with 
those who feel its value and duties. It has a deep¬ 
er purpose, and its path becomes distinct and easy 
in proportion as it is earnestly and faithfully pur¬ 
sued. Tbe rudest or the most refined pursuit, if 
adapted to the wants and capacities of the pursuer, 
has a truth, a beauty, and a satisfaction. All ships 
on the ocean are not steamers or packets, but all 
freight bearers, fitted to their tasks; and the small¬ 
est shallop nobly fulfills its mission, while it pushes 
on towards its destined port, nor shifts its course 
because ships career to other points of the com¬ 
pass. Let man ride himself on the ocean of Time. 
Let him learn whether he is by nature a shallop or 
a ship, a coaster or an ocean steamer; and then, 
freighting himself according to his capacity and 
the market he should seek, fling his sail to the 
breeze, riding with wind and tide, if they go his 
course, but beating resolutely against them if they 
cross his path. Have a well chosen and defined 
purpose, aud pursue it faithfully, trusting in God, 
and all will be done welL 
We should give as we would receive, cheerfully, 
quickly, and without hesitation, for there is no 
grace in a benefit that sticks to the fingers.— Seneca. 
Written for Moore’j Rural New-Yorker. 
O, WEARY NOT. 
“ Bb not weary in well doiDg, for In due season ye shall 
r tap if ye faint not." 
O, weary not—’tis morning jet, 
And sower, scatter wide your seed, 
The coming harvest ne’er forget 
Which brings to thee its golden meed. 
O, scatter far while morning dew 
Is weeping gently from the vine, 
If thou art only faithful, true, 
O, what a glorious harvest thine. 
What though upon the barren gaud 
A portion of yonr seed should fall? 
O, do not, then, withhold your hand, 
But scatter broad, and scatter all. 
What though the stony land receive 
A fragment of your scatter’d grain? 
O, lose no tim8 to mourn and grieve, 
Assured your labor’s not in vain. 
Be loyal to your honest toil— 
Ye morning sowers, busy keep— 
Be faithful tillers of the soil, 
And in the autumn ye shall reap. 
Life's early harvest’s ripe e'en now, 
And in her fi elds with busy hand. 
With sunburnt cheek and swarthy brow, 
The faithful reapers ready stand. 
O, Zion’s watchmen, weary not, 
But on her walls her truth proclaim, 
O, he her conqnests ne'er forgot 
And battle bravely for the same. 
O, weary not ye sufTringones, 
Ye struggling ones do not despair, 
When doing good below is done, 
Ye shall the garb of angels wear. 
Northrilie, Mich., 1858. Libby Neal. 
Written for Moore’s Rural Now-Yoritiv. 
WEALTH 18 NOT ALL. 
Are yon a rich man or woman? Or, in other 
words, have you thousands of dollars safely invest¬ 
ed, drawing an interest more than sufiioient for all 
your necessities, or wishes? And, having this, are 
you satisfied, contented, joyful? Is your home 
pleasant, cheerful, tidy and comfortable? If not, 
why do you rush, and scramble, to accumulate 
wealth to the utter exclusion of every rational, 
healthful recreation and enjoyment? Suppose you 
do not make money quite so fast, and while you 
are making it, you allow your family, and your¬ 
self, to enjoy life while it passes away? What if 
you should relax occasionally from your business, 
and spend a few days with family and friends—take 
a short trip away from your cares, leaving them all 
behind—take yonr wife, or sister, or daughter, or 
mother, or friend—what would you lose by it? 
What if yon go back and forth from your busi¬ 
ness, day after day, and year after year, with knit 
brows, and fobidding mien, and meanwhile, your 
fortune swells higher and higher—what have you 
gained? For whom or for what are you thus sac¬ 
rificing all the noblest interests, the truest happi¬ 
ness of which human beings are capable? It is 
well to acquire an independence—good to have an 
abundance of wherewithal to eat, and drink, aud 
wear, but to have these must we give up everything 
else? Our cattle, and horses, have all these, and 
are contented; but you, nor your wife, nor child¬ 
ren, will he satisfied with mere creature comforts. 
The soul, the mind, the heart, must be fed, supplied, 
nourished, as well as the body. Did you ever think 
of that? O, remember, that when yon have cloth¬ 
ed, and sheltered, and fed those immortals intrust¬ 
ed to your care and guidance, you have not done 
all —there yet remains, the most glorious part of 
your work, unfinished! Hattie. 
Let men find occasioris, great occasions, de¬ 
manding inspiration, before they speak so pertly of 
securing and employing it. Even the old locali¬ 
ties, sacredly as they are cherished, have lost their 
old occasions. As to the world before the flood, 
that seems to he still under the flood. But go to 
Ararat; how its lifeless pinnacles glitter in the 
lofty realms of perpetual snow! Go to Sinai; b®w 
still the cliffs which once sounded and resounded 
with the trumpets of angels and the voice of Godl 
Go to Bethlehem and Jerusalem, to Gethsemane 
and Calvary, to Ephesus and Patinos, to Athens and 
Rome, and whatever may remain, you will find that 
the grand occasions for inspiration no longer ex¬ 
ist. How could it he otherwise? They passed 
with the times to which they belonged. We find 
them, not where they occurred, hut in the Bible it¬ 
self, their appointed and proper depository. Open 
the Bible, and Sinai trembles beneath the footsteps 
of Jehovah yet. Open the Bible, and Calvary not 
only trembles, but breaks its heart, though stern as 
rock, in shuddering sympathy with the dying Son 
of God.— Stockton. 
Pointless Sermons.— In one of his discourse^ 
John Newton has this pithy remark:—“Many ser¬ 
mons, ingenious in their kind, may be compared to 
a letter put in the post-office without a direction. 
It is addressed to nobody, it is owned by nobody, 
and if a hundred people were to read it, not one of 
them would think himself concerned in the con¬ 
tents. Such a sermon, whatever excellencies it 
may have, lacks the chief requisite of a sermon.— 
Tt is like a sword which has a polished blade, a 
jeweled hilt, and a gorgeous scabbard, but yet will 
uot cut, and, therefore, to all real use, is no sword. 
The truth properly presented, has an edge, it 
pierces to the dividing asunder of soul and-spirit, 
it is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the 
heart.” 
The Daily Life.— For my part, I am not so 
much troubled about my future state, as about my 
present character in the sight of a holy and heart¬ 
searching God. To live a holy, self-denying life, I 
conceive to be of the first importance. It is by 
the daily lives of Christains that Christ is either 
honored or dishonored .—Martha Whiting. 
Spiritual Healing. —It is observed that our 
Lord Christ, when he was upon the earth, in the 
days of his flesh, wrought no half cures; but whom¬ 
soever they brought to him for healing, be healed 
them throughout This was to show what a perfect 
and complete Savior he was throughout; and shall 
not we be Saints throughout?— Mead. 
