MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
JUNE 19. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
FRIENDS. 
An! yes, we’ve friends to soothe our walk 
Along life’s troubled way; 
To weave bright hopes in rainbow tints, 
To charm each fleeting day. 
Around our course, in garlands fair, 
These flowers of friendship spring, 
And joy and happiness on earth, 
And melody they bring. 
But like the flowers that bloom along 
Where’er our feet may stray, 
They smile awhile upon our path, 
Then slowly pass away. 
We watch them wither by our side, 
And hoard each word of love, 
That when the chain is broken here 
’Tis joined again above. 
But the saddest end to friendship 
Is when loved ones prove untrue, 
And leave the tried and trusting, 
For the untried and the new— 
When the eyes that beamed so kindly 
Are coldly turned away, 
And the flowers that love had cherished 
Droop sadly in decay. 
Yet, when earthly friends are failing, 
The loved and trusted here, 
There is One, our Friend in Heaven 
Whose love is ever near,— 
Whose kindly hand, in mercy, 
Ne'er breaks the bruised reed,— 
Who has promised to be with us 
In hours of sorest need. 
Seneca, N. Y., 1858. A. A. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
LENA CLAYTON. 
“ Thb day was cold, and dark and dreary, 
It rained, and the wind was never weary.” 
Every leaflet and flower was bending beneath 
the rain drops, from those of the maple tree by the 
window, to the loveliest violet shaded by the tall 
grass. It was on the morning of such a day that 
Lena Crayton stood by the window, her face half 
shaded in the folds of the snow-white curtain 
which draped it Occasionally she looked up to 
see if the storm had ceased, and with impatience 
did she notice that the rain was still falling. Lena 
had been sadly tried, for that day she had been pre¬ 
vented by the storm from setting sail to Italy. It 
was a pleasure she had long wished for, and her 
restive spirit could ill brook disappointment In 
her sorrow she remembered not the parched fields, 
the thirsty flowers that gladly welcomed the crystal 
showers. And so she stood musing selfishly on her 
grief. Once she thought she heard footsteps, but 
no, it was only the wind blowing more fiercely, as 
it brushed the branches of the trees against the 
window pane. Lena thought of the old proverb, 
“’tis an ill wind that blows nobody any good,” and 
she thought surely this storm can bring no joy to 
me. While musing thus, she saw a little girl, far 
down the street, wearily beating a tambourine.— 
Slowly she advanced, and at last she was standing 
on the steps of Lena’s house. Timidly she rang 
the bell, and Lena hastened to usher her in.— 
There was something in that little, wan faoc that 
enlisted her sympathies, and her own sorrows were 
for a moment forgotten. Brightly glowed the lire 
in the grate, and very tempting looked the nicely 
cushioned chair to the childish stranger; and tired 
and weary as she was, she sank into an uneasy 
slumber before Lena had learned more than that 
she had no home—that her mother called her Cora 
— that by her songs she gained her daily food.— 
Lena watched awhile, 
“Her breathing soft and low,” 
and soon she, too, was sleeping. Sleeping she 
dreamed, and in fancy roved through fields of flow¬ 
ers, music of gushing fountains fell on her ear, and 
through the branches of the majestic old trees 
leaped and danced the glad sunlight. A glorious 
being approaching her said, “Why those downcast 
looks? is there aught to mar thy happiness? Ask 
what thou wilt, and it shall be given thee.” At first 
Lena thought of wealth, then of fame, — that her 
name might live in the memory of future ages, — 
then a “change came o’er the spirit of her dream,” 
and she replied, “let my wealth be a patient spirit, 
and my fame be like the remembrance of joys past, 
pleasant but mournful to the soul.” 
A moment more and Lena had wakened. The 
fire had burned low, and naught was left save a few 
embers. Cora was yet sleeping, and as Lena 
gazed upon that saddened face she said, “No more 
shall she go out into the cold world,—she shall be 
the object of my love and care, and it may be I 
shall learn patience of her.” At last Cora awoke 
from her deep slumber, but only to find that fever 
was raging in her veins. For many days did she 
seem near death’s portal, and anxiously was she 
watched, as in her breast the wave of life 
“Kept heaving to and fro.” 
At last she roused from the wild delirium, during 
which, at times, she called unto her mother to come 
to her darling. At others, she sang wild snatches 
of Swiss melody, and again blessed Lena for tak¬ 
ing her from the storm. Then tears would fill 
Lena’s eyes, and tenderly she would bathe Cora’s 
burning temples, and strew her pillows with the 
flowers she loved. Lovingly she clung to Lena as 
does the ivy to the strong oak. Cora told much 
of her past history, of a once happy home in Swit¬ 
zerland, and of a weary pilgrimage to our shores. 
She had hoped to find peace and joy here, but only 
sorrow greeted her. The world looked coldly upon 
her and heeded not her childish woe, until heart¬ 
sick and weary she longed to die. But Lena, she 
would ever say, had cared most tenderly for her.— 
Many weeks was sickness laid upon her, but the 
meekness, the patience with which she bore it, 
often caused the irritable Lena to feel rebuked. 
One lovely eve Cora was sitting by the window, 
her head pillowed on Lena's breast, admiring the 
beauties of the glad sunset. The air was perfumed 
with the breath of many flowers, and for a while 
she sat seeming to drink in the loveliness of the 
scene. Then she trilled a low melody of her 
native land. But soon the little head drooped 
lower, the notes died away, and Lena in anguish 
saw that she had gone home. The weary dove was 
at rest The birds took up her last sad notes as 
they had fallen on the evening air and bore them 
upwards, until they were caught by angels, and the 
song was finished by the choirs above. 
Wyoming, N. Y., 1858. A. J. Ferris. 
EXERCISE FOR GIRLS. 
Dm any of my readers ever meet a girls’ school 
taking their accustomed exercise? Is there not 
something excessively ludicrous in the idea of 
some thirty or forty girls walking primly and de¬ 
murely to a certain point, then right about face 
and back again? The timid step, the regular me¬ 
thodic movement, which I have heard waggishly 
compared to the mode of progress of an ordinary 
sixteen-legged caterpillar; the sedate tone of voice, 
each one talking with becoming decorum with the 
one with whom she walks abreast, perhaps cate¬ 
chising one another on the eccentricities of some 
French verb or ascertaining the degree of profi¬ 
ciency each has attained in Magnall’s Questions,— 
how can this minister to health? But the medical 
attendant of the school recommends exercise; and 
is not walking across the common and back, exer¬ 
cise? Of course it is! what more would you have? 
Why, if that very worthy lady, the school-mistress, 
would allow me to have the charge of her pupils 
on the next forenoon’s walk, (I believe it is not or¬ 
thodox to take a walk every day in the week,) I 
think I could put them in the way of getting exer¬ 
cise by which they would be much more benefited, 
much more pleased, and come home with rosier 
cheeks and more eager appetites, than is now the 
case. 
Probably at the schools where these girls are, 
there are several teachers, and perhaps some of the 
teachers may have some little knowledge of botany; 
so I would suggest that the teacher should ask two 
or three of the girls to bring her some wild fiowers 
from their next afternoon’s walk, with the promise 
held out that she would afterwards tell something 
about them; and I must further petition that the 
girls be no longer compelled to walk two by two, 
methodically, but be allowed to roam and ramble 
at large—of course, taking care they do not get out 
of sight of their teachers. I admit that the effect 
of all the girls rambling along a country lane — 
some looking into the hedge bottom on this side, 
and others straggling to the other side of a broad, 
| green lane, would not have nearly the same fine 
effect which is produced by the formal procession 
along the dusty pathway of the common; but I 
think it would impress any one who saw them with 
the idea that the girls were at ease, and were out 
for enjoyment; whereas the stiff and prim set-out 
which we are accustomed to see, rather gives one 
the idea that they had said their lessons badly, and 
are doing penance for it, exposed to the public 
gaze. —Book of the Country. 
THE WIFE. 
What is there like home to the man to whom 
God has given that greatest of all earthly gifts, far 
beyond gold, a help-meet for him — a being like 
himself, adapted to better his condition and soften 
his cares? It is an old sentiment that has passed 
into a proverb—“No wife, no home.” 
It is astonishing to see how well a man may live 
on a small income who has a handy and industri¬ 
ous wife. Some men live and make a far better 
appearance on six or eight dollars a week than 
others do on fifteen or eighteen dollars. The man 
does his part well, but the wife is good for nothing. 
She will even upbraid her husband for not living 
in as good style as her neighbor, while the fault is 
entirely her own. His neighbor has a neat, capa¬ 
ble, and industrious wife, and that makes the differ¬ 
ence. His wife, on the other hand, is a whirlpool 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE FARMER. 
BY CLARA AUGUSTA. 
God's blessing rest upon the man 
Who plows the bounteous land, 
And strews the yellow grain broadcast 
With free, ungrudging handl 
Who makes the barren moorland bloom 
With wheat and golden corn. 
The verdant grass to spring at will, 
Where lurked the worthless thorn. 
Oh, bless his toil with full success— 
Let soft and gentle rains 
Revive his dusty pastures, hills, 
And fertilize his plains; 
And send the sunshine down to warm 
The frosty breast of earth, 
That crimson wealth of clover blooms 
May spring to odorous birth! 
A noble, independent life! 
Fraught but with honest gains; 
Wrung not from pale-faced widowed ones, 
Or orphans’ hunger-pains! 
Honest and fearless, free and glad, 
A very prince is he— 
At peace with God, in love with truth, 
With men in harmony. 
His lot is cast in Nature’s fanes, 
Beneath a lucky star! 
What is’t to him that railroad stocks 
Are quoted under par? 
The banks may split, canals break up, 
And mining sections fail— 
He’s left to him his wide-spreaed fields, 
His threshing-floors and flail! 
His children throng about his knees, 
When gloaming time creeps on— 
And hang around his sturdy neck 
To kiss him, one by one; 
The ruddiest cheeks and sweetest lips, 
The brightest eyes are theirs! 
The rarest smile in all the town 
The farmer's Mary wears. 
God bless the farmer! bless him well! 
A royal life he owns! 
He reads his lore from mountain heights, 
His sermons from the stones; 
His college halls are Nature’s wilds 
And gorgeous summer skies; 
The vast cathedral where he prays 
Is Heaven’s arched canopies! 
Let the rich scorn his sunburnt hands, 
And cheek so rough and brown— 
But when he at his festal board, 
In courtly glee sits down; 
The luscious grape, the downy peach, 
The wine in silver can, 
The snowy bread—he owes them all 
Unto the husbandman. 
Great Father of the subject world, 
Look down upon his way! 
And let his true eye ever meet 
The glowing star of Day! 
Day that shall crown his hero-life 
With never fading palms— 
Day that shall fill his faithful heart 
With the sacred Victor’s pslams! 
Farmington, Strafford Co., N. H., 1858. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
OUR MANHOOD. 
There is deep-seated in the soul a feeling of 
into which a great many silver cups might be independence, a something which we cannot de- 
thrown, and the appearance of the waters would scribe, but which all have felt at one time or 
remain unchanged. No Nicholas, the diver, is another, beating around the prison walls of their 
there to restore the wasted treasure. It is only' an hearts and seeking to make its influence felt on the 
insult for such a woman to talk to her husband outward world,— a feeling which prompts us to 
about her love and devotion. Christian Intel. attempt great deeds, or launch out on the broad 
ocean of hidden knowledge in search of new dis- 
A Good Dalghter. There are other ministers CO veries. Who has not felt while contemplating the 
of love more conspicuous than she, but none in WO rks of genius, a consciousness of the latent power 
which a gentler, lovelier spirit dwells, and none to existing within himself, and which, for ought he 
which the heaits waim reqnitais more joymlly knows, shall yet burst forth into life and energy.— 
icspond. She is the steady light of her fathers As we wander in the deep solitude of the forest, 
house. Hei ideal is indissolubly connected with w jth naught to disturb and distract the mind from 
that of his happy fireside. She is his morning solemn thought and heavenly musings,—as we con- 
sunshine, and evening star. The grace, vivacity, template the vastness of Omnipotence while be- 
and tenderness of her sex, have their place in the holding the lofty mountain and the wide, unbroken 
mighty sway which she holds over her spirit The plaiD; or while listening, 
lessons of recorded wisdom which he reads with „ When old ocean roars> 
her eyes, come to his mind with a new charm, as And heaves huge surges to the trembling shores,” 
blended with the beloved melody of her voice.— . , „ . „ „ , . , 
, . . , /, , _ , the mind seems to expand; to grow large with the 
He scarcely knows weariness which her song doth . f ° , ... , 
“ When old ocean roan*, 
her eyes, come to liis mind with a new charm, as And heaves huge surges to the trembling shores,” 
blended with the beloved melody of her voice.— . , „ . „ „ . . , 
, . . , . , , , ^ the mind seems to expand; to grow large with the 
He scarcely knows weariness which her song doth . „ ., . ° , ° ... , 
, , , .... , consciousness of its own might, and we are lifted, 
not make him forget, or gloom which is proof „„ , T . . XT „. . ^ .. ’ 
.... . “from Nature up to Nature s God,” whose creative 
against the young brightness of her smile. She is . . ^ 
,, ., , . ,, power seems to us no longer a mystery, while 
the pride and ornament of his hospitality, the gen- 1 . . . . . . 
,, . . , , .. 1 , •7 ° . within we feel the power to scan the Universe, 
tie nurse of his sickness, and the constant agent of ... 
those nameless, numberless acts of kindness which To read cr * atlon > read its mighty laws, 
one chiefly cares to have rendered because they are 6 r an an execut * ou to uolliUe ' 
unpretending, but expressive proofs of love. To the man who ha3 become imbued with the 
___ t _“ great idea” of his manhood,—to whom it is given 
A Word to Little Girls. —Who is lovely? It to know the high prerogatives which he may justly 
the little girl who drops sweet words, kind re- mountains of difficulties and impossi- 
arks, and nleasant smiles, as she nasses alone: bilities of former yeais dwindle into mole hills, or 
is the little girl who drops sweet words, kind re¬ 
marks, and pleasant smiles, as she passes along; 
interests are involved, we question if it is not bet¬ 
ter to lose somewhat of our precious rights, than 
squabble to maintain them.— Selected. 
Romping. —Never punish a girl for being a romp 
but thank Heaven who has given her health to be. 
belief. When Timanthes beheld the cherished pro¬ 
duction of his pencil in ruins, its only effect was to 
engender within him the purpose to create some¬ 
thing more enduring, and as a result, we behold 
the “ Sacrifice of Iphigenia .” 
Let any one but once realize that within him ex¬ 
it is better than a distorted spine or hectic cheek, ists a soul, which the Almighty has endowed with 
Little girls ought to be great romps—better than the ability to reach forth and grasp a universe of 
paying doctors’ bills for them. Where is the knowledge, and he will rise up in his strength and 
gymnasium that should be attached to every shake off the fetters of earthliness. What matters 
school? That’s coming too, like other improve- it to him if poverty and obscurity are his portion? 
ments. His manhood depends upon something more noble 1 
than the mere circumstances of position and wealth, 
and more refined impulses than the gratification of 
the merely selfish propensities urge him on to 
action. To him it is the height of pleasure to meet 
with new difficulties. He no sooner attains the Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker, 
summit of the loftiest peak which met his gaze, ’TIS GOOD TO PRAY. 
than he beholds another, and still another Alp, each - 
offering a greater and more noble victory, because ’ Tis g° 0< b when evening veils the day, 
assimilating him towards his Creator. “I am a And Nature sinks to soft repose, 
man,” he cries, brother to that Divine Man who, T ° b ° w our wayward hear ! s and P ray 
... , , , ... , . . . , Before our weary eyelids close, 
eighteen hundred years ago lived and died for fal¬ 
len humanity. All the great and good of by-gone ’ Tis good > when morning brings the light, 
days are my brothers, bound together by the ties of Fofjllhe'blLringsof The ntgh’b 
a common parentage, and I am tending towards To bnee] and thank our Gon , n prayer< 
the same Eternity to which they have departed.— 
When countless ages shall have rolled their cycles ’ Ti * * ood ’ ^ Bm °° th 
round, I shall still exist, and when my mind, by rea- To ceape awhile from mirttl and 
son of increased strength shall have explored the And turn our thoughts to God and pray. 
farthest confines of space, still shall it behold an , 
, ns good, when heavy cares oppress 
undiminished field for research. . .. .. ! 
“ When weal h grows dim and joys decay, 
It is a beautiful belief that in a future state we When troubling ills our frames distress, 
shall be constantly progressing towards, but never In resignation sweet to pray, 
reaching, a state of perfection; our attainments ’Tis good to pray, at mom, at night, 
there commencing where they end here. Why Or -when the burning sun shines high, 
then, with so glorious a hope for the future, should ’Twill make our heavy burdens light, 
we despair? To the man who, rather than “ be the ’Twill teach to live, ’twill fit to die. 
sport of circumstances” makes “circumstances his AlbioD, N. Y., 1858. Q. E. X. 
sport,” the battle is half fought. When the brave -- 
three hundred stood at the Pass of Thermopylae, and written for Moores Rural New-Yorker, 
beheld approaching, the Grecian hosts, innumera- MOTHER. 
ble as the leaves of the forest, it was remarked that . , , . , , ' ... 
,, r j. ,... - ., , , Ah, how plainly I see her now, as she places her 
the arrows of so great a multitude would darken , , , , 
the sun. Then, was the heroic reply, “Melius aof t h and upon my head, and with the Bible upon 
n.'rr.nhirn'.'V « Thou wa nbali fbo her knee ’ endeavors to lead my young and wander- 
itaque, in umbra pugnabimus. 
better fight in the shade.” T. D. Tooker. “ g ? ct f m * e ° f peac T e ’ How affecting her 
Belfast N Y 1858 simple story of the life of Jesus. How the tears 
glisten in her soft blue eyes, as she tells of the suf- 
feringsofonr (tying Lord. • He ™ bnffeted and 
WHAT WILL WIDESWATH WANTS. ‘‘“"t m,gl “ ,,e ' )° d *£“’ ” h “ ! 
would weep that I was not one of the happy band 
„ T , , that received his blessing, how her eyes would 
Dear Col.:—I have always been taught to gather .... ... . , . , 
. , .. . .. ., , brighten with joy as she told me of the pleasures 
instruction from older persons than myself, when . . , , . , ,, , „ 
I T l c A ■ j reserved for those that loved him, and though I 
I can, on account of their supposed sageness— ,, „ , . „ T ’ , .. „ , 
,, ’ , . , U T ... , ® would never see him on earth, I would, if faithful 
though, between you and me, I think there are , „ , . . TT , „ ’ 
^ •Q, x to God, see him m Heaven to all eternity. Ah, 
some exceptions to the general rule—and so I want ,, , , , , , . „ 
ViflnAfit nf those were halcyon days-days of purest joy for me. 
1 Then we shall the 
T. D. Tooker. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
WHAT WILL WIDESWATH WANTS. 
to get the benefit of the combined wisdom of our „ , , , .... 
„ But my peace was soon to be marred—the loving 
fnenos, Mr. PL0wnANDLEandMrs.CHURNDASiiER— , , / ® 
,,, i - * a „ t> a • - t and loved guardian of my footsteps was soon to 
if you’ll please introduce me. But, mind you, I, , ° .. 
, . , , , . , . ... .... drop her care forever. Thewmdowsweredarken- 
dordt want to get mixed up in any “ domestic ” con- , 1 .. , , , , , , , 
, c „ , /T , . , . ed, soft footsteps only were heard; all was drear 
troversy, because of my tender years, (I had almost , , 1 , _ J _ , ’ 
„ , cp ■ j , • and lonesome, and I wept, I knew not why—too 
said “ears”—young’uns ears do suffer m domestic ’ J 
storms, sometimes, don’t they?) 
young to feel my loss. At last they told me my 
T „ , . „... n ... mother wished to see me. How my heart bounded 
I was equally struck, with Mrs. C-, at Mr. .... .. , . ... 
„ , a c . with joy, as they led me towards her chamber; but 
IP-’s emphatic declaration, aye startled, for to T , ... . , , , 
... ......... ,, . , as I entered, what a sight met my eyes My 
tell you the truth, judging from the various phases ., , , , , , . 6 ,, ; . • 
1 J 1 mother but oh, how changed She smiled, and 
of domestic life I have seen—and since I have 
. . , T i_ .i her loving eyes kindled with joy as she clasped me 
doubted, I have been a close observer—I had be- . . . ; m . . *•' „ 1 
come quite ekeptic.l in regard to tbe existence of If brea8t -, Th ' ev “‘ ot ,h “ e , f ' :! ' » 1 
aucb a pleasing state of satisfaction, a. Mr. Plow “' er .^ r8e '- , 0h ' . oh,l i a - daril ”* 
. ?, T . , , , T , child, who will care for you, or teach your young 
handle describes. I don’t know but I did wrong , ’ , , 
. ... ... heart the way of peace? Oh, I would die willingly 
m lodging a class by a few, but the conclusion is .... , . . J 
■ au ... , , if it was not for you—but we must part,—but oh, 
inevitable, that there are a great many pairs whose ., . J 1 .... 
MTWTir trv r.o mppf rnnr nnnr mofhDr in noron ?? 
, , , „ , , . , . Minnie, try to meet your poor mother in Heaven.” 
love seems to have all been expended before mar- ’ J J 1 
riage. Perhaps they are “satisfied” with each „ was over ' 
other, but permit me to doubt it 1 f ™ have P assed awa y 81nce mother en ' 
Now, I’m real glad to find one man satisfied with ^red mto her rest-roses and evergreens bloom 
his wife in all respects, (I presume Mr. P-means 0ver her g rave >~ bu t theie 18 a * a <*mg void in my 
in the capacity of wife as well as house-keeper- bosom that the world can never fill. My hopes 
mnn i t are wlth ber, in the Kingdom of God, and there we 
some men marry house-keepers,) for I suppose be- , ,, 
fore long I shall need a “ help me-eat,” myself, and shal me 8 t J° n0 more foreve ^' . „ 0 
before I emigrate to the “state of matrimony,” I J ° °* ** __ l<t _ 1XWIB 
want to know something of the workings of the 
The Bible is a book for time, to guide through 
institution. Pardon me, all you whom it may con- jj.. a book for earth, to lift above it; a book for so- 
cern, I meant not to inveigh against “domestic ciety, to regenerate and elevate it. It is a book for 
slavery. I don t intend to countenance it in any mai]j j n relation to man, his brother,—and for man 
way, though I had about given in to its universali- ^j ie gjuner, in relation to God, the Savior. Its 
ty, when I heard Mr. P ’sexperience. (The fact depth is the mystery of truth; its height is the 
is, Col., I ve got a leal nice girl picked out, but the splendor of purity; its mission is the mission of 
trouble is, 1 am afraid she won’t be “satisfied • with love; its course is the path of wisdom; its sphere 
me. If I could only get you to say something pretty is the world of fallen mankind; and its end is the 
strong about the probability of farmers’boys mak- glory of God. Whoever is humbly led by it, is 
ing great men nay, it were an insult to her sa fely led to Heaven. It confounds the conceited, 
goodness good husbands, I would be extremely baffles the speculative, rebukes the proud, frowns 
grateful.) 
upon the formal, denounces the ungenerous, dooms 
Now to business. I would very much like to the profligate and the impenitent, smiles upon the 
visit this “model couple, and get acquainted me ek and self-denying, assures the contrite, and 
with Sam. So, if my mother will let me go, I would refreshes the way-worn follower of Christ with liv- 
like to do so in company with the incredulous Mrs. j n g wa ter from the fountain of eternal love. Like 
Churndasiier, if you’ll just tell her about it, Col. a n the works of God, his word is diversified and 
/ am going out, however, to see if P-is harmonious, plain and profound, simple and sub- 
“satisfied” with her husband —to see if the satis- lime, suitable and serviceable. It contains the de- 
faction in regard to the drawing in “ Life’s Lottery ” 
is mutual! No offence, I hope, but I am afraid Mr. 
velopments of the eternal will, the thunderings of 
righteous and reasonable wrath, the benefactions of 
P-is a ^//satisfied man, and such people are unmerited favor, the rebukes of fatherly fidelity, 
not apt to do themselves any injustice, in imagin- the beauties of holiness, the glowings of love, the 
ing themselves viewed through other people’s counsels of wisdom, and the index of futurity.— 
optics. There are such self-complacent men, de- Rev. W. Bonner. 
pend upon it. 
I am afraid if Mr. John Plowhandle continues 
The Domestic Altar. —It is pleasing to find in 
who has a kind word of sympathy for every girl or seem aB ^ >u ' i stepping-stones to greatness. Let the 
boy she meets in trouble, and a kind hand to help con t es l between spirit and flesh be once com¬ 
ber companions out of difficulty; who never scolds, mence< ^> our antagonisms be fully aroused,— 
never contends, never teases her mother, nor seeks ^ as be convinced of the great deeds that are 
in any way to diminish, but always to increase her wa ^^ n g f° r our performance, and how little it mat¬ 
happiness. AYould it not please you to pick up a ^ ers . w bat opposing forces may array themselves 
string of pearls, drops of gold, diamonds,or precious a S a i nst us • 
stones, as you pass along the streets? But these How oft does the soul of the boy throb with joy as 
are the precious stones that can never be lost._ be thinks of the great deeds manhood has marked 
Take the hand of the friendless. Smile on the sad o ut f° r him; and those “child-dreams,” as they are 
and dejected. Strive everywhere to diffuse around called, are but beliefs, the realizations of which are 
you sunshine and joy. If you do this you will be destined to shape the pillars of earth’s old heathen 
sure to be loved.— Home Journal. temples, and teach an unbelieving world the great- 
-———- ness of the soul. Palissey was laughed at by 
It i 3 better to yield a little than quarrel a great many, and regarded with commisseration by others; 
deal. The habit of standing up, as people call it, flut the dream of restoring a lost art to the world 
for their (little) rights, is one of the most disagree- had taken possession of his youth and grown into 
able and undignified in the world. Life is too a belief, and in spite of opposition, scorn and de¬ 
short for the perpetual bickering which attends rision, he labored on through long weary years 
such a disposition; and, unless in a very moment- until success crowned his efforts, and his glad 
ous affair indeed, where other people’s claims and “ Eureka ” shout taught the world the truth of his 
to advertise his satisfactions, his hospitality will be private houses an altar raised to God. Nothing 
severely taxed, i. e. if his word is doubted, and eye. rivets family attachments wholly so securely as 
sight proof is needed to convince. Just let him meeting every morning to pray for each other, 
know, if you please, Col., that we will call in on when every petty difference must at once be laid 
him sometime in strawberry or watermelon time, aside, and every misunderstanding forgotten be- 
or (if at no better time, and there could be none to fore the sun goes down. What can be more pleas- 
my mind,) when the good “mother ” has a batch of in g also than f° r the absent to know precisely at 
pumpkin pies made up. what hour they are remembered, with the suppli- 
Excuse familiarity, cations and blessings of an affectionate circle?— 
Our House, Over Here, 1858. Will Widkswath. While those who remain together can eDjoy no 
♦ — greater solace than in following them with prayers, 
Public and Private Manners. — It is strange and uniting, on their own account, in the expres¬ 
how easily some men who are shy in private, run sion of every anxiety, or pleasure, or sorrow, which 
into a bold egotism in public. They, who are much each shares in common with all the others. There 
in the habit of addressing the public, acquire a is, indeed, no pleasure more to be prized than that 
confidence of success and all fall into a degree of of raising a family altar, where those shall daily 
familiarity with their thousands of unseen and un- assemble on earth, who hope hereafter to re-assem- 
known readers, that is quite unaccountable to those ble in heaven, and not a wanderer lost! 
who have confined themselves to the intercourse -*•*-*- 
of private life, who would shudder to see their own Tiie Communion of Saints. —It is easy, no doubt, 
names in print. It is like uttering imprudent or to journey alone in the broad sunshine, and on the 
foolish things in a dark room. No rebuking eye beaten highways of our lot; but over the midnight 
kindles a blush upon the speaker’s cheek. The au- plain, and beneath the still immensity of darkness, 
thor and the public do not meet face to face. The the traveler seeks some fellowship for his wander- 
former sends out his oracles or his egotisms from iDg?- And what is religion but the midnight hem- 
the concealment of his quiet study. Wm. Ilaslett, isphere of life, whose vault is filled with the silence 
the famous essayist, was a striking illustration of of God, and whose everlasting stars, if giving no 
the strange contrast which a person may present clear light, yet fill the soul with dreams of im- 
between his public and his private manners. He measurable glory ? It will be an awful thing to 
was a bold and egotistical author, but he was a each of us to be alone, when he takes the passage 
singularly shy man. In addressing the whole world from the mortal to the immortal, and is borne 
he was daring and dogmatical; but in a small pri- along—with unknown time for expectant thought 
vate company, if any strangers were present, he —through the space that severs earth from heaven: 
could scarcely muster up sufficient courage to go and till then, at least, we will not part, but speak 
through the ordinary ceremonies of social inter- with the common voice of supplicating trust of 
course.— Literary Recreations. that which awaits us all— True Union. 
We always overrate the happiness of others, and A man is in the sight of God what his habitual 
underrate the means of our own. and cherished wishes are. 
