280 
AUGUST 28 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
LITTLE ANNIE. 
by eats camkron. 
We must lay aside the casket 
Which has held our precious gera. 
Now with purer lustre shiniDg 
In the Satior’ 8 diadem! 
Dear to us the form and features, 
Dear the little loving heart, 
OhI ’twas anguish, bitter anguish 
From our darling babe to part. 
Yet our faith in God grew stronger, 
As the “ trial-hour” drew nigh, 
And we waited for the Angel 
Who should bear her soul on high. 
Wept and waited while the life-light 
Flicker’d o’er her fair young face, 
Then went out, ’mid tears and darkness, 
Leaving us her vacant place. 
Tho' our hearts are crush’d and bleediDg, 
Yet by faith we look above, 
Where we know our child is happy 
In the arms of boundless love. 
May her spirit beckon ever, 
Thro’ these mists of earthly gloom, 
Till we meet no more to sever 
In the land of fadeless bloom! 
Rochester, N. Y., Aug. 14,1868. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
SAD HEARTS. 
Reader, did tho thought ever cross your mind, 
as on some occasion of festivity you surveyed the 
assembled multitude, that though all seemed anima¬ 
ted and gay—all light-hearted and happy—there 
were many sad hearts beneath satin robes—many 
tears lurking behind forced smiles—smothered 
sighs concealed away down in the deep recesses of 
the heart? Have you not often wished that some 
angel would grant you the magic key that you 
might open the secret chambers of the soul and 
read the glowing, burning characters inscribed 
upon their walls? Note that little child. See how 
the rosy dimples play around the dewy lips, how 
the brown masses of curling hair wreathe the fair 
brow. Look in those sweet blue eyes, so full of 
tenderness, and you will say ’tis a happy innocent. 
But look again. Did you see the little bosom 
heave—did you note the tremulous lips? Oh, there 
is a sad heart bSattog with a great sorrow there.— 
That little one has looked into an open grave and 
seen it gather to its cold embrace, that dearest 
earthly friend, its mother. Oh, it has pressed its 
lips to the cold cheek and received no answering 
kiss—it has called and called, but the pale, silent 
sleeper heard not. And that little one feels a great 
grief, but knows not why, and when he wondering 
asks, they tell him she is dead. 
There is a beautiful girl—graceful, accomplished, 
full of winning ways—her face is radiant with 
smiles. How charming those flashes of wit and 
gay repartee that occasionally escape her lipa— 
Courted and admired she moves among her com¬ 
panions the life of the social circle. Again you 
exclaim how blest is she! happiness and peace do 
crown her days. Observe her closely. The smile 
that seemed so gay is fading now. Her counte¬ 
nance is pensive, and there is a soft melancholy 
settled there like the faded glory of the western 
sky when the night has stolen away its crimson 
hues. Follow her to her silent chamber. The 
mask is thrown aside. The blinded world saw not 
the hidden heart that inly wept. It heard not the 
deep wail that went up to the ears of the Most 
High from the wronged, innocent soul. Oh, it saw 
not the crushed hopes that lay withering on the 
sad heart’s shrine. It knew not that innocence had 
been shorn of its white plumes, and cruelly robbed 
of its precious jewels by that fiend in human shape, 
the seducer. And she, whom the world calls hap¬ 
py, weeps alone unpitied—the great throbbing 
heart beats on and grows heavier and sadder until 
the life chord, strained to its utmost tension, snaps 
asunder and a shroud, a coffin, a marble slab, tell 
the oft repeated tale—another has passed away.— 
But none ask why. It was the providence of God. 
Ah no,—it was the sinfulness of man. 
Here is a youth just merging into manhood.— 
Look at the noble brow and flashing eye. Listen 
to the manly voice. See the erect form and firm 
tread. Instantly, with prophetic eye you scan the 
future and behold the laurel wreath upon his brow. 
You hear the shout of applause. Surely he is a 
happy man. You have gazed on the outward form 
—now enter the secret chamber of the heart Wan¬ 
der among its wandering labyrinths—survey each 
scene with care. Here is the choice garden of his 
heart Ambition, that soaring vine that loves to 
climb upon the mountain peaks of fame, here mis¬ 
directed and ill-trained, lies clinging to the vile 
weeds upon the ground. Peace, that tender plant 
that flourishes in quiet hearts, out-rooted by the 
sturdy growth of passion’s ugly boughs^is wither¬ 
ing in the scorching beams of scorn. Here is the 
sacred altar round which the affections cling. It 
is desecrated and they lie bleeding in the dust 
trampled upon by the rude feet of envy, hatred, 
and malice. Love, meek-eyed angel, flutters up¬ 
ward on crippled wings, and Hope sits weeping, 
rocked in the arms of the giant despair. Memory 
roams over the wide field of the past seeking with 
restless eye some spot where sweet oblivion stays 
that she may sleep within its arms and wake no 
more forever. Joy tunes her shattered lyre only 
to waken mournful echoes through the dim aisles 
of the saddened heart 
Oh, ye, who know not sorrow, heed the woes of 
others, and let charity throw over you her grace¬ 
ful mantle that ye judge not harshly the deeds of 
those whose motives ye may not know. 
Sandstone, Mich., 1868. Adniel. 
An Old-Fashioned Mother. —Ah, how much 
meaning is comprised in that simple expression, 
the old-fashioned mother ! It carries our thoughts 
back to those women whose home influence was 
pure and elevating; who taught their daughters to 
render themselves blessings to society by their 
goodness, their diligence and their useful knowl¬ 
edge. We think of the lofty heroism, the brave 
endurance, the thousand virtues they inculcated 
and sigh at the contrast between the past and the 
present. 
Written for Moore'B Rural New-Yorker, 
HOW I CAME TO LEARN MUSIC. 
In the vicissitudes of my changing and laborious 
career, I was at last the inmate of a beautiful 
dwelling, and sat daily in the handsome drawing¬ 
room with the silent but open piano ever suggest¬ 
ing thrilling harmonies, and breathing of those 
soul-felt utterances which bewilder and intoxicate 
beyond expression. The day dreams came and 
went in the shadowy rooms, and the long winter 
evenings grew too long in their monotonous pleas¬ 
ures, although occasionally enlivened by a gay 
youthful party. There we had music, often of the 
jerking, wiry kind, ignoring time and expression, 
but sometimes a pale, sweet girl, with a soul at¬ 
tuned to harmony divine, drew, from the willing 
instrument, melting notes, liquid and pure, which 
haunted me until they became an abiding presence. 
I had spent my early years upon the hillsides, in 
the green meadows beside the rocky streams, and, 
with every sense kindling to rapture, had been ac¬ 
customed to yield wholly to the influences about 
me, could not resist the bounding impulse now be¬ 
gotten anew. I had been denied music through 
fear that the more solid and substantial elements 
of education would, in consequence, be neglected; 
but now with more than a score of years, and much 
other hard work before me, could find no relief 
from the irresistible and importunate impulse 
whieh would not let me go, except in making the 
attempt to train my obstinate muscles to the neces¬ 
sary flexibility and my voice to the long silent 
melodies. 
Death had stilled tho loved voices with which 
mine had once joined in the cheerful song and 
simple ditty, and with the attrition of these memo¬ 
ries ever upon me, I gained new energy. My 
brother, the early-called, had written music which 
I could not play, and another than myseif could 
not render it as from his own soul. I had ever had 
some vague project of endeavoring to catch the 
spiritual inspiration of music as we find it in its 
simplest forms, (not dreaming of anything higher,) 
but could not compass my deBires. I now felt the 
necessity upon me, growing doubly imperious at 
every chance glance towards the glistening white 
keys of the untouched piano. It grew to be a 
mania, irresistible and torturing. I heard wild 
strains in my dreams, passionate echoes through 
the long halls, and distant melodies borne upon 
the silent midnight air. The notes of a horn, 
heard afar, stole upon my keen senses like a charm, 
and the swell of an organ trumpeted and rung to 
the inmost depths of my nature. A touch of the 
guitar or a stroke of the violin, trembling through 
the air, vibrated upon every nerve, absorbing each 
faculty of thought and utterance. 
I closed my books, threw aside my work, and 
madly bent myself to the rapture of soothing soul- 
filled sound. I grasped the elementaries at a bound 
and nnflaggingly thumped through the “Instruc¬ 
tion Book.” 0, how my poor heart leaped for joy 
when I was able to execute, unhesitatingly, a sim¬ 
ple waltz or common march. My zeal rose with 
my progress, and an endless vista, peopled with va¬ 
ried and unalloyed joys, lured me ever on. How I 
wept, and praised, and prayed with the old masters, 
Haydn and Handel; dreamed with the plaintive 
Beethoven and danced, in spirit, with the floating 
measures of the gay children of pleasure. I raved 
with Russel in maniac strains, and rose and fell 
with Julien's moods and fancies. I forced the 
indispensable, mechanical element in musie, to 
subserve the higher spiritual essence upon which 
I fed and strengthened. I reveled in song, catching 
power and expression from the world of nature, 
and growing daily thankful aud happy for the mys¬ 
tery and sublimity of music. I compose now, and 
thus have found voice for the longings and wild 
aspirations of my prisoned eouL I have learned 
to see beauty, hear music, and glean happiness from 
that to which others are oblivious. God be praised 
for the sensitive organization which he has given 
us to refine and attune the deathless spirit within! 
My life has grown to be a prolonged joy; although 
the prelude was faint and wavering, with an occa¬ 
sional note of hope and courage, yet the majestic 
verse and triumphant chorus which they heralded, 
well befitted the happy interlude, and the future 
grand and sounding finale. l. a. s. 
North Fairfield, O., 1858. 
Written for Moore's Rnral New-Yorker. 
HOME. 
How many fond associations are linked with the 
word home? A father’s approving smile—a moth¬ 
er’s doating love—a brother’s fond caress—a sister's 
deep answering affeetion — all are sweet links 
binding the weary spirit to its early home. There, 
too, is the cheerful fire-side and joyous group of 
long-tried friends; or, perchance, with eager ex¬ 
pectation the welcome message from an absent one 
is unfolded and read with thrilling interest, while, 
with glistening eye and deep heartfelt sincerity, “I 
wish he was here!” is breathed from lip to lip and 
meets a ready response in every kindred breast— 
There is nothing on earth so nearly allied to heaven 
as the union of kindred hearts in the home circle. 
It is a germ of happiness planted on earth to he 
perfected in heaven. In heaven! ah, these kindred 
spirits meet round the throne of love never to feel 
the pang of separation, nor the blighting influ¬ 
ence of change. Then happiness will be perfected 
and bliss consummated. Martha. 
Cortlandville, N. Y., 1858. 
If a girl’s fingers are busy, her heart should be 
busy too; people are too much afraid of the play 
of that delicate, irritable, little organ; we would 
have girls “ fall in love”—we have always doubted 
the cascade of that expression, for the tendency of 
true love ought to be ad astra , starward—but we 
have no doubt as to this, that girls ought to fall in 
love very young—with their mothers first of all; 
with home and its surroundings; with the old, 
mossy roof, be it ever so lowly; with the trees of 
pleasant shadows; with the hills that walled the 
world out; with Nature everywhere. If anybody 
should study the Natural Sciences, it is the girl.— 
She cannot be too much with Nature; that she 
may be too little, many a fashionable parlor could 
furnish melancholy and abundant testimony.— D. 
F. Taylor. 
How much pain those evils cost us, that never 
happen! 
Written for Moore's Rural Navr-Yerker. 
HARVEST. 
List the happy whiapers 
Of the waving grain, 
Sighing to the breezes, 
Bending to the plain. 
Hear the mellow music, 
In the summer air, 
And for coining blessings, 
Gleefully prepare. 
Gather from the valleys— 
Gather from the fields— 
Gather golden treasures, 
That the harvest yields; 
Let the scythe and sickle 
Speed from morn till night, 
In the gladsome labor 
Homes and hearts grow light 
Skies of brightest beaming 
Arching overhead, 
Smiling on the plenty 
All below them spread, 
Witness from the dawning, 
Till the set of sun, 
What, with joyous working, 
Willing hands have done. 
All the stars of heaven 
And the harvest green, 
Watching through the even. 
Hail the peaceful scene, 
Night, and noon, and morning, 
S izing on his toil, 
Bless the brown-hrewed tiller 
Of the fertile soil, 
As he gathers treasures, 
Gathers from the fields— 
Gathers from the valleys, 
What the harvest yields. 
Hastings, N. Y., 1858. Roshlia. 
A LETTER FROM A WATERING PLACE. 
Dear Rural:—Do uncase yourself from yonr 
city surroundings for once, and take a half dozen 
consecutive breaths of the pure country air — in 
short, go to a Watering Place, as other citizens are 
wont to do in these August days—hottest of the 
“heated term.” About my where-a-bouts? Well, 
just take a good start from yonder potato patch on 
the hill—you may see its emerald-crowned top 
above the trees—never mind the bushes that crowd 
the sheep-trail, but keep an eye out for snakes.— 
You will come fast enough per force of gravitation, 
so endeavor to stop your momentum before the 
arrival, thereby averting the impromptu bath I 
took just now,—you have your choice, however, be¬ 
tween the bath and a thicket of blackberry bushes 
beyond—and, minding these cautions, you are here. 
Take a seat on this mossy bank—a velvet divan, if 
you please—and, after cooling, we will have a drink 
of thirsty nature’s sweet restorer, the pure old 
“Rock Champagne”—our father Adam’s beverage 
on common occasions, we may presume. We once 
indulged in the luxury of a broken tumbler, but 
latterly are obliged to take the usual humble pos¬ 
ture, viz,, all fours. After all, if feathered bipeds 
recognize the blessing with every mouthful, why 
should’nt wo get down on our knees? And one 
must learn to be graceful in all positions, you 
know. Adapt yourself to circumstances, therefore, 
even if you are obliged to immerse your nose.— 
Take a long breath, and now, while you. are lying 
on the ground, you may have a view of “our 
society at the “ Springs.” The lobster you may 
see way down in the bottom there, has frequented 
this resort ever since our Spring- time—youth. He 
may be reckoned one of your conservative old 
gentlemen, with his stately walk and courtly bow. 
You may notice that he always hows himself out of 
company backwards. He generally goes in for 
what solid pleasure there is these hot days—lying 
under a ledge half a day at a time, moralizing, may¬ 
hap. Then there’s an angle-worm crawling around 
as if quite too lazy to move, and yet never knowing 
where to bestow himself; he’s your aimless man of 
leisure, without a capacity for enjoying nature, and, 
therefore, forever complaining of ennui. And these 
water-sprites (very sprightly they are,) whom I oall 
skippers, are pleasure lovers of the watering place, 
young ladies, for instance, continually flirting (ex¬ 
cuse me, flitting,) over the surface of society, and 
to about as much purpose as their amphibious 
likenesses, in our estimation. And then, not to 
mention all classes, here’s a plethoric old spider— 
an old schemer is he, extremely covetous of flies, 
hut at present surfeited, and for a time retired 
from business, like a Wall street broker, trying to 
enjoy his ill-gotten gains for a while, but returning 
again to his schemes and speculations. Ah! here 
comes Mr. Shinycoat, the young man about town; 
a regular lady-killer is this young parvenu. Quite 
“uppish” he has become since he came by his 
late fortune—the golden wings. Wonder how his 
memory is—whether it extends as far back as when 
his name was changed by a late act of — Nature? 
Wonder if he remembers his ancestor, old Grub, of 
Cabbage Row? Ah! how like human nature my 
friend; as this Shinycoat literally looks down on 
his former companions, so do some men, forgetting 
their former low estate, affect superiority over 
their fellow-plodders of yesterday. Bat—a hint 
gratis to human butterflies just emerging from the 
chrysalis—remember Shinycoats lose respect after 
they have faded, and they are most wofully apt to 
go to seed on short notice. These innumerable 
flies, buzzing about, are the common multitude, 
coming and going without any distinguishing fea¬ 
tures. Not that they draw much blood, but some 
of them are dreadful bares, I assure you, with their 
unceasing familiarities. And these mosquitoes 
with their long bills, are they not the residents of 
the watering place, hotel keepers, &c., who con¬ 
spire to make us feel the cost of enjoying ourselves? 
We have our musicians, too — there’s the bullfrog 
over yonder, with a fine basso voice, who sings 
accompaniment to a shrill treble — then there’s a 
meadow-lark on the heights, and a catbird (don’t 
laugh, he has a charming voice,) in that thicket— 
Yes, and all the spring long we have been serenad¬ 
ed by that mournful, but sweet songster, the whip- 
poor-will, not to mention the innumerable peepers 
and chirpers and crickets, which make the night 
air vocal. Those sounds which so remind ns of the 
approach of autumn — the locust by day and the 
crieket by night—have commenced. Heigh-ho!' 
what a camel-like drink. Yon wern’t obliged to 
hold your nose, eh? But what d’ye think of onr 
watering place? 
Our surroundings are rather primitive, to be 
sure. A down the ravine yonder, I fancy the debris 
of the deluge remains undisturbed, presenting 
quite a /t«er-ary aspect—just the thing for a vaga¬ 
bond scribbler’s studio—and reception room too, 
if you could but be introduced to all the company. 
A brooklet runs along over there in a free-and-easy 
manner, so foil of crooks that one’s first thought 
is that it was gotten up when there was more water 
astir than now. It is doing as well as could be ex¬ 
pected, perhaps, but one is left to wonder that it 
doesn’t run aground entirely, in the course of its 
meanderings. Oar spring bubbles forth from its 
basin at the foot of the hill, and flows by our feet, 
discoursing sweet music to the ear of a connois¬ 
seur. The blackberries over yonder are just ripen¬ 
ing. They have as many arms as their ancestor, 
Briar-eus— every arm laden with innumerable 
pints, as I know by sad experience. Outside this 
thicket of witch-hazel, tall oaks and pines rear 
their heads—trees that saw the light before Colum¬ 
bus, perhaps—and between them we catch glimpses 
of a finely growing field of buckwheat, on the op¬ 
posite bank. By the way the “ Discourse on 
Flowers” that star of “Star Papers,” doesn’t make 
mention of buckwheat four. Wonder if the au¬ 
thor wasn’t brought up in pan-cake-dom? ( Menu — 
Buckwheat cakes and maple syrup are not particu¬ 
larly bad to take.) 
We have a fine piece of potatoes up there on 
the bank. Half an hour ago, I was wielding my 
hoe among them, in perfect accordance with this 
lazy-like weather, you may be sure, wishing for 
“ A lodge in Eome vast wilderness 
Some boundless contiguity of shade,” 
or, better still, wishing it might rain. Trne, a set¬ 
tlement of threatening clouds would gather in the 
west, as if per agreement, but instead of coming 
over en masse, a detatchment of cloudlets would 
scud across, then another, and another, until the 
west was as clear as a contented man’s face, and— 
my sho wer was nowhere. 0! rain, thou art a pleas¬ 
ant oasis, agreeably diversifying the dreary desert 
of labor; we hail thy coming and regret thy go¬ 
ing, and though the mighty man, with the mighty 
spy-glass, over the water, hath declared we may 
not, we will still hope for thy refreshing visits. 
Having thus finished my panegyric, a friendly 
cloud overshadowed me—a cloud of most gener¬ 
ous proportions, about as large, judging after the 
manner of men, as my vision of a western farm. 
Verily, thought I, a fine umbrella this, of a dull 
color, true, but most gloriously fringed with silver 
and gold. High enough to allow a free circulation 
of air and elbows, no bother of a standard to hold 
up, and no corners to knock one’s hat off. But 
sunshine and shadow chase each other over the 
face of Nature, as do smiles and tears over the 
face of a woman, and so as I looked abroad over 
the panorama, (aye, a moving picture, with its 
waving forests, rustling corn-fields, clouds of 
heaven, and we animals of earth,) like a patch- 
work quilt, done in brown and yellow, I saw the 
edge of my cloud afar off, the sunlight in swift 
pursuit, first resting on the top of a distant forest, 
then falling to the level of a green pasture, now 
shining on a denuded harvest-field, and anon 
striking a farm house and barn, until I beheld it 
scarcely a farm off. Glancing upward, I calculat¬ 
ed mentally the length of the hiatus between 
clouds, and with thoughts of a coup de soldi, I ask¬ 
ed myself, why not act in harmony with Nature? 
If this world is a panorama, said I, faith, I’ll make 
part of the picture myself, and so be moving. 
Alas! for duty and the potato crop, in a brief 
council held with my reasoning faculties, this 
spring, under the tree, which the cattle found in 
last summer’s heat, was suggested as a suitable 
place for a siesta, whither we forthwith shifted our¬ 
selves, and here we are. Well, what a long story. 
Let me tell you, friend Rural, its “ a good thing 
to live in the country,” (albeit we have no morn¬ 
ing papers, nor soda fountains, nor watering carts, 
nor ice wagons,) and all the more so, if one can 
afford to fall in with the weather in its various 
humors. Now, this weather in hand, suggests the 
pleasure of lying under a tree, an occupation in 
which I could engage to almost any amount. One 
of the finest places out of doors t® do up a batch 
of thinking, is lying under a tree of an August 
day. And as I lie here looking up through the 
tree, into the blue ether which extends beyond im¬ 
agination, seeing the clouds great and small pass 
over with their rich freightings, (our corn and po¬ 
tatoes sadly need a cargo, or two, just now,) and 
trying the while to banish from my mind thoughts 
of the potato field and duty, inseparably connect¬ 
ed, I query, why must farmers of a necessity be 
druges?—If one happens to possess a love of Na¬ 
ture, why may he not pursue his favorite study 
from under the trees?—or, if his taste runs in the 
poetry or painting line, why may he not indulge 
himself therein, without there being imputed to 
him an extra share of the “ original sin ”—lazi¬ 
ness? Shall gain be paramount to all other ob¬ 
jects?— shall we be called nothing but money¬ 
making animals? Very trne, some one must work, 
but are there not multitudes of muscles waiting to 
be hired, and are not brains very scarce (even in 
these parts?) So, where’s the ecomony—the farm¬ 
er’s vocation needs brains, therefore, use them (if 
you have ’em.) and hire the muscles. Now, there’s 
neighbor Delteb, who does nothing but slave him¬ 
self from morning ’till night—his only ambition 
seming to be to “ drive ” his hired men, and his 
only aim to get money. He will get rich, to he 
sure, but do you think he will enjoy himself any 
the more for it? (But, sotto voce, perhaps he is 
innocent of any great amount of brain, after all!) 
I am aroused from a reverie, into which I strayed 
after the above reflections, by a strange voice call¬ 
ing out, “to who? to who?” It seems that an 
owl, who has been watching me from yonder 
thicket for some time, haB at last seen fit to pro¬ 
pound a very impertinent question, if I rightly 
understand the owZ-acular. I blush as I look up, 
thinking the wise bird a very ou>Zacle in his impli¬ 
cation. Well, I have been rather silly, sitting 
scribbling away a whole afternoon to yon, and the 
trouble is I fear you will agree with me! So, 
before I am tempted by a scarcity of matter, to 
launch of! - into very practical subjects, such as the 
culture of Ruta-Bagas, or the best method of pre¬ 
serving blackberries, (from little urchins with 
baskets!) I will bring this rambling, gossiping let¬ 
ter to a close, by again asking:—Why not spend a 
day at a watering place? 
Charlotte, N. Y., 1858. Will Weissager. 
Written for Moore’* Rural New-Yorker. 
HEIYPLE3S. 
BY EDWARD KNOWLES. 
Thowgh often by some adverse power 
Our happiness is overcast, 
We still reflect that such an hour 
Can not, will not forever last. 
But not unlike a fickle clime, 
Where clouds and snnshine come by turn, 
Our prospects change from time to time, 
Though why, we cannot now discern. 
It is enough for us to know 
That God will smile on whom He will, 
And after, by a sudden blow, 
Consign us back again to ill. 
Our poor, weak hands may grasp at all 
The sturdy shrubs, to help in need, 
But it is only when we fall, 
We find how weafc we were in deed. 
Helpless, and trembling on the way, 
Dare we alone go further thus. 
When on the journey, day by day, 
So many dangers threaten us. 
Ls it not wisdom to secure, 
Weak and dependent as we are, 
Some faithful escort that is sure, 
To the inheritance so far. 
WilsoD, N. Y., 1868. 
BENEVOLENCE. 
A benevolent mind Is a happy one; it cannot 
well be otherwise, for it is a law of onr nature to 
be made happy by making others so. But a selfish 
mind is as sure to he an unhappy one; the very 
worst elements in a man’s nature are stirred up 
against his peace thereby, such as envy, jealousy, 
pride, hatred, and the like, and lead him to decep¬ 
tion, fraud, robbery, murder, and other evil pas¬ 
sions and evil acts. These evil passions and acts 
cannot exist with a truly benevolent man. He 
loves to see others happy, and therefore delights 
to make them so; hence there can be no tempta¬ 
tion to any act or feeling of injustice. Their hap¬ 
piness is his also, and he therein finds the truth of 
that Divine saying:—“It is more blessed to give 
than to receive.” And not unfrequently it is found 
that in the Providence of God, the liberal soul is 
made fat. John Banyan, the queer old divine, who 
has presented many moral truths in his “ similitude 
of a dream,” had very correct views on this sub¬ 
ject; and when he sets his pilgrims to “cracking 
nuts ” and “ telling riddles,” he puts the following 
in his own peculiar style of verse: 
“ There was a man though some did count him mad. 
The more he gave away the more he had.” 
The benevolent man would find no difficulty in 
finding out the solution of this riddle, his own ex¬ 
perience has already furnished an answer; he 
knows that for every act of his in whieh he has 
cast his bread upon the waters, he has received a 
rich reward, and if not in like kind, which is often 
the case, it has been in the true enjoyment of doing 
good and making others happy, more than tenfold. 
Works of benevolence always pay good interest, 
and happy is he who makes such investment 
FLOWERS ON THE GRAVE. 
The early custom of decorating the grave with 
flowers prevailed among the Greeks and Romans. 
The epitaph of the greatest Grecian poet, the cel¬ 
ebrated Sophocles, written by Simonides, proves 
that such a custom of honoring the illustrious 
dead then existed: 
“ Wind gentle evergreen to form a shade 
Around the tomb where Sophocles is laid. 
Sweet ivy, wind thy boughs and intertwine 
With blushing roses and the clustering vine; 
So shall thy lasting leaves, with beauty hung, 
Prove a fit emblem of the days he sung.” 
This custom, still observed in England, Wales, 
and Germany, as well as some parts of the United 
StateB, is fraught with the moBt delightful associa¬ 
tions, and induces an elevation of sentiment and a 
poetry of feeling equally calculated to mollify our 
grief, and to invest the sepulchre with the kindling 
emotions of hope and immortality. 
“ On the earth the thorns and roses are bleeding, 
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.” 
A Noble Life. —Exertion is the price of a noble 
life. The pursuit of a noble object adorns, and 
ennobles, and vivifies life. Without definite aim, 
life is like a rudderless ship, drifting about between 
life and death, buffeted by the winds of circum¬ 
stance, and entirely at the mercy of the waves. 
While one with folded arms waits for future oppor¬ 
tunities, another makes the meanest occurrences 
subservient to a golden result One labors to find 
something to do; the other labors to do something. 
When the Alps intercepted his line of march, Na¬ 
poleon said, “There Bhall be no Alps.” When 
difficulties from poverty, and difficulties from the 
opposition of friends beset him, Franklin resolutely 
determined there should be no difficulties. Great¬ 
ness has in its vocabulary no such word as fail. 
It will work; it must succeed. Happy is he who 
at the sunset of life can recall the years that have 
gone swift-footed by, without bringing before him 
a fearful array of squandered opportunities. 
Liting To Morrow.— Nobody is ready to live 
now; he will begin at some future time. He would 
think it hard to have life suspended. Yet, practi¬ 
cally, he does this. So, one over-works, another 
over-indulges appetite, knowing that such sins are 
incompatible with true life; and a third shuts him¬ 
self up with his books from air, exercise, and so¬ 
cial recreation; all of them resolving to atone for 
these abuses by future obedience to physiological 
laws. Alas! no atonement can be made in the fu¬ 
ture for present sins. Judgment only will follow. 
He that does not live now will never li ye.—Ltfe 
Illustrated. 
To those scenes of domestic peace, peace which 
pure religion created and adorned, the thoughts of 
the youngest members of the family will cling in 
after years; they will become a kind of hallowed 
ground in memory; they will exert a restraining 
and sanctifying power; and thus may we expect 
to see the promise fulfilled. 
Life appears too short to be spent in nursing 
animosities, or registering wrongs. 
