104 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL. LITERARY AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
yafo’ iijri-Jfolm. 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE. 
TWO LITTLE STARS. 
Two little stars, at eventide, 
Rose in the azure, side by side, 
And ’mid the glittering orb3 on high, 
Floated serenely through the sky. 
They sparkled with a trembling ray, 
But rovingly pursued their way, 
Though othe:-s blazed more brilliant far than they ! 
The night stole on—but with it came > 
A sweeping storm, in mist and flame, 
Which hung with gloom the starry dome, 
And lashed the billows into foam, 
While like a phantom, stern and stark, 
Stretching its thin arms in the dark. 
Through the wild chaos tossed my trembling bark ! 
The night wore on—the angry blast 
Had spent its fury, and was past, 
And gentle zephyrs wooed to rest 
The troublod ocean’s heaving breast, 
When, far above, amid the blue, 
As one by one the clouds withdrew, 
Those little loving stars came beaming through 1 
And on they went, with rising force, 
Up to the zenith of their course, 
Till in the Orient’s rosy light 
Melted tho shadows of the night ; 
And then, with unditninished ray, 
Still side by side, they stole away, 
Lost in the glory of the coming day 1 
Thus, dearest, onward, side by side, 
Through youth, the spirit’s eventide, 
Up to the night of Life have we 
Humbly fulfilled our destiny ; 
And though around the rich and great 
Are glittering in far loftier state, 
Contentedly we share our lowlier fate ! 
And thus, though storms may come and go, 
Shrouding with gloom the world below, 
Above the tumult, as we rise, 
In calm communion with the skies, 
Still be it ours, serenely bright. 
To bless the darkness of the night, 
Cheering tho tempest-toss’d with heavenly light 1 
And when, at length, each end attained, 
Tho zenith of our course is gained— 
As side by side thoso stars withdrew, 
Still riding in the brightening blue, 
Still beaming with unbroken ray— 
As gently may we glide away, 
In the eflulgence of immortal day ! 
[Putnam’s Magazim. 
her province to deal, there, we say, is not a first 
rate girl. Where the opposite of this is true, 
there we may confidently look for good results 
—but, as “ the fashion ” goes, hardly any 
aspiring Miss will, of her own accord, even 
though she be conscious of the necessity, be¬ 
come a first rate girl. Therefore, parents and 
teachers! let it be a watchword in your disci¬ 
pline, and while you think of future genera¬ 
tions, remember that first rate girls are and 
always will be in demand. It is written on a 
prominent sign on the way of life, read it 
often, and remember — “First rate Girls 
Wanted ” c. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
FIRST RATE GIRLS WANTED! 
There was a pasteboard sign, lettered with 
ink, which hung in a door-way in one of our 
principal thoroughfares, and as the card swayed 
to and fro, seeming anxious to attract atten¬ 
tion, the eye was arrested for a moment by its 
large capitals and superfluous exclamation 
marks. The crowd passed as hurriedly by, 
however, as if the sign were not there—no one 
seemed to know or care whether or not “ first 
rate girls ” were wanted in any place, especi¬ 
ally there. 
But the sign said, as plainly and loudly as 
sign could say, that they were wanted there, 
and it struck our mind rather forcibly, that 
they were wanted elsewhere, too ; and no 
matter what they were wanted for at the store, 
whether to fold books, set type, or work em¬ 
broidery, they were in earnest demand. May 
be the store-people found their requisite—may 
be n ot—but we thought they were in quest of 
something rather hard to find now-a-days — 
first rate girls—not for store-people alone, but 
for most everybody. 
Now, we don’t wish to be considered too 
critical, nor as possessed of a desire to appear 
sharp by denouncing the follies of the age, as 
the manner of some is, when we say that first 
rate girls are comparatively few and far be¬ 
tween. Neither are we Diogenes, junior, who 
goes about with a lantern in search of-a 
woman,— but we are a plain, every day, sort 
of individual, who thinks, nay is positive, 
that the ways of this age are opposed to those' 
means which tend to the common sense ad¬ 
vancement of the female mind. True, there 
are seminaries and colleges, from which there 
might flash, through the medium of female 
intelligence, rays whose concentrated brilliancy 
would pierce the darkest shades of ignorance, 
and would illumine the path and hasten the 
approach of the “good time coming.” But 
what shall we say of those whose modern- 
styled “ finished ” education gives them no 
insight of the beauties of literature, the magic 
of art, and the power of science ; whose minds, 
so far are they from being trained, elevated, 
beautified, expanded, by the aspiring and ac¬ 
tive genius of study, can recollect their school 
days as periods of only mere mental drudgery 
—whose compositions are plagiarisms, whose 
“ French ” is nominal, to whom mathematics 
are “ horrid,” but whose idea of a “ splendid 
silk,” or a “ love of a bonnet,” eclipses all else, 
save and except the aim to be the first of the 
fashion, the ton of the town, and to live a but¬ 
terfly life with a home-made Apollo, or a 
foreign “ Moustache ?” 
We say of them, that they are not the ones 
to superintend the training and education of 
the future guardians of a nation’s welfare. 
This is true even of those who cannot be said 
to possess all these follies ; wherever there is 
a female whose sole aim in her education is 
not that of advancing herself in whatever will 
gird her with energy for the great life-battle, 
who has no desire to reach a high standard in 
the moral and intellectual scale, nor to fit her¬ 
self to give instruction, encouragement and 
good example to those with whom it may be 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MUSIC, WRITTEN AND UNWRITTEN. 
Music, in some form, is every man’s solace. 
No one i3 entirely devoid of the capacity to feel 
and enjoy sounds either of written or unwrit¬ 
ten melody. While some possess not the 
slightest faculty for distinguishing notes of the 
written scale, they are found pleased with some 
tone of favorite domestic animals, and enjoy 
the song of bird or insect in the same degree 
that the lover of the violin or the piano forte, 
enjoys his favorite written air. 
Many are unconscious of the pleasure de¬ 
rived from cultivated music, and feel a sense of 
dislike to songs in foreign language, while a 
home melody may afford them the richest en¬ 
joyment. These persons depend on the senti¬ 
ment the language conveys to the feelings 
more than on music's real voice, which re¬ 
requires a highly developed sense of sound to 
enjoy. No one escapes the music of nature, 
ever falling on the ear in wandering winds or 
murmuring brooks, or in cadences of the pond, 
or the grassy field. 
Who has not listened with pleasure to the 
waterfall, and the flying of the busy wheel, 
where mingled sounds of industry awake in 
the heart of labor's child a sense of harmony 
that owns the power of unwritten music on 
his soul ? Who has not felt the mute lan¬ 
guage of the tiny flower ? whose music is all 
unwritten, and the sense it awakes in the full 
heart unexpressed. 
Who is dead to the sense of harmony?— 
Who can say he has no perception of its prin¬ 
ciples, when he enters the family circle and finds 
it absent ? The cold look from one we love 
to please, the averted smile, or the unkind act 
from a sister or a brother; or unjust severity 
from the father or the mother, who should ever 
watch, lest the music of love be wanting; 
these are the expressions of discord that makes 
the heart feel an absence of unwritten music, 
and none are insensible to its power. 
Canandaigua, Feb., 1855. ELIZA. 
MARRIED YESTERDAY.” 
Every day in our journal that with the 
first gleam of the sun is flung -within our 
portals, we read the little sentence—“ Married 
yesterday ” so and so. Every day there is a 
wedding* feast in some of the mansions of the 
earth; a clasping of hands and union of hearts 
in the dim aisles of some holy temple ; a pledg¬ 
ing of eternal love and constancy during all 
the hours that are yet to come down, like 
spring flowers, upon life’s pathway. Each 
day some new marriage crown is put on, and 
she who wears it, leaning upon him whose is 
the brightest jewel set amidst its leaves, steals 
away from the “ dear old home,” and nestles 
trembingly in the fairy cot where love’s hand 
has “ rained the honey-suckle over the latticed 
porch,” and placed JEoliau lyres in all the 
casements. 
“ MARRIED YESTERDAY.” 
There are pearls and gold shining now amid 
the flowers that fringe love’s pathway; and 
stars gleaming like a chandelier in the firma- 
ment of hope. There are harps tinkling now 
whose melodies is sweeter than the sound of 
evening bells, and joy falling like a shower of 
amethysts upon the hearts that yesterday were 
wed. Life has now become beautiful. The 
soul soars upward from the dust, like a dove 
loosed away from its cage. There is melody in 
every place; yea, there are angels in every 
path that wreath crowns for those who are 
pressing onward with song and prayer. 
“ MARRIED YESTERDAY.” 
It seems now a long distance to the grave 
—a long road to the final rest. But soon the 
shadows will come, and life loses its summer 
bloom. Then, as the patter of tiny feet is 
heard about the grand-father’s knee, they who 
were “ married yesterday,” mayhap will turn 
back to the records of the past, weeping silent¬ 
ly the while, remembering that their summer 
is gone, their harvest ended, and that soon, 
gathering up their sheaves, they must pass be¬ 
yond the gates of pearl, where will be but one 
marriage — that of the Lamb wfith his chosen 
people.— Newark Daily Mercury. 
A Golden Thought.— “ Nature will be re¬ 
ported. All things are engaged in writing 
their history. The planet, the pebble, goes 
attended by its shadow. The rolling rock 
leaves its scratches on the mountains ; the riv¬ 
er, its channels in the soil; the animal, its 
bones in the stratum ; the fern and leaf, their 
modest epitaph in the coal. The falling drop 
makes its sepulchre in the sand or stone ; not 
a fcot steps into snow or along the ground, but 
prints in characters more or less lasting a map 
of its march ; every act of man inscribes itself 
on the memories of its fellows, and in his own 
face. The air is full of sound—the sky, of to¬ 
kens ; the ground is all memoranda signatures, 
and every object is covered with hints which 
speak to the intelligent.” 
The choicest pleasures of life lie within the 
range of moderation. 
“I’M GOING HOME.” 
Such was the reply of a bright-eyed young 
girl to a chance acquaintance, as she was en¬ 
tering the cars. The thought seemed to light 
up the lovely face with the sunbeams of addi¬ 
tional loveliness, as she uttered the words. 
“ I’m going home,” to cheer my father amid 
the perplexities of business; to support my 
mother in the down hill journey of life ; to 
rescue by loving advice, a brother from the 
devious paths of vice ; to point to my young 
sister the bright path of virtue and usefulness, 
and to lead the way myself by my example. 
What a noble thought! What a glorious 
destiny! 
“ I’m going home 1 ” what a delightful vis¬ 
ion to contemplate! Within that hallowed 
circle there are joys w r hich the world’s frivol- 
ty cannot create—there are blessings to be 
found nowhere else this side the great home 
of Heaven ! How bright the scene that rose 
to her imagination ! Smiles, appearing the 
more lovely because the faces that beamed 
with them were furrowed with wrinkles— 
smile3, not the less touching, for shining 
through the dewy moisture of the eye—wel¬ 
come, that came from the treasure-house of the 
heart, uew coined from the old, long-tried gold 
of purified affection. Was not the anticipa¬ 
tion worthy the gladness that fluttered around 
that dimpled mouth, and bathed itself in the 
pure crystal of those eyes ? 
“ I’m going home !” Alas ! all cannot ut¬ 
ter it—that cheering thought. To some, home 
is but the furnace-house of trial and affliction ; 
an escape from it even for a moment; the 
green oasis in the burning desert of life.— 
“ Going home” to such, is a return to prison, 
chains, torture, and a life-long death. Cour¬ 
age, brave heart 1 The furnace purifies while 
it tries ; the torture strengthens while it racks; 
the prison has blessings amid its gloom. Duty 
stands graven in living characters on every 
dismal wall, on every shackle, on every instru¬ 
ment of torture. Work on, then, brave heart! 
The home may yet be made a paradise by 
your efforts. 
“ I’m going home!” There are some who 
can never utter the exclamation. There are 
those, young and tender, and beautiful too, to 
whom the word is unknown. There is no 
paradise to them of centred joys, where love 
can meet them with its bliss, or the sacred 
pleasures of the family fill their affections.' 
Let such have the sympathy they need, all the 
assistance that the virtuous can give to sup 
port their steps and draw them away from vice. 
“ I’m going home!” It is sometimes the 
last words we hear from departing spirits. 
Earth, with all its family bliss, and all its ra¬ 
tional joys, is not our home. The properly 
disciplined heart knows that earth is but a 
pilgrimage—a journey that must soon termi¬ 
nate. Such a heart rejoices that there is a 
permanent home, made happy by angel visits 
and the presence of the Infinite. It is, there¬ 
fore, with a smile on his cheek, lovelier than 
that of the returning maiden, and with a 
heavenly brightness of eye far outshining hers 
that he exclaims: “ I’m going home 1” 
LIFE — A SIMILE. 
Life is beautifully compared to a fountain 
fed by a thousand streams, that perish if one 
be dried. It is a silver cord twisted with a 
thousand strings, that part asunder if one be 
broken. Frail and thoughtless mortals are 
surrounded by innumerable dangers, which 
make it much more strange that they escape so 
long that they almost all perish suddenly at 
last. We are encompassed with accidents 
every day, to crush the mouldering tenements 
which we inhabit. The seeds of disease are 
planted in our constitutions by nature. The 
earth and atmosphere whence we draw the 
breath of life, are impregnated with death; 
health is made to operate its own destruction. 
The food that nourishes contains the elements 
of decay ; the soul that animates it by vivify¬ 
ing first, tends to w r ear it out by its own 
action; death lurks in ambush along the paths. 
Notwithstanding this is the truth, so palpably 
confirmed by the daily examples before our 
eyes, how r little do we lay it at heart 1 We 
see our friends and neighbors among us die, 
but how seldom does it occur to our thoughts 
that our knell shall perhaps give the next 
fruitless warning to the world! 
THE QUEEN’S MOTHER, 
The Duchess of Kent, Queen Victoria’s 
mother, being left a widow w’hen her daughter 
was eight months old, devoted herself to the 
great purpose of training her to be worthy of 
the crown. She nursed her infant at her own 
bosom — always attending to its bathing and 
dressing; and as soon as the little girl could 
sit alone, she was placed at a small table be¬ 
side her mother's at her meals, yet never in¬ 
dulged in any except the prescribed simple 
kinds of food ; thus early being taught obedi¬ 
ence, temperance and selficontrol. Her father 
having died in debt, her mother encouraged 
her to lay aside money which might have been 
expended in the purchase of toys, as a fund to 
pay the demands against him, thus cultivating 
the virtues of justice, fortitude, fidelity, pru¬ 
dence, and filial devotion. Thus, through the 
whole period of her education, the counsels and 
example of her faithful mother, w r ho was her 
sole guardian, were constantly directed towards 
fitting her daughter to become what she is, 
the best sovereign, morally speaking, that ever 
sat on the throne of England — perhaps the 
best in the world. 
The w’orld is empty w’hen one thinks only of 
Mountains, Rivers, and States therein contain¬ 
ed ; but here and there to know some one with 
w’hom we are in harmony, with whom even we 
can live on quietly, that makes of this round 
earth an inhabited garden.— Southey. 
It has been beautifully said, that “ the veil 
which covers the face of futurity is woven by 
the hand of mercy.” Seek not to raise that 
veil, therefore, for sadness might be seen to 
shade the brow that fancy had arrayed in smiles 
of gladness. 
EVENING MU SINGS. 
BY A RUSTIC. 
THE WINTER OF THE HEART. 
“If 1 put this ball through now, I shall 
have to do so again. I never put it through 
once, without having to put it through again.” 
It was just in the evening. We were through 
tea, and I had sat down—my books and paper 
on the stand beside me—and was giving myself 
up to that pleasant, dreamy state which some¬ 
times comes over one, as twilight gradually 
settles into darkness. 
My wife brought out a skein of stocking 
yarn, and sat down before me. It was evident 
it was to be wound,—and I knew she wanted 
me to hold the skein for her. Men should al¬ 
ways be gallant to their wives. It is a won¬ 
derful lubricator (I dislike the word, but can¬ 
not think of a better) of the matrimonial ma¬ 
chinery, that some kind attention which man 
is so lavish of when courting, and the want of 
it on both sides causes many a jar, it throws 
the machine, (I think the simile not a bad one,) 
out of gear. 
I held out my arms, then, without a word, 
and the skein was placed upon them, and my 
wife, looking a sweet thank you, commenced 
her ball. But, somehow, the yarn was tan¬ 
gled and did not come off well. This, thought 
I, is very much like life. For, after all, what 
is life but a tangled skein, that Time is con¬ 
stantly winding into a ball. I am not quite 
certain about that last idea being original. I 
think I have somewhere read about the “ tan¬ 
gled web of life,” and that would easily suggest 
skein. Still I think it not a bad thought.— 
Time is winding the skein of life into a ball, 
and when it is all wound out he does not knit 
it up, as my wife is now doing the ball she 
wound up a few minutes agone. 
The snarl tried her patience. A philoso¬ 
phizing bachelor once picked out a wife from a 
bevy of pretty girls, (all girls are pretty) by 
giving them a tangled skein of silk to wind. I 
make the suggestion for the benefit of my young- 
lady friends, for many a fine fellow’s heart and 
hand is lost by things of as small seeming im¬ 
portance as the unraveling of a tangled skein 
of silk. 
The yarn was obstinate, and wife tried vari¬ 
ous ways to disentangle it, but to no purpose ; 
there seemed but one way. “ I don't like to 
do it,” quoth she, “ for if 1 put the ball through 
once I shall certainly have to do so again,” 
which was true, for ever and anon she came to 
the snarl, and had to put the ball through again 
and again, until the whole was wound up and 
the snarl unraveled. 
I low like the world, thought 1 — how very 
like human life. And how much there is to 
moralize upon even in a skein of stocking 
yarn. So my mind went out into memory's 
chamber, looking after those of my kind with 
whom I have associated over life’s rough road. 
There were few who had not found a snarl. 
Some had many of them in their skein, and it 
was curious to see how they had managed to 
get along with them. Thus, there was pretty 
Nelly Bly, the belle of our village, the pride 
of our school. The first snarl in her skein, 
was when Joe Summers and Bill Weston 
were suitors for her hand. She liked them 
both, and as they were both fine fellows,—the 
one rich and the other good looking,—she did 
not like to give them pain. And if I did not 
know that women are incapable of such things, 
I might record the fact that evil-disposed per¬ 
sons said she liked to show the other girls her 
power. Instead, therefore, of unraveling the 
snarl by selecting one and discharging the 
other, she put the ball through by encouraging 
both. She discovered the mistake when too 
late, for each abandoned her as a heartless co¬ 
quette, and the snarl is yet unraveled. 
Then there was Jim Mellon, a fine, dashy 
young fellow with good talents, and as promis¬ 
ing a future as ever opened to youth. Jim’s 
snarl was being in the company of those whose 
morality was doubtful, and whose temperance 
notions were not of the cold water kind. J im 
took an occasional drink, and thus put the ball 
through,—and then he put it through oftener, 
until he is now a miserable sot. 
So others, when the disappointments and 
troubles of life have come upon them, have 
sought every way to unravel the snarl of their 
destiny, but failing, have manfully and trust¬ 
ingly put the ball through and through, until 
at length, by patience and perseverance, they 
have overcome all obstacles, and found their 
thread running smoothly on to the ball. Oth¬ 
ers, again, lacking both patience and persever¬ 
ance, have broken the thread of their destiny, 
and ever after wandered through life without 
aim or usefulness. It is not well that we should 
go so smoothly along life’s thread, as to have 
no tanglement in our skein ; for 
“Sweot are the uses of adversity, 
Which like the toad, ugly and venomous, 
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head,” 
I am better for thinking of these things, and 
love to 
“Findtongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.” 
Envy is a sin that commonly carries its own 
discovery and punishment. 
Let it never come upon you. Live so that 
good angels may protect you from this terri¬ 
ble evil—the winter of the heart. Let no 
chilling influence freeze up the fountains of 
sympathy and happiness in its depths; no cold 
burthen settle over its withered hopes, like 
snow on the faded flowers, no rude blasts of 
discontent moan and shriek through its desola¬ 
ted chambers. 
Your life-path may lead you through trials, 
which for a time seemed utterly to impede 
your progress, and • shut out the very light of 
heaven from your anxious gaze. Penury may 
take the place of ease and plenty ; your luxu¬ 
rious room may be exchanged tor an humble 
one — the soft couch for a straw pallet— 
the rich viands for the coarse food of the poor. 
Summer friends may forsake you, and the un¬ 
pitying world pass you, with scarcely a look 
or word of compassion. 
You may be forced to toil wearily, steadily 
on to earn a livelihood; you may encounter 
fraud and the base avarice that would extort 
the last farthing, till you well nigh turn in dis¬ 
gust from your fellow-beings. Death may 
sever the dear ties that bind you to earth and 
leave you in tearful darkness. That noble, 
manly boy, the sole hope of your declining 
years, may be taken from you w-hile your spir¬ 
it clings to him with a wild tenacity, which 
even the shadow of the tomb cannot wholly 
subdue. 
But amid all these sorrows, do not come to 
the conclusion that nobody w r as ever so deeply 
afflicted as you are, and abandon every antici¬ 
pation of “ better days ” in the unknown fu¬ 
ture. Do not lose your faith in human excel¬ 
lence, because your confidence has sometimes 
been betrayed, nor believe that friendship is 
only a delusion, and love a bright phantom 
which glides away from your grasp. 
Do not think you are fated to be miserable 
because you are disappointed in your expecta¬ 
tions, and baffled in your pursuits. Do not 
declare that God has forsaken you w r hen your 
way is hedged about with thorns, or repine 
sinfully when he calls your dear ones to the 
land beyond the grave. Keep a holy trust 
in heaven through every trial; bear adversity 
with fortitude, and look upward in hours of 
temptation and suffering. When your locks 
are white, your eyes dim, and your limbs wea¬ 
ry ; when your steps falter on the verge of 
death’s gloomy vale, still retain the freshness 
and buoyancy of spirit which will shield you 
from the winter of the heart. 
ROYAL CHARITY. 
Joseph II., Emperor of Germany, who died 
in the year 1790, was a most benevolent and 
munificent sovereign. Hardly a day passed 
without his doing some act of kindness and 
charity. On one occasion he was accosted in 
the street by a ragged little boy, who seemed 
to be in great distress. “ Give me twenty 
pence, sire, to get my mother a physician. She 
is dying, and we have no money. I never beg¬ 
ged before, but I cannot bear to lose my dear 
mother. Oh sire, pray give me twenty pence.” 
The Emperor gave the boy the money, and in¬ 
quired where his mother" lived. When the 
child was gone, he put on a cloak to conceal his 
dress, and went to the poor woman’s house as 
a physician. He felt her pulse, and wrote her 
a recipe, which he said would cure her. He 
then spoke kindly to her, and took his leave. 
Immediately after his departure, the real doc¬ 
tor arrived, accompanied by the little boy.— 
The poor woman, surprised at this second 
visit, said that she had already had a physician, 
who had prescribed for her, and left her a re¬ 
cipe. The doctor looked at the paper, and 
found to his surprise, that it was no prescrip¬ 
tion, but a note for a pension of fifty ducats, 
signed with the Emperor’s name. So quietly 
does real generosity and benevolence do its 
work. 
BLIND PEOPLE. 
Stanley, the organist, and many blind mu¬ 
sicians, have been the be3t performers of their 
time; and a schoolmistress in England could 
discover that two boys were playing in a dis¬ 
tant corner of the room instead of studying, al¬ 
though a person using his eyes could not de¬ 
tect the slightest sound. Professor Sander¬ 
son, who was blind, could, in a few moments, 
tell how many persons were in a mixed compa¬ 
ny, and of each sex. A blind French lady 
could dance in figure dances, sew, and thread 
her own needle. A blind man in Derbyshire, 
England, has actually been a surveyor and 
planner of roads, his ear guiding him as to 
distance as accurately as the eye to others ; 
and the late Justice Fielding, who was blind, 
on walking into a room for the first time, after 
speaking a few words, said, “This room is 
about twenty-two feet long, eighteen wide, and 
twelve high,” all of which was revealed to him 
with accuracy through the medium of his ear. 
Will’s, Wont’s, and Cant’s. —Somebody, 
more wise than his fellows, says there are three 
kinds of men in this world—the “ will’s,” the 
“ wont’s,” and the “ cant’s.” The former effect 
everything, the other oppose everything, and 
the latter fail in everything. I “ will” builds 
our railroads and steamboats ; I “ won’t” don’t 
believe in experiments and nonsense; while I 
“ can’t” grows weeds for wheat, and common¬ 
ly ends his days in the slow digestion of a court 
of bankruptcy. There is a profundity of phil¬ 
osophy in his words, which should profit the 
rising generation of workers. 
The best thing to give your enemy is for¬ 
giveness ; to your opponent, tolerance ; to a 
friend, your heart; to your child, a good ex¬ 
ample ; to a father, deference ; to your moth¬ 
er, conduct that will make her proud of her 
son; to yourself, respect; and to all men, 
charity. 
Our principles are the springs of our ac¬ 
tions, our actions the springs of our happiness 
and misery. Too much care, therefore, can¬ 
not be employed in forming our principles. 
. . 
