SONG OF THE MOTHERLESS. 
BY H2LE.Y BRUCE. 
Can she be sleeping with the silent dead, 
That cherished one ? 
Can the damp earth be now her only bed, 
Her life be done ? 
I cannot, cannot feel that she has gone 
To come no more — 
That she by the still waters stands upon 
The spirit shore. 
Mother, how couldst thou leave thy children thus, 
Sadly alone ? 
This earth, alas I hath no ‘-sweet home” for as 
Now thou art gone. 
Where shall we find another voiee' to bless 
As thine hath blessed ? 
And where another heart of love 'so true 
As that at rest? 
Tho’ we should seek them through the whole wide world. 
’Twould be in vain— 
A mother’s love, once lost, cannot be found 
On earth again. 
SHE IS DYING. 
The following is sublimely beautiful and 
pathetic, and could only have been dictated 
by a heart that has experienced all the bitter¬ 
ness that is therein expressed. Who the au¬ 
thor is, we know not, but suspect it is an ex¬ 
tract from some book. If any body can read 
it without moisture in the eyes and stones in 
the throat, they are worthy of marble. 
She is Dying. —Hush! she is dying! The 
sun-light streams through the plate-glass win¬ 
dows—the room is fragrant with the sweet 
breath of the Southern flowers—large milk- 
white African lilies—roses a nightingale wou’d 
stoop to worship ; Cape jassamine3, and came- 
lias with their large glossy leaves. 
Through the open casement steals the faint, 
musical tinkle of playing fountains; and the 
light, tempered pleasantly by rose curtains of 
embroidered satin, kindles up gorgeous old 
paintings with a halo bright as a rainbow.— 
It is as if fresher sunshine were falling earth¬ 
ward ©n the bower of beauty. 
The canary sings in his gilded cage—her 
canary ; and the mocking bird raises his clear 
notes higher and higher on the perfumed air. 
Why do you clench your hands until the 
nails draw the rich, rosy blood through the 
thin quivering skin ? Why do you grind your 
teeth together, and hiss between, that one 
word, hush ? It’s a beautiful home, I am sure, 
and that lady with her head upon her bosom, 
is fair as any dream-vision of the painter. 
Surely, nothing could be purer than that 
broad, high brow; nothing brighter than 
those golden curls. 
And she loves you, too 1 Ah ! yes, aDy one 
can read that, in the deep violet eyes, raised 
so tenderly to your own. Ah! that is it : 
your young wife love3 you. 
She linked to yours the existence of an an¬ 
gel, when she knelt beside you at the marriage 
altar and placed her hand in yours. 
For twelve long golden sunny months an 
angel has walked or sat by your side, or slept 
in your bosom. 
You know it! No mortal woman ever 
made your heart bow before a purity so di¬ 
vine ! 
No earthly embrace ever filled your soul 
with the glory beyond the stars ; no earthly 
smile ever shone so unchangingly above all 
noisome things as you earth-worms call care 
and trouble. She is an angel, and other an¬ 
gels have been sing'mg to her in the long days 
of this pleasant June time. 
“ Hush,” you say, but you can’t shut the 
anthem notes of heaven from those unsealed 
ears! Louder, lighter, swell the hymns of the 
seraphs; brighter grows the smile on your 
young wife’s lips. 
She whispers, “dearest, I’m almost home, 
and you will come by and by, and I am goirg 
to ask God to bless you! ” But you cannot 
hear it—you turn away, and the big tears 
gather in the violet eyes. 
You had held her there on your bosom all 
day—all night; are you tired? But you can’t 
answer, closer—closer you clasp the slight, 
fair figure; painfully you press your lips to 
the cold brow—Carrie is dead ! 
What is it to you that the sunshine is 
bright; what that its cheerful rays fall on the 
broad lands—our lands? What is it—now 
that she can walk on them no more ? And 
what is death—her death ? Few people knew 
her; no vice president must be chosen to fill 
her place; no nation will raise a monument 
to her memory ! But she wa3 yours ; great 
God of ours—your all! 
No, yours and God’s; and your year of 
joy is over, and she rests on His bosom now 
in heaven. 
They have dug a grave for her. Spring 
flowers brighten over it, and the green grass 
smiles with daisies and violets. You go 
there, and sigh and pray, and ask God if you 
too may come home! and when no answer 
comes, your proud heart rises up in bitterness, 
and with the bold, wicked words upon your 
tongue, you pause, for your guardian angel 
looks down from heaven, and whispers— 
“ Hush! ” 
A gem from an old book. —It has been 
eloqently and truly said that if Christianity 
were compelled to flee from the mansions of 
the great, the academies of philosophers, the 
halls of the legislators, or thetkrorgsof busy 
men, we should find her last retreat with wo¬ 
men at the fire side. Her last audience would 
be the children gathering round the knee of a 
mother ; the last sacrifice, the secret prayer, 
escaping in silence from her lips, and heard 
perhaps only at the throne of God. 
Those who wish to please in society must 
have a kind heart, a well informed mind, a 
graceful manner, and becoming attire. These 
are welcome everywhere. .. , 
A STORY FOR CHILDREN, 
There was a farmer who had a large field 
of corn ; he plowed it aud planted the corn, 
and harrowed aDd weeded it with great care, 
and on his field he depended for the chief sup¬ 
port of his family. But, after he had worked 
hard, he saw the corn begin to wither and 
droop for rain, ard he began to have fears for 
his crop. He felt very sad, and went, every 
day to look at his corn, and see if there wda 
any hope of rain. 
One day as he stood looking at the sky, and 
almost in despair, two little rain drops up in 
the clouds over his lard saw 7 him, and one said 
to the other: 
<• Look at that farmer; I feel sorry for him ; 
he had taken so much pains with his field of 
corn, aud now it is all drying up ; I wish I 
could do him some goed.” 
“ Yes,’’ said the other, “but you are only a 
little rai” drop, whafccan you do ? You can’t 
even wet one hillock.” 
“ Well,” said the first, “ to be sure I cau’t 
do much, but I can cheer the farmer a little at 
any rate, and I am resolved to do my best.— 
I’ll try. I’ll go to the field to show my good 
will if I can do no more; and so here I go. 
And down went the rain drop—one came pat 
on the farmer’s nose, and one fell on a stock of 
corn. “Dear me,” said the farmer, putting 
his finger to his nose, “ what's that ? A rain 
drop ! Where did that come from ? I do be¬ 
lieve we shall have a shower.” 
The first rain drop had no sooner started for 
the field, than the second one said : 
“ Well, if you are going, I believe I will go 
too; here I come.” And down dropped the 
rain drop on another stalk. 
By this time a great many rain drops had 
come together to hear what their companions 
were talking about, and when they saw them 
going to cheer the farmer and water the corn, 
one said—“ If you are going on such a good 
errand, I’ll go too,” and down he came.— 
“ And I,” said another, “ and I,” “ and I,” 
and so on till a whole shower came, and the 
corn was watered, and it grew and ripened, all 
because the first little rain drop determined to 
do what it could. 
Never be discouraged, children, because you 
can’t do much. Do what you can —angels can 
do no more. 
An American Lady to be Queen of Na¬ 
ples. —It is rumored that Louis Napoleon 
desires to put his cousin, Lucien Murat—a 
few years ago a planter in Florida—on the 
throne of Naples. Murat is a good natured 
person, but has neither energy nor wit enough 
to make a King in times like these. He has, 
however, one great advantage to back him 
which no King in Europe can brag of, for he 
has a Yankee wife—and she is not only a 
handsome woman still, but has intellect, ener¬ 
gy aud decision enough to keep her husband 
on the throne without the aid of a police.— 
What a novelty!—a genuine Yankee lady 
transferred into a regular Queen of Naples 
too ?—the loveliest spot in the world — not 
more famous for its Vesuvius and Pompeii 
than for its unrivalled maccaroni and soup.— 
This may lead, if she gets there, to the final 
settlement of this inextricable Italian prob¬ 
lem—for by making the late Mrs. Murat, late 
of Florida, and now a princess at Paris, 
Queen of Naples and Empress of Italy, we 
may see, at least, this beautiful land restored 
to content and harmony, for the republican 
party would be satisfied to see a Yankee in 
power, whilst the royalists would make no ob¬ 
jections as long as she was an Empress. 
Mechanic’s Wives. —Speaking of the mid¬ 
dle rank in life, a good writer observes : 
“ There we behold woman in her glory ; not 
a doll to carry silks or jewels ; not a puppet 
to be flattered by a profane adoration — rev¬ 
erenced to-cay, discarded to morrow—always 
jostled out of the rlec. which nature has as¬ 
signed her, by sens ja.iy or by contempt—ad¬ 
mired but rot res;: c? so — desired but not es¬ 
teemed—ruled by . a": ion, not affection—im¬ 
parting her weakness, not her constancy; 
we see her a wife, partaking the care and 
cheering the anxiety of a husband, dividing 
t-is toils, aud spreading cheer around her ; for 
his sake, sharing the decent refinements of the 
world without being vain of them, placing all 
her joys and happiness in the man she loves. 
As a mother, we find her an affectionate and 
ardent instructor of her children, whom she 
tended from their infancy, training them to 
thought and benevolence,'addressing them as 
rational beings, preparing them to become 
men and women in their turn.” 
Common-Place Women. —Heaven knows 
how many simple letters, from simple-minded 
women, have been kissed, cherished, and wept 
over by men of far loftier intellect. So it will 
always be to the end of time. It is a lesson 
worth learning, by those young creatures, 
who seek to allure by their accomplishments, 
cr dazzle by their genius, that though he may 
admire, no man ever loves a woman for these 
things. He loves her for what is essentially 
distinct from, though not incompatible with 
them—her woman’s heart. This is why we 
so often see a man of high genius or intellec¬ 
tual power, pass by the De Staels and Co- 
rinnes, to take into his bosom some wayside 
flower, who has nothing on earth to make her 
worthy of him, except that she is—what so 
few of your “ female celebrities” are—a true 
woman. 
Those who deem beauty valueless, and 
pcetry and refinement as superfluous ingre¬ 
dients of everyday life, can be but dull obser¬ 
vers. The trqe happiness of man depends up¬ 
on the degree in which he succeeds in prompt¬ 
ing that of others ; and delicacy is as necessa¬ 
ry to such end as either strength or persever¬ 
ance. Refinement becomes a woman, and re¬ 
finement grows upon either sex in a great de¬ 
gree as taste and beauty prevail in the ar¬ 
rangement of their surrounding; hence he 
who rails at it little thinks how sure a prop 
he seeks to knock from under his own lmppi- 
des3.— Worcester Transcript. 
NOTHING LOST. 
Asidk from its excellent moral, is not the following 
very musical and beautiful ? 
Nothing is lost— 4 he drop of dow 
Which trembles on the leaf or flower, 
Is but rxba'ed to fall anew 
In summer’s thunder shower ; 
Per; banco to sparkle in the flow 
Of fountains far away. 
Nothing is lost—the tiniest seed 
By wild birds homo or breeze3 flown, 
Finds something suited te its need, 
Wliere.n ’tis sown and grown. 
The language of some household song, 
The perfume of some cherished flower, 
Though gone from outward sense, belong 
To Memory’s after-hour. 
So with our words : or harsh or kind, 
Uttered, they are not all forgot; 
They have their influence on the mind, 
Pass on—but perish not. 
So with our deeds : for good or ill, 
They have their power scarce understood ; 
Then let us use our better will, 
To make them rife with good 1 
Written for Moore’s Rural New Yorker. 
POETRY—WRITTEN AND UNWRITTEN. 
WnKN a man, after much mental toil, is at 
length permitted, in some favored moment, to 
enter Nature’s Storehouse of truth, his first 
impulse is to grasp as many as possible to 
bring among his fellow men. The discovery 
of new and important truths, which will at 
times come flooding upon the mind is a high 
intellectual stimulus, which gives nerve and 
vigor to every faculty of the mind. The lan¬ 
guage used under such circumstances is not 
the ordinary language of men. Ideas are dis¬ 
played in vivid and glowing colors, and truths 
come forth clothed in rich vesture and invest¬ 
ed in the gorgeous imagery of an excited im¬ 
agination. This is true poetry. It is the 
natural utterance' of the man’s thoughts while 
he is, for a time, abstracted from the cares of 
every-day life, and absorbed in thought and 
fancy—the realms of known and unknown 
truths. There i3 in genuine poetry nothing 
constrained cr artificial. Its warm, glowirg 
terms are those mo3t natural to the mind in 
these moments of inspiration. 
But sometimes the man grasps a truth 
which is too large for him, and he is not able 
properly to bring it forth. He is like one 
who was conducted through the celestial 
regions and gathered of the celestial flowers. 
He would have brought them to his friends, 
but wes so intoxicated by the perfume, that 
they fell from his hands. So thoughts some¬ 
times occur to men, which the tongue cannot 
fully utter. But truth will not be wholly 
confined, and if the man has not in his vocabu¬ 
lary the word3 wherewith to clothe that truth, 
it will eat at his heart and form therefrom a 
coverirg. It will strive until he is compelled 
to speak—a lispiDg, stammering utterance, it 
may be. and perhaps more from the eye than 
:he mouth—but the man is freed, and the 
truth committed to his charge has gone on its 
mission. There is a fitness even in this 
roughness of expression when it is the garb 
of great ideas because we desire to see con¬ 
formity. 
There are two forms of beauty—one of 
?race and symmetry, the other of majesty and 
grandeur. It is well that some thoughts 
should be endued with all the grace and pol¬ 
ish which can be given by beautiful language, 
vhen beautifully expressed. But it is also 
equally appropriate that other great thoughts 
mall be divested of all ornament and stacd 
oit in all the force of a majestic simplicity. 
r lhe beauty of words is then of no account. — 
do aim too much at polish or symmetry were 
aviolation of good taste, and nature is so 
wise, she has rendered this impossible. There 
ae some ideas which a man can never more 
than half express. He can never fully clothe 
tiem in words. lie will exhaust his vocabu- 
hry, and then come forth, if at all, half naked, 
lat this is none the less true poetry, if not to 
tie world, at least to the poet. That is true 
p-etry everywhere when the heart is reaching 
u) to the tongue to give expression to un- 
kiown forms of beauty and truth. That is 
trie poetry where the man pours out beauti- 
fu thoughts in gorgeous and vivid language ; 
tbit is the best poetry, however, which the 
tr.e poet sometimes feels, but to which he can- 
nc give utterance. W. J. Fowler. 
lenrietta, N. Y., 1855. 
The Editor and the Premier. —Black, 
tb editor of the Morning Chronicle, was a 
gr at favorite with Lord Melbourne. On one 
ocasion the Peer said : “ Mr. Black, you are 
tb only pe son who comes to see me who for¬ 
ges who I am.” The editor opened his eyes 
wih astonishment. “ You forget that I am 
the Prime Minister ; everybody else takes es- 
peeal care to remember it, but I wish they 
woild fciget it, for they only remember it to 
asli me for places and favors. Now, Black, 
you never ask me for anything, and I wish 
youwould, for seriously I should be mest hap¬ 
py ;o do anything in my power to serve you.” 
“I mi truly obliged,” said Mr. Black, “ but 
I ddi’t want anything. I am editor of the 
Moning Chfonicle. I like my business, and 
I livi happily on my income.” “ Then,” said 
the Deer, with an oath, “ I envy you, and 
you’ie the only man I ever did.” 
Written for Moore’s Rural New Yorltor. 
REFINEMENT. 
“ Oh, I do wish some of this prim, sedate, 
ladyfied, starched-up, artificiality, could bo 
shaken out of our women!” 
Do you ever jest, Mr. Fowler ? If not, that 
is the most inconsistent thought that ever had 
origin in your “ well developed head.” Per¬ 
haps yen do not know that the acme of our 
ambition is to cultivate the very traits you 
would eradicate. “ Ladyfied, starched-up, ar¬ 
tificiality !” Surely, you would not have us 
devoid of these “citified” charms? Were 
they annihilated, we should forsake the elegant 
drawing room, doff the gossamer robes, and in 
more substantial ones, and, horror of horrors, 
sun-bonnet and thick shoes, yield to the temp¬ 
tation the romantic country scenery presents 
for a ramble. What a preposterous idea!— 
There would be hills to ascend, fences to climb, 
and brooks to leap ! And perchance the pure 
breeze might induce forgetfulness of our prim, 
walk-by-rule movements, and we should skip 
about without formality. Aud then what a 
vulgar glow the unwonted exercise would 
bring to our languid facs3. Bat, of yet more 
infinite importance, the refined Mr. Pretense 
“ from the city”, might call, aud Ma, who al- 
wavs will tell the truth, would say “ the girls 
are" out in the lots." Seriously, it would ruin 
our reputation as “ ladies.” No, it must not 
be. My sense of propriety forbids anything 
so very undignified and natural. 
« Oh, I do wish” we need not be bound by 
fashion,—“ for my heart leaps like a joyous 
bird” even at the thought of being “ free as 
the mountain air” to obey the impulses of Na¬ 
ture. Eola. 
Camillus, N. Y., 1S55. 
A YOUNG MAN’S CHARACTER. 
No young man who has a just sense cf his 
own value, will sport with his own character. 
A watchful regard to his character in early 
youth, will be of inconceivable value to him 
in all the remaining years of his life. .When 
tempted to deviate from strict propriety of 
deportment, he should ask himself, Can I af¬ 
ford this? Can I endure hereafter to look 
back upon this ? 
It is of amazing worth to a young man to 
have a pure mind ; for this is the foundation 
of a pure character. The mind, in order to 
be kept pure, must be employed in topics of 
thought which are themselves lovely, chasten¬ 
ed, and elevating. Thus the mind hath in its 
own power the selection of its themc3 of med¬ 
itation. If youth only knew how durable 
and how dismal is the injury produced by the 
indulgence of degraded thoughts ; if they only 
realized how frightful were the moral deprav¬ 
ities which a cherished habit of loose imagina¬ 
tion produces on the soul — they w r ould shun 
them as the bite of a serpent. The power of 
books to excite the imagination is a fearful 
element of moral death when employed in the 
service cf vice. 
The cultivation of an amiable, 
aud glowing heart, alive to all the beausR of 
nature and all the sublimities of truth, invig¬ 
orates the intellect, gives to the will independ¬ 
ence of baser passions, and to the affections 
that power of adhesion to whatever is pure, 
and good, and grand, which is adapted to lead 
out the whole nature of man into these scenes 
of action and impression by which its energies 
may be most appropriately employed, and by 
which its h : gh destination may be most effec¬ 
tually reached. 
The opportunities for exciting these facul¬ 
ties in benevolent and self-denying efforts for 
the welfare of our fellow-men, are so many and 
great that it really i3 worth while to live.— 
The heart which is truly evangelically benev¬ 
olent, may luxuriate in an age like this. The 
promises of God are inexpressibly rich, the 
main tendencies of things so manifestly in ac¬ 
cordance with them, the extent of moral influ¬ 
ence is so great, and the effects of its employ¬ 
ment so visible, that whoever aspires after 
benevolent action aEd reaches forth for things 
that remain for us, to the true dignity of his 
nature, can find free scope for his intellect, 
and all-inspiring theme3 for the heart. 
Heine. —Henry Heine, the German poet, 
has for many years past been struck with par¬ 
alysis. His limbs, his body, his features, even 
to his very eyelids, are lame, and to all pur¬ 
poses like those of a dead man. Indeed, it 
may be said that life only lingers on the brain 
and tongue—the man is a mere corpse—the 
poet alone survives. Ah exile from his coun¬ 
try for many years past, too, a captive to ill¬ 
ness in the backroom of a small apartment in 
the Faubourg Poissinier, at Paris, the poet— 
whose early flights of fancy created a new era 
in German lyrics, and one might almost say 
in German politics and religion—has still 
been active ; and if not his best, at least his 
most pungent books have issued from the liv¬ 
ing head attached to a dead body, which keeps 
its long vigils in the heart of the Babel of 
France.— New Quarterly Review. 
Merry old age —Cernaro was merry at 
ninety-five; Cato st.udi.ed Greek at eighty ; 
Charles Kemble did the same, or rather 
“ brushed up” his old Greek, when he was 
nearly as old as Cato ; Cibber, when still old¬ 
er, merrily replied to one who declared that 
he looked well, that “ at eighty-four, it was 
well that he looked at all; ” and there was 
the Countess of Desmond, who was perhaps 
the merriest of all—for she 
“ Dived to the age of a hundred and ton 
And died of a fall from a cherry-tree then.” 
Every vice and folly has a train of secret 
and necessary punishment. If we are lazy, 
we must expect to be poor ; if intemperate, 
to be diseased ; if luxurious, to die prema¬ 
turely. 
SELF-RELIANCE; OR, THE F- F. Y. 
[ Conclued from page 382, this number.] 
“ I cannot, sir—I cannot take the money.” 
“ Miss Carter— do induce him to relax.— 
Think not of me or of conditions. Only en¬ 
treat him to receive the money. Consider 
which is preferable, to have me for a creditor, 
who would never whisper the relation to an¬ 
other, who would never ask, or would be wil¬ 
ling to receive a single cent in return—or to 
be in debt to a dozen selfish men of the world 
who will persecute him to the extremity of 
the law—and then, it may be, reproach him 
as having acted unfairly in incurring debts 
greater than he can pay. Have some regard 
for me. Mr. Carter, you thought proper just 
now to commend me for liberality—let it be 
so, and do I not deserve some return ? — the 
dearest favor 1 ask is the acceptance of my 
offer. I beg you, sir, as a friend, to accept it 
—I declare that if you do not, I will on my 
own responsibility purchase at their full 
amount the claims outstanding against you, 
and the effect will be the same—except that 
the first plan would be the most pleasing to 
me, for I think it ought to be the least dis¬ 
tasteful to you.” 
Carter was moved. His countenance would 
have beeu a delightful study to that ancient 
painter who put a slave to torture in order 
that he might analyze the expressions which 
pain produces on human features. De Witt 
and he made a remarkable contrast. The 
New Yorker could feel deeply, but the fact 
had to be inferred from his words—not read 
on his countenance. The Virginian, on the 
other hand, suffered a dozen changes to be vis¬ 
ible, before he announced his determination. 
“ Herman De Witt,” he said, “ you have 
conquered. Your unparelleled generosity 
compels me to bs what till this instant I 
thought I never could be,— a recipient of 
charity.” 
“ Speak not so, sir,—if you could see my 
heart, you would not doubt that I am the per¬ 
son obliged.” 
“ It shames me,” said the stately old gen¬ 
tleman, “ that I never have appreciated your 
character before. But I will _ accept _ your 
generosity in the same free spirit in which it 
is proffered—to the condition I cheerfully as¬ 
sent.” 
After this declaration, a somewhat embar¬ 
rassing pause ensued. Air. Carter was like a 
man who had done, under the excitement of 
wine, cr the impulse of strong passion, some 
act which he i3 afterwards uncertain how to 
estimate. Herman was like a gladiator who 
has been victorious in one contest and is glad 
to have breathing time before commencing 
another. 
Mr. Carter arose, waved his hand slightly, 
and left the room, only saying as he did so:— 
“ Talk to Emily now—talk to Emily.” 
There were some minutes of silence, and 
the eyes of both were bent upon the carpet. 
At length Herman spoke : 
“ Miss Carter, indeed I had no intention to 
have said anything to you at this time upon 
a subject which for many years has lain near¬ 
est my heart—but your father's commands 
force me to be precipitate. You know, dear 
Mis 3 Emily, what it is I would say—you 
know, too, what my lot must be—can yon 
share it ?” 
“After your noble generosity, sir, what 
can I say ? How can I deny—” 
“ Dear Emily—permit me to call you so— 
do not, I pray you, think of aught that I have 
done—do not suffer it to weigh against your 
slightest inclination. Could you give me 
your hand as I stood the day you first saw me?” 
Emi'y could not help smiling, for she 
thought of hi3 appearance after the fire—his 
ragged sleeves, his tattered straw hat, and his 
bare-back steed. 
Her lover in the high strung state of his 
feelings did not understand the cause of her 
half-subdued merriment, and there was a little 
sternness in his tone as he continued : 
“ The most precious boon is valueless, if it 
be not freely given. Is there love or not, 
Miss Carter ?” ne turned his eye full upon 
Emily, as if to read her soul, and added :— 
“ Perhaps you prefer another— say but the 
word, aud I assure yon that Herman De Witt 
will never be an obstacle.” 
Emily Carter, with all her noble qualities, 
had a lrgh and proud spirit. Her fairy-like 
form seemed to dilate, and her eye sparkled as 
she replied:—" Mr. De Witt, is this catechism 
courteous—gentlemanly ?” 
Herman thought he perceived a peculiar 
emphasis on the last word, and old recollec¬ 
tions touched him- to the quick. His voice, 
however, resumed at the instant its ancient 
quiet asd unimpassioned tone : 
“ Miss Carter, from my heart I thank yQu 
for having saved me from the misery of ever 
having to know that I had received a bride 
who could not love me. The bitterness of 
my present pain is hard enough to bear—that 
would kill me. Farewell.” 
The young man walked deliberately to¬ 
wards the door ; before he reached it, the im¬ 
pulsive girl stood before him— 
“ Herman, you are used to giviug away 
fortunes—can you be generous enouga to ac¬ 
cept an uuworthy return ?” And she extend¬ 
ed her hand. 
Herman looked once more into her bright 
black eye, and found it beaming with an ad¬ 
miring, trustful affection that could not bs 
mistaken. 
It was time at last that he should return to 
hi 3 home—a home which was soon to I 033 its 
dreariness. • As hs took his leave he said with 
a smile : 
“ Hitherto, dearest Emily, I have worked 
for riches, now I must work for you—tell 
me, is it really so discreditable to be a Work- 
Not always those who have the keeuost per¬ 
ception of character are the best to deal with 
it, and perhaps for that very reason. Before 
we can influence or deal with mind, contem¬ 
plation must be lost in sympathy, observation 
must bo merged in love. 
