m 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER j AN AGRICULTURAL, LITERARY AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER, 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE. 
Vcr the Rural New-Yorker, 
the promised land. 
BY IDA FAIRFIELD. 
’Mid the toiling and -.he teavs, 
Waning hopes and growing fears, 
Of these weary, earth-born years, 
Dark and unblest, 
Turn we ever longing eyes, 
Where the land of promise lies, 
Watching, waiting for the prize— 
A home of rest. 
There is fullness, there is joy, 
Purest gold without alloy, 
Death can never more destroy 
In that bright land— 
Songs of gladness, songi of love. 
Swell those seraph choirs above 
Sorrow never more can move 
That happy hand. 
To the dark and leaden sky, 
Faith lifts up a starry eye, 
And behoidet'n, ever nigh, 
This land of light, 
Gleaming golden, through the gloom. 
Beauty in immortal bloom, 
Life triumphant o’er the tomb, 
And death’s dark night. 
Hope mounts up on eagle’s wings, 
Where the Throne a radiance flings, 
There, serenely, sits and sings 
Her song sublime. 
Love, all conquer: ing in its might, 
Rises from a gloomy night, 
Reigning, glorious, and bright 
Throughout all timf • 
Walton, N. Y., Nov., 1855. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE DESERTED HOUSE 
We pause under tbe aged poplars, where 
the sunbeams fall aslant upon the weedy gar¬ 
den walks, and not a sound from animated 
life disturbs our meditations. There’s a dis¬ 
tant murmuring of waters, and a tremulous 
whispering among the leaves over head,—all 
elBe is hushed. We sit down upon the turf, 
and lean our head against two twin poplars 
that have grown and thrived together many 
a long year, until the dry, sapless branches 
tell a story of natural decay. Somehow we 
never could look at them without thinking of 
an aged couple who had journeyed lovingly 
together ; and then, side by side and hand in 
hand, were standing over a common grave — 
We sit and lean cur head against their rough 
bark, and wander back, back into the pa3t. 
The lengthening shadows have already reach¬ 
ed the old house and are creeping up the mos¬ 
sy clap-boards, and one from the trees under 
which we are sitting, darkens the open door¬ 
way and is creeping along the empty passage. 
0, that old, deserted house! What a throng 
of memories people the air, and tread swiftly 
and noiselessly through the room, no longer 
empty, and bearing marks of decay, but hung 
around with farm-life utensils of convenience 
and industry. The wide hearth is no longer 
crumbled, but a blazing fire crackles on it, 
shedding a soft light over the sanded floors,— 
a light that lingers lovingly on the silvery 
head of an old man in the wide-arm chair, 
j We forget the decorum of maturer years, and 
bound, with a laugh, on that old man’s knee. 
Then in that long, dark room, we could never 
enter without a thrill of awe like that we felt 
when a sweet one was missing from the house 
hold band, and a maiden aunt, with a myste¬ 
rious shadow on her face, lifted us in her arms 
to look over the coffin lid at the sweet sleeper, 
so still and beautiful in her white robes,—and 
like that, when in that very room we came 
trembling in the dead hours of night to get 
our grandsire’s blessing, and close his eyes in 
a long, long sleep. ’Twas ever a room of 
shadows and ghostly Sittings in our younger 
days,—and even now, the old feeling sends a 
chill along our nerves at the echo of our own 
footfall. 
We sit' under the old poplars until the 
shadows darken into night, and panorama¬ 
like the past is flitting, flitting. A dream¬ 
like softness of love and tenderness thrills our 
bosom child-like as we look into the deep 
spiritual eyes of a fond mother, and rest our 
head upon her bosom ; then a wail of anguish 
sweeps our heart-strings, that settles into a 
chill of loneliness and desolation as we bend 
over a mother’s grave in the drear old church¬ 
yard. The world was never so bright after¬ 
wards. Then one by one the household ties 
lengthened, and its members wandered here 
and there like perturbed spirits, yet a silvery 
chain, a golden cord bound heart to heart un¬ 
til a sudden snap, that run along each quiver¬ 
ing nerve, told us that one and another of 
those ties were breaking, and a loved one laid 
to sleep in an early grave. 
Time has passed. The experience cf years 
has saddened us, marring much of the ideal 
beauty of this world of ours. We have jour¬ 
neyed in a circle and arrived again at the 
starting point. We have wandered again 
over each well remembered haunt, sacred to 
memory, conversed with its shadows and des¬ 
olations, listened to the moaning of the wind 
as it sported with the broken panes and loose 
clap-boards,—heard the owls hoot from the 
crumbling chimney-top, and thanked God that 
it was not given to the stranger to mar and 
destroy the hallowed associations clustering 
around it. 
This night the moon rises over a bank of 
mist that tops the eastern hi!Island looks 
with a solemn, earnest eye over the neglected 
grounds, and through the leafless tree-tops 
down upon the silent, deserted walls that once 
sheltered a happy group. The moonbeams 
svave and brighten and darken like the pas¬ 
sing emotions on a sun lit face ; she looks 
down upon me, and loving eyes seem to beck¬ 
on to me from underneath that silvery veil.— 
Is it a spirit voice that whispers to my soul 
stern words of duty and of faith ? I listen, 
and my soul is nurtured afresh for the life 
struggle. 
Thou paternal roof, and garden walks once 
trod by many little feet; thou aged trees, 
once more casting thy leaves to bow before 
the blasts of winter,—venerable trees! who 
have seen the rise, the glory and the fall of 
this tenantless habitation, and outlived the 
hand that planted thee, adieu! Other scenes 
demand the active energies of every working 
mind,—other hearths are to be kept blazing, 
—other circles to be formed, alike in turn to 
be broken,- -other habitations to be reared, 
which, like this, may shelter generations, and 
then alone, deserted, forsaken, crumble like 
those who reared it, back to mother earth. 
D. D. 
SOMEBODY TROD UPON IT- 
“ I guess somebody trod upon it when it 
was a little fellow.” 
So said a little child when asked if he could 
tell why a full grown, vigorous tree-, grew 
crooked. How painfully suggestive the re¬ 
ply, “ trodden upon when it was a little fel¬ 
low.” The dew and the sunshine lent their 
aid to beautify, the rain and the fruitful earth 
to strengthen, but it availed not; when it 
was a “ little fellow,” somebody trod upon it; 
its glossy, green stem grew curved, its juices 
turned into new channels, deormity claimed 
the young tree and bowed its princely head. 
We thought of the tall old man, bent, shriv¬ 
eled, and hoarding a button that he might 
coin it to gold, locking his head in iron, put¬ 
ting his very smiles out at interest. Once he 
was a generous, trusting boy; once benevo¬ 
lence was his crowning virtue. What shriv¬ 
eled its vitals into premature avarice ? Alas ! 
when it was a little fellow somebody trod 
upon it. The sweet little germ had hardly 
expanded its little leaves to the light of day 
before cold calculation lifted its leaden foot, 
and crushed it out of all beauty. The tree 
grew crooked until its deformity shamed the 
heavens—and the generous child became the 
man of adamant. 
A little girl with every winning grace of 
childhood looked from her stately home upon 
groups of happy children, and begged to join 
them. She saw them chase the butterfly'and 
bury their hands in the clover blossoms.* She 
saw their ringlets toss upon sunburnt shoul¬ 
ders, and shook sighingly her own eurls of 
satin gloss. She saw them stain their hands 
with berries, dance to the music of their own 
voices, hunt the sward for mosses, and she 
begged to put off her finery and go in a white 
frock that would leave her limbs free, that 
she might laugh and shout aud dance with 
them. But false pride and stern prejudice 
said no. Years after, a woman trod the halls 
of fashion. Crow’ds followed her, for she was 
beautiful, but hollow hearted, false and cruel 
as beautiful. It was she who in her child¬ 
hood longed to be a child. Pure as an angel, 
lovely in all her attributes, humility had then 
litted its pale blossom in her little heart, 
when “ somebody trod upon it,” and it grew 
neither straight, nor fresh, nor tall forever 
after. 
“ A Whole Family in Heaven !”—The 
following eloquent passage is from the pen of 
Rev. Albert Barnes, of Philadelphia : 
“ A whole family in heaven — who can de¬ 
scribe their everlasting joy? No one is ab¬ 
sent. Nor lather, nor mother, nor son, nor 
daughter, are away. In the world below 
they were united in faith, and love, and peace, 
and joy. In the morning of the resurrection 
they ascended together. Before the throne 
they bow together in united adoration. On 
the banks of the river of life they walked 
hand in hand, and as a family, they have com¬ 
menced a career of glory which shall be ever¬ 
lasting. There is hereafter to be no separa¬ 
tion in that family. No one is to lie down 
on a bed of pain. No one to wander away 
into temptation. No one to sink into the 
arms of death. Never in heaven is that fam¬ 
ily to move along in the slow procession, clad 
in the habiliments of wo, to consign one of its 
members to the tomb. God grant in his infi¬ 
nite mercy that every family may be thus 
united.” 
Beautiful and True.— In an article in a 
reeent number of Frazer’s Magazine, this 
brief but beautiful passage occurs : 
“Education does not commence with the 
alphabet. It begins with a mother’s look— 
with a father’s smile of approbation or a sign 
of reproof—with a sister’s gentle pressure of 
the hand, or a brother’s noble act of forbear¬ 
ance—with handsful of flowers in green and 
daisy meadow—with bird’s nests admired, but 
not touched — with creeping ants and almost 
imperceptible emmets—with humming bees 
and glass beehives—with pleasant walks and 
shady lanes, and with thoughts directed in 
sweet and kindly tones, and words to mature 
to acts of benevolence, to deeds of virtue, and 
to the source of all good, to God himself.” 
To enjoy to-day, stop worrying about to¬ 
morrow. 
Were it not for the tears that fill our eyes, 
what an ocean would flood our hearts ! 
NOTHING IS LOST. 
Nothing is lost ; the drop of dew 
Which trembles on the leaf or flower 
Is but exhaled to fall anew 
In summer’s thunder shower ; 
Borchauce to shine within the bow 
That fronts the sun at fall of day ; 
Perchance to sparkle in the flow 
Of fountains far away. 
Nothing is lost; the tiniest seed, 
By wild birds borne or breezes blown, 
Finds something suited to its need, 
Wherein ’tis sown or grown. 
The language of some household song, 
The perfume of somo 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 leave their influence on the mind, 
Pass on, hut perish not ? 
So with our deeds ; for good or ill 
They have their power scarce understood ; 
Then let us use our hotter will 
To make them rife wi h good ! 
TIME. 
I came in the morning—it was Spring, 
And I smiled; 
I walked out at noon—it was Summer, 
And I was glad ; • 
I sat down at even—it was Autumn, 
And I was sad ; 
I lay down at night—it was Winter 
And I slept. 
HARDSHIPS OF OUR LOT- 
IIow frequently do we hear men complain 
of the hardship of their lot, and lament that 
they were not born to a more fortunate posi¬ 
tion, or have not been as successful in business 
as some others whose circumstances they en¬ 
vy. We are all too apt to mark the dark 
features in our own destiny, and, setting them 
in opposition to bright ones of our neighbor’s, 
arraign Providence, and murmur our com¬ 
plaints against the unequal allotment. We 
set up our low. pecuniary position against our 
neighbor’s lofty one, but forget, at the same 
time, to throw into the balances our own and 
our family’s florid health against his feebleness 
and disease; we observe with sickness of 
heart the honors heaped upon him, while we 
plod on in a humble and obscure pathway, 
but we leave out of sight the hollow-hearted 
mockery of too many of those honors, which 
will be torn from his brow by the very hands 
that placed them there, ju-t when their pos¬ 
session begins to be necessary to his happi¬ 
ness. We see another’s children decked out 
in finery and riding in a carriage, while ours 
are dressed in humble garb and, go on foot; 
and we mourn in love of our own dear off¬ 
spring, that they too cannot be in like man¬ 
ner gratified ; but we overlook the fact that 
perhaps the former is a broken band, and that 
death is even now waiting for others, while 
ours are spared to us by that very Providence, 
for whose mercies we are so ungrateful. 
We have in our mind a really excellent 
friend and one usually reasonable in the affairs 
of life, but who occasionally looks upon the 
dark side of his own fortune and laments over 
imaginary hardships. He is not blessed with 
weaith it is true, but he has a home replete 
with internal comfort, a kind and gentle wife, 
ar.d three young buds of promise springing 
up around his hearthstone. He asserts with 
all sincerity that a babe in a house is a well 
spring of pleasure, but he sometimes thinks 
material blessings are not showered upon him 
quite sufficiently in addition. 
One evening after indulging in a mood of 
unreasonable melancholy, he sat before his 
own cheerful grate, while hi3 wife was busy 
plying her needle, and the children were prat¬ 
tling at his feet. A messenger came in from 
the telegraph office with a dispatch, which an¬ 
nounced to him the fearful intelligence that a 
dear friend about his own age, but whose pe¬ 
cuniary and social position he had sometimes 
almost envied, had been accidentally killed.— 
The unfortunate man was on board a train of 
cars that met with a collision, and, without a 
moment’s warning he was deprived of life.— 
He left a family to mourn a husband and 
father’s untimely end. Need we say that, in 
view of such a calamity, our friend gathered 
his own little flock around him, and felt as if 
the fearful message was a just rebuke to him 
for his unreasonable complainings ! At an¬ 
other time, his friends had put him in nomi¬ 
nation for a political office and one of trust 
and profit, with a very reasonable prospect of 
his success; buo just at the moment of elec¬ 
tion, by some jugglery of parties, he lost the 
place by a few votes. Greatly chagrined at 
the result, he went home on the evening his 
defeat was made certain in one of his fits of 
melancholy and discontent. As he entered 
his house with a carelessly slam of the door, 
his wife met him with an anxious expression 
of countenance and a caution to be quiet, as 
the youngest boy, a bright little fellow of two 
years, after a feverish day, had just sunk into 
an uneasy slumber, and was then moaning and 
tossing in his sleep. The illnees increased 
until the next morning, when a physician was 
called who pronounced it a dangerous case of 
scarlet fever. 
Day and night, both the father and the 
mother watched beside the poor boy’s little 
bed, while he lay at death’s door ; and when 
the fever at length took a favorable turn, need 
we add the hearts of both parents went out 
in gratitude to God for his mercy ? How 
mean and pitiful did the late disappointment 
in his political aspirations appear in the eyes 
of the father, compared with the joy he expe¬ 
rienced when he became assured that the 
youngest lamb of his flock was yet spared to 
them by the Good Shepherd. 
EXTRACTS 
FROM MRS. STEPHENS’ “ OLD HOMESTEAD.” 
The maple trees shook their golden boughs, 
as if they had been hoarding up sunshine for 
months, and poured it in one rich deluge 
over their billowy and restless leaves. 
A man must possess fire in himself before 
he can kindle up the electricity that thrills 
the great popular heart. 
Home is emphatically the paradise. The 
rich, with their many resources, too often live 
away from the hearth stone in heart, if not in 
person; but to the virtuous poor, domestic 
ties are the only legitimate and positive source 
of happiness short of that holier heaven which 
is the soul’s home. 
Neither men nor women become what 
they were intended to be by carpeting their 
progress with velvet; real strength is tested 
by difficulties. 
One night, when it had been raining, in the 
winter—while the great trees were dripping 
wet, out came the moon and stars bright, with 
a sharp frost, and then all the branches were 
hung with ice, in the moonshine, glittering 
and bending low towards the ground, just as 
if the starlight had all settled on the’limbs, 
and was loading them down with brightness. 
Could you have seen them slumbering be¬ 
neath the humble roof, smiling tranquilly on 
their pillows, you might have fancied that 
those little rooms were swarming with invisi¬ 
ble angels—spirits from paradise that had 
come down to make a little heaven of the poor 
man’s home. Indeed, I am not quite sure 
that the idea would have been all fancy—for 
Charity, that brightest spirit of heaven, was 
there, and what a glorious troop she always 
brings in her train ! Talk of flinging your 
bread upon the waters, waiting for it to be 
cast np after many days—why, the very joy 
of casting the bread you have earned with your 
own strength upon the bright waves of hu¬ 
manity, is reward enough for the true heart. 
Occupation ! what a glorious thing it is 
for the human heart. Those who work hard 
seldom yield themselves entirely up to fancied 
or real sorrow. When grief sits down, folds 
its hands, and mournfully feeds upon its own 
tears, weaving the dim shadows that a little 
exertion might sweep away, into a funeral 
pall, the strong spirit is shorn of its might, 
and sorrow becomes our master. When 
troubles flow upon you, dark and heavy, toil 
not with the waves—wrestle not with the 
torrent!—rather seek, by occupation, to di¬ 
vert the dark waters that threaten to over¬ 
whelm you, into a thousand channels which 
the duties of life always present. Before you 
dream of it, those waters will fertilize the 
present, and give birth to fresh flowers that 
may brighten the future—flowers that will 
become pure and holy, in the sunshine which 
penetrates to the path of duty, in spite of ev¬ 
ery obstacle. Grief, after all, is but a selfish 
feeling; and most selfish is the man who 
yields himself to the indulgence of any passion 
which brings no joy to his fellow man. 
SARCASTIC SENTENCE. 
Old Elias Keyes, formerly first Judge of 
Windsor county, Yt., wa3 a strange compo¬ 
sition of folly and good sense, of natural 
shrewdness and want of cultivation. The 
following sentence, it is said, was pronounced 
upon a poor ragged fellow convicted of steal¬ 
ing a paii* of boots from Gen. Curtis, a man 
of considerable wealth, in the town of Wind¬ 
sor : 
“ Well,” said the Judge, very gravely, be¬ 
fore pronouncing the sentence of the court, 
undertaking to read the fellow a lecture, 
“ you’re a fine fellow to be arraigned before 
the court for stealing. They say you are 
poor—no one doubts it who looks at you ; 
and how dare you, being poor, have the im¬ 
pudence to steal a pair of boots? Nobody 
but rich people have a right to take such 
things without paying! Then they say you 
are worthless—-that is evident from the fact 
that no one has ever asked justice to be done 
to you; all, by unanimous consent, pronounc¬ 
ed you guilty before you were tried. Now 
you might. know you would be condemned. 
And now you must know that it was a great 
aggravation that you stole them in that large 
town of Windsor. In that large town to 
commit such an act is most horrible. And 
not only go into Windsor to steal, but you 
must steal from that great man, Gen. Curtis. 
This caps the climax of your iniquity. Bose 
wretch! why did you not go and steal the 
only pair of boots which some poor man had 
or could get? aud then you would have been 
let alone ; nobody would have troubled them¬ 
selves about the act. For your iniquity in 
stealing in the great town of Windsor, and 
from the great Gen. Curtis, the court senten¬ 
ces you to three months imprisonment in the 
county jail,and may God give you something 
to eat!” 
“ A man discovered America, but a woman 
equipped the voyage.” So everywhere : man 
executes the performance, but woman trains 
the man. Every effectual person, leaving his 
mark on the world, is but another Columbus, 
for whose furnishing some Isabella, in the 
form of his mother, lays down her jewelry, her 
vanities, her comfort. 
Those who believe that money can do 
everything, are frequently prepared to do 
everything for money. 
A PRICELESS JEWEL. 
Hon. Edward Everett, in his eulogy on 
the late Abbott Lawrence, remarked : 
“ IBs business life extended over two or 
three of those terrible convulsions which shake 
the pillars of the commercial world, but they 
disturbed in no degree the solid foundation of 
his prosperity. lie built upon the adaman¬ 
tine basis of probity ; beyond reproach, be- 
youd suspicion. His life gave a lofty mean¬ 
ing to the familiar lines, and you felt, in his 
presence, that 
* An honest min is the noblest work of God.’ 
Far from being ashamed of his humble be¬ 
ginnings, he was proud of them, as the mer¬ 
chant princes of Florence, at the height of 
their power, and when they were giving the 
law to Italy, preserved upon their palaces the 
cranes by which bates of merchandise were 
raised to their attics. A young gentleman 
told me yesterday, at Newport, that two or 
three months ago, Mr. Lawrence took from 
his waistcoat pocket, and exhibited in his 
presence, a pair of blunt scissors, which had 
served him for daily use at the humble com¬ 
mencement of his business life. As for his 
personal integrity, Mr. Chairman, to which 
you alluded, 1 am persuaded that if the dome 
of the State House, which towers over his 
residence in Park street, had been coined into 
a diamond, and laid at his feet as the bribe of 
a dishonest transaction, he would have spurn¬ 
ed it like the dust he trod on. His promise 
was a sacrament.” 
Official Pleasures. —In December, 1827, 
Richard Rush drew the following amusing 
sketch of his official responsibilities and dis¬ 
abilities, as Secretary of the Treasury : 
“ Your invitation and Mrs. Clay’s, to your 
winter evenings, got to my hands this morn¬ 
ing, and I have passed it to my wife’s. She 
will be most happy to be with you as often 
as is in her power. For myself, I am so galled, 
so whipped up, so ground down, morniDg, 
noon and night, and night, noon and morning, 
by being head overseer and journeyman too, 
of the octogenarian department, that I was 
forced to make a vow and covenant, on the 
first day of the session, not to break bread out 
my own house, (and miserable brown stuff it 
is that I break there just now.) by day or by 
night, till the session is over, if it lasts till 
doomsday, and we know that it is to last al¬ 
most as long. Digging and fagging by night 
as well as by day—this is the long and short 
of the story. Till the session is over, farewell 
to Evening Parties all; farewell to Dinners ; 
farewell to such Dinners, even, as yours, to 
which, when bidden, I have never heretofore 
said nay—to all Farewell 1 “ Othello’s occu¬ 
pation’s gone 1” 
A True Story. —A little Irish girl, thir¬ 
teen years of age, without father or mother, 
ignorant of even her alphabet, lately came to 
live with us. Knowing she had been receiv¬ 
ing very good wages, we asked her, rather 
reproachfully, we fear, why her wardrobe was 
so miserably poor aud scanty—cleanly, and in 
good order as it was—she having the bare 
necessities of clothing. “ Ma’am,” said she, 
and her bright, honest eyes filled with tears, 
“ my mother did not always do right. She 
owed a woman who had ever been kind to us, 
eight dollars for board. My wages have been 
saved to pay that debt, for it was an honest 
one; until I paid it, I felt I had no right to buy 
a single article of clothing I could do with¬ 
out.” “ Is it all paid, Mary ?” “ Yes, and 
now I can spend the wages you pay me on 
myself.” Generous and brave gir.l—she has 
her patent of nobility direct from God, and it 
was ever from among the poor and lowly, 
Christ chose these who should bear his cross 
here, and reign with him hereafter. 
Our Poets. —The present ages of soms of 
our living poets we find to be as follows :— 
James K. Paulding, 75 ; John Pierpont, 70 ; 
R. H. Dana, 68 ; Charles Sprague, 64 ; Wil¬ 
liam C. Bryant, Edward Everett, and John 
Neal, 61; Fitz Greene Halleck and J. G. 
Percival, 60; George P. Morris, 53 ; Ralph 
Waldo Emerson, 52 ; George D. Prentice, 51; 
C. F. Hoffman, and W. G. Simms, 49; H. 
W. Longfellow, N. P. Willis, George Lunt, 
and Theodore S. Pay, 48 ; J. G. Whittier, 
and Wm. D. Gallagher, 47 ; 0. W. Holmes, 
46 ; Albert Pike, and Alfred B. Street, 44 ; 
C. P. Cranch, 42; W. II. C. Hosmer, 41 ; 
Epes Sargent, and J. G. Saxe, 39 ; Arthur 
Cleveland Coxe, and William W. Lord, 37 ; 
William Wallace, James Russell Lowell, and 
Thomas W. Parsons, 36 ; T. B. Reed, 33 ; 
George IT. Boker, 32 ; Chas. G: Leland, 31 ; 
Bayard Taylor and R. H. Stodarcl, 30. 
A Peculiar Epitaph.— A friend assures 
us that the following epitaph may be found in 
a village in Dorsetshire, England : 
: Here lien the body . ; 
; of 
; LADY O’LOONEY, : 
: Great niece of Burke, ; 
; Commonly called tlie Sublime. 
; She was : 
: Bland, passionate, and deeply religious ; ; 
: also, ’ ; 
She painted in Water-colors, : 
; And sent several Pictures ; 
; To the Exhibition. 
: She was first cousin to 
LADY JONES; : 
; And of such ; 
: Is the Kingdom of Heaven. : 
Influence of Women.— If we wish to 
know the political and moral condition of a 
State, we must ask what rauk women hold in 
it. Their influence embraces the whole of 
life. A wife, a mother — two magical words 
—comprising the sweetest sources of man’s 
felicity. Theirs is the reign of beauty, of 
love, of reason. Always a reign 1 A mau 
takes counsel with his wife ; he obeys his 
mother ; he obeys her loDg after she has ceas¬ 
ed to live, and the ideas which he has received 
from her become principles stronger even than 
his pass^ops.— Amie Martin. 
Experiment and observation are the only 
means of arriving at safe results. 
