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MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
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SONG OP THE ENGINE-DRIVER. 
TO nE HEAD AT SPEED. 
I command the xloker 
Of an engine rare; 
Lots of other folks a e 
Trusted to my care. 
From the startling hour, 
I, and I alone, 
Wield a despot’s power 
From my tiery throne. 
Pile the fuel higher— 
Never mind the smoke; 
Keep a blazing fire— 1 
We don't pay for coke. 
Faster still, and faster, 
At a racing speed; 
Oh, ’tis grand to master 
Such a glorious steed 1 
Flaring, glaring, tearing, 
To our destination; 
Rushing, crushing, pushing, 
Roaring through the station; 
Dashing, crashing, smashing, 
Rattling up the line ; 
Quick as lightning Hashing 
Down the steep incline. 
Hat a signal tossing 
Wildly to iind fro I 
“Danger 1—at the crossing; 
Danger I—down below.” 
"i\ arnings shower o’er us. 
As if tee should mind-; 
J.aggagctr.iin before us, 
With express behind 1 
See, 'tis there! be ready— 
(jive the brake a kick; 
Shut the steam off—steady; 
Jump, my lad—be quick— 
01? the train, this minute 1 
For 1 rather doubt 
That, for those within it, 
’Tis a blue look-out. 
a # * • • 
What a shriek I good Heaven, 
How the timbers parti 
Doubled up, and riven, 
High in air they dart. 
Shattered fragments Hying 
Everywhere around; 
Hundreds lying, ‘lying, 
Bleeding on the ground! 
MORAL. 
Oh, ye wise Directors 
Of our iron roads! 
Oh, ye sage Inspectors 
Of their legal codes! 
Would this frequent kind of 
Scene oceur again, 
If ye trained the mind of 
Him who minds the train ? 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
GOLDEN MOMENTS. 
Look here, sir — you with your mouth wide 
open, your hands in your pockets,—what may 
you be thinking about? Why are you not at 
work? l)o you not know these are golden 
moments—that life is fast flying on?—that 
eternitii is approaching, and that moment just 
squandered brings you one moment nearer the 
eternal world? 
Are you a successful farmer? if so, I marvel! 
successful, and throw away Heaven’s noblest 
gift—Time ! These are golden moments, sir. 
There is no resting here. If you are not ad¬ 
vancing, you are retrograding. If that revolv¬ 
ing wheel in your cranium is not turning oil 
pure, noble, and bright thoughts by its centri¬ 
fugal force,— if these material things around 
you are not breeding thoughts,—if these spark¬ 
ling icicles, these snow crystals, the smoke from 
yonder cottage, the jingle of merry bells, the 
loud shouts and merry laughter of school child¬ 
ren— if none of these things rouse you from 
this stupid nonchalance,—if this moving world 
— this steam-ahead age, with its bursting boil¬ 
ers, and the sound of the war trumpet,— if 
none of these things move you to act, then 
nothing but an infinite power can do it. 
You, there, with your elbows on your knees, 
and head in your hands,—why, my dear sir, 
tcake up from that “ blue" sleep. What if the 
winter is a hard one,—if you have got a large 
stock, if all kinds of “ fodder” are scarce, do you 
expect that position and your own foolish mur- 
nmriugs will make it more plenty? Come, sir, 
take the last Rural, and look over the market, 
get a good, sound, sober idea into your head— 
reiul, think , and then go ahead! 
You, Mr. Mechanic, don’t take the last 
week’s earnings and go to the dwelling of the 
Fire-demon, and spend it, and then complain 
of the “high price” of provisions. You have 
not only squandered your money there, but 
your time, — these “golden moments,” — and 
impaired your health. 0, may you, too, learn 
wisdom! 
And you, young student, there,— now don't 
“ give up." Why, sir, “Where there’s a will, 
there’s a way.” Life is before you; don’t squan¬ 
der it, but improve each moment These are 
golden moments. Why not value, and improve 
them? This is a great world, you live in, and 
broad are the fields of usefulness. You are 
just entering these fields! Take with you the 
best tools, and use them — a disciplined mind, 
strong and large heart, fixed purpose and moral 
character. Let your aim be to do good—leave 
the world better' for having lived in it If you 
would succeed, improve your time, let not one 
moment waste, for gold cannot recall it. If 
obstacles arise, work the harder—don't stop, 
but press on! Charlie Chestnut. 
I To all which we subscribe,— particularly de¬ 
siring the writer to occupy some of his future 
goldeu moments in addressing RuKAx-ists.—-E d. 
OLD GEMS RESET. —NO. I. 
Mr. Moore: —I well remember when one of 
the English Reviewers sneeringly asked, “Who 
reads an American book?”—but “the funeral 
has gone by” on that subject some years ago; 
in fact, it may now be more pertinently asked, 
“Who reads an English book,” or rather an old 
book, of any kind? Who now reads Milton, 
Addison, Young, Johnson, Sterne, or Covv- 
per, or even Sir Walter Scott, or Byron?— 
only a few years since, the admiration and ador¬ 
ation of the reading world. All have nearly 
descended to the tomb of the capulets. 
Since the introduction of the steam press 
and paper mill, whereby inert substances sup¬ 
ply the agencies of intellect, human sinews and 
vitality, a perfect avalanche of namby-pamby 
trash overwhelms the sedate, laborious, and 
strong-thinking minds of the olden time, and 
silly novels, with unmeaning pictures and paper 
covers, usurp the place of genius, science and 
good sense. 
I am, Mr. Editor, old fogy enough still, to 
read and be edified by many of those old ster¬ 
ling works, which stand on our library shelves, 
unopened, unused, and unread — prim as old 
maids waiting for beaux. 
In looking through Darwins Botanic Car- 
dim, written during the latter part of the last 
century, I could but admire his gorgeous and 
often prophetic visions of nature and art— his 
swelling and fanciful descriptions of many of 
the wonders of creation, now as familiar to us 
as household words, and written too, when but 
little was known of Chemistry, Geology, or the 
Philosophy of Nature. 
In the very infancy of steam, lie says: 
“Nymphs! you crew bib- on simmering cauldrons played, 
And ctilled delighted Savary* to your aid— 
Bade round the youth explosive steam aspire 
In gathering clouds, and winged the wave with fire— 
Bade the cold streams the quick expansion glop, 
And sunk the immense of vapor to a drop; 
l’ressed by the ponderous air the piston falls, 
Resistless sliding through its iron walls, 
Quick moves the balanced beam of giant birth, 
Wields his huge limb’s and nodding, shakes the earth. 
The giant power from earth’s remotest caves 
Lifts with stiong arm her dark, reluctant waves. 
Each caverned rock and hidden den explores, 
Drags her dirk coals and digs her shining ores. 
•*•**#* 
There the vast mill-stone, with inebriate whirl 
On trembling doors his forceful fingeis twirl. 
Whose flinty teeth the golden harvest grind, 
Feast without blood to nourish human kind. 
Soon shall thy arm, unconquered steam, afar 
I>rag the slow barge, or drive the rapid car. 
Or ou wide waving wings expanded bear 
The .flying chariot through the fields of air, 
l-'air crews triumphant leaving fiom above, 
Shall wave their fluttering kcrehieis as they move, 
Or warrior bands alarm the gaping crowd, 
And armies shrink beneath the shadowy cloud.” 
IIow prophetic! when it is taken into con¬ 
sideration that it was written before steamboats 
or railroads were ever dreamed of, except in 
the hallucinations of the poet Flying remains 
yet an unsolved problem. 
It this article is acceptable, and amuses 
your readers, I will coutribute others of the 
same cast. B. Manly. 
January, 1854. 
•Savary was the first to use steam in cylinders for the 
purpose of raising water, about 1090. 
LOVE OF COUNTRY. 
A strong attachment, an earnest and pas¬ 
sionate love of country, is an inborn element 
of human nature. It warms the heart and 
thrills the soul of the rude and uncultivated, 
as well tis the more refined. Though bleak 
and barren the paternal land may be—though 
its hills be covered with perpetual snow, and 
the wild (lowers in rich profusion deck not the 
vales—there is a lie, aye, a chain of golden 
links, which binds each to his native land.— 
There is a beauty in its bleakness and barren¬ 
ness, far more delightful than sunnier and rich¬ 
er climes. And those mountain streams ice¬ 
bound, and snow-capped summits appear more 
grateful than the rarest landscape gemmed 
with nature’s choicest gifts, and touched with 
the softest pencilings. This favorite principle, 
heaven-born as it is, inspires the soul with ex¬ 
alted sentiments, and urges on to noble en¬ 
deavors. 
These scenes which are presented during the 
hours of early infancy, make an impression on 
the mind that cannot easily be erased. All 
things in nature, animate and inanimate, by 
trequent association become, as it were, part 
ot our own being. We learn to love each spot 
and cherish it in remembrance. And in after 
years, when the elasticity of youth has depart¬ 
ed, when the bloom and hue of childhood have 
fled, and the silvery locks of age mantle the 
brow, the memory, quick and warm, glides 
back through the long period of the past, and 
delightfully lingers amid the haunts of other 
days. Thus is formed a deep and abiding pas¬ 
sion for our native laud. 
The friend, the patriot, the lover of his coun¬ 
try, watches over its interests with anxious so¬ 
licitude. For its good he lives and acts alone. 
Nothing affords him So much pleasure as to 
see it smiling in prosperity. But when the 
hour of adversity holds unlimited sway, and 
terror and desolation are visible, he offers him¬ 
self a willing sacrifice on the altar of his coun¬ 
try, and hopes by his life-blood to seal its free¬ 
dom. A. J. K. 
[Translated from the German for the Rural.] 
LESSONS OF NATURE. 
Among the pupils of Hillel, the wise teach¬ 
er of the sons of Israel, there was a youth who 
was disgusted with every kind of labor, and 
gave himself up to idleness and indolence.— 
But Hillel, who was greatly concerned for 
this youth, after exhorting him day by day, and 
seeing that his efforts to rouse him to activity, 
were all in vain, conducted him to the valley of 
Hinnom, near Jerusalem. In that valley there 
was a stagnant water, full of vermin, and cov¬ 
ered with slimy and noxious weeds. When 
they had reached this place, Hillel said, “Let 
us take rest here from our journey.” But the 
youth was astonished, and said, “ How, master, 
by this filthy swamp? Do you not perceive, 
what poisonous exhalations rise from it?” 
“You are right, my son,” said his teacher, 
“this swamp is like the soul of the idler. Who 
would dwell thereby?” Then Hillel led his 
pupil to an uncultivated field, where grew 
thorns and thistles, which chocked the grain 
and wholesome herbs. There Hillel leaned 
on Iris staff’and said, “Behold, this field is of a 
soil sufficiently ricli to produce whatever may 
conduce to our comfort and joy. But it has 
been forsaken and neglected, so that, now, it 
producer only thorns and thistles and poison¬ 
ous plants, among which, is the habitation of 
venomous serpents. In the first place, you 
saw the soul —now recognize the life of the 
idler.” Upon this the youth was affected with 
shame and regret, and said:—“Master, why do 
you lead me into such a desert and dreary re¬ 
gion? It is the image of my soul and life, 
severely afflicting me.” But Hillel answer¬ 
ing, said,—“Seeing that you would not believe 
in my words, I thought that perhaps the voice 
of nature might impress her instruction on 
your mind.” Scarcely had he concluded, when 
the youth pressed his teacher’s hand, and said: 
“ Your efforts are not without success, for I 
feel a new life running through my veins.” 
And so it was. He worked with the ac¬ 
tivity of a zealous youth. Then Hillel walk¬ 
ed with him into a fertile plain, to the banks of 
a clear and transparent stream, beautifully me¬ 
andering between fruitful trees and flowery 
meadows. “Behold here,” said the gray-haired 
sire to the joyful youth, “the image of a new 
and active life. Nature, that has warned you, 
will also reward you. Her charm and beauty 
can rejoice him only, who, in her life, sees his 
“LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE.” 
There is in earth enough of beauty to 
warm, cheer and enliven the heart, were it but 
Looked upon with an eye to see, e mind to feel it. 
Look on the bright side, keep looking on the 
bright side. Surround yourself with forms and 
hues of beauty—“ a tiling of beauty is a joy 
for ever.” Thus, if you would be joyous—and • 
who would not ?—cultivate a taste for the beau- ’ 
tiful; and what so beautiful—ever renewing 
their youth and beauty—as the things with ' 
which God has surrounded us ? 
Then let that majestic elm still wave its • 
branches in lofty freedom. Suppose it would 
make so many feet of boards, let it stand, as 
you would be happy in a shady, beautiful , 
home. Leave that little patch for wife and 
children to scatter flower-seeds in the spring ' 
time. Suppose you could raise so many po¬ 
tatoes upon it; leave it if you would meet 
joyous, smiling faces. 
Indeed, surround, in country and city, your 
homes with the beautiful, that your eye, resting 
upon it, may be insensibly but surely attracted 
to that perfect beauty of soul which, if you 
make it yours, shall one day bear you where 
none will say, “ look on the bright side,” since 
every side will be bright with purity—bright 
with love, for “God is love.” 
VIRTUE ITS OWN REWARD. 
Every man, under God, has his destiny in 
his own hands. If he will be virtuous, he may 
be. If he is virtuous, he cannot but be happy. 
Like the suffering Redeemer, he may and will 
be “a man of sorrow and acquainted with 
grief;” but his consolation shall flow like a 
river, and his righteousness and happiness shall 
roll like the waves of a peaceful sea; following 
one after another, until they bear him to the 
bright and beautiful land beyond the tomb. 
Reader! art thou poor ? art thou tried by 
tlii'ne infirmities? art thou persecuted by 
enemies? Still “Hope on, hope ever,” be the 
motto of thy life. Still be virtuous, and your 
triumph shall be certain. I do not know a 
single young man who started with me in life, 
guided by a virtuous intent, who lias failed of 
success. Many of that class are scattered to 
and fro in the earth. Fierce blasts and pelting 
storms beat upon many of them to this day, 
but every one of them now living who has been 
virtuous, has won for himself a good degree in 
his sphere; and many shall rise up and bless 
the hour when these young men were born. 
A Little Fable. —The sword of the warrior 
was taken down to brighten; it had not been 
long out of use. The rust was rubbed oft; but 
there were spots that would not—they were of 
blood. It was on the table near the pen of the 
secretary. The pen took advantage of the first 
breath of air to move a little further off 
“ Thou art right,” said the sword, “ I am a bad 
neighbor.” “ I fear thee not,” replied the pen, 
“1 am more powerful than thou art, but I love 
not thy society.” “ I exterminate,” said the 
sword. “ And I perpetuate,” answered the 
pen. “Where are thy victories, if I record 
them not ? Even where thou, thyself, shalt one 
day be—in the Lake of Oblivion.” 
LOSING HIS SOUL. 
A man well clad, and apparently “ well to 
do,” passing along blast Broadway yesterday, 
dropped a pocket-book as plethoric and well 
to do as himself. A manikin of a fellow, with 
red checks, bright eyes, and toes that could be 
counted every one, through the worn and tat¬ 
tered shoes, spied the fallen treasure, picked it 
up, and bounded on with might and main after 
the unconscious loser. 
“Here, sir! Here’s yo-ur pocket-book!”— 
panted the little fellow. The man stopped 
quietly, took the book, opened it, rapidly ran 
over the bills—5s—10s—20s. 
There was a little silver—dimes, shillings, 
quarters, and among them a poor, dingy-iook- 
ing penny, just one, sole representative of the 
whole Lake Superior regions. 
It was all right—every bill, atom of silver, 
even to the dear little penny, was there. 
The man seemed to be musing. What 
would he do, thought the boy; what would he 
do, thought we. Perhaps lie would give him 
a dollar—certainly a quarter—at least a shil¬ 
ling. May be he would take him into a neigh¬ 
boring shoe store and buy him a substantial 
pair of little boots. That would be better 
still. At least he would purchase a pair of 
warm, woolen mittens—nice red and white 
mittens—for the little man who looked up so 
earnestly and honestly into his face. Slowly 
he fingered the change in the pocket-book.— 
He takes out a coin deliberately, and with a • 
generous smile, placed in the opened palm of the 
lad a whole cent. 
The recipient of this unexpected gift gave a 
second look at the coin, to make sure it was 
no optical delusion, and another at the man, 
to make sure it was a man—of which, by the 
way, he had some small doubt—and dropping 
the penny into the capacious pocket of his 
benefactor’s overcoat, archly said, “ Don’t rob 
yourself, sir,'’ and darted away over the frozen 
ground, convinced, no doubt, that he had seen 
a man for once, who carried his soul in his 
pocket-book.— JY. Y. Tribune. 
WHAT HOPE DID. 
It stole on its pinions of snow to the bed of 
disease; and the sufferer's frown became a 
smile—the emblem of peace and endurance. 
I went to the house of mourning—and from 
the lips of sorrow there came sweet and cheerful 
songs. 
It laid its hand upon the arm of the poor 
man which was stretched forth at the command 
of holy impulse, and saved him from disgrace 
arid ruin. 
It dwelt like a living thing in the bosom of 
the mother, whose son tarried long after the 
promised time of his coming; and has saved 
her from desolation, and “care that killeth!” 
It hovered about the head of the youth who 
had become the Ishmael of society, and had 
led him on to the work that even his enemies 
praised. 
It snatched a maiden from the jaws of death, 
and went with an old man to heaven. 
No hope? my good brother. Have it; 
beckon it to your side. Wrestle with it that 
; it may not depart. It may repay your pains. 
Life is hard enough at best—but hope shall 
lead you over its mountains and sustain you 
ainid billows. Part with all besides—but keep 
your Hope. 
BEAUTIFUL ALLEGORY. 
The following beautiful allegory is translated 
from the German: 
Sophronius, a wise teacher, would not suffer 
even his grown-up sons and daughters to asso¬ 
ciate with those whose conduct was not pure 
and upright. 
“ Dear father,” said the gentle Eulalia to him 
one day, when he forbade her, in company 
with her brother, to visit the gentle Lucinda; 
“ dear father, you must think us very childish 
if you imagine that we should be exposed to 
danger by it.” 
The father took in silence a dead coal from 
the hearth, and reached it to his daughter. 
“ It will not burn you, my child, take it.” 
Eulalia did so, and behold her beautiful 
white hand was soiled and blackened, and as it 
chanced, her white dress also. 
“ We cannot be too careful in handling 
coals,” said Eulalia, in vexation. 
“ Yes, truly,” said her father “you see, my 
child, that coals, even if they do not bum, 
blacken; so it is with the company of the 
vicious.” 
Fashionable Extravagance. —One of the 
New York newspapers, speaking of the extrav¬ 
agance that prevails in the world of fashion in 
New York, says: 
Already our ladies, who make any preten¬ 
sion to the title of fashionable, have commenc¬ 
ed a war of rivalry with the European aristoc¬ 
racy, and if they do not surpass them in the 
style of dress, they are certainly their rivals in 
extravagance. In one year, a lady of fashion, 
living on Fifth Avenue, will spend seven or 
eight thousand dollars upon dress; and we are 
assured upon the most reliable authority, that 
a walking or promenade dress, such as is seen 
occasionally in Broadway, costs from fifteen 
hundred to one thousand dollars. 
A Goon Way of Hearing from Home. — A 
young man in California, whose friends had not 
remembered him as he thought they ought, 
adopted the following expedients:—He sat 
down and wrote some half dozen letters to dif¬ 
ferent persons at home, inquiring the price of 
land and stock—what he could buy a handsome 
farm of 200 or 300 acres for, &c.; intimating 
that he had large sums to invest, and was very 
rich generally. By return mail he received no 
less than seven letters, all anxiously inquiring 
after his health, when he was coming, &e., and 
has received three or four every mail since, in¬ 
cluding some very warm ones from an old and 
very cold sweet-heart 
Why should people who wish to lead peace¬ 
able lives, never go to evening parties?—Be¬ 
cause hops produce great bitterness. 
Jfffr % Safe 
MY LAMBS. 
BY MRS. MARY A. DENISON. 
I loved them so 1 
That when the “ elder shepherd” of the fold 
Came covered with the storm, and pale and cold. 
And begged for one of my sweet lambs to hold— 
I bade him go. 
He claimed the pet; 
A little fondling thing that to my breast 
Clung always, either ia quiet or unrest; 
I thought of all my lambs I loved him best, 
And yet—and yet— 
I laid him down, 
In those white, shrouded arms with bitter tears; 
For some voice told me that in after years 
He should know naught of passion, grief, or fears, 
As 1 had known. 
And yet again 
That elder shepherd came—my heart grew faint; 
He claimed another lamb with sadder plaint; 
Another I she who, gentle as a saint, 
Ne’er gave me pain. 
Aghast I turned away; 
There sat she, lovely as an angel's dream; 
Her golden locks with sunlight ail agleam. 
Her holy eyes with heaven in their beam; 
I knelt to pray— 
“Is it Thy will? 
My Father, say—must this pet lamb be given ? 
Oh 1 Thou hast many such, dear Lord, in heaven,_ 
And a soft voice said—“ nobly hast thou striven 
But peace—be still.” 
Oh ! how I wept t 
And clasped her to my bosom, with a wild 
And yearning love—my lamb—my pleasant child I 
Her, too, I gave—the little angel smiled— 
And slept. 
“ Go, go 1” I cried; 
For once again that shepherd laid his hand 
Upon the.noblest of our household band; 
Like a pale spectre—there he took his stand 
Close to his side. 
And yet how wondrous sweet 
The look with which he heard my passionate cry 1 
“ Touch not my lamb—for him, oh I let me die 1” 
“A little while,”'he said, with smile and sigh, 
“ Again to meet.” 
Hopeless I fell— 
And when I rose—the light had burned—so low, 
So faint —I could not see my darling go ; 
He had not bidden me farewell—but oh l 
I felt farewell 
More deeply fer, 
Than if my arms had compassed that slight frame_ 
Though could I but have heard him call my name, 
“Dear mother”—but in heaven ’twill be the same_ 
There burns my star. 
He will not take 
Another lamb, I thought—for only three 
Of the dear fold are spared to comfort me; 
And yet my haunting dreams! could I foresee, 
My heart would break. 
Oh 1 with what thrill 
I heard him enter;—but I did not know 
(For it was dark) that he had robbed me so{ 
The idol of my soul— he could not go 1 
Oh 1 heart, be still 1 
Came morning; can I tell 
How this poor frame its sorrowful tenant kept ? 
For waking tears were mine—1 sleeping wept; 
And days, months, years that weary vigil kept, 
Alas—“Farewell”—. 
How often is it said; 
I sit and think, and wonder, too, sometime 
How it will seem—when in that happier clime 
It never will ring out like funeral chime 
Over the dead. 
No tears! no tears 1 
Will there a day come that I shall not weep ? 
For I bedew my pillow in my sleep, 
Yes—yes; thank God! no grief that clime shall keep; 
No weary years. 
Ay! it is well 1 
Wei! with my lambs and with their earthly guide; 
There pleasant rivers wander they beside; 
Or strike sweet harps upon its silver tide— 
Ay ! it is well I 
Through the drear day, 
They often come from glorious light to me; 
I cannot feel their touch—their faces see— 
Yet my soui whispers—“they do come to thee; 
Heaven is not far away 1” 
[ Saturday Evening Poet. 
LOVE, —ITS PURITY AND POWER. 
How bright and beautiful is love in its 
hour of purity and innocence—how mysteri¬ 
ously does it etherealize every feeling, and con¬ 
centrate every wild and bewildering impulse of 
the heart. Love—holy and mysterious love— 
it is the garland spring of life—the dream of 
the heart—the poetry of nature. Its song is 
heard in the rude hut of the poor, as well as 
the gorgeous palace of the rich—its flames 
embellish the solitude of the forest, and the 
thronged haunts of busy life, and its light im¬ 
parts a brilliancy to every heart, no matter 
what may be its condition. 
Love—pure, holy and devoted love—can 
never change. Friends may forsake us—the 
riches of this world may soar away, but the 
heart that loves will cling the closer; as loud 
roars the storm and amid the wreck of the tem¬ 
pest, it will serve as a “beacon” to light us on 
to hope and happiuess. 
Love is the mystic and unseen spell that 
soothes the wild and rugged tendencies of hu¬ 
man nature—that lingers about the sanctity of 
the fireside, and unites in closer union the af¬ 
fections of society; and the soul that loves tru¬ 
ly, will love forever. Not like the waves of 
ocean, nor traced in sand, is the image impress¬ 
ed upon a loving heart. No, no—but it will 
burn on undefaced in its lustre, amid the quick 
rush of the winds and the warring of the tem¬ 
pest cloud—and when our fate seems dark and 
dreary, then will love seek shelter in her own 
hallowed temple; and offer up as a sacrifice her 
vows and her affections. 
It was a pertinent and forcible saying of the 
Emperor Napoleon, that, “a handsome woman 
pleases the eye, but a good woman pleases the 
heart. The one is a jewel, and the other a 
treasure.” 
Art r r ? v.rtrrrrvj 
