MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER, 
is sometimes supposed, has a generalizing influ¬ 
ence on our estimate of others; making us think 
more of the commonalty,’' and perhaps a little 
less of individuals. Besides, one leading a re¬ 
cluse life, often contracts such an indifference, 
sometimes contempt for mere worldly honors, 
as not to be so easily drawn from rectitude by 
their attractions, as one to whom their glitter 
is daily exposed; though I am not certain but 
it oftenest happens that this disgust precedes 
the voluntary retirement from the world of 
such as have been exposed to its temptations, 
and have successfully resisted them. Still, 
read and reflect as much as we may, there 
are yet times when the mind craves direct 
intercourse with other minds, and is illy satisfied 
without such intimate communion. And an 
interchange of views on subjects of mutual in¬ 
terest, besides being agreeable, proves bene¬ 
ficial in many ways, often giving a fresh im¬ 
pulse and furnishing a new starting point to 
inquiry. 
Ambition, to render one’s-self worthy the 
c@mpanionship of the great, is a powerful stim- 
ulus to improvement. For those able to sus¬ 
tain themselves in such an acquaintance, per¬ 
haps few social pleasures equal that of being 
able to know intimately such noble persons as 
Emerson, Carlyle, the late Margaret Ful¬ 
ler, &c.; and how ardently we desire to be 
favored with pictures of the domestic life of 
these natures, not indeed, that we may servilely 
imitate them, but for the satisfaction of know¬ 
ing their every-day relations with common hu¬ 
manity. It may not be untimely to speak here 
of a complaint, occasionally whined forth, by 
one struggling to enter the charmed circle of 
the so-called best society—a complaint of non¬ 
appreciation —of being held at arm’s length, 
while others, less deserving, are cordially wel¬ 
comed. To such, it may be said—“ if you have 
not made your society desirable, you have no 
right to complain, because it is not sought; if 
you have, there is no occasion for such com¬ 
plaint, as you have already provided yourself 
with good company:” and they can scarcely be 
injured by adopting the following sentiment, 
which, if not embodied in a tenet, at least har¬ 
monizes with the spirit of a certain 2 ? r Dud 
philosophy. Know only those that come in 
your way; anything more eager than this in¬ 
volves a descent from real manly dignity. 
South Livonia, N. Y., 1854. A. 
ers—she deprives herself of what to her is ne¬ 
cessary, to serve others. That is generosity.” 
“I saw a little boy, the other day, go into a 
baker’s shop; he was really hungry, and he was 
very fond of buns—all little boys are—but the 
great matter was, he was hungry; he bought a 
large two-penny bun; he was so hungry that he 
turned all the marbles and bits of string, and 
odds and ends of queer boy-like things, out of 
his pockets, hoping to find another penny, to 
add a small bun to the large one, but he had 
not-even another farthing: so he took a great, 
hungry bite out of his bun, and looked with 
pleasure at the piece in his hand, spotted over 
with little black currants. : What a nice bun,’ 
said the little boy, ‘and I am so hungry!’— 
When he looked up from the bun, he saw a 
pair of large, blue eyes, staring from amid a 
shock of wild hair. Alas! the nose and lips, 
the very cheeks, of the child who gazed so 
eagerly at his bun, were pinched and yellow 
from starvation. My little friend saw it in a 
moment, and not a moment did he hesitate, but, 
without a word, he walkedup to the starving 
child, and placed the remainder of his bun in 
his thin hand. That was generosity. The 
boy who had the bun was hungry and poor, 
yet he remained hungry, rather than suffer one 
poorer and more hungry than himself to 
starve. Now, it is not enough for you to say, 
‘ well done, fine fellow!’ but i want you to * go 
and do likewise.’ It is not enough for the 
heart to beat and the eyes to swim in tears, 
when a generous action is recorded; if it makes 
a proper impression, you will not be happy 
until you have done ‘likewise.’” 
Geraldine looked straight on. She harden¬ 
ed her heart sometimes, and when she did, you 
saw it in the expression of eyes turned almost 
to stone—eyes hard and tearless. She had a 
long time believed that she was very generous 
in giving her money; her aunt’s observations 
had nearly convinced her that generosity was 
something more than giving what she did not 
care for or want, and it made her very uncom¬ 
fortable; but she was too stubborn to confess 
she was wrong. God had not yet softened her 
heart. She knew but little of prayer, and had 
very seldom proved how a prayer is answered, 
when it is laid before the footstool of the Al¬ 
mighty in a pure aud humble spirit. “ Aunt 
Jane” loved her dearly, aud the more dearly 
she loved her, the more anxious she became 
that Geraldine should conquer the evil and cul¬ 
tivate the good of her disposition; but that is 
a thing the young are slow to understand.— 
They think—silly things—that those who love 
them most, will indulge them most. 
“I will tell you,” continued aunt Jane, after 
a pause — for she was so wise, that she 
paused to let one thing sink into Geraldine’s 
mind, before she spoke of another—“ I will tell 
you of a boy, who had a very aggravating tem¬ 
per—it was not so very violent, but it was wil¬ 
ful, obstinate unyielding; if he was told to read 
at one o’clock, write at two, and do his Latin 
exercise at three, he would argue that it would 
be better to do his Latin at one, and read at 
three. Half his time was spent in contradic¬ 
tion. He was absurd enough to suppose that 
he knew better than his teachers; he would not 
of course, say he did, but he would act as if he 
did. He knew nothing of the generosity which 
a will to the will of others—he had not 
learned the duty of obedience, and did not see 
its advantages.” 
“ Its advantages?” questioned Geraldine. 
“Yes, its advantages. Is it not an advan¬ 
tage to have every thing provided, every thing 
thought of, every thing prepared, every thing 
that the experience and knowledge of age can 
suggest, done for youth—the thorns removed 
from their path, the whole business of life ar¬ 
ranged, so as to prepare them for the future 
with the least possible outlay of trouble to them¬ 
selves—and all required in return being atten¬ 
tion and obedience?” 
Geraldine’s eyes were growing less stony, and 
she half muttered, in a low tone, “ that is true.” 
“ This boy, like many girls, wanted to learn 
only what he liked; and it would have been 
difficult to teach him even on these terms, for 
what he liked this week he did not like next; 
and such was his spirit of opposition, that if it 
were wished he should like this, he would be 
sure to rush at the belief that he liked that” 
“ ‘ If you are so contradictory,’said his father, 
‘ no one will love you.’ 
“ ‘ I don’t care for being loved,” said the boy. 
“ ‘ Oh, very well,’ said his father. 
“ The next morning, when he came down 
stairs, he looked round, and then offered his 
mother his morning kiss. She turned from 
him, and he saw she had been weeping.” 
“ ‘ Yon do not care for being loved,’ said his 
father, ‘ and so, as you do not care about being 
loved, you must try to live without love. Love 
has hitherto toiled for you; love has clothed 
you, love has fed you, love has educated you, 
love has had patience with you, love has re¬ 
warded you, love has found fault with you, 
love has wept for you, love has prayed for you 
—from your cradle you have been ministered 
to by love; but you do not care for being lov¬ 
ed—so, now live without love.’ 
“The boy’s heart was hard, and so he 
thought he could live without his father’s work 
and his mother’:? blessing; he thought he could 
live without love. Pie had no generosity in 
his nature—if he had, he would have curbed 
his temper: he would have yielded all he had 
to yield—his will—to the will of those who 
loved him. He had nothing but that to give, 
in return for the years of love, of labor, of 
thought, of prayer, he had cost his parents. It 
never entered into his head to think, or into 
his heart to feel, that his obedience, his docili¬ 
ty, his curbing himself, would have been gen¬ 
erous.” 
“ Aunt Jane!” exclaimed Geraldine, bursting 
into a flood of honest tears, “ though not a boy, 
I am that boy. Oh, pray with me—pray for 
me—this New Year’s day; pray that I may 
feel, and practice, and believe, that giving up 
what we most cherish, is the only true gene¬ 
rosity.” 
Col. Burr, who had been Vice-President 
of America, and probably would have been the 
next President, but for his unfortunate duel 
with General Hamilton, came over to England, 
and was made known to me by Mr. Randolph, 
of Virginia, with whom I was very intimate.— 
He requested I would introduce him to Mr. 
Grattan, whom he was excessively anxious to 
see. Colonel Burr was not a man of very 
prepossessing appearance; rough-featured, and 
neither dressy nor polished; but a well-inform¬ 
ed, sensible man, and though not a particular¬ 
ly agreeable, yet an instructive companion.— 
People in general form extravagant anticipations 
regarding eminent persons. The idea of a 
great orator and an Irish chief-carried with it, 
naturally enough, corresponding notions of 
physical elegance, vigor and dignity. Such 
was Colonel Burr’s mistake, I believe, about 
Mr. Grattan, and I took care not to undeceive 
him. We went to my friend's house, who was 
to leave London next day. I announced that 
Colonel Burr, from America, Mr. Randolph, 
and myself, wished to pay our respects, and the 
servant informed us that his master would re¬ 
ceive us in a short time, but was at the mo¬ 
ment much occupied on business of conse¬ 
quence. Burr’s expectations were all on the 
alert. Randolph also was anxious to be pre¬ 
sented to the great Grattan, and both impa¬ 
tient for the entrance of this Demosthenes. 
At length the door opened, and in popped 
a small, bent figure, meagre, yellow, and ordi¬ 
nary; one slipper and one shoe; his breeches’ 
knees loose; his cravat hanging down; his shirt 
and coat-sleeves tucked up high, and an old 
hat upon his head. This apparition saluted 
the strangers very courteously, and asked, with¬ 
out any introduction, how long they had been 
in England, and immediately proceeded to 
make inquiries about the late General Wash¬ 
ington and the revolutionary war. My com¬ 
panions looked at each other; their replies were 
costive, and they seemed quite impatient to see 
Mr. Grattan. I couLd scarcely contain myself, 
but determined to let my eccentric country¬ 
man take his course, who appeared quite de¬ 
lighted to see his visiter’s, and was the most 
inquisitive person in the world. Randolph 
was far the tallest and most dignified-looking 
man of the two, gray-haired and well-dressed; 
Grattan, therefore, of course, took him for the 
Vice-President, and addressed him according¬ 
ly. Randolph, at length, begged to know if they 
could shortly have the honor of seeing Mr. 
Grattan. Upon w hich our host, not doubting 
but they knew him, conceived it must be his 
son James, for whom they inquired, and said 
he believed he had that moment wandered out 
somewhere to amuse himself. This complete¬ 
ly disconcerted the Americans, and they were 
about to make their bow and their exit, when 
I thought it high time to explain, and, taking 
Colonel Burr and Mr. Randolph respectively 
by the hand, introduced them to the Right- 
Honorable Henry Grattan. I never saw peo¬ 
ple stare so, or so much embarrassed! Grat¬ 
tan himself, now perceiving the cause, heartily 
joined in my merriment. He pulled down his 
shirt-sleeves, pulled up his stockings, and in 
his own irresistible way apologized for the outre 
figure he eat, assuring ‘jL-.. L .J total 
ly overlooked it in his air lety not. to keep them 
waiting; that he was about returning to Ire¬ 
land next morning, and had been busily pack¬ 
ing up his books and papers in a closet full of 
dust and cobwebs! This incident rendered the 
interview more interesting. The Americans 
were charmed with their reception, and, after 
a protracted visit, retired highly gratified, while 
Grattan returned again to his books and cob¬ 
webs.— Barrington's Sketches. 
CONDUCTED BY A-E. 
SPRING HAS CAM AGAIN, 
BY CHAKLKS SWAIN. 
What is noble lo inherit ? 
Wealth, eslalo and proud degree ? 
There must be some other merit 
Higher yet than those for me 1 
Something greater fir must enter 
Into life’s majestic spa.ii; 
Fitted to create and center 
True nobility in maul 
What is noble? ”fis the finer 
Portion of our mind and heart; 
Linked to something still diviner 
Thau mere language can impart; 
Ever prompting—ever seeing 
Some improvement yet to plan; 
To uplift our fellow being, 
Aud, like man, to feel tike man! 
What is noble ? is the satire 
Nobler than the humble spade ? 
There is dignity in labor 
Truer thau e’er pomp arrayed 1 
He who seeks the mind's improvement 
A.ds the world in aiding mind; 
Every groat commanding movement 
Serves not one—but all mankind. 
Balmy Spring has come again. 
Welcome to its dawn 1 
Sleeping buds will wake to life, 
Grass creep o’er the lawn : 
Now a soft and gentle breeze— 
Wild, fierce winds are o’er, 
Leaves again will deck the trees, 
Birds will sing once more. 
Flow’rs will ope their starry eyes 
In the warm sun-light, 
Glist’ning ’neath the morning skies 
With the dew-drops bright— 
Violets blue o’er hill and dale 
Peep.from mossy beds, 
And Epig*as* low and pale 
Raise their tiny heads. 
Now the sound of brook and stream 
Gliding through the vale, 
Lake and river silv’ry gleam 
In the moon-light pale— 
And the buzz of humming bee. 
All the sunny hours. 
Seeking from each shrub and tree 
For the sweetest flow’rs. 
Now the forest, long so drear, 
Dons new robes and gay— 
Carols sweet and soft we hear, 
Wood-lark’s merry lay— 
And the plow-boy, blithe and free. 
Up at early sun. 
Mingles in their joyous glee 
’Till his task is done. 
Joyfully we greet thee, Spring, 
Wreathing garlands fair, 
Zephyrs wafting on their wing 
Fragrance in the air— 
Wearied eyes will beam more bright 
Nature’s smiles to see. 
Hearts will bound with warm delight; 
All will welcome thee. 
Rochester, March 28, 1854. 
“Trailing Arbutus. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
SOCIAL RELATIONS. 
No sane man enjoying even tolerable oppor- 
tnnitics aud making a reasonably good use of 
them, will deny that he derives far greater 
benefits from society than he can possibly re¬ 
turn. The extremely small number, who, from 
disappointed ambition, from inability to recon¬ 
cile themselves with the almost endless seem¬ 
ing contradictions abounding in social life, or 
from any other cause, have been repelled from 
the companionship of men, and led to seclude 
themselves as hermits, furnish striking proof 
that society is the natural state of humanity; 
and we see that the vast majority will sooner 
yield a portion of what they may fancy their 
individual rights, than forego the advantages 
of association with their species. Nor do 
dweliers-apart, in renouncing the world, wholly 
relinquish the use of those appliances for men¬ 
tal gratification and physical comfort which 
are the fruits of associated industry, and reduce 
themselves to a dependence on their own un¬ 
aided resources for the answering of their 
wants. A moment’s 
AUNT JANE’S LECTURE. 
BY MRfj. S. C. HALL. 
“ Well,” exclaimed Geraldine, with an im¬ 
patient toss of her pretty head—“ Well, I was 
never before taxed with want of generosity; 1 
am sure I give away every thing I have in the 
world.” 
“ Excuse me—you do not” 
“ Indeed, aunt I give up every thing.” 
“Again, excuse me; there is one thing you 
never give up.” 
“ What aunty?” 
“ Your temper.” 
Geraldine pulled at the fingers of her gloves, 
one by one, and then tossed them on the table, 
while her cheeks flushed and her eyes grew 
bright but not with pleasure. 
“I am sure I give away all my money; is 
not that being generous?” 
“You give away the thing, of all others, you 
want least, and which it gives you the least 
trouble, to part with. All your wants and 
wishes are supplied to you, without money.” 
“ I give away my books and my toys.” 
“ They are constantly replaced by others— 
not at your own cost, but by the liberality of 
those whose love is, perhaps, injudicious.” 
“ I even give away my pets.” 
“ When you are tired of them.” 
Geraldine burst into tears. “I am sure,” 
she said, sobbing, “ I am sure, people seem to 
think they have done their duty when they 
give money; and I—gave—all—mine—yester¬ 
day—and uncle Richard—said — I was — so 
—good—I should — have — plenty — more— 
to-day.” 
“ However necessary money is to us ^Unob¬ 
served aunt Jane, gravely, “ I often consider 
giving it as but a small evidence of generosity, 
particularly when certain of having it replaced. 
Let us look at this matter steadily, and with a 
gentle yet inquiring spirit.” 
“ You gave a shilling to Dame Godfrey, the 
other morning; you did not want the shilling. 
Do you remember what she said?” 
“ Yes, aunt” 
“ She said, ‘ thank yon, my dear young lady; 
but, oh, how grateful I should be if you would 
read to me just one chapter in the New Testa¬ 
ment.’ ” 
“ I don’t like reading to old women,” pouted 
out Geraldine. 
“ Your generosity did not extend to the sac¬ 
rifice of doing what you disliked, but Mary 
Collier’s did.” 
“ Mary Collier,” repeated the little girl dis¬ 
dainfully; “ poor little Mary Collier! how can 
she be generous?” 
“ Mary Collier’s chest is weak, and heaves 
and pants when she reads aloud, and yet I 
often find her sitting beside Dame Godfrey’s 
bed, and doing—what you refused to do— 
though you can read and sing, without pant¬ 
ing. Your shilling gift robbed you of neither 
ease nor comfort; Mary Collier sacrificed both 
—that was generosity. And there is that poor, 
aged woman, Alice Grey; Alice is one of the 
most truly generous women I ever knew.” 
“Alice!” exclaimed Geraldine; “Why, 
Alice would not have had dinner at Christmas, 
but for vour kindness—how can she be gen¬ 
erous.” 
“There is one great gift, amongst many 
which God gives us at our birth, Geraldine, 
and which remaius with us from the cradle to 
the grave —our time. We work it or waste 
it—we sell it aud exchange it; but still it is our 
own—it is the only treasure the working man, 
or the working woman possesses; we have no 
right to squander or abuse it, or lead others to 
do so. Now, Alice lives by her time —mind 
you, she lives by it —so she understands and 
appreciates its value. If she leaves her daily 
labor, even for an hour, she knows that she is 
depriving herself of a quantity of food, or light, 
or fire, or abridging the size or quality of her 
poor dress, miserably scanty as it is; and yet 
Alice Grey gives that hour—aye, and many 
Roars—to*comfort the fatherless and the wid¬ 
ow; she works for others—she thinks for oth¬ 
various 
reflection will suffice to 
show how futile must be any attempt on the 
part of a disaffected member of the great 
brotherhood of man, to render himself abso¬ 
lutely independent of his kind, either in mate¬ 
rial or spiritual respects; for, without such aids 
as the progress of invention furnishes, he can 
neither feed nor clothe himself; and an entire 
discontinuance of his accustomed mental inter¬ 
course makes him a lone, miserable being in¬ 
deed. Thus, we see, a person withdrawing 
from society retains, to serve him in retirement,' 
many things for which he is indebted to the 
very society he abandons aud complacently 
imagines himself independent of. 
An organization that bestows so much on 
the individual, is, in return, entitled to his best 
exertions. The difficulty of maintaining right 
relations with the community in which one lives, 
cannot be admitted as a valid excuse for de¬ 
clining to co-operate with its members in any 
necessary or useful undertaking; nor can such 
refusal be justified by an earnest determination 
on the part of one standing aloof, to do his 
utmost in his individual capacity, toward ad¬ 
vancing the common good. Men sometimes 
persuade themselves that each person laboring- 
alone cau accomplish an equal amount of good 
with that he effects when acting in concert with 
others. The idea appears to me fallacious. In 
disjointed effort much labor is wasted, which, 
if combined, might be made available. If an 
immense stone requiring the united energies of 
ten men to displace it, encumber the highway, 
each of the ten may labor upon it siugly and 
never be able to move it a hair’s breadth; 
whereas, the whole number striving together, 
easily set it aside, though no one of them ex¬ 
pend more strength upon it than he did when 
toiling alone. 
A narrow, but by no means unusual inter¬ 
pretation of the term social, seems to forbid its' 
application to others than such as are fond of 
participating in those tea-drinking, dinner-eat- 
iug and other similar expedients for amusement 
which prevail so generally in fashionable life, 
and pass by the name of social, though they 
merit rather that of convivial entertainments. 
Accordingly, it not unfrequently happens that 
a person is regarded as solitary, when in fact 
he is eminently social. Those who pass for 
lovers of solitude, are many times people who 
feel most need of society, and as they do not 
find such as is congenial to them, among men, 
seek it in retirement within themselves, and 
perhaps in books. To this class belong such 
[Translated*froin the French for the Rural New-Yorker.] 
Horace is an enthusiastic genius. He thinks 
and acts in a way different from other men.— 
The eccentricity of his manners often affords 
subject of comment. Sometimes, his singular 
appearance, strange actions, anti peculiar views 
create emotions of surprise, but more frequent¬ 
ly the smile of derision and contempt His 
genius, though appearing brilliant to himself 
is but the wild, chimerical exuberance of a 
heated fancy. Yet he is not without influence. 
There are those who admire and follow him 
with blind veneration. His crude ideas seem 
to them refined sentiments, his incoherent vaga¬ 
ries as the expressions of wisdom. 
He retires to his bed at dawn of day, and 
arises at evening twilight The curtains of his 
chamber window are not withdrawn until night¬ 
fall. That he may be more fixed in thought, 
he frequently in the day time, reads by the 
light of the lamp. His mind becoming warm¬ 
ed up, and his imagination excited by study, he 
leaves his book to talk to himself and to pro¬ 
nounce words of trivial import He has been 
seen at Rome, in summer time, walking the 
whole night among the ruins of that once 
proud capital; or sitting among the tombs, has 
been heard to invoke the mighty dead of the 
past He loves the olden time, and often im¬ 
agines himself one of the distinguished person¬ 
ages of antiquity. He is also a man of the 
world, whose imagination is sprightly, and 
whose mind, prompt and fertile, is quick to per¬ 
ceive and able to understand. 
At one time hearing the Minister of State 
speak to his Sovereign in favor of some affair 
of minor importance, Horace, in transport of 
feeling writes, and in the name of the people 
applauds him for a commendable action he has 
not performed. If censured for his extrava- 
gant conduct, he willingly confesses his error. 
He speaks so plainly of his faults, that one 
with pleasure pardons his singular follies.— 
Sometimes he speaks with so much sense, fit¬ 
ness and appropriateness, that it is impossible 
to remiun indifferent to his exhortations, llis 
impassioned and resistless eloquence sways the 
minds of a thronging crowd. Aud those who 
were deriding his chimerical fancies, very often 
become his proselytes, and more enthusiastic 
than himself, disseminate liis sentiments and 
folly. A. J. K. 
Peter Henry Bruce, in his curious me¬ 
moirs, gives the form of a passport which, in 
the reign of Peter the Great, always before 
the coffin of a Russian was closed, was put be¬ 
tween the fingers of the corpse : 
“We, N. N., do certify, by these presents, 
that the bearer hereof hath always lived among 
us as became a good Christian, professing the 
Greek religion; and although he may have 
committed some sins, he hath confessed the 
same; whereupon he hath received absolution, 
and taken the communion for the remission of 
sins: That he hath honored God and his 
saints; that he hath not neglected his prayers; 
and hath fasted on the hours and days appoint¬ 
ed by the Church: That he hath always be¬ 
haved himself towards me, his Confessor, in 
such a manner that I have no reason to com¬ 
plain of him, or to refuse him the absolution 
of his sins. In' witness whereof, I have given 
him these testimonials, to the end that St. Pe¬ 
ter, upon sight of them, may not deny him the 
opening of the gate to eternal bliss !”—Southeys 
Doctor. 
PAUPERIS)! CAUSE!) BY INTEMPERANCE 
In the county of Baltimore, Md., out of 1134 
paupers received in one year, 10,19 were brought 
there by intemperance. In the county of 
Cumberland, Penn., of 50 paupers, 48 were 
made by intemperauce. The Superintendent 
of the N. Y. Alms-house believes that the es¬ 
tablishment would be tenantless but for ar¬ 
dent spirits. The whole number of inmates of 
the Alms-llouse at South-Boston, in 1843, was 
1273: of whom 927 are known to have been 
brought there by intemperance: a majority of 
the others being attributed to the same cause. 
The expense of supporting the paupers in the 
Alms-House at Philadelphia for one year was 
estimated at $130,000, aud the Superintendent 
testified, that he believed nine-tenths of it was 
to be attributed to the use of ardent spirits.— 
Ballot Box. 
Little Charities. —Little opportunities of 
doing good are neglected by many who are 
waiting to perform great acts of charity and 
beneficence. But few have both the will and 
the means for deeds of high benevolence, hence 
none should forget that the cup of cold water 
was commended and written in Heaven, while 
the rich man’s aims, though heralded abroad 
by the sounding trumpet, had its empty and 
short-lived tones as their only blazon. 
The Flattery of Appreciation. —The sym¬ 
pathizing spirit which appreciates whatever 
of good we possess—telling us so by its actions 
or even words—uses that delicate varnish of 
flattery which cannot soil the most fastidious 
self-respect; and a very different article in its 
effects and appearance from the coarse white¬ 
wash some people are ever scattering about 
them. 
The elder J ohn Adams once, when looking 
at the bust of Washington in Faneuil Hall, 
said, “ Washington was a great man; he knew 
how to hold his tongue; I never could.” This 
may be a lesson for some. 
