MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
rstfllintefftts. 
[ For the Rural New-Yorker.] 
I WISH THAT I WAS JENNIE. 
BY MUS. R. WKR8TKR LLOYD. 
I wish that I was Jk.nnik I 
For Jkn.vik' 8 eyes arc bright; 
Her cheeks arc like red roseo. 
Her brow is lily white ; 
And all about her shoulders, 
The soft brown ringlets twine; 
Oh 1 ma, I cannot help but wish 
That Jknnik’s charms were minel 
Then Jk.nnik has a rich papa, 
And pets, and playthings rare; 
A little pony of her own, 
And gayest clothes to wear. 
She has a crying dolly, 
And toy books without end; 
And then she has a hundred friends, 
That don't forget to send. 
But I am very ugly, 
My figure has no grace; 
My hair is red—my eyes are dull, 
And there’s freckle on my face. 
I have to wear a cheap print dress, 
And all the girls in town 
Know that you alter sister’s o’er, 
To make my Sunday gown. 
But Freddy did not know how well 
Wo loved her freckled face ; 
She did not guesH how welcome ’twaa 
At every time and place. 
She had not learned, a loving heart 
Its own rich harvest brought; 
And she was not by any means, 
As ugly as she thought. 
When Frkdakioa went one day 
To see her friend again, 
She found her lying on the bed 
And suffering with pain. 
And when she placed her trembling hand 
On Jknnik' 8 burning brow, 
She thought—“I’m sure I do not wish 
That I was Jennie now !” 
Then o'er her gentle childish heart, 
Quick thoughts went rushing by; 
She did not deem bow much they boro 
Of sound philosophy. 
Thoughts that her parents were as kind, 
Her step as light and free, 
Her dress as neat, her home as dear. 
As any girl’s could be. 
And thoughts that riches could not save 
From Huff’ring nnd distiess, 
Nor make one real friend the more, 
One pleasant thought the less. 
Amt Freddy learned a lesson then, 
A precious lesson 'tis, 
To be content—nor wish that she 
Were other than she is. 
Burlington, Ky., August, 1854. 
[Written for the Rural New-Yorker.] 
FINE FEELINGS. 
“ But, Father, he has fine feelings—possesses 
a heart with all that is noble and manly dwell¬ 
ing there.” 
“ Fine feelings, indeed!—a fine capital with 
which to commence life, with a family on his 
hands!— -fine feelings to feed and clothe my 
daughter with, and make her happy! So you 
would marry this man of fine feelings, instead 
of the wealthy and influential II. S.” 
“ Father, you may ridicule me if you like, 
but I choose one who possesses something be¬ 
side gold— seeks something beside gold, when 
he sues for my hand, and worships something 
beside,—a man who possesses a higher nature, 
higher aspirations, and who has a kind, sympa¬ 
thetic heart, which will vibrate in unison with 
my own.” 
“ () Judge! This Mr. G. has been filling 
your brain with his sill]', sickly sentimentality 
—all visionary, a youth-dream, an over-drawn 
fancy. Come, dear Kate, wake up and look 
at life as it is: remember it is no fairy road 
you are to travel—clear sunshine, eternal bird- 
music, soft green carpets, and flowery fragrance 
all the way—no such thing, but cloudy skies, 
discordant sounds, briars and thorns, and nox¬ 
ious vapors, intermingled in profusion, with 
now and then a sip of something you may im¬ 
agine neotariau.” 
“ I know but too well that life is a reality— 
that each moment brings with it joys and sor¬ 
rows, pleasures and responsibilities—that who 
would enjoy life here, must first know the true 
eud and aim of an earthly existence, then 
must act well and faithfully his or her part, fill 
the sphere appropriately theirs. Then what is 
life’s aim?—what the goal we all strive to 
reach?—what the crown we all seek to win? 
Is the Gold-God to bo ours? Should this be 
the shrine at which we bow? What am 1 to 
marry for? -*■ to marry a brute for the sake of 
the treasure, the perishable dust he is keeper 
of?—in other words, for the sake of 1 a living?’ 
—to throw these faculties of mind, God-given 
and sacred, this woman’s heart, with its affec¬ 
tions, pure desires and holy hopes, throw them 
all aside, smother every outburst of love’s 
flume, and siuk—where?” 
“ Why, really, Kate, you seem inspired, nnd 
yet you appear to have correct views of life. 
But, after all, does not R. possess some of these 
ideal qualifications of yours?” 
“lie is proverbially penurious, father. In- 
v tellectually, what is he? The highest aim of 
his life has been wealth — consequently his 
highest thoughts reach no higher thau his 
purse. A gourmand 1—devoid of every enno¬ 
bling thought, feasting and gloating on, wor¬ 
shiping and getting what satisfies him not — 
Gold. No, l have sought in vain to discover 
aught of a germ, from which, if cultured, 
might spring up a plant to choke even, in a j 
measure, his inordinate love of mammon; but 
alas, in vain — a stiff, heartless, soulless, eager 
money-grasper, money-worshiper.” 
“ And Mr. G.—a hero — a— a every thing, 
of surpassing beauty in form, feature, mind 1 
and manners—a perfect—what, Kate ?—have 
you words for such of his virtues? I suppose 
he is faultless?” • 
“Not at all. There arc few infallible.— 
There are few who become the real of our 
ideal in perfectness — few whose virtuous ac¬ 
tions, however fragrant and beautiful in color¬ 
ing, are not, rose-like, sustained by a stem cov¬ 
ered with thorns. Mr. G. is by no means 
faultless. He has won my affections. I be¬ 
lieve him worthy of them, for reasons, a few 
of which I have given. I believe him sincere 
in his professions—is not actuated by any mer¬ 
cenary motive, like It.—in short, loves me, noj. 
my property, woos me, not my wealth, and 
wins—both, with your approval, father.” 
“God bless you, Kate! You are a true 
woman. It is true we live, or should live, to 
be a benefit to our fellows — to be a “ North 
Star” by which others, less favored, may be 
blessed and guided from the slavery of igno¬ 
rance and sensuality, to the blissful and glori¬ 
ous fields, where 
—‘ still flows the stream of pearl 
Beneath the magic mountain : still the scent 
As of a thousand amaranthine wreaths, which lures 
AH life unto its sweetness, floats around 
Jlist-like, the shining hath where Luna laves, 
Or Sol, bright brother of that mooned maid, 
Triumphs in light—where 
The spiritual sun, 
The heavenly earth smaragdine, and the fire— 
Spirit of life, the live land still exist 
Immortally, internally, unseen:’ 
“ But in our higher gazings, we must not 
lose sight of our every-day duties — must not 
forget we sustain relations which cannot be 
overlooked, and that while our spiritual nature 
demands spiritual food, and our mental facul¬ 
ties require mental nutriment, still, our baser, 
groveling, earthly part clamors for our care— 
that our Creator placed us here for a purpose 
—fitted us to Labor. 
“ True, there are many kinds of labor, adapt¬ 
ed to each individual class, and while one la¬ 
bors to secure a desired end by one process, 
another will reach the same goal by an entire¬ 
ly different road. Their paths seem to diverge 
but finally center at the same point. Ali 
are seeking to secure happiness, but how dif¬ 
ferently they labor! By some the mental 
powers are entirely crushed, and the muscle 
and sinew perform their office. Others have 
the physical undeveloped, and revel in classic 
halls, and tread on classic ground,— while 
much the greater portion at this point in the 
world’s history, tax both muscle and mind, 
“ To gladden the hearthstone and lighten the heart.” 
“ The purely selfish man cannot appreciate 
these finer feelings. Cased in his utilitarian 
armor, he is proof against all the innovations 
of the beautiful in Nature or Art. No pure, 
peaceful, home enjoyments of a moral or in¬ 
tellectual character, no holy, heavenly joys 
awake a quicker pulsation. None of these are 
adequate to soften his rigidity. Not one of 
woman’s charms, however magical to others, 
can affect him, unless accompanied with—‘ the 
Dimes!’ 
“This is the conclusion of the whole mat¬ 
ter.” Charlie Chestnut. 
WHICH IS THE HAPPY MAN! 
We know a man in Michigan who lives on 
the interest of his money, and that is only $70 
per annum. He has, it is true, a small house 
with one room in it, three or four acres of land, 
and keeps a cow, a couple of pigs, and a few 
hens, yet he and liis wife always appear cheer¬ 
ful and contented, and preserve a respectable 
appearance on their $70 per annum. 
We know of a man in New York who ex¬ 
pends $25,000 per annum for his household ex¬ 
penses. lie pays for gas light more than the 
whole income of the Michigan man. He 
makes annual holiday presents to more than 
the whole amount of property of the Michi¬ 
gan man. It costs him a sura six times as 
large us the whole income of our philosopher 
to support a single waiter. 
We know them both very well, and we think 
our Michigan friend by far the happiest, health¬ 
iest aud most euviable man. They are both 
advanced in years. The cheapness of books 
and papers places abundance of rational enjoy¬ 
ment in the power of the countryman; an ac¬ 
cumulation of physical ills, and a necessity for 
intense activity, deprives the citizen of calm, 
quiet enjoyment and reflection. The former, in 
the probable course of events, will die of old 
age at ninety, the latter at seventy. Such is 
the distribution of happiness and wealth.— To¬ 
ledo Blade. 
Here is a beautiful sentiment from the pen 
of Coleridge. Nothing could be more elo¬ 
quent: 
“ Call not that man wretched who, whatever 
. else he suffers, as to pain inflicted or pleasure 
denied, has a child on whom he doats. Pov¬ 
erty may grind him to the dust; obscurity may 
’ cast its dark mantle over him; lie may be un- 
1 heeded by those among whom he dwells, and 
■ his face may be unknown by his neighbors: 
. even pain n ay rack his joints, and sleep flee 
from his pillow; but he has a gem with which 
lie would not part for wealth, defying compu¬ 
tation for fame tilling a world’s car, for the 
, sweetest sleep that ever fell on mortal’s eye.” 
MR. WILLIS AT IDLEWILD.—CONSUMPTION. 
Mr. Bryant, of the JY. Y. Evening Post' 
thus refers to the closing letter from Idlewild’ 
which appeared in the Home Journal of Au¬ 
gust 5 th: 
We have read, with deep emotion, the vale¬ 
dictory letter of Mr. Willis, from Idlewild.— 
Death, after all, with all the gilding from the 
sunlight beyond, is a dark cloud to pass 
through; and the last parting with those who 
have done much to brighten this side of 
the mysterious valley for us, as they step down 
into its shadows, is not easy. Mr. Willis is 
one of the most fascinating writers of theEng- 
lish language—and who, to-day, will remember 
anything of his productions but their excellen¬ 
ces? This letter will moisten eyes in widely- 
scattered homes, where the face and form of 
the author are unknown, but where his writings 
have beguiled many an hour of its weariness. 
It is like the loved music of a long familiar 
harp, whose chords we know are breaking. 
We copy the closing paragraphs of Mr. 
Willis’ letter: 
But consumption, mourned over as it is, 
seems to me a gentle untying of the knot of 
life, instead of the sudden and harsh tearing 
asunder of its thread by other diseases—a ten¬ 
derness in the dest^pying angel, as it were, 
which greatly softens for some, his inevitable 
errand to all. It is a decay with little or no 
pain, insensible almost in its progress, delayed, 
sometimes, year after year, in its more fatal ap¬ 
proaches. And it is not alone in its indulgent 
prolonging and deferring, that, consumption is 
like a blessing. The cords which it first loos¬ 
ens are the coarser ones, most confining to the 
mind. The weight of the material senses is 
gradually taken from the soul, with the light¬ 
ening of their food and the lessening of their 
strength. Probably, till he owns himself an 
invalid, no man has ever given the wings of his 
spirit room enough—few, if any, have thought 
to adjust the ministerings to body and soul so 
as to subdue the senses to their secondary 
place and play. With illness enough for this, 
and not enough to distress or weaken—with 
consumption, in other words, as most common¬ 
ly experienced—the mind becomes conscious 
of a wonderfully new freedom and predomi¬ 
nance. Things around alter their value. Es¬ 
timates of persons and pursuits strangely 
change. Nature seems as newly beautiful as 
if a film had fallen from the eyes. The purer 
affections, the simpler motives, the humbler 
and more secluded reliances for sympathy, are 
found to have been the closest linked with 
thoughts bolder and freer. Who has not won¬ 
dered at the cheerfulness of consumptive per¬ 
sons? It is because, with the seuses kept un¬ 
der by invalid treatment, there is no “depres¬ 
sion of spirits.” With careful regimen, and 
the system purified and disciplined, life, what 
there is of it, is in the most exhilarating bal¬ 
ance of its varied proportions. Death is not 
dreaded where there is, thus, such a conscious 
breaking through of the wings of another life, 
freer and higher. 
* * * * * * 
And here the Letters from Idlewild come to 
an end. The author has thus long—not too 
long he trusts—made the readers of the Home 
Journal guests at his home. He brought them 
here at first, because, confined to its seclusion 
himself, he felt that he might claim au invalid’s 
privilege to be kindly visited. The friendly in¬ 
terest and willingness to listen have been shown 
in many ways, and have been, it need scarce be 
said, most deeply gratifying. The readers of 
the Journal have rapidly increased, and are 
now many indeed; and if the author’s friend¬ 
ship in the world may be thus measured, he can 
well afford to care little for its fame. Jle as¬ 
sures these kind thousands that the memory of 
their sympathetic listenings will be tenderly 
cherished in his heart, though the gate of Idle- 
wild is here shut upon the pen that is their 
servant 
CONDUCTED BY A-E. 
GROWING OLD TOGETHER. 
You have promised that through life 
We shall journey heart united. 
Husband fond and faithful wife, 
And I trust the vow thus plighted 
Hand in hand, aud sido by side, 
Through life's storms and sunny weather, 
We will our own fortune bide, 
And at last grow old together. 
What if Time’s unsparing wing 
Of some pleasures has bereft us ? 
Let us not by murmuring 
Lose the many there are left us. 
What though youth and bloom depart, 
Swift as birds of lightest feather ? 
Why repine with feeble heart, 
Shall we not grow old together? 
Few, indeed, have been our years. 
Yet enough our hearts to bind, love; 
And to show how many tears 
In Life’s brightest cup we find, love 1 
Since in our united youth, 
We two sported on the heather, 
Dearest I it is meet in truth, 
Thai we should grow old together. 
THE OLD WIFE’S KISS. 
hopeless as that! Or, if it had hope, it was 
that which looks beyond coffins and charnel- 
houses, anti damp, dark tombs, to the joys of 
the home above. You would kiss the cold 
cheek of infancy;—there is poetry; it is the 
last rose-bud! Or the pallid cheek where 
beauty blushed;—there is romance there; for 
the faded flower is still beautiful! in childhood, 
the heart yields to the stroke of sorrow; but 
recoils again, elastic with faith, buoyant with 
hope. But here was no beauty, no poetry, nor 
romance. The heart of the old wife was like 
the weary swimmer, whose strength has often 
raised him above the stormy waves, but now 
exhausted, sinks amidst the surges. 
Why should the old love the old, or kiss the 
old unloving lips? Ah! why shouldn’t they? 
Does affection grow old? Does the true heart 
feel the infirmity of years? Does it grow cold 
when the step becomes unsteady, and the hands 
hang down? Who shall say that the heart of 
the old wife was not as young and warm as in 
those early and brighter days, when he wooed 
and won her? The temple of her earthly hope 
has fallen; and what was there left but for her 
to sit down in despondency, among its lonely 
ruins, and weep and die? Or, in the spirit of a 
better hope, await the dawning of another day, 
when a hand divine shall gather its scattered 
dust, and rebuild, for immortality, its broken 
walls. 
May the old wife’s kiss, that linked the liv¬ 
ing with the dead, be the token of a holier tie, 
that shall bind their spirits in that better land, 
where tears are wiped from all faces, and the 
The funeral services were ended, and as the where tears . are WI P. eLt trom a11 f 
voice of prayer ceased, tears were hastily wiped ^eir mourning are ended 
off from wet cheeks, and long-drawn sighs re- --- 
lieved suppressed and choking sobs, as the 'f lFE LOSS OF A WIFE. 
“mourners” prepared to “take leave of the _ 
corpse. In comDarison with the loss 
corpse. j N comparison with the loss of a wife, all 
It was an old man that lay there, robed for other bereavements arc trifling. The wife! she 
the grave. More than three-score years had w ho fills so large a space in the domestic heav- 
wmtened those locks, and furrowed that brow, en; s he who busied herself so unweariedly for 
and made those stifl limbs weary of life’s jour- the precious ones around her; bitter, bitter is 
ney, and all the more willing to lie down and the tear that falls upon her cold clay! You 
rest where weariness is no more suffered, and stand beside her coffin and think of the past, 
mhrmitics are no longer a burden. It seems an amber-colored pathway, where the 
the aged have but few to weep for them sun shone upon beautiful flowers, or the stars 
when they die. J lie most of those who would hung glittering overhead. Fain would the 
have mourned their loss, have gone to the grave S oul linger there. No thorns are remembered 
before them: harps that would have sighed sad S ave those your hands may unwillingly have 
harmonies are shattered and gone; and the few planted. Her noble, tender heart lies open to 
that remain are looking cradleward rather than your inmost sight. You think of her now as 
graveward, to life s opening, rather than to all gentleness, all beauty, all purity. But she 
Ides closing goal; are bound to, and living in j s dead! The dear head that laid upon your 
the generation rising, more than the generation bosom, rests in the still darkness, upon a pillow 
| departing. _ .of clay. The hands that have ministered so 
Youth and beauty have many admirers while untiringly, are folded, white and cold, beneath 
living, nave many mourners when dying. Many the gloomy portal. The heart whose every 
tearful ones bend oyer their coffined clay; many bea t measured au eternity of love, lies under 
sad hearts follow in their funeral train. But y 0 ur feet. The flowers she bent over with 
age has few admirers, few mourners. smiles, bend now above her in tears, shaking 
This was an old man, and the circle of mourn- the dew from petals that the verdure around 
ers was small. Two children, who had them- her may be kept green and beautiful, 
selves passed the middle of life, and who had There is no white arm over your shoulder;, 
children of their own to care for, and be cared no speaking face to look up into the eye of 
tor by them. Besides these, and a few friends love; no trembling lips to murmur, “ Oh, it is 
who had seen and visited him while sick, and so sad.” 
possibly had known him for a few years, there There is so strange a hush in every room, no 
were none others, to shed a tear, except his old light footstep passing around. No smile to 
wife. And of this small company, the old wife greet you at nightfall. And the old clock 
seemed to be the only heart mourner. It is ticks and strikes, aud ticks—it was such music 
respectful for friends to be sad for a few mo- when she could hear it! Now it seems a knell 
ments, till the service is performed and the on the hours through which you watched the 
heur-e is out ot sight. It is very proper and shadows of death gathering upon her sweet face, 
suitable for children who have outgrown the And everv day the c]ock repeats that old 
fervency and affections of youth, to shed tears st Man y another tale it telleth too-of 
when an aged parent says farewell, and lies bea ^ tiful WO rds and deeds that are registered 
down to quiet slumbers, home regrets, some above _ You feel-Oh, how often-that the 
recollection of the past, some transitory grief; canaot keep her .-Our Drawer. 
and the pangs are over. Not always so. But ® r 
often, how little true, genuine heart-sorrow -* 1 * ’ •- 
there is ! A Beautiful Extract. —There is no one 
The old wife arose with difficulty from her thing more lovely in this life, more full of the 
seat, and went to the coffin to look her last divinest courage, than when a young maiden, 
look—to take her last farewell. Through the from her past life, from her happy childhood, 
fast-falling tears she gazed long aud fondly when she rambled over every field aud moor 
down into that pale, unconscious face. What around her home; when a mother anticipated 
did she see there? Others saw nothing but the her wants aud soothed her little cares; when 
rigid features of the dead; she saw no more ! brothers aud sisters grew from merry playmates 
In every wrinkle of that brow, she read the to loving and trustful friends; from Christmas 
history of years. From youth to manhood, gatherings and wants; from summer festivals 
from manhood to old age; in joy and sorrow, in bower or garden; from the rooms sanctified 
in sickness and health—it was all there: when by the death of relatives; from the secure 
those children, who had now outgrown the back-grounds of her childhood, and girlhood, 
sympathies of childhood, were infants lying on and maidenhood, looks but into the dark and 
her bosom, and every year since then,— ihere unilluminated future, away from all that;, and 
it was! To others, those dull, mute monitors yet, unterrified, undaunted, leans her fair efrtrek 
were unintelligible: to her they were the alpha- upon her lover’s breast, and whispers, “Dear 
bet of the heart, familiar as household words ! heart! I cannot see, but I believe. The past 
And then the future! “What will become was beautiful, but the future I can trust—with 
of me? What shall I do now?” She did not thee!” 
say so,—she did not say anything,—but she felt -* • ♦ • *- 
it. The prospect ot the old wife is clouded. Eloquent but inarticulate. —A little while 
The home circle is broken, never to be reunit- ago we passed half an hour in a village grave- 
ed; the visions of the hearth-stone are seat- yard, reading the inscriptions on those tables 
tered forever. Up to that hour there was a 0 f t he law of “dust to dust” Upon one of 
home, to which the heart always turned with them, carved in marble, was a chain. Of the 
fondness. But that magic is sundered; the nine links composing it, one was broken. How 
keystone of that sacred arch has fallen, and now legible the characters! How intelligible the 
home is nowhere this side ot heaven! \\ hat language! In that family there were nine once 
shall the old wife do now? Go and live with _ a beautiful chain of affection, richer than 
her children? be a pensioner upon their kind- g 0 i dj bu t death unloosened one link, and the 
ness, where she may be more of a burden than bro ken jewelry of the hearth and the heart had 
a blessing; so, at least, she thinks. Or shall glittered with the dews distilled from loving 
she gather up the scattered fragments of that eyes. Broken jewelry! How many such trin- 
broken arch, make them her temple and her kets of memory and affection there are in the 
shrine; sit down in her chill solitude beside its homes of the world—souvenirs, whose posses- 
expiring fires, and die? AVhat shall she do a j ons should render humanity hallowed. Grief 
now'l makes sacred those upon whom its hand is laid. 
They gently crowded her away from the Joy may elevate, ambition glorify, but sorrow 
dead, and the undertaker came forward with alone can consecrate. 
the coffin-lid in hand. It is all right and prop- —-- . ♦ . - - 
er,-of course,-it must be done; but to the F 0 ne, life ha8 some blessing-some 
heart-mourner, it brings a kind of shudder,-a ^ is J ot mixed with bitterness. At ev- 
thnll ot agony,—as when the headsman comes * , , M • anmo r rt „ n *„; n 
THE WIND IN THE PINES. 
“Move! move!”cried the hoarse wind in the 
pine-tree tops. “ You stiff old pines are good 
enough in your way, only you are so immova¬ 
ble. It is my business to make all bend be¬ 
fore me; and there are poisonous weeds pro¬ 
tected by your shade that I want to blow down. 
So move! move!” 
“ Nay, winds,” said the pines, “ We shall not 
move for a noisy, hasty fellow like you. You 
may make the clouds and waves fly bfore you, 
or shake the boughs of trees more flexible 
than we are; and you are welcome to brush 
the dust from our heads; but you shall do 
nothing more. It is well that there is some¬ 
thing firm enough to withstand your leveling 
blasts. ’Lender blossoms aud useful shrubs 
and vines look to us for a shelter. Do not 
think that you will be permitted to destroy us 
and them just to overthrow a few vile weeds.” 
Then the wind grew angry and blew a fu¬ 
rious gust, which caused two or three of the 
tallest trees to full with a heavy crash. 
“They were decayed to the pith,” murmur¬ 
ed the standing pines. 
“ Keep straight while you are sound, then,” 
answered the wind as he went whistling away; 
“but when you get rotten-hearted you also 
will have to come down.”— Similitude. 
Sir and Lady Buiaver. —Bulwer, who is 
only 48 years old, (though he has been thirty 
years before the public,) is likely to become 
one of the next conservative ministry. His 
property in Hertfordshire—Knob worth, near 
Stevenage—is worth about £15,000 a year. 
11 is works add £2,000 a year to his rental, 
and his new publications—for he cannot help 
writing—may be calculated at about as muen 
more. If Lady Bulwer were defunct, 1 doubt 
not that Bulwer would obtain a peerage. Ou 
the terms in which they now stand, he would 
decline an honor to be shared with her. Lady 
Bulwer, whom I recollect as a lovely young 
creature some twenty-five years ago, has grad¬ 
ually been changed into a stout, coarse-minded 
woman, and certainly lias not improved the 
delicacy of her mind by familiar association 
with Mrs. Trollope, with whom she lives.— 
Letters from Europe. 
For every one, life lias some blessing—some 
cup that is not mixed with bitterness. At ev- 
v n T T > cry heart there is some fountain of pure waters, 
orward with his axe! I he undertaker stood ^ ftU men ut some time 0 r other taste their 
for a moment, with decent propriety, not wish- (aesgi Who is he that haa not found on 
ing to manifest rude haste, but evidently de- h; h f Hf some f ant rose - bu sh, scent- 
sirousot being as expeditious as possible. Just . ‘ ,, .. • ... 
as he was about to close the coffin, the old wife ° r 
turned back, aud stooping down, imprinted one " * 
long, last kiss upon tne cold lips of her dead When the Hindoo priest is about to baptize 
husband, then staggered to her seat, buried her an infant, he utters the following beautiful sen- 
face in her hands, and the closing coffin hid timent:—“ Little babe, thou enterest the world 
him from her sight forever! weeping, while all around thee smile; contrive 
That kiss! Fond token of affection, and of so to live that thou mayst depart in smiles while 
sorrow, and memory, and farewell! I have seen ul0mu “ice weep, 
many kiss their dead,—many such seals of love * ’ * ’ * ~ ' “ 
upon clay-cold lips,—but never did I see one Without innocence, beauty is unlovely ami 
60 purely sad, so simply heart-touching and quality contemptible. 
