MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
313 
UlrstellaiuRiis. 
EARLY TO BED, AND EARLY TO RISE. 
THE SUCCESSFUL BARRISTER. 
BY ELIZA COOK. 
“ Early to bed, and early to rise”— 
Aye, note it down in your brain, 
For it helpeth to make the foolish wise, 
And uproots tbe weds of pain. 
Ye who are walking on thorns of care, 
Who sigh for a softer bower, 
Try wliat can bo done in the morning sun. 
And make use of the early hour. 
Full many a day forever is lost, 
By delaying its work till to-morrow; 
The minutes of sloth have often cost 
j,'<ng years of bootless sorrow. 
Ami ye who would win the lasting wealth 
Of con'ent and peaceful power, 
Ye who would couple Labor and Health, 
Must begin tit the early hour. 
We make hold promises to Time, 
Yet, aliis! too often break them; 
We mock at tlm wings of the King of kings, 
And think we can overtake them. 
But why loiter away the prime of the day, 
Knowing that clouds may lower? 
Is it not safer to make life’s hay 
In the beam of the early hour? 
Nature herself ever shows her best 
Of gems to the gaze of the lark, 
When the spangles of light on tlio earth’s green breast 
Put out tbe stars of the dark. 
If we love the purest pearl of the dew, 
And the rich breath of the (lower. 
If our spirits would greet the fresh and the sweet. 
Go forth in the early hour. 
Oh. pleasure and rest are more easily found 
When we start through Morning's gate. 
To sum up our figures, or plow up our ground. 
And weave out the threads of fate. 
The eye looketh bright, and the heart keepethlight. 
And man holdetli the conqueror's power. 
When, ready and bravo, he chains Time as his slave, 
By the help of the early hour. 
MARRIED BY GAS-LIGHT. 
“I have been to a wedding this afternoon,” 
remarked a friend. “ Oh, it was a splendid af¬ 
fair! the bride was gloriously attired, and ap¬ 
peared so magnificent in the gas-light”- 
“ In the gas-light! I thought you said you 
went to the wedding this afternoon —this 
bright, sunny and cloudless day; and now you 
say, * the bride appeared so magnificent in the 
gas-1 i oh t?’ ” 
“ Yes, in the gas-light; the shutters were 
till closed, and the shades down. The wed¬ 
ding party assembled in the elegantly-furnished 
parlors all lighted by gas and I tell you it was 
a spectacle worth seeiug. It’s the fashion in 
New York to be married by gas-light, and 
why should it not be the fashion here? 'Che 
only drawback to enjoyment was the intensity 
of the heat; not a breath of air was stirring 
in t he room, and the gas-burners would give 
out heat as well as light. It is fashionable to 
have the gas-light, and, of course,as light and 
heat are inseparable, it is fashionable ex neces¬ 
sitate rei, to have the heat also. Let rude 
and clownish countrymen perform the sacred 
and solemn nuptial ceremony, by the vulgar 
light of the sun! let their weddings be in the 
rude and simple church dedicated to the ser¬ 
vice of the Most High: or, what is still more 
plebian, let the vow be uttered under the 
broad canopy of the deep-blue sky; we can do 
better, and have our weddings in splendidly- 
furnished parlors, shut up from the rude gaze 
of tlie outside multitude, and too exclusive 
even for the presence of the god of day. It. 
is a much more brilliant and recherche way of 
doing the thing, and it hides any defects of 
dress, complexion or person on the part of 
the bride. Besides, anybody can be married 
by sun-light; but it is only uppertendom that 
can a fiord elegant parlors all lit up by gas.” 
Seriously, this new-fashioned way of closing 
parlors in the daytime for the sake of perform¬ 
ing a wcdd’ng ceremony by artificial lights, is, 
to say the least of it, a gaseous affair. It is 
degrading one of the most solemn and sacred 
ceremonies instituted by the Deity for the well¬ 
being of the human race, into a theatrical 
show. It is transforming men and women 
about to assume responsibilities before high 
heaven that ought, if they do not, to inspire 
them with reverential thoughts and serious re¬ 
flections, into buffoons and actors on a slagej 
It tends to nourish false pretensions and snob¬ 
bishness, and engenders feelings of superiority 
above the mass of men, based on adventitious 
circumstances, and consequently false. All 
men, even in cities, do not have gas in their 
houses, and consequently all cannot bo mar¬ 
ried by gas-light; but, thank God! that defi¬ 
ciency does not interdict the ceremony in the 
first instance, nor give cause for a divorce a 
vinculo matrimonii afterwards! 
Marrying by gas-light may be the fashion in 
the gay salons of Paris, and servile imitators 
in New York may do the like; but that is no 
endorsement of its taste or propriety, any more 
than gigantic failures, forgeries, issuing fraudu¬ 
lent stock to the amount of millions, and there¬ 
by cheating honest holders out of their means, 
sanction the fraud. The money thus acquired 
may furnish costly saloons and the gas where¬ 
by the lawn-sleeved priest may see to read a 
marriage ceremony in the daytime, independ¬ 
ent of any obligation to the sun; but the tie 
will lie not a whit more sacredly observed, nor 
any more likely to result felicitously, than if 
Apollo lit the nuptial torch with his Raining 
wheel. 
According to the Paris correspondent of 
the Atlas, a young English barrister had suc¬ 
ceeded in marrying Mdlle. R-. the wealthi¬ 
est heiress in Paris, and connected with one of 
the highest families. 'Flic young lady was 
known to possess an undisguised weakness 
fora well-dressed man, and by loudly express¬ 
ing this opinion, had been of more service to 
the tailors of Paris within the last year than 
Count d’Orsay in double the space of time. 
The barrister had many rivals, but the most 
formidable was a gentleman acknowledged to 
be the most approved dandy in Paris. The 
lady selected those two to decide from, and in¬ 
vited them both to her chateau. The French¬ 
man declared to his friends that he meant to 
cut the matter short at once, by so outshining 
the Englishman by his dress, that the latter 
would retire from the field, crushed to atoms 
by the superior skill he was determined to 
manifest on the occasion. The Englishman 
said nothing, made no boast, but accepted the 
invitation, and, together by the same train, the 
two rivals left Paris for the seat of war. 
It so happened that the French dandy had 
furnished himself with a regular trousseau for 
the occasion at the great English tailor's, in 
the Rue du Beider, and the English tailor, out 
of sheer compatriotism, had told Mr. 11- 
of what it was composed. A sudden idea 
(lashed across the brain of the barrister. 1 iis 
servant, one of the sanctified hypocitical roue 
valets for whom London was always famous, 
is something about the height and size of the 
French pretendu. Mr. 11- immediately 
ordered for this ally the exact counterpart of 
every suit already ordered by the Marquis de 
la II-. The first day, at dinner, the poor 
young marquis was rather disconcerted, when, 
upon entering the dining room, his glance 
alighted upon the very counterpart of himself, 
standing stiff and self-centred behind the Eng¬ 
lishman’s chair; and he looked angrily at his 
rival to see if any insult was intended, but the 
Englishman was too intent upon making h’im- 
selt' agreeable to the lady to notice his ruffled 
temper. The second day the same scene was 
enacted, although our hero had completely 
changed even the style of his whole tournure; 
and again was the same ill-humor displayed 
during the whole dinner, while Mr. I!-was 
profiting by the silence of his witty rival. The 
third and fourth repetitions were too ridicu¬ 
lous. The young marquis, too clever, and too 
much the man of the world not to feel the 
absurdity of his position, prudently withdrew. 
WHEN YOU SHOULD TAKE YOUR HAT. 
Young man. a word. We want to tell you 
when you should take your hat and be off.— 
And mind what we offer. It is: 
When you are asked to “take a drink.” 
When you find out that you are courting an 
extravagant or slovenly girl. 
When you find yourself in doubtful com¬ 
pany. 
When you discover that your expenses run 
ahead of your income. 
When you are abusing the confidence of 
your friends. 
When you think that you are a great deal 
wiser than older and more experienced people 
than yourself. 
When you feel like getting trusted for a 
suit of clothes, because you haven’t the money 
to pay for tliem. 
When you “ wait upon ” a lady just for the 
“ fun of it.” 
When you don’t perform your duty, your 
whole duty and nothing but your duty. 
FACTS ABOUT FRIDAY. 
From time immemorial, Friday has been 
frowned upon as a day of ill omen. And 
though this prejudice is less prevalent now than 
it has been of yore, when superstition had gen¬ 
eral sway, yet there are many, even in this 
matter-of-fact age of ours, who would hesitate, 
on a day so inauspicious, to begin an underta¬ 
king of momentous import. And bow many 
brave mariners, whose hearts, unquailed, could 
meet the wildest fury of their ocean home, 
would blanch to even bend their sails on Fri¬ 
day. But to show with how much reason this 
feeling is indulged, let us examine the follow¬ 
ing important facts in connection with our own 
settlement and greatness as a nation, and we 
will see how little cause we Americans have to 
dread the fatal day. 
On Friday, August 31, 1492, Christopher 
Columbus sailed ou his great voyage of discov¬ 
ery. 
On Friday, Oct. 12th, 1492, he first discov¬ 
ered land. 
On Friday, Jan. 4th, 1493, he sailed on his 
leturn to Spain, which, if he had not reached 
in safety, the happy result would never have 
been known, which led to the settlement of 
this vast continent. 
On Friday, March loth, 1493, he arrived at 
Falas in safety. 
On Friday, Nov. 22d, 1493, he arrived at 
Hispaniola on his second voyage to America. 
On Friday, June 13th, 1494, he, though un¬ 
known to himself, discovered the continent of 
America. 
On Friday, March Gth, 1496, Henry YII of 
England, gave to John Cabot his commission 
which led to the discovery of North America. 
This is the first American State paper in 
England. 
On Friday, Sept. 7th, 1565, Melendez found¬ 
ed St. Augustine, the oldest settlement in the 
United States by more than forty years. 
On Friday, Nov. 10th, 1620, the May Flow¬ 
er, with the Pilgrims, made the harbor of 
Provincetown. And on the same day they 
signed that august compact, the forerunner of 
our present glorious Constitution. 
On Friday, Dec. 22d, 1620, the Pilgrims 
made their final landing at Plymouth Rock. 
On Friday, Feb. 22d, George Washington, 
the Father of American Freedom, was born. 
On Friday, Jure Gth, Bunker Hill was srized 
and fortified. 
On Friday, Oct, 7th, 1777, the surrender of 
Saratoga was made, which had such power and 
influence in inducing France to declare for our 
cause. 
Ou Friday, Sept. 22d, 1780, the treason of 
Arnold was laid bare, which saved us from de¬ 
struction. 
On Friday, Oct. 19th, 1781, the surrender at 
Yorktown, the crowning glory of the American 
arms, occurred. 
On Friday, July 7th, 1796, the motion in 
Congress was made by John Adams, seconded 
by Richard Henry Lee, that the United Colo¬ 
nies were, and of right ought to be, free and 
independent. 
Thus, by numerous example?, we see that, 
however it may be with other nations, Ameri¬ 
cans need never dread to begin ou Friday any 
undei taking, however momentuous it may be. 
— ISchoolmale. 
THE REAL RAILWAY KING. 
MEN OF AMERICA. 
Tiie greatest man, “take him all in all,” of 
the bust hundred years, was General George 
Washington—an American. 
The greatest Doctor of Divinity was Jona¬ 
than Edwards—an American. 
The greatest philosopher was Benjamin 
Franklin—an American. 
The greatest of living sculptors is Hiram 
Powers—an American. 
The greatest of living historians is Wm. H. 
Pre.-co t—an American. 
The greatest ornithologist was John James 
Audubon—an American. 
There has been no English writer of the 
present age, whose words have boeu marked 
with more humor, more refinement, or more 
grace, than those of Washington Irving—an 
American. 
’Phe greatest lexicographer since the time of 
Johnson, was Noah Webster—an American. 
The inventors, whose works have been pro¬ 
ductive of the greatest amount of benefit to 
mankind in the last century, were Godfrey, 
Finch, Fulton and Whitney—all Americans. 
GEMS OF THOUGHT. 
It is only great souls that know how much 
glory there is in being good. 
There are some that live without any design 
at all, and pass in the world like straws on a 
river; they do not go but are carried. 
The footprint of the savage traced in the 
sand is sufficient to attest the presence of 
man to the atheist who will not recognise God, 
whose hand is impressed upon the universe. 
Honor, like the shadow, follows those who 
flee from it, but flees from those who pur¬ 
sue it. 
Honesty obliges us to make restitution, not 
only of that which comes to us by our own 
faults, but of that which comes to us by the 
mistake of others. Though we get it by 
oversight, if we keep it when the oversight is 
discovered, it is kept by deceit. 
Nothing can excuse a want of charity to a 
fellow creature in distress, lie is poor, per¬ 
haps, through his own folly or that of his an¬ 
cestors; and we are rich, perhaps, through our 
own roguery or that of our ancestors. 
After the “sting of folly” has made men 
wise, they find it hard to conceive that others 
can be as foolish as they have been. 
The London Times makes the following re¬ 
marks, on the erection in the Great Hall at 
Euston Square terminus, of a statue to George 
Stephenson:—“ In early life a collier, working 
for his daily bread in the bowels of the earth, 
he mended watches in his leisure hours, that 
his son might have the blessings of education. 
While his time as a mechanical aud civil engi¬ 
neer was still in its infancy, he elaborated ex¬ 
perimentally the same result as to the safety 
lamp which Sir Humphrey Davy leached by 
the process of philosophic induction. The 
damways of the coal mines, and the rude forms 
of the first locomotive engines grew under the 
strokes of his vigorous intellect into a mighty 
system, which has already exercised an incal¬ 
culable influence upon industry aud civilization. 
That one who, when a boy, was a * harrier ’ 
in a coal pit, should, by the force of his native 
genius, rise to a position such as the statue in 
the Hall at Euston station commemorates, may 
well be regarded as a proof that the days of 
romance are not yet over, nor the giants of an 
older world without their types in modern 
times. Perhaps it is also to be viewed as a 
characteristic of the age, that the fame of such 
a man is so quietly left to the good keeping of 
the good works which he has achieved. The 
traveler hastening on his way should pause in 
Euston station, to contemplate the masculine 
form and massive, energetic features of him 
who, by combining the blast pipe with the tu¬ 
bular boiler, first endowed the locomotive with 
its tremendous speed—who, during his busy 
manhood, superintended the construction of 
more than 2,500 miles of railway—throughout 
every thing connected with our first iron high¬ 
ways—and who engineered lines extending in 
unbroken series from London to Edinburgh.” 
CONDUCTED BY A-E. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New- Yorker.] 
NEVER FEAR. 
BY MRS. JENNY A. STONE. 
Time must cast a softened shadow 
ver girlhood’s laughing brow, 
And perchance tliat shade is stealing 
O’er thy loved one even now. 
I have glanced through coming years 
Bright with hopes and dark with fears. 
In life's sky a cloud of sadness 
Mingles with my spirit's gladness. 
But the heart is changeless, still 
All thine own through good and ill. 
Is it gone, the playful fondness 
Which thy weary heart beguiled ? 
Banish every thought of changing, 
I will be once more a child. 
We will dream the olden dreams, 
Life is brighter than it seems. 
Talk as in the days gone by 
And my soul shall make reply, 
But while thus our fancies range 
Deem not that my love may change. 
There are blossoms all around us, 
Waving plumes on all the trees, 
And amid their glorious beauty 
Softly floats the perfumed breeze. 
Oh, it would be hard to die 
With this joy-fraught vision nigh. 
Look where last year’s leaves are lying, 
Emblems of the dead and dying, 
Must we wither e’en as they ? 
Tell me, will our hearts decay ? 
Scarce one year we’ve passed together, 
O, that we might never part 1 
Time will change the form thou lovest. 
Dost thou fear ’twill change the hear t ? 
And though many clouds may stray 
O’er the sunshine of our way. 
Think not that m3- heart grows colder 
As my life is waxing older. 
Speak no more of change to me. 
Never fear,—it cannot be. 
[Written for the Rural New-Yorker.] 
TWILIGHT MU SINGS. 
A Problem in Trade. —Suppose a large es¬ 
tablishment with two or three partners, occu¬ 
pying a store in a business street at $10,000 a 
year rent, and paying at the rate of 1(«Y2 per 
cent, a month for their floating capital. Then 
suppose that each of the partners has a mag¬ 
nificent mansion on a fashionable avenue, a 
duck of a wife who costs him not over $2,000 
a year in pin money and watering-places, with 
a family of young ladies just “ out,” and fast 
young gentlemen very fond of billiards and 
pretty actresses. Now, these facts being giv- 
en, with the general understanding that com¬ 
petition and an over supply in the market may 
reduce the profits on sales to an average of 
8@10 per cent,—the problem is, to find out 
how long it would take this suppositious house 
to become millionaires. 
There is scarce any extravagance so singu¬ 
lar as that of wanting a precedent. But cus¬ 
tom, without reason, is no better than an an¬ 
cient error.— Collier. 
“The tender twilight, with a crimson cheek, 
Leans on the breast of Evening. 
How tenderly the trernbl ng light yet plays 
On the far-waving forest! Day’s last blush 
Still lingers on the billowy waste of leaves 
With strange beauty—like the yellow flush 
Which haunts the ocean when the day is gone.” 
Slowly, yet beautifully, the “ glorious orb 
of light,” clothed with all his majesty and 
grandeur, is fading behind the western hills, 
tinging the verdant foliage of the forest and 
the flowery landscape with his golden hue, and 
shedding a genial influence over all the works 
of nature. The last, lingering rays of his 
mellow light have already taken their depart¬ 
ure, and the deep gold of sunset, that glows 
with ineffable beauty as it lingers around his 
shining couch, too pure and ethereal for earth, 
is fading, and the dusky shades of evening steal 
softly o'er the weary world, drawing around us 
almost insensibly the beautiful twilight hour, 
with all its subduing influences, and breathing 
o’er the mind the hallowed stillness of repose. 
The falling dews distil their fragrant sweetness 
on the evening air, and breathe their cod, in¬ 
vigorating power o’er the wasted energies of 
exhausted nature, and every plant and shrub 
and flower raises its drooping head to revel in 
the welcome dew-drop, or sport with the eve¬ 
ning gales. 
The little songsters, that have all the live¬ 
long day enlivened the fields and groves with 
their cheerful music, and sang for us their loud¬ 
est and sweetest songs, have ceased their 
warbling and gone to rest in their native bow¬ 
ers, and the noisy hum of the busy bee is still. 
The weary laborer, burdened with the toils and 
heat of the day, is slowly wending his home¬ 
ward path—the dewy breezes sporting with 
his locks, and h s bronzed countenance glow¬ 
ing with the last crimson blush of evening.— 
The music of nature is hushed in the calm se¬ 
renity of the twilight hour,—the busy hum of 
labor is still, and silence reigns, broken only, 
perhaps, by the low murmur of the distaut 
stream, meandering through the flowery vale, 
or the plaintive song of the sweet whippoor¬ 
will stealing over the landscape from the dis¬ 
tant grove, on the still air of evening, with 
strange beauty, then dying away ou the ear in 
tones of unearthly sweetness. 
How delightful! when the day is gone, and 
the shadows of twilight hang sweetly over the 
earth, to wander in the beautiful fields and 
bowers, and breathe the cool air of evening, 
laden with its balmy fragrance and sweet per¬ 
fume, or gaze with delight on the broad blue 
dome of heaven, and trace the twinkling stars 
as one after another appears to shed its soft 
light on the lovely scene, and give new beau¬ 
ties to the enchantment of the hour. 
What a beautiful hour for retrospection !— 
the mind wanders back over the lapse of years, 
on memory’s downy wings, to the scenes of 
other days, and faithfully recalls the treasured 
records of the past, iu all the freshness and 
vivacity of youth. How vividly are pictured 
iu the morning the sportive scenes of child¬ 
hood—those happy days of pure enjoyment— 
too bright, aud too beautiful, long to last, 
when in our innocent glee we have otten ram¬ 
bled over the hills and meadows to gather the 
first flowers of spring, and weave them in a 
garland of innocence and beauty, or breathe 
their lovely odors dispensed on the evening 
'gale, and the balmy fragrance of the new 
mown hay, or sported, for hours together, in 
the grove, 
“ Where the stream ripples forth through the vale,” 
and listened with innocent delight to the merry 
tones of its gentle flow, as merrily it danced 
along on its winding way through the flowery 
vale, till its silvery echoes grew fainter and 
fainter, and then died away in the distance ; 
then weary and exhausted we have laid our¬ 
selves down on its mossy banks and fallen 
asleep—and, Oh ! such sweet dreams of the 
future ! Alas ! too bright and too beautiful 
to be realized. Thus we slumbered on the 
damp bosom of the earth, while the woodland 
birds warbled their sweetest carols above our 
heads, and the gentle breeze, laden with the 
lovely odors of spring, breathed over us their 
silent, invigorating power, and long and sweet¬ 
ly we slept. Oh, those were happy hours ! — 
so pure and innocent! —and would they could 
return again—once more give back their holy 
charms ; but no, they are gone, and gone for¬ 
ever. No effort of the imagination can reani¬ 
mate those departed joys. Never more shall 
we mingle again in those joyful scenes with 
the buoyant hopes of childhood, nor join with 
the same delight in the innocent glee of that 
well-remembered group of playmates, 
“ Whose artless voices echoed o’er the lea, 
Or rang out in the stillnc-ss of the forest 
W ith a strange beauty,” 
and even now we can almost hear the same 
merry laugh resounding on the still air of eve¬ 
ning, though its accents have long since died 
away. But the scene has changed—that mer¬ 
ry group has separated, never, never to meet 
again as children. Some have grown to the 
strength of maturity and the vigor of age ; 
others, too frail and delicate for the tumults of 
life—too pure and heavenly for the trials and 
sorrows of earth have faded like the last flow¬ 
ers of summer, before the chilling blasts of 
autumn, and peacefully they sleep in the lonely 
grave, where the graceful willow droops ten¬ 
derly over their moldering forms, as if mourn¬ 
ing their brief career ; or repose in mournful 
beauty 
“ Neath the chestnut tree, where the wild flowers bloom. 
And the stream ripples forth through the vale, 
Where the wild birds warble their songs in spring,” 
and the tall, majestic maple easts its broad, 
deep shadow over the verdant tomb,—where 
the wild flowers of summer bloom iu rich pro¬ 
fusion and shed their fragrant sweetness over 
the ashes of the early dead. Peace to their 
hallowed memory, and undisturbed be their 
last repose. Let the dews of heaven fall soft¬ 
ly around the consecrated spot, and waste their 
sweetness on the evening breeze. 
What an hour is this for holy thoughts !— 
Retired from the busy scenes of life, the soul 
can commune with its Maker, God, and hold 
sweet converse with the holy angels that float 
in ethereal purity through “ trackless fields of 
light,” mingling their voices in one eternal 
song of praise, of unearthly sweetness, and 
bloom forever in perpetual youth, beside the 
tree of life, in heaven’s unfading bowers. 
But the twilight hour is fading,—its shadows 
are deepening in the landscape, and 
“ Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne 
In rayless majesty, now stretches forth 
Her leaden sceptre o’er a slumbering world,” 
while the angel Sleep goes forth on his errand 
of mercy to a weary world: the toilsome rou¬ 
tine of business has ceased, the hurried tread 
of busy feet is still, and all is hushed in un¬ 
breathing repose—the weary forget their toils, 
the mourning their sorrows, and the poor their 
privations, and long and sweetly they sleep 
while guardian angels keep their wonted vigils 
around their sweet repose, and preserve them 
through the dangers of the night. 
Oh! who does not love the twilight hour?— 
so pure ami ethereal, where the crimson flow of 
sunset burns beautifully in the summer sky, and 
flings back its soft radiance o’er the dark green 
“ waste of leaves,” or fringes the fleecy clouds 
with its golden tints, and day’s last blush blooms 
brightly ori * he cheek,—where the pure incense 
of devotion fills the air with its heavenly odors, 
and the soft gales of evening, redolent with 
beauty, whisper their low strains over the 
chords of the heart, 
“ In accents milder than ASolian lays.” 
Southport, N. Y. D. B. A. 
Oo-opkration of tiie Wife. —No man ever 
prospered in this world without the co-opera- 
tiou of his wife. If she unites in mutual endea¬ 
vors with an endearing smile, with what confi¬ 
dence will he resort to his merchandize or his 
farm, fly over lands, sail upon seas, meet difficul¬ 
ty and encounter danger, if he knows that he is 
not spending his strength in vain ; but that his 
labor will be rewarded by the sweets of home. 
Solicitude and disappointment enter the histo¬ 
ry of every man’s iite, and he is but half pro¬ 
vided for his voyage who finds but an associate 
for happy hours, while for his months of dark¬ 
ness and distress no sympathizing partuer is 
prepared. 
We love to see a woman treading the high 
and holy path of duty, unblinded by sunshine, 
unscared by storm. There are hundreds who 
do so, from the cradle to the grave—heroines 
of endurance, of whom the world has never 
heard, but whose names will be bright hereaf¬ 
ter, even beside the brightest angels. 
