DAYS WITHOUT NIGHTS. 
THE INDIAN SUMMER. 
There is a time, just ere the frost 
Prepares to pave old winter's way, 
When Autumn, in a reverie lost, 
The mellow daytime dreams away; 
When Summer comes in musing mind. 
To gaze once more on hill and dell— 
To mark how many sheaves they hind, 
And see if all is ripened well. 
With balmy breath she whispers low— 
The dying flowers look up and give 
Their sweetest incense ere they go, 
For her who made their beauties live. 
She enters ’neath the woodland shade, 
Herzephyrs lift the linger leaf, 
And bear it gently where are laid 
The loved and lost ones of its grief. 
At last, old Autumn, rising, lakes 
Again his sceptre and his throne, 
With boisterous hands the trees he shakes, 
Intent on gathering all his own. 
Sweet summer, sighing, flies the plain, 
And waiting Winter, gaunt and grim, 
Sees miser Autumn hoard his grain, 
And smiles te think it’s all for him. 
[Written for the Rural New-Yorker.] 
PROMISE. 
The tantalizing inequality between human 
aims and attainments — between the magnifi¬ 
cent undertakings, and the comparatively poor 
results that mark the progress of the intellect 
in its struggles to overcome and subject the 
forces of the universe, and possess itself of all 
knowledge — the but partial successes that re¬ 
ward the labors of the earnest striver, leaving 
always something more and higher to be de¬ 
sired — the impatient longing, and the slow, 
unsatisfactory answer — the immense gulf be¬ 
tween aspiration and acquisition — the eager, 
subtle spirit and the cumbering flesh — poetic 
dreams and prosaic realities, are but different 
statements of expressions of the single fact of 
the wide diversity between human promise and 
lulfilment; promise not always standing for 
high purpose, resolution or endeavor, because 
mortals often fail to recognize the loftiest aims 
as well as their own capabilities; perhaps are 
never fully aware of the latter; and, however 
great their wish, men do not undertake what 
they have no hope of being able to accomplish; 
but ever, even where through life no “extra¬ 
ordinary, generous seeking” manifests itself, 
represented by the something that awakens in 
fond parents the expectation of great future 
excellence in their children, reveals to partial 
friends a richness of endowment and possibility 
in their favorites, equal to the most exacting 
demands, and inexaustible by a life of the 
greatest social and intellectual activity, and, in 
short, requires of each inhabitant of the earth 
that he justify his existence by proving that he 
is called to some work no other can perform 
so well as himself, and that to the extent of his 
means and opportunities, he leave the world 
the better for his having lived in it. 
Man’s whole life is an assertion of self- 
importance. The coming of each individual 
into the community supposes our need of him, 
and involves an engagement on his part to 
satisfy that need. The advent of the teacher 
is a plain declaration that the juveniles of the 
neighborhood are wanting in orthograpy and 
arithmetic, and that he is able to supply that 
deficiency; the physician excuses his coming 
on the ground that we are liable to be sick> 
and must have medicine; the blacksmith pre¬ 
sumes we will be better accommodated by a 
shop at our door, than by resorting to the next 
village for such wares as he offers; indeed, 
every settler in the town, whether farmer, arti- 
zan, or professional man, virtually promises to 
enrich the society of which he is to become a 
member, and to make the connection he pro¬ 
fesses to establish more advantageous to others 
than to himself; (wisdom, foreseeing men’s 
horror of poverty, warns the adventurer not to 
seek his fellows mendicant,) otherwise he comes 
as an intruder, and has no right to an estab¬ 
lishment, and any claim he may make thereto 
will be vigorously disputed. This apparently 
delicate assumption of the society’s insufficiency 
gives no offense, (probably is scarcely ever 
recognized, because the unspoken thought, 
fullest of meaning, is least understood,) but is 
cheerfully, though unconsciously, acknowledged 
so long as the relations of the new resident 
with his neighbors or patrons are such that the 
latter, instituting a comparison between servi¬ 
ces received and compensation rendered, do 
not find a balance in favor of the late comer; 
but if, after a time, it appear that he sought 
them out of his own need — if, on trial, he 
prove incompetent and another man than, by 
engaging to perform a certain work, he recom¬ 
mended himself, and one for whom they have 
no use, they, perhaps silently, but emphatically, 
apprize him of their judgment, and he stands j 
discharged — not wanted — and cun with diffi¬ 
culty remain in the settlement a day after such 
a decision. Only the beggar approaches, 
pleading his own necessities, and invoking a 
blessing oil the bestower of alms; but a pro¬ 
posal on his part to take up a permanent resi¬ 
dence among those who are good enough to 
help him on his waif, is treated with utter de¬ 
rision; a manifest determination to do so, sug¬ 
gests an early application to the proper au¬ 
thorities for his removal; and his departure is 
hailed as a joyful deliverance. 
Every genuine act, every true expression of 
opinion, whether gratuitous or otherwise, is 
equivalent to a fresh enlistment in the service 
of the principle it concerns; and commands re¬ 
spect and confidence in proportion to the 
habitual constancy and disinterestedness of the 
person making the engagement. Thus, the 
antecedent life is the real promise. When a 
man has earned a reputation for single-minded¬ 
ness and fidelity, where he professes devotion, 
we can easily believe him sincere if he announce 
a change of sentiment, and have no fear that 
he will be less faithful to the new light than 
he has been to the old. There is no need of 
clenched fists or flushed faces to give emphasis 
to a statement of views. The would-be-legis¬ 
lator, who calls on the voters of his district 
with expressions of intense attachment to the 
principle of self-government, and to the ideas 
underlying certain reform movements, provokes 
the inquiry whether his relations as a private 
individual, show that he is desirous every other 
person shall enjoy equal freedom with that he 
demands for himself; the answer to which 
settles the question as to whether he is at heart 
a disciple of Democracy or of Tyranny; and 
so of other principles or measures on which he 
may think proper to define himself. Yery 
often, an eye left behind to catch the after- 
smile, and an ear to report the remark that 
succeeds his departure, would inform the busy 
canvasser that his late host distrusts the im¬ 
modest zeal that travels out of the way to 
publish itself, and that he has taken the promise 
it implied, at a ruinous discount. For we like 
not that men give such laborious advertisement 
of themselves; emergencies will prove them, 
and we can wait till they rise and give oppor¬ 
tunity. No matter how earnestly an individu¬ 
al declare his strength, either for attack or re¬ 
sistance; if the occasion prove too much for 
him, his self-estimate is too high and unworthy 
of trust; indeed, the truly strong rarely pro¬ 
claim their strength. 
It is perhaps within the experience of every 
general reader that, many times, the title of an 
essay or lecture conveys more or suggests more 
to a quick, active mind than the composition 
itself does. In other words, the writer exhausts 
himself in his text. I remember reading, some 
two years ago, a report of a lecture, in which 
I can recall nothing that said so much to me 
as the mere title. The subject, as set forth by 
the words at the head of the discourse, was a 
ray of glorious inspiration, worthy to be sung 
by the whole band of living reformers in their 
triumphal march, and chanted at the graves of 
those who have perished on the battle-field in 
the service of that great liberator, Truth, which 
unbinds the shackles from the limbs and from 
the souls of humanity, but it was beyond the 
speaker’s power to answer expectation on 
such a theme, for he had said more in announc¬ 
ing it than he could possibly say in any other 
words. Thus, the selection of lofty or abstruse 
themes for composition, by persons of inade¬ 
quate power to treat them successfully, is not 
perhaps so generally as is apt to be supposed 
attributable to self-conceit and an over-weening 
estimate of their preparation for the task as¬ 
sumed ; a truer interpretation would oft-times 
refer it to a generosity of aspiration, needing 
years of mental culture for its satisfactory ex¬ 
pression, perhaps destined never to be rewarded 
by a success proportioned to its striving, but 
unable to resist the impulse to say what is in 
its heart to do, if only its ability to accomplish 
were equal to its willingness to undertake. So 
the bare list of subjects, with the names of the 
several writers, but without a word of the 
body of the discourse, sometimes contained in 
the reports of College commencements, is jus¬ 
tifiable as indicating the direction in which the 
genius of the various students tends. The 
world does not require that young men and 
young women, still at their studies, shall have 
already distinguished themselves in literary 
creation; but only asks that by present nobili¬ 
ty of aim they give promise of future excellence. 
And, in this connection, we may observe the 
great faith the majority of writers have in their 
own inspirations, by the willingness, sometimes 
apparent eagerness, they manifest to assume 
the responsibility of what they say. For, as 
between what is said and by whom it is said, 
the former is of first importance, it would seem 
the appropriate place for the author’s name is 
after his work, rather than before it; yet our 
ideas of good taste and propriety are constant¬ 
ly offended by seeing it in newspapers and 
magazines between the notice of the subject 
treated and the opening paragraph. We fol¬ 
low nature more closely in our correspoudence 
and business transactions, affixing our stamp 
only to the finished work, for authenticity’s 
sake; whereas, in general literature, its frequent 
office is to answer for and give currency to 
whatever chooses to follow it. 
Finally, in regard to the general utilities of 
acting on this exaggerated self-reckoning, or 
contempt of reckoning, we doubtless owe much 
to the fact that men enter upon labors entirely 
disproportioned to their strength. Who can 
estimate the number of happy discoveries and 
inventions that have been stumbled on by per¬ 
sons searching and experimenting with the 
purpose of finding out other and deeper myste¬ 
ries than those they have thus accidentally 
brought to light? We need not then call any 
portion of this courage of enterprise superflu¬ 
ous; we know not how much less its possessor 
would have accomplished without it; as in 
crossing a river, if the boatmen row exactly 
toward the point he wishes to gain, he will land 
below it, and in order to reach a point oppo¬ 
site the one from which he set out, he must 
aim considerably higher. a. 
South. Livouia, N. Y., 1854. 
A LEGACY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 
I am, or rather was a small farmer, residing 
on a tolerably productive tract of land be¬ 
queathed to Mrs. Boozy by a bachelor uncle 
that died—peace to his ashes !—about two 
months after we were married. I bless the 
memory of my wife’s uncle, for had he forgot¬ 
ten Mrs. Boozy in his will, your servant at the 
present writing might have been in far more 
embarrassing circumstances than those in 
which he is now placed. 
When Mrs. Boozy and I took possession of 
the farm, she was perfectly cool and collected; 
for, in the words of the great Micawber, she 
had for years known that something was about 
to “turn up;” but I was in ecstacy; in fact, I 
felt very thankful for the circumstauces which 
had thus opportunely occurred, placing us in 
a situation to get a living. 
Well, we commenced farming in earnest.— 
*Mrs. Boozy made capital butter and cheese, 
and I raised very fair crops of wheat and corn. 
I trimmed up the apple-trees, put in grafts, 
planted shade-trees, and did various other 
things to beautify and improve the premises. 
Mrs. Boozy found farming profitable. Five 
years after taking possession of the place, we 
“ figured up,” and found we had a thousand 
dollars in the bank, a thousand in railroad 
stock "and some loose change in pocket, to say 
nothing of a fine lot of cows, a span of hor¬ 
ses, etc., etc. 
Mrs. Boozy was a very fortunate woman.— 
One night, about six years after we were mar¬ 
ried, she said to me : 
“ Boozy, I think of selling the farm.” 
“ Think of selling the farm, Mrs. Boozy ! 
you’re joking!” 
“ Not a bit, Boozy. Widow Gomer says it’s 
a perfect shame for us to live off' here and work 
like slaves when we are abundantly able to 
settle in Skinpenny and enjoy ourselves; and 
I think W idow Gomer knows. I think she is 
right” 
“Widow Gomer may—” 
“Now, Boozy, you needn’t go on in that 
way ! The farm is mine, and the stock is mine, 
and I shall sell, and remove to Skinpenny, if 
I think proper, Mr. Boozy to the contrary not¬ 
withstanding !” 
“But how shall we live ?” I meekly inquir¬ 
ed. 
“ On the interest of my money,” answered 
Mrs Boozy; after saying which, she proceed¬ 
ed to undress herself, and we retired; she to 
dream of the pleasures of life in Skinpenny, 
and I to reflect on what Mr. and Mrs. Boozy 
were coming to. 
Next day I felt “ out of sorts,” but I knew 
it would be useless to say a word; for Mrs. 
Boozy is a “strong minded -woman, (women 
who have property in their own right usually 
are,) and my advice to all young men contem¬ 
plating marriage is, “ Beware of strong-mind¬ 
ed women and — vidders!' —(Weller;) for. as 
far as my experience goes, both are exceeding¬ 
ly pleasureless and profitless “ institutions.” 
That afternoon Widow Gomer, Widow Da- 
tus, aud Susan Green (a blooming Miss of for¬ 
ty-five) drove to our door, having come all the 
way from Skinpenny on purpose- to Visit dear 
Mrs. Boozy,” whom they «hadn’t seen for a 
whole week;” thinking perhaps she would give 
them a few of her beautiful gooseberries, cur¬ 
rants and cherries,- “they would look so beau¬ 
tiful on their tables at home.” 
I busied myself in the field till the trio had 
gone, and then I went to the house, to find my 
—no, Mrs. Boozy’s “beautiful gooseberries, 
currants and cherries” (they were of choice va¬ 
rieties, for which I paid quite a sum, and this 
was the first year they had borne any fruit) all 
gone; and the worst of all Mrs. Boozy in 
tears; it was “so lonesome, she couldn’t bear 
the thought of living on the farm any longer. 
Widow Datus said she wouldn’t live there" for 
the world; Miss Green had “ rather die than 
be obliged to stay there over night,” and Wid¬ 
ow Gomer said she had better sell, even if she 
didn’t get more than half what Mr. Boozy 
thought the place was worth. 
A few days after, Mrs. Boozy made Widow 
Gomer a visit, and (just think of it !) the wid¬ 
ow told her she had a son who, she thought, 
would like to purchase the farm, “ provided he 
conld get it at a low price.” To make a long 
matter short, lie bought it for less than half 
what it might have been sold for; and now the 
widow lives with her son on that “odious farm,” 
and tee live in Skinpenny; but I cannot see 
that we enjoy ourselves any better than we did 
before we took up our residenee here . For 
my own part, I am perfectly miserable. Our 
garden is so small that I cannot busy myself 
in it more than one day in a week, and the 
neighbors’ hens dig up every seed I plant—S* 
When I think how much we" lost, and how lit¬ 
tle we gained when we changed our place of 
abode, I can hardly contain myself. 
P. S.— Mrs. Boozy and I visited Widow Go¬ 
mer at the farm to-day. I asked the widow if 
she could spare us a few of her “beautiful 
gooseberries, currants and cherries.” She said 
she was “ sorry,” but they had no more they 
wanted for their own family use I— Knicker¬ 
bocker. 
Provide a Home. —Especiallly ought every 
married pair, says Fowler, to secure" a perma¬ 
nent residence for themselves and children; for 
without it, one powerful mental faculty must 
| suffer perpetual abrasion, and many more di¬ 
minished and interrupted action and pleasure. 
This “moving” is ruinously costly, alike destruc¬ 
tive of property and pleasure, cripples hus¬ 
bandly, prevents planting trees and vines, and 
obliges tenants to frequent the grocery, with 
money in hand, for a thousand little things, 
which, if land owners, they would raise. None 
can duly appreciate home, till having once 
owned and lost one; after being cast upon the 
stony-hearted landlords, they repossess them¬ 
selves of a comfortable domicil, again to feast 
upon the products of their own gardens and 
orchards. Father, mother, whoever, wherever 
thou art, heed this important advice—provide 
a home first, whatever else you do or leave 
undone, and however stringent your poverty, 
even as your best means of escaping it 
There is nothing that strikes a stranger 
more forcibly, if he visits Sweden at the season 
of the year when the days are longest, than 
the absence of night. We arrived at Stock¬ 
holm from Gottenburg, 400 miles distant, in 
the morning in the afternoon went to see some 
friends—had not taken note of time—and re¬ 
turned about midnight; it was as light as it is 
here half an hour before sundown. You could 
see distinctly. But all was quiet in the street; 
it seemed as if the inhabitants were gone away, 
or were dead. No signs of life—stores were 
ciosed. 
The sun goes down at Stockholm a little be¬ 
fore 10 o’clock. There is great illumination 
all night; as the sun passes round the earth to¬ 
ward the north pole, the refraction of its rays 
is such that you see to read at midnight. Dr. 
Baird read a letter in the forest near Stock¬ 
holm at midnight, without artificial light.— 
There is a mountain at the Bothina, where, 
on the 3lst of June, the sun does not go down 
at all. Travelers go there to see it. A steam¬ 
boat goes up from Stockholm for the purpose 
of carrying those who are curious to witness 
the phenomenon. It occurs only one night.— 
The sun goes down to the horizon; you can 
see the whole face of it, and in five minutes it 
begins to rise. 
Birds and animals take their accostomed 
rest at the usual hours. The hens take to 
the trees about seven o’clock, p. m., ana stay 
there till the sun is well up in the morning, and 
the people get into the habit of rising late too. 
REVOLUTIONARY RELIC. 
The bullet by which Gen. J oseph Warren 
was killed at Bunker Hill, in 1775, is still pre¬ 
served. It is an ounce ball, and was exhibited 
by Alexander H. Everett, on the delivery of an 
oration at Charleston, June 17th, 1836, in ■which 
he exclaimed,—“This is the one, fellow citizens, 
which I now hold in may hand ! The catridge- 
paper, which partly covered it, is stained, as 
you see, with the hero's Wood.” This ball is 
now deposited in the Library of the United 
States Historic-Genealogical Society, with the 
original affidavit of Rev. William Montague, 
formerly pastor of Christ Church, in this city, 
who made oath that he obtained the ball in 
London, of Arthur Savage, once an officer of 
the Customs of the port of Boston, who gave 
Mr. Montague this account of the ball: 
“ On the morning of the 18th of June, 1775, 
after the battle of Bunker, or Breed’s Hill, I, 
with a number of other royalists and British 
officers, among whom was Gen. Burgoyne, -went 
over from Boston to Charlestown to view the 
battle field. Among the fallen we found the 
body of Dr. J oseph Warren, with whom I had 
been personally acquainted. When he fell, he 
fell across a rail. This ball I took from his 
body; and, as I shall never visit Boston again, 
I will give it to you to take to America, where 
it will be valuable as a relic of your Revolution. 
VALUE OE A MANUSCRIPT. 
The original manuscript of Gray’s Elegy was 
lately sold at auction in London. There was 
really “a scene” in the auction room. Imag¬ 
ine a stranger entering in the midst of a sale 
of some rusty-lookiag old books. The auc¬ 
tioneer produces two small half-sheets of paper, 
torn and mutilated. He calls it “ a most in¬ 
teresting article,” and apologises for its con¬ 
dition. Pickering bids ten pounds! Boyd, Foss, 
Bohun, Holloway, and some few amateurs, 
quietly remark — twelve, fifteen, twenty-five, 
thirty, and so on, till there is a pause at sixty- 
three pounds ! The hammer strikes. “Hold!” 
says Mr. Foss. “It is mine,” says the amateur. 
“ No, I bid sixty-five in time.” “ Then I bid 
seventy.” “Seventy-five,” says Mr. Foss; aud 
fives are repeated again, until the two bits of 
paper are knocked down, amid a great cheer, 
to Payne & Foss, for one hundred pounds ster¬ 
ling ! On t’ e bits of paper are written the first 
draft of Elegy in a Country Church-Yard, by 
Thomas Gray, including five verses which were 
omitted in publication, aud with the poet’s in¬ 
terlineations,—certainly an “interesting arti¬ 
cle,”—several persons supposed it would call 
for a ten pound note, perhaps even twenty. A 
single volume, with “ W. Shakspeare ” ou the 
fly-leaf, produced, sixty years ago, a hundred 
guineas; but probably, with that exception, no 
mere autograph, aud no single sheet of paper, 
ever produced the sum of five hundred dollars. 
A Cloudless Sky. —In Egypt it does not 
rain, aud there are no mountains to intercept 
the clouds, nor a broad ocean on the West to 
yield copious moisture supplying water for dew. 
But the All-wise Creator and giver of every 
good and perfect gift, was at no loss to make 
the country what she once was—the granary 
of the world. Egypt is a level country—the 
Nile, which waters it, rises in the Mountains of 
the Moon, as the rivers in South America do 
in the Andes, causing the Nile to overflow its 
banks at a proper period every year. The 
rains last long enough, and the distance is just- 
great enough to produce the flood two mouths 
after the rain has fallen. 
The Railroad to Ruin. —Surveyed by ava¬ 
rice, chartered by county courts, freighted 
with drunkards, with grog shops for depots, 
rumsellers for engineers, bar-tenders for con¬ 
ductors, and landlords for stockholders. Fired 
up with alcohol, and boiling with delirium tre¬ 
mens. The groans of the dying are the thun¬ 
ders of the train, aud the shrieks of the women 
and children, are the whistles of the engines.— 
By the help of God we will reverse the steam 
put out the fires, annul the charter, and save 
the freight. 
The eminent Dr. Rush says that the exercise 
of the organs of the breast by singing, con¬ 
tributes to defend them from those diseases to 
which the climate and other causes expose 
them. The Germans are seldom afflicted with 
consumption—a fact attributed, in part, to the 
strength which their lungs acquire by exerci¬ 
sing them frequently in vocal music. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
THOUGHTS FOR LOUISE. 
BT JENNY A. STONE. 
I am thinking of our school-days, 
Happy days so quickly flown; 
0,1 know their golden visions, 
From your spirit have not gone, 
And I feel my name is woven 
In fond memory's golden net. 
For you told me when we parted 
That you never could forget. 
Dear Louise, a year has fleeted 
As a vision of tiie night, 
Since you vanished like a spirit 
From my tear-dimmed, aching sight: 
Other friends have crowded round me. 
Other hearts seemed fond and true, 
But I’ve kept sweet Friendship’s fountain 
Pure and sparkling still for you. 
Surely you have not forgotten, 
All the cherished scenes of yore, 
How each morn our footsteps entered 
Through that old, familiar door,— 
How the staid professor watched you 
From his high, accustomed niche. 
Thinking one with eyes so sparkling 
Could not fail to prove a witch. 
But my face so long and solemn, 
And my eyes of sober hue, 
Made himjdream the name of mischief 
My meek spirit never knew. 
Ah! he thought not we were mated 
Hand to hand, and heart to heart,— 
That in every school-girl frolic 
I could bravely bear my part. 
But the shades of night are resting 
On the distant hill-tops now, 
And the dews of eve are falling 
Coldly on my cheek and brow: 
’Neath the trees I have been dreaming 
In the day beam’s waning light. 
But your spirit has departed— 
Dear Louise, a sweet good-night. 
“ I’M GOING HOME.” 
Dear little Ada ! she was dreaming of a vine- 
enwreathed cottage far off in a pretty village 
where she had passed her earliest childhood. 
The sound of the babbling stream greeted her 
oar—the song of the birds rang out merrily on 
the clear calm air, and the flowers looked up 
to the blue eye, offering the same fragrance at 
the shrine of their Creator, as they did on the 
day she bade her country home adieu forever. 
Visions of rich red strawberries, blushing 
amidst a drapery of deep green—rosy-cheeked 
apples, coquettishly peeping out from the hea¬ 
vy foliage of tall trees—of brown nuts snug¬ 
ly hidden away between sweet-smelling clus¬ 
ters of many colored autumn leaves, came to 
her in her sleep. 
But the dream-spirit brought to the sick 
child one vision more welcome than all the 
rest—the shadowy form of a gentle mother, 
with a smile brighter than the sunshine in the 
old wood, and a kiss softer than the dew-drop 
ever gave the rose. Poor little Ada! sad in¬ 
deed was the day when that meek and patient 
one calmly yielded her breath whilst her pure 
soul weut to rejoin the loved husband, who 
bade adieu to life ere “the baby” had oiven 
him its first smile. 
Ada could not understand why “ mamma” 
laid so still, and why she replied not to her 
earnest pleadings for “one kiss—only one kiss.” 
V e tried to make clear, to her innocent mind, 
the mysteries of death, but she sadly shook her 
head, and asked, with a strange puzzled look 
in her large blue eyes, “ Why did not God take 
me to be an angel too ?” 
Darling little Ada ! she wept bitterly when 
we took her away from the birds, and trees, 
a,nd flowers, and bore her to our city home.— 
bhe had always been a tiny fragile creature, 
and from the very hour she first breathed the 
impure air of a crowded city, she began to 
fade like a wild wood blossom, deprived of its 
native breeze and sunshine. We knew that 
she must die, and for fear that death might 
st .-al her from us, whilst we were unaware of 
its approach, we sat beside her couch for many 
days and many nights, silently awaiting his 
coming. 
One summer eve, as Ada slept, a brilliant 
smile broke over her sweet face, and clasping 
her thin small hands, as though in joy, she ex¬ 
claimed. “ I’m going home !” Before morning 
Ada did go home—not to the willow shaded 
cottage home, but to a home where the heart 
can only fiud rest—a home iu heaven. 
God in his infinite mercy grant that I, wea¬ 
ry, sad-hearted one, may soon triumphantly 
exclaim, “ I’m going home !’’— ,V. Y. Pica¬ 
yune. 
MUSIC AT HOME. 
Music serves to make home pleasant, by en¬ 
gaging many of its inmates in a delightful re¬ 
creation, and thus dispelling the sourness and 
gloom which frequently arise from petty dis¬ 
putes, from mortified vanity, from discontent 
and envy. It prevents for "the time, at least, 
evil thoughts aud evil speaking, and tends to 
relieve the minds of both performers and hear¬ 
ers from the depressing effects of care and 
melancholy. Y oung people need and will 
have amusements, if an innocent and improv¬ 
ing kind be not provided at home, they will 
seek elsewhere. If they find places more 
agreeable to them than home, that home will 
be deserted; and thus the gentle and holy in¬ 
fluences which ought to encircle the family 
fireside, will be in a great measure lost. 
44 For surely, melody from heaven was sent, 
To cheer the lieart y when tired of human strife» 
To soothe the wayward heart, by sorrow rent, 
And soften down the rugged road of life.” ( 
Let parents, therefore, take pains to encour- < 
age aud gratify a taste for music iu their chil- j 
dren, and it will amplv repaythem forso do- < 
ing. " " < 
_ _ . . _ < 
- < 
Immodest words are in all cases indefensible, j 
