MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
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anefius 
I f Written for Moors’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
“GIVE HER A KIND WORD, LIZZIE.” 
Shk crossed our path—a nameless one, 
In soiled and tattered dress— 
And quick the gl toeing eye might read, 
A tale of wretchedness— 
Of childhood’s dim and cheerless home— 
Of penury’s scant fare— 
) And that neglected garb, nsetbought, 
) liad known no mother’s care! 
^ With laden basket on her arm, 
) She moves with weary tread, 
) Amid a city’s jostling throng, 
To win her daily bread I 
The golden fruit she proffers now, 
, With timid voice and eye, 
I And pausing at our side shit asks— 
* “ 1’lease ma’am, an orange buy ?” 
i Yet when, with light and careless speech, 
1 We half had turned away, 
A friend, more thoughtful, listened there— 
And gently whispered—“lYay, 
With hind tcords. Lizzie, cheer her un 
And in that hand meanwhile, 
The glittering coin lie placed— and won 
Her glad and grateful smile I 
True utterance of a noble heart! 
Ilv noblest promptings stirred I 
Our spirit inly breathed response, 
Unto each generous word I 
Yes ! kind tcords for the desolate ! 
Though princely gifts full free, 
Like Heaven’s sweet dew on desert-flower, 
Thine earnest sympathy ! 
West Bloomfield, 18.34. Marianna. 
[ For the Rur»l 4 New-Yorker.] 
“ ill 0 V E It S.” 
There they go! What a string of them!— 
Don’t you see them going down the street?— 
Well, dear eastern reader, perhaps you en¬ 
quire what kind of objects are designated by 
the term above; we answer negatively. We 
do not mean Rochester knocking or German 
Table-movers —no! no! they are a very differ¬ 
ent class from this. Neither do we speak of 
May-day movers, such as ye dwellers in cities 
wot of. 
No, nothing of the sort, but a peculiar peo¬ 
ple; a race, differing entirely from any other 
to be found in any other part of the world, 
but corresponding for the nonce, more nearly 
with the English gypsies than with any other 
people. They are the “ movers ” of the West 
who cross the broad and beautiful Prairies, and 
anon wind slowly through shadowy groves, 
and there, as here to-day, follow the main road 
through the centre of some young busy-grow¬ 
ing \iiie, and emerging again upon the oppo¬ 
site side, continue their journey on, still on, far, 
far into the great West. 
See! there comes another string of wagons; 
in this company there are four loads; now we 
shall have a line view of them; stand here be¬ 
side me on the door-step, and as they pass, I 
will point out a few of the peculiarities of this 
unique race. 
Notice their wagous. They are usually 
painted either dark blue or red, but sometimes 
green. The front and back run up rather 
higher than the sides, something like an old 
fashioned Pennsylvania wagon, but they are 
not as large nor do they have as broad tired 
wheels as those huge vehicles. A covering of 
common brown sheeting stretched over hoops, 
extends over the entire length of the wagon, 
but as the mover very seldom, if ever, spends 
time or money in painting or oiling this cover, 
it affords but a poor protection in a heavy 
rain, and has a whitey-brown, tent-like appear¬ 
ance, quite singular when seen moving over the 
prairies. 
At the back end is invariably lmng a box 
about a foot wide, of the same depth and as 
long as the width of the wagon. This box is 
used at every encampment as a feed-box for 
the horses, and over it you will notice on every 
one of the hundreds of wagons that pass here 
in the course of a few weeks, are sticking, bot¬ 
tom side up, a couple of round-posted, splint- 
bottom chairs, used at stopping-places as seats 
for the weaker and gentler members of the 
family. 
From the front of yonder wheeled ark, peer¬ 
ing out from beneath the sheeting cover, you 
will notice the wife and two youngest children. 
The wife drives the team, and as she sits 
there in her old sun-bonnet, and faded calico 
dress, with her yellow face and sharp black 
eyes, she looks like nothing else so much as a 
Gypsey Queen. 
Along by the side are running three bare¬ 
footed girls, also with old sun-bonnets and fa¬ 
ded calico dresses similar to those of the moth¬ 
er, but rather more besoiled. 
In the rear of the caravan the men of the 
party, with the assistance of the boys, are 
driving along six or eight cows and about the 
same number of steers, heifers, and calves, all 
in pretty good Hesh and looking very well for 
cattle who have traveled so many hundred 
miles. This is easily accounted for when we 
remember how fine the feed is in this prairie 
land, in the fail of the year, and by what easy 
stages the journey was accomplished. 
The fathers and sons, you will notice, are 
dressed in coarse, probably homespun clothing, 
and have that sunburnt, lean look so peculiar 
to the “ mover.” The favorite team with these 
nomads seems to be a span of pretty good 
horses, as we notice that such is the motive 
power of each of the wagons of the party pass- 
A STORY OF THE NORTH. 
The interest with which the recent discove- 
• i p m Y -ii ! r y of the fate of the party of Sir John Frank- 
mg before ua; although wo occasionally see , in ha3 ioTOrted aU the old stories and tradi- 
one, two, three, and even four yoke of oxen tions of adventure in the Arctic seas, renders 
plodding along. , the following narrative of the fate of Errick 
The latter are plenty fast enough for the Dande peculiarly interesting and appropriate 
“mover’s” time-table, as the driving of the atth e present time: 
ssf f .i i i • i , , ., v .. . As early as 988 Errick Rande, an Icelandic 
dl0Ve °/ cattle bfehmd Preludes the attain- chieftail)) fe ed out an expedition of twenty- 
ment of a very great degree of speed, so the five galleys at Suefell, and having manned 
“ mover’s ” horses are hardly, if ever, urged in- 'hem with sufficient crews of colonists, set forth 
to a trot, but keep on the even tenor of their from ^ celancl to what appeared a more conge¬ 
way, “Westward Ho!" with a slow and meas- C l iluate * Jhcy sailed upon the ocean fif- 
, teen days, and they saw no land. The next 
ured pace, J 
Safes’ Jfprtotmt. 
CONDUCTED BY A-E. 
WILL YOU LOVE ME? I LOVE YOU! 
day brought with it a storm, and many a gal- 
At night the “ mover ” finds some conveni- vessel sunk in the deep. Mountains of ice 
ent spot where water can be obtained; as for covered the water as far as the eye could reach, 
pasturage that is found in abundance almost afew ffeys escaped destruction.- 
. , ,, in L he morning of the seventeenth day was clear 
even,where; the horses are unharnessed and and cloudless: the sea was calm, and faraway, 
hitched at the rear of the wagon, the feed-box to the Northward could be seen the glare of 
is replenished, a fire lighted, the kettle swung, ice-fields reflecting on the sky. The remains 
and now, man, wife, boys and girls the cattle ot lh ® shattered fleet gathered together topur- 
i 1Arcoo .. j .. , : , , ! ^ . .’ sue their voyage, but the galley of Errick 
horses, and the old watch-dog each get their Riin de was not there. 
snare of “aid and comfort.” The crew of a galley which was driven fur- 
The wagons are the sleeping apartments of ther down than the rest, reported that, as the 
the family, and who shall say that as sweet ,noruin & broke, the large fields ot ice that had 
sleep and light hearts are not found beneath C0V ?? d the °f aD ™ re driven by the current 
.L p i j D p i . , , past them, and that they beheld the galley of 
these folds of brown sheeting, as the halls of Errick Rande, borne by resistless force, and 
the affluent can boast? with the speed of the wind, before a trmendous 
But look! On the side of one of these field of ice—her crew had lost all control over 
wagons is inscribed with red chalk, in large but W< f t0SSiug “ f’f in , wi ' d , a &- 
. . . T ' l 6 cuul ony. fecarcely a moment had elapsed before 
iiiticr irregular letters, “Iowa;” this marks it was walled in by a hundred ice hills, and the 
their destination. The “movers” seem fond whole mass moved forward and was soon be- 
of this kind of advertising, and just now the y° n d tbe horizon. That the galley of the nar- 
current seems to be changing a little as we of- rators esca P ed was wonderful—it remained, 
tpn opo « \r 0 u 0 „i,„ » uxr° „ ■ ’ , , however, uncontradicted, and the vessel of Er- 
len see jNeoraska or “ ivansas indicated as • . t> » TT 
. muioawju as nek Rande was never more seen. Half a cen- 
the future home of the “mover.” tury after that, a Danish colony was establish- 
And thus the western slope of this vast ed u P on the Western coast of Greenland. The 
bright, beautiful, rich Mississippi valley is fill- c , r ?T of , the vessels which carriod the celonists 
• n ,. .. . „ , . , thither, in their excursions into the interior, 
° 1 movers come dropping along crossed a range of hills that stretched to the 
like rain; New England’s hardy sons come in Northward; they had approached nearer to 
brotherly bands; Germans come by districts; ^ ie P°^ e B ,an an y preceding adventurers.— 
Englishmen come by families, and generally U P on lookin S down tVom the summit of the 
large families; Irish come a whole nation’- J^nutof the hills, they beheld a vast and in- 
r , u terminable field of ice, undulating in various 
le.^e, with a considerable sprinkling of other places and formed into a thousand grotesque 
foreigners, and not a few Southerners, are now shapes 
laying the foundation of the great, central, and d lie y saw > not far from the shore, a figure in 
most powerful empire of the world ’ an ice . vesse J’ with g^tering icicles instead of 
_ masts rising from it. Curiosity prompted them 
1 his vast, rich, alluvial territory, with ad- to approach, when they beheld a dismal sight 
vantages of inland navigation unequalled in Figures of men in every attitude of woe upon 
the world, with the indomitable Airelo-Ameri- the deck ’ but the >' were ic >’ thin S s >' one fi g ,!rc 
cm onii-;*- ao u , , , ° ,, . alone stood erect, and, with folded arms, lean- 
cansp i.t as the back-bone and strength of ing against the mast. A hatchet wasprocur- 
J s vast population, who shall tell its destiny ed and the ice split away, and the features of 
in the future? e. m. p. a chieftain disclosed, pallid and deathly but 
Bloomington, ill. free from decay. This was doubtless the ves- 
- - • ♦ . --sel, and that figure the form of Errick Rande. 
THE TEST OF 4 f FYTf !"in\ Benumbed with cold, and in the agony of des- 
r LlRAa. pair, pj g crew p ad f a ]i en around him. The 
. spray of the ocean and the fogs had frozen as 
I tie forbearing use of power does not only it lighted upon them, and covered each figure 
' J “. u a U’ucbatotic; evon tho manner in which with an icy robe, whicbjthe short-lived glance 
an individual enjoys certain advantages over of a Greenland sun haiif not time to remove.— 
others is a test., the power which the bus- The Danes gazed upon the spectacle with 
band has over his wife—in which we must in- trembling. They knelt down upon the deck, 
elude the impunity with which he may be un- and muttered a prayer in their native tongue 
kind to her the lather over his children, the for the souls of the frozen crew, then hurriedly 
teacher over his pupils, the old over the young, left the place, for the night was approaching.” 
and the young over the aged, the strong over __ _ 
THE TEST OF A GENTLEMAN. 
The forbearing use of power does not only 
the weak, the officer over his men, the master 
of a vessel over his hands, the magistrate over 
the citizen, the. employer over the employed, 
and educated over the unlettered, the experi¬ 
enced over the confiding, the keeper of a se¬ 
cret over whom it touches, the gifted over the 
ordinary man—even the clever over the silly 
A MODERN DICTIONARY. 
Public Muse —The mud with which every 
traveler is spattered on the road to distinction. 
Distant Delations —People who imagine 
they have a claim to rob you if you are rich, 
-i he forbearing and inoffensive use of all this I and blsu ^ J ou if }’ 011 are poor. 
power or authority, or a total abstinence from 
Y beautiful, but useless insect with- 
it, where the case admits it, will show the out win ? ?; wha ; e colors fade on bein £ removed 
gentleman in a plain light. trom the sunshine. 
‘ Every traveler knows at once whether a ■ very article sometimes round 
geiltleinanly or rado officer is searching his •*»»•» ■*«**• I soon, i.owover, destroy- 
® , X ' ,i , , „ i1 » , ed by commerce with the world, or else be- 
rank. No gentle,nan can boast of the de- C0 J S „, its ess01 . 
lights of superior health in the presence of a H ou Se u,i/ery-An ancient art, said to have 
..iignu pa a n , i spsa, 0 gom uc. auhiu Ll 0Ilce lashionabie among young girls and f 
hearing o a man bent by habitual misfortune • .. , . ,. te J ° g .: { 
r . * , , -i • .i l l. wives; now entirely out ot use, or practiced I 
U-t a man who happily enjoys the advantages nnlv v’ thft F 
of a pure and honest life speak of it to a fal ff'ralt, 
len, criminal fellow being, and you will soon ^ inan ' 
see whether he be, in addition to his honesty r - \ 
. MM . - * ? f / I" lUt 
only by the “lower orders.” 
Wealth —The most respectable quality of 
Him, uc uiimiut uuiy luisivtr— uc eau lOIiTcL: 1 ! i • i . • 
i i . • f ,i . 1 1 r.;» t head, whom you love, in order to gain the 
and he strives for that nobleness of self and , , . » 
mildness of character, which imparts sufficient i' L - /' 1I-b , tom you ue-spise. 
strength to let the past be truly the past. He , P v n0t , ^ y0U 
will never use the power which the knowledge h’T 8 }° u ' V1 > i.xcuse urn. 
ol an ottence, a false step, of an unfortunate u uuu 
... ..... “ ed for being baser than his comrades. 
exposure of weakness given him, merely to en¬ 
joy the power of humiliating his neighbor. A 
for being baser than his comrades. 
Sensibility —A quality by which the pos- 
rue man of honor feels humbled himself when m atte “P| in & topremote the happiness 
he cannot help humbling others. 
Wood Fires. —In many a green valley of 
New England there are children yet; boys and 
girls are still to be found not quite overtaken 
by the march of mind. There, too, are husk- 
ings, and apple-bees, and quilting-parties, and 
huge old-fashioned fire-places piled with crack¬ 
ling walnut, flinging its rosy light over many 
countenances of youth, and scarcely less happy 
age. If it bo true that, according to Corneli¬ 
us Agrippa, “ a wood fire doth drive away 
dark spirits,” il is nevertheless also true that 
around it the simple superstitions of our ances¬ 
tors still love to linger; and there the half¬ 
sportful, half-serious charms of which I have 
spoken are oftenest resorted to. It would be 
altogether out of place to think of them by 
our black, unsightly stoves, or in the dull and 
dark monotony of our furnace-heated rooms. 
Within the circle of the light of the open fire 
safely might the young conjurers question des¬ 
tiny; for none but kindly and gentle messen¬ 
gers from wonder land should venture among 
them.— J. G. Whitier. 
I have always heard it said, that to con¬ 
fer benefits on the base minded is like throw¬ 
ing water into the sea.— Cervantes. 
of other people, loses his own. 
Judge Not. —Tf you wish to be loved as a 
companion, ignore ail unnecessary criticism 
upon your associates. The number of those 
who have taken out judges’ patents, is very 
large in society, and they all drive a prosper¬ 
ous business. But no one chooses to live be¬ 
tween the glasses of a microscope, even tho’ 
a fool be looking in. One of the most vexa¬ 
tious kinds of criticism is that back-handed 
variety which commences with such introduc¬ 
tions as these : “ Had I been consulted,” “ had 
you listened to me,” “you always have your 
own way,” and a legion of such like expres¬ 
sions which are not designed to soothe a 
perturbed spirit. 
It is not pomp or pretension, but the adap¬ 
tation of the expression to the idea that 
clenches a writer’s meaning—as it is not the 
size or glossiness of the materials, but their be¬ 
ing fitted each to their place, that gives 
strength to the arch. 
God pity the man who has nothing to do.— 
Idleness is the mother of more misery and 
crime than all other causes ever thought or 
dreamed of by the profoundest thinker, or the 
wisest theorist 
BY ALLIE VERNON. 
Flowers love the sunbeams bright. 
Murmuring brooks, the moon’s pale beam ; 
"Wild birds hail the morning light, 
Poets love to idly dream. 
Waving branches love the breeze. 
Drooping blossoms love the dew. 
Autumn loves the falling leaves, 
Will yon love me? Hove you.' 
Earth receives the summer rain, 
With a loving, grateful breast; 
Sad hearts love the simple strain 
That in childhood pleased them best. 
Wand’rers love to think of home, 
Painters love fair scenes to view; 
Sea-nymphs love the dancing foam. 
Will you love me ? / love you ! 
THE WORSTED STOCKING. 
A TRUE STORY. 
“ Fattier will have done the great chimney 
to-night, won’t he mother?” said little Tom 
Howard, as he stood waiting for his father’s 
breakfast, which he carried to him at his work 
every morning. 
“ He said he hoped all the scaffolding would 
be down to-night,” answered his mother, “ and 
that'll be a fine sight; for I never like the end¬ 
ing of those great chimneys—it’s so risky— 
thy father’s to be the last up.” 
“Eh, then, but I’ll go and see him, and help 
em to give a shout before he comes down,” 
said Tom. 
“And then,” continued his mother, “if all 
goes right, we are to have a frolic to-mor¬ 
row, aud go into the country, and take our 
dinners, and spend all the day amongst the 
woods.” 
“ Hurrah!” cried Tom, as he ran off to his 
father’s place of work, with a can of milk in 
one hand and some bread in the other. His 
mother stood at the door watching him as he 
went merrily whistling down the street, and 
then she thought of the dear father he was go¬ 
ing to, and the dangerous work he was enga¬ 
ged in, and then her heart sought its sure re¬ 
fuge, and she prayed to God to protect and 
bless her treasures. 
l orn, with a light heart, pursued his way to 
his father, and, leaving him his breakfast, went 
to his own work, which was at some distance. 
In the evening, on his way home, he went round 
to see how his father was getting on. James 
Howard, the father, and a number of other 
workmen had been building one of those lofty 
chimneys, which, in our great manufacturing 
towns, almost supply the place of other archi¬ 
tectural beauty, this chimney was one of the 
highest and most tapering that has ever been 
erected; and as lorn, shading his eyes from 
the slanting rays of the setting sun, looked up ! 
to the ton in search of his father, his heart al- i 
mom sunk withing him at the appalling height. 1 
The scaffolding was almost almost all down; 
the men at the bottom were removing the last 
beams and poles. Tom’s father stood alone on 
the top. He looked all roun 1 to see that eve¬ 
rything was right, and then waving his hat in 
the air, the men below answered him with a 
long, loud cheer, little Tom shouting as hearti¬ 
ly as auy of them. As their voices died away 
however, they heard a very different sound—a ! 
cry of alarm and horror from above! “The j 
rope. 1 he rope.! the men looked round,; 
and, coiled upon the ground lay the rope, 
which, before the scaffolding was removed, 
should have been fastened to the chimney, for 
Tom’s father to come down by! The scaffold¬ 
ing had been taken down, without their re¬ 
membering to take the rope up. There was 
a dead silence. They all knew it was impossi¬ 
ble to throw the rope up high enough to reach 
the top of the chimney; or if they could, it 
would hardly have been safe. They stood in 
silence and dismay, unable to give any help or 
think of any means of safety. 
Aud Tom’s father. He walked round and 
round the little circle, the dizzy height seeming ! 
every moment to grow more "fearful, and the ! 
solid earth further and further from him. In ^ 
the sudden panic he lost him presence of mind, ■ 
and his senses almost failed him. He shut his ; 
eyes; he felt as if, the next moment, he must 
be dashed to pieces on the ground below. 
The day had passed as industriously and 
swiftly as usual, with Tom’s mother at home, i 
She was always busily employed for her hus-1 
band and children, in some way or other; and 
to-day she had been harder at work than usu- : 
al, getting ready for the holiday to-morrow.— 
She had just finished all her preparations, and j 
her thoughts were silently thanking God for i 
her happy home, and for all the blessings of 
life, when Tom run in; his face as white as 
ashes; and he could hardly get his words out, 
“ Mother! Mother! he cannaget down.” 
“Who, lad? Thy father?” asked his mo¬ 
ther. 
“ They’ve forgotten to leave him the rope,” | 
answered Tom, still scarcely able to speak.— 
His mother started up horror struck, and stood 1 
fora moment as if paralyzed; then pressing; 
her hands over her face, as if to shut out the ' 
terrible picture, and breathing a prayer to God j 
for help, she rushed out of the house. 
When she reached the place where her hus¬ 
band was at work, a crowd had collected round 
the foot of the chimney, and stood there quite ! 
helpless, gazing up with faces full of sorrow, i 
“ He says he’ll throw himself down,” exclaimed j 
they, as Mrs. Howard came up. “ He is going 
to throw himself down.” 
“Thee munna do that, lad!” cried the wife, 
with clear, hopeful voice; “thee munna do 
that. Wait a bit. Take off thy stocking, lad, : 
and unravel it, and let down the thread with I 
a bit of mortar. Dost hear me, Jem?” 
The man made a sign of assent, for it seem-, 
ed as if he could not speak; and, taking off his 
stocking, unravelled the worsted thread, row 
after row. The people stood round in breath¬ 
less silence and suspense, wondering what 
Tom’s mother could be thinking of, and why 
she sent him in such haste for the carpenter’s 
ball of twine. 
“ Let down one end of the thread with a bit 
of stone, and keep fast hold of the other,” 
■' Clded sb e to her husband. The little thread 
came waving down the tall chimney, blown 
hither and thither by the wind, but at last it 
reached the outstretched hands that were wait¬ 
ing for it. Tom held the ball of twine, while 
his mother tied one end of it to the worsted 
thread. “Now pull it up slowly,” cried she to 
her husband, and she gradually unwound the 
string as the worsted gently drew it up. It 
stopped the string had reached her husband. 
“Now hold the string fast, and pull it up.” 
cried she, and the string grew heavy, and hard 
to pull, for Tom and his mother had fastened 
the thick rope to it. They watched it slowly 
uncoiling from the ground, as the string was 
drawn higher. 
There was but one coil left. It had reach¬ 
ed the top. “Thank God! thank God!” ex¬ 
claimed the wife. She hid her face in her 
hands in silent prayer, and tremblingly rejoic¬ 
ed. The rope was up. The iron to which it 
should be fastened was there all right; but 
would her husband be able to make use of 
them?—would not the terror of the past hour 
have so unnerved him, as to prevent him h orn 
taking the necessary measures for his safety? 
She did not know the magic influence which 
her few words had exercised over him. She 
! did not know' the strength that the sound of 
her voice, so calm and steadfast had filled him 
with as if the little thread that carried him 
the hope of life once more, had conveyed to 
him some portion of that faith in God, which 
nothing ever destroyed or shook in her true 
heart. She did not know that, as he waited 
there, the words came over him, ‘ Why art 
thou cast down, 0 my soul? and why art thou 
disquieted within me? Hope thou in God.” 
She lifted up her heart to God for hope and 
strength. She could do nothing more for her 
husband, and her heart turned to God, and 
rested on him as on a rock. 
There was a great shout. He’s safe, mo¬ 
ther, he’s safe.” cried* little Tom. “ Thou’st sa¬ 
ved me, Mary,” said her husband, folding her 
in his arms. “But what ails thee? Thou 
seem’st more sorry than glad about it.” But 
Mary could not speak; and if the strong arm 
of her husband had not held her up, she would 
have fallen to the ground—the sudden joy, af¬ 
ter- such great fear, hav overcome her. “ Tom,” 
said his father, “let thy mother lean on thy 
shoulder, and v’e will take her hame.” And in 
their happy home they poured forth their 
thanks to God for His great goodness; and 
their happy life together felt dearer and holier 
for the peril it had been in, aud for the near¬ 
ness that the danger had brought, them un’o 
God. And the holiday next dav,—was it not 
indeed a Thanksgiving Day ?—English S. S. 
Magazine. 
Manners. —I make it a point of morality 
never to find fault with another for his man¬ 
ners; they may be awkward or graceful, bluut 
or polite, polished or rustic. I care not what 
they are, if the man means well and acts from 
fuieinluiBs, whhui t c tui -rxi OT ifiW- 
tation. All men have not the advantages of 
“good soe'ety,” as it is called, to school them¬ 
selves in a 1 its fantastic rules and ceremonies, < 
and if mere is any standard of manners, it is j 
only founded in reason and good sense, and not t 
upon the artificial regulations. Manners, like ) 
conversation, should "be extemporaneous and ) 
not studied. I always suspect a man, who ) 
meets me with the same perptt ml smile upon ( 
his face, the same congeeing of the bodv, and ) 
the same premeditated shake of the hand.— \ 
Give me the (it may be rough) gripe of the ] 
hand, the careless nod of recognition, and when ) 
occasion requires, the homely welcome saluta- ( 
tion, “ IIow are you, my old friend?” ( 
Cheerfulness. —Cheerfulness and a festival ( 
spirit fills the soul full of harmony—it compo- ) 
ses music for churches and hearts—it makes > 
and publishes glorifications of God—it pr< du- ( 
ces thankfulness and serves the end of charity; ) 
and, when the oil of gladness runs over, it ) 
makes bright and tall emissions of light and ( 
holy fires, reaching up 1o a cloud, and making S 
joy round about; and, therefore, since it is so ) 
innocent, and may be so pious and full of holy ( 
advantage, whatever can innocently minister to ^ 
this holy joy does set forward the work of re- ) 
ligion and charity. And, indeed, charity itself, ) 
which is the vertical top ot all religion, is noth- s 
ing else but a union of joys concentrated in the ; 
heart, and reflected from all the angles of cu- \ 
life and intercourse. It is a rejoicing in God, < 
a gladness in our neighbor’s good, a pleasure 
in doing good, a rejoicing with him; and with- 7 
out love we cannot have any joy at all. ( 
Politeness at Home.— By endeavoring to > 
acquire a habit of politeness, it will soon be- ? 
come familiar, and sit, on you with ease, if not t 
with elegance. Let it never be forgotteu that J 
genuine politeness, is a great fosterer of fami- ) 
ly love. It softens the boisterous, stimulates ( 
the indolent, suppresses selfishness, and by s 
forming a habit of consideration for. others, j 
harmonises the whole. Politeness begets po- < 
liteness, and brothers may easily be won by t 
to leave off the rude ways they bring home 
from college. Sisters ought never to receive 
any little attention without thanking them for 
it, never to ask a favor of them but in courte¬ 
ous terms, never to reply to their questions in 
monosyllables, and they will soon be ashamed 
to do such things themselves. 
Evenings at home are amongst the most de¬ 
lightful and most profitable privileges the bu¬ 
siness and working man can enjoy, if they are 
judiciously provided for. A frolic with the 
babies—a quiet chat with wife, an agreeable 
book, nuts and apples, may be—all around a 
bright fire in a cosy room. On that “ bill of ( 
fare,” let. the bachelor consider and resolve to < 
“ mend his ways.” < 
A chord of love runs through all the sounds 
of creation, but the ear of love alone can dis- ’< 
tinguish it. < 
