I* if 
Li M-'u; -y 
m 
[ Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE DEAD BABY’S SMILE. 
BY GKO. A. HAMPTON 
Cokk softly to the sufferer's couch— 
A little weary form is there, 
The throes of p»'u distort the face— 
A mother's *»ul is raised in prayer; 
Keen suffering (lays have wrought decay. 
And faintly bcat» a little heart, 
While fearful ones are watchiug there, 
A spirit ready to depart. 
The breath grows short, and shorter still— 
The bosom heaves yet fainter now— 
The mother’s bleeding heart beholds 
Plain lines ol death upon that brow; 
But all unseen by those who wept, 
An angel pure and bright drew near 
And gently touched the suffering one, 
And changed to pearl each little tear. 
The little one had sorrow felt, 
But now, one tigh, and all was rest, 
The angel opened to her view 
Bright mansions where the pure are blest; 
She saw the woild of joy, ami then 
Was taken borne, all free from guile— 
But while the soul was borne away, 
'J'htrr. lingered on the fact a emile. 
South Butler, N. Y., 18(50. 
- 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
GRANDMOTHER’S CHEST. 
"Mother, let us go and look at the things in 
Grandma’s Chest,— don’t you want to?” 
"No, not now, my child,— you may anytime 
you wish.” 
After a moment’s Bilence my mother said, in a 
still sadder tone, “'Tis sixteen years, yesterday, 
since we looked at her lust,—I have had no 
mother since!” 
The tears ran down her furrowed cheeks, and 
feeling grieved for having so thoughtlessly called 
forth these sad memories, I left her alone, that her 
expressions of sorrow might flow unchecked, as 
memory went wandering back through years 
agone, when a mother's smile lit up the darkest 
gaze would be but mockery compared with moth¬ 
er’s loDging, wistful look. You may wonder that 
she keeps these bits of lace and worsted, but each 
is it treasure in her eyes, us is this bit of brigtat- 
bued wall paper, and these little papers labeled, 
“ Maky,” *‘ Emily,” “Harriet,” and “ Emki.ine,” 
containing long golden tresses, or black curling 
ringlets. With each paper is a bit of muslin, 
taken from the shrouds of those once happy, 
buoyant, girl-friends of my mother, and I cherish 
them for her sake. 
Hut we will explore the Old Chest no further,— 
you do not look at It as I do, with reverence, or, 
at least, respect, and I do not wonder. You have 
not listened with me to the little life-incidents, 
told by quivering lips, or wandered to the silent 
graves in the pitying moonlight, wlum the very 
stars seemed to look into your soul, the doors of 
your heart all open, and holy thoughts driving 
hence the evil. 
“No mother since.” My father’s mother yet 
lives, but never does she call mother, "My 
Daughter,”—the "Son's Wife,” has no place in 
her heart. “No Mother.” All these sixteen 
years those wordB have echoed through the 
chambers of her heart, and found no rest. “No 
Mother.” 0, can I thank “Our Father” enough; 
that in all his chastening love, he has withheld 
the greatest punishment, and that it is not yet my 
lot to say, “ 1 have ‘ No Mother.’ ” l. m. b. 
lords Co., Michigan, I860. 
ARE WOMEN NATURALLY POLITE? 
BY MRS. GEO. WASHINGTON WYLLYS. 
Mrs. Wyllys asks that question, and then 
elaborately answers it herself, thus: 
Are women naturally polite, did you ask, dear, 
good-natured Public? 
Did you ever know a woman to make room in 
an omnibus, five on a aide, when Number Six was 
entering, flounced und velvcted, until ordered by 
the driver? 
Did you ever know- a Ut’.lo pair of gaiter boots 
to turn one inch either to the right or left when 
they could have saved you from a streaming gut¬ 
ter by the operation? Patent leathers don't be¬ 
have so—not they! 
Did you ever know a woman to say, “I am sorry 
to have given so much trouble,” when the dry 
goods clerk had turned things topsy turvy, with¬ 
out finding the right shade of a color thatnever 
existed? 
Did you ever know a woman who did not know 
[Written for Moore’* Rural New-Yorker] 
READING FORTUNES. 
BY ROBKL1A. 
Push back the waves of golden hair 
From off thv radiant brow; 
Look earnestly with those bright eyes, 
Wherein the loving laugh-sprite lies, 
And tell me, in thy sweet surprise. 
What wonder reest tbou now? 
Ah, youthful heart! thon readiest joy — 
For in thy pure delight, 
All the great Future seems to thee 
But wbat tbou wishest it should be— 
A world of lorelit mystery. 
Glowing in rosy light. 
So hopeful for the time to come, 
So happy in thy faith; 
Eager to meet thy coming years. 
To thy glad soul no sign appears 
Of Life, made dark by restless fears;— 
Of Life, whose end is Death! 
Hastings, N. Y ,1860. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] Are women naturally polite, did you ask, dear, t 'Y i,1 R thc effect of their restorative powers upon 
GRANDMOTHER’S CHEST good-natured Public? Nature. The red lips of our roses drink the 
_ Did you ever know a woman to make room in c °°l’ D g libation with eagerness; and those buds, 
"Mother, let us go and look at the things in an omnibus, five on a side, when Number Six wsb woich have been pouting upon their parent stems 
Grandma’s Chest,— don’t you want to?” entering, flounced und velvcted, until ordered by 80 lon £> ar0 D0W bunting forth into such siecet 
"No, not now, my child,-you may any time the driver? “mile* <»» only rose-buds can display when coaxed 
you wish.” Did you ever know a little pair of gaiter boots * nt0 R ood humor by such a shower as this. 
After a moment’s silence my mother said, in a to turn one inch either to the right or left whew There is rare poetry in the country now, and 
still sadder tone, “'Tis sixteen years, yesterday, they could huve saved you from a streaming gut- “unwritten music,” too. Down in the va.ley, 
since we looked at her lust,—I have had no ter by the operation? Patent leathers don't be- yonder, is the richest carpet of velvety gi-en 
mother since!” have so—not they! that you ever saw, and now there are little mlmio 
The tears ran down her furrowed cheeks, and Did you ever know a woman to say, “I am sorry ‘akes, shining like silver, all over it. T think that 
feeling grieved for having so thoughtlessly called to have given so much trouble,” when the dry this shower was purposely sent to make Nature 
forth these sad memories, I left her alone, that her goods clerk hud turned things topsy turvy, with- »ppreciate herself, by taking a view of her varied 
expressions of sorrow might flow unchecked, as out finding Hie right shade of a color thatnever charms in the aforesaid “ looking-glasses,'' which 
memory went wandering back through years existed? are flung down in such promiscuous confusion, 
agone, when a mother's smile lit up the darkest Did you ever know a woman who did not know The woods are “ delightful in their summer garb, 
hours, when her hand softened the roughest cares it was “ outrageous ” for another woman to travel aud I can hardly bear to think of the comiDg 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker] * U ' K ‘ U8 10 1 ^ 18 a 
SUMMER SHOWERS. ^ V ™ B * lc an * mft1 ' In other word «» there is 
_ such a thing as a honeymoon, of longer or shorter 
Here they come! dashing down, like liquid dunition; and whil « the moonshine lasts, the 
sheets of silver, and then in crystal j.-ts, as if radlance of the Beventh luavun «»»>»* compare 
* * ' triHi if Tf 4*i a n«K.. A ,.12 ..I . ... - j i» 
tortuous Susqnehanna may change the current 
of a life time as well as cheer innum .'table travel¬ 
ers who wirdy importune Nature for fieshness 
and strength. Happy they, who thus nestling to 
her heart, re-echo with answering throb its un¬ 
wearied pulses! Happy they who watch her 
smiles and note her moods, grasp her upwaid im¬ 
pulses, and finally launch with the tide, which Bhall 
bear them aloft to her Omnipotent Author. 
L. A. T. 
THE BEST WAY TO ENDURE MATRIMONY. 
Timothy Titcomb writes as follows on what is 
called, with exquisite irony, the divine institution: 
I suppose there is a modicum of romance in 
most natures, nnd that if It gathers abont any 
I event, it is that of marriage. Most people marry 
their ideals. There is more or leas fictitious and 
fallacious glory resting upon the head of every 
bride, which the inchoate husband believes In. 
Most men aud women manufacture perfection in 
their mates by a happy process of their imagina¬ 
tions, and then marry them. This, of course, 
wears away. By the time the husband has seen 
hin wife eat heartily of pork and brans, and, with 
her hair frizzled, and her oldest die-ts on, full of 
the enterprise of overhauling things, he s< es that 
she belongs to the same race as himself. And 
she, when her husband gets up cross in the morn¬ 
ing, and undertakes to shave himself with cold 
water and a dull razor, while his suspenders 
dangle at bis heels, begins to see that man is a 
very prosaic animal. In other words, there is 
such a thing as a honej moon, of longer or shorter 
duration; and while the moonshine lasts, the 
and perplexities, and her voice rose in prayer for 
the safety of her children gathered round the 
hearthstone. 
Then as they chose companions new, and ties 
were formed stronger tbau those which bound 
them to their home, they were scattered; but 
when they knew their mother was dying, slowly 
but surely, the little baud was again united until 
each should receive her parting blessing. Still 
the mother lingered, and her children's children 
were often cairied to the bedside for her kiss and 
fond caress. 
"Grandma, tell mo which is the prettiest, Har¬ 
ry’s baby, or mine?” und the response, "O, 
Marie! ’tis hard to Ieavo the little ones,” would 
check mother’s merry sally, as slie knew she must 
leave us soon. Mother told me this, but “Har¬ 
ry’s baby,” my pretty cousin, never thinks of her 
who loved ns so truly then, and seldom of the one 
with whom she was comparod. Why should she? 
she has no reason to remember; other and, per¬ 
haps, higher thoughts engross her attention. But 
can I forget, when it was grandmother who said 
of me, “ Call her Lucinda, and that alone, for by 
that name wc called my little one,—the youngest, 
aud the prettiest of my flock, and I am going to 
her soon,—very soon.” My mother tells me, too, 
the affection so freely bestowed upon me w r as 
second only to the priceless love for her own 
children. It is a great pleasure to me to know 
this,— so few love me now, the ugly, deformed 
child, they all seem to think me. I seldom leave 
my cottage home, and I sometimes wonder if she, 
too, would not forsake me for fairer forma and 
with a baby, or who didn’t regard it as “cruel and 
barbarous,” if any one objected to the crying of 
her baby ? 
Did yon ever know two women to talk over a 
third without ridiculing her, even if she was her 
"dear particular friend?” 
Did you ever praise one young lady in the pres¬ 
ence of another, without being confidentially told 
of some enormous fault or deformity in the former 
which j t ou hadn’t dreamed of? 
Did you ever tell your wife what a beautiful 
new dress your neighbor bud got, without learn¬ 
ing that “it was only that dowdy old silk dyed 
over?” 
Did you ever know a pretty woman to make an 
impression without a half a dozen other pretty 
women ruining the affect of it the instant Bhe 
left ihe room? 
Did you ever know a woman to apologize for 
having knocked another woman's bonnet into 
“pi ” (that's piinterism, but expressive, notwith¬ 
standing,) with the corner of her parasol? 
Did you ever hear of a woman who had an idea 
that she was making trouble by her little aira and 
graces? 
We don’t believe yon ever did, reader. They 
are a race of unaccountables, these women, just 
as sweet and piquant as June rosea, sometimes, 
and then, again, bristling like so many venomous 
thorn bushes. 
winter, wjieu they will resume those drab sur 
touts, closely " buttoned up to the chin.” 
A beautiful panorama is exhibiting in the West, 
The sun smiled very pleasantly upon his audience 
for a few moments, and then, blushing like a 
modest artist, as he is, hastened down behind 
the distant hills, and 1 can see nothing now but. 
the waving of bis gorgeous scarf, as it sweeps 
with it. It is a very delicious litile delirium—a 
febrile mental disease, which, like measclB, never 
returns. 
When the honeymoon passes away, setting be¬ 
hind dull mountains, or dipping silently into the 
stormy sea of life, the trying hour of marriage- 
life bas Come. Between the parties there are no 
more illusions. The feverish desire o.'possession 
has gone—vanished into gratification—and all 
excitement has receded. Then begins, or should 
begin, the business of adaptation. If they find 
that they do not love one another as they thought 
they did, they should double their assiduous at¬ 
tentions to one another, and be jealous of every¬ 
thing which tends in the slightest degree to sepa¬ 
rate them. Life is too precious to be thrown 
away in secret regrets or open differences. And 
let me say to every one to whom the romance of 
life has fled, and who are discontented in the 
slightest degree with their condition and rela¬ 
tions, begin this work of reconciliation before 
you are a day older. 
Renew the att-nliona of earlier days. Draw 
your hearts close together. Talk the thing all 
over. Acknowledge your faults to one another, 
and determine tbut henceforth you will be all in 
all to each other; and, my word for it, you shall 
HEAVEN. 
Bktojtd these chilling winds and gloomy skies, 
Beyond death'* cloudy portal, 
There is a land where beauty never dies, 
And love become* immortal. 
A land whose light i* never dimmed by shade, 
Whose fields are ever vernal; 
Where nothing beantifol can ever fade, 
But blooms for aye, eternal. 
We may not know bow sweet its balmy air, 
How bright and fair it# Dowers; 
We may not bear the song* that echo there, 
Through those enchanted bowers. 
The city's shining towers we may not see, 
With our dim, earthly vlaion; 
For Death, the silent warder, keeps the key 
That opens those gates Elysian. 
Bat sometimes, when adown the western sky 
The fiery sunset lingers, 
Its golden gales swing inward, noiselessly 
Dolocked by unseen Sogers. 
And while they stand a moment half ajar, 
Gleams from the inner glory 
Stream brightly through the azure vault afar, 
And half reveal the glory 
Oh, land unknnwu! Ob, land of love divine! 
Father all wise, eternal, 
Cuide, guide these wandering, way-worn feet of mine 
Into those postures vernal. 
their brows. He has such odd ways of coloring find in your relation the sweetest joy earth has 
aud flaming his pictures! Very original in style, 
though,—none can deny that. Now Bee those 
huge hales of cotton, piled apon each other so 
carelessly. Those waves of amber are trying to 
heave them out of the way, for there comes a 
troop of the brightest clouds—vermilion tinted, 
ruby, and the softest pink, with lacings of gold. 
They seem like a happy band of children in holi¬ 
day attire, with blue sashes and bronzed sandal#. 
A moment they bow to us from the gorgeously 
decorated stage, then gracefully retire, and a new 
party glides into their places. So swiftly do 
these scenes pass before my eyes, that 1 have 
time to note bat few particulars. The whole 
seems like fragments of a heavenly vision; and 
once I thought the “shining gates” were visible. 
for you. There is no other way for you to do. 
ff you arc happy at borne you must be happy 
abroad; the man or womau who has settled down 
upon the conviction that he or she is attached for 
life to an uncongenial yoke-fellow, and that there 
is no way of escape, has lost life; there Is no effort 
too costly to make which can restore to its setting 
upon the bosoms, the missing pearl 
— ■ — ~ — 
Neglected Ditty.—No mau bas any right to 
manage bis affairs in such a way that Iiis sudden 
death would bring burdens und losses on other 
people. There may be rare cases where a man 
really cannot help entanglements, or where, from 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE OLD CHURCH. 
It wua a sacred place, that dear old church, 
with its gallery on three sides, and its windows 
of unstained glass, through which the sunlight 
streamed free aud natural, lighting up the faces 
of tho worshipers. Many of them have, long ere 
this, paused in the weary march of life, and over 
tbci» pulseless hearts the grass in the church-yard 
has long waved. We remember tho firm but 
reverent tread to which its broad aislea echoed, 
and the soft patter of little bare feet in the glad 
summertime; and we can almost hear again the 
voices that used to eirig “Coronation,” and 
“Windham,” and “Old Hundred,” where our 
fathers worshiped, and to which our childish 
steps were first bent. There we looked our last 
upon the faces of our dead,—there listened to 
words of hope from our pastor’s lips,—from that 
altar ascended prayers such as God loves to 
answer, — aud tho memory of those scenes,— 
though ’twas years ago wo witnessed them, and 
the old church is our place of Sabbath rest no 
longer,—are as green spots In life’s desert. We 
have an “edifice” now, of modem architecture, 
with beautiful carpets, and soft cushions, and its 
spire pointing loftily toward Heaven. But onr 
mind reverts to long past scenes in the old 
church, and we cannot help the spirit’s iuqniry,— 
Are souls born of luxurious ease? From the old- 
fashioned altar many a child of God has gone to 
bis reward,—shall such be tho record of the 
new? God so grant. Lina Lee. 
Sherburne, N. Y., 1860. 
- - ♦ -- 
DEAD, YET LIVING. 
The cedar is most useful when dead. It is the 
most productive when its place knows it no more. 
There is no timber like it. Firm in the grain, 
•aces? - - - u seems ,,Ke ,ra * men “ 01 a evenly Vision; and inexperience, or lack of judgment, he has hro't There is no timber like it. Firm in the grain, 
We don't believe van ever di i made, tl ° D «ri 1 thou ^ llt the ‘' 8l ‘" ling gates’’ were visible, his affairs into such a state that the interest of and capable of the finest polish, the tooth of no 
,a IV of ZccZtiZ tno'VVVo S , V \""T . A "f" ' ar * b ' »«■“■ “P»» >■*> lift; bo. ho ,h„„ld make ln.ee, trill fob 1* and Tim. b imeefr c.o hard* 
eweet and a. JnnL ™ * mVf *" '“T"* *“* *° TV" '"T" "* ‘L f‘“T” 8 “ > >cr| ' e "“‘ , 
id then acuin hriatlino- like monw „„ “ wUal tt ' e tUe y bearing awaj,—urnB? Yes. a position. Honor aud honesty demand that he through the chambers which it ceils, the worm 
orn bush ' D y 18 They press them to their hearts, and I know that should so conduct his business, that his death will not corrode the book which it protects, nor 
There’anne fInner wn .j . , , ,. those Ul ' na contain the ashes of all that gorgeous should cause no one to be wronged. And as to the moth corrupt the garment which it guards— 
alien s one thing we never ceased to bo inwardly pageant, which drew forth my admiration just dvi,„r 1. «.t h«t. ... . 
thankful for—that we’re uot a map, and conse¬ 
quently obliged to marry one of 'em! Why site 
would drive us crazy in a week, with her whims 
faces, and something like bitterness steals over and fancies, her exactions and her pettish ways. 
my heart. Then I come here, open the little 
chest, nnd draw it to the window, where 1 can 
look away to the hill-side grave yard beyond the 
school-house, and see the marble slabs at the head 
Of her grave and grandpa's, with the locust tree 
stretching its limbs out over them,— and 1 won¬ 
der if they look down into my heart and see there 
the struggle between distrust and an endeavor to 
love in spite of neglect and acorn, or if they 
never can know how 1 strive to live to meet them 
again, aud pray for strength to wait patiently. 
Again I turn to the chest and take from it an 
old black silk bonnet,—so large that I can 
scarcely sec from under it when it is on my bead, 
its lining yellow with age, and the strings wrink¬ 
led by tying, just as she left them,—a pin-cushion, 
We would make the most lamentable, henpecked 
husband in the world, unless, indeed, we bad the 
nerve to run away from her, or shut her tip in 
the closet fora week, until she promised to behave 
better. When a woman chooses she can be the 
nearest thiugto an angel of anything in this world, 
und wbat a pity it is .she doesn’t always choose.— 
Life Htust.rated. 
•» • ♦ ■ 
EARLY INFLUENCES. 
There can be no greater blessing than to be 
born in tho light and air of a cheetful, loving 
home. It not only ensures a happy childhood—if 
there he health and a good constitution—but it 
almost makes sure a virtuous and happy manhood, 
pageant, which drew forth my admiration jnst 
now. They are carrying them back to the 
artist, that he may fan them into new life to-mor¬ 
row’s dawn. A. p, d. 
Marshall, Mich., 1860 
-♦-*-*- 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
LINGERINGS WITH NATURE-No. Ill 
A GLIMPSE OF THE SUSQUEHANNA. 
Let the wearied traveler watch hia opportunity, 
my admiration just dying, although all men everywhere believe that all but immortal itself, it transfuses its amaran- 
them back to the all other men will surely die, yet they unite in thine qualities to the objects around it. Every 
into new life to-mor- thinking that they themselves are exceptions to Christian is useful in his life, but the goodly 
a. p. d. this rule; or, at least, they act as if they thought cedars are the most useful afterward. Luther is 
so. This is radically wrong. It is every man’s 
duty in every transaction in life, to be influenced 
by the fact that at any day or at any hour he 
may die. 
---♦ 
The Talent of Success. —Every man must 
patiently abide his time. He must wait. Not in 
and as the cars sweep round one of those maguifi- listless idleness, not in useless pastime, not in 
dead, but the Reformation lives. Calvin is dead, 
but his vindication of God’s free and sovereign 
grace will never die. Knox, Melville and Hen¬ 
derson are dead, but Scotland still retains a Sab¬ 
bath and a Christian peasantry, a Bible in every 
house, and a school in every parish. Banyan is 
dead, but his bright spirit still wakes the earth 
in its “ Pilgrim’s Progress.” Baxter is dead, but 
winding up amid the mountains,— a silver wave 
upon the dark canvas. It is seen an instant, and 
then a wall of rocks and trees inclose the hur¬ 
rying vehicle, leaving him calmed and invigo¬ 
rated. Like au eye of sympathy to the forlorn und 
despairing, gleaniB this eye of Nature -upon one 
be may be equal to the occasion.” The talent of 
success is nothing more than doing what you can 
do well, without a thought of fame. If it comes 
at all, it will come because it is deserved, not be¬ 
cause it is sought after. It is a very indiscreet 
aud troublesome ambition which cares so much 
thread-case, needle-book,—with the letters “A. and a fresh young heart in old age. We think it who is, perhaps, gazing mechanically from the about fame, abont what the world says of us —to 
It.” of round-headed pins, just as she placed them every parent's duty to try to make their children's diminutive window at his side. It may he a fan- be always looking in the face of others for ap 
before she died,—a note-ease containing slips of childhood full of love and of childhood’s pioper tasy, begotten Bomewhat by the motion of tho proval —to be always anxious about the effect of 
paper dated 1829, a half dollar of pewter—some .joyousness; and we never see children destitute cars; but there lies the Susquehanna, stretching what we do or say_to be always shouting to 
of “Harry’s” coinage, I think,—aud a bit of of them through the poverty, faulty tempers, or as far as the eye can reach, winding gradually hear the echoes of our own voices. 
“Willie's first vest.” This pair of gloves my wrong notions of their parents, without a heart- upward to its source, glistening in the warm sun- __ 
mother well remembers us having covered a pair 
of bauds calmly folded, when care and work was 
lain aside and the wearer listened attentively to 
the “good man’s” words,—a “checked handker¬ 
chief,” and a plain one of graudpu’s, (I can re¬ 
member him, for often have I sat upon his knee 
aud listened to his tales of the olden time, often 
ache. Not that all the appliances which wealth 
can buy are necessary to the free aud happy un¬ 
folding of childhood in body, mind or heart— 
quite otherwise, God be thanked; but children 
must at least have love inside the house, and 
fresh air and good play, and some good com¬ 
panionship outside — otherwise young life runs 
light, like mirror within its holiday wreath of Old N T EwsPAPER S .-Many people take newspa- very last page those busy fingers ever wrote, 
gieen and golden autumn hues. per8i bm few preserve them; the most interesting tells the child's story, than which, he says, 1 no 
How much the sudden kindling of the imagina- reading imaginable, is a file of old newspapers, event In my life has made so deep and lasting an 
tion may aid this beautiful apparition, it is not It brings up the very age with all its genius, and impression on me.' * A little boy in petticoats, 
easy to determine; but that it is visible, and bas its spirit, more tLan the most labored description in nty fourth year, my father sent me from the 
unspeakably relieved the tedium of a long journey of the historian. Who can take a paper dated field home.’ A spotted tortoise, in shallow water, 
from the lakes to the metropolis, is beyond qnes- half a century ago, without the thought that al- at the foot of a rhodora, caught bis sight, and he 
as fresh as when newly gathered in the “silver 
basket” of the Olney Hymns, Elliott is dead, 
Gut the missionary enterprise is young. Henry 
Martyn is dead, but who can count the apostolic 
spirits who, pboenix-like, have started from his 
funeral pile? Howard is dead, but modern phi¬ 
lanthropy is only commencing its career, fiaikes 
is dead, but the Sabbath Schoolg go on. Wilber- 
force is dead, but the negro will find for ages a 
protector in his memory.— Rev. James Hamilton. 
--*-*-*- 
What is Conscience?— Wendell Phillips, in hi3 
late eulogy upon Theodore Parker, said:—“The 
very last page those busy fin 0 ers ever wrote, 
. . . , .. , . , --L t a . . . . . , r ... . * ' * * mar - 3 « *vv/a/ tUVUUliL Uio CigUl, ttfiU 
interrupted to gwe me a kiss or a little song,) and the greatest dauger in the world of withering or tion. It comes upon the monotonous torpor like most every name there printed, is now cut upon lifted his Btiek to strike it when 4 a voice said it 
..1 ,,a! 1 . A .. .1,1 I,.,, J 4i . rrrmif i rr rf Qtunfn^ am tiAn #• A ai« **4- n . ... . . . _ ... r 1 1 ' v 
this plain silk reticule, or old-fashioned “work- growing stunted, or sour and wrong, or at least 
hag,” over which 1 love to linger best of all. I prematurely old, and turned inward on itself. 
will open it now as it lies beside me, and yon -*-*-«- 
shall see its contents. Here are four snuff boxes, Remember that love is dependent upon forms— 
(oo so old and worn the pictures are gone, but the courtesy of etiquette guards and protects courtesy 
others I have had much pleasure in gazing upon; of heart. How many hearts have been lost irre- 
one with a little girl, a basket of flowers, and a coverably, and bow many averted eyes and cold 
Newfoundland dog beside her, the other a portrait looks huve been gained from what seemed per 
a flash of sunlight through the rain clouds,— like 
the trill of a bird in winter,—like a deed of love 
to the despairing heart. How the mists of gath¬ 
ering despondency vanish at this sudden check! 
How slight a weight may poise the soul, just help¬ 
lessly sinkiug! It seems to the startled traveler, 
shut in as he has been, by walls of stone, that a 
a tombstone, at the head of an epitahp? The 
doctor (quack or regular,) that there advertised 
his medicines, and their cares, has followed the 
sable train of his patients—the merchant his 
ships — and the actor, who could make others 
laugh or weep, can now only furnish a skull for 
is wrong.' ‘I stood with a lifted stick, in wonder 
at the new emotion, till rhodora and tortoise 
vanished from my sight. I hastened home, and 
asked my mother what it was that told me it was 
wrong. Wiping a tearwitb herapron, and taking 
me in her arms, she said:—‘Some men call it 
conscience; but 1 prefer to call it the voice of 
of a lady with pulled sleeves, curling hair, aud 
innumerable beads upon her head and neck. 
Here is yet another, a square box, with a 
smaller Indy dressed in ft fashion older still. I 
shall not show you its contents, your wondering 
https but a trifling negligence of forms. 
Sorrow comes soon enough without despond¬ 
ency; it does a man no good to carry around a 
lightning-rod to attract trouble. 
shut in as he has been, by walls of stone, that a his successors in Hamlet. It is easy to preserve conscience; but 1 prefer to call it the voice of 
vista of hill, mountain, rock, and river, has sud- newspapers, and they will repay the trouble; for God in the soul of man. If yon listen to it and 
denly opened to his delighted vision, and as like wine, their value increases with their age. obey it, then it will speak clearer and clearer, 
suddenly closed to mortal sight. --- and always guide you right But if you turn.a 
Magnificent distances, sweeping views,— the Thb philosopher Frazer says that, “though a deaf ear or disobey, then it will fade out, little by 
sea’s grand intiuity, beget the like inhuman effort, man without money is poor, a man with nothing little, and leave you iu the dark, and without a 
aud this one perspective toward the source of the but money is still poorer.” guide.’ ” 
