’S RTOLU EFEW-YOEEER. 
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THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 
wji rib worth longfellow. 
Between the dark and the daylight, 
When Hie night in beginning to lower, 
Comes a pause In the day's occupation 
That is known as the Children’s Hour. 
1 bear in the chamber above me 
The patter of little feet, 
The sound of a door that Is opened. 
And voices soft and sweet. 
From my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the broad hall stair, 
Grave Alice and laughing Allegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 
A whisper, and then a silence; 
Yet I know by their merry eyes 
They are plotting and planning together 
To take me by surprise. 
A sudden rush from the stairway, 
A sudden raid from the hall, 
By three doors left unguarded 
They enter my castle wall! 
The climb up into my turret 
O'er the arms and back of my chair; 
Tf I try to escape, they surround me; 
They seem to be everywhere. 
They almost devour me with kisses, 
Their arms about me entwine, 
Till I think of the IJisbop of Uingin 
In his Mouse-Tow er on the Rhine! 
Do you think, 0, blue-eyed banditti, 
Because you have scaled the wall, 
Such an old mustaches as 1 am 
Is not a match for you all? 
I have you fast in my fortress, 
And will not let you depart, 
But put you into the dungeons 
In the round-tower of my heart. 
And there 1 will keep you forever, 
Vos, lbrever and a day, 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 
And moulder in decay. 
jitlantic Monthly. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
PEAR TREES AND PEARL BUTTONS. 
BV J1AHY ,T. GROSMAN. 
Mrs. Martin and I have always set great store 
by each other, ever since we've lived neighbors,— 
almost as much as if we had been sisters. One 
April we each had two dollars, which, from cer 
tain circumstances, had a value that other dollars 
do not possess. I don't know that wo we're par¬ 
ticularly bewildered with so much money in hand, 
but its investment occasioned much anxiety and 
discussion,—the pith of which was Bimply this. 
The mouey is our own, and we’ll get something 
ornamental instead of useful, because, of neces¬ 
sity, we always did the latter. 
This, that, und the other thing, was talked of. 
We went to Mr. .)-’a jewelry store,— to Mr. 
D-'s dry good’s store,—to Mr. C-'s crock¬ 
ery store,—hut, somehow, we were hard to suit, 
and to narrate our various exercises would be as 
lengthy, uninteresting, and fruitless as Legisla¬ 
tive proceedings sometimes are. Finally, one 
balmy afternoon, when robin songs trilled and 
quavered in the air, and earth's pulses heat quick¬ 
ly with developing life and heanty, John Jonks 
came along from the nursery, ten miles distant, 
his wagon heavily laden with shade trees, fruit 
trees, and the like. Mrs. Martin's two dollars 
found their way into the worn, rusty wallet—eight 
of his pear trees found their way into her little 
fruit yard, and two mountain ash trees, which 
John threw in, cast their shadows over her front 
gate. 
Mrs. Le Ri f. was spending the day with me. 
She was a bright, gay, cheerful little French wo¬ 
man, who had seen better days; but in tho city of 
Philadelphia, from good health and good busi¬ 
ness her husband became a rheumatic sufferer. 
Poverty and disease were heavy burdens to be 
borne together; his spirits sank, and the transfer 
from the city to the country did not rally him as 
she had hoped. He lost the comparative degree 
of energy once possessed, and became a kind of 
passive verb, subject to all moods and tenses that 
can accompany the masculine gender. Poor 
man! he was to be pitied—and his wife pardoned, 
if, sometimes, a lew Phillippic-like statements 
slipped off her voluble tongue. 
She had brought up a set of pearl buttons for 
mo to purchase. ‘‘Madam might have them for 
two dollars—so very cheap—iliey cost very much 
more.” I admired them—they were wrought 
cunningly, graduated in size, and would be so 
nice for a morning dress, which I purposed ma¬ 
king of dove-colored silk,—that is, if we went to 
visit Henry's sister at the East, the next Autumn. 
They took such u hold of my fancy that I was re¬ 
solved to be governed by it, rather than by the 
opinion or practice of somebody else. 
“ Why didn’t yon get something worth while,” 
asked Hunky of me that night as we stood in Mr. 
Martin's fruit yard. I answered by an allusion 
to our fences, which were quite objectionable 
then, but are not now, thanks to Rckai. teach- 
ingSi—adding that my buttons would match so 
well with the pearl pin aud buckle I was married 
in, which he gave me. 
"A good time for them to have remembered the 
Missions,” said Mr. Martin, referring to a habit 
which his wife had, aud he had not. 
“Our purses would be the alternative in that 
case,” suggested Henry. 
“For which you ought to be thankful,” return¬ 
ed Mrs. Martin, for she believed that “the liberal t 
soul should be made fat” 
I would not admit, nor would I now to Henry 
or Mrs. Martin, that my investment was a foolish f 
one, placed as I am, and was then; but Mrs. Le j 
Bub's heart was lightened for a little time. c 
Several Autumn's have passed since that time, 
and Mrs. Martin's pear trees are yearly blessings. 
Old Mrs. Smith, who is always remembered, de¬ 
clares they do her more good than medicines, and 
poor Mr. Jones Is made the happier for their del 
licious flavor. The minister’s family forget their 
trials as they eat them, and the school-teacher’s 
nooning takes a golden hue from the contents of 
little Sarah .Tone's dinner-basket Little handB 
move quickly und bright eyes glisten to the an¬ 
swer of—" Won't you pleatbe to give me a pear?” 
Aud, in addition, two dollars at least are yearly 
given to the Missions from the proceeds of the 
fruit. 
Yesterday, as Henry came in from Mr. Mar¬ 
tin’s with his hands full of the ripe fruit, he said, 
in his droll, significant way,—“ Pear Trees, or 
Pearl Buttons,—which afford the most pleasure?" 
Alexander, Genesee Co,, N. Y , 1860. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.) 
“BY-AND-BY.” 
RT J. W. BARKER. 
" Beset not of to-morrow." 
There’s a little mischief maker 
That is stealing half our bliss, 
Sketching pictures in a dream-land 
That are never soeo In this; 
Dashing from our lips the pleasure 
Of the present, while we sigh; 
You may know this mischief maker, 
For his name is “ By-and-By.” 
He is sitting by our hearthstones, 
With his sly, bewitching glance, 
Wbisperlog of the coming morrow 
As the social boars advance; 
Loitering ’mid our calm reflections, 
, Hiding forms of beauty nigh;— 
He’s a smooth, deceitful fellow, 
This enchanter, “ By-and-By ” 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.J 
PERPETUAL DREAMERS. 
Did you ever see one, reader? They may be 
found iu every walk of life, among ull classes of 
people, rich and poor, learned and unlearned. 
They go to bed dreaming, and they get up dream¬ 
ing; they go about their work dreaming, dream 
while reading, dream while talking, dream while 
riding, walking, eating,—in fact, they are always 
dreaming. This class always seem to he very 
busy, yet they never really do anything but dream. 
They begun dreaming before they went to school, 
dreamed while at school, dreamed when they left 
school, and they dream yet. They dream of ac¬ 
complishing that which has not yet been com¬ 
menced,— they dream of reward without merit, 
and they dream of merit without an effort. 
I have seen one dream out a very good plan to 
obtain an object desired; but before be com¬ 
menced acting on bis plan, a dream of something 
better would take possession of his brain, and he 
would go on dreaming, and re dreaming, until it 
was too late to obtain the object at nil. 1 have 
seen the mother, with a half dozen little prattlers 
around her, so busily dreaming that she did not 
know 
“ They were engaged, one and all. 
Sketching pictures on the wall.'’ 
I have seen the father so much engaged building 
some 11 castle in the air,” that he did not know one 
of his mischievous little ones had relieved him 
Of bis spectacles, had transferred them to her own 
head, and was trying to read by their aid a paper 
held iu his own hand. I have seen the sister, so 
“wrapt” in some fanciful theory of her own, that 
when her brother inquired for certain articles he 
desired, even though held in her own band, she 
did not know where they were, but went about 
searching for them. 1 have .seen the countenance 
of the dreamer lighted up by a smile, which 
seemed to say, “It works well;” then, again,] 
have seen his countenance darkened by a frown 
which read, “ It will not do.” Indeed, you can 
trace almost all the emotions of the mind in the 
countenance of the dreamer. 
We all have our abstracted moment, hut save 
us from perpetual dreaming. We do not want to 
live in an ideal world—surrounded by ideal friends, 
and enjoying ideal comforts. We want the reali¬ 
ties of life; we want to know “whereof we 
affirm,” One has called these dreamers “happy 
foots,''— living in the enjoyment of their own fan¬ 
ciful creations. But will they not awake to the 
reality that they are spending their time for 
naught,—thattboie is real pleasure in knowing 
what we are, where we arc, and what labor it is 
our duty to perform? Amih Neal. 
Wellington, Ohio, I860. 
You may know him by his wincing, 
By hi* careleeft, sportive air; 
By his sly, obtrusive presence, 
That i* straying everywhere; 
By the trophies that he gathers 
Where his sombre victims lie; 
For a bold, determined fellow, 
Is this conqueror, By-and-By.” 
When the calls of duty haunt us, 
And the present seems to be 
All of time that ever mortals 
Snatch from dark eternity, 
Then a fairy hand seems painting 
Pictures on a distant «ky; 
For a cunning liulo arlist 
Is the fairy, “ By-and-By.” 
“ By-and hy " the wind i* singing; 
“ By-and-by ” the henrt replies; 
But the phantom, just before us. 
Ere wo grasp it, ever flies. 
List not to the idle charmer, 
Scorn the very specious lie, 
Only in the fancy liveth 
This eeceiver, “ By-and-By.” 
Buffalo, N. Y., 1860. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
“THEY SAY.” 
“ONLY ONE LEFT." 
“Only one left.” These are the words of a 
mother who has lately followed to the grave a 
little form that was more precious than herself; 
a form that death envied, and so changed into 
marble. We know how grevlous a thing it, is to 
hide our jewels in the dust. We cling to them 
with all the tenacity that love engenders; we 
claim them as all our own, aud often dispute 
the Creator’s right to them. But if we would 
remember that they are merely loaned to us, 
how much easier would it be to part with them. 
Wo might indeed sigh and weep to give them 
up, hut there would he no snapping of heart¬ 
strings, no insufferable pangs, no terrible deso¬ 
lation. 
“Only one left.” Then let your affections 
concentrate upon him. You cannot benefit the 
dead—then seek to benefit the living. He is a 
noble boy, and will make a man worthy of the 
name, if you direct his young mind aright. 
Perhaps He, who watches over us all, saw that he 
needed all yonr care, and so took the rest away. 
Too much time cannot be spent upon a single 
soul. Eternity lies at the end of the path in 
which the boy has begun to waik. Be this reflec¬ 
tion unto you a constant monitor, and a ceaseless 
inspiration. 
“Only one left.” And do you murmur? They 
might all have been taken. More mercy has 
been shown to you than to many others. There 
are many Rachels who weep over the loss of an 
entire household—will yon repine who have one 
idol left? You must not. It is base to do it 
^ ou insult the Almighty while you repine. 
He knew what was best for you. Receive His 
chastenings graciously, if you care for His 
benefits. 
“Only one left” One immortal spirit One 
pledge of affection. One stslf on which to loan. 
Oae joy. One consolation. Knows your heart 
no arithmetic? Conn’s it a unit of so little 
value? Mother! Mother! Be content That 
little one shall be to you an increasing source of 
pleasure, if you will but train bis infant feet to 
walk in the pleasant Ways of wisdom. 
“Only one left” Wait but a little and you 
shall have them all.— Anson G. Chester . 
The hatreds and disgusts that there are behind 
friendship, relationship, service, and, indeed, 
proximity of all kinds, is one of the darkest spots 
upon earth,— Friends in Council . 
Convenient words,— important words in com¬ 
mon parlance. “ They” is made to represent per¬ 
sons indefinitely and indiscriminately. Indeed, 
as a relative word, Us chief peculiarity conBistR 
! in the difficulty which we encounter in endeavor¬ 
ing to ascertain what does and what does not 
constitute its true antecedent. We have called 
them convenient words; and they are especially so 
to the scandal-monger; who, fearing to slander 
on his own responsibility, or wishing to confirm 
hia malicious report, is sure to commence his on- 
slaagbt against Uis neighbor’s reputation with the 
phrase “they say,” thereby rendering it a refuge 
for lies, which muBt otherwise be traced to him¬ 
self. He who thus shields himself by this term, 
though Icbb defiant than the open slanderer, is no 
less pernicious. 
We are justified iu giving credence to a report 
in proportion to thomumber and veracity of the 
witnesses who testify; hut ive are apt to forget 
that a person must be personally acquainted with 
the facts, in order to be really a witness. It fre¬ 
quently occurs that a number of persons of re¬ 
spectability and veracity testify essentially to the 
same thing; hut if questioned with regard to the 
source of their information, they are found to 
have received it from report; and in tracing the 
rumor to its starting point, we find it originated 
in the mouth of some evil-disposed person, total¬ 
ly unworthy of our confidence. 
In courts of law, however plausible atestimony 
may appear, and even when against a notorious 
criminal, if the testifier have no other authority 
for his declaration than “ they Bay,” it will not be 
received as truth. Yet the innocent are arraigned 
at the tribunal of slander, to answer for crimes 
they never committed, and on « mere on dit are 
banished from society aud disinherited of their 
social rights. 
The same Law giver who has said “ Thou shalt 
not Bteal," and “Thou shalt not kill,” has also 
said, “ Thou 6balt not bear false witness against 
thy neighbor;” and he that is so wicked as to 
' stab his neighbor’s reputation,” or “rob him of 
good name," because the civil law is not subtile 
enough to prevent him, would despoil him of his 
possessions or remorselcssfy thrust a dagger into 
his heait, did the same law impose no penalty for 
robbery aud murder. In the sight of Heaven, it 
is as sinful to rob one of hi3 honor as to purloin 
his wealth. Well has the poet said, 
-“ who steals my purse steals trash ; 
But he who filches from me my good name, 
Robe me of that which not enriches him 
And makes me poor indeed.” 
Look at the slanderer’s head and heart, when 
all the powers and passions are assembled in 
“secret conclave against innocence and virtue.” 
See Envy exulting iu the prospect of a neighbor's 
calamity; Malice and Hatred eager to infuse the 
poison of antipathy; while Pride, Vanity, and 
Selfishness combine to consummate the diabolical 
enterprise. VYe can compare a person possessed 
of such a disposition to nothing but a seorjn'on, 
that waits to sting the unsuspecting traveler; or 
the deadly Upas, that diffuses its fatal poison 
through the atmosphere. Diogenes, the Cynic 
philosopher, being asked of which beast the bite 
was the most dangerous, immediately replied, 
“If you mean wild beasts, it is the slanderer’s: if 
tame, the flatterer's)” 
There are many who, unable to acquire distinc¬ 
tion by their own merit, resort to gossip, and cast i 
aspersions upon those more worthy than them- f 
selves, as a means of procuring notoriety. And < 
when idle and mischievous persons, ever on the | 
alert for Bcandal, swarm around them, like carrion £ 
Hiea attracted by the scent of corruption, they 
fancy themselves highly respected; and appear 
not to know that, the esteem of none but the hon¬ 
orable can honor them. Let no one accept it 8s 
a proof of his worthiness, because he has attentive 
listeners while rehearsing a title of scandal; for 
“Slauiier, that worst of poisons, ever finds 
An easy entrance to ignoble minds." 
J. G. Webb. 
Wheeler, Steuben Co., N. Y., 1860. 
THE HARVEST. 
LITTLE AND PRECIOUS. 
Everything is beautiful when it is little, except 
souls; little pigs, little lambs, little birds, little 
kittens, little children. Little martin-boxes of 
homes are generally the most happy and cozy; 
little villages are nearer to being atoms of a shat¬ 
tered Paradise than anything we know of. Little 
fortunes bring the most content, and little hopes 
the least disappointment. Little words are the 
sweetest to hear, and little charities fly furthest, 
and stay the longest on the wing. Little lakes 
are the stillest, little hearts the fullest, and little 
farms the best tilled. Little books are the most 
read, and little songs the dearest loved. And 
when Nature would make anything especially 
rare and beautiful, she maks it little; little pearls, 
little diamonds, little dews. 
Agur's is a model prayer, hut then it is a little 
prayer, and the burden of the petition is for lit¬ 
tle. The Sermon on the Mount is little, hut the 
last dedication discourse was an hour. The 
Roman said real, vidi, vici —I came—saw—con¬ 
quered—but dispatches now-a-daya are longer 
than the battles they tell of. 
Everybody calls that little that they love best 
upon earth. We once heard a good sort Of man 
speak of his little wife, and we fancied she must 
be a perfect bijou of a wife. We saw her; she 
weighed two hundred und ten; we were surprised. 
But then it was no joke; the man meant it He 
could put hiBwife in his heart, aud have room 
for other things beside; and what was she hut 
precious, and what could she be but little? 
We rather doubt the stories of great argosies 
of gold we sometimes hear of, because Nature 
deals in littles, almost altogether. Life is made 
up of littles; death is what remains of them all; 
day is made up of little beams, and night is glori- 
oub with little stars. Multum in parvo— much in 
little—is the great beauty of all that we love best, 
hope for most, and remember longest.— Chicago 
Journal. 
SBAI 
P-. : ^ 
. 4 , 
"‘^ir 5# We 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
MY LIFE. 
BY RATH CAMERON. 
The song of the harvest is everywhere. Its 
notes fall sweetly upon the ear, as they float over 
the prairie; away there, just subsiding, and away 
there, just beginning; and so they will pass the 
strain along, till the music has been wafted round 
the world. Along “down the rivpr,”the glean¬ 
ers are out after the reapers; the golden cones 
are rising here und there, or the grain is dashing 
down like a mountain torrent, amid the cloudy 
tempest of the thresher. The music has floated 
up from the south, has come over to us from 
Iowan fields, and down from Wisconsin, and 
across from Michigan, and up from Ohio. And 
every syllable of the song is Saxon; it needs 
neither lexicon nor interpreter; it is the great 
lyric of the age. 
And these are but random notes from the great 
tune they are everywhere singing. If we are 
not the most grateful people in the world, it will 
only be because we are a nation of utter ingrates. 
With a land dimpled with vallcya that might 
have been hollowed for Eden, and smiling with 
prairies, just ready to laugh Out aloud, we wonder 
sometimes what infatuation it is that keeps men 
the prisoners of cities, the only part of this 
beautiful world that God did not make, when 
they can be so independent, so care-free, so strong 
in hand, and heart, Rtridiug forth to the sowing, 
or panting after the reaper, on their own broad 
acres. The sun that only burns the brows of 
other men, turns the work of their hands to glory 
and gold. The rains thut bring discomfort to 
other men, arc beating the reveille of life and 
plenty for them. The clouds, that only fleck the 
blue or hide the day from other eyes, have rich¬ 
est freights consigned to fields their hands have 
plowed. The snow that seems a cold, white 
shroud to other men, is a downy mantle for their 
fall-sown grain. Each month throughout the 
year, comes with errands and gifts to them, and 
there is not a Judas in all the twelve. 
That our great progenitor should have been a 
gardener, is to us no mystery at all; but that 
such direct, such child-like appeals to Nature’s 
generous bosom for life's best gifts, should have 
been set aside for books and bnstling crowds, 
and men prefer her offerings “ second hand,” will 
forever remain a marvel. The gold of the mine 
is dross compared with the gold of the grain, 
and there is no authorship so grand as that 
which writes over thousands of acres the legible 
language of plenty. 
It seems to us that the prairies were cleared by 
the God of Nature, and held in reserve away in 
the West, and girded round about with forests 
and lakes, to recall man from the store, the shop, 
the office, and give glow to his cheek, strength to 
his Hinews, health to his pulses, and gifts to his 
garners. If the millonium ever comes, it will be 
when there are fewer lawyers and physicians, and 
merchants and editors, and a world full of farm¬ 
ers and gardeners. We rather think, though at 
present wanting any direct evidence on the sub¬ 
ject, that Paradise Mill reappear where it was 
found at first, in some glorious garden or other. 
Our hopes point to the North West as an eligible 
spot for breaking up the old fallows again, and 
where the Bons and daughters of the long-gone 
tenants of Eden may enter into the latter-day 
inheritance.— B. F. Taylor. 
A harpy life is grunted me, 
With much to cheer and bless; 
With Friendship's fond, endearing ties, 
And Lore’s sweet tenderness 
Contentment at my table sits; 
And ever ut my side, 
As guardian angels, Faith and Hope, 
And Charity abide. 
I envy not the worldly great, 
I do not crave their gold; 
For, amid all their luxury, 
Some sorrow I behold. 
I would not give the boon of health 
For all that they enjoy, 
Nor barter home's pure happiness 
For pleasures that soon cloy. 
I know that grief must come to me; 
Already have I wept 
Above that last repose, in which 
The loved and loving slept. 
But I indulge no vain regrets; 
My heart, submissive still, 
Would ever bow, with humble trust, 
Unto a Father’* will. 
And if the Future bring with it 
A weight of pain and care, 
I know that strength will ako come 
The load to help me bear. 
I will not cloud the present hour 
By fears of coming woe; 
Nor, mourning over blessings fled, 
Those that are left forego. 
Life's Toses I'll not cast aside, 
Because some thorns I view; 
Nor spurn the mingled cup that holds 
The sweet and bitter too. 
And thus mine is a happy life. 
Oh, may I thankful be, 
That Gon, who watcheth over all, 
Hath been so kind to me' 
Rochester, N. Y,, 1880. 
THE SORROW OF THE WORLD. 
It comes upon every impenitent man Booner 
or later. It is the sorrow of unsatisfied desire— 
the hateful sorrow—the fire which does not melt, 
hut hardens. The good which the man seeks and 
obtains not, troubles him; the good which he 
obtains, satisfies not. There is some way an in¬ 
gredient in the cup of life which embitters all 
his bliss. All the fruit is sjiecked or rotten at 
the core. The woild grows a great deal of com¬ 
fort for worldly men. But the sorrow!—it comes 
as an earthquake shock, or as a lightning’s flash, 
or in fever's burning blood, consumption's wast¬ 
ing band, ambition’s gniliy gain, or sensual de¬ 
basements, or in having nothing for the other 
world. In all wasted lives remorse heats into 
“ billowy griefs” the memories of the soul. Fiery 
billows, indeed! And they are here, they are 
there, they are everywhere! Springing from 
within, the growth of our own hearts—the sor¬ 
row of the world which worketh death? Shun 
the path. 
The Goodness of God. — The Almighty has 
acted with the souls of men as he has with the 
different countries of the earth. He might have 
given fruits of all kinds to every land; but if 
every land did not require the fruits of another, 
there would bo no fellowship maintained with the 
others. Hence it comes to pass, that to one he 
gave a superfluity of wine, to another of oil, to 
another cattle, to another of the fruits of the field: 
so that, since one gives what the other has not, 
and the latter supplies what the former wants, the 
separated lands are united by a communication of 
gifts. And, Uke different countries, the souls of 
saints are related to one another, by reciprocally 
communicating what has been imparted to them, 
as diilerent counties share with one another their 
respective productions, they are all united to¬ 
gether in one love.—Gregory. 
A Thought. —When there is a thought in my 
heart, and I wish it to be in thine also, I seek a 
sound, as it were for a vehicle, by which it may- 
pass to thee. I take a sound, and, as it were, put 
the thought into it. Thus 1 utter, and produce, 
and teach that thought, yet lose it not If my 
thought can go forth to thee and still remain 
with me, cannot the Word of God do the same 
thing by means of the flesh which he took on 
him? Behold the Word of God, God with God. 
the Wisdom of God, remaining unceasingly with 
the Father, that he might proceed to ns, sought 
the flesh, as it were a sound, and introduced 
himself into it. By this expedient he both pro¬ 
ceeded to us and did not recede from the Father. 
Augustine, 
There is a wisdom that looks grave, and sneers 
at merriment; and again a deeper wisdom, that 
stoops to be gay as often as occasion serves, and 
oftenc-st avails itself of shallow and trifling 
grounds of mirth, because if we wait for more 
substantial ones, we seldom can he gay at all. 
Controlling the Inclination.— It is hard 
work to control the woikings of inclination, and 
turn the bent of nature; but that it may be done, 
I know from experience. God has given us, in a 
measure, the power to make our own fate; and 
when our energies seem 1o demand a sustenance 
they cannut get—when our will strains after a 
path we may not follow—we need neither starve 
from inanition,nor stand still in despair; we have 
but to seek another nouusbment for the mind, as 
strong as the forbidden food it longed to taste, 
and perhaps purer; and to hew out for the adven¬ 
turous foot a road as direct and broad as the one 
Fortune has blocked up against ns, if rougher 
than it —Charlotte Bronte. 
Men have worshiped some fantastic being for 
living alone in a wilderness; but social martyr¬ 
doms place no saints upon the calondar. — 
Friends in Council. 
s 
B 
