msM 
ib 
MY WIFE. 
I have o little pleKMiut wife, 
Who uotbiug, tiothing lacka; 
She keeps hereelf ami things about 
The bouse »s neat as wax. 
And everything, with woman’s taste, 
Seents placed expressly for 
Th# pleasure of a man who long 
lias lived a bachelor! 
Her handkerchiefs are white as milk; 
Her skirts as white as snow; 
( Her slippered feet are small and neat, 
And always “ on the go.” 
She floats about as if upborne 
% • , On gurn-elastia springs, 
'« Or gome uoseen, mysterious power, 
^ * • With undiscovered wings. 
• • 
• Her glossy hair Is deepest brown, 
• Here eyes are softly dark; 
• And from their loving depths shoot forth 
Full many a cheerful spark; 
Her smiles send speeding on their flight 
The swift-winged, rosy hours, 
And what was ouce »uy darkeBt way, 
Is radiant now with flowers. 
My linen has a glossy white, 
More pure than ever shone 
On PariAn marble; and, what’s more, 
There's ne'er a button gone. 
She toils my stockings, makes my shirts, 
And darns up all my rents, 
And saves mo half of w hat was once 
My bachelor expense. 
Now, all you crusty bachelors, 
With life's great battle sore, 
Go get a wife and settle down, 
And play the fool no more! 
Don’t be too nice they're angels all — 
With loving beart« and true; 
The secret is, be kind to them, 
And they’ll be kind to you. 
-»w » 
[Written for Moore’s Kural New-Yorker.] 
LARG £ HOUSES. 
Wb lived in a little brown cottage at the foot 
of a hill. Very pleasantly it rested beneath the 
protecting shadow of patriarchal forest trees,— 
vory pleasant looked the little garden well-tilled 
and the little orchard well-filled, — sweetly the 
flowers blushed and nodded to the whispering 
breeze, and teuderly the ivyed vino clasped the 
ding and cold potatoes. Meanwhile poor I wan¬ 
dered from room to room like a prisoned bird, 
restless and unhappy. What shonld I do at such 
a great party with my country ways and manners 
—what should I do with my hands, browuud and 
hardened by the summer's toil, were questions 
which remained to be answered, while all that I 
had ever read or heard about the trials and mor¬ 
tifications of country cousins generally, passed 
unbidden and unwelcomed through my mind. 
Well, the eventful eveuiog arrived. Every¬ 
thing was in perfect readiness, the great lamps 
lighted, the doors swung open, and then came the 
patter of soft footfalls, the hum of musical voices, 
the rustling of silks, and wealth and fashion, and 
beauty and splendor thronged the house. I was 
dragged from the obscure corner where I bad 
taken refuge, hoping to remain an unnoticed ob¬ 
server of the scene, and presented to this, that, 
and the other, until my brain reeled under such 
an accurbulation of names and titles, and I sank 
down on the nearest embroidered ottoman utterly 
home sick, sighing for the companionship of a 
few chosen friends in the sung little parlor at 
home, rather than so much bustle and excitement 
in the gilded halls of fashion. Home! what 
would 1 not have given to have been there ntthat 
moment. Hut the longest day will have a night, 
the longest night a morning, and so this wore 
away with mirth ami song, und it was with a 
feeling of great relief that I saw “friend after 
friend depart,” until the last couple bad disap¬ 
peared in the darkness. It was many days how¬ 
ever before the bouse was restored to its wonted 
order and quietness. 
1 have said it was warm,—0, so warm, and we 
not possessing the same contented spirit as did 
the “Shepherd of Salisbury plain,"-were 6ighiDg 
and wishing for ruin. For once we got our wish, 
all the long afternoon and evening the crystal 
drops trickled from the eaves and danced lightly 
upon the stony pavement. It will clear away cool 
we said, and so It did. The next day people went 
about saying, “A fine day, but how cold It is,— 
what a change in the weather, Ac.,” while we 
shrugged our shoulders, und the men rubbing 
their benumbed fingers inquired for great coats 
and mittens. To me, tbo change proved anything 
but desirable; the stove bad been removed from 
the family sitting room, aud there was no room 
for me in the kitchen, so wrapped in my shawl 
and shrunk into the smallest possible compass, 1 
strove to forget my sorrows “past, present, and 
to come,” in the pages of the last new magazine. 
But it would not do, thoughts of the warm cheer¬ 
ful fireside at homo would intrude themselves be¬ 
tween every paragraph, and make me shiver 
again. Then at night, when retired to my own 
spacious chamber, a sight of the thin curtains 
rWritten for Moore’s Rural New-Yoiker.J 
GATHER WHILE YOU MAY. 
BT L. M J0XB8. 
March on to the field of action, 
Ye who are brave and strong. 
And gather the good and precious 
From among life's bu*y tnrong. 
March on, for tae golden treasures 
Are strewn o’er the beauteous land, 
And they who search to find them 
Receive from a bountiful hand. 
Seek them, ye idle watchers, 
Where the precious alone are found; 
Answer unto your calling, 
And come at the trumpet’s sound. 
Como while the spring is dawning, 
And the blossoms are on the trees — 
Come gather the Gems while music 
Is floating upon the breeze. 
Turn ye from the paths of evil, 
And list to the Shepherd’s call, 
Who guide th our erring footsteps, 
And tindeth a home for all. 
Awake from jour dreaming slumber— 
Arouse, with your armor bright, 
And toil while the day is passing, 
For soon will come the night. 
Oh, gather tbo good and precious, 
Not such as will here decay, 
But that which retains its splendor 
Through realms of endless day. 
Damascoville, Ohio, 1860. 
ami 
moss-bound roof in its embracing arms. Very und white spread sent an icy thrill through my 
pleasant was it also within, with its toil and re¬ 
creations, its amusement und instruction, its mul¬ 
tiplied joys and divided sorrows, its loving voices 
and sympathizing hearts, for it had ample room 
for each und all of these. Very pleasant was our 
home, indeed, 
I 
But notwithstanding this, I oftentimes looked 
with feelings of envy and discontent upon the 
broad domains and large houses of our more 
wealthy neighbors, und sighed for possessions 
like theirs,—for princely halls and elegant furni¬ 
ture,— for tempting desgertB, Stylish dress, and 
showy equipage. Thus magnifying the blessings 
of others, 1 overlooked the numberless ones 
which I could call my own,— gazing at the dsz- 
zling meteor so far above rny reach, 1 crushed the 
meek-eyed flower of contentment which bloomed 
at my feet; but its dying, odorous breath taught 
my heart the lesson which its life had failed to 
enforce. It happened in this wise: 
I had friends,—wealthy, aristocratic friends,— 
living in the city of B-, whom I had never 
visited, though pressing invitations from living 
lips were left annually at our rural home, which 
invitations, to bo sincere, I had long desired to 
accept. So, oue fine autumn day, I laid thoques- 
frame, and as 1 lay with chattering teeth on my 
pillow, I was haunted by visions of mother’s warm 
quills and soft homespun blankets ever piled be¬ 
yond my reach. 
Thus many and frequent were the comparisons 
which I drew between large houses and small 
ones, always in favor of the latter, and 1 would 
willingly have given up all the wealth and sple.n 
dor with which I wub then surrounded,— had it 
been mine to give,—for the quiet possession of 
that little house among the hills. And when my 
visit was ended, though in many respects it had 
been a pleasant one, und I fully appreciated the 
efforts of those who, friendly alike in "palace or 
cot,” had by their kindness and attention made it 
so, yet I bade them all a glad good-bye, and went 
home fully determined to be “ content with such 
things” as I had. My friends can tell you bow 
well I kept the resolution. Omega. 
Columbus, Pa , I860. 
OVER-DRESSING. 
The over-dressing of American ladies in the 
streets, at hotels, aud in the churches, is a subject 
of general remark among travelers from abroad, 
as well as sensible people at home; though to lit* 
TWritten for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
CUTFIZ AND READAM-NO. I. 
Persona — Joux Cutfiz of Burrburg, a farmer. 
Hokaob Kbadam of Vineville, also a farmer. 
Were we writing a plsy in which our two 
friends were the heroes, we should begin it in the 
above manner. Then we should bring them into 
various situations, comical and calamitous. We 
might introduce, as a third party, a beautiful 
damsel, and get up a tragical rivalry between 
Messrs. Cutfiz and Rkadam. That would be quite 
an orthodox plot. But there is a serious disad¬ 
vantage in thiaatyla of composition; it Im too great 
a strain upon the imagination; it bothers poor 
brains. The personages are not described either 
in dress or looks. This one talks, then that one 
talks; and from merely their conversation, yon 
have to imagine the rest. In fact, a play is a study, 
aud no play. This is why so few read them, and 
why thousands nightly throng our metropolitan 
play-houses to have them “acted out” for them. 
Here is a case in point. On the appearance of those 
(laming forerunneis of a circus,—the boy-trapping 
bills itiatdistigure old bar rooms, stick like leeches 
to unfortunate sheds, and which a man of taste 
would no sooner tolerate on his fence than lie 
would a mustard plaster on his healthy back,— 
every boy seems electrified. “Father, raay’nt I 
go to the circus? 1 -’ Our father used to say—“ Go 
to the circus! why, no respectable boy goes to 
such a place. Look at those handbills,—you’ll see 
All they do, aud a heap more.” Of course wc were 
not satisfied, and we envied the representative 
Young America urchins, independent of pater¬ 
nal let or hindrance. A ud verily, barefooted Bob, 
brimlcss except by wisps of strawy hair sprouting 
out from under the trunk of an ancient chip hat 
like suckers from an old-style currant bush; and 
slow-witted Nbd, always behind his engineer Bob 
in getting into mischief,—and in getting out, they 
understand the principle in question. When the 
circus comes clucking through our main street, 
with greatest spread and gayest feather, and 
its train of wheeled cages, woul you not prefer 
going into the spreading tem, and feeding the 
elephant with crackers, pelting the curveting 
monkeys, and seeiDg the growling hyenas poked 
up,— in short, taking it Iienurely? Friend of any 
age! do yon like to eat your dinner on the run? 
or to have spirited away half of the wedge of pie 
yon are eating with such inward satisfaction? 
No; and you do not wish to take mental food in 
like manner, nor to have it broken short off by a 
call of business, or a “ to-be-continued.” There¬ 
fore, we shall not give you a story. 
Every one has fragments, more or less, of leisure. 
The farmer has his “nooning,” in honor of a 
hearty dinner, celebrated in a merry and sleepy 
way. and in agricultural undress, i. e., an expanse 
of shirting from the waist upward, more or less 
limp according to the thermometer, more or less 
clean according to work and wearer, and in a few 
instances strapped by two bands, or “ suspenders,” 
or "gallows,” in a crosswise fashion, and tied by 
a wisp of craval, If the owner iB dignified or pre¬ 
cise. Then there is the spell “after Htindown,” 
when the cool evening breeze strokes the yeo¬ 
man’s well-washed face, and fans his glowing 
brown neck and breast exposed to the cooling op¬ 
eration, by throwing back the lappets of shirt 
bosom. There’# the time when one "lunches,’) 
and the time when the veteran laborer comes in 
with the sighing—“I b’lueve I’m tired,” or “it’s 
mighty hot,” and appropriates lounge, or floor, or 
easy chair, according to taste. There, too, is the 
time (she says she never gets it, though,) when the 
busiest housewife hss “cleaned up” and donned 
a spotless apron, and lias a little season to herself. 
Now, what is wanted is something readable thst 
will just lit into those spaces, noonings, restings— 
something natural, lifrful— something calculated 
to call out the involuutary tribute—“that’s good! 
that's a fact! true, every word!” — “a)e! aye!’ 
something that will bring down a big man wii b 
quakiDg haw-haws, and now and then draw mois¬ 
ture to the eyes of all thut have the blessed gift of 
true and large hearts. It must be complete—a 
perfect whole—something you can look at, see 
around, turn over, and feel that it in a thing by 
itself; and feel, too, that it is incapable of being 
spun ont, and only ask for more of the same sort. 
In riding through the country we catch a 
glimpse of a village nestling in Gm off valley, see 
a glorious old tree near by, a neat garden, a trim 
fence, a fine-blooded cow, a stretching slope, and 
from some hill top spy away off' a shimmering 
lake veiled, where It touches the sky, in clouds or 
haziness. It is these fragments, tlmse separate 
gems of scenery that make the pleasant trip. 
Just so in literature, and so in the newspaper, the 
little views of life and manners, the bits of life¬ 
like description, the "sketcues,” or “pieces,” or 
whatever they may be called, affect us most—they 
are what we want. 
“ How fortunate are we in having a writer that 
so fully appreciates, and is so abundantly quali¬ 
fied, to supply our wants!”—some oue dryly 
remarks, with a meaning twinkle of the e^e, evi¬ 
dently at the expense of IIusman. 
- ■ » » ■»--- 
GOOD NATURE. 
Be good natared. Nothing operates against a 
man’s happiness more than ill-nature; it is, in 
fact, the very bane of his existence. It deprives 
him of all pleasures, except such as he may T be 
able to give himself—it is a complete bar against 
his entry into any social amusements, and has 
the effect of rendering him miserable, as well as 
those with whom he is thrown into contact. Who 
ever heard of a happy ill-natured man? Why, 
the thing is morally impossible. Always growl¬ 
ing if anything goes wrong, and if nothing goes 
wrong he is miserable because he has nothing to 
growl at. Bach a man is really an object of pity 
and commiseration. He lives a secluded, iso¬ 
lated life, views the World through the medium o 
his ill-nature, and dies disgusted with everything 
and everybody, except himself, whom he vainly 
A&BfSwI? 
8 IP 
i+jL 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE EARLY DEAD. 
Whits hnnUg meekly folded 
O’er a qutet breast; 
Form, nylj.li-like, moulded, 
Lying atlll—at rest. 
Brow of beauty peerless, 
Pale, yet very fair, 
Dark eyes cWed auil tearless, 
Smoothly plaited hair, 
Long dark lushes sweeping 
O’er a cheek of enow, 
And a soft smile sleeping 
On those lip*—below. 
“ Forget-me-nole” arc wreathing 
Round her lovely bead. 
Soft their fragrance breathing 
O’er the slumbering dead. 
Loving hands enfold her 
In a robe of white— 
Thus I e’er behold her, 
Morniog, noon, and night, 
Long the sod bath rested 
O’er the quiet form— t, 
Long my soul hath breasted 
Life's unceasing storm; 
Still I see her lying 
As I saw her last— 
Memory, undying, 
Bringeth back the past. 
Oft the visions thronging 
Wake a vsgue unrest, 
And a bitter longing 
In my troubled breast, 
Then I long to fold her 
To my heart once more, 
In my arms to hold her 
As in days of yore. 
But thou’Jt meet her never, 
Bailh my weeping heart, 
Those whom death doth sever 
j Evermore skull purl. 
This , my soul denying, 
Points to worlds above — 
Coostantly replying 
There, meet those toko love. 
East Pharsaiia, N. T , 1860, jr. g. <j. 
-- 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker-1 
THE ANGELS CAME 
•Yep, the angels came und took the household 
petto Him who chimed her as his own. Years 
ago I remember looking at an engraving repre¬ 
senting a mother watching by the conch of her 
sick child. Weariness had overcome her, and 
sleep had closed her eyelids. While she slept 
angels came, and one was bearing away to heaven 
a child resembling the cold clay upon the pillow. 
It was a lovely picture, and whenever I now see 
the lifeless form of a little one, thoughts in¬ 
stinctively arise of the angel who bore away in his 
arms the beautiful child. Then, I will Bay of 
“little Anna, ” the angels came and bore her 
away to the land of bright spirits, when bat little 
more than two summers had passed over her head. 
She had brought much love to earth with her 
presence, but how soon the light faded from her 
eyes,—how Boon the silver chord was broken. 
The loving mother dreamed not that her darling 
could die, until the little heart had almost ceased 
to beat, and when whispered words told that the 
stern messenger had won the victory, it fell upon 
her earB with startling power. 
Kind friends arrayed her for the tomb—a myrtle 
wreath with white buds encircled her brow, and 
as we gazed upon the little innocent face, beauti¬ 
ful even in death, we could not help feeling that 
the angels had taken her. They laid her in the 
quiet chareh-yard, and sorrowing friends sought 
tion before the house, and after dne consultation tie purpose.it would seem as at no period has the settles down n P on the carious cut vacant lot imagines to be a perfect pattern to the rest of their homes. Now that she is gone, every little 
and deliberation by the members thereof, it was 
decided in the affirmative. Hastily giving a few 
extra touches to rny wardrobe by way of prepa¬ 
ration, I was soon »i route for the great city, und 
ere long set down “ bag and baggage ” at my 
cousin’s door. I had pictured to myself the 
magnificence which I should witness, but it fell 
(short of the reality, and 1 wsb wholly unprepared 
for the Imposing edifice which rose beforo me, 
with its luxurious surroundings. Oh, I Bhull be 
so happy here, I murmured softly. Then, as I 
love of display been more conspicuous in our 
eouutry. American women are slaves to dress; 
it is the bane of their life, uje, and of the male 
victims, too, whose lives are connected with 
theirs. Traveling trunks, almost as large as a 
small house, must be carried about, filled with all 
sorts of finery, for a summer jaunt to watering- 
places, and for a winter vlsitto a city. The father 
or husband vainly remonstrates; flounced dresses 
and crinoline must have ample space, and there 
sn nappy acre, . murmnren soiuy. men, as i must beu variety, too,in the costumes. “Heaven 
entered and took a general su.vey of the well- aaVL , tbe ladle% how Uiey die6g! „ may wo wdl ex . 
furnished apartments. 1 again repeated the same clnim> Wby wiIl tUey ll0t beoome more ti . 
words. I felt bke one suddenly transported to C all Dues the most fastidious critic of female 
fairy land. There were soft, velvet carpets,- beauty admire a young lady in full toilette more 
sofas with open arms waiting to receive one, aud tban ln 8fB , p i e dress? j f beautiful, there is no 
massive lamps ready for evening service,—ele¬ 
gantly bound books btared thorn the glass doors 
of their prison house, and the piano Btood open 
in the corner,—to say nothing of the wax fruit, 
artificial flowers, penciling*, paintings and rare 
statuary, which adorned and beautified the 
whole. 
It was a warm, sultry day; so drawing my easy 
chair to the window, I put aside the graceful folds 
of the curtain und threw up the sash, hoping there¬ 
by to obtain a little of “ Heaven’s pare air,” bat, 
—0 vain and foolish thought,— there was none 
such to be had, and with a quiet smile, and a 
quiet remark as to the injurious effect of dust up¬ 
on polished furniture, the window was again 
closed, and I bad nothing to do bat hide my dis¬ 
appointment and chagrin behind my fan. 
The third duy after my arrival wasMiss Flora’s 
birth day, and preparations were being made to 
celebrate that great event in a proper manner. 
Such scouring and cleaning,—such sweeping and 
need of ornament; If plain, she should appear 
without pretension. We have known ladies who 
called “ the green,” uml gathers her canvas wings 
snugly to the gronnd, letting the outside chicks in 
to Bee the inside ones only at the corner of the 
wing just under her eye; Bob, Ned, and that 
select class of which they are junior members, 
have no previous engagements. They manage, 
after peaking unsatisfactorily around and getting 
pecked, to splice out a few pennies, with brass or 
entreaty, to the “half-price” notch, sod get in. 
It matters not now, that the wonderful Chinese 
tower of live men is a few “pegs” taller in the 
bill than in reality, or that the horses do occa 
sionally touch hoof to the ground,—it is some¬ 
thing they see with their eyes. Bob is in high glee 
as the real horses go, and the real (?) men caper; 
and Ned “senses” the old jokes of the clown 
better, illustrated as they are in his funny face and 
gestures, which leave it plain when the laugh is 
mankind. 
aot comes to mind,—every little garment or toy 
Oh! do shun Buch a life. If you are not natu- brings bitter tears to the mother's eyes. Active 
have traveled through the continent of Europe t0 come * n * Ia fact, a circus, abstractly consid- 
with only a small trunk to contain their ward¬ 
robe, and they found a wonderful relief in not 
having “ too much to wear.” 
— - - 
Thomas Hood and ms Wife.—I never was any¬ 
thing, dearest, till I Knew you — and I have been 
better, happier, aud a more prosperous man ever 
since. Lay by that truth in lavender, dearest, and 
remind me of it when 1 fail. I am writing fondly 
and warmly; bat not without good cause. First 
your own affectionate letter, lately received—next 
ered, would not prove a very enlivening enter¬ 
tainment to our juvenile friends. And we are 
very like them. To save bard thinking on the 
part of Rural readers, we will eschew the dra 
matic form of presenting the gentlemen. 
We all like a good story — put it in that shape. 
But we sometimes think we don’t likestories, or 
rather that there is something better than a story. 
A story is like a swiftly running stream. It does 
very well for ft navigator who is in a hurry and on 
business; bnt for real enjoyment give ns a tran* 
rally good natured, cultivate good nature, and 
rest assured you will not repent it; if yon like 
pleasure, you will be good natured, for happiness 
is co-existent with good nature; if you love yonr 
fellow man, you will be good natured, for you 
will, as far as your individual self is concerned, 
render his existence in this world a pleasure 
instead of a pain, and turn the desert places of 
his life into a garden of joy. Then be good 
natared! How much yon will gain by it, how 
little it will cost you! Be good natured, it will 
save you a world of trouble, and you will rest 
satisfied in the consciousness of having done 
yonr duty. For, 
“Since life is a thorny and difticult path, 
Where toil is the portion of man, 
We should eaeh endeavor, while passing along, 
To make it as smooth as we can." 
-*-*-«- 
“He Means well Enough.”—0, no doubt; 
but the question is, why don’t be behave as well 
as he means? What is the use of a man’s being 
and knowing beyond her years, what wonder the 
parents gloried in their child, — what wonder if 
they feel that the sunlight has gone from their 
home? But they should look, in their sorrow, to 
Him who has only called her to a more blessed 
home,— they should think that she who was -once 
their daughter is an augel now. God help them 
to say, blessed is he who gave and hath taken 
away; we will strive to meet her where joy fills 
the heart. 
“I give thee to thy God, — the God that gave thee, 
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart! 
And, precious as thou art, 
And pure as dew of heaven, He shall have thee, 
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled I 
And thou shalt be His child.” 
Battle Creek, Mich., 1860. L. 
- 
It is not by regretting what is irreparable, that 
true work is to be done, hut by making the best 
of what we are. It is not by couiplainiag that we 
have not the right tools, but by using well the 
tools we have. What we are, and whence we are, 
so odd and eccentric that nobody knows what to j a providential arrangement^-God’s doing, 
make of him, unless he has an apologist and an though it may be mau r 8 mi8 dolng,_ Bn d the 
the remembrance of our dear children, pledges— quil sheet of water where we can rest on our oars, 
what darling ones!—of our old familiar love — 
then a delicious impulse to pour out the overflow¬ 
ings of my heart into yours —and last, not least, 
the knowledge that your dear eyes will read what 
my hands are now writing. Perhaps there is an 
drop a fish-line into the stream, lose ourself in 
viewing any charming bit of scenery or in chat¬ 
ting with a certain equally charming companion 
at oar side. We don’t fancy the current of a 
story. It sweeps us along, willing or unwilling, 
aud keeps us looking for the end of the route— 
bnen scouring ana cleaning, such sweeping and after-thought that, whatever may befall me, the and keeps us looking for the end of the route— 
dusting, such putting things away in unheard of wife of my bosom will have this acknowledge- theport—thefinale—just as the little iron-snouted 
places, and bringing unknown things to light,— ment of her tenderness—worth — and excellence toy-fishea are attracted by the magnetic bait, which 
such arranging and re-arranging, I never before —all that is wifely or womanly, from iny pen.— they cannot help going to. Any gem of descrip- 
witnessed. And then such baking and brewing ) Memorials of Hood. tion or of character,—painting any delicious epi- 
such boiling and stewing, as was going on in -- — sode, is to us readers of a rushing story what the 
the kitchen,— such a variety of dishes, new and Purb truth, like pure gold, has been found unfit sandbar iB to a steamboat on a western river, an 
old, the savory odor of which only mocked oqr for circulation: because men have discovered ugly interruption, provocative of no very choice 
longing appetite, as we dined on cold potatoes that it is far more convenient to adulterate the expletives from the profaner passengers. Young 
and padding, and, for a change, supped on pud- truth, than to refine themselves. friend! instead of seeing the menagerie roll by on 
interpreter like you always at bund to explain. 
Isn’t it just as cheap, in the long run, to he good- 
natured and polite, as to be morose and surly? 
And does not a man feel better in his own secret 
heart, when he is conscious of being the former, 
tban he does when the shrinking and uncertain 
air of those who are obliged to approach him, 
proclaim that he ia the latter? Certainly it does; 
for our thoughts are alwajra busy sitting in 
judgment on oar own selves. Any man who 
carries such a bearing that a timid person, or no 
woman can approach him without dread, does not 
need to be told from xcithout that he is no gentle- 
manly and the wise way is to look yonr disadvan¬ 
tages in the face, and see what can be made out 
of them. Life, like war, is a series of mistakes; 
and he is not the heat Christian nor the best 
General who makes the fewest false steps. Poor 
mediocrity may secure that; but he is the best 
General who wins the most splendid victories by 
the retrieval of mistakes. Forget mistakes!— 
organize victory out of mistakes. 
Impatience acts as a blight on a blossom; it 
may wound the budding forth of the noblest fruit; 
relative to the dispensations of Providence, it is 
tion or of character,—painting any delicious epi¬ 
sode, ia to us readers of a rushing story what the 
sandbar is to a steamboat on a western river, an 
ugly interruption, provocative of no very choice 
expletives from the profaner passengers. Young 
friend! instead of seeing the menagerie roll by on 
man. He knows it perfectly welL He is not yet ingratitllde; re i ut ive to our own purposes and 
reclaimed from the savage state.— Minnie Melnotte. 
-- 
A man can do without his own approbation in 
society, but he must make great exertion to gain 
it when alone; without it, solitude is not to be 
endured. 
attainments, it will be found to impede their pro¬ 
gress. 
-*-•.«- 
Aged reprobates are apt to think that the world 
was better in their youth—because they them¬ 
selves were. 
