[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
I’M TWENTY-ONE. 
Etk.y thoughtless ones, at twenty-ODe, 
Will pan*c to noise on years gone by, 
And scan the past with fond regret, 
The future with an eager eye. 
I’m twenty-one, and if I could 
But lift tbo Tail from future years, 
Wliat might I yiew.glimpses of joy'r 
Or cause for sorrow's bitter tears? 
It may not be, but I Way cast 
A long look on the varied past. 
What numerous queries thence arise, 
To answer which I must be wise; 
But list, awl you, perchance, may know 
The nook in memory whence they flow. 
What hast thou done? Say, maiden, say; 
Ilast given one heart a brighter ray, 
Hast well employed the talents given, 
Hast shadows from one sad heart driven; 
Can paroota, brothers, sisters tell 
Thou hast fulfilled tby duties well: 
The little world in which you move, 
Is't better for thy care and love? 
O, tell rue, memory, can there be 
Joy in thy t ecrectM hid for me— 
Can I believe that all the pain 
I have endured is not in vain, 
That all my toil shall not be lost, 
Nor all the anguish it has cost? 
If so, a sunny gleam will spread 
Over life’s toilsome, weary road, 
And with fresh hope 1 can renew 
The life of labor I pursue. 
Geneva, Wis,, 1860, B. ( 
B. C. D. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
MY MOTHER. 
When disease first laid.its hand upon her, and 
death seemed to stand at our very door, we learn¬ 
ed, by the crushing weight of sorrow upon our 
hearts, what it would be to lose her. Nightly did 
we linger near her bedside, fearing to slumber, 
lest the dreaded summons should call her away 
before the dawning, 
“ Wb gathered round her bed, and bent our knees 
In fervent supplication to tke.throne 
Of mercy, and perfumed our prayers with sighs 
Sincere, and penetential tears, and looks 
Of self-abasement; but we sought to stay 
An angel on the earth, a spirit ripe 
For heaven,” 
0, how dark, how desolate were our hearts all 
through those dreary months, when she seemed 
jnst lingering on the borders of time, ready at 
any moment to leave us. Hut when the soft 
spring windB began to cheer the earth, our hearts 
took courage, for she seemed to revive. We 
hoped yet to he blest by her counsel and love for 
a season. Hut we were deceived, for the early 
spring flowers had only began to spring up in the 
woodland, when we layed her to rest. For more 
than a year her dear form has been sleeping in 
the grave. Since that time how bitter have been 
life’s experiences to me. llow I miss the faithful 
counsels and the earnest'prayers that came from 
her lips. I cannot forget the love that blessed 
me all through the years of childhood, nor the 
cheerful courago with which she took up life’s 
burdens. How heavy those burdens wore we did 
not realize until Bhe ceased her life-work. Then 
we knew what a skilful hand had guided the 
household. How often did a word or look from 
her prevent the unkind thought, about to he 
spoken; and how frequently have her mild, per- 
eunsive tones restored peace to the family circle. 
We never appreciated rightly her wisdom and 
self-sacrificing love, until she had gone to the 
llettcr Land. My heart is desolate—the waves of 
sorrow havo rolled over me. My bark has been 
tempest-tossed, and the treasures I connted mine, 
have been thrown to t he devouring sea. Perhaps, 
if I had had my mother’s counsel and admonitions, 
1 might havo been led into calmer waters. But I 
will not wish ber back. Bhe had enough of care 
and anxiety while she walked the vale of tears. 
I would not, if it were possible, call hor from the 
congeuial dime she has entered, to take up again 
the burdens of life. May it be my greatest care 
to live as nobly as she, that I may at last join her 
in her blest abode. Hattie. 
Butler, Wis., 1S60. 
-- 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
SERMONIZING FASHION-WISE. 
What a dreadfnl task it is to have to bo fash¬ 
ionable, One likes, so well, to breathe, dress, 
eat and sleep, according to tbo requirements of 
nature and common sense. That awful bugbear, 
fashion, does so frighten many into such fearful 
contortions, that she wrings, squirms, and twists 
the very life out of us! 
There is a certain propriety and fitness to he 
observed in all things, hut, beyond what contrib¬ 
utes most to our happiness and that of others, 
why should we grow prematurely old, fretting 
about what other people do, and Bay, and think? 
We suffer ourselves to be so warped and dwarfed, 
that we neither feel nor act natural, lest we are 
not doing, and saying, and thinking just as Mr., 
or Mrs, or Miss somebody else. 
How pitiful it is to hear Borne persons forever 
asking:—” Are such and snob things worn now? 
What will be said or thought of me if I wear this 
or that, or do so and so?”—never asking them¬ 
selves, is this or that garment suitable to my 
business or to the occasion, or does it correspond 
with my means? — and act accordingly, inde¬ 
pendent of idle lookers-on, or hangers-on. Why, 
havn’t you a mind and soul of your own, and 
can’t you think, as well as others, what is best, 
and fitting, and proper? Must you wear your 
best silk into a promiscuous crowd, or j’our best 
hat in a damp, rainy day, for fear you wiil not be 
thought “genteel?” and if you do not happen to 
have any very genteel clothes, bad you better spend 
any great amount of time or tears, or bemoanings 
against fate, that much abused and much mistaken 
theme? It is not the really rich who are such 
unmerciful slaves to Madame Grundy's taste, hut 
the really poor, and people in moderate circum¬ 
stances, who constantly covet display, and are in 
a continual stew and flutter about what they shall 
eat and drink, and wherewithal they shall be 
clothed. Bach people had better cultivate a little 
self-respect. Qpkeciiy. 
-- 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.J 
SOME OF MY WONDERS. 
I wonder what benefit the great “Japanese 
fizzle ” has been to the world. I wonder what was 
the use of making such a fuss over the Prince, 
when he is not a hit better llesh and blood than 
any other grem hoy traveling over the country. 
I wonder folks don’t get tired of humbug and 
pretension any way. I wonder why womon are 
always so willing to marry ministers, no matter 
how many “better-half” they may have lain in the 
ground, or how many young ministers maybe 
growing around them. I wonder what need there 
is of men continually pratingabotit the happiness 
of home, Ao., as if it all depended on woman, 
never thinking that they have a share in the busi¬ 
ness,—that if the wife should he a model house¬ 
keeper, they should be model husbands when in 
the house. I wonder what honor it is, in this 
every-day woild, to despise work, I wonder what 
makes an old maid always deny her age. I won¬ 
der what business it is to that little “ Miss Prim,” 
if 1 don’t choose wear hoops. I wonder if she 
thinks I care wlmt she says about it. I wonder if 
those ladies who boast so much of their literary 
attainments, know who the first man was. I 
wonder if I havn’t a right to say what 1 please in 
the Rural {Mr. Moore being willing). 1 wonder 
if I don’t feel better now I have got through. 
Cayuga, N. Y., 1860. Amklia. 
«■»-.- 
WOMAN’S COURAGE. 
No one can havo read the statement of the 
clerk of the steamer, which went down on Friday 
night, without being struck by his description 
of the hearing of the ladies. “They were pale, 
hut silent; there was not a cry or a shriek.” 
The fortitude and resignation of men may have 
failed, but theirB failed not. Bo is it always in 
the great exigencies which women are called to 
meet. When troubles or dangers are hat slight, 
they arc more excited and more alarmed than 
men. But let an overwhelming calamity bury 
the fortunes and hopes of the husband, or father, 
or brother, in sudden night, let disease or acci¬ 
dent strike him down, and stretch him on the 
bed of keenest suffering, then, when strong men's 
hearts fail them, when their nerves are unstrung, 
when quaking fear or hopeless despondency 
takes possession of their souls, the frail, weak 
woman rises with elasticity Soil oalni determina¬ 
tion to the demands of the terrible emergency, 
and with untrembling hand and cheerful voice 
hastens to perform those blessed ministrations, 
for which the might of men was inadequate. 
How many scenes of danger have we heard 
described, conflagrations, assassinations, ship¬ 
wrecks, iu which women have with heroic pa¬ 
tience and submission bowed meekly to their 
fate, and have taught the sublime lesson of 
Christian resignation to the husbands and fathers 
who were with them. In the hour of trial her 
weakness becomes strength, her sensibility is 
swallowed up in faith. There were men of re¬ 
nown in the Lady Elgin, men whose names are 
known through the wide world, hut none of 
them ever did ft braver or more heroic deed than 
was achieved by those noble women who sat in 
silence awaiting their death .—Providence Journal. 
-- 
Tbe Mourning Mother.— Do you see, near 
the wall of the churchyard, that female form, sit¬ 
ting on a stone, and as motionless as the stone 
itself? Wild ami neglected, locks of gray hair 
fall down over her shoulders; the winds play 
with her torn and tattered garments. She is old 
and stiff, hut not from years alone. Go not coldly 
past; give her a mite. It is not long that she 
will trouble you. Behold her crutch; behold her 
dying eyes; behold the pain round her silent 
month. Wherefore sits she there? Because she 
cannot he elsewhere. She is—her heart is—with 
the graves of her children. Sorrow for her chil¬ 
dren has made the light of her eyes and the light 
of her mind dim. She marks not when the au¬ 
tumn leaves fall around her; she knows not when 
the spring breezes melt the snow on the tombs; 
but every day thither she goes, equally calm, 
equally insensible to the things around her. No 
one knows her; no one Bpeaks to her, and she 
speaks to no one. She has, nevertheless, one 
object; she waits—for what? Death. During 
long years she has seen graves opening round 
her; hat she still sits in death—in the midst of 
death, and waits.— l'rederika Bremer. 
Real Pets.—B est of all pots are little children, 
real children; not the fashionable ones, who, bb 
soon as they can walk and talk, are transformed 
by artificial processes into silly little dolls—poor 
things I 11 is well to cherish a friendship for Go d’s 
mute creatures, to he kind and gentle to the birds 
and beasts, and to recognize them as created by 
the dear God who “made and loveth ns,” but 
human souls have the first claim upon our affec¬ 
tions, and sentimental women who lavish their 
tenderness upon pet dogs and kittens, yet shrink 
from contact with ..uoyant, noisy chiluhood, are 
to he regarded with suspicion. 
-*♦-«- 
It is well for us that we are born babies in 
intellect. Could we understand half what most 
mothers say and do to their infants, we should 
he filled with a conceit of our own importance, 
which would render us insupportable through 
life, nappy the boy whose mother is tired of 
talking nonsense to him before he is old enough 
to know the sense of it! 
[Written for Moore’s RuraV nViw-Y orker.] 
A LIFE PICTURE. 
bt i . w. barker. 
Through the mellow skies of childhood, 
'Neath which flowers of beauty bloom, 
Glances from the distant future 
To our longing Tiston come; 
And we see not half the roses 
That are bursting by our side. 
Or we crush the tender blossom 
Which the springing leaves may hide. 
I can see amid the blossoms 
Of life’s rosy-tinted morn— 
I can sen a restless spirit 
Sporting in tbe early dawn. 
Dashing from his snowy temple, 
Many a golden, sunny curl, 
While a thousand idle fancies 
In his gorgeous vision whirl. 
On hi* cheek a tear-drop glistens, 
There is sorrow in his eye, 
Out upon the velvet meadows, 
II# hath chased the butterfly; 
He hath seen Ite gaudy pinionB 
O’er his path a beauty fling, 
And he dreams unsullied pleasure 
Lives upon its shining wing, 
But, alas! far in the sunlight 
It hath sped its shining way, 
Over fields of brighter verdure. 
Into realms of clearer day: 
While the restive, boyish spirit, 
Droops to see his golden prise 
■Vanish lu the weary distance 
Of the mellow, balmy skies. 
This i* life—the gaudy colors, 
Painted on the distant sky, 
Vanish, or retreat before ns, 
Like the vaunting butterfly; 
And we crush a thousand blossoms, 
Brightly gleaming where we stray, 
While our eager hearts are grasping 
Fancy pictures, far away. 
Childhood revels in the fature, 
’Mid a world of golden dreams; 
Age is ever straying backward, 
Through yonug life’s euchantlog scenes; 
Plucking roses that have blossomed 
Since, with careless feet, we ran 
In the velvet walks of childhood, 
Chasing the ideal man , 
Vain our dreams, and w ild our fancies 
In the toilsome race of life— 
Now we hope, and now we struggle, 
Now we sink amid the strife; 
While the golden star of promise 
Rises o’er the turbid stream, 
That, with sullen flow, is winding 
These mysterious worlds between. 
Buffalo, N. Y, 1800. 
maw 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
LAUGHTER. 
A capacity for mirth is not, as some suppose, 
the mark of a shallow, surface nature, hut the 
reverse. For asnothing is absurd, or ridiculous in 
itself, so even the most common and trivial objects 
can only be made to appear thus as they are con¬ 
trasted with something higher and nobler than 
themselves, Jn accordance with these views, the 
most earnest, and serions minded persons should 
always be the most mirthful; or, at least, should 
most quickly perceive the ludicrous side of any 
subject. And such, in fact, is generally the case; 
because, as the minds of such persons are occu¬ 
pied with the most important themes, anything 
low or trivial presents a greater incongruity to 
them than to others—we mean, of course, men 
really serious and thoughtful, and not those who 
pat on a long face, and try to look very solemn 
merely because they think they ought. So, too, 
all must have noticed how easily they ore excited 
to laughter in church, or on other solemn occa¬ 
sions. And this is not, as some slanderously 
assert, because they are tired of listening to the 
sermon, and want something to amuse them, hut 
because they must involuntarily contrast any odd 
occurrence with the solemnity of the exercises, 
and of their own feelings. A very comforting 
corollary to this is, that our neighbor who 
reproved us fur laughing in church, was not half 
so solemn, and did not appreciate the sermon 
half so fully as we, if, in truth, he was not wholly 
asleep! 
Laughter, indeed, is often, and generally, in 
itself, rather the manifestation of intense feeling 
than of joyous buoyancy of spirit. Every one 
mtiBt have noticed the thrill of pleasure which a 
good illustration, presenting some truth in the 
clearest light, will often send through an entire 
assembly; and which, in some of its effects, so 
nearly resembles an outbreak of merriment. We 
know persons who cannot restrain their laughter, 
whenever their minds are strongly excited, even 
by the most solemn events, which could not, of 
course, provoke mirthful feelings. With many, a 
sadden revulsion of the most solemn feelingB is 
quite as apt to be manifested by a burst of laughter 
as by a flood of tears,—a tendency which is not 
only a source of grief to themselves, but is often 
widely misconstrued by their friends. In the 
earlier history of the Methodist Church, what was 
known as the ‘‘holy lau^h” was a recognized 
expression of the most fervid religious feeling, 
but we must confess it was apt to provoke a 
rather unholy tittering among the younger and 
less reverential portion of the congregation, The 
custom, as a recognized practice, has gone 
entirely into disuse, if, indeed, it was ever any¬ 
thing more than a local and temporary peculiar¬ 
ity of the pioneers and btekwoodsmen of America. 
Even when laughter is merely the expression 
of mirthfulness, a certain degree of seriousness 
and power is required to excite it. We soon tire 
of the meaningless buffoonery of the clown, and 
it is only as we see behind this mask the capacity 
for something better, that it can awaken even 
momentary gratification. The antics of the real 
fool,— the idiot,— can only excite onr disgust 
Even for amusement, a book loses more than half 
its interest if there are in it no passages of serious 
and solemn import, and which arouse the deepest 
feelings of our nature. Humor and pathos not 
only generally go together, hut are indeed essen¬ 
tial to each other. It is not the broad jokes of 
would-be wits, but rather tho delightful namby- 
pamby, in which the tragic and the comic are 
alike intermixed, and which brings at once a 
smile to the lips and moisture to the eyes, which 
gives us most pleasure. 
Laughter cannot, therefore, be considered trivial 
or meaningless, and it reqnires no ordinary power 
to excite it. The world has hardly done justice 
as yet, in its estimate of the ability of this 
class of its benefactors. To write books of hu¬ 
mor, like some which have been written, which 
are not mere transient productions, but which 
will live and make men laugh as long as the lan¬ 
guage exists, marks the very highest order of 
talent. It implies the power of appealing to the 
deepest as well as more superficial of human pas¬ 
sions,—of arousing the soul by the most sublime 
and ennobling ideas,— elevating it far above all 
that is low, and common, and trivial—and theD, 
suddenly letting it down with a jerk! 
Henrietta, N. Y., 1800, W. J. Fowler. 
-- 
AVERSION TO A LARGE HOUSE. 
Wk want it—but our taste is naturally against. 
Or, so thinks an English writer who thus explains 
himself. Do you think that a rich man sitting in 
his sumptuous library, all oak and morocco, glit¬ 
tering backs of splendid volumes, lounges and 
sofas in every degree, which he merely paid for, 
has half the enjoyment Robinson Crusoe had when 
he looked around hiB cave with its rude shelves 
and bulkheads, its clumsy armchair and itB rough 
pottery, all contrived and made by his own hands? 
Now the poor cottager has a great deni of the 
Itohinson CruBoo enjoyment; something of the 
pleasure which Bauford and Merton felt when 
they had built and.tliatched their house and then 
s.it within it gravely proud and happy, whilst the 
pelting shower came down but conhl not reach 
them. When a man gets the length of consider¬ 
ing the architectural character of his bowse, the 
imposing effect which the great entrance hall has 
upon visitors, the vista of drawing room retiring 
within drawing-room, he loses the relish which 
accompanies the original idea of a house as some¬ 
thing which is to keep us snug and warm from 
wind, and rain, and cold. So if you gain some¬ 
thing by a grand house, yon lose something, too, 
and something which is the more constantly felt 
—you lose the joy of a simple tidiness, and yonr 
life grows so artificial, that many days you never 
think of your dwelling. 
BIG WORDS. 
Big words are great favorites with people of 
small ideas and weak conceptions. They are also 
sometimes employed by men of mind, when they 
wish to use language that may beet conceal their 
thoughts. With few exceptions, however, illiter¬ 
ate and half-educated persons use more “big 
words ” than people of thorough education. It is 
a very common, but very egregious mistake to 
BUppose the long words are more genteelihan the 
short, ones—just as the same BOrt of people im¬ 
agine higher colors aud flashy figures improve 
the style of diesB. These are the kind of folks 
who don't begin, but always “ commence.” They 
don’t live, hut “reside.” They don’t go to bed, 
but mysteriously “retire.” They don't eat and 
drink, but “ partake of refreshments.” They are 
never sick, but “ extremely indisposed;” and in¬ 
stead of dying, at last, they “decease.” The 
strength of the English language lain the short 
words—chiefly monosyllables of Baxon deriva¬ 
tion; and people who are in earnest seldom use 
any other. Love, Late, anger, grief, joy, express 
themselves in short words and direct sentences; 
while canning, falsehood, and affectation delight 
in what Horace calls “ verba sesquipedalta — 
words “ a foot and a half ” long.— Selected. 
Doctors. —In olden times, what a reverence 
was associated with the name of doctor! A doc¬ 
tor was a man who by education and practice ac¬ 
quired a reputation which made him an object of 
universal respect. He had abont him a retiring 
modesty, a dignified air—a Solon-like aspect and 
demeanor. When he visited the domicils of onr 
fathers, how suddenly was the unbridled liberty 
of juvenile speeches hashed into silence! How 
the domestics and girls of sixteen would stare! 
What a peeping and squinting all about the house 
to see the Doctor! But times have changed.— 
Now the name of “ Doctor” is as common as that 
of Colonel, or Captain, or Major. The cognomen 
is no longer indicative of profound scientific 
learning, or elaborate study of the human system. 
When a gentleman is introduced to you as Dr. 
So-and-so, it is impossible to tell whether he is a 
farrier, a pill-vender, a druggist, a magician, a 
dealer in magnetic rings, a physiologist, or a 
phrenologist Time and change have completely 
robbed society of its staid, dignified, and old- 
fashioned “ doctor.” 
» »♦- 
Bishop Ames and Newspapers.— The Pacific 
Advocate says:—In his address to the conference, 
just before reading out the appointments, Bishop 
Ames alluded to the various methods by which an 
itinerant preacher might render himself useful, 
and among others he spoke of circulating news¬ 
papers as an important means of good doing. In 
his first circuit, some thirty years ago, he had 
been very active in this direction, and he said he 
used to say to his members, as a reason that they 
shoald take newspapers, that he hud had experi¬ 
ence as a school teacher, and that it was his de¬ 
liberate opinion that two dollars spent for a good 
newspaper was of more value as an edneator in 
the family than ten dollars jiaid to a school mas¬ 
ter for tuition. “And,” remarked the Bishop, 
“thirty years observation has but confirmed that 
1 opinion.” 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THANKSGIVING HYMN. 
BT HKBROX BELL. 
The hoar frosts whiten all the fields, 
Where late the bounteous harvest stood, 
And Autumn, regal crowned, wields 
His scepter o'er the brilliant wood; 
The sunlight with a silvery hue 
Looks through a mi<ty atmosphere; 
The skies have lost their emerald-blue, 
But still remain all soft and clear; 
The little brooklet sweetly sings 
While loitering 'mid the rocks to play, 
Or as with sudden glee it springs 
O'er some great root across its way, 
ADd onto Thee, Oh, Go»! we’d raise 
From every hamlet In onr land, 
’Mid festive joys a song of praise 
For all the bleseings from Thy hand. 
Our cellars and our barns arc stored 
With choicest frnit and golden grain, 
And gathering round our social board, 
Or cheerful fire, through Winter’s reign, 
We’ll give Thee thanks for Thy pure love, 
That all our needs doth more than fill, 
And by our every thought we'd prove 
Our meek dependence on Thy will; 
And as we thus. Oh, Go», to Thee, 
Give praise, and Thy great name adore, 
Warm our cold hearts with Charity 
Toward all the weak and homeless poor, 
Teach us the wisdom truth imparts, 
And bid all envious hatred cease— 
Stretch forth Thy hand aud fill our hearts 
With fervent Love and tranquil Peace. 
Lebanon, lib, 1800, 
- 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
CONSOLATIONS OF RELIGION. 
There are blighted joys : there are withered 
hopes; there are desolate hearts; there are 
dreary hearth-stones; and at times there is such 
a sense of utter Iosb and loneliness that we sit 
down with palsied hearts and folded hands, hoping 
and praying that “The Shadow” will wait for 
ns no longer. 
We have no sympathy with that philosophy 
which says,— all joy; no sorrow. We have no 
faith in unalloyed happiness. Youth, Joyous and 
hopeful when standing upon tbe threshold of life, 
just ready to step forth to grupplo with its mys¬ 
teries,—its unsolved problems,—it* bitter griefs— 
its chastening sorrows, (all unseen and unknown,) 
—will give to its future a roseate hne, looking at 
it only in the light of poetry and romance. But 
age, wearied and worn, when Htunding npon the 
threshold of eternity, just ready to embrace the 
untold bliss of a perfect future (looking back up¬ 
on life known and felt,) will give to its past a 
darksome, chastened hne, with only here and there 
touches of light. 
What a terrible knowledge of sorrow comes 
with the entering in of the Death-AngeL You 
know now of that dreary hopelessness which 
wanders with you around rooms desolated, when 
everything speaks of one that was loved and taken. 
Yon know now of a “ vacant chair;” and when, 
lost in sleep, the form so dearly loved comes to 
yon with all the mortal naturalness, with the same 
sweet voice when here,—the same beaming smile, 
—you have felt the pierciDg anguish of awaken¬ 
ing to the bitter reality. Yes! there is great 
grief. “The air is full of farewells to the dying.” 
What a black darkness follows the quenching 
of some “lamp-like hope.” Let a hope that has 
been long and fondly cherished, till it has become 
a part of our nature, permeating every portion of 
onr being, strengthening with our strength, grow¬ 
ing with onr growth, the center from which all 
our present happiness radiated, and, to which all 
the bright visions of our fature happiness con¬ 
verged,— let this hope he suddenly blighted, is 
there not desolation of heart and anguish of 
spirit? Is it not tho crushing of one of life’s 
purest inspirations? Yes! “the road of life is 
hard,” and our “feet bleed, and scourging winds 
ns scathe,” as we grope on. But from out the 
darkness shines the cheering promise breathed 
by the “Man of Sorrows,” by Him “who was 
acquainted with grief,”—“I will not leave you 
comfortless, I will come to you.” 
Weary heart —no longer orphaned — though 
death may leave you desolate, He will come to 
you, and cheer you with the promises of a fature 
re-union, in which there can be no separation. 
Though you may be made desolate, by the with¬ 
ering of hopes that yon thought could only blos¬ 
som, He will come to you aud 
“Bring before your fading eyes 
The lamp of life,— the Hope that never dies." 
0, blessed religion of ours! that, when all that 
we have leaned upon fails us, supports, sustains, 
and cheers. m. a. d. 
Rochester, N. Y., 1860. 
Old Agb without Religion. — Alas! for him 
who grows old without growing wise, and to 
whom the future world does not set open her 
gates when he is excluded by the present The 
Lord deals so graciously with ns in the decline 
of life, that it is a shame to turn a deaf ear to 
tue lessons which He gives. The eye becomes 
dim, the ear duB, the tongue falters, the feet tot¬ 
ter, all the senses refuse to do their office, and 
from, every side resounds the call, “Set thine 
house in order, for the term of tby pilgrimage 
is at hand. The playmates of youth, the fellow- 
laborers of manhood, die away, and take the 
road before ns. Old age is like some quiet cham¬ 
ber, in which, disconnected from the visible 
world, we can prepare in Bilence for the world 
that is unseen.— Tho luck. 
