MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER 
For Moore's Rtirol New-Yorker. 
WELSH WEDDINGS, 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
A CHAPTER FOR HUSBANDS. 
Tnc practice of "making a bidding ” and send¬ 
ing “ bidding letters,” of which the following is a 
specimen, is so general in most parts of Wales, 
that printers usually keep the form in type, and 
make alteration in it 8B occasion requires. The 
custom is confined to servants and mechanics in 
towns; hut in the country, farmers of t he humbler 
sort make biddings. Of late years tea parties have 
in Carmarthen been substituted for the bidding; 
but persons attending pay for what they get, and 
so incur no obligation; but giversata bidding are 
expected and generally do return "all gifts of the 
above nature whenever called for on a similar oc¬ 
casion.” When a bidding is made, it is usual for 
a large procession to accompany the young couplo 
to church, and thence to the house where the bid¬ 
ding is held. Accompanying is considered an ad¬ 
dition to the obligation conferred by the gift I 
have seen, J dare say, six hundred persons in a 
wedding procession, and tune been in one or two 
myself (when a child.) The men walk together 
and the women together to church; but in return¬ 
ing they walk in pairs, or often in trios, one man 
between two women. The lust time I w as at such a 
wedding 1 had three strapping wenches attached 
to my person. In the country they ride, and 
generally there is a desperate race home to the 
bidding, where you would be surprised to see a 
comely lass, with Welsh hat on bead and ordinary 
dress, often take the lead of fifty or a hundred 
smart fellows over rongh roads that would shake 
your Astley riders out of their seats and propriety. 
Carmarthen. October 2, I860. 
As we intend to enter the Matrimonial State on 
Tuesday, the 22nd of October instant, we are en¬ 
couraged by our Friends to make a Bidding on 
the occasion the same day, .at, the New Market 
House, near the Market Place; when and where 
the favor of your good and agreeable company is 
respectfully solicited, and whatever donation you 
may be pleased to confer on us then, will be thank¬ 
fully received, warmly acknowledged, and cheer¬ 
fully repaid whenever called for on a similar oc¬ 
casion, By your most obedient Servants, 
Henry Jones, 
(Shoemaker,) 
Eliza Davies. 
The Young Man, his Father (John .Jones, Shoe¬ 
maker,) his Sister (Mary Jones,) his Grandmother 
(Nurse Jones,) his Uncle and Aunt (George Jones, 
rainier, and Mary, bis wife,) and his Aunt (Eliza¬ 
beth Rees.) desire that all gifts due to them bo re¬ 
turned to the Young Man on the above, day, and 
will he thankful for all additional favors. 
The Young Woman, her Father and Mother 
(Evan Davies, Plg-drover, and Margaret, his wife,) 
and her Brother and Sister (John, Hannah, Jane 
aud Annie Davies,) desire that all gifts of the above 
nature due to them be relumed to the Young 
Woman on the above day, and will he thankful for 
all additional favors conferred .—Notes and Queries. 
Kino reaper, do you know what everybody has 
been saying about this weather of ours for a few 
days past? "This is most remarkable weather,” 
Bays one, and another echoes it hack, looking as 
wise as an owl, while still another and another 
exclaims, "never knew the like before.” 
Now Solomon said (and we make no doubt Sol¬ 
omon knew) there is nothing nev\ under the sun .— 
Hence we are safe in our conclusion, that just such 
weather as this, however remarkable, is, after all, 
not new—and our conclusion is strengthened 
somewhat by observing that whatever kind of 
weather we arc having ut this or that particular 
time, is always the most remarkable . 
You call on your neighbor—he produces a twig 
from a peach tree—buds all dead — no peaches this 
year; says "be never knew such weather! enough 
to kill anything Now we venture to say that 
there la no other individual in the whole commu¬ 
nity who has so mauy hard things said about him, 
as this same weather. If the potato crop happens 
to be cut olf—peaches killed—fruit, in general de¬ 
stroyed—a small yield , t. harvest, the weather, poor 
fellow, is the cause of it all. lie brought the 
warm, soft air too soon, and when he had swelled 
the buds, turned about and froze them to death.— 
He failed to send snow enough in winter to cover 
the wheat fields or else blew it off after it had 
come, and the wheat was winter-killed, lie diil’nt 
send rain enough in the summer, the streams dried 
up, the cattle died, and so did the grain — or else 
he sent too much and drowned out everything.— 
Tn the summer ho is too hot, in the winter too cold, 
and in the spring and autumn too (lamp and un¬ 
healthy. Amid all this, however, you may some¬ 
times bear some praise bestowed like this—what a 
beautiful day! fine weather for corn, wheat or po¬ 
tatoes. ns the ease may be,—aud then the sun, 
principal actor in this great drama, puts his ear 
close down to your mouth, wishing you would 
speak it again. 
Now every member of the community ought to 
protest against, this summary treatment of the 
weather. There is no one, whether young or old, 
knave or fool, educated or uneducated, who does 
not think himself competent to pass judgment cm 
the weather, instantaneously. Youmeetyour friend 
in the street; he has a woeful looking countenance, 
and the first thing you hear is, “horrid weather! 
enough to kill any one l did you ever see such 
weather in all your life ?” and perhaps out. of sheer 
sympathy for the poor man, you answer compla¬ 
cently, “No, T don't know as I ever did.” 
Now it ought to he remembered that when we 
accuse the weather of killing people and the fruit, 
and committing numerous other smaller misde- 
mcauors, we are finding fault with Nature, or 
rather with Gon. It is just such weather as Got), 
the Supreme ruler of the Universe, has seen fit to 
give ns; and it ill becomes us, pensioners of his 
bounty, to find fault with his gifts. If the weather 
is unpleasant and stormy, we are assured by this 
time, certainly, that we cannot alter it, though we 
grumble continually. How much wiser,how much 
more like rational beings as we are, would it be 
for us, to accept and make the best of whatever 
kind of weather Providence sends us. However 
little the fact may bo regarded by us, it is nev¬ 
ertheless true, that the weather for each par¬ 
ticular day, is iust the beet w»»thci Air that day. 
Who will remember this? Will you? s. a. e. 
Rochester, N. Y., Feb., 1657. 
Mr. Editor:—I am (I suppose) a fault-finding, 
fretful sort of body, disposed to make a fuss, and 
not as submissive aud gentle as I ought to be; but 
somehow or other, T am uot satisfied with the state 
of things in this world, and not quite willing to 
wait for better times in the world to come, and so 
I would fain take tip a cudgel and pound Mr. 
Somebody or Mr. Everybody, hoping, amongst 
them all, to hit the right ones. Yon see it is the 
Mr.'s I am out with, but 1 don't mean you— not at 
all — but it's the other gentleman! 
We women, all over the conutry, are getting old 
so fast — so lean, lank, withered and worn, 1 am 
vexed about it aud mortified too. What’s the 
meaning of it? Now you men will work hard, and 
yet look better, I declare, at- forty or fifty, than 
ever; but we insignificant women fade, lose our 
teeth and bloom, and turn grey, and have to stuff 
with cotton, wear head dresses, crinolines, A-.c,, to 
make a semblance to a veritable woman. It’s too 
bad, I say. and who’s to blame? 
You are very kind to us on board the cars, and 
give np your seat, and give us the best place,— 
very attentive, and polite, and all that; and you 
are willing too, to get ns uice silk dresses, and 
splendid hats, with ribbons and feathers, and wait 
upon us to church, open and shut, the gate, carry 
our hooks or baskets! 0 such gentlemen — such 
kindness, is really overwhelming ! The world can 
see all your goodness, aud of course you are not to 
blame! 
But then there is another side to this picture, 
and one I have seen too often, and see, every day. 
You who never see beneath the surface, and are 
too dignified to bother yourselves with trifles,— 
mere nothings, I waut.to "speak in meeting,” and 
let the easily humbugged multitude see behind the 
scenes. To find out what makes more than half 
the women prematurely old, and cross, perhaps, is, 
they are overtaxed, You expect too much of them. 
You have your houses and affairs so arranged that 
they are constantly on the alert to bring things 
around. Anambitious,sensitivewoman,is;inxions 
to do all left for her. She wants her house in 
order, her children cared for, and her husband’s 
meals in season, and clothes kept in readiucss.— 
And beside, wishes time to make or receive calls 
or visits, and be sociable. But how can all this be 
accomplished with such miserable help as women 
have had l'or years past? And amidst all her end¬ 
less cares, two thirds of them, have to contend 
with numberless difficulties, which their husbands 
might remove with very little trouble or expense, 
and that is what I wish to scold about. You polite 
men, do not keep your wives in wood—not half of 
you. You live in your great nice houses, and you 
want fires kept here and there, but you want her 
to cut it, and bring it in, and put it on to burn!— 
You let her toil with an old, leaky bucket, or 
pump, till human patience is exhausted; aud 
through your neglect and procrastination, you 
allow her to be fretted, worried, taxed, wearied, be 
yond all reason, day after day, aud year afteryear! 
Meanwhile the buttons must be kept on, the rents 
sewed up, the garments made, the victuals cooked, 
the children pleased, the house clean and tidy — 
(good gracious, what don't you expect of ns!)—your 
friends entertained, Ac., &e.J Morning, noon and 
evening a woman’s cares are never euded. 0, the 
endless minufia of a housekeeper’s duties! 
Now if you strong aud youthful meD would but 
do your duty, the roses would not leave our cheeks 
so fast Take better care of us. Provide con¬ 
veniences— give ns plenty of wood aud water 
handy for us. Be kind, and ppeak gently to us, and 
don’t grumble if the potatoes are not warm, when 
we have waited two hours for you, and give us a 
sweet kiss occasionally, and may be we should stay 
young and lovely. Ultra. 
For Moore’s Kural New-Yorker 
THE COTTAGE BY THE BROOKSIDE. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorkar. 
FRIENDSHIP. 
ItT KATK OAMKROX. 
It wan an humble dwelling, and yet I loved it well, 
When childhood’s golden sunlight upon my pathway fell, 
And gazing thro’ the vista oi vanished years, it seems 
Like some glimpse of Fairy Land, seen long ago, in dreams I 
The rippling brook made music there, thro’ the long sum¬ 
mer day. 
And in its sparkling depths, I watched the tiny fish at play, 
Or wander’d on its banks where grew the gracelul willow 
trees 
Whose boughs cast flick’ring shadows as they wav’d in the 
light breeze. 
Life Ihen wore those rninbow tints, it only onoe can wear, 
Before we learn the meaning of Sorrow, Change and Care I 
And tho’ I may be happier now, I ne’er can feel again 
The wild, free, bounding sense of joy, that thrill’d my spirit 
then. 
They tell me, all is alter'd now, around that quiet place, 
That I should greet ivithin those walls no dear, familiar 
face, 
Methiufes a note of mournfulness must linger in the song 
Which the brook is murmuring, as it gently glides along. 
I well remember the r«ir flowers that rouud the cottage grew, 
The sweetest in their perfume—tho brightest in their hue : 
Alas I the hands that tended them, the eyes that watch'd 
thiir bloom, 
Hare pass’d away from earth, and rest within the silent 
tomb. 
They were the faithful friends, whose hearts wore ever true 
and hind, 
Ah 1 in this world of change, such friends we hut too sel¬ 
dom find; 
And when our Father calls them Home, by His all holy 
[A RCPI.Y to Amelia’s poem entitled “ Friendship,’ 
which appeared in tiro Rural of Feb. 2Stb.] 
Ip God has given wealth to thee. 
Of friendship’s strongest powers, 
May He not give the same to others, 
Through time’s eternal hours ? , 
Look down into thy lonely heart, 
Mark well its strength and weakness, 
Then traverse human nature’s bounds, 
And see if all is bleakness I 
I too, neglect aud trouble find, 
But innkp this strange avowauce, 
That for the faults of human kind, 
I've learned to make allowance * 
Do hot tho laws of Gon remain, 
Through time, unchanging never ? 
Trust in those laws, and hope,—for yet— 
Friends may appear—true—ever I 
B. j. w. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
MY GRANDMOTHER’S STORY. 
My first home was among the granite hills, the 
wild mountains and the lovely vales of New Eng¬ 
land, and did I trust to the distant yet distinct 
memories of childhood, I should say it was little 
short of another Eden. Dear, dear New England; 
not all the varied scenes of more than sixty years 
have left, a fairer one upou the tablet of memory 
than that of my childhood’s home. But I early 
bade adieu to that home and found a second, less 
beautiful aud less loved than the one which memo¬ 
ry treasures. 
With all the thoughtless gayety of childhood, I 
tookmy leaveof friends and set out., in tbecompany 
of an emigrant party, to visit a married sister in the 
then far West—this State. Little did 1 dream of 
all the cares and griefs which should weigh down 
my bounding heart aud repress my buoyant spir¬ 
its ere I might again joiu that dear home circle. 
In my first homesickness I consoled myself with 
the thought that, I should soon return to hear the 
kindly voices of parents and the merry tones of 
brothers aud sisters whom I missed so sadly. But 
months and years passed by and I forgot my home¬ 
sickness. I married, aud as time passed on found 
myself surrounded by a numerous family, looking 
up to me as "mother,” and claiming of me all the 
care and anxiety incident to that endearing rela¬ 
tion. As my family grew up to men and women, 
releasing me from care; my thoughts turned to¬ 
ward my early home with a longing to greet once 
more the friends of early years and look again 
upon the scenes of childhood. 
So, one pleasant spring morning, I took leave of 
home for a brief absence and commenced retra¬ 
cing through cities, villages aud cultivated fields 
the way, whioli, when first traveled, lay through an 
almost unbroken forest. 
Again I was by the old hearthstone, again amid 
the haunts of childhood. The old house was 
there, the rocks and hills and streams were the 
same, but all else bow changed! My parents whom 
I left in the prime of life now scarce remembered 
me as their daughter. A few grave, grey-headed 
men and women greeted me as sister or friend, 
but I could hardly recognize in them the merry, 
laughing companions of other days. I visited all 
the old play places of childhood, but tried in vain 
to recall the feelings at other days, and was fain to 
learn that the flowers of spring would not bud 
amid the frosts uf autumn. 
Among other places which I visited, was a fa¬ 
vorite play ground where, with a little friend of 
my own age, I had spent many a happy hour. Two 
beautiful oak trees bad grown upon the place, 
which it struck me must have sprung from acorns 
that we had used to play with. They seemed to 
have arisen to represent us, who, as children had 
played so often upon that spot. I had come hack 
to look once more npon those early scenes but 
where was that loved friend? Was she like me 
still a wanderer npon the earth, hearing upon 
her brow the mark of many years, or had she 
passed away to a world where none ever grow old? 
X could not bear to linger long upon a spot so 
linked to my saddened heart, and I took one long, 
last look of those time-hallowed scenes, and bade 
them farewell forever. Clarissa. 
Ontario Co., N. Y., 1857. 
They leave a void within our hearts, that naught on earth 
can fill! 
Rochester, Feb., 1857. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
SUPERNATURAL INFLUENCES. 
The influence of the supernatural upon all class¬ 
es in all ages would form an interesting paragraph 
for the curious reader. The love of the marvel¬ 
lous is au active, we had almost said predominant 
characteristic of human nature. The moat sober, 
matter-of-fact, careful individual mast acknow¬ 
ledge this influence in some degree, for, if denied, 
the under current, though feeble, will eventually 
attain some point of visibility. The force of edu¬ 
cation doubtless liasmuch to do in graduating aud 
harmonizing the full exhibition of its influence, 
but, we are so constituted, that a desire to raise 
the inner veil and explore personally the unsolved 
mysteries and hidden secrets of the future, is hard 
to repress, and if seeming opportunity presents, 
we but too eagerly embrace, so submissive are we 
to the supernal influence. 
The Delphic Oracles, Jupiter Ammon, the cards, 
the magic stone, and mysterious raps, have all in 
tarn been consulted as fate's certain, sacred min¬ 
isters, and are yet importunated in regard to that 
which has been and may be, with an earnestness 
and avidity truly astonishing. If the marvellous 
border on the ridiculous, it’s an argument in its 
favor with the myriad >;og to see, for it were a 
nice distinction which were the greater incentive 
the love of the wonderful or the aatiety of mirth. 
Judgiug from appearance, "Daring Exploits” and 
“Perilous Adventures” are volumes most patron¬ 
ized in our libraries, which would.evideflco a ma¬ 
jority partial to the miraculous. Iu bygone cen¬ 
turies the great consulted the oracles in good 
faith, bringing costly sacrifices to bribe 4 to propi¬ 
tious answers, and on their revelations depended 
the undertaking or abandoning of important 
projects. 
Four centuries back in time, a comet was viewed 
as sign of God’s wrath, and the people were or¬ 
dered to pray “Lord, save ns from the .Turk, the 
Devil, and the Comet.” Cut the evidenee'is not 
confined to this period. We find it profuse 
throughout the history of all time, aud daily read¬ 
able in our own. Multitudinous instances could 
be cited, showing the belief in dreams, signs, pre¬ 
sentiments, and all the direct or indirect^channels 
to the influence of the supernaturaL 
Neither do we conclude that, supernatural influ¬ 
ence is exclusive to the lower and Ies3 cultivated 
classes. The disclosures of history convince us 
that tho great and distinguishedjieid counsel and 
admit credence in the wonderful and startling 
revelations of seers, magic and oracles. The iso¬ 
lation of the temple from the destracting^turmoils 
of busy life, the peculiar incense, and manner of 
making known the replies of fate, doubtless con¬ 
spired to give dignity to the scene, andean air of 
probability and truth to the revelations, which 
heightened the effect, and established a'greater 
confidence on the part of consulters. 
We confess it is rather mortifying to boasted 
human wisdom to be obligod to acknowledge that 
this superstition is most conspicuous]in the very 
home of science, elegance and’refinement, and 
evident in the lives of those who nourished the 
arts with jealous care to a point "nearing perfec¬ 
tion. Thu Children of Israel murmured at tho 
delay of Omniscience, and were appeased'with a 
golden image. Crcjssos consulted the sacred ora¬ 
cle. Babylon was captured and prophecy fulfilled. 
Lyccirous conferred with Delphic priests, aud 
Sparta’s austere constitution and severe’discipline 
were given to the world. 
We infer that without this desire on the part of 
the masses to witness the miraculous aud pay for 
it, the few would uot institute investigation for 
that which was really curious, and scientific re¬ 
search would lose material aid. We .deduce the 
conclusion, then, that ihe great Author of Nature 
has endowed us with this instiuot'as couducive 
to the end designed: that it affirda^universal evi¬ 
dence of the existence of an nnseen^world, and 
strong proof of a future duration ofbeing. 
Swollbf. 
PHILANTHROPY OF COMMON LIFE. 
There are those who, with a kind of noble but 
mistaken aspiration, are asking for a life which 
shall, in its form and outward course, be more 
spiritual and divine than that which they are 
obliged to live. They think that if they could de¬ 
vote themselves entirely to what are called the 
laliors of philanthropy, to visiting the poor and 
sick, that would be well and worthy—and so it 
would be. They think that if it could he inscribed 
on their tombstone that they had visited a million 
of couches of disease, and carried balm and sooth¬ 
ing to them, that would be a glorious record—and 
so it would be. But let me tell you that Ihe mil¬ 
lion occasions will come—aye, in the ordinary path 
of life, in your houses and by your firesides— 
wherein yon may act as nobly as if all yonr life 
long you visited beds of sickness and pain. 
Yes, I Bay, the million occasions will come, with 
each varying hour, in which you may restrain your 
passions, subdao your heart to gentleness and pa¬ 
tience, resign your own interests to another’s, 
speak words of kindness and wisdom, rais ■ the 
fallen, and cheer the fainting and sick in spirit, 
and soften and aiWge the weariness and bitter¬ 
ness of the mortal lot. These cannot be written 
on your tombs, for they are not one series of 
specific anions, like those which are technically 
denominated philanthropy. But in them, I say, 
MAXIMS OF WASHINGTON 
Washington, from early life, was in the habit 
of noting from time to time, as circumstances of¬ 
fered, whatever would seem to promise the ground¬ 
work for fixed principles, with a view thereby to 
govern his course through life. Wo subjoin a few 
for the benefit of Rural readers: 
Use no reproachful language against any one, 
neither curses nor revilings. 
Be not hasty to believe flying reports to the-dis¬ 
paragement of any one. 
Tn your apparel be modest, and endeavor to ac¬ 
commodate nature rather than procure admira¬ 
tion. Keep to the fashions ol‘ your equals, such 
as are civil and orderly with respect to timo and 
place. 
Associate yourself with men of good qnality, if 
you esteem your own reputation, for it is better to 
be alone, tbau in bad company. 
Let your conversation be without malice or 
envy, for it is a sign of a tractable and commenda¬ 
ble nature; and in all causes of passion admit 
reason to govern. 
Be not immodest in urging your friends to dis¬ 
cover a secret. 
Use not base and frivolous things against grown 
and learned meu; nor very difficult questions aud 
subjects amongst the ignorant, nor things hard to 
be believed. 
Speak not of doleful things in the time of mirth, 
nor at the table; Bpeak not of melancholy things, 
as death or wounds; and if others mention them 
change, if you can, the discourse. Tell not your 
dreams to your intimate friends. 
Break not a jest where none take pleasure in 
mirth. Laugh not aloud, nor at all without occa¬ 
sion. Deride no man’s misfortune, though there 
seems to be some cause. 
Speak not injurious words, neither in jest nor in 
earnest- Scoff at none, though they may give you 
occasion. 
Be not forward, but friendly and courteous—the 
first to salute, hear and answer, and be not pensive 
when it is time to converse. 
Detract not from others, but neither be exces¬ 
sive in commending. 
Go uot thither, where you kuow not whether you 
shall he welcome or not. Give not advice without 
being asked, and when desired, do it briefly. 
Reprehend not the imperfections of others, for 
that belongs to parents, masters and superiors. 
Speak not in an unknown tongue in company, 
but in your own language; and that as those of 
quality do, aud not ns the vulgar. Sublime matters 
treat seriously. 
Think before you speak; pronounce not imper¬ 
fectly, nor bring out your words too hastily, but 
orderly aud distinctly. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THIS WORLD OF OURS. 
This world of ours is beautiful wherever it is 
seen. From the smallest blade of grass, that ex¬ 
pands beneath the genial influence of the sum¬ 
mer’s sun, to tho tall oak, whose lofty head seems 
bathed in liquid clouds—from the little rill gliding 
softly along through the meadows, to the mighty 
ocean, bearing the wealth of ages on its bosom 
from each, and all, of these comes there not a 
voice saying, “Oh earth thou art beautiful?” 
In olden times when Knights warred bravely for 
ladies true, and each of those iron-hearted men 
could bend the bow, or mingle in the dance, also 
in those glorious days when hall and cottage, per¬ 
chance, resounded with the exploits of one, who, 
a disciple of tho cross, had takeu up his arms and 
bravely fought beneath the Syrian sky, then was 
not our eurth beautiful? Methiuks I hear a souud 
come up from Rome, once the proud “Mistress of 
Nations,” to remind us of the time when her moun¬ 
tain-bird, proud type of liberty, gaily shone.— 
Palmyra too, that royal city, remembered but for 
its splendor and magnificence, yet from its walls 
long buried in oblivion, comes the echo, “The 
world in onr days w as beautiful.” 
Beauty reigned triumphant in England's palmy 
times, when that lordly soil was cultivated by hon¬ 
est men of noble souls. There was a period when 
a little band of valiant ones spread their white 
sails and sought a home beyond the rolling sea, 
where they might freely worship God; and as they 
landed on that rocky Bhore, what wonder had a 
halo played around those brows? Ah, yes! this 
earth was beautiful in all those former times, and 
even now ia so. What though the storms of ad¬ 
versity at times pour down with increasing vio¬ 
lence they will pass away, and to those who arc 
guided by the Bon of Righteousness will leave a 
clear sky and a world increasing in beauty, until 
time shall pass away and they be ushered into the 
abode of perfect beauty—Heaven. 
Cayuga, March, 1857. Amelia. 
Take a lesson from that furze-bush, zEaop, whis¬ 
pered my better angel. 
I was terribly ruffled: some insolent navvies 
had mimicked my hump, and made mouths at 
me; and, what was more, a pretty girl passing by 
at the moment saw them and me, and then laugh¬ 
ed too. 1 only wished her the mumps. 
Take a lesson from that old horse on the com¬ 
mon, -Esop, again whispered my spiritual director. 
Winter and summer, in biting cold and scorch¬ 
ing heat, still that furze-bush holds on greenly, 
and seldom or never without a golden blossom 
somewhere hung about it. By night and day, in 
rain and sunshine, that old horse stands munching 
at the sour marshy pasturage, quite contented at 
his lot. 
Why shouldn’t I he at least as much ot a philoso¬ 
pher as a beast or a bush V thought I, thinking of 
the angoL 
And there’B plenty of need for such philosophy 
in this old wrongful world of ours, as most men 
know for themselves; and it is an especial wisdom 
to keep patient without getting hardened; and a 
very singular virtue to sport a flower in all seasons, 
like that old weather-beaten furze-bush; and 
strange comfort to go munching on contentedly, 
like that old horse. 
Nothing on earth can smile but a man! Gems 
may flash reflected light, but what is a diamond- 
flash compared with an eye-flash and mirth-flash? 
Flowers cannot smile. This is a charm which 
even they cannot claim. Birds cannot Hiuile, nor 
any living thing. It is the prerogative of man.— 
It i* the color which love wears, and cheerfulness, 
aud joy—these three. It is the light iu Ihe win¬ 
dow of the face, by which the heart signifies to 
father, husband, or friend, that it is ftt home and 
waiting. A face that caunot smile is like a bud 
that cannot blossom and dries up on the statk.— 
Laughter Is day, and sobriety is night, and a smile 
is the twilight that hovers gently between both, 
more bewitching than either. But all smiles are 
not alike. Thu checrfuluess of vanity Is not like 
the smile of love. The smile of gratified pride is not 
like the radiance of goodness and truth. The 
rains of summer fall alike upon all trees and 
shrubs. But when the storm passes, and on every 
leaf hangs a-drip, each gentle puff of wind brings 
down apretty shower, and every drop brings with it 
something of tho nature of the leaf or blossom oil 
which It, bang; the roadside leaf yields dust; the 
walnut leaf bitterness; some flowers poison; while 
the grape blossom, the rose and the sweet briar 
lend their aroma to the twinkling drops, and send 
them down perfumed. And so it is with smiles 
which every heart perfumes according to its na¬ 
ture—selfishness is acrid; pride,bitter; good-will, 
sweet and fragrant .—Henry Ward Beecher. 
The Divine Blessing. —If there is any time when 
we need, more than at others, the Divine blessing, 
it is when we are least thoughtful of our depend¬ 
ence npon it, and least disposed to ask for it 
There is an End. —To everything beneath the 
sun there comes a last day—and of all futurity, 
this is the only portion of time that can in all 
cases be infallibly predicated. Let the sanguine 
then take warning, and the disheartened take 
courage; for to every joy and to every sorrow, to 
every hope and to every fear, there will come a 
last day; and the man ought so to live by fore¬ 
sight, that while he learns iu every state to be 
content, he shall in each be prepared for another, 
whatever the other may be. 
TUB JOT or P01NG GOOD. 
Yes there’s joy in doing good, 
The selMi never know, 
A draught m> deep, so rich and pur, 
It sets the heart aglow ; 
A drought to exquisitely rare 
It thrills tho soul with bliss, 
And lifts it to a heav’nlier world, 
Or makes a heav’n of this. 
WnEN two loving hearts are torn asunder, it is a 
shade better to be the one that ia driven away into 
action, than the bereaved twin that petrifies at 
home. 
It was Washington Irving, we believe, who ob 
served that when we are willing to appear poor 
we have taken from poverty its sharpest sting. 
Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou 
shalt not escape calumny. 
Vice stings even in our pleasuves; bat virtue 
consoles even in our pains. 
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