^ l , u w ll ,MWW U W l W U W.Wu'\tW*t'ki'\M'*i'*’''' , o'v'tf'M'H , '‘W^ 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
APRIL 25. 
itakifjs’ lfltt-#»lin. 
CONDUCTED BY AZILK. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
SPRING CAROL. 
BY HTRTA MAT. 
The glorious Spring has come again. 
And clothed in beauty (let i and plain, 
O’er every vale and mountain height 
Is flung her robe of golden light. 
The breath floats by id every nreeze 
That fa»s the perfume-laden trees, 
Unheeding Earth's tumultuous strife, 
All nature’s bursting into life ! 
Rejoice 1 rejoice children Ol men, 
The glorious Spiiug h. s come again ! 
They have come 1 they hare came ! the bright eyed flower* 
They are blossoming now in the woodland bowers ; 
They are laughing beside each glancing stream 
As they catch the light ot the sun’s first beam, 
The violet opens its solt blue eye — 
With a hue, just borrowed from the sky,— 
And wooed to life by the balmy breeze 
The “May-flower” opens its starry leaves. 
Rejoice 1 rejoice, children of men 
The llowerB, the (lowers, are springing again ! 
They have come, they have come, with the brt nth of Spring, 
Again in their forest home to siDg,— 
Each swift-winged bird with its joyous song. 
Telling us “ Winter is over and gone.” 
Oh ! from each lreait let a Te Deum swell, 
And blend with the music in forest and dell, 
Till o’er the green Earth shall echo the alralD, 
“Rejoice! for the Spring is coming again !’ 
Attica Centre, April 14,1857. 
-►- 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
AN EVENING WITH MEMORY. 
“ Oh, memoryt thou only wakener of the dead ! 
Thou only treasure of the vanished past I 
How welcome art thou.” 
How apt we are, in after years—as we journey 
through life—to forget, no not forget, but to let 
pass from our minds events that, while transpiring, 
are of so much interest te us, it seems then, as if 
they would ever 1 e present; but ns other scenes 
and other frienos gather around us, nud new joys 
and sorrows fill our hearts, we lose sight of the old 
ones. Bat they are not lost. One by one as we 
drop them, memory gathers them up, storing them 
away in her laboratory for future use; and when 
weary of all around up, and closing our eyes, try 
to shut out the world, then it is she returns aud 
brings before us in subdued colors, her panorama 
of by-gones. 
Thus it was memory stole upon me to-night as I 
sat dreaming; and drawing aside the curtain of 
the past, took my hand in her’s and led me through 
her picture gallery. Oh! what a host of recollec¬ 
tions came thronging to me! What a strange feel¬ 
ing—mixture of joy and pain—thrilled through 
my whole being, as I gazed upon that, promiscuous 
assemblage of pictures, through the soft, dreamy 
light of otner years! How many dear, familiar 
faceB and scenes, that I had thought long since 
forgotten, were there before me—some of them 
Riling my heart with joy as I gazed upon them, and 
bringing me back i o some ol the happiest moments 
of my life, and I felt almost williug to linger by 
them forever. Bui no, my guide was not satisfied 
thus, I must look upon all; ami she quietly led 
me away to others, that awoke such sad, painful 
thoughts!—yet there was a charm abont the.j',that 
won me to linger by them, even though they made 
the tears .ricklo warm and fast. Others there 
were, that at first seemed strange, but memory 
would point out first one known feature, then 
another, until by-and-byl recognized an old famil¬ 
iar scene. Yes, there were pictures from every 
year of my life; from my happy childhood—rosy 
morn of life—all light and happiness, excepting 
now and then an April shower, sorrow soon dis¬ 
pelled with a kind word or loving smile, only mak¬ 
ing the sunshine more beautiful for its having 
been!—from then, until now. 
As I stand there with them, how many loved 
companions of “days agone” were with me. Once 
more I heard their gentle tones and silvery laugh¬ 
ter, and almost felt the soft pressure of their hands 
in mine and their warm kisses on my clieek! Oh! 
what delicious momenta! I would not — even 
though grief was mingled with my pleasure—give 
them in exchange for many commoner ones!— 
Memory, kiud, faithful friend, who does not love 
her? No matter if she does cherish some gloomy 
things we would rather have forgotten; does she 
not cherish many more beautiful ones? And as 
Time glides away, bearing us on to Eternity, how 
many pleasant hours do we spend reviewing them, 
that we would not have otherwise! Some of those 
precious hours 1 have spent to-night, living, as it 
were, my past life over. And it, seems almost a 
dream, now mentor}' has gone, that I am alone,— 
But though the forms of my friends are not visi¬ 
ble near me, yet I know that they have been with 
me, hovering around me, and that the fluttering of 
their spirit-wings was the rnnsic that lulled me to 
dreaming. How much lighter my heart leels for 
this little visit of memory’s! How much more 
contented! I feel ; ore like acting 
“ In the living present, 
Heart within aud God o’erhead,” 
so that in some future time, looking back, I may 
have more pleasant pictures to gaze upon. Some 
time, maybe, I will impart some of these pictures. 
Dream Dell, Ohio, 1857. Ida Cahkt. 
Sorrows. —Jean Paul Bays: —“Sorrows gather 
round great souls as storms do around mountains; 
but, like them, they break the storm and purify 
the air of the plain beneath them. Every heavy 
burden of sorrow seems like a stone hung round 
our neck, yet are they often only like the stones 
used by the pearl-divers, which enable them to 
reach their prize aud to rise enriched. A Biuail 
sorrow detracts; and great one mates us collected; 
as a bell loses its clear tone when slightly cracked, 
and recovers it when the fissure is enlarged.” 
-*-—*■- 
Our Hearts must be more contracted than our 
eyes, or we should not murmur at every little cloud, 
which we can plainly see is but a speck in an uni¬ 
verse of light.—Jean Paul. 
■--- 
We forget in the violence of our grief, when the 
storm is wild about, us and beats upon us, that the 
wave which lifts ug the highest brings us nearest 
to the stars. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
WHEN IS THE TIME TO DIE P 
T saw an infant lying in its mother’s arms, 
moaning with pain, and heard the earnest, heart¬ 
felt prayer of that parent, that her darling might 
be saved. That prayer was answered. The child 
grew, and in its youth was fair to look upon.— 
Again disease visited his frame and be was brought 
to the gates of death. How earnestly he pleaded 
for life. If the precious boon would be granted, 
he would ever be thankful for the gift. 
“I’ve just begun to live; I cannot die now, and 
give up all the anticipated pleasures of life—all 
tlie bright dreams of coming bliss that I have so 
long cherished.” Thus he spoke, and once more 
the messenger left him. 
Onward lie passed toward manhood; but, un¬ 
grateful being that he was, he forgot the blessings 
conferred upon him by his Maker. He sougnt 
pleasure through all the world, and found hor not. 
Having an ample fortune at his command, he 
traveled from laud to laud. In foreign climes he 
visited all that was fair and beautiful in Art, and 
turned from her to Nature. He stood beneath the 
sunny skies of Italy and gazed upon her beautiful 
landscapes, but still he found not pleasure. He 
did not look “ through Nature, up to Nature’s God,” 
and did not see the hand of the great Creator in 
the beauties spread before him. Manhood's age 
found him still unprepared to die. It. was but the 
prime of life. He had not seen enough of the 
vain world. Its joys thus far liad been too transi¬ 
tory and fleeting. He hoped ere long to find some 
lasting happiness. 
Again his pleadings for life were heeded. Now 
he gave himself up to dissipation—visited the 
gaming table, was found among the midnight 
revelers, and in every place where it was said or 
imagined pleasure could be found. Still disap¬ 
pointment met him. Asa last resort he fled to the 
wine cup to quiet the pangs of a guilty conscience. 
His head became white with the frosts of age, and 
he laid himself down to die, for life to him was 
now a burden—that life for which he had plead so 
oft and so earnestly. On his death bed thus be 
mused: 
“ Infatuated being that I have been. In infancy 
my life was spared, and in youth I was not ready 
to die. I thought, but bow mistakenly, that life 
was a flowery path, with naught but sunshine. I 
proved that it was not so, but middlo age found 
me—still unprepared. I had not seen enough of 
the vanity of earth. I had not drank deep enough 
of the cup of bitterness. Now I've drained it to 
its very dregs. I must die. Oh! how vainly I 
have lived, and how miserable is my end I My race 
is finished and I am going to meet my God. What 
account shall I render? Oh! that I had prepared 
for death!” 
The old man died and was laid in his grave. 
Thus it is with man. In youth he has not seen 
enough of the world. Manhood fiuds him, as he 
thinks, just beginning to live. When his three¬ 
score years and ten are ended, he laments his past 
life, and sighs for time to prepare for death. 
“It must be sweet in childhood to give back 
The spirit to its Maker, ere the heart 
Has grown familiar with the ways of sin.” 
In old ago it must be pleasant to look back upon 
a life spent in doing good, and forward to a happy 
meeting with tne ransomed in Heaven. In man¬ 
hood ’tis hard to die, and harder still to live. 
Man cannot choose a time lo leave this world 
for the Lord’s time only, is the time to die. 
March, 1857. Viola Vincxnt. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
BE CHEERFUL AND GENTLE. 
Don't allow yourself to bluster, and scold, aud 
fret about in that way. What if you did not find 
something just where you left it, or can't find in an 
instant what you are in a hnrry for. Learn to ex¬ 
pect trilling inconveniences and annoyances every 
day—for scarcely a day passes without our meet¬ 
ing 6ome trials calculated, if we allow them, to put 
us out of temper and hinder onr business. In 
large families, each so differently constituted, it is 
impossible there should be that uniformity of mo¬ 
tive and action which would prevent all mistakes. 
But a generous spirit of toleration, a calm, quiet 
forbearance, and faithfulness in your duty, what¬ 
ever it is, will bo a rebuke to the negligent, and an 
example to all. 
Remember, kindness begets kindness, aud “the 
soft answer turneth away wrath.” Far more good 
is done by doing right ourselves, and kindly over¬ 
looking errors, than by rough rebuke and harsh 
accusation. A brief time, indeed, are we together 
here. 0, let us not contend and wrangle and pout 
away the few days allotted ns, but speak kindly, 
and scatter pleasant smiles, and gentle words free¬ 
ly and ungrudgingly to all. Even the poorest of 
ns can do that. Little do we know, often, how 
keenly a bitter word or reproach cuts the loving 
heart of a wife, mother, sister, father, husband, 
brother or child, and may be remembered for long 
years after. Then let us be careful—govern onr 
tempers, and forget not the answer, “He that is 
without sin, let him cast the first stone.” 
Ei,ise. 
Pictures. —A room wiih pictures in it, and a 
room without pictures, differ by nearly as much as 
a room with windows — and a room without win¬ 
dows. Nothing, we think, is more melancholy, 
particularly to ft person who has to pass much 
time in his room, than blank walls, and nothing on 
them; for pictures are loop-holes of escape to the 
human soul, leading it to other scenes and other 
spheres. It is such an inexpressible relief to a per¬ 
son eugaged in writing, or even reading, on look¬ 
ing np, not to have his line ol vision chopped 
square off by an odious white wall, but to find his 
soul escaping, ns it were, through the frame of an 
exquisite picture, to other beautiful, and perhaps, 
Idyllic scenes, where the fancy for a moment, may 
revel, refreshed and delighted. It is winter in your 
world ?—perhaps it is summer in the picture; what 
a charming momentary change and contrast!— 
And thus pictures are consolers of loneliness; 
they are a relief to the jaded mind; they are win¬ 
dows to the imprisoned thought; they are hooks; 
they are histories and sermons—which can he read 
without tbe trouble of turning over the leaves.— 
Ntw Hampshire Patriot. 
-- 
A man loves when his judgment approves; a 
woman’s judgment approves when she loves. 
Sjifiia JJtallany. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
TO-NIGHT I DREAM. 
I drkam of beautiful things to-night— 
For friends I dearly love 
Have woven for me a garland 
Ot hope, while I must rove. 
They have bound in flowery fetters 
This heart that coldly roved, 
Nor dreamed that earth had aught of bliss 
Like that ot being loved. 
And though they tell me time may chill, 
And kill the tender flower, 
Before the Great Destroyer comes 
I love to bless its power ; 
I’ower to begnile the weary heart 
To cheer the lonely hour, 
When darkly o'er life's mazy path 
Despondency may lower. 
I'm thinking now ot a brother 
Far o'er the seas away, 
Whose beaming eyes, a noble soul 
Kindles with blessed ruy ; 
And of another still, whose heart 
Follows him all the day, 
And dreams as I dream—yet not as I dream 
Of the home that ends his stay. 
And l dream, oh I may this dream prove true— 
Of a holy spirit-band ; 
Parents, brothers, sisters, friends, 
In the heavenly land. 
Gifted each, with voice so 6weet 
That angels love to hear : 
With harps amt crowns and robes, that Christ's 
Redeemed, are known by there. 
East IlamptOD, Mass,, 1867. n. b. c. 
-♦*>- 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
DISTINCTION. 
In contemplating the character of those men 
whose actions have isolated them from the plebian 
multitude,—whom history hands down to us from 
former generations surnamed the Great,—the ques¬ 
tion very naturally arises by what authority are 
these men thus distinguished, and incites a lauda¬ 
ble curiosity to examine tbe conditions upon which 
everlasting fame is awarded to a certain few of the 
human race. In viewing the material of which the 
superstructure upon which are based their claims 
to earthly immortality is constructed, — that fame 
of which all men are ambitious,—we are not a little 
surprised at the slender title by which their right 
is held, and arc convinced— 
“That it’s not in the blood of man 
To crouch ingloriously to fate," 
and reminded of the emphatic truth that “infamy 
snatches them from oblivion,” and conspicuous 
writes them on the lasting records of inglorious 
fame. 
Tom Thumb's very littleness made him great. 
Crowned heads gazed in pleased curiosity, the 
hard-fisted yeomanry crowded in gaping wonder, 
and all united in ascribing a deathless fame to the 
Lilliputian General. Daniel Lambert's and Mrs. 
Schooley’s claims to distinction were four to six 
hundred pounds weightier than the General's, yet 
all this corporeal advantage only writes them side 
by side on tbe scroll of fame—each secured only 
by an overgrown or undergrowri body. Thus, 
“tall oaks from little acorns grow,” and by the 
mcreBt accidents of uature mankind have greatness 
thrust upon them. 
C.usAit stood on the bankB of the Rubicon, the 
then boundary between Gaul and Rome’s southern 
territories, discussing with his officers the pro¬ 
priety of crossing the stream, when a shepherd 
came from the neighboring field playing his Ante. 
He laid it down, took one of their trumpets and 
sounded a charge. “An omen, the die is castl' 1 
cried C.rsak, his irresolution all dispelled, and im¬ 
mediately crossed the stream, attaching an impor¬ 
tance to an accident, which, in a common man, 
would awaken deserved ridicule. Aud this super¬ 
stitious faith decided the fate of Rome. 
The great Xerxes wrote an epistle to Ht» Athos, 
through which he was about to cut a passage, say¬ 
ing, “ Atbos, thou proud aud aspiring mountain, I 
advise thee not t,o he so audacious as to put rocks 
and stones in the way of my workmen which they 
eaunot cut through.” He also caused the sea to 
ho chastised because a storm destroyed his bridge 
of boats—repeating, “thou troublesome and un. 
happy element, thus does thy master chastise thee 
for having affronted him without reason,”—a course 
of conduct which would insure him a home in the 
lunatic asylum and a straight-jacket at the present 
(lay,—while it seems to awaken incredulity that a 
mind capable of planning and executing tbe im¬ 
mense projects which he did, could yield to such 
childish exhibitions of temper, and yet be perfectly 
sane. Yet, rational or phrenzied, wherever tbe 
langnage is spoken, the names and deeds of these 
men will he read and applauded, giving to their 
memory an immortality as imperishable as time 
itself. "Were we to extend the list from now till 
tbe mists of ages obscured tbe records, we should 
find them all the same. 
A reflective perusal of these traits of the distin¬ 
guished, naturally incites the query, without the 
influence of these trifling incidents, wonhl these 
men have achieved that to make them great, and 
preserve their names find deeds, instructive lessous 
of former experience, to be known and read to the 
latest generations? The line of demarlcation Sep¬ 
arating the meritorious from the culpable is not 
distinctly enough drawn to convey clearly the les¬ 
sons of wisdom history designs to teach; but we 
mention these peculiarities, not as in any manner 
detracting from worthy acts and deeds of bravery, 
nor reflecting on the impartial historian whose al¬ 
legiance to truth would oblige linn to relate ail 
this, but as clearly demonstrating that the distinc¬ 
tions which divide human society, are erected on 
frail foundations, and one peep behind the veil of 
reverentiul awe which seems to envelop those to 
whom we arc wont to award greatness and honor 
but reveals them human and very like other men. 
The mist of ages seems to obscure our mental 
vision, and we look upon the herocB of departed 
time SB fabulous, rather than real character*, and 
their deeds portrayed as glowing fictions, existing 
only in the mind of some keenly imaginative wri¬ 
ter. The strong language of truth is often received 
thus, unless the reality he witnessed, we are fain 
at times to doubt our senses. Wc arc not en masse 
of the eclectic school, selecting good only from 
the conglomerate mass of good aud evil promiscu¬ 
ously thrown before ns; erecting altars of virtue ' 
over the ruins of vice, compiling rules of rightand 
tables of good from the good and had incontinently 
heaped before us in the records of past experience. 
Too oft in attempting to pass Soyltft on the one 
hand, a yawning Charybdis engiilphs us on the 
other. And yet rather than correct our faults by 
the errors of others, guide our perception® to al¬ 
most prophetic foresight by the teaching of those 
who have traveled life's devious path, the innate 
love of notoriety is so strorg within ns, that losing 
sight of all else, uur energies rue nerved to this at¬ 
tainment, and with King Ferdinand we exclaim, 
“ Let furne, which all hunt after in their lives, 
Live registered on our brazen tombs, 
And then grace us iu the disgrace of death." 
Swollkf. 
-- 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
BEAUTIES OF RURAL LIFE. 
“ How sweet to breath the gale’s perfume 
And feast the eye with Nature’s bloom, 
Along the dewy lawn to rove, 
An.l hear the music of the grove.” 
The realm of Nature is peculiarly lovely, and to 
the beholder always pleasing. The rich and dense 
foliage of the forests, waving in majesty and beau¬ 
ty, the grass green, and soft like velvet on the 
meadows aud upon the roadside, and the perfumes 
of flowers and aromatics, everywhere regale the 
senses, and point upward to the Being that created 
all, How one loves to roam abroad, especially at 
early spring-time when the whole range of Nature 
seems to be struggling for a new career of organic 
beauty and development, and the whole animal 
kingdom seems to have an uncontrolled tendency 
to participate in this renovated life. 
What an animated impulse is given to man—it 
is seen in every lineament of his face—his eye im¬ 
parts increased brilliancy of expression — all bis 
motions arc accelerated, and ft cheerful vivacity 
seems to pervade his whole being. The feathered 
creation also, fill the air with the melody of their 
songs and their sweet warblings seem to be direct¬ 
ed to the Great Spirit that made and sustains them. 
If the starry heavens anywhere move the heart 
with delightful emotions—if a landscape of hill 
and dale anywhere captivates the eye—if the mur¬ 
muring rill, and the lulling cascade anywhere send 
a thrilling pathos to the soul, it is in a country 
home. What, is there in the city analogous to this 
to operate on the social affections? Many occupy 
princely mansions, but is there anything in these 
establishments to produce such solid pleasure as 
the rural home can aflord? There smiling Nature 
can be seeu on every band, aud her artless sim¬ 
plicity will always please, for she knows no affec¬ 
tation, her hills, valleys, aud grottos are all un¬ 
studied—nothing is beautiful without the ground¬ 
work of simplicity. Even rural scenery would fail 
to please, did it not possess this majestic artlessness. 
“God made the country— man made the town” — 
what wonder then that we should cherish Buch 
strong attachment and derive snch sacred pleas¬ 
ures from rural life. All things iu inanimate cre¬ 
ation speak a language to the heart, and often¬ 
times excite our deepest interest. Even the dow¬ 
ers, shrubs, and trees, awaken to recollection fond 
memories of the past, that were enshrined within 
the deep recesses of our hearts, and early scenes 
and associations are brought vividly to mind by 
their sacred and hullowed influences. It would 
seem as though even the brute creation feel a ven¬ 
eration for trees. How very often do they love, in 
the sultry heat of the day, to shelter themselves 
beneath their wide-spreading branches, from the 
scorching sun? We wonder not that trees have 
been the admiration of men in all periods of the 
world. Whatisthe richest country without them? 
What barren spot can they not convert into Para¬ 
dise? ’Tis true, as the poet has well expressed it, 
that Trees and Flowers, and Streams, arc Boeial 
and benevolont — and be who oft communeth in 
their language pure, shall find his Maker there to 
teach his listening heart. 
Who would not wish to enjoy tbe sweets of 
country life—to possess the bloom which flushes 
into the cheeks—the health which comes from its 
balmy exhalations, and the cheerfulness which 
glides into the soul from listening to the devotional 
matins of the lark, and behold tbe new created 
scenery of Nature—rather than an existence in 
the pent up city, where no bland zephyrs bring on 
their wings health, virtue, and long life? 
“ Tlien come with ms, (or I love to roam 
Through the woodlamls free In my rural home; 
Come—fly from the fashion-bound, slavish train, 
And live with me in my wide domain.” 
Orangeville, Mlcb., 1857. M. A. C. B. 
-*,»♦- 
NATIONAL FLAGS AND SIGNALS. 
Red, white, yellow and blue, are found to be the 
most conspicuous colors. The present French 
red, white and blue is a good example of conspicu¬ 
ous effect produced by tbe simplest possible com¬ 
bination of the three colors in the same flag. Our 
royal standard has a ground work iu some parts 
red and in others blue, with yellow or golden lions, 
and harps, Ac. Our Admiralty Hag has a yellow 
anchor on a red ground. Our Union llug has a 
blue ground, red rectangular stripes, and while 
diagonals. Our red and blue admiral’s flags are 
plain. Many of tbe other English flags have a 
plain ground color over live-sixths of the surface, 
but with a proas of stripes in one corner. So it is 
throughout most of the nations of Europe. The 
colors on the naval flags are generally red, white 
or yellow, and bluo. Even his Holiness, the Pope, 
has ono flag with a white lamb aud a white cross 
on a red ground, aud another with a yellow St. 
Peter on a red ground. King Bomba, of Naples, 
has a yellow griffin on a white ground. Venice 
has an amiable looking yellow lion on a red ground, 
bolding a yellow sword in one paw, and a white 
book in another. Bremen lias a sort of red and 
white chess-board, with six times nine squares in¬ 
stead of eight times eight; —and soon, Every¬ 
where we find red, white aud blue, or red, yellow 
and blue; and we may bo certain that something 
better than mere freak determines the selection 
of such colors as signals. — Dickens' Household 
Words. 
-- 
Laws descend like an inveterate hereditary dis. 
ease; they trail from generation to generation, and 
glide imperceptibly from place to place. Reason 
becomes nonsense; beneficence a plagne. Woe to 
ibee if thou art a grand-son! 
WAITING BY THE RIVER. 
That grand old dreamer, Bunyau, brings Cbria- 
tinia aud her pilgrim company into the Land of 
Beulah, where they were rested in the orchards 
and vineyards, where the bells did ring and the 
trumpets sound so melodiously that they could not 
sleep, and yet they were refreshed as though they 
did; and where no sense took iu what was offen¬ 
sive, and where their bodies were anointed and 
they prepared to go over tbe river, for bore the 
shining ones came to greet and carry forward the 
pilgrims to the Celestial City. The trials of their 
pilgrimage are past, and they now but wait all 
their appointed time, till their change conic, en¬ 
gaged * nly in those delightful employments which 
make their lives joyous; and tbe aDgels come and 
carry them one by one, over the river, which was 
“in a mauner dry for some, while it overflowed its 
bauks for others.” Here they wait by the river, 
tasting of its water, “wbioli to some tasted a little 
bitterish to the palate, but proved sweeter when it 
was down.” 
Waiting in the land of Beulah by the river!— 
What a delightful thought that we are approach¬ 
ing that land—that we may be near it now. Ready 
to hall. Despondency, feeble mind, these may all 
come here, having no more to fear; and in pa¬ 
tience passes their souls till the messengers say 
“I have broken the golden howl, and loosed the 
silver cord.” Not that the way by which they 
came is so blocked up that they may not return; 
but then there is no hindrance to their tarrying in 
this pleasant land, and there are none who can 
drag or drive them out, if they will but stay. 
Waiting by the river! How pleasant to those 
who feel that the heat and burden of their day of 
toil is past, and who now in the calm evening of 
a well spent life, wait until they are called up to 
the Celestial City. Here may they sit and tri¬ 
umph, while memory traverses the path they have 
passed over and recounts the clangers and diffi¬ 
culties of that way. But through all these, tho 
Lord has led them in safety; and they joy in his 
saving help, aod rejoice in his salvation. 
Waiting by the river! Here wait the weary 
whose life lias been one long toil and strife with 
bitter hardship and grinding poverty, looking to 
be called to their inheritance. Hero wait those, in 
whom disease has checked the current of health¬ 
ful joys and made their lives u constant agony, and 
who now wait for a “glorious body,” to be reveal¬ 
ed from Heaven, iu the likeness of the blessed 
Savior wherein tio pain shall ever be. Here wait 
those, who, whatever heights of worldly ambition 
they have climbed, have not. bad their souls in 
thraldom to sense, but have ever looked, and now 
look, to admission to higher honors, more thril¬ 
ling pleasures, more satisfying good, than earth’s 
happiest sons, as worldlings, ever dreamed of; for 
over tbe river are treasures that never fail — skies 
never darkened—ecatacies never wearying—purity 
never approached by sin—and all the bliss of mor¬ 
tals saved in Heaven and dwelling with Jesus.— 
Let us then wait patiently by the river, till tbe 
Master calls.— Southern Advocate. 
YOUTH WASTED. 
When Coleridge, in his younger days, was offer¬ 
ed a share in the well known London Journal, by 
which he might have made two thonsand pounds 
a year, provided ho would devote his time serious¬ 
ly to their interest, he declined, making the reply 
so often praised lor Us disinterestedness. “I will 
not give up the country and the lazy rending of 
old folios, for two thousand times two thousand 
pounds. Tn short, beyond three and fifty pounds 
a year, l consider money a real evil.” 
The “lazy reading of old folios” led to laziness, 
the indolent gratification of mind and sense. De¬ 
generating into an opium eater, and a mere pur- 
postdess theorizer, Coleridge wasted time, talents, 
and health; came to depend, in old age, on the 
oharity of others; and died, at last, with everyone 
regretting—even his friends—that be had done 
nothing worthy of his genius. The world is full 
of men having Coleridge’s faults, without Cole¬ 
ridge’s abilities; men, who cannot, or will not, see 
beyond the present; who are too lazy to work for 
more than a temporary subsistence; and who 
squander, in pleasure or idleness, energy and 
health which ought to lay np a capital for old age. 
Most persons, who are guilty of this neglect, in¬ 
stead ot asserting as they think their independ¬ 
ence, only betray how strong a hold indolence or 
sensual gratification bus upon them. Better, far 
better, had Coleridge worked when he was young, 
than lived to be what he became, if not a beggar. 
— Philadelphia Ledger. 
■ ^ ♦ » ■ — 
“ Brother Jonathan.” — The origin of this 
term, as applied to the United States, is as fallows: 
—When Gen. Washington, after being appointed 
commander of the army of tho revolutionary war, 
went to Massachusetts to organize it, he found a 
great want of ammunition and other means for its 
defence; and on one occasion, it seemed that no 
means could be devised for the necessary safety.— 
Jonathan Trumbull, the elder, was then Governor 
of the State of Connecticut; and the general, 
placing the greatest reliance on his excellency’s 
judgment, remarked, “Wo must consult Brother 
Jonathan on the subject.” The general did so;— 
and the governor was successful iu supplying 
many of the wants of the army; and thenceforth, 
when difficulties arose, and the army was spread 
over the country, it became a by-phrase:—“We 
must consult Brother Jonathan;” and the name 
has now becomo a designation for the whole coun¬ 
try, as John Bull has for England.— Dictionary of 
Americanisms. 
-♦-—*- 
The Pbkss-pttti.— Wc arc happy to hear that 
we are “a handmaid,” a “bulwark,” and ft “streak 
of lightning”—this discovery of our varied ac¬ 
complishments being due to the toast-maker of the 
Dorris Festival lately celebrated at Brooklyn, who 
I thus describes our profession:—“ The Press —Tbe 
handmaid of science, tho bulwark of liberty, the 
lightning directed by genius to rend the obstvuc- 
; tions which impede the progress of man.” In an 
i Ode by Mr. Rourntq sung at the Lecture before the 
i Typographical Society, printing is called "A 
prophet (profit?) with a thousand tongues.” And 
the Lecturer, Dr, Prime, said:—“The continued 
augmentation of the Printing Interest, is to lie one 
of tho important aids in doing away with the 
moral, social and physical evils of tho world.”— 
Home Journal. 
