MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER, 
AUGUST 29. 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE. 
For Moore’s Kura! New-Yorkor 
THE ANGEL OF THE PINES. 
BY MRS. MARY J. HOLMES. 
Dark\ess was o'er all the south land, 
O’er the laud of flowering vines, 
While the night wind moved but faintly 
Through the music breathing pines. 
Red and fiery were the heavens, 
Hot and arid all the air, 
For the pestilence which wasteth 
In the noontide hour was there. 
All day had its dark-browed victims 
Fallen before its mighty power, 
Till at last its tearful shadow 
Fell upon a beauteous flower. 
She, who, in the Savior's presence, 
Now, a white robed angels shines, 
She, the gentle, blue -eyed Jessie, 
She, the Angel of the Pinea. 
In the cabins, rude and lowly, 
She had soothed tho bed of death, 
While the stricken ones had blessed her 
With their last expiring breath. 
And when now upon her pillow, 
She lay dying, cold and pale, 
Broken was the midnight stillness 
With the negroes’ mournful wail. 
Hen with strong hearts, dusky maidens, 
Matrons, wrinkled, old and grey. 
Children, too, with tear-stained faces, 
All for her, ihe loved one, pray. 
But in vain, for whore the waters 
In the bright green pastures flow. 
There a countless throng of children 
Wait for her, and she must go. 
And as if she heard them calling 
Her to join their shining band, 
“ Sing to me," she faintly whispered, 
“ Tell me of the Happy Land.” 
Softly then the tall magnolia 
Rustled in the evening breeze, 
While the mocking-bird’s wild music 
Echoed through the distant trees. 
And amid the south wiud’s sighing, 
’Mid the wondrous night bird's lay, 
’Mid the tears and lamcntatioDa, 
Passed she from the earth away. 
From her white and blue-veined forehead 
Pushed they back the golden hair, 
And the mother shrieked with anguish 
As she felt tho death-dew there. 
Ere the morrow's min had risen, 
Ere the darksome night had fled, 
A little grave beneath the cypress, 
Made they for the early dead. 
Where the « biepering pines sing to her, 
Where the moonlight softly shines, 
There they laid her,—there we leave her, 
Jessie, Angel of the Pines. 
Brockport. N. Y., 1857. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
FOREST FLOWERS. 
Friend Rural: —Ha 6 any lady had the polite¬ 
ness to send you a boqnet this spring? It may be 
yon have been the recipient of boqnets of rare ex¬ 
otics-pets of the green-house—that have been 
watered and pruned by lily fingers, arranged in the 
“most approved style,” and sent, yon with the 
greatest possible care to stamens and petals, with 
the “compliments of” Mr. or Mrs. So-andso. 
Not Buch would I send you; bnt fresh-blooming 
forest flowe.a—too often over-looked by the hnsy 
world—the free, untrained children of the wild- 
wood, whose pure breath is incense laden, and 
whose- ministering angels are sunshine and shower, 
and the airy fingers of the breeze. Sweet wood¬ 
land flowers, twining their young tendrils cling- 
ingly around rude boughs and decaying mosses.— 
Flowers that the sun, as it shimmered through the 
interstices of sentinel trees, stooped to cheer and 
gladden with its rays: Flowers for which the 
birds left their new-built nests, and flew down to 
sing sweet songs, beating time with their wings, 
while their little eyes sparkled with bird-satisfac¬ 
tion: Flowers for which the rude winds, that all 
day long swept wildly o’er tho fields, hashed their 
loud tones to whisper low of spiritual thingB, while 
they with nodding petals gave response: Flowers, 
that the clouds have shed their tears upon, and dew 
has decked with evanescent jewelry: Flowers that 
the stars have watched over while they slept with 
folded leaves: Flowers, that with opening eyes 
have seen the sombre tapestry of night give way 
before the golden hoes of Nature’s morning-gown, 
and then with prodigal love, have shaken off the 
dew-drops from their waking leaves, and cast their 
incense freely forth: Flowers, that look up to you 
so confidingly as you stroll through the forest 
alone, that you feel an irresistible desire to gather 
them in, and sit down by some gushing fountain 
or Bilver cascade, and with humble heart, read and 
treasure up the lessons they would teach, of hu¬ 
manity and love, and feel as by the tightening of 
an unseen chord drawn nearer Heaven than before: 
Sweet flowers that are alike the gift of the rich 
and the poor, and all are permitted freely to “como 
without money and bny.” 
I’ve roamed through the budding forest and by 
the laughing stream, and over the hill-aide, and 
one by one have captured them, that I might he 
the first to present them to yon; and I pray you 
do not reject them. Bnt I know you will not, for 
their fresh hues and untainted breath brings a 
freshness to the heart that is weary of convention¬ 
al life. 
See here! in the top a delicate fairy flower that 
seems as if .shrinking with timidity away from the 
prominence of its position. And here is a name¬ 
less flower, with petals of the purest waxen hue 
traced over with delicate branches of crimson 
veins. And here, half hidden by its emerald sur¬ 
roundings, peeia “the first-born child of Spring.” 
The snow-white and the azure-eyed, 
Are sweetly twining side by side., 
And hero the red berry of the delicious winter- 
green, seeks shelter under its dark green parasol 
of oval leaves, (tho same it carried last year,) and 
by its side the young leaves burst. Ah I see this 
beautiful little blossom, whose nodding head is 
crowned with gold. And this tiny cup still holds 
a sparkling globule—a remuantof the recent rain: 
And what a lesson it contains, teaching na to fill 
our cops with pure cold water, Heaven’s beverage. 
And here is a duster of pale blossoms with half- 
closed penis, whose pendant edge is tipped with 
blue, a mirror of the sky: And here’s another on 
whose single leaves is stamped the faintest tint of 
pink, verging to purple where the gathered leaves 
unite. And this last cirde is but a row of shining 
green leaves, exhibiting a fresh coat “ water proof 
varnish.” 
Come, my friends! ye who are weighed down by 
care, baste with me to the woodland, and brush off 
the blight of contamination, which too much 
mingling wilh the calculating world engenders, 
and drink deep of the elixir of life that dwells in 
every forest breath. Come and gather flowers for 
tho bedside of thy pale, sick friend, and watch the 
faint glow of joy, that tinges the check and lip, as 
she receives them in her emaciate hand: and see 
the returning look of the old brilliancy to the eye. 
And the faintly murmured “ thank you,” will echo 
in your heart and waken a chord of quiet joy. 
Gather them for your own room, my friends—for 
your own table, that when your weary eye is lifted 
from your book or work, it may be gladdened at 
the sight. And who does not sleep sweeter for the 
presence of flowers? Who, with flowers at his 
bedside, does not close his eyes with a sweeter 
conciouBiiesB of security, as if he felt the silent 
presence of guardian angels? Who has not felt 
that on each leaf, there rested a silent orison for 
him ? Yes! Thank Heaven for flowers, and for all 
things beautiful to sight or sense, by which our 
souls may catch a freshened glimpse of purity and 
love. E. N. Campbell. 
Big Flats, N. Y., July, 1867. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE THUNDER-STORM. 
©jwicf JpLSCfUaiiy, 
Yester-night, I sat looking out from my win¬ 
dow upon the southern sky. The day had been 
very sultry, and heat lightnings were playing in 
that quarter continuously. Here a vivid fork of 
“ chain lightning” would dnrt up and quickly dis¬ 
appear; yonder a quiet., fleecy cloud opened, and 
showed a golden lining, and then, perhaps, the 
whole southern sky, parting from east to west, let 
in a flood of lambent glorv— 
“ And we could fibrins(tbiuk we gazed 
Thro’ golden vistas into Heaven!" 
I sought my bed, thanking God for the purify¬ 
ing lightnings, and the cool breeze that bad sprung 
up. Little did I know that a storm was brewing, 
more terrible than any I had ever known before_ 
that lightnings responsive would answer from the 
north, and west and east catching the glow, would 
send back fiery flames, till the whole heaven was 
in a blaze! The wind, too, rose with the storm, and 
drove the heavy rain against the house, fearfully! 
My room is a chamber just under the thin cot¬ 
tage roof. There I lay in awe, my hand pressed 
down over my eyelids to shut out the light—for 
it seemed to pierce through my very brain. But 
even then I could see it t How the thunder rolled 1 
How it crashed, like the rending of some huge 
mountain from its base! How its grated deep and 
heavy, right over my head, like monster engines 
dragged upon jarring iron! “Oh! God be pitiful 
—God be merciful!” moaned out from between 
my lips, as with trembling hands I pressed my 
head—“ Oh, that I were deaf!” In desperation I 
grasped yet another pillow to lay on my throbbing 
temples and deaden the sound. What a mockery! 
The house trembled to its very foundation; iny 
bed shook—an instant, and it seemed as though a 
cataract of stones from off Heaven’s battlement 
had fallen down, down on my poor breast! 
The storm had abated. I arose, weakly enough, 
and went to the window. Lightning flashed in 
my face, and thunders still threatened from out 
the distance. But the All Merciful called them 
hence—the same who once said to the troubled 
ocean, “ Peace—be still!” 
Away in the north, kindled by the fearful elec- 
trio fire, I descried the ruddier light of some 
burning building, streaming far up on the dusky 
midnight sky! God only knows what destruction 
of hope, and mayhap of life is there! 
Many thoughts were in my mind that hour.— 
How differently do we listen to thevoices of God’s 
Terror and bis Tenderness! The tenderness is all 
around us—it blesseth us day by day—it hath ten 
thousand voices to call ns to His praise. Alas! 
we heed them not! But when Hia terrors thunder 
iu the ear, we do adore and tremble, and fall on 
our knees—full ready to do him homage. Oh, my 
God! Would that our souls bowed thus before 
thy tendernessl Yiana Meadows. 
Fagle Harbor, N. Y., 1857. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorkor. 
LINES TO A SISTER, 
Sister, since I met thee last. 
O’er my brow a change has past, 
Then my heart was blithe and gay 
As the moru of summer day, 
And my Btep was light and tree. 
Life was all a dream to me; 
Now my heart throbs wild and deep, 
Sister, I have need to weep. 
Often now, I scarce Itnow why, 
Heaves my bosom w ith a sign, 
And the smile that should be gay, 
Fades in pensiveness away. 
And in wakeful nesa I seem 
To be living iu a dream; 
la a dream so wildly deep, 
That I start as one from sleep. 
Ask me not, my sister dear. 
Why within mine eye tho tear. 
From the fountain of the heart, 
Hath so soon been forced to start; 
Ask not, gentle sister, why 
I thus early learned to sigh; 
Memory but mocks my pain, 
And whispers, thou hast loved in vain. 
Barry, Jackson Co., Mich,, 1857. Linda. 
-♦- 
For Moore'B Rural New-Yorker. 
LEGENDS. 
Perhaps nothing portrays more beautifully the 
peculiar characteristics of a people, than the le¬ 
gends and superstitions gleaned from their peasant 
life. It iB only from the lower cJusses, who must 
ever be the mass of aoy people, that any general 
inference enu be drawn. Untrammeled by the 
artificial distinctions and formalities which creep 
into the higher circles, there is among these a 
certain naivete, or naturalness of manner and ex¬ 
pression, which typifies the mind. 
These legends, having their origin in remote 
periods, and traveling down through successive 
generations, from each of which they have re¬ 
ceived a certain bias and sanction, at last are held 
with the authority of oracles. Shades of charac¬ 
ter are in them delineated, especially those deli¬ 
cate points which it, becomes so exceedingly difiB- 
cu’t to portray in the more concise diction of 
rhetorical roles. Through them may be traced, 
too, their various Htages of progress, from the va¬ 
garies of heathen Mythology to the more plausible 
tales of civilized life. 
Superstition, or a certain proneness to credulity 
unBanctioned by sober second thought, has been 
with every people, whether civilized or savage, a 
prominent trait The human mind seems to be 
constituted with an innate love for the mysterious 
and undefined, and it clings to that mystery and 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE SEA. 
The sea—the sea—the open sea !—[Barry Cornwall. 
What an ever interesting subject of admiration 
and contemplation is the Bea, both to those who 
dwell upon its borders, or those who, in the lan¬ 
guage of the scripture, “go down upon the great 
deep in Bhips.” The adventurous trader forms its 
acquaintance, as the vessel's keel traverses its 
bosom on his outward and homeward voyage; the 
traveler sweeps it like a bird of passage; and the 
dariug whaler makes it his borne. Who can char¬ 
acterize the ocean? Who can contemplate its 
might or majesty? It is smooth and smiling, or 
rough and menacing; placid as an infant, or furi¬ 
ous &s a demon: quiet as a little child, or fierce as 
a maniac; rosy red, or inky black; snowy white, or 
“deeply, darkly, beautifully blue ”—a very chame¬ 
leon in itschangeful hue. What variety or’aceuery! 
Heaving huge plains of ice in the whirling waves, 
aronnd the shores of Norway — howling amid the 
“stormy Hebrides"—tossing restlessly between 
the two great continents—blissfully bathing in the 
Caribbean Archipelago, and smiling amid the 
Spice islands of the East, where “endless summer 
reigns.” 
The scenes enacted on its bossom are as ebange- 
iul as itself. Now, in the terrible war of the 
tempest, the fate of a nation may depend, as a 
I.epanto or Trafalgar. Mighty nations have moved 
over its surface. The keels of a thousand armadas 
have furrowed it The fickle bride of a thousand 
lords, it has been true to none, for its very uature 
is caprice. If it has borne in Bafety countless 
thousands of ships, from the Raman galley down 
to the humble fisherman—from the proud East 
Indiaman to the Marblehead fishing smack, how 
many has it destroyed in its resistless fury? The 
splendid line-of-battle ship, with her crew of a 
thousand men, her ponderous armament of guns, 
her huge leviathian bnlk, seems destined to lord 
it over the ocean, in its wildest mood; but let the 
stoini arise, and how impotent is man’s strength 
and skill—ho is indeed helpless. The mighty 
spars of that symmetrical fabric are snapped 
asunder—great holts and braces are as reeds—the 
sails are whirled away to leeward, like wreaths of 
smoke—the huge fabric is crushed, not a bubble 
remains to mark the place of its destruction; and 
the story of its crew can only be known “when 
the sea gives up its dead.” Grand, terrible and 
sublime, are the unfathomable depths of the ocean. 
Hume, N. Y., 1857. Iota. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THOUGHT. 
Thought is the fleet-winged messenger of the 
soul, that speeds on airy pinions through countless 
and illimitable space, as darts the lightning from 
the hand of God. Born in a moment, as it were, 
at mediation of the will: it emanates from mind; 
worships it The fabled gods and goddesses of riveting the great and good, spell bound, with 
rtlrl orivQn rt f r< r\ m 4 Li i a nvinoinlA Tl,n w. i—J — : i • , * . 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
“RISE ABOVE IT.” 
Above what? Why, above the ten thousand 
petty annoyances and vexations that beset the 
path of life. We may, we must be, at times, op¬ 
pressed, and oast down, and discouraged; but if 
the heart is pure, the conscience clear, the mo¬ 
tives true, we can “ rise above” them all. 
Few and brief are the years we live, and they 
swiftly pass. Far better were it if those few were 
full of good and noble thoughts and generous 
deeds, and if each and all should strive to lighten 
the burden that may be crushing a fellow traveler, 
and speak the kind and gentle word to the weary 
and way-worn. We know not the bitterness which 
each bouI may have pressed and burning within, 
anditis better alwaysto offer the friendly hand, than 
bestow the taunt and blow. The heart that re¬ 
ceives them may bear in silence, scorning to re¬ 
turn evil for evil, but none the less deeply is the 
wound inflicted. 
If, through blindness and ignorance of life, of 
the world, you have chosen the wroog path, and 
cannot retrace, “ rise above it”—do your duty, and 
hope patiently. Study yourself—the wroDg may 
be in your own heart, and thiJtevil within your own 
control. If friendB you loved and trusted, turn 
against you, misrepresenting your intentions, be¬ 
traying your confidence, “rise above it” —walk 
calmly on. Consciousness of integrity and truth, 
can lift you far above your enemies, and time will 
wear out the basest calumny. No lofty, generouB 
bouI will wrongfully accuse even the erring, and 
for such there is a reward. Envy and jealousy 
are at the root of nearly ail the thorns in onr path. 
Be willing to see others more favored, or more 
loved. Oh, let us be gentle, kiud, true, loving, firm, 
faithful, and if we do not meet the same in return, 
we Bhall be strong to “rise above it,” and live 
above more than half the wrongB and ills that 
crush the Bpirit. Hattie. 
old sprang from this principle. The mind groping 
in darkness, yet ever conscious of something 
higher than itself, must needs worship that ideal, 
and seek to give it form and substance. Traditions 
were also in the earlier ages of the world the only 
historical accounts which were for long periods 
handed down, not by one or two historians who 
pictnred it as it seemed to them, hut by universal 
consent. If the records of Holy Writ to the skep¬ 
tical want authenticity, they may find in the simi¬ 
larity of the most prominent, of these sufficient 
confirmation. Bat their peculiarities, and the in¬ 
terest which attaches itself to them, consists in 
the blending of manners and customs—of original 
truths with the wild and oft-times beautiful imag¬ 
inings of a rude people. And it is cnrlons to see 
how, in the absence of set formB of expression, 
the mind seeks to portray itself in the visible ob¬ 
jects around it. From this semblance of what was 
or seemed to be,—from their various ramifications, 
their mixings and comminglings in a thousand 
forms,—we may trace the origin and progress of 
onr own polished tongue. 
Perhaps among none, the asperities i f whose 
character have been outwardly so apparent, has 
there been prettier superstitions than among our 
own native Indians. With a language by necessi¬ 
ty symbolical, it sought expression in every oat- 
ward form which savored of beauty or of life.— 
Every cascade, every woodland,every prominenoe, 
every dell, had its legend. Truthfully nature’s 
children, in everything bad she a voice for them; 
and they conversed with her in all that simplicity 
of faith which springs from unreserved commu¬ 
nion. The expressive names, which are never 
wanting in melody, of many of oar lakes and riv¬ 
ers, will remain for many succeeding generations 
as mementoes of the red man. The Swiss herds¬ 
men, chanting on bended knee with one accord 
their vesper bymne, till cliff to cliff re-echoes it, 
and the last faint ray of the day-god sinks behind 
the western Mills, presents to the traveler a lovely 
picture of rural simplicity and of peaceful content. 
Few minds, even tbongh they have never beheld 
them, can fail to love the heathB and braes, the 
locks and moors of Scotland, which Sir Walter 
Scott in bis beautiful tales has forever Immortal¬ 
ized. The merit and charm of these lies in their 
truthfulness to nature—in their copying, in every 
minute particular, the unsophisticated Highlander 
clinging to his barren mountain Lome with all the 
earnestness and tenderness of a mother to her 
child. Under the magic of his pen, which has so 
faithfully delineated its beauties, the country 
blooms anew, and the reminiscences of its glens, 
which cement together the hearts of its inhabi¬ 
tants, receive an additional coloring. 
The difference between a republic and a mon¬ 
archy ia thus pointed out by somebody: “Pile all 
the people into a pyramid, with the President for 
an apex, and you have the symbol of a republic. 
You can shake the President, but you can’t move 
the united force of the people. Invert that pyra 
mid, with a King for its base, and you have the 
symbol of a monarchy. Trip up tho King, and 
the whole structure falls into oonfum'on. 
The tick of a clock ia the click of the “ reel” 
that shows the rate we are running; or it is the 
foot-fall of the minutes, as one by one they leap to 
the brazen threshold; or it is the ring of the ham¬ 
mer and anvil of Time, as he forges the golden 
hours, while the little smithy sparkles with the 
seconds as they fly. 
envying admiration—a moment here, then— 
11 Like the snow-lLke on the river: 
'Tis fl«d lor »ye, now gone forever." 
Grand and incomprehensible to the mind of man, 
it roams unfettered in its deviating coarse, till 
Mother Earth throughout pays homage at its shrine. 
Back on the rugged track of desolating Time, she 
plucks bright memories from the garland of the 
shadowy Past, and strews their relics on the path¬ 
way of to-day. Soaring afar through the mist- 
veiled sky of Futurity, with prophetic vision, she 
scans its unknown depths. E’en though its scin¬ 
tillations enhance but for a moment, then fade 
away as ’twere in death-like silence —yet'tis bnt 
the ruffled calm, that precedes the tempests surg¬ 
ing strife. 
Pure and unsullied as they speak to man, the 
thoughts of the great and good, are undying!— 
Not as the 
“ Fading monuments of Time’s monarch ial sway, 
They moulder e'en as men do pass away!" 
No! ’tis glorious and eternaL Thought, noble 
and aspiring thought, doth live forever. 
Norwich, N. Y., 1857. T. E. S. 
MORAL COURAGE. 
Sidney Smith, in his work on moral philosophy, 
speaks in this wise of what men lose for want of a 
little moral courage, or independence of mind:— 
“ A great deal of talent is loBt in the world for the 
want of a little courage. Every day sends to the grave 
a number of obscure men, who have only remained 
in obscurity became their timidity haB prevented 
them frou making a first effort; and who, if they 
could have been induced to beglD, would, in all 
probability, have gone great lengths in the career 
of fame. The fact is, that to do anything in this 
world worth doing, we must not stand back, shiv¬ 
ering, and thinking ol the cold and the danger, 
but jump iu and scramble through as well as we 
can. It will not do to be perpetually calculating 
taakB,and adjusting nice chances; it did very well 
before the flood, where a man could consult his 
friends upon an intended publication for a hundred 
and fifty years, and then live to Bee its success 
afterward; bnt at present a man waits, and doubts, 
and hesitates, and consults hia brother, and his 
uncle, and particular friends, till, oue fine day, he 
finds that he ia sixty years of age; that he has lost 
so much time in consulting his first cousin and 
particular friends, that be has no more time to 
follow their advice.” 
-*-•-*- 
Fault-finding. —There is a dispositionobserva- 
hle in Borne, to view unfavorably everything that 
falls under their notice. They seek to gain confi¬ 
dence by always differing from others in judgment, 
and to deprecate what they allow to bo worthy in 
itself, by hinting ut some mistake or imperfection 
in the performance. You are too lofty or too fru¬ 
gal or too profuse in your expenditure; yon are 
too taciturn or too free in your speech; and so of 
the rest. Now, guard against this tendency.— 
Nothing will more conduce to your uncomforta- 
bleueHS than living in the neighborhood of ill- 
nuture, and being familiar with discontent. The 
disposition grows with Indulgence, and is low and 
base in itself; and if any should be ready to pride 
themselves on skill and facility in the Boience, let 
them remember that tho acquisition iB cheap and 
easy; a child can deface and destroy; dullness 
and stupidity, which seldom lack inclination or 
means, can cavil and find fault; and everything 
can furnish ignorance, prejudice, and euvy with a 
handle of reproach,— Rev. IK Jay. 
PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS. 
Under the modest headiug of “ Home-made 
• Chips,” the Chicago Journal frequently gives from 
i one to three columns of sparkling gems—emana- 
i tions, we presume, from the brain-miue of B. F. 
- Taylor, author of “January and June,” and a 
l, thousand lesser but equally beautiful prose-poemB. 
i We take the following from his last collection: 
• Nature is gifted with something wonderfully 
’ like imagination; forever re-producing herself, 
■ but always in new forms, new combinations, new 
‘ loveliuess, and her humblest tree pusses through 
• as many phases as her fairest moon. Now the 
summit is crimson and gold; now it rolls a great 
billow of green, and now it stands dark as the foldB 
! of a storm-cloud. So Nature bnsiea herself all the 
day, and all the yeur long, in doing something new 
and something more for that tree; when it buds, 
• when it blossouiB, when it isfull of summer glories. 
• In the morning, she aiuuaea herself in Lying its 
! shadows all to the westward; ia the evening, she 
1 trails them, like a mourner's robe, to the east; and 
! at noon she bundles them up under the tiee. What 
! mockery of sunset, of flame and of gold, when she 
touches it. with frost. What a decoration lor fairy¬ 
land, when the Winter endows it with pendants of 
diamond and pearl. 
How like a large old-fashioned heart, is a large, 
old-fashioned barn; like the hearts of its builders, 
indoed, and how like them, la it silent and dumb; 
but it was not always so, for there has been a time, 
when the full hand of Providence was unclosed 
within it, and all the music of morning and sum¬ 
mer and harvest, was blended beneath its old 
rafters. Was it not over a barn in one Bethlehem 
that a star journeyed and shone? Was it not in a 
Jndean manger, that they laid Him who should 
come forth from the sepulchre, as a bridegroom 
from bis chamber in the morning? 
One half of what passes for nobleness of soul, is 
due to pleasaut weather and a good digestion. 
One half of what is set down to the acconnt of 
“total depravity,” an alkali would make angelic, 
ora glimpse or two of sun, endurable—soda and 
not sermons would be the antidote. In fact, folks 
and weather are pretty much alike. Give us an 
accurate weather chronicle, and we will interpret 
for yon the seasons in the soni. 
We never imagined until we encountered the 
following, that a railway train is anything like 
happiness: A little child who rode fifty miles in 
the cars, and five in a stage coach, was aiked how 
she came. “0,” said she, “we came a little ways 
in the cars, and then all the rest of the way in a 
carriage J” Truly, docs time gallop with the happy. 
Old Jeremy Taylor, speaking of marriage says, 
“It is not written, that iu the beginning God cre¬ 
ated man, rich and poor, philosopher and peasant 
but male and female created He them.” There is 
a pretty long sermon in a very few words. 
Laudanum is one of the most expressive words 
in the language. When they discovered the secret 
of the slumber-bringing poppy, as it stole over the 
keen senses of Pain, till Torture fell asleep, they 
Baid, lavs deal —praise to God!—and bo, we have 
in laudanum, a Latin hymn of thanksgiving that 
will be perpetual. 
Memory looks back to the past, while Faith’s 
blue eyes are directed to the future. That should 
be like the Daguerreotype, the autograph impres¬ 
sion of sunshine; this, like refraction, that brings 
up the day ere it is ready to dawn. 
Scott declared of these four lines by Burts, that 
they were worth a thousand romances: 
Had wo never lov’d sac kindly — 
Had we never lov’d sao blindly — 
Never met—or never parted — 
Wo had ne’er been broken-hearted. 
A Beautiful Idea.— Away among the Allegha- 
nies there 1b a spring, bo small that a single ox, in 
a summer’s day, could drain it dry. It steals ita 
unobtrusive way among the hills, till it spreads 
out into the beautiful Ohio. Thence it stretches 
away a thousand miles, leaving on its banks more 
than a hundred villages nnd cities and many cul¬ 
tivated farms, and bearing on ita bosom more than 
half a thousand steamboats. Then joining the 
Mississippi, it stretches away and away some 
twelve hundred miles more, till it falls into the 
great ocean of eternity.' It is one of the great 
tributaries of the ocean, which, obedient only to 
God, shall roil and roar till the angel, with one 
foot on the sea and the other on the land, shall lift 
up his hand to heaven, and swear that time shall 
be no longer. So with moral influence. It is a 
rill, a rivulet—a river—an ocean, boundless and 
fathomless as oternity .—Southern Illinoian. 
Tub following lineB are taken from Sir Humph¬ 
rey Davy’s Salmonia:—“I envy no quality of the 
mind or intellect in others—be it genius, power 
wit, fancy—but if I could choose what would be 
the moat delightful, and I believe moBt useful to 
me, I should prefer a firm religious belief to every 
other blessing; for it makes life a discipline of 
goodness; breathes new hopes; varnishes and 
throws over the decay, the destruction of exist¬ 
ence, the moBt gorgeous of all lights; awakenB 
life even in death, and from corruption and decay 
calls up to beauty nnd divinity; makes an instru¬ 
ment of torture aud shame the ladder of ascent to 
Paradise; and far above all combination of earth¬ 
ly hopes, calls up the most delightful visions of 
palms aud amaranths, the gardens of the blest, and 
security of everlasting joys, where the sensualist 
and skeptic view only gloom, decay, annihilation 
and despair.” 
Rain Song. —Here is a delicious little rain song, . 
as musical ns the rain itself. We know not who 
wrote it, but is it not beautiful? 
Millions of mnsuvo rain drops 
nave fallen on all around; 
They have danced on tho house-tops, 
They’ve hidden in tlio ground. 
They were liquid-like Musicians, 
With anything for ktyi; 
Beating tunes upon the windows, 
Keeping time upon the trees. 
The fountain of content muBt spring up in the 
mind; and ho who has so little knowledge of hu¬ 
man nature, as to seek happiness by changing 
anything but his own disposition, will waste his 
life in fruitless efforts, aud multiply the griefs 
which he purposes to remove. 
