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MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
SEPT. 12. 
Ha¥f$' ||fli1-|filifl. 
CONDUCTED BY AZ1LE. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE ROBIN’S LULLABY. 
BY MBS. a. K. FURMAN. 
Above in the maple trees. 
Whose shadowy branches play 
Athwart my threslrhold pensively 
In the fading light of day, 
Is mingling sweet and clear 
With the dewy zephyr's sigh, 
The deep, wild strains of happiness, 
' In the Robin’s Lullaby. 
Safe rasteth her uniledg’d brood, 
O'erspread by her downy wings, 
And thrilling with maternal blisB, 
Is the cheertul song she sings; 
And she heeds not that her lays 
Fall sadly on one below, 
Whose harp respondeth to sorrow's touch. 
Grief-plaints it hath learn'd to know. 
I list for thy mellow notes. 
While the day-king’s ling'ring raye 
Are weaving a veil o'er the brow of even 
In tissues of golden have; 
O, then of the bright-hued past, 
I ponder with eyes all dim, 
When over a dear, unbroken band, 
I chanted the evening hymn. 
As too little white-winged Doves, 
With beauteous rainbow crest. 
Sit side by side with their pinions furl'd, 
At evk in a loving nest, 
So they when the shadows fell, 
My own cherish'd nestlings fair, 
Would slumber in angel innocence, 
Soft pillow'd by love’s fond c&re- 
I know that a steadfast faith 
Can trust the AH Father's love, 
That counted our bosom flower more meet, 
To bloom in his own above. 
But cease your carrolings now, 
For the wounded heart no more 
May bear your joyous melodies, 
Nor the songs it sung before. 
Knowlesville, N. Y., 1S5T. 
For Moore's Rural Now-Yorkor.. 
A FAMILIAR EPISTLE. 
Dear Rural: — On a moss-covered rock, half 
way up a steep hillside, J have seated myself for 
the purpose of manufacturing the communication 
I promised you some weeks since. To be sure I 
drabbled my dress, wet my feet, frightened the 
birds, who arc* unaccustomed to visitors, and prob¬ 
ably burned my lace a shade blacker than its 
natural color, to get here, but the feat once accom¬ 
plished, I feel amply repaid for my toil, and fain 
would send you, if I could, a breath of the pure 
morning air, which falls so deliciously cool on my 
heated brow. 
The scenery here is decidedly New Englandish, 
—hill upon hill and rock upon rock, to say nothing 
of the snakes, one of which I have killed with my 
own hands, or, that is, I left him with a big stone 
upon his tail, and if be is not dead by this time, 
he had onght to be! To my right, at the foot 
of the hill, is a miniature marsh, or swamp, the 
chief productions of which seem to be little ponds 
of water, clamps of alders and one pine tree, 
while directly in front and at some distance from 
where I sit—shaded by an apple tree and atattered 
parasol—is a long stretch of corn field, and in it a 
woman, who, with her hand shading her eyes, peers 
curiously at me, wondering, undoubtedly, who I 
am, and what I am about. To my left, the view 
brightens, for plainly discernible through the 
birches and evergreens which grow upon its banks, 
are the clear waters of Pordunk Pond, a beautiful 
sheet, which, in the Empire State, would bear the 
more dignified title of a Lake. There are no less 
than five of these ponds in my native town, three of 
which, together with the river, can be seen from 
some parts of the village. And yet, Btrange as it 
may seem, the people seldom appreciate their 
beauty until they have been away and returned 
again. Then, indeed, they suddenly awake to the 
conviction, that nowhere in the wide world is there 
so beautiful a country village as B-•, with its 
hill-embosomed ponds, its bright green meadows, 
itB winding, graceful Chicopee, its Sunday-quiet 
streets, shaded by giant elms, which were planted 
on the very day when first our nation’s freedom 
was declared. What is a little singular, not one 
of them has died, and they number in all nearly 
a hundred. Eighty-one years of storm and sun¬ 
shine have passed over them, and still they stand 
like so many sent inels guarding the liberty of their 
country. 
Aside from the elms, the ponds, the river and 
the new Congregational Church on the corner, 
there are about the town other points of interest, 
for little more than a mile west of the village in a 
wild lonely spot, stood the house, renowned in 
history as the one against which the Indians push¬ 
ed carta of burning hemp, hoping by this means 
to set the building on fire and force oat the people 
whohad taken refuge within. The IndianBare gone, 
the house is gone, and scarcely a vestige remains 
ta mark the spot, and still it is a place near which 
one loves to linger, recalling the past when over 
the wooded hills the notes of no Sabbath hell had 
ever floated, and when the deep stillness of the 
forest was broken only by the howl of the wolf or 
the war-woop of the savage. 
But if I linger in the past, I fear I shall grow 
sentimental, bo to come back to the present, let 
me speak briefly of a visit which I recently made 
to Rice Comer, a place of which you may have 
heard. If not, for a description of it, see " Home¬ 
stead on the Hillside,” page 100 and something.— 
(I wonder if anybody will take that as a hint to 
buy the hook!) Trusting that they will, I shall 
only say of the place itself, that ’tis the southern 
part of E-and the neighborhood where I 
was born. I had not visited the place for some 
time, not indeed since I ventured my bark out 
upon the turbulent, capricious stream of public 
notice. It is quite natural, then, that I should leel 
a strong desire to revisit the old homestead, to ex¬ 
plore the cobweb-festooned garret, where I used 
to play,—to sit on the large grey rock, where, in 
days gone by, I have so often Bat dreaming of the 
future,—to stand once more within the walls where 
first I learned my P’s and Q’s, and fancy it possible 
that I was a child again. Bo one pleasant day, in I 
a long lumber wagon, to which was attached the 
laziest of all lazy horses, I started, together with 
♦our other individuals, one of whom, a resident of 
New York city, had not been in Rice Corner, her 
old home, for twenty years. 
Of conrse she threw me quite in the shade, 
making me far less a lion than I should otherwise 
have been, for a face which has not been seen in 
twenty years, is a greater wonder than one seen 
within quarter of that time Still I bore it more 
amiably than I did the changes which a few years 
have wrought. The old school-house ia turned 
completely round, and isn't halt ss large as 1 
thought it was! Tue desk where I used to play is 
gone, and near the door sat a little white-haired 
boj T , tbe son of one who sometimes shared my desk 
and play with me, and who, early in life took upon 
herself the duties of a wife. They have cut away 
the chestnut tree, and the hollow near it, the ne- 
groe’a grave, is filled with leaves. Still the place 
seemed natural, for I could identify every rock 
and stone, particularly the one, where on one Ex¬ 
amination morning, I knelt me down and prayed 
that I might not miss in ray lessons! Alas, that 
the trusting faith of childhood should grow less 
as years wear on. 
Of the house itself, I Bhall say but little. It does 
not look as it UBed to, and I could never again feel 
at home there. In the part of New England where 
I am, I do not think the country houses or farms 
compare favorably with those in New York. In 
Rice Corner, at least, the majority of the buildings 
have au old, dilapidated appearance, and look as 
if the flood, might have dashed against their clap¬ 
boards. Still there is much of intelligence and 
warm-hearted hospitality among the people, who 
received us kindly, shaking Mrs. R-’s hand 
longest, it is true, but still, glancing often at me 
and questioning me of my calling , on which some 
look dubiously , thinking it wicked to read a story 
and far wickeder to write onel As one old lady 
remarked when her niece tried to persuade her 
into reading a book bearing my signature, “ I shan’t 
do it, Maria, for her lies ain’t^ra atom better than 
any body’s else!” 
Another woman asked if “I had any books on 
hand, to sell, and if some of them hadn’t gone a 
great ways,” saying, “ she’d heard I’d sent one to 
England!” I dont know whether I felt compli¬ 
mented or not! Should you, under like circum¬ 
stances? 
I have not told you half what I wish to about 
Rice Corner, but remembering that you do not 
like lengthy communications, I must, I suppose, 
bring this to a close. If I write to yon again, I 
may tell you of a PioNic and a Chowder which I 
have attended, the one in Rice Corner woods, and 
the other on tbe banks of Pordunk Pond. If there 
are any mistakes in this article, I trust your readers 
will impute them to the compositor and not to me, 
while you will please bear in mind that since I 
have been here I have scarcely written a word, bat 
on the contrary, have spent my time in walking, 
talking, riding on horseback and in a hay cart, 
digging potatoes, picking cucumbers, huntinghen’s 
eggs, eating huckleberry pie and weighing myself 
every day to see “ how it agrees with me.” 
Yours, Resp’y, m. j. h. 
Brookfield, Mass., 1857. 
FINISHING EDUCATION. 
An agreeable lady correspondent of the New 
York Times, writing from Frankfort, in Germany 
says: 
We have been permitted to look upon another 
scene, which is quite as characteristic of German 
Institutions. We asked a young lady to call and 
see us, in order to practice English, as she was 
taking lessons. She said she was now so busy, she 
had scarcely a moment of time to herself. She 
had began now to learn cooking , and for that pur¬ 
pose went every forenoon to the kitchen of a large 
hotel, where she practiced the science and art in 
all its ramifications. “ But why do you not learn 
at home?” I asked. ‘‘Ob, we do not have all kinds 
of cooking going on, and then the servants do not 
like the trouble of me.” “ And how long is your 
apprenticeship?” “ Oh, a year, perhaps.” 
“Do you like it.” “Well, it ib not the most 
agreeable employment one ooald have, but then it 
necessary; one must know how to cook, else how 
can they beep house?” “Do many girlB learn in 
the same way?” " Yes, it is the custom.” So, my 
fastidious lady readers, behold I a young lady who 
is handsome, with one of those intellectnal. speak¬ 
ing, beaming faces, which is the most fascinating 
kind of beauty—with manners which would grace 
a pm ceHP, and lout ensemble unexceptionable in 
all respects, wending her way to the cuisine of a 
neighboring hotel, and then donning a regalar 
cook’s attire, and with the neat white cap and long 
apron of German domestiques. imbuing her dlicate 
hands in all manner of broths, stews, gravies, pud¬ 
dings and sauces, which are served for the people 
of all nations, and every variety of palate, daring 
the whole year. In the forenoon she takes French 
and English lessons, both of which languages sne 
speaks very well; twice a week music lesBons.and 
is an accomplished artist in drawing and em¬ 
broidery. 
-•—*-— 
Woman. —Ab the dove will clap its wings to its 
Bide, and cover and conceal the at row that ia prey¬ 
ing on its vitals, so it is the nature of woman to 
hide from the world the pangs of wounded affec¬ 
tion. With her the desire of Ihe heart baB failed. 
The great charm of existence is at an end. Bhe 
neglects all the cheerful exercises that gladden the 
spirits, quicken the pulse, and send the tide of life 
in healthful currents through the veins. Her rest 
is broken; the Eweet refreshment of sleep is poi¬ 
soned by melancholy dreams, •' dry sorrow drinks 
her blood,” until her feeble frame sinkB under the 
last external assail ant Look for her after a little 
while, and you will find friendship weeping over 
her untimely grave, and wondering that one who 
but lately glowed with all tbe radiance of health 
and beauty, should now be brought to “ darkness 
and the worm.” You will be told of some wintery 
chill, some slight indisposition that laid her low, 
but no one knows the mental malady that previ¬ 
ously sapped her strength, and made her so easy 
a prey to the spoiler.— Washington Irving. 
-♦*-*■- 
Thebe is a kind of physiognomy in the titles of 
books, no lesB than in the faces of men, by which 
a skillful observer will as well know what to ex¬ 
pect from the one as the other.— Butler. 
©jjaicB fjtallauy. 
GRANDFATHER’S WATCH. 
GRANnrATn*R't> watoh in battered and old, 
Innocent quite of jewels or gold; 
Poor, and common, amt worn, and cracked,— 
Much like grandfather's self, in fact. 
Yet its wheezy voice has a cheerful sound. 
And the child, a* site listens, in wonder bound, 
To its mystic tales of departed time, 
Is smiling as though nt a pleasant rhyme. 
What are the tales the old watch tells? 
Of seventy years it counts the knells: 
Years, whose every setting sun 
Was marked by labor faithfully done. 
With primitive form and clumsy skill. 
And clumsier help when the works went ill: 
Yet serving their lime as best they can,— 
This is the story of the watch and man! 
Many a fall has the old watch hushed, 
Many a blow has the old man crushed. 
Meddled with, tinkered, and sorely tried. 
At last rejected and thrown aside 
For modern rivals, all science and gold, 
Useless, Crippled, despised, and old. 
Under a cloud and under a ban,— 
This is the story of the watch and man. 
But there's a reverse to the picture sad: 
Human hearts they can still make glad. 
The watch in its dinted silver case 
Can bring a smile to the fair child's face. 
Tbe mua all battered, and silvery too, 
With amoral can cheer both roe and you,— 
“ Mark our time as well a3 we can,"— 
This is the lesson of the watch and man! 
-*—*■- 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
“HOW THEY MARRY AND LIVE.” 
An article in a late Rural, under the above 
title, being so utterly at variance with my own 
ilea?, has impelled me to pen the following: 
Take the case of a young man of good ability, 
and education, of about twenty-five, who has come 
to tbe conclusion that he wants a wife. He looks 
around him, confides his purposes to a mother 
and sisters—gets introduced to many gay ladies 
—finds himself very mysteriously mixed up with 
pic-nics, social parties, &c., and completely be¬ 
wildered by the bewitching beauties. To choose is 
impossible—if he could turn Saint and Morman.and 
appropriate the whole bevy, he would stand a 
pretty good chance of getting the right one at 
last; but just, as he is busy with these abstruse 
cogitations, a saucy girl gives him to understand 
that mayhaps be could choose full easier than he 
could obtain. Sisters wish him to fall in love with 
their favorite. “ She’s such a fun-loving, mischief 
of a black-eyed fairy—she’s got anch splendid 
hair, and then Carrie and they have alwftyB been 
such good friends, it would be so pleasant to have 
her for a sister.” 
Mother has a favorite also, and she arges that 
Cornelia —who is twenty-four—is of a much more 
suitable age, “her blue eyes are so mild and gen. 
tie, and she is so staid and matronly—she is sure 
she would make a good wife and mother, and then 
she knew she would be such an excellent house, 
keeper, instead of always gadding and romping as 
she knew Carrie would do.” This last argument 
balanced the scale, mother wins the day, and Cor¬ 
nelia is installed mistress of her son’s establish¬ 
ment. She is all the mother could wish, unless 
I she chanced to hold a key to her son’s innermost 
' heart, then she would see her son had not married 
for love, but prudence and interest—(all proper, if 
properly used) consequently, although he always 
finds his home in perfect order, his wife’s counte¬ 
nance serene as a summer 6ky, his children Huhject 
to tbe most judicious training, his mind would get 
fevered, he could nothelp feelipg restless, and there 
was always something wanting, and although he 
more than half guessed the reason, he could not 
help condemning himself, for not being satisfied 
when everybody else seemed to think he onght to 
be immensely so. 
Take another case: Another young man finds 
himself, almost unconsciously at first, very strong, 
ly attracted to wards a merry noble-hearted maiden. 
She has fanlts, and he sees them, but he discovers 
also a disposition to overcome these errors—and 
somehow when her black eyes are bent on him, he 
experiences a thrill unknown before, and when her 
Boft. hand Is laid on his, there is a strong desire to 
press it to his lips. When she speaks, her voice 
sounds like tbe music of rippling waters, and when 
he is care-worn and weary, no greater luxury can 
be afforded him, than to be permitted to spend an 
evening with her in her own family. There he al¬ 
ways finds her, kind and affectionate to her pa¬ 
rents, gentle and loving with her brothers and sis¬ 
ters. She has a continual flow of lively good 
humor, which does not exhaust itself in some 
luckless joke at the expense of another. Her 
presence is soothing and encouraging—her tears 
flow eb quickly and readily at tbe recital of Buffer¬ 
ing and misery as her smiles beam when Bur- 
rounded by joy and mirth; yet not in tears alone 
does she content herself in expressing her sympa¬ 
thy—the hand and heart are ever ready and willing. 
Our yonng friend ia aware that he loves this 
gentle girl—that without her life would be a dreary 
waste. If he thinks whether or not his friends 
would he pleased, it is followed by the thought, 
that as he is the one to suffer the consequences, 
and sure that every objection would be out-weigbed 
—he lays ail his hopes and fears at her feet. She 
has long known that he loved her—knew it before 
he had confessed it to herself—but maidenlike, she 
has hid her own feelings. But now she is free to 
acknowledge that she will be his—that together 
they will contend against life's difficulties, that 
they will rear a family altar, round which shall 
centre all the endearing lies, known to congenial, 
loving hearts. 
I What if they do have trials—they expected 
them, and their hearts are strongly fortified with 
with love and Christian forbearance. And before 
the throne of grace they unitedly seek aid, and 
strength, and guidance. As years roll on happy 
children gather rouud their fireside, with their 
sweetiunocent prattle—strong cords and links be¬ 
tween their hearts, yes and mayhaps they have a 
treasure in Heaven, With chastened joy and sor¬ 
row they look upward, thanking God from their 
innermost hearts, for their countless blessings,— 
Every year strengthens their confidence in each, 
other, and in their Gon. 0 that there were more 
such households—more such anions. 
Scottsville, N. Y., 1857. A. E. R. C. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
VISIT TO THE BOSTON ATHENAEUM. 
Having just lain aside one of your late Rurals, 
and being much interested in its varied and rich 
contents, I have thought a few moments could be 
no better spent than in presenting you the thauks 
of at least one reader, and also adding a word 
word more, suggested by a few lines therein on 
Art. The circumstance that a uay or two Biuce I 
stood in that gallery of beauty, of sutilimity, of 
truth— the collection of paintings of the Boston 
Atbemcum, decided me to say a word concerning 
its worth, and some of its more promiuent subjects. 
Never before having had the pleasure ot viewing 
this invaluable treasury, all was, of course, fresh to 
me. Even the copies or originals of those I had 
seen in other private or public art collections 
seemed to have some different shades from this 
altered position and the change of picture asso¬ 
ciates, 
Passing through the first door, I noticed the 
original portraits ot General and Lady Washing¬ 
ton. An easel and painter in front of them told 
the observer they still were studied; but they are 
rarely if ever equalled. Near by hangs the shadow 
of the mighty Napoleon. Art was left behind, 
while I for a moment drank in thoughts of wis tom 
from the eminent characters, so diverse, of these 
two men—the hero of la belle France, and him 
whom Stuart has so faithfully represented on that 
almost speaking canvas. Let him who enters this 
first door turn to these two portraits—pause, and 
think. I pass over many that hang arouud to 
speak of the sublime group of the lamented Cole 
—representing the rise, glory end destruction of 
Empire. It is a study for many days, and would be 
of itself sufficient to make a high order of fame 
for any artist. Y T et we think the execation is not 
equal to the grand and glorious conception—and 
we must believe that the gifted artist's “critic- 
reason” saw in it but a faint shadow of the great 
original, mental picture which he had striven “ to 
give a local habitation and a name.” 
Of all the works that adorn tbe gallery, those of 
Allston— both from their number, finish, and as. 
sociations—claim the attention of the American 
artist, and every lover of the true, beautiful, and 
good. Ono looks at his Belshazzar’s Feast with 
awe and admiration approaching religions rever¬ 
ence. Looking from the “study” to the great work 
itself, we could almost feel the presence of the 
pale and gifted genius who projected and carried 
so far what will and ought to be called, in the his¬ 
tory of American art, the Great Unfinished of 
Allston. 
But in thus singling out artists and “themes,” 
it may seem to you that I do injustice to the many- 
I would that, it were possible to speak of every one 
of our American painters, who have, as it were,— 
all honor to them—taken their lives in their hands 
and gone forth into tbe delightful yet thorny fields 
of art. In this gallery are seen some of their 
highest efforts, felicitous in conception, in the most 
perfect coloring, and in nicety and polish of exe¬ 
cution. 
Of foreign works one is delighted to see how 
large a share are from the studios of the first mas¬ 
ters. I could but say as I left this “ Gallery of Pic¬ 
tures,” would that every American might come 
here and not simply look—get a confused though 
delightfal idea of these products of genius, taste 
and labor—but study, with earnestness and care, 
especially the chejs d'oiuvre of American produc¬ 
tion. 
A word of the arrangement It is perhaps the 
beat.to give proper “lights,” but is somewhat bad 
for the inexperienced who wish to follow the cata¬ 
logue, or single out the works of individual artiBts 
—unless be have more time than transient visitors 
to the New England metropolis can usually allow. 
But the Directors of the Association cannot receive 
too high praise for this splendid monument of our 
increasing National taste and refinement. 
Boston, Aug., 1857. LeuSXS. 
-*-■*- 
IMPERISHABILITY OF GREAT EXAMPLES. 
The following eloquent passage occurB in 
Edward Everett’s great oration: 
“ To be cold and breathless—to feel and speak 
not—this is not the end of existence to the men 
who have breathed their Bpirit into the institutions 
of their country, who have stamped their charac¬ 
ters on the pillars of the age, who have poured 
their heart’s blood into the channels of Ihe public 
prosperity tell me, ye, who tread the sods of yon 
sacred height, is Warren dead? Can you not still 
see him not pale and prostrate, the blood of bis 
gallant heart pouring out of his ghastly wound, 
but, moving resplendent over the field of honor, 
with the rose of heaven upon bis cheek and the 
fire of liberty in his eye? Tell me ye who make 
your pious pilgrimage to the shades of Vernon is 
Washington indeed shot up in that cold and nar¬ 
row house? That which made these men, and 
men like these, cannot die. The hand that traced 
the charter of Independence is, indeed motionless: 
the eloquent lips that sustained it are hushed, hut 
the lofty spirits that conceived, resolved, and 
maintained if, and which alone, to such men, ‘ make 
it life to live,’ these cannot expire: 
‘ These shall resist the empire of decay, 
When time is o’or and worlds have passed away; 
Cold in the dust tho perished heart may lie, 
But that which warmed it once can never die.’ ” 
Admiration and Aspiration.— It is a good 
thing to believe: it is a good tbiug to admire. By 
continually looking upwards, our mindB will them¬ 
selves grow upwards, and as a man, by indulging 
in the habits of scorn and contempt for others, is 
sure to descend to the level of what he despises, 
so the opposite habits of admiration and enthusi¬ 
astic reverence for excellence impart to ourselves 
a portion of tho qualities we admire. Here, as in 
everything else, humility iB the surest path to ex¬ 
altation.— A mold. 
Be Truthful with Children. — Some people 
tell lies to children with a view of enjoying a laugh 
at their credulity. ThiB is to make a mock at Bin, 
and they are foolB who do it. The tendency in a 
child to believe whatever it is told, is of God for 
good. It Is lovely, It seems a shadow of prime¬ 
val Innocence glancing by. Wo should reverence 
a child's simplicity. Touch it only with truth.— 
Be not the first to quenob that lovely truthfulness 
by falsehoods. 
LOOK UP. 
« ■ - 
A smr, becalmed at sea, lay rocking lazily. A 
sprightly lad, the captain’s only son, not knowing 
what to do, began mischievously to climb the 
mast. He bad got half way to the top, wheD, turn¬ 
ing his eyes below to see how far he wub from the 
deck, he suddenly grew dizzy. “ I am falling, I 
am falling,” he cried. " Look alolt,” shouted his 
father, who at that moment was leaving his cabin. 
The hoy, accustomed instantly to obey that voice, 
looked up to where the main truck swung against 
the sky, recovered heart, went on, was saved. 
We do not give the anecdote as new. Doubtless 
every one of oar readers has heard it. before. But 
the story has a significance not always noticed.— 
Others, beside the captain’s Bon, have been saved 
by looking up. In tbe dizzy asceut of life many a 
man has been on the point of falling, when some 
sudden thought has bidden him “look np,” be has 
taken courage, has persevered, has won the prize. 
Bruce, when be saw the spider fail six times, yet 
succeed at the seventh, wns of this class. So was 
ashiDgton, when Oornwallia Lad driven him 
across the Delaware, and when, instead of giving 
up in despair, he su idenly collected all his re¬ 
sources, fell on the British lines and achieved the 
victory at Trenton. 
There come times in the experience even of the 
bravest when the heart is ready to give up. Afflic¬ 
tion after affliction, for example, has assailed him 
till hope itself despairs. Perhaps a favorite child 
has been suddenly stricken down. Perhaps a ter¬ 
rible epidemic has destroyed more than one little 
one. Perhaps the wife of his bosom is no more. 
Perhaps, by one of those awful catastrophes which 
occasionally occur, his entire family has been 
swept into eternuy iu a moment of time, in the 
twinkling of an eye. He feels as if there was no 
longer any object for him in life. In the first 
shock of his agony lie would not care even if news 
was brought to him that his fortunes were bank¬ 
rupt that he was a disgraced beggar. But, by and 
by, a still, small voice within whispers “ look up.” 
He sees that the sky is still as bright as ever, the 
breeze as blessed, the trees sb beautiful. He hears 
the waters tud, leaping and laughing, down the 
hill side, glistening in silver as they go. The earth 
is not less lovely than before, the stars are as num¬ 
berless, the ocean and mountains as sublime. HiB 
fellow creatures have the same kindly hearts to¬ 
wards him. He owes them the same old duties.— 
Gradually he realizes that he has much yet to live 
for. In time even he regains a subdued and quiet 
happiness. He has learned to ‘‘look np.” 
A great financial crisis overtakes the strong 
man in the midst of hia schemes. He gathers up 
all his resources, contending gallantly and despe¬ 
rately long after hope is over; struggling for his 
family rather than for himself; fighting, agoniz¬ 
ing, like Laocoon in the serpent’s folds. It will 
not do. The mighty whirlwind, whose outer ed¬ 
dies he lias been striving to resist, wheels down 
upon him in sill its power; he is torn up in an 
instant; he is hurled on the ground; he is left 
breathless; bruised and seemingly dead. At first, 
when he regains sensation after the overwhelming 
shock, he is without hope. He has neither strength 
norwiebtn resume his work. He is willing that 
the tempest shall sweep the wrecks of his fortune 
out of Bight forever. It is useless, he says to him¬ 
self, even to try to regain what he has lost At 
last, a gentle wife or sympathizing friend bidshim 
not to despair. “ Look up,” they Bay. ne looks. 
Ai once he is a new man. He recovers his name 
and fortune. 
In every circumstance of life, “look up.” Are 
you about to enter a profession? Aim at no se¬ 
condary success; fix your mark high; “lookup.” 
Are yon a merchant? Become leader in your 
business; and to do this, first “ look up.” Are you 
ambitious of political distinction? Scorn to be a 
mere demagogue; resolve to be a statesman,— 
“look up.” Is authorship your wish? Endeavor 
to take rank among the classics of your language 
by studying manner as well as matter; aspire to 
triumph greatly and permanently, rather than pre¬ 
maturely; in a word, "look up.” 
Ah! if all woulfonly “look up.” But some 
never hear the cheering words. Borne disregard 
them- Of the thousands who have failed utterly 
in life, or met only a secondary success, the ma¬ 
jority owe their misfortunes to not “looking up.” 
In sorrow or disaster, remember the boy upon the 
dizzy mast, and “look up, look up.” 
GOOD SOCIETY. 
It should be the aim of every young man to go 
into good society. We do not mean the rich, the 
proud and fashionuble, but the society of the wise, 
the intelligent, and the good. Where you find 
men that know more than you do, and from whose 
conversation one cau gain information, it ia always 
safe to be found. It has broken down many a man 
by associating with the low and vulgar, where the 
ribald song was inculcated, and the indec ent story, 
to excite laughter, and Influence the bad passions. 
Lord Clarendon has attributed success and happi¬ 
ness in life to associating with persons more vir¬ 
tuous than himself. If you wish to be wise and 
respected—if you desire happiness and not misery, 
we advise you to associate with the intelligent aud 
the good. Strive for mental excellence and Btrict 
integrity, and you will never be found in the sinks 
of pollution, aud ou the benches of retailers^and 
gamblers. Once habituate yourself to a virtuous 
course—once secure a love of good society, and no 
punishment would be greater than by accident to 
be obliged for half a day to associate with the low 
and vulgar.— Selected. 
-^- 
A Newspaper.— It was Bishop Horne’s own 
opinion that there was no better moralist than the 
newspaper. He says:—“The follies, vices and con¬ 
sequent miseries of multiludes, dlplayed in a news¬ 
paper, arc so many beacons continually burning to 
turn others from the rock on which they have been 
shipwrecked. What more powerful dissuasive 
from suspicion, jealousy and anger, thun’the story 
of one friend murdered by another in a dueL 
What caution more likely to be effective against 
gambling ana profligacy, than the mournful rela¬ 
tion of an execution, or tho fate ol a despairing 
sulolde? What finer leoture on the necessity of 
economy, than tho auction of estates, houses and 
furniture? Only take a newspaper, and consider 
it well, pay for it, and it will instruct thee.” 
