MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
OCT. 3i. 
iijf’ M-ffllk 
CONDUCTED BY AZILB'. 
A MADRIGAL. 
What is that, 1 fain would kuow, 
Makes me love my sweetheart so? 
Certes, she is fair to see — 
So a hundred others be— 
Yet, forsooth, I do not care 
Whether they be foul or fair; 
So her fairness don’t discover 
What it is that makes me love her. 
Cannot 1 prerail to find 
What enchains my captive mind? 
Certes, in her soft hrown eyes, 
Jocund stars do set and rise; 
Yet in other eyes, I know, 
Starry lustres come and go — 
And no influence rains on me. 
From their sweet astrology 
Sure I am, I cannot tell 
What hath woven the charms so well: 
Why the paleness of her cheek 
Is endowed with voice to speak; 
tYhy a siient music plays 
Where her dancing footstep strays; 
Unless it be the dainiy sign 
By whose light I read her mine. 
THE HEART 
For Moore's rwnral how-Yorker 
OF THE STRANGER, 
BY EMILY 
HUNTINGTON. 
I was alone among strangeis for the first time, 
and missed as keenly as ever a child did the looks 
and tones of thonghtfnl tenderness. There was no 
night when I did not lie down to sleep with a 
a wiBtfnl memory of the mother's loving kiss, and 
the gentle ‘good night darliDg,” that had ever 
before been my last greeting at evening; no day 
when in a thousand things I was not Badly remind¬ 
ed of the far-off home, or gladdened by the con¬ 
sciousness that they remembered me there. 
One who knows little ot all this, a stranger who 
never guessed at fne passionate heart throbbing 
under the gniae of a qniet exterior, said carelessly 
to me, one day, “is your mother living ?” It was a 
simple question, prompted by idle curiosity, bnt I 
never can tell yon of the horror it struck through 
me. I answered it quickly, and then in a moment 
was sobbing in my room. “ Was my mother living ?" 
I had not thought of the possibility of her dying 
—had never thought what it would be to write my 
name motherless. But now with the question the 
dreadful thought came like lightning to me, and I 
saw it all in an instant. 1 knew then juBt what a 
desolate world it would he to me with no mother 
in it—no one to remember in waking and sleeping 
the child she had rocked on her bosom, and sang 
to cradle-dreams. 
I thought of her letters—how she wrote in the 
yonng spring-time of the violete— my violets— that 
were jnst beginning to open in the south yard, 
where the sunshine lay warmest upon them. “ I 
can Binell them,” she wrote, “through the win¬ 
dows as I Bit here at my writing. I have been out 
pulling the dead leaves away from them, bnt they 
need tare. The flowers miss yon darling, as we 
all do here at homo.” Then in the mellow autumn 
she told me how she had been ont by the brook, 
and across the brown meadows, gathering wild 
grapes and the late fall flowers. “ Everything is 
very beautiful; the woods are in their full glory, 
and the i laples are a perfect crimson. I found the 
fringed Gentian in the meadow, and a few Asters 
by the brook, but birds and flowers are almost 
gone. I thought much of yon, dear child, and 
wished yon could have been with me—I am al¬ 
ways thinking of you, always wishing for you, but 
I try to trust you with the good Loud.” 
So I remembered aLl her words of love, and-then 
with a glad heart said to myself, “ Yes, thank God, 
my mother is living. She has not forgotten me 
because 1 have left her and gone out into the great 
toiling world. And when I am old and weary, and 
my brown hair is white and faded, I shall be her 
child still, and if she Vie not called home to the 
angels, she will welcome rue again beside the old 
hearth-stone, my blessed mother stflL” 
I have always remembered that hour, and never 
can I ask that common question of the wanderer, 
“ Is your mother living?'' 
Once since then, when engaged in teaching, I 
said to a little r lue-cycd bov of only six years,_ 
“You most ask yonr mother to buy you anew 
hook, Charley, will you?” The ohild looked a 
moment in my face with his great, wonderingeyep, 
and then quietly went to his seat A little while 
afterward I noticed him sobbing bitterly. 
“What is the matter, Charley?” I asked in 
surprise. “ I haven't got any mother,” sobbed he, \ 
“they buried my mother up in the ground, and i 
little sissy too. Oh, dear! I want my mother.”— i 
Poor, little, desolate one: it was long before I ] 
could soothe the anguish I had unconsciously j 
awakened, and longer still before I could forget \ 
that tearful plea,—“ I u>ant my mother /” ( 
Reader! if you can stand by your fireside, and f 
naming over yonr beloved see around you every ) 
answering form, or if long jarring and jostling , 
with the world has made their absence an accns- j 
tomed thing, forget not to deal tenderly with the t 
heart that beats sadly away from its sheltering f 
rest, and waken by no careless word the thought 
of a dread possibility which the bravest Bhriuk j 
from facing. , 
AUNT MARY’S BOOK. 
“Aunt Mary, why don't you write a book?’) 
said a young girl to a roeek-tyed, intellectual look¬ 
ing woman of thirty. “I do not think it is right 
for a person of your abilities to confine her efforts 
to her own home circle; remember that much 
will he required from those to whom much is 
given.” 
“Why, my dear Lena, I am now writing two 
books, and noble ones I hope to make of them too.” 
“Are you, Aunt? 0,1 am so glad! What are 
the subjects, characters, and eo-forth? Can I see 
them?” 
“ 0, yes; y on can see them. Come here, Charles 
and Mary,” said she, calling to two intelligent 
looking children, who were playing in the garden, 
beneath the window. “ Here are my hooks, Cousin 
Lena,” said she, pleasantly, as they entered the 
room. “ Ib not here a fine beginning for two glo¬ 
rious works?” 
Lena looked disappointed as she replied, “There 
certainly Ib. Aunt, but I do not see that your being 
the mother of two flue children is a sufficient rea- 
so for your burying your talents in obscurity/’ 
“ I do not intend to bnry my talents, Lena, 1 in¬ 
tend to engrave upon the fair talents of these chil¬ 
dren’s minds all that is good, and true, and beau¬ 
tiful in my own soul, hoping and believing that 
the inscription that I shall thus trace upon the 
books of their lives, will be far brighter and more 
enduring than any contributions I could make to 
the passing literature of tne day. While I was 
writing what would be of comparatively little real 
Qse to any one, some foreign influence might be 
tracing upon the pages ol these precious books 
that which, in after years, I might vainly wish 
could be erased." 
Lena was silent aud convinced, and she thought 
within herself, “ How much better it would be for 
the world, if there were more mothers like Aunt 
Mary.” And so it would. There are but few 
mothers who realize the importance of the trust 
committed to them. 
0, what a responsibility rests upon yon who are 
mothers! The moment an immortal being is com¬ 
mitted to your care, that moment you are placed 
under the most solemn obligations to bring into 
exeroise all that is noble and true within you, and 
to strive to keep your own minds pure and spot¬ 
less that you may faithfully discharge the great 
duties incumbent upon yon. Let no mother,how¬ 
ever humble and obscure, form too low an estimate 
of the importance of her actions, for every wo- 
mau to whom God has given a child capable of 
intellectual and moral development, has a far 
greater and more important work before her than 
that of writing books. The yonng infant now 
nestling in her arms may live to exert an influence 
for good, far greater than a thousand of the weak 
romances of the day, if she is faithful to the trust 
committed to her care.— Mary Love all, m Lady's 
Home Magazine. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE SUD MARINE TELEGRAPH.- 
BY IDA FAIRFIELD. 
Oyer the rocks and under the waves, 
Down to the sea-serpent’s home, 
Linking the shores, which the salt sea laves, 
With its masses of briny foam. 
Binding the New aud Olden World, 
With thought's electric bands, 
Clasping the separate flags unfurled, 
With cords of a thousand strands. 
The sea-serpent coils his lengthened folds, 
With an angry aud startled hiss, 
As the magic fire through the writers cold, 
His snake-mate seems to kiss. 
The dolphin gleams with a richer dye, 
Lent by that lightning blare, 
And a flash of phosphorescence nigh, 
On the wave like a meteor plays. 
Sad news on the wireB, by the shark’s grim smile, 
As he catches the mournful tone, 
Twas “ a vessel wrecked on a lonely isle, 
And the dead, like the seaweeds strewn.” 
The ponderous whale with a sleepy sigh, 
Swells up with a eonsetous air, 
As the market news goes whirring by, 
That “ the oil is selling fair.” 
The Mermaid sits in her coral cave, 
Twining her emerald hair, 
With the foamy pearls, which the ocean wave, 
To a distant strand would hear. 
Over her neck and over hor arms, 
8ho winds the jewelled string, 
While the flashing waves, her mirrored charms 
In a thousand pictures fling. 
But a murmur thrills her startled oar, 
A whisper of love goes by, 
Paling her cheek with a hue like fear, 
Firing her flashing eye: 
'Ti8 gone, as it came, tike a gleam of light, 
Sent with the fondest pride, 
From a lover's heart, through the waves dark night 
To hie beautiful F.nglisb bride. 
And even the dead, the unburied dead, 
Who glide o’er the ocean floor, 
With their s [lent tongues and noiseless tread, 
Which tell ns that life Is o’or, 
Aro thrilled with that strange, electric fire, 
And a ghastly life is shed, 
Along the line of that magic wire, 
Which links us to the dead. 
Through the rallies lone, over mountains sublime, 
Oo the sea or the scented wind. 
With the still unvarying flight of time, 
Moves onward the march of mind. 
In clouds, the mountain may hide its face, 
Or the sea its waves outspread, 
But it conquers all snd annihilates space, 
In its swift and silent tread. 
Independence, Oct., 1857. 
Koi Atoores Rnral New-Yorker. 
THE OCEAN BURIAL. 
EDUCATION OF GIRLS. 
Mothers.— By the qniet fireside of home, the 
true mother, in the midst of her children, is sow¬ 
ing, as in vases of earth, the seeds of plants that 
shall sometime give to Heaven the fragrance of 
their blossoms, and whose fruit will be a rosary of 
angelic deeds—the noblest offering that she can 
make through the ever ascending and ever expan¬ 
ding souls of her children to her Maker. Every 
word that Bhe otters goes from heart to heart with 
a power of which she little dreams. Solemn is 
the thought, but not more solemn to the Christian 
mother than the thought that every word that falls 
from her lips, every expression of her counte¬ 
nance, even in the sheltered walk and retirement 
The subject of physical education is beginning 
to attract attention. The following remarks are 
from the Boston Cot Her, written by the editor al¬ 
ter having attended a school festival in Fascuil 
Hall: 
“ But there was one thing we noticed which did 
throw a little shadow over our thoughts. We 
stood on the platform very near the boys and girls, 
as they passed by to receive a bouquet, at the hands 
of the Mayor. We could not help observing that 
not one girl in ten had the air aud look of good 
health. There were very many lovely countenan¬ 
ces—lovely with an expression of goodness—bnt 
they were like fair flowers resting upon a fragile 
stalk. Narrow chests, round shoulders, meagre 
forms, pallid cheeks, were far too common. There 
was a general want in their movements of the 
buoyancy and vivacity of youth and childhood.— 
The heat of the day and the nervous exhaustion 
of the occasion were to be t ken into the account, 
and due allowance should be made for them, bnt 
this was not the first time that we were forced to 
the conclusion that here in Boston, in the ednea- 
cation of girls, the body is lamentably neglected. 
And it is a very great and serious neglect, ihe 
consequences of which will not end with the suf¬ 
ferers themselves. Of what nse is it to learn all 
sorts of things during the first sixteen years of 
life, and to stuff the brain with all kinds of knowl¬ 
edge, if the price be a feeble or diseased body?— 
A finely endowed mind shut np iu a sickly body is 
like a bright light In a broken lantern, liable to be 
blown ont by a puff of wind or extinguished by a 
dash of rain. If the destiny of woman were to be 
put under a glass and looked at, like a flower, it 
would be of little consequence; but woman most 
take her part in performing the duties and sus¬ 
taining the burdens of life. These yonng and 
model soholars, in due time, will marry men whose 
lot it is to earn their bread by some kind of toil, 
in which their wives must, needs aid them. To 
this service they will bring an Intelligent capacity 
and a cou-dcntionspurpose; hut how far will these 
go without health and the cheerfal spirits which 
health gives? If we neglect the body the body 
will have its revenge. Arc-we not doing this?— 
Are we not throwing our whole educational force 
npon the brain? Is not a healthy city bom and 
bred woman getting to be as rare as ahlackswan? 
And is it not time to reform this altogether? Is 
it not time to think something of the casket as 
well as the jewel-something of the lantern as 
well as the light?” 
Female Delicacy.— Above all other features 
which adorns the female character, delicacy stands 
foremost within the province of good taste. Not 
lhut delicacy which is perpetually in quest of 
something to be ashamed of, which makeB merit 
of a blush, and simpers at the false construction 
its own ingenuity has put upon an innocent re¬ 
mark; this sparious kind of delicacy is far remov¬ 
ed from good sense; hut the high-minded delicacy, 
which maintains its pure and undevlating walk 
alike among women and in the society oi men— 
which shriuks from no necessary duty, aud can 
speak when required, with seriousness and kind- 
may leave an indelible Impression upon the yonng ness, of things at which it would be ashamed to 
souls around her, and form, as it were, the under- smile or blush—that delicacy which knows how to 
lying Btrata of that education which peoples confer a benefit without wounding the feelings of 
heaven with celestial beings, and gives to the white another—which can give alms without assumption 
brow of the angel, next to the grace of God, its and which pains not the most susceptible being in 
crown of glory.— Traveler, creation. 
It was not yet sunrise, though the aun was 
faintly purpling the east, when I was pacing weari¬ 
ly up and down the deck of the vessel that was 
slowly conveying our little band to the vine- 
wreathed Bhores of Chili. All night had f kept 
my “silent vigils” beside my dear friend Nellie 
Hudson, watching the hectic flnsh as it flitted 
across her face, and listening to the tones of her 
voice, which were growing perceptibly weaker as 
the Htlont watches of the night, went by. Another 
friend had come to my relief, and I was pacing the 
deck, thinking how soon her gentle spirit would 
wing its flight away. I went below and stood 
again at her bedside, and I could see the film 
creeping over her eyes. Yes! there Bhe died— 
that pure being whose life had been so early spent, 
A pnre, happy smile upon the half-parled lips told 
of “ a soul that had gone to its rest.” 
***** *** 
Evening was drawing near. The day had been 
passed in making preparation for her “Ocean 
Burial,” The crew, in their tar-stained habiliments, 
gathered around when all was ready. The wind 
moaned through the cordage, singing its sad, 
plaiutive requiem to the almost broken hearts be¬ 
low. Many a sigh broke the unusual stillness, and 
tho vessel, which scarcely moved, seemed con¬ 
scious of the grief that was wringing the hearts of 
those within its bosom. The uoruffled surface of 
the ocean was broken only by the occasional div¬ 
ing of a flying-fish or the Bwoop of some lone sea¬ 
gull We sat, each in meditation, thinking of 
friends and home far away. I pictured to my mind 
the scene at the fire-Bide at home, where now at 
the usual hour the household were gathered around 
that “lamily altar,” and praying for tho safe return 
of her whose illumined spirit was already smiling 
down upon them from heaven, as they were clus¬ 
tered there, more happy indeed than things of 
earth could make her. I had severed from that 
dear head one of those raven ringlets which that 
fond father prized so much, and which was all that 
was now left of her who was once the light of 
borne. The “ man of God” pronounced the sad 
solemn riteB, and the voices were raised In a 
mournful chant, whiob seemed doubly solemn 
since it could only he heard by our own little baud 
and " Him who holdeth the waters of the sea ns in 
the hollow of his band.” When he pronounced 
the words "‘we commit this body to the deep,” the 
muffled ship bell tolled—we gazed for the last time 
upon her features. The coffin was dosed aud borne 
to the side. I heard a plunge, and all was stilL— 
My sister was standing at the vessel’s side, and as 
the coffin disappeared into that world of waters, 
she looked solemnly after it, and it seemed as if 
her soul would ) ass away in the long, fixed gaze. 
She stood for some minutes in this attitude, and 
then I touched her arm and requested her to follow 
me to the eabin. She did not move, bnt, as I 
turned to go, Bhe commenced singing that match¬ 
less piece of music whose words commence, 
“ Oil I bury ino not in the deep, deep sea, 
Tue words came soft and mournfully.” 
The tone was wild and thrilling, and every eye in 
that crew of hardy seamen was wet with tears.— 
Since the day of the Ocean Burial that sister has 
been a changed being. Years have flown, but ever 
as I seek my home from the weary walks of life, 
she sings to me of that Sabbath eve when Nellie 
Hudson was buried. F. l. 
Sheldrake, Seui-cn Co., 2s T . Y., 1867. 
• -- 
The evil we do in the world is often paid back 
in the bosom of home. 
For Moore'is But*) New-Yorker.. 
THE GENESEE HIGHLANDS. 
It was during the past enrnmer that a party of 
three students set out to visit the famed Highlands 
of the Genesee. After a ride of between one and 
two miles, the carriage was changed for the foot¬ 
path. The road pursued was a winding one. which 
led to the bed of the river. The descent having 
been made, they passed across a large field, and 
spent, a few minutes in bathing in the clear water of 
the river, which there laved the base of a cliff that 
rose to the height of tbm or four hundred feoL 
Passing from thence, they wound their way along 
the river’s edge. On their left towered the cliffs, 
familiarly named ‘ Hog’s Back,” opposite the farm 
of the well known Dick Allen. Though not as 
high here as in other places, these cliffs were lofty 
enough to appear magnificent, and remind frail 
man of his littleness. On the right, at their very 
feet, lay the placid Genesee. Between these two 
objects, the one magnificent and the other beauti¬ 
ful, the two found their way. At times, progress 
seemed impossible, and It was only by clinging to 
the crags that they with great difficulty passed on. 
At length, being of the venturesome character, 
and the way becoming quite obstructed, they at¬ 
tempted to scale the heights. 
The afternoon was warm and the ascent steep, 
but our students pressed diligently on in their up¬ 
ward way, assisting themselves by the shrubs, 
which, in Borne parts, were abundant At length, 
as more than a hundred feet were gained, the way 
became steeper and looked ominous of what was 
to come. One, not being properly prepared and 
lacking the nerve for the further ascent, retraced 
his steps and passing further on, found a ravine 
where the mountain torrent had foamed along._ 
Up this, not without much toil, he passed and 
gained the snmmit Not so the others, for they 
pressed on. Their progress was slow, toilsome 
and dangerone. The shrubs, which before had 
greatly assisted them, now became few and far 
between. Each Btep increased the difficulty, hut 
they struggled forward. Ever and anon they stop¬ 
ped long and painfully. But exertion was necessary 
as night was fast approaching. A few feet more 
are gained, and again they pause. 
They are now not far from one hundred and 
fifty feet from the water, though hnt a step, as it 
were, for a single slip or the breaking of a false 
twig would have plunged them down. Upward 
they look and the way grows steeper and steeper 
and the treacherous shale gives place to a more 
treacherous, crumbling clay. They looked down¬ 
ward even though it be but to shut the eyes. Up¬ 
ward is death, downward is imminent peril. Bat 
peril is to be preferred to death, and they attempt 
to retrace their steps. The river’s edge is reach¬ 
ed, the mountain gorge is sought and slowly as¬ 
cended, When the eommit is gained, a boulder, 
which overhangs the fearful path, is displaced, 
and as they watch its ruinous descent a feeling of 
gratitude and joy arises, and with one impulse, 
the glad hurrah echoes and re-echoes in the eve¬ 
ning stillness far up the river. h. a. o. 
Lima, N. Y., 1857. 
OUT-DOOR AMUSEMEMTS. 
We commend the following remarks of Henry 
Ward Beecher to the attention of onr readers.— 
They were nttered at the Fair at 8pringfield. The 
health of our young people depends more upon 
out-door employments and rational amusements 
than what many are apt to suppose. As a nation, 
we are bringing up our children to in-door seden¬ 
tary employments. Hence, our boys become fit 
for nothing but to measure tape behind a counter, 
and oar girls are exotic plants too tender to have 
the winds of heaven visit them roughly. Hear 
Henry Word Beecher: 
“ The speaker was himself a Fnritan, and the son 
of a PuritaD, but he loved pictures, he loved flowers 
and mnMC, and was no enemy to amusement The 
old Puritun had something else to do than to in¬ 
augurate parks and pleasure grounds,—they had 
their freedom to Inaugurate, their schools to es¬ 
tablish, their government to erect, and all this left 
bnt little time for recreation. They had taste and 
love for proper pleasure, but little timo left from 
their sterner duties to enjoy them. We, however, 
were enjoying tho fruits of their labors and efforts, 
and have timo for these things. We have sprout¬ 
ed; not fall grown, it is true, but still we have 
Bpronted. Wo have time to enjoy ourselves, and 
we sin if wo don’t do it. Enjoyment is one of the 
necessaries of human life, and it iB much better 
for us to give the young a good wholesome pleas¬ 
ure than to have them steal Imparities. They will 
have it, and if not given it will be stolen. Givo 
our young men and our yonng women proper out¬ 
door pleasure and we shall boo fewer diseased 
bodiop, fewer puny frames and pale faces. We shall 
have more mothers and more babies, and the lat¬ 
ter that are now lilies of the valley, aud soon go 
under the valley, will then be more robust; they 
will then live and thrive, and grow up to be men 
and women, such as men and women should be and 
were meant to b c."—Hartford Courant. , 
-- »■ »- 
Lord Brougham on Tna Duty to Labor.— 
Lord Brougham, in his address a abort, time since 
before the Mechanics’ Institute at Manchester, used 
the following language:—“The first duty of a man 
is to provide for bis own dependents by his own 
work, and not either to amuse himself or indulge 
in any gratification — not even in that more than 
innocent, most sacred gratification, of assuaging 
his thirst for knowledge — until he has done his 
day’s work, aud done that which is his bounden 
doty ub well as his highest, interest to do, work with 
his own hands for the provision of himself and 
family. And when I talk of working men, I am 
myself, and have been all my life, a working man; 
and as long as I am blessed with health enough to 
continue, even at my advanced time of life, I shall 
continne to labor; aud I Bhall never henceforth, 
any more than I have hitherto done, partake of 
any relaxation, not even in gratifying my thirst 
for knowledge, until I have earned the right to do 
It by having done my day’s work.” 
However much we may have accomplished 
through a loDg life of active and nnremitted toil, 
when we come to reach its closing scene, our 
labors will then appear to us but trifling and in¬ 
significant; for they are about to be weighed in 
the scales of a boundless and mysterious Eternity. 
A LEGEND. 
There is a very old and beautiful story that has 
formed the Btaple for poems iu many tongues 
,s that wo wish we could worthily tell: 
d It is of odc sailing upon the sea, in a sleep with¬ 
out dream. The ship was wrecked and shattered 
h and yet he slept. The waves bore him like auin- 
^ faut in a cradle, upon the plank whereon he lay, 
aud when he awoke it was with music, and upon a 
conch of flowers. 
u The shore was strange yet lovely, and thronged 
I with thousands who proclaimed him king. It 
8 seemed as if they awaited him, waif though he was, 
a > for there was a throne without, an oocupant, and 
II royal robes for his arraying. 
18 . All human wills merged in his, and glory shone 
y aronnd him, even as the son of that fair, unclouded 
clime. 
y At length, there came to him a reverend man, 
0 who told him that the time would come, when ex- 
’’ ilea from his kingdom, and powerless as ho came, 
18 there would be “none so poor to do him rever- 
0 ence.” But, continued the aged sage, beyond the 
L clouds that Bkirt this lovely land, lie unseen 
r > islands bare and drear; no fountains sparkle, and 
no flowers perfume; no music but the wail of 
winds and waves; no shelter, bat the shadow of a 
\ rock. 
>• Thither will they banish thee, and there thou 
8 . must make thy inevitable home. But now, thou 
h art supremely blest; slaves do thy bidding, and 
y gold strews thy pathway like the sand. Bo, seek 
■b that mland out; cause the rock to be smitten, that 
d it may gash with living water; send fragrant (low- 
d ers from thy gardens, and spicy trees from thy 
e forests; let the amaraulh be transplanted, and the 
- palm Bhed pleasant shade, till the wilderneBH shall 
d he glad for them, and “the desert blossom as the 
Y rose.” Bnild there a royal mauslon and fill it with 
e all things pare and beautiful, that surround thee 
d now: so sbalt thou have a Paradise at last, and go 
r rejoicing into exile. 
t The king was wise, and while he cherished the 
• realm he ruled, yet sought the island, and “ col - 
Y onised," as it were, the half of his heart. Spring 
e was persuaded to come that way, and she hung 
her robe on the trees he had planted, and left her 
I breath on the gale. The music of birds, and 
t fountains, and winds among the leaves, floated 
5 round the new palaoe he had buildod: bnt nothing 
! of all this had he ever beheld, 
r Years went on, and the old royal glories grew 
j dim, and the crown was tarnished, and there was 
. another wreck, a new king came sleeping to the 
. shore, and he that had ruled in a palace, was not 
t suffered so mnoh as a shelter, for he was an exile, 
t as the sage had prophesied. But he went not 
with a heavy heart, for sometimes, when the wind 
blew from the unseen shore, it had borne to him 
, the fragrance of orange and palm, and so he knew 
, that his gardens were growing beautiful for his 
r coming. And he laid off the purple, like one dis- 
, robing for pleasant dreams, and pat down the 
. sceptre as if it had been a burden, and, went away 
to his unseen home with a “ good by ” on his lip, 
bnt a smile in bis eye. 
And though none have seen the Eden be dwells 
in, yet sailors driven out to sea, declare that some¬ 
times sweet odors have been wafted across the 
deck, from an unseen land, and by it they know 
that the gardens of the Exile are near. 
“ As when to them who sail 
Beyond the Cape ot Hope and now aro passed 
Mozambique, oil at sea, north-east winds blow 
Sabn-an odors from the spicy .shore 
Of Araby the Blest—with such delay 
Well pleased they slock thtlr course, and many a league 
Pleased with the grateful scent, old ocean smiles. 
-*-~*- 
DRINKING AMONG YOUNG MEN. 
The Philadelphia Sun soys truly, that indiscrimi¬ 
nate drinking among onr young must eventually 
make its mark npon the population of onr cities. 
We can see it already betraying itself in the rising 
generation. It is impossible for any man to drink 
even pure liqnors six or seven times a day without 
suffering severely in constitution. And when he 
transmits this impaired constitution to bis bod, 
who in turn impairs it still further by the same 
course, it reqaires little foresight to see that we 
arc preparing a population for our cities that will 
not, in physical frame, be much better than the 
wretched Aztecs. This love of drink and bar¬ 
rooms is every duy increasing. Every day sees our 
youth becoming more and more the victims of this 
habit, for we really think it more a habit than a 
passion. It is no love of joviality that tempts 
them except in a few cases. It is not the hot exu¬ 
berance of youth. It is not the evanescent im¬ 
pulse of the gay young fellow who is sowing his 
wild oats. It is, M ha* been said, a cold, deliberate, 
confirmed habit. No atmosphere of recklessness 
or jollity surrounds the drinking groups, except 
on occasions; and no peals of merriment atone for 
the act, by proving that it is at least unusual. A 
grim and melancholy air pervades each counten¬ 
ance. The drinks ure poured ont, the glasBes 
raised and touched with a loathsome air of cus¬ 
tom, aud each man swallows his portion with the 
same Impassive countenance he would wear if ho 
were drinking a glasB of plain water. All the 
concomitants that partially redeem or excuse 
drinking, ns far as it can bo redeemed or excused, 
are wanting in this sad and formal ceremony. 
Mental Excitement.— Bad news weakens the 
action of the heart, oppresses the lungs, destroys 
the appetite, stops digestion, and partially sus¬ 
pends all the functions of the system. An emo¬ 
tion of shame Dashes the face; fear blanches it, 
joy illuminates it, and an instant thrill elootrifiea 
a million of nerves. Surprise spurs the pulse into 
a gallop. Delirium inftisuB great energy. Volition 
commands, and hundreds of muscles spring to ex 
ecute. Powerful emotion often killB the body at 
a stroke. Ohilo, Diagoras and Sophocles died of 
joy at the Grecian games. The news ot a defeat 
killed Phillip V. The door-keeper of Congress 
expired upon hearing of the surrender of Corn¬ 
wallis. Eminent public speakers have often died 
in tho midst of an impassioned burst of eloquence, 
or when the deep emotion that produced it sud¬ 
denly subsided. Lagrave.the young Parisian, died 
when he heard that the music prize for which he 
had oompeted was adjudged to another. 
One step in kuowledgo is one step from sin; one J 
step from sin is one step nearer heaven. 
