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MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. NOV. 7. 
fato*’ Iflrt-fclifl. 
CONDUCTED BY AZII.K._ 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
TWILIGHT WATCHERS. 
BT CLARA P. TAWGkK. 
Oh Woman! food watcher of twilight's dim hour! 
Alike from the castle, the cottage, and bower, 
With love and devotion that deftthlessly yearn. 
Thou watchost at twilight, thy dear one's return. 
Thou trustingly watckest, at day’s dreary close 
For footsteps familtai-the footsteps of those 
Who homeward are hastening, with care wearied breast, 
From life’s busy scenes, to the haven of rest. 
One watches at twilight- a happy j oung bride — 
For the steps of hot lover, her lord, and her pride, 
And hastens with transport his coming to greet, 
Who asks for no heaven—while home is so aweet. 
One gaz-s, heart-broken, through gathering tears, 
And sighs, as a footstep unsteady she hears; 
And thiuks of the twilights of rapture -long fled— 
The hopes fondly cherished -all blasted and dead. 
One listens a moment—then shrieks with a start, 
As consciousness wildly comes back to her heart— 
The feet she was wont to gieet, home with the shade, 
In Death's darksome dungeon, forever are stayed. 
The gentle-browed matron, looks forth—as the sun 
Sinks to rest—and the stars glimmer out, one by one— 
And smiles, as she catches the gay, skipping sound, 
Of feet that are flying, her hearth to surround. 
A fair maiden listens - with rose-tinted cheek— 
And eyes telling more than the lips ever speak — 
Alas! she will watch till the stars cease to burn, 
But the feet of the faithless will never return. 
Spring Port, N. Y., 1S57. 
-♦- 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A GREETING TO HOUSEWIVES. 
Thrifty HousbwiybsI —you who pride your¬ 
selves upon looking well to the ways of your 
household—to you I send this abrupt greeting. 
Much has been written and with due emphasis 
read, by husbands and fathers, to young ladies 
who step from boarding schools into their estab. 
lishments—from the piano Btool to the bead of the 
table—to both places conducted by fond parents 
with unflagging zeal to see them “accomplished” 
and “settled.’’ Upon this class of unfortunates, I 
Bay, rain torrents of homilies. But to “excellent 
managers,” I have a word to say. You who have 
a finger in every pie made in your houses, are you 
aware that you spend much time in your kitchens 
to the annoyance and discouragement of your ser¬ 
vants, which might be better spent upon your chil¬ 
dren, your neighbors, or yourselves, in the way of 
reformation? Are you aware that you spoil every 
good servant you get by taking her business out 
of her hands and off her mind? Do you not often 
wonder why they grow negligent and disrespect¬ 
ful? why they “keep Blacking off and slacking 
off', until you really don’t know what you shall do?” 
Alas! could the petty vexations and great troubles 
of those dependant upon you be "set down and 
conned by rote,” and made the subject of discus¬ 
sion among you as their fauits are, you would real¬ 
ize that the error is often in yourselves. Do you 
ever reflect upon the sighs your tyranny may have 
drawn from the hearts of those whose only crime 
was poverty? Do you ever reflect upon the tem¬ 
pers you may have spoiled by indulging your own 
fault-finding ones? Do you ever think how many 
you may have made dishonest by treating them as 
if they were not to be trusted with things in ordi¬ 
nary uBe? If it be true that we may make men 
good or bad, by treating them with confidence or 
suspicion, how are poor ignorant girls, mostly for¬ 
eigners, with the sad “ heart of the stranger,” to 
rise above the level to which you often degrade 
them by uncharitableness, and resist temptation to 
do the wrong of which they are presupposed guil¬ 
ty? If it were the custom as has been suggested 
for servants to require “a character” of their 
mistresses, how would their own list of faults be 
counterbalanced by those set down against their 
employers! If Bridobt were certified to be good- 
natured and capable, but negligent, slovenly, and 
careless of her mistress’ orders, would not Mrs. 
Smith figure as “a scold, unreasonable, suspicious,” 
in the habit of “locking up things," of taking 
everything nice oft the table wLen she left it 
and disregarding her servants’ comfort generally? 
We should have characters of some people that 
would surprise ns, and perhaps make themselves 
as shamefaced as some ol the poor girls who pre¬ 
sent their “ characters'’ at our doors. We should 
see the noisy machinery which produces such 
lauded results in the establishments of “smart 
women,” house keepers “neat as way,” &a, At. 
It is not my desire to depreciate cleanliness, or 
anything in house-keeping which is conducive to 
comfort. I like order, neatness, and the “height 
of fine living”—and I have a great aversion, natu¬ 
ral and cultivated, to eating anything common or 
unclean—but an occasional pinch from the “peck” 
allowed us by common consent, is nothing in 
comparison with the annoyances generally attend¬ 
ant upon efforts to be unusually nice. Bat that Bucb 
annoyances, such disquiet, are necessary concomi¬ 
tants I do not believe. I have had a little experi¬ 
ence in house-keeping “myself,” and have not 
found it a very difficult matter to have order and 
neatness perceptible, and comfort fell at the same 
time. The requisites to a successful superintend- 
anoe of domestic affairs are the Bame as in any 
office of command—forethought and resolution.— 
Make rules and adhere to them firmly—and, for 
comfort’s sake quietly. When you issue a com¬ 
mand, exact obedience at the precise time speci¬ 
fied, and if Biddy forgets or neglects it, make her 
“ drop down the shovel and the hoe” or whatever 
B be may be engaged in and repair her fault. A 
few days of such discipline will teach her to re* 
member, by putting tbe annoyances of her negli- 
cecoe upon her own shoulders, where, of course, 
they belong. But treat her at the same time as if 
she were a rational, accountable being, and “ wor¬ 
thy of her hire.” t K - 
Greece, N. Y., 1S57. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
A LETTER ABOUT LETTERS. 
Dear Rural: — I have been lookmg over old : 
letters to-day, and the well-worn missives of love 
bring back such a host of olden recollections, that 
I fain would send you a few extracts from those 
relics of other days. Do you not remember the 
first letter you ever received from home?—how in 
your eager haste you thought the envelop never 
would come oft, and the tears blinded your eyes so 
you could scarcely read those loving words which 
each member of tbe home-circle kindly Bent to 
you, poor, absent, bome-siek child? I have betore 
me now my first letter from borne, and thoagh 
years have passed sinoe then, I have a distinct 
recollection ol the mauy tearB I shed over that first 
letter, and bow as I read the lines, ‘‘Keep up good 
spirits, do not feel lonely at all, but wiite very 
ofteD,” 1 would have given anything to Bee home 
again, and throw my arms around my mother’s 
neck once mote. 
The first letter from home! I tell you, no other 
letter in the world could ever seem like it — none 
half so precious; and I never hear it mentioned 
without picturing to myself the little girl of twelve 
years old, cryiug over her first letter from home. 
Here is an epistle, written in a round, school¬ 
boy's hand. That is from brother G., I know at a 
glance. Would you like to hear what he says?— 
“In the first place, ‘the old folks at home' are all 
well. C.'s here, ‘Jenny Lind’ came off’ with eight 
plump chickens three weeks ago, and they are 
very large now. But this is not all Of our hen- 
luck. My hen, the Hon. Madame‘Pet,’ came off 
yesterday with a brood of nine chickens—and J.’s 
hen, ‘Polly’ is sitting ou eleven eggs. And now, 
dear Bister, if you do not think it will flatter your 
vanity too much, 1 will pick out one of my hand¬ 
somest chickens, and name it after you. Willie 
has learned bis A—B—Cs, and little J. is dressed 
in pants.” 
Now, do not laugh, Dear Rural, when I Bay that 
this last letter pleased me more than the most pro¬ 
found essay ever penned by mortal man or woman 
either, and that for a whole week after, my dreams 
were haunted by visions of “Jenny Lind’s eight 
plump chickens,” and my waking hours spent in 
wondering how little J. looked in “pants,” and 
whetbermy handsome namesake favored me anyor 
not. 
This good, long, old-fashioned letter is from 
Grandmother. You may just have a peep at the 
Postscript “ I send you two pair of woolen stock¬ 
ings, and if they keep you as warm ns my feelings 
are towards you, I think you will be very comforta¬ 
ble.” And so they did, I aesure yon. The letter I 
have got, but the stockings, alas! have gone the 
way of all hose. By-the-by, Mr. Editor, I think it 
would be a good plan if some of our young ladies 
would lay aside their fancy work, (which is all very 
well in its place, but sometimes becomes too much 
of a good thing,) and take up, instead, a pair of 
knitting needles and a ball of woolen yarn. 
Here is a sheet of note paper, neatly folded and 
written with blue ink, and begins—“My Dear 
Niece.” Let me look again. Yes, it is from Aunt 
D. “You must be a good gill,” she writes, “and 
may we so live here that we may meet in Heaven, 
is the prayer of your affectionate Aunt D.” 
Alas! I am seated here, with the precious docu¬ 
ment beside me, this October evening, but the 
Autumn winds are sobbing a mournful requiem 
over her new made grave in the Par West. A few 
short weeks ago, and she was blessed with life and 
health, but the hand of disease smote her down, 
aud death claimed the dear one for his own. And 
then came that sad, sad letter, containing the 
mournful intelligence of her death. “She was 
thought, to be slowly improving, until one o’clock 
this morning, when she was suddenly taken worse, 
and at 9 A, M. quietly passed trom life unto death.” 
Ah, rather say, from death unto life—yea, life eter¬ 
nal. For she was a Christian upon earth, and now 
we trust she is a Saint in Heaven. Mourn not, then, 
sorrowing ones whom she hath left to tread life’s 
path alone. The crown of gold, the angel harp, 
and the robe of white, are hers now. Earth and 
earthly things are done awsy. Sorrows aud trials 
are left behind, for in Heaven there is no more 
sorrow—no more death. 
“ Dreams cannot picture a world fo fair, 
Borrow aud death may not enter there.” 
Dear old letters!—how I prize them all They 
speak volumes to me, but it would take all night 
to tell them all, and fearful of tiring you out of all 
manner of patience, I lining my letter to a close. 
If there are imperfections, please excuse. 
Rochester, N. Y., Oct. 24,1S57. IYinhik Wii.t.iam. 
PORTRAITURE OF MISS NIGHTINGALE. 
She is rather high in stature, fair in complexion 
and slim in person; her hair is brown, and is worn 
quite plain; her physiognomy is most pleasing; 
her eyes, of a blueiah tiut, speak volumes, and arc 
always sparkling with intelligence; her mouth is 
small and well formed, while her lips uctinunison, 
and make known the impression of her heart—one 
seems the reflex of the other. Her visage, as re 
gards expression, is very remarkable, and one can 
almost anticipate by her countenance what she is 
about to say; alternately, with matters of the moBt 
grave import, s gentle smile passes radiantly over 
her countenance, tbuB proving her evenness of 
temper; at other limes, when wit er a pleasantry 
prevails, the heroine is IobI in the happy, good- 
natured smile which pervades her face, aud you 
recognise only the charmiDg woman. Her dress 
is generally of a greyish or black tint; she wears 
a simple white cap, and often a rough apron.— 
Soyefs Culinary Campaign. 
- 
Thomas Camtbell once said“ I never like to 
see ray name before the ‘ Pleasures of Hope;’ why, 
I cannot tell, unless it was that, when young, I was 
always greeted among my friends as ‘ Mr. Camp¬ 
bell, author of the Pleasures of Hope,’—‘Good 
morning t,o you, Mr. Campbell, author of the 
Pleasures of Hope.' When I got married, I was 
married as the author of the Pleasures of Hope;’ 
and when l became a father, my son was ' the son 
of the author of the Pleasures of Hope.’” 
fjtollaug. 
For Moore's Ratal New-Yorker. 
AUTUMN. 
BT ELLBX C. LAKE. 
Autumn with her golden fruitage, 
Autumn with her burdened vines, 
Stands beneath juoro's “ cloud-banner?,” 
And is bathed in sunset wines. 
Woven in robes of the forests, 
Crowning the maples by the door, 
Shining in the witherwd corn-sheaths, 
And piled on the threshing floor;— 
Thus bears she her matron-colors 
Of rich cijmson and gleaming gold, 
While the sweet calmness of her beauty 
Wraps our souls in its boly fold. 
Look deep in the hearts of the pansies, 
They're half-hidden by faded leaves— 
Stand under the tree-bonghs and listen 
To legends the wind-spirit weaves, 
Watch the sunlight droppiog half-shadows 
Its Inst warmth on forest and hill, 
Bend over ihe lYsil vine thAt is dying 
Wreathed round the low window sill— 
And there’ll coins to your heart a feeling, 
Stirring its throbs almost to pain, 
Likened to the sorrow of parting 
With those we never meet again. 
Oh, gladness and gloom Autumn waketh 
'Mid.the deep mysteries of our hearts; 
Glad hymns for the plenteous harvest, 
Dirges for beauty that departs— 
But she stirs our souls by her teachings 
Till we grow in high purpose strong, 
And gird on'anew our armor 
For the battle 'gainst Sin and Wrong; — 
Feeling that for God's covenant given,— 
« Seed-time and harvest shall not fail," 
We should cast off despair and weakness, 
And hush sad “ humanity's wail.” 
Charlotte Centre, N. Y., 1857. 
AUTUMN 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
REFLECTIONS. 
The garden of tbe heart is capable of produc¬ 
ing, under good culture, everything beautiful in 
humanity, while neglected, it is choked up with 
every kiud of rank and poisonous weed. The 
gentle hand of woman is beat adapted to the task 
of sowing good seed and rearing beautiful flowers. 
It is not great wealth, nor high station, which 
makes a man happy. Many of tbe most wretched 
beings on earth have both. But it is a radiant, 
sunny spirit, which knows how to bear little trials ( 
and to eDjoy little comforts, and which thus ex¬ 
tracts happiness from every incident of life. 
How sad the influence upon the heart!— 1 
Everything of life and beamy fading. The i 
very air we breathe comes to us laden with i 
the chilling breath of Autumn. The hues of death 
are scattered over the face of Natore; every where t 
we turn our anxious eyes, we find decay has mark- j 
ed his victim,—all, all are blighted. The fairy 1 
flowers, that danced so lightly in the breeze, bend- ! 
ing their dewy blossoms to the b’.astthat laid them 1 
low, are dead. The leaves, changed to the bril- i 
liant drapery of varied red and yellow, are scat- i 
tering over earth; and trees, robbed of their gar- i 
niture, present their naked arms to the wintry 1 
winds. 
Thus 'tis oft with woman. Unable either by na- i 
tnre, or education, to meet the stern realities of 
life, the blast of adversity bends the frail blossom < 
low, and when, surpassing all, comeB the full evi- i 
denoeof the false friendship of those Bhe held most i 
dear—to meet with cold neglect and scorn when 
the consolation and sympathy of pitying friendB 
was most needed, is It si rage that elm should fade 
and like her countm part—growing more beautiful i 
as she passed away—become a resident of that 
« Silent City,*' from whence none e’er return? And 
yet tbe frail blossom breaketh not, but bend b grace¬ 
fully to tbe earth; and while she breatbeth forth 
her spirit, still hopes on, so bard ib it to be con¬ 
vinced of the faithlessness of those we love. 
Not so with man,—when cares and losses over¬ 
take him in his path through life, like the tall oak 
he bendeth not, till the fierce tempest comes, when< 
broken by tbe wild warring of tbe elements, he 
Binketh to the ground bereft of hope. Despair 
seizes its victim with an iron grasp and chains it 
down till all desire to rise is past, and he, too, 
Blnks into the grave. 
Is there no balm for such? no consolation for 
the wounded heart? Is there no waking for tbe 
brilliant flowers that now lie dead? Mast these 
branches which now eo wildly wave bereft of 
leaves, roust they ne’er again be covered with the 
green foliage, which once so thickly clustered 
there? Yes,the Spring will again return and Na¬ 
ture, so long in chains., will burst her bonds, and 
from the icy fetters which so late have bound her 
will call forth beauties, scattering them over the 
earth, till desert shall again become a paradise.— 
Fit emblem of the child of earth; how cheering to 
his drooping spirit Religion comes, bidding him 
look beyond the transitory thing# of time, to a 
brighter and a better world; and pointing the eye 
of faith beyond the dark and desolate night, to 
the dawn that knows no end. Adelk. 
Seneca FhIIf, N. Y., 1857. 
-♦.♦- 
ATTENTION TO LITTLE THINGS. 
Mr. Irving, in bis life of Washington, says that 
this great, and good man “ waB careful of small 
things,” bestowing attention on the minutest af¬ 
fairs of bis household as closely as upon the most 
important concerns of the public. The editor of 
the Merchant’s Magazine, in speaking of this fact, 
says:—“No man ever made a fortune, or rose to 
greatness in any department, without, being • care¬ 
ful of small things.’ As the beach is composed of 
grains of sand, as the ocean is made up of dropB 
of water, so the millionaire’s fortune is tbe aggre¬ 
gation of the profits of single adventures, often 
inconsiderable in amount. Every eminent mer¬ 
chant, from Girard and Afltor down, has been 
noted for his attention to details. Few distin¬ 
guished lawyers have ever practiced in the courts 
who have not been remarkable for a similar char¬ 
acteristic. It was one of the most striking pe¬ 
culiarities of the first Napoleon’s mind. The most 
petty details of his household expenses, the most 
trivial facta relating to his troops, were, in his 
opinion, as worthy of his attention, ns the tactics 
of a battle, the plans of a campaign, or the revis¬ 
ion of a code. Demosthenes, the world’s un¬ 
rivalled orator, was as anxious about his gestures 
or intonations, as about the texture of hie argu¬ 
ment or its garniture of words. Before Bueh great 
examples, and in the very highest walks of intel¬ 
lect, how contemptible tbe conduct of the small 
minds who despise small things.” 
The True Discoverer.— That man is not the 
discoverer of any art who first says the thing; but 
he who sayB it so long, so loud aud so clearly that 
he compels mankind to hear him. —Sidney Smith. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
DIGNITY OF EARNESTNESS AND ENTHUSIASM. 
[Thoughts suggested Ly a witticism alluding to the recent 
failure to lay tbe Atlantic Telegraph Cable.] 
There is ever enough unemployed talent among 
men to revolutionize the world, had they the will 
and the energy to apply if- Men do not so much 
need increased talent—they have already enough 
to enable them to achieve much — but they want 
more decision and earnestness. They are like the 
steamboat lying idly at its wharf, which has the 
wood and the water and needs only the fire, ti fur¬ 
nish the motive power.' So men need the fire of 
enthusiasm to develop the powers which they pos¬ 
sess—they are so timid, so fearful of making mis¬ 
takes that they stand hesitating whether to act at 
all. A prudent foresight is commendable, and it 
is rather provoking to t.he enthusiastic worker to 
be ever wielding the hammer and only hitting hiB 
own fingers, hut the risk must be made,something 
must be endeavored, or nothing will ever be ac¬ 
complished. Misdirected energy is better, or at 
least nobler than indecision and want of purpose. 
Earnestness is noble, even when wrongly directed 
—it is only the timid, tbe doubting and half-heart¬ 
ed, who are contemptible. We must honor energy 
and force, while we can only pity weakness, and 
even that not long, unless under oar sympathy it 
is stimulated to actions worthy of our regard. 
There are some idle, listless dreamers, regarding 
life as a play rather than a battle, who affect to 
despise those more earnest in their views. They 
ridicule those who support any new theory, or make 
new discoveries, as visionaries and enthusiasts.— 
Such persons commit a great mistake. However 
absurd the theories of any may seem to us, if they 
are sincerely believed, they are far above, the ridi¬ 
cule of any. The earnestness of one man should 
never be made the merejest of another. Theaincere 
belief of any one should be held sacred from the 
attacks of ridicule or scorn—it is consecrated 
ground, the holy circle around the soul where none 
should lightly or irreverently tread. We may rea¬ 
son with mistaken enthusiasm and endeavor to 
direct it aright, but we should never ridicule it— 
it is always worthy of our respect. The shafts of 
wit should be aimed at the timid and weak-hearted 
for such only deserve them. 
History teaches us to be Blow in condemning as 
absurd an earnest purpose. Every great enter¬ 
prise has been classed among the impossibilities 
■ till time has shown its success. Every great truth 
has been denounced as heresy, and its advocates 
have received their duo share of reproach till the 
• rising sun has cast its light over it and revealed 
it. Not till success has crowned their efforts are 
men honored who first caught a glimpse of the 
■ truth in the dark and duskiness of the dawning 
morn. We must be charitable to those who are 
. making, or endeavoring to make new discoveries. 
’ it is true, “ there is nothing new uuder the sun;” 
i every truth is as old as creation, but many, very 
. many must yet be discovered, aye, and wilt be just 
: as soon as the sun has risen a little higher aud 
i casts his light further! Do we speak of impose!- 
! bilitiee and absurd theories? May be ip? have sat 
! down in some shady corner, while others are 
i standing in tbe broad sunlight. Who shall Bay 
t that our impossibilities shall not be the facts of to- 
l morrow, and our absurd theories admitted truths? 
Henrietta, N. Y„ 1857. Wm. J. Fowler. 
THE TUHN 
LIFE. 
Between the yearB of forty and sixty, a man 
who has properly regulated himself may be con¬ 
sidered iu the prime of life. His matured strength 
of constitution renders him almost impervious to 
the attacks of disease, and experience has given 
soundness to his judgment His mind is resolute, 
firm and equal; all hia functions are in the highest 
order; be assumes mastery over his business; 
builds up a competence on the foundation he has 
formed in early manhood, passes through a period 
of life attended by many gratifications. Having 
gone a year or two past sixty, he arrives at a 
stand-still. But athwart this is a viaduct called 
"The Turn of Life,” which if crossed in safety, 
leads to the valley of “ old age,” round which the 
river winds, and then beyond without a boat or 
causeway to effeot a piss age. 
Tbe bridge is. however, constructed of fragile 
materials, and it depends upon how it is trodden, 
whether it bend or break. Gout and apoplexy, are 
also in the vicinity to waylay the traveler, and 
thrust him from the pass; but let him gird up his 
loinH and provide himself with a fitter staff, and 
he may trudge in safety, with perfeot composure. 
To quit metaphor, “The Turn of Life,” is a turn 
either into a prolonged walk, or into the grave.— 
The system and powers having reached their ut¬ 
most expansion, now begin to either close like 
flowers at Bunset or break down at once. One in¬ 
judicious Btimnlaut, a single fatal excitement, may 
force it beyond it* strength, whilst a careful sup¬ 
ply of props, and the withdrawal of all that tends 
to force a plant, will sustain it in beauty and vigor 
until night has entirely set in .—The Science of Life 
hy a Physician. 
-♦*-♦- 
Rtoh is he who owns a farm, for by the same to¬ 
ken, he owns a fleet besides. Tbeie in the azure 
harbor off his “Eighty” floats a craft; its bull is 
crimson; its taffrail gleams with gold. It is an 
argosy of Cloud consigned to him, with all its 
freight of gentle showers and gracious shades.— 
Slowly it wears just overhead, aud lets au anchor 
go, and fires a gun, and down on field und wood¬ 
land comes the precious rain. Rain! It is no rain, 
but grain and fruits aud flowers, in crystal cases, 
It weighs tbe anchor — slowly bears away. And 
then the farmer aits within his cabin door, and 
sees the great ships come and go, and never thinks 
an hundred sail are all hia own.— Chicago Jour. 
--- 4 - 4 -- 
Life’s Troubles —We may compare the trou¬ 
bles which we have to undergo in the oourse Of 
thin life to a great bundle of faggots, far too large 
for us to lift. But God does not require ub to car¬ 
ry the whole at. once; he mercifully unties the 
bundle, and gives us first one stick, which we are 
to carry to-day, and. then another which we are to 
carry to morrow, and so on. This we might easily 
manage, if we would only take tbe burden appoint¬ 
ed for each day; but we choose to increase our 
troubles by carrying yesterday’s stick over again 
to-day, and adding to-morrow’s burdens to our 
load before we are required to bear it. 
WORKING CONSTITUTIONS. 
There is perhaps no man living of whom more 
feats of labor and triumphs over the frail physique 
of humanity are on rocord, than of Lord Brougham, 
Legends of this sort have gathered round him like 
a Hercules. There is a legend that he worked six 
continuous dayH—i. e., 144 hours, without sleep; 
that he then rushed down to bis country lodgings, 
Blept all Saturday night, all Sunday, all Sunday 
night, and was waked by his valet on Monday mor¬ 
ning to resume the responsibilities of life, and com¬ 
mence the work of the next week. A man must, 
of oourse, have a superhuman constitution, who 
can do, we will not Bay this particular feat, whioh 
is perhaps mythical, but feats of this class; and 
prouatdy the greatness of our great men is quite as 
much a bodily affair as a mental one. Nature has 
presented them not only with extraordinary minds, 
but—what has quite as much to do with the mat¬ 
ter—-with wonderful bodies. What can a man do 
withoutconstitution—a working constitution? 
He is laid ou the shelf from the day he is born.— 
For him lo munificent destiny reserves the Great 
Seal, or the Rolls, or the Chief J nsticeship, or the 
leadership of the House of Commons, the Treasury, 
or the Admiralty, or the Horse Guards, the Home- 
office, or the Colonies. The Church may promote 
him, for it does not signify to the Church whether 
a man does his work or not, but tbe State will have 
nothing to do with the poor conatitutionless 
wretch. He will not rise higher than a Recorder- 
ship, or a Poor Law Board. " Bat,” somebody will 
ask, “has that pale, thin man, with a face like 
parchment, and nothing on his bones, a constitu¬ 
tion?” Yes, he has—he has a working constitu¬ 
tion, and a ten times better one than you, my good 
friend, with your ruddy face and your strong, mas. 
cular frame. You look, indeed, the very picture 
of health, hut you have, in reality, only a sporting 
constitution, not a w orking one. You do very well 
for the open air, and get on tolerably well with 
fine, healthy exercise, and no strain on your brain. 
But try close air for a week—try confinement with 
heaps of confused papers and books of reference, 
blue-books, law-book?, ordespactheato get through, 
and therefrom extract liquid and transparent 
results, and you will find yourself knocked up and 
fainting, when the pale, lean man is—if not “as 
fresh as a daisy,” which he never is, being of a 
perpetually cadaverous type—at least as unaffected 
as a bit of leather, and not showing the smallest 
sign of giving way. 
There are two sorts of good constitutions—good 
idle constitutions, and good working ones. When 
Nature makes a great man, Bbe presents him with 
the latter gift. Not that we wish to deprive our 
great men of their merit A man must make one 
or two experiments before he finds out his consti¬ 
tution. A man of spirit and mettle makes the ex¬ 
periment, tries himself, and runs the risk, as a sol¬ 
dier does on the field. A soul is required to make 
uHe of the body, but a great man must have a body 
as well as a soul to work with. Charles Builer, Sir 
William Molesworth, aud others, are instances of 
men whose bodies refused to support their bouIs, 
and were therefore obliged to give up the prize 
when they had just reached it. And how many 
hundreds or thousands—if one did but know them 
—perish in an earlier stage, before they have made 
any way at all, simply because, though they had 
splendid minds, they had very poor bodies! Let 
our lean, cadaveronB friend, then, when the laurel 
surmounts his knotty parohment face, thank 
Heaven for his body, which, he may depend upon 
it, is almost as great a treasure as hia soul. Na¬ 
ture may not have made him a handsome man, but 
what does that signify? She has made him a strong 
one .—Lot don Times. 
RIVERS AND MEN. 
“All rivers, small or large, agree in one charac¬ 
ter, they like to leau a little on one Bide; theycan- 
not bear to have their channels deepest in the 
middle, but will always, if they can, have one bank 
to sun themselves upon, and another to get cool 
under; one shingley shore to play over, where 
they may be shallow, and shore foolish, and child¬ 
like, and another steep under which they can 
pause, an d purify themselves, and get their strength 
of waves fully together for due occasion. 
Rivers in this way are just like wise men, who 
keep one side of their life for play and another for 
work, and can be brilliant, and chattering, and 
transparent, when they are at ease, and yet take 
deep counsel on the other side when they set 
themselves to their main purpose. Aud rivers are 
Justin this divided, also, like wicked and good 
men: the good rivers have serviceable deep places 
all along their banks, that ships can sail in; but. 
the wicked rivers go scooping irregularly under 
their banka until they get fall of straggling ed¬ 
dies, which no boat can row over without being 
twisted against the rocks; aud pools like wells, 
which no one can get out of but the water kelpie 
that lives at the bottom; but, wicked or good, the 
rivers all agree in having two kinds of sides.— 
Ruskin. t 
--4—-♦>- 
There is a closer bond than that of a common 
pulse; the bond woven of identical associations. 
The same trees to dream under, tho same hearth 
to creep to; the same wood to be sprinkled with 
rainbows; tbe 6ame meadow for the birds and ber¬ 
ries, and the same brook for the angling; the 
same burial-place for the dead; tho like sweet 
faith for the living —these are tho things that make 
that saying true:—“ Better 1 h a friend that is near, 
than a brother afar off.” And in that possession 
of a common past, there Is a partnership of heart 
that is never silent, and never dissolved; a senti¬ 
ment that gives to “we” and to “ours” a bright 
and warm significance—bright and warm, even as 
the sun of a sweet morning iu May. 
- - -- 
Language is the amber in which a thousand 
precious and subtle thoughts have been safely 
embedded and preserved. It has arrested ten 
thousand lightning flashes of genius, which, unless 
fixed and arrested, might have been as bright, but 
would have also been as quickly passing aud per¬ 
ishing as the lightning.— Trench. 
4 «» —- 
One should be silent, or give utterance to such 
thoughts as are better worth thau silence. Throw 
a stone at hazard rather than an idle aud useless 
word; and never say little in many words, but in 
few words say much. 
