SALA ON AMERICAN HOSPITALITY. 
ments, as tbeir tastes should dictate or fashion 
demand; but I should insist on two points to be 
always observed in their general costume, 
namely:—long hair, confined or not, and warm, 
loose pants confined at the ancle by a band. I 
hope to see this subject agitated until not a yard 
of cotton (to say nothing of silk or other costly 
fabrics, i shall sweep the universe except in the 
shape of mops. ^ RS - S>utu. 
Saltfleet, C. W.. ISM. 
Once let the Americans really know who 
and what you are, and they welcome you with 
open arms. Their houses, their horses, their 
carriages, their servants, all are at your dispo¬ 
sal, not metaphorically, as the Spaniards offer 
them, hut actually or entirely. They will dine 
you, they will breakfast you, they will sup you, 
and when there is nothing legitimate in the 
way of eating and drinking going on, they will 
press you to have oysters. They will give you, 
if you allow them, a great deal more chatn- 
paigne, Madeira, Scotch ale and Bourbon whis¬ 
ky, than is good for you. If you are a teeto¬ 
taler, they will send you a dozen of Congress 
water or effervescing sarsaparilla. If you con¬ 
fess yourself a smoker, they will cram your 
pockets with Havanas, or send you a box of 
imperials almost as long and as strong as pokers. 
Admire an American author, and you will find 
his works, handsomely bound, on your tabic 
when you return home. I happened to men¬ 
tion the other day that, intending to look in at 
Havana on my way to New Orleans, I thought 
I might as well get up a little Spanish, forth¬ 
with a copy of Ollendorf’s Spanish grammar 
was sent to me. They will insist on paying 
your hackney coach, your omnibus and ferry 
fare; and I positively believe that were 1 mean 
enough to ask, I could find a dozen friends who 
would pay my hotel bill. 
That which they do to strangers, the Ameri¬ 
cans are not slow t£ do among themselves. A 
gentleman of mature years informed me lately 
that his uncle had sent him a thousand dollars 
as a new year's gift. Any person of good 
means, with a house of his own, is sure to have 
from six to a dozen nephews, neices and cous¬ 
ins, staying with him for months at a time. I 
never knew such a people for having cousins, 
particularly females, and pretty. Ten to one, 
also, you will find an adopted child in every 
other family. When an American fails in busi¬ 
ness—and most of them fail at one time or an¬ 
other—he is sure, if he be at all a decent kind 
of a man, to find friends who will not only 
“loan," but give him mouey to start afresh. 
And pray let me say, that it would be doing a 
cruel and shameful wrong to this people, to 
assume that their hospitality toward the stran¬ 
gers within their gates is dictated by a vulgar 
spirit of ostentation. That there are vnlga- 
rious, and “stuck up," and ostentatious folks in 
the Union, is clear enough; but their great 
heart in respect to the sacred duty of hospital¬ 
ity is sound; and in the performance of that 
duty they beat the English, and the Irish, and 
the Russians, which is saying a good deal. In 
France, you know, you get little but sugar ami 
water out of your friends, in Germany nothing 
hut smoke, and in Italy there are some grand 
houses where you can only obtain supper by 
paying for it. In Spain you can get nothing to 
cat, because, beyond eggs and chocolate, and 
garlic, there i> nothing to eat. But in the Uni¬ 
ted States you may ruin your digestive organs 
for nothing in a fortnight. If the oysters and 
the canvas-back ducks don’t give you dyspepsia, 
the eternal ice cream- and eaudied sweetmeats 
will; and, when you fall sick, you will find 
plenty of kind friends to press Hostetler's and 
Drake’s Plantation bitters, as curatives, on your 
acceptance. 
All this is done in sheer, bounteous generosity 
and kindness of heart. Not a vapid tourist 
lands in New York—with letters, always be it 
understood—not a guardsman runs down from 
Canada, not a gun-room mess of a man-of-war 
comes into port, but the llood-gatcs of Ameri¬ 
can hospitality are opened. With all their real 
shrewdness and imputed cunning, the Ameri¬ 
cans are in many respects as frank, as simple, 
and as innocent as children. For that very 
reason are they to me a mystery, and a problem 
which I can never hope to solve. For, once 
having anything to do with them in business, 
you will find yourself in a “ tight place," and 
among your kind-hearted frieuds you will be- 
Writteu for Moore's Herat New-Yorker 
SUBMISSION. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
TO MY MIGNONETTE. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE UNFINISHED POEM. 
BY A. T. E. CLARKE 
BY EDITH 5! AY. 
BY KATE WOODLAND. 
INSCRIBED TO BROTHER 
On, when will my poem be finished? 
This beautiful poem of mine; 
Oh. how will my poem be finished? 
Only my God can divine. 
’Twas in tlic street past I commenced it, 
This beautiful poem of mine; 
Wedded love began every stanza, 
Wedded love was the close or each line. 
The measure was faultless and even, 
Which flowed in this beantiful rhyme; 
The feet which composed il were perfect, 
And fell with a musical chi mo. 
Oh, sweetly the days glided on ward, 
While I on my poem was bent, 
Unheeding the world and its splendor, 
With love and its blessings content. 
If poverty stood at my door way. 
And strove with her threats to affright, 
I bethought me at once of my poem, 
And quickly she sped from my sight. 
At length a new subject was given, 
To fill up ray poem of bliss. 
So fair the flowers might have envied,— 
So pure that the angels might kiss. 
Then I thought thnt there never was written 
A more beautiful poem than mine, 
And my heart, in a fervent thanksgiving, 
Went up to the Giver Divine. 
But, alas! oh, alas! for tnv poem, 
Death came to my love guarded door; 
I strove to prevent, but be entered,— 
The days of my poem were o'er. 
A frail little leaf, full of beauty, 
A chapter of infantile love. 
Is all I have left or the poem, 
Which angels are reading above. 
And now the stem prose of the soldier 
Is mine till my country is free; 
And if I should fall in her battles, 
The end of my poem would be. 
Sometimes I dare think of the future, 
When war's dreadful carnage shall cease, 
And I may resume the lone chapter, 
And finish my poem in peace. 
Yet, when trill my poem be finished— 
This beautirul poem of mine; 
And how will my poem be finished— 
Only my God can divine 
Van Bnren Co., Mich. 
Held in the future, there is, somewhere, lying, 
An hour to bring my heart unrealized bliss,— 
To give me joy for grief, and songs for sighing, 
For life, indeed, has not the ills of this. . 
Erewhile my heart has felt impassioned longing, 
To hasten to my joy awaiting there— 
To rise at once ’hove griefs to earth belonging; 
But now ray heart has strength to wait and bear. 
Our tender Christ to my low life supplying, 
The grace to wait and take the cup of gall, 
Has tu'en away my anguish and my sighing,— 
One hour of Heaven will soon atone for all I 
I liavo loved deeply, and with love unspoken; 
Could words of eaith reveal what I have Alt? 
But now my dreams are o'er, the spell is broken, 
Since at the fount of love divine I've knelt. 
Not that the loved ones are forgotten: never 
Can I Torget those whom on earth I've known; 
I shall love truly, better, and forever, 
When Heaven's great bliss Is on my spirit thrown. 
But. this low life has mocked my heart, denying 
Tts'sweet ideal In joy attained below; 
With satisfying good neaven is replying 
To all my erics from out the depths of woe. 
The seasons come and go; the blest reunion 
Is drawing near, to lie reality, 
Audgive me Christ, loved ones and sweet communion 
Go, earth and time; come, immortality! 
Wadham’a Mil!?, N. Y., ISM. 
Sweet, fav'rite flower, thy geutle fragrance, 
Stealing softly here, is like some fragrant zephyr 
Wafted from the balmy shores of heaven. 
O, I have loved to watch thy modest buds 
Unfolding, day by day, and, though 
Thou art not beautlTul—like many rich 
And gnyly colored flowers—to nr 
Thou'rt far more beautiful thau all; 
For, deep within thy tiny petals 
Dwells the richest fragrance that, day after day, 
From early spring till dreary autumn, 
Scatters on the ground thy withered leaves, 
Goes forth upon the wings of every breeze 
To cheer aud bless the heart, that, in 
Thy pale and tiny flower, and in thy sweet perfume— 
Thy modest goodness and thy gentle worth 
Cati see. To me thou seemest like a being 
Who, though not of perfect form, 
Or sparkling eve. or beauteous face possessed. 
Has deep within the inner chamber of the mind 
A mine of noble thought, a world of love, 
A heart to gentle offices of kindness given, 
A gentle, kind aud luring friend, 
Whose heart and hand is ever ready 
To relieve distress,—into whose ear 
The story of the poor and sorrowful 
Is never pouved in vain. 
And, while the world will " call him blessed ” 
Whene'er bis name is heard, within his heart 
There daily rises to his God an humble prayer 
Of purity, of thankfulness and love, , 
Like the sweet odor that ascends from thy mode3t bios 
, soms. 
Dear Mignonette! thou'st cheered my heart 
In many a lonely hour. 
I'll ever love thee while on earth I stay, 
And when I die will fondly hope 
That o'er my silent, lonely grave 
Thy sweetest fragrance may ascend. 
Grove Cottage, N. Y., 1864. 
THE ART CF "WIFE PRESERVING. 
A woman must make herself obvious to her 
husband, or lie will drift out beyond her hori¬ 
zon. She will be to him very nearly what she 
wills and works to be. Unless she adapts her¬ 
self to her husband, he will fall into the arrange¬ 
ment. and the two will fall apart. I do not 
mean that they will quarrel., but they will lead 
separate lives. They will lie no longer husband 
and wife. There will lie a domestic alliance, 
hut no marriage. A predominant interest in the 
same object binds them together after a lastaion; 
but marriage is something beyond that. 1/ a 
woman wishes and purposes to be the friend of 
her husband—if she would be valuable to him, 
not simply as the nurse of Ills children and the 
directress of his household, but as a woman, 
fresh, and fair, and fascinating, to him intrinsi¬ 
cally lovely and attractive, she should make an 
effort for it. It is not by any means a thing 
that comes of itself, or that can be left to itself. 
She must read, and observe, and think, aud reach 
up to it. Meu, as a general thing, will not tell 
you so. They talk about having the slippers 
ready, and enjoin woman to be domestic. But 
men are blockheads—dear, aud affectionate, and 
generous blockheads—benevolent, large-hearted 
and chivalrous — kind, and patient, and hard¬ 
working. hut stupid where women are con¬ 
cerned. Indispensable and delightful as they 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A CONVALESCENT’S THOUGHTS. 
If there is ever a time when the strongest 
will fed weak, when ice, frail mortals, realize 
that we are not independent, it is when pros¬ 
trated by sickness. As wasting disease attacks 
the physical frame — whether its approach be 
silent, and almost imperceptible, or sudden and 
terrible—whether torturing pain racks the 
trembling tenement to its very center, or scorch¬ 
ing fever’s raging fire quickens the pulse beat 
with fearful intensity—all alike will feel some¬ 
thing of that utter hopelessness and entire de¬ 
pendence which is sure to follow. Then the 
heart grows tenderly grateful for favors received, 
and we perceive with clearer vision the excel¬ 
lencies of friends and attendants, until every 
deed of kindness, every little act of love seems 
only to increase our debt of gratitude, and 
deepen our sense of obligation. 
‘Well, indeed, if the good resolutions formed 
at such au hour are remembered with returning 
health and strength, and rind expression in care¬ 
ful attention to the wants of the needy, and in 
tender ministrations to the relief and comfort of 
the alllicted around us. But there is still an¬ 
other thought which lias been so much upon 
the writer's mind during the weary hours of 
convalescence, that v. e maybe allowed to ex¬ 
press it here. It is this the comfort, the sweet 
consolation to be derived from having the mind 
well stored with the precious promises of Sacred 
Truth, which are as cold w ater to a thirsty soul; 
und with beautiful thoughts, the creations of 
gifted minds, these like our most valuable coin 
occupy but little space while they possess in¬ 
trinsic excellence. To enjoy this, however, the 
subject must receive attention in time of health, 
when it requires but little effort to commit to 
memory any select passage or even a choice poem, 
and the reward will be an hundred fold. 
The mind, in consequence of extreme weak¬ 
ness aud bodily suffering, loses its wonted vigor, 
so that close, continued thought he’cpmcs diffi¬ 
cult, if not absolutely impossible; then it is 
sweet, Indescribably sweet, to rest on such a 
sure support. When wearisome days and 
dreary nights are appointed unto us. when sleep 
flics from our pillow, and rest is a stranger to 
our couch, how soothing the reflection:—“ He 
glvetluhis beloved sleep." And when “tired 
nature's sweet restorer" blesses once more our 
drooping eyelids, it seems like a precious gift 
direct from a loving father'* hand; and while 
released from pain and suffering we remember 
with delight, “there is rest for the weary.” 
Yes, there is rest for the aged, toiling, careworn 
pilgirim as he draws 
“ Nearer the bounds of life, where we lay our burden's 
down, 
Nearer leaving the cross, nearer wearing the crown " 
There Is rest for the burdened, aching heart, 
bowed beneath a weight of guilt ami sorrow, 
for one who is able and willing to save has said, 
“ Come unto me all ye that labor aud are heavy 
laden, aud I will give you rest. Take my yoke 
upou you aud learn of me; for I am meek and 
lowly in heart; and ye shall fltul rest unto your 
souls.” Annie Ashley. 
Chenango Co., N. Y-, April, 1864. 
women actually find tuem, not one in ten mu- 
sand but makes a dunce of himself the moment 
he opens his mouth to theorize about women. 
Besides, they have au ax to grind. The pretty 
things they inculcate—slippers, and coffee, and 
care, and courtesy—ought indeed to be done, 
but others ought not to be left undone. And to 
the former, women seldom need to be exhorted. 
They take to them naturally. A great many 
more women follow poorisb husbands with tond 
little attentions than wound appreciative ones 
by neglect. Women domesticate themselves to 
death already. What they want is cultivation. 
They need to be stimulated to develop a large, 
comprehensive, catholic life, in which their do¬ 
mestic dntiessball have an appropriate niche, and 
not dwindle down to a narrow and servile one, 
over which those duties shall spread and occupy 
the whole space. 
There are women less foolish. They see their 
husbands attracted in other directions more 
easily than in theirs. They have too much 
sterling worth and profound faith to be vulgarly 
jealous. Theyffcar nothing like shame or crime; 
but they feel the fact that their own pre-occupa¬ 
tion with homely household duties precludes 
real companionship, the interchange of emo¬ 
tions, thoughts, sentiments, a living, palpable 
and vivid contact of mind Yvilh mind, of heart 
with heart. They see others whose leisure 
ministers to grace, accomplishments, piquancy 
ami attractiveness, and the moth flics towards 
the light by his own nature. Because he is a 
wise and virtuous and honorable moth, he does 
•hot dart into the flame. He does not even scorch 
his wings. He never thinks of sueh a thing. 
He merely circles around the pleasant light, 
sunning himself in it without much thought 
one way or another, only feeling that it is pleas¬ 
ant; but meanwhile Mrs. Moth sits at home in 
darkness, mending the children's clothes, which 
is not exhilarating. Many a woman who feels 
that she possesses her husband's affection, misses 
something. She does not secure his fervor, 
his admiration. His love is honest and solid, 
but a little dormant, and therefore dull. It docs 
not brace, and tone, aud stimulate. She wants 
not the love only, but the keenness and edge 
and flavor of the love, and she suffers untold 
pangs. I know it, for I have seen it. It is not 
a thing to he uttered. Most women do not emit 
it even to themselves; hut it is revealed by the 
lift of the eye-lash, by the quiver of the eye, by 
a tone of the voice, by a trick of the linger.— 
Gail Hamilton. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker, 
LABOR. THE "OPEN SESAME" 
How deeply the coloring of tales read in 
childhood tinges our after lives! It seems hut a 
few days since we believed in the reality of Cin¬ 
derella and her slipper, and were weeping 
over the tragedy of the “Babes in the 'Wood." 
What a great day that was in our history when 
exploration in a dim old garret brought to light 
a torn copy of the “Forty Thieves,” embel¬ 
lished with wood cuts of a highly vindictive 
character. No wonder we dreamed at night 
that we, too, were seeking to penetrate the rock 
wherein were gems and golden ore. 
Alas, for the brilliant visions of childhood! 
ITow soon the stem hand of Reality stamps au 
enduring impress upon buoyant hopes! We 
look back with unutterable longings to the joys 
of vanished years, till we long within ourselves 
to taste oblivion. There are times when we 
cast mournful tb f > lghts a-idc, and bend our en¬ 
ergies to the appointed task. Then, in our 
eagerness, we ask for aid, some magic touch or 
word that shall iffilockjto us the hidden treasure. 
There is something to meet this need, and 
Labor is our “open sesame!" To prove this, 
we have only to search for the means employed 
by those who have wrought out the greatest 
blessings for the world. It is Labor that has 
made our land the wonder of the earth, covering 
it with busy cities and towns, beautiful farms 
and thriving people. 
Look at yonder picture. Mark the blending 
of light and shade: how the somber background 
melts into the delicate tintings of the nearer 
view. After the dream of beauty flashed 
through the artist’s soul, it was no light task to 
show it unto others. It was the labor of long 
years. It is labor that gives us everything 
truly good and excellent. 
Shall we not, then, go forth, strong in our 
watchword, and while others look with longing 
upon our harvest, we will gather the sheaves of 
our own iudustrv ? 
"WTiat nobler undertaking can there be than of 
expanding our own powers by careful culture? 
and how can we more certainly effect our pur¬ 
pose than by smiting the rock with our “open 
sesame 1” We must lie content to labor long 
and earnestly, “ to labor and to wait.” Tills may 
sometimes be difficult; but, persevering, we 
shall surely enter in by the door our own hands 
have opened, and find our great reward. 
April, 1801. Dore Hamilton. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
WHEREWITHAL SHALL WE BE CLOTHED. 
I was much pleased with an article in the 
Rural (March 2fitb,) on hoop skirts, but 1 
should have been more so if so sensible a person, 
as the writer evidently is had told us what in 
her opinion) woman should wear. I can not 
think the former custom of wearing a half dozen 
skirts to make a figure to come up to the fasb- 
iouable standard, less objectionable as regards 
health. Then what are we to near? There 1- 
certainly a great need of a revolution in ladies’ 
clothing, especially farmer’s wives aud daugh¬ 
ters; aud I think it would have been effected 
long since, but that ladies of wealth and fashion 
have not felt it so much an encumbrance as they 
would if they were mechanically employed, and, 
as Faith Wayne says, but for its increasing 
their capacity to carry fantastic adornments; 
therefore the custom has beeome so prevalent 
and deeply rooted over most parts of the civil¬ 
ized world, that to dress in any thing but flow¬ 
ing robes is considered indelicate, unfeminine, 
bold, &c. 
Wbat a fuss was made over the Bloomer dress! 
How the dear press did deride and caricature it. 
and yet, (though not acquainted with all its de¬ 
tails except the short skirt and pantalettes.: it 
was a health-giving device, and the originator 
should be honored among mankand, aud held iu 
grateful remembrance by all posterity. 
I confess I eamiot do the subject the justice its 
magnitude merits: but I feel impelled to lift my 
voice in favor of a radical change. For years I 
have considered myself a slave to my dress, 
hoops or not; and if there is a farmer’s wife or 
daughter who has not felt the same inconven¬ 
ience in the performance of their domestic 
duties, from their skirts, they must be more of a 
philosopher thau I am. 
How many times a day do w r e go up stairs aud 
down cellar, each time carrying half of what w« 
otherwise could if we had not to carry our dress 
with one hand; and even then one will step on 
the dress sometimes, and then the ugly rent 
must be mended. It may do for those who hare 
nothing else to do to have the care and carry 
their swaddling clothes or hire others to do it, 
hut for us,—the working bees of this world — 
away with it; it is nothing but slavery to fash¬ 
ion as ancient as the Heathen Mythology, or 
more ancient still for what 1 know. 
I recently saw in a Hamilton, Canada West, 
paper an editorial {!) commenting on the ladles’ 
style of dress, and enumerating the different 
articles of gentlemen’s apparel the ladies’ had 
appi-opriated to themselves; and concluding with 
the fear that they next would be for confisca¬ 
ting the pants, and calling on gentlemen to 
resist, to the death, any such effort. Now, J 
have no doubt but this is the sentiment of most 
men; and this forces me to the conclusion that 
the gentlemen are afraid of losing this last ves¬ 
tige of their sovereignty—hence they arc enjoy¬ 
ing a distinction of authority they have no right 
to, else why care? But, gentlemen, we don’t 
want your pants, we only waut our own. We 
would like to be as conveniently and comfort¬ 
ably clad as yourselves, and I believe there are 
many ways to do so and still make a wide dis¬ 
tillation in the dress of the two sexes. 
If 1 were to name a fitting dress for woman 
in all the varied walks of life, I should give them 
as great latitude, in regard to their upper gur- 
THE ART OF WALKING. 
There was a glacief. It was the first I hnd 
seen. For years I had read everything that I 
oould lay my hands upon concerning glaciers; 
had followed Alpine travelers with an Interest 
scarcely less than that excited by Polar regions; 
had been an invisible and imaginary member of 
the Alpine Club, and explored with its most 
adventurous men the “ Peaks, Passes and Gla¬ 
cier* of the Alps," and yet had never seen one! 
There was a kind of mystery hung about them. 
They were clothed in my mind with au Inde¬ 
scribable interest. At length I beheld it. There 
It lay, of dazzling whiteness, so that I could 
scarcely look upon it. It seemed to be let down 
from the sky. The clouds darkened the valley 
where I stood. But they had opened, far up 
this valley to the left, and let through a blaze of 
light which kindled the snow to the most in¬ 
tense and dazzling radiance. I sat down in 
silence. I don’t know tears should have started. 
It wias not simply the picture that lay before 
me. It Was the A irring within, by that picture, 
of those subtle yearnings that never fall to rise 
in the presence of objects that bring near the 
conception of the Infinite and Eternal God. 
My inward vision was far beyond any outward 
seeing. I almost expected to hear an Apoca¬ 
lyptic voice, and to behold angels above it, as if 
this exceeding whiteness, lifted up against the 
far sky, could mean nothing else than the open¬ 
ing of the Gate of Heaven!— U. W, Beecher. 
Written for Moore’6 Rural New-Yorker. 
BONAPARTE AND THE SENTINEL. 
In a graceful human step the heel is always 
raised before the foot is lifted from the ground, 
as if the foot wore a part of a wheel rolling for¬ 
ward; aud the weight of the body, supported by 
the muscles of the calf of the leg, rests for the 
time on the fore part of the. foot and toes; there 
is then a bending of the foot in a certain degree. 
But when strong wooden shoes are used, or any 
shoe so stiff that it will not yield and allou 
the bending of the foot, the heel is not raised at 
all until the foot rises with it; so that the mus¬ 
cles of the calf are scarcely used, and iu conse¬ 
quence, soon dwindle in size and almost disappear. 
Many of the English hu m son ants Wear heavy, 
stiff shoes; and in London it is a striking thing 
to see the drivers of country wagons with tine 
robust persons hi the upper part, but with legs 
that are flesh less spindles, producing a gait 
which is awkward and unmanly. The brothers 
of these meu, who are otherwise employed, are 
not so misshapen. What a pity that, for sake of a 
trifling saving, fair nature should be thus deform¬ 
ed! An example of this kind is seen in Paris; 
where, as the streets have few or no side pave¬ 
ments, aud the ladles have to walk almost con¬ 
stantly on tip-toe, the great action of the muscles 
of the calf hasgiven a con formation of the leg and 
loot to match which the Parisian belles proudly 
challenge all the world—not aware, probably, 
that it is a defect iu their city to Which tlic pe¬ 
culiarity in their form is in part owing.— Bolero- 
tide American. 
Dear Editor: — Seeiug an account in the 
Home Journal of the pardoning by the Presi¬ 
dent of a young man sentenced lo be shot for 
sleeping at his post, reminded me of Napo¬ 
leon’s reproof to a soldier in like circumstances. 
Upon referring to it, I fouud it in French, 
which I have translated for the Rural readers, 
if you deem it worthy of insertion. 
“After having won the battle of Arcole, 
Yvhich had lasted for three days, Bonaparte, 
always untiring, walked around his camp 
dressed in simple garments—so that he was not 
known to be the General-in-Chief— to sec for 
himself, if, after the fatigues of three day’s 
works, so laborious as this battle, his soldiers 
still retained their discipline and their habitual 
care. 
The General found one sentinel sleeping. He 
carefully took his gun Mithout awakening him, 
and watched in his place. Pome moments aftor- 
wards the soldier awoke. Seeing himself thus 
disarmed, and recognizing his Genpral-in-Chief, 
he cried — “ I am lost! ” “ Take courage," said 
Bonaparte, to him, gently. “After so much 
fatigue, it may be permitted eucb a brave sol¬ 
dier as thou to fall asleep; but another time 
choose a better time for repose.” w. w. l. 
East Bethany, N. Y., April, 1861 
THOUGHT-GEMS. 
It is a Latin proverb that wc all have a pro¬ 
pensity to grasp forbidden fruit, and this is 
called perversity. 
We should have all our communications with 
men as in the presence of God; and with God 
as iu the presence of men.— Colton. 
Conscience makes a man a coward; a man 
cannot steal but it accugoth him; a man cannot 
swear but it checks him.— Shakspeare. 
The discovery of what is true, and the prac¬ 
tice of that which is good, arc the two most 
important objects of philosophy.— Voltaire. 
Cowley says:—“ To be a husbandman, is but 
a retreat from the city; to be a philosopher, 
from the world, as it is man’s; into the world, 
as it Is God’s.” 
If thou would’st be informed what God has 
written concerning thee in Heaveu, look into 
thine own bosom and see what gruces he hath 
wrought there, in thee.— Fuller. 
