those lost ones listen for the coming of our feet, 
and oh, how gladly will they catch the first 
sound of our approach. As soon as the cold, 
dark waters begin to ripple around our feet they 
will, with our Savior, stretch their arms from 
the farther side to welcome ns home. And such 
a home; no war, no parting, no sin, but Christ 
and love. 
On the top of the hill I found another burial 
place of our boys, while the opposite side con¬ 
tained those who fell in the cause of the rebel¬ 
lion. ‘‘ Death is the great leveler.” Asyetuo 
marble marks the resting place of our soldiers, 
but the records are kept by the number of the 
grave, so they can be easily found. I hope 
some one will move soon in this matter, and 
have appropriate head-boards placed at each 
grave. No soldiers are here to bury their com¬ 
rades, but they are very well interred. 
After viewing these all I wished I returned 
to the other part of the Cemetery. No descrip¬ 
tion I could give of this would furnish one with 
anything like an idea of its beauty and grandeur. 
I have never seen its equal anywhere. I think 
about seventy-five acres have been taken up 
and decorated, and there are one hundred more 
to be cultivated. The ground, originally very 
broken, has been made to assume circular forms 
to a great extent, and the most costly ornament¬ 
ing in the world has been brought to add to the 
beauty of the scenery. It is laid out with 
“poetical irregularity," no attention being paid 
to points of compass. 
Quite a number of vaults are in various parts 
of the Cemetery, some very costly, I noticed 
in one, a coffin, covered with a very rich spread, 
bearing the name of “William Courtland 
Prentice,” who fell while lighting against his 
country. He was a son of Gko. D. Prentice, 
editor of the Louisville Journal, 
Three epitaphs I thought worth copying. 
The first on the tomb of a young bride: 
“ Gone ere the bridal wreath she wore 
Had lost the freshness of its bloom; 
Rat her dear imago evermore 
Lies in my heart,—not in the tomb.” 
The next on a child aged ten months: 
“ She tasted of Life's bitter cop, 
Refused to drink the potion np, 
But turned her little head aside. 
Disgusted with the draught, ana died ” 
The other on the grave of a father :—'“Forth 
qui prv.dens." 
At 4 P. M. I bade adieu to this hallowed spot, 
and taking the public highway, found myself 
safe home before dark, somewhat tired, but 
fully satisfied with my days rambles. 
J. P. Bates. 
Brown (U. S.) Hospital, Louisville, Ky., 1804- 
draught at last. Then he called for Wisdom; 
there was a long distance between us, for I had 
yearned over him and been grieved away by 
his bitterness; but the Savior bade me return, 
for it is written, ‘He that asketh. receiveth; 
and to him that knocked), it shall be opened.'" 
Pleasure, —“Yes, I know you have stolen 
many, by your wariness, from my crowded 
rauks: but never mind, they were not my best, 
most loyal subjects.” 
Wisdom. —“ Ah, Pleasure: once they adored 
you with all the fidelity a subject could feel for 
his sovereign. Anciently, there was a wealthy 
king—he drank from every dazzling cup thou 
did'st offer him; but he was not satisfied; all 
the rivers run into the sea. yet the sea is not 
full. Said he, ‘ Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. 
This have 1 proved by Wisdom.—her words are 
more precious than rubies, aye, than the mer¬ 
chandise of gold or silver,’ ” 
Pleasure (turning toward the orphan.)—“ She 
wrongs me. She has ever done this. She has 
ever followed on my track, repeating the self¬ 
same cant,; I warn thee not to follow her. I 
should weep to see thee, with all thy charms— 
charms which in my court might sway as the 
moon-power sways the sea—make the sacrifice 
she demands of you." 
Uisdonn—“Pleasure, would you have her 
forget the dying counsels of her sainted moth¬ 
er?” 
Pleasure .—“The dying are not to judge of 
our starry walks.” 
Wisdom .—“ But all must die.” 
Pleasure .—“I was talking of life, of its glo¬ 
rious. sun-bright paths. Wealth and Fame 
point to them—they beckon on their votaries as 
with a magic wand, aud ere long, those vota¬ 
ries, yet unsatisfied, bringing the gifts they have 
gained, enter my dominions, bow at my throne, 
where golden tablets bear the inscriptions,— 
Mirth, Joy and Happiness. Come, Orphan, 
shall I not now write your name?” 
Pleasure had such a captivating manner, her 
beauty was so bewildering, so dazzling, that 
the poor, lone orphan longed to sav, “I will go 
with thee.” But ‘Wisdom's voice had sweeter 
accent-, and more winning — her brow was 
purer, and her promises had greater worth; 
then, in the book she carried, was written her 
own mother’s name. 
Orphan.—" I will tell thee to-morrow if thou 
mayest write my name thereon, Pleasure." 
Pleasure. —“Bemember, Orphan, that lor five, 
ten or twenty years thou mayest follow me, and 
then, if it please thee, turn to Wisdom.” 
Pleasure is called out, — the orphan's face 
brightens. 
Orphan .—“ Can I do so, Wisdom?" 
Wisdom. — “ The promise is, ‘They that seek 
me early shall*find me.’ ‘Note is the accepted 
time.’ ” 
Orjrfian .—“Pleasure has beautiful garments, 
hasn’t she ? 1 wonder not that men bow to her, 
that they love and worship her.” 
Wisdom.— u Yes. she is brilliant and fascina¬ 
ting; but. Orphan, (and Wisdom’s tones grow 
tender—she lays her fair hand upon the child's 
head,) there is joy that at the last turneth to 
sorrow, aye, it biteth like a serpent, it stingeth 
like an adder.” 
Oiphan. —“ And my mother’s name is written 
in your book—and she wished me, too, to follow 
you?” 
Wisdom.—“ Those, my child, were her last 
words—and wilt thou not heed them? My 
ways are ways of pleasantness: my paths are 
paths of peace.” 
Orphan.—" Where do thy paths begin, oh 
Wisdom?” 
Wisdom.— “The fear of the Lord is the be¬ 
ginning of wisdom; if any lack wisdom let him 
ask of GOD, who giveth liberally and upbraid- 
eth none. Worthy is the Lamb that was slain 
to receive wisdom aud glory.” 
Together they sing— 
“ There is ft fountain filled with blood, 
Drawn from Immanuel’s veins; 
And sinners plunged beneath that fiood, 
Lose all their guilty stains. 
“ The dying thief rejoiced to see 
That fountain In his day; 
And there may 1, though vile as he, 
Wash all my sins away.” 
Orphan .—“ Oh, Wisdom, I will follow thee. 
A still, small voice is whispering, ‘This is the 
way, walk ye in it,’—and Wisdom, I almost feel 
that the starry eyes of my mother are gazing 
lovingly and approvingly upon me.” 
Agaiu they sing: 
“ And when this feeble, faltering tongue 
Lies silent in the grave, 
Then, in a nobler, sweeter song, 
I’ll sing tby power to save.” 
JOY COMETH IN THE MORNING, 
HY WILLIAM CULLEN BUY ANT 
BY O. W. HOLMES 
BY ALICE CAREY 
On, deem not they are blest alone 
Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep; 
For Gon, who pities man, hath shown 
A blessing for the eyes that weep. 
The light of smiles shall fill again 
The lids that overflow with tears; 
And weary hours of woe and pain 
Are promises of happier years. 
There is a day of sunny rest 
For every dark and troubled night, 
Aud grief may hide an evening guest, 
But joy shall come with early light 
Nor let the good man's trust depart, 
Though life its common gifts deny, 
Though with a pierced and broken heart, 
The spumed of men, he goes to die- 
For God has marked each sorrowing day 
And numbered every secret tear, 
And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay 
For all His children suffer here 
The folks that, on the first of May, 
Wore winter coats and hose, 
Beuuti to say. the first <>f June, 
*• Good Lord' Low hot it grows!” 
At. last two Fahrenhcits blew up, 
And killed two children small. 
And one thermometer shot dead 
A tutor with its ball 
Now all day long the locust sings 
Among the leafless trees; 
Three new hotels warped inside out; 
The pumps could only wheeze; 
And ripe old wine, that twenty years 
Had cobwebhed o'er in vain, 
Came spouting through the rotten corks, 
Like July's best Champagne! 
Tae Worcester locomotives did 
Their trips in half an hour: 
The Lowell cars run forty miles 
Before they checked the power; 
Roil-brimstone soon became a drug, 
And locofocos fell; 
All asked for ice; but everywhere t 
Saltpetre was to sell 
Plump men, of mornings, ordered tights; 
But, ere the scorching noons, 
Their candle moulds had grown as loose 
As Cossack pantaloons! 
The dog* ran mad—men could not try 
If water they would choose; 
A horse fell dead—he only left 
Four rod hot, bunting shoes! 
But soon the people could ndt boar 
Tbc slightest bint of fire: 
Allusion? tn caloric drew 
A flood of savage ire; 
The leaves cm heat were all torn out 
From every book at school, 
And many blackguards kicked and caned, 
Because they said—“ Keep cool I ” 
The gas-light companies were mobbed; 
The bakers all were shot; 
The penny press began to talk 
Of lynching Doctor Nott; 
And all about the warehouse steps, 
Were hungry men in droves, 
Crashing and splintering through the doors 
To smash the patent stoics! 
The abolition men and maids 
Were tunned to each a hue. 
You scarce could tell them from their friends, 
Unless their eyes were blue- 
And when 1 left, society 
Had burst its ancient guards, 
And Brattle street and Temple Place 
Were interchanging cards. 
When spring-time prospers in the grass, 
And fills the vales with lender bloom, 
And light winds whisper ns they pass 
Of Summer days to come: 
In spite of all the joy she brings 
To flood and field, to hill and grove, 
This is the song my spirit sings— 
More light, more life, more love: 
And when, her time fulfilled, she goes 
So gently from her vernal place, 
And meadows wide and woodland glows 
With sober summer grace: 
When on the stalk the ear is set. 
With all the harvest promise bright, 
My spirit sings the old song yet— 
More love, more life, more light ! 
When stubble takes the place of grain, 
An d shrunken streams steal slow along, 
And all the faded woods complain 
Like one who suffers some great wrong: 
When fires ate lit, and everywhere 
The pleasures of the household rife, 
My song is solemnized to prayer— 
More love, more light, more life! 
REACH OUT FOR HEAVEN. 
You long for the bread of God to come down 
from heaven, and give you life such as the 
angels enjoy, do you ? Y'ou long for a warmer, 
tenderer, more unselfish, and sympathetic heart, 
for more of true neighborly love, do jou ? Y r ou 
yearn for it and pray for it. Then go out of 
yourself, and try to live for others. Try to do 
something to dissipate the darkness, to lessen 
the burdeus, to alleviate the sorrows, to multiply 
the joys, to smooth the rugged pathway of some 
neighbor. Try to extract some rankling thorn, 
or to pour a lit tie oil and wine into some bruised 
and wounded soul. 
Seek out some friendless and needy object, on 
whom to bestow your sympathy, your gener¬ 
osity, your offers of kindness. And you need 
not go far; such objects exist in scores all around 
you—objects needing sympathy and comfort, if 
not material aid. Do this, and see how your 
cold aud hard-hearted selfishness will begin to 
diminish, and your neighborly love to increase! 
See how the windows of heaven will be opened 
within you, aud your before waste and barren 
soul begin to be flooded with the gracious out¬ 
pourings of love from on high! It is the out¬ 
goings of our own thoughts and feeling, with 
intent to bless, that cause the plentiful incom¬ 
ings of the divine love aud mercy, agreeable 
to that divine declaration, “ Give and it shall 
be given unto you.”— lielujious Magazine . 
No earthly friend can fill a mother's place, 
When the dear one is with ns here no more; 
No smile so sweet, so loving to the core, 
As those which beamed upon that faithful face, 
Reflecting every meek, angelic grace: 
No words so kind, so potent to restore 
Joy to the soni, where sadness ruled before, 
As hers, who held us in her warm embrace, 
But when the vesture visible to sight 
Has worn away, to set the spirit free. 
Then we behold those looks of love aud light 
In fadeless lines impressed on memory; 
And feel that but one mother e'er is given 
To guard ns here below, or guide the way to Heaven. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
THE ORPHAN GIRL. 
An orphan girl, sitting alone in a cheerless 
room, soliloquises thus:—“Oh, God! why am 
I left alone! 
“Alone! i hat worn out word, 
So idly spoken and so coldly heard; 
Yet all that poets Sing, and grief hath known, 
Of hope laid waste, knells in that worst—alone.” 
“Who, oh Father, are the orphan’s true 
friends? My mother—if she could have lived; 
and yet, they have told me ‘Thou doest all 
things wellhelp me to believe as they say of 
Thee, though I sit in darkness and alone—to 
commit my ways into Thy hands; ab, those are 
the words my mother spake so often—‘ Into 
Thy hands will I commit my ways.’ " 
A bright, fanciful figure enters; her jewels 
sparkle and her smiles have almost the bright¬ 
ness of diamonds—Pleasure is her name. 
Pleasure. — “Commit tby ways unto me, 
beautiful girl! I will lead thee in gilded paths; 
I, and the bright-robed train who follow me, 
dwell in the halls of joy. We are glad all the 
day long. Fling your sorrows to the winds— 
you are not made to mourn hut to rejoice; do as 
I bid you, and life will be a long and a happy 
holiday. Men shall bow at your feet in adora¬ 
tion, for there isn’t a soul of them but worship 
beauty. 1 will teach you what graces to culti¬ 
vate and-” 
Enter Wisdom. A star glitters on her fore¬ 
head, and a heaven-like radiance mantles her 
features—her tones are sweet, persuasive and 
winning. 
Wisdom.—' “ Orphan child, commit thy ways 
to me—thou art sorrowful; I carry a balm for 
every earthly sorrow. Thou art friendless; I 
will point tliee to Him who never forsakes. 
Many weary feet have I guided through life's 
varied paths—sometimes in the desert, some¬ 
times beside bitter waters, and sometimes under 
brightest skies — guided them to the Golden 
City, the New Jerusalem. This is my mission, 
I say it reverently, to win jewels for His crown; 
(pointing her finger upward and holding up a 
small book;) shall I not write your name among 
those thither bound y One of these leaves 
bears your mother’s name. She chose me as 
her guide, and when we came to the narrow 
stream that divided us from the temple, when 
we separated, she to enter the presence of the 
Glorified and I to go on with my earth-work, 
‘Oh,’ said she, with such imploring earnest¬ 
ness, ‘remember my child—teach her as you 
have taught me;’ and, maiden, I have come. 
Shall it be in vain?—I trust not, hope not.” 
Orphan.—“ Hast thou my mother's name?— 
Oh, Wisdom!” 
Pleasure. —“I too, have your mother’s uamc ( 
Orphan—now let me have yours. Only see this 
scroll! Here are the names of the gifted, the 
witty, ami the beautiful; now, little maiden, let 
me write down yours.” 
Orphan.—' “ I dare not tell you, Pleasure—I 
am in a strait betwixt two. Y’ou say you have 
my mother’s name ?” 
Wisdom.—" Pleasure, 1 must be honest. Or¬ 
phan, your mother gave her early days to mirth 
and vanity; she said, ‘ I will do whatsoever 
seemeth good in mine own eyes;’ but before 
very long she grew weary—she had sorrows, 
aud no consolation for them. Pleasure had not 
an antidote for earthly ills.” 
Pleasure. — “ Wisdom, she fell in company 
with a prosy youth, and could not withstand 
what she called his fascinations.” 
Wisdom.—' “Y’es, but that youth was once 
your worshipper; he said in his heart, ‘I will 
prove thee with mirth—I will not keep from 
thee any good thing;’ hut he had a bitter 
SHORN OF STRENGTH. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
HOSPITAL SKETCHES.-NO. V 
A New York correspondent of a Boston 
paper talks as follows of men whose names are 
familiar to the public: 
Men will grow old—some by age, some by 
care, some by premature decay, brought on by 
exposure, toil or dissipation. Man can live 
fast, financially and physically; in either case 
bankruptcy comes. 1 saw a crowd on the steps 
of the Astor yesterday. They were watching 
the attempt of the great pugilist, Tom Hyer, to 
ascend into the house. Ills tall form was bent 
by disease; bis once firm step tottered: his 
great strength had departed. With crutches, 
aud the aid of the strong arm of a friend, he 
slowly and with anguish took one step ut a time, 
as an infant would go up. It was gall aud bit¬ 
terness to him to east his eyes around on that 
crowd, and see how unlike their greeting was 
to the crowd that cheered him on in his great 
tight with Sullivan. By a singular coincidence, 
Morrissey came along. But how unlike Hyer. 
Morrissey is n professed gambler. It is his 
trade. He has taken care of himself and keeps 
within bounds. He is temperate, for his calling 
demands it. Hu dresses in elegant taste—is full 
jeweled—aud would pass for a well-to-do banker 
with the upper ten; or as a Professor in a col¬ 
lege. Morrissey has taken Saratoga under his 
special charge, and intends to drive this year a 
larger business than he did the last. He has 
taken his headquarters already, and with an 
elegant exterior, smart address, cool and adroit 
habits, he will allure into his embrace many of 
our youth, and semi the curse into many homes 
in the form of ruined but once manly sons. 
As Hyer was attempting logo up the steps a 
man sought a more quiet entrance on one side of 
the crowd. It was N. P. Willis. “Time has 
laid his hand visibly on you, my gay friend,” I 
said to myself. He needed t.bo aid of a cane to 
help him up. The lithe and smart step faltered 
in its upward movement. The auburn locks, 
still curly, were grizzled; his face was thin and 
beard gray, as one in the scar and yellow leaf of 
life. Few would have recognized in the feeble 
and slender invalid the nervous, hilarious man 
of twenty years ago. lie cast a sad look on the 
crowd, and the pugilist broken down in middle 
life, and passed on. The group was not com¬ 
plete. Passing along the pavement was Com¬ 
modore Vanderbilt. Till recently he had been 
among our most vigorous men. Age seemed to 
have no effect upon Mm. His body was iron, 
his nerves steel. Old in years, his step was 
elastic. His hair was white as snow, hut his 
intellect sharp aud vigorous. Ills form slim as 
a youth of nineteen, hut erect as a Mohawk 
warrior. Some months ago he was thrown 
from his wagon. That fall did the work ol 
years on Ills system He walks and looks the 
old man, his step is languid, aud that touch 
which none can parry, aud all must obey, is 
his. Such is life. 
There is a k.ind of dialogue between ono 
Doctor Tliaulerns, and a poor man that lay beg¬ 
ging by the bighwayside. “Good morrow, poor 
man,” said the doctor. “I never had any bad 
morrow,” said the beggar. “No!” said the 
doctor; “ thou art a miserable poor man; thou 
art as good as naked, without any clothes on thy 
back; no friends, nor any one to relieve thee. 
How can it then be true that thou gayest, ‘Thou 
never hadst any had morow ?’ •” “ I'll tell you,” 
says the beggar. “'Whether I am siek or in 
health, whether it be warm or cold weather, 
whether I be clothed or naked, rich or poor, 
I bless God for all.” “Oh, but friend,” said 
the doctor. “ what if Christ should cast thee into 
hell?” 
“ If he should,” says he, “ I would be con¬ 
tented; but I have two arms—the one of faith, 
the other of love—wherewith I would lay such 
fast hold ol Him, that I would have Him along 
with me, and then I am sure that hell would be 
heaven if lie were there." And thus it is that 
we should bless God at all times, iu ail places, 
upon all occasions, and in all conditions, as well 
for years of dearth as years of plenty; times o 
war, as well a» times of peace; for adversity as 
well as prosperity; in richness and in health, in 
weal and in woe, in liberty and restraint, 
whether it be that the Lord giveth, or whether 
He taketb away, still to bless the name of the 
Lord. 
Sometimes the incidents of a day form a 
page iu the history cu one's life worth record¬ 
ing: sol will give mine for yesterday, and let 
you be the judge of their worth. 
At ten minutes before nine, armed with the 
requisite pass, I left “ Brown ” to view a por¬ 
tion of the outer world. Light clouds partially 
obscured the sun, and the brisk breeze sent a 
fresh glow ol health over all animal life. 
Mounting the summit in front of our hospital, 
an extended and beautiful landscape presented 
inself to view. In front was the city of Louis¬ 
ville, to the right a level tract of country ex¬ 
tending to the river, and dotted over with farm¬ 
houses: while on the left the rolling land pre¬ 
vented a very extended view. 
Belying on my knowledge of geography, I 
soon left the pike and took my way cross-lots. 
After climbing fences, jumping ditches, looking 
sharp at dogs, Ac,, for an hour, I came to a 
German Cemetery, the most of the headstones 
bearing the cross and “I. H. S.” underneath. 
(I. H. In hoc sirjno,—" By this "—the cross 
—“we conquer.”) Passing this, I soon saw a 
Dutchman, and inquired the distance to the 
next pike. 
“ About a mile; but you can't get there, for 
there is a creek," was the reply. 
Soldiers “don’t Yraid easy,” so I kept on my 
way, and sure enough soon found a brook some 
twenty feet wide and considerably deep, besides 
the mud. J ust above was a fence, and then I 
found a picket flood-gate, which I mounted, at 
the risk of a ducking, and was soon safely 
across. 
From the top of the next hill I could see the 
object of my search, so I hastened on, and after 
one hour ayd a half walking I came to the 
“City of the Dead” known as “Cave llill 
Cemetery." Here 1 was quite abruptly told 
that I could not cuter without a “permit,” and 
that I should have to go to the city for that. 
Determined not to give up so, 1 started for the 
city, and had no trouble in linding wbat I 
needed.—only about two miles and back to 
walk,—and so, at twenty minutes before twelve, 
1 was back ami admitted. 
As far as one can see back from the road 
there are no graves, -a broad, graveled street, 
lined with evergreen trees and grass, consti¬ 
tutes the front. At about sixty rods back the 
street branches, and we begin to find the last 
resting place of many of our fellow beings. 
Passing around to the ieltonthe brow of the 
hill, to near the further side of that part which 
was ornamented, I discovered on the uext hill, 
lying in the form of au arc around its brow, 
long lines of equal mounds, and my heart told 
me at once that there reposed our brave boys 
“fallen in defense of their country.” 
Solemnly and reverently I walked among 
those graves, for I felt that many hopes, joys 
and recollections were buried there. How 
many wives, sisters and lovers would be glad of 
the opportunity to visit this sacred place, ren¬ 
dered doubly dear to thorn now that their loved 
ones rest here. Yet not here, for though no 
sound comes back from the “ echoless shore,” 
THE DIVINE DECREES. 
Then we shall easily be lead into this Scrip¬ 
tural hypothesis of the divine decrees, viz., 
that as He decreed from all eternity to send 
11 is Sou to be the Savior of the world, so He 
then also determined that as many as should 
believe on Him should be saved, and such 
as did not should be damned; and then, if we 
should find it to follow, from the nature o 
God’s omniscience, that He must foreknow the 
individual persons that shall be saved or damned • 
or, from the nature of Ms determinations, tha 
only such and no others can be saved—namely, 
those lie hath decreed to it; yet then it will be 
evidently to no purpose to gaze up to God's de¬ 
crees; for then, whatever had been written in 
the archives of heaven, it is certain it cannot 
contradict this — that if I believe and repent, 
and become a good and holy man, I shall be 
saved, or otherwise 1 shall be damned; and then 
all is plain before me, for in this ease I have 
nothing further to do but make use of the means 
of grace which God affords me, and to look into 
my own heart aud life for my evidences of 
heaven.—[ Goodman . 
■Woman’s Work Enlarged ny the War. 
—The social condition of woman is being influ¬ 
enced by oar civil, w ar, to a larger extent than 
is generally supposed. .Silently and impercepti¬ 
bly, and also rapidly and surely, a revolution 
is being effected which seems destined to accom¬ 
plish the work of years in a few months, and 
produce an important and lasting change in all 
the relations of society. The w ithdrawal dur¬ 
ing the last three years of a million and a half 
of men from industrial pursuits, lias produced a 
deficiency in the labor market which for some 
time past, has been gradually supplied by 
females. By this means new channels of busi¬ 
ness and industry have been opened to them, 
which have been hitherto closed. The change 
is also hastened by the various trades combina¬ 
tions and the increase of wages, which makes it 
the interest of employers to seek other sources 
to supply the demand for laborers. 
“ On, how 1 long for that blessed moment, 
when this poor, unworthy creature, the last and 
least of all my Master’s servants, shall be called 
to put off this load of sin and corruption, aud to 
mingle with that harmonious host above, doing 
homage with them in the blessed presence of 
my glorious Lord!’ '—Awj usti ne. 
Hofk. —I cannot remember a night so dark as 
to have hindered the approach of coming day, 
nor a storm so furious or dreadful as to prevent 
the return of warm sunshine and a cloudless 
sky .—John Brown. 
The Golden Rule for a young lady is, to con¬ 
verse with your female friends as if a gentle¬ 
man were present; and with young men as if 
your female companions w'ere present. We’Ll 
warrant it to be chaste and becoming. 
Crosses and Afflictions are 
to examine our hearts and our lives, 
