GIVING JOY TO A CHILD. 
ed. “ Asleep in Jesus, 0 Low sweet,” and, 
professing her faith in that Saviour, was she 
not now with him? Away in the quiet church¬ 
yard we laid her, aud hands of love have plant¬ 
ed flowers upon her early grave. The world j 
moves on as though no shadows came so oft, as j 
though no open graves were waiting to receive 1 
our treasures, or none had closed over them, as 
though no flowers of love and affection were 
blooming upon the “ graves within out heart,’’ 
hut memory tends those buds and oft waters 
them with her tears, and when the past is re- j 
called, the life, the virtues the worth and early j 
death of our friend are not forgotten. 
Where or what was the morning sermon? 
The text J heard was those beautiful words, 
“ Blessed are the pure in heart.” The voice to 
which I listened seemed to have caught its mel¬ 
low accents from the harmony of Heaven, and 
wooed me to listen to the pleadings of love which 
are ever urging earth’s children to set their af¬ 
fections upon things above. No human voice 
Blessed be the hand that prepares a pleasure 
for a child, for there is no saying when and 
where it may again bloom forth. Does not 
almost everybody remember some kind-hearted 
man who showed him a kindness in the dulcet 
days of his childhood? The writer of this re¬ 
collects himself, at this moment, as a barefooted 
lad. standing at the wooden fence of a poor little 
garden in his native village, while with longing 
eyes he gazed on the flowers which were bloom¬ 
ing there quietly in the brightness of a Sunday 
morning. The possessor cume forth from his 
little cottage; he was a wood-cutter by trade, 
and spent the whole week at work in the woods. 
He had come into the garden to gather flowers 
to s^ick in ids coat when he went to church. 
He saw the boy, and breaking off the most 
beautiful of his carnations—it was streaked with 
red and white—he gave it to him. Neither 
the giver nor the receiver spoke a word, and 
with bounding steps the hoy ran home. And 
now here, at a vast distance from that home, 
after so many events of so many years, the feel¬ 
ing of gratitude which agitated the breast of 
that boy expresses Itself on paper. The carna¬ 
tion has long since withered, but it now blooms 
afresh. —Douglas Jerrold. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
W II E IV v 
THE WIFE OF A MAN OF GOLD, 
BY JEAN INGELOIY 
1 saw her to-day in a crowded street. 
On the ann of a man of gold; 
Still regally beautiful--sail as sweet— 
As she wits in the days of old. 
Yet Fashion swept brilliantly by unseen, 
The exquisite ogled in vain; 
No glance left the eyes of the splendid queen 
Unless loaded with cold disdain. 
A change has come over the lady then. 
A change which is travail of flames— 
She is sick of homage from brainless men, 
And the gossip of soulless dames- 
I marked the lint- on her dignified face— 
It was smoother a year ago; 
No eye save mine saw the terrible trace, 
Chiseled only by tears, I know. 
She lives in the house of a millionaire, 
In parlors with luxury glossed— 
There arc diamond pins that she may wear, 
There are dresses of royal cost; 
Rich jewels will rise at her sweet command, 
Her partner will never say nay; 
Yet she seems to shrink from the golden hand, 
Which she swore to love and obey. 
Perhaps she remembere the bygone years, 
When her home was poorer than now, 
When smiles were tne motors instead of tears, 
And comfort the victor of show; 
When the morning sun from the country skies, 
Softly fell on her sleeping lace, 
Instead of the blaze in her weary eyes, 
And the glare on Lor gown of lace 
Perhaps she remembers the bird’s clear song, 
Instead of the opera stall; 
Or the brook wher e she sat so oft and long, 
In love for its sliver fall. 
Perhaps she remembers the Slay-day danse, 
In the place of the midnight waltz, 
And the hand which fell over hers by chance, 
Rough, heavy and brown—not false- 
She may have the thought of the past, so sweet, 
When her heart and her hand were free— 
And thought of the man who fell at her feet 
’Neath the shade of an old oak tree. 
She thinks of a promise she made to one. 
Who was hers in the days of old. 
And she thicks of w hat she has lost and won, 
As she walks with the man of gold- 
I leaned out of window, I smelt -the white clover, 
Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; 
“Now, if there he footsteps, he come?, my one lover— 
Hush, nightingale, hush I O, sweet night ingale wait, 
Till I listen and bear 
II a step draweth near; 
For my love he is late! 
“ The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, 
A cluster of stare Panes like fruit in the tree, 
The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer: 
To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see? 
Let tho star-dusters glow, 
Let the sweet waters flow. 
And cross quickly to mu. 
“You night-moths that hover where honey brims over 
From sycamore blossoms, or settle or slpep; 
Yon glow-worms shine out, and the pathway discover 
To him that comes darkling along the rough steep 
Ah, r.iy sailor, make haste, 
For the lime runs to waste 
Aud my love lieth deep — 
“ Too deep for swill telling: and yet my one lover 
I’ve conned thee an answer, it waits thee to night.’’ 
By the sycamore passed he, and thro’ the white clover, 
Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight; 
But I’ll love him more, more 
Than e’er wire loved before, 
Be the day dark or bright 
When shall cea=e the restless beating 
Of my sad and aching ncrirt? 
When its dirges cease repeating, 
And its shadows lice apart' 
When shall hopes my bosom cherished, 
Bud and bloom in beauty bright? 
Dreams of hope, alas I have perished, 
Shrouded in the palt of night 
When shall music's fairy numbers 
With Its soft and holy flow 
Wake again the soul that slumbers,— 
Soothe the deep and hidden woe? 
When shall friends prove Cru>, tho’ sorrow 
Casts its shadows o’er my way ? 
When shall hope ol' fancy borrow 
Light to chase the gloom away ? 
When shall rest the Inne and weary 
With the cold and silent, dend? 
When from earth so sad and dreary 
Every joy for them hath tied. 
Cease my soul this vain repining— 
Seek enduring joys above; 
All thy cares to Him resigning 
Who hath saved thee by His Love. 
PERSONAL GOSSIP 
AN INCIDENT OF MARRIED LIFE. 
— We see it. announced that the degree of 
LL. D. was conferred on Geo. Wm. Curtis at 
the late commencement of the Madison Univer¬ 
sity. Mr. C. is a graduate of the Brown Uni¬ 
versity, and about thirty-six years of age. We 
do not sec how he is to be either honored or ben- 
etitted by this conferring; but a much better 
title has often been more unworthily bestowed. 
— George Francis Train is said to be as 
haudsomo a man as you will meet in a day’s 
travel — medium height, well and compactly 
built, large head, covered with black, curly 
hair, finely-cut features, and dark, piercing, in¬ 
telligent eyes; and always dressed in the latest 
Paris flash ion. He is a liberal, whole-souled 
fellow, as the world goes, fond of good wine and 
good company, operas and theatres, and high 
life generally. 
— George H. Pendleton, the Democratic 
candidate for Vice-President, is described as “a 
line-looking man. with dark hair, inclined to curl, 
dark, expressive eyes, a handsome face, well- 
rounded head generally, and set upon a well- 
formed trunk. It would be massive, were it 
not that it is in just proportion to the other 
parts of the body. He is about five feet nine or 
ten inches in height, and weighs probably one 
hundred and seventy pounds.” 
— A correspondent who shook hands 
with Mr. Lincoln on his visit to the Philadel¬ 
phia Fair, last summer, gives his experience 
of the President's grip:—This salutation is with 
him a popularity. It is not a pump-handle 
“shake” nor a twist nor a spasmodic motion 
from side to side, nor yet a reach toward the 
knee and a squeeze at arm’s length. When Mr. 
Lincoln preforms this rite it becomes a solemni¬ 
ty. A ghastly smile overspreads his peculiar 
countenance; then, after an instant’s pause he 
suddenly thrusts his “ flapper” at you as a sword 
is thrust in tierce; you feel your hand envel¬ 
oped as in a fleshy vice, a cold clamminess over¬ 
spreads your unfortunate digits: a corkscrew 
burrows its way from your finger nails to your 
shoulder, the smile disappears, and you know 
you are unshackled. You carefully count your 
fingers to see that none of them are missing, 
or that they have not become assimilated in 
a common mass, and wonder why Mr. Lin¬ 
coln does not put that V hand ” on the throat 
of the rebellion, instead of employing it in wri¬ 
ting proclamations. 
— The following amusing story is related of 
Mozart, the famous composer:— Haydn one 
day r challenged his pupil to compose a piece of 
music which he could not play at sight. Mo¬ 
zart accepted the banter, and a supper and 
champaign were to be the forfeit. Everything 
being arranged between the two composers, 
Mozart took his pen, and in live minutes 
dashed off a piece* of music, and much to the 
surprise of Haydn, handed it to him, saying, 
“ There Is a piece of music which you cannot 
play, and 1 can. You are to give it the first 
trial.” 
Haydn smiled contemptuously at the vis¬ 
ionary presumption of his pupil, and placing 
the notes before him struck the keys of the in¬ 
strument, Surprised at its simplicity, he 
dashed away until he reached the middle of 
the piece, when stopping all at once he ex¬ 
claimed— “How is this, Mozart? How is 
this? Here my hands are stretched out to both 
ends of the piano, aud yet there’s the middle 
key to be touched. Nobody can play such 
music; not even the composer himself. 
Mozart smiled at the half excited indigna¬ 
tion of the great master, and taklug the seat 
he had quitted, struck the instrument with such 
an air of assurance that Haydn began to think 
himself duped. Running along through the 
simple passages, he came to that part which his 
teacher pronounced impossible to be played. 
Mozart, as many are aware, was endowed 
with an extremely long nose, a prodigious nose, 
which, in modern dialect, “ stuck out a foot.” 
Reaching the difficult passage he stretched both 
hands to the extreme ends of the fffano, and 
leaning forward, bobbed his nose against themid- 
dle key which “ nobody could play I ” Haydn 
burst Into an immoderate fit of laughter: and 
after acknowledging the “corn,” declared that 
nature had endowed Mozart with a capacity 
for music which he had never before discov¬ 
ered. 
The world’s great men have not commonly 
been great scholars, nor its great scholars great 
men. 
A wild young fellow married a lovely girl, 
and having long been addicted to habits of dis¬ 
sipation, even the sincere attachment which he 
entertained towards bis wife could not entirely 
His oceasion- 
THE HEAVENLY HOME 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
ONLY A LITTLE. 
And there is a third and final home, to which 
the heart with its Divine Resident, and the 
church with its redeemed brotherhood, steadily 
points as the result- and development of them 
both. That home is heaven. But who shall 
paint its landscapes, describe its glories, picture 
its inhabitants, or poiut out its locality ? Proph¬ 
ets, poets, aud evangelists, have done much; 
but not enough to satisfy tne cravings of curios¬ 
ity. Like the holy of holies, into which none 
but the high priest entered, il is mostly veiled 
from the eyes of others; and “He who came 
down from heaven " has undoubtedly from wise 
and kind reasons, said but comparatively little 
about the mansions of the Father’s house. Yet 
metaphor, similitude, figure, -.villi an occasional 
glance at a small opening, have excited expec¬ 
tation, aud kindled the highest hopc-s. The lan¬ 
guage of the heart is eloquent on the subject. 
The future and final home of redeemed men I It 
must be worthy of Him who is bringing many 
sons to glory! And what are all the cares, tears 
and anxieties, griefs, groans, and bereavements 
in presence of that short word “glory?” An 
apostle, the same wau who was caught up into 
Paradise, says—and in the very section, too, in 
which he speaks of the groan lugs of creation, 
“I reckon that the sufferings of this present 
time are not worthy to be compared with the 
glory that shall be revealed in us.” He also 
writes thus:—“For our light affliction, which is 
but for a moment, worketh for us a far more 
exceeding and eternal weight of glory; while 
we look not at the things which are seen, but at 
the things which arc not seen; for the things 
which arc seen arc temporal, but the things 
which are not seen are eternal.” The heart set 
on that country may well bear up under the 
toils of this. There is rest at the end of the 
journey, aud whilst all its association are not 
fully understood here, yet its essential eheraeter 
is known. It is essentially peace in Christ. 
disentangle him from his snares, 
al irregular* hours would have given any but 
one of so pure and sweet a disposition every 
reason to expect she did not hold that place in 
his affections which was her right; but this re¬ 
flection scarcely ever intruded upon her spirits. 
It happened once that he was called out of 
town, aiv. in his haste left behind him a letter, 
in whieb. to please an unprincipled friend, he 
had spo en of his wife in terms of carelessness 
if not n derision, and dilated freely upon his 
genera: course of life. Imagine the anxiety and 
suspense of the. startled profligate, when he 
found himself borne by a rapid steamboat upon 
a journey which must of necessity be of seve¬ 
ral days duration, yet remembered distinctly 
that the fatal letter was exposed unsealed upon 
his wife’s table. He recollected, too, with a 
pang, that he had wantonly, in answer to her 
inquiries, boasted tbat it contained a profound 
secret which he would not have revealed for 
the world. He paced the deck in an agony of 
grief and kharnc. He pictured her opening the 
letter, turning pale with horror and indiguation 
—perhaps fainting with anguish—alarming the 
servants—flying to her father, and renouncing 
him forever. 
As soon as possible he returned, but with a 
sinkiug heart he entered his dwelling, bracing 
himself up to meet the fury of an enraged and 
wretched woman. He opened the door softly. 
She was bending over the table busily writing. 
A placid smile sealed her mouth with perfect 
beauty, and spread over her glowing features 
the mild expression of joy and peace; and even 
as she wrote, the fragment of a sweet ballad fell 
from her lips, iu low music that only flows from 
a heart entirely at rest. The husband stole 
noiselessly around, aud read as her pen traced 
her gentle thoughts. 
“ Your letter is lying by me. The very, very 
letter containing the * profound secret.’ Now I 
could punish you for your carelessness; but, my 
dearest Charles, how could I look you in the 
face after your return, after having basely vio¬ 
lated 5 our trust in my integrity, and meanly 
sought to gratify a silly curiosity, at the expense 
of honesty, delicacy and confidence. No. The 
letter is unopened; and lest you should feel un¬ 
easy, I inclose it to you with the sincere love of 
your affectionate wife,” &c, 
“What au angel!” uttered the conscience- 
stricken husband. 
She started up with a cry of pleasure, and 
as Charles met the light of her clear, un¬ 
shrinking eyes, he was humbled that he should 
have suspected her, and deeply struck with re¬ 
pentance at his own conduct. He henceforth 
severed all tics that drew him abroad; aud if the 
pure being whose influence had lured him to 
the path of right, had perused all his subsequent 
letters, she would have found nothing concern¬ 
ing herself save bursts of the sincerest admira¬ 
tion aud the warmest love. 
Ah, my friend, I don’t like to hoar you say, 
“ It’s only a little I can do.” It sounds as if, be¬ 
cause you can’t do some great things which you 
would like to do, you are discouraged from do- 
iug anything. Somebody hears you say it aud 
goes away murmuring. “ It is less that I can do, 
there is no use of my trying,” wheu, if you both 
had done the little which lay before you, the 
two little rills would have made a part of a broad 
stream of good that might have been done. It 
is “only a little,” but you cau smile if you only 
meet a stranger iu the street, W bo knows what 
a cloud of darkness, of despondency, one smile 
may dispel. What if It is nothing but a kind 
word to a school-boy crying in the street? It 
dries his tears, the aching heart grows light and 
glad again. For the word of cheer, that boy is 
your friend now. Never mind if his jacket is 
torn, a true heart beats under it. The little 
things which you may do for those about you 
will fall back upon vour own heart as the sum¬ 
mer dews fall upon the vineyards. Night after 
night through all the long summer they fall and 
the morning sunshine drives them through the 
green covering into the young fruit, till from a 
strange mixture of sunshine and dew we have 
those purple clusters of i ieli, luscious juices. So 
into your own heart, will all your little good 
deeds and good words tall at last, and you will 
feel the soul growing grander within you,—you 
will look farther beyond, to the nobleness of 
life, you will fed tbat it is a blessed privilege to 
live, not merely to exist, but to act out the noble 
manhood which God has given you. The cares 
and troubles of life will sink to nothing when 
we compare them with the life we are to live, 
that life the image of God wherein we are cre¬ 
ated. 
It may be “only a little” we can do, but if 
we do every little, every time that wo can, we 
shall feel our souls reaching outward anil up¬ 
ward, grasping towards the infinite, the eternal, 
and our grasp will not be in vatu, for the peace 
that passeth understanding will come to our 
hearts, and in such cycle of our being we shall 
put on a new soul-growth, and find ourselves 
reaching nearer to the beautiful gardens of the 
heavenly land. In u little while wc shall reach 
its balmy shores, we shall clasp the hands that 
are waiting for us, aud wo shall hear it said, 
“ Ye have done what ye could.” l. j. w. 
Written, tor Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A BEAUTIFUL TEXT. 
Lines of warm sunlight streamed through 
the shutters to quiver and dance upon the church 
walls, and the air that came in at the open win¬ 
dows was laden with the fragrance of early 
summer. Beautiful Sabbath morning! Hushed 
the world without,—within, voices in prayer or 
song which should have been attuned to heart¬ 
felt praise. I casually took a book from the shelf 
before me and opened to a fly leaf, upon which 
was pencilled, “ Blessed are the pure in heart, 
for they shall see God.” Turning it, upon the 
next was a name. Why did a strange thrill 
pass over me ? I had seen it, heard it, spoken it 
many times before, but never did it affect me as 
tvhen taken in connection with those beautiful 
words. I looked to my left, there was a vacant 
seat, listened, hut missed a voice in our “ songs 
of praise.” Did she pen those words? Then 
the hand was cold and still—the voice silent for¬ 
ever iu earthly songs, but adding another rich 
note to the praise of the “Upper Sanctuary.” 
Freed from the tendencies of earth, its tempta¬ 
tion, its sin, cleansed and made “ pure iu heart” 
through the atoning sacrifice of a Saviour, had 
she “ seen God ? ” 
Pardon me if the voice of the speaker was 
torgotten. if t.!ie words or exhortation or warn¬ 
ing were addressed to ears which heard not, as 
with closed eyes, and mind unconscious of the 
external world, I dwelt upon those words, and 
in imagination strove to penetrate the veil which 
divided us from the bright world into which we 
trust our friend has entered. Pardon me if I 
recalled the Past and looked backward a lew 
years—very few they seem since we “older 
girls” paused in our studies to hear the little 
rosy-cheeked one spell long, difficult words, or 
repeat, -“How fair is the rose.” Time’s foot¬ 
steps stole softly, and she became a bride, fair, 
gentle, loving. Little ones came to claim her 
care and affection, and she met aud fulfilled life’s 
Value of Prayer.—T he following good il¬ 
lustration is told of Dr. NkttletON’s sense of 
the absolute need of prayer, as a preparation for 
the Divine blessing on his labors: 
The celebrated, but somewhat eccentric Dr. 
Nettlkton, when the minister was a young 
mau, came to a town in New England where he 
resided. He had been invited to preach there. 
He found the church almost, prayerless, and was 
on the point of leaving, when one of the mem¬ 
bers said to him, “My wife has been praying 
almost constantly since you came here for a 
blessing upon your labors.” “ Then,” said Dr. 
N., “ I'll sUty." He did stay, and a blessed re¬ 
vival was the result. Let prayerless hearers 
take heed hoic they hear. The more prayer 
there is, the less fault-lluding there is, the less 
fault-findug there will lie 
WANT OF DECISION, 
Sydney Smith, in his work on Moral Phi¬ 
losophy, speaks In this wise of what meu lose 
for want of a little “ brass,” as it is termed: 
“A great deal of talent is lost to the world 
for want af a little courage. Every day sends 
to their graves a, number of obscure men, who 
have only remained in obscurity because their 
timidity has prevented them from making a 
first effort, and who, if rimy only had boon in¬ 
duced to begin, would in all probability have 
gonegreat lengths in the career of lame. Tile fact 
i.-, that in doing anything iu the world worth 
doing, we must noi stand shivering on the bunk 
thinking of the cold and danger, but jump in 
and screamble through as we can. 
“ It will not do to be perpetually calculating 
risks aud adjusting nice chances; it did all very 
well before the flood, when a mau could consult 
his friends upon extended publication for a 
hundred and fifty years, and live to see its suc¬ 
cess for six or seven centuries afterwards: but 
at present a man waits and doubts, aud consults 
his brothers, and his uncle, and his particular 
friends, till one day lie finds tbat he is sixty-five 
years of age, so that he lias lost so much time iu 
consulting first cousins aud particular friends, 
that he has no more time for over-squeamish- 
ness at present, and the opportunity slips away. 
The very period of life which men choose to 
venture, if ever, is so confined, that it is no bad 
rule to preach up the necessity, in such in¬ 
stances, of a little violence done to the feelings 
and efforts made in defiance of strict and sober 
calculation.” 
Under the Shadow of thy Wings.— 
Tears, desires, convictions avail but little—you 
must be “gathered to Christ, even as a hen 
gatboreth her brood under her wings.” There 
is safety only there; and all that you cau do out¬ 
side that wing will never give you rest, peace 
and joy—the things that your soul lougs for. 
I ’ntilyou come to that, it all goes for nothing, 
soon to rise up iu judgement against you. And 
if you say, “ But I cannot do that; it requires a 
Divine power,” those who speak in that way 
are hut too often merely playing with the thing- 
We need not go into these babblements about 
doctrine about the power of the will, and so 
on, Christ still says, “I will have gathered 
you, but you would not; ’’ and the same heart 
that melted over Jerusalem will say, “ Depart 
from me.” 
The Expression of Dress.— Women are 
more like flowers than we think. In then dress 
and adornment they express their nature, as the 
flowers do in their petals and colors. Some 
women are like the modest daisies and violets, 
they never look or feel better than when dress¬ 
ed in a morning wrapper. Others arc not them¬ 
selves unless they can flame out in gorgeous 
dyes, like the tulip or bush rose. Who has not 
seen women just like white lilies? We know 
several double marigolds and poppies. There 
are women fit only for velvets, like the dahlias; 
others are graceful and airy, like the azaleas. 
Now and then you see hollyhocks and sun¬ 
flowers. When women are free to dress as they 
like, uncontrolled by others, and not limited by 
their circumstances, they do not fail to express 
their true characters, and dress becomes a form 
of expression very genuine and useful.— Mere¬ 
dith. 
more. So suddenly do life’s realities and sor¬ 
rows break upon us. 
Through the long day friends watched beside 
her, thinking each suspended hr-ath tho last. 
And, in that prostrate one, the stony fixedness 
of the blue eye, the white, agonized face, we 
failed to recognize one familiar look, and yet it 
was her, all unconscious of earthly love, that 
would have given worlds had it power to stay 
the fleeting spirit; all unconscious of the cry of 
little ones to be left motherless. Ah, mothouglit 
how kind, how merciful is ourHeaveuly Father 
to spare her the trial of parting with these loved 
ones. Yet “God’s grace is sufficient” and 
might have enabled her, cheerfully to leave 
I j them in his bauds. 
Jb But the deep moaning was past, the eyelids 
gently closed, the white hands folded o’er the 
Criticising Preaching.- I never suffered 
myself to criticise it, hut acted upon the uni¬ 
form principle of endeavoring to obtain from 
what I heart! all the edification it afforded. 
This is a principle I would warmly recommend 
to my young friends in the present day; for 
nothing can be more mischievous than for learn¬ 
ers to turn teachers, and young hearers, critics. 
I am persuaded It is often the menus of dryiug 
up the waters of life in the soul: and sure 1 am 
that an exact method of weighing words and 
balancing doctrines which we hear, is a misera¬ 
ble exchange for tenderness of spirit and the 
dew of heaven.— J. J. Gurney. 
If unfortunately you find yourself riding the 
devil of anger, you had better ride the brute 
half dead, till he fall down, that you may not 
have to mount him again for a quarter of a 
year. 
A strong but sinful spirit rises upward, not 
like the lark to make music, but like the falcon 
to dart down on his prey. 
We should read hooks, not to quote them, but 
to strengthen our intellects and to suggest 
thoughts of our own. We fatten our sheep with 
grass, not to obtain a crop of hay from his back, 
but that he may feed us with mutton and clothe 
us with wool. 
