little belle. 
I love my little Belle, 
Belle, with her canning ways; 
Her soft, fresh-scented hair, 
That in the light wind plays, 
And sweetest voice—so tuned 
To touch my heart always. 
I peek o’er her bed at morn, 
The stir of a look awakes— 
And “ Papa' —soft as light, 
Fpon the morning breaks; 
Bat God alone can know 
What thankfulness it wakes. 
She’s op—my light of light, 
From dearest lips a kiss— 
In answer all my store 
Mingles on lips with this, 
And her smiles, the sunniest, fill 
To the brim my cup of bliss. 
I love our garden walk— 
The smell of eariy groimd, 
Her white arm on my neck, 
Scarce clinging half-way round— 
Her dearest voice—of all— 
The melody or sound. 
The boughs that hang in air, 
And touch her dresses’ hem— 
The green leaves, as I pass, 
She reaches ont for them; 
But tenderer leaf is strong, 
And pans not from its stem 
Thus freighted fly the hours, 
But bring sublime recall; 
And daily deeper hold 
My Belle gains on ns all— 
b he—next to her and one, 
“My hope—my life—my all.” 
I shall miss this garden pomp 
With Belle upon my arm, 
When the summer flowers have died 
In autumn's purple calm— 
When bough and walk and wold 
Feel winter’s icy palm 
But ob—the coming years— 
That hope—the dread, the cold— 
The shaft that yet, must strike 
My cherished little fold— 
The icy hand that kills, 
And mingles rose and mold. 
God spare my little one 
To sing life’s evening hymn; 
Guard fondly all my fold; 
And ere the eye is dim, 
Or lips are hushed or cold, 
Guide all our feet to Him. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
ECONOMY. 
The practice of Economy is a virtue, and 
would seem a necessity now, when prices are 
so high and destitution 60 common. Fathers 
should teach it to their sons, and mothers to 
their daughters, By economy we don't mean 
stinginess; but careful, prudent management in 
the house, on the farm, and throughout all the 
arrangements of both. 
We may be a guest or boarder in the family of 
Mrs. S. Almost invariably her table is well set 
and all tbe food palatable. As we so often 
gather around this well-spread board, we com¬ 
pare it to that of our friend, Mrs. L., whose 
table, to be sure, is bountifully loaded; but we 
seldom relish a meal she cooks. There is a 
towering pile of bread on the plate, a pound or 
two of butter in the dish, cheese, pickles, cake. 
&c.,in proportion: the platter is loaded with 
meat; but with all this boontifulness nothing is 
just right— and why is it? Well, we can tell 
you. Mrs. S. is very careful to cook, if possi¬ 
ble, just what will be eaten. She don't cut a 
loaf of bread for two or three. She don’t put 
two or three pounds of butter on at one time, 
neither cheese nor pickles in such a proportion. 
When you leave the table you will find but few 
fragments left, and so the next meal will be 
fresh and wholesome. 
Look at Mrs. L.’s table. There is meat enough 
left for two or three meals, a large plate of but¬ 
ter unfit for the table again, bread, cheese, 
pickles, Ac., not half consumed. Mrs. L. don't 
intend to be wasteful, so all these eatables are 
set away in the pantry, (perhaps uncovered) and 
repeatedly put on the table until hardly fit for 
swilL 
Our experience in housekeeping has taught 
us the value of economy, in this particular, to be 
very great. During the past season we em¬ 
ployed a domestic at three dollars per week. 
She was a careless, wasteful girl: having lived 
in large families, she bad not judgment to cook 
for a few. She would waste more in cooking one 
week than a tolerable sized family would con¬ 
sume, unless closely watched. 
Some ladies have a faculty of repairing their 
old dresses and making them look like new, and 
are called wry extravagant, while others have 
three times as many clothes and never look neat 
or well dressed. I tell you it is economy here, 
as well as in the first ease. Repair your old 
clothes,—they may often be turned, dyed, or the 
trimming changed, and you charged with ex¬ 
travagance ; but no matter, while it consists In 
using what other* would throw aside. 
The whole domestic awangemwil must come 
under a system of economy to make it com¬ 
plete. We should know just how far a pound 
of tea or sugar goes if we do justice to our pro¬ 
viders. How much anxiety it would save the 
fathers and husbands, If their wives and daugh¬ 
ters thought how much it cost to live, and re¬ 
membered those who were toiling so ban! to 
provide for their wants. But there are two 
sides here. The wives and daughters cannot do 
all towards making things come out right at the 
end of the year. If the farmer lets the golden 
days pass without improving them, don’t plow 
until the grain should be up, leaves the potatoes 
in the field until they are frozen, the corn un¬ 
husked until it sours and molds, things will run 
behind at an astonishing rate. 
Some farmers think it all folly to hire a day s 
work. We know of those who have nearly two 
hundred acres of laud, and, with the help of 
two small lads, “carry on the farm,’ and raise 
about tbe same amount they could ofl' of fifty 
acres well tilled. Is this economy? Besides it 
keeps the children constantly toiling. We be¬ 
lieve in having children work: but they need 
pastime, tlioy need recreation and education, 
and i f kept constant!y at work they have neither. 
Their forms will be bent, and their spirits bro¬ 
ken, before thirty years old. Is this economy ? 
It is economy too. to make our homes beauti¬ 
ful. The ladies must have their silks and jewels, 
the gentlemen their tobacco and cigars; but 
they have no money with which to get shrubs, 
trees nnd flowers. They must, have their Brus¬ 
sels carpets and sofa furniture; but oau not have 
a melodeon or piano. If we can have but one, 
give us the cottage with its trees, shrubs and 
flowers, its music aud sunshine, its wealth of love 
its foretaste of heaven, instead of the dome-like 
edifice, with its elegant carpets, its velvet-cov¬ 
ered furniture, its solemn, still, monotonous air: 
without flowers and music, or the light of affec- 
tiou to gladden the heart, or brighten the long, 
weary journey of life. Yes, it’s economy to 
make our homes beautiful. 
Mrs. Mattie D. Lincoln. 
Canandaigua, N. Y, 1864. 
THE PARTICULAR LADY. 
Here is a portrait of more than one lady 
whom it has been our fortune to meet:— There 
is a coldness and precision about this person’s 
dwelling, that makes your heart shrink back 
(that is, if you have the least atom of sociability 
in your nature) with a lonely feeling, the same 
which you experience when you go by your¬ 
self, and for tbe first time, among decided 
strangers. 
Everything is in painful order. The damask 
table cover has been in just the same folds ever 
since it came from tbe vender’s shop, eight 
years ago; aud the legs of the chairs have been 
on the exact diamonds in the drugget they were 
first placed on; by-the-by, do you ever remem¬ 
ber of seeing that same drugget off the carpet 
underneath ? No—for she never has company; 
tbe routing, tbe untidiness they would occasion, i 
would cause the poor soul to be subject to fits for 
the rest of her natural, or rather unnatural, life. 
Thougli untidiness is a fault all people should 
avoid, especially the young, yet for mercy’s sake 
urge them not to be particular. She will be¬ 
come as hateful in the sight of her friends as a 
sloven. 
The particular lady generally lives in the 
kitchen—and an excruciatingly tidy one it is. 
The great parlors, with their crimson curtains, 
Turkish carpets, mammoth mirrors, beautiful 
mantles, and elegant paintings, are always 
closed. Nobody visit* them; nobody enjoys 
them; the children tread on tip-toe to steal a 
glance into them, their eyes expressive of won¬ 
derment and a cautious air of dread. 
She is all the time dusting and washing and 
scrubbing, and scrubbing and washing and dust¬ 
ing. The door-step, the window sills and sashes, 
the wash-boards must be daily scrubbed, though 
immaculately white they already be. The very 
knives, forks and spoons are rubbed thin and 
genteel by repeated cleaning. 
You can tell her crossing the street; she 
watches for every vehicle and waits until it has 
passed a square, for fear of being splashed; and 
even in dry weather she crosses on the joints of 
her toes, and holds her dress above her ancles. 
Her constant fidget wears tbe flesli from her 
bones and color from her cheeks. She never 
can get a servant to stay long with her. We 
never heard of but one “particular lady ” who 
retained a domestic longer than a year, but then 
she was as “particular” as her mistress. 
1VLTTSIC. 
Let your daughters cultivate music by all 
means. Every woman who has an aptitude for 
fciuging should bless God for tbe gift and culti¬ 
vate it with diligence; not that she may dazzle 
strangers or win applause from a crowd, but 
that she may bring gladness to her own fireside. 
The influence] of music in strengthening the 
affections is far from being perceived by many 
of its admirers; a sweet melody binds all hearts 
together as it were with a golden chord; it 
makes t he pulses beat in unison and the heart 
thrill with sympathy. But the music of the 
fireside must be simple and unpretending, it 
does not require brilliancy of execution, but 
tenderness of feeling—a merry tune for the 
young — a subdued strain for the aged, but 
none of the noisy claptrap which is popular in 
public. 
t - 
A Kind Word for “Mother.”— Despise 
not thy mother when she is old. Age may 
wear and waste a mother’s beauty, strength, 
limbs, senses, and estate; but her relation as 
mother is as tbe sun when it goes forth In its 
might, for it is always in the meridian, and 
knoweth no evening. The person muy be gray 
headed, but her motherly relation is ever in its 
flourish. It may be autumn, yea, winter with a 
woman, but with the mother, as mother, it is 
always spring. Alas, how little do we appre¬ 
ciate a mother’s tenderness while living! How 
heedless we are in all her anxieties and kind- 
ncssl But when she is dead and gone, when 
tbe cares and coldness of the world come with¬ 
ering to our hearts, when we experience how 
hard it is to find true sympathy- how few' will 
befriend us in misfortune—then it is that we 
think of tbe mother we have lost. 
--* 
Pride. It is certain that one of the sides of 
virtue leads to pride, aud there is a bridge built 
1 there by the demon. 
THE RIPENING CORN. 
How sweet to walk through the wheatlands brown, 
When the teeming fatness of Heaven drops down! 
The waring corn nith Sts barsting ears 
A sea of gold on the earth appears; 
No loDger robed in a dress of green, 
With tawny faces the fields are seen; 
A eight more welcome and joyous far 
Than a hundred blood-wcm victories are. 
Beantifni custom was that of old, 
When the Hebrew brought, With a joy untold, 
The earliest ears of the ripening com 
And laid them down by the altar’s horn; 
When lire priesthood waved them before the Lord, 
While the Giver of harvest all hearts adored; 
What gltta more suited could man impart 
To express the flow of his grateful heart? 
A crowd awaits Tenth the collage eaves, 
To cut the com and to bind the sheaves; 
At length is heard the expected sound— 
Potto the sickle, the corn is browned; 
And the reapers go forth with as hlithe a soul 
As thoso who joined the Olympian goal: 
And sorrowless hearts and voices come 
To swell the shouts of the harvest home. 
And there is a reaper on earth well known 
Whose deeds are traced on the burial stone: 
He carries a sickle more deadly and keen 
Than e’er on the harvest field was seen; 
He cuts down the earliest ears In spring, 
As well as the ripest that time can bring; 
The tares he gathers to flames are driven, 
The wheat is laid in the garner of Heaven. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
FORGOTTEN. 
“ It is a sad thing to be forgotten.” So the 
words ran across the fair white album page, 
and then the name of the writer below. I 
never knew her, but if, some time, our paths 
meet, and in the sunlight of each other's pres¬ 
ence we spend a few short hours,—hours whose 
influence shall follow on forever, what matter 
if, when our ways shall again diverge, we shall 
not be continually looking back? She has no 
place in my heart now; why then should I give 
her memory thoughts which might better be 
spent in the too much misused, unheeded pres¬ 
ent? It is not a sad thought to me to know 
that I shall be forgotten. Nay, even to know' 
that the loved and loving ones of years agone in 
the busy whirl of to-day give me scarce a pass¬ 
ing thought Why should they ? They would 
not know my face if we met, and a renewal of 
acquaintance would show them even less soul- 
resemblance to the one they knew, of my name, 
in the by-gonos. 
My home kindred are a part of me. To be 
shut out from them,—to be torn from the only 
place in the world that is wholly mine,—or out¬ 
cast them from my affections, would rob my 
life of tbe pure love which is nearest that the 
Father’s family of angels know for one another; 
but strangers have no claims upon me like this. 
In this nursery of Heaven are many whose 
souls are kindred by like natures, like surround¬ 
ings, and like influences, and when they meet 
they recognize each other, and in one way or 
another acknowledge that recognition. I have 
seen people, without exchanging a word, some¬ 
times in the crowded assembly, or jostling car, 
or passed them, perhaps, on the open street, and 
in the kindly beam of their eyes read something 
that sent a warm glow down among the cold, 
dark, musty gatherings of my heart for years, 
and finding the tablet that in every heart waits 
to be written upon by some sympathetic band, 
puts down the Record,—“Earth holds one ray 
of Glory.” The first impulse toward such a 
person is to grasp them by the hand aud let 
them look straight down into our souls and read 
all that has made us what we are, that they 
might trust us; we never think of searching 
them farther than the light which looks out 
from their soul-windows upon us. But the im¬ 
possibility of this makes us reconciled to pass 
on, leaving them far behind, perhaps, in this 
reverie, or if we turn and look upon them they 
are lost among the millions; and what of it! 
They have given us something that even Death 
shall not take away —a something to wear, 
white and pure, at the final Resurrection, be¬ 
cause it gives us cheer in the present, when we 
need a “GOD-speed” on the weary way. 
We did not need to tarry with them for this, 
or lay bare the histories God has reserved for 
Himself until the Judgment. And it is this 
reservation, this All-seeing and Only-seeing, 
that make Him a God; a something above our¬ 
selves, to which all can climb and ding, and in 
one hour of communion with Him who sees di¬ 
rect, and through no doors or gateways of our 
unfolding, we may gather more of what makes 
Life worth living and Death more than dying, 
than from all the words human tongue could 
express with all the fullness of the best lan¬ 
guage ever uttered. 
Is it sad “to be forgotten?” Those people I 
have met did not know that “ Virtue had gone 
out of them,” but the Recording Angel knew 
that I had touched the “hem of their gar¬ 
ments,” and walked away purer and healthier, 
and If their lives have been full of anguish aud 
in the borenes* of Lhelr ehajtening they have 
waited long and found no reward, bye-ltnd-byo 
they may know that the bread cast upon the 
waters is not forgotten In Heaven—they will 
learn that wherever Parity walks among men 
the World is better for its presence. 
Trae, it was but “a drop in the Ocean,” but 
so much of refreshing crystal to parched lips is 
better than so much of deadly poison. And If 
such shall finally sink out of Life alone, 
" Without a grave, 
Unknelkd, uncofllncd, and unknown,” 
is it not as well thus to be swallowed in Obliv¬ 
ion’s sea as the fuuereal pomp and splendor that 
follows a monarch out of the sight of mortals? 
It would be sweet to me to know that when 
I go out of Earth's mystery and darkness into 
unfathomable light, I might be forgotten—that 
foes should no longer taunt my name with their 
hate, or my sins be bandied from lip to lip a 
by-word and a reproach;—and the friends, they 
who will shed tears over a form whose presence 
was their joy, and whose absence shall make a 
void in their future lives,—I would some other 
might fill up this measure of their happiness 
when I am gone to the final account ; and the 
name that to them shall be but a chord of 
mournful music, die away from their hearts and 
leave but influences that shall help them to the 
strong and cheerful performance of duty. But 
the power sorrow gives to influence sometimes 
needs the smiting hand, and so be it as He will 
who rules;—remembered while the best good of 
mortals demauds, forgotten when the Drama of 
Time bids that I shall go behind the curtain 
and off the stage forever. Grace Glenn. 
Michigan, October, 1864. 
I 
PERSONAL GOSSIP. 
— We have all heard of Sir Boyle Roche's 
blunders. Dickens gives us an account of 
those which are happily preserved. In one of 
his speeches he said, “ Sir, I wouid give up halt 
—pay, the whole of the constitution to preserve 
the remainder.” This, however, was parlia¬ 
mentary. Hearing that Admiral IIowk was in 
quest of the French, he remarked, somewhat 
pleasantly, that the admiral would “ sweep the 
French fleet off the face of the earth.” By-and- 
by came dangerous times of disaffection, and 
honest men’s lives were insecure. Sir Boyle 
writes from the country to a friend in the capi¬ 
tal this discouraging view’ of his position: “You 
may judge,” he says, “of our state when I tell 
you that I write this w’ith a sword in one hand 
aud a pistol in the other.” On another occasion, 
when the famous letters to the Public Advertiser 
were attracting universal attention, Sir Boyle 
was heard to complain bitterly of the attacks 
“ of a certain anon y mens writer called JCNius.” 
He it was who recounted that marvellous per¬ 
formance In gymnastics, when in tumult of 
loyalty, he “6tood prostrate at the feet of his 
sovereign.” He it was who denounced in with¬ 
ering language the apostate politician who 
“ turned his back upon himself.” He it was 
who introduced to public notice the ingenious 
yet partially confused metaphor of the rat. 
“ Sir,” bo said, addressing the Speaker of the 
Irish House, “ I smell a rat. I see him floating 
in the air; but mark me, 1 shall yet nip him in 
the bud.” There was a famous speech W’hieh 
confounded generations. “ I don’t see, Sir. 
Speaker, why we should put ourselves out of 
the way to serve posterity. What has posterity 
ever done for us ? ” He was a little disconcerted 
by a burst of laughter that followed, and pro¬ 
ceeded to explain his meaning. “ By posterity, 
sir, I do not mean our ancestors, but those who 
are to come immediately after them.” His Invi¬ 
tation to the gentleman on his travels was hos¬ 
pitable and well-meant —but equivocal. “I 
hope, my lord, if you ever come within a mile of 
my house, you'll stay there all night.” He it 
w’as who stood for the proper dimensions of the 
wine bottle, and proposed to the Parliament that 
it should be compulsory that “ every pint bottle 
should contain a quart.” Very pleasant, and 
yet perfectly intelligible, was his meaning— 
though unhappily it took the fatal bovine shape 
—in his rebuke to the shoe-maker when getting 
shoes for bis gouty limbs: “ I told you to make 
one larger than the other, and instead of that 
you made one smaller than the other—the 
opposite.” 
— William Temple Franklin has some¬ 
thing surprising to tell us of his grandfather’s 
chess-playing. “Dr. Franklin,” he says, 
“ was so immoderately fond of chess, that one 
evening atPassy, hesatatthat amusement from 
six in the afternoon till sunrise. On the point 
of losing one of his games, his king being at¬ 
tacked by what is called a check, but an oppor¬ 
tunity offering at the same time of giving a fatal 
blow to his adversary, provided be might neg¬ 
lect the defense of his king, he chose to do so, 
though contrary to the rules, and made his move. 
‘ Sir,’ said the French gentleman, his antagonist, 
‘you can not do that, and leave your king in 
check.' ‘ I see lie is in check,’ said the Doctor, 
‘ but I shall not defend him. If he was a good 
king like yours, he would deserve the protection 
of his subjects; but he is a tyrant, and has cost 
them already more than he is worth. Take 
him, if you please, I can do without him, and 
will fight out the rest of the battle, en Bepubli- 
cain.’ 
There is yet another version of this chess 
story, which some future inquirer into the 
natural history of anecdotes may value. I find 
it in Jeremy Bentham, who heard it related 
by Fanny Wright as from Gen. Lafayette: 
“ When Franklin was negotiating in Paris, he 
sometimes went into a cafe to play at chess. A 
crowd usually assembled, of course to see the 
man rather than the play. Upon one occasion 
Franklin lost in the middle of the game; when 
composedly taking the king from the board, he 
put him into his pocket and continued to move. 
The antagonist looked up. The face of Fra n k- 
i.in was so grave, aud his gesture so much in ear¬ 
nest that hebogau with an expostulatory, ‘ Sir! ’ 
‘ Yes, sir; continue,’ said Franklin, ‘and we 
shall soon see that the party without a king will 
win the game.” 
Everybody sits in judgment on a dirty sin; 
but clean it, dress it, polish it, and there are ten 
thousand people who think it not so sinful'af¬ 
ter all. 
A fortress is generally captured more 
easily the second time than the first. This is 
as true of a widow’s heart as of other strong¬ 
holds. 
Mjijtogs. 
“I SHALL BE SATISFIED.” 
Not here! cot here! not where the sparkling waters 
Fade into mocking sands as we draw near, 
Where in the wilderness each footstep falters— 
1 shall be satisfied; but, ohl not here! 
Not here, where every dream of bliss deceives ns, 
Where the worn spirit never gains its goal, 
When haunted ever by the thoughts that grieve us, 
Across us floods of bitter memory roll. 
There is a land where every pulse is thrilling 
With rapture earth’s eojonrners may not know, 
Where heaven’s repose the weary heart is stilling, 
And peacefully life’s time to seed currents flow. 
Far out of sight while yet the flesh enfolds ns, 
Lies the fair country where our hearts abide; 
And of its bliss la naught more wondrous told us, 
Thau these few words, “I shall be satisfied.” 
Satisfied! satisfied! the spirit's yearning 
For sweet companionship with kindred minds, 
The silent love that here meets no returning, 
The inspiration which no language finds. 
Shall they he satisfied;' the soul's vague longing! . 
The aching void which nothing earthly Alls; 
Ohl what desires upon my soul are thronging 
As I look upward to the henvenly hills. 
Thither my weak nnd weary steps are tending; 
Saviour and Lord! with Thy frail child abide, 
Guide me toward home, where all my wanderings 
ending, 
T then shall see Thee, and “be satisfied.” 
TRUE TEST OF A CHRISTIAN. 
The test of the indwelling of the Eternal 
Spirit is, that a man regards his life as a pil¬ 
grimage to worlds unseen, and estimates events 
aud appliances according to their bearings on 
tbe success of his journey toward that Invisible 
Home. 
Those who have not the Spirit of God, and 
who consequently believe in no home in God 
beyond, necessarily look upon the present as the 
only real world, aud do their uttermost to settle 
themselves on the earth’s foundations. They 
are constantly dreaming of a rest at the end of 
earthly labor. But rest there is none for sinful 
men. All here is quicksaud, uncertainty, and 
rapid decay. There is no rest for the soul in the 
world of sense. lie only who has “made the 
Most High his habitation" is superior to the 
changes aud chances of time. He only who 
thinks of his dwelling as a “tent,” may look 
forward to a “ building of God eternal in the 
heavens." He only who has been cured of 
leprosy and blindness and mortality, by wash¬ 
ing in the “fountain of living waters,” can set 
foot within the shades of death with firmness, or 
“ know iu himself that he has in heaven a bet¬ 
tor and enduring substance.” And when he 
has achieved this independence of the visible 
creation, he sees around him a world “ walking 
iu a vain show,” “ disquetod in vain,” and 
ceases to desire any longer to form part of the 
gay phantom procession to the grave. 
If poor, he knows that he yet “possesses all 
things;” and If rich In tbl* world he “rejoices 
as though he rejoiced not,” because the fashion 
of it is passed away .—Christian Spectator. 
WE JfiY IN GOD. 
This is every believer’s privilege; God is re¬ 
conciled to him in the person and through the 
work of Jesus; all charges against him are blot¬ 
ted out; all his sins are freely and fully forgiven; 
he is justified from all things, and stands before 
God in Christ, accepted, beloved, and blessed. 
To him God is love; with him God is peace; 
and he is now a son of God. Tf this is believed 
on the testimony of God, and realized in the 
effect of faith, then God becomes our exceeding 
joy, and we rejoice with joy unspeakable and 
full of glory. If we joy in frames, they change; 
if we joy in friends, they die; if we joy in pos¬ 
sessions, they are vanity; but if we joy in God, 
though the exercise of joy mat be interrupted, 
yet the object remains eternally tbe same, and 
we shall joy for evermore. Beloved, look at 
Jehovah in Jesus; there you see him as the 
Father of mercies and God of all comfort; jefy 
and rejoice in him as your God, your portion, 
your everlasting all. Throughout this day, joy 
In God as your Father, your Friend, and your 
Saviour. 
Joy to find, in every elation, 
Something still to do or bear; 
Thiuk, what Spirit dwells within thee; 
Think, what Father's smiles are thine; 
Think, what Jesus did to win thee; 
Child of heaven! canst thou repine? 
i- •• - - -- * 
EARTH NOT OUR ABIDING PLACE. 
Bulwkr eloquently says:—” I can not believe 
that earth is man’s abiding place, It can’t be 
that our life is cast up by the ocean of eternity 
to float a moment upon its waves and then sink 
into nothingness! Else why is it that the 
1 glorious aspirations, which,leap like angels 
1 from the temple of our heart, are forever wan- 
1 during about unsatisfied? Why is it that the 
! rainbow aud clouds come evor with a beauty 
' that is not of earth, and then pass off and leave 
us to muse upon their favored loveliness? Why 
[ is it that the stars, who hold their festival 
around the midnight throne, are set above tbe 
grasp of our limited faculties, forever mocking 
^ us with their unapproachable glory? And, 
finally, why Is it that bright forms of human 
beauty are presented to our view, nnd then 
; taken from us, leaving the thousand streams of 
1 our affection to flow back in Alpine torrents upon 
■ our heart? Wc are born for a higher destiny 
than that of earth; there is a realm where the 
> rainbow never fades—where the stars will be 
i spread before us like islands that slumber on the 
. ocean—and where the beings that pass before us 
like shadows will stay in our presence forever.” 
