phoses do not occur, I shouldn't wear a dress with 
a very long sweep to it, nor thin shoes with no soles, 
or *next to none, nor pink and cerulean Bilks, with 
I white gloves, to go shopping in. Our London and 
Parisian friends don’t blame us for wearing these 
elegant toilettes at parties and opera* — for they do 
I it just as much as we do, hut they never do it, mind 
, you, on the cars or “aboard ship.” 
But the worst over-dress 1 know of is that variety 
which takes all the money one has, and more too, to 
keep it on. J know a married lady who dresses ele¬ 
gantly,—as one of her young lady friends says, 
“perfectly bewitehlrigly,”—but her husband hasn’t 
paid his honest debts for a long time. People say 
he lives by shoving . I don’t understand the term 
exactly, but ho isn’t a barber; so I take it that the 
word is one of the technicalities of the law, referring 
to the “modus nperandi ” of that profession. 
But to sum up all in a few closing “finalies,” I 
would say with some sage who lived long ago, that 
“ a pretty face is worth a dozen letters of recommen¬ 
dation.” Sydney Smith once said, or wrote, that 
“ a becoming bonnet had been the making of more 
than one young girl.” I ought not to have tried to 
quote that—for it is a long time since I read it, but 
the substance is there, and forms a capital argument 
for extravagant young misses, whose mamas refuse 
to let them purchase that " love of a hat,” just in 
from Paris. If I am not pretty myself, I like to see 
people that are so. Girls, if becoming bonnets and 
handsome dresses are any aids in rendering your 
pretty selves prettier, I say, use them. Only i pray 
you don't be vain,— a pretty, vain girl, putting on 
airs, is to me an object of the utmost commiseration 
and disgust. Don't be extravagant, buying jewelry 
and “ fixings ” you can’t pay for, and don't wear your 
“best dresses” in the streets and on the cars. 
Fayetteville, N, Y., 1861- A. M. 1*. 
In the lumber regions of Michigan, they have been 
having busy times. The tick of axes has been heard 
in the solemn woods, like watches in a goldsmith’s 
window, and sawmills have laughed hoarsely at each 
other from valley to valley. And this suggests a bit 
of a catechism, three questions long. Did you ever 
stand up to your knees in snow and cut down a tree? 
And did you think yon were marring a shaft which 
the wit of a Wren or a Walter could never rebuild? 
That yon were cutting down a greater than Gibbon, 
that had been making history these hundred years? 
Well, stroke followed stroke. The echoes startle a 
dry twig or a withered leaf here and there, and down 
they rattle, and sink into the white grave they were 
not born to. Pretty soon the giant frame sways a 
little, and a red squirrel takes a flying leap into a 
neighboring tree, deserting bouse and home, and 
what great store of winter treasure. Then there 
iB a crackling, ns of a kindling lire. The nigged 
grains give way. The branches that have defied 
a hundred tempests, vibrate like a pendulum a bent 
or two, and then slowly, solemnly, sweep down 
through the frosty air, and crash along through the 
untrodden snow. There is a break in the mighty 
ranks — a magnificent ruin under foot. The air 
closes silently into the mold the tree has made, as if 
God had never reared there a pillar of his “first 
temples.” 
There were nests in that tree, and when spring 
leaves her breath upon the gale, the birds shall come 
again, vainly seeking their old homesteads. You 
triumphantly leap upon the fallen monarch, yon cut 
a “ length,” and it is dinner time. Yon make a 
cushion of the dry leaves. From the root of a hollow 
tree yon draw forth an old tin-pail with a young tin- 
pail inverted on the top of it. For “service,” a 
large, clean chip is ready to your hand. You draw 
forth from the white napkin the white bread and the 
smooth white pork. Your pocket-knife answers for 
a carver, and fingers were made before forks, and 
isn’t it a princely banquet? You masticate and muse. 
That tree is to be turned into a home; that home is 
to be yours, but as you think it, “ours,” and there 
is something about that “ onrs ” that gives you an 
indiscribable sensation of warmth—as much as when, 
at night, with wife on one side and bairn on the 
other, you bask in the little summer of your own 
hearth-light. 
But tlie voices of the coming teamsters disturb your 
reverie, and “whoa-haw!” answers back the distant 
hill, and “ gee!” goes thundering through the ravine. 
The crack of the long whip becomes a perfect explo¬ 
sion of joy. Every little hill has a whip of its own! 
The grave, respectable old woods, are in ft frolic. On 
through the snow come the patient pairs of the yoke; 
Archimedes is called into requisition, arid the log — 
that’s the name for the dead tree — is heaved on the 
sled, and drags its slow length along towards the 
saw mill, whose short asthmatic hark comes to your 
ears from a distant “run.” The old saw-mill! Do you 
remember when you rode backward and forward, on 
the “ carriage,” with the hapless log? How you 
grew braver, and rode out—out, till you Bat over the 
deep abyss of waters, beyond the gable end of the 
mill? Have you overseen anything, except the grave, 
so deep and dark since then? And what treasures 
you made of the saw-dust—what mysteries there were 
in the gate—what terror in the lloom—w hat wonder¬ 
ful fish above the dam—whatan immense forest came 
up boldly around the mill! You have since learned 
that there were two acres iu it, “ more or less.” The 
sawyer is dead—the mill is dismantled—the stream 
has run dry—the wood is a fallow, and the fallow a 
grave. 
But there’s another “length to cut,” and girded 
anew, you mount the chopper’s rostrum, softly singing 
to yourself in pauses, a bar of “Woodman! spare 
that tree,” that put no bar, however, to the destruc¬ 
tion going on around, and by and by you have a 
clearing — corn goes through the sword exercise, and 
salutes the morning with its green blades, and pump¬ 
kin vines, like children “just let loose from school,” 
run all over the field. Other harvests and new' har¬ 
vesters come—and you, and your trees, and your 
reveries, are alike forgotten.— B. F. Taylor. 
[Written f#r Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
GOD THE CHRISTIAN’S STRENGTH. 
[Written for Moore's Roral New-Yorker ] 
THE ROBIN'S MORNING SONG, 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
MILLIE MAY. 
Mv flesh and my heart faiieth, but Goo is the strength of 
my heart and my portion forever.—Psalms, 73 : 26. 
Yes, though disern- may waste the frame 
And bear oar strength away, 
And sorrows crowding on the heart 
Make dark the weary day. 
Yet Thou, onr God, art ever nigh,— 
Thou art our portion still,— 
Thy breath revives the fainting soul 
That trusts Thy holy will. 
Though friends may nil forsake us when 
Misfortunes round us press. 
We look to Thee in confidence 
To shield as from distress; 
To Tliee in constant trust we turn, 
Though nil nlv prove untrue, 
The precious promises tbou'st given 
Thy loving kindness show. 
Though He»h is weak, though heart should fail, 
Yet Thou art ever near, 
Our strength, our portion, and our aid. 
In darkest hour to cheer. 
0, soothing thought, through all the ilia 
That hero on us may crowd, 
The Christian soul, in trusting love, 
May stay itself in God. 
Geneva, Wis., 1861. B. 0. D. 
JIT CKO. A. HAMILTON 
JtiriT as the night was fleeing. 
And day began to dawn,— 
When rays of light wore gleaming 
Across each green-laid lawn. 
There came a joyful warbling, 
So shrill, and sweet, aud long, 
From the tree beyond my window— 
It was the Robin’s song. 
Kach echo stirred my spirit 
With welcome raptures there. 
As sweetest notes came swelling 
Upon the morning air. 
And with each joyful echo. 
That made the morning ring. 
Thus loud, Bad lear, and oheeriy, 
Did happy Kohin sing. 
*• Awake, awake each Robin! 
The gilded morning greet, 
The light, the light is glowing— 
The morning air is sweet; 
So fair the sky is tinted 
With gold and violet hoes, 
Come catch the inspiration 
Of morning’s brightest views 
11 I’ll sing a morning anthem. 
And loud my praise Bhall be, 
And hen- ahull be my altar, 
In the boughs of this old tree; 
The band that feeds the sparrow 
Supplies the Robins well. 
And joyful notes this morning 
My gratitude sh*U tell. 
“ How bright, how bright the morning! 
How pleasant perch and rest, 
While mate and I were watching 
Our nestling* and our nest! 
And now a* dawns the brightness 
We’ll sing our songs Of praise, 
And make the orchards echo 
With Robin's joyful lays 
“ Come to the tree-top cariy, 
Come to the top-most bough— 
Dear mate, we’ll sing an anthem, 
And wake Our nestlings now; 
And then from Nature’s bounty 
We'U feed them all day long. 
And soon they’ll join in singing 
The Robin's Morning Sony 
South Butler, N. Y , 1861. 
’Twab in autumn, I remember, 
In the golden month September, 
When I met thee first, tny darling Millie Mat; 
And life’s burdens touched me lightly, 
And its run beamed out. more brightly 
In the glory that thine eyes shed on my way. 
0, thy voice dropped like a blessing 
In my earn its food ejircasing, 
And the hunger of my soul was felt no more, 
When 1 drank the nectared ..weetnes- 
Of thy spiritual completeness, 
From thy lips, in words more precious than all lore. 
Ab when clouds meet in the heaven, 
A now course to both is given. 
Thus we met and trode a path untried before; 
And the flowers smiled a». we neai-cd them, 
And thorns blossomed while we feared them, 
And rich balm from hidden source the zephyrs bore 
But those blissful days were clouded. 
And my soul with darkness shronded, 
When faHe words from slander’s tongue had mado thee doubt 
And when spring came with her shadows, 
And her carols in the meadows, 
Sadder grew my life, and darker still without thee. 
Once f sought, hove, to regain thee, 
To my aching heart to chain thee, 
But Distrust sat ou his throne, the work was done; 
Up and clown the earth I wandered, 
Aud God's precious moments squandered 
Vainly seeking one to roll away the stone. 
Years have passed and while I’ve striven, 
Thou hast folded wings in Heaven, 
But I wept not when 1 knew that thou wast gone; 
For the great prayer of my being 
Would be answered in thy seeing, 
That, though wronged, I loved thee purely, thee alone 
Am! I aiu not disenchanted, 
Though my life Is daily haunted, 
By the mem’ry of those hitter days of yore; 
Aud, though all beside is blighted, 
Still the love that erst was lighted, 
Beams with light increasing in my heart’s deep core. 
Avoca, N. Y , 1861. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New Yorker.] 
EARTH’S GUARDIAN ANGELS. 
Not once alone did the angels sing “Peace on 
earth, good will to men,” but evermore ministe|ing 
spirits do hover near, with blessings for the children 
of men. Upon willing wing they speed from their 
bright home, hearing messages of joy, —love tokens 
from those who have east aside the drapery of dust 
for the robe of immortality. Thus do we feel the 
sacred ministrations in dark temptation’s hour, and 
the way that before was narrow and full of gloom, 
becomes a shining path, loading to rest. And when 
tin; eye grows dim, and the heart is sad, —when the 
burden ifl heavy, and the step weary,—unseen hands 
do wipe the tears away, and voices soft as the mur¬ 
mur of dying day, whisper words of consolation. 
The holy stars have ever watched above the earth. 
At the time of her birth they sang together, and at 
her doom they shall he shrouded in mourning. 
Alike in times of war and tumult, and when the 
olive branch flonrisheth,—alike over dreaming inno¬ 
cence and dark browed guilt, over life and death,— 
alike they have watched, charming away sadness, 
calming the wild tumult of passion, breathing to the 
soul aspirations as high as heaven. Oh! many a 
Hjiirit, through the stars, hath looked up the aisles of 
glory, oven to the New Jerusalem, and hath learned 
to worship there. 
Beside the river the lily wept, and the rose upon 
the mossy bank, for the river’s bed was dry, and the 
violet thirsted. The prayer of the. flowers arose to 
Heaven, and the gentle rain fell. Full many a bene¬ 
diction rests upon the earth for the sweet sake of the 
simple flower, the springing grass, the growing 
grain. Beauty merymhete is a sileut appeal to the 
Father of Light for His blessing, and beauty of soul 
is a perpetual prayer. The good of the earth are its 
Balvation,— its true guardian angels,— aud where the 
heart beats truest, wannest, and freest,— there the 
love of Gqd abides, — there Heaven’s choicest bless¬ 
ings rest,— there is the passage from earth to Heaven. 
Hillsdale, Mich., 1861. Bkssik Dat. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.) 
EARLY MEMORIES. 
It is but a tiny tress of golden hair. Why press 
it so elosely In thy hands? Ah! there is another 
ringlet of durkcr hue, nestled closely beside it, ’neath 
the folds of the gllted paper. Why do you gaze bo 
dreamily upon the beautiful landscape spread before 
you ? Nature has lavishly decked it with pleasing 
objects. Art, too, smiles upon thee, as may be seen 
by that lovely home. Yet the long sunny afternoon 
wears away, pnd you sit there, all unconscious of the 
enchanting scenery, or the gorgeous sunset. Ah! I 
have the secret now. You are busy with childhood 
reminiscences. Yon have floated afar down the dark 
river of Time, in the fanciful barque of Memory. It 
is truly a lovely sccno that meets your view, the 
loved home circle of youth. Surely nothing can be 
more puro than the love of those young sisters for 
you, the eldest of the merry trio. Happy were you 
indeed, when the object of that sweet affection. No 
pleasure was perfect unless shared with them. But 
there came a change. I ana, — the pet and darling of 
all,—lay for many days upon a bed of suffering, and 
then the Death Angel cast his wings solemnly over 
your happy home, for the first time, and bore your 
sunbeam from your arms, leaving darkness and sor¬ 
row instead. Bilently yon pressed the last kiss upon 
the marble brow, and severed the longest and bright¬ 
est golden tress from among the others, — all that was 
left you now of one that was no fondly cherished in 
life. Henceforth it would be to you a sacred token. 
Doubly dear was Nelly to you now,— your only 
sister. Often, hand in hand, did you stray to Lina’s 
grave, and as you strewed it with the early spring 
flow era, you talked, In your childish way, of the time 
when you would meet your darling Lina again. 
How long and weary seemed the path to school if 
Nki.i.y was not by your side. She now was all the 
world to you. But ere the winds of autumn had 
robbed the woodlands of their green foliage, another 
grave was on the hillside, another little form was 
missing from among your number, and a dark and 
glossy ringlet was beside the golden tress. Though 
but a child, yet you felt how cheerless was to be your 
future, unblessed by a sister’s love. None could ever 
be to you as they had been. 
As years passed away, Lina and Nelly were forgot¬ 
ten by others, but you have felt their loss more keenly 
than at first. How often have you sighed for a 
sister’s sympathy, and kindly counsel. You marvel 
that any should esteem them as light its they appear 
to do. It matters not to you, that the world looks 
on, and calls you cold and heartless. They know 
not the dilations caused by a glance at those silent 
mementoes, nor the depth of affection for the loved 
and lost of your by-gone days. You know they are 
angels now, and dwell at the right hand of the Goon 
Shepherd, who hath said, “Suffer little children to 
come unto me. and forbid them not, for of such is lite 
Kingdom of Heaven.” And you seem to feel their 
presence, and to hear a soft whisper, “Yet a little 
while, and we shall again stand a happy band of 
sisters, never more to he parted.” Lucbbia. 
Burns. N. Y., 1861. 
[Written for Moore'e Rural New-Yorker.] 
DRESS AND OVERDRESS. 
As the columns of this obliging sheet were, not 
long since, opened to “free speech” on the subject 
of dress, 1 suppose it is not too late for me to free my 
mind on the all-important topic. I flatter myself that 
my opinions will he well worth having, from the fact 
that I stand on rather neutral grouud, being “a regu¬ 
lar blue stocking,” so far as raiment is concerned, and 
not caring a fig what I wear, nor how it’s put on. 
Naturally enough, therefore, I don’t please the gentle¬ 
men, for they are exceedingly particular about such 
matters. I comb my hair straight back behind my 
ears, and, of eonrso, that don’t suit—for gentlemen 
adore curls. 1 wear an old and faded wrapper, with 
a rumpled collar, in the morning, and an elderly and 
highly soiled silk in the afternoon, and that don't 
suit the fastidious gentlemen either; no more do my 
slip-shod slippers, and ink-stained finger-ends. But 
/ don't oare; I don’t intend to get married, and so 
don’t trouble myself to inquire about the whims of 
these lords of creation. But if I did, girls, I should 
dress quite differently. If I really did want to catch 
(that's the proper word, 1 believe,) if 1 did think it 
worth my while to try to “catch” a nice, genteel, 
agreeable, worth-having young man, (it’s a pity, there 
are so few of them,) I’)l toll you how I should dross, 
I should have the neatest ami daintiest of calicoes, 
close-fittiug, and tastefully trimmed. It should be 
dark in December, light in June, and with it should 
be the snowiest of collars, and the smoothest of hair. 
Above all things don’t wear curl-papers. I would as 
soon wear a false front, or a “scratch,” us curls made 
by being twisted up over night. It’s a certain sign 
that a young lady is on the shady side of thirty. You 
say the gentlemen don't tell you so? They tell you 
so, indeed! These silver-tongued gentlemen don’t 
tell yon girls much that they think. If yon had that 
pretty, economical morning costume on, which I 
have just described, they would pronounce it charm¬ 
ing, of course; but if you happened to be caught iu the 
other guise, such as / wear, why, these men, don’t you 
know, would assure you that you were bewitching in 
anything. Of course they would. That’s their way. 
Why, if you had fiery red hair. Miss Fannie, they 
would tell you it was the loveliest shade of auburn, 
and if your eyes were the ugliest sort of gray, these 
dear friends of yours would pronounce them a most 
charming blue. Yes, and if you aro like most girls, 
you would believe them. Now, I should tell you, 
right out, that your hair was red and your eyes nearer 
green than azure. That’s what elderly unwedded 
ladies are good for—to speak the truth—other people 
haven’t independence and strength of mind enough 
to do it But such individuals are usually styled 
“ cross old maids,” and, of course, don’t love you as 
the gentlemen do, by no means. 
What a lengthy digression 1 have made, and all 
about the beaux, too. Well, now, I’ll drop them if 
only to convince them that very few are worthy of 
my notice. Neatness and economy are the handmaidens 
oj virtue and goodness. That's a sentiment worthy, 
so I fancy, of Aristotle or Seneca. That’s all I 
have to sity about dress, — SO I shall proceed to over¬ 
dress. And writing the word remiudeth me of a 
Southern belle, whose ' ’ go to meeting toilette ” 1 once 
had the felicity of beholding. Ladies like the minuti* 
of such things, so I’ll specify them. Item first of said 
wardrobe was an elegant white hut, adorned, inside 
and out, with a profusion of red buds and their 
mother roses, in full bloom. Item second, a pink 
tarletan frock, lew in the neck aud short at the 
shoulder. Ditto third, red coral decorations on the 
ale baste r neck and arms. Ditto fourth, an orange- 
colored sash, depending in long streamers to the 
ground, no scarf, no cape,— nothing but a parasol, 
small and sky-colored, to protect lior from the sun. 
And so she went to church. Now that’s what I call, 
emphatically, “ over-dressing, ” though, to be sure, 
she hadn’t over-much on, taking into view the neck 
and arms. 
But if you smile at her, it is no more than your 
cousins over the water do at you, when they see you 
in rich aud trailing silks and satins, sweeping the 
filth from the crossings, while the delicate white hat 
catches the dust, and the glitter of jewelry, extrava¬ 
gant enough for a court ball, catches the eye of the 
vulgar crowd. If I were an Empress, ami could ride 
in a coach and six, with graceful pages to uphold the 
tram of my rustling silken robes when I alighted, 
perhaps I should wear one. But living in Democratic 
America, where an Empress was never seen, and 
where Cinderella's fairy god-mother’s metamor- 
fWritten for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
AMERICAN POETS. 
Turs far, there have been other things that have 
flourished more in our land than poetry. Wcnrca 
busy people, and have not much time to devote to 
courting the muses. With ns, the labors of the 
mechanical inventor are better rewarded than the 
genius of the poet. The best of our bards have had 
to follow some business by which they could gain 
their bread; and their poems were written in their 
spare moments. Bryant is a political editor; and 
Halleck was, until a short time ago, a dry goods 
clerk. We have no rich patrons of genius, who 
will provide for the wants of the poet; and even if 
there were such, onr ;f>ets wou'd bo too independent 
to receive much al ^-^fT/ienV 
Yet we have pools :r.r when;, we need not blush. 
True, we cannot yet boast of any great Epic; but we 
need not feel much ashamed of this, when we remem¬ 
ber the short period we have existed as a nation. 
England can boast of but one great Epic. But we 
have poets to whose songs the world listens, and 
there is no danger that the poems of Bryant, Lono- 
fki.i.ow, Whittier, and Pkkcival, will soon be for¬ 
gotten. Then we have young songsters, who bid 
fair to sing in strains that shall immortalize their 
names. 
Our poetry does not generally possess a strongly 
enough marked national character. While one or 
two of our poets would be known as Americans by 
their poetry, there arc others of our hards whose 
nationality would never be discovered by the perusal 
of their poems. This cannot be owing to any want 
ol material in our history, or the natural scenery of 
our country. True, onr hills ure not crowned with 
old castles, which have bid defiance to the storms of 
time for a thousand years; or our vales filled with 
the ruins of abbeys and monasteries; but we have a 
history full of stirring events. We have battle-fields 
upon which our ancestors fought in freedom's cause. 
Why not sing of Lexington, Monmouth, and York- 
town! And may not the Indian fnrnish the theme 
for many a song? But let it be the Indian as nature 
has formed him,—not a being snch as never had an 
existence, except in the poet's imagination. It is a 
singular fact that the best drawn Indian character 
that is to be found in poetry, is the production of a 
Scotchman.* But is not onr natural scenery of the 
most beautiful and sublime character. We have 
broad rivers, wide spread prairies, high mountains, 
and sunny vales. We have dense forests, and spark¬ 
ling fountains. Why, with all this material for 
poetry around them, should not our poets have more 
of a national character. 
Tho moral tendency of the writings of onr princi¬ 
pal poets is good, though they are not its religious in 
their character as could be desired. There is not 
one of them, with the exception, perhaps, of Whit¬ 
tier, ivho does uot appear to ignore the distinguish¬ 
ing character of Christianity. With the exception of 
a single obscure reference to Christ, all of Bry ant’s 
poetry might have been written by a deist. Even 
“ Thnnatopsis ” and the “ Hymn to Death " say noth¬ 
ing of Him who “has abolished death, and brought 
life and immortality to light.” .Some one has remarked 
of Poe, that he did not take interest enough in the 
subject of Christianity, even to sneer at it. Willis 
lias written what ho calls Sacred Poems, but they are 
not remarkable for tho spirit of piety which they 
breathe. But if they do not write religious poems, 
most ol their productions are, at least, innocent- We 
have no Byron among our bards, who strikes with 
the power of a fallen Seraph atall virtue. The parent 
may place the poems of Bryant, Whittier, Pkbci- 
val, and Hallkck, in the hands of his children 
without any fear of corrupting their minds. 
Rochester, Wis., 1861. S. L. Leonard. 
A monarch vested in gorgeous habiliments is far 
less illustrious than a kneeling suppliant, ennobled 
aud adorned by communion with God. Consider 
how august a privilege it is. when angels are present, 
when cherubim and seraphim encircle with their 
blaze tin* throne, that a mortal may approach with 
unrestrained confidence, and converse with heaven’s 
dread Sovereign. 0! what honor was ever conferred 
like this? When a Christian stretches forth his 
hands to pray, aud invokes his God, in that moment 
he leaves all terrestial pursuits, and traverses on the 
wings of intellect the realms of light; he contem¬ 
plates celestial objects only, and knows not of the 
present state of things during the period of his 
prayer, provided that prayer be breathed with 
fervency. 
Prayer is a heaven to the shipwrecked mariner, 
an anchor to them that are sinking in the waves, a 
staff to the limbs that totter, a mine of jewels to the 
poor, a security to the rich, a healer of diseases, and 
a guardian of health. Prayer at once secures the 
continuance of our blessings, and dissipates the 
cloud of our calamities. O blessed prayer! thou art 
the unwearied conqueror of human woes, the firm 
foundation of human happiness, the source of over- 
during joy, the mother of philosophy. Tho man 
who can pray truly, though languishing in extremest 
indigence, is richer than all beside; whilst the 
wTetch who never bowed the knee, though proudly 
seated as a monarch of a nation, is of all men the 
most destitute.— Chrysostom. 
The Changes of Time. —Time changes all things. 
It is the language of our hexameters at school, and 
of our declamations at college; it is confirmed by 
the lamentable experience of our manhood, and re¬ 
membered in the hitter reflections of our age. The 
old god with his scythe and hour-glass, his wrinkles 
and his wings, wakens us to a melancholy sense of 
his supremacy, when he interferes with the enjoy¬ 
ments which are springing up in freshness and ver¬ 
dure around our own hearts; when he points to the 
blighted friendship, the hlasted love, the sympathies 
extinguished, the brotherhood severed in twain. 
Listen to a young man of twenty. He has formed 
opinionswhich no temptation will shake, connections 
which no circumstances will dissolve. He is going 
into the world with a Bet of companions whose 
thoughts and feelings are his own, and he will defy 
the corrupting influences of cold society, hand in 
hand with men whose principles be embraces, whose 
genius he admires, whose talents must make them 
illustrious, whose ambition will never make them 
base. Five years hence, all this will appear to him, 
according to the temper of his mind, very ludicrous, 
or very sad. 
OUR GRANDMOTHER’S TOILET, 
In no particular has the present generation become 
more fastidious than in what is requisite for the use 
of ladies in their own dressing-rooms. Essences, 
powders, pastes, washes for the hair, washes for the 
skin, recall the days of one’s grandmothers, when 
such appurtenances were thought essential and were 
essential; for our great-grandmothers were not rigid 
in points of personal cleanliness; and it is only 
undeanliuess that requires scents to conceal it and 
applications to repair its ravages. Our great-grand¬ 
mothers wore powder and pomatum, and had their 
hair dressed three times a week; going to bed in the 
cushioned structure, after suffering torture for some 
hours, lest they should, in the weakness of human 
infirmity, lean hack in their chairs. Our great-grand¬ 
mothers, too, had their white kid gloves sewn to the 
bottom of each sleeve, lest they should incur the 
calamity of a sun-burnt arm. Our great-grandmothers 
were afraid of cold water, and delicately wiped their 
faces with the corner of a towel no larger than a 
pocket handkerchief. There were those among them 
who boasted that they had never washed their faces 
in their whole span of existence, lest it should spoil 
their complexions, but had only passed a cambric 
handkerchief over the delicate brow and cheeks, 
wetted with elder flower water or rose water. I 
believe the nearest approach to the ablution we now 
diurnally practise was the bathing their lovely coun¬ 
tenances iu May-dew, esteemed the finest thing in 
the morning for the skin by onr belles of the last 
century; so they lurned out betimes in high-heeled 
shoes and negliges, trotted down the old avenues of 
mauy a patriarchal home to the meadow, and, satur¬ 
ating tucir kerchiefs iu May-dew, refreshed with it 
the cheeks flushed over night at quadrille or great 
casino, and went home contented that a conscientious 
duty had been performed !—The Habits of Good 
Society. 
TnE Thief in Office. — The Gospel admits no 
amphibious morality. It does not promulgate one 
code for those who are in office, and another for 
those who are out. .Some men seem to think, when 
they engage in public affairs, that they can fold up 
their cnoral character like a garment, and lay it 
snugly away on a shelf at home, and after perpetrat¬ 
ing any convenient number of political frauds aud 
peculations, may return and put it on again, clean 
aud bright as before, But moral distinctions are 
uot so clastic. They are solid as the foundations of 
the earth, and immovable as the pillars of heaven. 
The man who, as a legislative or administrative 
officer, would repodiate the public debts, is a dis¬ 
honest man; and if he could and dared, he would 
repudiate his own. The politician who joins hands 
with robbers for public plunder, in whose palm* are 
bribes for corrupt legislation, is a wicked man; and 
be will only wait till social profligacy shall be 
winked at as readily as political, and he will at 
once stand forth a full-grown villain. 
Sensitive People —There is no help for being 
sensitive, but it ought to teach a person tenderness 
towards others. It doesnot, however. A greatmany 
people who pride themselves upon their “frankness,” 
and always "speak their mind,” are the very last 
ones who will hear the same things from anybody 
else. They never are untrue to their convictions,— 
not they. They mean to be faithful and do their 
duty, and so they are always flaring your faults in the 
most offensive manner. But go to one of these people, 
—say to him, “ Mr. lletebcl, I feel it my duty to tell 
yon that your temper is not the sweetest, that your 
children behave bad at school, that they lie, pinch, 
play truant, and are dirty into the bargain;”—and lo! 
you have disturbed a whole wasp’s nest of evil 
passions, and probably your family and the netohels 
will be put in non-intercourse all the rest of your 
life. Speaking one’s mind, with these people, means 
their privilege of sticking needles into every one’s 
feelings they choose, whereas all the neighborhood 
must be sweet as summer toward them.— Monthly 
Religious Magazine. 
The Gospel Triumphing. —We often take despond¬ 
ing views of Christianity. But look at this state¬ 
ment, showing the advance the Church has made. 
There were of Christian communicants, in the first 
century, 500,000; in the fifth century, 15,000,000; in 
the tenth century, 50,000.000; in the fifteenth cen¬ 
tury, 100,000,000; in the eighteenth century, 200,000, 
000. Is there not something really inspiring iu such 
a view? Yet a little while, and we may say: “From 
the tope of the rocks I see them, and from the hills I 
behold them; who can count the dust of Jacob, and 
number the fourth part of Isreal?” 
* Octalissi, in Camfbki4.'s “Gertrude of Wyoming. 
Glorify a lie, legalize a lie, arm and equip a lie, 
consecrate a lie with solemn forms and awful penal¬ 
ties, and after all it is nothing but a lie. It rots a 
land and corrupts a people like any other lie, and hy- 
and by the white light of God’s truth shines clear 
through it, and shows it to be a lie. 
Domestic Happiness.— Six things, says Hamilton, 
are requisite to create a “happy home.” Integrity 
must be the architect, and tidiness the upholsterer. It 
must be warmed by affection, and lighted tip with 
cheerfulness; and industry must be the ventilator, 
renewing the atmosphere and bringing in fresh salu¬ 
brity day by day; while over all, as a protecting 
canopy and glory, nothing will suffice except the 
blessiug of God. 
You may speak oat more plainly to your associates, 
but not less courteously, than you do to strangers. — 
Friends in Councils 
