248 
s mmjt: 
/Mies' <Bti affluent. 
THE VOLtTNTE- R’S WIFE. 
I knew by the light in hi deep, (lark eye, 
When he heard the bee of the mustering drum, 
That he never would fob’ his arms, and sigh 
Over the evil* that w« e to coin*,’ 
I knew that the blood id a patriot sire 
Coursed through hi* .us like a stream of fire; 
So I took hi* and, 
And bado him go, 
But be nevi dreamed 
That it gt.eved me bo. 
Two fair-haired cb dron he left with me 
Who lisp hi* mi is at the eventide— 
The very hour w) n upon hi* knee 
Ho used to fom ie his pet and pride; 
Ala*! they may never again be blessed 
By a father’s care in the old homo nest; 
Ai d he never again 
May hear the tones, 
Or i iss the lips 
01 his little ones. 
I know he h.-s answered his country’s call, 
That his 1 east is bared at a high command; 
But my hear (, will break, I know, if ho fall 
In the butMe’s front, by a traitor's hand; 
Yet I murmur not, though my tear wet eyes 
Attest the worth of the sacrifice; 
’Tin a wife’s free gift, 
Two lives In one, 
In the name of God 
And of Washington. 
Perhaps, when the maple leaves are red, 
And the golden glories of harvest come, 
I shall wake some morning to hear his tread, 
And give him a warm heart’s welcome home; 
To kneel with him in a fervent prayer, 
Thanking oar God for his watchful care, 
In shielding urn heart 
From the rebel'* brand, 
Who honored the ling 
Of hi* cherished land. 
--4-^ ♦ ■ t -- 
rWritten for Moore's Kural New-Yorker.] 
FUSSY MEN. 
First of all things, I do ubominate a fussy, putter¬ 
ing kind of a man. Why, I always have to clinch my 
fingers to keep from strangling him with bis sus¬ 
penders. Now, a pleasant, accommodating man I 
can tolerate,—one who is ready to bring a pail of 
water, or an armful of wood, without growling,— 
who won't step his muddy feet on my clean floor; or 
disturb my pet cat when slio is snoring on her 
cushion, and ull that sort of thing. But that fussy 
man, who Is always putting his nose into everything; 
watching to sec how much sugar is used; scolding 
because the flour don't last long enough; peeping 
into the pantry to see how things look; telling what 
he wants for dinner, and liow he wants it cooked; 
keeping close watch of the meat barrel, and cutting 
every slice of bam; scolding because a woman over 
wants to go to the store, and inquiring precisely how 
many nutmegs she got for an ounce; and then, to 
cap the climax, always wondering what a woman has 
to do when ho tends to everything ’round the house,— 
from such a man, in the language of the litany: 
“ Good Lord deliver me.” Why, goodness me! I had 
rather live in the house with a hear, for 1 could 
shoot him, but these human bears I could do noth¬ 
ing hut torment. 0 ! you needn’t laugh in your 
sleeveH, and think if I lived with yon, Mr. A., B., or 
C., I would change my tune. That Is the trouble. 
Such kind of men always marry a meek, quiet, little 
soul, who never dares to my her bouI is her own, and 
then they can lord it over them at their will. 
It is the strangest thing in nature that some men 
can’t mind their own business and let women’s affairs 
alone. It is a dreadful good thing Mr. X. don’t hap¬ 
pen to be of that kind. There, I have said my say out. 
June, 1861. X. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yovker.] 
REMEMBER THE AGED. 
Do we consider und treat the elderly and aged as 
kindly, and with as much attention as we ought? Is 
it not an almost universal fact, that young people 
dislike, or avoid, middle-aged and old, and they are 
too often forgotten, or left out of social games and 
gatherings? In a brief spaco, wo all pass into the 
“ sere and yellow leaf,” and to the winter of old nge, 
and to meet with neglect, or disrespect, how it must 
hasten the " gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.” 
True, those distinguished for talents, or by posi¬ 
tion, usually receive attention, but the mass of people, 
who have only their plain, unvarnished virtues to 
commend them, how ofteu they are passed by, or 
treated with contumely, merely because they are no 
longer fresh, buoyant, beautiful. They have become 
old rubbish, and ure cast aside. 
V\ hat, even if they have peculiarities, or eccen¬ 
tricities, are we not all molded, more or less, by 
circumstances, and how know we but by the time 
CROOKED SPINES IN GIRLS. 
It is a sad fact, that nearly every young lady in 
" fashionable life lias a lateral curvature of the spine. 
This comes on at the age of ten or eleven, and con¬ 
tinues slowly but Bteadily to increase, unnoticed even 
by a mother’s watchful eye, till the child is really 
deformed—one Bhoulder is much larger and higher 
than the other, so that the drees maker is obliged to 
put cotton in the dress to make the back look flat 
and square. 
The boys—their brothers, have no such trouble; 
why should they? The question may well be asked 
by every thoughtful parent. I answer that imj>rnj»v 
dress and other physiological errors, in which girlB 
constantly indulge, produce thin mischief. 
The dress of the girl is always tighter than her 
brothers, and this begun when she is quite young, 
“to give her a form,” the mother says, as If God did 
not do this when he made the child. The constant 
pressure on the mutcles of the spine, which are 
designed to keep it straight, causes absorption of 
those muscles, and as the right arm is UBcd more 
than the left, the spine is drawn under the right 
shoulder blade, thus making it project. The muscles 
are so weakened by absorption, they cannot bring 
the spine back to its proper position. 
In addition to this tight dress, I have seen girls of 
thirteen and four!ten with corsets on. Often these are 
adopted by thoughtless mothers in the hope to 
straighten the child, but under their cruel pressure, 
the difficulty rapidly Increases, till the poor deformed 
girl is sent to a spinal institution to bo treated. 
While this difficulty Is gradually increasing, the 
young girl is sent to school, to spend live or six 
hours each day bending over a low desk, and when 
she returns home, instead ol being allowed to play 
ball or any active game in the open air, as her broth¬ 
ers are, is placed on a high piano stool, where her 
toes but just touch the floor, with nothing to pro¬ 
tect her back. In this position she must sit one long, 
painful hour. 
Do you wonder that she has a crooked spine? I 
wonder that any escape, for all are obliged to pass 
through the same killing ordeal. —Lewis' Gymnastics. 
-♦ • ♦ ■ 
CHILDREN—HARDENING, INDULGING. 
In those houses where the regime is of the robust 
and “hardening” quality—where the children are 
suffered to run about in all weathers—where there is 
plenty of whelsesotne food, no silly indulgences, and 
a profound belief in cold water—where the dross is 
warm, light, and the very reverse of cumbersome— 
where the mother does all the doctoring and does 
very little of it, what do we find? For the most 
part fine, well-grown, healthy children, perhaps a 
trifle rude and not a trifle sunburnt, but nothing like 
the puny little sickly miseries got out of the scientific 
and careful homes; nothing, again, like the diseased, 
rickety, scrofulous creatures so diligently nurtured c 
into disease at the "indulgent” homes. These 
indulgent homes arc the true grave yards of 
health if not of life, of manhood if not of exist- 1 
ence, of nobleness and robust vigor if not of all 
besides. These are the homes where the simplest ! 
childish compluint^measles or whooping-cough— 
become as deadly as plague or the yellow fever—where ' 
typhus breaks out without apparent cause, and where 
the doctor is never absent, and the mother never at " 
rest. Whenever wo sco a mother who thinks that 
her children have to be “kept in” because of this v 
wind or that wind, and to be “ kept up ” by port wine '' 
or bitter beer, because of this delicacy or that deli¬ 
cacy, we may be Bure that she is rearing them for n 
death, or for life-long debility and disease: and 
* ij 
wherever we boo a mother give way to her children’s 
fancies, and feed them with indulgences instead of 
the common-sense wholesome plainness of rational j 
people, we may be sure that here, too, is infancy des- 
tined to but a brief career, or the future maturity ' 
to an inheritance ol sickliness and pain. London 
Review. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
ONE YEAR AGO. 
BT CENK I’RATT. 
One year ago the wor’d was fair 
And beautiful as now,— 
As joyously the sunlight danced 
On many a laughing brow. 
The wind in whispers stirred the leaves 
To most delightful soDg, 
And noisleesly the shadow* fell 
As nvenlDg glided on. 
And, Alice, dear, the sun to day, 
Rose cloudlessly as theD,— 
The wind as gfDtly awayBthe leaves, 
For June is here again. 
But where are they who sang with us, 
One year ago to-day; 
Or waked the echoes in the grove. 
With accents wild and gay? 
O, Alice, ’tis an olden tale. 
These rapid strides of Change; 
And that we’re widely scattered now, 
Is nothing new or straDge. 
Some have learned to weep this year, 
Who never mourned before, 
O’er blighted hopes und severed ties 
That Time cannot restore. 
One of our merry little band 
No longer mnrks the years;— 
There are no weary days in Heaven— 
No mourning hearts—no tears 
Another one, with willing hand, 
Ha* proffered'heart and life 
To save our troubled native land, 
Another I* a wife; 
Another walks in learning’s balls, 
A favorite and pride; 
Another has a happy home 
On old Potomac's side; 
While Mr y and Joe, *uch lovers then, 
Ilave had a fuss, and parted. 
May said that Jon could u go toyrass." 
Jon took his lint, and— started. 
While all of our glad number then, 
bike leaves in autumn weather, 
Are scattered here and there until 
No two are left together. 
Bat each has many blegsings left- 
pleasures aud beauties new 
Are always crowding on our path, 
And wo’re enough to do; 
Remembering that no bitter cup 
Is ever ours alone; 
And «• Ming other wounded hearts, 
Drit yt healing to our own. 
-- - ■ »— ♦ ■ t - 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker ] 
DF.EAMS- REALITIES. 
Amount op Absence Proper for Husbands.— 
Miss Muloch says:—“A lady of my acquaintance 
gives it as her sine qua non of domestic felicity, that 
the ‘men of the family Bhould always be absent at 
least six hours in the day.’ And truly, the mistress 
of a family, however strong her Affection for the male 
members Of it, cannot bat acknowledge that this is a 
great boon. A house, when ‘papa’ or the boys’ are 
always‘pottering about,’popping in nud out at all 
hours, everlastingly wanting something, or finding 
fault with dometbing else, is a considerable trial, 
even to feminine patience. And I beg to ask my sex 
generally — in confidence, of eourso if it is not the 
greatest coinfort possible, when, the masculine half 
of the family being cleared out for the day, the 
house settles down into regular work and orderly 
quietness until evening? Also, it is good for them, 
as well as for us, to have all the inevitable petty 
domestic ‘bothers,’ 
over in their absence; to 
effect which, ought to be one of the principal aims 
we have passed through the trials and disappoint- 0, ‘ 1,10 distress of a family. Let them, if possible, 
meats incident to mortal life, we shall seem singular, 
or sober, to the next generation? 0 , let us be kind 
and gentle to the aged. Be patient and tender 
towards the old grandmother, or father, who sits in 
the corner, depending, perhaps, on you for bread and 
a home. Honor them, —their lives are nearly passed, 
and soon, very soon, you will lay them away to rest. 
How sweet, then, will he the reflection, that you did 
come to a quiet, smiling home, with all Its small 
annoyances brushed away like the dust and cinders 
from the grate — which, en passant, is one of the 
first requisites to make a fire-side look comfortable.” 
- ♦ » » ■ ♦ - 
The Power of Love.—T o the hearts of all us 
women, love is a necessity; and a man who under¬ 
stands that, has a power in his hands. Many have 
all in your power to smooth and brighten their paths neglected it and many have grossly misused it. 
to t it Ktave, that you never caused them to feel Where and how your husbands have failed, it is not 
burdensome or obtrusive, or to long for the narrow for me to decide; one thing only I will say to yon. 
home where they would be out of your way, and no My late husband told me one day of a King of 
longer u nwelcome. _ (Jubkchy. Spain, on whose foot a burning cinder fell out of 
r, the tire. He would have thrown it off, but it oc- 
' l a9 , eV ^ r th . ere a lamily Wlth ' curred to him that it was not Beemly for a King to 
,, es ‘ an ? ,vm jVe iac * their troubles do so; he therefore called his minister. The min- I 
, n e °’ a ann iea * mv0 l *‘ eir troubles, [gtersaid that it was not his business, and gave the 
r ' ami ^ as a s v<-‘etou behind the door; every command to one of the pages; the page was of noble 
pevson a thorn m lm side. It is said that misery birth, and tbwfore called a chamberlain ; but be- 
^mpany.so^eouragehapiess man,wearied fore he could come tho t . inder had bumt tbe ahoc 
trouble rh tfi U ar ° fl'° “ Man la hom to through to the foot. Dear lady, when a grief, like 
a spar s y upuarc. A useless family a red-hot cinder, falls upon your heart, do not slop 
would yours he if it knew no trouble Trouble i« ,, - , - , ..... 1 
_ n „ „ T , , 11 be 1S thinking whose proper duty it is to remove it, 
nones us with strength; it otherwise your heart may be burnt through and 
gives ns courage, it tempers oui metal; it developes throngli. Seize it boldly, with our Lord’s help, and 
T,'r ,H»' COn '* ’ 1 q ’| 1C , f"* 0Ur invetlllve powers, throw it away, even though finger and thumb should 
Troubles are to us what the winds are to the oak i° , ... 
. . , , . x u ’ oas. be a ] ltl | e burnt; that hurt will soon heal.— Matri- 
what labor is to muscle, what study is to mind. Life vwniaL Q uarV its. 
is a school, and trouble is one of the great lessons. _ 1 ___ 
1 roubles are not to be courted, but when they come, Motherhood.—I t transforms all things by its vital 
we must get over them the best way we can, or bear heat; it turns timidity into fierce courage, and dread- 
them with the best fortitude we can arouse. Take less defiance into tremulous submission; it turns 
courage therefore, troubled one. Not in vain are thoughtlessness into loresight, and yet stills all anxi- 
your trials. They make you brave, strong; and, it is ety into calm content; it makes selfishness become 
to be hoped, better. Be not cast djwn, cheer up; self-denial, and gives even hard vanity the glance of 
cast aside your weeds and woes. Look the world in admiring love.— George Eliot. 
faee; do your duty; take every trouble by the horns, _^ ♦_ 
overcome it with the courage of a true soldier in I'ok every fear which we dare not confront we lose 
‘. es great cam P ai £ D . and stoutly contend for the a portion of our hardiness; for every sorrow from 
victory of will and wisdom. which we turn we forfeit a consolation. 
“Youth is the time for dreams-—strange, contra¬ 
dictory, but most beautiful dreams — which, as we 
advance in life, we are doomed to see depart forever.” 
These words were spoken to me by one whom I 
regarded as an oracle of wisdom. They dropped 
down heavy, like lead, into my heart, breaking the 
eve.r before calm and sunny waters Into unpleasant 
little ripples. Was, then, youth tho only time in 
which to indulge in dreams? And were they only 
dreams? There were a thousand pretty fancies in 
my own brain, which 1 1 /ad hoped sometime to see 
blessed realities. And ^V.il as I was, 1 felt that if 1 
was “doomed to see them depart,” the sunshine 
would go ont of my life forever, and I said to myself, 
“ No, no, sweet dreams, 1 will never let you go, yon 
must stay with me always.” I can but smile, now, at 
the fear with which I held them lest they should slip 
away. But those very dreams, those little, airy noth¬ 
ings, arc tangible realities now, making life beau¬ 
tiful, glorious. Dreams are not always the vague, 
shadowy affairs that they are represented. They are 
but the foreshadowing of facts. Sometimes through 
the chambers of the brain there glides a wierd fancy, 
a dim thought of something great and noble. Per¬ 
haps we exhibit a momentary surprise at its presence. 
It shrinks back, is hid by tho other phantoms of the 
brain, and is then forgotten, or thought of only w ith 
an incredulous smile. But it has not left us,—not so 
easily is it quieted. By its silent influence, and our 
protracted, earnest endeavors, at length, what was 
at first a strange, wild dream, becomes an actual 
reality. 
it is a mistaken idea that all that is joyous in life, 
leaves us with our youth. This may be the time 
when we ara made happy with the hope of what 
shall be, but manhood is the time when we are 
blessed with the golden reality that ia. Then tear 
not their hopeB from the young, nor teach them they 
are but Dead Sea apples—fair to look at, but falling 
to dust at the touch. Train their thoughts, their 
hopes, their visions, if you will, to noble purposes; 
am. when a glorious thought of something yet to he, 
flashes on the mind, awakening by its brilliancy all 
the sleeping energies, yet requiring lime for its 
development, do not dououuce it as an idle dream, 
but nurture it as an embryo power which shall at 
sometime produce great results. Life is a reality, 
hut it is not that stern, harsh thing which we try to 
believe it. It does not take from us our holy aspira¬ 
tions, nor thwart our noble purposes; it only ripens 
the dream into the reality. 
“ Some dreams we have arc nothing else but dream*, 
Unnatural, and fall of contradiction; 
While otherB, of cmr most romantic Bchemes, 
Are something more than fiction.” 
Litchfield, Mich., 1801. Millichnt Grat. 
English Literature.— It is astonishing how much 
substantial nutriment can be obtained from books. 
English literature presents to the hungry reader a 
rich variety of solid dishes. One can take a cut of 
tender and juicy Lamb or a slice of Bacon , nor are 
the Greenes wanting. If lie is not fond of smoked 
meat, there is tbe original Hogg, or he may choose a 
Buckling or ft Kyd. Ho may have a Boyle, if not a 
roast; and if he is fond of fish, there's Bvllok. Rome 
like a dish of Crabbe — a little crusty, yet many pre¬ 
fer a poet still more Shelley. And what for dessert? 
O-jvie. To wash all these good things down there is 
plenty of Porter, and flowing Bowles, with a Butler 
to serve them. With snch a feast before him, one 
may “ laugh and grow fat" until he gets an Akmside, 
and all Scott free. What the Dickens cau he want 
Mo or el — Home Journal. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
“IT’S SO COMMON!” 
Such is the contemptuous form of condemnation 
which we so often hear most headlessly and unthink¬ 
ingly passed upon many “a thing of beauty,” by 
persons who appear to value any object in proportion 
to its rarity. No matter how intrinsically beautiful 
a piece of goods, say a lady’s dress, may be in its 
design, no matter how exquisite the taste which has 
Contrived to render the simplest materials subservient 
to adornment, which is none the less winning because 
of its chaBte simplicity — if it be a thing so ordinary 
in texture and material as to be within tbe reach of 
all, or nearly all, the ambitious devotee of fashion, 
the haughty aspirant after what is distinguishing, 
chiefly because it is costly, passes it by with a dis¬ 
dainful curl of her lips, and remarks that “It’s so 
common;” and of course being so, will not suit a 
person so very distingnee as herself! 
The same Idea is the guide of the irreproachably 
got-up exquisite of the other Rex, who probably sets 
such an exaggerated value upon his own precious 
self, chiefly because he really believes himself a very 
uncommon person and consequently a Tery superior 
article! It would be well indeed, If such be jewelled 
and well-chained specimens of what Carlvi.e calls 
“ the man-milliner species ” of the genus homo, were 
as rare as they themselves vainly imagine; but alas! 
they are “so common!” — as common on the pave¬ 
ment and in the Baloons of our large cities as sands 
upon the shore of old Oceftu — and as dull and stupid 
as they are common. 
But beautiful things are also “common ’’ — thanks 
to that Great and Good Being, whose tender mercies 
are over all “ His works,” and who has spread out 
the blue heavens “ like a curtain,” the exquisite dye 
of which is the “common” enjoyment of all His 
children, and, not improbably, most admired and 
appreciated by those who know the least of any other 
curtain. These also enjoy another very ‘‘common” 
blessing — the circumambient air which is given for 
the sustentation anil pleasure of us all, lint enjoyed 
most by those who dwell far away among the moun¬ 
tains where least is known of man’s too often pollu¬ 
ting presence. It is given to all by our Heavenly 
Father as freely as the rays of His euu-light, or the 
refreshing beams of His ever enduring mercy. 
Tbe same Divine love, as unmerited as it is free, 
has spread tbe earth over with the most exquisite 
types of grime and beauty, which few, if any, appre¬ 
ciate as they deserve to be appreciated, simply 
because they are “so common" — those “stars of 
earth,” the “golden flowers.” How many there are 
who admire the stately beauty of the rare and costly 
exotic, and yet wholly forget to “ consider the lilies 
of the field!” How many who greet, with warm 
praise, real or affected, the more rare and stately 
varieties of the rose, pass by with indifference and 
disregard their fair and delicate country cousin, the 
dog-rose, which, “single” though It be, possesses a 
grace and beauty we look for in vain in many of the 
proud double-blossomed favorites of the fashionable 
florist. But then the dog-rose is “ so common,” and 
will condescend to adorn the waysides and hedge¬ 
rows with its delicate blush, and “ waste its sweet¬ 
ness ” on the “ common ” people! 
How beautiful in their very simplicity are the pale 
yellow blossoms of the wild primrose, the dark blue 
or white petals of the violet, the winning looks of 
the Germander Speedwell, well named “Eyebright” 
by the elder poets of Old England, in whose beautiful 
lanes, glens and woodlands they blossom luxuriantly, 
as many pleasant memories testify; nay, what more 
beautiful in its emerald brightness than tho soft 
grass, bespangled with daisies, buttercups and dande¬ 
lions, which meets us every where. Oh! how grate¬ 
ful to the eye is the soft hue of this most beautiful of 
carpets, and how refreshing the memories of child¬ 
hood which it calls up; and yet how few prize an 
enjoyment which is “so common!” Ilow few who 
can with Lowell find even in it. an Eldorado, shining , 
with the “harmless gold” of the dandelion. AVe 
never see one of these “ dear common flowers ” 
without thinking of his beautiful description: 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE STREAM THAT ALL MUST FORD. 
ST MRS. A. I. HORTON. 
Close on the brink of a dread stream I'm standing, 
Cold, chilling wind* come sweeping to the shore, 
Its broad, stilt wave*, in awful gloom expanding, 
To hear me, wait, whence l return no niore.J 
Would the faint light that gleam* from yonder landing 
But throw its beams the chart!ess waters o’er; 
Then would my soul, its wing* of faith expanding, 
Strike boldly out for yon untrodden shore. 
Ofttimes the chilly mist that, over hovering 
Over the stream, obscHre* it* beams from sight; 
But yet I know it shines, fixed and unwavering, 
Across the ware to guide iny way aright. 
No friend with me will traverse those drear waters— 
They’ll leave me at the brink, the truest, best; 
But One alono, whose love ne'er ebbs or falters, 
Can lead me to his Own eternal rest. 
And when, with sad and tear-dimm’d eyes, I’m gazing 
Back on the pa*t., who*e shadows o’er me lower, 
I seem to hear a voice, so softly saying, 
“ Look not upon the pari—it comes no more. 
“ Fix but thine eyes on yon celestial beacon, 
The unresiriing waves will bear thee o’er, 
With songs of Joy the sleeping echoes waken, 
Thy loved ones wait tbee on the other shore.” 
0, Savior, when I enter Death’s dark portal, 
May Tbv sustaining Presence still be near; 
With trembliogjoy I’ll put on tho immoital, 
And launch upon that stream without a fear. 
Dundee, N. Y. t 1861. 
- * ■ ♦ ■ -* - 
THE PRIVILEGE OF PRAYER. 
— 
Consider how august a privilege it is, when angels 
nre present, when cherubim and seraphim encircle 
with their blaze the throne, that a mortal may 
approach with unrestrained confidence, and converse 
with heaven’s dread Sovereign. 01 what honor was 
ever conferred like this? When a Christian stretches 
forth his hasds to pray, and invokes his God, in that 
moment, he leaves all terrestrial pursuits, and trav¬ 
erses on the wings of intellect the realms of light; 
he contemplates celestial objects only, and knows 
not of the present stutc of things during tho period 
of his prayer, provided that prayer he 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 con¬ 
tinuance of our blessings, and dissipates the cloud 
of our calamities. 0 blessed prayer! thou art the 
unwearied conqueror of human woes, the only firm 
foundation of human happiness, the source of ever- 
during joy, the mother of philosophy. The man 
who cun pray truly, though languishing in extremes! 
indigence, is richer than ull beside; wbilo the wretch 
who never bowed the knee, though proudly seated as 
a monarch of a nation, is of all men the most desti¬ 
tute.— Chrysostom. 
“Gold such bh thine ne’er drew the Spanish prow 
Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, 
Nor wrinkled the lean brow 
Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease; 
'Tin the Spring'* largess, which she scatters now 
To rich and poor alike, with lavi*h hand, 
Though most heart* never underntanil 
To take it at Oon'S value, but pass by 
The offered wealth with unregarded eye.” 
We dare not, after quoting Lowell, prolong our 
own feeble prose utterances, so, with the last beau¬ 
tiful stanzu of the poet’s address to the Dandelion, we 
will take our leave: 
“ How like a prodigal (loth nature seem, 
When thou, for all gold, bo common art I 
Thou teachest me to deem 
More sacredly of every human heart, 
Since each reflects In joy it* scanty gleam 
Of heaven, and conld some wondrous secret show, 
Did we but pay the love we owe, 
And with a child’s undoubting wisdom look 
On all these living pages of God’s book.” 
Cobourg, C. W., July 19,1861. Gkrvas Holmes. 
How to Live Well.— Good meals at moderate 
intervals, and tho stomach left to rest between. 
Some interval—an interval of active exercise is the 
best—between books and food. A leisure Lour for 
dinner, and cheerful conversation after it- A short 
nap, for those who need or like it after dinner. 
Light occupation in the evening—literature, or cor¬ 
respondence, with more or less social intercourse 
mqsic, or other recreation, These ure each and all 
highly desirable; but the most indispensable of all is 
strenuous and various exercise. 
BUMMER EVENINGS. 
Summer evenings must have been created in a fit 
of remorse for the weariness and disappointments 
which fall to the lot of man and womankind during 
the long, bright summer days. The gairish sun, 
strong and self-sustained, is incapable of sympathy. 
It blazes down fiercely in hot wrath, or retires into 
dark and angry shadow, unmindful of blistering 
heads or breaking hearts. The moon alone, change¬ 
ful as she is said to be, radiant though she is, looks 
down softly and pityingly on the sorrows she cannot 
cure, and assuages by seeming to share them. 
Fair summer evenings are the time above all others 
when one cares to realize only the bliss of simple 
existence. To work, or make any active effort, is 
actually impossible, excepting for those disagreeably 
industrious people who are never satisfied, aB they 
say, “to be still a minute.” It. is almost too much 
exertion to walk. It is happiness to sit in the shadow 
of the moonlight, in the open air, where thought 
flows free, and dream and philosophize with some 
one—the other counterpart, if the world hold it, of 
oneself—if not, dream alone. Share the daylight, the 
gas-illuminated parlors, or even the winter flre-Bide, 
with laughter-loving friends, but the sweet summer 
evenings, with its loving kisses wafted by every 
breath to cheek and lip, not with the crowd should 
you share these. Let the moonlight shine on a white 
tablet in your heait, sacred to ,— or, sacred to a mem¬ 
ory .— New York Dispatch. 
IVe are ruined, not by what we really want, but by 
what we think we do; therefore, never go abroad in 
search of your wants; if they be real wants, they will 
come home in search of you; for he that buys what 
he does not wmnt, will soon want w r hat he cannot buy. 
Woman without Religion. — A man may, in some 
sort, tie lii* frail hopes and honors, with weak, shift¬ 
ing ground tackle, to his business of the world; but 
a woman without tbe anchor called Faith is a drift 
and a wreck. A man may clumsily continue a kind 
of responsibility or motive, but a woman can find no 
basis in any system of right action than that of spir¬ 
itual faith. A man may craze his thoughts and his 
brain to thoughtfulness in such poor harborage as 
fame and reputation may spread before him; but a 
woman — where can she put her hope, in storms, if 
not in heaven? 
And that sweet truthfulness—that abiding love, 
that endearing hope, mellowing every scene of life, 
lighting them with pleasantest radiance, when the 
world’s cold storms break like an army with smoking 
cannon — what can bestow it all but a holy soul-tie 
to what is stronger than an army with cannon? Who 
that has enjoyed the love of a Qod-loving mother, 
but will echo the thought with energy, and hallow it 
with a tear?— Ik. Marvel. 
- ♦»♦••» - - 
A Stronger Religion. —We have had too much 
rose-water religion. We have been almost wrecked, 
as a people, by tolerating error tinder the garb of phi¬ 
lanthropy. The delicate nerves of our modern civili¬ 
zation have shrunk from capital punishment aa a 
relic of primeval barbarism. There has been more 
sympathy with the criminal than with society. This 
has shown itself In theological statements, modifying 
the statements of God’s word. Many could not bear 
to hear of the eternal punishment of the wicked. 
Philanthropy was taking the place of religion; 
humanity the place of divinity. There seems to 
have been almost an actual softening of the brain of 
the body politic, so far have the people been educat¬ 
ing themselves for disintegration and dissolution. 
Now, as a remedy for this Btato of things, come the 
summons of Divine Providence to gird up the mind 
of the nation.— Rev. Dr. IF. Adams. 
-- 
Excellence of L 4 B 0 R.—Labor is of noble birth; 
but prayer is the daughter of heaven. Labor has a 
place near the throne, but prayer touches the golden 
scepter. Labor, Martha-like, is busy with much 
serving, but prayer Bits with Mary at the feet of 
Jesus, Labor climbs the mountain, with Moses; but 
prayer soars upward with Elijah, in a chariot of fire. 
Labor has the raven’s wing, yet sometimes goes forth 
in vain; but prayer has the pinions of the dove, and 
never returns but with the olive-leaf of blessing. 
“ They that be wise shine as the brightness of the 
firmament: and they that turn many to righteousness, 
as the stars for ever and ever.” 
-- 
In attempting to convert a sinner from the error of 
his way, one should be as careful as though he were 
endeavoring to revive a rapidly expiring fire. Not 
trundle in a scuttle-fnll of dogmas all at once, so 
that the faint spark which gives indications of spir¬ 
itual life is so overwhelmed by the mass, that it can 
with difficulty force its way through it, or perhaps is 
smothered entirely; but drop a truth here, a maxim 
there, always striving to keep the spark alive. Ian 
it, do not blow it out. 
A Christian should look upon bimselt as sacred 
and devoted. For that which involves but an ordi- 
uary degree of criminality in others, in him partakes 
of the nature of sacrilege; what is a breach of trust 
in others, ia in him the profanation of the temple. 
Robert Hall. 
__ ♦ « ♦ -- 
Knowledge without Love.— If tliou didst know 
the whole Bible by heart, und the sayings of all the 
philosophers, what would it all profit thee without 
the love of God, and his grace? — 27ms. A. Kettpts. 
