B52 
.OOKE’8 KVRjBlL KEW-YO&KER. 
. z. i 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. J 
DREAMLAND. 
Plkasant were my dreams last night, 
Even till tbe morning light; 
Through the lonely midnight hours 
Roamed I Dreamland’s fairest bowers. 
I had wandered all the day, 
Through a rough and thorny way; 
Till closed at last, the Angel Sleep, 
Eyes too weary even to weep. 
Then tbe weariness and pain 
Passed away from heart and brain, 
All my being sweetly blessed 
With the soothing balm of rest. 
And the frieDds of long ago— 
Those 1 lovod and trusted so— 
Clasped my hand in glad surprise, 
looked on run with loring eyes. 
Tender words, like holy halm, 
Killed my soul with wondrous calm, 
Sweeter than the song of birds 
Seemed to mo those pleawint words. 
But too soon the morniDg hours 
Called me hack from Dreamland bowers; 
Vanished with the coming light 
All the visions of tbe night. 
But the joy within my heart 
Does not with the night depart; 
Tender words my spirit thrill, 
Roving eyes look on me stilL 
Surely blessed are the hours. 
When, like dew upon the flowers, 
Kalleth On the weary, sleep, 
Saddest eyes forget to weep. 
I've been humming all day long 
Snatches of an old time song; 
Know you why ray heart is light? 
Pleasant wore my dreams last night. 
Homer, N. Y., 1861. 
-> ■ ♦ ■ - 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
THANKS. 
We are all pleased that our kind offices should he 
appreciated. Few of ua have benevolence so disin¬ 
terested, that if one favor of ours be received with 
indifference or contempt, we will take much trouble 
to repeat it. 
We are generally fond of expressions of gratitude. 
By them we understand that we have made another 
happier, and are consequently better pleased with 
ourselves. " You have done me a great favor, I shall 
always remember It,” counts tens if not hundreds in 
tbe sum of our earthly happiness. Even the stereo 
typed, and almost meaningless, “Thank you,” in 
answer to congratulations, compliments, attentions 
at the table, and little favors generally, is not so 
offensive to us aa other fixed forms of speech. Yet 
the best thanks are often unexpressed. They go forth 
for deeds, to notice or mention which would he to 
take away their chief beauty; delicate and unobtru¬ 
sive acts of kindness; for thoughtful consideration of 
our comfort and forbearance to give us pain; for 
numberless courtesies that wo may feel and prize, but 
for which there arc* no words,—yet for these arc 
springing np in hearts fountains of gratitude whose 
depth is only known by its stillness. It is so with 
sympathy. We liko to know that our friend thinks, 
feels, and would act with us, but we bate clamorous 
approval of everything we do or say. If we are 
admiring a beautiful landscape, an autumn sunset, or 
the glory of a thunder storm, and one, noticing our 
rapt attention, comes to our side, loudly expatiating 
upon tbe prospect, we turn away quickly, disgusted 
with our companion, and losing our relish for the 
beauty before us. And we dislike to bear our owu 
opinion echoed from mouth to month, unless we arc 
sure that it finds a responsive chord in the bosom of 
those whose lips utter it. Worst of all do we hate 
that sympathy which would Invade the inner shrine 
of our hearts, and while pretending to offer there the 
sacrifice of unselfish devotion, like Bklshazzkr, 
drag forth the treasures and the golden vessels into 
the outer chamber, and there use them in riotous 
feasting. 
Thank God, there is a better sympathy than this. 
We feel it in our souls in harmony with everything 
pure and beautiful in nature, and everything noble 
end true in human action. In sickness and suffering 
its sweet, unseen influence is always with us. Time 
aud distance cannot destroy it, death will not take it 
away. It is of Heavenly origin, and in Heaven alone 
will it be perfected. 
Why, then, need sympathy ever be expressed? Why 
must thanks be ottered? Simply because the vail 
of mortality between us and our friends is so thick 
that we cannot always see through it the spirit of 
beauty; and our best actions are likely to be mis¬ 
taken, and the motives that prompted them misun¬ 
derstood; but if tbe glass through which we now see 
so darkly ever be removed, and we be allowed to sec 
“face to face," then shall we know in its fullest 
extent tbe meaning of that “joy unspeakable,” the 
f.iiut foreshadowing of which, even here, in perfect 
human sympathy, we have sometimes felt. 
Alden, N. Y., 1861. E. J. Finch. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
GOOD BYE. 
Good bye! How strangely mingled are the memo¬ 
ries of pleasure and pain which this expression causes 
to throng upon the soul of one who has been torn 
from dear friends by the call of duty or the decree of 
death,—sweet memories of scenes which will remain 
through life fresh to the mind and prceiouB to the 
heart; of happy associations in the dear home of 
childhood and youth, and of loved friends whose 
lineaments are indelibly daguerreotyped upon the 
soul; tender memories of the hour when in sadut-ss 
the hands of loved ones have been clasped when 
about passing out iu loneliness of heart to battle with 
the world; painful memories of the hour of sorrow, 
when death has asserted his power and rudely sun- 
hour bascome, there is nothing so expressive or dear 
to tell the heart’s utterance as Good Bye. 
After the good bye has been spoken, how precious . 
and sacred are tbe mementoes of friendship and affec¬ 
tion. The eyes gaze fondly even upon tbe book¬ 
mark bearing a familiar name neatly wrought by a 
dear hand, or upon the little locks of bair given in 
affection, and recalling the lingering good bye of the 
last hour. Until then a fond cheerfulness charac¬ 
terized words and acts; bnt then the thought came 
with crushing power that the feet were pressing, per¬ 
chance for the last time, the dear halls of home, and 
the heart throbbed violently, while tears flowed freely 
and unbidden. 
How sad was the parting when that noble young 
volunteer was about hastening away to engage in the 
battlcB of his country. How sad were the sisterB as 
they gave him the parting kiBS, praying that retribu¬ 
tive justice might speedily be visited upon the bad 
men who have brought such ruin upon our loved and 
once happy country. “ Go, my son,” said the father, 
in firm but tender accents, while the large tear-drops 
rolled down his manly cheeks, “yonr country calls 
yon. May the God of Battles bless and keep you. 
Good bye.” The poor mother was almost broken¬ 
hearted at parting with the manly son who bad been 
at once her joy and pride. She could only place in 
his satchel a copy of the Sacred Scriptures as a part¬ 
ing gift, aud throwing her arms around his neck she 
wept bitterly, not having strength to murmur even 
good bye. 
How sad was parting to that widowed mother and 
her fatherless boy, as he was about leaving to dwell 
in the family of a stranger. How bravely she met 
tbe parting hour, in order that the little lad might go 
the more cheerfully. One could not but weep to see 
how tumultuous were the emotions raging In the 
bosom of that mother as Blie turned to conceal and 
dash away the tears that mould flow. How many 
children will be made fatherless by tbe awful struggle 
for national existence which has been foroed upon 
our dear country. Oh! you who have homeB and 
plenty, remember in kindness the fatherless and the 
orphan. Only kind words and acts should charac¬ 
terize your conduct toward then). 
How often we are called upon to bid a last and sad 
good bye to some cherished joy or darling hope. 
“How vain are all things'neatb the skies, 
How transient every earthly bliss.” 
But good bye shall never be spoken in Heaven. 
Academy, New naven, Vt., 1861. A. T. E. Ci.arkb. 
-» . - 
DELICATE WOMEN. 
We cannot be far from right in saying that, almost 
all the mental and physical ailings of “ delicate 
women” may be traced to a defective education. 
And those who are now engaged in training girls, 
whether at home or in schools, cannot too seriously 
consider tbe weight of responsibility resting upon 
them. Upon their management depends much of 
future health, and consequently the usefulness and 
happiness of those committed to their charge. 
As requisites to the promotion of bodily vigor, we 
will mention: 
A strict attention to personal cleanliness, which 
children should be taught to cultivate, because it is 
healthy and right that they should bo clean, and not 
because “ It would look so if they were dirty!” 
Tbe use of apartments that are well ventilated. 
Frequent and sufficient active bodily exercise in 
tbe open air. 
Entire freedom from any pressure upon the person 
by the use of tight clothes. 
A sufficiency of nourishing and digestible food. 
And in the winter the use of such tiring as is need¬ 
ed to keep up a healthful warmth. 
All these will tend to promote health, but we shall 
have no security against “delicate women” unless 
there also bo added the cultivation of mental health. 
For this it is uecessary that girls should he taught to 
cultivate mental purity and mental activity by sufficient 
and well regulated exercise of the mind. Habits of 
benevolence, contentment, and cheerful gratitude, 
should be inculcated, both by precept, and example, 
to the exelusion of selfishness. And above all should 
be strongly impressed upon the mind the necessity of 
the strictest integrity, which will lead to the abhor¬ 
rence of every species of affectation, which Is, indeed, 
only a modified sort of deceit. Girls should also be 
early taught that they are responsible beings; respon¬ 
sible to God for the right use of all the mercies 
bestowed upon them; and that health is one of the 
chief of earthly blessings, and that it is their duty to 
value and preserve it. 
But much is learned from example as well as pre¬ 
cept; therefore, let. no affectation of languid airs iu 
a teaeber give a child the idea that there can be any¬ 
thing admirable in the absence of strength. Wo do 
not wish that girls should cultivate anything mascu¬ 
line; for an unfeminine woman cannot be an object of 
- admiration to the right judging of either sex. But 
a female has no occasion to affect to be feminine ; she 
is so naturally, and if she will but let nature have its 
perfect work, she will, most likely, be not only femi¬ 
nine, but also graceful and admirable. 
The school studies of girls should be so arranged 
that they may afford mental food and satisfaction ; 
otherwise, as soon as the lesson hours are over, they 
will most likely turn with avidity to any nonsense 
they can learn from foolish conversation, or to read¬ 
ing some of the trashy books of the day, to the 
injury of all mental and moral health, and the almost 
certain production of “ delicate women.” 
If you are conscious of the least feeling of satis¬ 
faction in hearing yourself spoken of as delicate, be 
s assured it is a degree of meutul disease that allows 
, the feeling. If you ever suppose that you gain your 
f husband’s sympathy by weakness, remember you 
might gain more of his esteem, and satisfied affection, 
s by strength. Fifty years ago, it was well said that, 
f “ To a man of feeling, extreme delicacy in the part- 
3 ner of his life and fortune, is an object of great and 
. constant concern: but a semblance of such delicacy, 
5 where it. does not really exist, is an insult on his dis- 
1 comment, and must ultimately inspire him with 
3 aversion aud disgust.” It is not for ns to 6ay how 
many put on the semblance of delicacy as a cover* 
["Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
AUTUMN RAIN. 
The raindrops patter softly 
On the many withered leaves 
That scattered o’er earth’s bosom lie— 
The robe October weaves; 
A nd with a saddening sound 
On the cottage roof they beat, 
Till they seem like pattering footsteps 
Of many little feet. 
The clouds are a leaden eolor, 
The winds go moaning by, 
Sighing, weeping in their mourning, 
The breezes and the eby; 
Sighing for the brightness past. 
Of summer’s happy hours, 
And weeping for the song-birds gone, 
And withered leaves aud flower*. 
With the merry, joyous Spring-Time, 
With the pleasant Summer flown, 
How many bright hopes faded, 
How many joys are gone. 
We sigh for many pleasant hours 
That will neter come again, 
And for their sad departure, 
We weep with the Autumn Rain. 
Rome, N. Y-, 1861. C. 
- - 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
AUTUMNAL FOLIAGE. 
Thm various colora of the autumnal foliage are 
now spread out before us. Where there is enough 
of hill or mountain and vale, it is the object of 
annual and universal admiration. The mind must, 
have its curiosity arrested, and the eye must have a 
portion of cultivation, that the whole scene of 
splendor aud beauty may not be passed unnoticed. 
Though Individual cases may have a sickly hue, and 
the marks of decay and dissolution be prominent, 
yet, as a whole, tbe scene is splendid,—more than 
beautiful, — even gorgeous. This is the special 
vision of the hill country, more distinguished as the 
hill is abrupt and thickly wooded. For, then your 
eye rests on the gradation of color from the valley 
upwards, especially if the adequate proportion of 
evergreen trees,—as the pines, hemlock, spruces, 
tamarack,—fill up the soene. In the variety of 
colors, and in the numerous shades of the same 
color, intermingled with the evergreen, one forgets 
the thought of decay, and feasts on the gorgeous 
splendors of nature’s works, the operation of the 
laws constituted by tbe Infinite Creator. 
The leaves have begun to fall without any frost, 
because they were matnre and had accomplished 
their purpose; and they fall not all at once, because 
all do not mature at ihe same time. .So they fall in 
hot countries where frost is unknown. The varie¬ 
gated colors have shone forth, also, without frost; 
so that all have evidence of these changes taking 
place without the aid, or intervention, or action of 
any violent force liko frost. The light produces 
changes in the vegetable composition, chiefly by 
means of the oxygen of the atmosphere, so that the 
leaves reflect, the beautiful hues which on all sides 
appear. The bright green of the sugar maple has 
changed to some shade of yellow; the soft maple 
has dressed itself, often in beautiful purple, or some¬ 
times rosy red or pale green. Yonder 1 see the deep 
aud strong glossy gm-n of tho Ampeloptts, the 
Virginia Creeper,—falsely and absurdly sometimes 
named Woodbine,—changed to dark red or crimson, 
PICTURES OF HOME. 
I recall a home long since left behind me in the 
journey of life, and its memory floats back over me 
with a shower of emotions and thoughts, toward 
whose precious fall my heart opens itself greedily 
like a thirsty flower. Tt is a home among tbe 
monntaina—humble and homely—but priceless in 
its wealth and associations. The waterfall sings in 
my ears as it used to through the dreamy, mysterious 
nights. The rose at the gate, the patch of tansy 
under the window, and the neighboring orchard, the 
old elm, the grand machinery of storms and showers, 
the little smithy under ibe hiil that, flamed with 
strange light through the dull winter evenings, the 
woodpile at tbe door, the ghostly winter birches of 
the hill, and the dim blue haze on the retiring 
mountains — all these come back to me with an 
appeal that touches my heart and moistens my eye. 
I sit again in the doorway at summer nightfall, 
eating my bread and milk, looking off on the dark¬ 
ening landscape, and listening to the shouts of boys 
upon the hillside, calling or driving home the reluc¬ 
tant herds. I watch again the devious way of the 
dusky night-hawk along the twilight sky, and listen 
to his measured note, and tbe breezy boom that 
accompanies his headlong plunge toward the earth. 
Even the old barn, crazy in every timber and 
gaping at every joint, has charms for me. I try 
again the breathless leap from the great beams into 
tbe hay. I sit again on the threshold of tbe widely 
opened doorB—opened to the soft south wind of 
spring—and watch the cattle, whose faces look half 
human to me as they sun themselves and peacefully 
ruminate, while drop by drop the melting snow on 
the roof drills holes through the wasting drift be¬ 
neath the caves. 
The first little lambs of the season tottle by the 
side of their dams, and utter feeble blcatings, while 
the flock nibble at the hay-racks, or a pair of rival 
wethers try the strength of their skulls in an en¬ 
counter, half in earnest and half in play. The proud 
old rooster crows upon his dunghill throne, and 
some delighted member of his silly family leaves her 
nest, aud tells to her mates and to me that there is 
another egg in the world. 
The old home whinnies in his stall, and calls to me 
for food. I look up to the roof, and think of last 
year’s swallows—Boon to return again—and catch a 
glimpse of angular sky through the diamond-shaped 
opening that gave them ingress and egress. How, I 
know not, and care not, but that old barn is a part 
of myself—it has entered into life and given me 
growth and wealth. 
But I look into the house again, where the life 
abides, which has appropriated these things, and I 
find among them its home. The hour of the evening 
has come, the lamps are lighted, and a good man in 
middle life—though very old he seemed to me—takes 
down the Bible and reads a chapter from its hallowed 
pages. A sweet woman sits at his side, and brothers 
and sisters are grouped reverently around me. I do 
not understand the words, but I was told that they 
were the words of God, and I believe it. The long 
chapter ends, and then we all knee! down and the 
old man prays. I fall asleep with my head in a 
chair, and the next morning remember nothing how 
I went to bed. 
After breakfast the Bible is taken down, and the 
good man prays again; and again is the worship 
repeated through all the days of my golden years. 
Tbe pleasant converse of tho fireside, the simple 
songs of home, the word6 of encouragement as 1 
bend over my school tasks, the kiss as I lie down to 
rest, the patient bearing with the freaks of my rcst- 
fWrittenforMoore'B Rural New-Yorker,] 
OUR SAVIOR. 
“ Unto you who believe His name is precious." 
Yes, dearer than all else on earth 
The knowledge of the Savior's love, 
The study of His truth and worth 
The coldest might to kindness move. 
Precious Hie name who died to save 
His people from each Bin, 
Dispelled the terrors of the grave 
For these who trust in Him. 
Precious the precepts given to us, 
To guide our way through life; 
If heeded, they mrr hearts will bless— 
Will silence passion's strife. 
Precious the promises to those 
Who walk the heavenly way; 
On such how peacefully shall close 
Life’s darkest, dreariest day. 
Precious His name, His works, His love, 
Unto you who believe; 
You shall from Him, in heaven abeve, 
Eternal life receive. 
Geneva, Wis., 1861. 
B.C. D. 
THE RIGHT SORT OF RELIGION. 
We want a religion that goes into the family, and 
keeps the husband from being spiteful when the 
dinner table is late — keeps tbe wife from fretting 
when the husband tracks the newly washed floor 
with his mnddy hoots, and makes the husband mind¬ 
ful of tbe scruper and door mat; keeps the mother 
patient when the baby is cross, and keeps the baby 
pleasant; amuses the children as well as instructs 
them; wins as well as governs; projects the honey¬ 
moon into the harvest moon and makes tbe happy 
hours like tbe eastern fig tree, bearing in its bOBOin 
at once the beauty of the tender blossom and tbe 
glory of the ripening fruit. We want a religion that 
bears heavily, not on the “exceeding sinfulness of 
sin,” but. on the exceeding rascality of lying and 
stealing, a religion that banishes small measures 
from the counter, small baskets from the stalls, peb¬ 
bles from the cotton bags, clay from paper, sand from 
sugar, chicory from coffee, otter from butter, beet 
juice from vinegar, alum from bread, strychnine from 
wine, water from milk cans, and buttons from the 
contribution box. Tbe. religion that is to save the 
world will not put all the big strawberries at the top 
and all the bad ones at the bottom. It will not offer 
more baskets of foreign wine than the vineyards ever 
produced bottles, and more barrels of Genesee flour 
than all the wheat fieldB of New York grows and all 
her mills grind. It. will not make one-half of a pair of 
shoes of good leather and the other of poor leather, 
so that the first shall redound to the maker’s credit, 
and the second to his cash. 
It will not put Jouvin’s stamp upon Jenkin’s kid 
gloves, nor mark Paris bonnets in the back room of 
a Boston milliner’s shop, nor let a pieco of velvet 
that professes to measure twelve, yards come to an 
untimely end in tho tenth, or a spool of sewing silk 
that vouches for twenty yards be nipped In the bud 
at fourteen and a half, nor the cotton-thread spool 
breuk to the yard stick fifty of tire two hundred yards 
of promise that was given to the eye, nor yard wide 
cloth measure loss tbun thirty-six inches from eel 
vedgo to selvedge, nor all-wool UelaSneR and all- 
liuen handkerchiefs be arnalgamized with clandes¬ 
tine cotton, nor coats made of woolen rags pressed 
uorireous amid the surroundincs of all shades of 1 .. B , , , ... , tine cotton, nor coats maae oi women rags presseu 
irreeu and vellow and gray If your eye falls Oil ,,>ss natm ' e > 1,10 gcnt,e C0U “ Hels ramgled wit i tepioof t tl bc aol(1 to the nne xpecting public for legal 
green, and yellow, and gray. jour eje on the aympathy that meets the pangs of Jt docs not put brick at fivc ddlars a 
some species of sumac, which are loaded with clus¬ 
ters of fruit yellowish or rod, and clothed now in a 
brown dress, or on the oak, which wears the russet 
of England, as its poets call it, you find new shades 
of color, and wonder how all this effect is produced. 
Near by may often be seen the witch-hazel (llama 
metis), with its fruit now nearly matured, while the 
yellow leaves are already falling, and its branches 
bearing the yellow llnwers for the fruit of the suc¬ 
ceeding year; and the wonder is heightened by the 
various colors of the same leaf or leaves of the 
Cornus (cornels or dogwood), russet, or reddish, 
yellow, oran-c, purple ami green, tinted with gold 
or red; and oven more augmented by the numerous 
hues on the L aves, so different in form also, of the 
Sassafras. Come to the hills, and see for ycurself. 
Stop not to co 11 this the most splendid scene the eye 
can rest upon, because you are there; for the most 
gorgeous autumnal landscapes are found from Canada 
over all the hill aud mountain Bccuery certainly of 
many of the States. The Green Mountains, the 
Taconic Range, the Allegany Ridges, even tho hills 
in Middle and Western New York, show these unsur¬ 
passed beauties aud splendors. 
Many years since, Pr. Dwight, the President of 
Yale College, asked an intelligent Englishman of 
taste, while admiring with him this autumnal foliage 
near New Haven, why the poets of England ever 
every sorrow and sweetens every little success, all 
these return to me amid the responsibilities which 
press upon me now, and I feel as if I had once lived 
in Heaven, and straying, loBt my way. 
Well, the good old inun grew old and weary, and 
fell asleep at last, with blessings upon his lips for 
me. Borne of those who called him father, lie side 
by side in the same calm place. Tbe others are 
scattered and dwell in new homes, and the old house, 
barn and orchard have passed into the hands of 
strangers, who have learned, or who are learning, to 
look upon them as I do now. 
Lost, ruined, forever left behind, that home is mine 
to-day, as truly as it ever was, for have I not brought 
it away with me and shown ft to you? It was tbe 
home of my boyhood. In it I found my first mental 
food, and by it was my youug 6onl fashioned. To 
me, through weary years and many dangers and 
sorrows, it has been a perennial fountain of delight 
and purifying influences, simply because it was my 
home and was and is part of me. The rose at the 
gate blooms for me now —the landscape when I 
summon it; and I hear the voices that call me, from 
lips which memory makes immortal.— Selected. 
English LanjiSOAI'K.— English lanflscape has a 
minutely finished look; it lacks grandeur; its fea- 
thousand into (he chimneys it contracted to build of 
seven dollar materials, nor smuggle white pine into 
floors that have paid for hard pine, nor leave yawn¬ 
ing cracks in closets where boards ought to join, nor 
daub ceilings that ought to he smoothly plastered, 
nor make window-blinds of slats that cannot Btand 
the wind, and paint that cannot Btand the sun, and 
fastenings that may be looked at, but are on no 
account to be touched. The religion that is to sanc¬ 
tify the world pays its debts. It does not consider 
that forty cents returned for one hundred cents given 
is according to the Gospel, though it may be accord¬ 
ing to law. It looks upon a man who has failed in 
trade, and who continues to live in luxury, as a thief. 
It looks upon a man who promises to pay fifty dollars 
upon demand, with interest, and who neglects to pay 
it on demand, with or without interest, as a liar.— 
Cotlgreg at ton tl l ut. 
__ - 4 i ^ m - 
TnE Victory. —There is a victory, and a way of 
making it mine. A man of flesh and blood like me — 
a man defiled by sin like me, was able in this life to 
defy that enemy to his face; was able to turn the 
terror into an anthem of joyful praise,— “0 death, 
where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?” 
A happy man was he; when death is no longer 
dreadful, life becomes tenfold more sweet. Nor let 
used tbe terms brown autumn, or niaseti in their 
descriptions, aud received the answer to this effect: 
“Because they never saw any other: such a scene as 
this never blest their vision .” To this day the English 
hardly believe descriptions of our autumnal land¬ 
scapes. At this very time, an American lady is 
collecting specimens of all this different colored 
foliage to send to her lady friend of taste in London, 
to give her some glimpses of a gorgeousness uf 
scenery which must be beheld to understand that 
language cannot express the variety, beauty and 
splendor of this vision of our autumnal glory. . _ . , . 
Still, this is the decay and death of the year, on and close-fitted scenery. Nature with ^hr° ws on 
which, ns on the departing day, some of the brightest her clothes negligently confident in beauty , in 
wim,u, uu a V . . - , Eneland she has evident y looked in the glass until 
tints appear, tt is the Creator’s design, when tbe " f . . 
, „ . _ not a curl strays from its fillet, not a dimple is 
year has fulfilled nis beneficent purpose, to crown u “ l ” 3 
nature with higher beauty. It has bqpn called the uu9cll0(l el L ♦--- 
hectic of the year, the fatal flush of nature. True, Success in Business.— The grand secret of success 
so let it be. But, the lovely face of the consumptive iu bu8 j neS3 [ 8 to stick to one thing. Who ever knew 
shows its richest beauty and subduing power when an ybody to do this for ten years, without accomplish- 
the hectic glow rests upon it, so transparent seems bis endg ? Continual dropping wears away the 
its covering, and so lustrous the eyes of the soul. roc j £; the highest obstacles become at length as cob- 
llow often it is that ix tbe hour of dissolution, the web barriers before a never flagging energy, 
sufferer’s features are lighted up by immortal aspira- <. q 0 0Qt j u spring, when the sun iB yet far distant, 
tions. May not the Wise Author of nature have put aad yoll can scarcely feel the influence of his beams, 
their lures are delicate > and tlie impression left is that of tbe reader 8U p p0 se that this was Paul’s experience, 
softness and gentle beauty. The grass grows to the anc j ^hat lie was a great apostle, and that common 
ne as VQT y ril11 of lbe water > like a car P et t0 a riclj dr awin g pe0 pl e need not expect to be on a level with him. 
room, which must not, betray an inch of unadorned 
floor. The fields are rolled to a perfect smoothness; 
the hedges look as if they bad no use but beauty; the 
trees and multitudinous vines have a draperied air, 
and strike tbe eye rather as a part of the charming 
whole, than as possessing an individual interest. 
We have seen woodlands in the far west that were 
The way by which he entered into peace is open 
still; and we are as welcome as he. It would be 
contrary to the Scripture, and dishonoring to Christ, 
to suppose that it was in any respect easier for Saul 
of Tarsus to get into peace with God than it is for 
you and me. The gate is open, and the inscription 
over it is, “ Whosoever will. 1 ' If any reader of this 
lUUlU li V/ UUUCiKWUMli vuuv t , . . 
the variety beauty and far roore gr acefa Hy ma J ei8t,c than any we have seen page kept out from par cion and peace with God 
ur autumnal glory. in En g land ‘> we have ao such mile9 of cuItured through the blood of Christ, it is because he will not 
IlHVi UUllUl I' “ ‘ ■ ** * IV/O *■ .* v> I ^ 
when death has asserted his power and rudely sun- for idleness, ur roin any o e \vea- in 
dered the tenderest tics of earthly affection, while the that prompt such an affectation -and happy will tt 
spirit of a loved one has plumed its unfettered wings t° r household of any one w o can jc aiouee 
for flight to the eternal world. from such a pitiable state. 
Unless its Letter instincts have been blighted or Could women only know how many husbands are 
totally changed by wrong passions, the human heart i bankrupt because their wives are 1 delicate,’ how 
will love. Its love naturally fastens upon, and clings ' many children are physically, mentally, and morally 
with fond tenacity to, those with wham we associate 
and are intimately connected, until they seem essen¬ 
tial to our earthly happiness. The scenes amid which 
we move., even, become dear on account of the mem¬ 
ories connected with them and the charm lent to them 
by love. Could they be divested of this charm, they 
could be easily and speedily forgotten. But such is 
the mutable nature ef everything earthly that we are 
often torn by tbe changes of time from friends and 
that which they make — home. When the parting 
neglected and ruined, because their mothers are 
“delicate”—how many servants become dishonest 
and inefficient, because their mistresses are “ deli¬ 
cate”—the list would be so appalling, that possibly 
we might hear of an anti-delicate ladies’ association, 
for the better promotion of family happiness and 
family economy .—Rural Register. 
Ijfb, to the young, is a fairy tale just opened; to 
the old, it is a tale through, ending with death. 
the seal of Hia approbation aud delight in llis handi¬ 
work, by clothing its last hours in more splendent 
beauty. c * D - 
October ,22, 1881. ^ _ 
11k that abuses his own profession, will not patient 
ly bear with any one else that does so. And this is 
one of our most subtile operations of self-love. For 
when we abuse our own profession, we tacitly except 
ourselves, but when another abuses it, we are far 
from being certain that this is the case. 
_ — -- 
There 5b philosophy in the remark, that every man 
basin his own life follies enough; in the perform¬ 
ance of his duties, deficiencies enough; in his own 
mind, troubles enough; without being curious about 
the affairs of others. 
scattered as they are over the wide face of creation; 
but collect those beams in a focus, and they kindle 
up a flame in an instant. So the man that squanders 
his talents and his strength on many things will fail 
to make an impression with either; but let him draw 
them to a point —let him strike at a single object— 
and it will yield before him.” 
Some men who know that they are great, are so 
close with the free offer now held out to all. “Seek, 
and ye shall find.” Lay your mind to it as you have 
laid your mind to your education, your craft, your 
shop, or your farm, and you will not fail. 
“I Meant Right.”— There are multitudes of men 
who all their life long fail of earnest Christian duty, 
but always hold before themselves this ready shield: 
“I meant right.” Now, tbe proper evidence of mean¬ 
ing right, is doing right. There is no other evidence 
that can justly be accepted. An imbecile good nature 
is not meauing right. There are thousands of men 
who, if mere amiableness is meaning right, if a kind 
of useless benevolence is meaning right, have right 
intentions. There are thousands of men that pass 
through life without any distinct purpose, appar¬ 
ently, without auy seeming desire to do right, who 
hold themselves to be excusable for their faults and 
failings simply on the ground of meaning well, o 
having good intentions. 
.- »••»•«-»--~ 
Thb Bible is the bravest of books. Coming from 
Some men WHO Know mat tney are great, ^ -- . , ’ , , truth it 
very haughty withal, and insufferable, that their God, and conscious of ^ ^ 
acquaintances discover their greatness only by the ayaite the’Progress aril0nK cla J c 
tux of humility, which they are obliged to pay as the 
price of their friendship. Such characters are as 
tiresome and disgusting in the journey of life, as 
rugged roads are to the w-eary traveler, which he dis¬ 
covers to be turnpikes only by the toll. 
It watches the antiquary ransacking among e a&sic 
ruins, and rejoices in every medal he discover?, 
every inscription he deciphers; for from that rust} 
coin or corroded marble, it expects nothing but con 
Urinations of its own veracity. 
