PERSONAL GOSSIP 
WOMAN'S NATURE AND RELATIONS, 
— Mrs. Benjamin F. Butler is thus talked 
of by a New York correspondent of the Provi¬ 
dence Journal; 
Some twenty years ago a young act ress, a Miss 
Hildreth, played for several evenings at- the 
Dorranee Street Theater, in Providence, I hap¬ 
pened to see her in the tragedy of “ Jane Shore.” 
Her part was a secondary one, that of the friend 
and confidant of Edwards beautiful favorite; 
but her conception of the character surprised 
mo by its originality and its impressive truth¬ 
fulness, I felt that she hud great dramatic 
talent, and often wondered that her name had 
so entirely disappeared from the stage. In the 
spring of IS40, while visiting a frieud in Lowell, 
I found, one morning, on returning from a walk, 
a card from Mrs. Bcnj. Butler, with an invita¬ 
tion to take tea with her the following evening. 
I went with my host and hostess; no other 
guests were invited. The name of Mrs. Beni. 
Butler had for me at that time no other signifi¬ 
cance than might have had the name of Mrs. 
John Smith. On our way to the house, my 
host, a Webster Whig, spoke of Mr. Butler, not 
so flatteringly, as a successful lawyer, smart but 
unscrupulous, ready to take up the worst eases, 
and noted for always carrying his client through. 
On entering- the parlors I was surprised to find 
in the charming and graceful lady who received 
us, the dramatic friend and confidant of Jane 
Shore, whose talent had so impressed me at the 
Dorranee Street Theater. Mrs. Butler was a 
young lady of Draeut, who, fascinated by the 
stage, and conscious of dramatic power, had 
obtained an engagement at ouc of the Boston 
theatres, and who was for about t wo years earn¬ 
estly devoted to her profession, when Mr, Benja¬ 
min Butler proffered her his heart and hand, and 
won her back to domestic Ufa. I found that she 
still loved the art, and prevailed on her to read 
to me some of her favorite passages in Shaks- 
pearc. She read, 1 remember, the prison scene in 
Measure for Measure, with a passionate pathos 
which made me half regret that the “smart 
Lowell lawyer" had won her away from Mel¬ 
pomene and all her tragic glooms and splendors - 
— Gcethe is tints talked of hv some writer in 
Blackwood : — In the evening the “ society ” 
rendezvoused in a sombre old house, with nar¬ 
row windows in front, and a small, somewhat 
gloomy looking garden behind, where lived a 
large, old, white-haired man with his niece. 
Though a man of grand presence and imposing 
mein, with much dignity in address, he was very 
fond of mixing with the young people of the 
company, and especially with a number of young 
Englishmen who at that period resided at Wei¬ 
mar, for the advantages of military education. 
At the time I tell of there was amongst them 
one who is now a Duke, with one of the greatest 
historic names in Europe. With these generally 
this old gentleman frequently conversed, or, 
more frequently still, discoursed, telling of his 
travels in Italy, the objects which had held the 
chief place in his memory, the galleries he had 
seen, the society lie had frequented, the distin ' 
guislied men whose acquaintances he had made; 
and all these, with occasional touches of pic¬ 
turesque description, traits of humor, and now 
and theu a deep feeling which held his little 
auditory in rapt astonishment that ho could 
hold them there entranced, while they could 
not, when he had done, recall any of the magic 
by which he worked his spell. I say this be¬ 
cause I myself remember to have tried to repent 
a story he told, and once, more hazardous still, 
to convey some impression of how- lie talked, 
and with what lamentable failure let my present 
confusion atone for. The task would have tried 
a better man, for he whom I essayed to repre¬ 
sent was Goethe. 
— Sir William Napier was one day taking 
a long country walk, near Frcshf'ord, when he 
met a little girl, about live years old, sobbing 
over a broken bowl; she had dropped and 
broken it in bringing it back from the field to 
which she had taken her father’s dinner in it, 
and she said she would be beaten on her return 
home for having broken It; then, with a sudden 
gleam of hope, she innocently looked up into 
his lace and said : — “ But ye can mend it, can’t 
ye?" Sir William explained that lie could not 
mend the bowl, but the tronble he could, by the 
gift of a sixpence to buy another. However, on 
opening his purse it was empty of silver, ami he 
hud to make amends by promising to meet his 
little friend la the same spot at the same hour 
next day, and to bring the sixpence with him, 
bidding her, meanwhile, tell her mother that 
she had seen a gentleman who would bring her 
the money for the bowl next day. The child, 
entirely trusting him, went on her way com¬ 
forted. On his return home he found an Invita¬ 
tion awaiting him to dine In Bath the following 
evening, to meet some one he especially wished 
to see. He hesitated for some little time, trying 
to calculate the possibility of giving the meeting 
to his little friend of the broken bowl and of 
still being in time for the dinner party in Bath; 
finding this could not be, lie wrote to decline 
accepting the invitation on the plea of a “pre¬ 
engagement," saying to tis, “ 1 cannot disap¬ 
point her, she trusted me so implicitly." 
— Napoleon the First had peculiar views 
about managing wives. He. wrote to his 
brother Louis: — “Your wife is an excellent 
and virtuous woman, yet you make her un¬ 
happy. Allow her to dauec as much ns she 
likes, ’tis the fancy of her age. My wife is 
Varlmi et mutah ffe—aud that from the weak¬ 
ness of the creature! there is no use in denying 
it. Exceptive instances of strength and resolu¬ 
tion, of intellectual capacity and insubmissive- 
ncss to masculine rule, will never change the 
general position of the human female in the 
books of the anthropolist. Consult Nature, and 
yield to her dictum. The frame of woman is 
soft and feeble, compared with that of man. 
Her dispositions are, from the first, towards dif¬ 
ferent t hings. The emblem - on medieval tomb¬ 
stones—a sword for a man, a pair of scissors for 
a woman—serve well to discriminate the two 
characters. All over the world, iu all ages, in all 
stages of society, it has been the part of woman 
to work among familiar domestic things, while 
man went forth with weapons to hunt and make 
war, or with massive implements and tools to 
clear the forest and subdue the soil. In all the 
great difficulties and dangers which the pair 
encounter, it is nature's appointment that the 
man goes to the front for offence or defence, 
while the woman cowers behind, the subject of 
his manly protection. When the conflict is 
over, and men have done their worst against 
each other, then comes in woman, but as an 
angel of mercy to bind up the wounds and 
smooth the sick man's pillow. The timidity 
which unfits woman for war makes her only the 
more interesting to man, and the surer of that 
protection aud kindness which it is alike his hap¬ 
piness and his duty to extend to her. 
It is a hackneyed image, but a most just one, 
which assumes man as the oak. and woman as 
the ivy clinging around it. There is a subord¬ 
ination implied by the idea, but no degradation. 
The inequality is natural, aud in nature’s arrange- 
there can be no disgrace. On the cou- 
TRODDEN FLOWERS 
NOT GRUDGINGLY, OR OF NECESSITY." 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
A VALENTINE. 
BY ALFRED TENNYSON 
The Hand that strews the earth with flowers 
Enriched the marriage l'east with wine; 
The Hand once pierced for sins of ours 
This morning made the dewdrops shine ; 
Makes rain-clouds palaces of art; 
Makes icc-tlmps beauteous as they freeze; 
The heart that bled to save—that heart 
Sends countless gifts each day to please; 
Spares no minute, rolining touch, 
To paint the flower, to drown the feast; 
Deeming no sacrifice too much, 
Has care and leisure for the least; 
Gives freely of its very best; 
Not barely what we need may be, 
But Tor the joy of making blest: 
Teach us to love and give like Thee! 
Not narrowly men’s claims to measure, 
But question daily all our powers,— 
To whose cup can we add a pleasure ? 
Whose path can we make bright with flowers f 
[Author qf Schortterg- Cotta Family. 
BY OLOTFE VON KORTLANDT. 
There are some hearts, that like the loving vine, 
Cling to unkindly rocks and ruined towers, 
Spirits that suffer and do not repine— 
Patient and sweet as lowly trodden flowers 
That from the passers’ heel arise. 
And bring back odorous breath instead of sighs. 
But there are other hcaris that will not fed 
The lonely love that haunts their eyes and ears; 
That wound fond faith with anger worse than steel: 
And out of pity's spring draw idle tears. 
O Nature! shall it ever be thy will 
Til things with good to mingle, good with ill ? 
Why should the heavy foo - of sorrow press. 
The willing heart of uncomplaining love— 
Meet charity that shrinks not from distress. 
Gentleness, loth her tyrants to reprove ? 
Though virtue w eep forever and lament, 
Will one hard heart tarn to her and relent ? 
Why should the iced be broken that will bend. 
And they that dry the tears in others' eyes 
Feel their own anguish swelling without end, 
Their summer darkened with, the smoke of sighs ? 
Sure, Love to some fair Ed>.-n of his own 
Will flee at last, and leave us here alone. 
Love weepeth always—wee-peth for the past, 
For woes that are, for woes that may betide ; 
Why should not hard ambition weep at last, 
Envy and hatred, avarice and pride ? 
Fate whispers, sorrow is your lot, 
They would be rebels: love rebellcth not. 
These winds of winter, with the echoes drear 
Of sadness fraught. 
Seem whistling cheery tunes when thou art near 
E’en but in thought. 
Singing of Snnnner-days of golden light 
And heaven’s own air, 
Of sweet Spring-flowers, yet to blossom bright 
And pure and fair. 
Faint sighing, too, o'er fallen Autumn leaves, 
The winds bear on, 
When, like a drooping mourner, Nature grieves 
For gladness gone. 
Yet I forget the tears, and trust Hope’s smile, 
So fond aud free,; 
Lull’d by the wind-strains, softly wistful while 
Tliev tell of thee. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
WOMAN’S SCHOOL OF DESIGN. 
TELL YOUR FRIENDS, 
Among the institutions of our land which owe 
their foundation to the great thought of some 
great hearted man, blessed in the possession of 
wealth, Cooper Union of New York stands 
pre-eminent. Here, by the munificence of Mr. 
Cooper, women who have talents but not wealth, 
can prepare themselves to gain a support by their 
artistic abilities. The course of study is thor¬ 
ough, embracing studies from “ Still-Life ” 
from “Casts,” from “Life;” and there is also 
a class in Wood Engraving. 
Friday mornings the rooms are open to 
visitors, and the accomplished Principal, Mrs. 
Cuddhev. will conduct us through the alcoves. 
At the left, as we enter the spacious hall, we see 
about twenty young ladies copying from nature. 
One is engaged with a bit of lichen-covered rail; 
it looks too ancient to have been the handi¬ 
work of “Our Father Abraham,” but it may 
have been hewn out by a voyager from the May¬ 
flower ; there a young girl is making a “study” 
of a charming little plant from the living reality 
which is blooming near; youder a pale lady is 
catching upon her paper the light and shade 
that gleams and shadows the dark leaves of an 
ivy which swings its graceful branches from a 
hanging basket; here is a shelf laden with shells, 
hits of rock, gnarled branches of trees, stuffed 
birds. &c M which serve as models for landscape 
studies. 
We pass to the next class, and find them copy¬ 
ing from plaster casts. One ladyis working upon 
afoot; one a hand; another an Apollo; still 
another, more advanced, is drawing a group of 
dancing girls. We reach the “Life-Class ” — a 
Saxon-faced maiden with yellow hair, occupies 
thd “sitter’s” seat, and a half-dozen ladies are 
grouped around taking her portrait. Finally we 
come to the Engraving Class, occupying a pleas¬ 
ant hall-like room, hung with specimens of their 
work interspersed with vases containing creep¬ 
ing vines. 
The gentlemanly instructor, Mr. O'Brien, 
kindly explains the process of cutting the pic¬ 
ture in the wood, transferring to paper and 
finishing. 
Some of t hese ladies will become teachers in our 
schools, some will color photographs. Others 
will become designers, and from their magic 
fingers may spring the roses and tulips, that 
will bloom in our carpets, the twining vines that 
will seem to grow upon our walls, or the charm¬ 
ing wood cuts that will delight the hearts of our 
little friends. 
All honor to the man who has thus provided a 
new employment for women. 
New York, Jan., 1865. Amur Pettit. 
And when Jesus was come unto the 8hip, he that 
had been possesssed with the devil prayed that he 
might be with him.— Mark v. 18. 19. 
Is there anything that is comparable with the 
love aud gratitude of the sonl thnt feels himself 
redeemed from death and destruction? With 
almost an agony of love, such an one clings to 
his deliverer. There be those that cling to the 
minister of Christ, who, as an instrument and 
representative of the Master, has been the means 
of opening their eyes, and bringing them out of 
darkuess into light And there is nothing more 
natural or more noble than this instinctive de¬ 
sire of one that has been saved from ruin to be 
ever present with his benefactor. And, when a 
soul is brought back from destruction, how 
natural it is that it should wish, and that it 
should pray, that it might be with him by whom 
it has been rescued? 
“Howbeit, Jesus suffered him not”—that is 
very curious; but take notice of the reason — 
“ but said unto him, (Jo home to thy friends, and 
tell them how great things the Lord hath done 
for thee, and hath hud compassion on thee.” 
I recollect, among the earliest memories of 
my ministry, the case of a very wicked man who 
was converted in Indiana. I wont to see him 
day after day, and when I came in one morning, 
having heard no tidings of his conversion, he 
commenced telling what the Lord had done for 
his soul; and the first thing he said after he had 
finished his narration was, “&ow, sir, I am go¬ 
ing to sit down aud w rite to my mother, I have 
not Written her for three or four years; hut now 
I am goiug to write and tell her what the Lord 
has done for me.” Said, I, “ You arc converted. 
You show one of the inevitable signs of grace.” 
One of the first things that a man should do, 
when God lias delivered him from the bondage of 
sin and the power of the devil, should bo to go 
home to his friends. Nobody else lias buffered 
so much on his account as they; nobody else 
has so much right to receive comfort from the 
knowledge of his restoration; aud to nobody 
else is he so called to tell what God has done for 
him. When the power of the devil is awakened 
in a man, and his lusts and appetites arc all 
healed, there is nothing more rational and right 
than that he should rise up and declare how the 
Lord has blessed him. And under such circum¬ 
stances, silence, and hiding of God’s work in the 
soul, is monstrously dishonorable and wicked. 
And, therefore, when Christ says to the maniac, 
“ Go and ben# witness of what has been done for 
you,” he commands nlm to do that which ac¬ 
cords with every sentiment of gratitude, and 
with every sense of justice. And the fact that 
he commanded him to do it among his friends 
first is worthy of a moment's consideration. 
If God has done you some good, do not go to 
your minister first. You are ashamed to tell the 
partner of your life. How st range it Is that peo¬ 
ple can live together, and love each other, and 
respect each other, aud desire each other’s good, 
and yet not say a word to each other on the sub¬ 
ject of religion! How strange it is that a hus¬ 
band and wife can be exercised spiritually, and 
yet be afraid to speak to each otherYibont It! 
Husband, go and tell your wife first. Wife, go 
and tell your husband first. Child, go and tell 
your father and mother first. Man or woman, 
go and tell those that are nearest you first. If 
God had been merciful to yon, according to the 
spirit aud command of Christ, go home to your 
friends, aud tell them how great things the Lord 
has done for you, and that he has had compas¬ 
sion on you. O how full of compassion is God! 
and how wondrous is he in mercy.— Henry 
Ward Beecher. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
ment: 
trary, it is only when, by some strange perver¬ 
sion. the man allows his helpmate to be the 
bread-winn rof the family, or the ruler of her 
husband, 'hat we feel outraged. The poets— 
vain babl ers most of them—arc continually 
talking of the worship which love makes man 
pay to w men: but man is far more an object of 
worship :o women than women is to man. The 
physical strength, the mental vigor, the courage 
of man, the front-rank place lie holds in work, 
in council, in war, make women adore man. 
nc loves in the active voice, she in the passive. 
It is enough to her, as a rule, that she is loved, 
and that it is a being worthy to be called a Man 
who loves her. To be the subject of his daily 
kindness, to be the mother of his children and 
the mistress of his home, are her peculiar joy 
and glory. The fondness she returns is a grati¬ 
tude rather than an original feeling. We can 
trace the woman’s nature in the regard she pays 
to her children, according to their sex. She 
naturally is loving to all: but while considerate, 
gentle, sisterly with her daughters, she is some¬ 
thing more to her sons, particularly when they 
approach or attain maturity. The worship she 
has heretofore paid to her husband is then ex¬ 
tended to them. They are Men to her, and she 
is their mother: she is something superior even 
to that which she worships. Suppose a woman 
has six sons, all of goodly stature aud propor¬ 
tions, all gallant, forcible, and worthy—what a 
sight for her to look upon, what a srif-exaltiug 
idea to have in her mind ! “Weak and fragile 
as nature has made me, subordinate as is my place 
iu creation, yet, ye gods, I am the Mother of 
Men! ” 
The character aud position of woman creates 
for her pereuliar moral relations, ner sense of 
man’s superiority makes his M ill and Ms wishes a 
snare to her, and sore to her are the evils which 
theuee accrue. If man saw his relation to 
woman in its just light, he would continually 
strive to be her protector instead of her tempter; 
he w ould judge gently of all her errors, aud he 
a thorough knight - errant in redressing her 
wrongs. Cultivated society does in part view 
woman as u being more apt to be sinned against 
than sinning, and as one w hose errors ought to 
be considered in connection with the powers 
vouchsafed for the resistance to error. But the 
disposition to look severely ou the party who is 
most the victim, and least the sinner is still a 
painful feature in our unwritten moral code. 
It is through their cowardice, apparently, that 
women are always most severe against women. 
On a more just consideration, they might be ex¬ 
pected rather to resent the severity of men 
against erring women. 
Constituted as man’s gentle and loving asso¬ 
ciate, lilted to adorn life and elevate society, a 
being of pity and affection, woman holds a fixed 
place in our ordinary conceptions; and it con¬ 
sequently becomes a great pain to tis when we 
light upon an example of the sex who doe6 not 
exhibit the normal qualities. An unwomanish 
woman, ouc who repudiates the winning ways 
of her sex in favor, it may be, of masculine man¬ 
ners and pretensions—one whose ordinary dis¬ 
course is harsh aud uncharitable, towards 
both her own sex and the other—one who is 
even simply deficient, in the ordinary tastes of 
women for domestic things—is a creature not 
easily to be borne with. It is quite possible for 
tv woman to have a love for studies not generally 
cultivated by her sex, without thereby being 
rendered less estimable as a sister, a wife, or a 
friend; even a little of what is called strong- 
mindedness, if accompanied by agreeable man¬ 
ners, may not be objectionable. But to lack the 
softness and gentleness which we appreciate 
so much iu woman, is to be a monster, and to 
forfeit all claim upon man’s worship and regard; 
for that shortcoming, all other good qualities 
whatever, supposing eucIi to . be compatible, 
would not compensate, — Edinburg Journal. 
“ What do you think, Pencil? —Tom wants 
to marry Emma Barton; and neither of them 
know enough to take care of themselves.” 
How old is Tom? 
“Nearly twenty-one; but you know he has 
seen but little of the world, hasn’t any home 
made for himself, and is a green hoy yet. To be 
sure, I’ve got some property, which I s’pose he 
will have when I die, but that may be a long way 
off yon know. I think it is better for Tom to 
brush around in the world a little before he 
marries. And then Emma, who is a dear, good 
girl, has seen but little of life, and it is doubtful 
if she knows her own mind yet. To be 6ure 
she’s been well brought up." 
You say Tom has seen hut little of the world 
yet; whose fault is it ? Bis judgment is imma¬ 
ture, but what pains have yon taken to cultivate 
it? You’ve sent him to school, but what has 
that to do with training him for work in life— 
for meeting, mingling and bargaining with men. 
Give Mm three or four hundred or a thousand 
dollars and send him afloat, and how long do 
you suppose it would last as tuition for experi¬ 
ence ? Not long! He would probably pay it 
out much quicker than you earned it; and it 
would do Mm compare V-ly little good. 
Now 1 never could nfflerstand wby so many 
parents suppose ibelr (vsponsibllitics to their 
children to cease with the latter’s becoming of 
age. Why not let your boy marry ? Why not 
let him settle with Ms yniug wife into the work 
which is before him—let their earlier experi¬ 
ences be mutual? You’ve property which you 
expect to leave him when you die — why not let 
him share it with you while you live, and you 
aid him iu his effort to Hearn how to use aud 
increase it V Why not make his interests yours ? 
Two heads are better than one. Put your expe¬ 
rience and capital with his vigorous ambition 
and help to develop his life into symmetry. He 
cannot fly uulil he has Iris rued to use his wings. 
And yet you would pteh him off the ledge, 
risking his falling upon the rocks or into the 
sea. It is wrong. Thousands of young men 
are ruined by this privet re of parents — pushing 
their offspring out of tie nest and away from 
home, instead of patiflitiy teaching them all 
that experience has learned themselves. 
Young men often spend the first ten years of 
their lives away from home, in paying an enor¬ 
mous tuition for experiijice and world-wisdom— 
the best years of thejr lives are devoted to 
acquiring what their patents should have taught 
them. And then whut disappointments result. 
The early, unsatisfied live dies out, when, had 
it been nurtured and cultivated, two lives would 
have been enriched an< developed into a sym¬ 
metrical oneness and bdiuty. The home-hearth 
would not have been esolate and deserted as 
the white frosts sprini e the heads of parents. 
Associated effort won 1 have centralized and 
enriched the common »ome, instead of scatter¬ 
ing all that is worth ch rishiug. Every family’s 
home should be a stc rehouse where children 
and children’s childn i gather together the 
household gods—wheni are centered and asso¬ 
ciated the wealth, whlom and worth of all. 
Such centralization is j >wer. Such association 
insures success. No m tter where the branches 
may be located, the c nter should be at the 
A PRETTY MOWER IN SAXONY, 
At Dresden I saw the Sistiue Madonna with 
inexpressible delight; but I saw another sight 
not quite so poetical and ideal, yet still to be 
looked upon with interest and pleasure, One 
day as I w as walking through the public square 
to the picture gallery, I happened to notice a 
woman mowing. I stopped, sat down, and 
looked at her for half an hour. She was appa¬ 
rently two or three and twenty. Her head was 
finely formed, and set finely on her shoulders. 
Her hair was neatly braided round it; her fea¬ 
tures were regular; complexion brown as a berry; 
eyes bright bine, form vigorous, well rounded 
like that of Dorothea in G(fthe's poem. From 
her ears hung golden ear rings. She wore ft 
bright colored petticoat reaching a little below 
her knees; her legs were bare, and her feet en¬ 
cased in embroidered shoes. She was the pic¬ 
ture of health and robnst beauty. She swung 
the scythe with an inimitable ease and grace ; 
and, as she did so, there was a placid expression 
on her pleasant countenance, which spoke of a 
good conscience, u contented spirit, and a wil¬ 
lingness to do the work which her destiny point¬ 
ed out. J examined the swaths; the grass wus 
cut smooth as velvet, yon conhl not tell where 
one. swath ended and the next began. An En¬ 
glish lawn looked no smoother. It was a work 
of art, Mgh art; aud an American farmer might 
have taken an useful lesson. I wish I could 
have taken her portrait as she stood before me. 
— Prof. FeUon. 
PROFESSION NOT PRACTICAL 
Some men talk like angels, and pray with fer¬ 
vor, aud meditate with deep recesses, and speak 
to God with loving affections, and words of 
union, and adhere to Him in silent devotion, 
and when they go abroad are as passionate as 
ever, peevish as a frightened fly, vexiug them¬ 
selves with their ow r n reflection ; they are cruel 
Jn their bargains, unmerciful to their tenants, 
and proud us a barbarian prince; they are, for 
all their fine words, impatient of reproof, Bcorn- 
liil to their neighbors,lovers of money, supreme in 
their own thoughts and submit tonono; all their 
spiritual fancy uu illusion; they are still under 
the power of those passions, aud their sin rules 
them imperiously, and carries them away in- 
lalliljly .—Jeremy Taylor. 
gut, don’t say nay to 
y want to marry. No 
' and inexperienced, let 
ley will be stronger for 
And they will receive 
nsel better, too! Help 
hem ! Show them that 
together. Make their 
urs theirs. Strengthen 
united lives, and give 
best effort to the work 
You’ll enjoy your prop- 
ve, and they will know 
len you die. I am sure 
Lead Pencil. 
While Dr. Samuel Johnson was courting his 
intended wife, in order to try her he said that 
he had no property, and once had an uncle that 
was hanged. To which the lady replied that she 
had no more property, and, although she never 
had a relative that was hanged she had a number 
that deserved to be. 
A witty saying of M. Dumas the younger is 
amusing Paris. The Empress is said to have in¬ 
vited him to Compeigne, adding to her courtesy 
an assurance that all the guests were to enjoy 
full liberty in the chateau. “ What a pity, then, 
Madame,” said M. Dumas, “ that all France has 
not been invited.” 
Hath any wronged thee ? Be bravely reveng¬ 
ed : slight it, and the work’s begun; forgive it, 
and it is punished. He is below himself that is 
not above an injury. 
Montaigne says that conducting a campaign 
in war is like playing clless. Our opinion is that 
it is a game in wMeh al the playing bears a re¬ 
markable resemblance i) fighting. 
Hope is notMng else hut a spiritual fortitude, 
as faith is nothing else but a spiritual prudence. 
— Luther. 
