THE IRISH BULL, 
face, only too well remembered, is looking down 
upon you from tlie “blue unknown,” and yon 
feel bow true is tbe sentiment of the gentle Jean 
Paul:— “Love one human being purely and 
warmly, and you will love nil. The heart in this 
heaven, like the wandering sun, sees nothing 
from the dowdrop to the ocean, bnt a mirror 
which it warms and Alls.” You repeat softly, 
“I learned to love; and at that time. 
Through love I learned what life Is," 
aud the future stretches away before you, full of 
grand possibilities, aud the sweet fruition of 
your life’s best hopes. 
You are startled from your quiet meditation 
by the crack of a dry bush, and your face 
flushes, not with fear, but with indignation, that, 
any one should dare to enter your “ kingdom.” 
You stand still and listen, as the rustle ap¬ 
proaches nearer, and lo! the intruder appears, 
in the shape of a huge muskrat, plungiug along 
in his right royal road, among the shining, 
green leaves and broad, white spathes of the 
water arum; while a motherly robin in soiled 
morning dress, peeps at yon from a clump of 
dead bushes. 
The pail is heavy on your arm and the sun is 
growing worm. You feel tired, and go out of 
the swamp, catching first—that the morning 
may not be wholly lost to science—ft marsh 
flower to analyze. You toil up the hill, dry 
now, and entering the house, you glance into 
the mirror and wonder if that coat of tan can, 
by any possibility, be made to disappear before 
the next Sunday. Throwing yourself on the 
couch, where the light fulls broken through the 
leaves, you fall asleep. Enola. 
Many of Sir Boyle Roche’s blunders are hap¬ 
pily preserved. “ Sir, I would give up half—nay, 
the whole of the constitution, to preserve the 
remainder.” This, however, was parliamentary. 
Hearing that Admiral Howe was In quest of 
the French, he remarked, somewhat pleasautly, 
that the Admiral would sweep the French fleet 
off the face of the earth.” 
By and by came dangerous times of dissatis¬ 
faction, and honest men’s lives were insecure. 
Sir Boyle writes from the country to a Mend in 
the capital tnis discouraging view of his position: 
“You may judge,” he says, “of oar state, when 
I tell you that I write with a sword in ouo hand 
and a pistol in the other.” 
On another occasion, when the famous letters 
to the Public Advertiser were attracting uni¬ 
versal attention, Sir Boyle was heard to com¬ 
plain bitterly on the attacks “ of a certain anony¬ 
mous writer called Junius.” 
It was Sir Roche who recounted that marvel¬ 
ous performance in gymnastics, when, in a 
tumult of loyalty, he “stood prostrate at the 
feet of his sovereign.” 
Ho it was who denounced in writhing language 
the apostate politician who “turned his back 
upon himself.” 
He it was who introduced to public notice the 
ingenious yet partly confused metaphor of the 
rat. “Sir,” said he, addressing the Irish House, 
“I smell a rat. I see him floating in the air; 
hut mark me, I shall yet nip him In the bud.” 
There was his famous speech which confound¬ 
ed generations. “I do not see, Mr. Speaker, 
why we should put ourselves out of the way to 
servo posterity. What has posterity ever done 
for ns?” He was a little disconcerted by the 
burst of laughter that followed, aud proceeded 
to explain his meaning: “By posterity, 6ir, I 
do not mean our ancestors, but those who are to 
come immediately after them.” 
His invitation to the gentleman on his travels 
was hospitable and well-meant, but equivocal. 
“I hope, my lord, If ever you ever come within 
a mile of my house, you will stay there all night.” 
It was Sir Boyle who stood for the proper 
dimensions of the wine bottle, aud proposed to 
parliament that it should be made compulsory 
that every quart bottle should contain a quart.” 
Very pleasant, aud yet perfectly intelligible, 
was his meaning—though it unhappily took the 
bovine shape—in Ills rebuke to the shoemaker 
when getting shoes for his gouty limbs: “I 
told you to make one larger than the other, and 
instead of that you have made one smaller than 
the other — the very opposite.”—AW the Year 
Wrtttun for Moore's Rurni New Worker. 
“GOOD-BYE-GOD BLESS YOU!” 
When la the time for prayer ? 
With tbe first beams that light the morning sky, 
Ere for the toils of day thou dost prepare, 
Lift up thy thoughts on high; 
Commend thy loved ones to Hie watchful care; 
Morn is tlio time for prayer I 
And In the noontide honr, 
If worn by toil, or by sad cares oppressed, 
Then unto God thy spirit’s sorrow pour, 
And IIo will give thee rest; 
Tby voice shall reach him thro’ the fields of air; 
Noon is tho time for prayer I 
When the bright sun hath set. 
Whilst yet eve’s glowing colors deck the ekios, 
When with tho loved at home again thon 'st met, 
Then let thy prayer ariso 
For those who In thy joys and sorrows Bharc; 
Eve is the time for prayer I 
And when the stars come forth. 
When to the trusting heart sweet hopes are given, 
And the deep stillness of the hour gives birth 
To pure, bright dreams of heaven. 
Kneel to thy God; ask strength life’s ills to bear; 
Night is the time for prayer 1 
When is the time for prayer ? 
In every hour while life la spared to thee, 
In crowds or solitude, in joy or care, 
Thy thoughts should heavenward flee; 
At home—at morn and eve—with loved ones there, 
Bend thou the knee in prayer! 
The river flow'd past with the light on its breast. 
And the weeds went eddying by. 
And the round red sun sack down iu the West 
When my love's loving lips to my Ups were preet, 
Under the evening sky. 
Now weeping alone by the river I stray, 
For my love he has left me this many a day, 
Left me to droop and die! 
As the river flow’d then, the river flows still, 
In ripple, and foam, and spray, 
On by the church, and round by the hill, 
And under the sluice of the old burnt mill. 
And out to the fading day. 
But I love it no more, for delight grows cold 
When the eong is sung, aud the tale is told, 
And the heart is giv’n away i 
Oh, river, run far | Oh, river, run fast 1 
Oh, weeds, float out to the sea! 
For the sun has gone down on my beautiful past. 
And the hopes that like bread on the waters I cast 
Have drifted away like thee! 
So the dream it is fled, and the day it is done, 
And my Ups still murmur the name of one 
Who will never come back to me ! 
nr AN NTS HERBERT. 
“ Good-bve— God bless you!’’ Since the world began, 
No tone caught up from angels hath such thrill, 
Played on the sweet keys of the heart of man, 
As when in bonds of honest, kind good will, 
Hands clasp iu parting, and from friends are heard 
The fervent accents of that, golden word, 
•« Good bye — God bless yon I” 
It trembles on a mother's Ups in prayer, 
And oft is spoken with the starting tear; 
The soldier bears it’s blessing to the war, 
And hoare it blending with the battle’s cheer; 
All the sweet human chords that nudurlie 
Our souls, are touched by that dear word, “ Good-bye- 
Good-bye — God hiess you !” 
It Is God’s thought in music thrilling down 
Tenderly through earth’s miserere plaint. 
Bringing a vision of the victor’s crown 
Alike to those who stand and those who faint; 
He liveth trnly, from whose lips Is heard 
Tho prayerful utterance of that noble word, 
"Good-bye — God bless yon I" 
It cheers the heart when Hope’s high arch Ues broben- 
Ncrvcs all who faint, athirst for life’s pure good; 
And brave, souls stronger grow whene'er is spoken 
That mystic word of true heart’s brotherhood; 
Ait thoughts that make Ufo beautiful are stirred 
By the deep meaning of that reverent word, 
" Good-hye^-'.-oTr bless you I” 
■Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker, 
SUMMER MORNINGS.-NO. I. 
Did you ever go hueklcberrying in tbe morn¬ 
ing ? I don’t mean being whirled off in a lum¬ 
ber wagon, with eight or ten others, to some 
marsh, where you tear yon clothes, burn your 
face, and get hungry and—ft few berries. That, 
anybody can do. But it is a rare treat to go 
huckleberry ing in a little gem of a swamp 
hardly out of your own door-yard, within sight 
of the house from the porch of which yon step, 
after a breakfast of broad and milk. You go 
along, lazily swinging yonr pail, and glancing 
off where the sunbeams are playing with the 
wreaths of morning mist on theiowlauds. Shak¬ 
ing with your shoe the drops of dew from the 
grass-blades, you proceed carelessly down tbe 
hill to tbe hollow where there are drops no 
longer, hut a silvery vail is thrown over blade, 
and leaf, and stem, a vail you step upon softly, 
and then look hack sorrowfully to see the rents 
your clumsy feet have made. Rouud the rasp¬ 
berry vines the little path winds through the 
blackberries, standing near the water. You 
stop to gaze up at the royal blackbird, with his 
scarlet tipped wings, balancing himself on the 
top twig of the chestnut tree, and pouring 
forth his liquid trill from among the drooping 
blossoms. 
Before you run the blockade of briers, you 
cannot forbear plucking one of those wild roses, 
with its delicate, glowing petals folded over its 
warm heart, and planting it, with its green 
leaves, in that mass of starry elder blossoms;— 
then, on, with bowed head. The briers cling 
earnestly, as if to keep you from the treasures, 
and give way with a spiteful tear until, after 
much tribulation, you find yourself on the 
“ first log.” This is the “ first picking,” and 
no one has been here this summer; so you are 
the first to crush the feathery moss, tbe first to 
break down the tall cinnamon tern, and force 
paths through the rank foliage, while the leafy 
cups pour on your head a baptism of dew. 
Pretty soon you 6tand still, draw a long breath 
as If in that way to take in all the beauty and 
freshness; then bethink you of your business. 
You look around, and here a bunch of blueber¬ 
ries is staring at you from a bush, there a cluster 
of saucy black ones nodding to you In a satisfied 
way, and just around that clump of willows yon 
catch a glimpse of more; and you faff to work 
vigorously, with every thought driven from 
your mind except that of making all these your 
o wn by right of actual possession. When the 
first excitement dies away, you begin to think 
how the fruit has retained the form of the 
flower, and wonder by what process the white 
waxen cup became filled with the tweet juices; 
and as the berries drop in the pail, you reflect 
Some 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker, 
REPENTANCE. 
Written for Moonfa Rural New-Yorker. 
HOME, SWEET HOME. 
AN ANCIENT TOAST 
BY HJ LIGHT. 
It was a grand day, in the old chivalric time; 
the wine was circling round the board in a noble 
hall, and the sculptured walls rung with senti¬ 
ment and song. The lady of each knightly heart 
was pledged by name, and many a syllable sig¬ 
nificant of loveliness bad been uttered, until it 
came to 8t. Leon’s turn, when, lifting the spark¬ 
ling enp on high: 
" I drink to one,” he said, 
Whose image never may depart. 
Deep graven on a grateful heart, 
Till memory is dead. 
" To one whose love for me shall last, 
When lighter passions long have passed. 
So holy ’tis and true; 
To one whose love hath longer dwelt, 
More deeply fixed, more keenly felt. 
Than any pledged by you.” 
Each guest upstarted at the word, 
And laid a hand upon Ms sword. 
With fiery flashing eye; 
And Stanley said, ” We crave the name, 
Proud knight, of this most peerless dame.” 
St. Leon paused, as if he would 
Not breathe her name In careless mood, 
Thus lightly to another; 
Then bent his noble head as though 
To give that word the reverence due, 
And gently said, “ My Mother !” ( 
“ There is a Bpot of earth supremely bleBt, 
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.” 
Truly music bath charms ! Trniy the great 
poet was not mistaken when, inspired by the 
Muse of Song, he wrote : 
“ The man that, hath not music in himself, 
And 1 s not moved by concord of sweet sounds, 
Is fit for treason, stratagems, and spoils.” 
Where can be foundtlie person so intoxicated 
with pleasure, or overwhelmed by misfortune, 
as to resist the BOOthfeig influence of the care¬ 
fully tuned instrumeat, when touched by the 
practiced and skillful band? "No matter how 
low tbe condition, Low debased tbe soul, there 
is still in the human hpart—itself described as a 
wonderful musical instrument, a “barp of a 
thousand strings,”—afhord which trembles and 
trills unbidden in re-rbnse to and in unison with 
the notes of “heavenborn melody.” 
An incident with wilch I became acquainted 
several years since, i^ves an excellent illustra¬ 
tion of the surpassing power of music over the 
human head and heart One of the members of 
an instrumental ban t who resided in a little 
village in central No York, was about to re¬ 
move to tbe far Wesjfand one evening, a short 
time before bisdep-'^^rc* his brother musicians 
determined to pay farewell viilt. 
Unknown to theirWend, they met and pro¬ 
ceeded towards bisYiome, and he was first 
warned of their pres&iee by their music under 
his window. After plying two or three pieces, 
they struck up “Sw-’et Home,” and as the 
“ Forgive mo my foul murder I— 
That cannot bo; since I am still possessed 
Of those effects for which I did tho murder, 
My crown, mine own ambition and my queeh. 
May one bo pardoned and retain tho offence? 
In the corrupted currents of this world, 
Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice; 
And oft ’tis seen the wicked prize itself 
Buys out tho law: But 'tis not so above; 
There is no Bhoffllng, there tho action lies 
In Us true nature and we ourselves compelled, 
Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, 
To give in evidence. What then? What rests? 
Try what repentance can. What can it not ? 
Yet what can it, when one cannot repent.” 
In this fearful picture of the working of the 
evil heart in Hamlet’s uncle, Shakspeare has 
given us & valuable moral lesson. He makes 
the wicked king tell us we cannot hope for 
pardon except we repent, and that we cannot 
repent our sins except we also forsake them. 
Repentance, to bo genuine, must be something 
more than a shrinking back and abhorrence of 
sin, it must be a change of direction. We must 
turn from It with loathing, and pursue the 
opposite course. We caunot compromise with 
evil. Wc cannot safely discuss with Satan. 
"Wo cannot participate in the fruits of sin and 
repent. 11 wo think wo hate sin, and yet enjoy 
its fruits, we have every reason to suspect we 
are deceiving ourselves. Can we enjoy what we 
bate and detest ? The whole Bible enjoins upon 
us repentance, and it is repentance that is ac¬ 
companied with the total abandonment of the 
fruits of sin. 
False repentance is nearly as common as sin 
itself. But tho occasion of it is far different 
from that of genuine repentance. Look at the 
criminal who, after he has gone through a long 
trial, finally confronts the Judge who is to pro¬ 
nounce sentence upon him. Think you not 
that he is sorry that lie committed the crime for 
which he is to suffer ? He certainly Is. But is 
there virtue in such a repentance ? lie regrets 
the crime because of the punishment, not be- 
the act was iu violation of law. 
SOCIABILITY, 
It is often said of persons, in a complimentary 
way, that they are sociable, meaning that they 
are talkative and friendly; but it depends some¬ 
what upon the character of a person’s speech, as 
well as its quantity, whether their acquaintance 
is desirable or not. Pcreons may be so ever well 
anTming, bnt if thri.- cou» creation la only Ol 
tbe prevailing sickness, or the last horrible mur¬ 
der In the papers, unless you incline particularly 
to such kind of entertainments, they will be 
likely to prove dull companions in the end. 
Or if an acquaintance is simply prosy, and 
talks with as dignified an air as if he fancied him¬ 
self to be delivering a lecture on some moral 
suhject, without any of the familiar language 
which makes Intercourse with friends so charm¬ 
ing, you will be as likely to go to sleep during 
his discourse as you would on the cars while 
they M ere in motion, and wake up when they 
stopped. Or if your caller should happen to be 
one full of his or her own petty cares, who will 
treat you to a history of all their little vexations, 
you will soon become tired, or irritable, or both; 
but no matter, you must hear their plans lor the 
present and future, whether you will or not. 
Sometimes, too, you will hear nothing but bits 
of flying gossip about people yon are not at all 
interested in from this kind of 60 dable people. 
But when a friend enters about your own stamp, 
and yon cannot speak without calling tip a re¬ 
sponse in hisntlnd, when yourheart grows lighter 
with the friendly interchange of thought, you 
are enjoying one of the highest pleasures of 
social intercourse. Such hours need not be 
counted among the vanishing pleasures, for the 
recollection of them is agreeable to both ever 
alter. 
THE PRETTIEST PLACE POR GIRLS. 
The prettiest place for a pretty girl, in the 
rosy months of snmmer time is a flower garden. 
There is a kind of poetic analogy between the two. 
Suppose, reader, you are a young gentleman, 
on the qiti vive for a nice little wife that is worth 
uppose yourself 
something after you get her- 
dropping in for a morning call; which would you 
prefer, the lisping young lady who comes drop¬ 
ping downstairs, after keeping you waiting long 
enough to take her screwed-up ringlets out of 
curl papers, to change her dress, put on her gay¬ 
est rings, brooches and chains, and rub a little 
chalk powder over the ekio that is yet dim and 
sallow from lastn’ght’s ball; or the fresh-cheeked 
girl that, trips in from her dainty gardening work 
with lips more scarlet than her verbenas, and 
eyes sparkling like the dew drops down in the 
hearts of her blue bells? Good gracious! we 
shouldn’t hesitate a moment. Wc should pro¬ 
pose to walk in the garden that very instant, and 
then and there we should pop the question 
straightway. The roses end lily-clusters wouldn’t, 
tell of us if she did give us one of her little mit¬ 
tens to hold! 
cause 
Wo frequently hear good men portray in 
Words tbe horrors of Hell, In such a manner and 
at such seasons, tbat we cannot refrain from the 
suspicion tbat they arc endeavoring to frighten 
sinful men Into repentance, Wc do not believe 
that men are led to repent, in tbe manner which 
tho Bible contemplates, by such exhortations. 
The sorrow-for sin of one who is thus scared 
Int-o repentance will very likely be similar to 
that of the criminal condemned in a court of 
Justice. Our hatred of sin should not arise from 
our fear of punishment; but from our fear of 
God. The fear of Gon is the only kind of fear 
which the Christian ought to entertain. It is 
the only kind of fear that is healthy to tho son!. 
We should not even fear Satan. Christ did 
not fear him, when ho tempted Him upon the 
high mountain, but He hated him. So we 
should hnto him. 
Let us remember tbat the only person we 
have a right to liuto is Satan, and the only per¬ 
son that we ought to fear is God. Iu this vie* 
then of hatred and fear should we repent. If 
wo are tempted of Satan, we ehould imitate ilio 
great Exemplar aud say to him : “ Get thee be¬ 
hind me, Satan.” If we have fallen victim* to 
his temptation we should turn and flee from 
him and his allurcmuuta, Never parley with 
Satan or attempt to conciliate him. “Yecan- 
uot serve God and Mammon.” 
how very like they are to “human folks.” 
drop almost of their own accord into yonr pail, 
while other cling to the bushes in a sly, dis¬ 
trustful and spiteful way too, as though, since 
they fc&h’t help serving people, they intend to 
make all the trouble they can about it. 
You soon have a good understanding with the 
berries, hut never with the birds. You reach 
over to get a particularly nice cluster which, 
although yon drop nearly half on the way back, 
you have the satisfaction of knowing no one 
else will get, and you are suddenly surrounded 
by a bevy of birds — catbirds this time. Yon 
are almost, deafened by their cries, and bewil¬ 
dered by their bopping close to you and back 
again before you have time to think. You won¬ 
der what all the 1'usb is about. Presently you 
catch a glimpse of a little bird just trying its 
wings. You take a 6tep forward to look more 
closely, when your attention is arrested by more 
vociferous cries nearer you. When you look 
again the little one has escaped, probably to the 
nest yonder in the button-bush. To save their 
hearts and your ears, you move farther away, 
and soon all is quiet. 
Gradually a sense ot loneliness steals over 
you. You look up and see nothing but the top 
of the locust trees on the hill, and up beyond, 
the tender, quivering ether, with here and there 
misty clouds drawn across lest your eye might 
pierce too far; and now and then, over head, 
a white-winged dove glancca through the sun¬ 
light. You feel all alone,-at liberty to tbiuk 
what you will, even thongh your thoughts 
FEMININE TOPICS, 
A woman, in St. Louis, killed her husband 
because he pulled her hair. It is sometimes 
difficult for a hasband to tell whose hair he is 
pulling, when he clutches that of his wife’s head. 
The Rocky Mountain News says:—“The 
newest idea afloat is that of a couple, of this 
city, who propose enjoying their honeymoon, 
by taking a trip to the distant part of the ter¬ 
ritory on mule-back.” 
A minister bad a chance to marry either of 
two sisters. One was very pretty but irreligi¬ 
ous ; the other was pious, but a 6cold. He took 
the former, concluding that, “the Spirit of God 
could live where ho couldn’t.” 
Mbs. Smikes says the reason why children of 
this generation are so bad is owing to the wear¬ 
ing of Balmoral boots instead of old-fashioned 
slippers. Mothers find it too much trouble to 
take ofl their boots to whip children, so they 
go unpunished. 
How long Ere, the first woman, lived, we do 
not know. It is a curious fact that, in sacred 
history, the age, death and burial of only one 
woman, Sarah, t.he wife of Abraham, is dis¬ 
tinctly noted. Womau’s age, ever since, aft- 
pears not to have been a subject for history 
or discussion. 
Miss Anna Dickinson, It is stated, is study¬ 
ing diligently for the stage, and will soon ap¬ 
pear at one of the Broadway theatres. She has 
two good aids to eminence in her profession, 
(says the Tribune,) a comely and expressive face, 
and a good natural voice of far more than ordin¬ 
ary compass and range. 
CHANCE CHIPS, 
In childhood wc cut our teeth; in old age 
they cut us. 
The more idle a rumor is, the busier it gen¬ 
erally proves. 
When a man calls his wife a devil, he gives 
her a A ick name. 
TnE noblest question in the world is, What 
good can I do in it? 
Or all monarchs, Nature is the most just iu 
the enact ment of laws, and the sternest in pun¬ 
ishing the violation of them. 
Tub Jews are a piece ot stubborn antiquity, 
compared with which Stonehenge la iu its non¬ 
age. They date beyond the pyramids. 
In every age, public opinion is the dissemina¬ 
ted thought of some half-a-dozen men, who arc in 
all probability sleeping quietly in their graves. 
Tub forceful man Is tv prophecy of the future. 
The wind blows here, but long after it baa spent, 
the big wave, which is its creature, breaks on a 
shore a thousand miles away. 
A Scotch paper quotes the following quaint 
lines from the tty leaf of a register of seasons, 
commencing 12th October, 15911, and euding 19th 
August, 159G: 
" Wo tolll to saw, [sow] we saw to reap, 
We reap and grindie, hb ye me see, 
We grind to balk, we balk to eat, 
We eat to live, we live to dee. 
Wo dee with Chryst, to rest In joy: 
We rest In heaven from all annoy.” 
the author of “ Home, Sweet Home.” He was 
a wanderer from boyhood, longing for love and 
hoping for rest, but finding it uever, until, alas ! 
he died—a homesick, heartsick exile—and was 
buried upon a foreign shore. 
What sad thoughts must have crowded bis 
brain as he composed that wonderful melody, 
which excites the most powerlul emotions of 
our inmost souls, when wc are far from the lund 
of our birth, aud far from any loving heart which 
beats responsive to our own! 
He wepi’— he must have wept, when he penned 
those pathetic lines which awake an answering 
echo iu every human heart, and penned them 
feeling that that “ sweet, 6weet home ” he was 
never to CDjoy, 
So other hearts weep when they read those 
words and feel that home is not for them; and then 
they foolishly grasp after the trifles of the world, 
and try to forget that they are homeless. But 
they can never satisfy the heart. It throbs and 
throbs for sympathy, until finally, but surely, 
it bursts the feeble barrier which confines the 
soul within its mortal prison, and looks higher 
for that homo it could never flud here below. 
