[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE TWO PICTURES. 
THE WOMEN FOB ARMY NURSES, 
Youxa Rian, starting out upon life’s pathway, 
what shall be your course? Will you commence 
the journey of life hy following every whim which 
may present itself,—by engaging in everything that, 
promises momentary pleasure, — mingling in the 
company of the bar-room ami drinking saloon until 
your fair name is tarnished, your life thrown away, 
and you left in solitude, without a friend, to waste 
away in misery, degradation and poverty, until the 
Angel of Death strikes you down in the midst of 
your revelings, leaving behind you a name black 
wilt) infamy? or will you, by your acts of love and 
deeds of kindness, endear yourself to all with whom 
you associate, do good for your country, for your 
race, and for yourself, and lie down at the close of 
life 
“ Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him 
And lies down to pleasant dreams,” 
leaving behind you a name as pure and spotless as 
the snows of winter? Which of the pictures do you 
fancy? Look upon the one, then the other, and 
choose which shall be your picture. Arno. 
Oberlin, Ohio. 1862. 
of serving the country and the soldier—and it is a 
noble, womanly ambilion—as nurses of the sick and 
wounded of the army. But it is not every tender¬ 
hearted girl that is fit for a nurse in an army hos¬ 
pital. The duties of an attendant upon the sick are 
arduous, very often repulsive, and everywhere self- 
sacrificing. It is well that those who would under¬ 
take the task should know what they seek to assume. 
An Illinois surgeon at Pittsburg Landing writes:— 
*t The duties required of an effective nurse are not 
the administering a spoonful of wine, nor a bathing 
an officer’s temples with a sponge. These require 
no sacrifice of feeling. Nor attending upon a colo¬ 
nel or major in a state-room, but combing matted 
hair, washing dirty faces, bands, and feet, binding 
putrid wounds, and numbers of things which cannot 
be described. The lady who cannot, with a smiling 
face, roll up her sleeves, go ou her knees among the 
black boilers and wetstraw to wait upon an unfortu¬ 
nate private soldier, repulsive in his manner and 
words, is here sadly out of her proper sphere. It is a 
noble sight to witnessone who bears the impress of na¬ 
ture’s nobility in every movement and every expres¬ 
sion, a highly educated lady, accustomed to every in¬ 
dulgence that wealth can furnish, thusemployed,with 
disordered hair, boopless, in a Boiled calico dress, 
bespattered with blood, coal-smut, and grease, for¬ 
getful of every feeling but the one of seeking and 
helping the roost wretched and neglected. God has 
blessed my eyes with the sight of such an one. The 
name of the noble-minded lady shall not soon be 
forgotten. Send us ladies of this caliber, or send us 
negro servants. Beg of the dainty miss, in human- 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
MOONBEAMS, 
THE ONE CROSSING, 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
WHAT IS LIFE ? 
Only one crossing over 
Waters alt dark and wide : 
Storms on the fearful billows, 
Peace on the other side. 
Only one scene of anguish. 
Sorrow in sad words told ; 
Then a soft sound of singing, 
8 ofte.ned hy harps of gold. 
Only one crossing over, 
Far from the cares of earth— 
Mansions of rest are open. 
There is life's newest birth ; 
Look when the fond eyes closing 
Speak of the sweet repose, 
Far from the land of mourning, 
Heaven shall soon disclose. 
BT KATE CAMERON 
On, what is Life, asked a beautiful child, 
As the woods re echoed her laughter wild, 
And the zephyrs played through the golden hair 
Whoso ringlets encircled tier lorehrad fair,— 
Methoughtns I gazed on the vision bright 
That life is a season of pure delight, 
Years have fled on, and maidenhood now 
With her signet hath pressed that virgin brow, 
No longer o'er hill and dale doth she roam, 
Those joys are replaced by the pleasures of home; 
Yet still would nor bright smile seem to disclose 
Her Life a river which peacefully flow*. 
Oh, still may her light barque triumphantly glide, 
Ever buoyed up by hope adown its swift tide, 
’Till we see it, all danger of foundering past, 
Launched safe on Eternity’s ocean at last,— 
There, soon may it anchor by that happy 6hore 
Where Life is a crown for the just held in store. 
8 nnny Side, N. Y., 1862. F. C. 1 
Fair Moon 1 that lookest down to-night 
On distant camp Bnd battle-field: 
Wilt thou to all who greet thy light, 
Some rav of peace and comfort yield 
Whisper of home—and loving hearts 
Who here their faithful vigils keep, 
Checking the tear-drop when it starts, 
That they may prBj, instead of weep. 
And gaze, for us, upon each mound 
Which hidos the bravo dead from our sight 
Like Moses’ grave, by men unfound. 
They still are precious in Gou'3 sight 
We’ve sown a harvest rich and rare, 
And watered it with bitter tears : 
O, shall it oot a blessing bear 
For our dear land in future years 1 
God will accept the sacrifice 
Offered by bleeding hearts and lone, 
The incense of earth's broken ties, 
Whose altar is the dark hearth stone. 
The hours of loneliness and gloom,— 
The dread suspense,—the fatal knell,— 
The anguish ot the silent room,— 
How many feel,—how few can tell 1 
Oh I gentle moon, ! tis thine to bend, 
Where .we would g'adlj gaze to-night, 
And watch o'er those whose pathways tend 
So far bey ond our yearning sight. 
If they are safe, we then might see, 
Might whisper words of truth and love : 
The task we must resign to thee, 
Oh I raise their roving thoughts above! 
Point to that world where we shall need 
No light from sun, nor moon, nor star, 
Where GOD shall be the light indeed 
Of those who here were suudered far 
The Land of Peace, where War’s rude strife 
The holy calm shall never break ; 
This message of that better life, 
Kind Moon, to all our loved ones take : 
And wo will gird our souls anew, 
To tread the path so often trod ; 
That whether we must hear or do, 
All may be borne or done for God. 
Rochester, N. Y., Oct. 1st, 1802. 
Only one crossing over; 
Badness, and shroud and bier 
Filling one hour of parting ; 
Then 1 shall enter there. 
Only one night of trial, 
Borne on the swelling river; 
Then to my Savior's presence, 
I shall be gone forever. 
[Translated from the French for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
MADEMOISELLE LAJOLAIS. 
THE MODERN JOURNALIST. 
With the modern expansion of journalism, and 
the absorption of the writing faculty in the inces¬ 
sant production of a vast periodical literature, bear¬ 
ing tor the most part on the immediate necessities 
or evanescent entertainment of the hour, we seem 
to be in some danger of losing the old scholarly type 
of authorship, such as existed in its highest perfec¬ 
tion in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, 
and in the earlier part of the present. We have 
abundance of rapid and able penmen—writers full 
of information of the topics of the day—illustrious 
novelists, and clever observers ol current manners; 
but the race of literary men, pure and simple, is fast 
dying out under the glare of gas, the roar of steam, 
and the quick flash of electricity. Tho age has to 
attend to so many practical questions of urgency and 
weight, and is so hurried from one grave crisis to 
another, that it has no time to linger on the sward 
by the side of the great dusty highway, or to dream 
beneath the shadow of immemorial woodlands. The 
man who follows literature tor its own sake, apart 
from any design at, once recognizable by the hurry¬ 
ing crowd, stands a poor chance of being listened to; 
and tho author of to-day is per force obliged to 
mold his work into some tangible shape, such as be 
can at onco take iuto the market, and offer for sale 
with the probability of finding purchasers. Except 
in the case of those few geniuses who posses the rare 
gift of creative power, ihe literary man finds himscll 
speedily lapsing iuto the journalist. He may not 
have begun life as a politician; he may have had a 
stronger predilection tow aid the greener regions of 
imagination and fancy; he may love old books and 
the abiding phantoms of old days, with a tender and 
unsatisfied affection; but the press demands him, 
and will have him. “How is it,” asked an old 
journalist one day, ‘-that so many young poets 
finally develop into sub editors?” The answer is 
obvious. Moonbeams are a very innutrilious diet, 
and the young poet soon learns to appreciate the 
advantages that belong to the sub editor’s room. 
Accordingly, the mere author sinks out o( eight, and 
the journalist takes his place .—All the Year Round, 
TnE gallery which the Emperor must cross in 
going to the council, was a vast, room lighted by op¬ 
posite windows; on the one side looking upon the 
entrance court, on the other upon the gardens. 
Nine o'clock had just sounded and slowly the sides 
of the gallery were being filled with people, solic¬ 
itors, and officers. Among rll that crowd two young 
women were most remarked, the first for her beauty 
and the grace with w’hicb she acknowledged the 
salutations of those near her; the second for her 
youth, the pallor which gave to her beauty an extra¬ 
ordinary character, and her wealth of hair-falling in 
graceful curls upon her shoulders. 
“Come, courage!” said (he first to the second, 
“courage!” I will not leave you, and to give more 
weight, to her words, her bund sought that of the 
young girls, and pressed it with warmth. 
A look, the saddest and most expressive, respond¬ 
ed to this, but instantly the glance turned toward 
the door by which the Emperor must enter. 
Two hours passed thus; two hours of pftififul 
waiting, and during the time neither of tho two had 
moved. The. youngest of the girls had kept her 
eyes fixed upon the choked door,—the other did not 
raise hers from her companion. The most profound 
silence reigned in the gallery; nothing was heat’d 
but the breathing, more or less agitated, of' those 
who were waiting. At last twelve o’clock sounded, 
the folding doors opened, and an officer announced 
the Emperor. Several persons appeared at the 
game time. 
“ Which one?” asked Maria with anxiety. 
“ The one alone, who has his hat on,” answered 
noimcNSK. 
The young girl waited for no more, she saw hut 
oneof all the crowd that surrounded her, and throw¬ 
ing herself at the feet of him who had been desig¬ 
nated, cried:—“Pardon! pardon!” and clasping her 
hands, raised them towards him. 
At this cry and unexpected action, the Emperor 
stopped and knit his brows, remarking in an im¬ 
patient tone, “ l have said I would have no more of 
these scenes. And crossing his arms upon his breast 
he would have passed on. 
“Sire!” cried the young girl, to whom the position 
of her father gave an energy above her age, “ I con¬ 
jure you hear me! In the name of your father grant 
pardon to mine! lie has been deceived, but pardon 
him! Oh! Sire, you hold the life of my father, my 
own, in your hands. Have pity upon an unhappy 
child, who begs for the life of her father. Sire! par¬ 
don, pardon.” 
“ Leave me,” replied the Emperor, repulsing her 
rudely enough. 
But without being intimidated the young girl 
threw herself upon the marble floor of (lie gallery 
and cried with agony. There was something so dis¬ 
tressing in the voice of that child pleading for the 
lilts of her father, that the Emperor stopped in spite 
of himself; and regarded the supplicant, “is not 
your name Lajoi.^is?” he asked. 
Without replying Maria clasped his hand with 
force. 
He added with severity, “do you know this is the 
second time your father has been arrested lor a 
crime against the Slate?” 
“I kuow it,” she auswered ingenuously; “hut the 
first time he was innocent, Sire.” 
“ This time he was not,” replied Bonatart. 
“But it is his pardon that I ask, Sire,” added 
Maria. 
The Emperor could not master his emotions, he 
bent toward her and said:—“Yes, I grant it; but 
vise.” And with a smile of'encouragement he dis¬ 
engaged his hands, and passed on. 
The joy of success was more dangerous for Maria 
than her grief. Tho poor child fell senseless upon 
fhe floor. Thanks to the care of the Empress and 
her maid:*, she soon returned to consciousness. 
“ My father, my father,” murmured she, as soon as 
she could speak. “Ohl that I maybe the first to 
announce his pardon.” 
“Nothing hurries now,” said one of the ladies— 
“ repose yourself, you eau go to him an hour hence.” 
“An hour hence !” died Maria; “must I wait an 
hour to announce pardon to a man condemned to 
death, above all, when that, man is rny father. Oh! 
madam," she added to the Empress “let me go.” 
“Be it so. my child,” replied .1 qskf hiw w. “but 
you can not go alone to his prison.” 
“ I came alone to your chateau,” she responded, 
quickly. 
“ Lavalette, do me the favor of accompanying 
Maria,” said the Empress, turning to an officer 
near by; “ you will take one of my carriages.” 
They soou passed over Ihe distance that separated flattery of admirer 
Saint Cloud from the prison. When the carriage j ee [ 0 f u genuine 
stopped she sprang to the walk belore Lavalette except by heroic d 
could offer his assistance. Arriving at. the door of _y/ rs - jj jrj t - 
the cell she could scarcely await the opening of it, _ 
by the jailor. Falling in the arms of her father she 
cried, “Father,—life,—pardon,” and could say no 1 , 
__ cast upon old maic 
more. ,. . 
General La.iolais believed that they were come ? eiieia - V ILna 8 ln ” < 
to conduct him to his execution, and his daughter la e ! * KIsC, . n ’ . 811 
deceiving the guards had braved all to bid him . ° 1 J’ ‘. e ls 111 
adieu. But Lavalette soon undeceived him. See- ( . er ’ u !' lU r g . caa ‘ 
ing that Maria could not speak, he said:—“The aa 0 1 m,u< ' 
Emperor grants your pardon, General, and you owe a ntja n ' ?s ’. inCl 
it to the courage and lenderness of your child.” He 1 e nes - * lU Hl ^ r e 
then recounted what his daughter had done for him. 
All former suffering was effaced in the joy of that HE names ot ^ 
hour. But it is necessary to have suffered our- ^ ou j. l ' a 
8elves—to have trembled for the safety of those 0 e 0 0 1 oin 
The rhetorical and poetical beauties of Scripture 
are merely incidental. Its authors wrote, not for 
glory nor display, not to astonish nor ameze their 
brethren, but to instruct them, and make them bet¬ 
ter. They wrote for God’s glory, not their own; 
they wrote for the world’s advantage, not to aggran¬ 
dize themselves. Demosthenes composed bis most 
eplendid oration in order to win the crown of elo¬ 
quence; and the most elaborate effort of ancient 
oratory—the panegyric to which Isocrates devoted 
fifteen years—was just an essay written for a prize. 
Flow different the circumstances in which the speech 
on Mars’ Hill w’as spoken, and the farewell sermon 
in the upper chamber at Troas. Herodotus and 
Thucydides composed their histories with a view to 
popular applause; and Pindar’s fiery pulse beat 
faster in prospect of the great Olympic gathering 
and the praises ol assembled Greece. How oppo¬ 
site the circumstan es in w’bieh tho seer of Horeb 
penned his faithful story, and Isaiah and Jeremiah 
poured forth their fearless denunciations of popu¬ 
lar sins. The. most superb of modern historians 
confesses the flutter which he felt when the last, line 
of his task was written, and he thought that per¬ 
haps his fame was established. A more important 
history concludes:—“These things are written that 
ye might believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of 
God; and that believing, ye might have life through 
his name.”—,/. Hamilton. 
ABOUT SMILES. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker ] 
THE PINES. 
Thr glory of the pines, how great! How loftily 
they wave their outstretched arms, and nod their 
plumed heads! How ambitious are they, not con¬ 
tent with towering above the trees, but ever seeking 
to plant their mighty columns upon the highest 
mountain crags. Ilow defiantly, how mockingly 
they send upon the winds their derisive taunts to 
their less aspiring brothers; even as some men who, 
having reached the height to which their ambition 
sought to carry them, look down upon others less 
fortunate, and would gladly close every avenue by 
which struggling humanity might, attain their ele¬ 
vation. 
See those pines standing upon yonder mountain 
in solemn phalanx. They are motionless, but not 
silent, for they are whispering in strange tones to 
each other. Are they plotting treason against the 
grand old oaks that stand below them upon the 
mountain side? Or are they seeking only to pro¬ 
tect themselves against invaders? Yonder are three 
standing apart, and they nod their heads signifi¬ 
cantly, and one stretches out a long, bare arm. from 
the extremity of which dangles a bunch of mistle¬ 
toe. There is one entirely alone, perched on the 
extreme brow of the mountain, like a sentinel over¬ 
looking the valley below. Seek nut to invade their 
ground, ye lesser trees, for they indicate, by their 
gigautic size, that they have held undisputed reign 
over this mountain home for ages,—have witnessed 
the rise and decay of nations of other trees,—have 
waged war with the elements, raising their wailing 
tone to shrieks of fury as the tempest sought to lay 
them low,— coining forth from the fray with proudly 
raised heads, and gaining additional strength as 
year after year circled away. To-day they stand 
up defiantly as a monarch who has conquered all 
and is himself unconquerable. 
Come with me to yonder glen, whose entrance is 
guarded by a monster pine, like some giant of old. 
Clustering around the parent tree are many smaller 
ones, its children and its children’s children. Hark! 
they are singing together, bat in whatdifferent tones. 
From away up, up comes down the hoarse notes 
of the old tree, mingled with the shriller ones of 
smaller and still smaller trees, until the little one, 
scarcely higher than your head, finishes the chorus 
with its soft lute-like whisperings, liow sweet, and 
how sad! I always thought the saddest muse of the 
Nine, dwells in the pine, for whenever I hear its 
gentle music, it tames my spirit, and sends fluttering 
through my mind, vague, poetical fancies as weird¬ 
like aud intangible as its own low murmuritiga. See 
how the ground is covered with multitudes of brown 
needle-like shreds, the cast-off’clothing of the pines; 
and now arrayed in their new livery of green, they 
sing sweeter strains than ever. Here, too, are scores 
of beautiful cones lying about, many full half a yard 
in length, and of proportionate size. How neatly 
the scales formiug them are placed one within an¬ 
other: some kinds smooth, others armed with sharp 
spears, and still others, containing an edible nut. 
Here is a little pine, scarcely distinguishable from 
the grass, liow hardly credible that the gigautic 
lord of the forest should have been once a puny 
thing like this, which 1 can uproot with my linger. 
And these, how mighty in their strength. IVhat 
ages must pass away before this could attain the 
glorious proportions of the forest monarch. But it 
will never be, for Progress pauses not. Even now 
it is moving up these lolly Sierraean heights, aud 
these grand old pine trees must bow their sky-soar¬ 
ing beads, and such infant pines as this will never 
live to chant their requiems. Sing on, then, ye dear 
old trees while yet ye may. From morn till eve, 
from month to month, chant your forest hymns, and 
wail and whisper of your coming doom. Staud up 
in lofty graDdeur now, and toss your moss-decked 
arms in proud disdain. Ye must soon fall, but when 
the glittering axe and crackling flame have per¬ 
formed their work, the Sierras will have lost half 
their glory, and their deep glens their music, a 
sweeter than which these heights shall never know. 
Grace Veknet. 
Iowa Hill, Placer Co., California, 1862. 
Of all the happy households, that is the happiest 
where falsehood is never thought of. All peace is 
broken up when once it appears that there is a liar 
in a house. All comfort has gODe when suspicion 
has once entered—when there must be reserve in 
talk and reservation in belief. Anxious parents, 
who are aware of the pains of suspicion, will place 
general confidence in their children, and receive 
what they say freely, unless there is reason to dis¬ 
trust the truth of any one. If such an occasion 
should unhappily arise, they must keep the sus¬ 
picion from spreading ns long as possible, and avoid 
disgracing their poor child while there is a chance 
of its euro by their confidential assistance, lie 
should have their pity and assiduous help, as if ho 
were suffering under some disgusting bodily disor¬ 
der. If he can be cured, he will become duly grate¬ 
ful for the treatment. If the endeavor fails, means 
must of course be taken to prevent his example from 
doing harm; and then, as i said, the family peace 
is broken up, because the family confidence is gone. 
I fear that, from some cause nr another, there are 
but few large families where every member is alto¬ 
gether truthful. But where all are so organized 
and so trained as to be wholly reliable in act and 
word, they are a light to all eyes, and a joy to all 
hearts. They are public benefits, f or they are a point 
of general reliance; and they are privately blessed 
within and without. Without, their life is made 
easy by universal trust; and within their homes and 
their hearts, they have the security of rectitude, and 
gladness of innocence .—Harriet Martineau. 
THE TWO BROTHERS 
The Count de Lignivillo and the Count de Autri- 
court, twins, descended lrorn an ancient family in 
Lorraine, resembled each other so much that when 
they puton the same dress—which they did now and 
then for amusement—their servants could not dis¬ 
tinguish the one from the other. Their voice and 
deportment were the same, and these marks of 
resemblance were so perfect that (hey often threw 
their friends, and even their wives, into the greatest 
embarrassment. Being both captains of light-horse, 
the one would put himself at the head of the other’s 
squadron, without the officers suspecting the change. 
Count de Autricourt having committed some crime, 
the Count do Liguivllle never Buffered his brother 
to go out without, accompanying him; and the fear 
ol seizing the innocent, instead of the guilty ren¬ 
dered the orders to arrest the former of no avail. 
One day the Count de Ligniville sent for a barber, 
and having suffered him to shave one-half of his 
beard, he pretended to have occasion to go into the 
next, apartment, and put his night-gown upon his 
brother, who was concealed there, and tucking the 
cloth which he had about- his neck under bis chin, 
made him sit down in the place which he had just, 
quitted. The barber immediately resumed his ope¬ 
ration, and was proceeding to finish what he had 
begun, as ho supposed; but, to his great astonish¬ 
ment, he found that a new beard had sprung up! 
Not doubling that the person under his hands was 
the devil, he roared out with terror, and sank down 
in a swoon on the floor. While they were endeavor¬ 
ing to call him to life, Count Autricourt retired 
again into tho closet, and Count de Ligniville, who 
was half shaved, returned to his former place. This 
was a new cause of surprise to the poor barber, who 
now imagined that all he had seen was a dream, and 
he could not be convinced of the truth until he had 
seen the two brothers together. The sympathy that 
existed between the two brothers was no less singu¬ 
lar than their resemblance. If one lell sick, the 
other was indisposed also; if one received a wound, 
the other fell pain, and this was the case with every 
misfortune that betel them; so that on this accouut 
they watched over each ulher’s conduct with the 
greatest care and attention. But what is still more 
astonishing, they both had often the same dreams. 
The day that. Count de Autricourt was attacked in 
France by the fever of which he died, Count de 
Ligniville was attacked by the same in Bavaria, and 
was nearly sinking under it 
Never was it more neediul to the church than at 
present, not only practically to set before the world 
the example of a holy life, but in its doctrinal testi¬ 
mony to give to the Scripture view of perfect holi¬ 
ness that place which its importance justly claims. 
The mysterious power by which the Christian 
Church hast gained its position, and by which it has 
not. only kept its own, but bid defiance to a host of 
thesis a power derived from no other source than the 
Spirit of holiness. It would be vain to sigh for a re¬ 
turn of those days when the disciples had “ favor with 
all the people,” and “ fear came upon every soul,” 
if we were no longer permitted to understand the 
holy calling of Christians, and to expect a deep 
and joyous response in believing hearts. Neither 
social position, nor outward activity, nor strength 
of organization, can, of itself give to the Church a 
pledge of real and lasting prosperity, or of ulti¬ 
mate success. Nor must the mere fact of an in¬ 
crease in the number of Church members be 
regarded as a sign of increasing prosperity, if, 
as nuwbeiB increase, the desire after holiness be¬ 
comes less generally felt, and the nature of true 
holiness less clearly apprehended, and less strik¬ 
ingly exemplified. 
People seem to think that love toward God must 
be something totally different in all kind from the 
love which we feel toward our fellow creatures, nay, 
as though it might exist without any feeling at all- 
If we believed that it ought to be the same feeling, 
which is excited by a living friend upon earth, high¬ 
er and purer, but not less real or warm, and if we 
tried our hearts, to see whether it is in us, by the 
same tests, there would be less self-deception ou this 
point; and we should be more easily convinced that 
we must be wholly destitute ol that of which we 
can show no lively token. 
The Married Man. —Behold him! all the while 
he is busied about his daily occupation, his thoughts 
are wandering toward the time lor going home in 
the evening after the toils and fatigues of the day. 
He knows that ou his return ho shall find an affec¬ 
tionate face to welcome him—a warm, snug room— 
a bright life—a clean hearth—the tea-things laid— 
the sofa wheeled round on tho rug—and, in a min¬ 
ute after his entrance, his wife sitting by his side, 
consoling him in his vexations; aiding him in his 
plans for the future, or participating in hisjoys, and 
smiling upon him for the good news he may have 
brought home; his children climbing on the cush¬ 
ion at his feet, leaning over his knees to eye his face 
with joyous eagerness, that they may eoaxingly win 
him. This is the acme ol happiness. But it is 
only one side of the picture. Unfortunately, all 
husbands are not as domestic, and all wives are not 
as cheerful and considerate. 
Shaftsbury observes, that, alter all, tne rnu&u 
natural beauty in the world is honesty and moral 
truth. True features make the beauty of the lace, 
and true proportions the beauty of architecture, as 
true measures that of harmony and music. In poet¬ 
ry, which is all fable, truth still is the perfection. 
Pride and opulence may kiss in the morning as 
a married couple; but they are likely to be divorced 
before sunset. 
