[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
KNOW THYSELF. 
Baby Bye, 
Here’s a fly; 
Let ua watch him, you and I 
How he crawls 
Upon the walls— 
Yet he never falls 
I believe, with such legs 
You and I could walk on eggB I 
There he goes 
On his toes, 
Tickling baby’s nose! 
Spots of red 
Dot his head; 
Rainbows on his back are spread. 
That small speck 
Is his neck ; 
See him nod and beck ! 
I can show you if you choose, 
Where to look to find his shoes ; 
Three small pairs 
Made of hairs ; 
These he always wears 1 
Black and brown 
Is his gown ; 
He can wear it upside dewn. 
Tt is laced 
Round his waist; 
I admire his taste ; 
Yet, though tight his clothes are made, 
He will lose them, I'm afraid, 
If to night 
He gets sight 
Of the candle light 
In the sun 
Webs are spun; 
What if he gets into one ? 
When it rains 
He. complains 
On the window-panes. 
Tongnes to talk have you and I; 
God has given the little fly 
No such things; 
So he sings 
With his bur./iug wings. 
He can eat 
Bread and mpat; 
There's his mWh between his feet. 
* 
On his back 
Is a sack 
Like a peddler’s pack. 
Does the baby understand ? 
Then the fly shall kiss her hand! 
Put a crumb 
On her thumb, 
Maybe he will come ! 
Theodore Tilton. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
FOKMALITY, 
How often does my soul eigb when I think how 
much formality there is in this cold, dark world. 
How oft, when I behold the “ splendid misery ” of 
the sublunary “ home,” does my heart sink deep 
■within my bosom, and, as I gaze upon earth’s busy, 
bustling throng, hurrying to and fro, all regardless 
of everything except their own welfare, 
For which they think of naught hut self, 
To gain the fleeting pomp of wealth,— 
how do 1 shrink away from every mortal, and gaze, 
and think, and wonder. 
And then in my daily walks and in public gath¬ 
erings, how often do 1 meet those whom I so love, 
not by long association merely, but because my 
heart is drawn, to them, l know not why; and how 
do I long to go and take their band in my own, and, 
pressing it to my lips, teli them how my soul yearns 
for their love and fiiendsblp, and how its teDdtils 
are twining for support around the mighty towers of 
their heart! How do I long to have them know with 
what a deep , holy love. 1 cherish memories of them] 
but, as L oast at them a yearning glance, their eyes 
for a moment meet mine and then turn coldly away, 
fearing a word will bo spoken or a thought exchanged. 
And then as, with a cold, formal bow they hurry 
past, drawing away 1 heir silken robes as if in iear 
of contamination from the touch of another of earth’s 
mortals, how does my soul shrink away in silent 
dread, and longs to be free from the selfishness and 
pride of mortal companionship. 
Why, the “ world” has come to such a degree that 
all here is formal. Buildings, private and public, 
churches and cottages, hotels and hovels, all have 
have their peculiar formalities. Even the roads, 
the groves and grottoes have all been so formally 
fashioned owr that they present to (he beholder a 
book of cold reserve, instead of the beauty and 
grandeur which nature has given. The clouds and 
the Heaven-lamps remain unaltered l thanks be to 
Ilim who placed them beyond the reach of human 
remodeling. They look down upon us in the old, 
loving way, and with them can the heart hold sweet 
communion without the fear of being regarded as 
one devoid of the rules of etiquette and worldly 
formalities. Even if the heart would speak, the face 
must put on the very image of careless coldness, and 
go its way. All here is so changed from that which 
our great Creator intended. All is lbniial. All, did 
I say ? No! and 1 thank God for it! There is one 
thing even here thatever retains its native simplicity. 
That is childhood. Bless Heaven for little children! 
They aie so artless, so free from guilel They are 
not afraid to come and clasp yonr hand and kiss you 
warmly and affectionately. They are not afraid lo 
shed a sympathetic fear, and they care not if the 
ichole- world knows their little hearts are melted 
with grief. How otten do I thank my Heavenly 
Father for having stationed me in the midst of 
children. Yes, every morning when they come to 
me with their faces all radiant with joy, offering 
some token o' love, and every night when they come 
to give me a ‘‘good-night’" kiss, and then, 
Am I watch ttie.tr little form* 
W tutd'ring from the school-room door, 
Hew tbc patl'ring of their feet 
As they cross Urn dust.) floor,— 
When I see their ejes grow bright 
With the frolic amt the fun, 
As they hear the word—" dismissed," 
And 1 tell them work is done ,— 
they teach me a lesson so pure and sweet, so simple 
and yet so lovely that it keeps my heart free from 
the coldness of earth, ami brings me more on a level 
with things humble , where we all ought to be. 
Ahl who can wonder that when Jksos was upon 
earth, He took little children in Hie arms and 
blessed them? Who can wonder why He said, “ Of 
s ick is the Kingdom of Heaven?” Not 1, surely 1 
And then, we must nil “become as a little childt" 
How xoillingly do they impart to each other tbeir 
joys and sorrows! There is no restraint in child¬ 
hood! No diflerence there,—all alike! Then wby 
should not we take them for an example, and, wiih 
Christ for a guide, lree ourselves from this form¬ 
ality by habit? Not by nature, for nature longs for 
love and friendship. Let us all remember that in 
Heaven there is no formality, no coldness, and no 
hatred; and “ except ye become as a little child, ye 
shall in nowise enter the Kingdom of Heaven." 
Fire Comers, N. Y., 1862. Framchs. 
HOW TO GUIDE CHILDREN. 
Dr. John Brown’s little book on “Health” has 
more good advice in it than is often crowded into 
such small compass, and no parent can read it with¬ 
out receiving suggestions he will remember, and 
put to worthy practice iu the home circle. There 
are some wise bints in the lollowiug paragraphs: 
Whatever you wish your child to be. be it your¬ 
self. If you wish B to be happy, healthy, sober, 
truthful, affectionate, honest and godly, beyourteif 
all these. If you wish it to be lazy, and sulky, and a 
liar, and a thief, and a drunkard, and a swearer, be 
yourself all these. As the old cock crows, the young 
cock learns. You will remember v bo said, “ Train 
up a child in the way he Rhouldgo, and when he isold 
he will not depart from it-” And you may, as a 
general rule, as soon expect to gather grapes from 
thorns, and tigs fropi thistles, as get good, healthy, 
happy children from diseased, and lazy, and wicked 
parents. 
Be always frank and open with your children. 
Make them trust you, and tell you all their secrete. 
Make them feel at ease with you, and make free 
with them. There are no such good playthings for 
grown-up children like yon uud me, as weans, wee 
ones. It is wonderful what you can get them to do 
with a little coaxing and fun. You all know this as 
well as I do, and you will practice it every day in 
your own families. Here is a pleasant little story 
out of an old book: “A gentlemen having led a 
company of children beyond their usual journey, 
they began to get weary, and all cried to him to 
carry them on his back, but because of their multi¬ 
tude he could not. do this. ‘But,’ says he, ‘I’ll get 
horses for us all;’ then cutting little wands out of 
the hedge as ponies lor them, and a great stake as a 
charger for himself, this put mettle iu their little 
legs, and they rode cheerily home.” So much for a 
bit of ingenious fun. 
One thing, however poor you are, you can give 
yonr children, and that is, your prayers, aud they 
are, if real and bumble, worth more than silver or 
gold, more than food and clothing, and have often 
brought from the Father who is iu heaven, and 
hears our prayers, both money, and moat, and 
clothes, and all worldly good tbiugs. And there is 
one thing you can always teach your child; you 
may not yourself know how to read or write, and 
therefore you may not be able to teach your children 
how to do these things; you may not know the 
names of Hie stars or their geography, and may, 
therefore, not be. able to tell them how far you are 
from the sun, or how big the moon is; nor be able 
to tell ihem the way to Jerusalem or Australia; but 
you may be always able to tell them who made the 
sun, and moon and stars, and numbered them, and 
you may tell them the road to heaven. You may 
always teach them to pray. Some weeks ago I was 
taken out to sco the mother ot a little child. She 
was very dangerously 111, and the nurse had left llie 
child to come and help me. I went up to the nur¬ 
sery to get some hot water, and in the child’s bed I 
saw something raised up. This was the little lellow 
under the bed-clothes, kneeling. I said: “What 
are you doing?" 
“ I am praying God to make mamma better,” 
said he. 
God likes these little prayers and these little 
people—for of such is the kingdom of heaven. 
These are Ilis little ones, His lambs, and ne hears 
their cry; and it is enough if they only lisp their 
prayers. “ Abba Father” is all he needs; and our 
prayers are never so truly prayers as when they are 
most like children’s in simplicity, in directness, in 
perfect fullness of reliance. 
THE BABY. 
Tub baby rules everybody iu the honse; issues 
her maudatesin the feeblest of voices, yet all hasten 
to interpret her wishes. It matters not that they be 
expressed in the most unintelligible of dialects, every 
one intuitively makes out a wondrously wise mean¬ 
ing, and watches with the iulensest interest for the 
next utterance. Even papa is vanquished by baby's 
feeble cry, and when she stretches out her arms to 
go to him, be is prouder, happier far, than when 
news of gain, by sea or land, quickens ambition 
but stifles the gentler voices of his soul, the music 
tones of humanity. 
Is baby asleep? Then is the household hushed, 
and the mother, as she sits by its side, sewing, aud 
occasionally rocking the cradle with her. foot is most 
truly the “ guardian angel” of its happiness, and the 
smiles which flit across its innocent face might well be 
the reflections of her own love-lighted beauty. 
Is baby sick? How dull and dark seems the 
dwelling! How envied the mother, because she 
only cau soothe the littlesufferer and hush that plain¬ 
tive moaning! and if the baby dies, how silently and 
shiveringly do the houshold gather round the fami¬ 
ly hearth, whence the light is departed, and the tire 
seems quenched! Those who say it was only a 
baby, never knew how the tendrils of affection 
twine round the innocent helplessness which we 
would fain guard from sorrow, and develop© into 
the full maturity of truth and beauty. Such never 
knew how that tiny touch can magnetize into for¬ 
getfulness the pain of care; how the thought that 
upon that mind is yet unwritten the consciousness of 
sin, makes us emulate ourselves, in the desire to 
throw upon its impressive nature the light of a holy 
life; and how the wondrous mystery of its unfold¬ 
ing life sends us to the Mercy Seat, seeking the. wis¬ 
dom that cometh from above, that wc may train the 
child for God. 
. — -«• « ♦ ■ «- 
The Mother’s Influence. —The solid rock, 
which turns the edge of the chisel, bears forever 
the impress of the leaf aud the acorn, received long, 
long since, ere it bad become hardened by time and 
the elements. If we trace back to its fountain the 
mighty torrent which fertilizes the land with its co¬ 
pious streams, or sweeps over it with a devastating 
flood, weehall find it dripping in crystal drops,from 
some mossy crevice among the distant hills; so, too, 
the gentle feelings and affections that enrich and 
adorn the heart, and the mighty passions that sweep 
away all the carriers of the soul, and dosola'e so¬ 
ciety, may have sprung up iu the infaut bosom in 
the sheltered retirement of home. “1 would have 
been an atheist,” said John Randolph, ‘'it it had not 
been for one recollection; and that was the memory 
of the time when iny departed mother used to take 
my little hands in hers, and onuso in©, on my knees, 
to say, 1 Our Father, which art iu heaven I’ ” 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
MY LOVE. 
BT BARBAKA G. MOORE. 
“ As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daugh 
ters ”—Sovg of Senifls. 
Mr lore seems not to others fair ; 
Her brow is marked with lines of care, 
And cm her once soft dimpled cheek. 
Tiuie’8 cruel, blighting changes speak. 
But what, care I ? I al ways trape 
“ Continual comfort” in that face ; 
In sickness, health; in sadness, glee, 
That face has smiled in love ou me. 
Her once lithe form is bended now, 
Her once quick Step U growing slow, 
And in her once dark glossy curls, 
The silver hairs now gleam like pearls. 
But what care I ? In my fond eyes 
She's lair ns Eva in Paradise ; 
I prize her heart above all other; 
My own first iove, site is—my blather! 
November, 1862. 
[For Moore's Rural New-Yorker.) 
evbey-day life. 
BY LEAD PENCIL, ESQ. 
Touching to me was the demonstration of re¬ 
spect, affection, and love, which I witnessed at the 
burial of a friend, and a relative of a family ot 
friends. J t was a new phase of every-day life to 
me— almost romantic iu its novelty, surroundings 
and effect. 
It was in the country—in the midst of a garden— 
where flowers bloom and t ide and die—where fruit- 
buds blossom, develop, mature, ripen, rich and 
beautiful and luscious for the harvest. 
The brother, uncle and friend had died, and was 
to be burled. A pleasant autumn morning ride 
through the groves and across the prairies and the 
garden gave in the welcome of an open gate. The 
good pastor spoke words ot hope and cheer, and the 
family mourned not. as those who have no hope. 
Few beside the large family of relatives were pres¬ 
ent. No pompous procession followed that corpse; 
no plumed hearse conveyed the body to a tomb 
surrounded by cold, conventional heraldry. The 
grave was made in the garden—on a slope looking 
towards the setting sun—beneath the shadow of the 
warm evergreens iu winter, ami iu the shadow of 
the bright sweet blossom of flowering shrubs in 
summer. 
1 looked for the sympathetic neighbors who were 
to perform the sad and sacred duty of Christian 
burial. None appeared to bear the body of the 
man and friend to the grave beneath the evergreens. 
But, instead, six yoimg nephews of the deceased 
tenderly took up the body of the uncle and friend, 
and preoeded by the pastor and head of the house¬ 
hold, aud followed by mourning relatives and 
friends, bore it to its resting place, and carefully 
and reverently buried it there. Though a novel 
practice to the writer, it waB indescribably touching, 
and entirely harmonious with the simple, semi- 
romantic life which is characteristic of this family. 
There was nothing affected about it—nothing that 
did not. give vldetfe oflove and respect for the 
member of the family who had died. 
The more I think of it, the more the practice is 
approved by my judgment and heart, for who can 
so carefully, considerately aud tenderly perform 
this duty to our friends as ourselves. 
This practice is not without precedent in history. 
The ancient Romans, in the burial of their dead, 
had the corpse borne by the nearest relatives, iol- 
lowed by mourning lriends. The next of kin to 
the deceased made the funeral oration in praise of 
him and his ancestors. The body was then burned. 
The ancient. Christians also adopted the practice of 
near relatives bearing the body of the dead to 
the burial place. The Greeks buried their dead in 
the earth, anciently, but. subsequently burned the 
bodieR. The pyre was lighted by oue of the nearest 
relatives or friends of the deceased. 
It is the modern practice in this country to select 
pall bearers of an age nearly allied to that of the de¬ 
ceased person, and from among personal friends; 
but, the father is not borne to the grave by his sons; 
the brother by his brethren: the uncle by bis 
nephews. But is it, not an innovation upon common 
custom, indorsed by the hearts and sympathies of 
all men? _ 
SIS WALTER SCOTT. 
I presume it, will be allowed that no human char¬ 
acter, which we have the opportunity of studying 
with equal minuteness, had fewer faults mixed up 
in its texture. The graud virtue of fortitude, the 
basis of all others, was never displayed iu higher 
perfection than iu him; and it was, as perhaps true 
courage always is. combined with an equally ad¬ 
mirable spirit of kindness and humanity. His pride, 
if we must call it bo, uniielmse<l by the least tincture 
of mere vanity, was intertwined with a most ex¬ 
quisite charity, and was not inconsistent with true 
humility. If ever the principle of kindliness was 
incarnated in a mere man, it was in him; and real 
kindliness cau never lie but modest In the social 
relations of life, where men are most effectually 
tried, no spot cau bo detected iu him. He was a 
patient, dutiful, reverent son; a generous, com pas 
sionate., tender husband; an honest, careful, and 
most affectionate father. Never was a more vir¬ 
tuous or happy tireside than his. The influence of 
,iis mighty genius shadowed it imperceptibly; his 
calm good sense, aud his angelic sweetness ot heart 
aDd temper, regulated and softened a strict, but 
paternal discipline. His children, as they grew np, 
understood by degrees the high privilege of their 
birth; but the profoundest sense of his greatness 
never disturbed their confidence in his goodness 
The buoyant play of Ids spirits made him sit young 
among the young; parent aud sun seemed to live in 
brotherhood together; arid the chivalry of his im¬ 
agination threw a certain air of courteous gallantry 
into his relations with Mb daughters, which gave a 
very peculiar grace to the fondness of thorr inter 
course. Though there could uot be a gentler mother 
than Lady Scott, on those delicate occasions most 
interesting to young ladies. they always made their 
father the tlist, confidant— J- d. Loclehart. 
A nEATHEX philosopher once uttered two words, 
original with himself, which open a boundless range 
for thought, that, if hut duly considered and faith¬ 
fully practiced, would annihilate a thousand human 
ills. Those words were “Know Thyself!" We can 
but wonder, when minds darkened by heathendom, 
are seen groping after truth and self-knowledge, 
that in the broad sunlight of to-day, it is dreamed a 
thing of small moment No want may "be fonnd of 
acquaintance with popular authors; no lack seen of 
familiarity with revised and approved textbooks; 
nor failure made in most difficult quotations, yet the 
elements of real education are unknown with an ab¬ 
sence of self-knowledge. 
It is not the work of an hour, a month, or a year 
to understand this mighty machine called self. 
Many an honored one haB spent a life-time in devel¬ 
oping and fracing out a single faculty. The real 
worth brought to us from a knowledge of the powers 
found within us, is far from being truly known. Its 
aidiu forming characters symmetrical, can not be 
well estimated. Many cherished hopes would be 
saved from wreck, and multitudes of finely wrought 
schemes, pictured by imagination alone, which only 
required encircling years to become realities, would 
remain unblasted did we but know ourselves. Here 
is found the secret of the numerous failures in life. 
In youth all-buoyant ambition beckons high, and 
with a love for power, and a quenchless thirst for 
ft ne, we halt not until stern fate crushes our ill* 
guided hopes with her ponderous heel. Wo stop 
not. to think of fitness if but immortality may wreath 
onr brwor. There are but few great questions in life 
which effect us directly. One of the more prominent 
of these is the sphere in which we shall move. No 
issue in time affects us to joy or sorrow, to real de¬ 
light or constant gloom, to self-congratulation or 
bitter reproach, like this. It is the height of folly to 
urge that any man may be disciplined to fill any 
position. God as truly had design in our adapta¬ 
tion to labor, as in our fitness for climate. 
We would not seem to depredate rigid discipline, 
nor underrate what continued effort may accom¬ 
plish, but the echo of doom will be heard before the 
expected goal of many a one shall be reached. 
This results perhaps solely from a want, in early 
years, of a knowledge or study of self. A man may 
know himself, and comprehend his fitness for a giv¬ 
en pursuit. Many scout the idea of a man being 
u called to preach.” We argue that a man is called 
to be a farmer, is called to be a lawyer, is called lo 
be an author in the same ratio that a man is called 
to herald the mighty truths of divine utterance. We 
surely would have a distinction drawn here; for we 
should tremble for that man who from mere choice 
placed himself in the sacred desk, having never felt 
the “woe" press his heart. Whereas, adaptation to 
other pursuits, may seem to grow out, of the very 
nature of our beiog. Some make capital hostlors; 
but. these same might be drilled until the end of time 
yet never make a verse of rhythm. 
Right here we are subject to an error which many 
learned ones are not saved from. It is a matter of 
no uncommon occurrence when one becomes con¬ 
scious that he excels in a particular direction, to 
imagine that he may excel in many: and not con¬ 
tent, with occupying die sphere to which lie is fitted, 
he still grasps after something beyond his reach. 
Why should a good orator affect to be a philosopher? 
Why must a noble statesman seek to be a poet, or 
an honored divine set up for a politician. A schol¬ 
ar is not necessarily a mechanic, nor a wise man a 
wit; and by just so much as we. seek that for which 
we have no Jilness, we display self-ignorance, ne 
is wise who, having found his place, knows enough 
to keep it. 
Self-knowledge not only guides to positions in 
ife, but moulds and gives beauty to every element 
of our nature. One conscious ot inward purity, and 
more fully aware of the real nature of his inner heart 
than any other can know, has an inward pride aud 
self-approval, when approached with scoffs or met 
with sneers, that causes him to walk erect aud call 
himself a man. As his inner life comes more fully 
to light, the worth of time, its brevity, and what liv¬ 
ing comprehends, is revealed to him. He reads with 
appreciation, and draws a practical lesson from the 
advertisement for “a lost hour.” He sees him fall 
who has trod by his side since ho knew enough to 
think, and deems himself no more worthy. The 
next barbed shaft may open the life-link of earth 
with him, and he holds himself in readiness. A self¬ 
knowing man is humble, and still possesses a dignity 
which lifts him far above the designing thrusts of 
meu. He is peaceable, yet neecr will submit to 
the trampling of his rights. He is meek and 
charitable, considering that, he has faults kindred 
to those of the brotherhood, yet never will tear his 
cloak to hide the iniquity of others. He has edu¬ 
cated his love for the oppressed, and his helping 
hand is ever extended. In studying himself; he 
could but magnify the power of Him who found 
him thup, and he willingly treads the pointed 
paths. Life to him is not irksome, nor its pathway 
thorny. lie has the approval of his own heart, 
which is worth more than a kingdom, and is honored* 
of God and men. It is not “how much we kuow, 
but how much we cau do,”—not how much we 
acquire, but how much we apply. Manly S. H. 
Lima, N. Y., 1862. 
[Written for Moore's Rural Nev-Yorker ] 
AMONG THE GRAVES. 
The common distich which recounts the days of 
the mouth is well known. In 1596, it ran thus: 
Thirds flan-s hath Srptembt-r, 
Apriil, June anil November, 
FebrusrTe hath eight and t.wentie alone, 
A1) the rest, thirtie and one, 
Bkuept in lea tt year at whinh time 
Fekf**rie’s duj.% are tweulie tied niee. 
THE WANT OF TRUTHFULNESS. 
Truthfulness is a defect among Christians. The 
most expressive adjectives, the fullest expletives, 
the strongest forms of speech, are brought into con¬ 
stant requisition, in the most trivial affairs of life. 
A little dust, an inconvenient wind, a slight, shower, 
makes the weather “horrid.” Tbo muttering of 
distant thunder is “ awful;” and “outrageous,” aud 
“disgusting,” and “too contemptible for anything,” 
leap to the lips of our daughters, with tbo facility 
ot the most endearing expressions. “ I am pleased 
to meet with you,” iB too tame a phrase in case of 
an ordinary introduction ; “ 1 am extremely happy 
to make yonr acquaintance,” is the uniform utter¬ 
ance. Half the letters begin and end with a me¬ 
chanical lie, instead ot" a conscientious gauge of 
phrase. If all are treated thus alike, where is the 
encouragement lo virtue ? where is t.he wholesome 
frowning on vice ? The true rule should be, meet 
the humble, working Christian, whether in rags or 
ermine, with the cordiality and equality ot a broth¬ 
er ; but meet, the roue, the gambler, ibe defrauder, 
the Sabbath-breaker, aud the Outlaw, in whatever 
direction that.outlawry may exhibit, itself, with a 
dignified distance, yet warmed with compassion 
la shorter phrase, make virtue feel that it is encour¬ 
aged, and vice that it is frowned upon. Let justice 
and truth be exhibited iu every act of life .—HalTt 
Journal of Health. 
It is a Sabbath.'the brightness of which, though 
it belongs to the Autumn, brings back the thoughts 
of May. The day verges toward the twilight hour. 
Let us pas3 from the busy scenes of the unresting 
living to the quiet home of the resting dead. 
It would be difficult to find a nlaee less appro¬ 
priate fora burial-ground than this which we are 
approa king. Suitable places may always be found 
in the country, but this—the heart turns away from 
it, extending as it does over the slope and to the 
summit ol this bare ridge, accessible to every wind, 
not being sheltered by forests atouod it, or relieved 
by trees or shrubbery within. It. makes no differ¬ 
ence to the dead where the? rest, but it does make 
a difference to the living. They may bo improved 
in heart by the influence of the spot, and suitable 
attention to the resting place of their loved ones. 
The lost sleep on calmly, not heeding day or night, 
storms or sunshine, summer or winter. But. many 
a storm, sweeping over this exposed spot, 6ball also 
sweep with terrible power over bleeding hearts in 
homes made desolate and emptied of their joy. 
There should be something attractive in every bu¬ 
rial ground, that the weary of earth may say, “ Let 
me rest there." 
Let us notice some of the mottoes. Many of them 
are original, and not a few are poetical. Persons 
who have never before composed a stanza often do 
so after the shock ol death is past, though the heart 
is bleeding. Such stanzas are often interesting, 
though defective when compared with the rules of 
rhetoric, as being iho offspring of hearts struggling 
to express themselves. In some, the sweet influ¬ 
ence of hopes which extend beyond the grave ;is 
mingled with the bitterness of the present grief; 
while others were evidently written in sadness 
whiob makes every joy connected with earth seem 
only vain.—“ Gone, but not, lost.”—“ We will meet 
in heaven.”—“Though lost to sight, to memory dear.” 
“God kindly lent our little boy.’’—“ The bud now 
blooms in heaven.”—“Suffer little children, and for¬ 
bid them not, to come unto me, for of such is the 
kingdom of heaven.”—“ To die is gain.” 
“Farewell I we meet no more. 
On IhU Bide Heaven ; 
The parting scene is o’er, 
The last sad look is given. 
Farewell I and shall we meet 
In Heaven above, 
And tberO, in union sweet, 
5iDg of a Savior’s love ?” 
“ As fades the lovity blooming flower. 
Frail, smiling solace of an hour, 
So soon our transient comforts fly, 
And pleasures only bloom to die." 
“ Farewell urnr friend, a short fan-well, 
Until we moot again above ; 
In that bright land where pleasures dwell, 
And trees of life boar fruits of love.” 
Here are some feeble violets, striving to blossom 
on above this grave till winter. Nowhere else do 
1 so love to see them bloom. Here are some autumn 
flowers, strewn upon a grave but recently mado. 
You would hardly expect from that wild, thought¬ 
less girl, feucb an act as the placing of flowers upon 
the grave of her sister. But Death often touches 
the soul with a strange power, and stirs up depths 
which would otherwise never he reached. And this 
act is too beautiful to mock the heart by saying it is 
useles? Alas! my heart 1 here is a name which 
is borno by one most dear. Oh! shall I ever read 
that name above the grave of one dearer than my 
earthly lile? —Tread softly here,—wc are passing 
where one Is reeling calmly now, whose heart was 
crushed by the darkness which followed the extin¬ 
guishment of its life's light, for which it languished 
till its own life went out The. mystery of such af¬ 
fection can never be solved in this life. Perhaps it 
may bo granted in another. "Why do hearts love to 
only end In bleeding? The Beyond must answer, 
and love must give proof of the Beyond. Those 
that, love most, suffer most; and perhaps they will, 
at the last, be crowned with the greater glory. And 
even here, musing among the graves, the heart feels 
that there is in lile less of grief than joy. 
Yonder rises tho bellry of the Academy, and a 
little farther on the Church spire. Standing among 
the graves, the life-time of earth seems short in 
which to educate the soul for the lile which follows. 
All ages are represented here, and in this respect 
the world of the dead is not unlike the world of the 
living. But the difference in time is short between 
the infant whose ti e dawned but to go out, and the 
man who pursued to what the world calls “old age,” 
the mocking phantoms of earthly hopes. Death 
will very soon be a reality to every one of those 
who are now walking yonder streets in all the 
strength of life. The difference between the living 
and the dead is only a point of time. Nearly all ot 
those who are lying here lived sufficiently long to 
learn what bitterness may be in human life. There 
are but few of the living who have not learned that. 
And yet they dread 
“ That sleep, the loneliest, 6ince it dreams the least.” 
My friend, you should often pause for reflection 
among the graves, that you may learn to “hate vain 
thoughts,” to meditate on, tu love and to seek “the 
righteousness which is of God by faith, that you 
may know Him and the power of Ilia resurrection." 
God will help yon. 
Bwt let us turn back from the dead to the living. 
Soon shall I be borue from the busy scenes of the 
present life to my long repose. Neither the love of 
friends nor the skill of physicians can save me from 
the grave. Disease is even now working at the 
fountains of life, aud Death is reaching out to take 
my baud, to lead me through the darkness to the 
light beyond. There I shall shortly find ihoEe whom 
l love, to be never lost. The grave cannot always 
hold the dead. I shall be raised and. glorified by 
Him whom the grave had no power to bold. Let 
me pass through the grave, since it leads to that 
glory. A few will let fall a tear for me when I am 
gone; a few will cherish my memory Bacredly till 
they, too, sleep in dust; and one hearb-GoD I let 
me not go first. A - T - E - c - 
Moriah, N. Y., 1662. 
Experience in religion 
expressions. A sanctified 
silver tongue. 
beyond notions and 
heart is better than a 
The Bible is the true Magna Charta of the land; 
to despise it is to license crime, ennoble falsehood, 
and enthrone anarchy. 
Many have lazy desires after Christ, that are 
never satisfied, and they are none the better for 
them— like beggars wishing they were rich. 
