Written for Moore's Rural Kew-Yorker. 
HOPE AND CASE. 
t. 
Who can tell me where have fled 
Hopes of yore ? 
Like the summer leaves they're dead, 
To come back, ah, nevermore. 
it. 
Where are all the griefs, the care, 
I have known ? 
They are with me everywhere; — 
Still increasing have they grown. 
m. 
Hope is but a dream of morning, 
Nothing more. 
Care, alas 1 keeps aye returning; — 
Still keeps tapping at the door. 
Wyoming, N. Y. J. M. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
WHY OR WHAT. 
BT L. JARVIS WILTON. 
“ What a liappy woman Mrs. Morton must 
be! She has everything she can ask for, and her 
husband is one of the kindest of men and takes 
so much pride in having things nice and com¬ 
fortable ; besides he seems always desirous that 
she should equal the very beat in society, and be 
a leader herself." 
“And yet we do not know that she is happy.” 
‘ ‘ Why! How can she be unhappy ? She has no 
need to be troubled with cares and anxiety. She 
has only to say to her servants, * do this,’ and it 
is done.” 
“True, she seems to be surrounded with all 
things which can be desired to make one happy, 
so far as outward things cun render her so, but 
did you ever look closely Into her face, into her 
eyes, and try to read the life as there revealed ? 
The character is always to be read in the lines of 
the face, and the eyes will invariably tell us, if wo 
ask them, whether there is a happy, contented, 
peaceful heart beneath, or a restless longing for 
what is not there.” 
“I’ve heard you talk of reading eyes before, 
but I never could do so. I fear that mine are too 
short-sighted for that.” 
“It is very simple, my friend. The frank, 
open heart, in its own conscious purity, will look 
frankly and trustingly into your own. The eyes 
that speak of happiness may be Joyous, dancing 
eyes, or they may Bhine with a grave, eubdued 
radiance; and the face will often show the traces 
of long suffering, of struggles and victories which 
have planted the banner of peace whore the soul 
has won. The unhappy will always wear a rest¬ 
less, anxious, searching look, but never one of 
genuine openness. The impure heart reveals 
itself by a darkening eye under a truthful glance, 
as if the screen of the heart rose up to cover it. 
But you will learn all this best by your own obser¬ 
vation. So ascertain for yourself who are happy 
and who are not, for every l'acc you meet upon 
the street will tell Its own story If you only know 
how to read it." 
“I’ll try to observe, but know I can never 
make a skillful physiognomist. But don’t you 
think Miss Lane is one of the happiest creatures 
you ever 6a w? She is always so radiant, so 
pleasant and fascinating." 
“ No, I do not. She certainly possesses an ex¬ 
treme degree of beauty, so called, and In society 
appears very amiable; but she is utterly selfish 
and hollow-hearted. Do not mistake a pretty 
face, painted and draped with artificial smiles, for 
a happy or a beautiful one. Happiness results 
from a pure life, a life of labor; and those who 
attain to It must often walk over long, thorny 
paths of trial, and encounter many obstacles by 
the way. Care and suffering leave their impress 
upon the features, but the patient, enduring 
spirit will cover It with a halo of brightness, of 
calmness and peace,” ' 
“Then you do uot believe that people who 
look happy, who talk and act as if life was full of 
joyousness to them, are always the ones who are 
happy?” . 
“No, for happiness is of the heart; and in 
society the countenance is usually masked aud 
the heart locked tight in the iron chest of con¬ 
ventionality, so that there we never see each 
other or know each other ouly as masqueradors 
who strive to see which can be the most success¬ 
ful in deceiving others in regard to themselves.” 
“ I am sure we meet but few people in society 
who do not wear smiling aud pleasant faces." 
“But those smiles may cover a heart full of 
bitterness, aud one of which the world knows 
nothing. And do you know that the most 
happy people are not those who love society 
beat? They do not seek it as worshippers, or to 
be admired themselves. Their highest enjoy¬ 
ments are found elsewhere. The home-loves fill 
their hearts and beautify their livc6 with a holy 
sublimity. The home duties and cares will make 
them earnest, active, thoughtful; and as such, 
they will be valued in every sphere and in every 
noble enterprise fov public or private good. The 
sincerity of their Uvea will give them character. 
Happiness will result from the life Beauty of 
life and character, which is the grandest style of 
beauty, will gradually mould the countenance. 
And true beauty, ray friend, you will find, not in 
the gaily dressed hellos of gorgeous parlors, but 
in those who have borne the test of life’s experi¬ 
ences, a beauty which has grown. And this almost 
always comes through trials. These three walk 
hand in hand, beauty, happiness and endurance. 
* Behold we count them happy which endure.’ ’’ 
“According to your theories, beauty as well as 
happiness, is a thing which lies under our control, 
and may be cultivated.” 
“ Assuredly. All have trials and crosses to be 
borne, but the secret of success lies in the man¬ 
ner of bearing them. They are not to be dragged 
sullenly after us, but carried with cheerfulness, 
i and counted as blessings instead of evils. The 
sweat, of such labor Is the most wonderful of all 
cosmetics.” 
GAMBLING WOMEN. 
A New York Bohemian’s letter contains the 
following bit of gossip;—“In one of my lec¬ 
tures I spoke of gambling as one of the vices of 
our fashionable women, and I have since learned 
that it is practiced in certain modish quarters far 
more than I had supposed. In Fifth Avenue, 
and Fourteenth aud Twenty-third streets, there 
are parties of ladies from which the sterner sex 
arc sternly excluded, where the fair gamesters 
play until daylight for large stakes, and it not 
unfrcquently happens, that., when their purses 
are depleted, they put up their bracelets, neck¬ 
laces, and watches as wagers. Some of the fem¬ 
inine gamesters lose heavily, and the desperate 
shifts—no allusion to their wardrobes—to which 
they are put to conceal their losses, and replace 
them must be fearfully demoralizing. A young 
woman, the daughter of one of our opulent citi¬ 
zens, was pointed out to me'last Saturday in 
the Park as a notorious gambler, by one of 
her own sex, who informed me that she had 
parted with nearly one hundred thousand dol¬ 
lars since she went to Saratoga, and made her 
doting papa believe she had expended the sum in 
drees and charity. The young woman in question 
is very pretty, not more than twenty; and no one 
regarding her pale epirituelle face, her soft blue 
eyes, and gentle and reserved manner, would 
imagine she had fallen a victim to one of the 
most dangerous of vices.” 
What is a Darling? —An intense admirer 
of the fair sex propounds the question, “What 
is a darling?” and then proceeds to answer it in 
the following eulogistic strain:— “ It is the dear 
little girl who meets one on the doorstep; who 
flings her fair arms around one’s neck, and kisses 
one with her soul of love; who Seizes one’s hat; 
who relieves one of his coat, and bands the tea 
and toast so prettily; who places her elfish form 
at. the piano, and warbles forth, unsolicited, such 
delicious songs; who casts herself at one’s foot¬ 
stool, and clasps one’s hand, and asks unheard of 
questions, with such bright eyes and flushing 
face; and on whose light, flossy curls one places 
one's hand, and breathes ‘God bless her,’ as her 
fairy form departs.” 
Costly Bast’s Dress.— There is too much 
foolish and reprehensible love of ehow in this 
country, but we have not yet, perhaps, reached 
the extravagance of private life in Paris. A late 
letter from that city states that a baptismal dress 
of an infant, has been prepared, of exquisite em¬ 
broider) - and laee,'at an expense of eighteen t/uru*- 
and dollar* ! The establishment in which it was 
made has been thronged with lady visitors to 
see the rich and costly dross iu which the little 
creature Is to renounce the pomps and vanities of 
the world. 
FEMININE TOPICS. 
There is not a single member of a single 
church, male or female, young or old, rich or 
poor, but should be engaged in personal efforts 
for the conversion of souls. An army may as 
rationally leave the battle to be fought by the 
officers alone, as the Church to leave the con¬ 
version of the world to the minister of the 
Gospel. Indeed, it is a fundamental error to 
consider it a merely ministerial work. The 
work of saviug 60 uls is as truly and as legiti¬ 
mately within the reach of the pious pauper in 
the workhouse, or the godly child In the Sunday 
School, or the religious servant in a family, as 
within the grasp of the most eminent preacher. 
The Church is its entire membership iu the 
“royal priesthood,” proclaiming salvation to 
a lost world, and winning back 6oula to the 
bosom of redeeming love. 
A young man in England having entertained 
a tender passion for a young woman, felt such 
unsurmountable diffidence as to prevent his over 
disclosing the same to the fair empress of his 
heart, aud resolved on an expedient which would 
bring the business to au issue. He went to the 
clergyman and requested the bans of marriage 
might be published according to law. When 
the publication was brought to her ears, she 
was filled with astonishment, and went to him 
to vent her resentment; he bore the sally with 
fortitude, observing, that if she did uot think 
proper to have him, she could go the clergyman 
and forbid the bau6. After a moment’s pause 
she took wit in her anger, and said, “ As it has 
been done, it Is a pity that the shilling should be 
thrown away." 
A Paris correspondent writes : —Why women 
should abdicate the privileges of their sex, adopt 
Wellington boots, w1th heels considerably higher 
than we ever wear; three-cornered hats, copied 
from the hunting costume of Louis XV.’s whip- 
pere-in; coats a revere, and cigarettes, is more 
than I can devise. True, however, it is, the 
jyoinl da mire of ever) - woman of fashion of the 
present day is to singer in dress and manner and 
tone the lions of the Jockey Club; aud note, I 
do not allude to the Anonymas of the demi¬ 
monde when I make this assertion, but to ambas¬ 
sadresses, fair marquises, and the young married 
beauties of the highest circles. 
Love, ambition, aud the other passions of the 
soul are, doubtless, of divine origin, and are, con¬ 
sequently, to a certain exteut, authoritative and 
without appeal. But, at the same time, they are 
surrounded by circumstances hostile to their har¬ 
monious action; they are blind to everything 
but their self-gratification, aud, in the pursuit 
of this, they ignore the very conditions essential 
to their continued existence. The guidance and 
curb of reason, therefore, become absoluftly in¬ 
dispensable to their proper exercise and preser¬ 
vation. 
COME HOME, FATHER. 
[We have listened to many eloquent and touching 
temperance appeals from the pulpit and rostrum: but 
few have moved us more than this simple ballad, by 
H. C. Work, as set to music by the author. Publish¬ 
ed by Root & Cady. Chicago:] 
Father, dear father, come home with me now! 
The clock In the steeple strikes one; 
You said you were coming right home from the shop 
Ac noon as yotlr day’s work was done. 
Our fire has gone out —our house is all dark — 
Aud mother’s been watching since tea, 
With poor brother Benny, so sick, in her arms, 
And no one to help her but. me. 
Como home! conn; home! come home! 
Please, father, dear father, come home! 
Father, dear father, come home with me now! 
Theclock in the steeple strikes two; 
The night has grown colder —and Benny is worse— 
But he has been calling for yon, 
Indeed he is worse — Ms snvs be will die, 
Perhaps before morning shall dawn! 
And this Is the message she sent me to bring — 
Come qulckley, or he will be gone! 
Father, dear father, come home with me now ! 
The clock In the steeple strikes three; 
The house Is so lonely — the hours are so long 
For poor weeping mother and me ! 
Yea, we are alone — poor Benny It- dead! 
Aud gone with the augt-ls or light; 
And these were the very last words that he said: 
" I want to kiss Papa to-night!" 
Come home! come homo! come home 1 
Please, father, dear father, come home ! 
Hear the sweet voice of the child. 
Which the night-winds repeat as they roam; 
Oh ! who could resist this most plaintive of prayers, 
Please, father, dear father, come home t 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE FIRESIDE GRACES. 
BY PROF. EDWARD WEBSTER. 
Better Is a dinner of herbs where love Is, than a 
stalled ox, and hatred therewith.— Prowrb, 
“If I had used the rude expression to your 
sister, that has Just escaped your lips, ray young 
friend, you would have resented it, and justly, 
as au affront; and yet, what right have you, a 
member of the same household, and connected 
to her by ties of blood, to be ruder or more 
unfeeling than a stranger? Does the fraternal 
relation confer immunity from the obligations 
of manhood, and the demands of an enlightened 
humanity ?” 
Uncle John, au old man, who uttered this 
reproof to an impatient youngster, was a moral 
philosopher; and his remarks on such occasions 
were usually pertinent and well timed. Provi¬ 
dence, said Uncle John, in a well ordered and 
| affectionate circle of brothers and sisters, has as 
nearly restored paradise to a fallen world, as the 
imperfections of man’s nature, aud his transitory 
state, will permit. There U nothing more beau¬ 
tiful, more angelic, more lovable, than such a 
relation. If the circle happens to be extended, 
you will find different grades of intellectual 
power; one will grasp intuitively what another 
will labor painfully to attain ; aud when the 
former takes the latter kindly by the hand to 
help him over the rough places—clears up the 
mysteries in his more difficult task—patiently 
explains what lie cannot, see, aud never speaks a 
harsh word or casts an ungracious reflection— 
what can we ask or wish for more? 
How many families are there of your acquaint¬ 
ance, where the opposite characteristics prevail; 
where wrangling and discord are the rule, and 
peace and quietness the exception? Who is 
there of all that read this article, cannot recall 
innumerable instances of unkind words uttered, 
aud unkind deeds performed, for which no atone¬ 
ment can now be made. Death has sundered 
ties, and placed a harrier between us and all 
opportunity of reparation; and when, under the 
somber shadow of a tombstone, we recall, with 
bitter and unavailing regrets, our want of earn¬ 
est sympathy aud love, oh! what can be more 
bitter ? 
A family of eight brothers and sisters were 
once brought up in a farmer’s household; some 
of them intellectually pre-eminent amt ambi¬ 
tious ; and all the rest but one, at least of 
medium capacity. He was from his boyhood 
notoriously dull, a poor scholar, slow of speech 
aud of motion, uncouth in person; but ou the 
other hand he possessed as kindly a heart as 
ever beat in a human bosom. Was any hard 
task to be performed, he was ever ready to 
take the laboring oar; was cold or wet, weari¬ 
ness or watching to be endured, he was always 
there voluntarily aud unmurmuriogly, not only 
to bear his own 6hare, but to assume much of 
that which in justice belonged to others. His 
brothers and sisters loved him, it is true, with a 
sort of pitying, unselfish love, but they were no 
less willing for all that to accept his self-impo3ed 
and voluntary offers to relieve themselves from 
any severe physical endurance or privation. 
God forgive them if they accepted it unthank- 
fully, or if ever in society, at home or abroad, 
they kept him in the background, or blushed at 
his manifest lack of ready wit and grace of car¬ 
riage. God forgive them, if ever at an intro¬ 
duction to a proud or punctilious stranger, they 
hesitated to say:—“This is our brother; he is 
one of us, the noblest, the best beloved, and the 
bravest of us all.” 
No conscious hesitation on this point, I verily 
believe, existed at the time in the minds of any 
of the circle; but more thau oue of them I fear, 
in the light of after time when opportunity for 
reparation became impossible, felt the presence 
of an accusing spirit, whispering in his ear with 
a still small voice, “ Did you fully appreciate 
your brother during all those early years ? Did 
you give him credit for the nobility of soul that 
more thau compensated for your superiority of 
intellect? ” 
The family grew up and scattered into many 
and distant States, each one forming new ties 
which took the place of those that twined so 
tenderly around their early home. One of the 
more favored sons, visiting iu his Western home 
the one whom all in former times bad deemed so 
dull, expected and half dreaded to meet in his 
wife some uncouth and uneducated slattern, 
who, he imagined, had lured his good natured 
brother under the conjugal yoke. Imagine then 
his surprise and pleasure, when he found instead 
a neat and tidy housewife, whose grace and 
refinement of manner would do honor to any 
circle; and who loved and clang to the man of 
her choice as auy sensible woman would to a 
generous, kind-hearted and unselfish husband. 
Poor fellow? His days of conjugal felicity 
were prematurely ended; for shouldering the 
musket at the call of his country and making 
one or two campaigns iu the early years of the 
rebellion, he at last, in the trenches before 
Vicksburg, laid his life a voluntary sacrifice 
upon the altar of his country. 
Kind reader, if you have domestic ties — and 
who of us have not?—cherish, oh! cherish in 
the household, a kindly, a forbearing, and a 
forgiving spirit; for words of kindness, and 
deeds of love, will be a storehouse of precious 
memories, when opportunity to do them will, 
by death or separation, return to you no more! 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
BY' WILLARD CLARK. 
“Romance in Real Life’’ is au oft-used 
phrase, and is doubtless familiar to the eye and 
ear of nearly every reader. Yet, simple as it 
6eems, do we often or ever take it in its best 
and truest import ? I doubt it much. Iudeed, 
it is a fear of mine that the honest, pleasant 
seeming of these words I 9 too often only a cloak 
for the hideous excitement of sinful folly. “ It 
is not just the thing ; but it stirs the blood, 
drives away dull care, aud gives us new epirit 
entirely." Yes, man; bnt that spirit, alas! is 
the spirit of death. Is not this too often what 
the words cover? And such being the fact, 
docs not their frequent recurrence bear with it 
a fearful taint of evil ? 
But the words have their bright side also. 
Let us turn to it and see if their truer, or indeed 
their only true meaning, does not teach us a 
lesson quite as direct and pertinent, and more 
potent for good, than the other is for evil. How 
shall we read it V Romance is a rising or eleva¬ 
tion ; and the romance of real life Is the actual 
soaring of men’s soul3 above the pains and toils 
of this wide, wicked world. Yet in soaring 
thus, it does uot abandon these petty concerns. 
No, indeed! Rather is it upborne by the very 
cares it seems to spurn, for without them it 
would not soar at all, or its flight must be aim¬ 
less and therefore feeble. 
Romance, then, is not what many think it—a 
desertion of duty whenever duty proves’ dis¬ 
tasteful ; it is self-elevation, achieved by faithful 
and persistent adherence to duty. And the 
“Romance of Real Life” is no idle and bootless 
dream of what we might be if we could—no 
wild aud reckless rushing from the spectres of 
neglected duty, or the grim realities we name 
Toil and Snfl’ering, to fancied pleasures that 
blight the whole being with their touch, aud 
reward their worshippers with misery and ruin. 
No; it is none of these. These, debase and 
destroy; that ennobles,purifies, preserves. Ah! 
it is a patient endurance of whatever Heaven 
sends to our lot—a looking for strength upward 
to the source of all strength—an earnest striving 
after light and purity—a hearty, practical sym¬ 
pathy with all sorrow—a bold and determined 
struggling in every good cause, aud a steady 
trust in the final triumph of right. This makes 
the human biped, otherwise hardly distinguished 
from the brute, except by his greater power for 
evil, a man, a woman— noble, lovely, worthy of 
all honor a mortal may receive. This renews 
the bond of brotherhood that makes our race a 
unit, for it works in all a kindred spirit, thus 
forming a tie more sacred than that of blood. 
This raises poor, fallen man toward his Maker, 
the All-powerful and All-holy. This is “ Ro¬ 
mance in Heal Life." 
A STRING OF PEARLS. 
The man who does most has the least time to 
talk about what he does. 
Man leads women to the altar—in that act his 
leadership begins aud ends. 
Age is venerable in man, and would be in wo¬ 
man—if she ever became so old. 
Poverty is the only load which is the heavier 
the more loved ones there are to assist in sup¬ 
porting. 
There is a whole sermon in the saying of the 
old persian;—“ In all thy quarrels leave open the 
door of conciliation.” 
No man is born into the world whose work is 
not born with him. There is always work, and 
tools to work withal, for those who will. 
“All bitters have a heating tendency of ef¬ 
fect,” said a doctor to a young lady. “ You will 
except a bitter cold morning, won’t you, doc¬ 
tor? ” inquired the lady. 
The development which successive ages give 
to poetry consists, rather, in the materials sup¬ 
plied by the other faculties than in auy change iu 
the operation of the poetic faculty itself. 
A golden rule for a young lady, is to converse 
always with your female friends, as it a gentle¬ 
man were of the party; and with young men, as 
if your female companions were present. 
The Scriptures give four names to Christmas, 
taken from the four cardinal graces. Saints, for 
their holiness; Believers, for their faith; Breth¬ 
ren, for their love; and Disciples, for their 
knowledge. 
THE SABBATH. 
[Sydney Smith pronounces tlie following sonnet 
one of the most beautiful in the English language.] 
With silent a-.ve I hail the sacred morn 
Which slowly wakes while all the fields are still; 
A soothing calm on every breeze is borne, 
A graver murmur gurgles from the rill, 
And echo answers from the hill, 
And softer sings the linnet from the thorn, 
The skylark warbles In a tone less shrill. 
Hail! light serene; hail! sacred Sabbath morn. 
The rooks float siient by in airy droves; 
The snn a placid yellow luster shows; 
The galea that lately sighed along the grove 
Have hushed their downy wings in sweet repose; 
The hovering rack of clouds forget to move; 
So smiled the day when the first morn arose. 
Written for Meore's Rural New-Yorker. 
UNSATISFIED. 
How many aching hearts have moaned the 
cry!—and why ? Because this world is so full 
of sorrow, so destitute of real enjoyment. Even 
in childhood, the sunniest time of life, we see 
the little one, weary of his plaything, casting it 
aside and seeking some better toy; and so, too, 
iqen, who “are but children of a larger growth,” 
no sooner gain a long-sought treasure, than they 
tire of St. and crave some higher boon. The 
youth, whose heart beats high with hope aud 
lofty expectation, is destined to see his bright 
visions take wings and flee away—his fairy-like 
castles crumble Into dust. 
Almost al! mark a road by which they hope 
to reach the goal of their ambition, aud eagerly 
direct all their energies to this eud, whatever it 
may be. Some would, by daring exploits or 
mighty flights of genius, win for themselves 
laurels of honor and wreaths of fame, but how- 
few gain the envied prize—and oven those are 
still unsatisfied. Ho whose Idol Is gold, and 
whose daily care and toil Is for the glittering 
dust, finds in his weighty treasures but a poor 
recompense for all his labor; aud the votaries 
of fashion and pleasure, whose lives arc passed 
as butterflies pass theirs, find but au empty void 
when gathering clouds obscure their suushine. 
But even those who have less selfish alms thau 
these in view often find their dearest hopes cut 
low, as some unlooked-for sorrow blights their 
hopes of happiness. 80 it is that we witness 
often with what crushing agony the heart yields 
up its fairest, dearest treasures to the grim 
destroyer, Death, as with his sickle keen he cuts 
down both the old and gray, the young and fair, 
and In sorrow the mother gives up her pride, or 
the child bows in anguish over a parent’s grave, 
and “mourners” everywhere “go about the 
streets.” “ Every heart knoweth its owu bit¬ 
terness," and could wc only lift the veil from 
those around us, even there we might find deep 
wounds, which time, indeed, lias healed, but 
which arc ever ready to bleed afresh as memory 
brings back the story of some great wrong or 
heavy sorrow of long ago. 
All seek In some way for happiness, and our 
very nature is such that we are dependent upon 
each other for sympathy and love ; and yet 
human nature is so dark and imperfect that 
often the whole world seems false and hollow, 
but, 
“ There la no dearth of kindness. 
In this bright world of ours, 
’Tis only iu our blindness. 
Wo gather thorns for flowers,” 
And it is true that life is what wo make it. 
There can be no pain so great, no grief so deep, 
no disappointment so wounding, that, it need 
render us utterly miserable and hopeless. What 
Is this life but a preparation for another, what 
but a furnace in which the gold must be purified, 
the spurious alloy cast aside? Is there a soul so 
weak and timid that it cau wish to escape the 
refining process; is there one that can wish to 
slip along easily amidst the crowd of his fellows, 
without fighting with them the stem battles ot 
life; and in that better, upper world will not his 
crown be set with brightest jewels, who on earth 
has most nobly struggled to overcome ? Look 
above!—“earth is not our abiding place," and 
was not made pure enough to satisfy the hungry, 
earnest longings of an immortal mind. 
But there Is a work to do if wc would have 
lasting happiness. An earnest desire to be use¬ 
ful, a holy endeavor to be faithful in the work 
given us to do, is a noble ambition, and will not 
only yield us true satisfaction aud happiness, but 
will be fraught with the rich blessing of Heaven. 
Let no one say that the petty cares and little 
snares of ever)'-day are trivial and useless mat¬ 
ters, for these make most of the sum of out¬ 
lives, and to bear cheerfully the daily burden, to 
conquer the little trials, requires often more true 
and noble courage than do the heavier crosses of 
a lifetime. Then, weary, careworn, cheerless 
mortal, take heart— 
“ Rouse to some high and holy work of love, 
An d thou an angel's happiness shalt know.” 
E. P . 
Religious Jesting, —Wit and sorry ridicule in 
matters of religion are always attended with very 
evil consequences. They sort so very rarely with 
mature, cool reason and call* consideration, that 
they always rather displace these Qualities just 
in proportion as they prevail in the soul. The 
more habituated a person becomes to the reading 
and utterance of mere witticisms the more does 
he incapacitate himself for sober deliberation. 
At every turn derisive mirth steps in with its 
laughing mien- It throws itself athwart the 
path of investigation, and cuts up such a series 
of antics that we are entirely turned aside from 
our course. We try once more to reflect, but 
the jest returns; we laugh again, let go inquiry, 
and never attain to the knowledge of the truth. 
— Herder. ___ 
Religiqn is a most cheerful thing to practice, 
but a most sad and melancholy thing to neglect. 
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