AMERICAN LADIES. 
I 
l 
fc5 ^ 
MOTHER’S NONSENSE, 
BY MBS. HOWE. 
Where are the eyes of the Lovely One,— 
The sweet blue eyes of the Lovely One ? 
Oh! here they shine 
To comfort mine. 
The cloudless eyes of the Lovely One. 
Where are the hands of the Lovely One, 
The tiny hands of the Lovely One ? 
They grasp the air, 
Ho small and fair. 
Seeking angel's lingers, my Lovely One. 
Where is the mouth of the Lovely One,— 
The cunning mouth of the Lovely One ? 
I kisB it so, 
I cannot eay no, 
The sweet wee mouth of the Lovely One. 
And whore Is the pluce of the Lovely One,— 
The happy place of the Lovely One ? 
On mother’s knee 
High tbroneth he; 
And her heart is the home of the Lovely One. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
MY LOVE. 
BT OK ACE GLENN. 
Love is sweet to a woman. It is life to her— 
Life, Baptism, Resurrection. Love! Do you 
see it in lip and eye and cheek and brow? Do 
you hear It in voice and step ? Do you feel It 
in her touch, thrilling harmony through discord 
and putting soul into every thing ? Oh! It’s an 
old, old story. 
Love is Baptism. If you are a woman, hide 
your blushes, — if a man, listen while I own its 
power. A baptism of purity to Hope and Faith 
and Charity. A baptism of sanctity to Memory 
and her dead. A baptism of patience and hap¬ 
piness to every trial that had otherwise been un- 
cleansed nod unsoftened entering her soul, — 
now gliding with mu died oars down the tide, 
far aw ay, unheeded. A baptism, not the sprink¬ 
ling of the head, but immersion without reserve 
— a burial in crystal waters of all we are or care 
to be. 
Then is the Resurrection — when the white 
dove of Peace brings rest to us in resting 
with us. 
Men who dream of passion, had you ever sleep 
akin to this? Resurrection, the airy butterfly 
of the present hovering over the broken cocoon 
of the past, having as much of power as desire 
to be the chrysalis again. Resurrection of the 
spirit that is, from the body that was— of beauty 
and grace from burdens and weary unrest. 
I Love. You smile. You will turn from my 
ideal? Very well, yet I will whisper of him as 
you go, for the cup that is more than full must 
overflow, and one shall be the receiver. There 
are cruel hates in the world, but Ills shield is 
between me and them this hour and for the 
future evermore. 
“The mountains kiss high Heaven, 
The moonbeams kisft the sea.” 
Through the blue ether above glances the me¬ 
teor, up from tb« Arctic shores gleam6 Aurora, 
and, queen of the hour, fair Luna glides among 
her uncounted hosts. Midnight cometb. On 
the chariot of the nations, Mother Earth, un¬ 
resisting we go over beyond and leave them. 
Over where the god of day wakes from his slum¬ 
bers to robe the Earth in glory. 
Is this anything like Love’s resurrection and 
baptism?, Walt aud the life will come after. 
Listen! Where the forest lies damp and dark 
there is one drop of sound, of music. Presently 
there comes a rill; on the breezes it trembles 
and flutters, increases and rises and swells until, 
like rolling waves in the glimmer of a thousand 
reflected sun-beams of which we catch one 
glimpse, that choral anthem goes Heavenw ard 
and we wait that if the doors may be ajar we 
shall hear the angel chorus. Have the leaves 
and flowers listened too ? Ah, they heard t Sec 
the great tree branches sway as with the swell¬ 
ing of a full heart, and the flowers bow silently 
while the zephyrs kiss away their tears. 
These flowers, oh, they shame my fairest hand¬ 
iwork, while I kneel and make them the alter of 
my temple. And what is my offering ? The cur¬ 
tains are hung in purple and gold over the taber¬ 
nacle, the Holy of holies walls for the incense 
of prayer and the sacrifice is yet unslain. Oh 
heart! why earnest thou here to worship. Ah 
thy Love is here! Bow T now, lay down thy pride, 
for vanity moeketh and the shrine is sacred. Pride, 
is it too much? Still see how little. Pride of 
Earth my Love is greater than thou, foi'Hismuue 
is Truth; His garments are white with cleansing 
and the stars that He cal let )i by name are the 
gems of His giving. I love! The sacrifice is 
made, the promise is sealed aud I go forth to the 
bridal morning. Has it cost too much ? 
The echoes wait for the old shout of revelry 
in vain. The silver stream gives back the play¬ 
ful barque to the sandy shore, the wine cup is 
lull hut the lips forget to relieve it of its poison. 
The rose and the thorn live and die together on 
the stem, but the passion flower and the lily 
twine with the laurel for the victor’s crown. 
The waters of life are flowing from the fountain 
free for evermore; the eddying river winds but 
about<he foot of the mountain path up higher, 
and the sounds but die that the echoes shall tune 
their voices anew when I have learned a better 
BOiig of the “ New Jerusalem. 
Michigan, 1S66. 
Faithful. — Sarah Jennings, wife of Marl¬ 
borough, wrote to the Duke of Somerset when 
he offered her marriage“ If I were young and 
handsome as 1 was, instead of old and faded as 
I am, and you could lay the empire of the world 
at my feet, you should never share the heart and 
hand that once belonged to John, Duke of Marl¬ 
borough.” 
The American correspondent of the Specta¬ 
tor relates the following story in a recent letter: 
“ A lady whom I know had rather an unpleas¬ 
ant experience In an attempt some years ago to 
disregard the tacit understanding among the 
sex in regard to dinner dress at hotels. She 
belonged to an ultra fashionable set, and, having 
married a South Carolina planter, soon adopted 
what we call 1 plantation manners,’ and affected 
no little scorn of simple-mannered, reserved 
New F.ngland folkB. She was at Newport, our 
great sea-side watering place, and having just 
returned from Europe, took great airs upon 
herself. One evening at the tea-table a gentle¬ 
man sat down near her, aud the butter plate 
before him happening to have no butter knife 
by It At the moment, he, instead of calling Mjc 
waiter and waiting for one to be brought, used 
his own perfectly fresh bright knife to take a bit 
of butter. He was a man of culture and social 
standing, but a Yankee, and one whose social 
pretensions she wished to flout. She seized the 
opportunity, and calling a waiter, said in an 
elaborately subdued, but decided tone, ‘ Take 
away that butter. That gentleman has had his 
knife in it.’ He took no notice of the remark, 
which drew all cycB upon him and upon the 
lady; but by and by she stretched out her hand 
and took from the plate some chipped dried 
beef which stood between her and her victim. 
This was well enough, of course; but he turned 
at once, and, calling a waiter, said, only as if he 
were asking for some tea, 1 Take away that 
dried beef; this lady has had her fingers in it.’ 
In this encounter, such as it was, he was 
thought to have had the best of it, and she did 
not forgive or forget. So a few days afterward 
(I should have mentioned that there was the 
slightest possible acquaintance between them,) 
they being at dinner, she, conspicuous in the 
full dress she bad adopted since her tour to 
Europe, and which was so very ‘full’ that it 
would have attracted attention under any cir¬ 
cumstances, took one from a dish of fresh figs 
before her, and putting it. on a plate, handed it 
to him with an expression of complaisance, but 
saying in a tone of unmistakable significance 
which could bo heard all around her, ‘ A fig for 
you, sir.* ne accepted It, graciously, and taking 
in his turn a leaf from the garniture of the dish, 
offered it to her, with • A fig-leaf for you, mad¬ 
am.’ She fled the table, and kept her room 
until her inteuded victim left the hotel.” 
EDUCATION OUTSIDE OF BOOKS. 
Do you know that your best, educated women 
are the most economical without being mean. 
They stop to count costs. They are never delu¬ 
ded by fashion. They only pay a decent respect 
to other people’s opinions, and fit their garments 
by the length of their purses. They can give 
liberally to God’s poor, and bo happy with an 
ingrain carpet. They can look neat and be con¬ 
tented in a plain bonnet, because they love a 
wild rose better than one made by a French 
milliner. They can be Intelligent and enter- 
tainiug without reading moro than one book a 
year, because keeping their eyes, and ears, and 
heart open, rich aud beautiful experiences are 
daily falling out to them. And, after all, this is 
the great secret of happiness and efficiency in 
life —this is what you are to be educated up to 
— an earnest appreciation of the capabilities 
and treasured joys of the present. Your true 
learning, what makes others richer for being 
with you, are the golden sparks struck out of 
your own being. Your worthiest opinions are 
not borrowed from books, but those bora of the 
thought and culture you have brought forward 
into your life-work. The symmetry aud har¬ 
mony of your character was not drilled into you 
at once by your teachers, hut grew by daily accre¬ 
tions, until you had learned to live as if you 
were accountable to God, and not to man, for 
deeds done in the body. — Ex. 
THE SMILE. 
There are few persons capable of smiling 
gracefully. A really graceful smile, emanating 
from the heart, playing lightly and in beauty 
around the lips, casting an expression of pure 
benevolence over the countenance, and bearing 
— as snch a smile will*—the mark of intelli¬ 
gence, and of a frank and open disposition, is a 
rare gilt indeed, and proclaims the possessor a 
member of the aristocracy of nature. Without 
the stars and ribbons, the marks of her royal 
favor, he may stand perhaps on a higher pedes¬ 
tal than many who bear such brilliant decora¬ 
tions. Never take the trouble of asking a bond 
from a person who can really smile; and dread 
no deception, for no ordinary observer Will ever 
be imposed upon by a Bneer, grimace, or dis¬ 
tortion of the lips. 
Wife. —There is no combination of letters in 
the English language which excites more pleas¬ 
ing and interesting associations in the mind of 
man than the word Wife. It presents to the 
mind's eye a cheerful companion, a disinterested 
adviser, a nurse In sickness, a comforter in mis¬ 
fortune, and au ever affectionate companion. It 
conjures up the image of a lovely woman who 
cheerfully undertakes, to contribute to your 
happiness, to partake with you the cup of weal 
or woe, which destiny may offer. The word wife 
is synonymous with the greatest blessing, and 
we pity the unfortunate wight who is compelled 
by fate’s severe decree to trudge along through 
life’s dull prilgrimage without one. 
Loving Is like music. Some instruments can 
go up two octaves, some four, and some all the 
way from black thunder to sharp lightning. 
As some of them are susceptible only of melody, 
so some hearts can sing but one Bong of love, 
while others will run in a full choral harmony. 
— Jl. W. Beecher. 
a 
Hteattani 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
HEARTS NEVER GROW OLD. 
BY CLIO STANLEY. 
By the blossomy Bwell of a myrtle bank, 
By the scent of a garden rose, 
By the breath of a thousand fragrant buds 
When the sweet South wind blows; 
By the green und clinging moss that in 
The forest pathway hides, 
We know within our bosoms cold 
The child-heart still abides. 
We look on a sunny day in J une 
When little birds sing out. 
When squirrel* from the hollow oak 
Are wandering about, 
And the old trees woo the tender vines 
That clamber up their Bides, 
And wc know by our memory of the past, 
The child-heart still abldeB. 
Yon have learned the grace of womanhood 
Pull many years ago, 
Perhaps are wearing on yonr brow 
The golden sunset glow; 
You may be one whom grief has mocked, 
And all the world deride*, 
But, even thy*, yno feci at timee 
The child-heart still abides, 
In the frosty silence of your life 
Which no child-laughter breaks, 
In the lonely yearning heart of love 
Which no caress awakes. 
There iB still some trace of Innocent 
Young life, that somewhere hides; 
Be sure, beneath all strife and toil, 
The child-heart still abides. 
The eye may lose its lnstronsness, 
The siep may lose ita grace, 
And Time may leave some wrinkles 
Upon the aged face; 
But, ah! be certain, brother mine, 
A lthough the world derides. 
Beneath the veriest mark or age, 
The child-heart still abides. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THOUGHTS FOR THINKERS-NO. V. 
BY L . 8 E N E X. 
Cheerfulness nnd Contentment. 
Cheerfulness is an amulet, a charm to make 
us permanently contented and happy. It is ex¬ 
ceedingly tedious to see people plodding on 
through life, ever with a frown upon their faces, 
and a sigh on their lips; they become pestilen¬ 
tial, and one is apt to catch the malady by con¬ 
tact. A cheerful person feels well, does well, and 
loves things which are good; while long-faced, 
sanctimonious people should be generally avoid¬ 
ed. He who administers medicine to the sad 
heart, in the shape of wit and humor, is most 
assuredly a good Samaritan. A cheerful thee is 
nearly aa good for ,u invalid as healthy weather. 
In fact a sour, morose person should not even 
be allowed in the chamber of Biekncss; for it is 
a fact beyond dispute, that, mirth Is as Innate in 
the mind as any other quality that nature has 
planted there. A cheerful heart paints the world 
as it sees it—like a sunny landscape; the mor¬ 
bid mind depicts it like a sterile wilderness. Dr. 
Johnson said that “a habit of looking on the 
best side of every event is better than a thousand 
pounds a year.” Bishop Halt, quaintly re¬ 
marks, “ for every bail there might be a worse; 
and when a man breaks his leg, let him be thank¬ 
ful it was not his neck!” When Fenelon’s 
library was on Are, “God be prailed,” he ex¬ 
claimed, “ that it is not the dwelling of some 
poor man.” This Is the true spirit of submis¬ 
sion — one of the most beautiful that can possess 
the human heart. Resolve to see tins world on 
its sunny side, and you have almost half won the 
battle of life at the outset. Whenever woe be¬ 
tides you, think of the remark of Bishop Hall. 
Keep our ol" the Law. 
Yes, dear reader, whatever your other faults 
may be, keep out of the law. If you are a wise 
man, and wise thinker, you need not this advice. 
For did you ever hear of a man who was bene¬ 
fited by a law suit ? You have undoubtedly read 
and heard of hundreds who have gained cases; 
hut. did it not cost them in the end more than 
double what they received ? In nine eases out of 
ten, a man had better lose a debt than go to law. 
All, or nearly all, that he receives, providing he 
is successful, goes to feed the lawyers. Wc know 
several who have tried this course, but. have 
given up in despair, with the determination of 
never again having anything to do with what is 
called law. It keeps you in suspense several 
months—perhaps several years—to get nothing 
for your time, expense aud trouble. Dean SwrFT 
was right when he wrote: 
“ There was on both sides much to say; 
lle’d hear the cause another day. 
And so he did; and then a third, 
He heard it—then, he kept his word; 
But with rejoinders or replies. 
Long bills, and anew era stuffed with lies, 
Demur, imparlance and essoign, 
The parties ne'er could issue join; 
For sixteen years the cause was spun, 
And then stood where it first begun.” 
This is a true picture of law. Who will enter 
its intricate meshes ? Not a thoughtful man or 
man of judgment, who has money or a reputa¬ 
tion to lose—or even an enemy to punish. 
Youth nn«l Aac. 
Youth may be amused as much as it will, and 
grow wiser and better every day with age. 
Youth is the most inclined to love and cleave 
unto the mysterious, while age is more sedate 
aud thoughtful. The truth of many maxims of 
age gives too little pleasure to be allowed till it 
is felt. Dr. Johnson says “ Age seldom fails to 
change the conduct of youth. We grow negli¬ 
gent of time in proportion as we have less re¬ 
maining, and suffer the last part of life to steal 
from us in languid preparations for future under¬ 
takings, or slow approaches to remote advan¬ 
tages, in weak hopes of some fortuitous occur¬ 
rence, or drowsy equilibrations of determined 
counsel. Whether it be that the aged, having 
tasted the pleasures of man’s condition, and 
found them delusive, become less anxious for 
their attainment; or that frequent miscarriages 
have depressed them into despair, and frozen 
them to inactivity; or that death shocks them 
more as it advances upon them, and they arc 
afraid to remind themselves of their decay, or 
discover to their own hearts that the time of 
trifling is past.” He that would pass the latter 
part of his life with honor and decency, must, 
when he is young, consider that he shall one day 
be old, and not forget to remember, when he is 
old, that he was once youDg. 
TIME’S CHANGES. 
Thirty-two years ago, in the counting-room 
of a New Bedford merchant, a boy just out of 
school was writing at a desk. The merchant, 
formerly a ship-master, was there, as were his 
brother, ptUl a sea-captain, and another cap¬ 
tain, the father of the boy. There was also 
with them at the time another merchant, much 
the senior of them all, and one of the richest, 
if not the richest, citizen of New Bedford. The 
daughter of the latter was married to the broth¬ 
er of the merchant first named. 
“Mr. P.,” said his son-in-law to the rich mer¬ 
chant who bad just built a splendid house, to-day 
one of the finest in this city, “Capt. B., (the 
boy’s father) has brought home with him a couple 
of pictures which I want you to buy for that 
new house of yours; they are just right for the 
hall.” 
“Pictures,” nervously replied the rich man; 
“ pictures,” what do I want of pictures ?” 
“ They will be fine ornaments for your beauti¬ 
ful hall,” was the answer. 
“ And I will sell them to you for a thousand 
dollars,” said the owner. “ You know I am too 
poor to keep them; and I must sell them to 
somebody.” 
“A thousand dollars for two pictures!” ex¬ 
claimed the astounded millionaire. “ Why , Cap t. 
B., itwould’nt take long at that rate to spend 
all the old Phcenlx made last voyage.” 
The rich merchant did not buy the pictures. 
But both of them, valuable portraits of Peter 
the Great and of Catharine, now hang in the 
house and hall which the merchant built, aud 
both house aud pictures are the property of the 
poor hoy who was writing at the desk .—New 
Bedford Mercury. 
TO YOUNG MEN. 
In what way do you spend your leisure eve¬ 
nings ! In idleness — in frivolous amusements, 
or in company of those who will not corrupt 
your morals ? Remember if yon would prepare 
yourself for future usefulness, you must devote 
every spare moment to study. First be Indus¬ 
trious in your several employments during the 
hours of business, never complain that It is your 
lot to work, count It an honor, go about with 
cheerfulness and alacrity; it willbe a habit, and 
by becoming so, will be a pleasure and delight. 
Make it your business to promote the interest 
of your employer; by taking care of his, you 
will learn to take care of your own. Remember 
it is one of the besetting sins of young men of 
this extravagant and indolent age to seek easy 
and lazy employments aud the result is that 
many of them turn out worthless vagabonds. 
Avoid the whirlpool as you would a plague spot; 
banish from your bosom the dangerous desire 
to do without work. Labor Is honorable, digni¬ 
fied ; it is the parent of health and happiness; 
look upon it as an invaluable blessing aud never 
a burden aud a curse. Shun idleness and sloth, 
pursue some honest calling and be not ashamed 
to be useful. 
CHANCE CHIPS, 
A fellow that doesn’t benefit the world by 
his life, does it by his death. 
A man that can be flattered is not necessarily 
a fool, but you can always make one of him. 
It is strange that men will talk of miracles, 
revelation, inspiration aud the like, as things 
past, while love remains. 
6vr sadness is not sad, but our cheap joys, 
Lot us be sad about all we see and are, for so wc 
demand and pray for better. 
The gentleman who was overtaken by a train 
of reflection was &o completely carried away 
that he has not yet got back. 
Truth is the only real lasting foundation for 
friendship; and in everything but truth there is 
a principle of decay and dissimulation. 
Be faithful to your trust, and deceive not the 
man who confides in you! In the opinion of an 
old author, it is less sinful to steal than to betray. 
No writers, from the invention of letters to 
the present time, are equal to the penmen of 
the books of the Old and New Testaments, in 
true excellence, utility and dignity. 
A tenth beatitude was pronounced at a 
public meeting of the Congregational Union, 
recently held in Toronto. It runs in this wise: 
“ Blessed is the man that maketh a short speech: 
he will be invited to come again.” 
Luck and Labor. —Luck is ever waiting for 
something to turn up. Labor, with keen eyes 
and strong will, will turn up something. Luck 
lies in bed and wishes the postman would bring 
him news of a legacy. Labor turns out at six 
o'clock, and with busy pen or ringing hammer, 
lays the foundation of a competence. Luck 
whines. Labor whistles. Luck relies on chances. 
Labor on character. Luck slips downward to 
indigence. Labor strides upward and to inde¬ 
pendence. 
SABBATH EVENING TWILIGHT. 
Delightful hour of sweet repose, 
Of hallowed thoughts, of love, of prayer t 
I love thy deep and tranquil close, 
For all the Sabbath day is there. 
Each pure desire, each high request, 
That burned before the temple shrine, 
The hopes, the fears, that moved the breast, 
All live again in light like thine. 
I love thee for the fervid glow 
Thou shed'st aroond the closing day— 
Those golden lines, those wreaths of snow, 
That light, and pave bis glorious way! 
Through them. I’ve sometimes thought, the eye. 
May pierce the annu-asitred deeps of space, 
And track the course where spirits fly, 
On viewless wing to realms of bliss. 
I love thee for the unbroken calm 
That slumbers on this fading scene, 
And throws its kind and soothing charm 
O’er “all the little world within.” 
It trances every roving thought, 
Yet sets the soaring fancy free; 
Shuts from the soul the present out, 
That all is musing memory. 
1 love those joyous memories. 
That rush, with thee, upon the soul; 
Those deep unaltered symphonies, 
That o’er the spell bound spirit roll. 
AU the bight scenes of love and youth 
Revive, as if they had not fled; 
And fancy clothes with seeming truth, 
The forms she rescues from the dead. 
Yet holier is thy peaceful close, 
For vows love left recorded there ; 
This is the noiseless hour we chose 
To consecrate to mutual prayer. 
’Twas when misfortune's fearful cloud 
Was gathering o’er the brow of heaven, 
Ere yet despair's eternal shroud 
Wrapped every vision hope had given; 
When these deep purpling shades came down. 
In softened tints upon the hills, 
We swore that whe tlier fate should crown 
Our future, course with joys or ills— 
Whether safe moored in love’s retreat, 
Or severed wide by mount and sea— 
This hour, In spirit, we would meet. 
And urge to heaven our mutual plea. 
O, tell me if this hallowed hour 
Still finds thee constant at our shrine, 
Still w itnesses thy fervent prayer 
Ascending warm and true with mine 1 
Faithful through every change of woe, 
My heart still floes to meet thee there ; 
’Twould soothe this weary heart to know 
That thine responded every prayer. 
THE MORNING LAND. 
How consoling the thought, “that after the 
night cometh the morning!” When the hand 
of bereavement is laid heavily upon us, how 
anxiously wc turn our eyes upward to pierce the 
shadows which intervene bctween]u» aud the fair 
Morning Land! When the Spring bird warbles 
his sweet song in our ear, we pause and look 
heavenward, wondering if he bears to us some 
tidingB of our dear departed, and if he has not 
seen the beauteuoua land where they have slent- 
ly gone. 
Where is that morning laud ? we sometimes 
ask, when dark shadows obstruct the light which 
our immortal spirits crave. Where have they 
gone — the meek-eyed ones who were the light 
and joy of our homes? We list in mournful 
silence for the familiar footfall that ever pleasant¬ 
ly greeted our cars, and half forgettingjextend 
our arms to clasp anew the cherished form. 
Blessed are they who live so near the angel world 
that they can hear Its blissful echoes. Happy 
are they who see in vision the forms of the loved 
and true, and who eauhear spirit voices sweeter 
than Beethoven’s richest symphonies. 
There is such a thing a* holding communion 
with God and the blessed ones who have passed 
through the golden gates which have noiselessly 
closed upon them aa they entered the Morning 
Land. They are there, while we are left to strag¬ 
gle a little longer; left to smile a few more times 
as sunbeams illumine our checkered pathway; 
left to weep over the follies and estrangements 
of those we have loved, and left to realize that 
beneficent joy which comes from a sweet assu¬ 
rance that they who dwell in the Morning Land 
love us still. 
WORDS OF WISDOM. 
Death comes to a good man to relieve him; it 
comes to a bad one to relieve society. 
It does us good to admire what is good and 
beantitul. But it does infinitely more good to 
love it. We grow like what we admire. But we 
become one with what we love. 
Every man ought to aim at eminence, not by 
pulling others down, but by raising himself; and 
enjoy the pleasure of his own superiority, wheth¬ 
er imaginary or real, without interrupting oth¬ 
ers in the same felicity. —Johnson. 
Assure yourself that employment is one of 
the best remedies for the disappointments of 
life. Let even your calamity have the liberal 
effect of occupying you in some active virtue, 
so shall you in a manner remember others till 
you forget yourself.— Pralt. 
Evert sin is mortal, destructive of t!unhap¬ 
piness and subversive of the rectitude of the soul 
that committs it. The guilt of no gin can be 
removed by anything short of the blood of the 
divine Saviour; nor can the defilement of it be 
taken away by any other power than that of the 
Holy Spirit, 
There is a simplicity that is a defect, and a 
simplicity that is a great virtue. Simplicity 
may be a want of discernment. When we speak 
of a person as simple we may mean that -he is 
credulous and perhaps vulgar. The simplicity 
that is a virtue is something sublime; every one 
loves and admires it, but it is difficult to say 
exactly wbat this virtue is.— Fenelon. 
I 
