seed ? Did you never See a mild country parson 
backed into a corner •where he could not retreat, 
and listen meekly to somebody’s suggestions in 
regard to preaching or managing a church ? It 
will not do for the parson to snub anybody, and 
so the poor man must blandly and meekly lis¬ 
ten to the officious babble of an egotistical ass, 
who really knows as little of the subjects he 
speaks of as a baby does of what the stars were 
made for. 
But notwithstanding the continual gravita¬ 
tion of Individuals it is marvellous how full the 
world always keeps of nngravitated wisdom. 
Think for a moment of the military critics we 
have had all through the war, from Horace 
Greelet down, (or up, no matter which,) to 
the knots of idlers that meet in bar-rooms or 
country stores. Strange that when the country 
was so full of born grand tacticians, there should 
have been so many blunders made. Men who 
can, with the greatest difficulty, plant a row of 
com perfectly straight for thirty rods, and for 
their lifeconld not have managed themnle teams 
of a single army corps for a day without con¬ 
fusion, have all along presumed to criticise the 
movements of Generals and of armies, with as 
much assurance as a Wellington or a Scott. 
grief convince us that One wiser than ourselves 
knew what things we had need of, do we know 
that we had just outgrown them, and they would 
soon have ceased to be as satisfactory blessings 
as others which they made room for. 
We outgrow our former selves, and the wish 
to be again a child, so often heard, I cannot 
understand, unless It be from one whose experi¬ 
ences have not. been received as from the Father, 
and thereby profitable. Children in purity, in 
and trust, tfe should be; but in 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker, 
HYMN OF A CHILD. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
SORROW. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorke: 
MY BEOTHEE’S GEAVE. 
Translated from the French of Lamartine 
BT LEWIS DAYTON BURDICK. 
Dost thou not know 
The dark visage of the spectral guest, 
That ever robs the unwary breast 
Of its gaiety and happinees. 
To give it woe? 
Hast thou not felt 
The deep pall-like gloom that marks its sway 
Then, be thy life happy while It may, 
Ere on it shall dawn a darker day 
Than hast there dwelt. 
Ah! 'tie a fire 
Whose flame refines from the soul, its best, 
Purifying in its fiery test, 
Up to the world of eternal rest,— 
Rising higher. 
But there’s a balm 
For the fainting heart’s sad dreariness — 
A quiet rest for its weariness — 
For its restless grief and frenziedness 
A peaceful calm. 
Yes, there's a Joy, 
Pure, holy, and not, of earthly mould — 
Joy, that none but angels may behold — 
Peaceful, resigned, ite bliss untold, 
Naught can destroy. F. E. 1 
BT MAOOrE M. KETCHUM, 
I’ve breathed no sigh, I’ve shed no tears, 
Where brother takes his rest; 
I've never knelt upon the sod 
That lies above tils breast. 
He sleeps afar from childhood's home, 
’Mfd stranger graves, alone; 
And they who pass that lonely mound, 
Repeat the word, “Unknown.” 
Unknown to them, the mother’s hopes, 
That centered once in him.— 
Unknown to them the sister’s love, 
Not death Itself can dim. 
Oh, could wc but have closed his eyes, 
Received his parting breath; 
And heard him speak one kind good-bye, 
Before he slept In death: 
It would have been a pleasure sad, 
To troaFnre up the scene — 
A painful lesson fraught with good, 
For memory’s hand to glean. 
We cannot place one flowery wreath, 
Embalmed In sorrow’s tear, 
To breathe its last sweet fragrance out 
Above the lost and dear: 
Yet will the moonlight soft and pure, 
His couch with beauty lave, 
And angels from their starry homes 
Will watch my brother’s grave. 
Forestville, N. Y., 1660. 
God ! to whom my father 
Prays and all men bow, 
Who, both loved and feared, doth 
Bend my mother’s brow; 
It is said the bright sun 
Is a mere play-thing 
In Thy power that, neath Thy 
Feet as a lamp, doth swing. 
That Thou glvest birds- sweet 
Songs to fill the air, 
And the Uttle children 
Souls to know Thy care. 
That the pretty flowers 
Bloom at Thy command, 
And the orchards give rich 
Fruit to all the land. 
At Thy bounteous feast all 
Creatures have a share; 
Every little insect 
Is remembered there. 
Browsing in the pastures, 
Sheep the wild-thyme crop; 
Sipping from roy cup, flies 
Eat the milk-white drop. 
Blasted grain the gleaner 
Leaves the sparrow feeds; 
Watchful, loving mothers 
Mind the children’s needs. 
What is asked of us, Thy 
Precious gifts to claim ? 
Morning, mid-day, evening, 
To pronounce Thy name; 
Name my mouth'but stammers— 
Name the angels fear; 
Yet, among Thy loved ones, 
Children’s names appear. 
Since, 0 God, a child is 
Heard *o Car indeed, 
Without ceasing 1 will 
A?k for all whojieed. 
Little lambs give fleeces, 
To the fields sunlight. 
Water to the fountains— 
Guide the sparrows flight; 
To the sick give health, poor 
Orphans grant a home, 
Feed the starving beggar— 
Let the prisoner roam. 
Grant to father’s children, 
Fearing God above, 
Give me knowledge, goodness 
Worthy mother's love. 
Greene, N. Y., 1866. 
innocence 
ignorance and sensual pleasure it were almost as 
well to wish ourself a brute. But the responsi¬ 
bilities of years, honorable and trustworthy we 
may strive to be; the Father calls us His children 
that wc may lean upon and confide in Him. 
Many times we might be free from anxiety, and 
better, happier Christians, if we were more 
faithful, and would gladly release our idle grasp¬ 
ing and struggling with that over which we can 
not and should not have control. 
There come to the trusting, earnest heart steps 
upward and onward as fast as we can take them; 
and a busy head sometimes grows dizzy looking 
backward and downward at the path they came; 
and some thus doing too much, and forgettbuj to 
look at the (nun dear aim ahead , and to clasp the 
firm hand above, fall, oh, so fearfully! Then 
may they connt their treasures lost, and only 
then:—never, bo long as one thing which Is dear 
or dread, near to or far from our affections, 
moulds us to a more perfect form for Heaven. 
Michigan, June, 1806. Grace G. 
We all gravitate to our own placeafter a time. 
The doctor goes on, notwithstanding the boor 
who told him how. The mild parson proceeds, 
while his officious adviser sinks into his appro¬ 
priate insignificance, and the war held on to its 
legitimate end, the world still wags, and the 
South don’t exactly reconstruct, maugre a del. 
uge of all kinds of advice from critical knot and 
sanctum. 
It is of no use for you, my friend, to try to 
fill a place larger than that for which you was 
made. If you should, by any chance get in, you 
will soon gravitate out of it. Put a boy of eight 
years into a coat made for hia uncle, a man of 
two hundred and fifty pounds and then try to 
lift him up by the collar. There is gravitation 
for you. But keep the boy in a coat that just 
fits him, and by and by it may be, he will fill 
such a coat and then it will take a strong arm to 
shake him out of it. AH you have to do, young 
man, is to do the duty of the present hour as well 
as you can, and you will come Into your proper 
place. No matter about those two young fel¬ 
lows that drive a fast livery team, (If there ever 
was such a livery team,) and smoke cigars, high 
as they are now a-days, and to whom the young 
ladles in the big house flirt their handkerchiefs 
as they dash past. They will gravitate, by and 
by, and find, most probably, that instead of be¬ 
ing, as they thought, a “ brace of youug bloods,” 
they were in fact a brace qf young asses. 
Don’tfret about your neighbor Mrs. Curious. 
The old gossip gravitated a dozen years ago. 
Nobody cares anything for her. Don’t be dis¬ 
turbed about that old grumbler you met yester¬ 
day. He finds fault, with everything and every¬ 
body, from Queen Victoria to his washerwo¬ 
man. He gravitated into fault-finding years ago, 
and it is as essential to Ills existence, as ticking 
is to the running of a clock. But I must stop. 
One word, my friend, and farewell, at least for 
now. Do your duty and you will gravitate into 
the place of a man. Fail to do It, and you will 
gravitate into contempt. Kappa. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MORAL GRAVITATION. 
A TRUE WIFE 
A faithful and affectionate wife is a priceless 
treasure to her husband. She is the chosen one 
to assist him through life—to educate and pre¬ 
pare his children lora proper station in life. 
The husband's interest is the wife’s care, and 
her greatest ambition carries her no farther than 
his welfare or happiness, together with that of 
her children. 
This Is her 60 le aim, and the theater of her 
exploits is the bosom of her family, where she 
can do as much toward making a fortune ns he 
can In the counting-room or work-shop. It is 
not the money earned that makes a man wealthy 
—it is what he saves from his earnings. A good 
and prudent husband makes a deposit of the 
fruit of bis labor with his best friend. The true 
wife acts uot for herself only, but she is the 
agent of many whom she loves, and she acts for 
their good, and not for her own gratification. 
Her huBband’6 good is the end at whlcb she 
aims—his approbation is her reward. Self-grat¬ 
ification in dress, or indulgence in appetite, or 
more company than his purse can well enter¬ 
tain, she considers equally pernicious, and care¬ 
fully avoids. She is the partner of his bosom, 
the solace of his sorrows, the participant of his 
joys. His comfort is her aim, his confidence 
and love is her reward. A sojourner with him 
on earth 6he sweetly soothes his sorro ws, soft¬ 
ens the asperity of life, worships with him at 
the same altar, and when the angel ol' death 
shall have summoned both to the untried scenes 
of a future world she trusts to be united forever 
with him in the bonds of eternal felicity. 
are uot under oath to “ tell the truth, the whole 
truth, aud nothing but the truth." There is 
such a thing in this world as inoral gravitation, 
or that power by virtue of which fools and wise 
men, aud all shades of intellect between these 
two extremes of humanity, find their level, and 
after boiling and frothing and bubbling up and 
down for a time, come finally to the place for 
which they are fitted, and pass current in the 
world at their par value. Exceptions? Yes, 
there may be some, but generally men settle and 
till just about as large a place, and enjoy just 
about as much of the confidence of their fellow- 
men as they arc entitled to. It Is astonishing what 
high estimates young men make of themselves. 
How we do love to put ourselves off for more 
than we are really worth. We begin with al¬ 
most no limit to our views. I once knew a man 
who said, I was told, that at first he thought he 
could regulate and set right everybody. By and 
by he found that his own town was as much as 
his powers were equal to ; and at last he came 
to the very wise conclusion that he had business 
enough to regulate himself;—and my remem¬ 
brance of the old gentleman Is that he did not 
succeed in doing that to the best possible ad¬ 
vantage. 
We all have very much such inflated notions 
at first; but by and by we gravitate. Don’t you 
remember, my friend, a certain youngster whom 
you knew long years ago, who used to wear a 
better coat than yours, and whose father kept a 
better team than yours did and who always used 
to dash along and leave you in the background ? 
Don’t you remember how you and your fellows 
used to reckon him the leader, aud prophesy 
what a man he would make? The girls too 
used to think him the finest young fellow afloat, 
aud that was the hardest of all, for you to bear. 
Don’t you remember how they U6ed to quote 
his witty sayings, and get him to write in their 
Albums and send him invitations, and valen¬ 
tines, and hido up little locks of his hair among 
their other nonsensical trinkets? Yes; but 
that was thirty or more years ago and he has 
gravitated now. Well, is he a great man ? Oh! 
no, be has turned out quite an ordinary mortal. 
Well, then he always was quite an ordinary mor¬ 
tal. It was the magnifying power of your eyes and 
those of your fellows that made him seem a hero 
years ago. Perhaps it took a long time to bring 
him to his proper level; it does some men. Men 
arc continually insisting on being what the Lord 
did not Intend they should be; and some continue 
even after gray hairs should indicate some de¬ 
gree of wisdom. It is pitiful to see a man whom 
the Lord made for a pop-gun, professing himself 
to be a rifled cannon. It would be sad to see a 
little floating nautilus thinking itself a Monitor 
or a Great Eastern. If during such dreams, a 
loose plank should drift against it, the poor 
thing would be likely to gravitate very suddenly. 
And yet the world is full of pop-guns that would 
be rilled cannon, and nautlili that would be Great 
Easterns. Bat in time they will gravitate. 
I’ve wondered sometimes how anything in this 
world could go wrong, when there were so many 
men in it who knew everything and were so 
ready to tell all they knew- I’ve seen students 
come iu to breakfast, (Oh! what exceedingly 
wise beings students are, especially professional 
students,) and in their Soeratic conversation, 
serve up, dish out, and finally dispose of, the 
most prominent men in the vicinity. It was to 
be supposed that they would pay some deference 
to age and experience and approved wisdom. But 
no, (they had not gravitated yet,) in their supe¬ 
rior wisdom they presumed to sit in judgment 
on men whose level they could never reach if 
their lives were increased by five hundred years. 
It is just so “all over,” as the Kuickerbokers 
say. Men are presumptive. If you have 
seen twenty-five men to-day, my friend, you 
have probably seen twenty-four who think they 
can advise you in regard to your business or 
profession, and probably twenty-three and one- 
half who were willing to give you that advice 
unasked. If you are a farmer, were yon never 
advised by a mechanic in regard to the manage¬ 
ment of your farm or stock? Did you never 
see a doctor instructed in regard to his profes¬ 
sion by good old women who could not tell the 
chemical difference between a pill and a squash 
BT EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER, 
Y? hat are yon good for, my brave little man ? 
Answer that question for me if you can — 
You, with yonr fingers as white us u nun. 
You, with your ringlets us bright as the sun. 
All the day long with your busy contriving, 
Into all mischief «Dd fun yon arc driving; 
See If your wise illllc noddle can tell 
What you are good for—now ponder It well." 
Over the carpet the dear little feet 
Came with a patter to climb on my seat; 
Two merry eyes, full of frolic and glee, 
Under their lashes looked up unto me; 
Two little hands pressing soft on my face, 
Drew me down close In a loving embrace; 
Two rosy Upa gave the answer so true — 
Good to love you, mamma; good to love you. 
Written for Moore's Rural New Yorker, 
LOST TREASURES. 
“ Lost, lost!” Years in and out this word 
sounded in my mind’s ear, coming through 
tumult or stillness, when I least listened for it 
—and always came with it In memory a fair- 
haired, snowy-browed little woman, with mild, 
questioning eyes that looked down into my soul, 
and 1 loved her. Those eyes always seemed to 
Bay “lost,” aud now I recollect I think the whole 
face did; and what she told me once makes me 
think something sweet, and bright, and beauti 
ful had been lost from her young years; yet it 
left its traces upon her, and she was bright and 
beautiful still, through the sorrow that unburied 
had found a sanctification aud waited a resur¬ 
rection. 
Only together a few brief months and we 
parted, to send white-robed missives often over 
the distance between for a time, and then—I 
feel always that it was an uncouth, hateful affec¬ 
tion, that crowded me out of Jennie’s remem¬ 
brance. 1 have severed many a friendship with 
less pain since then —some, perhaps, less worthy, 
but more, it may be, because I have learned 
how to bi eak oil' the tendrils of my heart that 
reach out longingly, and with close clinging, 
and all but forget they ever had a growth. 
Sometimes, in the most affectionate and pure of 
partings, one of the saddest, while yet the 
holiest and most utterly self-denying, to say, 
“Go up higher; I am a burden to your climbing; 
leave mo, friend, until you have need of me,” 
and go onward alone. There are ties the reverse 
of this wc trample under onr feet aud leave for 
the dead past to bury unhonored, without a tear 
or sigh; and ourselves shake off the trammels 
of unworthiness thereby and are free. 
It is not a necessity to grow proud, and cold, 
and unloving, on the one hand, or fickle-minded, 
ou the other, If by so doing we learn how and 
why to poise ourselves. There is an ultra doc¬ 
trine that we must progress in knowledge and in 
virtue through life, aud that all the incidentals 
of human experience tend to this in the ultima¬ 
tum, be their present causes or effects good or 
evil. Taking issue with this as a whole, I am 
content with the more ancient theory,—“All 
things work together for good to those that 
love God.” The gains and losses of our lives 
are only lessons in the nursery where wc are all 
children, if blessed through our acceptance of 
the Master to our good here and hereafter. 
And thus seeing, the old word only now and 
then comes up as the memory of an echo, for 
nothing is “ lost” that leaves a blessing —for this 
only may be ours for time and eternity. 
I heard one say once, “Just look on your 
lives now and see how much there has been that 
you would like to ask God to let you keep when 
you get to Heaven, and then know how old you 
are.” Will Ho let ns keep them ? It must be, 
for “Lay up your treasures iu Heaven.” A 
sermon once preached would lead one to think 
they had best wish all their frieuds dead, so they 
might have treasures there, as If these loved 
souls of earth were all of Heaven to us,—but is 
not the other idea better ? 
There are stern, bitter lessons that cost us all 
we know how to bear, In many a hope and joy 
cut off from our grasp, that we call lost treas¬ 
ures, but can we not learn better? We long 
often for changes and newness in life's mono¬ 
tonous rounds, and yet, when the changes do 
come, how seldom, until long years of useless 
LIFE TOO SHORT FOR STRIFE 
Charles Dickens relates the following of 
Douglas Jerrold; 
“ Of his generosity I had a proof within these 
two or three years, which it saddens me to think 
of now. There had been estrangement between 
us — not on any personal subject, and not in¬ 
volving any angry words — and a good many 
months had passed without my ever seeing him 
in the street, when it felTout that we dined, each 
with his own separate party, in the Stranger’s 
Room of the Club. Our chairs were almost 
back to back, and I took mine after he was 
seated and at dinner, (I am sorry to remember) 
and did not look that way. Before we had sat 
long, he openly wheeled his ch air round, stretch¬ 
ed out both bands in an engaging manner, and 
said aloud, with a bright and loving face, that 
I can see as I write to you; 
“ Let us be friends again? A life is uot long 
enough for this!” 
“ Jerrold was not a Christian, but his conduct 
in this ease was worthy of the Christian char¬ 
acter. On a dying bed, how insignificant will 
appear many things about which we contend in 
bitterness and wrath ? Life is 60 short, its Inev¬ 
itable sorrows so many, its responsibilities so 
vast and solemn, that there is, indeed, no time 
to spare in bruising and mangling one another. 
Let not the sun go down on your wrath. Never 
close yonr eyes to sleep with a heart angry to¬ 
wards your brother and fellow sufferer. See 
him and be reconciled to him if you can. If 
you cannot see him write to him. If ho i® a 
true man and a Christian, he will listen. If he 
is not you will have done right, and your 60 ul 
will be bright with the sunshine of Heaven.” 
VENTILATE YOUR CHILDREN’S BOOMS, 
Most parents, before retiring to rest, make It 
a duty to visit the sleeping room of their chil¬ 
dren. They do so in order to be satisfied that 
the lights are extinguished, and that no danger 
is threatening their little ones. But if they 
leave the room with closed windows and doors 
they 6hut in as great an enemy as fire, although 
his ravages may not be bo readily detected. 
Poison is there, but &low and deadly. 
Morning after morning do many little chil¬ 
dren wake weary, fretful, and oppressed. “What 
can it mean?” “ What can it be? ” the mother 
cries. In despair she has recourse to medicine. 
The constitution becomes enfeebled, and the 
child gets worse. 
The cause, perhaps, is never traced to over¬ 
crowded sleepiug-rooms without proper air, 
hut it is nevertheless the right one. An intelli¬ 
gent mother, having acquainted herself with the 
principles of ventilation, will not retire to her 
own room for the night without having provided 
sufficiency of air for her children, in the same 
manner that she provides aud regulates their 
night covering, or any other requisite for re¬ 
freshing slumber. Sometimes by judiciously 
lowering a window, and at other times by leav¬ 
ing a door wide open this end may be attained. 
In many houses the day and night nurseries 
communicate. When this is the ease, the win¬ 
dow of the further room should be left open, 
and the doors between the rooms likewise open. 
Even in severe weather children can bear this 
arrangement if they are not exposed to a direct 
draught.— Ex. 
CHANCE CHIPS, 
Man, when he believes himself distinct from 
everything around him, instinctively returns 
thanks f®r the bounties which Nature bestows; 
but when, by reflection, he regards the uni¬ 
verse more interiorly, the idea of hia separate 
personality is lost, the operations of the ele¬ 
ments seem no longer the result of volition, and 
the forms of natural piety and religion conse¬ 
quently disappear! 
Wit and sorry ridicule, in matters of religion, 
are always attended with evil consequences. 
The more habituated a person becomes to the 
reading and utterance of mere witticisms, the 
more does he incapacitate himself for sober de¬ 
liberation. We try to reflect but the jest re¬ 
turns; we laugh again, let go inquiry, and never 
attain to the knowlcge of the truth. 
Man doubles the evils of his late by ponder¬ 
ing over them. A scratch becomes a wound, a 
slight an injury, a jest an insult, a small peril a 
great danger, and a slight sickness often ends in 
death by the brooding apprehensions of the 
sick. We should always look on the bright side 
of life’s picture. 
Truth is but the correspondence between 
thiDgs and our notions of them. To search after 
truth, to love it for its own sake, are, therefore, 
resolvable into loving and striving for notions 
that conform perfectly to their prototypes. 
True ideas are actualities, but truth is nothing. 
Language shonld be like the air, revealing 
things to us without itself being visible. Some¬ 
times, subjects, of that absorbing interest, may 
have their attractiveness heightened by the or¬ 
namentation of language, as the beauty of the 
cup enhances that of the wine. 
The function of woman, in the future govern¬ 
ment of the world, will be that of approver—a 
sort of umpire. Hitherto, the immense power 
of which she is capable in this sphere, has been 
but little exercised. 
He who gives himself up to the quest of 
beauty, as a supreme aim, loses it. The law, 
“ Seek ye first the Kingdom of Heaven,” is, in 
its largest interpretation, nowhere better exem¬ 
plified than here. 
A Persian philosopher being asked by what 
method he had acquired so much knowledge, 
replied, “ By not being prevented by shame from 
asking questions respecting things of which I 
was ignorant.” 
Mant a true heart that, like a dove to the ark, 
would have come back after its first transgress¬ 
ion, has been frightened beyond recall by the 
angry look and menace of an unforgiving spirit. 
Truth.— Truth is an eternal element, it is 
an essence of divinity. Man must grasp this 
essence; he must press it to his soul; it must be 
his spiritual life, and rule all his thoughts and 
Truth must ever be with him, contui- 
.i. Only in this way can 
Only so can he resemble the Re¬ 
actions, 
ually abiding with him, 
he be natural, f _ 
deemer. To be unlike God is to be unnatural. 
>Tis true, opposites exist. Light has its shade, 
cold Is opposed to heat, hate is antagonistic to 
love. Truth itself is opposed by error. But 
with one path, one genuine course remains for 
him to follow. It is the path of right, of truth, 
of justice, of love, and of unswerving fidelity 
to God. Only 60 can the soul live out its no¬ 
blest attributes, and harmonize with the pur¬ 
poses of the Creator. Moral purity can alone 
qualify ns for this mission. 
Happiness is in us—alwajs—because it is we 
that are happy. The outside world is not hap¬ 
py, uot miserable, not possessed of feeling at all. 
Our eye, ear, and senses in general, are a medi¬ 
um through which the outside world acts upon 
us. But sometimes the mind is in that condi¬ 
tion that nothing moves it. If it despairs, all is 
gloomy; if it is jubilant, all is happy—the som¬ 
bre night is as happy as the gay day. But 
spring in vain breathes for the unhappy. It 
sometimes makes the more gloomy by its con¬ 
trast, Hence diff erent men are differently affec¬ 
ted by the same objects. Happiness and mis¬ 
ery are within us; relieved when death comes. 
How important then that we should cultivate 
cheerful feelings: First, by securing good health; 
second, by conscientious moral conduct, culti¬ 
vating peace and good will with all men, and 
proriding for the necessary wants of life. 
There are constitutional infirmities which we 
cannot conquer; but we may greatly assuage 
them. Our mental horizon is more in our 
control. 
Prayer is an exercise which has the property 
of incorporating itself with every ether, not 
only not impeding it but advancing it. There is 
no crevice so small at which devotion may not 
slip in. 
The creature would never lament the dispensa¬ 
tions of the Creator if he understood them, 
therefore, the measure of your grief is also the 
measure of your ignorance. 
I see that spirituality of mind is the main 
qualification for the ministry.— Urquhart. 
