HUEJlL 
Ju 
m 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE SONG OF LONG AGO. 
BT MAiiT M. BARSK8. 
Now, while the stars of twilight shine, 
And winds are whispering low, 
Sing me the song I love to hear— 
The song of long ago. 
Sing, and the sorrow of my soul 
I shall forget, to hear 
Once more, those sweet, remembered tones 
So long unheard, so dear. 
The sweet, entrancing melody 
Shall fall upon my heart, 
Until its utterance shall seem 
Of my own soul a part. 
I shall forget that I liave bowed 
To shrines that fell in dust, 
And once again my heart shall know 
Its gentle, childhood trust. 
Oh, Love that died 1 Oh, broken Faith! 
Bright dreams forever gone 1 
Yc shall be mine while once ngain 
I listen to that song. 
Then while the stars of twilight shine, 
And wiuda arc whispering low, 
Sing me the song I Jove to hoar,— 
The song of long ago. 
Cambria, N. Y., 1668. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
ONE OF MANY. 
of a nobler life, which, in her contracted sphere 
can never be developed. No wonder that she is 
unhappy! Who would not be, were this 
doom, registered and sealed in the booh of Fate? 
But it is not Not a flower, not a plant, not an 
insect, has our Father created, which has not its 
mission. And has He created immortal nrinds 
to no purpose? He does not place tender vio¬ 
lets upon cold, barren rocks. He knows the soil 
and the place where each of His lower creations 
can best accomplish its mission. And can He 
mistake the sphere in which His “Brighter In 
telligences,” should move? No. He has given 
Arabella her mission, and, because it was dis¬ 
pleasing to her. she has refused it He has given 
her talents, one, or many, and ne will demand 
them with usury when she sleeps in the “lone 
grave-yard.” But it requires energy, much en¬ 
ergy, in her circumstances, to obtain that increase, 
and she is sinking, willfully, into a deadly leth¬ 
argy, while her energies are being bound with 
cords, though silken, yet stronger, we fear, than 
her weakened mind will ever break. 
Steuben Co., N. Y,, 1863. Edith Haikk. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
NATUEE’S LANGUAGE. 
BT MI.V.VIE MIXTWOOD. 
MY 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
OPINION ABOUT SOLDIERS. 
“An me!” sighed Arabella Ldcretia, lean¬ 
ing wearily upon the open casement, 
“ Full main a flower is bom to blush unseen, 
And waste its Bwcctuess on the de6ert air.” 
“Oh, 1 am so miserable! Here, in this dingy 
little place. I must stay, and slay.—hedged In by 
hills on every side, with nothing to rest one’s 
eyes upon but corn fields and potato patches ! 
And to think that it can never be any different! 
If only papa had a brother who went to India 
years ago, and had never been heard from,—or 
if his great grandfather's uncle had been the dis¬ 
inherited son of some English nobleman, then 
there might be some hopes for me. But no! We 
are nothing but plain Jones' whose ancestors 
have lived and delved in Dovertown from time 
immemorial. This isn’t life ! And I don’t care 
how soon I’m dead and buried away in some 
lone grave-yard. But then—no poet would ever 
come to Dovertown to write an elegy over my 
grave.” 
“Arabella! Arabella!” calls a weary voice 
from below. 
“ 0, dear 1 What do you want now?” 
“Won’t you come down and watch Freddy 
while I finish the churning? He is very trouble¬ 
some this morning.” 
“ There! That’s just the way it always is! 
Now I’ve got to go and take care of that squall¬ 
ing young one, when I wanted to finish this beau¬ 
tiful story.” And taking an armful of Ledgers, 
she very ungracefully tripped down stairs, 
While Arabella is alternately fill lowing the 
fortunes of the beautiful heroine, and dealing 
sharp epithets upon the pale, sickly child iu the 
crib, we will look around, and see if we can find 
any reasonable cause for all this misery. 
Surely it is not very gloomy out of doors this 
sweet June morning. Dame Nature has sketch¬ 
ed a very pretty picture, notwithstanding corn 
fields and potato patches, and 1 think it would 
be very pleasant in this sitting-room, if Arabel¬ 
la would lay aside those Ledgers, raise tho win¬ 
dow, loop back the curtain, and place a vase of 
flowers upon the stand beneath it. But no! She 
must finish this story—it is so “grand.” Her 
sympathies are excited for the beautiful “ Rosa¬ 
mond,” a captive in tho “Lone House” of the 
forest, and the ready tears well up into her eyes 
as she fancies her uncontrollable grief “Poor 
girl,” she sighs. “ How dreadful to be a prisoner 
in that gloomy place, with only that one-eyed 
Dear Rural: —I have just suspended my 
knitting a moment, laying it carefully down with 
the toe pointing to the South, (it is a soldier’s 
stocking,) to differ a little from iny friend 31 in- 
nib Mintwood. though with all due respect for 
her opinion. Your humble correspondent enjoys 
one, too, and wishes to express it. 
I, too, am ever ready to pay due respect to a 
blue suit and brass buttons tipped oil* with a 
jaunty military cap. I voluntarily wish to touch 
my hat to them, as an expression of my respect. 
Our deepest esteem should be shown them, and 
our encouragement and love go with them to the 
gory field, from whence many may never return 
to press tho hands of loved ones in greeting. 
Then, should we deny them the privilege of car¬ 
rying, carefully hid from careless eyes, the great- 
It seems to me, as oft I dream, 
The sky is earth's twin brother, 
And what one claims as all his own, 
He freely grants the other. 
In spring the crimson clouds looked down 
Upon the smiling flowers, 
And earth, iu meekness, asked the sky, 
To send the genial showers. 
In summer-time, ns gently waved 
The meadow's richer glory, 
The spangled sky seemed glad to tell 
To earth the golden story. 
Then came the grand old harvest-time, 
The fields in modest manner 
. Looked op to sec the autumn clouds 
Hang out their mottled banner. 
Old winter now his snowy robe, 
Has flung o’er mount and river, 
While overhead the white clouds glide, 
Like angel-forms, forever. 
Thus speak these twin mute sons of God, 
By his own wisdom given, 
So shall they be till time shall end, 
And both be one in Heaven. 
Alfred University, N. Y., 1863. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
Ill JPE. 
ont happiness of their lives, the asBiiranco that 
there is one at home, more dear than all others, 
to wait ami pray for them? and, whatever lie- 
tides, to know “'Tin sweet to be remembered?” 
Are there not many weary heads at rest from 
the turmoil of battle beneath the soil where 
blooms the sweetest flowers, heavy with clinging 
dewdrojps, when the first. Hush of morning ap¬ 
pears, greeted by the song birds’ matin lay? 
Would not the consciousness of possessing the 
heart’s purest affection of some waiting one at 
home, make the few remaining hours of untold 
suffering almost peaceful? And does it not give 
new strength to purpose, and nerve anew the 
arm for tho coming conflict? Them can we 
deny them the small privilege of asking a girl to 
be their wife, because tills is not a free land? / 
think not! Rather let them leave their homes 
with light hearts, looking on the bright side, not 
denying them that small recompense for all they 
sacrifice for their country. Then, perhaps, we 
may the sooner join in singing “The Land of the 
Free and the Homo of the Brave.” .So, boys. 1 
contend it is your right to ask a girl to marry 
you, and should she be so disposed, she has 
something more to live for. 
Now, let me add, in conclusion, that “ shoulder 
straps” give me queer sensations sometimes; 
however, I don’t stop to analyze them. But it is 
my private opinion that if the honest zeal of 
some of our privates should animate the hearts of 
some of our officers, then I should forever sub¬ 
scribe to “shoulder straps." 
Onondaga, N. Y., 1863. Your Country Cousin. 
THE TRUTHFUL AND SINCERE WOMAN 
hunch-back shrew for an attendant, and the hand 
of robbers below.” 
Here Freddy’s moans increase to a cry of 
pain, and Mrs. Jones comes np, weary and de¬ 
jected, and soothes the fretful child asjonly love 
can soothe, and Arabella is free to enjoy, un¬ 
disturbed, the luxury of refined 'grief with the 
unfortunate captive. 
But how groundless are her fears! Here, 
iu this old, dilapidated mansion, “Rosamond” is 
surrounded with all that heart could wish; and 
then, those “outlaws.” are so noble-looking 
and gentlemanly. Why! Their chief is a real 
“Knight of the olden times” with his “Mid¬ 
night locks, and coat of mail,” and Arabella 
thinks she should certainly prefer him, if he is 
a robber, to any of the vulgar elodhopjJIrs of 
Dovertown. 
All through that bright sunny day Arabel¬ 
la's thoughts and sympathies were with the cap¬ 
tive, and every available moment was snatched 
to continue her history. Late in the night it was 
finished, and with brain fevered with wild ad¬ 
venture and unholy passions, she retired to rest 
Poor Arabella I She is discontented and un¬ 
happy. She fears that another immortal mind, 
with all its rich gifts and capabilities for hap¬ 
piness, is to be buried in oblivion, that another 
flower, whose beauty, if properly cultivated, 
might grace the garden of princes, will 
“Wasteits siveotnesfijm^thejlcsm air.'’ 
She imagines that a great mistake has been made 
in placing her in circumstances so uncongenial 
to her tastes; so she closes her eyes upon the 
little beauties that cluster along her path,— shuts 
her heart against the little loves and sympathies 
which are the sunshine of real life, and taking 
an imaginary personage for her ideal she is dis¬ 
contented because the distance between the dull 
routine of her life and that of her ideal is so 
great. She believes that there is denied her that 
which is indispensably necessary to her happi¬ 
ness, and that there is within her the elements 
Mighty is the moral influence of the truthful 
and sincere woman—she whose character is crys¬ 
tal clear, without fold and without waxen mask. 
In the neighborhood where she lives she has ever 
tho casting vote in favor of men and measures, 
while her disapprobation is accepted as the 
judgment of one whose truthfulness gives her 
insight ; uud her very prejudices are listened to 
with respect, and suffered to carry weight. Sin¬ 
cerity is one of the qualities absolutely necessary I j,~ ofose So may 
in love or friendship. Though her nature be of 
the tenderest. her sympathies warm as sunshine, 
and her compassion soft as swan’s down, yet if 
our friend lias not sincerity, hergoldishut burnish 
ed brass, and her music soft-voiced discord. Of 
what healing power her tenderness, of what 
balm her pity, if only a trick of temperament— 
an easy play of eye and mnsde, with no soul be 
neath—a mere surface-stirring of shallow waters, 
with no depth or source below? Does it help one 
much to hear friendly words warmly spoken, aud 
sympathies prodigally offered, and’to know that 
in half an hour afterwards we shall be laughed 
at or betrayed—all those gracious praises, like 
summer flowers uprooted, lying withering on 
her lips beneath the blight of her untruth? 
“ Life’s a barque upon the ocean,” its burden 
a strange mingling of poetry and prose, of tho 
ideal aud the real, the beautiful, strange and 
stern—a barque not launched to float for a time 
on smooth waters and sink into nothingness, 
but with a God-given soul to guide if, and Hear 
ven its destined port. 
Between it and its “haven of rest ” winds and 
waves may wash away the ideal and dim the 
beautiful; if, may drift “wide of a righteous 
course” upon bars of misery and sin; hut “out 
of His deeps of love it cannot be.” Storms 
have no power to stay its onward course—and 
however darkly the night of sorrows may close 
around it, the Beacon Light never wanes or grows 
dim in (he harbor of the Eternal Home. 
“ Life’s a field of toil ”—one on which sorrow’s 
rain as well as joy’s sunlight must fall—one that 
is “broken up” ol'uitnes by the sharp plow¬ 
share of pain, and sown with bitter tears —one 
that requires 
“ Labor, constant labor, toil of tho hand and head ; 
a guard set over every evil impulse—over word, 
thought and deed; that at the harvest time there 
may not be more “lares” than “ wheat” 
“Life is real.” It is “no dream, no false 
mirage ” to us who wal' daily in its paths—who 
set our feet upon its thorns and gather,* too, its 
roses who arc blest one moment by its gifts of 
sunlight, and plunged at the next into dark laby¬ 
rinths by their loss—who hope and dream, and 
sutler and pray, each in our own distinct 
pathway, pitied tor our sorrows and envied 
for our joys by those who see us from afar, and 
going w ith every heart-throb one step nearer to 
another Life that, will be none the less real be¬ 
cause now unknown. 
And cau we say, too, “Life is earnest?” In 
these days of mourning, when thousands upon 
thousands of lives as real as our own are laid 
down upon the battlefield, and other lives are 
darkened through the sacrifice, do we who have, 
perchance, escaped the loss aud the sorrow, lay 
solemnly upon our hearts the conviction that for 
ns life should be earnest, that our duty lies in seeing 
that ite daily deeds are of charity and compassion, 
that its daily thoughts are lifted out of all selfish 
depths, and that its daily prayers stop not at per¬ 
sonal benefits, but ask, too, the renewal of the 
spirit of Christ’s time:—“ Peace on earth, good 
will among men.” 
“ Life.” It is but a short and simple word, yet 
to us who wear the robes of’ mortality—how 
precious is its possession. Iu Us morning and at 
its noontide may we so abide by its laws that at 
soon tho strange earth, with its thronging, busy 
occupants, and the firmament, spread like the 
wing of God above us, will cease their teaching. 
Earth will seem like a chance creation, whereon 
we are formed to live, to mourn, and crumble 
again to dust, and the sky a mass of vapors, lit 
up at times by a fickle gleam, not unlike the 
flash of the fire-fly, the deceitful glow of the 
wandering will-o’-the-wisp, or the feeble glim¬ 
mer of the glow-worm. The earth has no teach¬ 
ing so effectual, so persuasive, as the expression 
of the human face ere it has learned to dissem¬ 
ble, and every thought and affection of the heart 
is traced upon the fair tablet. No reproof can 
be so keen, or wound so deeply, as the sad, un¬ 
spoken reproofs upon the countenance of a friend 
we have injured, and an eye resting on us in 
anger, reproach or revenge, will often haunt us 
for years. That same eye, beaming with pity, 
affection or sympathy, or lit up with gratitude, 
has made a little heaven of our hearts when the 
trials of life were well-nigh crashing them. 
Earth has her myriads of teachers, and every 
cloud that appears upon the sky, and every leaf 
that unfolds in spring, presents a rich volume for 
our perusal, but the face of a friend is a book of 
which we never weary, for on its pages are mir¬ 
rored ail the workings of the heart beneath. 
Sheridan Center, N. Y., 1S63 Maooh M. Kxtchck. 
HEAVEN. 
What is Heaven ?—not a steep 
Frowning o’er the sands of time, 
Guarded like a castle's keep, 
Which the strong can only climb; 
’Tis an ever present bliss 
In the soul, by Goo refined; 
Tis that better world in this, 
Which the pure in spirit find. 
Where is Heaven ? Wheresoe'er 
Lives a pure and loving heart; 
Love is all the Atmosphere, 
Where the holy dwell apart; 
Men and angels mingle there, 
Whether earth be passed or not— 
Heaven is here and everywhere, 
If the evil be forgot 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
PAIN. 
DANGERS FROM WORKS OF FICTION. 
There is a danger to be guarded against, in 
young persons especially, of an over-indulgence 
of imagination in reading works of fiction, and 
in what is called “castle-building.” Not that 
such an exercise of the imagination is to be con¬ 
demned as an evil in itselfj supposing, of course, 
that we avoid immoral books; but an excess in 
the perusal of fictions is apt to disqualify any 
one for real life, by creating a distaste and dis¬ 
gust for actual every-day scenes, and bumble 
practical duties, which do not equal in brilliancy 
the ideal scenes and imaginary transactions of 
fiction. The heart may even become hardened 
against real objects of commiseration, from our 
having been too much occupied in dwelling on 
the elegant and poetical pictures of ideal distress 
which tales the poems exhibit For in these, a 
flaming excitement being all that is aimed at, 
there is, of course, a studied exclusion of all those 
homely and sometimes disgusting circumstances 
which often accompany real distresses, such as 
we are called upon to sympathize with and to 
relieve. 
And there is also a danger of our becoming 
dissatisfied with estimable friends, because they 
do not come up to the standard of the heroes and 
heroines of romances. And what are usually 
reckoned as moral tales, and are written with a 
good design, are sometimes tho most hurtful in 
this way; for they commonly represent the good 
characters as perfect, and bad ones as fiends, both 
being quite unlike what we meet with In real life, 
and therefore serving to engender false notions. 
It is allowable, indeed, and right, to bestow cul¬ 
tivation on the flower-gardens of your mind, only 
they must not be allowed to take the place of the 
plain but necessary corn-fields, or lead you lo 
neglect their cultivation.— Whatdy's Lesson on 
Mind. 
“ Say not good night, but in some brighter clime 
Bid it good morning." 
Charlotte Center, N. Y., 1863. E. C. L. K. 
-- 
Written for Moore’s Rurai New-Yorker. 
THE TEACHINGS OF NATURE. 
How to Get Along. —We have some sugges¬ 
tions to oiler, which will enable our readers to 
get through life in the most easy and comfortable 
manner. If a bee has the audacity and folly to 
sheathe his sting in your cnticle, justice demands | 
that you should upset the hive wherein t he offen¬ 
der has his beudquarters, and exterminate every 
bee therein. If a dog bites you in the calf of the 
eg, stern justice demands that you should bite 
the dog in the calf of his leg. On the same 
principle, if an hate donkey rudely elevates his 
posterior extremities against your sacred person, 
the true way is to kick back. If a horse falls 
npou you, the sublime principles of the lex talionis 
requires that you should fall upon the horse. If | 
Joggs calls you a liar, the treatment is to call him 
a liar, and a thief in the bargain. If you are a 
farmer, and a neighbor’s cow happens to get into 
your young com, your instant mode of obtaining 
satisfaction is to turn all your cows, hogs, etc., 
into his corn. By following out these sublime 
ideas of justice and self-respect, your daily life j 
will be full of sweet peace, and you will eventu¬ 
ally become as docile and playful as a kitten. 
Man's Duty to Woman. —Let no man practice 
on woman perpetually the shameless falsehood of 
pretending admiration and acting contempt Let 
them not exhaust their kinduess in adorning her 
person, and ask in return the humiliation of her 
soul. Let. them not assent to her very high opin¬ 
ion, os if she was not strong enough to maintain 
it against opposition, nor yet manufacture opinion 
for her and force it on her lips by dictation. Let 
them not crucify her motives, nor ridicule her 
frailty, nor crush her individuality, nor insult 
A thousand voices meet us in the passing 
breeze, telling of fear and gloom and sorrow, or 
hope, merriment and gladness. The streams, 
with their varied voices, from the indistinct mur¬ 
mur of the rivulet to the hoarse roar of the cata¬ 
ract,’all speak a language which to hear i6 to un¬ 
derstand. Birds, from their green homes, send 
forth their clear notes, and we know at once the 
spirit of the source from which they issue; or, 
if far off in the summer sky,—so far that our 
dim eyes cannot trace them.—we cannot mistake 
the tone of their songs. Voices of the loved 
reach our ears, perhaps issuing from the shadowy 
distance of the long-forgotten past, and instantly 
the well-known tone is remembered, and with¬ 
out an effort we listen and understand. 
Sounds are over falling on the ear, and if the 
heart hath aught of sympathy, we shall know 
the tale which they bring. But we grow cold 
and spiritless, and lessons fraught with rich 
instruction fall unheeded on an ear as dull, 
heavy and senseless as the ear of death. The 
her independence, nor play mean jests upon her 
honor in convivial companies, nor handy unclean broad earth is around us, the spacious sky above, 
doubts of her, as a wretched substitute of wit; and the mind within. All these have lessons, 
nor whisper vulgar suspicions of her purity, 
which, as compared with their own, is like the 
immaculate whiteness of angels. Let them mul¬ 
tiply her social advantages, enhance her dignity, 
minister to her intelligence, aud by manly gentle¬ 
ness, be the champions of her genius, the friends 
of her fortunes, and the equals, if they can. of her 
heart.— Lev. F. 1). Huntington. 
silent teachings, which the ear, listening for 
sounds less holy, hears not, and the heart, in 
love with the busy world, is slow to understand. 
Yet the truth is there, and needs but a willing 
and attentive mind to unfold ite sacred precepts. 
Still we must strive long and arduously to bar 
out harsh discords, and the heart must be quick 
to learn the lesson, and ready to practice it, else 
Small Vices. — Most men are the slaves of 
small vices. We hold that by every evil habit — 
if it is nothing more than putting his hands iu his 
pockets—a man's power aud efficiency is so 
much weakened, A man is not physically per¬ 
fect who has lost his little finger. It is no answer 
to say that such a man cau do many things as well 
as before his mutilation. Can he do every thing 
as well ? So every bad habit cripples in kind 
though not in degree, and when they are numer¬ 
ous enough, Buch small vices deprive us of ap¬ 
preciable power. We remember that Gulliver 
was effectually bound and made helpless by the 
Lilliputians, though every cable used was but 
a thread. 
There is an untold burden of pain borne by 
mankind. Physical pain, alone, is not referred 
to, as that is but a small part, of the suffering en¬ 
dured, There could be no physical pain only by 
the soul-life pervading its mortal tenement with 
ite mysterious and vitalizing power; but just as 
that which touches a man rises from the lower to 
the higher parts of his nature, the pain or pleas¬ 
ure which is experienced increases in intensity. 
Tlie pain which seizes upon tho higher part of 
man's nature is a fearful thing. “ Every heart 
knoweth ite own bitterness;” and many suppose 
that their ills exceed those which others are called 
to bear. But no one bears that which has not 
been borne, and is not now bping borne by thou¬ 
sands. There are few who have not some mute 
grief upon their secret lives, to which no express¬ 
ion is or can be given. 
Those who have read the letters of Lord By¬ 
ron, cannot fail to remember that he found in 
the Certosa Cemetery, at Ferrara, the following 
epitaphs: 
“ Martial Luigi, 
lmplora pace;” 
“Lucretia Pieini, 
lmplora etems quietp.” 
Expression cannot be given to anything more pa¬ 
thetic iu any language. Byron wrote:—“Can 
anything ha more full of pathos ? These few 
words say all that can be said or sought; the 
dead had had enough of life; all they want is 
rest, and this they implore! There is all the 
helplessness, and humble hope, and death-like 
prayer, that can arise from the grave— Hmjjlora 
pace .'" Nearly all mankind have the experience 
of anticipating and seeking for happiness, reach¬ 
ing the inevitable goal of disappointment, and 
then yearning only for peace; which can alone 
tie found in the future life. “ lmplora paced’ 
It is impossible in this life to understand the 
infinite purpose. The Bible, however, throws 
much tight upon the principles of the Divine Ad¬ 
ministration. God has a purpose which is being 
wrought out in the lives of men: but It is impos¬ 
sible for finite Intelligence lo grasp the full scope 
of the controlling and hidden laws. That, joy is 
to come out of tlie present pain, is the assurance 
upon which faith must rest, God knows every 
individual life through every moment of its ex¬ 
istence, and keeps constantly in view the great 
ultimate purpose of being. His eupe rior w isdom 
shall be displayed through the future glory which 
will be wrought of tho present pain, if there be 
only submission to Ills laws, and trust ingllis 
purposes. “The sufferings of the present time 
are not worthy to be compared with the glory 
which shall be revealed in us.” 
I’ain means love. There is One wise, 
Who looks o'er all of being’s years, 
And sees what fruits at lost may rise. 
Above the flow of human tears,— 
Sees how each pain that is felt here, 
If ’tis but borne with patient trust, 
To add new glory will appear, 
And crown tlie resurrected dust! 
Child, Child, astray; Child, nearer Me— 
That voice is heard in every pain, 
When troubled spirits rise to die, 
How gain is loss and loss is gain; 
For every pang is but a voice, 
Of warning or persuasiveness, 
From Him who would have all rejoice 
Where none cun ever feel distress. 
Oh! who would not most gladly go 
The way our Christ with patience trod; 
Which leads out from tlie earthly woe, 
Aud up to glory aud (o God I 
He, our exemplar, took tlie cross,— 
His soul by darkest griefs was tom; 
Earth's loss is gain, its gain is loss, 
For blest are they who on earth mourn. 
Wadham’s Mills, N. Y.,1863. A. T. E. C. 
The Memory of the Dead.— It is an exquis¬ 
ite and beautiful thing in our nature, that when 
our heart is touched and softened by some tran¬ 
quil happiness or affectionate feeling, tho memo¬ 
ry of the dead comoB over it most powerfully and 
irresistibly, it would almost seem as though 
our better thoughts aud sympathies were charms, 
in virtue of which the soul is enabled to hold 
some vague and mysterious intercourse with the 
spirits of those whom we dearly loved in life. 
Alas, how often and how long may those patient 
angels hover above us, watching for the spell 
which is so seldom uttered and soon forgotten. 
Physiognomy is a true science. The man of] 
profound thought, the man of ability, and, above 
all. the man of genius, has his character stamped 
by nature; the man of violent passions and the 
voluptuary have it stamped by habit. 
Spiritual Life,— The first true sign of spirit¬ 
ual life, prayer is the means of maintaining it. 
Man can as well live physically without breath¬ 
ing, asspiritually without praying. There is a class 
of animals—cetaceous, neither fish nor sea-fowl 
—that inhabit the deep. It is their home—they 
never leave it for the shore; yet, though swim¬ 
ming beneath its waves and sounding its darkest 
depths, they have ever and anon to rise to the 
surface that they may breath the air. Without 
that, these monarebs of the deep could not exist 
in the dense element in which they live, and 
move, and have their being. And something like 
what is imposed on them by a physical necessity, 
the Christian has to do by a spiritual one. It is 
hv ever and anon ascending up to God—by 
rising through prayer into a loftier, purer region, 
for supplies of divine grace—that maintains his 
spiritual life. Prevent these animals from rising 
to the surface, and they die for want of breath; 
prevent him from rising to God, and he dies for 
want of prayer. 
To all men the best friend is virtue; the best 
companions are high endeavors and honorable 
sentiments. 
rb 
1 
