taught invaluable lessons of practical wisdom to 
those who would profit by their teachings. And 
yet, the son of a joiner, poverty withheld from 
him those advantages necessary to high intellect¬ 
ual culture, leading him humbly along the 
lowly vales of life. 
Goldsmith, Burns, and others whose illustri¬ 
ous names now adorn the pages of English and 
American literature, may be justly claimed as 
brilliant examples of genius which, wholly un¬ 
aided by worldly power, and emanating from the 
humblest sphere of life, has placed its possessor 
among those whom the literary world delight, to 
honor. k. w. 
Rochester, Mich., 1S63. 
stroying their lives, energies and intellects in the 
vile haunts of dissipation. 
Time is what we want most but what we use 
worst, and for which we must all account when 
time shall be no more. Longfellow says,— 
“ we can make our lives sublime.'' There is no 
true man or woman w ho can doubt that glorious 
poet's assertion: for we are all endowed, to a 
greater or less degree, with faculties whereby we 
may make ourselves better and nobler beings: 
thus sowing the seed of happiness which will in 
time spring up and yield us u bountiful harvest 
with proper cultivation, and when Azrkal 
cometh. wo can take a retrospective view of a 
life* well spent, and with child-like confidence, 
commit ourselves to the Death-angel, feeling that 
we have not lived in vain. 
WiliiaOUOn, N. Y , 1863. An.vik Llna Mat:. and. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE EARLY LOST. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MY HOME ON THE HILL. 
Oh 1 Maggy Lightheart, fitful child, 
With peach down cheeks and teeth like pearls, 
Your spirit is as light and wild, 
Yonr heart as restless as your curl*. 
Your life with laugh and song rnns o’er, 
And gushes from your lips and eyes, 
And on your face a light doth pour, 
Like sunbeam* breaking from the skies. 
Oh! child Of sweet and gladsome years, 
With bounding feet that fly the earth; 
Your very'joy awakes my fears, 
I echo portents to your mirth 
Oh 1 Maggy Lightheart, for I fear 
The weary life that waits us all; 
Lest clouds and dangers gather near 
Where now no boding shadows fall. 
Lest on this head—this radiant brow— 
This ardent heart, this loving gaze, 
Where all that’s wild and glad is now, 
There come instead the evil days. 
Have you heard the voice of mourning 
As the winds go by ? 
Have you heard the fitful sighing 
Heard the faint and wailing crying, 
Of the night winds in their trying 
Hurrying shadows to outfly ? 
They hare floated o’er the bier 
Silently with loving fear; 
O’er her brow the golden hair 
They have tossed; 
Kissed the hands upon her breast, 
Stirred the rose buds there at rest. 
When she opened not her eyes. 
Then they started in surprise, 
And they shuddering fled away 
Sighing, murmuring on their way, 
Of the early lost 
Have you seen how bright the stars 
Shine in the sky. 
Heeding not the winds low moaning 
Hurrying by f 
On the gem paved path to Heaven 
Went an angel np, to-night, 
To a country where no even 
Softly steals away the light; 
And her robe of wond'rous whiteness 
Scattered glory o’er the way, 
’Till it shone with dazzling brightness 
And the shadows fled away. 
Now the fitful winds are moaning, 
Moaning for the dead; 
And the stars are shining brightly 
For a vision fled. 
Jamestown, N. Y,, 1S63. Nettie 
I love it—I love it—wherever I roam 
No spot shall I find like my early home, 
For there lived I once in peace secure, 
When my years were few, and aiy heart was pure, 
When [ fancied that him might dwell below, 
And sorrow* were yet but in embryo. 
Sweet days, ye are goue, yet in fancy still 
Do j c oft return to your home on the hill 
1 love it—T love it, though childhood has fled, 
And my early loved in the grave are laid; 
Though there I have seen ray pleasures decay, 
And hopes so cherished have faded away,— 
Tho’ the dark days came, aud I learned to weep, 
Drank of sorrow’s cup, and found it deep; 
Yet living there once, when I knew no ill, 
lias a halo drawn ’round my home on the bill 
Who was it,—who was it, that dwelt in my bower, 
And sang me such pongs In that morning hour, 
Threw a fairy veil o’er my future tears, 
And told but of bliss with my coming years ? 
Sweet Hope f I am wreathing bright flowers for thee, 
In return for the joy thou hast given to me; 
They may fade too soon—yea, 1 fear they will, 
Like the joy of the song at my home on the hill 
Who is it,—who is it, reviews the past scene, 
And turns to tnc oft with a smile serene, 
Who throws a light veil o’er the ill of the past, 
And brings but the joys I had hoped might last '• ‘ 
Fond Memory ! I’m wreathing a garland now, 
An evergreen wreath to adorn thy brow, 
He ever thus kind—throw thy veil o’er the ill, 
Bring the loves and the joys of my home on the hill. 
Bainbridge, N Y., 1863 B. F. K. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
EVERY-DAY LIFE. 
BT LEAD PENCIL 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
MYSTERIES OF THE FLORAL KINGDOM. 
I chanced to sit down in a railway car beside 
a stranger, the other day. He seemed to be a 
dreamy, reflective sort of a man. 1 soon found 
he was both misanthropic and skeptical. It is 
difficult, perhaps, for a man to entertain skeptical 
notions without being misanthropical. For a 
man who does not believe in a God, nor in a 
Heaven, nor Hell, can scarcely retain a hopeful 
view of the future progress of the world. If he 
does not believe there is a directing power, he can 
entertain no faith in tho course the affair- of this 
earth are to take. My companion remarked that 
ours is a gloomy prospect, with the present war 
question before us to be solved. I dissented, 
asserting my faith in tho over-ruiing power of 
the Creator to do all that ought to lie done, and 
in his own good time, and by such agencies as 
best served his purposes. But my friend did not 
believe any such nonsense. He had no faith in 
anything which could not be demonstrated. All 
this talk about a Creator and a Savior, and a 
Hereafter, and a Resurrection, was balderdash. 
It would answer for people who do not think 
and reason —but it would never comfort him. 
When a man dies that is tho end of him. This 
life is the only one we have to live. The doctrine 
that this mortal body is to put on immortality, ia 
all fudge, Ac., Ac. I asked the gentleman if he 
knew anything of insects if ho had ever studied 
their habits, their nature, construction: and wit¬ 
nessed their wonderful transformations. Yes, he 
had paid some attention to entomology. Is there 
anything more incredible in the transformation 
of our gross bodies into spiritual and purified 
bodies, than we witness almost daily in the insect 
world? Why may wc not become winged angels 
as w’ell as the gross caterpillar a brilliant butter¬ 
fly? You talk of reason. Is there any analogical 
reason why we may not become as wonderfully 
transformed? Then- are few men who will be¬ 
lieve, without a demonstration, that the chrysalid, 
dormant In the earth, ever becomes the brilliant 
insect — that, the mosquito is the result of two 
transformations— that the fly that gathers sweets 
from our tables w as but a little while ago the 
greedy, gluttonous maggot! 
But you, sir, know it; aud you know that there 
is law governing these metamorphoses; that the 
law operates uniformly in relation to classes of 
creatures—and yet you think me fool enough to 
swallow your assertion, that you do not believe 
in a God, nor in a Heaven, nor a Hull. If you 
had been blind all your life, and had never seen 
the beauties and wonders which surround you; 
and deaf, that yon. could not hear the music 
which fills the air — the hum of life which pene¬ 
trates your securest seclusion: and dumb, that 
you could not open your mouth to articulate a 
syllable of the language known among men, 
yet would I not doubt that your own conscious¬ 
ness of existence; your power to inhale and 
exhale; to touch and taste; to move and wish, 
and will, would compel you to acknowledge the 
existence and presence, everywhere, of a direct¬ 
ing and controlling Power. 1 believe the man 
willfully lies who lives and asserts his disbelief 
of the existence of an Author aud Controller of 
all life. My companion was silent. 
“ Wondrous truth, and manifold as wondrous, 
God hath written in the stars above; 
But not less in the bright flowret* under ns 
Stands the revelation of his love.” 
There is something both beautiful and sug¬ 
gestive in the remark of Houti Miller that 
“Man’s world with all its griefs and troubles, is 
more emphatically a world of flowers than any 
of the creations that preceded it.’’ For it is not 
until about the time of his introduction upon the 
scene that the rocks furnish their first testimony 
of bud and blossom. Amid the luxuriant vege¬ 
tation of the earlier geological formations, there 
Is not found a trace of any of those bloomiDg 
plants which contribute so much toward making 
the earth pleasant to the sight. The gigantic 
ferns and mosses, rivaling In statute the most 
lofty of our own forest kings, waved in weird and 
melancholy magnificence over hill and valley, 
furnishing ft refuge for the huge monster that 
roamed be oath their shadows. But nowhere 
was this f >mber glory relieved by those fair 
forms of bi ight and varied hues, which seem 
“A'i emanation of the indwelling lift, 
A ' isible token of the upholding love 
T at are the soul of this wide universe.” 
To those who are fond of finding “sermons in 
stones,” this fact will appear to be one of peculiar 
significance. The Good Father bestows His 
gifts bountifully, but never carelessly. His 
works are never purposeless; we are quick to 
comprehend their significance when they appeal 
to the grosser senses, but slow to apprehend 
their Import when addressed to our higher 
nature. Born heirs to infinite treasures of natu¬ 
ral beauty, we care not to enjoy our inheritance. 
My thoughts have often been turned in this 
direction, ns I have observed the indifference 
with which most dwellers in the country regard 
the wonders and beauties of the natural world, 
and more especially the marvels of the floral aud 
vegetable kingdom. 
And now, my dear Rural. I have a proposi¬ 
tion to make, hoping that it may meet with the 
approbation of yourself and reader. It is this.— 
that the subjects of “courtship,” “marriage,” and 
“old maids” be dismissed for a season,—they 
having boon so thoroughly ventilated in your 
columns of late, that I think all your readers 
must be rooted aud grounded in everything per¬ 
taining thereto*; and let the space hitherto de¬ 
voted to those all-important topics be given to 
floral matters. Surely, among your thousands of 
intelligent readers there are many who are com¬ 
petent to discourse well and wisely upon this 
subject; and as your visits are made to all parts 
of this country, it w ill be pleasant for those thus 
interested to compare notes through your col¬ 
umns, as to their experiences in botanical pur¬ 
suits. What say you? A. L. Eaton. 
Eatonville, N. Y., 1853 
* The discussion of the topics named was ignored sonic 
monthr ago, and an appeal made for contributions on more 
useful subjects, since which there has been some improve¬ 
ment. Has our correspondent read the Rural “of late?” 
To DAT the fruit trees bend beneath too weight 
Of snowy drifts of blossoms; perfumes rare 
Mingle with bird songs in the sunlit air: 
The robin whistles to her busy mote. 
The tiny humming-bird*, on gauzy wing, 
Drink nectar from the wine cup’s of the flowers 
And aU the day beguile the happy hours 
With the sweet plaint of the low chant they sing. 
The forest trees, proud In their rich attire, 
Stretch their long arms toward the deep blue sky; 
White specks of cloud float dreamily on high; 
The sun glows like a ball of golden fire 
Spring ripens into Summer; and the year 
Moves its accustomed round with noiseless feet. 
I loiter thoughtfully adown the street, 
And tell my heart the perfect days arc near. 
Written for Moore h Rural New-Yorker 
THE SPIRIT WORLD 
Written for Moore’s Rura. New-Yorker 
POETS AND NOVELISTS OF THE POOR. 
We are encompassed with mystery —we live, 
we die,— our origin, our destiny alike hidden 
from our view by a veil we cannot penetrate. 
Whence canto the spirit that animates the body, 
that sparkles in the eye, speaks upon the lips, 
hears and sees, loves and hates, fears and hopes? 
And when the body returns to the dust, where 
does the spirit depart? To what viewless land 
does It bear away its capacity tor suffering and 
enjoyment when it leaves its former habitation, 
but a lifeless clod? 
So thought and questioned the philosophers of 
the ancient world, — but iu vain they waited att 
answer from reason! Her eye was too dim to 
pierce the darkness of the grave and follow in its 
track the unfettered soul. No messenger from 
the spirit land returned to tell them of the wel¬ 
fare of the departed. Imagination sometimes 
depicted scenes in which they were actors, and 
painted in glowing colors the happiness of the 
loved and lost, — but it was all a dream, and it 
faded away as the light cloud molts into the sum¬ 
mer sky! The poet’s fancy created an Elysium 
for thebard and the hero, but it was beyond the 
hope of those in the beaten track of life. To 
them all was dark and drear, and their brightest 
anticipation was that death would prove an 
“ eternal sleep.” 
Imagination has, in all ages, given form aHd 
coloring to the “ spirit w orld." She points to the 
Mohammedan a paradise of sensual delights, and 
excites tears by tho prospect of bodily torment. 
She tells the poor Hindoo of future existence in 
Lite body of a loathsome beast or crawling rep¬ 
tile, till he casts himself down under the car of 
his idol to obtain merit, in hopes of sooner attain¬ 
ing the chief good — utter annihilation. To the 
Indian warrior she pictures vast forests and 
bunting grounds, where dwell his fathers, and 
the departed brave of his tribe, uud to which the 
scalps of his enemies alone will gain him admit¬ 
tance. Bill the Christian is not left in his antici¬ 
pations to the guidance of fancy. “The day- 
spring from on high hath visited him.” illumina¬ 
ting the passage of the tomb, and revealing the 
world beyond it. “Life and immortality are 
brought to light in the gospel.” He looks for¬ 
ward with confident assurance to the possession 
of delights which “eye hath not seen, nor ear 
heard, and of which it hath not entered into the 
heart of man to conceive.” He expects to enjoy 
the society of angels and just men made perfect, 
to approach the presence of God as a child, wel¬ 
come and beloved. He expects to drink of the 
river whose streams make glad the city of our 
God, and never thirst again. He expects to tie 
free from siD, weakness and the power of tempta¬ 
tion. He expects, too, that his body will be 
ransomed from the power of the grave, and 
being fashioned like Christ’s glorious body, 
will be fitted for the residence of the purified 
spirits. These glorious hopes are ours if we are 
“ followers of those who through faith and pa¬ 
tience inherit the promise.” 
8heridan, N. Y., 1863. Maggie M. Kf.tchum. 
That Genius is often indebted to Adversity as 
the promoter of its best interests, is a fact too 
well established and too widely received to 
admit of discussion, for no one wouid attempt to 
refute it in an age when the supremacy of per¬ 
sonal merit is so universally acknowledged as at 
present. It is proven by innumerable instances 
in which some dim. lone star rising from a misty 
obscurity, with no borrowed luster, has grown 
brighter and brighter till the world wms forced to 
gaze with admiration on the sublime results of 
unaided and persevering effort 
Hereditary wealth and influence arc not with¬ 
out advantages, as all readily admit The privi¬ 
leges which they afford for intellectual culture, 
in the way of refined surroundings, cultivated 
society, books, travel. Ac., are blessings, in being 
deprived of which the gifted child of poverty 
most keenly feels his need. But in their train 
are also mingled the temptations of ease, allot eg 
the seeker of truth or worshiper of glory ,rom 
his onward course, to rove] in the haunts of 
pleasure, or batik in the w i sti enervating sun¬ 
shine of indolence. Gra.. .ing that these have no 
charms for him hi comparison with the witching 
hand of the Future which, jeweled with bright 
realizations of present hopes, beckons him ever 
onward, still, having no external obstacles to 
encounter—no outward foes to baffle, he ts»de- 
prived of one rich source of strength. The 
weakest may float with tho current of circum¬ 
stances and. successfully borne along, may reach 
a desired haven, weak still: b it energy and 
strength of purpose, requisite at the outset, are 
greatly increased by toiling against the tide and 
struggling with adverse w inds to gain a longed- 
for port of honor. 
Examples of successful contests with evil for¬ 
tunes, in which the favored champion has tram¬ 
pled beneath his feet alt opposing forces, and 
received the proffered laurels of fascinated mil¬ 
lions, may be found in almost every department 
of life, and no where more abundantly than in its 
literary circle. But in rendering the meed of 
praise to those who have nobly risen above their 
humble lot to a merited position among the 
mighty, it should not be forgotten that, though 
Fortunes withhold her favors. Nature, having no 
prediliction for wealth or power, is often more 
lavish of her gilts in the lowly home of the cot¬ 
tager than beneath the canopy of royalty. To 
many a peasant, doomed by fortune to a life of 
toil and hardship, Nature has given a soul rich 
in love for the beautiful and true —a living im¬ 
agination. ever painting glowing pictures or pen¬ 
ciling fairy dreams which, woven into song or 
story, would thrill a world of eager, listening 
hearts. At times, one thus blest Nature seems to 
have adopted as her favored child, and his gifts 
she nourishes by communing with his soul in her 
own mysterious language, or breathing on him 
sweet flower-incense, as it were Betting him apart 
as her minister to speak iu poetic numbers the 
truths she constrains him to niter. Thus Genius 
develops until, despite humble birth, itcannotbe 
forced to grovel in unobserved lowliness, but 
rising asserts its power and leaves a glowing 
name on the records of the great. 
Among many valuable results we have the 
“Farmer’s Boy.” “May Day with the Muses,” 
and other poems that flowed from the natural, 
lile-imparting pen of Rust. Bloomfield. This 
writer, described by xn able critic as one of the 
most characteristic and faithful of England’s 
poets, was emphatically a “poe: of the poor.'- 
Poverty proved to him a life-long heritage, from 
which he was unable to free himself even when 
favored with the smiles and patronage of the 
great But his mind was enriched with priceless 
gems of thought. When a toiling, trudging far¬ 
mer boy, his quick observation caught the pecu¬ 
liarities of every rural scene —his vivid fancy 
robed them with the soft romantic drapery of 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
OUR LIVES, 
God in his infinite wisdom ba3 given us life, 
and richly supplied us with gifts wherewith we 
may either. In a measure, make or mar our own 
happiness, now and forever. He has given us a 
keen perception of right and wrong, and if we 
would but listen oftoner to the promptings of our 
better nature, our lives would be more bright and 
beautiful; for we would avoid many trials and 
temptations which we blindly rush into through 
recklessness or ignorance. Of course it is not In 
the power of mortals Lo escape all sorrows and 
pains in this life, no matter how much we may 
endeavor to. And it is best that It Is so; for if 
otherwise we might forget to seek for admittance 
to that home where happiness is supreme and 
eternal. And. ofttimes, suffering causes us to 
grow stronger in purposes of right Without any 
trials and sorrows we should never know how 
many latent virtues we may possess. 
But the greatest and most glorious of all our 
Father’s gifts to us is the mind. It is a treasure 
of priceless value, a jewel susceptible of won¬ 
drous polishing. The mind may be likened to a 
block of marble, which wo might pass and repass 
in its crude state, never once eliciting from us a 
word of admiration: for we see only the rough, 
unpolished stone. Yet in time that same block 
of marble, by patience, energy and perseverance, 
is carved into a beautiful statue of exquisite 
grace. We now see perfect symmetry of form, 
and lines of beauty iu every feature, which cause 
us to stand ent ranced and spell-bound, as it were, 
our hearts swelling with emotions of love for the 
beautiful and good, and by the association we 
become better and nobler beings. 
Thus it is with the mind. It must be carved 
and polished with extreme care, and be duly ap¬ 
preciated, otherwise we will derive but little 
benefit from its possession. Nothing is gained 
by sitting idly and wishing and waiting. Wo 
must labor with a strong determination, and have 
an indomitable w ill if we would add gems to the 
intellect which through life will be a perennial 
source of pleasure to us. 
And. moreover, w e c an promote our happiness 
greatly by having some particular life-aim. Life 
spent without any fixed aim is compared by an 
old poet to “throwing buckets into empty wells, 
and growing old in drawing nothing tip.” There 
is much plain truth contained in the above sen¬ 
tence, and too many human beings spend their 
lives in that manner. The devotee of fashion, 
for instance, seldom has any aim beyond the 
present. She must live in a constant whirl of 
excitement, or. to use her own expression, she 
would die of ennui. She must have her box at 
the opera, and her pew in the most fashionable 
church; she must give grand receptions and 
soirees; she is oftener seen caressing a poodle 
dog than tv child. She dotes on the opera be¬ 
cause it is fashionable, not that she loves the 
grand strains that come floating and trembling 
on the air in exquisite harmony, touching, as 
with invisible lingers, the chords lo our inmost 
soul, thereby stirring the fount of thought and 
feeling. In attending church she is like the 
Pharisee. She gives entertainments not because 
she wishes to draw around her a few who archer 
friends in the purest sense of the word; her ob¬ 
ject is to rival others, and hear herself spoken of 
in flattering terms. Flattery is to her sweeter 
than the fragrance of flowers. Little does she 
think the sycophant is the most treacherous of 
friends, and who. in the hour of adversity, would 
be the first to forget her. Thus the fashion 
devotee lives ou and on with no definite aim. and 
but a vague conception of the future. And wo 
have, seen men. too, who float along on the river 
of life like bubbles, as aimless and unstable, 
thinking more of the fit of their boots and gar¬ 
ments, than fitting themeelpes for anything use¬ 
ful, and trying harder to cultivate their mus¬ 
taches than their minds. Others, w T ho might 
bring honor to themselves and friends, are de¬ 
AMBITIOUS CHRISTIAN MOTHERS 
Ambitious Christian mothers constitute a 
numerous but not a happy class of Christians. If 
the heart is tilled with emulation and the desire 
of glory, be it for ourselves or our children, peace 
cannot have a dwelling there. Such have 
e trusted to the staff of this bruised reed, even 
upon Egypt, cn which if a man lean it will go 
into his hand, and pierce it; so is Pharaoh, king 
of Egypt, to all who may trust in him.” So are 
the pleasures of the world to all who trust in 
them. If Christiau parents desire elevated social 
position for their children, iu preference to useful 
ones, they must be contented with the pleasure 
the world has to bestow in such cases. When 
daughters are taught polite accomplishments 
only for display, it Is reasonable to expect them 
to be vain, and decidedly unhappy when they 
cannot exhibit them. That they can be con¬ 
tented with merely being useful, and with the 
homely and unexciting duties of life, is not to be 
expected; rather, as they express it, “ They are 
perfectly wretched.” though surrounded with 
every blessing. 
A young lady can be taught the ornamental 
branches of education without such attending 
evils: not only so. she may probably be happier 
for the knowledge to all eternity. Speaking of 
music, the excellent John Law says :—■• There 
is nothing so opens heaven, or carries our hearts 
6o near it, as these songs of praise.” Drawing 
refines the taste, imparts a better appreciation of 
nature, and carries us above the petty passions 
and gross pursuits of life. A knowledge of the 
languages qualifies one to become an able critic 
or a tine writer, and also teaches us God's deal¬ 
ings with men in past ages and in other lands, as 
well as to study the sacred oracles in the original 
tongues. It is the duty of parents to educate 
their children, not that they may take precedence 
among their fellows, but that they may be better, 
happier and more useful — an education which 
comports well with the practice of true humility. 
How lovely nature 
In splendor shines ! 
How leaps the sunlight 
O’er smiling vines' 
Now buds are bursting 
From every limb: 
In field and thicket, 
Sweet voices hymn, 
Our happy spirits 
O'erflow with bliss: 
Hail! earth and sunlight I 
What joy is this! 
ACCOMPLISHMENTS 
The class of arts which are popularly termed 
“accomplishments." are of considerably less than 
no value at all, unless the pupil reaches a degree 
of excellence in them euch as to render them 
worthy of the name. Young ladies who speak 
French badly, “draw” villainous “designs.” or 
“ Learn to force by unrelenting knocks 
Reluctant music from a tortured box,” 
are not “accomplished” in Music, Painting, or 
French; and, for any purpose of ornament or 
polish, might as well have neglected them alto¬ 
gether. Indeed, the lady that can do none of 
these things has the advantage of her who does 
them all badly—the latter having simply added 
by •• education" to the number of her natural 
imperfections. Accordingly, cue who has no 
natural talent for "accomplishments." or wants 
time or money to become proficient in, them, 
should not hesitate to forego them altogether, in 
favor of those solid attainments which nobody 
can afford to dispense with, and of which even a 
little is far better than no knowledge at all. 
old age. 
Oi' no distemper, of no blast he died, 
But fell like autumn fruit that mellowed long— 
Even wondered at because he dropt no sooner ; 
Fate seemed to wind him up for four-score years, 
Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more. 
Till, like a clock, worn out with eating time, 
The wheels of wear)’ life at last stood still 
[Nathaniel Lee. 
What is Virtue?— A student put this ques¬ 
tion to the late Dr. Archibald Alexander. His 
simple and admirable reply was, “ Virtue con¬ 
sists in doing our duty, in the several relations 
that we sustain, in respect to ourselves, to out' 
fellow-men, and to God. as known from reason, 
conscience and revelation.” 
The first, the most important trust God has 
given to any one. to himself. To secure this 
trust. He has made us so that, in no possible way 
can we benefit the world so much as by making 
the most of ourselves. 
Praise and Abuse.— Public applause is ever 
jealous of its own verdict, ami thus the men who 
have been most abused have been generally those 
who have been most praised. 
A Golds!'/ Rule. —When you receive a kind¬ 
ness, remember it; when you bestow one. forget 
