■Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
AFTER. 
BY ADELAIDE STOUT. 
The lips are cold and white. 
That oft in ire 
Seemed dropping on my soul 
In liquid flro. 
They cannot sway my heart 
To Jove, and yet 
They waken something like 
A sad regret. 
The grace of 6llence oft 
I might have worn 
Upon my lips; at least 
Not dropped in scorn 
Proud answer—clashing thus 
Bright steel with steel, 
And 1 more tender grow. 
As thus I feci 
Such deep thoughts stir within 
Mine inmost soul. 
O Love, speak softly thou, 
My life control, 
With all its secret springs. 
That they may flow 
Unbroken from clear depths, 
Reflecting so 
The heaven of God's own peace, 
O, sweet and clear. 
Speak tbon above all strife 
“Forgive, forbear.” 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
ME, SMITH'S ADVICE. 
As I was stepping into my buggy to drive 
home from town one day last summer, I heard a 
familiar voice calling “Mr. Smith!” and on 
turning, was agreeably surprised to sec my next 
neighbor, Silas Berwick, who had just come 
from Oil City, 
“With the scent of kerosene upon his clothes ami 
shoes, 
And his pockets stuffed with papers, containing won¬ 
drous news, 
01 flowing wells and fortunes made on every passing 
day, 
Along the streams and in the glens of fair Petrolla,” 
whither he hud gone some months previous, with 
the hope of engaging in business less laborious 
and more lucrative than farming. 
“ Right glad to welcome you back again, Ber¬ 
wick. Your wife came out, as 1 passed your 
house, and asked me to call at the post-ofllce, as 
a letter from you was due. Instead of n letter 1 
shall have the pleasure of brlngiug you bodily to 
her. So jump in, and I'll drive onward.” 
“ Why, Smith, I’m uot quite ready yet. I’ve 
been running around among the stores, hunting 
a nice dress for my wife. Always make a prac¬ 
tice of giving liar a present on returning from a 
journey. Just step in here with me a minute,” 
and he pointed to a well-stocked establishment 
near us. 
“So you didn’t invest all your funds in the 
‘ diggings ? ’ ” 
“No, indeed; it takes money to make a suc¬ 
cessful ‘strike’ down'there; and having but a 
modern to supply, and no prospect of adding to 
it by remaining, I concluded to return and try 
farming again. I'd like farming well, if I could 
nee that I was getting nbeod any. But come in 
here. I've been looking at a stylish piece of 
silk which Marvin says will ‘out-wear merino.’ 
He will sell me a dress for thirty dollars. 
There’s enough for a couple of dresses in the 
piece, and he says be could afford to sell at a 
lower figure if I would take the whole. Sup¬ 
posing you buy half of it for your wife, Smith.” 
“My wife likes to select her own dresses, sir. 
Don’t wish to look at the article; so let’s be 
going.” 
Giving a signal to Lightfoot, we rattled off and 
soon left the noisy streets in the distance. Then 
a slower pace suited us and wc resumed our con¬ 
versation. 
“ Give the money to your wife, Berwick, and 
she will buy what is needed most, and that will 
afford her more pleasure than a score ol‘ stylish 
silks, I’ll warrant. I used to be famous for sur¬ 
prising Mrs. Smith with new dresses and that 
sort of tiling. When I returned from that trip 
to Minnesota, some years since, I went into a 
store to purchase something to present to her. 
The ‘something’ turned ont to be a delicate 
silk, which the merchant held up in lustrous 
folds to my admiring gaze. After a joyous wel¬ 
come from all, 1 tossed the parcel into my wife's 
lap. Opening it, she turned a look of astonish¬ 
ment toward me and said, ‘ Kate is only eleven 
years of age, and will not know how to take care 
of Bitch a fancy dress, Mr. Smith. What in¬ 
duced you to buy it for her ? ’ 
1,1 It is not for Kate, it is for you, Susan. 
There will be parties and so forth, aud this will 
be just the thing for yon.’ 
“ ' You have forgotten my good black silk, Mr. 
Smith. I’m so sorry you brought this home, 
instead of a substantial roll of calico or flannel 
-o make school-dresses for the children. There’s 
that poor, leaky cistern too, that gets worse 
every washing-day, and I’d like to know where 
the money can be obtained to have it repaired 5” 
Soon after we sold the beautiful dress to a lady 
whose daughter fancied it, to be worn at her 
wedding.’ 
“Summer came, and Mrs. Smith talked of 
buying a new bonnet. Passing along the streets, 
I saw a gay one in a shop window, and at once 
stepped in and purchased it. True, it cost more 
than I expected; but * Madame ’ soothed me by 
saying, ‘It was an exquisite article and would 
please the most fastidious lady.’ I took it 
home; but it did not suit Mrs. Smith at all. 
She declared she could have bought five suitable 
bonnets for tbe price paid for this medley of 
French flowers, laces and ribbons. Soon after 
she called on 1 Madame,’ and exchanged the * ex¬ 
quisite article’ for a suitable bonnet for herself 
and a hat for each child besides. 
“ But this did not cure me of trafficking In dry 
goods. Several months alter the bonnet affair I 
happened to go into an auction-room in town, 
just aa the auctioneer was extolling the merits 
of a graml shawl. Mrs. Smith thought of pur¬ 
chasing a cloak ; and the idea struck me that a 
6hawl would be just the thing for her, at it 
would not get out of fashion as soon as a cloak. 
The auctioneer was llueut with expressions re¬ 
specting tbe value of the article. ‘Elegant 
cashmere shawl! Just agoing! Going! Who 
says thirty-six dollars for this magnificent 
shawl ? ’ I named that amount, when a foreigner 
called out, ‘I gif dirty-six dollar and one-half 
for him!’ ‘Thirty-seven,’ cried a man at the 
door. I shouted, ‘Thirty-eight.’ My oppo¬ 
nent said, ‘Thirty-nine,’ after which wc con¬ 
tested it hotly until It, was suddenly knocked 
off to me for forty-live dollars. On paying for 
it, I remembered ft grocer’s bill, due that day, 
which I designed paying with that very money. 
Well, I called on the grocer, made an apology 
for my delinquency, and went home. The ‘ele¬ 
gant cashmere’ was duly handed to Mrs. Smith, 
who glanced vexatious))’ at it, exelaimiug, * How 
provoking you arc, Mr. Smith! Why, broch<5 
shawls of this style were old-fashioned twenty 
years ago!' However, Bhe wore it heroically. 
One day a neighbor visited us, whose handsome, 
comfortable cloak quickly attracted ray wife’s 
attention. The lady paid fifteen dollars for the 
materials, and made it herself. That Mrs. Smith 
admired it was evident, although she was silent. 
Perhaps the thought that her shawl cost the 
price of three such cloaks was uppermost in her 
mind. It certainly was In mine, and the lesson 
was a salutary one. Since then I have let such 
speculations entirely alone. Mrs, Smith attends 
to the purchase of all dry goods necessary for 
the family, and proves to be perfectly competent 
for the bisk. Now, neighbor Berwick, please 
hand the money you thought of spending for 
that silk to Mrs. Berwick, and it will lend an 
additional charm to the joy of your return. I 
have missed you from the neighborhood, and 
gladly welcome you back to the noble pursuit of 
agriculture. The experience of the past few 
years has convinced me of the utility of keeping 
an exact account of my income and my expendi¬ 
tures each year, and 1 find myself steadily get¬ 
ting ahead. Yes, Berwick, yon and I can 
flourish on our farms if we mind our own busi¬ 
ness. Oil speculations are too slippery for men 
of our calibre. But here we are at your house. 
Good-day, sir! Get up, Lightfoot! ” m. n. 
A FEW WORDS ON SQUEEZING. 
While the ladies arc growing very sensible 
indeed in the matter of dress, so far as boots, 
balmoral skirts, warm stockings and high-necked 
dresses are concerned, they arc degenerating in 
a great many other matters quite as important. 
The corset Is not a necessary part of a woman’s 
wardrobe, and alas, when a woman begins to 
wear corsets she will wear them too small, and 
will tng at the laces until her breath becomes 
short aud she feels it necessary to abstain from 
everything like a comfortable meal. We say 
nothing against a well shaped corset, worn 
loosely, but there lies the difficulty. A loose 
corset injures the appearance instead of im¬ 
proving it, and people wear corsets that they 
may have small waists. All we can say is, don’t 
squeeze, whatever you do. You may have a 
small waist, but you are exposing yourself to a 
dozen misfortunes which are as bad as a large 
waist. First, you’ll surely have dyspepsia and 
grow yellow and cross and unhappy; secondly, 
your hands will grow red; thirdly, your nose; 
fourthly, you will be unable to walk a mile at 
once; fifthly, dinner will be a misery ; sixthly, 
your shoulder blades will increase in size and 
altitude; seventhly, your eyes will grow weak ; 
eighthly, you will break down at thirty or there¬ 
abouts, and be ft sickly old woman from that 
time forth. If these truths do not frighten 
women from tight corsets, perhaps the infor¬ 
mation that gentlemen generally do uot admire 
what dressmakers call a “pretty figure,” so 
much as a natural one, may have some influ¬ 
ence. 
A Novel Wedding.— A lady in one of our 
Vermont towns, says the Bellows Falls Times, a 
lew' days ago, wishing to get married, and to 
have people know that she wan married , invited 
the people to her father’s house to an evening 
prayer meeting, Its the custom was in their 
neighborhood, and gave the parson an invitation 
and “the hint.” He arrived at tbe hour ap¬ 
pointed and found some seventy or more persons 
there assembled, no one knowing what was to 
take place. He chose to address his congrega¬ 
tion upon the marriage at Cana, m Galilee. Hav¬ 
ing finished his discourse the said lady and her 
affianced arose to their feet without any “blus¬ 
ter,” but among many bewildered countenances, 
and said amen. Taking his hat he left them 
wondering, aud for aught I know they are won¬ 
dering yet. 
-- 
A New Fashion in Gloves. — A Baris corres¬ 
pondent writes that the latest fashion for ladies 
in that city is “ to wear dog skin gloves, and to 
wear them till—to use a Gypsy-likc, perhaps, 
but still expressive simile — they are ‘as black 
as a tinker’s pot.’ The more like they arc to 
that engine of the batlene dt cuisine of the do¬ 
mestic repairer the more they are admired. At 
last, then, ces petttes dames have found a cheap 
fashion; but no, perhaps they will buy up line 
old dry and dirty gloves at a fancy price. How¬ 
ever, nobody now' enters a certain society with 
Clean hands if they wish to be that which an 
echo from the continent calls *chique 
A Mrs. White is “ local ” of the Stark Coun¬ 
ty (Mo.) News. The paper is said to be very i 
gossippy. i 
TO CONTRIBUTORS. 
The following contributions are' respectfully de¬ 
clined for the reasons annexed: — “ Bemis Heights,” 
W. D. E. Re-model your second and fifth stanzas. 
Other article accepted.-“Thoo art gone and left 
me Weeping,” M. E. Not specific enough to interest 
-Hangers to its subject. Other accepted.-“The 
Heroes of America,” S. E. V. Take a subject cm 
which it is not impossible to say anything new. Your 
style is good.-“Stray Thinking,” E. Not new. 
-“Memory of tbe Dead,” E. Try a newer sub¬ 
ject; Irving has left nothing to be written on that 
one.-“Scandal on the Brain." Not new.-Prob¬ 
lem, A. M. W. The troth of your proposition de¬ 
pends on the form of the shot, of which yon say 
nothing.-“ The Fleetness of Time,” A. W. Not 
new.-“ Astronomical Questions," J. M. 8. They 
are not astronomical.-Riddle, H. E. E. Of your 
three answers, the first is incorrect and the second 
irreverent.-“A Partner Wanted,” 8. Subject 
exhausted, 
4i|oice ^Riscfllaun. 
GOOD NIGHT. 
FROM THE GERMAN OF KOBKNEE, BY A. 0. KENDRICK. 
Good night ! 
Let it on the weary light I 
Now the day in silence closes. 
Labor's toil-worn frame reposes. 
Till awakes the morning light. 
-Good night! 
Go to rest I 
Weary eyes in sleep be prest. 
Silence on the wide streets fulleth, 
Save where lone the watchman calleth: 
Whispers night to each worn breast, 
Go to rest! 
Sweetly sleep i 
Heavenly dews your senses steep 1 
Feels yonr breast Jove's bitter pleasures, 
Let the form your bosom treasures 
Brightly imaged round you sweep. 
Sweetly sleep) 
So good night I 
Slumber till the daylight, breaketh; 
Slumber till another morrow 
Brings another weight of sorrow. 
Fear ye not—your Fathor waketh! 
So good night! 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
OOTJU’TKY SKETCHES. 
NUMBER ONE. 
Out in the country, where the winter wind 
drifts the snow all up around us, where the din 
and hurry and bustle of the great world never 
come near enough to disturb the quietness, 
where away out of our windows slope wide 
views of monotonous snow-clad meadows, and 
the grey net-work of forest boughs seems woven 
against the horizon— 
Somebody peers over my shoulder and says: 
“Ah, what a dismal picture you are painting. 
City people already have terrible ideas of how 
lonesome it is in the country; and I thought 
you were going to give them a different view 
of it.” 
“ Well, well, if you will only wait aud not be 
in such a hurry. I’in only painting the back¬ 
ground. Paiuters don’t make their back-grounds 
bright crimson, or yellow, do they? Just sit 
down aud go on with your knittiug, please, aud 
when it’s done you may see it aud pass criticism 
on it to your heart’6 content—or discontent, per¬ 
haps.” 
Of the farm-houses scattered here and there, 
in valley or on hillside, each one forms a little 
nucleus around which cluster the hopes aud 
fears of those hearts that call it home. How 
little those hearts may remain, or how great and 
deep and wide the developing finger of Time 
may mould them, who can truly prophesy ? 
The broad fields of the couutry hold rich treas¬ 
ures ol‘ beauty and fragrance and fruitage, in the 
glad summer. But oh ! does it repay the long, 
dreary dearth of the winter?—for then the coun¬ 
try is lonely and desolate, always, everywhere. 
Is it? Just peep into our kitchen and sec. I’ve 
finished my back-ground, now I’ll sketch the pic¬ 
ture. Yon see our family room is the kitchen; 
for when it was built we found we could have two 
small, tuckcd-up rooms, or one great one; and 
all but Jane voted for the great one. So it was 
carried lor one room. I think that Jane has 
held a little ill-will ever since, because 6he could 
not be the majority. 
First in the group are the father aud mother. 
He is a great hale and hearty tuau of fifty, his 
dark hair, now flecked with silver threads, soft, 
brown eyes, full of genial kindliness, with a lit¬ 
tle sly twinkle settling itself down in their cor¬ 
ners, telling of the sparkling vein of mirthful- 
ness indigenous to his nature. He was just such 
a man ns one would apply to in time of trouble 
or perplexity, and not l ie afraid of his straight¬ 
ening himself up to the resemblance of an ice¬ 
berg. His wife was a blue-eyed, auburn-haired 
woman, with order the first natural principle of 
her existence. A fair, good woman was she, 
not more selfish than ordinary, not over gen¬ 
erous. 
Next come the young folks of the group. 
Robert, the eldest, is somewat alter the type 
of his mother, hut his nature is v, idcr, stronger 
and more generous. He Lives from home, com¬ 
ing in to join the home circle only late on Satur¬ 
day'. Mary, or “Mollib,” the oldest girl, is 
a tall, fine-faced brunette, rather stately in her 
ways, too apt to rule if she can, but with a true 
heart full of native goodness. Susan is dark¬ 
eyed, too, aud bears the reputation at home of 
bciug the family “ blue.” Jane is pretty, the 
fairest one of the sisters in features, a trifle vain, 
may be, and with ft brain as full of fanciful air- 
castles as any one I know. Albert, or “ Bert,” 
is the nine-year old baby, full of fun and go ahead, 
a good child for one who is the pet of the family. 
And then there lives with them a cripple cousin, 
who seems to have gained in the head what he 
has lost in the feet. He is Rufus. And then 
myself, who belong there because I want to and 
am wanted, and not by any tie of kinship. The 
lamp is on the table, father reading the paper, 
mother mending socks, Mollib knitting soft, 
bright meshes out of crimson wool, Susan read¬ 
ing history, Jane putting up her hair a la crimp, 
and Robert helping Bert mend his broken sled. 
After awhile Moi.lie stops her netting and comes 
around to talk with Robert, and as they talk ont 
loud I suppose wc may listen. 
Jtdbtrrt— I’ve had some serious thoughts lately, 
Mollib, and the result of them is I have con¬ 
cluded to give np going to college, and buy 
John Anson's farm, and make a good fanner. 
I know some people will laugh, and I see your 
eyes are full of disapproving wonder; but I think 
it will be all for the best in the end, Mollie. 
MoIUa —Why, Robert, surely that is new and 
strange. I thought you had reckoned so ranch 
on going, and had worked so hard to earn 
enough to go. 
Robert —Yes, it’s true. I had made reckon on 
going to college. I would like to now; but, all 
tilings considered, will it be best? After I go 
all through the depths and mysteries, and come 
out penniless, shall I have the talent for a pro¬ 
fessional man? It is doubtful if I could make 
anything but n very ordinary one, at best. As ; 
the world J* full of just finch ones now, waiting, 
striving for, grasping, a mere pittance, illy fit¬ 
ting the positions they occnpy, like pigmies in 
giants’ garb. 1 can never enter that field and 
gain the victory, honestly, conscientiously ; and 
I will never gain it otherwise, I know the esti¬ 
mation in which farming is held hy many, some 
of them beggar- in the professions, but I think 
all just and great minds hold it a high and hon¬ 
orable calling. In fact, I would not blame sen¬ 
sible men for condemning such farming aa we 
witness, year after year, all about us. The 
broad, fertile acres blush for the ignorance and 
shiftlessncss of their owners. 
Mollie —Well, if you are thus determined, I 
suppose wc shall have to endure you for a neigh¬ 
bor, even if you eclipse us all with your model 
fanning. 
Father —For my part, I think Robert’s choice 
is sensible. 
Mother —Yes, 1 suppose we must all try to 
think so, though I cannot help reflecting he 
would have graced some profession much bet¬ 
ter than he will believe. 
Susan —looking up from her book—O Robert, 
I had made such great calculation upon coming 
in town to see you, and having so many new 
hooks to read; and now that will all be spoiled. 
Jane —Brother Bob, I’ll tell yon what, I gueas 
you will get tired of jilowing, and sowing, and 
reaping and mowing, and I don’t believe you 
will make any better farmer than old ’Squire 
Grubb, you poke so much fun at. Be nothing 
but a farmer, Boa ? 1 declare it’s a shame. 
Bert —I’m real glad, brother Bob, you arc to 
be a farmer. I’ll come to be your boy every 
summer, if you’ll only help fix ray sled, aud 
help me in arithmetic winters. Yes I will, sure 
and true. 
And Rufus said, “ Be a noble, upright man, 
Robert, and God will bless you, if your calling 
be never 60 humble in the estimation of the 
world. 
And then we all said good night until we met 
again. 
As I was going up stairs, somebody said he 
guessed my canvas was not large enough to 
hold all of my picture; I had put in too many 
figures. Well, maybe I’ll paint them again on 
a new canvas, and have another scene some¬ 
time. Erie. 
Home, Feb. 5, 1867. 
A LUCID DIRECTION. 
The late Dr. Henry Ware, when once asked 
by a parent to draw up a Bet of rules for the gov¬ 
ernment of children, replied by an anecdote : 
“Dr. Hitchcock,” he said, “was settled in 
Sandwich ; and when lie made his first exchange 
with the Plymouth minister, he must needs pass 
through the Plymouth Woods —a nine miles’ 
wilderness, where the travelers almost always 
got lost, and frequently came out at the point 
they started from. Dr. H., on entering this 
much dreaded labyrinth, met an old woman, and 
asked her to give him some directions for get¬ 
ting through the woods so as to fetch up at Ply¬ 
mouth rather than Sandwich. 
“ ‘Certainly,* she said, ‘I will tell you all about 
it, with the greatest pleasure. You will just 
keep right on till you get some ways into the 
woods, and you will come to a place where sev¬ 
eral roads branch off. Then you niu-t stop and 
consider, and take the- one that *eem$ to you most 
likely to bring you out right.” 
“He did so, and came out right.” Dr. Ware 
added, “I have followed the worthy and sensible 
old lady’s advice in bringing up my children, 
do not think anybody can do better; at any rate, 
I cannot.” Good common sense, doubtless, is 
often better than all set rules; but the thing is 
to have it. 
-- - — ’ ■ 
Being Surety. —If any desire thee to be his 
surety, give him a part of what thou hast to 
spare; if he press thee further, he is not thy 
friend at all, for friendship rather choosetli harm 
to itself than ofi’ercth it. If thou be bound for a 
stranger thou art a foo]; if lor a merchant, thou 
putteet thy estate to learn to swim; if for a law¬ 
yer, ho will find an evasion by a syllable or word 
to abuse thee; if for a poor man, thou must pay 
it thyself; if for a rich man, he needs it not; 
therefore from suretyship, as from a man-slayer 
or enchanter, bless thyself; for the best profit 
and return will be this—that if thou force him 
for whom thou art bound to pay, he. will become 
thy enemy; if thou choose to pay it thyself, thou 
wilt become a beggar. 
SaMiafli Uca&int). 
PEACE-BE STILL! 
BY MP.S. M. e. B. DANA SHINDLEB. 
Once upon the heaving ocean, 
Rode a bark at evening tide, 
While the waves, in wild commotio*. 
Dashed against the vessel’s side. 
Jesus, sleeping on a pillow. 
Heeded not the raging billow; 
While the winds were all abroad. 
Calmly slept the eon of God. 
In that dark and etormy hour, 
Fcarfnl ones awaked their Lord, 
Jesus, by hi# sovereign power. 
Calmed the tempest with a word, 
On life's dart and restless ocean, 
Mid the billow's mild commotion. 
Trembling eoul, your Lord is there; 
He will make you still his care. 
Jesus knows your silent weeping, 
When before his throne you bow; 
Never, never Is ho sleeping. 
Where he reigns in glory now. 
If the world is dark before thee, 
If the billows, rolling o’er thee, 
All thy soul with terror fill,— 
Hear him saying—“Peace I be still I” 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
LIFE. 
Life is ours and we must use it; our Maker’s 
gift we dare not east away, and though our feet 
arc weary and our timid hearts are 60 rcly tried 
hy the perils of the thorny road, still wc must 
journey on—on to the haven of eternal rest, oc 
on to the endless death. 
The hopes that sustained us in youth break, 
as broke the bubbles from our childhood's pipe; 
the aspirations of our riper years depart as sud¬ 
denly; and every earthly thing is doomed to 
decay. We may quarrel if we will, and stand 
before the world as harsh and cynical; we may 
think how short our fleshly pleasures, and fret 
and fume the years away, because forsooth we 
must adapt ourselves to the world, and cannot 
adapt the world to us. Our duty to God and to 
ourselves stands clearly ont before us, and why 
evade the burden y What will all our diacoutent 
avail ? It will not lighten the wearying weight 
upon our shrinking shoulders, but add instead 
its own heavy load. 
Be thoughtfhl; it is the power of thought 
that raises man above the beasts of the field, 
makes him the heir of immortality and heaven, 
or sinks him to the depths of infamy and hell. 
To whom much is given, of iiiin much shall be 
demanded. Think how great a charge is the 
care of an immortal soul. To but one master 
is our allegiance given. “ Whom serve we in 
this life we serve in that whieh is to come,” 
and all must know whose canse they have 
espoused. 
Be true—true to yourself and true unto your 
God. Deal not falsely with your own heart, but 
study well its darkest depths. Be true to the 
Christ who died that you might live, true to 
the hope He won for your sin freighted soul. 
The faculties God gave to you, ubc them uot 
for the advancement of selfish ends nor to ap¬ 
pease the lust for gold, which is but dross to 
purchase earthly pleasures that fade away. God 
is true and He alone is steadfast. Sully not 
you immortal soul with the corruption of un¬ 
holy thoughts, nor yield your life to the vile 
work of the evil ouc. 
Be brave; trial may compass all your way, it 
may be hard to stand and fight the evils that 
assail, but when has not evil tried to withstand 
the good? When has man found the way of 
duty easy? Here are the battles fought, further 
on is the victor crowned, crowned not with 
the laurels of transient glory, but with the 
starry crown that never fades. 
Be patient; “ the web of our life is of a min¬ 
gled yarn,” and in the loom of time it is laid 
to a pattern that mau does not &ee, Sorrow 
and joy, the heating heart weaveth swiftly in, 
as God sees that it is needed; and when at last 
the work of patience is complete, aud the weav¬ 
ing is all done, in heaven’s clearer light we all 
shall see the finished beauty that the changing 
colors wrought. Anna Parker. 
PROFANITY. 
The whole argument on the subject of pro¬ 
fanity is summed up thus briefly by Prof. D. T. 
Ames, in his recent New Y ear’s address to the 
students of Syracuse Mercantile College: — “Of 
all bad habits that cau attach themselves to man, 
swearing,—merely from a business point of view, 
appears to me to be most foolish and inexcusa¬ 
ble. It is a habit from which there is no possible 
good, but always probable evil. The tippler, in 
his mirth, finds an apology; the thief steals for 
gain; the gambler plays to win; the murderer, 
in common with all other criminals, finds some 
excuse to mitigate his guilt, but who ever heard 
a man even attempt a justification or excuse for 
profanity? Unlike kindred bad habits, it is 
wicked and useless without an apology; it injures 
you, without recompense, even in the eyes ot 
your owu profane associates, while all moral and 
respectable people condemn and despise you. 
Why, then, swear?” 
-+-»-♦ - - 
“I am a Missionary, Too.” —It was said 
when the late Commodore Foote was in Siam, 
lie had, upon one occasion, the King on board 
his vessel as a guest. Like a Christian man, as 
he was { he did not hesitate in the royal presence 
to ask a blessing, as the guests took their places 
at the table. 
“ Why, that is just as the missionaries do.” 
“Yes,” answered the heroic sailor; “and I 
am a missionary, too.” 
There is a most important lesson of Christian 
devotion and consistency in such an example. 
