in, lest it might soften and melt his frozen heart. 
Well, “God made him, so we will let him pass 
for a man.” 
While we have been gazing, Broadway has re¬ 
ceded wondrously fast. Lol we find ourselves 
face to face with the ever too enticing water—so 
on to a small steamer and off for atrip down the 
Bay. The breeze which we thought so warm 
and epring like on land seems to have changed 
In an amazing degree. We almost fancy we have 
been suddenly transported to the North Polo. 
But we came for pleasure; so, whatever our 
thoughts arc respecting the climate, we'll not 
breathe them. Moreover, we do enjoy it as we 
rush along through the waves, now past Gov¬ 
ernor’s Island, where the grim old fort, terrible 
we think more in namo than in appearance, 
frowns upon us; past Gibbet Island, and so 
along tbe Jersey shore stretching on one side 
am) the Long Island on the other. Then hero 
wc find Staten Island with its hills, summer re¬ 
treats, rural villages, and other beauties, and 
now along its shore wc ride, when lo! we arc 
almost in the midst of forts. To our lefb—dark, 
desolate, dreary, standing solitary, the waves 
rolling and dashing against it on all sides—we re¬ 
cognize Fort Lafayette; a little further, still to 
the left, standing out defiantly on Long Island, 
Fort Hamilton; to the right, directly opposite 
on Staten Island, wo find Fort Richmond; on 
the hill just above, built in a Bemi-circle and 
covering Fort Richmond, we see Fort Tomp¬ 
kins—all solid stone structures, with their great, 
terrible guns guarding well the entrance to New 
York Harbor. But they have somewhat lost 
their interest within the past two years. 
Now we have changed our course and are 
“homeward bound.” The Bay seems full of 
sailing cruft., all outward bound. The sun, 
shining upon the water, throws the reflection 
upon their sails and gives to them that strange 
but beautiful tint so peculiar to the sea; so that 
the ships seem part of the sea itself—great ocean 
birds, with tlielr wings spread, floating off to 
distant climes. 
A ride homo by sunset—glorious! None of 
your land, more particularly city, sunsets, where 
yon Iobc sight of the sun the moment St drops 
behind a house or tree. See bow it lights up the 
sky and the few clouds which hang around, not 
with a golden hue; no, no! we’ve heard of golden 
sunsets ever since we were a child, and although 
wc are ever ready to acknowledge their beauty, 
still it cannot vie with this. Here you sec every 
shade exquisitely bleoded, from the faintest tint 
of the rose pink to the deeper but not less beau¬ 
tiful crimson. Wc reverence, wc glorify, the art 
which, catching a thousand beauties of earth 
and sky and sea, places them upon canvas; but 
it can never reproduce this. 
Onward speeds our vessel, cutting the waves 
as they roll around it. Wc look down into the 
deep and wonder at its mysteries; we gaze 
where the sky and water meet and realize the 
beauties. The sun is sin king, sinking, slowly, 
gloriously — it throws its last ray across tbe 
waves, tbcu seems to sink Into the ocean and be 
buried there. But when the night shall have 
passed, it shall rise again from out the sea, at 
first casting only a faint line of light across tho 
water, but as it ascends, growing brighter and 
brighter, until it reaches the zenitb when it Bhall 
cast its glory ns far as its rays extend. So from 
out the troubled sea of blood arises our sun of 
peace, though faint at first, growing brighter 
and clearer and stronger, until it shall fill our 
whole land with its glory, and the nation, puri¬ 
fied and blessed, shall breathe forth a united 
Amen. 
We have reached the pier—we leave the calm 
of the sea behind us and enter once more tho 
bustle of the city. Another ride on Broadway, 
this time viewing it by gaslight, and we are 
“ home again ”—so au revoir ! v. 
New York, March, 1807. 
TO CONTRIBUTORS. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
ADULT INFANTS. 
The following contributions are respectfully de¬ 
clined, for the reasons annexed:—“Farmers,” W. W. 
The article, as yon say, was ‘hastily scribbled off," 
and for that very reason is not good enough for the 
Ritual. If yon have not time to write carefully, do 
not write at all.-" Acrostic,” P. Badly rhymed 
and badly worded.-“To My Darling in Heaven,” 
C. Snbjcct old and versification fanlty.-“Our 
Country and her Traitors," S. Political.-“Pro¬ 
spective,"8. G. Not new. Read Longfellow’s “Rainy 
Day." “Dawning" and “morning" would pass 
for a rhyme in Boston, bat not in any place whom the 
English language is spoken correctly.-“Mutability 
of Time" und “Parental Affection," M. II. Subjects 
exhausted.-“Night," B. C. Of your fosr stanzas 
the meaning of the first threo i6 precisely identical; 
each is very good, but renders the other two superflu¬ 
ous.-“The Old Paths uru Overgrown with Grass," 
M. J.N. Too diffuse and indistinct.-“TbcTnje 
Meaning of Woman’s Suffrage," M. M. Your article 
is well enough in itself, though some of it is not new 
by any means; but the Rural baB already given 
space to a free and pretty full discussion of the sub¬ 
ject. 
Aunt Rachel had been for some time busily 
engaged reading. All at once sho laid the paper 
on her lap, raised her spectacle* to the top of 
her snowy cap-frill, and, crossing her hand* most 
emphatically, said, “ Well i Somebody has had 
her say about babies, and I may as well have 
mine. But it Is not the little, worrying, help¬ 
less, crying things I’m going to speak against— 
though I was never so fond of them—hut about 
the great, grown-up babies, who go drawling 
round, trailing their long dresses about the 
house, with faces as expressionless as ‘Simple 
Simon's.’ One would hardly think there was 
life enough about them to ache; but they are 
always complaining, always miserable—which is 
true in one sense, miserable specimens ofwomuu- 
kind. They talk so wbiningly, are so affected, 
so helpless, it gives mo the flare-ups to see ’em 
round. 
“ I wo6 at brother Ben’s last summer when 
Tom came home with his wife for a visit. Her 
father was pretty well off; and she'd come up 
just as she was a mind to, had always been 
waited on, T guess; for of all the helpless creat¬ 
ures, I might say laziest—it's nothing else—I 
never see ! It going to walk or ride, Tom must 
fold the wrappings about her, or pull on the 
rubbers of the helpless Lilt, ilcr name would 
suggest fairness and frailty; but she was merely 
a healthy, hearty infant; and when 1 saw him 
doing it I felt like pushing him over. Then it 
was 1 Tommy, dear, bring me this,’ and 1 Dear 
Tommy, bring me that;’ and ho seemed to think 
it all right, and may-be always will, if he can 
support her in that way. For some time sister 
Betsey put herself out in a hundred ways to 
wait upon her, while she lounged round, pre¬ 
tending to make tatting a little, embroider a lit¬ 
tle, and do a good deal of nothing at all. 
“ One day Betsey was sick and sftid to me, 
‘ Yon’ll see that Lily’s room is all right—will 
you ?’ I nodded. Long after noon 1 went up, 
and there was the bed just as she left it in the 
morning. Thinks I, ‘ You’ll make it yourself, or 
sleep lu it as it Is ; but I’ll set you at) example.’ 
So I raised the window, threw off the clothes 
and laid the bed all nicely, ready to put them on 
again, and went down. Next day she left it ju6t 
ns usual; and I thought to myself, ‘ The clothes 
won’t get taken off by me, if you sleep In it as 
it is till doomsday.’ Well, the next day she 
thought it about time to take, tbe hint, so just 
shook up her bed and raised the window in the 
inomiog, and when I saw her going np stairs in 
the course of the day, I said to her, ‘ If you want 
the broom and dust-pan, you’ll find them In the 
kitchen.’ She looked at me rather indignant, 
but went back und got them, and after that sho 
took care of her own room. Alter Betsey got 
well I told her what I duVnt do. She smiled, 
ami onid jluuvLo I’d UOUo * koo« 1 thing u-fl-or nil ” 
Bell Clinton. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker, 
WHAT THEN I” —A RESPONSE. 
Written for MooreV Rural New-Yorker. 
A FADED FLOWER. 
’Tib only a little faded flower 
Gathered in a shady bower; 
Bat ah! the one has gone to rest 
Who once won- it on her breast. 
Those dear hands are meekly crossed 
And many a winter’s ice and frost 
Have rested on that lonely grave. 
Be still, sad heart, why wildly rave ? 
Ah! this little flower is faded; 
And I am weary, worn and jaded. 
She has Joined the angel band 
In a brighter, happier land. 
Watkins N. Y. 1 
After the joys and songs, the ecenes of mirth, 
The shade, the sunshine and bright dreams of earth,- 
Ordy a conscious smart, an empty name, 
Only an aching heart, a weary frame. 
Only a ssd farewell, a silent bed 
Within the grave, with the for otten dead I 
Is this the whole of life, the end of man 7 
Ah no 1—death closes his brief mortal span. 
Bat faith looks through the clouds of gloomy night 
Which hang around the tomb, and sees tho light 
Of life immortal, by tbe gospel bron ht, 
A life with endless joys and pleasures fraught 
After a well-spent life on earth, is given 
A crown and an eternal home in heaven 1 
Cambria Parsonage, 6 March, 1867. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
WOMEN AND BOOKS. 
SABBATH SCHOOL BOOKS. 
Early chronicles relate that “a Countess of 
Anjou paid two hundred sheep ami five mea¬ 
sures each of rye, wheat und millet for a book 
of homilies.” Would wc be far wrong in assert¬ 
ing that not one of our modern belles would 
relinquish a single adornment, saying nothing of 
investing half her income, fora similar purpose? 
Borne people think a “Bible and cook-book” 
library enough for a woman; hut mankind gen¬ 
erally prefer tbe society of learned and accom¬ 
plished ladies, especially after the freshness and 
bloom of youth have passed. In the young, 
beauty is charm sufficient to enthrall half the 
world; but when the artless grace of the first 
twenty years, that golden age of love and ingen¬ 
uousness, has flown, then woman needs some¬ 
thing more to hold the affection she formerly 
inspired. 
Venus and the Graces deck only the young; 
Pallas Athene must he Invoked to make aged 
women attractive. The education of modem 
girls is suited only to their free, girlish days, 
when their mission is to please and adorn. 
Those soon pass; the music, poetry and accom¬ 
plishments of school days are neglected, and, 
since “ nature abhors a vacuum,” jewelry, feath¬ 
ers and fashion occupy the otherwise empty 
mind. When the maiden becomes a wife and 
mother, the great fault of her education is fully 
apparent; she has no resources within her own 
mind and soul; the culture she inis received was 
outward; drawing and music, were in her fingers 
— no deeper; reading was but proper pronun¬ 
ciation of words, a task to be done; outwardly 
she was charming, but bo little wfts she morally 
and intellectually benefitted by tbi6 education 
that slm yet retains the instincts of savage nature 
and adorns herself with beads, brass ornaments 
and feathers accordingly. 
It is because of this weluslvrt nuutde develop¬ 
ment that the women of to-day are so little for 
literature, do so little for Its encouragement, 
so rarely collect books or own libraries. A 
wealthy lady will pay for a camel’s-hair shawl, 
or a rich velvet dress, money sufficient to buy 
twenty elegant and precious volumes, priceless 
to her for the knowledge thoy could Impart. 
What hoards of mental wealth could not almost 
every woman accumulate by applying to the 
purchase of books the sums spent by her in 
plumes and laces that give no warmth, ribbons 
and buttons that fasten nothing, and long yards 
of trailing silks that clothe only the pavement! 
What noble pictures aud engravings might she 
not buy with her golden trinkets! 
Not that, we would have women eschew 
all ornaments and appear In man’s coarse fab¬ 
rics. No! delicate colors and soft textures 
belong by birthright to women, the flowers of 
the human race. Rich lace about the throat, and 
wrists adds new beauty to form and face; but to 
what purpose are great webs of lace, dangled and 
festooned round a dress, unless to evoke “ curses 
not loud but deep 11 from those who have the ill 
fortune to get entangled in the meshes? 
Yet all our ladies have not thus fallen into 
senseless imitation of Parisian follies. Surely, 
we have In our land ten thousands of pure- 
hearted women, who are only thoughtless, not 
heartless. They will listen to a friendly voice 
that tells them to retain that simplicity than 
which there is nothing more charming; expend 
their longings for beauty in earnest, loving study 
of flowers and pictures; collect, read and love 
the writings of the pure and gifted, rigidly 
eschewing those books which, under various 
forms, present false views of life, and, cultivated 
and truly refined, prove anew to the world 
“how better than line gold, more precious than 
rubies,” arc true women. Amilie Pettit. 
St. Louis, Mo., 1867. 
The art of interesting children and instructing 
them at the same time, is beginning to be under¬ 
stood. Those who can talk to children or write 
for them acceptably are still few; bat the sense¬ 
less nursery tales of giants, witches and fairies, 
and the equally senseless because uninteresting 
and ineffective abstract homilies, have had their 
day. For every-day reading the children's mag¬ 
azines that have recently been started and prove 
so successful, undoubtedly come pretty near the 
correct idea. 
But unless Sabbath Bchool libraries have 
greatly changed in character since the writer of 
this was a boy, a corresponding reform is needed 
there. We still remember wilh pain the disap¬ 
pointment we suffered when we first gained 
access to one. From the infant class corner we 
had looked longingly at the loaded shelves in 
the farther end of the room, envying the older 
pupils who were permitted to “draw" thorn, 
envying even the librarian who could read merely 
the titles as they passed through his hands. Our 
imagination filled them with all sorts of dolight- 
fuL stories, and we were sure there could be no 
end to the wisdom of their teachings and the 
beauty that shone from their pictured pages. 
In due course wo graduated from the infant 
corner and were placed in a class with seven 
other boys. Just before the close of the session 
a package of eight books was handed to the 
teacher, who passed It to one of the class. He 
quickly selected one and passed It to the next. 
The next two each took one. The other four 
looked at the remaining books and all “guessed 
they wouldn’t take any to-day.” They came to 
us last. We looked over the five titles — they 
were five “ memoirs.” Without the remotest 
idea what a “memoir” was, but supposing it 
was all right, we took ono at random. Proba¬ 
bly not one in a hundred of our readers nwd be 
told that it turned out to be a biography of tho 
Rev. Mr. Somebody or other, a very good and 
pious man, but in whose, life not a single event 
had occurred that could interest a boy. There¬ 
after we were as wise as onr classmates, and 
politely declined taking any more “memoirs,” 
except when the teacher thrust them upon us 
with the assn ranee that they were “ very good,” 
an assertion which, of course, we could not flatly 
contradict, though we did not believe it. We 
felt an intense interest in “Slim Jack, the Cir¬ 
cus Boy,” and the lesson of his sad fate was 
probably not lost upon us; but though we com¬ 
prehended just as clearly the moral of the reli¬ 
gious life of Rev. John Jones or his devoted 
wife, we found nothing entertaining in a story 
utterly devoid of incident, and could not read it 
even from a Bense of duty. 
If this article should fall under the eye of any 
one whose duty it is to Belect books for a Sab¬ 
bath school library, wc hope he will bear in mind 
that children must be interested before they can 
be instructed. No matter bow important tbe 
truths presented to them, if they are not in an 
attractive form they will be utterly unheeded by 
the majority if not by all. If you are at a loss 
to know what will interest them, one thing at 
least you may bear in mind and be very certain 
there are no exceptions to it, that they do not 
care for “memoirs.” 
TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN 
BY JOHN LEYDEN, 
Slave of tbe dark and dirty mine, 
What vanity has brought thee here ? 
How can I love to see thee shine 
So bright, whom I have bought so dear f 
Tho lent ropes flapping lone I hear 
For twilight converse, arm In arm; . 
The jaokulV shriek bursts on mine ear 
When mirth and music wont to charm. 
By Cherical’8 dark wandering streams, 
Where cane-tufts Bliadow all the wild. 
Sweet visions haunt iny waking dreams 
Or Toviot loved, chill, still and mild. 
Or castled rocks stupendous piled 
By Esk or Eden’s classic wave 
Where loves of youth and friendship smiled, 
Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave! 
Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade! 
The perished bliss of youth’s first prime, 
That once so bright on fancy played, 
Revives no more in after time. 
Far from my sacred natal clime, 
I haste to au untimely grave; 
Tho daring thoughts that soar sublime 
Are sunk in ocean’s southern wave. 
Slave of tho mine, thy yellow light 
Gleams baleful on the tomb-fire drear— 
A gentle vision comes by night 
My lonely widowed heart to ebeer; 
Her eyes are dim with many a tear, 
That once were guiding stars to mine; 
Her fond heart throbs with many a fear !— 
I cannot hear to see thee shine. 
J^or thee, for thee, vlleecllow slave, 
i ion a neari mm iv.f d mu true i 
I crossed the tedious ocean wave, 
To roam in climes unkind and new; 
The cold wind of tin* stranger blew 
Chill on my withered heart; the grave, 
Dark und untimely, met my view— 
And all lor thee, vile yellow elavc! 
Ha I com’st thou now so late to mock 
A wanderer’s banished heart forlorn, 
Now that his frame tbe lightning shock 
Of sun-rayB tipt with death has borne? 
From love, from friendship, country, torn, 
To memory’s fond regrets the prey, 
Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn I 
Go mix thee with thy kindred clay! 
* A young Ncotchmnn. a linguist and antiquary, who 
died In India In 1800, at the age of ttilrty-one. 
A PARIS WEDDING INCIDENT 
Tile other day a wedding took place at the 
Madeleine Church, between a very noble gentle¬ 
man and lady, and among the crowd that gath¬ 
ered outside to sec the splendid bridal party was 
a miserable beggar about twelve years old. 
Now, in Paris every one who baa not something 
to sell is carried off to a police house —11 they 
stop in the streets as this one did — and accord¬ 
ingly an officer was just asking her if she had 
anything to dispose of, aud the poor thing was 
trembling in every limb for fear of imprison¬ 
ment, when a sweet little girl, a sister of the 
bride, happened to overhear the policeman as 
she passed by, and to save the ragged offender, 
she quickly placed in her hand a superb bouquet 
she wa» carrying, and auswering for her said, 
“ Yes, she has these flowers, but she asks too 
much and I canuot buy them.” As she turned 
to go on, an old gentleman, who saw aud under¬ 
stood it all, stepped forward and, puttiug a gold 
piece in the poor child’s palm, remarked, “I will 
give twenty francs for it,” and presented it t.o 
the amiable little angel whose goodness had been 
more fragrant and beautiful than the choicest 
blossom that ever graced a garden. 
Written for Moorc'B Rural New-Yorker 
JOTTINGS IN TOWN. 
What ! Spring really here ? We almost fancy 
it is, the snn shines so cheerily, everything 
seems so warm and bright. To bo sore, the 
wind as it greets us has a sharp, cold touch; hut 
we try to persuade ourselves it is only tho last 
farewell breath of Winter, and that this day, so 
gloriously bright, is but a lorerunner of tho 
greater glory nud brightness w hich is to come. 
So, repeating the words, “Wisely improve the 
present; it is tldnc,"^-applying it to ourselves, 
by leaving off the “wisely” perhaps, we are 
away lor a day’s enjoyment. A few steps—wo’ro 
in a stage bound down Broadway, that world of 
itself, where the motley crowd surges up and 
down; 60 many Apparently treading the same 
path, aud yet just so many distinct and individ¬ 
ual lives. 
Among this crowd of the grave, gay, careless 
and careworn, you may mark the bright, stead¬ 
fast eye which bespeaks the earnest soul, or the 
brilliant, flashing one, gazing into the dim dis¬ 
tance, where it beholds a jeweled crown which 
Fame is holding. Here, too, are the cold and 
self-reliant. Tho re walks one — the rush, hurry 
and strife have no effect on him—he saunters 
leisurely alongjglorying in his wealth and fame, 
lie hat obtained these, but in doing so has sacri¬ 
ficed his principle and integrity. Too many gain 
fame by burteri.ig for it all their soul’s nobleness 
and truthfulness. See this child darting in and 
out among the crowd, her hands full of violets, 
blue violets. God bless her for bringing flowers 
here! “ Please buy my violets, spring violets.” 
Were we only walking, we would certainly treat 
ourselves to some; for with those in our hands 
WIT AND WISDOM, 
A Sinking Fund — The Hoosac TunueL 
Railway “jams" are anything but preserves. 
Too many poets mistake aspiration for inspi¬ 
ration. 
How much does a fool weigh generally ? A 
simple-ton. 
What is better than a promising young man? 
A paying one. 
Care for what you say, or what you say will 
make you care. 
A reoular life is the best philosophy; a.pure 
conscience the best law. 
A fool’s heart is in his tongue, but a wise 
man’s tongue is in his heart. 
Punch wants to know of what color is blind 
man’s buff? Invisible yellow, perhaps. 
Halifax papers advertise “ Pick-me-up-Bit- 
ters.” The “ Knock-me-down ” sort are most 
in use. 
Can a man who has been fined by the magis¬ 
trates, again and again, be said to be a re-fined 
man? 
A Russian miser is noticed as having learned 
to bark, in. order to save the expense of keep¬ 
ing a watch dog. 
Why can persons occupied in canning fruit 
stow away more of it than any one else ? Be¬ 
cause they can. 
It is with a word as with an arrow; the arrow 
ouce loosed does not return to the bow, nor a 
word to the lips. 
Why i3 a conscientious baker like a ship with¬ 
out ballast? Because being short of weight he 
gives a roll over. 
It is not work that kills men, it is worry. It 
is not the revolution that destroys the machinery, 
but the friction. 
What proof is there that Robinson Crusoe 
found his island inhabited ? He saw a great 
swell pitching into a little cove. 
OUR SPICE BOX, 
An Irishman warns the people not to trust his 
wife because he never was married to her. 
Prentice says:—“The only poetry a hand¬ 
some girl appreciates is written with a mustache 
on her lips." 
A pert little girl boasted of one of her friends 
that her “ lather kept a carriage.” “Ah, but,” 
was tbe triumphant reply, “ my father drives an 
omnibus.” 
There are very affectionate female friends 
who kiss each other through two thicknesses 
of veil, and know how to hng each other with¬ 
out disarranging ft curl. 
Old Women. —There are three classes into 
which all the women past seventy that ever I 
knew were to he divided:—1, That dear old 
soul; 2, That old woman; 3, That old witch.— 
Coleridge. 
Hearts, the best card in the elumce-game of 
matrimony; sometimes overcome by diamonds 
and knaves; often won by tricks; and occasion¬ 
ally treated in a shuflling manner, aud then cut 
altogether. 
“My dear young lady,” exclaimed a gentle¬ 
man, “I am astonished ut your sentiments. Yon 
actually make me start—on my word you do.” 
“Well, sir,” replied the damsel, “I’ve been 
wanting to start you for the last hour.” 
“ Bridget, haw came you to burn the bread 
so ?" “ Och 1 an’ is it burned it is ? Sure, then, 
ma’am, but it’s no fault of mine, for wasn’t you 
after telling me- las’ t hing afore you wint out, a 
! large loaf must bake one hour, an’ I made three 
j large loaves, so I baked ’em three hours jist; for 
' what else should I do ?” 
T nn Lie. —It Is not calumny nor treachery that 
does the largest amount of mischief in the 
world; they are continually crushed, aud are 
only felt in being conquered. But it is the glis¬ 
tening and softly spoken lie, the amiable fallacy, 
the. patriotic lie of the historian, the provident 
lie of the politician, the zealous lie of tho parti¬ 
san, tbe merciful lie of the friend, and the care- 
le6B lie of each man himself, that easts that black 
mystery over humanity, through which any mau 
who pierces we thank as wc would thank one 
who dug a well in a desert, happy in that the 
thirst for truth still remains with us, even when 
we have wilfully left the fountains of it .—Buskin. 
Directions for a Lady’s Dress. — Let your 
ear-rings be attention, encircled by the pearls ol 
refinement. Let the diamonds of your uecklaec 
he truth, and the chain of Christianity. Let. 
your bracelets be charity, ornamented with the 
pearls of gentleness. Lot your bosoui-piu he 
modesty, set with compassion. Let your llnger- 
rings he affection, set with the diamonds of in¬ 
dustry. Let your girdle be simplicity, with ft 
tassel of good humor. Let your garb be virtue, 
your drapery politeness. Let your shoes be 
wisdom, secured with the buckles of persever¬ 
ance .—Troy Budget. 
Suffering. —Sorrow sobers us, and makes the 
mind genial; and in sorrow we love and trust 
our friends more tenderly, and the dead become 
dearer to us. And just as the stars shine out in 
the night, so there are blessed faces that look at 
us in our grief, though before their features 
were fading from onr recollection. Suffering! 
Let no man cheat it too much; because it is 
good for him, and it will help to make him sure 
of his being immortal. It is in sorrow, the 
night of the soul, that we see farthest, and know 
ourselves natives of Infinity aud sons aud daugh¬ 
ters of the Most High.— IJuthansy. 
Jenny Lind. —It is not true that Jenny Lind 
is singing in public to retrieve her fortune. She 
merely 6iuge for charitable purposes, and she 
emphatically denies the reports of her husband 
being either a spendthrift, a gambler, or a drunk¬ 
ard. She assures her friends, iu whatever part 
of the world they may be, that Mr. Goldschmidt 
is a good husband and a kind father. 
ourselves it was really spring. There! she has 
sold some. A kindly looking old gentleman 
takes a hunch, and as he drops the money into 
her hand drops also a kind word into her ear, 
and with it much gladness into her heart. 
Another passes—avaricious, selfish—you read 
it in his face. A little, pale, timid creature puts 
forth her hand. “ Please sir, a few pennies.” 
He mutters, “Begone!” buttons up his great 
coat, not only to keep the pennies from getting 
out, but also to koep the sunshine from getting 
A business that does not challenge the scru¬ 
tiny of God, and tho approval of a good con¬ 
science, cannot be consistent and proper. 
When tbe world crowds Christ out of the 
heart, duty becomes simply cold, irksome, hard 
duty, and the worship of God a bore. 
A Maine paper suggests that high schools 
where young ladies can bo taught household 
duties he established in that State, and F. W.—fit 
for wives—he inscribed in the degrees. 
