OUR WIVES AND DAUGHTERS. 
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•ia&iss’ Jb]iatslro«tl 
A FALSE STEP. * 
BT MR*. E. B. BROWNING. 
Sweet, thou hast trod on a heart, 
Pass! there’s a world frill of men; 
And women as fair a* thou art 
Must do such things now and then. 
Thou only hast stepped unawares, 
Malice, not one can impute; 
And why should a heart have been there, 
In the way of a fair woman's foot? 
It was not a stone that could trip, 
Nor was It n thorn that could rend ; 
Put up thy proud under-lip I 
’Twas merely the heart of a friend. 
And yet, perad venture, one day 
Thou, sitting alone at the glass, 
Remarking the bloom gone away, 
Where the smile and Its dlmplement was, 
And seeking around thee In vain 
From hundreds who flattered before, 
Such a word as, “Oh, not in the main 
Do I hold tbco loss precious, but more I" 
Thou’lt sigh, very like, on thy part, 
“Of all I have known or can know, 
I wish I had only that heart 
I trod upon ages ago!’’ 
W ORDER-W ORKERS. 
’Tie said that Time works wonders. So, in¬ 
deed, it. does; wonders without number, very 
many of which approach almost to miracles. 
Time doe# a great wonder business, and might 
do more, perhaps, If only there were more op¬ 
portunities (or it to improve. But it has a whole 
troup of co adjutors, wonder-working no less 
busily than itself. They are all around us. 
They keep pace with the years, and surprise us 
at every turn in life. Aud a hearty welcome to 
them all, say we! 
Workers of every class — masculine, feminine 
or neuter,—ought to receive a cordial greetiug 
from all man and woman kind. Wonder-work¬ 
ers are by no means to be excepted. We are not 
quite certain a* to the gender of all of them, hut 
as we arc not going to parse them it doesn’t 
matter. If masculine, they are good; if femi¬ 
nine, better; and, we say It not ungallantly, if 
neuter, best. There are occasions when a dis¬ 
tinction as to - ex is detrimental, or would be, 
and then the luck of sex is a happy thought. 
Home is neither him, nor her, but it — home. 
It is where the masculines and feminines are, 
but is in itself neither. 
Love is a great wonder-worker. It does its 
work with a subtleness that fairly charm? us. 
It builds more “castles in Spain” than could 
ever find people to 1111 them, and adonis, them 
with more laces and damask than looms ever 
wove. It rears more kingly palaces than ever 
princes dwelt in; jewels with rare diamonds 
more crowns than ever were placed upon regal 
brows; paints pictures beside which Hai-haK b’s 
arc as naught; carves beautiful figures more 
ravishing iu their perfection of loveliness than 
any Michael Angelo every released from their 
marble prisons; creates u new earth, where are 
only blossoms aud beauty; sets new stars in the 
heavens that are brighter than any astronomers 
know of; and is equal to Aladdin’s Lamp Itn 
proved by a first-clasp rellector! Why, we have 
known it to transform the plainest, homeliest 
person into one actually good-looking; and in¬ 
vest a character bad in the extreme, with a halo 
of nobleness almost unheard of. 
And Love,— thank Venus and all our other 
stars!— is neuter. What if Cupid is set forth as 
being masculine? That fact signifies no thing 
Whoever is rc.-ponsible for the existence of that 
personage is guilty of gross inconsistency, any 
way. Cupid is pictured with wings; aud who 
has ever had any intimate knowledge of mascu¬ 
line angels V 
Imagination is a wonder-worker which goes 
hand in hand with Love, aud does not a little of 
its most delicate aud charming work. It. puts 
in the tlnest touches, and the prettiest tints. 
Close beside them walks Hope; and Patience 
ought never to be far behind. Beside these 
there are an hundred others. We haven’t spaefi 
to speak of them. Look into your own living, 
and you can easily determine what has wrought 
out the greatest transformations there. 
But perhaps the greatest w onder-worker of all 
is that material one — that one which maybe 
seen, even felt—the Sun. There is no use in 
telling our country lady readers to arise early, 
on a clear morning, and see it as it produces its 
most gorgeous effects. They do not need such 
advice. There are some, however, who might 
be profited by it,, if they would. To tlnvc we 
would commeud it most earnestly. An early 
morning’s ramble, “ just, at the peep of day,” to 
some neighboring hill-top, whence you cftil look 
down upon a valley overhung by fog, will show 
you such wonder-working as will well-nigh en¬ 
chant, you. How well we recollect such a ram¬ 
ble, made on a crystalline September morn years 
ago; when we left the sleepprs in the valley, and 
climbed the “ Knob” alone, to see the sun rise. 
Wc had glorious payment for our pains—gold 
and silver sunbeams enough to enrich aud make 
glad a monastery! Below us stretched the 
valley, winding far away to the north and south, 
and covered, in all its extent, with a dense fog- 
bank. Directly the wonder-worker came up 
from behind the eastern range of mountains and 
shinnru-red its rajs into this dark, dreary mass, 
instantly transforming it into a lake of silver 
dazzling in its magnificence. 
There was some wonder-working done after 
the log lifted, and drif ted away In clouds against 
the horizon. There were domes, and minarets, 
and temples, all set in basso rdlvvo against the 
blue sky; and an army of “red-coats” marching 
away beyond them, w ith a movement as stately 
as though made to “the music of the spheres!” 
How many husbands treat their wives with 
constant and tender care for their happiness? 
How many who do not make it unpleasant for 
their wives to ask for money? How many who 
do not shrug their shoulders when a trip to the 
sea-shore and mountain is mentioned? How 
many who do not return from their business at 
night, cross and disagreeable? How many hus¬ 
bands who spring to their feet when there is an 
opportunity to (save a step for the wife? How 
many who seek daily and hourly to add to the 
happiness of the one whose happiness they have 
declared to be so essential to their own ? How 
many who do not begrudge the expense of serv¬ 
ants who think to take home the little appli¬ 
ances that can make a housewife’s work light, 
who plan for recreations and amusements, who 
praise the taste and care which make for them 
so attractive ft home ? How many husbands 
could pass the test of interrogatories like 
these ? 
The fact is, six men out of ten treat their 
wives most shamefully. Instead of that tender¬ 
ness for her which marked the first hurst of 
their interest, they are apt to be sour, petulant 
and imperious. They make little else than 
slaves of their wives. They compel them to 
ask for money; they foci they must frown down 
every* plan for pleasure, and, least of all, ever 
think to speak in praise of that which the wife 
has done for their happiness. The lives of most 
husbands are one long train of grumbling and 
fault-finding. They arc blind to the happiness 
of the one whose life Is to them a never-failing 
joy and inspiration. In many cases they are 
more courteous and pleasant to the wives of 
their neighbors than to their own. 
There never was a man who did too much for 
the happiness of woman, and never did a man 
devote his thought and care to the taste of a 
true woman who did not reap a rich harvest in 
return. It is because wives are alighted and neg¬ 
lected that, homes are so unpleasant. Women 
lose all heart and drag out sad and unpleasant 
lives. Men who promise all sorts of good things, 
turn upon their reiterated vows aud crush the 
hope and heart of a life that might be to them a 
never-failing source of joy .—New York Gazette. ' 
A KISSING PARTY, 
A good story is told of a young married man 
who, with his wife, helped to make up a large 
“ kissing party” soon ufter the happy event. 
Every girl was called on aud kissed except 
the beautiful young bride aforesaid, and no 
youngster present cared to kiss her in the pres¬ 
ence of her herculean husband, who stood re¬ 
garding the party with a sullen look of dissat¬ 
isfaction. Suddenly, however, rolling up his 
sleeves, he stepped into the middle of the room 
and burst forth: 
“ Gentlemen, 1 have been noticing how things 
have been working for some time, aud I ain’t 
half satisfied. I don’t want to raise a fuss, 
but-” 
“ What’s the matter, John ?” inquired a dozen 
voices. “ What do you mean ? Have wc done 
anything to hurt your feeliugs ?” 
“Yes, you have; all of you have hurt my feel¬ 
ings, and I’ve just this to say about it:—Here’s 
every girl in the room has been kissed near a 
dozen times apiece, and there's my wife, who 1 
consider as likely as any of them, has not had 
one to-night, and I just tell you now, if she does 
not gel as many kisses the balauce of the night 
as any gal in the room, the man that slights her 
has got me to light—that’s all. Now go uhead 
with your plays.” 
The young wife was not slighted again that 
evening. 
Beautiful and True. —In an article in Fra¬ 
zer’s Magazine this brief but beautiful extract, 
occurs :—“ Education does not commence with 
the alphabet. It begins with a mother’s look— 
w ith a father’s smile of approbation, or sign of 
reproof—with a sister’s geutlo pressure of the 
baud, or a brother’s noble act of forbearauee— 
with a handful of flowers in green and daisy 
meadows—with bird’s nests admired but not 
touched —with creeping auts and almost impos¬ 
sible emmets—with humming bees and glass 
bee-hives —with pleasant walks and shady lance, 
aud with thoughts directed in Bweet and kindly 
tones and words to mature to acts of benevo¬ 
lence, to deeds of virtue, and to the source of 
all good—to God himself” 
Modestt and Docility in the Young.— 
Grnthe was in company with a mother aud 
daughter, w r hen the latter, being reproved 
for something, blushed and burst into tears. 
Hesaid: — “How beautiful your reproach has 
made your daughter. That crimson hue aud 
those silvery tears become her much better than 
any ornament of pearls; theso may be hung on 
the neck of any woman, but those are never seen 
disconnected with moral purity. A full-blown 
flower, besprinkled with purest hue, is not so 
beautiful as tliis child blushing beneath her 
parent’s displeasure, and sheddiDg tears of sor¬ 
row for her fault. A blush is the sign which 
nature hangs out to show where chastity and 
honor dwell.” 
Tribute to Woman. — Daniel Webster once 
paid the following beantiiul tribute to woman: 
“ There is nothing upon this earth that can eom- 
j pare with the faithful attachment of a wife; no 
I creature who for the object, of her love is so in¬ 
domitable, so persevering, so ready to suffer and 
to die. tjadftr the most depressing circum¬ 
stances, woman’s weakness becomes fearless 
courage, all her shrinking aud sinking passes 
away, and her spirit acquires the firmness of 
marble — adamantine firmness — when circum¬ 
stances drive her to put forth all her energies 
under the inspiration of her affections.” 
fiUscstlainj. 
Written for Moore’* Rural New-Yorker. 
TO THE SUMMER WIND. 
BT ELIZA O. CBOSBT. 
Blow on, O cooling wind! through these long sum¬ 
mer hours, 
And break the waves of heat 
That quivering rise, and with oppressive power* 
Around ns closely beat. 
Blow on, and catch the breath from tufted meadow 
sweet. 
From fields of clover-bloom. 
From tassled pines, and lonely fern-brake at their 
feet. 
Deep in the forest gloom ; 
And mingled with the hum of bees, the song-birds’ 
trill, 
Bear them with love afar 
To gladden some Bad heart with country-longing 
filled. 
Mid city crowd and jar:— 
To stir within some heart sweet memories of yore; 
To touch some brow of care, 
Borne like the mother's gentle touch of old, or more 
Like breathings of her prayer. 
With gentle flngerB raise the hair from brows of youth, 
Untnurred by care or shade, 
But not the flowers displace—the blooms of love and 
truth 
May all too quickly fade. 
More gently lift gray hair from brows that long ago 
Were fhlr and daisy-crowned. 
Now soon to lose, care-furrows, and time’s drifted 
snow, 
Beneath the daisied mound. 
Linger with breathings low round mounds o’er soul¬ 
less clay, 
Where starry flowers arc set; 
The grass grows there, and graves In hearts that 
grieve to-day 
Will bear joy-blossoms yet I 
To-dfty we feel thy touch, and catch thy breath of 
flowers,— 
Wc would thy presence keep! 
When these earth-senses, this earth-life no more is 
ours, 
Then linger where we sleep I 
Orangeport, N. Y., Aug., 1867. 
HOME AND FOREIGN TRAVEL 
Curtis went abroad. He was then an exquisite 
young gentleman, bo somebody has told us, 
much given to pomade and kid gloves. He 
traveled much. He wrote exquisitely. In his 
“Nile Notes of a Howadji” he pen-sketched the 
Nile and its surroundings with a voluptuousness 
of style purely Oriental. A dreamy languor 
pervaded the whole book. We could almost 
fancy it written by an indolent nowndji, sitting 
under a palm tree, and smoking his chibouk. A 
smoky haze mellowed the atmosphere. Not un- 
frequently the atmosphere was so smoky, in fact, 
that not a bit of the country could be seen. 
There was much dreaming, and Bmoking, but 
little description. 
“The Howadji" came home. A few yeare 
later he treated himself to a summer vacation, 
and the good public, not long afterwards, to 
“Lotos Eating,” The book is a volume of com¬ 
parisons. Mr. Curtis went the round of the 
Catskill, Saratoga, Lake George, &c., and every 
point of interest be set in contrast with some 
far-away object which he deemed more worthy 
of admiration. While ostensibly describing na¬ 
tive scenes, he persistently drifted over the 
water. Reaching Lake George — the lovely 
Horicon—he was immediately reminded of Lake 
Como, in Switzerland, and proceeded to give his 
reasons lor considering that more beautiful than 
the sheet of water wc supposed be was going to 
describe. Of LakeGeorgeitself, “theHowadji” 
had very little, to 6ay. He might have treated of 
it most glowingly. Wc were disappointed in his 
failure to do so. But his was a traveled pen; it 
had been abroad. We have Baid that literary 
men give us the old world iu parentheses, 
“Lotos Eating” is an exception. In that the 
old world gets the lions share. The lotos eating 
is the parenthetical part. 
Ours is a magnificent country. It has moun¬ 
tain, river and lake scenery iu wonderful pro¬ 
fusion, and grandeur sufficient for an export 
trade with all the rest of mankind. Wc don’t 
need to leave it, to find the beautiful, the unique, 
or the sublime. But in the face of all this wo 
suppose our iriends will continue to patronize 
the ocean steamers, and send home ornate de¬ 
scriptions of abbeys, and castles, and ruius, 
until wc get abbeys, and castles, and ru in s of 
our own! 
WISDOM AND WEALTH. 
Perhaps wc say nothing new in asserting that 
the “ Yankee nation ” is ubiquitous. We are a 
people of travelers. The restlessness of onr hu¬ 
man nature renders quiet staying at home almost 
an utter impossibility. We want change, and as 
soon as wc acquire a little, of the “loose” 
specie, wo. set out for somewhere. Exactly 
where, matters little. We beg pardon —it mat¬ 
ters a good .leak Tin tendency is to And some¬ 
thing dating back to a past age. We go Into 
raptures o\ c r the antique, the ancient. Cover a 
miserable painting with dust and cobwebs, and 
Ameiuuus pronounces it “splendid.'’ Be-fog 
an old tumble-down castle with legends, and the 
same Ingenuous youth considers it a delightful 
place. Nothing but age, and dirt, and ruins, 
and hobgoblin adventnrea will satisfy. 
For nil these, Am mucus goes to Europe. This 
great Western country is young, and is but a 
stale place any way. It isn’t classic — it isn’t 
particularly worth seeing. 8o he thinks. He 
must make the “grand tour." lie must go 
abroad. There is a charm in the thought. May¬ 
be the charm lasts all the way across the water— 
possibly it clings around the whole term of for¬ 
eign wandering, AMEiticuBcoinoaback. Helms 
“done” everything, and every place worth 
“doing,” front Paris to Constantinople. He has 
crossed the Appeunincs, and if he be a genuine 
type of his class has tramped over the Alps, and 
probably lunched a-top one of the Pyramids. 
While abroad ho was as ignorant of his own 
country as w ere the people among whom he so¬ 
journed, aud even some of them might have 
helped him up in his native Geography. Arrived 
at home, he knows nothing but foreign lore and 
foreign lands. Of our magnificent Western 
world he is as profoundly, sublimely ignorant 
as ever. 
We frankly admit that we have not been 
abroad. Wc have had our dreams of rumblings 
over sea, aud if wc don’t die too young some of 
them may be realized. But as a very desirable 
preparation for making transatlantic journey- 
ings really profitable, we intend to acquaint our¬ 
selves pretty thoroughly with Our own land 
before migrating to another. The Alps may be 
ten-fold more sublime than the Rocky Moun¬ 
tains. If wc see the latter, first, we can judge 
more correctly concerning the former. 
Bayard Taylor, in his second series of 
sketches collected and published tu book form 
under the title “At Home and Abroad,” con¬ 
fesses that uutil the summer of 1801 he had not 
seen the White Mountains, the St. Lawrence, 
the Saguenay, and Lake George. The tone of 
his coufessiou has Bomewlmt of chagrin in it, we 
fancy. Alter years of wandering over distant 
countries, and writing volumes descriptive of 
strange sights and people, the famous American 
(no, <ju( 1-American) traveler deigned to look 
upon what he ought to have felt a pride in ma¬ 
king a pilgrimage to a decade previous. There J 
are hundreds, yes, thousands, whose experience 
is similar. Our exchanges give column after ! 
column of foreign letters. Of these, mauy are 
indifferent enough, aud a few are really good. 1 
Of the writers thereof, doubtless two-thirds are 
of the class to which Americus belougs — men ! 
with mouey iu abundance, who had an itching I 
to see their names figure among the newspaper 
list of “ sailed in the Aragcs” and who will re¬ 
turn to flavor their conversation with frequent 
repetitions of “when I was in Europe.” 
Literary men, who supplement their foreign 
travel with home wanderings, and sketches of 
home scenery, are much inclined to give us the 
old world in parentheses. Gbobgb William 
John McDonough, the millionaire of New 
Orleans, has engraved upon his tomb a series of 
maxims he had prescribed as the rules for his 
guidance through life, and to which his success 
in business is mainly attributed. They contain 
so much wisdom that we copy them; 
Rules for the Guidance of my TAfe, 1804.—Re¬ 
member al ways that, labor is one of the conditions 
of our existence. Time is gold; throw not one 
minute away, but place each one to account. 
Do unto all men as you would he done by. 
Never put off till to-morrow what can be done 
to-day. Never bid another do what you can do 
yourself. Never covet what is not your own. 
Never think any matter so trifling as not to de¬ 
serve notice. Never give that which does not 
first come in. Never spend hut to produce. Let 
the greatest order regulate the transactions of 
your life. Study in your course of life to do the 
greatest amount of good. Deprive yourself of 
nothing necessary to your comfort, but live in 
an honorable simplicity. Labor, then, to the 
last moment of your existence. Pursue strictly 
the above rules and the Divine blessing aud 
riches of every kind will flow upon you to your 
heart’s content; but first of all remember that 
the chief and great duty of your life should be to 
tend, by all means iu your power, to the honor 
and glory of onr Divine Creator. The conclu¬ 
sion to which I have arrived is, that without 
temperance there is no health, without virtue no 
order, without religion no happiness, and that 
the aim of our being is to live wisely, soberly 
aud righteously. John McDonough. 
LOST TIME. 
Let any man pass an evening in vacant idle¬ 
ness, or even in reading some silly talc, and 
compare the state of his miud when he goes to 
sleep or gets up next morning, with its state 
some other day, when he has spent a few hours 
in going through the proofs, by facts and reason¬ 
ing, of some of the great doctrines in natural 
j science, iearning truths wholly new to him, and 
! eatislying himself, by careful examination, of the 
I grounds on which known truths rest, so as to he 
not only acquainted with the doctrines of thein- 
Belves, but able to show why he believes them, 
and to prove before others that they are true; he 
vrill find as great a difference as can exist in the | 
same being — the difference between looking 
back upon time unprofitably wasted, and time | 
spent in self improvement; he will feel himself, 
iu one case, listless aud dissatisfied—in the other, 
comfortable and happy; in the one coso, if he 
did not appear to himself humble, at least will 
not have earued any claim to his own respect; 
in the other case, he will enjoy a proud con¬ 
sciousness of having, by his own exertions, be¬ 
come a wiser, aud therefore a more exalted 
nature .—Lord Brougham. 
good advice.. 
iFyoayoar lips 
Would keep from slips, 
Five things observe with care: 
Of whom you speak. 
To whom you speak. 
And how, and when, and where. 
Dining. —Before dinner, men meet with great 
inequality of understanding; and those who are 
conscious of their inferiority have the modesty 
not to talk; when they have drunk wine, every 
man feels himself happy, and loses that modesty, 
and grows impudent and vociferous; but he is 
not improved; he is only not sensible of his de¬ 
fects.— Johnson. 
SaBBal| 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
SUMMER - PRAISE. 
BT KTTTE BROWN. 
Softly sing, oh! radiant bird, 
In yon droopiDg greenwood tree, 
While the quivering leaves are stirred 
To the sweet wind’s melody. 
Every bird so sofily singing, 
Every voice so sweetly ringing. 
Speaks, my God, of Love and Thee. 
Grandly bend, oh 1 summer skies. 
To the hills with white clouds crowned I 
Domes of unknown Paradise 
Droop and circle roe around. 
For no blnc.k mists foil my vision 
Of the far-off bright Elysium- 
Home—where Love and Thee are found. 
Days of glory—Bummer-praise I 
Incense from earth’s r.enser swung I 
Hopefnl hearts their anthems raise— 
Allelniahs glad are sung! 
Let me kneel at Nature’s altar, 
Neath God’s banner ne’er to falter 
Till Life’s victory is won. 
Newfane, N. Y., 1867. 
THE EARLY HOME OF JESUS. 
Four miles south of the strong Greek city of 
Sephoris, hidden away among the hills, then 
covered from the base to the crown with vine¬ 
yards and fig trees, lay a natural nest or basin 
of rich red and white earth, star-like in shape, 
but a mile in width, and wondrously fertile. 
AlODg the sacred and chalky slope of one of 
the highest of the.se bills spread a small and 
lovely village, which, in a land where every 
stone seemed to have a story, is remarkable 
as having no public history, and no distin¬ 
guished native name. No great road led up 
to this sunny nook. 
No traffic came into it, no legions passed 
through it; no trade, war, adventure, pleasure, 
pomp, passed through it, flowing from west to 
east and from east to cast, along the Roman 
road. But the meadows were aglow with wheat 
and barley. Near the low ground ran a belt of 
gardens, fenced with stones, in which myriads 
of green figs, red pomegranates, and golden cit¬ 
rons ripened in the summer sun. High up the 
slopes, which were lined and planted like the 
Rhine at Bingen, hung the vintages, purple 
grapes. In the plain, among the corn, and be¬ 
neath the iig and mulberry trees, shone daisies, 
poppies, tulips, lilies, and anemones, endless in 
their profusion and brilliant in their dyes. 
Low down on the hillside sprung a well of 
water, bubbling plentiful and sweet; and above 
this fountuiu of life, in a long street, struggling 
from the fountain into the synagogue, rose the 
homesteads of many ouoi.nt.iao, uiananuu 
vinedressers. It was a lovely and humble 
place, of which no ruler, no historian of Israel 
had ever taken notice* No Rachel bad been 
met and kissed into love at this well; no Ruth 
hud gathered up the 6hcavea of barley in yon 
Helds ; no tower had been built for observation 
on this height; no camp had ever been pitched 
for battle iu that vale. That oue who would 
become dearer to the fancies of men than either 
Ruth or Rachel, then walked through those 
fields, drew water at this spring, and passed up 
and down the lanes of this hamlet, no 6cer then 
could have surmised. 
The place was no more than obscure. The 
Arab may have pitched his black tent by the 
well; the magistrates of Sephoris must have 
known the village, but the hamlet was never 
mentioned by the Jewish scribes. In the Bible, 
in the Tulrnud, in the writings of Josephus, we 
search in vain for any record of this sacred 
place. Like its happy neighbors, Naiu und En- 
dor, it was the abode of husbandmen, and oil 
and vine dressers, whose lives were spent in 
the synagogue, the vineyard and the olive grove, 
away from the bright Greek cities, and the busy 
Roman roads. No doubt it had ouec been pos¬ 
sessed of either an Arab or a Hebrew name, but 
we do not know the name except by its Hellenic 
form. The Greeks called the town Nazaret or 
N azareth. — Selected. 
In the World and Not of It. — If men 
loved this world less, and another better, 
they would be more quiet here, and more careful 
to prepare for that better state. If our conver¬ 
sation were in heaven, as it ought to be, with 
what contempt should we look down upon the 
busy designs, the restless cares, the vain hopes, 
and the perplexing feure of the greatest part of 
mankind ? Then we should have more peace 
and tranquility in our minds while we live, and 
greater satisfaction when we come to die. For 
integrity and inuocence will keep us most from 
giving disturbance to others, and from finding 
any iu our own breasts. “ Whoso hearkeueth 
unto wisdom shall dwell safely, and shall be 
quiet from the tear of evil ."—Bishop SHUi/ifffleet. 
A Change in the Ritual.— George Francis 
Train suggests that our modem marriage cere¬ 
mony should read thus: — Clergyman — “Will 
you take this brown stone front, this carriage 
and spun, and these diamonds for thy husband?" 
Lady —“Yes." Clergyman —“ Will you take 
this unpaid milliner’s bill, this high waterfall of 
foreign hair, these affectations, accomplishments 
and feeble constitution for thy wedded wife? ” 
Gentleman — “ /es. ” Clergyman — “ Then, 
what mammon has joined together let the next 
best man run away with, so that the first divorce 
court may tear them asunder." 
Dtvine knowledge fills a man with spiritual 
activity. It will make a man work, as if be 
would be saved by bis work; and yet it will 
make a man believe that he is saved only upon 
the account of free grace. 
