||adicsi’ f)qi ailment. 
Written for Moore'* Rural New-Yorker. 
MY FLOWER. 
The flowers in my garden were withered long ago, 
And soon will come old winter’s cold with glittering ice 
and snow; 
But I’ve a fairer flower than the garden e’er could boast 
With its roses, and its dahlias, and all its gorgeous host. 
To what flower shall I liken herV so fragile and so fair; 
The summer elcies within her eyes, its sunlight in her 
hair; 
Her form is like the willow as it sways with gentle grace, 
And like a water-lily is her pure augelic face. 
Sometimes she’s like a daisy,—so timid and so meek, 
And her voice like rippling water when in tender tones 
she speaks. 
But we think of wreathe or snowdrops on brows so cold 
and white, 
When the rosebud lips are silent in the watches of the 
night. 
Sometimes she’s like a pansy looking up with starry eyes, 
As if she saw beyond the world and into paradise; 
But to whatsoe’er ye liken her in earth, or sky, or air, 
You would say could you hut sec her there was ne er a 
flower so fair. 
Porter, N. Y. a. e. h. 
Written for .Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE GRECIAN BEND. 
I sui’i’OSE words have been almost exhausted on 
this great “new thing” ot the Nineteenth Century, 
— this wonder-working accomplishment that has 
sprung into being, and flourished so vigorously 
among us since iiB coming. But an impartial sur¬ 
vey, with the stamp of one individual mind upon 
it, may lead into some new path. I must confess to 
utter ignorance ns to where the Grecian Beud was 
born and bred. I once imagined it must be in some 
intensely cold climate, where people were, spite of 
their will, drawn over and shriveled up by the pierc¬ 
ing winds that blew upon them. Yet I find I am 
wrong there, as it rejoiced in its prime, last sum¬ 
mer, when the heat in Gotham was sometimes fear¬ 
ful to think of. And as we hear so little from the 
Continent about it, I believe to our Empire Oily 
must be all the glory of bringing up such a wonder. 
There are many lonely and silent places in the great 
city where it might dwell, till the right moment 
came, to hurst forth upou the astonished race of 
men. Still this is all matter of conjecture, and it 
were well to leave it so. 
Now, why it ever should have been called “the 
Grecian Bend,” or “Ilelenic Curve,” as classical 
scholars prefer, I cannot divine. There can be no 
reason for it, gathered from the literature, arts, or 
general customs and manuers of that far-famed land 
of ancient storyfor beauty and grace have always 
distinguished Grecian art from the old time to the 
present. lu all their sculpture, the curves aud 
bends were marked by au indescribable air of grace¬ 
fulness; and even their angles were softened down, 
so as to reveal nothing sharp or uncomely. While, 
to my eye, the Grecian Bend of to-day, in its perfec¬ 
tion, bears a nearer resemblance to a right-angled 
triangle than to anything else in the civilized world; 
only, in “ the bend,” the base, instead of occupying 
its rightful place, is uppermost. 
Why did so mauy deluded daughters ot Eve adopt 
it ? There is surely neither beauty nor comfort in its 
spell. The shoulders growrouud, the tall, straight, 
lithe figure i6 cramped and bent, till as you pass 
along the street, you can scarcely'tel 1 sixteen from 
sixty. For the present mode of dress in the beau 
monde does not put any strong dividing line between 
the two. 
There are various kinds of “the bend,” with so 
delicate a shade of difference that the uuiuitiated 
cannot always tell them apart. First, there is the 
one, already mentioned, in which you might draw 
the liypotheuuse from the feather on the tip of the 
“jockey” to the toe of the. boot. This is also the 
bend prononcce, immovable, that looks fixedly before 
it, or rather below it, crawling slowly down the 
avenue, saying to all,—“I am the Grecian Beud; 
deny me my name who can.” 
Then, there is the halt-way bend, that, having 
Inclined, causes its possessor to wriggle, and twist, 
aud toss the head, turning it from side to side with 
ceaseless motion, to watch if due attention is paid 
it. Last that I can now write of is the short, stiff 
bend, that aims for a place iu the sisterhood, but 
barely deserves it. The owner of this walks as 
though clasped in a vice, with bitter envying in her 
heart, as she sees the more successful benders pass 
her by. She has reached the height of awkwardness 
aud, poor victim, cherishes it. as the stepping-stone 
to greater renown. The other infinitesimal varieties 
demand a more extended history than I can now 
give, and so must waive them entirely. 
1 have heard that the Grecian Beud has been ridi¬ 
culed out of existence, save among the elile few; 
but I can never believe it, while I see our shop-win- 
dows exhibiting “the benders,” and am paiufnlly 
conscious they are not there for ornament alone. 
Those hoop, aud wire, and steel adornments still 
foster the life of that hideous bend, that might else 
die a natural death; and as long as you, girls, will 
persist hi wearing them, the bend will live, spite of 
ail cutting sarcasm and earnest effort against it. 
If one of our great-grandmothers could take a 
peep at the present stage ol action, how would 6he 
be horrified at the change in her daughters! T 
think she would entreat, iu sepulchral tones, that, 
for health, comfort and economy, onr puffs and 
loops aud flounces and Grecian Bends should be 
cast aside. Take warning in time, girls, for the 
“benders” have been known to break, and once a 
young girl was reported to have lost hers iu the 
street, Faith Leslie. 
-- 
THE CARE OP BABIES. 
The only valuable work we ever saw on infancy 
was written by a man, Andrew Combe of Scotland, 
a close observer, a 6ouud thiukcr, aud a learned 
physiologist. We shall never forget bow tempest- 
tossed we were when we first found ourself the 
happy possessor of a male child without the slight¬ 
est knowledge of what to do for his comfort and 
protection. An ignorant nurse fidgeted round the 
room day and night, sang melancholy ditties, and 
rocked vehemently, while the child cried continual¬ 
ly with a loud voice, and we wept, prayed aud phi¬ 
losophized by turns. Reasoning ou general princi¬ 
ples, weal last came to the conclusion that inasmuch 
as the child was strong and vigorous, there must be 
some mistake on the part of the nurse that he was 
not quiet and comfortable, we fortified ourself in 
that opinion by a faithful reading of what Mr. 
Combe had to say on babies in general. The re¬ 
sult of this consideration of his opinions was a 
prompt revolution iu the whole uursery depart¬ 
ment, and a transfer of pain from the baby to the 
nurse, who stood humbled and chagrined as she saw 
her time-honored system summarily set aside, — the 
pins, paregoric, catnip and c-radle driven out,—while 
pure air, sunlight, common-sense walked in. Oh! 
what sighs, wluit. groans, what doubtful shakings of 
the. head, what suppressed laughter and whisperings 
in the hall, we heard during the first few days after 
the inauguration of that dynasty ol' health, happi¬ 
ness and rest to that, new-born soul. 
When the three-hours’ cry began that day, which 
ancient dames assured us was a custom that had 
been faithfully kept by all the sons of Adam from 
time immemorial, we ordered the little sufferer to 
be promptly stripped to the skin aud put in a warm 
bath. That brought instant relief, after which he 
was dressed in a few liirht garments hung ou the 
shoulders, with no swaddling bands, uo pressure on 
the lungs or bowels, aud laid down to sleep, tie 
was fed (according to Combe) every two hours by 
day, and but once during the night. After that we 
had peace, t hough eternal vigilauce ou our part was 
its price. The custom of pinning babies up as tight 
as a drum is both cruel and absurd. We asked the 
antiquarian who torlured our first-born in that way 
—why she did it? “ The bones of young babies are 
so soft, aud their llesh so tender,” said she, “ that 
they are in constant danger of dissolution uoless 
tightly pinioned together.” We soothed her fears 
by pointing to the fact that colts aud cuLves, puppies 
and kittens, all lived and flourished without baud- 
ages, and for the race we said we would make the 
experiment on one of the human family. 
If babies are regularly fed, bathed and comfort¬ 
ably dressed, and in a pure atmosphere, they will 
be quiet aud healthy.— Mrs. E. C. Stanton. 
- - 
A KISS IN THE DARK. 
Horace Vlenet, a distinguished French painter, 
happened once to be traveling from Versailles to 
Paris in the same railway carriage with two English 
spinster ladies, very prudish and prim, and of uncer¬ 
tain age. Vcrnet’s appearance was striking, and the 
ladies, after scanuing him attentively whenever they 
thought he was looking the other way, began to 
communicate to each other their observations upou 
him in a rather loud whisper, thinking, apparently, 
that as they spoke in their own language they were 
at liberty to make what comments they pleased. 
The veteran paiuler was intensely amused, but was 
too much a man of the world to manifest the slight¬ 
est consciousness of wi st was going on. 
It was not long before the train had to pass 
through a tuunel. Vernet, seizing the opportunity, 
leaned forward, so as to be within hearing' of his 
neighbors, and applied a smacking salute to the 
back of his hand. On emerging from the tempo¬ 
rary obscurity, liis face had assumed a mischievous 
expression, which, as he intended, was soon inter¬ 
preted by each lady to the prejudice of the other, 
each charging the other with having received from 
the mustached strauger the mysterious kiss in the 
dark. Arrived at the terminus, all were alighting. 
Vernet offered his baud to help his fellow travelers 
out of the carriage, aud then, with a graceful bow, 
took leave of them, saying, as he retired, to their 
dismay, iu perfectly correct English, “Adieu, 
ladies; I suppose I shall never have the satisfaction 
ol' knowing to which of you I am indebted for 
the unexpected but valued favor I received in the 
tunnel.”_ _ _ 
LADIES SHOULD READ NEWSPAPERS. 
It is a great mistake in female education to keep 
a youug lady’s time aud attention devoted to only 
fashionable literature of the day. If you would 
| qualify her for conversation, you must give her 
something to talk about—give her education with 
the actual world, with the outer world, and its 
trauspiriug events. Urge her to read newspapers, 
and become familiar with the present character and 
improvement of our race. History is of some im¬ 
portance; but the past world is dead — we have 
notliiug to do with it. Our thoughts and our con¬ 
cerns should be for the present world; to know 
what it i6 and improve the condition of it. Let her 
have au intelligent opinion, aud be able to sustain 
intelligent conversation concerning the mental, 
moral and religious improvements of our time. 
Let the gilded annuals aud poems on the center 
table be kept part of the time covered with weekly 
and daily journals. Let the whole family — men, 
women and children—read newspapers. 
-— «»•» - 
WHAT’S IN A NAME? 
A matter-of-fact yet spicy correspondent of the 
Revolution, who signs herself “Helen,” is vehe¬ 
mently opposed to the practice indulged in by some 
women of allowing themselves to be called by 
diminutive instead of by their Christian names in 
full. She says: — “Elizabeth is a stately name; 
but Lizzie is suggestive of oue who is weak and de¬ 
pendent, however lovely she may be. Catharine is 
beautiful aud strong; but Katie or KILtic! what a 
burlesque on the original name. So with ail pet or 
nick names. Who could imagine Miss Anthony 
doing so ridiculous a thing as to call herself Susie ? 
Think of Hattie Stowe or Maggie Fuller! One 
Kansas paper had the hardihood to nick-name Mrs. 
Stauton, Liz, but it produced a tremendous recoil 
on the editor’s head. Oue of the correspondents of 
the Revolution signs herself Lizzie Leavenworth, 
M. D. Now, I shall never take any of her medi¬ 
cines, not oue single homeopathic pill of it till she 
calls herself Elizabeth.” 
-■» ♦ » ■ #-- 
The Lady of the White House.— In connection 
with the election of Gen, Grant to the Presidency, 
aud oulj second to it in point of interest, is the 
promotion of Mrs. Grout to the poet of “ Lady of 
the White House.” It is gratifying to thiuk that 
the position is one which Mrs. Grant will fill with 
the true simplicity of an American woman. There 
will be no attempt to ape the grandeurs of a regal 
court, aud no vulgar striviug after mere seusation. 
Mrs. Grant is a lady who has maintained, through 
every event which has marked the vicissitudes of her 
husband’s life, a marked propriety of demeanor. 
She has been helpmate in days of adversity, aud has 
shared his honors without being dazzled by the posi¬ 
tion, or contaminated by the foolish adulations of 
those who worship at the shrine ot success.— Boston 
Journal. 
----- 
Worth Knowing. —Iu purchasing furs a sure test 
of what dealers call a “ prime” far is the length and 
density of the down next the skin; this can be 
readily determined by blowing a brisk current of air 
from the mouth “against the set of the fur.” If 
the fibers open readily, exposing the skin to the 
view, reject the article; but if the down is so dense 
that the breath cannot penetrate it, or at most shows 
but a small portion of the skin, the article may be 
accepted. 
-< H4 « ■ » - 
A fine and handsome material for ordinary wear 
has recently been imported under the name of the 
English water-proof. It is superior to all other 
kinds aud iu various colors; bluck or brown making 
the handsomest suits. 
SNOWDRIFT. 
BT A. J. H DUGANNE. 
The siiowb are whirling thick and fast, 
The drifts assail my doorway; 
I doubt me if a wilder blast 
Blows o’er the hills of Norway. 
But sit thee down, my olden friend, 
We two will mock the weather; 
And while the Tearful winds contend 
We’ll have a night together. 
Oh, many a year and many a storm 
We twain have mocked as lightly; 
And though onr hearts to-night are warm, 
Our heads are powdered vrkitely. 
And snows have drifted o’er oar souls, 
To fall on wintry heather, 
And hide from us the grassy knolls 
Where rest our loves together. 
Stir up the fire I we'll talk ol love— 
Of love, old Triend, and sorrow: 
For life, like rainbow arched above. 
Its li Jit through tears mast borrow. 
We’ll talk of lips that clung to ours, 
Though ours are now like leather; 
We’ll talk of girls, we’ll talk of flowers, 
That now arc dust together. 
Fill up the cup, old friend of mine. 
Though tears have wet our lashes, 
For all onr dead wc quaff the wine, 
And pledge—to dust aud ashes. 
We’ll bind to-night our friend and foes 
With memory's eiJkcn tether; 
And underneath the (Trifling snows 
We’ll love and hate together. 
Oh! wintry heart 1 ’tie throbbing low— 
Oh 1 wintry storm! ’tie pelting; 
What boots it that we warm our snow?— 
It turns to tears in melting. 
But better tears than life, old friend, 
So tears we'll shed together; 
And o’er our hearts a rainbow bend 
To light the stdrmy weather 
- - — -1 - - 
THE WHEREFORE. 
The Wherefore is inborn in the human mind. 
Through it our humanity breathes out, continually. 
Of every fact, truth, principle or seeming, it ques¬ 
tions. 
“ Cal Bono?” is the natural cry of the human. 
And it is repeated daily, hourly. Divinity under¬ 
stands all and questions nothing; humanity, under¬ 
standing uothiug, questions all. Wisely? Foolishly, 
at times, no doubt, yet wisely, in the main. AU 
knowledge comes of questioning. All gain is the 
reward of some longing. 
The deepest longiDg within us is not to have, hut 
to know. To be sure, kuowing, in one sense, is 
possessing. That which we know thoroughly wc 
most completely possess. But not iu the lower, 
more material idea of possession. This idea uever 
satisfies. Alone considered, it is “of the earth, 
earthy.” It embodies au actual, tangible holding. 
Aud what you hold iu your hands, or lock away iu 
your safe, or wear upou your person, is only half 
possessed. It is yours chiefly by sufferance. 
An answer to our questioning, then, is wliat we 
long lor tnos. The Wherefore is a confession, ever, 
ul blind ignorance. Be it outspoken, or only se¬ 
cretly breathed, it is all the same. It is man’s ac¬ 
knowledgment, hefore'his inner self, if not to his 
fellows, of bis weakness. Even so is it the promise 
of greater strength aiM wider acquisitions. Some 
answer comes, generally, to all queries. In a de¬ 
gree the*answer helps a man onward,—broadens his 
outreach,—enables him in many ways. Compre¬ 
hending any one thing assists iu the comprehension 
of other things. 
The Wherefore may imply a doubt, yet it does not 
spriDg from doubting. Because we question, we do 
not necessarily disbelieve. The very human cry 
alluded to previously is put forth for information. 
At least that is the spirit in which it ought to be 
uttered. In some instances, perhaps, it may appear 
as a protest against proposed action; but thus 
put forth it is not the language of the seeker after 
knowledge. 
Inborn in the human mind, nourished by the 
human heart, the Wherefore wells up perpetually, 
aud is never fully silenced because there ever re- 
maius something strange and unexplained. If un¬ 
der our feet there slept no marvels deep hidden,—if 
over our heads there twinkled no wonders greater 
still, aud more inexplicable, — if the Universe were 
but simple mechanism, moved by some mechanical 
power within the grasp of our intellect,—there 
would be no questioning, and, mayhap, no progress. 
One of the best proofs that a Supremo Being docs 
exist is the fact that man came into the world with 
something forever beyond his reach. And as he 
moves forward up the slope of being, from cycle to 
cycle looking out over a wider field, there still re¬ 
mains somewhat for him to reach after, to long for. 
Therein lies his truest blessing. Not in the grasp¬ 
ing would he find it. Possession palls on the palate; 
longing is stimulative. With the Wherefore leading 
him ou he may search out buried treasures, aud find 
glorious reward. 
Written for Moore'* Rural New-Yorker. 
SENSATIONAL LITERATURE. 
When we look for a moment at the mass of 
fictitious reading that is fiuug out broadcast over 
the world, can wc wonder that the young so early 
wander away into the paths of vice, or that the vile 
dens iu our cities, that are seething in impurity, are 
peopled with wrecked manhood and fallen woman¬ 
hood? We look in astonishment at the evidences 
of blighted intellects, lost virtue and ruined lives, 
and yet how mauy of these learned their first lesson 
in viee at home, over the pages of some impure 
novel! In how many of our homes does the Bible 
lay, all covered with dust from disuse, while dime 
novels are eagerly read by parents and children day 
after day! And I have seen professed Christian 
parents remain away from the house of God to read 
a weekly journal burdened with impure thoughts to 
feed the imagination and the heart. 
Parents, you cannot keep your homes too pure. 
If the youug heart is not educated to love purity, it 
will love sin and follow after it; and if you crowd 
your libraries with fiction, aud pervert your own 
lives by its perusal, how cau you expect to lead 
your children heavenward? 
The young gain far more education from novels 
to-day, than from the sciences. They pore over the 
uuchaste pages, and shed fountains of tears over 
some luckless heroine that never lived, and whose 
counterpart never will live; but they have no 
sympathy for the sorrows of a beggared widow or 
orphan, and their hearts are unmoved at the sight 
of actual human suffering. 
Can it be that those to whom God has given ten 
talents, will waste them all in wrecking humanity ? 
Shall they be willing, for dollars and cents, to send 
young souls, reeling beueatb a burden of shame, iuto 
pen itenti iries, dance - ho uses and groggeries ? Will 
it pay at the bar of God ? Grace G. Slough. 
m i . A n . - 
RELIGION AT HOME AND ABROAD. 
Dr. J. G. Holland, writing from Switzerland to 
the Springfield Republican, say6: 
“It seems to me tbat any New England mau 
comiug to Europe must feel everywhere around 
him an enormous letting down of the moral ten¬ 
sion and tone to which he has been accustomed. 
He sees everywhere the Sabbath desecrated. Here, 
in Switzerland, the business day of the steamboats 
and railroads is Sunday; and I cannot help con¬ 
trasting the unbroken stillness that haugs around 
the station at Springfield, during all the long Sab¬ 
bath days of summer, with the hurry and bustle 
and rush of locomotives and of men, which prevail 
every Sunday at the station in Lausanne, within 
sight and hearing of my window. Meeting a dis¬ 
tinguished divine here, oue expects to see a man in 
some respects like those oue meets at home holding 
like positions, but oue is soou undeceived. 
“ Christianity does not seem to get hold ot people 
here as it does at home. The Jack of earnestness, 
genuine faith, absolute sclf-devotiou, is painfully 
apparent. Christianity would seem to be adopted 
by these men as a beautiful system of philosophy 
and ethics; aud, in the meanwhile, they manage to 
have a pretty good time. They drink their wine, 
visit their relations, go to the shows, and forget 
that there is a world to be converted. There may 
be something sad and severe in the type of New 
England religion, but it means something. There 
is a life-revolutionizing and life-commanding power 
in it. It is a power of such magnitude that a man 
needs to get four thousand miles away from it to 
measure its dimensions. Here I cau see, as I never 
saw before, the intensity of religious feeling that 
prevails iu America; and my respect lor it grows 
with every renewal of the contemplation. It is a 
thing apparently unknown here, and altogether un¬ 
appreciated as it exists among us.” 
STAGE - RIDING. 
The pleasures of stage - riding are little kuownto 
the great majority of people living this side of the 
Rocky Mountains, railroads having generally super¬ 
seded that mode of traveling. The “ Colfax party” 
bad a taste of them, however, iu their passage from 
Cheyenne to Denver, aud Mr. Bowles gives us a 
description, which will remind not a few of our 
readers of the experiences of former days: 
“ In stage - riding it is peculiarly true that it is the 
first night that costs. It is more intolerable than 
the combination of the. succeeding half dozen, were 
the journey prolonged for a week; the breaking - in 
is fearful, the prolongation is bearable. The air gets 
cold; the road grows dusty and chokes, or rough 
and alarms you; the legs get stiff aud numb; the 
temper edges; everybody is overcome with sleep, 
but can’t stay asleep—the struggle of contending 
nature racks every nerve, fires every feeling; every¬ 
body tiouuders aud knocks about against everybody 
else in helpless despair; perhaps the biggest mau iu 
the stage will really get asleep, which doing, he in¬ 
voluntarily and with irresistible momentum spreads 
himself, legs, boots, arms aud head, over the whole 
inside of the coach; the girls screech; the profane 
swear; some lady warns a smelling-bottle out of 
her bag, aud her bag is somewhere on the floor — 
nobody knows where — but found it must be; every¬ 
body’s back hair comes down, and what is nature 
and what is art in costume aud character is revealed 
— and then, hardest trial of all, morning breaks 
upou the scene and the feelings — everybody dirty, 
grim, faint, “all to pieces," cross —such a disen¬ 
chanting exhibition! The girl that is lovely then, 
the man who is gallant aud serene — let them be 
catalogued for posterity, and translated at once; 
heaven cannot spare such ornaments, and they are 
too aggravating for earth.” 
ACQUIRING WEALTH. 
No young mau should allow himself to he dis¬ 
couraged nor his ambition to be dampened by the 
common out-cry against wealth. The corrupting 
tendencies alleged are totally unfounded except in 
imagination or in the envy of discontented people. 
They are not any more incident to the possession ol 
wealth thau they are to ahject poverty — perhaps 
not so much so. At nil events, the opportunities 
which riches afford the possessor for doing good iu 
this country are so numerous and ample that wealth, 
properly used, may he the means of making up the 
most admirable characters, while those who are 
inclined to depart from the path of rectitude would 
do 60 us quickly in one con dition as in another. 
To save money aud amass a fortune, if it is done 
with a proper motive, is not only a laudable ambi¬ 
tion but a duty. It is a duty to one’s self, one’s 
family and the community iu which one lives. It is 
providing for old age, for calamity in business or 
sickness, for the means of helpiug the poor and 
relieving the oppressed. There can be no better 
instruction given a young mau than that which 
impresses a true appreciation of the worth of 
money. Such an early impression would have saved 
many a man aud mauy a family from serious mis¬ 
fortunes, discomforts, unhappiness and even crime. 
The making of money and saving of money—as 
distinguished from that miserly love of money which 
is said to he the root of all evil — should he the aim 
of all youug men who start out in life for them¬ 
selves. They include habits of industry that lead 
to contentment and often ward off dissipation, want 
and future misery .—Chicago Courier. 
SANDWICHES. 
Time never sits heavily upon ns but when it is 
badly employed. 
To teach early is to engrave on marble; to teach 
late is to write on sand. 
The rose has its thorns; the diamond its specks, 
and the best mau his failings. 
A fook woman cau see more sympathy in a six¬ 
pence than in streams of tears. 
If you would not have affliction to visit you twice 
listen at once to what it teaches. 
Tub best consolers of human hearts may hear 
broken hearts iu their own bosoms. 
What is said from the feeling of the moment, 
should excite but the feeling of the moment. 
Young men are as apt to think themselves wise 
enough, as drunken men are to think themselves 
sober enough. 
Libraries are the shrines where all the relics of 
saints, full of true virtue, and that without delusion 
aud imposture, are preserved and reposed. 
The joy of the spirit is a delicate, sacred deposit, 
and must be kept in a pure casket, as an unholy 
breath will dim its luster and lade its freshness. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
SABEATH EVENING. 
BT I*. HALSEY. 
Bright Luna beams, with golden gleams, 
Upon the silver sea; 
From fragrant bowers the breath of flowers 
Is wafted o'er the lea. 
The hour seems given to dream of Heaven, 
Where peaceful pleasure flows,— 
That happy home, where those who roam 
May rest in sweet repose. 
Where sun-lit lyres of angel choirs, 
Too bright for eye of earth, 
With choral strains of Heaven’s refrains, 
Still sing the Saviour's birth. 
The tempest tossed, the all hut lost 
Upon the sea of life. 
Whose weary forms are scarred by storms, 
May here find rest from strife. 
May we above, with those we love, 
Around the golden throne. 
Our pain all past, unite at last 
Where sorrow ne'er is known I 
Where beauteous bowers, more fragrant flowers 
Than ere are seen on earth, 
Eterual bloom, and breathe perfume, 
Beyond the second birth. 
-- 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
LIFE IN VIEW OF DEATH. 
It is ever to be kept iu miud that we must all 
pass dowu into the solemn shades of death and leave 
our poor bodies iu the grave; aye, that each hour 
is whirling us onward to that fearful vortex which 
shall engulf U9 in the common doom of man. We 
have but a precarious title to our existence here, 
liable to be auuulled at. any moment; the messenger 
may have already left the Heavenly portal that is to 
summon ns from our tenement of clay. Is it not 
wisdom, Ibcn, that while we abate none of our 
energy in life’s worthy pursuits, aud enjoy with 
moderation its pleasures and rewards, we also and 
even now begin to live for eternity, ere it overtake 
us uuawares; that we estimate all things and all 
actions iu the light of our coming dissolution, and 
that we permit none of our hopes of this life to 
came in antagonism with the brighter prospects 
of eternal life? Is it not prudent that with sober¬ 
ness and honesty and watchfulness we guard the 
purity of the soul against the encroachments of lolly 
and passion V 
Aud shall wc not seek to mould all our future life 
after the highest principles, which shall stand like 
pillars of strength amid the ragings of the final 
storm? Shall we not call forth and crucify every 
crouching vice within that may prove a thorn in the 
hour of trial ? Shall we shut onr eyes against death, 
when it must come, and plnugc into the unsatisfying 
pleasures of the world, or revel in indulgence, or 
mingle any more of the precious uectar of life with 
the cup of drunkenness ? Shall we not rather spend 
the fleetiug hours in quiet thoughtfulness and in 
doing good, and in earnest preparation for the most 
solornu event of our life? 
Meditation will strengthen resignation, “while 
resignation gently slopes the way ” so that the 
pathway of death becomes but a walk to glory. 
But to the unheedful it will come like the clapping 
of thunders and the piercing of Ughtniugs. Above 
all, it is ouly in the sunshine of religion that the 
gloom of death vanishes away. To the Christian 
death is but the gate of Heaven. Ah, this religion, 
it is that alone that gives life to every virtue and 
hurls back the stormy temptations of the world. 
Without it the dying soul has no refuge in the 
storms of despair. Filled with “ the dread of some¬ 
thing after death,” it falls back in horror at ap¬ 
proaching consequences; for conscience, that ever 
faithful prophet of a Judgment day, points forward 
then, with all the unerring force ol' nature, to a day 
of retribution already dawning. But the Christian, 
after a life of constancy and faith, and conformity 
to the glorious precepts of the Gospel, approaches 
the grave beaming with hope and confident of vic¬ 
tory. Frank. 
Lindley, N, Y. 
- < ■ ! ♦! ■» - 
A LITTLE THREAD. 
Payson once gave notice in Portland that he 
would be glad to see any person who did not in¬ 
tend to seek religion. About forty came. He 
spent a very pleasant interview with them, saying 
nothing about religion till, just as they were about 
to leave, he closed a few very plain remarks thus :— 
“Suppose yon should see, comiug down from heav¬ 
en, a very fine thread, so fine as to be almost in¬ 
visible, and it should come aud gently attach itself 
to you. Y ou knew, we will suppose, it came from 
God. Should you dare to put out your hand aud 
thrust it away?" He dwelt for a few moments ou 
the idea, and then added:—“Now such a thread 
ka 9 come from God to you this afternoon. You 
do not feel, you say, any interest in religion. But 
by your coming here this afternoon God has fas¬ 
tened one - little thread upou you all. It is very 
weak and frail, aud you can easily brush it away. 
But you will not do so ? No: welcome it, and it 
will enlarge and strengthen itself until it becomes 
a golden thread to bind you forever to a God of 
love! ”—Sunday School Times. 
--- 
Not in the Workmen. — God often appears in 
glory to me as one of Ills builders, and I will tell you 
in what respect. When I have been sitting to see 
inquirers, I have sometimes found that God has 
blessed to the conversion of souls, some of my 
worst sermons —those which I thought I could 
weep over, which seemed more than ordinarily 
weak, and lacking in alL the elements likely to 
make them blessed, except that they were sin¬ 
cerely spoken. When I have seen that work was 
done, though the workman, naturally weak, was ou 
that occasion more than usually depressed with 
infirmity, I have only been able to lift up my hands 
and say, “ Now, Lord, thou appearest in thy glory, 
since thou dost build up Zion, aud convert sinners 
by the most unlikely means, and the truth, when 
apparently the most feebly spoken, works the 
mightiest results; this is to make thy name glori¬ 
ous indeed.— Spurgeon. 
Stability.— Firmness is given to mau as the very 
granite of life. Without it there would he nothing 
accomplished; all h uman plans would be as unstable 
as water on au inclined plane. In every well sus¬ 
tained nature there must he a power of tenacity, a 
gilt of perseverance, of will; and that man might 
not be without a foundation for so needful a prop¬ 
erty, the Creator has laid it in an animal faculty, 
which he possesses in common with the brutes.— 
Mrs. H. B. Stowe. 
