J|oriaI ^opics. 
ABOUT OLD LETTERS. 
BY C. S. NOURSE. 
Says a distinguished writer:—“ Life is too 
busy to read over old letters, and every day 
blinking its own cares and duties, \vc arc left 
without opportunity of retracing the past. 
We. do well to burn them, lest their accumu¬ 
lation become burdensome.” 
We doubt if tliis is a popular doctrine. 
There arc few houses 
wo fancy, without a 
hoard of old letters. 
The paper is yellow 
as parchment, the ink 
is ( pale, and they are 
bound not with the 
neat modern rubber 
ring but with a faded 
ribbon. They are put 
away out of sight, 
but there are steps 
that find their way to 
them sometimes, and 
there are few who do 
not occasionally, at 
least, love thus to 
“ retrace the past,” 
and how vividly they 
recall the scenes and 
interests of other 
days, is attested by 
many a page blotted 
with tears. 
Did you ever sit 
down before a fire 
with the deliberately 
formed intention of 
consuming in the 
flames a package of 
these same letters? If 
you have, you know 
it generally ends in 
their going hack into 
their old hiding place 
to l'eed the moths, 
perhaps, but not the 
fire. The neat-hand¬ 
ed housewife, when 
engaged in her spring 
cleaning, is apt to 
anathematize the cus¬ 
tom of preserving any 
manuscripts while 
ransacking every cor¬ 
ner for any secret am¬ 
buscade of the enemy 
slu: is routing; for 
house - cleaning, w e 
are inclined to think, 
has a tendency t o 
repress the sentimen¬ 
tal emotions, and a 
box of letters is then 
regarded mainly in 
the light of something 
to be moved about 
and taken care of; 
but even then she 
cannot quite make up 
her mind to treat it 
us rubbish, and leaves 
the auto da J'e to the 
next generation. 
Dot every one thinks sometimes they have 
nerved themselves to the work, and perhaps 
makes a promising beginning by burning 
a bundle of old notes and bills. Then comes 
a packet of miscellaneous epistles; you think 
it is not likely there are any you would keep; 
reluctantly you untie the string, quickly 
your eye recognizes the writing—from an old 
friend, written on the eve of his voyage to 
California. On the second page you see a 
calculation that if he makes one-fourth of 
the money he is certain lie wili make,lie will 
come home rich, to make his mother’s de¬ 
clining years bright and happy. You re¬ 
member his coming home: a sad-hearted 
man, broken in fortune and in health, to find 
that mother s grave. You had rather burn 
that loiter. The next is from Phil Wal¬ 
ters, your first offer of marriage. IIow des¬ 
perately he was in love, to he sure. He as¬ 
sures you he shall certainly die, if you reject 
him. You cannot help laughing, as you 
think of his third wife. Ah, there is one you 
must read; Lucy’s letters were so entertain¬ 
ing. It is the account of her first engage¬ 
ment ; how happy she was. She broke it 
the next week, aud twenty more after it; but 
she tells you she has found her destiny, and 
you see she has visions of siuging “ John 
Anderson my Jo” in her seventieth year. 
What a prim old maid she is now. 
The bundle is re-tied; it has too much of 
your youth in it to part with. Another 
bundle is from your home correspondents,— 
sisters, brothers,—some far away, some in 
the tomb. There is dear mother’s hand. 
How well you know that twist of die R, 
and those fs without a loop. You do not 
see quite clearly to read all the tender lines 
all the strong, cheering words written (as 
you know now,) when she needed cheering 
so much herself. This was written in your 
first great sorrow—what a bright, round 
curl that is, pressed so smoothly iu its folds. 
Nay, do not weep ; it is twenty years since 
that shining lock was cut from the baby 
brow. Twenty years!—it docs uot seem so 
to the heart. 
Letters!—what a satire they are upon 
human life ; how they preach, more forcibly 
than many sermons, the vanity of its hopes 
—the bitterness of its disappointments—the 
worthlessness of its most coveted prizes! 
IIow full of promises never fulfilled—vows 
deliberately broken—hopes crushed with the 
hearts that cherished them; yet, like life. 
full also of truth and unselfish devotion and 
unswerving integrity. Ah, yes, letters are 
precious things—heart records. The hand 
that penned them may be cold in death, but 
the words live, and when the inevitable 
shadow has fallen upon our lives, they will 
seem to us a living presence. 
-»♦» - .. 
TOM’S CURE. 
“ There yon stand, John, as calls your¬ 
self a man, aud yet that tougue of yours 
can’t stop its cursing one hour out of the 
twenty-four, unless it’s when you’re asleep, 
ami I ain’t sure but you’re at it even then. 
Now, mate, I’ve worked in this ere sl{pp 
nigh on to ten years, and I never knew 
swearing and cursing to grease the wheels 
of one of them machines. No, sir, not one 
of’em ever went the smoother for an oath." 
“ Well, Tom, I know ’taint just the thing, 
and I’ve tried often enough to quit; but con¬ 
found the luck, how can a fellow do it? It 
comes just as natural as eating of your din¬ 
ner. Then one does get so plaguey mad 
when things go wrong. 
“John, did you ever happen to see the 
Ten Commandments? Unless I lose my 
reckoning, one of them reads somewhat like 
tliis“ Thou shalt not take the name of the 
Lord thy God in vain, for the Lord will not 
hold him guiltless that takes his name in 
vain.” 
“ It’s mighty fine to stand there like a par¬ 
son, and preach Ton Commandments, but 
darn it all, can’t you tell a fellow how to 
quit, if you know how yourself?” 
“ I’ll tell you, John, jest what I did. When 
I got religion, that’s about six years agone, 
my wife, says she to me, ‘ Now, Tom, you’ll 
have to stop swearing, or else nobody’ll think 
you’ve really got religion; it’s dreadful wick¬ 
ed.’ “ Mollie,” says I, “ how can I ? Why 
I haven’t spoke scarce ten words in as many 
years without a curse. I pray God every 
day to help me quit, but it don't seem to do 
no sort o’ good." Mollie was always right 
smart and cute, and says she, ‘ I’ve been a 
thinking ever so much about it, Tom, and 
now I’ll tell you what you do; every time 
you go to use an oath, jest, you say ginger¬ 
bread aud molasses, instead, and mind j'ou 
keep on praying; I know God will help you 
if you only trust Him.’ Well, sir, true as you 
live, I did it. It tickled the hoys iu the shop 
amazingly, and I went by the name of* Gin¬ 
gerbread and molasses’ for two years or 
more, but 1 didn’t care none for that; I found 
the thing worked capitally, and I haven’t 
used an oath from that time to this, blessed 
be God. 
“ John, did you ever stop to think what a 
horrible thing it would he, if God wore to 
take you at your word and curse everything 
and everybody you asked Him to in your 
mad fits?” 
“To tell the truth, Tom, I thought I'd 
found religion a spell ago, but 1 gave it up as 
a bad job, Jest because I couldn’t break in 
this-tongue of mine. My poor mother’d 
bless you forever if you could cure me; it 
most breaks her heart to have me such a- 
hem, cursor. Just saved myself then, and 
I’m most (l ightened at myself sometimes.” 
“ You jest give my plan a fair trial, and 
don’t forget to ask God to help yon; be sure, 
mate, He 'will, if He sees you’re really in 
earnest.” 
“ Well, I reckon I’ll try it, anyhow.” 
He did tin/, reader, and with the blessing 
of GoDliedwZ succeed in breaking up forever 
that fearful habit. If you, like John, arc de¬ 
sirous of breaking loose from the same terri¬ 
ble slavery which held him in bondage vile, 
I advise to you, by all means , prayerfully to 
follow his example. Ruth Argyle. 
•- +++- - 
BE SOBER ALWAYS. 
It is not merely against “excess of wine” 
that the apostle warns us, but excess in 
everything, — against all extremes, excite¬ 
ments, feverishness—fruits of an unbalanced 
mind, and an uncontrolled, unregulated 
spirit. Self-restraint, self-denial, moderation 
in all things, calmness,—these may well be 
included under the word9, “ Be sober.” 
Non-conformity to the world,—rejection of 
its vanities, follies, feasts, pleasures, revel* 
ings, these arc also included. Be temperate 
in all tbiugs. Mortify your members which 
are upon the earth. Beware of any tempta¬ 
tion that would betray you into an unsteady, 
feverish state of mind, and throw you off 
your balance and guard. 
-♦ ■■ 
THE ORPHANS, 
Every boy and girl on the farm will com¬ 
prehend and appreciate the accompanying 
illustration. Every one of you at some lime 
has been called to the responsible position 
of nurse of orphaned lambs; or of lambs 
that have been abandoned by unfeeling 
mothers; or of lambs whoso dear mothers 
could not take care of them as they required 
PICTURE. 
to be cared for. These wet spring days in¬ 
volve such duties. And the discharge of 
them always brings sweet compensation. 
It makes the heart grow lender; it develops 
sympathy; it teaches a lesson of dependence, 
and gives the nurse a sense (often the first 
realization) of responsibility. It quickens 
into life that kind of satisfaction and happi¬ 
ness which is reflected by the enjoyment and 
comfort of others. This picture, therefore, 
ought to be a lesson to old and young— 
ought to suggest duties which it may be aro 
neglected; work that may be overlooked, 
and which always lies close by; pleasures 
to be bad for the gathering. And this is the 
secret of happiness and content. Do for 
everybody and everything whatever you see 
to do; and learn to see what there is that 
may be done. 
-+♦»— - 
SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 
An Italian Bishop, who had struggled 
through many difficulties without repining, 
and been much opposed without manifesting 
impatience, being asked by a friend to com¬ 
municate the secret of his being always hap¬ 
py, replied, “ It consists in a single thing, 
and that is, making a right use of my eyes.” 
His friend, in surprise, begged him to explain 
his meaning. “Most willingly,” replied the 
Bishop, “ In whatsoever stale 1 am, I first 
of all look up to heaven, and remember that 
my great, business is to get there; .1 look 
down upon earth, and call to mind how small 
a space I shall soon fill in it. I then look 
abroad In the world, and l see vvliat multi¬ 
tudes are in all respects Vss lmppy than my¬ 
self, and then I learn where all my cares 
must end,and how little reason I ever had to 
murmur, or to be otherwise than thankful. 
And to live in this spirit, is to be always 
happy.” 
||torifs for fhtralisfs. 
COUNTRY AND HORSE, 
VERSUS 
CITY AND CONSUMPTION. 
BY MRS. ANNIE II. FROST. 
[Concluded from pane 210, lust No.] 
II.— A Narrow Escape and Interesting De- 
noument. 
I think the round moon never shone 
brighter or beamed upon merrier hearts than 
were overflowing at 
the lips and eyes of 
a gentleman and two 
ladies, who stationed 
themselves upon the 
forward deck of the 
“ Elm City,” as she 
steamed majestically 
away fVom her pier 
in New York harbor, 
full two hours behind 
time, o n e glorious 
July evening of the 
summer following otir 
hero’s adventure in 
Ranleigh. And a very 
pretty picture these 
gay y<>ung people 
made, ns, loaning up¬ 
on the guards, they 
seemed fairly to bub¬ 
ble over with hearty 
enjoyment of life, the 
scene and each other, 
and effervesce in keen 
repartee and jest and 
laughter. 
The taller of the 
two ladies, to whom 
their escort seemed 
especially devoted, 
with her rosy beauty 
and willowy grace, 
might have stood for 
the model of a IIkue ; 
while her friend, as 
dainty—almost as di¬ 
minutive as a fairy — 
fluttered gaily from 
one to the other - of 
her companions, fill¬ 
ing up rare pauses in 
the conversation with 
her exuberant, fun, 
and from time to time 
energetically rousing 
the flagging interest 
of her friends as some 
new moonlight beau¬ 
ty caught her quick 
eye. Past the glisten¬ 
ing masts of Brook¬ 
lyn Navy Yard, the 
moonlit towers and 
turrets of Blackwell’s 
Island, the imposing 
architecture of 
Ward’s and Randall’s 
—past the beautiful 
villas and villages of 
Long Island, blossom¬ 
ing like rare, aquatic 
plants upon the bosom 
of the Sound—and safely through the swirl¬ 
ing waters of Hurlgate—the talk and excite¬ 
ment subsided a little, and, sinking into 
their seats, the three gave themselves up to 
quiet enjoyment of the scene. As they sat 
there, watching the waves of molten silver 
shimmering in the moon’s broad track, 
within which a passing schooner suddenly 
appeared, white-winged and shining, like 
some heavenly visitant, two gentlemen, de¬ 
scending from a higher point of observat ion 
in the pilot-house, took their scats upon the 
opposite side of the deck. 
Full of hope and joyful anticipation, our 
young friend Frank Langdon, in accord¬ 
ance with the promise made to himself the 
autumn previous, was about to seek his fate 
in Ranleigh—his staunch friend, the Doctor, 
accompanying him, because, as lie put it., lie 
“was bound to see Langdon through,” al¬ 
though, privately, he could not help consid¬ 
ering it rather a chimerical scheme, and one 
of exceedingly doubtful result. It is true 
that Frank might have indulged, as lie prob¬ 
ably did, iu somewhat strong suspicions that 
a visit to Ids sister, (who, at his suggestion 
was spending the “ heated term ” in the beau¬ 
tiful village aforesaid,) had quite as much to 
do with the physician’s ability to leave his 
patients at this particular juncture, as per¬ 
sonal devotion to that sister’s brother. I low* 
ever that may be—and we have no desire to 
impugn the worthy Doctor’s motives—they 
had no sooner seated themselves so as to 
command a good view of the people on deck, 
as well as of the coquettish moon and her 
broken reflection in the Sound beyond, than 
the Doctor exclaimed, 
“And now, Frank, do tell me what sud¬ 
den whim decided yon at the last moment 
to abandon the North River trip and take 
this boat, in spite, too, of our tiresome two 
TiaiE ORPHANS.- A SEASONABLE 
