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g SSSXSSBSfjBfTffim&fSL: ?««»?'t*frBUU3 RsaSKaesssreBs , ’ a. medur*. Jirrs.w vbLlse. b.l. bodosbs.-- gjy :«i‘il3«»cli. VriSm 1 tV shV! ' V in Si^.l^s'-iile, CVt .. M . i'fi.'.HV morning. Subscription nri«« TWli DOlili'AKS per annuta. P n °®... >rtod it the usual rates. Vo- charge for publishing marriages or deaths. . • • ~ ~~ = ~T- POETEY. ^ 88 LECT MIS' -ELLASY. From the Changed Cross.] Father, Take my Hand. The wav is dark, my Father! Cloud,on cloud Is gathering thickly o’er my head, and loud T" o thunders roar auove me. See, I s.an Like one bewilder’d! Father, take my kuna, And through the gloom Lead safely home Thy chihi. The dav goes fast, my Father! And my soul Is drawing darkly down. My faith.ess sight c ees ghostly visions. Fears a spectral band. Encompass him. O. Father! take my hand. And trom the night Lead up to light Thy child. The way is long, my Father! And my soul Loims lor the rest and quiet ot .the goal, While yet I journey through the weary land. Keep me from wandering. Father,take my ban Quickly and straight Lead to l eaven’s gate ■ Thy child. The path is rough, my Father! Many a thorn Has pierced me; and my weary feet all torn And bleeding,mark the way. Yetthy command Bids me press forward. Father, take my hand, Then, safe and blest, Lead up to rest Thy child. The throng is great, my Father! Many a doubt And fear, and danger, compass me about, And foes oppress me so. I can not stand Or go aione. O Father! take my hand, And through the throng Lead safe along Thy child. The cross is heavy, Father! I have borne It long, and still do bear it. Let my worn And fainting spirit rise, to that blest land AVhere crowns are given. Father,take my hand And reacinng down, Lead to the crown Thy child. JOHN WARD’S HOUSEKEEPING. BY ELIZA EDMONDS ANTHONY. John Ward was a very uncommon nun. Not content with attending to j [his own business out of doors, lie j night- also to aft n I to his wife s j food lesson a pian I think, it will 1 _ him to mind his own business let me attend to mine. I have new to cure him if anything wi; What it was may be found in sequel. John Ward came home at twelve, expecting to find a good Warm din ner:. ready. jL.ver since lie hud commenced ! them, Le thought lie smell something j burning; but just as he shut the over, j door, p. p! pop! wont something on ; the stove; and the top and bottom of* j the k: ,ici pan parted company, and a. I lot of black, burned potatoes rolled over the door. ‘‘Confound it! I for- much to ti Dai e i 1 ■ mm, ne. ; i * the ina too mu . r lady’s di every porn account of- on him. Instead, what a sight met his astonished eyes, as he opened the door.—He found the breakfast dishes just as he had left them in the morning, only the cat had upset the milk, and it liad soaked into the carpet. The stove was cold, and, worse than all, where was his wife? He rushed tip stairs, two steps at a time, at the risk of breaking his neck, and there, lying on the bed, was Mrs. Ward. “Why, what’s the matter, Maggie? Why is" dinner not ready? Ass you sick?” he asked. “One question at a time, if you please, John. I don’t feel very well, and as you said this morning that you could do better than I could at housekeeping, I thought itwould.be a good chance for me to rest,” she said sweetly. “Thunder! O, of course, if you are sick I can get along finely; and as I have nothing special to do at the office this afternoon, I will clean up the house and let you rest,” he said, trying to look as if he were pleased, when in fact he was quite the re verse. He then went down stairs leaving Mrs. Ward with her face buried in the pillows, whether laughing or cry ing he did not exactly know. First he commenced at the dishes. Instead of taking them to the sink, as he had seen his wife do dozens of times, he made preparation to wash them on the table. By the time he had gathered them all up lie found that there was no hot water. Secret ly blaming his stupidity, he soon had a hot fire, thinking to himself it took a good deal of wood for him to heat water as well as when his wife was cooking. He soon had hot water, and in the course of half an hour had all the dishes washed; and, with the exception of cracking four tumblers by pouring boiling water over them, himself and the caipet meek wife to wait | got to put auy waterm tne saucepan! 1 1 * ' i I i. I I .... 1 r . . f ^- W jn* . h 4- «1 am ^ nuiKli! ing wet In di<l fell. Or i . comfort ins meet v'heth not o ruing, ell her not ved i li lt. u cmicki.uig housekem ■ tint i. Hen knew I can not think of everything at once, he growled, and just then he thought tiiat if lie couldn’t think of everything at once, liow could his wife? and she never had burned the potatoes, eith er. He picked the potatoes up, burn ing hisfing ;rs as he did so, and threw them and the saucepan over that ve ry convenient fence. Hearing the clock strike, he look ed up, and saw it was five o’clock. “Why, how long it takes to do a little thing! Maggie always had eve rything tidied up by three,” he said,” ruefully looking at the clattered-up room. “I’ll ran out and buy some meat for supper,” he next thought, and off he started. He soon came back with a parcel under his arm. “WTiatmade everybody look at me so queerly?” he said, going to the looking-glass and surveying himself. And no won der that people looked at him, for on his face was a streak of soot, and his arm was white with flour. “I’m bles sed if I don’t wish I had let Maggie cook, aad minded my own business,” he muttered. In about half an hour he had the table set, and things looked ready for supper; though to be sure, the table looked rather untidy, as he had spilled some gravy on the cloth, and the floor was spotted all over with grease. The biscuits were on the table, but looked as if they had not “raised’ nmch, and the meat was flanked on one side by a plate of jel- jy, and on the other, by a few ap ples. He had forgotten the tea un til the last minute, and hastily pour ed some warm Water on about a tea spoonful of tea leaves. Mr. Ward then went up-stairs one step at a time now, for to tell the truth he was a little doubtful about the success of his supper. ' his wife before the glass finishing touches to her • ad changed her morning He form putting Hi crimson- merino, and m air was a knot of crim son ribb n on the •coml ti. aiw; rood—sue migut as ; i r.< -k wnli a little as so much. | >n tlusp'-riimiiar morning hr came ; a stairs as the clock was Striking | •n, a-id a pleasant sight met his j ,.s lie opened the dining-room I hi ()a* the well laden table, v.n-li; covering of snowy damask, and • mining silverware, were hot j fight 1 read, golden butter, nice ret teak and eggs, and a plate J .-n.,:>Y brown potatoes. He nodd le approval at his wife, who liad I. -n working over the stove nearly i hour to prepare a breakfast that would be satisfied with. ’• These roils are heavy Maggie; I lo wish you could make them like bother uaed to,” said Mr. Ward as le broke open a snowy roll that Imp elled to be scarcely done. “Are they not done? I am sorry; it I was so busy broiling the meat id not notice them close enough, .s her reply. “But you ouhgt to notice every- and here this beefsteak is not bit cooked. I believe I could do Itter than that myself,” were the |xt impatient words. Ti wish to gracious you would, and |u perhaps you will be suited,” > the hasty reply. ‘Well, don’t be angry about it; but ■lly, Maggie, you use a good deal lUgar. Here I bought a lot of it week, and nowit is nearly gone, on’t see where it goes to,” said Ward again. This time there no reply, and looking around, j ■found to liis amazement, that he [ talking to the chairs; Mrs. Ward j M beyond endurance, had fled up j lirs to indulge iu that luxury for j _pnen a good cry. ■‘Really, she acts very singularly, j | r ondev what I said to make her 1 loff iu that way.” he said to liim- f in surprise; rising, lie went down She was not there; then up- , where he found Mrs. Ward , j on the bed, asleep or pretend- to be. “Wh h re she’s asleep Sun, and not o i* o’ bed two hours j h • said, ::i-> him- -If than I h •••. as ' < -. an 1 kissed ., d l.thestairs! • is'i<- i his.mV, pur..on hi. ■ i-d oil to his bus ■' ■ xpe.ciiug to be home bc- v a.i'i lu- gone than Mrs. ■- stopped. I can • ! ;i odihisf verlastingfaultH ii Jo!-.; >\ anl or any other ‘ ■ ■■ > '« • r than 1 | j-. iionsc-kmpiiig; let him try, and ( e, ana w< or the iii< opt hi tin Hearing a noise ov something falling, he !-. ihe kitchen, with th hand and a pan of fioi There was the pan oJ side up, on the floor, on slit betto onort ,1 ills OUgLi to KISS, e same lime ;■ vp in- the IIUIT - Him!, in one r in the. other, milk, bottom and the milk streaming in a.l direction, while the cat, had done the mischief, was sit ting under the stove, licking her paws as if she was very well satisfied with what she had done. Not long, however, did puss rest; for Mr. Ward, putting the meat on a low shelf by the stove, and the pan of flour on top of the stove, which was nearly red-hot, took the broom and threw it at her; that was follow ed by the boot-jack, and at last Mr. Ward chased her out cf the front door.—Then, thinking of meat and flour, he rushed into the kitchen by one <roor as a large, lean dog rushed out of the other with that cherished piece of meat in his month. John Ward chased that dog down to the gate without getting near him; then, returning, he smelt something burn ing. In an instant he thought of the pan of flour that he had left on top of the stove. “Confound it! The stove must have been hot!” he muttered. Well, no need to describe that flour. It only took him half an hour to see that he could not get that pan in presentable state again. He then threw’ it over the fence, devoutly hop ing his wife would not find it, and give him a lecture about w’asting so much flour and spoiling a pan. His words to his wife that morning still rang in his ear: “You ought to notice everything. I could do better at housekeeping myself.” Somehow it did not seem so easy as he had thought; and now he be gan to feel hungry, not having had a bite to eat since breakfast. He went to the cupboard and look ed for the rolls and bread. They were gone, and the closet looked emp ty- A bright thought flashed into his head. He would make some light biscuits and bring his wife down to the table, and surprise her with a good supper. “1 will put some potatoes on first as they arc so easy to cook,” so.sav ing, he par potatoes lie con i-n a saucepan,, t! ea haute 1 up woe’s; and proc biscuits, “like mo h» r used to makt them.”—‘They say “the proof of tin pudding is in ’lie eating,” so we wi! qnlv observe that t e biscuits loo ed • ery nice, when he put them m tne oven. some o d find, and on the- st< ap- ded to make li and put th .•ourslipp'd. J-Tin,” t. though rnischeif res. “You look nice faggie,” he said, at Ming the action to tiding her down to sup per. j.i piuced her at the head of the table, and taking his own seat, pro ceeded to pour out the tea. Mr. Wa r ! looked carefully into her cup, where there were about three tea leaves floating in water, and then looking at her husband, said: “You surely did not forget to boil the water before you made the tea, did you, John?” John stammered, and finally said : “Well—yes—I believe I did forget about that; but let me give you some milk instead;” and he started up for the milk, when suddenly re membering that the milk in the house had soaked into the floor, he dropped back into his seat-as if he had been shot. “What’s the matter, John ? Where is the milk ? I left a pan-full in the cellar, this morning,” Mrs. Ward said at last. “I—I believe—the cat upset the pan, my dear, when I was down cellar after the meat,” -was John Ward’s meek reply. “And where is the meat I bought yesterday?” was her next question. “The meat ? Well—a dog ran off with it while I was chasing the cat,” was his subdued answer. “Oh! and I guess you did not salt the meat, did you ?” “I forgot it,*my dear; I was busy and did not notice.” “Oh! I thought you noticed eve rything. And what did you put in these biscuits to make them raise ? If these are like mother used to make, I pity those who had to eat them,” was Mrs. Ward’s last shot, as she cut open a sodden, heavy biscuit. “I forgot to put anything in to make them rais he said ; then, “hang it 1 I will never interfere with your housekeeping again, Maggie.— It is not so easy as I thought. I know now that you understand it, and I have made a fool of myself. You will never hear any more fault finding from me after this; and if you will never speak of this to any one, I '-. ill hire the best cook to be had, to-morrow, and buy you a new dress in the bargain. Will you promise? rice: I big your pardon ■for finding fault so much, and hope you will forgive me.” And he act ually got on his knees before her, he was so earnest. She must have promised to tor- give and forget, for the next day he nought home a handsome dress for his wife, and a good cook, who clean ed away the remains of his culinary work. . And she says to this day that John had a good lesson at keep ing house. “Motes aad Beams.” BY COUSIN ANNIE. “Mother, I do think Clara Ains- ley is the most disagreeable girl 1 ever saw 1” Mrs. Halpine glanced up quickly from her work, looking toward her daughter: “Why, dear ?” “Because she is so mean,” Grace went on. “I don’t believe there is a single girl in school who likes her. What do you think she did yester day? Our teacher called up the class in History. Just then I re membered that I had left my book at home. I asked Clara to let me look on with her, but she would not do it, and when I attempted to glance over her shoulder, she frown ed and drew the book away. This is not the first time she has done the same thing. She is so very sel fish and disobliging that she will never lend the girls any of her pen cils, pens, rubbers, or any thing else. Only last week I heard her tell Su sie Lighton, who had requested the loan of her rubber, that she could not let her have it, as she was going to use it herself. I knew she was not, as it was full an hour before drawing-time. But Clara, in order to make her word appear as true, began making pencil-marks all over her book, and then erasing them with her rubber. I declare I would not be as sernsh as she is for air. thmgl” There Was a quiet smile playing around Mrs. Halpine’s mouth, as, looking Grace straight in the eyes, she said: ‘.Don’t be so hasty, dear. Ah! Grace, I see you have forgotten that scene in the garden yesterday after noon, between yourself and little brother Charlie.” Grace hung her head in confusion, while a crimson flush mounted to her forehead. She had not remem bered this when she spoke so decided ly. Now slie had come to think of it,she had acted as selfishly as Clara. She had just got through weeding her flower-beds, and was going to put the hoe away, when Charlie came running toward her, and begged her that he too might have it for only a lit tie while. But the'hoe was a new oil, and she was rather proud of it. She would not trust it to Charlie, he might break it, altougli lie so firmly protested to the contrary. So, push ing the little fellow rudely from her, she declared she was going to use it herself, and commenced weeding the flowers over, although there was no necessity for it. Charlie, greatly disappointed, fell down in the grass and commenced crying, while’ his mother, who had witnessed the scene from an open window, called him to her and tried to comfort him. “Ah! my daughter,” her mother said, as she laid her hand upon Grace’s head, “do not be thus ready to discover and comment upon a fault in another, when you yourself are possessed of one perhaps far greater. Have you forgotten what our Savi our siad in his sermon upon the mount ‘YYhy seest thou the mote in thy brother’s eye and considerest not the beam in thine own?’ And again: ‘Judge not that ye be not judged, for with what measure ye mete shall it be measured unto you.” Grace still hung her head in silence She felt deeply rebuked, and yet could not murmur, for she knew the lesson was well deserved. Dear children, are some of you like Grace, so ready to discover the mote in another’s eye, and yet take no heed of the beam that lies in your own? Christ says: “Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother’s eye.” Let us think of this, and when we see faults in others, instead of criticising them, let us stop to ask ourselves if our own faults are not greater than these. We must bear kindly one with anothex-, remem bering “with what measure we mete it shall be measured us again.” Modesty.—There is a resistless charm in a modest demeanor, which is worth more than all the aids by which designing women seem to cap tivate the opposite sex Mereattrac- tions may chance to please to-day; but native excellence, with the sim ple setting of modesty, will delight to-morrow, and next day, and so on, without interruption. Moreover, the pleasure which we derive from spur- ious or shallow charms is always fol lowed by disgust, when we come to see that we have been imposed upon It is not agreeable to our amour pro- p.L to know and feel that we nave been cheated. The old paradox about “beauty unadorned,”, has much truth in it, and is very pointedly and pret tily rendered in the following epigram: “A s lamps bnrn silent with unconscious light, So mo lost ease in Beauty shines more bright, Utiuimiug charms with force reeistless-fall. And she who means no mischief does it all!” In those days miners would flock m crowds to get a glimpse of that rare rad blessed spectacle, a woman! Old inhabitants tell how, in a certain camp, the news went abroad early in the morning that a woman was come! They had seen a calico dress hanging out of a wagon down at the camping ground—sign of emigrants from over the great plains. Every body went down there, and a shout Went up when an actual, bona fide dress was discovered fluttering in the wind! The male emigrant was visi ble. The miners said: “fetch her out!’ He said: ‘ It is my wife, gentlemen— she is sick—we have been robbed of money, provisions, everything, by the Indians—we want to rest.’ ‘Fetch her out! We’ve got to see her!’ “But, gentlemen, the poor tiling, she—” •‘Fetch her out!” He fetched her out, and they swung their hats and sent up three rousing cheer., and a tiger; and they crowded around and gazed at her, and touched her dress, and listened to her voice with the look of men who listened to a memory rath er than a present reality—ami then they collected $2500 in gold and gave it to the man, and swung their hats again and gave three more cheers, and went Home satisfied. Once I dined in San Francisco with the fam ily of a pioneer, and talked with his daughter, a young lady whose first experience in San Francisco was an adventure, though she herself did not remember it, as she was only two or three, years olu at the time. Her father said that, after landing from the ship, they were walking up the street, a servant leading the party with the little girl in her arms. And presently a huge miner, bearded, belted, spurred an l bri ;tling with deadly weapons—just down from a long campaign in the mountains, ev idently—barred the way, stopped the servant and stood gazing, with a face all alive with gratification and astonishment. Then he said, rever ently: “Well, if it ain’t a child!” And then he snatched a little leather sack out of liis pocket and said to the ser vant: “There’s a hundred and fifty dollars in dust, there, and I’ll give it to you to let me kiss the child!” That anecdote is true. But see how things change. Sitting at that din ner-table, listening to that anecdote, if I had offei’ed double the money for the privilege of kissing the same child I should have been l’efused. Seven teen added'years have far more than doubled the pi’ice.—Mark Twain. The Heart.—What an inscratable mj’stery is the human heart. There with bless we and therewith curse we man, even our brother. What can be more tender, gentle and loving than the heart of man ? and what can ba half so pitiless? Oh ! no rock that ever l’eared its hard front above the sea could stand more unshaken while the stormy winds dashed the poor waves against its sides, and scattered them abroad in ten million drops, or beat them infix wreaths of foam, than men can stand while against them, as against ragged granite, other men are beat and broken. They feel the quivering flesh ; their hard sides are wetted by the blood of those that the winds of fate beat and dash against them; they will see their fellows panting out life at their very feet; they will look upon tlfem and see how, throb by throb, hope, love and life go out, and they will not care; they will feel no sympathy, no pain; they will not put out one finger, they will not abate one line in the rigidity of their face, to save the unfortunates from de struction. Who would think that these were men who have no hope except in the mercy and compassion of God? Who would think that they were men who, in other moods, would be thrown into great disti-ess at beholding somebody in mere physical pain, or be moved to pity by the crying of a hungry kitten? When once men set themselves to be hard-hearted, they can be so ; but they never can do it without injury to themselves. They may not be aware of this at the time, but they will see it all clearly enough by-and- by. It is a sad calamity to be made without fsice and resolution, but there will be a shoi-t and more easily balanced account with the weak and over gentle, than that which will at the last appal the obstinate and the hard-hearted. Be gentle, be genial to all who look to you for help. Hours of Sadness.—Though youth be a season of jollity, yet it is in hours of sadness tiiat the man is most strongly reminded of the days of yore. The deep feeling of mel ancholy is the only one that extends like a clue through life;. that blends present, past, and future, into one, and places our iudentity palpably before us. It is the point at which we all feel at home; and when, af ter intervals of apathy and distrac tion, we return to it, it seems as if life, like time, were but a series of revolutions, and at certain periods found itself at the very goal froin whence it first started. Flowers.—Of all the animate pro ductions of nature, flowers have the least reason to complain of the neg lect or nniiindness of man; and -Esop, Gay, and La Fontaine in ci n- junction, would find it difficult to discover a grievance for them which they could lay, with any justice; at the foot of Jove’s imperial throne. In ever'* ace and everv nation they have, been honored and cherished, loved and admired. In the olden ti ue tney graced tne festivals, and adorned the altars, of the deities. A goddess, ever blooming and young, superintended their interests, and her marriage with the gentle Zephy- ras must have singularly promoted the welfare of her delicate su 1 jects. They have been showered on the heads of heroes, been twisted into the chaplets of Hymen, and chosen by Love as his most appropriate gifts, and most intelligible symbols. Affection has delighted to strew them on the graves of the departed, and poetry nas sung their praise, ill the wearied ear turns from the oft- told tale. “Oh! friendly to the best pursuits of man, Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to pe„ ’ are tastes and studies of this de scription, when cultivated as the amusement, not the business of life, and kept in due subserviency to higher and more useful pursuits. ■ Be Pleasant.—Bo be pleasant— why can t you ? Will you icei any better for snapping, snarling, or growling ? You knoiu you won’t. If yqur heart was really a dirty dish, and ugly emotions and cross words were the uncleanness, it would be a good plan to get them all out as fast as possible, but unfortunately there can be no such sudden cleansing of a man’s interior, lne more objec tionable stuff he throws out, the more there grows to replace it—’tis only smotherinj and choking that suits this case. Speak pleasantly, then, especially to people in any respect beneath you—whether they be infer ior to you in rank, learning, power, age, wealth, or only in sex, try alway to be pleasant towards them whether you really feel good natured or not. If you get your mouth open to throw out a‘spike or a dagger, shut it till you can, like the juggler, transform the weapon into a noner. Oil! < o be kind and pleasant, everybody to everybody, and the millennum win come at once. Home Manners. We sometimes meet with men wha seem to think that any indulgence in an affectionate feeling is a weakness. They will return from a journey and meet their families with a distant dig, nity, and move among their cliildicn- with the cold and lofty splendor of an iceberg, surrounded by its frag ments. There is hardly a more un natural sight on earth than one of these families without a heart. A father had better extinguish a b >y’s eyes than take away his heart, iVli o that has experienced the joys of friendship, and values sympathy and affection, would not rather lose all that is beautiful in nature’s scenery, than be robbed of the hidden treas ures of the heart. Cherish, then, t’onr heart's best affection. Indulge in the warm and gushing ■motions of filial, parental and. pa- emal love. Think it. not a weak- less. God is love. Love God, every body, and everything that is lovely. I’each your children to love; to love the rose, the robin; to love their pa rents ; to love their God. Let it be studied objects of their domestic cul ture, to give them warm hearts, ar dent affections. Bind your family together by those strong chords— ■ 7 ou cannot make them too Ileligion is love—love to God, to man.—Dr, Hall’s Medical Journal. A TV ife’s Prayer.—Lord bless and preserve that dear person whom Thou hast chosen to be my "husband; let his life be long and blessed, com fortable and holy; and let me also become a great blessing and comfort unto him—a sharer in all his sorrows, a helpmeet in all the accidents and changes in the world; make me ami able and forever dear to him. Unite his heart to mine in the dearest love and holiness, and mine to him in all its sweetness, charity and compla cency. Keep me from all ungentle ness and discontentedness and un- reas mubieimss of passion and hu mor; and make me obedient, useful and observant, that we may delight in each other according to thy bless ed word; and both cf us may rejoice in Thee, having fo, our portion the love and service of God forever. To the Pure all is Pure.—The putrid spider converts that to pois on whi-jii tfie bee works to hone} ; and it is thus that man has, at differ ent times, debased and injured all he has touched, and lowered the most glorious pursuits to the level of his own corruption. Music, fit amuse ment of angels, has ministered to voluptuousness; painting to the grossest impurity; poetry has for gotten its noble nature to sing of forbidden things; and even botany, a study which unfolds the wonderful economy of nature, displays its beau tiful regularity, and is conversant with those lovely and harmless things, the flowers of the field, conveys to some unhappy minds thoughts mos. unlike the pureness of the lily, or the sweetness of the rose. There are minds, however, of a different stamp, minds which adorn and enrich all they touch, which can learn wisdom from a flower, piety from a blade of grass, can find “sermons in stones, and good in everything.” Some one has written beautifully to the boys in the following manner. Here is a whole sermon in a few sen tences; Of all the love affairs in the world, none can surpass the true love of the big boy for his mother. It is a love pure and noble, honorable in the highest degree to both. I do not mean merely a dutiful affection. I mean a love wh.eh makes a bpy gal lant and courteous to his mothf r, saying to everybody plainly that he is fairly in love with her. Next to the love of her ownhusband, nothing so crownsa woman’s life with honor as this second.love, this devo tion of son to her. And I never'yet knew a boy “turn out” bad who be gan by falling in love with his moth er. A man may fall in love with a fresh-faced girl, and the man who is gallant with the girl may cruelly neg lect the worn and waary wife. But the boy who is a love to his mot ier in- her middle age, is a true knight who will love his wife as much in t he sereleaved autumn as he did the dai sied springtime. Health.—It is much to be regret ted that learned men while in health pay no attention to the means of re taining it. There is nothing more common than to see a miserable-look ing object, overrun with numerous diseases, bathing, walking, riding— in a word, doing everything for health after it is gone: yet if any one had recommended these things to him by way of prevention, the advicer would have been treated with contempt, or at least with neglect. Merit must take a great comps to rise, if not assisted bv favor. •r The Bible the only Rule of Faith and Practice.—It is we be lieve, universally agieeuamoug l io- testants of all denominations that the Bible is their one great naramoi nt religious authority; that they repud iate all traditionary loro or human teaching; and that every man, de pending on his own judgement, and availing himself ol ms iig. t to use it, looks to the Sacred Scrip ures, and the Sacred Scriptures alone, for the spiritual light which shoulu both in form his faith and direct his conduct. Such is the theory, but it is little more than a theory If ( hristians acted upon it honestly and more free ly than they do, they would, in all probability, find their diff rences di minish and their charity ii crease.— Edinburgh There is a man in Portland, Maine, who supports his family in a hand some style by simply tying an able- bodied cat by the tail to a clothes line every night, and then going out in the morning to collect the soap, shaving cups, brashes, ect., thrown into the yard by angry boarders in adjoining houses. Three Kinds of Praise.—There are three kinds of praise; that which we yield, that which we lend, and that which we pay. We yield it to the powerful from fear, we lend it to the weak from interest, and we pay it to the deserving from gratitude. How to Make a Short Summer.— Give a note in the spring, payable in the fall. You will find that fall will be here as soon as you are ready for it. We must speak well and act well Brave actions are the substance of life, and good sayings the ornament of it. Art of Prud. He whose honest freedom makes it his virtue to speak what he thinks, makes it his necessity to think what is good. He who pushes a jestfatrher than good breeding requires, shall never fail to be hated or despised. No man should be confident of his own merit. The best err, and the wisest are deceived. If speech is silver, and if silence is gold, how much is a deaf and dumb man worth ? Old maids, it is said, are seldom found in China, but rare old china is often found among old maids. A Chattanooga chicken-coop has the following sign on it: “For sail— Chickens in the blume of yuth,” ' A careful observer has noticed that young ladies with new solitaire diamond rings never require much urging to play the piano. A drunkard, on being told that the earth is round and turns on its axis all the tim6, said, “I believe that, for I’ve never been able to stand on the darned thing.”