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Miscellaneous.
DIVINE IMPRESS.
Ther‘s not a tint that paints the rose,
Or ileckß the lily fair,
Or streak- the humblest flow r that grows
liut heaven has placed it there.
At early dawn there‘s not a gale,
Across the landscape drivn,
And not a breeze that sweeps the vale,
That is not sent by lieav'n.
There s not of grass a single blade,
Or leaf of lowest mien,
Win ce heavenly skill is not displayed.
And heavenly wisdom seen.
*
Therc‘s not a tempest dark and dread,
Or storms that rends the air,
Or blast, that sweeps o‘er ocean‘3 bed,
But heaven's own voice is there.
Therms not a star, whose twinkling light,
Illumines the distant earth;
And cheers the solemn gloom of night,
But mercy gave it birth.
There s not a cloud whose dews distil
Upon the parching clod,
And clothes with verdue, vale and hill.
That is uut sent by God.
There‘s not a place in earth's vast round
In ocean, deep, or air,
Whore, skill and wisdom are not found,
For God is every where.
Around, beneath, below, above,
Whei ev-r space extends,
There he tv‘u displays its bc uudless love.
And power with mercy blends.
THE BURIAL.
A Fragment.
!t was summer. The sun shone
proudly down upon the gay mist that
rose above the billows—the btusliiu'r
charms of spring were passed, and the
summer glow of loveliness had sue
cceded, Tl.o woodlands were gay
and beautiful—for nature had clothed
them in all her surpassing splendours.
The mountain stream now ran, now
t ippled, now curling with its silver ed
dies, glad sparkling in the sun-beam—
now smoothly fl \vt and among its ever
varying bed, towards its quiet home
*• in the world of waters.” The birds
warbled as sweetly in their green
bowers of bliss, as if sighs and tears
were unknown.
There was j y on earth.—The twit
tering swallow, as if darted along in
sunshine ami shade, ceded not the
bitter wailings of filiation and dis
tress—the wild bird in its noiseless
flight, sußly silent as falls the snow.
11 tkr, seemed unmindful of wo, as it
Hashed iss wi g across the vision, like
a thought of a dream during the hush
ed hours of midnight, and vanished as
suddenly. To me, the sight of their
joyous felicity brought no gladness—
the sounds of their mirth fell cold upon
the heart—if seemed but bitter mock
ery: and spoke o$ clays departed. Tbc
bright and laughing skies seemed in
netisible that they were smiling over
ruin aul decay; that hue of hope's
fairest, sweetest fl;\vera, had drooped
ui.d died; and that row—even now
was to be laid in the earth's cold bo
som.
1 had seen the child in its guileless
Feauty, when it was a thing all glow- 1
iug with health, innocence, and joy —|
had. seen it folded in the arms of her!
that bore it, io all the overwhelming
lnnuitc.Hß of a mother's love. But now
, , burn blessing— her first, last, i
, on, J’*l*pt- iot t , the soft!
bosom ot a mother's tenderness—but
with the quiet dead J Death, deatk <
how lovely canfit thou be] Though
pale ant! lit. less, it wuie a smile pas*
shiftless aud pure, as the cherub ,f im
mortality— j- had nothing of the grave
—hut its silence. So beautiful it
seemed-libe the sportive lamb, decked
with a flowery garland for the sacri
fice, l could fain have laid down by its
side in the cold bosom of our common
mother, in the dark and silent valley.
Thou weepest, childless mother—
ah, well thou mayest—the son of God
wept at the tomb of his friend—and
thou roournest thy first-born. Hard it
is for thee to lay thy loved one low in
the damp earth—beneath the cold
clods of the valley—hard it is to re
tie t that this, thy child of peerless
beauty, will never more raise its rosy
lips to thine, in all the fondness of
childhood's warm affection. Ah! these
are recollections that weigh upon the
soul, even to overpowering. * Memory
tells thee thou art desolate—it tells
too, of play ful of a thousand
soft and winning ways that twine a
round the mother's bosom—it tells of
the sweet, wild throbbings of bliss that
were thine when softly soothing it to
slumber aud repose. Now the foilage
of the cypress will be its shelter; and
the narrow’ house its abiding place—
the nursery will uo more resound with
its gladsome mirth—the cradle in
which it had so often reposed iu quiet
is now desolate. Thou weepest child
less mother.
The last look. The time is come she
may gaze once more upon her sleep
ing boy, ere the pall is settled upon
his life! ess brow. Oh, the bitter ago
ny of that moment—one long burning
kiss upon his marble brow, and he is
shut from her view. In the fullness of
her grief she says,
No more, rny baby, shalt thou lie,
Withdrowsey smile, and half-shuteye—
Pillowed upon thy mothers breast,
Serenely sinking into rest.
For God hath laid thee down to sleep,
Like a pure pearl beneath the deep!
Look abroad, fond mother, upon the
ways of sinful men, and repine no
more that God hath made thy child
an ai gel in the regions of bliss. Now
iiis song mingles with the thanksgiv
ing ot the blest! sanctified, safe, and
secure Irma the stormy blasts of mi
quity, with him who is from everlast
ing !
The long train of weeping friends
gathered round a fresh dug grave.
‘The collin was lowered into its final
resting place, in the vale of solitude
aud silence—the spirit of him who
was so lovely here had, long ere this,
crossed the dark waters—and is safe
ly landed upon the flowery cost of a
world of fadeless bloom !
HUSBANDS AND WIVES.
We are glad to wee something like
good sense in the maxims given rela
tive to the treatment that husbands
and wives should observe towards
each other. In nearly all the sage
sayings on this subject, the wife is
regarded as a sort of domestic uten
sil. a kind of dependant, who has
nothing to do but comb the children’s
heads, (taking rare not to comb her
husband’s) cook the dinner to a turn
for his surly lordship, receive him
with smiles, though he is ever so crab
bid, and make a low courtsey anda
“ thank you Sir,” if he condescends
to give her a look that would sour
more, cream than a thunder gust.
The gentleman has nothing to do hut
(old his arms, and suffer his wife to
busy herself in pleasing him. He is
to ki< k over the inoppuil when he
pleases, upset the tea table When it
suits liis humour, keep his wife up all
night to receive him with smiles when
he comes staggering home from his
clubs, and the poor lady is to take all
the hi ame of his being a disagreeable,
discontented, mulish fellow, if after all
her patience sho cannot succeed in
making any thing of him.— Ills high
time this Turkish doctrine was explo
ded. The husband has duties to
perform to make home agreeable, as
well as the wife, lie should consult
her happiness quite as much -bs she
does his, and make as many sacrifices
in her behalf. It is true, the husband
often requires to be honored to prevent
him from acting the brute, because
there are an hundred good wives
where there is one good husband; and
a sensible woman, if she be cursed
with such a yoke follow, will strive,
for her own sake, and that of her
children, to soften down his asperities.
But we like not this doctrine which
imposes the whole task of making
home happy upon the female. It seems
to sanction the conduct of the hus
band who makes no effort to perform
his part, and to furnish him an apolo
gy for indulging in ill temper, and
then blaming his wife for not making
him good natured.
In the following, from the U. S. Ga
zette, we find some advice on this to
pic iu exact accordance with our one
views;
Rules for Husbands .
1. A good husband will always re
gard his wife as his equal, treat her
with kinduess, respect, and attention,
and never address her with an air of
authority, as if she were, as some
husbands appear to regard their
wives, a mere housekeeper.
2. He will never interfere in her
domestic concerns, hiring servants,
&c. &r.
3 He will cheerfully and promptly
comply with all her reasonable re
quests, when it can be done without
loss, or great inconvenience*
4 He will never allow himself to
lose his temper towards her, by in.
different cookery, or irregularity in
the hour of meals, or any other
mismanagement of her servants,
knowing the difficulty of making them
do their duty
3. If she have prudence aud good
sense, he will consult her on all great
operations involving the risk of ruin,
or serious injury in the case of failure
Many a man has been rescued from
rum by the wise counsels of his wife.
Many a foolish husband has most se
riously injured himself and family by
the rejection of the advice of his wife,
fearing last if he followed it he should
be regarded as ruled by her. A
husband can never procure a counsel
lor more deeply interested in his wel
fare than his wife.
6 If distressed or embarassed in
his circumstances, he will communi
cate liis situation to her with Can
dor, that she may bear his difficui
ties iu mind, in her expenditures.
Women sometimes, believing theii
husband’s circumstances to be far
better than they really are, expend
money which cannot well be afforded
and which if they knew their real sit
uation, they would shrink from expen
ding*
Rules for Wives’
1. A good wife will always receive
her husband with smiles—leaving no
thing undone to render home agreea
ble—and gratefully reciprocate his
kindness and attention.
2 She will study to discover means
to gratify his inclination, in regard to
food and cookery; in the management
of her family; in her dress manners,
and deportment,
3. She will never attempt to rule,
or appear to rule her husband* Such
conduct degrades husbands-and wives
always partake largely of the degra
dation of their husband.
4. She will in every thiyg reaso
nable comply with his wishes—and
as far as possible anticipate them.
5. She will avoid all altercations
or arguments leading to ill-humor—
and more especially before company.
6 She will never attempt to interfere
in his business, unless he ask her ad
vice or counsel, and will never attempt
to control him in the management
of it.
Should difference arise between bus
baud and wife the contest ought to be,
not who will make the first advances.
There is scarcely a more prolific
source of unhappiness in the married
state, than this ‘spirit, 9 the legitimate
offspring of pride and want of feeling.
Perhaps the whole art of happiness
in the married state, might be com
prised in these two maxims—" Bear
and forbear—and let the husband
treat hie wife, and the wile treat her
husband with as much respect at:?
attention as he would a strange l*d,
and as she would a strange geuiit.
man.
BITTER SWEET.
J 1 certain cure for drinking
Liquors .
Take two ounces of the flour
of consideration. Dissolve
a pint ofihe spirit of seif denial;,
then add one quart of the juice
of resolution to it. Shake i;
well together'—then put it ir.ro
the golden bowl, (memory.) if
the golden bowl be not broken
—then sweeten it with the cou
gar of high reputation. A dram
of these bitters nay be taken
often as the appetite craves
strong drink. A larger portion
of juice may be added if ncccs.
saryy and if one bowl full should
not perfect a cure, it must he
filled up again with the same
kind. The longer one takes
those bitters, die less bitter will
they taste.—They have been
found by most who have used
them, very beneficial to the
conscience as well as the body.
Old Parr, who lived until till
age 103 years, gave this advice
—Keep your head cool by tem
perance, your feet warm by ex
ercise, rise early, and go soot
to bed, and if you are inclined
to get fat. keep your eyes open
and your mouth shut.
Levity is often less foolish,
and gravity less wise, than
each of them appear.
If thou buvest tine books on
ly to set up in the closet, and
never readest them, thou wilt
be like a man that getteth in
nice provisions and never cats,
them.
An attorney in the country,
advertises for a lad that can
write n legible hand and read il
legible writings.
Two very honest gentlemen
who dealt in brooms, meeting
one day in the street, one asked
the other, how the devil ho
could afford to undersell hi: 4
every where he did, when he
stole the stuff’, and made the
brooms himself? Why, you
silly dog, answered the other, /
steal them alieadij made .
A tailor is the ninth part of &
man, said a would-be-wit in the
presence of a knight 01 the
shears. But, replied the taylor,
a fool is no part at all,
MUDDY WIT.
A black servant, not a hun
dred miles from St, Andrews,
being examined in the Church
Catechism by the minister of
the Parish, was asked, ‘What
are you made of jack?’ he said
‘of mud, massa.’ On being told
he should say of dust, he repli
ed, ‘No, massa. it no do, nr
stick togedder *