"Strive to do so, my dear boy, and ask God's help, and you will be sure to be happy. Obey your parents, and respect all who are wiser and better than yourself, whether rich or poor. This will lay the foundation of that virtue and subordination to the laws of the land, which make a good citizen.
Should you live to be old, like me, you will view objects differently from what you do now. You will stand upon an isthmus, between the things that have been, and the things that are. On one hand, will come up the waves of memory, bold and strong; on the other, the little billows of hope, like such bubbles as children play with. Experience will be there, gathering riches even from rocks and quicksands. Then, when you look back, like me, and find your dear parents gone, you will wish that you might for one moment recall them from the grave, to render them your undying offering of gratitude, not for that indulgence which blinded their eye to your faults, and gave you the weak gratification of an hour, perhaps, at the expense of an eternity, but for that salutary discipline which uprooted error, established good habits, and taught that 'fear of God which maketh wise unto salvation.'"
The Old Watch.
My Father's watch! Thy face is dear,
And still thou speak'st to me
The self-same words that met my ear,
When in old times of joyous cheer
I gladly climb'd his knee.
For oft as to his side I clung,
Thou wert mine own to hold,
Though to my simple mind, thy tongue
Uttering "tick, tick", to old and young
Seem'd mystery untold.
And still thy wondrous movements too
Amaz'd my gazing eye,
Thy hands that to their purpose true
Their undeclining circles drew,
Were magic strange and high.
But thou from days of toil and care,
That manhood's powers employ,
Didst duly point him home to share
The garden-walk, the fireside chair,
The feast of social joy.
When those whom most he loved were nigh,
And with beguiling flight,
The downy-pinioned hours swept by,
Thou, with a calm, unswerving eye
Didst note their numbers right.
And he, who knew so well to test
Of time, the fleeting prize,
Did on thy meek monitions rest
And take their wisdom to his breast,
And gird him for the skies.
But now, no more serenely sweet
He turns to thee for aid,
Yet still thy bloodless heart doth beat.
Though summon'd to a lone retreat
His own in dust is laid.
My Father's Friend! what memories bless'd
Thy lingering accents wake,
Here, in my sacred casket rest,
Or slumber on my filial breast,
Most honour'd for his sake.
Entertaining Books.
The age in which we live abounds with entertaining books. Stories of every description, some of them containing good lessons, are exceedingly numerous. Those of the better class furnish food for fancy and feeling.