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destitute of what he so erringly seeks to gain; for the deceitful heart of such an one will soon betray itself, and feel the contempt due to insincerity. The world is so full of selfishness, that true friendship is seldom found; yet it is often sought for paltry gain by the base and designing. Behold that toiling miser, with his ill-got and worthless treasure; his soul is never moved by the hallowed influence of the sacred boon of friendship, which renews again on earth lost Eden's faded bloom, and Aings hope's halcyon halo over the wastes of life. The envious man-he, too, seeks to gain the applause of others for an unholy usage, by which he may unsurp a seat of pre-eminence for himself. Self-love, the spring of motion, acts upon his soul. All are fond of praise, and many are dishonest in the use of means to obtain it; hence it is often difficult to distinguish between true and false friendship.
To a Friend.
RUDDY drop of manly blood
The surging seas outweighs;
Through thee alone the sky is arched,
-Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Communion of Souls.
MYSTICAL, more than magical, is that communing of soul with soul
; both looking heavenward. Here properly soul first speaks with soul; for only in looking heavenward, take it in what sense you may, not in looking earthward, does what we can call union, mutual love, begin to be possible. How true is that of Novalis: “It is certain my belief gains quite infinitely the moment I can convince another mind thereof!" Gaze thou in the face of thy brother, in those eyes where plays the lambent fire of kindness, or in those where rages the lurid conflagration of anger; feel how thy own quiet soul is straightway involuntarily kindled with the like, and ye blaze and reverberate on each other, till it is all one limitless confluent flame of embracing love, or of deadly grappling hate; and then say what miraculous virtue goes out of man into man. But if so, through all the thick-plied hulls of our earthly life, how much more when it is of the divine life we speak, and inmost me is, as it were, brought into contact with inmost me! — Thomas Carlyle.
Importance of Friendship.
HEN a man, blind from his birth, was asked what he thought the sun to be like, he
replied, “ Like friendship.” He could not conceive of anything more fitting as a similitude of anything for what he had been taught to regard as the most material objects, and whose quickening and exhilarating influences he had rejoiced to feel. And truly friendship is a sun, if not the sun, of life. All feel it ought to be so. It would be commonplace to dwell on its delights and advantages. The theme of poets and moralists in all ages and countries, what can be said upon it has been said so often as to make repetition stale, so well as to make improvement impossible. How friendship is a pearl of greatest price; how it is often more deep and steadfast than natural affection, “a friend,” sometimes "sticketh closer than a brother:" how it is as useful as lovely, “strength and beauty;" how it lessens grief and increases pleasure; all this is as familiar as the lessons of childhood, and true as the elementary principle of our nature.—Morris.
Wishing, as we turned them o'er,
Chambermaid in love with Boots,
In immortal Weller's name, By the rare Micawber's fame, By the flogging wreaked on Squeers, By Job Trotter's fluent tears, By the beadle Bumble's fate At the hands of shrewish mate, By the famous Pickwick Club, By the dream of Gabriel Grubb, In the name of Snodgrass' muse, Tupnian's amorous interviews, Winkle's ludicrous mishaps, And the fat boy's countless naps; By Ben Allen and Bob Sawyer, By Miss Sally Brass, the lawyer, In the name of Newman Noggs, River Thames, and London fogs, Richard Swiveller's excess, Feasting with the Marchioness, By Jack Bunsby's oracles By the chime of Christmas bells, By the cricket on the hearth, By the sound of childish mirth, By spread tables of good cheer, Wayside inns and pots of beer, Hostess plump and jolly host, Coaches for the turnpike post,
In the name of gentle Nell,
-W. H. Venable.
She lives where all the golden year
Her summer roses blow; The dusky children of the sun
Before her come and go.
I see her face, I hear her voice,
Does she remember mine? And what to her is now the boy
Who fed her father's kine ? What cares she that the orioles build
For other eyes than oursThat other hands with nuts are filled,
And other laps with flowers ?
Our mossy seat is green,
The old trees o'er it lean.
There haply with her jeweled hands
She smooths her silken gown-
I shook the walnuts down.
The brown nuts on the hill,
The woods of Folly mill.
The bird bulds in the tree,
The slow song of the sea.
And how the old time seems-
Are sounding in her dreams.
The winds so sweet with birch and fern
A sweeter memory blow;
The song of long ago.
Are moaning like the sea -
- John G. Whittier.