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INDIVIDUALITY.

By E. Louisa Mather.

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How few there are, comparatively, who stand up bravely in the conscious right of their own individuality, and give forth noble sentiments concerning what seems to them the greatest and the best, the purest and the truest. All honor to those who do so, whether they speak and act before the eyes of the public, or utter their thoughts in the sanctity of home. Every individual soul, being a spark of the Divine Mind, has an inalienable right thus to speak and act, and yet not to infringe upon the rights of others, - those others to whom we are so intimately allied; for the chain of love and affinity unites us to all humanity. How much better and less hypocritical is it to be ourselves than servilely to copy the actions or the sentiments of others; to apply our own reasoning powers to the pursuit of knowledge instead of merely being the echo of somebody who seems to stand high in a social, intellectual, or religious position. Fully honoring and respecting whatever seems good and lovable in many, very many, of all creeds and parties, still we are not bound to merge and lose ourselves almost, as distinct, separate individuals, in the existence of any other person or persons.

This imitating others in various ways-in expenditure, in furniture, or apparel has been a very fruitful source of evil, as well as a binding slavery. If your neighbor wishes to furnish his house so expensively and nicely that nearly everything in it is too good for common use, let him do it. Let his richly-adorned parlors be as dark and gloomy as a tomb; let him tremble all the while any one is occupying a seat there for fear some sacrilegious touch may desecrate some of the fine things there enshrined; let him and his ensconce themselves in the remotest corner of their mansion to save

all this display for some gala-day which must be honored by admitting the sunlight into the elegant rooms; but do not envy him and do not copy after him, unless you would be happy in so doing. But if you are happier and better in having things around you cosy and comfort

able, where all, even the wayfarer and stranger might feel at home, where nothing is too good for use, and yet worthy of a cherished care, then, let the writing-desk with its manuscripts and letters, and the table with its newspapers and magazines, and the 'work-table with its materials of use and beauty have a place. Let the sunlight consecrate all the room; let the breath of flowers and shrubs enter in as a benediction, and let the little children come with their books and their games, and let all feel it as a hallowed home and not a splendid one.

Would that each one of us followed the

dictates of conscience and duty in everything, the greatest and minutest expressions of our lives; would that each woman had her own standard of beauty and taste, to which she religiously conbeautiful or becoming to trail their skirts formed! If any consider it neat or a quarter or half a yard after them, I would wish them to have the privilege; if any wish to wear a bonnet of four stories in height and a flower-garden at the summit, they certainly should be entitled to the extra expansion. But those who not be imitators thereof, even if it is do NOT really admire such a style, should

fashionable.

May the golden days of progression dawn, when each soul shall assert its heaven-born prerogative to do that, and that only, which seems consistent and reasonable, something to advance themselves and all humanity; to make us feel that we must not be idle spectators in the great work-shop of life, but artisans, fashioning and moulding with the implements given us here our habitation in the eternal; and, perchance, in our busy work, some spark from our souls may set aflame something good and noble in our fellow-worker, a brother or a sister, and lead them to a realization of the truth, beauty, and use underlying all things; that God is all and in all; that the glorious home of rest as well as progression is not a far-away place, but "its mansions" are radiant with our Father's love and care.

East Haddam, Conn.

BLESSED are the pure in heart.

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A LIFE of mere pleasure! A little while, in the spring-time of the senses, in the sunshine of prosperity, in the jubilee of health, it may seem well enough. But how insufficient, how mean, how terrible when age comes, and sorrow and death! A life of pleasure! What does it look like when these great changes beat against it, when the realities of eternity stream in? It looks like the fragments of a feast, when the sun shines upon the withered garlands and the tinsel and the overturned tables and the dead lees of wine.

THE GIFTED DEAD OF THE LAST YEAR.

By Mrs. S. M. C. Perkins. "BURY me in the sunshine," were the last words of Archbishop Hughes, of New York, who died Jan. 3, 1864. I have often pondered those words of this eminent man. Clinging to the decaying forms and emblems of the superstitious past, blindly groping amid the ceremonies of the Romish Church after the true God, may we not hope that in his last hours he caught a clearer vision of the dear Saviour, the light which shineth in darkness, which he had never before fully comprehended, and "bury me in the sunshine" meant that long enough had he been shackled by his creed, and the cravings of his heart were at length satisfied by the clearer light of heaven? No king or emperor ever swayed as powerfully the hearts of his followers as did this archbishop his poor, untaught Irish followers throughout our whole country. But he was a friend to his country, a true patriot, and sweet be his rest in the sunshine.

Not weeks of the New Year had many passed, when a steamer from Europe brought us the tidings that a gifted English poetess, Adelaide Ann Procter, had chanted her last song and had gone to her repose.

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Then before the winter months had gone, before the rocks of our New England hills had thrown off their fleecy covering, he who named them, and enduringly carved his name upon them, had passed to the army of the immortals. Thousands of scholars who never saw him are his mouruers; they will think of him in their quiet studies, and in their walks with nature upon the hillsides and in the valleys. The celebrated geologist, author, teacher, Prof. Hitchcock, died at Amherst, Mass., February, 1864.

Stern winter passed, and with the first gales of spring a despatch came from the far-off "Golden Gate," that the talented Starr King was dead. How strange it seemed to us! how mysterions the ways of Providence! New England mourned for one of her most gifted sons, and lamentations passed to and fro, from the Atlantic and Pacific coasts. The gates

of heaven were opened wide for him, and his weeping friends caught a large glimpse of that celestial region as he went away chanting the sweet Psalms of David. The dew of his youth was consecrated to God, and to the work of righteousness and humanity he gave the strength of his manhood. Nevermore will that telegraph bring us more wretched tidings. Then before the month had gone, another patriot had passed away. Owen Lovejoy, a distinguished member of Congress from the West, had gone to the other shore. He rejoiced at the dawn of a better day to our country, but lived not to see the clearer light which is slowly breaking. But now from Pisgah's heights he looks over into the promised land, a land soon to be free from the foul curse of slavery.

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In April, Mrs. C. M. Kirkland, of New York, the gifted woman and talented writer, suddenly died in the midst of her incessant labors for the welfare of the soldiers.

Another eminent author quickly followed. Nathaniel Hawthorne was travelling with his best friend and benefactor, and went calmly at night to his couch; but in the morning he was not; for God had taken him.

Morris and Park Benjamin have both laid aside their pens, and their hands are now quietly folded beneath the coffin. Dr. Winslow, the missionary, whose whole life was given in obedience to the command, "Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature," has also passed to the reward of the righteous. Among the innumerable host of soldier heroes, whom no man can number, who have fallen like the leaves of autumn, we may mention, with reverence, the names of Generals Wadsworth, Sedgwick, McPherson and Birney. They were brave, true men, whose names will forever shine upon the pages of history, and future generations will embalm their memory.

And, last of all, I will mention that scholastic old man of fourscore years, Prof. Silliman, of New Haven, who has so recently finished his long and useful life. In one of his last letters to a friend we read this beautiful sentence:

"As time passes, I am more and more impressed with the nice harmony that exists between nature and the revealed religion of the Bible. It seems very clear to me and gives me comfort."

Old man of science, I thank thee for those blessed words! I will quote them when the sceptic comes to me with his worldly wisdom and sneers of Him who spake as never man spake.

But the hours of the Old Year are now rapidly waning. A large harvest and a precious one has the great reaper gathered in our beloved country. The God of Israel hath a controversy with this people, and "There is not a house but there is one dead." But we adore his wisdom for this chastisement. A few years ago when the prayers of Christians arose to heaven for the oppressed, faith blindly groped in the dark, human law was so powerful on the side of the oppressor. But now it seems all as clear as the rays of the morning sun. The very stars in their courses are fighting on the side of freedom, and to Him who ruleth the universe be all the glory. Depart, then, Old Year, with all thy sorrows and thy joys; for thou makest haste to bring in the thousand years of freedom and of peace.

WE grow in artistic culture, we grow in ripeness and delicacy of taste, as we stand before the great masters, and drink in the fulness of their genius, rather than by perplexed efforts to find out the processes of their work. So our sense of beauty and of grandeur grows, as we lean upon the breast of nature, and let its moods and aspects pass into us, until morning and midnight and noontide splendor and flushes of sunset and rock and woodland and the vast old sea become tints and forces of our own being inwoven among the filaments of our innermost life. So, then, let our thoughts upon divine mysteries lead where they will, it is by looking upon the ideal of Jesus, and seeking to apply it in the practical results of righteousness that we add to our spiritual substance.

POETRY is the utterance of truth.

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Not in the golden tongue, but in

The old familiar speech;

And oh, forget the dazzling heights

My poor earth-knowledge cannot reach.

Forget thy new name, and answer

To the old one all the same; And I will forget how long I wept, And sadly, before you came.

Kiss me, dearest, and make me know
That in to-morrow's beam,

Thy coming, thy voice, thine eyes, thy touch,
Shall not fade into a dream.

Pittsburg, Penn.

HOME ATTRACTIONS.

By Hermeone.

MUCH has been said and written upon this subject, and still there is need of more. No parents can look forward to the manhood of their sons and wish, or even tolerate the thought, that they should become otherwise than good and honorable men; yet how can they reasonably expect them to become such, if no effort is made to inculcate in their young minds principles of virtue and truth; no heed paid to the early impressions made upon their plastic and susceptible natures, which impressions generally form the character, and make the man for good or bad.

If our boys are permitted to hang about the shops and saloons evenings, where tobacco and beer, the coarse jest and coarser laugh, with the usual accompaniment of profanity and vulgar bywords, prevail, will they be likely to learn anything pure and good from such a company and such surroundings? Or, in the street, led on by a few bad boys, all sorts of mischief is conjured up under the name of fun. The neighboring gardens are rifled of their cucumbers, melons, and plums, vacant dwellings are battered with stones and clubs till not a whole pape is left in the windows, and suchlike games, till the citizens complain of them and tell their annoyances; but still the remedy is not apprehended.

If parents really understood the importance of making home attractive to their children, there would be a greater

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