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Habit with him was all the test of truth,"It must be right: I've done it from my youth."

—Crabbe.

A painter, desiring to paint a picture of Innocence, found a beautiful boy playing at the side of a stream, who became his model. He painted him kneeling, with his hands clasped in prayer. The picture was prized as a very beautiful one. Years passed away, and the artist became an old man. He had often thought of painting a counterpart, the picture of guilt, as a companion to the other; and at last he executed it. He went to a neighboring prison, and there selected the most degraded and repulsive man he could find. His body and eye were wasted; vice was visible in his very face. But what was the artist's surprise when, on questioning the man as to his history, he found that it was he who, as a lovely boy, had kneeled for him as the model of Innocence! Evil habits had gradually changed him, not only in heart and mind, but in face and form.

All habits gather by unseen degrees.As brooks make rivers, rivers run to seas.

—Dryden: Ovid.

Old habits are hard to break; new habits are hard to make.

Taste may change; our inclinations never change.

Habits are soon assumed—acquired—but when we strive to strip them off,—if of long standing—'tis being flayed alive!

—Cowper.

To stop the hand, is the way to stop the mouth.(If a man will not work, neither shall he eat.)

—Chinese.

The hands are, by the very instincts of humanity, raised in prayer; clasped in affection; wrung in despair; pressed on the forehead when the soul is "perplexed in the extreme;" drawn inward, to invite; thrust forth objectively, to repel; the fingers point to indicate, and are snapped in disdain; the palm is laid upon the heart, in invocation of subdued feeling, and on the brow of the compassioned in benediction. The expressive capacity of the hands was never more strikingly displayed than in the orisons (prayer) of the deaf and dumb. Their teacher stood with closed eyes, and addressing theDeityby those signs made with the fingers which constitute a language for the speechless.Around him were grouped more than a hundred mutes, following with reverent glances every motion. It was a visible, but not an audible, worship.

A dispute arose among three ladies as to which had the most beautiful hands. One sat by a stream, and dipped her hand into the water and held it up; another plucked strawberries until the ends of her fingers were pink; and a third gathered violets until her hands were fragrant. An old, haggard woman, passing by, asked, "Who will give me a gift, for I am poor?" all three denied her; but another who sat near, unwashed in the stream, unstained with fruit, unadorned with flowers or perfume, gave her a little gift, and satisfied the poor woman. Then the woman asked them what was the subject of their dispute; and they told her, and lifted up before her their beautiful hands. "Beautiful indeed!" she exclaimed, as she saw them. But when they asked her which was the most beautiful, she said: "It is not the hand that is washed clean in the brook; it is not the hand that is coloured with crimson tints; it is not the hand that is perfumed with fragrant flowers; but the hand that gives to the poor, that is the most beautiful."

True happinessConsists not in the multitude of friends,But in the worth and choice: nor would I haveThem popular:Let them be good that love me, though but few.

—Ben Jonson.

Happiness consists in being perfectly satisfied with what we have got, and with what we haven't got.

Happiness consists not in possessing much, but in being content with what we possess. He who wants little, always has enough.

A cottage will hold as much happiness as would stock a palace.

—Hamilton.

With "gentleness" his own character, "comfort" in his house, and "good temper" in his wife, the earthly felicity of man may be said to be complete.

—From the German.

What dangers threaten a great reputation!Far happier the man of lowly station.

We are happy in this world just in proportion as we make others happy.

I think you the happiest couple in the world; for you are not only happy in one another, but happy in yourselves, and by yourselves.

—Congreve.

Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven; and every countenance bright with smiles, and glowingwith innocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence.

—Washington Irving.

To rejoice in the happiness of others is to make it our own; to produce it, is to make it more than our own. There is happiness in the very wish to make others happy.

—Dr. Chalmers.

Unmixed happiness is not to be found in this world.

Hatred always hurts the hater most of all.

It is the nature of the human disposition to hate him whom you have injured.

—Tacitus.

I am almost frozen by the distance you are from me.

If a man makes me keep my distance, the comfort is, he keeps his at the same time.

Health is rightly appreciated only when we are sick.

—German Proverb.

A man too busy to take care of his health is like a mechanic too busy to take care of his tools.

He that is well does not know how rich he is.Better a healthy beggar, than a sick king.

—German Proverb.

It is better to have less wealth and more health.

Health is so necessary to all duties, as well as pleasures of life, that the crime of squandering it is equal to the folly.

Thou chiefest good,Bestow'd by Heaven, but seldom understood.

—Lucan.

The only way for a rich man to be healthy is, by exercise and abstinence, to live as if he were poor.

—Sir W. Temple.

An innocent heart suspects no guile.

—Portuguese.

Dr. Mitchell of Philadelphia, in lecturing to his pupils upon the diseases of the heart, narrated an anecdote to prove that the expression "broken heart" was not merely figurative. On one occasion, in the early period of his life, he accompanied, as surgeon, a packet that sailed from Liverpool to one of the American ports. The captain frequently conversed with him respecting a lady who had promised tobecome his bride on his return from that voyage. Upon this subject he evinced great warmth of feeling, and showed Dr. Mitchell some costly jewels, ornaments, etc., which he intended to present as bridal presents. On reaching his destination, he was abruptly informed that the lady had married some one else. Instantly the captain was observed to clap his hand to his breast, and fall heavily to the ground. He was taken up, and conveyed to his cabin on board the vessel. Dr. Mitchell was immediately summoned; but, before he reached the poor captain, he was dead. A postmortem examination revealed the cause of his unfortunate disease. His heart was found literally torn in twain! The tremendous propulsion of blood, consequent upon such a violent nervous shock, forced the powerful muscle tissues asunder, and life was at an end. The heart was broken.

Every heart has its secret sorrow, which the world knows not; and oftentimes we call a man cold when he is only sad.

To know, to esteem, to love,—and then to part,Makes up life's tale to many a feeling heart.

—Coleridge.

Some men's hearts are as great as the world, and still have no room in them to hold the memory of a wrong.

How small is the human heart, and yet even there, God enters in.

Ragged, uncomely, and old and gray,A woman walked in a Scottish town;And through the crowd, as she wound her way,One saw her loiter and then stoop down,Putting something away in her old, torn gown."You are hiding a jewel!" the watcher said—(Ah, that was her heart, had the truth been read.)"What have you stolen?" he asked again;Then the dim eyes filled with a sudden pain,And under the flickering light of the gasShe showed him her gleaning. "It's broken glass,"She said. "I hae lifted it up frae the streetTo be oot o' the rood o' the bairnies' feet!"Under the fluttering rags astirThat was a royal heart that beat!Would that the world had more like herSmoothing the road for its bairnies' feet!

—W. H. Ogilvie.

Ye who know the reason, tell meHow is it that instinctPrompts the heart to like or not likeAt its own capricious will?Tell me by what hidden magicOur impressions first are ledInto liking or disliking,Oft before a word is said?Why should smiles sometimes repel us?Bright eyes turn our feelings cold?What is it that comes to tell usAll that glitters is not gold?Oh! no feature, plain or striking,But a power we cannot shunPrompts our liking and disliking,Ere acquaintance hath begun.Is it instinct? or some spiritWhich protects us, and controlsEvery impulse we inherit,By some sympathy of souls?Is it instinct? is it nature?Or some freak or fault of chance,Which our liking or dislikingLimits to a single glance?Like presentiment of danger,Though the sky no shadow flings;Or that inner sense, still stranger,Of unseen, unuttered things?Is it? oh! can no one tell me,No one show sufficient causeWhy our likings and dislikingsHave their own instinctive laws?

Why should smiles sometimes repel us?Bright eyes turn our feelings cold?What is it that comes to tell usAll that glitters is not gold?Oh! no feature, plain or striking,But a power we cannot shunPrompts our liking and disliking,Ere acquaintance hath begun.

Is it instinct? or some spiritWhich protects us, and controlsEvery impulse we inherit,By some sympathy of souls?Is it instinct? is it nature?Or some freak or fault of chance,Which our liking or dislikingLimits to a single glance?

Like presentiment of danger,Though the sky no shadow flings;Or that inner sense, still stranger,Of unseen, unuttered things?Is it? oh! can no one tell me,No one show sufficient causeWhy our likings and dislikingsHave their own instinctive laws?

The Bitterness of Estrangement.—To be estranged from one whom we have tenderly and constantly loved, is one of the bitterest trials the heart can ever know.

—Prynne.

There is no place where weeds do not grow, and there is no heart where errors are not to be found.

We open the hearts of others when we open our own.

Earth hath nothing more tender than a woman's heart, when it is the abode of piety.

And yet when all is thought and said,The heart still overrules the head.

The All-Seeing Eye, whom the sun, moon and stars obey, and under whose watchful care even comets perform their stupendous revolutions—pervades the inmost recesses of the human heart, and will reward us according to our merits.

There's many a good bit o' work done with a sad heart.

To meet, to know, to love—and then to part,Is the sad tale of many a human heart.

—Coleridge.

The heart is a small thing, but desireth great matters. It is not sufficient for a kite's (bird of the hawk kind) dinner, yet the whole world is not sufficient for it.

—Quarles.

The heart resembles the ocean! has storm, and ebb and flow;And many a beautiful pearl lies hid in its depths below.

—Heine.

The turnpike-road to people's hearts, I find,Lies through their mouths; or I mistake mankind.

—Dr. Warton.

The merry heart goes all the day,While a sad one tires in a mile-a.

—Shakespeare.

Alas! how slight a cause may moveDissension between hearts that love—Hearts that the world in vain had tried,And sorrow but more closely tied;That stood the storm when waves were rough,Yet in a sunny hour fell off,Like ships that have gone down at sea,When the ocean was all tranquility!A something light as air—a look—A word unkind or wrongly taken;Oh, love that tempests never shook,A breath—a touch like this hath shaken.

—Thomas Moore.

Men, as well as women, are much oftener led by their hearts than by their understandings; indeed nine times in ten it is so.

If God hath made this world so fair,Where sin and death abound,How beautiful, beyond compare,Will Paradise be found!

—Montgomery.

Let others seek earth's honors; be it mineOne law to cherish, and to track one line—Straight on towards heaven to press with single bent,To know and love my God, and then to die content.

—Newman.

Many a man who prides himself on doing a cash business, regards his debts to Heaven with indifference.

"Of the positive joys of heaven we can form no conception; but its negative delights form a sufficiently attractive picture,—no pain; no thirst; no hunger; no horror of the past; no fear of the future; no failure of mental capacity; no intellectual deficiency; no morbid imaginations; no follies; no stupidities; but above all, no insulted feelings; no wounded affections; no despised love or unrequited regard; no hate, envy, jealousy, or indignation of or at others; no falsehood, dishonesty, dissimulation, hypocrisy, grief or remorse. In a word," said Professor Wilson, "to end where I began, no sin and no suffering."

O how unlike the complex works of man,Heaven's easy, artless, unencumbered plan!No clustering ornaments to clog the pile;From ostentation, as from weakness free,It stands majestic in its own simplicity.Inscribed above the portal, from afar,Conspicuousas the brightness of a star,Legible only by the light they give,Stand the soul-quickening words—Believe and Live.Too many, shocked at what should charm them most,Despise the plain direction, and are lost.Heaven on such terms! (they cry with proud disdain,)Incredible impossible, and vain!Rebel, because 'tis easy to obey;And scorn, for its own sake, the gracious way.

A beautiful reply is recorded of a peasant, whose master was displaying to him the grandeur of his estates. Farms, houses, and forests were pointed out in succession, on every hand, as the property of the rich proprietor, who summed up finally by saying, "In short, all that you can see, in every direction, belongs to me." The poor man looked thoughtful for a moment; then, pointing up to heaven, solemnly replied, "And isthat, also, thine?"

"I hear thee speak of the better land,Thou callest its children a happy band:Mother! oh where is that radiant shore?Shall we not seek it and weep no more?Is it where the flower of the orange blows,And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs?""Not there, not there, my child!""Is it where the feathery palm trees rise,And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,And strange, bright birds, on their starry wingsBear the rich hues of all glorious things?""Not there, not there, my child!""Is it far away, in some region old,Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?—Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,And the diamond lights up the secret mine,And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?""Not there, not there, my child!""Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;Dreams cannot picture a world so fair—Sorrow and death may not enter there;Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,For beyond the clouds and beyond the tomb,It is there, it is there, my child!"

"Is it where the feathery palm trees rise,And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,And strange, bright birds, on their starry wingsBear the rich hues of all glorious things?""Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it far away, in some region old,Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?—Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,And the diamond lights up the secret mine,And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?""Not there, not there, my child!"

"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;Dreams cannot picture a world so fair—Sorrow and death may not enter there;Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,For beyond the clouds and beyond the tomb,It is there, it is there, my child!"

—Mrs. Hemans.

Plants look up in heaven, from whenceThey have their nourishment.

Help, when we meet them,Lame dogs over stiles.

It is not enough to help an erring brother out of the mire,—we must help to get him upon a rock.

History is little more than the register of the crimes, follies, and misfortunes of mankind.

—Gibbon.

My precept to all who build is, that the owner should be an ornament to the house, and not the house to the owner.

—Cicero.

Cling to thy home! if there the meanest shedYield thee a hearth and shelter for thy head,And some poor plot, with vegetables stored,Be all that Heaven allots thee for thy board,—Unsavory bread, and herbs that scattered growWild on the river brink or mountain brow,Yet e'en this cheerless mansion shall provideMore heart's repose than all the world beside.

—From the Greek of Leonidas.

Having offered a prize for the best definition of "Home," LondonTit-Bitsrecently received more than five thousand answers. Among those which were adjudged the best were the definitions as follows:

A world of strife shut out, a world of love shut in.Home is the blossom of which heaven is the fruit.The best place for a married man after business hours.Home is the coziest, kindliest, sweetest place in all the world; the scene of our purest earthly joys, and deepest sorrows.The place where the great are sometimes small, and the small often great.The father's kingdom, the children's paradise, the mother's world.

A world of strife shut out, a world of love shut in.

Home is the blossom of which heaven is the fruit.

The best place for a married man after business hours.

Home is the coziest, kindliest, sweetest place in all the world; the scene of our purest earthly joys, and deepest sorrows.

The place where the great are sometimes small, and the small often great.

The father's kingdom, the children's paradise, the mother's world.

The ornaments of a home are the friends who frequent it.

—Emerson.

God hath often a great share in a little house, and but a little share in a great one.

Home is the grandest of all institutions.

—Spurgeon.

Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest;Home-keeping hearts are happiest,For those that wander they know not whereAre full of trouble, and full of care;To stay at home is best.

—Longfellow.

There's little pleasure in the house when our gudeman's awa'.

—W. J. Mickle.

How many fine, well furnished and pretentious houses we now see around us, occupied and owned by successful people, in which there is hardly a market-basket full of books! Evidently showing that the material is of more importance than the intellectual.

—Observer.

We neglect the things which are placed before our eyes, and regardless of what is within our reach, we pursue whatever is remote. This is frequently and properly applied to the rage for visiting foreign countries, in those who are absolutely unacquainted with their own.

Abroad to see wonders the traveler goes,And neglects the fine things which lie under his nose.

A man without a home is like a bird without a nest.

Many a home is nothing but a furnished house.

Travel is instructive and pleasant, but after all there is nothing so enjoyable as the independence and the luxury of one's own home. Travel is pleasant, but home is delightful!

Without hearts, there is no home.

—Byron.

A man unconnected is at home everywhere; unless he may be said to be at home nowhere.

—Dr. Sam'l Johnson.

He enter'd in his house—his home no more,For without hearts there is no home—and feltThe solitude of passing his own doorWithout a welcome.

—Byron.

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.

—Payne.

There is a land, of every land the pride,Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside;Where brighter suns dispense serener light,And milder moons emparadise the night;—There is a spot of earth supremely blest,A dearer, sweeter spot than all the restWhere man, creation's tyrant, casts asideHis sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,While in his softened looks benignly blendThe sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend;—"Where shall that land, that spot of earth, be found?"Art thou a man?—a patriot?—look around!O, thou shalt find, where'er thy footsteps roam,That land thy country, and that spot thy home!

—Sir Walter Scott.

It is a great happiness, if after being absent from home for a time you find no troubles awaiting your return.

Filling a house with bargains is apt to keep a couple from owning the house in which they place them.

'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest barkBay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home;'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will markOur coming, and look brighter when we come.

—Byron.

My house, my house, though thou art small,Thou art to me a palace.

This is the true nature of home—it is the place of Peace; the shelter not only from all injury, but from all terror, doubt and division. In so far as it is not this, it is not home; so far as the anxieties of the outer life penetrate into it * * * it ceases to be home; it is then only a part of that outer world which you have roofed over and lighted fire in.

—John Ruskin.

He seeks the tranquil scenes of early days,Leaving the dazzling haunts of vain ambition;And now, he longs to meet a kindly gazeAnd hear a warm and cheering recognition.How changed he seems! Though still in manhood's prime,Long hath he striven with care, want, and danger;Their iron grasp has wrought the work of Time,And all who view him, deem him as a stranger.He meets with one who knew him when a boy:How oft, beneath yon trees, in summer weather,They sat, and pictured scenes of future joy,When they should tread the far-off world together!They stand upon the old familiar spot:One feels long vanished memories steal o'er him;The other sees, yet recognizes notHis blithe companion in the form before him.Next comes a friend who in his wavering youthHis footsteps had upheld with patient guiding;Wise in his counsel, steadfast in his truth,Prompt in his praise, and gracious in his chiding.Hath he, indeed, discarded from his mindThe object of his care and admonition?He hath not—yet he casts no glance behind;The wanderer fails to make his recognition.What, doth his image live indeed with none?Have all expelled him from their recollection?Lo! a sweet lady comes—the cherished oneTo whom he breathed his vows of young affection.He views her—she has lost the airy graceAnd mantling bloom that won his boyish duty;And yet a winning charm pervades her face,In the calm radiance of its mellowed beauty.Can she forget? Though others pass him by,Failing his former features to discover,Will not her faithful heart instruct her eyeTo recognize her dear, her long-lost lover?Oh! in that grief-worn man, no trace remainsOf the gay, gallant youth from whom she parted;A brief and careless glance alone she deignsTo the poor sufferer, chilled and broken-hearted;Who feels as though condemned to lead henceforthA strange, a sad, a separate existence,Gazing awhile on those he loves on earth,But to behold them fading in the distance.Lo! a pale matron comes, with quiet pace,And aspect of subdued and gentle sadness;—Fondly she clasps him in a warm embrace,And greets him with a burst of grateful gladness!"Praise be to Heaven!" the weary wanderer cries,"All human love is not a mocking vision:Through every change, in every varied guise,The son still claims his mother's recognition!"

He seeks the tranquil scenes of early days,Leaving the dazzling haunts of vain ambition;And now, he longs to meet a kindly gazeAnd hear a warm and cheering recognition.

How changed he seems! Though still in manhood's prime,Long hath he striven with care, want, and danger;Their iron grasp has wrought the work of Time,And all who view him, deem him as a stranger.

He meets with one who knew him when a boy:How oft, beneath yon trees, in summer weather,They sat, and pictured scenes of future joy,When they should tread the far-off world together!

They stand upon the old familiar spot:One feels long vanished memories steal o'er him;The other sees, yet recognizes notHis blithe companion in the form before him.

Next comes a friend who in his wavering youthHis footsteps had upheld with patient guiding;Wise in his counsel, steadfast in his truth,Prompt in his praise, and gracious in his chiding.

Hath he, indeed, discarded from his mindThe object of his care and admonition?He hath not—yet he casts no glance behind;The wanderer fails to make his recognition.

What, doth his image live indeed with none?Have all expelled him from their recollection?Lo! a sweet lady comes—the cherished oneTo whom he breathed his vows of young affection.

He views her—she has lost the airy graceAnd mantling bloom that won his boyish duty;And yet a winning charm pervades her face,In the calm radiance of its mellowed beauty.

Can she forget? Though others pass him by,Failing his former features to discover,Will not her faithful heart instruct her eyeTo recognize her dear, her long-lost lover?

Oh! in that grief-worn man, no trace remainsOf the gay, gallant youth from whom she parted;A brief and careless glance alone she deignsTo the poor sufferer, chilled and broken-hearted;

Who feels as though condemned to lead henceforthA strange, a sad, a separate existence,Gazing awhile on those he loves on earth,But to behold them fading in the distance.

Lo! a pale matron comes, with quiet pace,And aspect of subdued and gentle sadness;—Fondly she clasps him in a warm embrace,And greets him with a burst of grateful gladness!

"Praise be to Heaven!" the weary wanderer cries,"All human love is not a mocking vision:Through every change, in every varied guise,The son still claims his mother's recognition!"

—From the Danish, by Mrs. Abdy.

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