MY MOTHER-MOTHER-MOTHER.

Ir is said that these were among the last words of the great and lamented Henry Clay.

Mothers, learn here a lesson. Look at your sons and daughters, and realize this important truth, that in the nursery is laid the foundation of your child's future life. Instead of teaching them to play the empty-headed coxcomb, and to tête-à-tête a lifetime away in nonsense, teach them the path of true greatness and usefulness. Who are the men who have adorned human nature, and reflected a halo of glory upon their country? They are, with few exceptions, those who in infancy learned to clasp their tiny hands and kneel at a mother's side, and dedicated their hearts to the Father of Spirits.

A mother's hallowed influence never dies. The boy never forgets his mother's love. Though he may wander far from home, and engage in many vices, yet that mother's voice, soft and tender, that fell upon his ear in infancy, is borne upon many a

passing breeze, and whispers, "My son, my son, remember a mother's love; how she has taught you to pray, and reverence the God of mercy."

Seventy-five long years has been numbered with the past; scenes, political and national, warm and exciting, have passed away; near fifty years had marked the resting-place of that Christian woman, when her noble son, upon a bed of death, is heard calling for "my mother, mother, mother." Sweet words for the lips of one who owed his greatness to the maternal care of a mother's love.

Mothers, do you wish your sons to honor you in the busy conflicts of life, to be ornaments to society, to call you in the cold hour of death? Then act to them a mother's part- teach them the way of virtue, of morality and religion.

Our cities and country have too many young men and boys destitute of the first principles of virtue, who are strangers to good breeding, and know nothing of the means of usefulness. They have been brought up in idleness, the mother of vice; foolish and silly mothers have instilled in their minds false ideas of what constitutes a gentleman, and they are taught to look with disdain upon their betters. Had such characters met with a Franklin or a Clay, when the former was a poor, honest

apprentice at the printer's trade, or with the latter in the slashes of Hanover, riding his father's horse to mill, they would have curled the lip of contempt, and turned away from so unsightly an object. To converse with such is impossible. Their words are as wind, their minds as chaff, and their souls as vapor. They have no moral nor intellectual form nor comeliness. Their views, if they have any, are of the lowest order. Why is this? Is it owing to their natural incapacity? No; but it is traceable to a defective early education. No mother was there properly and duly qualified to take charge of the infant mind. Instead of teaching them the means of usefulness, that woman that gave them birth would tell them of "their blood," which, if -honestly traced, had run through the veins of many a culprit or penitentiary convict; or of their riches, which, if truth were known, were obtained by extortion and many other unlawful means. They grow up with such impressions, and soon find a disgraceful end. Then the mother weeps over the disgrace her son has brought upon the memory of the family, and blames his associates for it, not thinking that she, and only she, is to blame for the whole of it.

Mothers, the destinies of your children depend

upon you. Watch their infant minds, properly cultivate their moral sensibilities, and walk yourselves in the paths you would have them to walk.

SOME MURMUR WHEN THEIR SKY IS CLEAR.

SOME murmur when their sky is clear

And wholly bright to view,
If one small speck of dark appear

In their great heaven of blue;
And some with thankful love are filled,
If but one streak of light,

One ray of God's good mercy, gild
The darkness of their night.

In palaces are hearts that ask,
In discontent and pride,
Why life is such a dreary task,
And all good things denied ;
And hearts in poorest huts admire
How love has in their aid

(Love that not ever seems to tire)
Such rich provision made.

TEARS.

THERE is a sacredness in tears.

mark of weakness, but of power.

They are not the
They speak more

eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, of unspeakable love. If there were wanting any argument to prove that man is immortal, I would look for it in the strong convulsive emotion of the breast when the soul has been deeply agitated, when the fountains of feeling are rising, and tears are gushing forth in crystallic streams. O, speak not harshly of the stricken one, weeping in silence. Break not the solemnity by rude laughter or intrusive footsteps. Despise not a woman's tears; they are what makes her an angel. Scoff not if the stern heart of manhood is sometimes melted to tears of sympathy; they are what help to elevate him above the brute. I love to see tears of affection. They are painful tokens, but most holy. There is a pleasure in tears, an awful pleasure. If there were none on earth to shed a tear for me, I should be loath to live; and if no one might weep over my grave, I could never die in peace.