Original THE INFLUENCE OF A REMARK. BY REV. JOHN S. C. ABBOTT. A FEW years ago a man in humble circumstances in life emigrated from Scotland to this country, and settled in one of our Western States. He was a coarse and ignorant man, but very energetic, and entirely devoted to the acquisition of property. He had been very poor, and felt that wealth constituted the greatest of all earthly blessings. He had never enjoyed any of the advantages of education, and was perfectly unconscious of the value of a cultivated mind. His wild and rustic home was carved out of the wilderness, where he was surrounded by those hardy pioneers who knew of no employment but toil. Rich harvests began to wave upon his well-tilled and fertile acres. His barns were filled with plenty; cattle accumulated in his pastures; his plain but substantial dwelling was provided with all homely comforts; he became a man of wealth. He had an only child, a daughter, whom he loved with the instinctive love of one who knew nothing of the refinements of affection, but who feels proud of possessing a child to whom he could leave the fruits of his toilsome and successful life. One winter's evening, as the sleet was drifting over the bleak plains, and the wind whistling around his windows, two strangers, from different directions, sought a night's hospitality beneath the roof of the rich old farmer. One was a young adventurer, penniless and almost friendless, seeking his fortune in the boundless West. The other was an intelligent middle-aged gentleman of wealth from the East, traveling on business connected with an important speculation in which he was about to embark. The fire, of large logs of wood, blazed brightly on the hearth. The hardy old farmer, blessed with the vigor which the health of sixty years confers, sat by his kitchen fireside smoking his pipe, now and then exchanging a word with the strangers, neither of whom seemed disposed to sociability. The farmer's wife and his rustic daughter sat in silence, the latter paring apples and stringing the slices to hang in festoons to dry from the poles suspended from the walls. The wife was engaged in knitting-that employment which seems to be the heaven-conferred solace and blessing for the aged and for the infirm. An half hour of perfect silence had elapsed, during which the two strangers seemed entirely absorbed in their own thoughts, when the middle-aged gentleman suddenly roused himself from his revery, and turning his eye to the maiden, inquired "Is this your only daughter, my friend?" "Yes," replied the farmer, "she is my only child." 66 "Indeed," was the reply. As you seem to be blessed with all the comforts of life, I suppose you mean to give her a very perfect education." "Not I," the farmer rejoined, "I never had any education myself, and I do not believe it will do her any good. I mean to leave her money, so that she shall not have to work as hard as her poor father and mother have been compelled to do. Money is the best friend one can have in such a world as this." "I think you are wrong, friend, there," the gentleman replied. "I also have an only daughter and an only child. She is of about the same age with yours, but I mean to give her as perfect an education as money can give and as she has capacity to receive. A good education is something which no one but God can take from her." All relapsed again into their former silence. But there was something in the terseness of the expression, "A good education is something which no one but God can take from her," which struck, with peculiar force, the mind of the young man. He repeated the words again and again. He pondered their weighty import. They became engraved upon his memory in characters never to be effaced. The night passed away. The morning dawned. The cold rays of a winter's sun glistened upon the wide and cheerless expanse of snow. After a breakfast in the warm kitchen of the farmer, the two strangers separated, each to go on his own way. They never met again. But the remark which had fallen upon the ear of the young man, had awakened thoughts which were never to be forgotten: "A good education is something which no one but God can take from her.” Years with their changes rolled on. The young man, enterprising and energetic, had found him a home, and a group of bright and happy children were clustered about his comfortable fireside. When he received his first-born son to his arms, he said, "This child is given to me to educate. A good education is something which no one but God can take from him." His wife imbibed his spirit. And as one after another was added to the number of their happy family, they both felt that their great duty in life was to educate their children. It became the all-absorbing object of their labor and their ambition. Thirteen children were given to them. They were all educated— highly educated. The sons became prominent members of the learned professions, swaying a wide influence over thousands of minds. The daughters became highly accomplished, intellectual ladies, to fill the posts of wives and mothers, to inspire their children with a love for knowledge. And what finite mind can tell where this mighty influence shall terminate? Who can tell to what uncounted thousands of roused and invigorated intellects this one sentiment will not prove to have been the guiding angel? It is thus that in this world apparent accidents achieve the mightiest miracles. A casual word, forgotten almost before it has left the lips, may form the destiny for time and eternity of multitudes which no tongue can number. Original. THE CROSS. BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. OH! girt with peril, and but feebly arm'd, Original. A LESSON BY THE WAYSIDE. If we but had discerning eyes, we could read in the accidentals and little occurrences of every-day life chapters of instruction almost as sublime, useful, and plain as the written revelation. At least, rightly interpreted, they would serve as illustrations of holy precepts. Sometimes the language is so striking, that dull perception is forced to understand it, as in the following instance, where I read a beautiful lesson from the homely page of incident. I give it as noted down in my diary. Sept. 4th, 1850.-This morning as I was passing through the hall I noticed a couple entering, whose singular appearance arrested my attention. They were a man and woman of the same height, but both much under-sized. Their dress was tidy, but quaint in the extreme; and in the person of each was such an entire absence of every line of grace or beauty, that one would suppose such awkward-looking bodies must really feel uncomfortable. I was beginning to regard them as a very grotesque and funny pair, but my mirth was checked upon observing that the woman was entirely sightless. Alas, thought I, how unequally the gifts of God are distributed. Here is deformity, poverty, and blindness. What accumulated misfortunes. Would that I could do something to alleviate so sad a fate. My meditation of condolence was interrupted by an awkward bow from the man to myself, at the same time asking, in a brisk tone, "Would you like to look at some first-rate shoes ?" He produced some shoes as extraordinary looking as the venders themselves. I could scarcely repress a smile at his evident pride in the article, but he went on to say, "They'll outwear four pair of shoemakers' shoes. These, you see, are made by my wife Molly. She's blind, you see, but she cuts these out and sews them every stitch herself." The shoes had not the elegance of a French slipper, but they certainly were as ingenious, the soles and tops being made of broadcloth, tightly stitched and bound with leather. The woman stood by with that calm, resigned expression peculiar to the blind. I said to her, " My friend, is it possible you are able to make these without eyesight? How long ago did you lose it ?" "I lost both my eyes," she replied, "before I was two years old." I turned to her husband in surprise, and asked, "Did you marry her blind? Were you not afraid to undertake the care of her?" "The care of Molly," said the man, with a merry laugh; "why, she made my fortune. I never had any thing I could call my own till I married her, and now we live snug enough. I married an alderman's daughter first. She'd an income of fifty dollars a month, and was fair to look at too, but she had eyes for more than one, and soon ran away from me. She died wretchedly among chimney-sweeps, and then I married Molly, for I knew she wouldn't run away from me if she could, and she couldn't if she would." Here he patted Molly fondly upon the shoulder, and she laughed a hearty laugh to think of her superiority to her fair predecessor. Then he went on to expatiate upon his treasure, Molly. "Why, you see how tidy she keeps me. She cuts, and makes, and mends all my clothes. I don't find any shoes easy to my feet but Molly's. Then if she wants to go anywhere, she's only to take hold of my arm and I lead her. I'm the sexton at Bellevue Hospital, and when there are no funerals I like to bring Molly down town, and we sell a few shoes, just to amuse us and help along. It makes me able to get her all the little notions she wants.' This man whom I had approached as a disconsolate beggar, was speaking with animation and a countenance fairly radiant with satisfaction, and the object beside him I thought so forlorn, her sightless face glowed with the "Sweet and merry sunshine of affection's gentle light That never wears a sullen cloud and fadeth not in night." Here was most poetically illustrated the foundation sentiment of matrimonial happiness-reciprocation, interchange of kindness. Molly found her happiness in clothing her husband and adding to his means by making shoes. Her husband found his in leading his benighted Molly about and supplying her wants. Homely as is the guise of this faithful pair, there is more of romance in their history and intercourse than in connections where gifted youth and beauty are bartered for gold and posi |