Would you adopt a safe, sure recipe,
Without drench-dosing, or the doctor's fee,
Give nature's vital functions ample play,
Clothe easy-walk abroad six miles each day;
The stomach cleanse within, the skin without;
And send the doctors to the left-about.

Common Sense.

The four ordinary secrets of health are, early rising, exercise, personal cleanliness, and the rising from table with the stomach unoppressed. There may be sorrows in despite of these, but they will be less with them, and nobody can be truly comfortable without them.

Heart (The).

There is in every human heart

Some not completely barren part,

Where seeds of love and truth might grow,

And flowers of generous virtue blow;

To plant, to watch, to water there,

This be our duty, this our care.-Bowring.

A loving heart is the truest wisdom.-C. Dickens.

-The wisdom of the Creator is in nothing seen more gloriously than in the heart. It was necessary that it should be made capable of working for ever, without the cessation of a moment, without the least degree of weariness. It is so made; and the power of the Creator in so constructing it can in nothing be exceeded but by his wisdom!

— The velvet moss will grow upon the sterile rock; the mistletoe flourish on the withered branch; the ivy cling to the mouldering ruin; the pine and cedar remain fresh and fadeless amidst the mutations of the dying year; and, heaven be praised! something green, something beautiful to see, and grateful to the soul, will, in the coldest and darkest hour of fate, still twine its tendrils round the crumbling altars and broken arches of the desolate temples of the human heart!

-

The appellations bestowed on that mysterious organ, the human heart, keep pace with the moral qualities ascribed to it. Thus we have the tender and the flinty heart-the cold, the warm, the light, and the heavy heart-the "faint heart that never won fair lady," and "the heart of oak," the exclusive property of the tars of England.

Heaven.

This world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow-

There's nothing true but heaven!
And false the light on glory's plume,
As fading lines of even ;

And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb-
There's nothing bright but heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,
From wave to wave we're driven;

And fancy's flash, and reason's ray,
Serve but to light the troubled way—

There's nothing calm but heaven!
Moore.

History.

History is but a kind of Newgate calendar, a register of the crimes and miseries that man has inflicted on his fellowman. It is a huge libel on human nature, to which we industriously add page after page, volume after volume, as if we were building up a monument to the honour rather than the infamy of our species. If we turn over the pages of these chronicles that man has written of himself, what are the characters dignified by the appellation of "great," and held up to the admiration of posterity? Tyrants, robbers, conquerors, renowned only for the magnitude of their misdeeds and the stupendous wrongs and miseries they have inflicted on mankind--warriors who have hired themselves

to the trade of blood, not from motives of virtuous patriotism, or to protect the injured and defenceless, but merely to gain the vaunted glory of being successful in massacreing their fellow beings! What are the great events that constitute a glorious era? The fall of empires—the desolation of happy countries—splendid cities smoking in their ruins-the proudest works of art tumbled in the dust-the shrieks and groans of whole nations ascending unto heaven.— Irving.

- The Grecian history is a poem, Latin history a picture, modern history a chronicle.-Chateaubriand.

Home.

The stately homes of England,
How beautiful they stand !
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land.

The deer across their greensward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam,

And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England!

Around their hearths by night,

What gladsome looks of household love

Meet in the ruddy light!

There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood's tale is told,
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.
The blessed homes of England!
How softly on their bowers

Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath Hours!
Solemn, yet sweet, the church bell's chime
Floats through their woods at morn;

All other sounds, in that still time,
Of breeze and leaf are born.

The free, fair homes of England!
Long, long in hut and hall

May hearts of native proof be reared,
To guard each hallowed wall!
And green for ever be the groves,
And bright the flowery sod,

Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God !-Mrs. Hemans.

- That is not home, where day by day
I wear the busy hours away;
That is not home, where lonely night
Prepares for me the toils of light;
'Tis hope, and joy, and memory, give
A home in which the heart can live :
These walls no lingering hopes endear,
No fond remembrance chains me here.

There are who strangely love to roam,
And find in wildest haunts their home;
And some in halls of lordly state,
Who yet are homeless, desolate.
The sailor's home is on the main ;
The warrior's, on the tented plain;
The maiden's, in her bower of rest;
The infant's, on his mother's breast.

There is no home in halls of pride,
They are too high, and cold, and wide.
No home is by the wanderer found;
'Tis not in place; it hath no bound;
It is a circling atmosphere,
Investing all the heart holds dear;
A law of strange attractive force,
That holds the feelings in their course;
It is a presence undefined,

O'ershadowing the conscious mind,
Where love and duty sweetly blend

To consecrate the name of friend.-Conder.

The great end of prudence is to give cheerfulness to those hours which splendour cannot gild, and acclamation cannot exhilarate those soft intervals of unblended amusement, in which a man shrinks to his natural dimensions, and throws aside the ornaments and disguises which he feels in privacy to be useless encumbrances, and to lose all effect when they become familiar. To be happy at home is the ultimate result of all ambition, the end to which every enterprise and labour tends, and of which every desire prompts the execution. It is, indeed, at home that every man must be known by those who would have a just estimate of his virtue or felicity. -Dr. Johnson.

- The learning of the University may fade from the recollection; its classic lore may moulder in the halls of memory; but the simple lessons of home, enamelled upon the heart of childhood, defy the rust of years, and outlive the more mature but less vivid pictures of after days.

It is a good thing and a wise, to be able, with a few books and a little needlework, to give any room, however strange and desolate, a look of home, to be able to pursue our usual employments anywhere at a moment's notice; and a blessing beyond wealth, beyond beauty, or even beyond talent, is that cheerful temperament which can rejoice in the sunshine, yet be merry in the shade; which can delight in the bird's singing in spring, yet solace itself with the heart's own music when winter is at hand.

Home and Friends.

Oh! there's a power to make each hour
As sweet as heaven design'd it;
Nor need we roam to bring it home,
Though few there be that find it.
We seek too high for things close by,
And lose what nature found us,
For life hath here no charms so dear
As home and friends around us.