someone found the location of notm cover i guess


The following article, from the Albany State Register, is one of those delicious little bits of newspaper writing, which, for genuine eloquence and feeling, is not surpassed by the happiest efforts of our best orators. If we are not much mistaken, it is from the pen of a distinguished clergyman of tho Episcopal Church in Albany.— Courier. Jenny Lind, the peerless, the nightingale of the north, has got a baby."— Exchange pajKr. Well, what of it? Hasn't "Jenny Lind, the Eecrlcss, the nightingale ofthe north," a right to aye a baby, we should like to know? Would you always have her singing to the cold world, warm as it may lie iv admiration of her songs, charming it by her sweet notes 1 Must she always be warbling to gaping crowdViffho upon her only ns a public performer . -Uookinto tho nursery where Jenny's baby sleeps, in its little cradle, and hear the low lullaby of her sweet voice. See how fondly she gazes upon the helpless thing, nnd when it opens iv little eyes and looks trustingly up to the face of its mother, hear how she warbles tlio " Bird Song," to charm it back to sleep. Listen to the angelic sounds ! There is no effort, no art in that seraphic music. It comes gushing forth from a heart full of a mother's affection, overflowing with a mother's yearning. How soft and low it is, and yet how full of the intensest love. Be still 1 Applaud not! It is nature, all nature, supremely sweet though it be. Disturb not the enchanting harmony by the voice of praise! See, those little eyes have closed again. Jenny's baby sleeps, and the song has died away—vanished slowly, like a dream or a recced ing shadow, into silence. " Hock the cradle" Jenny. But why, we ask again, should not Jenny, the world renowned Jenny, have a baby to love, to kiss and hug, to toss into tho air, and trot upon her knee, and chirrup to, and tumble about, with all a mother's doming playfulness ? She has conquered fame—shall she linger in solitary age, und die ulono st lust ? Shall tho heart's affections be waisted in the pursuit of ambition ; and shall no loving and trusting faces cheer her through life, and stand around her death bed like bright visions looking upward toward the sky ? Shall she walk tho world's high places companionless, and without a staff for her age to lean upon ? No. Ten thousand times dearer to her mother's heart is the crowing, even the cries of thnt little one, than the loudest applause that ever went up from tho crowded audience, on the day of her proudest triumph. Ten thousand times sweeter is its smiles than the fragrance of the flowers that were showered upon her, as a tribute of admiration to her transcendent sweetness of song. Yes, yes; ambition is nothing—triumphs are nothing—admiration of the world, fame and wealth are nothing. Tho mother looks upon her ; little child, her heart clings to its feebleness, and all other worldly visions vanish away. ■ Rock the cradle," Jenny. Go out and sing beforo the great world never again—pass forever from its gaze, to sit calmly by the domestic hearth, gathering your little ones around you, teaching them the value of " the divinity that stirs within them," the duties of lifo and hope of eternity. Tell them the littleness of fame, the folly of ambition, the beauty of holiness, and the home with the just at last. And when angels shall gather round the great White Throne, among the voices that shall mingle in the song of the redeemed, yours and theirs shall bt; heard in the full volume of their sweetness, chanting the praises of" Him that livcth forever."

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