33 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE UPWARD FLIGHT, 
BY WM. EDWARD KNOWLES. 
O, it is a joy to me, 
In this dreamy world below, 
To be striving earnestly, 
For the truths that great men know; 
To be climbing unknown heights, 
On the ladder-rounds of mind ; 
Kindling up the beacon lights, 
For those following behind. 
There the spirit longs to dwell, 
Counting oft its treasures o’er, 
By the pearl-drops at the well, 
That is filled from wisdom’s store. 
There the great hills, stern and white, 
Seem the pillars to the sky; 
While the sudden glory-light, 
Tells that we to heaven are nigh. 
Freedom singctli there her lay, 
In the holy, chastened light, 
Cheering oii, at night and day, 
The lone pilgrim up the height. 
In his dreams she wafts the vision. 
Of the justly great and good, 
Till the earth, and fields elysian, 
Seem but one, twiu-sisterliood. 
There to tread the untred plains, 
High above the dreamy vales : 
Striving earnest for the gains, 
Which come not to him who quails. 
Other footsteps may come on, 
Mingling with those seen before; 
But the fame be mine alone, 
First to tread the far-oft shore. 
First to plant the way-marks there, 
Which shall guide the follower's feet: 
Heeding not the stormy air, 
Tempests, rain, or snow, or sleet. 
Delving at the flush of Spring,— 
Delving in the Autumn’s glow; 
High above the clouds’ grey wing, 
Spreading o’er the vales below 1 
For it is a joy to me, 
In this dreamy world below, 
To bo striving earnestly, 
For the truths that great men know; 
To be climbing unknown heights, 
On the ladder-rounds of mind,— 
Kindling up the beacon lights, 
For the followers behind. 
THE LOST LAMBKIN. 
BY AUGUSTUS DUG ANNE. 
Was thero ever a sweotor croaturo than 
dear little golden-haired Flora’ Campboll, 
with her light, fairy footstops, and rosy 
cheeks, and violet eyes ? IIow lovely she 
looked, as sho hounded over the green braos 
in the morning, or lingored by tho lochsido 
at tho quiot gloaming ? Her heart was all 
sunshine, and her thoughts puro and fresh 
as tho tlowors she twined in her shining 
tressos. 
It is a boautiful story they tell in Scot¬ 
tish valleys, of a poor idiot, (*‘ innocent,” as 
thoy call him,) who, when a sunbeam foil 
athwart his sight, as ho sat in tho church, 
throw his cloak across it—and tho mantlo 
hung upon tho shining motes. Thoy tell 
us that Faith worked tho miracle — for 
Heaven would not disappoint tho idiot’s 
trust. 
Sweot Flora Campbell ! Sho might havo 
thrown her mantlo ovor the sunbeam ; ay, 
and walked tho glittering path with her 
delicate foot, till sho reached tho bright 
heavens abovo—for her young heart was all 
Faith and Hope and Charity. Sho prattled 
with tho tlowors and tho streamlets and tho 
birds; and her clear, ringing voico was 
heard at daybreak amid the hoathor, when 
tho shepherds led forth their flocks. O, 
sunny and joyful, and happy as tho day is 
long, was dear little Flora Campbell. 
All loved tho gentle child — and why 
should they not ? Hid not her tendor hands 
bring fresh flowers to tho sick wifo of Rob¬ 
ert tho plowman ? And did not her low 
voico tremble softly in prayer, at the bed¬ 
side of old Elspio,tho blind beggar-woman ? 
O, who would not lovo tho angel-hearted 
little maiden. 
Rut whore is Flora ? Twilight is falling 
over tho mountains, and shutting in tho 
vales like a grey curtain. Ono by one, tho 
bright stars steal up into tho summer’ sky, 
and twinkle amid tho lleocy evening clouds. 
Tho tinkling sheep-bell sounds nearer and 
nearer, as tho iloeks return to thoir moun¬ 
tain pastures, and tho lowing of tho kino in 
tho farm yard tells that tho labors of tho 
day are over. But where is golden-haired 
Flora Campbell ? 
Sho was not used to linger so long from 
her grandfather’s dwelling—for now the 
evening meal was spread, and tho cottago 
lamps lighted. Tho aged man clasped his 
hands together and murmured a short pray¬ 
er, while his daughter, tho mother of Flora, 
looked anxiously out of tho window, yearn¬ 
ing for her child’s return. 
But Flora came not. 
Tho shadows crept fastor and fastor 
around tho valloy. Tho old peasants sat 
at their cottage-doors, and tho young men 
and maidens gathered upon the villago 
green, somo to walk, and somo to talk of 
lovo under tho broad chesnut tree—somo to 
play tho pipe, or dance to its merry music, 
and somo to hurl tho quoit, or wrestle in 
the ring. 
But all was hushed when Gaffer Camp¬ 
bell carno hurriedly from his cottago, inquir¬ 
ing of tho villagers if they had scon his 
grand-child. Yes, indeed, had tlioy. 
Ono had bohold hor far up in tho moun¬ 
tains, plucking wild flowers, and weaving 
them into a garland of heather; another 
had met her in tho path to tho Moss Glen, 
sitting by the wayside, and plaiting a willow 
basket for hor grandsiro; and a third had 
received some forest fruit from her hands, 
as ho saw hor soatod with her basket of 
flowers, near tho head of tho loch. 
“Ah, wo must sock Flora,” cried tho 
youths, immediately. “ Tho dear child—no 
harm can surely come to her.” 
“Ah mo, Gaffor Campbell,” said a white 
hairod old shophord, shaking his head, “1 
feared something—for tho youngest lamb¬ 
kin of my flock was lost to-day, and it is a 
bad sign, thoy say.” 
“ Heaven grant that my poor lambkin bo 
safe I” said Gaffor Campboll, solemnly. 
“ Amen!” murmured tho white-naired 
peasant. 
Tho villagers now dispersed in various 
paths loading to tho mountain, tho forest, 
and tho loch; and soon torches gleamed 
upon the hights, and glimmered among tho 
treos, and flashed brightly ovor the water. 
Up and down, along the stream, and thro’ 
the woods, wont the young men, calling up¬ 
on tho name of “ Flora! Flora !” 
But no Flora answered. 
Gaffer Campboll leaned upon his staff, 
and spoke no word. Ho could not weep, 
for a heavy woight was on his heart. Rut 
tho mother of Flora was loud in her grief. 
Sho wept, and beat hor breast, and called 
aloud tho name of hor child. 
Tho aged pastor now approached. IIo 
had heard, at the manse, of Flora’s disap¬ 
pearance ; for every house had boon search¬ 
ed within tho hour; and ho now came to 
comfort tho bereaved ones. “Fear not, 
daughter,” ho said—“ Flora will roturn.” 
“Ah, sho is lost—sho is lost to mo,” cried 
tho mother. 
“ IIo who tompereth the wind to the shorn 
Iamb will protoet our sweet child,” answer¬ 
ed tho old pastor—“ Fear not!” 
Arid as tho reverend man spoko, the loud 
barking of a dog was hoard from the depths 
of Moss Glen, and lights appeared passing 
quickly down tho valley. 
“ Trust in heaven !” said the minister— 
“Lot us seek, and wo shall find tho child.” 
With trembling, yet hurried stops, tho 
pastor and Gaffor Campbell took their way 
to tho deep glen. Rut tho mother of Flora 
passed them, and ran wildly down tho nar¬ 
row path. Louder and louder sounded tho 
bay of tho dog from tho thick gloom in 
which tho vale was shrouded. 
Thoy reached tho brink of a wido ravine 
or chasm, commonly known as tho “ Door’s 
Mouth,” and passed near a group of villa¬ 
gers, who, with torchos in their hands, wero 
listening eagerly to catch tho baying of the 
hound. Again it came, low and deop, seem¬ 
ingly from tho gulf beneath them. They 
bent their torches over tho odgo of tliopro- 
cipico, and strove to look down ; hut all was 
dark, and silent, savo alone tho barking of 
the dog, now quick and sharp. 
“ Wo must doscond,” cried a young man, 
pressing forward. “That’s Luath’s bark, 
and Luath knows Flora as well as I do.— 
Run, Donald, for ropes.” 
A half dozen lads started together, at this 
bidding, and soon stout ropes wero brought 
and held by strong men, while tho youth 
prepared to doscond. 
“Take hoed, Christie,” said tho white 
haired old shopherd — “Remember the 
onion, my lad—tho youngest lambkin of 
my flock was lost to-day and I fear moro 
evil.” 
“ Fear nothing for mo, father,” criod tho 
young peasant, swinging himself into tho 
dark gulf from tho edge of the rock; whilo 
again tho loud bark of tho dog soundod from 
tho chasm. 
Down, down, tho youth was loworod, 
startling the wild birds from thoir nosts un¬ 
der tho cliffs, and brushing tho twining ivy 
leaves from the sides of tho rock. At last 
ho reached the bottom, and tho noblo dog 
Luath sprang upon him, barking loud and 
joyfully. 
Tho glaro of tho torch which tho young 
man held, Hashed around, and lit up ovory 
object, Thero, upon a thick bod of wild 
heather, lay sweet Flora Campbell, holding, 
in hor white arms, and close to hor bosom, 
a young lamb. 
Christie stooped, and gazed at her. She 
broathod calmly, and ho know that sho was 
sleeping. IIo glancod at tho little lamb, 
and saw that ono of its legs was bandaged 
with ribbons from tho child’s hat. Then he 
looked up, and shouted aloud—“ Sho is 
safe.” 
Tho shout was ochood so loudly and glad¬ 
ly, that it woko tho young maiden from her 
slumber. Sho glanced around with a bo- 
wildored gaze, and recognized tho youth. 
“ Dear Christie,” sho said, in hor sweot sim¬ 
plicity, “ I am so glad you havo como ! Now 
we will savo your fathor’s lainb.” 
Christie and tho villagers soon learned all. 
How Flora had bohold tho young lambkin, 
where it had fallen, at tho bottom of tho 
“Doer’s Mouth,” and saw that ono of its 
delicate limbs was broken ; how sho had de¬ 
scended from ledgo to lodgo of tho chasm 
sido, clinging to tho ivy, and thinking not of 
danger; how she had bound up tho lamb¬ 
kin’s broken limb with her bonnet ribbons, 
and held tho mute sulforor in her arms; and 
how, at last, weary with her exortion, sho 
had fallen asloop upon tho bed of hoath¬ 
or, and slumbered on till Christie’s shout 
awoko hor. 
Joyful and happy tho villagers wero, when 
assured of Floras safety; and tho whito 
hdired peasant, Christie’s father, blossod tho 
fair child, and gave to hor tho little lambkin 
sho had rescued. And often afterwards 
might Flora bo soon, bounding ovor tho 
braes, with her pot frisking beside hor. And 
whenever sho appoarod tho old villagers 
would smile and say—“ God bless tho bon- 
nio child !” 
We aro apt to consider London as a con¬ 
siderable city, and Now Yorkors regard their 
villago as an immense municipality. Rut if 
tho Mayors of Nineveh ami Rabylon could 
revisit tho earth, thoy would laugh at tho 
pretensions of tho moderns. Tho aroa of 
Rabylon was two hundred and twenty-five 
squaro miles, and that of Ninovoh two* hun¬ 
dred and sixteon squaro miles, while that of 
London and its onvirons is but ono hundred 
and fourtoon squaro miles. 
QUIDDLING. 
We once knew a gontleman, whoso favor- 
ito interrogatory phrase was, “ IIow goes 
tho enemy ?” meaning timo. And in fact, 
that precious friend of man is treated, as if 
lie were tho worst of enemies, to bo abused, 
killed, got rid of in somo way, by somo ar¬ 
tifice or deception. Among tho ingenious 
contrivances to this effect, ono of the most 
successful hitherto discovered,is undoubted¬ 
ly that known by tho name of Quiddling.— 
If “ Procrastination is tho thief of Time,” 
Quiddling is its assassin. Where a man on¬ 
ly puts off the performance of something 
for an hour or a day, there is still more op¬ 
portunity left to do somo other act in the 
meanwhile. He may bo said to treat timo 
politely, as an acquaintance or a companion, 
according to the world’s fashion, which ex¬ 
acts only tho semblance, not tho substance 
of a benefaction. But the Quiddler cannot, 
by any body’s ethics, bo taken for a friend 
of timo. lie kills him. For, while Madam 
or Sir is annihilating tho golden moments 
by a destructive mixture of worthless alloy, 
they cannot, like tho procastinator, bo doing 
any thing else. 
And what is quiddling, pray? “I don’t 
remember,” says one, “ to have heard it 
enumerated among tho mortal sins, as you 
make it, when you charge tho offender to bo 
guilty of murder.” Wo will tell you what 
it is. It is spending five minutes in doing a 
tiling “just so,” when tho variation of a hair’s 
breadth would make no difference. It i3 
waiting a quarter of an hour boforo the glass 
to adjust a curl, or give a graceful turn or 
color to a mustache. It is tho consumption 
of a whole) forenoon to dross for a walk, or 
of an ontiro afternoon to get ready for an 
evening party. This consumption of timo 
can boast of moro victims than tho more 
talkod-of ono of tho lungs, lie who is for¬ 
ever getting ready to do something, and 
never docs it, is a quiddler. Life, as some 
live it, is an enormous preface to a meager 
work not finished, sometimes not begun. 
If this matter wero viewed as seriously as 
it ought, there might bo a pathetic song 
writton on quiddlo, quiddlo, quiddlo, as on 
“ work, work, work.” A poor laborer is 
waiting for his breakfast; how lamentably 
tho good house-wife spins round and round, 
cutting all manner of figures, but not cut¬ 
ting up tho broad nor ham. Horo is a pret¬ 
ty fellow, who takes a quarter of an hour to 
tio his cravat, a quarter to put on his coat, 
double that timo to brush his hair, pull on 
his glovos, and so on. If ho has a letter to 
dispatch, ho is so todious in selecting the 
paper and pen, and so shockingly nice and 
prosy in its composition, and so curiously 
particular and slow in affixing an appropri¬ 
ate, but ten to one a mistaken and fantastic 
seal, that tho mail starts off without it. 
This habit is very cos ly in moro ways 
than one. None, therefore, but rich peoplo 
can afford to bo quiddlers. It is a luxury, 
which, liko the dyspepsia and gout, poor 
folks must not think of enjoying, any more 
than tho privilege of lying abed till nine or 
ten : then toying an hour, as somo hygien¬ 
ists rocommond, over breakfast, two hours 
over dinner, another over a third and per¬ 
haps a fourth meal; thus roducing tho defi¬ 
nition of a human being to one who sponds 
all his timo in eating, sleoping and dressing; 
and tho remainder in drinking. 
It is a sad misfortune to an author, or an 
artist, if tho spirit of quiddling onco insinu¬ 
ates itself. Wo cannot stop to rolato its 
mischiefs now—how it injured Akenside’s 
Pleasures of the Imagination, and drovo All- 
ston to paint half a dozen Belshazzars 
Feasts, ono over tho other, somo worso and 
somo hotter than the fragment finally loft, 
which was mado tho fragment it is by quid¬ 
dling. 
If husband and wifo aro sinners in this 
respect alike, time ambles smoothly enough, 
but to no purposo. If ono alone is guilty, 
tho yoke is carried unovonly, and trouble 
ensues. It has boon said already that quid¬ 
dling is an expensive ploasuro. Ono in¬ 
stance must suffice, and conclude this dis¬ 
sertation. A few weeks ago tho following 
seono occurrod : — “Aro you coming, my 
dear, I shall bo lato ?” “ Yes, husband, I 
shall bo ready in a minute. I have only my 
hat to put on.” That was true; it had been 
equally true, for full twenty minutes since 
sho began to do it. Again tho husband, 
“ Como, como, wife, really I must go.”— 
“ Almost ready,” blandly replied tho lady, 
in tho quictost tones. “ Joanetto, positive¬ 
ly, I’ll go, can’t stop another second,” and 
tho front door was heard to open, boforo 
which tho carriage had been waiting fivo 
and forty minutes, during most of which 
timo the lady had been hard at work in- 
drawing on hor gloves and adjusting her 
bonnet, for all tho rest of hor rig was eom- 
pleted before. On hearing tho opening of 
tho door, sho was awaro the caso was press¬ 
ing, so began to move down stairs gently, 
looking oxtromoly nice, but not so tasteful¬ 
ly in somo of her arrangements, as thoy 
wero thirty minutes boforo sho had altorod 
thorn for tho worse. At length thoy wore 
off, and arrived in Wall-st. just in timo for 
tho husband to learn that tho subscription 
book for a certain stock, which wo shall not 
mention, had been closed pursuant to pre¬ 
vious notico, just six minutes and a half.— 
Yesterday, ho might havo sold tho shares 
rosorved for him to tho last mornont, at two 
thousand dollars advanco. A costly hat, 
and an oxponsivo wearor of it! Rut tho 
woalthy havo indulgences that othors know 
not of, “and don’t want to,” somebody, 
looking ovor my shoulder, says. — JYeicark 
Advertiser. 
What is tho whole creation, but ono 
groat library; ovory volume in which, and 
every pago in these volumes, aro impressed 
with radiant characters of infinito wisdom; 
and all the perfections of tho univorso aro 
contracted with such inimitable art in man, 
that ho needs no other book but himsolf to 
make him a complete philosopher. 
THE WIFE. 
“ She flung her white arms around him—‘ Thou art all 
that this poor heart can cling to.’ ” 
I could have stemmed misfortune’s tide, 
And borne tho rich one’s sneer— 
Have braved the haughty glance of pride, 
Nor shed a single toar. 
I could have smiled on every blow 
From Life’s full quiver thrown, 
While I might gaze on theo and know 
I should not be “ alone.” 
I could—I think I could—have brooked 
E'en for a time, that thou 
Upon my fading face had looked, 
With less of love than now ; 
For then I should at least have felt 
The sweet hope still my own. 
To win thee back—and whilst I dwelt 
On earth, not been “ alone.” 
But this to sec from day to day, 
Thy brigli'tiing eye and check, 
And watch thy life-sands wash away, 
Unnumbered, slowly, meek; 
To meet thy smile of tenderness, 
And catch thy feeble tone 
Of kindness, ever breathed to bless, 
And feel I’d bo “ alone.” 
To mark thy strength each hour decay, 
And yet thy hopes grow stronger, 
As, filled with lieavonward trust, they say, 
Earth may not know thee longer;— 
Nay, dearest, ’tis too much—this heart 
Must break when thou art gone; 
It must not be—we may not part, 
I could not live “ alone.” 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
NEW YORK TO COUNTRY EYES. 
[ Concluded from lad week’s paper.] 
Dear Rural :— Could every woman in 
tho land see what I saw ono morning on tho 
Rattery, and fool as I felt, thoro would bo 
no moro sipping of wino by themselves, or 
countenancing it in others; thoy would no 
longer dare, with winning words, and witch¬ 
ing smile, to offer tho tempting poison to a 
fellow mortal. I had often thought thoro 
could bo nothing moro degrading than bog¬ 
ging— the going from houso to house, ask¬ 
ing alms—until I camo to this overgrown 
monster of a place. Tho first thing that 
riveted my attention, and set mo to moral¬ 
izing, tho morning of my arrival, was tho 
occupation of sovoral old women and young 
girls, as tlioy passed through tho streets, 
fishing from out ash-barrels, with thoir little 
hooks, paper-rags, and bits of meat and 
bread; but theso had a straight-forward, 
businoss-liko air, that spoko of an industri¬ 
ous iiidepondonco, although it was revolting 
to my country oyes. Then, too, thero was 
nothing very gratifying to mo, to sco poorly 
clad women, of a frosty, windy morning, at 
tho corners of tho streets, spreading their 
littlo tables of apples, candies, nuts and 
cakes; still, I becamo tolerably reconciled 
to theso branches of business, when I tho’t 
thoy wero trying to earn something for self- 
support, and did that which was within their 
roach ;—but when ono morning as I was 
walking on tho Rattery, I saw a littlo boforo 
mo, strotchod on tho cold damp earth, the 
form of somo porson apparently dead, tho 
police-men and othors had gathered round, 
and as 1 camo nearer, I saw it was a woman 
and dead drunk —my heart died within mo. 
Oh! what a feeling of shamo and disgust 
crept ovor mo; for days I could not shut 
out tho sickening sight, though I wished all 
traces of it erased from my memory, unless 
tho recollection of it could prompt to somo 
word or deod, that should make woman feel 
tho necessity thero is of her example, influ- 
enco and exertion, in eradicating this evil 
that lios so near every hearth-stone, spread¬ 
ing desolation wlierover it obtains a foothold. 
Dec. 31st.—I find on looking over tho 
abovo. 1 havo written littlo else bosido tho 
sorrows of a homosick child,—ono who is 
seldom far from homo, and whon away, al¬ 
ways wishes herself back again. Christmas 
has indeed coino, and gono, sineo I last took 
up my pon, but not liko tho old “ Merry 
Christmas” times of mv own homo. It is 
true thoro wero numberless sumptous din¬ 
ners, cookeil and eaten, among tho inhabit¬ 
ants of this busy place, many churches were 
wreathed with evorgroons and illuminated, 
stores and shops closod, giving tho drilled 
clerks a day of rest; but to me, it was very 
liko any other day: the poinp and ceremony 
hero, must all be saved for Now Y oar’s. 
I have not yet grown ono day too okl, or 
ono inch too tall, to onjoy to the full, with 
younger brothers and sisters, the placing all 
around the groat kitchen fire-place, those 
reeoptaclos for “ Santa Claus” favors,—our 
stockings. Those of us who had the mis¬ 
fortune to havo small foot, ransacked the 
family stocking-basket, and tho largest wore 
forth-coming: so implicit was our faith in 
tho dear old Saint’s gonorosity, well know¬ 
ing that, howovor large, thoy would bo filled. 
Then the joyous roar and riot, that rousod 
tho soberor portion of tho family, long be¬ 
fore daylight; as sundry littlo whito-robod 
figures glided round in tho darkness, firmly 
grasping their well-filled stockings, shouting 
at tho top of their voices, as ofton as thoy 
could clear thoir throats of nuts and candy, 
“ I wish you ‘ Merry Christmas,’ father—I 
wish you ‘ Merry Christinas’ Mother, — 
‘Morrj Christmas’all.” 
Rut wo havo felt a littlo crest-fallen some¬ 
times, when wo’vo all mot around tho kitch¬ 
en fire, examined our presents, kept won¬ 
drous still, and agreed to go en masse to our 
parents room, to got tho start of them in 
good wishos, and joyous congratulations, to 
havo our father exclaim, just as we wero 
pushing the door noiselessly open, “a ‘Mer¬ 
ry Christmas’ children, a ‘Merry Christmas’ 
to all.” Wo older ones could do no moro 
tlian thank him, and thanking our mother 
as much, for keeping still, and giving us a 
chance to salute her with our good wishes; 
but tho youngest of tho Hock, tho baby, tho 
pot, would, crying, mount tho bod with, 
“ Why could’nt you havo waited, fiithor ?” 
thon to his inquiry, “ What did * Santa 
Claus’ bring you my darling ?” tho tears 
wore dried, and tho contents of tho stocking 
rehearsed, and the probabilites of how they 
camo thero, and by whom, duly discussed, 
always ending with, “should you think he 
could get down tho chimney, father T 
I could this Christmas, ovon, havo joined 
tho ceremonies attendant upon the burning 
of tho “Yule-log,”—I believe I could havo 
gono with tho little ones into tho corner, to 
beseech tlio good Sprite to rcinomber our 
wants with substantial tokons of romom- 
branco—that they might oven bo found un- 
dernoath tho brands of tho burning log, 
when we should return to tho firo. For my 
own part, I much prefer the Christmas-troo, 
with its burden of loving gifts, and its sweot 
Christ-kind-chon to distribute thorn, t) the 
formal, ceremonious, uncongenial, and final¬ 
ly wicked practico of making calls on Now 
Year’s. Isupposo I shall bo set down as an 
oddity, for disapproving of Now Year’s calls 
—it is not the calling I consider wrong, but 
the pernicious habit of passing “strong 
drink” to those who drop in, to pass tho 
compliments of tho season. 
After tho family have all retired, I find 
my timo to hold communion with absent 
friends;—tho old year is fast retreating, and 
wero I at homo, tho wholo house would soon 
echo, and re-echo, with, “ a Happy New 
Year,” for I beliovo wo nover slept on 
Christmas and Now Year’s ovos, at any rate, 
until after twelvo o’clock. Wishing you 
very many “ Happy New Year’s,” dear Ru¬ 
ral, I remain, Ever yours, 
Annie Linwood. 
New York, December 31, 1852. 
READING ROOMS FOR LADIE3 
“ Fanny ” thinks—and wo agree with hor 
—that the women do not have their full 
share of privileges at our hotols. Horo is 
part of what sho writes to The Republican, 
of St Louis: 
Can you tell mo why it is, that in all tho 
large hotels reading-rooms should be fur¬ 
nished exclusively for the bonefit of the gen- 
tlemon ?—why gentlemen must be found a 
special room for smoking, chowing and 
drinking ?— why tho gentleman who pays 
two dollars a day should have every priv¬ 
ilege allowed him that is granted a lady for 
tho samo monoy, and all theso extras be¬ 
sides, with tho right of perfuming tho whole 
houso, even to tho room sho has paid for 
her own private use, with tho odor of his 
solfish gratification ?—the privilege of an¬ 
noying her by spitting upon tho hall lloor, 
tho stairs, tho carpets, and filing tho spit¬ 
toons of the ladies’ parlor with tho nause¬ 
ous offal of his gross indulgence ? If his su¬ 
perior manly nature must have all these 
physical enjoyments, certainly it is no more 
than fair that the ladies should share a 
small proportion of his mental pleasures, 
and that a few newspapers should bo laid 
on the table of tho ladies’ parlor, to break 
the idle monotony of a boarding-life—to 
quicken thought,stimuli.te interest, and help 
to break tho ice of cold conventionalism, 
prompt acquaintanceship or interchange of 
feeling and sontiment among those who aro 
so frequently thrown together at our great 
hotels. This want is felt, and this injustice 
understood and spoken of by largo numbors 
of intelligent women from Roston to St. 
Louis. 
Would not a well-regulated and well-se¬ 
lected reading-room for ladies be a desirable 
place of resort for fathers, husbands, sons 
and brothers, who would fain escape (if they 
could get nows any where else) from those 
haunts 
“ Where the dark fumo clothes all the room,” 
and where a young man loses, ore he is 
awaro, tho holy intluenco that his mother 
and sisters have hitherto held upon him ? 
Silence. —Thoro are threo kinds of 6i- 
lonco. The silenco of peace and joy; tho 
silonco of submission and resignation ; and 
tho silence of desolation and despair.— 
Lovely are thoy whose dolight is in tho first; 
misorahlo are thoso who aro driven to the 
socond ; and most wretched and miserable 
all thoso who aro doomed to tho last.— 
Domitian made a solitude and called it 
peace. 
Thk Sexes. —Thero aro mon-tormonting 
women, and womon-tormenting men in tho 
world, both of them expert in tho armature 
of men-craft and women-craft. And thero 
aro times when it is tho easiest thing imag¬ 
inable for tho sexes to be enamored of one 
another; and other times when it is the 
hardest of all tasks to tolerate their caprices, 
infirmities, and contradictions. 
