MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND EMILY NEWSPAPER. 
TWILIGHT. 
BY WM. SYDNEY THAYER. 
As dimmer grows the sinking light of day, 
A thousand shapes, by nimble fancy brought, 
Float from mysterious regions far away 
Upon the rising tide of peaceful thought. 
All that gives glory to our childish years 
All that unto the past the heart can bind, 
Youth's fleet winged visions, thronging joys and fears 
Glide through the ghostly labyrinths of the mind. 
Now Aspiration, near the breaking morn, 
Raises triumphant h«r rejoicing psalm ; 
And Hope, long sailing over seas forlorn, 
Is kissed by gales -that tell of endless calm. 
Now, from the opening skies upon the earth. 
Descends the bloom primeval; now appear 
The visions that do have immortal birth, 
The thoughts that make our human life more dear. 
ABOUT POVERTY. 
BY ALICE CAREY. 
I wish that more of us had the courage 
to bo poor; that the world were not gone 
mad after fashion and display; but so it is, 
and the blessings we might have, are lost, in 
the offort to get those which lie outside of 
the possible. 
Wo are as one who soes the bright top of 
a mountain, and climbs and climbs till his 
strength is gone and the noontide heats 
burn him up, and then secs too late the cool 
deep shadows at the base. 
And what is it after all that we want?— 
What is this reaching and working and 
complaining all about? What is there that we 
really need, which by a little honest endeav¬ 
or wo may not attain? In the little and 
limited experiences of my life, how many 
sorrowfully-tinted pictures I have seen— 
pictures that might just as well have been 
turnod towards the sunshine as not. 
Let mo show you the first that rise in my 
mind, it is of an old-country-house—the 
roof all green with moss, the window bro¬ 
ken, and the paint washed from the walls. 
The trees that grow about it are upturned, 
and the weeds in the door-yard have chok¬ 
ed out tho flowers, if there were over any 
flowers thore : everything looks ruinous, 
Tho well-curb is shattered, and leaning to 
one side, tho sweep broken, but in its use¬ 
less condition, standing yet; so that the wa¬ 
ter is drawn by means of a milk-pail, and 
the clothes-line, a few stunted currant bush¬ 
es, and a hunch of wormwood, indicate the 
spot whero the garden has been. The fen¬ 
ces are down, and tho briars aro up. In 
short, it looks thriftless and comfortless, 
and why?—it was not always so. 
I can remomber when all the farm and 
the house were neat and trim, as you can 
imagine—when the household was astir at 
daybreak, and the dozen sleek cows where 
milked, and turned into the pasture before 
sunrise. Now tho four or five scrawny crea- 
turos aro sometimes neglected till near the 
noonday, and stand lowing and switching 
the flies about the milk-yard, in place of 
chewing the cud in the maple shadows. 
The housewife that used to look so tidy, 
as sho stood churning under the cherry 
trees, at tho door, is rarely to bo seen now, 
and when sho is, it is in a slovonly dress, 
and with melancholy air. The doors aro 
close shut, and I suspect tho spiders work 
in and about tho old place, at pleasure.— 
Sometimes at ten o’clock in tho morning 
tho ownor of those premises is seen yawn¬ 
ing about tho door, with uncombed hair, 
and in languid spirits, seemingly. 
Ho used to bo plowing when the larks be¬ 
gan to sing, and whistling as they. And 
what has wrought all this change? Why 
aro tho children, that used to be skipping to 
the free school, with face so round and so 
merry, kept at homo now to roam wild thro’ 
tho woods, and forgot all they ever learned 
at school ? 
This, and simply this, is tho reason of it all. 
A rich man has come to tho neighbor¬ 
hood, and the shadow of his fine house falls 
across tho dooryard of farmer D., as wo call 
tho person of whom we aro writing. 
“ Our neighbors don’t milk a dozen cows, 
and make buttor,” says Mrs. D. “ Suppose 
we sell ours, and try some other way of do¬ 
ing ?” Tho farmer demurs a littlo, but one 
after anothor tho cows aro sold : “ it makes 
tho hands of tho children so big and awk¬ 
ward to milk,” says Mrs. D., “ and if wo want 
them to bo like anybody,(meaning tho rich 
neighbors,) wo must not have them milk.” 
They don’t try anything else however, in 
the place of butter-making, and beforo long 
tho drosses of the children are too old and 
too worn to wear to school; thoro is noth¬ 
ing with which to make now ones, and Mrs. 
D. thinks it a small difference whether they 
go at all, as it is as woll to stay at homo, if 
thoy can’t do any moreliko other folks ; re¬ 
ferring, of course to tho rich neighbor, whose 
childron go to tho Academy. 
The woods grow up in tho door-yard.— 
“Bless mo,” says Mrs. D., “our hollyhocks 
and sunflowers don’t look much like the 
beautiful flowers some people have. I don’t 
caro whether they are planted or not.”— 
And so things go. 
Sabbath morning comes, and tho wagon 
in which they used to rido to church is not 
drawn from beneath tho shed. Mrs. 1). 
thinks pooplo that can’t have a carriage may 
as well stay at home and read a sermon; 
bosides, sho noticed when sho went last, that 
her bonnot didn’t look like some ladies bon¬ 
nets. And tho rich neighbor goes by in his 
carriage, and tho farmer wanders about tho 
fields, looks at the colts and cows, diminish¬ 
ing in numbers and excellence, and at last 
gone home dissatisfiod with himself and tho 
world. Because thoy can’t do all their rich 
neighbors can do, they will do nothing, when, 
if thoy had kept evenly and steadily for¬ 
ward. they might have enjoyed many things 
for which they are now vainly sighing. 
True, their door-yard might not have boon 
enclosed with a stone wall, but a white-wash¬ 
ed picket-fence thoy could have made, and 
that, with the hollyhocks and the roses 
gleaming through, would haro been pretty 
if not grand. Thoy might not have driven 
a fine coach, but, a neat and comforta¬ 
ble carriage might have been theirs, and 
their children might have been educated at 
tho free school as well as at the Academy. 
As it is, the parents are unamiable, envi¬ 
ous, jealous, while their family are growing 
up in idleness and ignorance, and with proud 
and ambitious notions, too, that they will 
never be likely to havo the moans of indulg- 
ing. 
Again, I say, I wish we were not so much 
afraid of being poor, or that wo were loss 
discontented at tho opulence of others.— 
Suppose our neighbor looks down upon us, 
or that our roof is low—well, and what of 
it? does the storm beat through because of 
his proud looks? if not, I see not that we are 
tho worse. If my dress bo of one cloth, and 
tho gown of my friend be of another and 
costlier one, shall wo cease to be friends be¬ 
cause of it? Not if she be ono whom I care 
to be my friend. 
If I havo not much gold and silver, I can 
narrow my wants if I will, and after all tho 
best things are the freo gifts of God. The 
fresh air and tho sunshino are mine as woll 
as tho rich man’s, and though he may have 
a luxurious house, ho may bo blind to the 
splendor of tho sunset, and tho glory of tho 
stars. Under my low cottage roof, at mid¬ 
night, I havo had visions that wealth could 
not buy; from the simplo wood-flowers, and 
tho hum of the bees, and tho songs of birds, 
I have gathered pleasures that the walls of 
a palace would have shut out. And now, 
as I feel the sunset-light slant against me. 
and see the black March boughs giving out 
their fresh buds in the softening air, I am 
content, even though my lot be humble and 
my portion small. 
I remember of talking with a noighbor 
lady of ours, years ago, it is now, about the 
good fortune that had come to her, for she 
and her husband had suddenly become rich. 
They had lived in an unpretending little 
house, in the midst of thick woods, when I 
first visited them, and were poor. Natural¬ 
ly onough,IalIuded to our first acquaintance 
and to ono of its many seasons of enjoyment. 
“ 0, it was a dear, old place, that house 
in the woods,” she said, with a sigh. “ Such 
sweet flowers wo had there, such a nice gar¬ 
den, and when we had little Freddy, a baby, 
it was the happiest year of my life. We 
were not long marriod and my husband was 
always at homo.” 
She stopt within tho gorgeous drapery of 
tho window as sho spoke, and, wiping her 
eyes, gazed long and sadly towards tho woods 
that hid the old house away. She had Fred¬ 
dy still, and she had more flowers now than 
then, together with many stylish things un¬ 
dreamed of there, but alas! she was less 
happy. 
Wealth had brought with it a train of dis¬ 
sipations, and before their false glitter the 
young love had faded, and the charm of life 
was lost. 
No more the sunset brought her tired 
husband from tho field, and she looked at 
the old house and wept. 
THE SINGING OF THE TELEGRAPH WIRES. 
Willis writes from “Idlowild,” his coun¬ 
try seat on tho Hudson, as follows: 
With a November blast, as with a Juno 
breeze, tho nows passes to music ! Wheth¬ 
er tho country folks or city belles listen, the 
Eolian harps strung along upon the tele¬ 
graph poles, play propetually the same.— 
To the strange beauty of tho music (little 
noticed or valuod) I have become quite wed¬ 
ded, in my life out of doors for the last win¬ 
ter. It is more varied and beautiful than 
people think. You can always hoar it—if 
not as you walk upon tho road, at least by 
laying your ear against the poles—and, by 
selecting one that stands near a running 
stream, you may hear a duet of breeze and 
brook, a capricious out-singing, of each oth¬ 
er alternately by wind and water, that is as 
heavenly, to muse by, as a voluntary of na¬ 
ture well could bo. The poles differ very 
much, both in the quantity and quality of 
sound—partly, perhaps, from difference of 
size, or kind of wood, or tightness with 
which tho wire is pressed by the leaning— 
hut, by stopping in your wa'lks, you get to 
know those with their variations, and you 
may thus choose your standing place and 
have music fainter or louder, to suit your 
mood. 
There is one telegraph post, by a little 
bridge which crosses Idlowild brook, where 
I havo heard a great deal of waking-droam 
accompaniment. Stopping there with the 
glow of oxorcise in tho blood, there seems a 
kind of fellowship in the instruments being, 
like oneself, independent of tho wintry air. 
Tho invalid’s nerves, too, (as much more 
susceptible to ploasure as to pain) are ready 
for harmony in its most delicate caprices.— 
What news was going past on those wires 
—what death or marriage, love or business, 
was being told in those vibrations—I did 
not lose romance by trying to guess or dis¬ 
criminate. The same tune seldom carries 
tho same language to any two hearts. But 
there it was murmuring day by day, in 
changeful contention with the brook, always 
somewhat audiblo when closely listoned for, 
and often as loud as a love whisper and as 
changofully expressive—and I must own to 
havo grown habituated to it as a luxury.— 
How many good things wo may have in this 
mercenary world, after all, without paying 
for them ! “ Telegraphing is expensive,” 
but hero aro its groatest advantage (per my 
use) and nothing to pay. I trust tho stock¬ 
holders will take the hint, however, and put 
sentry boxes around the posts, to be let out 
for roadside operas ! 
A GOOD PLACE FOR SPORTSMEN. 
A letter dated Brownsville, Texas, pub¬ 
lished in the Now York Spirit of tho Times, 
contains the following information : 
In these chapparals aro found countless 
numbers of rabbits, of the ordinary gray 
species, as woll as a largo gray rabbit, much 
resembling tho English hare in shape, but 
far larger, with enormous ears; the zoolog¬ 
ical name I do not know, but they are vul¬ 
garly called the “jackass rabbit.” 
They aro fine eating, and I have shot them 
weighing fifty pounds. Vast flocks of wild 
turkeys, some of them very large, and all of 
them fat, inhabit these forbidden haunts— 
quails, pigeons, &c., and it must be added, 
no small quantity of rattlesnakes and taran¬ 
tulas find here a safe and inviting abode.— 
In all parts of this region, deer, in fine con¬ 
dition, abound ; also the peccary, or Mexi¬ 
can hog, ono of the most game-blooded an¬ 
imals that exists. They will fight anything 
man or beast, and some amusing stories aro 
told of their driving hunters “ up a tree,” 
and there beseiging them for hours. 
We have also a peculiar bird, denomina¬ 
ted the “ chachlacha,” about half the size of 
an ordinary game cock, which is well worth 
describing. It is shaped much like a wild 
pigeon, of ash color, black legs, black shin¬ 
ing back, strong and sharp—and with eyes 
of great brilliancy. In its native state it is 
wild and shy, hut when caught, is easily do¬ 
mesticated, and becomes especially fond of 
those who feed and camp it. 
At daylight in tho morning whether wild 
or tame, they commence a furious reveille, 
repeating in loud, dismal tone, a chaunt, 
from tho sound of which they derive their 
name. This is prolonged for about half an 
hour—the woods all around you appear to 
be alive with these invisible songsters, when 
suddenly they stop, and not another sound 
breaks from them during the whole day. 
The Chachlacha will cross breed with the 
common game fowl, and produce not only a 
beautiful bird, but ono of the greatest valuo 
for its game qualities. Their crosses are a 
little under size, but in spirit, endurance, 
activity, and vigor, they are unmatched.— 
They are the best fighting cocks on earth. 
This is no fancy sketch; they have been 
tried frequently, and never known to skulk 
or yield ; thoy can, like the Old Guard, 
“ die, but never surrender.” 
They are difficult to catch, and have gen¬ 
erally to bo reared from the eggs—I have 
known, even thore, twenty dollars to bo paid 
for a pair, so highly aro thoy esteomed.— 
I havo often been surprised that breeders 
of gamo fowls have not turned their atten¬ 
tion to these birds, to renew and improve 
their stock. Perhaps they were not aware 
of their high and valuable qualities. Let 
them try this gallant little hero, and they 
will find a full confirmation of all I have 
urged in his behalf. 
SKETCHES OF HOMES AND FIRESIDES. 
There is Moss-side, with its verdant 
slopes and flowering meads, its fresh green 
pastures and its brooks of azure hue, caught 
from sunny skies above, its fertile vales and 
towering hills, its well cultivated fields and 
its neat snug little homo, with tho “ dairy- 
house nigh it,” inside and out in perfect or¬ 
der, “Heaven’s first law” pervading all._ 
Thero is a garden of herbs and flowers, of 
fruits and vevetables. A happy pair, a mer¬ 
ry group of children, cheerily laboring 
through the day, and when twilight comes, 
a rich reward they reap for all their toil; a 
social, intelligent, and intellectual group 
surrounds the board, engaged in pure and 
elevating conversation, or reading that 
which shall improve the mind and give 
health to the heart. 
There is another home—a huge unfinish¬ 
ed farm house, without any out-buildino-s, 
save a dilapidated barn. A garden fenceln 
a bankrupt condition, with Canada thistles 
adorning most of tho unshaded walks, and 
a hard-baked soil running in front of the 
street door, where the children had in vain 
planted the marygold and china-aster, for 
they would’nt come up. The back ground, 
a complete “ slough of despond,” where 
Betty has from time immemorial thrown 
the wash, fish-bones, mop-rags, etc. Here 
is the homo of seven intelligent children, 
eager to learn and ready to do, but with 
what encouragement or inducement ? Too 
poor to take a paper, save political, which 
furnishes matter for evening wrangling with 
neighbors of different creed, too busy to do 
aught that would tend to give more leisure. 
—Country Gentleman. 
TRIADS. 
Three things to love—courage, gentle¬ 
ness, affectionateness. 
Three things to admire—intellectual 
power, dignity, gracefulness. 
Three things to hate—cruelty, arrogance, 
ingratitude. 
Three things to reverence—religion, jus¬ 
tice, self-denial. 
Three things to delight in—boauty, frank¬ 
ness, freedom. 
Three things to wish for—health, friends, 
a cheerful spirit. 
Three things to pray for—faith, peace, 
purity of heart. 
Three things to liko—cordiality, good 
humor, mirthfulness. 
Three things to suscopt—flattery, puri- 
tanism, sudden affection. 
Three things to avoid—idleness, loqua¬ 
city, flippant jesting. 
Tiires things to cultivate—good books, 
good friends, good humor. 
Three things to contend for—honor, 
country, friends. 
Three things to govern—temper, impulse, 
the tongue. 
Jfk % JFafcto. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yoi’ker. 
THE HUNGARIAN WIFE. 
BY WM. EDWARD KNOWLES. 
Pale was her cheek, and weak her trembling form, 
As back against the door-way she reclined; 
While from above, and in the sunbeams warm, 
The ivy drooped, and swayed upon the wind. 
A tender infant smiled its smile of love, 
And the sad mother clasped it to her breast, 
As came a mountain-echo from above, 
And roused the valley from its dreamy rest. 
Ah, she had heard the nation’s echoing call, 
The call to battle, and the clash of arms ; 
And seen the patriots leave their homes, and all, 
And arm for battle at the first alarms. 
Louder, and louder, rose the battle-cry. 
And sharper clashed the polished sabre-blades— 
“ On to the rescue ! Conquer now, or die /” 
Rung from the mountain-tops, and from the glades. 
The young wife heard the shout; and stronger grew 
Her trembling frame. Her cheek flushed with the glow 
Of patriotic pride. She only knew 
Whose step was heard adown the walk below. 
And when his strong arms drew her to his heart, 
And he had fondly kissed her crimson’d cheek, 
A strange, wild light, which seemed of her a part, 
Shone in her eye, and would not let her speak. 
’Twas but a moment ; and the words came fast, 
And from a heart that felt when tongues have ceased; 
But with too hurried utterance long to last— 
“ Behold, the tyrants at the vulture s feast! 
“Away, my husband, with thine armor on, 
Thou oft hast wished that I would let thee go,— 
Rush to the battle with thy sword undrawn, 
And make thy pathway o’er a fallen foe. 
“ Strike for your country, and your sacred home, 
Where mountain-streams their threads of amber wind; 
And for your God, who, from a higher dome, 
Will safely guard thy dear ones left behind.” 
One parting kiss, and one long, long embrace,— 
Once more he brushed the ringlets from her brow; 
Then winding up the pathway from the place, 
He from the summit waved a linden bough. 
And where the sounds were loudest, and the smoke 
Rolled like the black clouds of Egyptian night, 
The tyrants fell beneath a sabre’s stroke, 
Uplifted by the strong man in his might. 
An earnest voice, and crimson’d cheek, gave strength, 
The voice of her whom he could call his own; 
And thrilled the deep voice through the nation’s length, 
And seemed like freedom’s voice upon her throue. 
And though the tyrants have all foes subdued, 
And have re-linked again the iron chain; 
Yet these sad voices from the cabins rude, 
Shall echo back in thunder tones again I 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 
A STRAY LEAF ■ 
■ BY KATIE DIDD. 
When you set about work do not rest till We carry our neighbor’s crimes in sight, 
it is completed. ! and throw our own on our shoulders. 
- Alone in my chamber — tho stars 
glowing in the blue sky, and the lamp burn¬ 
ing dimly in my room. 
The shadows are abroad. The shadows 
that all the long day have chased the sun¬ 
beams from under trees, and around the 
corners of tall buildings ; and the shadows 
that have all day slept in the forest, are 
gathering with noiseless footsteps about me. 
Now they are out in the still night — in 
the corners of my dimly-lighted room — be¬ 
hind my chair; and a murmur comes up 
through the scented lilac beneath my win¬ 
dow, that may be tho whispering of tho 
shadows under it. 
There is a shadow on my heart to-night, 
which the morning sunshine will not dispel. 
It grows out of a letter which tells me, that 
the old Homestead is sold. 
Aye, the spot where I was born, and my 
“brave brothers and gentle sisters,”—where 
we lived and loved together—and where 
one bright May morning, years ago, our 
father gave us his blessing and died,— ha3 
passed into tho hands of the uncaring 
stranger! 
Many months I have been absent from the 
old place, and my weary, homesick heart 
does so long for its beautiful country home 
— tho pure air, green fields, and tho birds 
whose songs were once familiar as the 
cradlo-hymns my mother sung. 
Ah ! the memories that interweave them¬ 
selves into the chain binding me to the old 
Homestead ! Every room in the house has 
its peculiar associations,—from the cellar, 
where in huge bins wore stowed the apples, 
round and rosy as our own cheeks, and in 
autumn, great golden pumpkins, to the 
mysterious garret, to which wo children paid 
stealthy visits in mother’s absence; ransack¬ 
ing among old cast off clothing, or time-dis¬ 
colored papers ; or playing at “ hide-and- 
seek ” among the empty boxes ; or dragging 
from its hiding place somo antiquated 
relic of our grandmother’s ward-robe, or 
more frequently, a faded suit of uniform 
with tarnished epaulets, worn by our father 
when he went to militia training. 
Even now, in spite of my sadness, I almost 
smile when I remember Ned’s grotesque ap¬ 
pearance, arrayed in tho old “ regimentals” 
which swept the floor, and with a rusty 
sword dragging by his side, he charged gal¬ 
lantly up and down the old garret with 
Charlie, Nell and myself at his heels, mak¬ 
ing tromondous havoc among the enemy, 
which, by the way, usually consisted of 
sundry superannuated chairs, broken-legged 
stands and empty barrels, led on by a ven¬ 
erable spinning-wheel. 
A little way back of the houso is the maple 
grove, where we gathered the earliest spring 
flowers. Ah ! many a sturdy trunk is scar¬ 
red with rude initials carved by childish 
hands, and one old tree bears the name of 
my father, cut in the bark many years ago, 
when he was a boy; but twisted, and sadly 
out of shape, are the letters now. 
—And my father’s grave on the green 
hill-side — we must leave that, too. Who, 
now, will keep the noisome weeds from 
choking out the delicate violets above it ? 
Will his spirit rest quietly when the homo 
of his fathers and of his children becomes 
the stranger’s possession ? 
God knows tho new city home will bo no 
homo to mo ! for “ the homo is where the 
heart is, and my heart is far away, to tho 
fairy land of its childhood — the old Home¬ 
stead. 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
ELLEN’S THREE FRIENDS. 
Only three ! Poor child of desolation ! 
daugh ter of sorrow ! What shall I say unto 
thee, O Ellen ? How shall I minister com¬ 
fort in thy sore necessity ? Methinks I see 
ye stand, O ye four flowers of loveliness, in 
the midst of a barren and withered field, or 
on the side of some bleak mountain, kissed 
by the storm-cloud, and rocked by the tem¬ 
pest. Yet, 
“There tee stand 
Loaning our cheeks against the thick-ribbed ice.” 
Thank you, for my “ character.” Let me 
see,—qualification 1st, 2d, etc. 
Kate, hc-.s had another “ dream ;”so sho 
said at breakfast, but it is not “for the 
press;” and so has your “sober minded 
Helen ;” one of duties, I presume. But I 
poor child, “ have seen nothing” of the “ hill 
of science,” or “ the Temple of Fame,” since 
you wrote last. 
But thou, O, my friend Ellen ! Would 
that I could comfort thee in this, thy day of 
destitution ! That I might cheer thy lone 
and benighted path—and raise thy crushed 
and drooping spirits ! The voice of thy 
wailing has penetrated my “ heart’s core,” 
with sorrow and astonishment. 
“ How sadly on the soul. 
Like tidings from another sphere 
Its tones of wildness roll!” 
Think, dear reader, of a world with only 
three flowers. A sky on whoso wide-spread 
wings of blackness, there glimmers but three 
stars, and you can imagine to yourself the 
deep anguish that palls the grim, forsaken 
path of my Ellen, as she wanders over the 
thorny thoroughfare of life, utterly destitute 
of friends, save “ three broken reeds !” 
Now that the summer is coming, with its 
bright hours of light and melody, and the 
winter has fled away, to commune with his 
friend, the “ polar starwhile the streams 
send up a song of thanksgiving, and the 
flowers break their fetters of frost, let your 
heart, my Ellen, receive the light of inno¬ 
cent Joy, and many a fair bud of happiness 
will blossom there, and the visions of gloom 
and sadness, that have too long dwelt within 
it, will fade away. Eliza. 
Albion, N. Y., 1853. 
A BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT. 
A French paper relates the following :_ 
Monsieur D- and wife were rich to 
luxuriance; but they had a daughter, the 
eldest, in whom their pride had once cen¬ 
tered, who, by a sad dispensation of provi¬ 
dence, was rendered a cripple for life. No 
marriage fete and no gay betrothment lav 
before her desolate and widowed maiden¬ 
hood. But the parents, with a tenderness 
worthy of all emulation, atoned for the lack 
of wooers by the constancy and delicacy of 
their devotion ; and as her age drew on to 
majority, they determined to surprise their 
unfortunate child with such show of splen¬ 
dor and such token of their love as should 
keep the smiles upon her pale face, and lend 
such relief as friends could lend to the deso¬ 
lation of her lot. 
A new suite of apartments was added to 
their rooms, unknown to her, and furnished 
with the richest of Parisian decorations.— 
New jewels were purchased and displayed 
upon the delicately wrought toilet-tables; 
a new portrait of her pale face, done at the 
hands of the most distinguished artist, hung 
upon the wall; and chairs, and lounges, rich 
with brocade, invited to repose and languor. 
Garlands and vases of orange flowers per¬ 
fumed the air; gifts from scores of friends 
were scattered around ; and every thing be¬ 
spoke the apparel and the pleasures of a 
bride. 
Upon the expected birthday all the dear¬ 
est friends of the poor girl were invited to 
a fete; and, by magic, as it seemed, the new 
apartments were thrown open to her bewil¬ 
dered gaze, and every article of luxury was 
blazoned with her cipher. 
The child turned inquiringly to her pa¬ 
rents, and by their caresses was taught that 
this was her bridal day ; since now she was 
wedded anew, by all those tokens, to her 
father’s and her mother’s love, which would 
watch over her in tho now and brilliant 
home always. Here, too, she could invite, 
when and as she chose, the friends of her 
girlhood ; and if fate had made her lot one 
of maidenly retirement, it was yet quicken¬ 
ed with all the luxuries of wealth, and the 
better wealth of parental tenderness. 
Say what we will of the French, there is 
very much in their domestic relations to be 
zealously admired. Not any where in the 
whole world does a son so cling to the fath¬ 
er, or the father to tho son. 
