9 
HOME AND WOMEN. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
IN THE STILL HOUR OF NIGHT. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
OLDEN MEMORIES. 
Our homes, of what is their corner-stone but 
the virtue of women, and on what does our social 
well-being rest but our homes ? Must we not 
trace all other blessings of civilized life to the 
doors of our private dwellings? Are not our 
hearth-stones guarded by the holy forms of con¬ 
jugal, filial and parental love, the corner-stone of 
Church and State; more sacred than either, more 
necessary than both ? Let our temples crumble, 
and our academies decay; let every public edifice, 
our halls of justice and our capital of State, be 
leveled with the dust; but spare our homes. Let 
no Socialist invade them with his wild plans 
of community. Man did not invent, and he cannot 
improve or abrogate. A private shelter to cover 
in two hearts dearer to each other than all the 
world, high walls to exclude the profane eye of 
every human being; seclusion enough for children 
to feel that mother is a holy and peculiar name— 
this is home; and here is the birth-place of every 
virtuous impulse, of every sacred thought. Here 
the Church and State must come for their origin 
and their support. Oh, spare our homes! The 
love we experience there gives us more faith in an 
infinite goodness; the purity, disinterestedness 
and tenderness of home is our foretaste and our 
earnest of a better world. In the relation there 
established and fostered, do we feel through life 
the chief solace and joy of existence. What 
friends deserve the name, compared with those 
One mother is worth 
: In the still hour of night when deep’ning shadows 
[ Shut from the vision all earth’s outward strife, 
Within the soul’s of men a magic curtain 
Divides the inner from the outer life. 
Then all the semblances which mask the spirit 
In the rash din and turmoil of the world 
Are cast aside, and like a written banner 
We see the records of the past unfurled. 
Then in the solitude, alone with heaven, 
Once more are dreamed the glowing dreams of youth 
Once more the spirit, as of yore it worshiped, 
Bows only at the glorious shrine of Truth. 
Again the star of Hope is brightly beaming— 
Again Peace reigns the trusting heart within, 
And, like a guardian angel, Virtue keepeth 
It undefll’d from even the thought of sin. 
These arc the moments when the light ariseth— 
When “ Heaven comes down,” and faith, and joy, and 
love, 
Ruling in triumph over many sorrows, 
Raise us all earth’s vain cares and wrongs above. 
Let us thank God that thus wo gain, through shadows, 
Some glimpses of a “ better home ” than this; 
Aye, let us thank Him that we thus inherit 
A foretaste of the endless feast of bliss. 
Hastings, N. V., 1859. Rosf.lia. 
It is pleasant, sometimes, to forget the active, 
living present, and lose ourselves in the memories of 
scenes and times past and gone—to think of the 
days when we were “ boys,” and ran and frolicked 
in fields and pastures—when we chased squirrels 
and rabbits, and hunted birds’ nests—when we slid 
down hill, and skated, and built snow huts and 
glorious air 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
BURIED FLOWERS. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
HYMN. 
When I can feel my soul 
From earthly fetters free, 
And all her hope, her love, her trust, 
Safe anchored, Lord, in Theo, 
My lyre shall sound a note 
Of praise unheard before, 
And sadness, from her fearful strings, 
Breathe through my song no more. 
When levity shall cease 
To mark my way of life— 
And speech and thought no longer be 
With sinful folly rife— 
My lips shall then essay 
To make thy goodness known, 
And strive to tell, to other hearts, 
The rapture of my own. 
And, oh, more glorious still, 
When every doubt shall flee, 
And not a cloud of fear shall hang 
Between my soul and Thee, 
The grave shall seem no more 
A vault of dread and gloom ; 
But perfect love and faith shall fill 
With light and joy the tomb. 
Franklin Corners, Erie Co., Pa., 1859. S. A. W. 
castles, (some of us have not left off 
doing the last yet,) in the years agone. Shall we 
recall some of these “ Olden Memories ?” 
“ They are jewels of the mind ! 
They are tendrils of the heart, 
That with being are entwined— 
Of our very selves a part. 
They the records are of youth, 
Kept to read in after years, 
They are manhood’s well of truth 
Filled with childhood’s early tears. 
Like the low and plaintive moan 
Of the night-wind through the trees, 
Sweet to hear, tho’ sad and lone, 
Are these ‘ Olden Memories.’” 
The Old School-House. How our thoughts fly 
back at the sound. Thousands have written about 
it and described its scenes—thousands have told 
BY KATE CAMERON, 
I shudder’d when gazing this morning 
On the drifts of new-fallen snow, 
And thought of a little form sleeping 
That cold, chilling mantle below; 
I thought how we carefully shielded 
Our darling from every rude blast, 
How warm was her couch in our dwelling, 
Ere she from our loving arms pass’d. 
It seemed to my yearning affection 
That lonely and sad she must be, 
In her narrow bed on the mountain, 
Away from her Father and me! 
I fancied the cold breath of winter 
Would disturb the calm sleep of tho grave, 
And I thought there was none to watch o’er her, 
And I, too, was powerless to save. 
But then I remembered the blossoms 
That flourished in summer and spring, 
And faded away in the autumn 
When our forest songsters took wing. 
I knew that those fair forms were sleeping 
’Neath the pall of the cold, cheerless snow, 
Yet they will awake in the spring-time, 
And again in fresh loveliness grow. 
And will He, who watches their slumber, 
And clothes them with beauty once more, 
Forget the fair human blossoms 
When the Winter of Death shall be o’er ? 
Ah, no ! in the glad Resurrection 
They will rise with new beauty and grace, 
And then, Oh! our sweet Buried Flower, 
Tliou’lt be clasped in our loving embrace ! 
Rochester, N. Y., 1859. 
whom a birth-right gave 
a thousand friends, one sister truer and dearer 
than twenty companions. We who have played 
on the same hearth, under the lights of the same 
scene and season of innocence and hope, in whose 
veins run the same blood; do we not find that 
years only make the more sacred and important 
the tie that binds us? Coldness may spring up, 
distance may separate, different spheres may 
divide; but those who can love anything — who 
continue to love at all —must find that the friends 
whom God himself gave, are wholly unlike any we 
can choose for ourselves, and that the yearning for 
these is the strongest spark in the expiring affec¬ 
tions .—Christian Inquirer. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE SOUL’S SEPTEMBER. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE SPIRIT OF UNREST. 
To illustrate the difficulty of being contented 
with one’s lot, Dr. Franklin gave an apple to a little 
child. This filling one hand he gave it a second, 
which filled the other. He then offered it a third— 
larger, rosier and more beautiful than the other 
two. Failing to hold all three, it burst into tears. 
In the principle thus illustrated, we discover one 
of the strongest contributors to man’s happiness 
and unhappiness in life. Discontented with our 
present state, we are ever seeking “ solid bliss, by 
trying something new.” Impelled by the spirit of 
“ unrest,” man is constantly seeking for something 
beyond his present grasp, and he who has experi¬ 
enced the joy of the inventor or discoverer, can be¬ 
lieve us when we say there is no earthly joy like 
that which ascends in the glad “Eureka” shout 
with which one heralds his triumph. Men believe 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE INTELLECTUAL ABILITIES OF WOMEN. 
Addison says, “ what sculpture is to a block of 
marble, education is to the mind.” Is it not even 
more, for the process of polishing displays only 
that which actually existed as much before the 
block was hewn as afterwards; whereas cultiva¬ 
tion largely develops those organs of the mind 
which had no existence except in germ. Knowl¬ 
edge is the proper element of the mind, and just 
as well might we expect the physical system to 
grow strong without food, as the mind to expand 
without knowledge. Discipline the minds of 
women to patient and persevering application in 
the more useful sciences—let them drink from foun¬ 
tains rather than the tiny rivulets, and we shall be 
better prepared to judge of her intellectual abili¬ 
ties. We do not claim for her the judge’s seat, nor 
the halls of legislation as the place in which to dis¬ 
play her talents; neither is the scene of carnage 
her field of glory ; but we believe she moves in a 
sphere which requires equal strength of intellect 
with the other sex. It is no evidence t« the con¬ 
trary because she has never turned ker thoughts in 
the direction of a Newton, or a Fulton, and made 
like discoveries. Upon woman devolves the care 
of guiding aright the youthful mind. By her the 
noble principles which are to distinguish them in 
maturer years are engrafted and carefully cultiva¬ 
ted, while yet so tender that a ruder hand might 
FAT YOUNG LADIES AND VINEGAR. 
point, digestion is arrested. There is reason, there¬ 
fore, in the vulgar notion, unhappily too fondly 
relied on, that vinegar helps to keep down any 
alarming adiposity, and that ladies who dread the 
disappearance of their graceful outline in curves 
of plumpness expanding into “fat,” may arrest so 
dreadful a result by liberal potations of vinegar; 
but they can only so arrest it at the far more dread¬ 
ful expense of their health. The amount of acid 
which will keep them thin, will destroy their diges¬ 
tive powers. Portal gives a case which should be 
a warning. “A few yeaf-s ago, a young lady, in 
easy circumstances, enjoyed good health; she was 
very plump, had a good appetite, and a complexion 
blooming with roses and lilies. She began to look 
upon her plumpness with suspicion; for her mother 
was very fat, and she was afraid of becoming like 
her. Accordingly, she consulted a woman, who 
advised her to drink a glass of vinegar daily. The 
young lady followed the advice, and her plump¬ 
ness diminished. She was delighted with the 
ment, “ what man ha* can do, ti^is 
spirit of “ unrest ” reveMs t.) him the hidden things 
beyond the bounds of present knowledge, and 
teaches to the soul, the grandeur, the beauty of 
creation. This “ unresting ” in the present once 
revealed a great idea to a man, and for twelve long 
years—years of disappointed hope, of failure, and 
accounted madness—this man sought to embody his 
idea, and behold now in every dwelling the record of 
the labors and triumph of Daguerre. Men, fellow- 
men with you and I, have conquered hidden ideas, 
and in their jubilant glee have lacked the means of 
proclaiming their triumphs to the world; and lo, 
greater inventions have given them publicity.— 
Steam cried, 
“ Harness me down with your iron bands,” 
and it was done. The lightning laughed in hoarse 
thunder notes at the impotence of man, and defied 
him, and lo, it has been chained to the chariot of 
thought, and now vies with the speed of light in its 
haste to do man’s bidding. 
This spirit of “ unrest,”—the soul of progress, and 
the inspiration of Genius,—is well nigh invincible. 
Let an idea but once laugh in its face, and no mat¬ 
ter how vague, no matter how dimly seen far down 
the corridors of the unattained, and it pursues 
that idea, “ unhasting, yet unresting,” 
“ O’er bog, o’er steep, thro’ straight, rough, dense or rare, 
And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies,” 
steady in the pursuit until it overtakes and drags 
forth for the inspection of a world. Are there 
great men living ? Study them, and you will find 
this spirit, united with industry and unwavering 
perseverance, at the bottom of all their success.— 
The joy of Hope lights their pathway, until it be¬ 
comes the joy of the Attained, only to break forth 
again in firstborn glory, to light them 
we thought quite a kill then, is nothing but a knoll 
to-day; but the maple by the door still thrives and 
the robins still build in it—I stood in its shade not 
many months ago while my mind was filled with 
“ Olden Memories.” u. M . a. 
Princeton, Min., 1859. 
only do so by affecting your health. 
Magazine. 
Dr. Henry King, an English poet and divine, 
who lived in the seventeenth century, wrote a 
poem to his wife, in which occurs the following 
passage: 
’Tis true, with shame and grief I yield, 
Thou like the vanne first took’st the field, 
And gotten hast the victory 
In thus adventuring to dye 
Before me, whose more years might crave 
A just precedence in the grave. 
But hark ! my pulse like a soft drum 
Beats my approach, tells thee I come, 
And slots howe'er my marches be, 
I shall at last sit down by thee. 
In the above, it will be noticed, Dr. King antici¬ 
pated one of Longfellow’s finest images in the 
“ Psalm of Life 
Art is long and time is fleeting, 
And our hearts, though stout and brave, 
Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 
We think the image is used with equal felicity in 
both cases. 
TOUGHENING INFANTS, 
once more. 
But not thus alone, has it blessed the world. It 
is a favorite pastime with many to bewail the de¬ 
vastation caused by ambition, conquest, and that 
“insatiate grasping for power,” manifested by the 
world’s tyrants. Are they tyrants ? Who would 
affirm that Cajsaii’s conquests did not more for the 
savage nations of the North, than the preachers of 
peaceful civilization would have done for them to 
the present? Who would declare that Napoleon, 
with all his insatiate ambition, the embodied spirit 
of “Unrest,” did not more for the progress, the 
liberty of Europe, than all the Peace Societies the 
world ever saw ? Did he act from an ambition that 
was purely ungodly ? There are those who say he 
did, and there are those who are willing to put 
Death. 
We thought nothing new could be said 
about death, but Taylor of the Chicago Journal, 
has the following ideas:—“ There is a dignity about 
that going away alone, we call dying; that wrap¬ 
ping the mantle of immortality about us; that put¬ 
ting aside with a pale hand, the azure curtains that 
are drawn around this cradle of a world ; that ven¬ 
turing away from home for the first time in our 
lives, for we are not dead; there is nothing dead to 
speak of, and seeing foreign countries not laid down ■ 
on any maps we know about. There must be 
lovely lands somewhere starward, for none ever 
return that go thither, and we very much doubt if 
any would if they could.” 
Marriage should be considered as the most 
solemn league of perpetual friendship, a state from 
which artifice and concealment are to be banished 
forever, and in which every act of dissimulation is 
a breach of faith. 
I take goodness in this sense—the seeking the 
real welfare of men; which is what the Greeks 
call philanthropia. This, of all virtues and digni¬ 
ties of the mind, is the greatest, being the charac¬ 
ter of the Deity, and without it, man is a busy, 
mischievious, wretched being, no better than a kind 
of vermin.— Lord Bacon. 
Politeness is the religion of the heart, as piety willing to work, to k 
is that of the soul. It is good nature in action. It surging; for by that 
renders whoever may be its object contented and tryant of his life, he 
happy under its softening influence. It consists conquer for himself a 
in acts which show their source—the heart. Toledo, Ohio, 1859. 
Writing has been defined to be the art of paint¬ 
ing visible words 
giving substance and color to 
immaterial thought, enabling the dumb to talk to 
the deaf. 
Money makes the gay lady, but virtue the noble 
woman. 
