PICTURES OF MEMORY. 
THE VALUE OF EMPLOYMENT* 
" Ok all the beautiful pictures 
That hang on memory’s wall,” 
That one of the old home parlor 
I lore the best of alL 
Not for the dark old wainscot 
Where the ancient portraits hung; 
Not for the low, deep windows 
Where the dark green iry clung, 
Not for the high carved archoa, 
The mantle-piece beside— 
Not for the huge old chimney, 
Not for the hearth-stone wido, 
Not for the tall, old-fashioned vases, 
Nor the lounge wlmre I used to rest; 
Nor the old arm chair nor sofas— 
It seemeth to me the best. 
But I once had an aged mother, 
With eyes that were blue and mild ; 
And in this old home parlor 
She, dying, blest her child; 
Her silvery hair, like a halo, 
Upon her forehead lay, 
Betokening the white spring blossoms 
Of an eternal day. 
Gently her pale hands folded 
As a glory lit her face— 
I knew she was gently sinking 
In the angel’s soft embrace, 
And when the arrows of sunset 
Fell on the curtain’s crimson fold, 
She passed in her saint-like beauty 
Through the gates of pearl and gold. 
Therefore, “ of all the pictures 
That hang on memory’s wall,” 
The one of the old home parlor 
I love the best of all. 
was cruel thus to afflict one who bad done naugni 
to deserve this overwhelming sorrow. With these 
unreconciled, sinful thoughts still in mind, I 
chanced to cast mine eyes toward the now cloudless 
heavens, and the unrivaled beauty and sublimity 
of the scene which met my upward gaze, caused 
an instant revulsion of feeling. The moon was 
shining clear and full upon the still, quiet earth, 
and to my excited imagination seemed like a 
reproving angel, with a serene, sorrowful counte¬ 
nance, chiding mine unbelief, and at the same 
time whispering of heaven, where was our lost 
darling, singing the praise of Him whose good¬ 
ness I had so wickedly doubted. Tears of repent¬ 
ance were soon flowing fast upon the fresh-lain 
sod, and with a choking voice, but a peaceful, 
resigned heart, I murmured, “Not my will, 0 
Lobd, but thine, be done.” Frances. 
Cherry Grove, N. Y., 1859. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
WATCHING. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker, 
THOUGH MOURNING, I REJOICE. 
I itave still the golden sunlight, 
Flooding hill and mossy dale; 
I have still the witching etarlight, 
I have still the moonlight pale. 
I have music still to cheer me,— 
Voice of singiDg bird and bee ; 
Voice of laughing wind and water; 
Voice of mountain echo free. 
I have gentle, human voices, 
BreathiDg words of pleasant cheer; 
Breathing words that soothe in sadness— 
Breathing words of import dear. 
I hare many left to love me ; 
I have many left to love, 
Though the ones I loved most dearly 
Now are loving—loved above. 
I have still the love of Heaven, 
Lingering in my bleeding heart; 
Oh, no earthly source of pleasure 
Peace like this can e’er impart. 
Oh, my Father-God -I thank Thee, 
Though of joys I am bereft— 
I will praise Thee—I will love Thee 
For the blessings Thou hast left. 
Hillsdale, Mich,, 1859. Bessie Dat. 
I am watching by my window, 
But, ah, ’tis all in vain— 
The loved ones and the loving 
They never come again. 
They loft us when the blossoms 
Made bright the summer day, 
The flowers will return in spring. 
But they—ah, never, they I 
I am watching by my window, 
And musing on the Past, 
The sunny visions of my heart 
Too fair, too frail to last. 
A thousand dreamy fancies 
Woven in idle hours; 
Ah, ne’er will bloom such flowers again 
In Fancy’s faded bowers. 
I am watching by my window, 
The busy, bustling street, 
The ever changing faces, 
The tread of passing feet; 
And one thought comes to cheer me 
That God is over all. 
He knoweth every heart-pang. 
He sees each tear-drop fall. 
In love He watches o’er us, 
Nor will it be in vain, 
For He will bear us safe at last 
Over Life’s troubled main, 
And in those blessed mansions 
Upon the Spirit-Shore, 
Earth’s faded flowers again will bloom 
To change and die no more! 
Rochester, N. Y., 1859. 
A WORD TO FRETFUL WIVES, 
or heartache? Neither of these, and still as cross 
as a young bear! We wonder how your family 
can endure your presence. Those young hearts, 
whose sun you ought to be — how you chill them 
with your frowns and pettishness! No wonder 
they long to get out of the house. And now you 
have struck your little child because “he would 
not stop teasing.” Friend, that blow fell on his 
soul, and left an indelible scar there. He will feel 
it long after he has forgotten it. Many years from 
now, when your head is laid low in the grave, that 
blow, given without cause,—impatiently, angrily, 
will do its work. 
Why can’t you be good-natured? Were you 
never so ? Memory points to the days of your girl¬ 
hood— seldom the lines of aDger disfigured your 
brow then. And the man who won your love 
thought what a happy home she will make for me! 
How sweet it will be to sit down by her side after 
the cares of the day are over! How beautiful to 
read for her pleasure — to be repaid by smiles and 
kisses. And the home was ready, and the bride 
established—but she proved unworthy of the trust 
reposed in her. Instead of meeting care with a 
hearty laugh, and “get behind me Satan,” you 
worried and fretted, and began to tell every little 
trouble to your husband. It was not womanly; it 
betrayed a weakness of both head and mind! Im¬ 
perceptibly its influence crept into his spirit, chil¬ 
ling it with a worse chill than that of death, till it 
made a shroud of iron for the disappointed heart, 
and the charm of love and family and home was 
gone. 
“ Was once!" — how often these words drop 
from your lips. “I was handsome once—I was 
this, that, the other once”—and why not now? 
You yourself have willed your own destiny—you 
have chosen the scold’s office; you must receive 
the scold’s deserts. A little philosophy, a few 
words breathed to heaven for patience—a new, 
resolute hope for to-morrow if to-day be stormy— 
a little self-denial in telling petty crosses—a great 
deal less selfishness—a desire to make home a 
sanctuary for yourself and little ones as well as 
your husband — and to-day you would have been 
happier, handsomer and more beloved. 
Fretting sister in light affliction, let us ask a 
few plain questions. Does a spirit of fault-finding 
lighten your cares ? If your bread is burned to a 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
SELF-DENIAL REQUISITE TO BENEVOLENCE. 
but entire, continual, unbroken quiesence, is 
misery. 
Never was there a more dire mistake than that 
of men who abandon the honest and useful business 
of life, under the pretext of rest. Unless they 
have singular resources, in science, literature, or 
philanthropy, they sink into hebetude, weary of 
the everlasting holiday, let their hearts corrode 
with sullen thoughts, and sometimes fall a prey to 
evil habits of premature dotage. Philosophy, no 
less than religion, enjoins—unless where invinci¬ 
ble necessity from infirmity or age clearly speak 
another language—that we should live working, 
and die in the harness. 
Hence the value of a trade or calling, and of 
working at it. I believe it lengthens life. I be¬ 
lieve it staves off tribes of maladies and conceits. 
I am sure it promotes that spring and elation of 
soul, without which life is a long disease. If you 
would find the most wretched man or woman in 
your neighborhood, look for the one that has noth¬ 
ing to do. Unless allowed to prescribe employ¬ 
ment, even the best physician cannot cure the 
valetudinary complainer. For after all has been 
said, employment begets cheerfulness; and a 
“ merry heart doeth good like a medicine.”— Rev. 
J W. Alexander. 
Can benevolence exist without sclfia?®faff' If 
not, what do we kj^yw of benevolence? How 
many of us practice it ? Of what do we deny our¬ 
selves to benefit others? If a case of suffering or 
want presents itself, and we can, without forego¬ 
ing any comfort or luxury, render assistance, we 
will do so; but who of us has sufficient moral 
courage to appear in unfashionable attire, or wear 
our last year’s garment another season, for the 
sake of helping forward the cause of benevolence ? 
If retrenchment in our wardrobe, in order to 
benefit a suffering fellow creature, becomes a ne¬ 
cessity, who of us is sufficient for the emergency ? 
The Spirit of Christ is one of self-denial. For 
us He laid aside His glory, assumed our suffering 
humanity, and died the ignominious death of the 
cross. We put on the livery of His disciples, and 
call ourselves by His name —we ask Him to make 
us like Him, and go forth to the world and act as if 
we dreaded its frown, more than that of our 
Saviour. Where the world forbids us to tread, 
we dare not venture — its commands we hasten to 
obey—in the race after fashion we benumb our 
sensibilities and stifle our convictions of right, 
until to do as others do, becomes our standard and 
aim. Alas! that to do as others do, we should 
dishonor the Holy name by which we are called, 
and open afresh a Saviour’s bleeding wounds! 
It is a fearful consideration that the sum annu¬ 
ally expended by the daughters of Zion upon 
needless ornaments, is three times as great as the 
entire amount received by all the benevolent so¬ 
cieties of the day. There are many who excuse 
themselves entirely from giving anything for pur¬ 
poses of benevolence, yet whose dress and living 
are of the most approved style. Surely we may 
not with impunity indulge this needless expendi¬ 
ture, and shut our hearts to the claims of Christian 
charity. The requirements of God change not to 
suit the degeneracy of a luke-warm Christianity, 
nor will it avail us in a dying hour, or at the 
judgment day, that it was to do as did others that 
we attired ourselves in gorgeous apparel and fared 
sumptuously every day, while the cause of Christ 
languished for want of aid. 
0 ! how long must fashion rule us with iron 
sway, and we be content to kneel at her shrine? 
How long must the spirit of pride and selfishness, 
which this love of display engenders, be indulged? 
It is surely time for the church to consider her 
position, and ask herself whether it is one God can 
approve. While we go up to His sanctuary so at¬ 
tired that only those who can emulate our style 
dare enter there, do we not virtually deprive the 
poor of the means of grace, and will not God hold 
us accountable iherefor ? If we do not deny our¬ 
selves for Christ and His cause — if we do not 
seek to conform ourselves to His requirements, 
preferring His approbation to that of the world,— 
what reason have we to hope He will own us as 
His, in the great day of Ilis final appearing. 
Sherburne, N. Y., 1859. Lina Lee. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
MOONLIGHT. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
ANTICIPATION - RETROSPECTION. 
The materialist and the unimaginative are al¬ 
ways praising the beauties and blessings of the 
present and the real, and cannot perceive the 
pleasures that others claim for dreaming upon the 
past, or hoping for the future. They dwell on the 
bountifulness of the harvest, the kindness of 
friends, and the joys of their every-day life. But 
do we not find more real pleasure, and more true, 
unalloyed happiness in the vagaries of imagina¬ 
tion,—in the ideal past which memory brings, or 
in the unexplored future which hope fills with all 
that will be bright? Amid the hard struggles of 
life do we find any scenes like those when we, 
happy children, without care or trenble, sported 
around the haunt sacred to us as the home of 
father and mother ? Who has not turned from the 
brightest present and the joys it gives, when the 
heart seems warm with sunlight, to some by-gone 
hour when he was far happier than now? It is so 
with us all. 
Ask the youth “ in life’s green spring,” whose 
smile is like a ray of light, so much of joy it gives 
“My brightest days are in the future, its strifes I 
long to join, to taste the supreme joy of wealth, 
and fame, and thick clustering honors. What are 
the joys of boyhood to them ?” Ask the maiden. 
She tells of a happy home, of a loviDg heart, and 
the society of her friends; or, perhaps, she hopes 
for pomp, for the homage of the noble and the 
gifted, who should be happy in her smile; or she 
dreams of Oriental splendor and luxurious ease. 
The praise and respect she receives she cares not 
for, as they are but shadows of what her fancy has 
painted. Ask the bridegroom, whose last wish is 
gratified in the possession of the long sought 
prize. He, too, turns to the ideal, and fancy paints 
a beautiful home, shaded by trees of his own 
planting, where he shall see her smile for him 
alone. The gratification of one hope sends him 
again on the chase, and wealth, which shall be all 
for her; honors, that shall crown her head as well 
as his own; fame, whose trumpet shall proclaim 
her name and his alike—all these come thronging 
in prompting to new effort. And when years have 
passed, and memory reverts to this time, he will 
sigh that we can only eDjoy the present as the 
glass through which we see joys and pleasures 
summits still unat- 
In childhood I possessed a love of moonlight 
that became the subject of many a pleasant jest 
by merry companions, who delighted to remind 
me of the man said to hold undisputed possession 
of that enchanted realm, and to gaze forever 
down upon the bustling, transient mortals who 
inhabit this mundane sphere. Although I entirely 
ignore the story of the poor unfortunate recluse, 
yet my passionate love of moonlight has grown 
with my growth and strengthened with my 
strength, until it has become a part of my very 
being. Even now, as I sit at my open window 
and write, the pale moonbeams are illuminating 
every object around, and shining full upon my 
face, and I am strangely, calmly happy—as I 
always am under their silent, soothing influence. 
At times, when some great sorrow has fallen with 
crashing power upon the heart, and the darkness 
of despair enveloped the soul with a midnight 
gloom—at such times, I have gone forth and stood 
alone under the broad canopy of heaven, and the 
moon, looking so pityingly down, would charm 
away the spirit-pain, and the old light-heartedness 
returning, it seemed I could almost defy the world 
to reader me again unhappy. “ Sickly sentimen¬ 
talism!” I hear from some plain matter-of-fact 
reader. Well, perhaps it is, yet I always feel that 
my moral nature is refined and purified by such a 
communion with Nature and with Nature’s God. 
An incident intimately connected with this 
subject is engraven with a pen of iron upon the 
most sacred tablet of memory, and time can never 
efface the record there. One bright morning in 
the early Autumn time, when the shadow of a 
recent affliction had darkened our household, 
there came to us a little dark-eyed, brown-haired 
fairy, like a ray of sunshine dispelling every 
cloud, and creating by her presence an atmos¬ 
phere of joy and love. She was the child of a 
sainted sister, and we loved her, first, for her 
mother’s sake, and afterward, for her own sweet 
self. She seemed a little miniature embodiment 
of all that was pure and beautiful, and to me she 
became dearer than all the world beside. Through 
house and garden, in kitchen and parlor, were 
heard the musical tones of her voice, and stran¬ 
gers who came to the house murmured blessings 
upon the fair child, and parted with regret from 
one who seemed formed only for love. But our 
darling was too pure for earth, and Heaven had 
need of her. While sitting on a low stool at my 
feet, and singing, in her peculiarly sweet and 
varied tones, 
“ I want to be an angel,” 
she complained of sudden faintness, and as sh^ 
became rapidly worse, we sent for the family I 
GOLDEN AUTUMN. 
October is with us, introducing the nut-brown 
maid Autumn, who comes to garner in the fruits 
of her departed sister, Summer. Pomona lays 
her tempting offerings at her feet, and Ceres, 
rejoicing in abundance, fills her lap with cereals. 
Gently does she smooth the couch of declining 
Nature, preparing her, by gentle changes, for 
the rude hand of Winter. Mildly she tempers 
the northern blasts; coquetting with genile 
zephyrs; at times relapsing into the refulgence 
of Summer, anon chilling, with an icy breath, a 
foretaste of her relentless successor. The forest, 
which she finds verdant and beautiful, she leaves 
bare and desolate; but see the bright green 
change into hues radiant and diversified; one 
by one its leaves wither and fall, and its feathered 
inhabitants forsake it for more favored climes. 
We cannot but think there is beauty in the decay. 
So Autumn leads us with a soothing hand from 
the gorgeous realms of Summer to the ice bound 
regions of stern Winter, preparing us step by 
step, beguiling us on our way with sweet offer¬ 
ings and pleasiDg reminisences, storing our gran¬ 
aries, and inuring us to the cold embrace of the 
coming season. Though she found us surrounded 
with beauty and splendor, and leaves us bleak 
and drear, yet was her reign so benign, her touch 
so soothing and gentle, and so tenderly did she 
accomplish the sad change, that we bid her adieu 
with sadness, as sighing through the forest her 
last echoes die away. 
magnified, far in the future- 
tained and victories still unwon, 
Ask the man of honors—the man who has gained 
the object of his ambition, and on whose brow the 
laurel wreath sits with the grace of worthiness. 
He speaks not of all this, but he may point to 
some little brown house, some favorite old haunt, 
some mother, whose fingers were twiDing in his 
hair, whose ready heart conceived, and ready hand 
bestowed blessings innumerable on him, her idol. 
He has seen life in all its phases—from the poor 
school-boy to the man of wealth, of honor, and of 
fame—and he knows that all is false that glitters 
so brightly. He remembers as the only true 
friendship the sunny-eyed mate of his boyish 
Spotts—the only happiness is narrowed down to 
the hours o? his childhood, and the only true love 
in the holy affection of a mother. 
But time passes, and we find that all is not a3 
we hoped. He still looks forward to the comforts 
of old age—thinks of the arm-chair by the fireside; 
the happy smiles of those to whom he will be a 
father; the welcome paper which is to he the link 
binding him to the external world; when, with 
his toil completed, he feels that he can surrender 
the cares to those who have so long looked to him 
for guidance. Hope gives the joy that thus far has 
eluded his grasp. Memory turns his eyes to the 
past, and his greatest pleasure is in reverting to 
many a happy hour—many a good deed. 
Geneva, N. Y., 1859. Solon. 
THE BRIGHT SIDE. 
Look on the bright side. It is the right side. 
The times may be hard, but it will make them no 
easier to wear a gloomy and sad countenance. It 
is the sunshine, and not the cloud, that makes a 
flower. There is always that before or around us 
which should cheer and fill the heart with warmth. 
The sky is blue ten times where it is black once. 
You have troubles, it may be. So have others. 
None are free from them, Perhaps it is as well 
that none should be. They give sinew' and tone 
to life — fortitude and courage to man. That 
would be a dull sea, and the sailor would never 
get skill, where there was nothing to disturb the 
surface of the ocean. It is the duty of every one 
to extract all the happiness and enjoyment he can, 
without and within him; and, above all, he should 
look on the bright side of things. What though 
things do look a little dark ? The lane will turn, 
and the night will end in broad day. In the long 
run, the great balance' rights itself. What is ill 
becomes well—what is wrong, right. Men are 
not made to hang down either heads or lips, and 
those who do, only show that they are departing 
from the paths of true common sense and right. 
There is more virtue in one sunbeam than a whole 
hemisphere of clouds and gloom. Therefore, we 
repeat, look on the bright side of things. Culti- 
Tribute to Woman. — The celebrated traveler, 
Ledyard, paid the following handsome tribute to 
the female sex:—“I have observed,” he says, 
“that women in all countries are civil, obliging, 
tender and humane. I never addressed myself to 
them in the language of decency and friendship, 
without receiving a friendly answer. With man 
it has often been otherwise. In wandering over 
the barrens of inhospitable Denmark; through 
honest Sweden and frozen Lapland; rude and 
churlish Finland; unprincipled Russia; and the 
widely-spread regions of the wandering Tartar; if 
hungry, dry, wet, cold or sick, the women have 
ever been friendly, and uniformly so; and to add 
to this vi (so worthy the appellation of be¬ 
nevolence,) these actions have been performed in 
so free and kind a manner, that if I was dry I 
drank the sweetest draught, and if hungry ate the 
coarsest morsel with a double relish. 
TnE Hour of Death. —I have lived to see that 
this world is full of perturbations; and I have long 
been preparing to leave it, and gathering comfort 
for the awful hour of making up my account with 
God, which I now apprehend to be near. And 
though I have, by his grace, loved him in my 
youth, and feared him in my age, and labored to 
have a conscience void of offence towards all men; 
yet, if thou, Lord, should’st be extreme to mark 
what I have done amiss, how shall I avoid it? 
Where I have failed,Lord, show mercy to me; for 
I plead not my righteousness; but the forgiveness 
of unrighteousness, through His merits who died to 
purchase pardon for penitent sinners. And since 
I owe Thee a death, Lord, let it not be terrible, and 
then choose Tby own time; I submit to it. Let 
Dot mine, 0 Lord, but Thy will be done. — Rick¬ 
ard Hooker. 
was hope, yet I could gather little encouragement 
from his words when I noticed his agitated voice 
and manner, which he vainly attempted to control. 
But why linger over a scene more paihful than 
words can describe. Three days of intense anxiety 
for us, and of the most excruciating pain for the 
little sufferer, and then our idolized Lily was “an 
angel.” We gazed for the last time on that loved 
countenance, beautiful even in death, with a smile 
still hovering about the rigid lips, and then they 
buried her forever from our sight. 
During all that long, melancholy day, dark 
clouds had obscured the brightness of a summer 
Prayer.— Prayer draws all the Christian graces' 
into its focus. It draws Charity with her lovely 
train, Repentance with her holy sorrows, Faith 
with her elevated eyes, Hope with her grasped 
anchor, Beneficence with her open hands, Zeal 
looking far and wide to bless, and Humility looking 
at home .—Hannah More. 
Fresh Air. —Give your children plenty of fresh 
- a i r . Let them snuff it until it sends the rosy cur¬ 
rent of life dancing joyfully to their temples. Air 
is so cheap, and so good, and so necessary withal, 
that every child should have free access to it. 
Horace Mann beautifully says :—“ To put children 
on a short allowance of fresh air, is as foolish as it 
would have been for Noah, during the deluge, to 
have put his family on a short allowance of water. 
Since God has poured out an atmosphere of fifty 
miles deep, it is enough to make a miser weep to 
see our children stinted in breath.” 
We should be very careful that, in our anxiety 
to get the outward part of an action performed to 
our mind, we do not destroy that germ of spon¬ 
taneousness which could alone give any signifi¬ 
cance to the action .—Fruits of Leisure. 
Divine Threa?4nt i ngs. —What arc the threaten- 
ings of the law, but the warnings of divine love?— 
They are a fence thrown round the pit of perdition 
to prevent rash men from ruUniug into ruin. 
There is nothing like a fixed steady aim, with 
an honorable purpose. It dignifies your nature 
and insures your success. 
