MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
1-Wfim! Lwcy.—So must I, Ally; I only camo out may take out her duster again; it cannot be 
JcAU-UllU. while mother got the irons hot—it is iron- that thoso suffocating clouds of dust will 
... . : — ing you know. O, Alico, come homo make their way again until to-morrow thro’ 
For the Rural New-Yorker. this evening, cant you ? It is iommys window, shado, and blind. Yes, she may 
NIGHT. birth-day, and mother said the children even venture to admit the evening wind, 
—- ’ should set up till nine o’clock, and she would Hark! What unearthly sounds are those? 
Wiirn twilight’s gray shadow, on nature reposes, make some candy; do, Ally, won’t you ? Nearer, they come,—tho fearful revolution 
And pure sparkling waters glide swiftly away ; Alice.— Yes, indeed, if Mrs. Plympton can of wheels almost interlacing; the frightful 
Whon f.hc day-god, now siccpin ? „o ion ? or disdos M spare me. (Calling after her sister.) I tramping of horse’s feet, that to sight seem 
ms bright glowing fire, or h.s faint blushing ray ; g uess I’ll be there by half-past seven or eight, not to touch tho ground; the frantic “ yar- 
when “Night, sable goddess,” with pinions extended, Lucy. —Well, father ’ll go back with you, rrarrrah!’’ and startling imprecation from 
Spreads darkness abroad, over earth’s wide domain; you know, if he’s ever so tired. Be sure to a dozen tipsy metropolitans. Ah I com- 
When labor and strife for a time are suspended, como . prehond: it has been “race-day” at the 
And Luna, resplendent commences her reign; _ «±u„ i„ . j J , ,, 
° ’ courses; tho animals that draw and the 
When wearied creation Ls quietly slumbering, Two School Boys. animals that are drawn are of “ the blood.'’ 
And consciousness bows before Morpheus’ shrine ; A dozen years have flown. Slight changes Seo them dash on, liko central spirits of 
Bright worlds from on high, the dew-drops out numb’rfng, are visible in many things. The tree 3 on tho tornadoes, each tho nucleus of a perfect vor- 
Shed forth their pale lustre with radiance divine. Common aro larger, but their buds aro not tex of pulverized clay. On, through tho 
A halo of beauty envelopes the mountain, so much swollen as when my readers were three great thoroughfares — now at the junc- 
A majesty sits on the forest’s tail forms, with me there last, for it is now April. Dry tion, in narrowing distances from each other 
Tranquillity rests on each flow'ret and fountain, and hard are the pathways; brown, with a —now at tho Bridge. ITow its solid piles 
And ocean’s blue surface wears numberless charms. shade of awakening green, is the grass ; and planks vibrate, as the “ yarrrarrrah,” 
There’s a soul thrilling charm in eight’s solemn stillness clear, blue, and far away" looks the sky; but grows wilder! Now they rattle madly over 
That kindle our hearts wi h devotion and love, ]t will not look so many hours, for the wind the pavements; some, right ahead up' Cam- 
Our minds are enraptured with thoughts pure and stain- blows chilly from tho East, and thero is that bridge Street, some have turned to the rio-ht 
less > peculiar something, not dimness but almost into Charles; thence to Beacon and Tremont 
Our hopes are aspiring to Heaven above. Julie. hazo, in the atmosphere, which when I was for they aro of “ the blood.” 
~~~ - ~—---=- - a child gave mo the impression that I saw In this region a noble block of brick 
the wind ! There is now, variety of motion buildings is in process of erection. The 
Wijf AVlUlU $1UU I] ioUUK. on the Common, but not in such decided tired workmen, under the superintendence 
currents as before; it is a different hour of of a young, intelligent, gentlemanly looking 
mirp T> lyuwnTo \ xt tv -~ the day—iabout four o’clock Saturday after- “ foreman,” are putting all things in order to 
Ilili. JhTiLNMMj AM) KM). noon ; a band of boys are preparing to play “quit” for the day. Tho tipsy votaries of 
- at ball near tho Tremont Street Mall. ” pleasure have all passed here save one, 
I.—The Two Infants. “All right, drive ahead, Ben,”—calls out w hose unsteady motions indicate that he is 
I _ _ 1 _i. i 1 1 ,1 1 J.K ~ 1 1 1 •_ .‘.1 . l i 1 1 1 n . 1 Q l,* + Fl/v J-U. J.I l T _ i. 1 
I.—The Two Infants. 
It was a pleasant though rather chilly 
morning toward tho last of May. The 
young grass on tho Common glittered green 
and silver in the sunlight; the young trees 
reached out on every hand graceful promise 
for leafy summer. Life was awake on eve¬ 
ry trembling twig and spray—life passed 
with varied motive and motion through the 
clean pathways—life rolled and rushed 
noisily over the pavements, in tho already 
thronged streets, beyond tho row of hand¬ 
some dwellings that rise between tho Com¬ 
mon and the business thoroughfares. Stroll¬ 
ing listlessly through the Mall, I watched 
the miscellaneous pedestrians, conjecturing 
the name and residence, tho thought and 
destination of each. There was the brisk 
tread of business men on their way “ down 
town ; ’ girls chatting gaily as they spod to 
school, and stealing furtive glances at the 
dashing young clerks that hurried by, not, 
however, without their tribute of admiring 
gaze: strangers looking inquiringly around 
them ; apple and orange women half wrap¬ 
ped in their winter shawls and cloaks, bask¬ 
ing in tho sun at the foot of some old tree 
or near the Frog-pond; hero and thero in 
tho Tremont Street Mall, a flower-girl (or 
rather woman, for they wore old and ugly, 
though engaged in such charming traffic,) 
with boquets of lilacs, tulips, and daffodils, 
striving to tempt the fancy of the hurried 
votary of gain. 
In turning up into the Beacon Street Mall, 
my attention was arrested by the merry 
chatter of a couple of rosy young girls, who 
boro a sufficient resemblance to each other 
to be sisters, although they greeted each 
other as if meeting then for tho first time 
that morning. Each bore in her arms an 
infant, so different in their external appear¬ 
ance, that I needed not the conversation, 
which ensued, to tell me that tho elder of 
the two girls (apparently sixteen or seven 
teen) was a nursery-maid out with the child 
of her mistress, and tho younger her sister 
with their baby brother in her arms. They 
were my own fair country-womon; for then 
that order of society was not as now, almost 
exclusively Hibernian. Tho child in the 
arms of Alice, the elder, was entirely hidden 
from view in soft pure flannels, while a rich 
white satin jockey hat, trimmed with ex¬ 
quisite lace, rosettes and tassels, covered its 
delicate head, and an embroidered cloak of 
the finest material, wrapped around the oth¬ 
er enfoldings, fell nearly to the ground.— 
Lucy’s ruddy charge was enveloped in a 
short cloak of plain gray merino, and its 
bright healthy face beamed out from undor 
a little hood of cheap blue silk. 
Lucy. —Why. how Harry is wrapped up! 
I should think he would stifle. Do open his 
blanket a little so Charlie can got a peep at 
him, Alico. 
Alice. —O, Mrs. Plympton gives mo so 
many cautions when I como out with him 
—he is so delicate. I guess sho would give 
anything to see him look like our baby, Lu— 
(and the affectionate sister kissed heartily, 
again and again, her chubby brother, who 
half sprung from Lucy’s arms in joy at her 
caresses.) Only to think that they are just 
of an age; just nine months; and Harry is 
so much smaller ! 
Lucy. —Yes, Ally, and Charlie almost 
walks. You should have seen him yester¬ 
day, when mother was washing tho floor, try 
to catch the little streams of suds that Tom¬ 
my and Lilly call nigger boys’ heads, when 
mother throws tho mop down. 
Alice. —(Kissing her brother again.) Well, 
Harry does’nt sit alone yet hardly. Miss 
Brown, tho sempstress, says ho mover will if 
he is hold all tho time; but Mrs. Plympton 
says she shall not have him neglected. Miss 
Louise says for her part sho doos’nt liko to 
seo such red round faced children.; she thinks 
tis coarse and vulgar. (Both sisters laugh¬ 
ed good-humoredly and merrily ; they were 
innocent ringing laughs, and I enjoyed them 
much.) It was tho day after you had been 
up in nursery with Charlie; Mrs. Plympton 
said sho believed sho must send her Harry 
to mother awhile. “Send Harry to Mrs. 
Dalton !” sho oxclaimod with a sneer, and 
added what I have just told you; “ you 
know,” she said, “ poor children always look 
so —and then glanced so satisfied at her 
own sallow face in the glass. G, sho is so 
alfectod and silly ! I boliovo Mrs. Plympton 
thinks so too; though she thinks a good 
deal about rich and poor herself. But sho 
knows what siekness is and would be glad to 
enjoy health. But I supposo I must go,— 
(squeezing Charlie’s red chooks and kissing 
his mouth affectionately.) 
the leader on his side to the head of tho op 
posite party. 
a little worso off than tho rest. Just when 
he is abreast the block, a joist falls noisily 
pusue party. « “uumsi mu uiuuk, a juist laus noisily 
“Ntf, hold on—you have ono man too 0I ) fbe pavement from some height—tho 
many. But here comes Charles Dalton; wild horse sheers—a sober hand could govern 
we’ll have him on our side to make the num- him—drunken nerves aro powerless—ho 
ber good. Halloo, Charlie !” wheels abruptly round and the light vehicle 
“I won’t play if you have him in tho ranks,” is overturned. Tho excited animal would 
—squeaked a thin pale-faced lad—“he continue on his way, and perhaps drag his 
smells of brick and mortar, I won’t play cursing victim into tho more immediate 
with him.” presence of Him whose name is at this mo- 
“ Fie, Harry—he’s a capital hit; our side ment on his lips in blasphemy, but a calm 
will be sure to win if wo havo him with us.” brm hand grasps tho bridle at tho bit, while 
“Then I’d rather lose ; I tell you I won’t a deep manly voice calls out to ono of tho 
play with that low fellow.” workmen, “Williams, extricate Mr. Plymp- 
“ Coino, it’s too bad to spoil the game be- ton as speedily as possible.” Mr. Henry 
cause one boy does’nt live in so large a houso Plympton is raised from his perilous posi- 
as tho rest of us. He’s a first rate fellow, l * on by the mortar-soiled hands of a couple 
though,” exclaimed another. °f sober young mechanics, and placed in 
“Well, I agree with Harry Plympton,”— his airy phaeton; Mr. Charles Dalton, still 
interposed yet another—“I don’t care any- holding the reins, springs to his side, and 
thing about the mortar, but ho beat me in drives to the handsome residence of the 
Arithmetic and Declamation this morning ; widow Plympton with her only son. 
a mean scamp! and I want to pay him off. TV -. ~k- 
Will. Hollis and Fred. Upham will come to m . IV \ The Two Cfozens. 
our sido and that'll make all right.” m?, l J ' “PS , ad . ded *» «». 
Meantime tho subject of this discussion is .I'X"'™* our f .“ vor,te f- 
approaching the party with an easy, boyish ® re ,,h ' kl V 0 „l,„lgo, enterprise anlTweaUh 
independence, and a frank, good-humored >.„ vn ,°i __ . he ° ’ , LA V U1 
expression in his intelligent, healthy conn- ™ maich of improvement, 
tenance, that makes it really handsome. He the most daring theorist* of dreams ot 
takes the place assigned him on the sido of fwifl w Hn / th °°V ° f fort * ? ea ? a £°" 
the “ South-enders -—the game commences Lfoatfon Z 
with spirit, proceeds with energy, and re- onSn PP y he 
suits in the complete defeat of Harry PI vmp- it m, ,, ,. . . 
ton's party the'-. Nerth-e, 
that carpets tho cZJn and 
out a half dozen voices as Charles Dalton is Ho^o”’ (h* lhr’hts S, Mb* Alt 6 
movimr awav. House Gas-lights gleam through the gloom 
moving away. 
“ I should like to play again, but it i# grow 
in all directions like gems on velvet drapery. 
From tho State House windows pour floods 
ing late, and I have errands to do for my ofl£hHorThZT p "VS?* l .°. 
mother”—and Charles hastened on his way ^ m 8 ] l , *J k ^' COt b ° ~ 
" “ * ! ” ™“™ d I’lymp- SnSt?X?L?gTlat«Sre C s U tm 7^ “ 
-a in *? 
ters » & vital moment to the well-being of society.— 
“You’d better bo careful what you say Wh ° at P reSent 
about that fellow—he’s worth a dozen I uf floor, and who for more than an 
could name, at games or lessons,”—cried the onchame< ? hlS 1St ? ners b 7 his ir - 
“ South-enders ” resistible arguments and eloquent appeals 
“ What right have such as he to games or ^ ^ ^ Th ° 
lessons ? He ought to bo at work ; he’s <rot ?P£ akei concludes—the yeas and nays are 
to earn his bread.” A general call for an- ^ en ~ a I ^ otl01 , 1 * or adjournment is made 
other game interrupted the conversation. and the Hon - paries Dalton 
*_ leaves tho chambor surrounded by grateful 
III.-The Two Young Men. and applauding follow-citizens. 
Ton vo:i.r« mnvn mi™. s P aci0lls ^mily parlor of a hand- 
ill.-The Two Young Men. u^pmauuu.g leiiow-ctizens. 
rn , 8 .... Io fno spacious family parlor of a hand- 
ren years more hixve gone. Time passes some dwelling not many rods distant an 
swiftly; it did when I was younger, and it interesting group awaits his return. Tho 
goes more rapidly now, as if with the begin- apartment, and its furniture have been ar- 
nmg of each new fostrum of life the bearer ranged by the hand of good taste comne- 
Cfl M’ iP , P t h ,T 6f Witha tence, and a wise appreciation of home com- 
new set ot pinions Mistaken ! Even-paced, fort. There is an air of easy, cheerful ele- 
evei the same, lie knows nothing and cares ganco about tho room and its occupants 
nothing for these changes within ourselves, especially attractive. A fair, serene intel- 
Ile has a mission and keeps right on in its lectual, maternal face, of about forty with 
performance, neither hindered by our plead- a full dignified person and bearing, charac- 
ings lor delay nor accelerated by our nnpa- tcrize the principal figure in the group; she 
t.onco I or tho first seven years, the cry is is busily plying her needle on some article 
will to-morrow never come ? O, it seems of household utility, assisted by an idealized 
so long till to-morrow, when I am to have a picture of herself in the person and features 
now doll. I hence to fourteen—“Next of her oldest daughter, a girl of seventeen, 
month is vacation; and I shall havo such a Opposite them sits another, younger and 
good time in the country. But a month— yet fairer, with a book before her from which 
it is an age to wait—will it ever end ? Up she is or has been reading aloud. Some- 
°’ I !° Xt y ?j U K I „ sha11 hav ,? what removed, at a sido table, a brother and 
a medal, oi go to parties and balls; or shall sister aro busy with lessons for to-inorrow 
have served my apprenticeship; or shall an hour ago the youngest trio were taken 
graduate. But a year seems a long time to up to bed. There aro books and flowers 
fiv°e * Well T ! n m - t0 thlHy - a «d pictures, and an open piano forte with 
five WeU, I wiUg^e myself five years to plenty of written music in the stand near 
make tho acquisition; or complete the meas- by. Last, though by no means least in im- 
uro, or establish mysoli in tho position— portance to any ono there, in the most quiet 
Five years—it is a pretty long period; per- and comfortable arm-chair in the world an 
ha p s I shall do even more than this. On- old lady sits dozing, her favorite cat on the 
ward to fifty— Really time passes so rapid- soft carpet at her feet, and her glasses light ' 
ly, and I have enough to employ every mo- ly held in ono of the folded hands, which 
lent the next twenty years. Twenty years their days of toil all gone by, gratefully ro- 
J} ! tis-nothing; how quickly it will pass! pose on her lap. y 
\\ ell I must be up and doing ” Fifty to Something out of the common wav seems 
7^i e 7, D ° nt kn ° V C w , hafc h f bec ? 1110 f° have disturbed the equanimity of the group 
of the last ten years. I planned mueh to at the centre-table, for a look of sadness 
bo done, but time is gone and much remains is on all three faces at this moment, especial- 
still on my hands. Sixty-five to seventy- ly that of tho mother 1 
five—“ Well, this life is nothing It seems “ The well-known ring and step of the fath- 
but yesterday I was a boy Where are my er are heard—a thrill of bright joy darts 
dreams of ambition, and plans for successful through every spirit and rays itself on every 
gSjr? h ? P °fi° f d . lstmctl0n ! My day is fiice, as with a glow of noble success and 
a most spent^—there is no work nor device deep heart happiness on his fine emmte- 
m j f^ ave " . . ^ na »ce, he seats himsolf in tho midst of his 
0UFCban ^ ful fam ; ily " A fcw soul - fu11 questionings and 
climate. It is towards tho close of a sultry replies; then Mrs. Dalton says, whTlo the 
day Charles River shames molten gold, shade gathers again over her features—“Mr 
strctchmo; out there westward under tho in- Plympton has another attack of his terrible 
fluenceof yon imperial sunset. How grate- disease this evening. His aunt Louise has 
ful the cool, moist evening will be to dwell- been herself to beg you would como in when 
ersm parched, pulverized Cambridge 1 Now you .returned from the House. Sho says 
tho nice house-keeper, not quite m despair, they are all so alarmed, and no ono can 
manage him so well as you. After your 
great fatigue it is too bad, my dear husband.” 
“ What is fatigue to his condition, poor, 
miserable man! Do not think of it, my 
dear. I will go this instant. Dr.-told 
me this morning he could not survive anoth¬ 
er attack.” 
In about two hours Mr. Dalton returned; 
his wife and eldest daughter were still in 
the parlor awaiting him. It was all over— 
an hour ago Henry Plympton had died of 
Delirium Tremens.—Cambridge Chronicle. 
MEN AND WOMEN NOW-A-DAYS. 
Somebody is reporting for tho Boston 
Journal certain speeches of “ Father Lang¬ 
ley,” who is a very sensible old gentleman. 
| The following is his opinion of the present 
| generation : 
“ Failed, has ho! I wonder they don’t all 
i fail ? For what with the extravagance and 
j good-for-nothingness of the men and women 
now-a-days, where is it all to end? Call 
j themselves “ Sons of the Pilgrims” do they? 
| I wish in mercy their old grandfathers could 
! see them? They were the true grit—real 
i hearts of oak —but these popinjays are 
nothing in the world but veneering! When 
I was a boy, it used to bo tho fashion for 
boys to be apprentices till they larnt their 
trade; but now, they aro all bosses! Thero 
ain’t no boys now-a-days ! Tffiey set up for 
themselves as soon as they are weaned— 
know enough’sight more than their fathers 
and grandfathers—you can’t tell them any 
thing — they know it all P ’1'heir fathers 
sweated and tuggod in tho corn field at the 
tail of a plow, or else over an anvil; but 
they can’t do it! They aro far too grand to 
dirty their fingers ! Tffiey must wear fine 
cloth, and shirt collars up to their ears—be 
made into lawyers; larn doctoring; set them¬ 
selves up as preachers, telling us wo ought 
to do this or that; or else get behind a 
counter to measure off ribbin and tape !— 
Smart work for two-fisted men ! Men, did 
I say ? ’I'liey ain’t worth mor’n half men ! 
If wo go on at this rate, tho race will run 
out by another generation—wo shan’t have 
nothing left but a mixture of coxcomb and 
monkey! 
’The women, too, are no better—it is just 
evon ! They are brought up good for noth¬ 
ing under tho sun but to put in a buffet! — 
When I was a boy it wasn’t so—the spin¬ 
ning wheel stood in the kitchen, and tho 
dye-tub in tho corner! They were put to 
work as soon as they could walk; they didn’t 
have no nursery maid to run after them; 
their mothers warn’t ashamed to tend their 
own babies ! They could sew on a patch, 
and rock tho cradle beside, 'l'ho gals were 
good for something in those times,—they 
could spin and weave woolen, linen, linsey 
woolsey, red and blue, and wear it, too, after 
it was done ! They could eat bean porridge 
with a pewter spoon, and they wero enough 
sight happier, and better suited, than the 
gals aro now, with their silk gowns, their 
French messes, and silver forks; yawning 
and moping about, silly, pale-faced things, 
with nothing to do ! Set them to work ! 
Set them to work ! Put them at it early ! 
Idleness is the Devils foreman; and no chain 
is so strong, as the iron chain of habit! — 
Watts was nobodys fool, I can tell you ! IIo 
know what was what! Folks don’t stand 
still here in this world; they aro going ono 
way or t’other. If they ain’t drawing tho 
sled up hill, they’ll be sliding down ! Adam 
was a farmer, and Eve hadn’t no ‘Irish gal,’ 
nor ‘ nigger wench,’ to wait upon her ! What 
do these popinjays say to that ? Ashamed 
of the obi folks, 1 11 warrant! Adam wasn’t 
nobody, Eve wasn’t nobody, they know it all! 
But they can’t work— they are so delicate 
—they are ‘ so weakly? ’ What has made 
them weakly ? Send off your chambermaids, 
your cooks, your washer-women; and set 
your own gals about it ! It made smart 
women of their grandmothers—if tho old 
blood ain’t run out, they'll bo good for some¬ 
thing yet. 
It used to be the fashion to be honest; if 
a man got in debt, he tried to pay; if ho 
didn’t make an effort, public opinion set 
a mark upon him; but it ain’t so now, he 
tries not io pay ; he’ll lie, cheat and steal; 
(for what better is it than stealing?) and 
the one that can cheat the fastest is tho best 
fellow! It is astonishing how slippery those 
follows are! Slip through tho smallest 
holos—don’t make any more of it than a 
a weasel ! Just as soon think of catching 
a flea napping, as one of them ! r i"hey drive 
fast teams without bit or curb; buy all they 
can; pay for as little as possiblo; pocket all 
they can carry; then fail; make a smash; 
snap their fingers at their creditors; go to 
Californy, or to grass ; nobody knows where, 
and begin again ! Good gracious, if some 
of these fellows had lived forty years ago, 
they’d have clapped them in prison and 
shaved their heads !” 
WOMEN AND MEN. 
Women, especially young women, either 
believe falsely or judge harshly of men in 
one thing. You, young, loving croaturo, 
who dream of your lover by night and by 
day—you fancy that,ho does the same of 
you ? lie docs not—ho cannot; nor is it 
right ho should. Ono hour, perhaps, your ' 
presence has captivated him, subdued him i 
even to weakness; tho next ho will bo in tho ' 
world, working his way as a man among 
men, forgetting, for tho time being, your 
very existence. Possibly if you saw him, 
his outer self, hard and stern, so different to 
the self you know, would strike you with 
pain. Or else his inner or diviner self, high¬ 
er than you dream of, would turn coldly 
away from your insignificant love. Yet all 
this must be; you havo no right to murmur. 
You cannot rule a man’s soul—no woman 
ever did—except by holding unworthy sway 
over unworthy passions. Bo content if you 
lio in his heart, as that heart lies in his bosom 
—deep and calm—its beatings unseen, un¬ 
counted, oftentimes unfelt; but still giving 
life to his whole being.— Head of the Family. 
Into Jiqmrftimrt. 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
THE PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE. 
As a dream of light and glory, 
Such as mortals cannot know, 
Fades from the bewildered vision 
When the beams of morniug glow; 
In its all-entrancing beauty, 
So the Past before me lies; 
’Tis a dream; and now ’tis fading— 
Now the glorious vision flies. 
Now a pathway filled with roses 
Brightly blooming, meets my sight, 
And the false, deceitful Present 
Sheds around a seeming light; 
But alas I the thorns are hidden, 
Hidden ’neath a blushing veil. 
And who trusts that wavering beacon 
Of his purpose high will fail. 
Now I glance upon the future, 
And ’tis dark and gloomy all; 
01 I would not gaze upou it, 
Let the shadowy curtain fall. 
Hide tho mystery from my vision 1 
I, the Future would not know; 
’Tis enough the lingering Present 
Loads me with its weight of woe. Jenjiy. 
SHADOWS. 
These hours of sadness, whence do they 
como ? When our path is bright, and oarth 
is beauteous—when the eye is undimmed, 
and sees no sorrow—when tho heart is light, 
and feels no anguish—and thero is a voice 
of melody within, liko tho trill of a wild- 
wood bird, then comes a shadow—the rain¬ 
bow of liopo is dim, the sunlight of happi- 
ncs has fled, and the voico of mirth and 
music is silent. Dost thou tell mo that 
earth is beautiful ? r f he vine-wreathed cot¬ 
tage, and tho towering battlement, will soon 
crumble to dust, r The glorious mountain, 
and the green-clad valley, shall turn to cin¬ 
ders. Dost thou whisper of tho beauty of 
youth, and the brightness of its early dreams? 
Death cares not to dim the eye of age, or 
chill the life blood of the hoary-headod.— 
Thoso dreams! O ! where is “their waking 
bliss ?” 'Tell mo not that sighing and sad¬ 
ness are for the aged,—gloom and darkness 
for tho evening of life. Tell me not’tis tho 
spring-time that’s joyous, and gemmed with 
the dew-drops of beauty; for ’tis not true, 
and tho world is dark to mo now. 
Yates, N. Y., April, 1852. Eliza Woodworth. 
HOME AND WOMAN. 
If ever there has been a more touching 
and eloquent eulogium upon the charms of 
homo, and its dearest treasure, woman, than 
is contained in the following extract from 
tho Inquirer, is has not been our fortune to 
meot it: 
“Our homes—what is their corner-stone 
but tho virtue of woman? And on what 
does the social well-being rest but on our 
homes? Must we not trace all other bles¬ 
sings of civilized life to the door of our pri¬ 
vate dwellings? Are not our hearth-stones 
guarded by tho holy forms of conjugal, filial, 
and parental love, tho corner stones of 
Church and State—more sacred than either 
—more necessary than both? Let our tem¬ 
ples crumblo and our academies decay—let 
every public edifice, our halls of justice, and 
our capitols of State, be leveled with the 
dust—but spare our homo. Man did not 
invent and ho cannot improve or abrogate 
them. A private shelter to cover in two 
hearts dearer to each other than all the 
world; high walls to exclude the profano 
eyes of every human being—seclusion 
enough for children to feel that mother is a 
peculiar name—this is home, and here is tho 
birth-place of every virtuous impulse; of 
every sacred thought. Here the Church 
and tho State must como for their origin 
and support. 
Oh, spare our homes! The love we ex¬ 
perience there gives us our faith in an in¬ 
timate goodness; the purity and disinterest¬ 
ed tenderness of home is our earnest of a 
better world. In tho relations thero es¬ 
tablished and fostered, do we find through 
life tho chief solace and joy of existence.— 
What friends deserve tho name compared 
with those whom a birthright gave us?— 
Ono mother is worth a thousand friends— 
ono sister dearer than twenty intimate com¬ 
panions. Wo who have played on the same 
hearth, under tho light, of smiles, who date 
back to tho same season of innocence and 
hopo, in whoso veins run the saino blood; 
do we not find that years only make more 
sacred and important tho tie that binds us? 
Boldness may spring up, distance may sep¬ 
arate, different spheres may divide; but thoso 
who continue to love at all, must find that 
the friends who God himself gave, are wholly 
unliko any we choose for ourselves, and that 
the yearning for those is the strongest spark 
in our expiring affection.” 
Education-life.— I was now in the hands 
of teachers, who had not, since they came 
on tho earth, put to themselves ono iutelli- 
gont question as to their business here.— 
Good dispositions and employment for the 
hoart gavo a tone to all they said, which was 
pleasing, and not perverting. They, no 
doubt, injured thoso who accepted the husks 
they proft’ored for bread, and believed that 
exorcise of memory was study, and to know 
what othors know, was the object of study. 
But to me this was all penetrablo. I had 
known great living minds,—I had seen how 
they took their food and did thoir exerciso, 
and what their objects wore. Very oarly I 
knew that tho only object in life was to 
grow. — Margaret Fuller. 
A few words fitly spoken, will often carry 
more conviction to the mind, than an elabo¬ 
rate and protracted speech. 
