48 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER 
FEB. 6 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
A SONG OF THE PARTED. 
The days that part us count as years 
Upon the page of memory’s scroll; 
And on its shadowed leaf appears 
No light to gild the unwelcome fears, 
Whose burden tasks the soul. 
The weeks do weary ages seem 
Where the bright sun denies its light; 
And since the “ star of love” doth beam 
Around my way with cheerful gleam, 
No more hope mates with night. 
The years—perpetual are they 
To banished lovers of their soil; 
But ah! with deadlier strength they weigh 
Upon the one, though near he stay, 
Who’s banished from love's smile. 
Oh! Lieu, without a thought above 
The coarser elements alone, 
Is spent but lightly till we rove 
Among the flowers of holy love, 
And pluck the favored one. 
And though the hope is in its spring, 
And young, and weak, and timid now; 
Soon will it bravely take to wing, 
And joyful thoughtl perhaps ’twill bring 
A rainbow to my brow. 
Watertown, N. Y., 1858. I. M. B. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
GIRLS’ RIGHTS. 
Are you in favor of “Woman’s Rights?” Rather 
a strange question to ask a woman, I should think; 
but, nevertheless, one that hits been propounded to 
me quite often of late, and always arousing an im¬ 
pulse to box the inquirer’s ears, yet I generally 
cool down enough to let them off with a very em¬ 
phatic “ certainly.” In favor of “ woman’s rights,” 
indeed! To be sure I am! But I took up my pen 
to discuss what is, to me, a more important ques¬ 
tion,—“Girls’ Rights.” Now, I claim that girls are 
a very important part of community. It is said 
that the girls are to be the teachers of the next 
generation, and if such is the case, I want to know 
why we are not better prepared ? Why, at the age of 
fifteen or sixteen—that susceptible age, when we 
need moro than at any other time the loving influ¬ 
ences of home, and the gentle, wise teachings of a 
mother,—are we sent away to some fashionable 
boarding-school, (I know there are some excep¬ 
tions, but I have reference to the general rule,) 
where, during the long (?) term of three years, we 
get a smattering of all the fashionable accomplish¬ 
ments, and a knowledge of nothing useful, and 
where we are taught by the older girls that the 
chief end of life is “ to catch a beau.” With such 
preparation, is it any wonder that when we make 
our debut in society, that the only thing we seem 
to know anything about is that told by the “ older 
girls?” How different with our brothers, who are 
sent to some such institution as Y T ale or Cambridge, 
where, with the very best teachers the land can 
aflord, and a term of five years—almost as many 
again as we have—they possess every opportunity 
to acquire a thorough education. 
For us, the mystic curtain that veils the beauti¬ 
ful doorway of the Temple of Knowledge is mere¬ 
ly drawn aside, giving us a glimpse of the bright 
interior, and creating in our hearts a longing for a 
more intimate acquaintance with the magic things 
within, when it is again dropped, leaving oui' long¬ 
ings all unsatisfied. For our brothers, it is not 
only drawn aside, but they are met at the doorway 
by guides, by long experience well acquainted 
with the hidden mysteries of the building; who, 
taking them by the hand, explain to them, as they 
walk through the labyrinthian passages, the won¬ 
drous beauty and noble laws of the architecture of 
that holy temple. Is it any wonder that they come 
out with minds more expanded than ours, capable 
of taking in greater truths, and that when they 
converse with us about the things they have seen, 
we do not understand? /think it is no wonder 
at alL When we ask why this difference?—one 
reason they are in the habit of giving is, “their 
intellectual faculties are greater than ours, conse¬ 
quently they can understand better the nij’steries 
of Science.” I hat assertion I deny. Give us equal 
chances. Let us, hand in hand, step on the first 
round of the ladder, and together ascend; then, if 
they go one step above us, obliged to leave us be¬ 
cause we cannot go with them, will I acknowledge 
our weakness. A nother pet reason is this:—“ They 
have to go out and battle with the world, while our 
duties are at home, around the fireside.” And 
what are those home duties? Amongthe most im¬ 
portant are these:—To keep the little jewels 
Gon gives us, and to see that, in their intercourse 
with the world, that inward light is not dimmed; to 
train the infant minds entrusted to our care, and 
that turn to us for love and guidance, as the flow¬ 
er turifs to the sun for light and warmth. Yes, 
these are our cares, and we are very proud of them; 
but if wisdom and knowledge are not needed to 
discharge them faithfully, pray tell me where are 
they needed? I contend that it is our privilege or 
rather our right to have all the educational advan¬ 
tages that our brothers have; and once more I ask 
— Why are they not given to ns ?” Ida Carey. 
Eng. Neigh., Jan., 1858. 
The Queens op France.— The Dublin University 
Magazine, commenting upon the lives of the royal 
and imperial wives of France, states that there are 
but thirteen out of sixty-seven on whose memory 
there is no dark stain of sorrow or of sin. A con¬ 
temporary, in summing up the statement, saj's:— 
“Of the others, seven were divorced; two died by 
the executioner; nine died very young; seven were 
soon widowed; three were cruelly traduced; three 
were exiles; three were bad in different degrees of 
evil; the prisoners and the heart-broken made up 
the remainder. Twenty, who were buried at St. 
Denis since the time of Charlemagne, were denied 
the rest of the grave. Their remains were dragged 
from the tomb, exposed to the insults of the revo¬ 
lutionary populace, and then flung into a trench 
and covered with quick lime.” 
It was said of a beautiful woman that from her 
childhood she had ever spoken smilingly; as if the 
heart poured joy from the lips, and they turned into 
beauty. 
Written for Moore’s Rural Ne^r-Yorker. 
OLD LETTERS. 
What a holy incense rises from those worn 
pages and rests like a halo upon the brow that 
bends sadly and thoughtfully above them. What 
I gentle memories of the unforgotten past they call 
forth from the heart's dim recesses, until, gathering 
noiselessly around us, a name and shape is given 
them. Blue eyes, eloquent with the pure heart’s 
histor}-, and dark, flashing orbs, whose light it may 
be, hath long been quenched in the darkness of the 
grave, gaze fondly upon us, until we almost listen 
for the waving of angelic pinions, and the careless 
world without our chamber door fades from our 
vision, — we revel in dream3 of the sunny past, 
and make for ourselves a golden tinted but ideal 
present 
Ah, touch them gently, those time-marked leaves; 
the white fingers that penned the messages of love 
and truth which dot that once snowy sheet are 
folded meekly above the pure heart and the white 
death-robe, and the narrow house, hold that fair 
form in their keeping, until He who said, “I go to 
prepare a place for you,” shall bid her to the man¬ 
sions not of earth. The flowers that were wont to 
gem her favorite haunts, beside the wild old stream, 
shall bend no more beneath her footsteps, or rustle 
amid the dark curls beside a face, than which their 
own was not more beautifuL Farewell, Nelly, 
lost friend of my early girlhood. 
“ Thou art gone like the blush of a summer morn, 
Like a crimson cloud through the sunset borne.” 
Close beside the worn missives, whose outlines 
seem dim through gathering tears, lies one, whose 
snowy envelope, the desecrating hand of Time has 
scarcely pressed. Towards the setting sun lies her 
home, who bowed her fair head in the dim twilight 
above the closely written page. “ Peace be around 
thy path,” dear friend of mine,—“may life be to 
thee one summer’s day. Ah, they are pleasant 
hours, that glide away amid these sweet mementoes 
of the “ loved and lost,” as the far away. 
Some one, I forget who, has written somewhat 
lengthily upon the strongest points of character, as 
delineated in the peculiar style of hand-writing. I 
do not know how that may be — in fact, I do not 
quite fall in with the author’s ideas, yet who has 
not, while pressing joyously some “winged mes¬ 
senger of love,” gazed fondly qn the familiar char¬ 
acters, and almost dreamed the fair features of the 
absent looked forth from their midst? Not alone 
because of the memories that cling around these 
silent mementoes of those whose place on earth is 
vacant forever; but, that they form the connecting 
links between loving hearts whom the changing 
fortunes of the world has separated, are they re¬ 
garded in such a tender light by all who are worthy 
of the name of friend. 
What tears and smiles, what joy and sorrow, what 
countless messages of love — and, alas! sometimes 
what bitter words of hatred, that leathern bag, so 
uncouth in appearance, may contain; what tear- 
dimrned blessings, for the absent child, — what 
kindly ont-pouring from warm hearts. My letters, 
old and new, a place in my heart, and amid my 
treasures shall ever be yours, and many a pleasant 
hour shall be whiled away in your gentle com¬ 
pany. Clara. 
Alden, N. Y., Jan., 1858. 
PICTURES IN THE EIRE. 
“ It’s a shame, I declare!” 
And little Mrs. Ray threw herself into a low 
chair before the fire, with her pretty eyes full of 
tears, as her better-half banged the door behind 
him. 
Such a beautiful silk dress! such a bargain, too! 
And only twenty-five dollars! To think that Henry 
should deny her such a trifle! She thought how 
bright its lustrous purple folds had looked, as the 
sly shopman held it up in the sun, and how becom¬ 
ing it would be to her pale, clear complexion!— 
Only twenty-five dollars! 
Then, as if in a dream, the crowded rooms at 
Stewart’s seemed to pass away from her vision, and 
another picture took its place among the red, 
glowing coals of the grate. It was a dark, gloomy 
counting-house in a narrow business street, and 
she saw her husband, pallid, worn and weary, 
bending with contracting brow above a massive 
ledger, and sighing over long unsatisfactory ac¬ 
counts. 
The flame danced up with long purple shoots of 
fire—and another scene gradually opened among 
the white, hot embers. A woman struggling 
through the streets, against fierce winds and blind¬ 
ing snow, pale, famished and despairing; and not 
one woman, but scores—all her sisters in the fami¬ 
ly of humanity! And they were perishing for lack 
of a crust of bread— only a crust of bread! 
Then followed a shadowy procession of fitting 
images—gaunt and tattered wretches bending over 
lonely death-beds, where want and poverty wrestled 
at the theshhold with the grim destroyer himself— 
solitary graves where the flame of life had gone 
out for lack of comforts which a few pence might 
suffice to buy, and weary figures toiling night and 
day to secure the merest pittance that might keep 
soul and body together. 
The little jeweled clock on the carved mantle 
struck ten with a silvery echo, and at the same in¬ 
stant a cheerful, manly voice roused little Mrs. Ray 
from her revery. 
“ Why, Fanny, love, what is the matter? Sitting 
all alpne in the fire-light, and crying! Here are 
your twenty-five dollars, my little wife; it's a mere 
trifle, and I was wrong not to indulge you in the 
first place.” 
Mrs. Ray put her arms softly around her hus¬ 
band’s neck and leaned her head on his shoulder. 
“I don’t want the silk dress any more, Henry.— 
But I’ll take the money and lay it out for those 
whose need is far greater than mine. May I?” 
“May you? What a question, my love! But 
what has put this into your little head?” 
“ I don’t know,” said the young wife, looking in¬ 
to his face through a soft mist of tears, “but I think 
it was the pictures in the fire!” 
The True Lady.—A celebrated writer says:— 
“No woman can be a lady who can wound or mor¬ 
tify another. No matter how beautiful, how refined, 
how cultivated she may be, she is, in reality, coarse, 
and the innate vulgarity of her nature manifests 
itself here. Uniformly kind, courteous and polite 
treatment of all persons, is one mark of a true 
woman.” 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
FAIRY WORK. 
BY E. O. COB. 
Fairies, what are they? why beautiful things, 
Floating so noiseless on gossamer wings; lightly 
Pouring their silv’ry notes on each wind, 
Gilding with sunlight the crags of the mind, brightly, 
Creatures of sunlight, creatures of shade 
Haunting the woodland, haunting the glade, ever. 
Leaving the bridal, seeking the tomb, 
Bearing off pleasure, bringing us gloom, never. 
Beings of dream-land, beings of earth 
Our Fancy each moment is giving them birth. Blindly 
We follow their footsteps wherever they lead 
While they watch all our wants, and supply every need, 
kindly. 
And one of them worked all last night with the spray 
Which the Neenah sent up as it dashed on its way, madly. 
Do you ask how it came? Shall I tell you? let’s see— 
Why, of course, Til do that if you’ll listen to me, gladly. 
Well, the fairy had slept all that day ’neath a leaf, 
While the band of gay spirits which he rules as a chief, 
thickly 
Lay sleeping around him; (for fairies will take 
Some rest for their wing; for their journeys they make, 
quickly;) 
But the evening came round, and a star peeping in 
On his leaf-covered couch, told the fay ’twas a sin 
For a chief, such as he, to be sleeping that night 
While the moon and the stars shed such beautiful light. 
In a trice he’s awake, he looks out on the snow, 
Then he gazes around him, a moment or so, wildly: 
But he sees ’tis a star, one of God’s angel’s eyes 
That is looking on him, from its home in the skies, mildly. 
Then he springs from his couch, as he thinks of a plan 
He had formed long ago, in his dreams, 
And he hastens him off, just as fast as he can, 
To the fairy who watches the streams. 
And now watch the scamp, see him enter the door, 
(But, perhaps ’twas all right, he had been there before,) 
boldly, 
But the Stream-King looked down from his high chair of 
state 
With a scowl on his face, (but not hardly of hate,) coldly, 
“ Why come ye to-night?” says the king to the fay, 
“ I beg,” he replies, “ you to lend me the spray, only, 
Which will rise ere the mom from the Neenah’s chill 
flood, 
Else I’ll wander all night, through the dark gloomy wood, 
lonely.” 
Of the bargain then made ’twixt the fay and the king, 
I’d give you the terms, but you scarce would believe me, 
You w ould think I was telling some fanciful thing, 
And to have my word doubted would certainly grieve me. 
But the sprite got the lone of some breath and the spray. 
Which should rise from the river that night, 
And he covered each hill, from the Lake* to the Ilay,f 
With a robe of the purest of white. 
Then he looked to the hills, they seemed shamefully bare, 
Stripped naked by winter's chill breath, 
And his clear silv’ry laugh broke the still midnight air 
As he hung every twig with a wreath. 
Then he stepped to the windows, and'quicker than tho’t 
From his pockets, his pencil and brushes were brought, 
And he covered each pane with the pictures of towers, 
Save some spots which he decked with most beautiful 
flowers. 
But his work was now done, and he sighed as he thought 
How quickly the sun, when he came, 
Would spoil all the beauties his fingers had wrought, 
For Iris breath to the frost-work is flame. 
But he has his reward when the daylight appears 
And he feels that his wor’^iyiot lost, 
For all who have eyes not yet otinded with tears, 
And hearts not yet ha’-dened by sorrows and years, 
Look up and admire the white frost. 
* Lake Winnebago, f Green bay. 
Lawrence University, Wis., 1858. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
LABOR,- AH ANTIDOTE TO DESPONDENCY. 
Tell me, 0, child of earth, is the future no longer 
bright before thee? Has Hope seemingly forever 
taken her flight on angelic wings, leaving thee 
veiled in midnight gloom? 0, tell me, if indeed 
thou hast, in some evil, unguarded hour, yielded to 
the influence of dark dispair, that destroying power, 
which, if permitted, will paralyze all the faculties, 
and enfeeble all the energies of the soul, leaving 
thee but the wreck of thy former self? Aye. 
Then let me entreat thee earnestly and affectionate¬ 
ly, to awake and arise, ere the earth-born charm 
unnerve thee quite. Gird on thine armor anew, 
and go forth into the battle field of life, trusting not 
in thine own strength, but in One who is mightier 
than thou. He shall lead thee on to victory. Not 
here may’st thou reap the reward of well-doing. 
Here some are appointed by our Heavenly Father 
to labor, and to suffer, rather than to enjoy. Why, 
we cannot now telL It is not given unto finite 
minds to fathom all the mysteries of life, but we 
shall know hereafter. Only put thy trust in God, 
and go forth to labor in the cause of right, and 
truth and hope shall again gladden thy heart.— 
Why hast thou yielded to the tempter? Has Dis¬ 
appointment breathed her frost-breath o’er all the 
fondest dreams and highest aspirations of the soul, 
causing them to wither into nothingness? 
Hast thou worshiped at learning’s shrine? With 
wild and passionate entreaties hast thou sought the 
power to unfold the mysteries of science,—to trace 
out the hidden causes of known effects,—to dis¬ 
cover the secret springs of nature,—to establish the 
laws which govern mind and matter in all their 
subtle relations to each other? Would’stthou fain 
have explored the unknown regions of the world 
of thought, and returned bringing thence rich 
treasurers of bright gold and glittering gems, to 
enrich the storehouse of human knowledge? And 
has it been in vain? Have all these long days of 
earnest toil, and weary nights of sleepless watching, 
availed the naught? Y r et despair not The tree of 
knowledge is not a plant of mushroom luxuriance, 
arriving at perfection in a single night-time, but 
one of slow and uncertain growth. The soil and 
atmosphere of earth are uncongenial to its full de¬ 
velopment Plant here the germ, watch, guard 
and cherish it well, and it shall bloom a perfect 
flower in Paradise. 
Hast tbou sought happiness in the pleasure of 
home and friends? Has the Angel of Love been 
welcomed as tbe guardian of thy household, and 
deeming thyself secure beneath her sheltering 
wing, hast thou folded thy loved ones to thy bosom, 
and bid defiance to the world without? Anon has 
a shadow fallen o’er thy heart and home, as the 
Death Angel hath hovered o’er thee, and all un¬ 
heeding thy bitter tears and cries of anguish, torn 
one of thy dear ones from thy embrace? Again 
and again has the unwelcome messenger returned, 
—each time hast thou resisted,—each time has he 
taken one, until they are gone, all gone, and thou 
art left alone? Who can tell the unutterable agony 
of that moment, when first comes the thought, 
alone. Despair, demon-like, tempts thee to doubt 
the wisdom and goodness of Him, who hath both 
given and taken away; and thy soul, in its anguish, 
exclaims, “ 0, Mother Earth, take me also to thy 
bosom.” Y et stay thy murmurings, and list to the 
voice of the Angel of Consolation, as he breathes 
o’er the troubled waters of thy soul, “ peace be 
still.” Safe on the bosom of tby God, thy dear 
ones are resting now. He who hath written, “Bow 
not down to idols,” in great mercy hath taken 
them to himself, lest in thy blind adoration of the 
created, tbou shouldst forget the Creator. A little 
while, and thou shalt see them again, if thou hast 
proved thyself worthy. Rouse thyself, then, to high 
and holy action. There remaius for thee a work 
to do—a mission to fulfill. The world lieth in sin 
and sorrow around thee. Even now the fields are 
white unto the harvest, and the laborers are few. 
Go forth, then, to labor in tho harvest-field of life. 
Wipe away the tears from eyes that weep. Whisper 
words of comfort to hearts that mourn. Gently lead 
the erring back to Him from whom they have 
wandered. Point the Sinner to a forgiving Savior. 
And whatever thy hand findeth to do, do it with 
thy might So shalt thou be blest in life, and a 
hope, dearer and brighter than all others, shall re¬ 
animate thy soul, and illumine thy pathway to the 
tomb, — it is the hope of Heaven. c. l. g. 
Rush, N. Y., Jan., 1858. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
SELF-RELIANCE. 
The man who expects to make his mark in the 
world, who expects to attain anything like excel¬ 
lence, who expects to raise himself above the 
common level of the mass of mankind, must not' 
depend upon his talents for the consummation of 
hi3 hopes. He must resolutely lay liis hand to the 
plow, and his shoulder to the wheel—he must not 
depend upon others to assist him in all he does, 
but upon his own resources. The man who depends 
upon others to do his thinking for him, can never 
be independent He is like one who has learned 
to swim, supported by life-preservers — when his 
supports are taken away, he sinks. As long as he 
is buoyed up by powerful and wealthy friends he 
sails smoothly before the breeze, but remove these 
from him and he is lost to sight at once. 
Not so the man who has been taught to depend 
upon his own exertions and the product of his 
own industry for the means of his advancement 
I He strikes out with bold and lusty strokes upon 
the sea of life, and fears no ill. Taught to rely 
upon himself, he grapples with difficulties which, 
to the timid and indolent, would appear insur¬ 
mountable. He uses the means which a kind and 
indulgent Providence has spread out before him, 
and thus raises himself above his fellows. He 
marks out the plan of his life, and no difficulties 
so great, no temptations however fascinating, 
can turn him aside from the object of his ambi¬ 
tion. He pushes steadily on, without turning to 
the right or the left, until he reaches the summit 
of his hopes. Is Fame his object? be makes it 
the end and aim of his existence to gain it—is it 
wealth? that, then, is the goal for which he struggles 
—does he put aside self, and consecrate his tal¬ 
ents and abilities to the honor of his Divine Master? 
he makes this the object, the end and aim of his 
being, and in it he lives, moves and exists.— 
Making Excelsior his motto, he presses onward 
and allows no moment to pass without adding 
somewhat to the honor and glory of his Master’s 
cause. And, think you not, it must be sweet for 
such a mau to bring up before bis mind his past 
life; no hitter feelings of remorse or regret trouble 
his bosom, hut all is calm and peaceful, and his 
language is:—“I have been a faithful laborer in 
the work given me to do, my moments have all 
been improved, and I am ready to meet my ac¬ 
count.” Not so the indolent and slothful man, bit¬ 
ter feelings of remorse and shame throng his mind 
as his past life passes in review before him, and 
the bitter and regretful language of his soul is:— 
“My life lias been as the passage of a Pilgrim 
across the desert, not a trace of my footsteps is 
left behind me, and when I am laid in the silent 
grave, my name will be buried with me, and the 
world will soon forget that such a being ever ex¬ 
isted.” j. M. T. 
Assyria Midi., 1858. 
Walking Indicative of Character! — Fowler 
says: A short and quick step indicates a brisk and 
active, but rather contracted mind, whereas those 
who take long steps generally have long heads.— 
Those wh® sluf or draw their heels, drag and 
drawl in everything; while those who walk with a 
springing, bounding step, abound in a mental snap 
and spring. Those whose walk is mincing, affect¬ 
ed and artificial, rarely, if ever, accomplish much; 
whereas those who walk carelessly, that is, naural- 
ly, are just what they appear to he, and put on 
nothing for outside show. Those who in walking, 
roll from side to side, lack directness of character, 
and side every way, according to circumstances.— 
In short, every individual has his own peculiar 
mode of moving, which exactly accords with his 
mental character; so that, so far as you can see 
such modes, you can decipher such outline of 
character. 
The Robin Redbreast. —Charles Mackay, in one 
of his lectures, said:—“ The ballad of the ‘ Babes in 
the Wood,’ a legend of unknown antiquity, has 
made the robin redbreast a sacred bird in England; 
for the robin—‘ the bold beggar with the scarlet 
bosom’—is never harmed there, however other 
birds may suffer. If tbe robins could but know 
how many of their lives have been spared for the 
sake of ‘ an old song,’ they would hover around 
the graves of poets, as they did over the uuburied 
bodies of the children in the wood, and strew them 
with leaves, in grateful remembrance of the power 
and tenderness of poetry.” 
Nothing New. —No one need expect to he orig¬ 
inal simply by being absurd. There is a cycle in 
nonsense, which ever and anon brings back the 
delusions and errors of an earlier time. The fol¬ 
lies of the present day are transcripts, unwitting¬ 
ly produced, and with, of course, a few variations, 
of follies which existed a century ago.— Hugh 
Miller. 
HOME MUSIC. 
What is written in this language needs no in¬ 
terpreter. A piece of it sent to any country, 
though the persons receiving it understood not a 
word of onr language, is understood. It can he 
read in all lands. The accents of this universal 
language the child murmurs in his cradle, and 
affection understands its meaning. It is the lan¬ 
guage which connects this life with another—the 
present in which we live with the mysterious fu¬ 
ture in which we are to live. French, German, 
English, Italian, may all perish with the perisha¬ 
ble breath; music is the only language, we are 
assured by Scripture, we shall use in the state to 
which we are hastening. The significance of 
this language lies, not in thought, but in feeling.— 
Its words address themselves, not to the intellect 
but to the heart; its themes are joy and love.— 
May we not, then, suppose that the supreme love 
is addressed in this language? May we not be¬ 
lieve, too, that this language, in its perfection, will 
yet prove significant to the intellect as well as to 
the heart, and sounds, merely, be the vehicles of 
thought as well as emotion? 
In the cultivation of music, an education of the 
heart is necessary, as well as of the intellect— 
Home music is fraught with so many tender and 
sweet memories, and so connects the present with 
the past, that it renews within us the salutary in¬ 
struction and fond association of the time to which 
it takes ns back. 
Of all the fine arts, mnsic is the most demon¬ 
strative. Music is dead till life is breathed into it, 
for music is breath; notes are mere lifeless sym¬ 
bols. For this reason we have thought that certain 
songs, successful while the singer lives, die with 
him. Have we not all heard songs rendered so 
exquisitely by some favorite vocalist, that it abso¬ 
lutely pains us to hear any one else render them 
less perfectly? This is especially true of the songs 
of our loved and lost 
Music is too much cultivated for its demonstra¬ 
tive qualities. It is pursued objectively, that is, 
with an object and that object is selfish. The new 
style of music is got np rather to be seen than 
heard. We most naturally inquire of a friend 
whether he has seen the last concert, rather than 
whether he has heard it 
With the vast majority, music can only he one 
of many accomplishments. A great musical 
genius is as rare as any other great genius. The 
parent should cultivate the child’s musical abili¬ 
ties with a view to their qualities. It is a 
mere waste of time and means to attempt to 
educate to high art those disqualified to make 
great performers. In such cases, high art is cul¬ 
tivated at the expense of the spelling-hook 
and English grammar. We know a highly re¬ 
spectable lady, in this city, whose daughter grad¬ 
uated at such a school, and to her astonishment, 
she discovered that she could not write a decent 
note of invitation. 
The place to test the child’s abilities is the 
common school. If there are indications of great 
genius, let it he cultivated accordingly; but not 
otherwise. The elements of music are the same, 
whether taught by Jenny Lind or in the primary 
school; and it is only a foolish waste of money to 
hire expensive teachers, till the child’s capacities 
are ascertained. 
Home music should be, first, sacred. It is the 
most hallowing influence of tbe family altar. The 
truly humorous, however, is by no meams to be 
discarded. On the contrary, it should be by all 
means introduced. Home music should be vocal, 
as a general rule. The people appreciate a little 
good singing far more than the highest art in 
playing. Let it be simple and pure in thought, 
and let there be a fitness of words and music. Our 
native American melodies always bear off tbe prize 
for musical charm upon the continent— llichard 
Storrs Willis. 
HOW TO PROSPER IN BUSINESS. 
In the first place, make up your mind to ac¬ 
complish whatever you undertake; decide upon 
some particular employment, and persevere in it 
All difficulties are overcome by diligence and as¬ 
siduity. 
Be not afraid to work with your own hands, 
and diligently, too. “ A cat in gloves catches no 
mice.” 
Attend to your own business, and never trust it 
to another. “ A pot that belongs to many is ill 
stirred and worse boiled.” 
Be frugal. “That which will not make a pot 
will make a pot-lid.” 
Be abstemious. “Who dainties love shall beg¬ 
gars prove.” 
Rise early. “The sleeping fox catches no 
poultry.” 
Treat every one with respect and civility.— 
“ Everything is gained and nothing lost by civili¬ 
ty. Good manners insure success.” 
Never anticipate wealth from any other source 
than labor. “He wlio waits for dead men’s shoes 
may have to go for along time barefoot” Heaven 
helps those who helps themselves. 
If you implicitly follow these precepts, nothing 
will hinder you from accumulating. 
Success. —Every man must patiently abide his 
time. He must wait Not in listless idleness, not 
in useless pastime, not in querulous dejection ; 
but in constant, steady, cheerful endeavor; always 
willing, fulfilling and accomplishing his task, that 
when the occasion comes, he may be equal to the occa¬ 
sion. The talent of success is nothing more than 
doing what you can do well, without a thought of 
fame. If it come at all, it will come because it is 
deserved, not because it is sought after. It is a 
very indiscreet and troublesome ambition which 
cares so much about fame; about what the world 
says of us; to be always looking into the face of 
others for approval; to be always anxious about 
the effect of what we do and say; to be always 
shouting to hear the echoes of our own voices.— 
Longfellow. 
Influence. —Power to do good is the lawful end 
of all aspiring. Good thoughts, though God ac¬ 
cepts them, towards men, are little better than good 
dreams, unless put into actions. Seek the good of 
other men, but be not in bondage either to their 
faces or their fancies. 
