MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
JULY 10. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
BY-GONE MEMORIES. 
Is’ the bright blue dome above us 
There is resting scarce a shade, 
And abroad upon the hill-tops, 
And in every quiet glade 
Is a halo of pure sunlight, 
Brightening river, tree, and field; 
Emblematical of Heaven 
And the glery it shall yield. 
And I ana gazing on it 
Where the silent river flows, 
While the tree-leaves gently flatter, 
While the playful zephyr blows; 
While I listen to the robin 
Pouring from his little throat 
Strains, that heaven must have taught him, 
So inspiring is each note, 
Straight my thoughts are wandering backward 
( All forgetful of to-day,) 
When each flower taught of Heaven, 
As it bowed its head to pray. 
And fore’er my spirit reveled 
In the beauteous things of earth, 
As to-day the flowers revel 
In the light that gave them birth, 
Angels seem to whisper to me, 
Bidding all my woes depart; 
And my soBgs were gay and gladsome 
Springing from a happy heart. 
I had hoped that this would ever 
Be my song through life's brief day, 
And that Death would find me singing 
As I passed from earth away. 
That my houI should pass to Heaven, 
Shadowless as when it came, 
Saved by God's untqualed mercy 
From a sorrow or a shame; 
But I’ve left the glorious sunlight, 
There’s a shadow on my heart, 
And my friends are gathering round me, 
Wondering why the tear-dtops start. 
But I cannot tell them wherefore, 
For they know not all my life, 
One short year is hidden from them. 
One with purest pleasures rife. 
But its joys are past forever 
And I lay me down and weep, 
Where no eye but God’s can see me, 
And I cannot, cannot sleep, 
“ For I think of one who loved me,” 
And of all the pleasant days 
We have spent in sweet communion 
And in singing hymns of praise. 
And I wonder if the sunlight, 
From his spirit, too, has flown, 
If the struggles he endures 
Are as direful as my own. 
And ’tis this that makes me sorrow, 
For he murmurs not a word, 
Only from his aching spirit 
Now and then a sigh is heard. 
I had hoped that I might see him 
Ere the last farewell was said, 
But he withes not to waken 
Memories I would were dead. 
So 1 hope and pray each morning 
That, when life at last is o’er, 
I may meet him where “ the parted” 
Shall be parted nevermore. 
Wilmington, Del., 1858. Mrb. M. W. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
WORKING GIRLS. 
If it will not be misunderstood, I would like to 
address a few words to the kitchen girls, or to any 
class of females who seek honest employment as a 
means of support and independence; fori know, 
from observation, that many of them, at least in 
the country, are quite intelligent, and occasionally 
read if given an opportunity. 
Girls, I will speak to you with all frankness, yet 
kindness, and trust to give no unwholesome coun¬ 
sel. Many of you are cast down, discouraged, or 
perhaps a little ashamed of the necessity of self- 
reliance, and labor, and you often envy the daugh¬ 
ters of the wealthy, or those whose circumstances 
permit them to remain at home in idleness. Many 
a young lady is thus a tax upon a hard-working 
father or brother, scorning to go forth and help 
herself. She is not ashamed to eat the bread earn¬ 
ed by his toil-hardened hands, or to wear finery 
purchased by the sweat of his brow, but she would 
be afraid some would be-nobody would look down 
upon her, if she made and acted upon the noble 
resolve, to work for her own living. Do not for¬ 
get that your own self-respect is as valuable as any 
other person’s, and when you are conscious of act¬ 
ing nobly, you need not look about for either praise 
or censure. 
It is not the fact that you labor, which makes 
any one shy of you—it is your want of cultivation, 
refinement, your false ideas of position, and your 
want of power to appreciate the really valuable; 
because you are not really and truly independent. 
You are too sensitive about your position as a 
“hired girl,” and are too apt to see some contempt, 
or fancy you see some slight where, perhaps, none 
was intended. But if there was, fall back upon 
your own self-respect No true gentleman or lady 
will willfully hurt your feelings. There must be 
grades of society, and while you are giving your 
time and exertions for a certain equivalent, you 
cannot honestly, nor rationally, expect the same 
liberties and privileges which belong to your em¬ 
ployers, or to those who can spend their time as 
they please. Y”ou can be a lady though you are a 
hired girl, and you are not obliged to be a slave in 
any family where you are not treated as a human 
being. In all families there are regulations and 
customs which it is not your province to interfere 
with. If you agree to do so and so, all you have 
to attend to is your own duty, faithfully and con¬ 
scientiously, and you will receive your reward.— 
Study to keep your mind and heart above your 
trials. An unobtrusive, neat, quiet, industrious 
girl, no matter how poor, or homely, is on the sure 
road to respectable independence. But if you are 
boisterous, noisy, untidy, covered with slimpsy 
finery and jewelry, hoity-toity, twitching about, 
your head and tongue on a pivot, your mind every 
where but on your business, you will surely be 
looked down upon and avoided. 
Wherever you are, never be above your business, 
and whatever that is, study to become accomplish¬ 
ed in it, and improve every opportunity to add to 
your knowledge. Unless you have a mind capable 
of attaining excellence in sewing or house keeping, 
how would you expect to succeed in acquiring 
merely fashionable accomplishments? Many a 
wealthy lady now filling an influential station, was 
once a poor hired girl, and many of our most emi¬ 
nent men were once apprentice boys. The path is 
as open and free to you as others. You will rise if 
you are capable, and desire to prove yourself faith¬ 
ful in small things. Be a real comfort and help to 
your employers and you cannot fail to become 
useful, beloved, and appreciated. Many a time, 
you can shame those above you by proper, lady¬ 
like behavior, for often young, thoughtless girls 
presume upon their position to act as does not be¬ 
come them. 
In any family where you work, respect the pri¬ 
vacy of the individuals and not presume upon your 
kind treatment to rush unbidden into their Drivate 
rooms. Imagine yourself in their place. The 
most perfect lady is the most truly considerate of 
the claims of others, and will never intrude where 
she is not sure of a perfect welcome. Be uniformly 
respectful, gentle, retiring—as becomes a young 
lady in all stations—and, be assured, you will meet 
with kindness, and respect, an'd attention, despite 
your employment 
With many kind wishes for your improvement 
in all really good and valuable accomplishments, I ; 
remain your sincere friend. 
June, 1858. A Farmer’s Wife. 
“GOOD NIGHT.”-"GOOD NIGHT, PAPA!” 
i 
Tiiesb are the words whose music has not left j 
our ears since the gloaming, and now it is mid¬ 
night. “Good night, darling! God bless you; j 
you will have pleasant dreams, though I toss in 
fever, haunted by the demons of care that harass 
me through the day. Good night!” The clock 
on the mantel struck twelve, and no sound was 
heard in the house save the regular breathing of 
those little lungs in the next room, heard through 
the door ajar. We dropped our pen, folded our 
arms, and sat gazing on the lazy fire, while the 
whole panorama of a life passed before us, with its 
many “ good nights.” It is a great thing to be 
rich, but it is a rich thing to have a good memory 
—provided that memory bears no unpleasant fruit, 
bitter to the taste; and our memory carries us back 
to many a pleasant scene—to the little arm chair 
by the fireside; to the trundle bed at the foot of 
the bed; to the lawn in front of the house, and the 
orchard behind it; to the butter-cups, and the new 
clover, and the chickens and the swallows, and the 
birds’ nests, and the strawberries, and the many 
things that attract the wondering eyes of child¬ 
hood, to say nothing of the mysteries of the starry 
skies, and the weird gloom of the moaning forest. 
But, then, there were the “ good nights,” and the 
little prayer, and the downy bed, on which slumber 
fell as lightly as a snow flake, only warmer, and 
such dreams as only visit perfect innocence! The 
household “Good night!” Somebody, in whose 
brain its rich music still lingers, has written this: 
“Good night!” A loud, clear voice from the 
stairs said that it was Tommy. “Dood night!” 
murmurs a little something from the trundle-bed 
—a little something that we call Jenny, that filled 
a large place in the center of two pretty little 
hearts. “Good night!” lisps a little fellow in a 
plaid rifle dress, who was named Willie about six 
years ago. 
“ Now I lay me down to sleep, 
I pray the Lord my soul to keep ; 
If I sheuld die before I wake"— 
and the small bundle in the trundle-bed has drop¬ 
ped off to sleep, but the broken prayer may go up 
sooner than many long petitions that set out a 
great while before it 
And so it was “good night” all around the 
homestead; and very sweet music it made, too, in 
the twilight, and very pleasant melody it makes 
now, as we think of it; for it was not yesterday nor 
the day before, hut a long time ago — so long that 
Tommy is Thomas Somebody, Esq., and has forgot¬ 
ten that he ever was a boy, and wore what the 
bravest and richest of us can never wear but once, 
if we try—the first pair of boots. 
And so it was “good night” all around the house; 
and the children had gone through the ivory gate, 
always left a little ajar for them—through into the 
land of dreams. 
And then the lover’s “ Good night,” and the par¬ 
ting kiss! They are as prodigal of the hours as the 
spendthrift of his coin, and the minutes depart in 
golden showers, and fall in dying sparks at their 
feet “Goodnight”— N. Y. Atlas. 
WOMAN’S INFLUENCE OVER MAN. 
The instant a woman tries to manage a man for 
herself, she has begun to ruin him. The lovely 
creeper clings in its feebleness with grace to the 
stately tree; but if it out-grow, as if to protect or 
to conceal its supporter, it speedily destroys what 
it would otherwise adorn. When the serpent had 
persuaded Eve that she should induce her husband 
to take her advice and become as knowing as her¬ 
self, she no longer felt herself made for him and 
both for God, but rather that he was made to ad¬ 
mire her. When she prevailed, they soon bickered 
about their right places, no doubt, for God’s law 
was lost sight of by both. One grand purpose of 
woman's power over man’s heart, now that both are 
fallen, is the maintenance of man’s self-respect. A 
man who loves a true hearted woman, aims to sus¬ 
tain in himself whatever such a woman can love 
and reverence. They mutually put each other in 
mind of what each ought to be to the other. 
To the formation of the manly character, the 
love and reverence of the virtuous feminine char¬ 
acter is essential. One must see in the other’s love 
the reflection of the character desired. Hence the 
pertinacity of true love and reverence often recov¬ 
ers a character that would otherwise he lost for¬ 
ever. If once mutual respect depart,then farewell 
the love that can alone rectify what is wrong; then 
farewell the heart-rest, without which life becomes 
a delirium and an agony. If it he the faculty of 
woman to love more tenaciously than man, her 
might surpasses his so far as she is wise in show¬ 
ing it. In expressing love without at the same 
time indicating her faith in the inherent dignity of 
man, however obscured, she only repels him to a 
worse condition, by exciting a reckless sense of 
his own worthlessness, together with a hatred of 
her forgiving patronage. When man hates him¬ 
self, what can he love? Give him time, and he 
I will love the soul that clings to him to save him.— 
Eclectic Review. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
DAWNING. 
BY CLARA AUGUSTA. 
On the meadows bloom the cowslips, 
Down the valleys leap the rills, 
And the breath of fragrant clover 
Is o'er the fertile hills; 
And I love to go at dawning, 
While the world is half in night, 
To taste the air's ripe sweetness 
As it ripples down the height. 
The free air of the mountains— 
And the morning’s glory round! 
Oh! who, by sleep's fast fetters, 
Would at this hour be bound? 
Day-break is weaving gold-webs 
Across the Orient skies— 
And o’er the low, blue horizon 
A drowsy white mist lies. 
Ah! higher leaps the dawning! 
The great East burns and glows, 
Like a blood-red field of battle, 
Covered thick with hostile foes! 
A thousand spires of gold-flame 
Blaze up the sky’s pale walls, 
lake the lamps which lit the banquets 
In old royal-preseneed halls! 
The mild lake bathes in splendor, 
The valley bursts from shade, 
And a hundred dewy blossoms 
Ope their eyes in every glade. 
The cock announces bravely 
Another day begun; 
The world is one engoldened field. 
For risen is the sun. 
Be upt my soul, and doing! 
Nature has left her rest; 
fn works of active goodness - 
The heart of man is blestt 
Up! each one to his duty— 
To forum, field, or kirk! 
Rise, sluggard, from thy lazy bed 
And set thyself at work! 
Farmington, N. H., 1858. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
A RAIN Y-DAY LETTER. 
“ Butternuts,” June, *68. 
Dear Rural: —It is here, at last—the rain—in¬ 
vigorating, refreshing, purifying, but not unex¬ 
pected. I knew it would rain when I looked from 
my window in the early morning, and saw the 
cloud-banks forming in the east, obedient to the 
shrill wind-whistle, preparatory to a “grand sortie.” J 
We knew it would rain, 
“ For the day before 
A spirit on slender ropes of mist 
Wag drawing the pearly water-drops up 
To the vapory amethyst;” 
or, as we used to say, “the sun was a’ drawin’ 
water.” We knew it would rain, for did we not 
hear the distant village bells ringing across the 
meadow, as they are seldom heard, except before 
a storm? and the thousand rural sounds—the low¬ 
ing of the c*ws, the song of the birds, the monot¬ 
onous croak of the frogs, the sonorous ring of the 
blacksmith’s hammer, the stroke of the woodman’s 
axe—all mingling and blending with the majestic 
bass of the cataract, and forming a grand overture 
to the afterpiece of “A rain in Spring?” Did we 
not hear these, nay, did we not feel them, depicted 
upon the “ tympana-retina ” of the mind, in alto- 
relievo ? And, moreover, did I not read but yester¬ 
day, in the almanac, these oracular words, “Look 
out for rain about these days?” And we Ziauebeen 
looking out for it in pleasing anticipation, until, 
at last, “faith has given way to sight,” and the 
rain has commenced in earnest. And thus it came. 
Diligently at work in the corn-field, I felt the pre¬ 
monitory sprinkle come pat upon my nose, follow¬ 
ed by a large drop in my upturned eye, and in just 
two seconds therefrom, I discovered two well-de¬ 
fined globules upon my coat sleeve—and in just 
two seconds more, behold me snugly deposited in 
my library chair, gazing from the open window.— 
The rain comes down, not in drops merely, but in 
streams. I see the hillside pasture growing a 
more lively green, and the old woods that crown 
its summit, furbishing up its leaves until they 
glisten like myriads of knightly shields, each with 
a rain-drop in its centre. Between the forest-aisles, 
I see the deep blue of the lake, its storm-lashed 
waves capped with white foam, and in pauses of 
the storm I faintly discern the dash of the breakers 
against its beach—I hear the shout of the school¬ 
boys as they luxuriate iu the descending fluid, sans 
hat and shoes—I hear the plowman urging on his 
reeking team as he turns the smoking furrow in 
haste to reach a shelter. Through the shifting cur¬ 
tain of the rain I see the meadow-brook, its swollen 
stream dashing merrily over the pebbles, its musical 
rush, chiming and mingling with the patter of the 
falling drops, and, to the accompaniment of this 
sweetest of nature’s music, my thoughts wander 
off into the realms of poesy, and I repeat, uncon 
sciously, fragments from one of nature’s true poets, 
our own Bryant: 
.-“ Mighty Rain, 
The upland steeps are shrouded by thy mists, 
The vales are gloomy with thy shade—the pools 
No longer glimmer in their silvery sheen. 
Oh! mighty Rain, already thou art here, 
And every roof is beaten by thy streams: 
And, as thou passest, every glassy spring, 
Grows rough; and every leaf in all the woods 
Is struck, and quivers.” 
A voice from below wakes me from my reverie, 
and after getting partly soaked, in vain attempts 
to fix a leaky eave-trougb, I doff my wet garments 
and resume the thread of thought. 
“I shut my eyes, and see, as in a dream, 
The friendly clouds drop down spriDg violets, 
And summer columbines, and all the flowers 
That tuft the woodland floor, and overarch 
The streamlet—spiky grass for genial June, 
Brown harvests for the waiting husbandman, 
And, for the woods, a deluge of fresh leaves.” 
From the outer world of nature, I turn to gaze 
upon the inner world of the heart. Upon such a 
rainy day in Spring, when Nature is being re¬ 
freshed by the falling drops, do not the gentle 
rains of memory fall upon the heart, cleansing it 
from all the dust of worldliness and forgetfulness, 
and present the past in more glowing colors?— 
How do we, with closed eyes, recall the happy 
recollections of “Lang Syne?” How do we see 
the well remembered lineaments of friends who 
“were, but are not?” How, through the patter of 
the rain upon the roof-tree, do we hear the voices 
at whose sound our hearts were wont to thrill?— 
How do they stand before ns in their manly 
strength, their maiden beauty, over whom we 
know, alas, that the green sod is growing, and the 
violets upon whose graves we knoie are drinking 
in this same spring shower, and how do we awake 
from our reverie, when it has almost become reali¬ 
ty, and exclaim sadly: 
“ Gone, all are gone, the old familiar faces.” 
Ha! a sunbeam upon my casement! A golden 
arrow, shot, direct, from the quiver of Old Sol 
himself!—a messenger of light, if rightly received, 
calculated to warn the heart, and cause the seeds 
of faith, and hope, and love to germinate therein. 
But, notwithstanding the sunbeam, the rain fails 
uninterruptedly—the earth is soaking and smoking 
with moisture, the brook has overflowed its bounds 
and is industriously engaged in submerging the 
meadow, chanticleer and all his harem are peering 
discontentedly from beneath the quince bushes, 
the ducks and geese are evidently “at home” in a 
little pond, formed by the overflowing of the rain¬ 
water barrel, the boys, let loose from school, are 
shouting as only sehool-boys can shout, and chas¬ 
ing each other through the pools by the wayside. 
It is growing night, the rain seems to fall colder 
and more cheerless, the air seems chilly. So, after 
one “long, lingering gaze” into the west, to calcu¬ 
late on the probabilities of a fair day to-morrow, I 
close my window, and turn once more to Bryant: 
" Now slowly falls the dull, blank night, and still, 
All thro' the starless hours, the mighty rain 
Smites, with perpetual sound, the forest leaves, 
And beats the matted grass—and still the earth 
Drinks the unstinted bounty of the clends: 
Drinks for her cottage wells, her woodland brooks, 
Drinks for the springing tront, the toiling bees 
And brooding bird; drinks for her tender flowers, 
Tall oaks, and all the herbage ef her hills.” 
And, as the night comes slowly down upon the 
earth, I lay my head back upon my chair, and, 
listening to the sighing of the wind among the 
trees, and the patter of the big drops upon the 
window pane, I wander off into the mazes of dream¬ 
land, having first arrived at the very satisfactory 
conclusion, that there are more unpleasant (if not 
more unprofitable) ways of spending a rainy day 
than in dreaming in an old farm-house. 
Charlotte, Monroe Co., N. Y., 1858. 
LOSING ALL.-A FAMILY SCENE. 
There is something exceedingly tender as well 
as instructive in the following, which we take from 
the Child's Paper: 
A few years ago, a merchant failed in business. 
He went home in great agitation. 
“What is the matter?” asked his wife. “I am 
ruined; I am beggared. I have lost myall!” he 
exclaimed, pressing his hand upon his forehead, as 
if his brains were in a whirL 
"Ah!” said his wife; “Iamleft” “All, papa!” 
said the eldest boy; “here am I.” “And I too, 
papa,” said his little girl, running up and putting 
[ her arms about his neck. “I’s not lost, papa,” re¬ 
peated Eddie. “ And you have your health left,” 
said his wife. “ And your two hands to work with, 
papa,” said his eldest, “and I can help you.” “And 
your two feet, papa, to carry you about” “And 
your two eyes to see with, papa,” said little Eddie. 
“ And you have God’s promises,” said grandmother. 
“ And a good God,” said his wife. “ And a good 
heaven to go to,” said his little girl. “And Jesus 
to come and fetch us there,” said his eldest 
“God forgive me,” said the poor merchant, 
bursting into tears. “I have not lost my all — 
What are these few thousand that I call my all, to 
these more precious things which God has left 
me?” And he clasped his family to his bosom, 
and kissed his wife and children with a thankful 
heart. 
Ah, no, there are many things more precious 
than gold and bank stocks, valuable as these may 
be in their place. When the Central America 
foundered at sea, bags and purses of gold were 
strewn about the deck, as worthless as the merest 
rubbish. Life, life! was the prayer. To some of 
the wretched survivors, water, water! was the 
prayer. Bread, bread! it was worth its weight in 
gold, if gold could have bought it. 
The loss of property must not cloud the mind 
with a wicked forgetfulness of the great blessings 
which are left behind. No man should despair, for 
no man has lost his all, until he lias lost his integ¬ 
rity, lost the mercy of God, and lost his hope of 
heaven at last. 
Prudence. —The great end of prudence is to 
give cheerfulness to those hours which splendor 
cannot gild, and exclamation cannot exhilerate.— 
Those soft intervals of unbended amusement in 
which a man shrinks to his natural dimension, and 
throws aside the ornaments or disguises which he 
feels, in privacy, to be useless incumbrances, and to 
lose all effect when they become fami iar. To be 
happy at home is the ultimate result of ambition 
—the end to which every enterprise and labor 
tends, and of which every desire prompts the prose¬ 
cution. It is indeed at home that every man must 
he knowD, by those who would make a j ust estimate 
either of virtue or felicity; for smiles and em¬ 
broidery are alike occasional, and the mind is often 
dressed for show in painted honor and fictitious 
benevolence. 
I SHALL KNOW HER AGAIN. 
How yon gazed on that vision of beauty awhilel 
How it waved till won by the light of God’s smile! 
How it passed through the portals of pearl like a bride! 
How it paled as it passed, and the morning star died! 
The sky was all blushes, the earth was all bliss, 
And the prayer of your heart was, “Be my ending like 
this!” 
So my beautiful May passed away from life’s even; 
So the blush of her being was blended with heaven; 
So the biid of my bosom fluttered up to the dawn, 
A window was open—my darling was gone! 
A truant from tears, from time, and from sin— 
For the aDgel on watch took the wanderer in. 
And when I shall hear the new song that she sings, 
1 shall know her again, notwithstanding htr wings, 
By those eyes full of heaven—by the light of her hair; 
And the smile she wore here she will surely wear there! 
[J?. F. Taylor. 
Indemnity for the past—pay up. Security for 
the future—pay down. 1 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE CHRISTIAN’S DEATH. 
Farewell! golden harps are tuning, 
Borne by Angel hands on high; 
Heavenly strains shall greet thy coming, 
To thy home beyond the sky. 
Sweetly the Celestial choir 
Greets thee with a welcome song; 
Ransomed spirit! seize thy lyre, 
Strike the thrilling chords along. 
Wear thy glorious crown of light; 
Bear the palm of victory, 
Join the band of seraphs bright, 
Praising round the throne on high. 
St. Jolinsville, N. Y., 1858. E. G. S. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker: 
THE BETTER LAND. 
The sun hath long since passed the zenith, and 
even now, sinks to his repose beyond the western 
horizon. The long shadows flit to and fro, while 
broad sheets of mellow light stretch far away 
towards the east, robing all nature in their golden 
mantle of even-time, indicating that the beauteous 
Sabbath is near its close—it dies, ere we are aware 
that its departure is at hand. 0, how holy this 
last hour of God's consecrated day. How still— 
and what quiet joy reigns supreme! We would 
not mar the sweet happiness of this sacred time, 
for a world of gay fashion’s revels. It seems as 
though our Satiok is near, that we commune with 
his spirit The presence cf His love is even now 
howering over us. and dwells in all the surround¬ 
ings that pertain to onr happiness. But hush, me- 
thiuks I hear the sound of many voices, yet all are 
one, and all speak alike. They come from the 
whispering breeze, from the passing cloud, from 
the receding shadow. More than all, I hear them 
in the workings of my own soul, and they all teach 
of a better land—a land far more fair than the one 
which this blessed Sabbath hath shown to us, — a 
land where God is, and the Savior, and the Angels, 
and all the redeemed of earth who have gone be¬ 
fore us,—and I seem to hear the heavenly choir, as 
they praise God and the Lamb around the Throne. 
There are no discords there, no harsh voices, but 
all is harmony. This is the better land, and though 
the dark Jordan of death must be passed ere we 
reach it, who would fear to take the final plunge? 
None who are just. A. Hall. 
Hermitage, N. Y., 1858. 
BABBATH BELLS. 
The following, from Douglass Jerrold’a St. 
James and St. Giles, breathes a beautiful sentiment 
and pathos, that will command the admiration of 
the reader: 
“ There’s something beautiful in the church bells; 
don’t you think so, Jem!” said Capstick in a sud¬ 
den tone. “ Beautiful and hopeful they talk to 
high and low, rich and poor, in the same voice; 
there’s a sound in ’em that should scare pride and 
envy, and meanness of all sorts, from the heart of 
man; that should make him look upon the world 
with kind, forgiving eyes; that should, make the 
earth seem to him, at least for a time, a holy place. 
Yes, Jem, there’s a whole sermon in every sound 
of the church bells, if we only have the ears to 
rightly understand it There’s a preacher in every 
belfry, Jem, that cries, ‘Poor, weary, struggling, 
fighting creatures, poor human things! take rest, 
he quiet Forget your vanities, your week-day 
craft, your heart-burnings! And you, ye humble 
vessels, gilt and painted, believe the iron tongue 
that tells ye, that for all your gildings, all your 
colors, ye are the same Adam’s earth with the beg¬ 
gars at your gates.’ ‘ Come away, come,’ cries the 
church bell, ‘and learn to be humbler, learning 
that, however daubed and stained, and stuck about 
with jewels, you are but grave clay. Come, Dives, 
come, and be taught that all your glory, as you 
wear it, is not half as beautiful in the eyes of Hea¬ 
ven as the sores of the uncomplaining Lazarus?— 
And ye, poor creatures, livid and faint, stinted and 
crushed with the pride and hardness of the world, 
come, come, come,’ cries the bell, with the voice of 
an angel! ‘Come and learn what is laid up for ye; 
and, learning, take heart, and walk among the 
wickedness and cruelties of the world calmly, as 
Daniel walked amoDg the lions.’ ” 
Here Capstick, flushed and excited, wrought 
beyond himself, suddenly paused. Jem started, 
astonished, but said not a word. And then Cap¬ 
stick, with a firmer manner, said:—“Jem, is there 
a finer sight than a stream of human creatures 
passing from a Christian Church?” 
A Home Thrust From Flavkl.—“Two things a 
master commits to his servant’s care,” saith one, 
“the child and the child’s clothes.” It will be a 
poor excuse for the servant to say at his master’s 
return, “Sir, here are all the child’s clothes, neat 
andcleaD, but the child is lost!” Much so with 
the account that many will give to God of their 
souls and bodies at the great day. Lord here is my 
body, I was very grateful for it I neglected no¬ 
thing that belonged to its content and welfare; but 
for my soul, that is lost and cast away forever. I 
took little care and thought about it 
How True. —Round about what is, lies a whole 
mysterious world of what might he—a physcho- 
logical romance of possibilities and things that do 
not happen. By going out a few minutes sooner 
or later, by stopping to speak with a friend at a 
corner, by meeting this man or that, or by turning 
this street or the other, we may let slip some great 
occasion of good, or avoid some impending evil, 
by which the whole current of our lives would 
have been changed. There is no possible solution 
to the daik enigma but the one word “ Providence.” 
THH DEPARTED. 
Wb search 'mid the summer the prints of their feet. 
Their names in the woodlands old echoes repeat; 
They have vanished from garden, from meadow, and 
shore, 
And we meet their bright faces at the old hearth no more 
We miss the fond welcome, the pale clasping hands, 
That have gone with the angels to the radiant lauds; 
We miss them in sunshine, we miss them in rain, 
But they come with the moonlight and bless us again. 
[Emma Mice Brotoue. 
