MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER 
SEPT. 4 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
MY BOON. 
BY CLARA AUGUSTA. 
I ask not to dwell in a palace, 
Or reign in courtly halls— 
To be the toast at the banquet, 
The belle at the season balls; 
I oare not for Fame’s proud chaplet, 
Of world-praised genius born— 
For the laurel has many a poison drop, 
The rose a hidden thorn. 
But I plead for a meek contentment, 
A heart filled up with love— 
A faith to hope for all things, 
A trust in Him above! 
I crave the child, Humility, 
And Charity—may she rest, 
Ever a cherished dweller, 
Eternal in my breaBt. 
When I go through the shadows, 
Forth on the Unknown Sea— 
God, let me trust Thy mercy, 
Lean my doublings all on Thee! 
And ye that are left behind me, 
Raise no sculptured biers, 
No leaning, sorrowful statues, 
I ask but the poor man's tears. 
What is a costly cenotaph? 
Perishing, soulless, and cold, 
But the tears of those ye have cared for 
Are better than jewels or gold! 
The grief of one ye have comforted, 
Raised from thejiepths of despair, 
Is better than pillars or tablets, 
For the heart of a mourner is there! 
Farmington, N. H., 1858. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
DOMESTIC CARES. 
It seems te me that one great cause for the dis¬ 
turbances and vexations of domestic life, is the too 
universal habit of over-looking the ten thousand 
every-day trifles. In every house where there is 
no system, no order, no arrangement, there must 
be contentions, trials, difficulties. There are nearly 
always some members in a family, who, without 
aim, or reflection, feel excused from the necessity 
of attending to this or that little duty—which 
must surely fall to the lot of some one to do—and 
thus there are some who are over burdened with 
tasks. Duties are neglected, and, hence accumu¬ 
late—meals are behind time—other things are not 
ready in season, causing delay, vexation, fault-find¬ 
ing, recrimination, falsehood, and a Lost of evils. 
There are few people in the country who are ex¬ 
empt from household cares, by reason of a multi¬ 
plicity of servants to attend to everything needed, 
and those who indolently depend on such help, 
know too well how their tasks are generally per¬ 
formed. Ilired service is sometimes, but not often, 
well done. 
It is always better to know how to avoid trouble 
then to be obliged to seek a remedy. Heedless- 
.uess is the parent of hours of unnecessary labor 
and weariness, and, generally, to be tried, is to be 
cross and fretful, especially if the work is out of 
season, and because of somebody’s—perhaps your 
own carelessness. Putting away a garment you 
did not see that it needed a few stiches. A day’s 
or half day’s sewing in consequence. In caring 
for milk, grease, or other liquids you needlessly 
spill here and there, hence scouring and scrubbing. 
In preparing food, covers are left off, crumbs scat¬ 
tered, and in a short time, hordes of flies and ants 
give you an hour’s annoyance—or some one else, 
which is all the same. Getting things to use, you 
forget to restore them to their place — somebody 
wants them in haste—the whole house in confu¬ 
sion, every one looking hither and thither, accusa¬ 
tions, denials, general disturbance, tears, &c. In 
cutting, the room is suffered to be strewed with 
shreds—pieces are piled away in confusion and 
when wanted, nowhere to be found; wastefulness 
of time, means, and temper is the result And 
thus it goes. Many a mother who, while her child¬ 
ren were small, kept a neat, tidy house, and where 
order and satisfaction reigned, sees as her girls and 
boys grow up, her cares multiplied and increased, 
instead of lessened. Disorder, waste, wranglings, 
and no system, no peace, no happiness. The 
daughters and sons have been at school and learn¬ 
ed something more important than lessening home 
cares, and sparing home duties. “Mother and 
father make a great fuss about a little waste here 
and there, and about order, &c.” “ If one must be 
always on their guard about making a little work 
it’s a pretty story.” And so the littles accumulate. 
All are unhappy and many an extra dollar goes to 
renew, or supply, where duties are postponed and 
neglected. Daughter lets her gloves rip, and rip— 
mislays her kerchiefs, veils, &c.; runs in a hurry 
to get mother’s—hers are always in order—mother 
can’t refuse, because Mr. So-and-so, has called to 
take her out riding. By and by mother wants 
them; daughter not to be found—things rumpled 
and soiled. Boys wish to go away unexpectedly; 
no shirts, or neck-ties done up; buttons off, rents, 
&c. General blow up, and prospects of a social 
whirlwind and earthquake. 
Who has not seen families who came under some 
of these descriptions? Need people complain that 
their sons will not stay at home—that husband is 
fault-finding, and home is any thing but a quiet, 
delightful retreat? Let each one do their part 
without ostentation, noise, or praise. Let the 
daughters, especially, assume the care of keeping 
general order in the house and in the wardrobes. 
What is your object in life, if not to be a success¬ 
ful housekeeper? Put away your “highfalutin” 
notions, roll tip your sleeves, and see if you can¬ 
not be useful and be a lady at the same time. 
Spectacles. 
Effects of Encouragement.—' The celebrated 
Benjamin West related that his mother once kissed 
him eagerly, when he showed her a likeness he 
had sketched of his baby sister; and he adds,— 
“ That kiss made me a painter.” 
To give brilliancy to the eyes, shut them early at 
night and open them early in the morning, and 
let the mind be constantly intent on the acquisi¬ 
tion of knowledge, or on the exercise of benevo¬ 
lent feelings. 
Written for Moore’s Rnral New-Yorker. 
LITTLE KINDNESSES. 
How often in life we see faces lighted up with 
joy, as though the soul were speaking out its very 
being—a being that perhaps has never known 
what sorrow or trouble was—sporting in the sun¬ 
shiny days that seemed created for another world. 
Beautiful thoughts are suggestive of a power and 
brighter aims than seems allotted to us for more 
than a season, at least They have a graciousness 
that seems to call our attention and win us from 
the coil of a serpent’s charm. Then, again,—if we 
mark the progress of one bright face in early life, 
basking in all the childish innocence that becomes 
ripened into maturer years,—that same pleasing 
disposition is manifested in all the little acts and 
kindnesses without a murmur. Poor creature, it 
is well for thee that yon bright cloud has a silver 
lining, to portray the good from the eviL While 
thou art enjoying life, and are happy within thine 
own home, with its own comforts and blessedness, 
without are cankering hypocrites, ever ready to 
destroy the happiness if it were the very Angels 
in Heaven! Yes, envy, hatred and malice take 
great liberties with those that have a jealous mind, 
and nothing in this world seems too bitter for 
them to utter against thee, to injure thy feelings 
and crush that happy soul! How many enmities 
and heart-burnings flow from such a source!—how 
much happiness is interrupted and destroyed! 
Envy, jealousy, and the malignant spirit of evil, 
when they find vent by the lips, go forth on their 
mission like foul fiends, to blast the reputation of 
others. Shall we go on with these illustrations? 
They may be taken from every condition in life, 
and from all its wide relations. There is not a 
reader who cannot point out instances of this kind 
in his own circle of acquaintances, and even set 
them in a stronger light; and there is not a reader 
who, with the writer, would not exclaim, that there 
is nothing so agreeable to our nature, so convenient 
to our affairs, whether in prosperity or adversity, 
as the friendship of those we love. 
If the disposition of speaking well of others 
were universally prevalent, this world would be a 
comparative Paradise. We would see, not only 
now and then a happy countenance lighted up 
with joy as though the soul were speaking, but 
every family group or fireside circle would bear 
the impress of a Heaven upon earth. Oh! what 
a haven for thought to dwell in! The child of in¬ 
nocence, carried forward and moulded in all ten¬ 
derness, to dwell in earth’s Heaven, where not a 
cast down countenance is ever dreamed of; but is 
this so? Can there be such a spot for a fireside 
circle, unless the world awake to a sense of rev¬ 
erence? MRS. J. K. B. 
August 12, 1858. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
BE EARNEST. 
An earnest soul not only engages in great and 
good enterprises itself, but also attracts others to 
the work. Enthusiasm is thereby enkindled in 
congenial minds, until the requisite number of co- 
operators are secured. We know there are some 
excesses to which earnest spirits are liable; but 
excesses must be endured so long as man remains 
mortaL It was this earnestness which gave the 
positive mind of young Melancthon great power 
over the actions of the thousands who thronged his 
lectures from every part of Europe. It helped 
Columbus in his noble undertaking, and moves the 
Saxon race in the mighty work which they are ac¬ 
complishing. To the earnest, arduous toil becomes 
invigorating and attractive, and the soul delights 
in that which would otherwise soon disgust En¬ 
thusiasm is the poetry of exertion, enlisting the 
varied passions of the soul in behalf of those deep 
problems which the intellect is endeavoring to 
solve. Let us be sincere then — earnest and true, 
and we shall not be numbered with those who 
“ Fast rooted to their native spot, 
In life were useless and in death forgot.” 
Andover, Ohio, 1858. J. S. j 
INELUENCE OE FEMALES ON SOCIETY. 
From an accurate account of the condition of 
women in any country, it would not be difficult 
to infer the whole state of society. So great is the 
influence they exercise on the character of men, 
that the latter will be elevated or degraded ac¬ 
cording to the situation of the weaker sex. Where 
women are slaves, as in Turkey, the men will be 
the same; where they are treated as moral beings 
—where their minds are cultivated, and they are 
considered equals—the state of society must be 
high, and the character of the men energetic and 
noble. There is so much quickness of compre¬ 
hension, so much susceptibility of pure and 
generous emotion, so much ardor of affection in 
women, that they constantly stimulate men to 
exertion, and have, at the same time, a most 
powerful agency in soothing the angry feelings, 
and in mitigating the harsh and narrow propensi¬ 
ties which are generated in the strife of the 
passions. 
The advantages of giving a superior education 
to women are not confined to themselves, but 
have a salutary influence on our sex. The fear 
that increased instruction will render them in¬ 
competent or neglectful in domestic life, is absurd 
in theory, and completely destroyed by facts. 
Women, as well as men, when once established in 
life, know that there is an end of trifling; its 
solicitudes and duties multiply upon them equally 
fast—the former are apt to feel them much more 
keenly, and too frequently abandon all previous 
acquirements to devote themselves wholly to these. 
But if the one sex have cultivated and refined 
minds, the other must meet them from shame, if 
not from sympathy. If a man finds that his wife 
is not a mere nurse or a housekeeper; that she 
caD, when the occupations of the day are over, 
enliven a winter’s evening; that she can converse 
on the usual topics of literature, and enjoy the 
pleasures of superior conversation, or the reading 
of a valuable book, he must have a perverted taste, 
indeed, if it does not make home still dearer, and 
prevent him from resorting to taverns for recrea¬ 
tion. The benefits to her children need not be 
mentioned; instruction and cultivated taste in a 
mother enhance their respect and affection for her 
and their love of home, and throw a charm over 
the whole scene of domestic life.— William Tudor. 
THE STRANGER ON THE SILL. 
BY T. B. BRED. 
Between broad fields of wheat and com 
Is the lovely home where I was bom; 
The peach tree leans against the wall, 
And the woodbine wanders over all; 
There is the shaded doorway still— 
But a stranger’s foot has crossed the sill. 
There is the barn; and, as of yore, 
I can smell the hay from the open door, 
And see the busy swallows tnrong, 
And hear the peewee’s mournful song; 
But the stranger comes. 0! painful proof— 
His sheaves are piled to the heated roof 
There is the orchard—the very trees 
That knew my childhood so well to please, 
Where I watched the shadowy moments run, 
Till my life imbibed more of shade than sun; 
The swing from the bough still sweeps the air, 
But the stranger’s children are swinging there. 
It bubbles, the shady spring below, 
With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow; 
’Twas there I found the calamus root, 
And watched the minnows poise and shoot, 
And heard the robin lave his wing— 
But the stranger’s bucket is at the spring. 
0, ye, who daily cross the sill, 
Step lightly, for I love it still; 
And when you crowd the old barn's eaves, 
Then think what countless harvest sheaves 
Have passed within that scented door, 
To gladden eyes that are no more. 
Written for Moore's Rnral New-Yorker. 
“OF WHAT IS THE OLD MAN THINKING?” 
An old man sits alone in the chimney corner. 
The artless prattle of childhood is hushed, and 
twilight’s gathering shades darken the fields, and 
creep unnoticed into the lonely room. The birds 
are twittering their faint good-nights in the tree- 
tops, and the bees hum softly their drowsy tunes. 
The crickets chirp in the grass, and the frogs 
croak by the water’s edge; but the old man heeds 
them not He sits unconscious of the sights and 
sounds around him, silently communing with his 
own heart—busied with his own thoughts. Of 
what is he thinking? Of a farm-house home—of 
the red-cheeked girls and sun-browned lads who 
called him brother—of a saintly mother, with her 
sunny smiles and loving heart—a white-haired 
father and his parting blessing. The old man is a 
boy again; he drinks from the “moss-covered 
bucket,” fishes in the brook, huifts birds’ nests in 
the green old woods, skates on the mill-pond, and 
bounds through the drifted snow on his way to 
schooL 
Twilight deepens into night. The clock ticks 
louder and louder in the stillness, but he hears it 
not; moonbeams fleck the wall with silver, and 
strange, fitful shadows dance around the old man’s 
arm-chair, but he sees them not He is still think¬ 
ing. Thought, like a winged arrow, passes over 
the intervening years of youthful tasks and pleas¬ 
ures, and he stands erect in the pride and strength 
of manhood. Now, not alone he treads life’s path¬ 
way. A fragile being—his wife—leans upon his 
arm, walks by his side, clinging to him through 
good and ill like the wild vine to the forest tree. 
He sees again the love-lit glance of her eye, he 
hears the melody of her voice; and children, his 
laughing blue-eyed children, play in and out at 
the open door, warbling with the birds in their 
gleefulness, or, wearied of play, climb upon his 
knee and rest their fiasen heads upon his breast. 
Laden with little care and much happiness, the 
day fleets by; but the night of sorrow comes, and 
one after another of the old man’s heart treasures 
are laid beneath the nodding violets, until mother 
and children rest together, all save one,—a wan¬ 
derer on the face of the earth, a “stranger in 
strange lands,”—and tears farrow the old man’s 
cheeks as he thinks of the absent—his youngest 
and his only son. 
Calmly the old man is sleeping now. His eyes 
ar8 closed, and his head droops lower and lower 
on his breast; a smile lights np his countenance. 
Gf what is he dreaming? He ia dreaming of the 
future—not that shadowy, uncertain future of his 
youth and manhood; no! the veil is drawn aside, 
the portals opened, and by the light of the past he 
can trace his time to come. He sees in the dis¬ 
tance the heavenly city, nearer and nearer he ap¬ 
proaches its shining walls, clear and more clear 
sound the harp-songs of the redeemed; and now 
he mingles with the “ loved and lost of long ago,”— 
“ A father bends o'er him with looks of delight, 
His cheek is impearled with a mother’s warm tear.” 
Wife and children cluster round and lead him in 
“green pastures” and “beside the still waters.” 
Oh! what joy to the earth-wearied heart,—and is it 
all a dream? 
Night paled into morn, and still the old man sat 
in his easy chair. Golden sunbeams streamed in 
upon the oaken floor, the perfume of fresh-blown 
flowers floated through the open window, but he 
admired not their beauty and fragrance. Merry 
children rushed in with smiles and “ good-morn¬ 
ing ” greetings, hut he returned not their friendly 
salutations. Wondering at his silence, kind friends 
gathered round the sleeper, and said in low tones, 
—“The old man is dead;” hut they knew nothing 
of the happy thoughts, the glorious visions of the 
past night, nor of the dream which began on 
earth and ended in Heaven. Omega. 
Wyoming, N. Y., 1858. 
Recreation. — Recreation is intended to the 
mind as whetting is to the scythe; to sharpen the 
edge of ifl which otherwise would grow dull and 
blunt He, therefore, that spends his whole time in 
recreation, is ever whetting, never mowing; his 
grass may grow and his steed starve. As, contra- 
rily, he that always toils and never recreates, is 
ever mowing, never whetting; laboring much to 
little purpose; as good no scythe as no edge.— 
Then only doth the work go forward when the 
scythe is so seasonably and moderately whetted 
that it may cut, and so cuts that it may have the 
help of sharpening. I would so interchange that I 
neither be dull with work, nor idle and wanton 
with recreation.— Bishop Hall. 
Levity in manner, leads to laxity in principle. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE MARTYRS OF TO-DAY. 
The martyrs of to-day are the heroes of the 
age—the untitled nobility of the earth. They may 
not have suffered the headsman’s axe or the curling 
flame, yet their intrepid spirits have borne, un¬ 
daunted, sufferings beyond the block, and agonies 
unknown at the stake. They are the invisible 
pillars of the Church and State—the balancing 
weight when the scales are turned by passion or 
shaken by ignorance. Theirs is the soothing 
power that reclaims the vicious, comforts the 
weary, and binds np the broken-hearted. They 
dwell alike in the crowded city, the peaceful 
hamlet, and the open country. Their homes are 
stately mansions, sweet cottages, and rude huts. 
World-wide in their sympathies, they emphatically 
lire in self-sacrifice to those by whom they are sur¬ 
rounded. No age so remote, no clime so distant, 
no people so illiterate or profaned, no age so dark 
and hopeless, that it has not been illuminated by 
the unqnenc’ning light of these same martyr-fires. 
A few, in support of a great principle, world wide 
and incorporated with government, may have 
achieved the notoriety given to those who have 
suffered at the stake, and yet may have less of 
martyr blood than many whose lives have been an 
unmitigated immolation. They are found among 
the unlearned, the unhappy, and even the vicious. 
Look at the hnmble Christian, who daily plods on, 
oppressed by care and chafed by petty persecu¬ 
tions, ever patiently unheedful of their annoying 
effect, and sustaining a temper calm and equable,— 
the unfailing token of a true higher life. Who 
more unmistakably displays the elements of mar¬ 
tyrdom than the feeble invalid, calmly enduring 
pain, and wrestling with suffering through long 
years of aching misery and speechless agony? 
Who has borne more in the perils of flame than 
the undaunted wife of the inebriate, in rearing her 
children to respectability and usefulness? Who 
more than she has felt the continual dropping of 
an nnuttered and unutterable fear at the heart- 
fear that the evil may increase, even beyond the 
safety of life, human or eternal? 
Our age is heroic; not as when women were 
drowned or beaten if they would not adjure their 
belief; not as in those days when men, making no 
sign and uttering no groaD, were officially 
butehered and burned; but in that silent, hidden 
world, which, as a lever, moves mankind. None 
may know the martyrdom of the patient, neglected 
wife, of the unloved husband, of the deserted 
child, or disgraced parent With such the uni¬ 
verse abounds,—they are those of yesterday, of 
to-day, and forever. l. a. s. 
North Fairfield, 0., 1858. 
THE OLD GARDEN. 
The old garden! What need to write more? 
The thought of the Sweet Williams comes to us 
again, and the little grass pinks are sprinkling the 
borders with rubies, and the blue violets cluster 
modestly along the fence, and paeonies — Heaven 
restore the day we called them “ pineys”—filled up 
the corners; and over there is a row of “bache¬ 
lors’ buttons,” white, purple and blue,—gay and 
varied enough for the roundabout of poor Joseph. 
It is morning, and the sweet bells of the morn¬ 
ing glories “toll their perfume” along the vine; 
it is mid-summer, and the old red rose, forever 
sacred to memory and affection, blushes, and 
blesses all the air; it is September^ and the starry 
China asters rise in rainbow-lighted constellations 
in the grass. 
The red plumes of “love lies bleeding” are mov¬ 
ing in the wind, and the marigold of French vel¬ 
vet glitters on the ground—new coin of gold, just 
struck in the mint of June. 
There, too, were the hollyhocks, small orches¬ 
tras every one, for the summer bees; many a time, 
gathering the edges of the leaves of his tinted 
chamber together, have we made prisoner of the 
solo singer. And there, all fey itself, the broad 
disc of the old-fashioned sun-flower turns to the 
light, while a brown bird, the Crusoe of the rock¬ 
ing world, picks fiercely at the rare Mosaic of its 
close sown field of seed. 
There, too, are the lilacs beside the garden gate, 
flinging their fragrance in the open window, and 
oat in the dusty streets; and there, with its broad 
grasp of roots fast hold of a square rod of earth, 
is the balm of Gilead, that each year out-livea the 
threat of the ax and the fire. 
Down the main walk were a dozen tufts or so of 
garden sorrel, and over there were the feathery 
plumes of the asparagus; and who would ever 
forgive ns for forgetting the caraway and the dill, 
that made the old meeting house fragrant of a 
Sunday, blended with the breath of pink and white 
roses. 
And how, as we think of the garden, can we 
fail to remember the green, flaring boxes of wood 
—hoppers wherein, upon the Lilliput acre of earth, 
Spring poured its sweet treasures of sunshine and 
rain? The little green boxes with the geranium 
race — the lemon, the rose and the strawberry? 
And the dew plant, with its frosted verdure, that 
both dwelt in these little green boxes of gardens? 
And where are they all, the old-fashioned gar¬ 
dens and flowers? Gone with the Mollys, and Pol- 
lys, and Betseys—“ as lovely and fleetiBg as they.” 
Gone with “ Coronation,” and “ Mear,” and “ Wind¬ 
ham,” and “Wells.” Gone with the old mossy 
bucket 
-“ that hung in the well.” 
There are new names, new tunes and new flowers; 
the gardens are splendid with statue, and fountain, 
and vine; shrubs, gorgeous with the glow of tropic 
suns, tower np to skies the glazier made, and fur¬ 
naces diffuse a birdless June, and prolong it thro’ 
the shivering year.— B. F. Taylor. 
Hardness of Character.— Hardness is a want 
of minute attention to the feelings of others; it 
does not proceed from malignity or a carelessness 
of inflicting pain, but from a want of delicate per¬ 
ception of those little things by which pleasure is 
conferred or pain excited. A hard person thinks 
he has done enough if he does not speak ill of 
your relations, your children, or your country; 
and then, with the greatest good-humor and volu¬ 
bility, and with a total inattention to your indi¬ 
vidual state and position, gallops over a thousand 
fine feelings, and leaves in every step the mark of 
his hoof upon your heart— Sidney Smith. 
Written for Moore’s Rnral New-Yorker. 
MY FATHER MADE THEM ALL. 
’Tis sweet, when morning’s opening rays, 
Beam o’er the earth abroad, 
To gaze around on all that’s fair 
And think of Nature’s God— 
To watch, while from each each tree and flower, 
The twinkling dew-drops fall. 
And think, while we their beauties view, 
My Father made them all. 
’Tis sweet when pensive evening spreads 
Her mantle o’er the earth, 
When all day’s busy toils are o’er 
And hushed the voice of mirth; 
To gaze, while o’er rock, hill, and flood, 
The last bright sunbeams fall, 
And think, with reverence and love, 
My Father made them all. 
’Tis sweet to view the glory fade 
From out the crimson west, 
And watch each radiant cloud float by, 
Like islands of the blest; 
While from unnumbered orbs on high 
The soft beams on us fall, 
To think (oh, rapture-breathing thought,) 
My Father made them all. 
And, oh, ’tis sweet, when on our way 
Affection sheds her light, 
When friends are warm, and foes are few, 
And all around looks bright; 
To think, as we the gifts receive, 
From whose kind hand they fall, 
And feel, with warm and grateful hearts, 
My Father made them all. 
Bnt sweeter still, when round onr path, 
The lowering storm-clouds lie, 
And not a single ray of hope 
Is beaming from the sky; 
When like the leaflets from the trees 
Misfortunes on ns fall— 
Sweet to look upward and exclaim, 
My Father made them all. 
And when, upon life’s changing scene, 
Death spreads his brooding wings, 
And in this earth-worn, weary heart, 
Immortal music rings; 
Oh! 'twill be sweet while far below 
These mortal fetters fall, 
While heaven’s glories rise, to cry 
My Father made them all. 
Salem, Iowa, 1858. Mary. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE TWO TELEGRAPHS. 
The mighty Cable stretches along the plateau of 
the ocean from continent to continent, and aloDg 
the wire flashes thoughts with a speed so rapid that 
it is too wonderful for comprehension. The Atlan¬ 
tic Cable is at the bottom of the ocean, and the 
news has spread all over the civilized world, and 
the whole country celebrates the event with re¬ 
joicings and illuminations. Every thoughtfal mind 
will rejoice at an achievement so grand, and which 
promises so well There is hardly any limit to its 
usefulness. But, like everything else in this life, it 
may fail. That long, slender wire may break; mes¬ 
sages sent along its track may never reach the end. 
Notwithstanding all of these contingencies, the 
achievement is so sublime that it awakens an en¬ 
thusiasm such as has not been felt before. 
There is a telegraph far older than the one that 
lies buried in the ocean, and its wires never break, 
and messages sent along its track never fail to 
reach the end. It is that avenue of communication 
between man and his Maker. If we would send a 
thought to a friend we must communicate it to an 
operator, and he will send it along the wires with 
the speed of light, bnt at the other end there must 
be some one to receive and deliver it, or it will faiL 
On this heavenly telegraph we may send our mes¬ 
sages, and we need no operator to give it wings,— 
and not only the message bnt the earnest thought, 
indeed, the yearning desires far outspeeds the elec¬ 
tric spark, and even while the petition lingers upon 
the lips of the petitioner it has reached the Mercy 
Seat, and blessings falL 
Thousands of years these heavenly wires have 
been used by every praying heart; in no instance 
has the communication failed. The Savior stretch¬ 
ed these wires from the Celestial City down to 
Earth, thus binding us to the skies. Angels pro¬ 
claimed the joyful tidings to man, and the greatest 
illuminations that the world has ever seen, followed. 
It lighted np a pathway through the sky, but its 
greatest glory was over where the Savior lay. 
These heavenly wires are always ready, and they 
are free. Who will send a message? 
Syracuse, N. Y., 1858. Fitch. 
PARENTAL DUTY. 
A writer in the London Leisure Hours, makes 
the following remarks, which are fall of truth as 
they are of good common sense: 
“ The father who plunges into business so deeply 
that he has no leisure for domestic duties and 
pleasures, and whose only intercourse with his 
children consists in a brief word of authority, or a 
surly lamentation over their intolerable expensive¬ 
ness, is equally to be pitied and to be blamed. 
What right has he to devote to other pursuits the 
time which God has allotted to his children? Nor 
is it an excuse to say that he cannot support his 
family in their present style of living without this 
effort I ask, by what right can his family demand 
to live in a manner which requires him to neglect 
his most solemn and important duties? Nor is it 
an excuse to say that he wishes to leave them a 
competence. Is he under obligations to leave 
them that competence which he desires? Is it an 
advantage to he relieved from the necessity of 
labor? Besides, is money the only desirable be¬ 
quest which a father can leave to his children?— 
Surely, well cultivated intellects; hearts sensible 
to domestic affection, the love of parents, of broth¬ 
ers and sisters; a taste for home pleasures; habits 
of order, regularity, and industry; hatred of vice 
and vicious men, and a lively sensibility to the 
excellence of virtue, are as valuable a legacy as an 
inheritanse of property, simple property, purchased 
by the loss of every habit which would render that 
property a blessing.” 
If the way to Heaven be narrow, it is not long; 
and if the gate be strait, it opens into endless life. 
— Beverage. 
