360 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL, LITERARY AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
ALONE. 
BY CORXEL1A M. DOWLING. 
My dear old wife ! how still she glides, 
Within the open door, 
I seem to hear her gentle step 
Beside me on the floor ; 
I lift my eyes—’twas hut the wind, 
The wind, and nothing more. 
I sit beside the cottage fire, 
It blazes warm and high, 
And as I sit, I hear her knit, 
How swift the needles fly ! 
I look—and lo ! a vacant chair, 
And seeing that I sigh. 
The wailing wind across the moor 
Is floating like a knell, 
The snow is resting soft and white, 
In many a feathered swell; 
And oh ! it falleth cold and chill, 
Within my heart as well. 
I mis3 the precious tones of love 
I’ve heard for many a year, 
And still I ever seem to feel 
Her gentle presence near ; 
But when I look—and see her not, 
I brush away a tear. 
I travel back the mist of time, 
And with a thrill of pride, 
I clasp her little, trembling hand— 
My graceful, girlish bride ; 
And ah ! I love her better far, 
Than all the world beside. 
And one by one the by-gone years 
Come gliding to my view, 
I seem to meet her loving eyes, 
So beautiful and blue. 
And meeting them, I softly smile, 
The picture seems so true. 
The clock upon the mantle strikes— 
I start—the dream is flown, 
I only hear the wailing wind, 
So mournful in its tone— 
Perhaps it knows an aged man 
Is sitting here alone. 
Alone 1 for oh ! the coffin lid * 
Her placid brow hath pressed, 
And silent now the loving heart, 
That throbbed within the breast; 
And oh 1 I yearn to lay me down 
By her dear side and rest. 
Poor lonely heart! thy weary throb 
Will soon be silent here, 
For oh ! I bear the heavy snows 
Of many a wintry year ; 
And it is very sweet to me 
To know that death is near. 
My pulse grows weaker day by day, 
And I am glad to go ; 
I shrink not at the chilliDg flood, 
Though cold its billows flow ; 
I know a Father’s guiding hand 
Will bear me safely through. 
And oh ! that blissful world beyond— 
I seem to enter there, 
I seem to hear her welcome sweet, 
Float on the scented air— 
I lift my eyes to greet her own, 
And see—her vacant chair. 
[Christian Chronicle. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
TRANSIENT THOUGHTS. 
Whence come ye, winged messengers of 
our hearts? Whence come those fleeting 
day-dream 3 ?—those visions of imagination, 
or, perhaps, the more sober ideas which re* 
suit from study and meditation. 
Well would it be for us could we antici¬ 
pate each thought, and check each vain and 
foolish one, ere it finds a lodgment, where 
nought but the purest and brightest should 
dwell. But imagination often sways us, and 
carries us far away into unknown realms— 
over sea and land—stopping, perhaps, to re3t 
on some sunny isle, and then away ; and after 
encountering all the terrors of a sea-voyage, 
at last reach a harbor of safety. We then 
saunter along, stopping to view some ancient 
pile of ruins, whose history we paint, and it 
seems a 3 though it were a thing of the past, 
deeply impressed on our memory. Thus we 
wander over a vast region of country, behold 
every variety of objects, witness the rising 
splendor of nations, and the downfall of oth¬ 
ers, within the short space of a few moments. 
Again the past will sometimes engage our 
thoughts, and imagination lures us back, far 
back, and we fancy ourselves once more amid 
the scenes of early days. 
But we will not stop to enumerate the 
many pictures brought to view, the many 
smiles they cause, or the many tears that are 
shed, as we I ook back, and reflect that they 
will return no more. 
There is one picture most vivid of all, and 
that is our childhood home. We linger long 
and mournfully over the dearest, and to us 
the loveliest, spot on earth. Others may 
look coldly on, nay, pass carelessly by—may 
wonder why we cling so closely to this humble 
spot. Ah ! it is hallowed to us by every en¬ 
dearing association. At every step memory 
finds some spot on which to dwell. Even a 
favorite tree which perchance has suffered 
from the winds and snows of years, is now an 
object of regard. The humble dwelling with¬ 
in which we have spent our earliest years, is 
now falling into decay ; its broken windows, 
and fallen porch, tell that now it is unoccu¬ 
pied. No, its now dilapidated walls no long¬ 
er echo the voices of those loved ones who 
once dwelt therein. 
Never again will the fervent prayer arise 
from around the deserted hearth, for the lips 
which uttered those prayers are now closed 
in death ; the form which knelt at the family 
altar now rest3 in the silent grave. But 
never, while life lasts, will those prayers, or 
him who uttered them, be forgotten; and 
every object which marks the spot made sa¬ 
cred by so many endearing associations, is so 
deeply imprinted on our heart’s tablet, that 
it can never be erased. 
Rusliford, Oct. 15, 1855. Susan M. Kimball. 
HOME LOVE. 
Home love has a sweet poetry of its own, 
created out of the simplest materials, and 
haunting, more or less, the secret recesses of 
every human heart; or rather, it is divided 
into a thousand separate poems, full of indi¬ 
vidual interest, and little, quiet touches of 
feeling, and golden recollections, interwoven 
with our very being !—common things, hal¬ 
lowed and made beautiful by the spell of 
memory and association ; and owing all their 
glory to the halo of their own fond affection. 
The eye of a stranger rests coldly on such 
revelations ; their simple pathos is hard to be 
understood ; and they smile oftentimes at the 
quaintness of those passages which make oth¬ 
ers weep. With the beautiful instinct of true 
affection, home love retains only the good. 
There were clouds theD, even as now, darken¬ 
ing the horizon of daily life, and breaking 
tears or will storms above our heads : but we 
remember nothing save the sunshine, and 
fancy somehow that he has never shone so 
bright since ! How little it took to make U3 
happy in those day3, aye, and sad also ; but 
it was a pleasant sadness, for we wept only 
over a flower or a book. But let us turn to 
our first poem; and in using this term we 
allude, of course, to the poetry of idea, rather 
than that of the measure ; the beauty of 
which is so often lost to us from a vague feel¬ 
ing that it cannot exist without rhythm. But 
pause and listen first of all, gentle reader, to 
the living testimony of a poet heart, brimful, 
and gushing over with home love :—“ There 
are not, in the unseen world, voices more 
gentle and more true, that may be more im¬ 
plicitly relied on, or that are so certain to 
give none but the tenderest counsel, as the 
voices in which the spirits of the fireside and 
the hearth address themselves to human kind!” 
MAR RIED L IFE. 
The following beautiful and true senti¬ 
ments are from the pen of that charmirg wri¬ 
ter, Frederika Bremer, whose observations 
might well become rules of life, so appro¬ 
priate are they to many of its phases :—“De 
ceive not one another in small things nor in 
great. One little single lie has, before now, 
disturbed a whole married life, a small cause 
has often great consequences. Fold not the 
arms together and sit idle. Do not run much 
from home. One’s own hearth is of more 
worth than gold. Many a marriage, my 
friends, begins like the rosy morning, and then 
falls away like a snow-wreath. Aud why, 
my friends! Because the married pair neg¬ 
lect to be as well pleasing to each other after 
marriage as before. Endeavor always, my 
children, to please one another ; but 'at the 
same time keep God in your thoughts. Lav¬ 
ish not all your love on to-day, for remember 
that marriage has its to-morrow likewise, and 
its day after to-morrow, too. Spare, as one 
may say, fuel for the winter. Consider, my 
daughters, what the word wife expresses.— 
The married woman is the husband’s domes¬ 
tic faith ; in her hand he must be able to con¬ 
fide house and family ; be able to entrust to 
her the key of his heart, as well as the bey of 
his eating room. His honor and his home 
are under her keeping—his well-being in her 
hand. Think of this! And you, sons, be 
faithful husbands, and good fathers of families. 
Act so that your wives shall esteem and love 
you.” 
Angelic Theory of the Stars.— Beyond, 
and greater than ourselves, we see and know 
no objects but the heavenly bodies ; but there 
is a general belief that between man and his 
Maker there is a great succession of beings ; 
and what can they be ? What are the angels 
of Heaven—of whom, from our very child¬ 
hood, from the beginning of the existence of 
| men upon earth even, something has been said 
and heard—if they be not these planets and 
stars moving so majestically and worshiping 
so silently, so regularly, so obediently ? Why 
should not that movement in them which we 
recognise, be called life—for us, endless, mag¬ 
nificent life, as our own irregular movements, 
or the still more irregular and yet more lim¬ 
ited movements of the ape are called life ? 
The Enjoyment of Occupation. —The mind 
requires some object on which its powers 
must be exercised, and without which it preys 
upon itself and becomes miserable. A person 
accustomed to a life of activity, longs for ease 
and retirement, and when he has accomplished 
this purpose, finds himself wretched. The 
pleasure of relaxation is known to those only 
who have regular and interesting occupation. 
Continued relaxation soon becomes a weari¬ 
ness ; and on this ground, we may safely as¬ 
sert, that the greatest degree of real enjoy¬ 
ment belongs not to the luxurious man of 
wealth, or the listless votary of fashion, but 
to the middle classes of society, who, along 
with the comforts of life, have constant and 
important occupation. 
True Friends. —How pleasant the path of 
life when traveled in company with true 
friends. Adversity may lower with its dark¬ 
ening clouds around us; sickness may lay 
us low; but is there not a charm which 
friendship offers, throwing a sunlight of love¬ 
liness over our bitterest afflictions, and im¬ 
parting a sweetening influence under our 
greatest trials. 
The violet grows low and covers itself with 
its own fears, and of all the flowers yields the 
most delicious and fragrant smell—such is hu¬ 
manity. 
“BYE AND BYE.” 
“Now is the time or never” 
(The watchword of the wise) 
“ Bye-and-by” forever 
The fool to it replies. 
The coquette leads her lover 
With fascinating eye, 
Delights to see him suffer 
And smiles to hear him sigh ; 
But when he asks “the question” 
She answers him, “ Oh fie 
I hope you’ll bear it patient!}’, 
I’ll tell you 1 bye-and-bye.’ ” 
The preacher from the pulpit, 
Exhorts mankind to fly 
From sin and seek religion 
Before they droop and die. 
The lip3 of childhood answer 
With wild and careless cry— 
“I’m happy now without it 
Leave that till “ by-and-bye.” 
The middle-aged sinner 
With bright and flashing eye 
And form of manly beauty 
Says “wait till bye-ani-bye.” 
The silver-haired and weary one 
Still waits, he knows not why, 
Clings closer to his treasures 
And whispers “ bye-and-bye.” 
Don’t wait to do your duty 
Until the day you die 
And find at last, but all too late, 
There is no “bye-and-bye.” 
B. H. of Scipio. 
Cayuga Co., N. Y. 
Written for Moore’s Rnral New-Yorker. 
RURAL JOTTINGS.-No. I. 
How expressive is the good old English 
word applied to this season—the season of 
falling fruits and leaves—often of falling rain 
and snow—everything coming down except 
winds and streams and prices. Of this latter 
item we country folks have little reason to 
complain, however,—we produce for our own 
consumption. And spring is a name equally 
apposite to the season of buds and blossoms— 
of shooting leaves and grass. One is the 
season of awakening life and energy—the oth¬ 
er of quiet repose and satisfied eujoyment— 
for that is not really death to which a resur¬ 
rection comes. 
The crown of Maple Hill, a noble sugar 
maple, now glows like burnished gold. As I 
look upon it in the morniDg sunlight, I find a 
new reward that I placed it where it stands— 
a joy and a beauty to our home. Every leaf, 
and it is full of them—is as richly dyed, as 
though it were to retain its pleasure-giving 
power for years—and not, as it is, destined to 
be the plaything of the winds, to fade and 
change, until its beauty is lost,—until it can 
please no more, either in tint or texture—and 
can only remind us of decay and death. It is 
now golden—it will soon be red—“ a signal 
that the November train is coming”—and the 
storm of last night was an earnest that it is 
near. 
“ The wild November comes at last 
Beneath a veil of rain ; 
The night wind blows its folds aside— 
Her face is full of pain. 
The latest of her race, she takes 
The autumn’s vacant throne : 
She has but one short moon to live, 
And she must live alone. 
A barren realm of withered fields ; 
Bleak woods and failing leaves : 
The palest morns that ever dawned, 
The dreariest of eves. 
It is no wonder that she comes, 
Poor month ! with tears of pain ; 
For what can one so hopeless do 
But weep, and weep again?” 
Still November is not all gloom—if we have 
any “ Indian summer” this year—these deli¬ 
cious days will belong to November by the 
calendar. May they come,—the apples are 
still falling, and, in the woods, 
“ The sound of dropping nuts is heard 
Though all the trees are still,” 
and we, with the squirrels, would gather a 
store for winter. How one poor fellow must 
lament our despoiling his hoard—he had a 
rare stock of chestnuts and hickory nuts— 
more than we could find elsewhere in all our 
woodland ramble. 
■What a strange influence is that which a 
true Indian summer day has upon the medita¬ 
tive spirit. How such days cling to the mem¬ 
ory, especially if they were days of leisurely 
enjoyment, when no outside pressure of care or 
business prevented the soul from absorbing, as 
it were, from the hazy air and quiet sunshine, 
that dreamy, quiet mood, which calms and 
soothes it into unquestioning enjoyment of the 
present hour—or drops it into peaceful reve¬ 
ries of past or future happiness. We can en¬ 
joy better than describe it—if such fall upon 
you, you will know our meaning, not other¬ 
wise. Goodnight! Y . 
Maple Hill, Oct. 30, 1855. 
Hopefulness.—T rue hope is based on en¬ 
ergy of character. A strong mind always 
hopes, and has always cause to hope, because 
it knows the mutability of human affairs, and 
how slight a circumstance may change the 
whole course of events. Such a spirit, too, 
re3ts upon itself; it is not confined to partial 
views, or to one particular object. And if 
at last all should be lost, it has saved itself—— 
its own integrity and worth. 
Virtue makes a man on earth famous, in 
his grave illustrious, and in Heaven immortal. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
LIFE IS A MIRROR. 
Human nature is a mirror which reflects 
the image which we cast upon it. Speak but 
a gentle word, and another heart responds in 
kindly sympathy. A smile illumes the brow 
of care; the rigid lines jelax, and one heart¬ 
string vibrates in unison with yours. One 
ray of sunlight gleams upon another’s path¬ 
way. One drop of happiness the more fills 
up the cup of human life. Though it be but 
to a child, who may tell but one good seed 
sown there may take deep root, and at some 
coming time may bring forth fruit to bless the 
world. 
Brush hurriedly on ; heed not the wants of 
this or that, intent on self; speak the harsh, 
impatient word, regardless of the inflicted 
wound, and quick as thought comes the re¬ 
sponse couched in the same terms. Look 
upon the world with suspicion and distrust, 
and the world flings back to you the same in 
turn. Frown, and even nature from her fair 
face reflects distorted visage. So truly is our 
outward self mirrored in the life around us.— 
The little child, aye even the dog which 
crouches by our hearth-stoue, reflects our 
moods; and greets our coming with the 
kindly welcome or the surly frown. Life is a 
harp with a thousand strings, that vibrates as 
you sweep the cords, to melody or discordant 
sounds. A panorama which is as our acts 
and our imaginations paint it. There is a 
spirit which may be touched for good beneath 
the cold external crust in which humanity 
have wrapped themselves. b. a. m’n. 
A WOMAN’S ANSWER. 
A writer, illustrating the fact that some 
errors are lifted into importance by efforts to 
refute them, when they need to be t reated with 
wholesome doses of contempt and ridicule, 
observes that all the blows inflicted by the 
herculean club of certain logicians are not 
half so effectual as a box on the ear of a cele¬ 
brated atheist, by the hand of beauty. After 
having in vain preached to a circle of ladies, 
he attempted to revenge himself by saying: 
“ Pardon my error, ladies ; I did not imagine 
that in a house where wit vies with grace, I 
alone should have the honor of not believing 
in God.” “You are not alone,sir,” answered 
the mistress of the house; “ my horses, my 
dog, my cat, share the honor with you ; only 
these brutes have the good sense not to boast 
of it.” 
This reminds us of what occurred a few 
years ago on one of our western rivers. A 
thing in the shape of a man, was glorying in 
his atheism, avowing that the present life was 
all of a man; that he had no soul and no 
hereafter. “ And so you have no soul,” asked 
a gentleman in the group, evidently desiring 
to reason with him on the subject. “No,” 
replied the atheist, “ not a whit more than a 
pig.” The gentleman was about to enter on 
an argument with him, when an elderly Scotch 
lady spoke up smartly, “ Sir, I hope you will 
not spend your breath in reasoning with the 
creature; by his ain confession, he has nae 
mair soul than a pig ; and ye wad nae argue wi’ 
pig.” 
JESTS UPON SCRIPTURE. 
It is very common with some persons, to 
raise a laugh by means of some ludicrous 
story connected with a text of Scripture.— 
Sometimes it is a play upon the words, or a 
pun ; at other times a blunder; and not sel¬ 
dom, downright impiety. Whatever be its 
form, even when lightest, it is no venial of¬ 
fence, leading, as it does, to profane contempt 
of God’s Word. Those who practice this 
have never been celebrated for genuine wit.— 
The laughter which they call forth is provok¬ 
ed solely by the unexpected contrast between 
the solemn words of Scriptures and some droll 
idea. There is no real wit in the case, and 
the dullest persons in society are most remark¬ 
able. for these attempts. 
The evils arising from this practice are 
greater than at first appear. It leads in gen¬ 
eral to irreverence for Scripture. No man 
would jest with the dying words of his father 
or mother ; yet the words of God are quite as 
solemn. When we have heard a comic or 
vulgar tale connected with a text of Scrip¬ 
ture, such is the power of association, that 
we never hear the text afterward without 
thinking of the jest. The effect of this is ob¬ 
vious. He who is much engaged in this kind 
of false wit, will come at length to have a 
large portion of Holy Scripture spotted over 
by his unclean fancy.— English Presbyterian 
Messenger. 
True Benefactors.— The day-laborer who 
earns, with horny hands and the sweat of his 
brow, coarse food for a wife and children, 
whom he loves, is raised, by his generous mo¬ 
tive, to true dignity : and, though wanting 
the refinements of life, is a nobler being than 
those who think themselves absolved by wealth 
from serving others. It is worthy of note, 
that the men aud women who think most 
highly of themselves, and most meanly of 
others, are those who render back to society, 
for the good things they eiijoy, the smallest 
return of personal effjrt. The world’s true 
benefactors, and therefore its true nobleman, 
are they who serve it, humbly and earnestly, 
to the best of the ability God has given them. 
All others are but counterfeits and pretenders. 
— C banning. 
A sound economy is a sound understand¬ 
ing brought into action. It is calculation 
realized. It is the doctrine of proportion re¬ 
duced to practice. It is the foreseeing of 
contingencies and providing against them.— 
Hannah Moore. 
A HOME WITHOUT A SISTER. 
Who that has been deprived of a sister can 
reflect upon the closing scenes of her mortal 
existence, without the deepest sorrow aud sad¬ 
ness of heart? A month, or less, perhaps a 
short week since, and she was among the liv¬ 
ing ; there was the same cheerful countenance; 
the same joyous spirit; the same care and 
thought for those whose happy lot it was to 
enjoy her society. But she is gone, and how 
sad the change ! The returning brother will 
meet no more her welcome smile. He visits 
the home of her childhood with a heavy heart. 
He approaches the threshold, and looks upon 
a stranger’s countenance: he listens, and a 
stranger’s voice falls upon his ear. He fancies 
for once that it is all a dream ! he passes from 
chamber to chamber, seeking in vain for the 
departed one. She is not there ! On ! what 
agony fills his breast! what melancholy is 
resting upon his spirit! His once happy 
home has now no charms, no comforts, no al¬ 
lurements for him. 
“ This is the desert, this is the solitude ; 
The vale funereal, and sad cypress gloom.” 
It may be an index of a weak mind (in the 
opinion of some) to weep on such an occa¬ 
sion ; but weeping is the readiest relief to a 
heart too full for utterance. 
“ Flow forth afresh my tears.” 
To him who i3 still the recipient of a sis¬ 
ter’s kindnes3 and attention, a sharer in her 
sympathies, her love and affections, these 
thoughts may seem visionary ; but they are 
sad, sober truths, and a mourning brother, 
one who has been brought to feel too keenly 
the pangs of sundered ties of sisterly affec¬ 
tion, cannot doubt their reality. 
FAULT-FINDING. 
There is a disposition observable in some 
to view unfavorably everything that falls un¬ 
der their notice. They seek to gain confi¬ 
dence by always differing from others in judg¬ 
ment, and to deprecate what they al'ow to be 
worthy in itself, by hinting at some mistake 
or imperfection in the performance. You are 
too lofty or too low in your manners; you 
are too frugal or too profuse in your expen¬ 
diture ; you are too taciturn or too free in 
your speech; and so of the rest. Now, 
guard against this tendency. Nothing will 
more conduce to your uncomfortableness than 
living in the neighborhood of ill-nature, and 
being familiar with discontent. The disposi¬ 
tion grows with indulgence, and is low and 
base in itself; and if any should be ready to 
pride themselves on skill and facility in the 
science, let them remember that the acquisi¬ 
tion is cheap and easy; a child can deface 
and destroy; dullness and stupidity, which 
seldom lack inclination or means, can cavil 
and find fault; and everything can furnish 
ignorance, prejudice and envy with a handle 
of reproach.— Rev. William Jay. 
How to Gain a Reputation. —A French 
author, finding his reputation impeded by the 
hostility of the critics, resolved to adopt a 
little stratagem to assist him in gaining fame 
aud money in spite of his enemies. He dress¬ 
ed himself iu a workmanlike attire, and re¬ 
paired to a distant province, where he took 
lodgings at a farrier’s shop, in which he did a 
little work every day at the forge and anvil. 
But the greater part of his time was secretly 
devoted to the composition of three large 
volumes of poetry and essays, which he pub¬ 
lished as the works of an Journeyman Black 
smith. The trick succeeded—all France was 
in amazement; the poems of this “ child of 
nature,” this “ untutored genius,” this “ in¬ 
spired son of Vulcan,” as he was now called, 
were immediately praised by the critics, and 
wero soon purchased by everybody. The 
harmless deceit filled the pockets of the poor 
poet, who laughed to see the cirtic3 writing 
incessant praise on an author whose every 
former effort they mads a point of abusing. 
Gratitude. —Conscience recognizes the fact 
that our obligation of gratitude is in propor¬ 
tion to the benefit conferred. If a benefactor 
has endured great sacrifices and self denials to 
benefit us, the obligation of gratitude binds 
us the more stroDgly to respect the will and 
feelings of that individual. Conscience feels 
the obligation of gratitude just in proportion 
to the self-denials and sacrifices made in our 
behalf. If a friend risks his interest to the 
amount of a dollar, or an hour of time, to 
benefit us, the obligation of gratitude upon 
the conscience is light, but still there is a sense 
of obligation ; but if a friend risks his life, 
and wade3 through deep alllictions to confer 
benefits, the universal conscience of man would 
affirm the obligation,aud would reprobate the 
conduct of the individual benefited, as base 
and unnatural, if he did not ever after mani¬ 
fest an affectionate regard for the interests 
and desires of his benefactor. 
Waste no Time.— Enjoy life moment by 
moment. Let not an hour pass iu which you 
do not catch one pleasing impression. See 
the sunlight lying in golden shafts upon the 
carpet at your feet. Enjoy its splendor.— 
Let your mind revert to the wonder that the 
sun performs iu its ceaseless round—this move¬ 
ment warming the heart of the shrouded veg¬ 
etation that shall spring up to life, criviner joy 
in its turn to others. 
Contemplation. —There is a sweet pleas¬ 
ure in contemplation. All others grow fiat 
and insipid on frequent use ; and when a man 
hath run through a set of vanities, in the de¬ 
clension of his age, then he does not know 
what to do with himself if he cannot think. 
Foppery is never cured ; it is the badsfam- 
ina of the mind, which, like those of the body, 
are never reetified ; once a coxcomb, and al¬ 
ways a coxcomb. 
Confused thought is a cheap commodity, 
but some writers parade it as if it were a 
priceless jewel. 
