mc-tic; and, to help them to this knowledge, you 
rqay inako them, keep accounts. This will he a 
very difficult occupation. It would also he well 
for them to know something of the fundamental 
principle# of justice—for instance, the difference 
between a legacy and a donation; the principal 
laws and customs of the country where they 
reside,” Ac. lie “would not recommend the 
Spanish or Italian languages,— LrUiti would he 
more improving, but mnst ouly be allowed to 
those yonng ludics who possess discretion enough 
to conceal what they know. They may read His¬ 
tory, attend to Music if they have decided talent 
for it, and Painting, as it will help them in their 
embroidery.” 
This is the extent to which a lady may sip from 
that spring, which, wo are told, intoxicates the 
brain, if drank in “shallow druughts.” 1 gave 
the Archbishop a toss into the clover, and made 
up my mind summarily, that the course of disci¬ 
pline that was, no doubt, very good for the French 
dolls of the seventeenth century, would never do 
for the Yankee girls of the nineteenth. 
Dear me, I am quite a learned lady according to 
Fknklon’3 standard—the only trouble is, 1 must 
have got so far above the range of “young ladies 
of ordinary capacity.” What particularly stirred 
up Aunt Esther to givo me this book was this:— 
A day or two ago 1 had a long letter from 
Frankie, in which she informed me that she was 
going to Holyoke in the full, and her father 
joined Ills entreaties with hers that 1 would go 
too, both for my own advantage, and because it 
would he so pleasant for Frankie. “Oh, if I only 
might go,” thouglit I, as I read the letter, and 
waiting for a favorable moment I opened the 
mutter to father. 
“Go to Holyoke!” exclaimed he, “you and 
Frankie Hydb had better stay at home and take 
care of your old fathers.” 
“Judge Hyde has got a wife to take care of 
him, and 1 am sure you don't need anybody but 
Aunt Esther to look after you.” 
“Well, I want you hero for company; do you 
think 1 am going to let every one of my children 
go away?” 
“But I am no company for you, father; you 
haven’t said five words to me in a week, F do 
believe.” 
“Haven’t I? well I ought, that’s a fact 1 have 
got so used to talking to Helen, that 1 never 
realized you was anything but a baby. It is a 
great comfort to me to have you here, and 1 think 
I should be miserable if I couldn’t see you three 
times a day. I’ll toll you what, little one, if you 
go away to school I'll get married, see if 1 don’t;” 
and rny father folded up his paper, thrust it into 
his pocket, and went out of the room, laughing 
and shaking his head at me. So this is to be the 
end of my beloved dream, thought I, sadly, and 
I shed a few tears in secret over this dear dead 
hope of mine, and then put it quietly away; for, 
after all, I had something to console me.- My 
father bad said I was a great comfort to him, and 
this made me very happy; for I have been fool¬ 
ishly jealous of Helen, because she was admitted 
into his confidence, and shared all his plans, while 
I had ouly occasional caresses. 1 see how it has 
been now, and it will not trouble me any longer. 
I can read and study at home, and do a great deal 
that way. I have been reading ancient history 
ever since last winter. It is my favorite study, 
and then 1 wanted to find out about Xenophon. 
But I must not sit here in the clover, dreaming; 
for i cun see Aunt Esther standing in the door 
shading her eyes with her hand, and wondering, 
1 am sure, “where I jury Jane has raced to,” 
She will he sure to lecture me for trampling down 
the grass—just as if it would grow so, all over the 
ground, if it wasn't meant to be stepped on. I 
must pick up the Archbishop out of his nest of 
buttercups and clover, and take him iu my hand 
to ward off her wrath. Good company is a great 
deal. 
June IQtlu —It is all settled at last, and I am 
really to go to Holyoke after all. Yesterday, at 
dinner, father suddenly asked me if I would riot 
like to go to Madame D.’s hoarding school a 
couple of terms, just as well as to Holyoke. You 
would be so near us wo could see you every week, 
and that French Madam will teach you all manner 
of elegant nonsense, that those old maids up in 
Massachusetts never dreamed of.” 
" ( don't want to learn elegant nonsense,” was 
; “1 hate embroidery, and French, and 
but neither Eddy or I can find out the reason. 
Something is troubling him, and if I thought it 
was because I am going from home, I would 
gladly give it all up to see him cheerful again. 
Aug. 20th .—Only a few days more to spend at 
home. 1 have never been away for a long time in 
my life, and now there is a choking in my throat 
whenever I think of a year's absence. Wo arc 
none of us cheerful, and father, I fear, is really 
sick. lie looks miserably, and has scarcely eaten 
for the last two days, yet he goes to his business 
regularly, and says nothing ails him but lassitude 
from the extreme heat 
Aug. 2ZcL —It is as I feared. Yesterday was a 
dreadful day. One fairly gasped in the sultry air, 
that seemed to suffocate everything. Father came 
home from his office utterly exhausted, and, after 
trying in vain to keep up, threw himself upon the 
bed from which he lias not yet risen. 11 c had a 
high fever in the night, and Eddy was anxious to 
call a physician, but father would not allow it 
This morning he seemed better, but too weak to 
rise, and almost all day I have been by his - bed¬ 
side, fanning him, bathing his head, and praying; 
oh, how fervently, for rain to cool this heavy air, 
that seems to come in billows of heat at every 
door and window. 
Aug. ‘Mill. — There was a heavy show'er last 
evening. It was coming up for hours, and the 
masses of black clouds that gradually' shut in 
above us, the intense lightning, and the heavy 
thunder, sent a feeling of awe and dread through 
my heart. Until nearly midnight the rain dashed 
against the window's, and dripped down the panes, 
and this morning the air is clear and cool, and 
everything glitters and sparkles as if it had 
received new life; all the outer world, 1 mean, 
for the wasting fever seems every hour to hold 
with a more terrible grasp my father’s life. What 
its issue will be, no one can tell. We look in 
each other’s faces, and shudder with what we 
read there, yet no one speaks his fear. 
Wellbridge, as a companion for her, and a teacher 
to her little Agnes. She has lost her husband, 
and feels very lonely, beside there are no good 
schools in the vicinity, and Agnes needs instruc¬ 
tion. I have fully decided to go, and am sure 
that the change, and having something to occupy 
my mind, and call out my energies, will be well 
forme in everyway. I am sure there is some¬ 
thing for me to do in the world, and if I can find 
it, I will not shrink from at least attempting it. 
UNDER THE SNOW, 
The sky look* pale, through a misty veil; 
The winter wind wails loud; 
And cloud-shapes grieve, as they rapidly weave 
The cold, still earth a shroud. 
Now, spirits in white, with footstep# light, 
Come trooping down the sky— 
Like the shape* of a dream, or like angels they seem, 
Ah they float to airily by. 
0, the winter snow! the winter snow! 
We loved it once full well! 
And with childish shout, ringing merrily out, 
Hailed the fleecy shower as it fell. 
But now since we kuow that under the snow, 
Hid from the light of day, 
There are treasures fair—treasures most rare. 
In darkness hidden away; 
Our gladness is o’er, and we love no more 
To see the snow-fall come; 
For a heavy clHll, and a sense of ill, 
It brings to our heart and home. 
0, the treasures fair! the treasures eo rare 
Hidden under the snow, 
Are not the sweet flowers that in summer hours 
Set mount and meadow aglow. 
Something more bright to our yearning eight, 
Something far dearer than they 
Is lying low, under the snow, 
On this bleak, sad w inter day. 
If we think with dread of the blossoms dead, 
Under this covering chill, 
What a deeper woe must our sad hearte know 
For that something dearer still! 
O, snow-flakes fair! fall light us air-r 
Fall light and soft, 1 pray, 
On the treasures we yet so wildly regret, 
Buried, and hidden away. [/feme Journal. 
For Moore’# Rural New-Yorker. 
GEAMMATICAL ENIGMA, 
I am composed of 49 letters. 
My 1, 2, 3 is a pronominal adjective. 
My 4, 5, 6 is a common noun. 
My 7, 8, 0 is a verb. 
My 10, 11 is a preposition. 
My 12,13,14,16,10,17 is a noun. 
My 18,19, 20, 21. 22 is an adverb. 
My 23, 24. 25, is a conjunction. 
My 20, 27,28, 29. 30, 31 iB a verb. 
My 32, 33.34, 35, 3G, 37, 38 iB an adverb. 
My 39, 40 is a preposition. 
My 41, 42, 43 is an article. 
My 44, 45. 40, 47, 43, 49 is a noun. 
My whole is one of Poor Richard’s sayings. 
Botbany, N. Y , 1S60. 
ffjr” Answer in two weeks. 
POETICAL ENIGMA. 
All languages I can command 
In learning, yet don’t know a line; 
Without my aid none understand 
A word, not e’u the best divine. 
The lawyer must forget bis pleading, 
Without me, who can kill or save; 
The scholar could not show his reading, 
To whom I ntn an abject slave! 
I grant some thom-and pounds a year, 
• Which only hastens on rny fate; 
I make the beggar of a peer, 
While tha* my life 1 no relate. 
Mv tongue is black, my mouth is furred. 
1 die unpitied and forgot; 
Even now I scarce can force a word, 
And by the wayside I must rot. 
Jfy” Answer in two weeks. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.) 
LYDIA MATIIEWSON’S JOURNAL 
BY EMILY C. HUNTINGTON 
[Continued from page 28, last number ] 
June 7th. —Home again, and seated with feelings 
of real pleasure in my own quiet room, with the 
maple boughs nestling close up to the window, and 
half shutting out the long reaches of meadow and 
upland beyond. 1 had a delightful visit, but so 
crowded with pleasant incidents, so many walks, 
and rides, and excursions, that, after the first day 
or two, T did nut touch my journal, ft was too 
much for my indolent pen to record all, and 1 
could make no selections. 1 had a warm welcome 
home from every member of the family, and that 
is worth a great deal. Since tea 1 have answered 
questions, mid talked till 1 am fairly tired out, aud 
it seemed so good to get away from it all, aud sit 
down hero alone,to think a little. There is music 
somewhere near us, an unusual thing for our quiet 
street, Horne devoted Jover is playing the guitar 
under what he imagines to be Mary Fowler’s 
window. It would damp bis ardor considerably 
if he only knew that Miss Mary is not even in 
town, and that the light, which appeared in 
response to his serenade, was placed iu the win¬ 
dow by the big, red hands of Bkidcet, avIio, no 
doubt, is listening behind the curtain, with a grin 
of admiration. 
I wish some one would come and serenade me. 
Isjt rue see — 1 would like a flute; no, a rich voice 
to sing, and a guitar accompaniment I think I 
will write a song that my lover should sing, stand¬ 
ing just in the shadow of the maple: 
Over the dewy hills, moonlight is creeping, 
lip in her chamber still, my love is sleeping, 
ller white arms are tossing in dreams on her pillow, 
Light as the foam on the crest of a billow. 
Angels, go watch where she softly reposes. 
Fairer than lilies, and sweeter than roses ; 
Winds of the summer night, murmur above her, 
II Look from your lattice, aud smile on your lover.” 
There, I think that would do if it were well 
sung; and yet, after all, I do not kuow of a mortal 
being in whose mouth it would not be mockery, 
if addressed to me. It is a fact, I never had a 
lover, or even an ordinarily attentive beau, while 
half the girls of my acquaintance can count them 
by sixes. 1 believe there is not a single attractive 
or fascinating quality about me. Well, 1 may some 
day be loved, if 1 am never admired; at least I 
will try to be worthy of love, such love as would 
satisfy me. 
June 11th.—All the morning, as I was busy help¬ 
ing Aunt Esther make the pies, I stole longing 
glances towards the south orchard, where the 
clover rolled into green billows as the wind went 
over it, arid the trunks of the trees, like grey old 
sentinels, stood half knee deep m the grassy sea. 
This afternoon a neighbor dropped in, to gossip 
over her knitting work with my aunt, so I took 
my journal and stole away to the orchard. I have 
been looking over a book that I found upon my 
table, a present from Aunt Esther, aud endorsed 
by her as every word “ true as gospel .” It is 
“ Fenei.on on the Education of Daughters.” I 
opened it with duo reverence, and the first pas¬ 
sage my c-yc fell upon was this:—“A young lady 
ought never to speak except when there is a real 
necessity for it, and then she should speak with an 
air of doubt and deference; she should not give her 
sentiments on stthjtrls that are above the capacity of 
ordinary young Indies, evert though she should herself 
wax' 
LARD 
ANSWER TO PRIZE REBUS. 
When you in-eap-ass-il-ate the sea-ties-ends of this 
rip-hub-lick from thair in-Jli-n- Able rye-loc-fritic-pcach 
you in-atck-curatc an-arc-key and in-car-cerate thief. 
or(*)-m-ojlea-bur('\)-tie. 
When you incapacitate the citizens of this republic 
from their iuulieirble right of free speech, you inaugurate 
anarchy amt iuearcerate the form of liberty. 
* The heraldic manner of expressing gold (or) in engraving. 
t The butt emi of the lance used in tournament., in called 
a bur. 
No correct answer received in response to offer. 
my answer 
daucing; but I want a real practical education, 
that will be something to rely upon. Who knows 
but I may have to make my living by teaching 
yet?” My father tried to- smile, but he looked 
troubled, and so I said, “ I will not ask to go 
away if you want me here. I have given that all 
up now.” 
Nothing more was said about it, until to-day he 
came to me and told me he had concluded that, if 
I did not change my mind before fall, I might go 
to school. “You are right about it," said he; 
“no one knows what may happen iu this world, 
and you may need it yet.” I don't know what to 
make of it, hat Aunt Esther did not say one word 
against my going, when I told her of it, and only 
remarked, “well, make the most of your privileges 
while you have them.” 
i must spend every leisure moment this sum¬ 
mer in study and preparation, so I shall not touch 
you again, inv old journal, unless to record some 
important event, until I make an entry at Holyoke. 
Aug. 15 Ik —I must break my resolution, and 
write once more from my sweet home, which I 
begin to dread leaving for new scenes. Eddy has 
been at home all summer, aud has helped me 
much with my studies; for, since lie knows 
Frankie is going to Holyoke, his ideas of pro¬ 
priety have greatly changed, aud he heartily 
approves of the plan. Frankie writes mo often, 
and her letters are a great pleasure to me. Last 
spring when 1 was there, little Wallace, who 
cannot talk plainly, gave me the name of “ Lilly;” 
ANSWERS TO ENIGMAS, &c., IN NO. 522. 
Answer to Biblical Enigma:—The way of the transgres¬ 
sor is hard. 
Answer to Geographical Enigma:—Ornithorhyncus. 
Answer to Arithmetical Problem:—$537 ,4058. 
Answer to Mathematical Enigma:—$5.36. or, more ex¬ 
act. $9 .359570835. Length of outside furrows, 29 .5384 
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For Special Notices, Ac., see preceding page. 
a bed m it, and serves lorn “ spare room, ’ in tunes 
of need. 
Aug. 20th .—My school hangs wearily upon my 
hands this sultry weather. 1 am thinking, too, 
almost constantly, of the dreadful scenes of last 
summer, and the pain seems little dulled by the 
lapse of time. [To be continued.] 
