[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
MIDNIGHT MUSING. 
has been hansekeeper and commander-in-chief 
over this house, and everybody in it, not excepting 
my father, for more years than I have lived. She 
was some distant relative of my father’s, and as 
she was homeless and destitute, and ray mother’s 
heulth was delicate, they offered her a home with 
them, and we children grew up to call her Aunt 
Esther. 
I was born upon New Year’s day, and in less 
than a twelve-month my mother died. “ She used 
to call you her New Year's Gift,” said Aunt 
Esther once in her snappish way, “but a sorry 
gift you whs to anybody. Y’our poor mother never 
1 saw a well day, and T am sure the world will never 
he any better off for forty such.” 
May be it never will, but 1 think if my mother 
hud lived, things would have been very different 
with me. I am sure I should have been more 
gentle and patient, and her hand would have found 
enough germH of good in my nature to train over 
all its natural roughness, and make me lovely, at 
least to loving eyes. 
My father loves me, T think, but he is an easy, 
well-to-do man of business, and, if all seems to he 
going Smoothly, never troubles his head about me 
any farther. 
Then there is Helen, but she is almost four 
years older than I, and is too much taken up with 
CliARLKY Andrews to bestow much attention 
upon me; besides, nothing could convince tier 
that 1 am anything more than a child. I am glad 
she is going to be married so soon, and then I 
shall be Miss Mathkwson instead of “my sister 
Lydia,” and then we shall see if'everybody comes 
go to studying Latin and Greek, and Mathematics, 
he •would not give a rye straw for five hundred of 
them. Aunt Esther says she never studied any¬ 
thing except what was taught in the district 
school, and one year in a boarding-school, where 
they taught her to work her sampler, paint in 
water colors, and turn out her toes when she 
walked. Father will be satisfied if I ever make 
as good a housekeeper and as useful a woman as 
Aunt Esther, and I suppose I oughtto be satisfied, 
but somehow 1 can't. I should like to be all that, 
and something more — 1 don’t know exactly whut, 
and I can’t tell how, and so I only wait and hope. 
This ia my birth-day — my eighteenth birth-day. 
Aunt Ertiirk hopes now I will leave off my trifling 
ways, and try to be useful. Helen hopes I shall 
stop romping nod learn to be a little more lady¬ 
like. And 1 — I, too. have hopes, hid away in my 
heart, whose fulfillment lies far oil' in that solemn 
future to which roy life is tending. 1 do not think 
looked clearly out npou that poor desolate heart. 
It was but a very little time, and then it was as 
dark and silent as ever, but I had a glimpse into 
it, and T shall always remember. It happened in 
this way: 
Helen’s bridal dress was sent home from the 
city this afternoon. It was perfectly exquisite, 
for Helen's taste in dress is faultless, and as I 
could not persuade her to try it on for my gratifi¬ 
cation, T determined to put it on myself. So I 
came into the room, where Helen and Aunt 
F. 8 TITER were sitting, in full costume, veil and all. 
Helen complimented my appearance with unusual 
warmth for her, and I think was secretly pleased 
at the beauty of the dress, but Aunt Esther 
actually turned pale, and after looking at me a 
moment, took me abruptly by the arm, and led me 
in front of the large mirror. She stood there a 
fall minute beside me, evidently comparing my 
figure with her own, and indeed, if 1 had not been 
too much astonished, I should have smiled-at the 
strange appearance we made together. A look of 
real pain came over her face, as Bhe turned from 
the mirror, saying, “No, no. No one wonld 
believe it—1 can hardly realize it myself, and yet 
it is true that I was once just a8 yonng and fresh 
as you are, this minute, and wore wedding robes 
too, as white as those, instead of these black”- 
She stopped and hurried from the room, leaving 
Helen and me in perfect astonishment, 
“What has happened; what does she mean?” 
I asked in a bewildered way. 
“I am sure I don’t know,” was Helen’s answer; 
“most likely we uever shall know anything more 
about it.” Then, after a moment, “You had 
better put the dress away, Lydia —it would he a 
pity to injure it to-night—and light the lamps in 
the parlor, for it is nearly time for father to come 
home.” 
So easily Helen dismissed from her mind this 
strange revelation that had flashed across our 
even life; but not so with me. I pondered on it 
all the time I was removing the wedding dress, 
and laying it away in its wrappings; and then I 
resumed ray plain merino, that looked dark and 
heavy enough, in contrast with the glistening silk 
and delicate laces, and went slowly down to the 
parlor. Maggik had been before me, for the 
lamps were lighted, and father sat by the table 
reading. He looked up as I entered, and gave me 
a letter for Aunt Esther. I was glad to carry it 
to her, for T secretly hoped to learn more of 
what had so startled me. Her door was partly 
open, and, as she took no notice of tny knock, I 
stood looking at her a moment, and then entered 
the room. Kim was kneeling beside an ohl- 
fashioncd, hair-covered trunk, that 1 had never 
seen open before in all my recollection. On a 
chair beside her lay a veil of white lace, heavily 
wrought, and in her hands she was holding up a 
dress of fine cambric, but of a strange fashion, 
and yellow with age. 
“It looks odd and forlorn enough now,” she 
Said, more to herself than to me, “but! remember 
it was handsome then, and 1 felt proud enough of 
it. My veil, too, every stitch of it worked by my 
own fingers; nobody would think they had ever 
been white and delicate enough Ibr such work. 
It is just like ine, though, and I littlo thought 
when I sat working the flowers into it, that we 
should both be saved tip useless so many years 
only for other folks to laugh at.” She begun to 
put away the things, smoothing the folds nervous¬ 
ly, and looking so sad all the time, that I felt as if 
something in my throat were choking me, and I 
could not speak. So 1 stood there, still holding 
the letter, while she opened a little box containing 
some dried flowers, and a plain gold ring. She 
put the ring on her finger, hut it was far too 
large, and easily dropped back into the box. “It 
fitted me once,” she said, “ and these dead things 
were roses, white races, gathered for a wedding 
thirty years ago. There is’nt sweetness enough 
left to tell that they were roses; that is like me, 
too. Ah, well!” She shut the trunk and locked 
it, and put the key in her bosom, and then 1 gave 
her the letter: hut she did not open it, or seem to 
really know that she held it in her hand. “It is 
strange,” she began, after a moment, “how all 
this has tome over me to-night. 1 have not 
opened that trunk lbr twenty years, and never 
meant to open it again, but something, I think it 
was your dressing up in those wedding clothes, 
brought it all back so fresh, 1 could not help 
going to look at it once more. I'm glad I did. 
I’ve got so old, and seen so much trouble, that 
sometimes I forget it was ever any different with 
me. I never was handsome, like Helen, but I 
was just such a headstrong, quick-hearted thing 
as you are, and one reason why 1 am so apt to be 
impertinent with you, is that you arc always 
reminding me of my young days, and bringing 
back things that I want to forget. I'm uot fit to 
The midnight hour in brooding near 
With noinelcw wing, 
And blackness, like a Rallied tiler, 
Veils everything, 
While silence, voiceless ns the tomb, 
Adds something fearful to the gloom. 
I scarce know why,—but still it seems 
I cannot sleep; 
Though all aronnd are wrapt in dreams, 
Or's! urn berg deep,— 
There’s something nameless in my son] 
That spurns such idle, still control. 
It is not rage,—for in my heart 
No thought* I find 
That are at war with any part 
Of frail mankind,— 
No, I could quickly sink to rest, 
With all the hate that’s in my breast. 
It is not care, for little see* 
My brow its blight,— 
It is not pain—hands of disease 
Rest on me light,— 
Nor is it grief,—my griefs are few,— 
And disappointments—they are, too. 
It must be level—’tis no such thing. 
Who ever heard 
That faded flowers grow fresh again? 
That it. absurd. 
Spring may bring back each tint and name, 
Jtut those as sued, are not the same. 
Yet it is love,—the Angels’ theme 
That (ills my ipind; 
Bright, holy, beautiful, they seem, 
Thoughts undefined. 
01 Heavenly Minstrels, tune the string 
And touch the yearning heart to sing! 
For 0! I love nil things on Earth, 
And all above; 
Each object Nature giveth birth 
Is worthy love,— 
If not within itself, ’twould be 
For sake of Ilim who gave it me. 
Then teach me that I breathe some strain, 
In this still hour, 
That might tie echoed back again 
With geutte power, 
When my earth-form has ceased to be, 
And the chained spirit is set free, 
I wonld not sing for glittering gold,— 
Cold that will rust; 
Nor yet to please the world so cold,— 
A world of dust! 
Nor would 1 strive for earthly fame,— 
What signifies an empty name? 
Then, though 1 fail to please the world, 
1 would not sing 
Like some, lone bird, which Fate had hurled. 
With broken wing, 
On Earth’s cold bosom,—out of sight 
From those who soar in life and light; 
But, joying in the boundless space 
Of lilne above, 
I’d seek a higher, brighter place 
To sing my love, 
Not paring downward would I poor 
My praise, hut vpicard sing and soar; 
For He to whom ull praise is duo, 
Dwellcth above; 
He to whom nothing can bo new 
Is il God of Love,”— 
And, since my “ treasures ” are with Tiiek, 
Fountain op T.ife, my heart shall be. 
Prattslrargh, N. Y., 1S69. G. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
CLASSICAL ENIGMA. 
I ah composed of 20 letters. 
My 1 , 2 , 12 . 2 is a lAtin noun of the third declension. 
My 6 ,12, 2 is an active verb of the first conjugation. 
My 12, 2, 3,11, 4 is an active verb of the second conjuga¬ 
tion. 
My 13, 14 Is a conjunction. 
My 7, 8 , 9, 11,10 ia a nonn of the third declension. 
My 15,10 ,17 19,18 19 also a noun of tho third declension, 
and ig intimately conuected with my 7 , 8 , 9 , 11 , 10 . 
My 3, 4, 5, 20 ,11 is a noun of the first declension 
My 20,16, 7 are abbreviations of Marcus, Aulug, and Pu¬ 
blius. 
My whole is one of the ten commandments. 
Lobo, Middlesex Co., C. W., 1859. Jacobus L. 
13?” Answer in two weeks. 
PRIZE ILLUSTRATED REBUS. 
it is So strangely unruffled. I remember whcD she 
first told me of this sudden arrangement. I wag 
so much excited 1 could hardly listen until ehe was 
through explaining the reasons, and how calmly 
she said, “Now don’t get excited about it, Lydia, 
for you will never accomplish anything if you do. 
I think we had bettor finish these shirts for father 
and Edward the first of anything, so they can go 
into the wash on Monday, ami I want you to see 
to doing them up yourself, us 1 have always done.” 
I sat there on the lloor at her feet, with my 
arms folded in my lap, and looked in her face 
WonderJngly. Not one hit hurried, every pulse 
beating as regularly as ever, she was the same 
calm, thoughtful Helen. I took my sewing with 
a little sigh, I can hardly tell for what, but 1 felt 
disappointed about something; 1 think it was this: 
1 have dreumod much of love. I suppose, all 
girts do, sooner or later, vaguely, perhaps, but as 
something that should glorify and illumine life. 
1 have thought these hearts of ours were temples, 
into whoso outer courts the world came daily; but 
that Some time in every human life, its High Priest 
came to it; privileged to enter into its Holy of 
Holies, and kindle the fires upon the altar there. 
1 have thought that thr,, the heart would stand 
transfigured by a new glory, and that something 
of this would he visible in all its outward mani¬ 
festations. 1 have thought, into quiet hearts like 
IIblen’h, this love eh- id come like a limitless 
flood, and I looked to see something of it brim¬ 
ming over from Ijp to eye, and so 1 was disap¬ 
pointed. 
We sat and sewed in silence. Helen’s active 
fingers flew over the work like magic; mine, 1 
must confess, dragged a little. “ Helen,” 1 usked 
at last, from a sudden impulse, “ do you realty 
love Charley Andrews ?” 
" Of course I love him,” was the quiet answer, 
“or I should not marry him; nobody compels me 
to. You are stitching that wristband miserably, 
Lydia; do for once give your mind to your 
work.” 
I am not given to tears, but that morning I felt 
so miserably, 1 was so much perplexed ami 
troubled, that I could not help crying; and when 
Helen noticed it, she was more astonished at me 
than 1 had been at her. it did not last very long, 
for there was to be company at dinner, and Aunt 
Esther presently called me to help her. 1 liked 
that better. It was beating eggs, and stoning 
raisins, and rolling sugar, till my arms ached, 
and my head was fairly dizzy, but anything was 
more endurable than quiet. To be sure I brought 
Aunt Esther a bottle of olive oil to flavor the 
cake with, instead of rose water, and made a few 
such blunders, till she declared 1 acted like “all 
possessed,” but it did’nt trouble me as it does 
sometimes, and 1 really tried to do the best I 
could. It has been just so oyer since, only, if 
possible, father grows graver, Helen calmer, 
Aunt Esther more hurried, ami I more bewilder¬ 
ed. Poor Maggie is so overwhelmed by the sud¬ 
den avalanche of work, and the constant calls for 
her stout arms, sometimes in two or three direc¬ 
tions at once, that her Irish wits are completely 
exhausted. “ ludadc," said she to-day, us Aunt 
Esther called her from the cellar, and Helen 
from the dining-room, at the same moment, 
“there was Diver such times in this house before. 
It’s all officers and no men, aud how shall a body 
mind so many orders.” 
Two days more will end this excitement, and, 
in the meantime, Eddy is coming; and that will 
put new life into us all. I wonder if 1 shall ever 
call him Edward. Helen doer., aud she says it 
sounds so silly and babyish in me to call him, 
Eddy, as if he was a little boy. 
To each of tho thnii? persons (residing out of this city,) 
sending us the first correct answers to above Rebus, 
within two w lick si. we will send u good Gold Pen (post 
jKiid,) or the Rural New-Yorker for 1860. Taken all in 
nil, it is supposed to be the best Rebus ever published. 
Try it, you who have a genius for the solution of knotty 
problems. 
£ 3 ?“Answer in three weeks. 
» For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
ALGEBRAICAL PROBLEM. 
A PARMER bought a number of sheep, which, together 
with the increase the first year, amounted to a number 
equal to the square of the number purchased. After¬ 
wards, be lost, by disease, three times the number of the 
original shoep, and the number remaining was equal to 
twice the square root of the same. How many sheep did 
he buy? G. H. F. 
Murray, Orleans Co., N. Y., 1859. 
Answer in two weeks. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
LYDIA MATIIEWSOH’S JOURNAL 
IIY EMILY C. HI NTINGTON 
Jan. 1st, 18—. I think I am a heroine. I have 
always thought so, ever since my tow-colored hair 
was long enough to be tied up with pink ribbons, 
in two littlo horns on each side of my forehead. 
I was fully convinced of it when 1 grew bigger, 
and crept up into the dusty garret to read the 
“Arabian Nights Entertainment;” and, now that 
I have reached 1 lie mature age of eighteen, my 
belief is as settled as over. To he sure, nothing 
very remarkable lias happened to me yet, but then 
I have always been unfavorably situated. What 
chance have I for a respectable adventure! 
I am neither handsome nor downright homely, 
but just moderately good-looking. My hands and 
feet are certainly net small, and my hair could 
never be coaxed into a curl; it is as uneompro¬ 
mising in its way as were tho stiff-necked old 
Puritans, in the days of Charles the First. This 
circumstance was always a grief to me, for I think 
1 never read of a heroine whose head was uot at 
least adorned by rippling waves of hair, aud after 
abandoning curl papers in despair, 1 tried braiding 
mine of nights, until, what, with the tight slrain, 
that would hardly let tny eyes shut together, and 
the uncomfortable feeling of the hard braids be¬ 
tween my soft bead and the softer pillow, 1 was 
forced to the conviction that it was of no use at all. 
I have had other trials — for instance my name. 
Now I don’t object to Lydia. It is of ancient 
origin, and has a pleasant enough sonud—looks 
well written, too—but people will persist in call¬ 
ing it “ Linny.” Fifty times a day I hear it, and 
as if that was not had enough, Aunt Esther 
always calls mo "Liddy Jane.” Aunt Esther— 
she is another of my trials. I don’t believe she 
ever was a girl. I am sure she must have been 
born with that snnffy-brown foretop of false hair, 
and her cross face, that looks like the dolls’ heads 
we used to make out of walnuts. I never con¬ 
trived any nice plan for enjoying myself that she 
did not contrive to upset Bhe thinks all girls 
are Billy, all children nuisances, and all men the 
legitimate descendants of the very father of evil. 
Bhe is not my Aunt there is some comfort in that 
for it leaves me the privilege of saying ugly 
things about her to you, my dear Journal, but she 
ANSWERS TO ENIGMAS, & c„ IN NO. 519, 
Answer to Miscellaneous Enigma:—Harper’s Ferry In¬ 
surrection. 
Answer to Aerosticn.1 Enigma:—An Acrostical Enigma. 
Answer to Mathematical Problem:—3 .215388 inches. 
Answer to Arithmetical Question:—12 Calves, 12 Sheep 
and 16 Lambs. 
Answer to Illustrated Enigma:—Young ladies adore the 
mirror, fancy extra diamonds in rings, and watch the 
handsome beaux. 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER, 
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the British Provinces, our Canadian agents and friends must 
add 12 A cents per copy to the club rutOn of tho Rural — 
The lowest price of copies sent to Europe, Ac., 's $2,50—in¬ 
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to any part of this State, and 6 cents to auv other State, if 
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13 5 - For Special Notices, Ac., see preceding page. 
lie always calls 
mo Sis, and says Lydia is only fit for an old 
maid. It was Eddy who shared my childish 
sports, and who is shrined deepest in my heart's 
love now, and ho can never bo any one else to 
me; not even Edward. 
I have had a glimpse into a strange place 
to-day—T mean Aunt Esther's heart. It has 
been so long shut up and darkened, the windows 
have been so barred and bolted, that mould has 
gathered thickly over the walls. Yet to-day it 
was thrown open a little while to the sunlight, 
and memory went wandering through all its 
silent chambers, brushing away the dust and 
cobwebs from the pictures banging there, and for 
a little blessed time their sweet familiar faces 
