(Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
SPRING IN THE CITY. 
rwritten for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.) 
OLD BACHELORS. 
tively vicious*. Persons generally imbibe the 
character of those with whom they associate, 
and no one can be much of a novel reader with¬ 
out constantly being brought into communion 
with the vilest characters. True, some novelists 
try to represent their heroes as Christians; but 
their Christianity is generally very different from 
that of the New Testament. It is evident that 
most novelists know very Uttlc about either 
Christianity or virtue. See intends to represent, 
the Prince, who figures so largely in “The Mys¬ 
teries of Paris,” as a paragon of virtue, yet how 
defective is his moral character. Many of the 
otberjpersonageh that arc represented in that tale, 
are monsters, whose originals could only have 
been found in Pandemonium,—or Paris. Can the 
mind be brought into daily intercourse with such 
characters as frequently appear in the writings of 
Dickens, without drinking in of their spirit? 
Did the youthful reader of the pages of Scott, or 
Bcj.wer, ever fail to close one of their volumes, 
with less detestation of vice than he possessed 
when he opened it? 
There is no necessity that persons should spend 
tlieir time in the perusal of works of fiction, for 
there are books enough that combine a pure mor¬ 
al tendency, with a high degree of literary merit, 
to furnish reading matter to all who desire it la 
it no sin for ns to waste our time in reading works 
that weaken the intellect, while the vast fields of 
knowledge that stretch out before us remain un¬ 
explored? What novel can be more fascinating 
than Macaulay’s History of England, or Irving’s 
Conquest of Grenada? It will be time enough to 
turn to novels when there are not works enough 
that afford both pleasure and profit at the same 
time. B. L. Leonard. 
Butler, Wisconsin, i860. 
BY J V'. IIAIU1EK 
I’m thinking of the golden light 
That rests upon the smiling hills; 
fm listening for tb« Joyous song 
That rises from the gushing rills,— 
Those beauteous scenes of long-ago 
Lie spread before my fancy’s eye, 
And, tinged with all their wonted hues, 
The mountains kiss the bending sky. 
Oft, as the'first glad light of Spring 
Went wandering ’mid the laughing grove, 
And Nature, long in dreary sleep, 
Seemed listening to some words of Love; 
Oft, as the flowers began to bloom, 
And birds their lively carols Bang, 
My very soul seemed touched with life, 
And lips and heart the chorus rang. 
But here, in vaio, the glorious sun 
Seems struggling through a misty vail. 
Nor bird, nor slrearn, nor laughing grove, 
Give music to the stifled gale. 
These stately domes, where human life 
la found in every varied form, 
Forever cast their rable shade. 
And intercept the glorious morn. 
The mid-day sun will wauder down 
Wlwre panting, piniug mortals dwell, 
And bless, with momentary bliss, 
These captives iu their spacious cell; 
But glowing moru, or gorgeous eve, 
Can never cheer the weary heart, 
Nor Nature, with her thousand tongues, 
Her richer melody impart, 
9 
I’m straying by the babbling brook 
In morning’s glad and cheerful light; 
Or gazing on the purple gleanw 
That bathe the blushing brow of night. 
1 m snatching from the velvet knoll, 
Spring’* early born,—or, through the woods, 
Am seeking for the beautiful 
Amid the sweetest solitudes. 
Then sing amid your rural homes, 
By singing stream, or smiling bill, 
Where glowing morn and gorgeous eve 
The sweetest wreaths of bliss distil. 
AllT never, in your green retreats. 
Can ye desire our prison home, 
Where ne’er a gladsome soDg is heard, 
Or fragrant breezes ever come. 
Buffalo, N. Y., 1860. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
IN MEMORIAM. 
This wind that cools my burning brow, 
What blessed peace it brings! 
Aa if this summer air were stirred 
By countless angel-wings. 
As if onr Christ had softly laid 
His hand upon iny brow. 
The SffKPHEiin’s voice, the Master's words, 
I hear them even now. 
It is not strange—this golden light 
That plays above my head; 
Are not the angels of the Lord 
Encamped around my bed? 
I seem to pres* some Calvary cross, 
Outstretched upon my bed; 
And now I only wait to hear 
The “It is finished” said. 
Yes, through there days that tarry long. 
These silent nights, I wait; 
I only wait a little while 
The opening of the gate. 
I know that I am Dear the gate, 
For when night comes again, 
And lights in Heaven’s w ide windows flash 
Behind each sapphire pane; 
'Tis then my pillow, hard and rough, 
Another Bethel seems; 
I sleep, but all the night £ watch 
The aogelB in my dreams. 
They flash along this heavenly way, 
As if to Heaven's broad door, 
A vine bad climbed tip through the sky, 
And white-winged blossoms bore. 
So now I know my home is near, 
That I am near the gate; 
I only fold my hands iu prayer, 
Then knock, and knocking—wait! 
Knickerbocker Magazine 
They tel! me thou art dead, 
And yet, beloved friend, to me it eeemB 
Like the dark visions of a midnight dream, 
Which, when the morning comes, 
Will all be fled. 
If, when I saw thee last, 
A revelation had to me been given, 
That vhon we met again ’(would be in heaven, 
More bitter tears had flown; 
But now ‘tis past. 
I weep that thou, so soon, 
With all life’s pleasures bright before thee yet, 
Shouldst pass away,—thy star so early set, 
A (lower that ope'd ut morn, 
And died at noon. 
I weep for thy dear friends. 
No more thy beaming eye, or gentle voice, 
Or loving words, shall make tbeir hearts rejoice. 
Alas! each earthly hope 
In sorrow ends. 
And yet our tears are vain! 
The golden doors have been unclosed for thee, 
Of our Father’s house “ where the many mansions” 
And there, life's conflict o'er, 
We’ll meet again. 
Thy dying words were dear! 
When loved ones round thee stood, in anguish wild 
And one said, “Thou art near to Heaven, my child,’ 
How sweet was thy reply, 
“ Yes, Heaven is near.” 
Ashtabula, Ohio, 1860. 
SUCCESS IN LIFE. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.l 
WOMEN WILL HAVE THEIR WAY. 
to his known integrity of character. “ Hence it 
was,” he says, “ that I hail so innch weight with 
my fellow citizens. I was l»ut a bad speaker, 
never eloquent, subject to much hesitation in my 
choice of words, hardly correct in language, and 
yet I generally curried my point.” Character 
creates confidence in men in high station as well 
as in humble life. It was said of the lirst Empe¬ 
ror Alexander of Rnssia, that his personal char¬ 
acter was equivalent to a constitution. During 
the wars of the Fronde, Montaigne was the only 
man among the French gentry who kept his 
castle gates unbarred; and it was said of him, 
that his personal character was worth more to 
him than a regiment of horse. 
That character is power, is true in a much 
higher sense than that knowledge is power.— 
Mind without heart, intelligence without condnct, 
cleverness without goodness, are powers in their 
way, but they may he powers only for mischief.— 
We may be instructed or amused by them; but it 
is sometimes as difficult to admire them as it 
would he to admire the dexterity of a pickpocket, 
or the horsemanship of a highwayman. Truth¬ 
fulness, integrity, and goodness,—qualities that 
hang not on any man’s breath,—form the essence 
of manly character, or, as one of our old writers 
has it, “that inbred loyalty unto Virtue which can 
serve her without a livery.” When Stephen, of 
Colonna, fell into the hands of his base assail¬ 
ants, and they asked him, in derision, “Where is 
now your fortress?” " Here,” was his bold reply, 
placing his hand upon his heart. It is in misfor¬ 
tune that the character of the upright man shines 
forth with the greatest lustre; and when all else 
fails, he takes stand upon his integrity and 
courage. 
“Sarah, do, for mercy sake, think what you 
are about! Can’t you let your husband have a 
moment's peace, when he is in the house? Must 
yon he dinging and fretting about something or 
other? No wonder be has gone ont! I’d not 
stay to hear such an everlasting harping and 
stewing ns you make about nothing! You’re 
enough to drive a man to the grog shop, and if 
you hadn’t the best husband that ever lived, and 
the noblest of men, he’d never have lived with 
you till this time!” 
“Why, my dear, outraged brother! you are 
lashing me right and left. What have 1 said, 
now? I meant to scold him; he might have gone 
and got upAhis team, and taken Mao. and me to 
town, as well as not He’s bo ’fraid I'll run him 
in debt at the store, and get Mag., or me, some 
finery. We might just as well have some nice 
clothes and things, as the Joneses and Simpsons, 
and others. No sense in our staying here and 
moping ourselves to death, ’cause we can’t go 
out and look as well as our neighbors! and T, for 
one, won’t stand it much longer, I assure you!” 
“Stand it! you won’t |tand anywhere a great 
while, if yon go to flaring around. George has 
paid for his little farm^jy the closest economy 
and hard labor, and yon know, very well, he was 
never robast and tough, and needs now to manage 
closely to keep his home and a roof above your 
heads. You’d be a great sight better off, if you 
had this place mortgaged for a few gewgaws and 
trinkets. Do he reasonable, Sarah, 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE PAST. 
Gone, forever gone, from us, is the past, with 
all its joys and sorrows, its pleasures and pains.— 
Never again, hut in memory, sliall we grow happy 
in the sunlight of its pleasures, or bow beneath 
the weight of it« affiicting hand. Yet, at times, 
we love to wander hack through its desolate halls, 
and imagine thorn again peopled with their former 
inhabitants. We love to go back to childhood’s 
happy home, aud imagine ourselves surrounded 
by those who were our companions, when onr 
highest ambition was some school-boy triumph, 
and our greatest grief no more lasting than a 
summer’s day. We pause and consider if the 
hopes of those happy hearts that surrounded us 
in youth have been realized,—if, in the great 
battle of life, they have achieved the triumphs 
they anticipated. Ambition, the guiding star of 
youih, seemed to point an easy path to fame’s 
summ^ Hope (vhispered sweet words to the 
panting heart, and all was joy and gladness. But 
we pause not^long for reflection, — a grassy 
mound, beside the stream where often we had 
wandered, points the resting place of some,—and 
anticipations never realized tell the fate of many 
still numbered with the living. 
Yet, how instructive are the simple records of 
the past There is a lesson read to us from out 
their midst that is not to be mistaken. As we re¬ 
view the season of youth, we may learn this les¬ 
son from itB departure,—life is fast passing away, 
and before we are aware of it, another stage of 
existence will be ushered upon us. Let us re¬ 
member that hope gleams out from every action 
of a well-spent life, and happiness is only found 
in doing good. J. A. Smith. 
Geneva, Wig,, 1860. 
(Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
NOVEL READING. 
Tri e as Solomon’s declaration,—“Of making 
many hooks there is no end,”—may have been in 
his time, it is still more so to-day; and, perhaps, 
no age has produced more books than the present. 
Many of these are of great value, and their publi¬ 
cation is a blessing to the world; while others 
cannot be perused without detriment to heart and 
mind. Pre-eminent among the latter class stands 
the modern novel. 
Novel reading weakens the intellect The men¬ 
tal powers cannot bo strengthened by any pro¬ 
cess that fails to tax their energies, and every 
book that fosters mental indolence, weakens the 
mind. Who will claim that novel reading tasks 
the intellect. Dickens’ and Lover's writings can 
he understood without any great exertion of men¬ 
tal power. One finds no subtantial food for the 
intellect in Sum's novels. The reading of works 
of fiction also weakens the mind, by keeping it 
employed upon trivial objects. Silly love stories 
are the material of which most novels are com¬ 
posed, and the execution is, generally, on a par 
witli the plan. Most novelists would have hut 
few readers, if their popularity depended upon 
the real literary merit of their works. And, does 
not the mental character of most readers become 
assimilated to that of their favorite authors? 
The advocates of novel reading assert, that 
works of this kind often eliarm the young into a 
love of reading, which they would not otherwise 
possess. In one sense, this may be true! It may 
beget a love for light and trifling reading, hut 
those who read the most novels, generally pay the 
least attention to works of sterling merit. The 
Waverly Novels may tit the young to Jove those of 
Ingraham and Licfakp, hut they never yet led 
any one to study the writings of Chalmers or 
Miller. Let one who bus been accustomed to 
the perusal of books which tax all the energies of 
the mind, commence reading novels, and it will 
seldom be long before his interest in works of a 
more solid character begins to diminish. Can 
such a process take place without weakening the 
intellect? 
Novels unfit their readers for the duties of life. 
They feed the imagination much more than either 
the reason or the heart. 
Bristol, Kenosha Co., Wis., 1S>0. 
BABY TALK. 
I AM not exalting trifles, when I remark that 
what is termed baby talk, at least, when addressed 
to children old enough to understand and imitate 
it, is detestable. The parents must remember 
that, when the child can comprehend one word, 
its education is begun. The mother, especially, 
is called to officiate as professor of languages in 
the domestic university. But who, in teaching 
a foreigner the English language, would say to 
him, that until he becomes farther advanced, he 
must call a horse a “horses," and a dog a “bow¬ 
wow," and that for the present he will address his 
maternal parent as his “mudder?” This seems 
sufficiently ridiculous, hut this is not all; it would 
he unjust to the learner. It would leach him pro¬ 
nunciations which ho must unlearn as labori¬ 
ously as he learned them. You would thus, in 
fact, double his task. 
The folly and the injnsticc are the same, when 
you teach a little child to speak a distorted, man¬ 
gled, burlesque language, ol' which it becomes 
ashamed when oldor, and tries to unlearn it. I 
object to this clipped and barbarized English be¬ 
cause it involves a waste of time, and of brain¬ 
power, and patience, 
Besides, if 
Maggie wants some notions, why does she not 
make some effort to earn them in some way?” 
“Fred Dickson! Mag. go out to work! That 
would be a pretty affair! You make a grand 
financier!” 
“1 did not say, ’ go out to work;’ I said, earn 
something—and why not? Her father is not too 
good to 'go out to work’ by the day or job, or 
any way, when he can get employment and pay. 
You have nice distinctions. That is the way. iu 
these days. Father may dig and delvo in the 
sod, or behind the counter, or in the office, and 
mother may cook and wash the dishes, hut the 
dear, lovely daughters, must finger the piano, aud 
wear the fixin's, and play the (dis)agreeable to 
something or nothing.” 
“O, well, Fred, it'll do for you to go on that 
way, just as you ulways do. You never did think 
nor act a bit like anybody else, but. it won’t pass 
with mo. What J know. 1 know, and if George 
aint a mind to go ont with us, or get ns anything, 
/can do it, and he may pay for it. If he is not 
able to, he ought to be. I don't see why he could 
not have plenty of money, as well as our neigh- 
THE FOLLY OF THE DAY, 
There is a dreadful ambition abroad for being 
“genteel.” We keep up appearances too often 
at the expense of honesty; and, though we may 
not be rich, yet we must seem to be “respect¬ 
able,” though only in the meanest sense,—iu mere 
vulgar show. We have not the courage to go 
patiently onward in the condition of life in which 
it has pleased God to call us; but must needs live 
in some fashionable state, to which we ridicu¬ 
lously please to call ourselves, and all to gratify 
the vanity ol that unsubstantial, genteel world, of 
which we form a part. There is a constant strug¬ 
gle and pressure for front seats, in the social am¬ 
phitheater; in the midst of which all noble, self 
denying resolve is trodden down, and many fine 
natures are inevitably crushed to death. What 
waste, what misery, what bankruptcy, come from 
all this ambition to dazzle others with the glare of 
apparent worldly success, we need not describe. 
The mischievous results show themselves in a 
thousaud ways,—in the rank frauds committed by 
men who dare to be dishonest, but do not dare to 
seem poor; aud iu the desperate dashes at for¬ 
tune, iu which the pity is not so much for those 
who fail, as for the hundreds of innocent families 
who are so often involved in their ruin .—Home 
Journal. 
HOW TO HAVE LIGHT. 
Wk are responsible, not only for what wo do, 
hut for what we see. More than we often think, 
the eyes of the soul are in our power. Say what 
we will of the obscurities of Revelation and the 
mysteries of Providence, truly spiritual and be¬ 
lieving men aud women go on reading both deep¬ 
er and deeper, clearer and clearer, all their lives, 
till at last, no longer through a glass darkly—the 
veil taken away—they see as they are seen, know 
a* they are known, stand face to face with the 
Saviour they have so long and so trustingly fol¬ 
lowed, and have “open vision for the written 
word.” If we do not behold the constellation of 
splendid truths that radiate their evangelic light 
from the gospel, it is because blindness is in the 
dim pupils of our eyes, unused or abused. Just 
as fast as we will let it, the day will dawn and the 
day star arise in our hearts. By living out all the 
goodness we know, in the daily beauty of holiness, 
we Bhall behold life's grand proportions. By 
walking with Christ you shall wear his likeness. 
Nay—lor he is a living Christ—you shall have 
him formed within you, not only the hope, but the 
present possession of glory. Aud because you 
know him spiritually, iu the purity and love of his 
lifo and cross, men will also take knowledge of 
1 object to it even as a 
temporary expedient, because it has no value.— 
Good English is as intelligible to a little child as 
the most painful distortions can be. And, by en¬ 
couraging children to retain their early errors, 
you hinder them in the acquisition of tbeir na¬ 
tive tongue. They ought, from their earliest 
years, to be taught to notice language closely; 
yet, by talking to them in tbeir own imperfect 
words, you teach them to be careless. I am aware 
that the first broken utterances of the little one 
are very charming in the parental ear: but the 
charm ceases when the child is capable of doing 
better. So there is no loss, even of the poetry of 
childhood, in speaking English to children.— Rev. 
J. T. Crane. 
Few of the heroes of 
novels are such as arc found in the common 
walks of life. They are either augels or fiends, 
and their homes are either palaoes or hovels. 
The reader often associates with them until he or 
she lives in an imaginary world, a world very dif¬ 
ferent from the one in which common mortals 
move. Shall slio who has become so familiar 
with lovers who possess superhuman virtues, 
link her destinies with 
“ A being not too bright or good, 
For human nature’s daily food ?" 
Shall she be expected to descend from her aerial 
height to the prosaic duties of a daughter, sister, 
or wife; merely because the happiness of a few 
persons may depeud upon her performing those 
duties? Is it not absurd that so refined a senti¬ 
mentalist as she is, should be expected to know 
how to darn stockings, or cook u dinner? Is such 
a dreamer fit for the duties of life?—will she 
prove of much use in the world? Did a habitual 
novel reader ever make an Elizaueth Fry, or a 
Hannah More? 
But tills is not the worst feature in this matter, 
for most novels tend to render their readers posi-1 
A Beaetiftl Form.—T ake abundant exercise 
in the open air,—free, joyous, attractive exercise, 
such as young girls, when not restrained bj^ false 
aud artificial proprieties, are wont to take. If 
Energy. —It is astonishing how much may be 
accomplished in self-culture by the energetic and 
the persevering, who are careful to avail them¬ 
selves of opportunities, and use up the fragments 
of spare time, which the idle permit to run 
to waste. Thus Ferguson learned astronomy 
from the heavens, when wrapped in a sheepskin 
on the highland hills,—thus Stone learned math¬ 
ematics, while working as a journeyman gardener, 
—thus Drew studied the highest philosophy in 
the intervals of cobbling shoes, — thus Miller 
taught himself geology, while working a3 a day 
laborer in a quarry. By bringing their minds to 
bear upon knowledge in its various aspects, and 
carefully using up the very odds and ends of their 
time, men such as these, in the very humblest cir¬ 
cumstances, reached the highest culture, and ac¬ 
quired honorable distinction among their fellow 
men. It was one of the characteristic expres¬ 
sions of Chatlerton, that God had sent his crea¬ 
tures into the world with arms long enough to 
reach anything, if they chose to be at the trouble. 
over the hills and through the woodlands; botan¬ 
ize, geologize, seek rare flowers and plants, hunt 
birds’ nests, and chase butterflies. Be a romp, 
even though you may be no longer a little girl. 
If you arc a wife aud mother, so much the better. 
Romp with your children. Attend to your bodily 
positions, in standing, sitting, lying or walking, 
and employ such general or special gymnastics 
a9your case may require. Live, while in doors, 
in well-ventilated rooms; take sufficient whole¬ 
some ami nourishing food, at regular hours; keep 
the mind active and cheerful; in short, obey all 
the laws of health. 
Gossir.—We have always found it difficult to 
reconcile our notions of woman's truthfulness aud 
sense of justice, with her strange forgetfulness of 
her obligations to her neighbors. There is no diffi¬ 
culty experienced where her affections are engag¬ 
ed. It is easy to do justice to another, whore per¬ 
sonal gratification is to bo obtained, but to deal 
fairly with those, of her own sex partieularly.whose 
feelings and affections are not intertwined with 
hers, requires a moral strength, that, to say the 
least, we do not find iu the majority of women. 
If there is one thing more than another that de¬ 
faces the beauty of a woman’s nature, it is that 
ungovernable appetite which is only appeased by 
the nicest and daintiest bits of mutilated char¬ 
acter. 
Ri’lb ok Judgment.— Where Christ has set His 
name, there, Christian, set thou thine heart. Call 
things as Christ calls them; count things as Christ 
counts them; that should not he little in tliineeve 
which is great in the eyes of Christ; nor should 
that be great in thine eye which is hut little in the 
eye of Christ.— lirooks. 
We carry our burdens in this life a great deal 
more heavily than we need to. They are made to 
be heavy that we may not be willing to carry them 
alone. It is said that an unhelped cross is the 
heaviest thing a man ever carried; but a Christ- 
touched cross is about the lightest thing a man 
ever carried. 
It is as true of love and friendship as of any¬ 
thing else, that with what measure we mete, it 
shall be measured to us again.— Smith. 
