[Written for Moore’s Rnral New-Yorker.] 
OUR SHIPS. 
days were now past, never to return. They 
would no more listen to her innocent prattle, or 
the soft patter of those little feet, as in days of 
yore. Her childish, glad voice, would no more 
lighten their hearts; and when they would visit 
their old homo, they would miss the kind and 
joyouB welcome with which she was wont to greet 
them- She was going from them, going forth to 
meet the yet, to her, untried world. Would she 
stand the test bravely, and choose the brightside, 
that her lifo might be pleasant and bright? 
Would she he loved as they had loved her? 
Would any dark cloud re6t over her future;—or 
would it be all sunshine? 
Ah, these partings are Had. To have friends 
separated, and settled in new homes; to forsake 
old associates and old associations, parents, 
brothers, and sisters, and ail the scenes of youth, 
for new scenes; to go out into the “wide, wide 
world;” to find their life-boat all alone on the 
great stream of time, and feel, perhaps, that it 
may be destroyed in the current,—it is a serious 
and great step, and one which is of more than 
trifling importance. It requireslovo, abiding love, 
to guide them, and make life beautiful, to cheer 
in adversity, to meet, without murmuring, the 
cares of life, and he ever joyous and hopeful. A 
love that, when the brow is furrowed with wrin¬ 
kles, and the ruthless hand of time has streaked 
the hair with silver, stolen the roses from the 
cheek, the sprightlinessaud vigor from manhood, 
and brought age with its many cares, slow step, 
and dim eye, will still be bright,—aye, brighter, 
and brighter,—a love which, having shared toil 
and sorrow, walked through the flowery fields of 
life, and seen those flowem fade, still look;- up to a 
Divine hand for guidance. Having thus lived, 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
SELF-ESTEEM-A REPLY. 
Each sunset hour, with folded hands, 
The angels in their realm, 
With songs of joy, or dirges low, 
Tell how we hold the helm. 
And as we steer our craft of life 
Before the breezes sailing. 
So up in Heaven rise the songs 
Of music, or of wailiDg, 
And thus wc anchor all our ships, 
A day’s sail nearer home; 
A few more suns of glimmering light 
Will show the line of foam 
As white as maiden's hridal vail, 
Or suowb of winter sifting; 
That mark the rocks upon the stream 
We fain would pass in drifting. 
It matters not where'er we strike, 
Our keel be high or low, 
On hidden rock, or shining sands, 
Beneath the water's flow, 
If “ boat, of life" we have on board, 
With chart and needle showing 
The sea on high where rocks are not, 
And storms are never blowing. 
North Haven, Conn,, 1800. 
Ik perusing “A Plea for Self-Esteem,” one is 
obliged to conclude that, in the opinion of Miss 
Esteli,e, “temporal happiness” is wholly unat¬ 
tainable without the development of this peculiar 
part of man's organism. In this I must be allowed 
to differ. I opine, in order “to bear away the 
hearts of the people,”—to secure greatness of 
fame,— and, moreover, to pleat* (he ladies,— this 
“attribute of the human mind” which makes 
many of our youth and would-be-heroes (who, 
with a just opim'on of their abilities, would be¬ 
come ornaments to society,) disgusting and 
unbearable, certainly deserves suppression. The 
assertion that “the man best pleased with him¬ 
self and his achievements, has fervent causes for 
discontent,” clearly does admit of a doubt; for, 
did he not “see, as through a glass, darkly”— 
through that most unjust, deceitful, and disgusting 
medium,— Self-Esteem,—he would not fail “to 
see himself as others see him,"—thereby saving 
bimself the humiliating Jeers of sensible people. 
No one can doubt that “what in his own opinion 
is justly his due, can never be exceeded by others.” 
It is an axiom, a self-evident truth; to go beyond 
this, would be carrying it to infinity. Be he suc¬ 
cessful enough to receive the praises of others, it 
is not in the nature of such an one to receive and 
not apply them as flattery,—thus adding another 
[Written tor Monro's Rural Now-Y" 
A RETROSPECTION, 
The creaking wagon's in the shed, 
The busy flail is heard no more; 
The horse is littered down and fed, 
The harness hangs above bis head, 
The whip behind the door. 
His leathern gloves and hooked bill 
To-day the woodman throws aside; 
The blacksmith's fiery forge is still, 
The wooden wheel of the old mill 
Sleeps in the mill-dam wijp. 
The miller's boat is anchored where, 
Far-out, the water lilies sleep; 
You see their shadows mirrored there, 
The broad white flowers reflected clear, 
Within the mill pond deep. 
The harrow’s in the garden shed, 
Hoe, rake, aDd spade, are put away; 
Unweeded stands the onion bed, 
The gardener from his work hath fled; 
'Tis holy Sabbath day. 
Upon the wall the white cat sleeps, 
By which the churn and milk pans lie, 
A drowsy watch the house dog keeps, 
And scarcely from his dull eye peeps 
Upon the passer by. 
And sweetly over hill and dale 
The silvery sounding church bells ring: 
Across the moor and down the dale 
They come aud go. and on the gale 
Their Sabbath tidings fling. 
From where the whitewashed Sunday School 
Peeps out between the poplars dim, 
Which ever throw their shadows cool 
Far out upon thn rushy pool, 
You hear the Sabbath hymn. 
From farm and field, and grange grown gray, 
From woodland w alks and winding ways, 
The old and young, the grave and gay, 
Unto the old church come to pray, 
And sing God's holy praise. 
lir olive KKXXyTU 
I am haunted, oil, I’m haunted 
By that pale and anguished face, 
As it spectral gleamed upon me, 
in our la«t, sad parting place. 
On my lips gay smiles were playing; 
Thine were wreathed in bitter woe! 
On my brow gleamed fresh, sweet flowers 
Tiilne was blanched with inward throe! 
Pityingly the stars looked on us 
From their lofty homes in light; 
Pityingly the darkness wrapt us 
In the sable robe of Night. 
On we walked for many paceB, 
My hand lying cold in thine; 
Spoke wo not. and yet thy facts was 
Turned in anguish unto mine. 
O, that mournful, haunting vision! 
Can 1 never from it fleer 
Must It slowly sap my lifo out 
With Its torturing memory? 
Only the stern voice of Duty 
Could have made my heart so brave, 
For its every throb was thine, Love,— 
Thine it will be to the grave! 
Though I coldly turned away Love, 
When I spoke the stern word—Go! 
Though I seemed like marble statue, 
'Twas not coldness made me so! 
For my heart was slowly breaking, 
Dying in its youthful bloom; 
As the day, bereft of sunlight, 
Vacant, sinks in midnight gloom. 
Once 1 sat m twilight's shadows, 
Musing o'er my joys all fled, 
When from out the gentle gleaming 
Something whispered, “Ho is dead!” 
Through that lonely night I sat there, 
Meek hands folded 'cross my breast, 
Prayi ng passionate ly,—dumbly,— 
Praying eagerly for rest. 
Dark is life's way,—cold and dreary-. 
He I loved is gone before; 
Take me to him, tender Savior, 
To be parted nevermore. 
Hazel Dell, Dubuque Co., Iowa, 1860. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE POET AND THE PHILOSOPHER. 
Both the poet and the philosopher exert a 
great influence upon the destinies of our race. 
Each has been a mighty power in the earth, but 
the poet has doubtless been the mightiest. Even 
barbarous nations have all bad their songs. The 
Indian chants his war song as ho roves through 
the forest,, and long before Britain had given 
birth to her first philosopher, her groves were 
vocal with the songs of Druid bards. The Negro 
carols his rude lay as he wanders over the burn¬ 
ing sands of Africa, and when taken therefrom 
and transplanted to a foreign shore, he still re¬ 
tains hia love of melody. But while song exerts 
so much influence over these rude tribes, they 
are entire strangers to philosophy. 
And how has it been in civilized society? Here 
the philosopher often exerts an influence, but it 
is less than that of the poet. The philosophers 
of Greeoe aud Rome never possessed much influ¬ 
ence over the masses. They only instructed a 
few scholars. Few of the common people of 
community. But then, he has studied, “more 
assiduously than anything else, an unbounded 
confidence in himself,—has reached that desirable 
goal, notoriety, but lias not become great. This 
opinion of greatness may, perhaps, account for 
the otherwise inexplicable deeds of men nowa¬ 
days. At the lecture to young men, I can only 
imagine, —living in the midst of the Young Amer¬ 
icas that people the world,—a bashful young man, 
—one who for a moment doubts hia superiority,— 
one who has not already assumed the <7/-advised 
(pardon me) prerogative. Heaven grant us such 
a sight. He would certainly be a lucrative addi¬ 
tion to Barnum's Museum, as the greatest wonder 
of the age. If the West has enough and to spare, 
of young men who are not, in their own opinion, 
of far greater importance than their hoary-headed 
■and, as for that mat- 
Canandaigua, N. Y., 1860. 
I Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
BEAUTY AND CONSISTENCY. 
Outward beauty captivates the eye, and en¬ 
trances the beholder with her symmetrical love¬ 
liness; but vanity is usually her constant attend¬ 
ant, moistening her roses with scalding liquids, 
which evaporate in acts of folly, and multiply 
day by day, forming the descending rounds of a 
ladder planted in degradation. A misguided 
young lady, upon her entree into fashionable 
society, is emulous of cultivating her fascinations. 
She has been taught that a list of outward charms 
is a successful advertisement, never failing to 
bring votaries to her shrine; and now, the lamp 
of her life occupies a conspicuous place in the 
chandelier of wealth and fashion. Her laudable 
work commences, and soon she needs the assist¬ 
ance of a private secretary, to keep account of the 
numerous admirers whoso wings have been singed 
as they fluttered within her dazzling sphere. 
But the nil becomes exhausted,—the wick may he 
trimmed, but no blaze of light proceeds from it, 
—and now the K extinguished lamp ’’ is cast from 
its exalted position, where it swayed over the 
hearts of men. Battered and shattered by the 
shock, the wretched woman awakes to the stern 
realities of life, and finds, when too late, that she 
has mistaken the chief aim of existence. 
Consistency is a rare jewel, and when it decks 
the brow of woman, it reflects a bright, halo about 
her head. Her words are more precious than 
pearls, and purer than crystals,—she lives and 
reigns forever, in the memory of all who come 
within the sphere of her presence, Childhood 
loves to nestle in her arms,—yonth loves to linger 
by her side, and read the sweet poetry oflier daily 
life,—manhood renders her reverential homage, 
and old age smiles approvingly upon her. Con¬ 
sistency is woman’s crowning charm,—her royal 
sceptre, — and as she takes her seat upon the 
throne of the affections, it brings willing worship¬ 
pers to her feel; but the crimson banners of in¬ 
dignant blushcB will float over the battlements of 
her modesty, when lauded by flattery, for humility 
is her companion and dictator. a. p. d. 
Michigan, I860. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.l 
I AM A STRANGER, 
[Written for Moore's Rnral New-Yorker.] 
THE LAST MARRIAGE IN THE FAMILY. 
and time-honored ancestors,- 
ter, aught else inhabiting this sublunary sphere— 
may the tide of immigration take a retrograde 
tendency, bless our eyes, and gladden our hearts, 
with the sightand companionship of such a living 
Efkie. 
Beautiful was the bride as she stood before 
the altar. With a trusting heart she had placed 
her hand In his; and, still trusting, she had softly 
repeated, “ Yes.” The words were spoken which 
united their hearts in one. Friends offered their 
congratulations and welt wishes to the happy 
pair; but when this was over, and she was being 
borne rapidly away to her new home,—away from 
that of her childhood, and the familiar scenes 
with whicli she was surrounded,—she was sad. 
Memory was busy in her heart. She was think¬ 
ing of her much loved home, where she bad spent 
her childish years, surrounded and upheld by the 
anxious care and hope of fond parents, and where 
she had lived in quiet happiness; of the orchard, 
and the wide, green meadow; of the old, well 
worn path, which she so loved to tread down to 
the brook; of the forest close by, with its luxu¬ 
riant foliage, through which the gentle breeze 
spoke to her words of hope and encouragement, 
where she hailed gladly the golden sunbeams 
peering down upon her through the branches, 
beneath which she so often strayed; of the high 
hill where she used to watch the glorious sun 
sinking to rest in a sea of gold, seeming to her 
like a faint glimpse of heaven, so bright was it, 
and dazzling; of the quiet graveyard she had so 
often visited, and planted flowers, emblems of 
kindness aud aflcction, over a sister’s grave,—all 
these familiar scenes she must leave aud seek a 
home elsewhere, with an untried, though very 
dear friend, 
curiosity. 
Camillua, N. Y., 1800. 
WHAT DIVERS MEET WITH. 
When the vessel has settled down in a sandy 
bottom, it is preserved for many months from 
breaking up; and its position maybe much the 
same as it would be when floating in calm water, 
if it be not tilted over by under-curreut drifts. 
The light, of course, depends upon the depth and 
nature of the bottom; but where there is no chalk 
to give a milky thickness to the water, the diver 
pursues bis work in a kind of gloomy twilight. 
By the aid of this he can see and feel his way 
round the ship, but when he ascends the deck 
and winds his way down into the principal 
cabins, he finds it pitch dark, and has nothing to 
guide him but his hands. This is the most diffi¬ 
cult and yet the most frequent labor he has to 
encounter; the danger being that in a large 
vessel, where the cabin stairs are deep, and the 
cabins are long and broad, he may get his air- 
tube twisted round some unfamiliar projection, 
and to squeeze oft' his supply of life from above. 
In positions such as this he requires all his nerve 
and self-possession, all his power of feeling his 
way back in the exact road that he came. 
He may have got the precious casket to which 
he has been directed, in his arms; but what of 
that, if he die before he can find the stairs? The 
cold, helpless masses that bump against his 
helmet, as they float along the low roof over his 
head, are the decomposed corpses of those who 
were huddled together iu the cabin when the 
ship went down. A few of these may be on the 
floor under his feet, but only when pinned down 
by an overturned table or a fallen chest. Their 
tendency is ever upward, and the remorseless sea 
washes away the dead infant from its dead 
mother’s arms, the dead wife from her dead hus¬ 
band’s embrace. If the wreck be iu the channel, 
the small crabs are already beginning to fatten 
on their prey. The diver disentangles himself 
from this silent crowd, aud ascends the silent, 
stairs to the deck. The treasure he has rescued 
is hauled up into the attendant diving boat, and 
he turns again to renew his work. He seldom 
meets with an accident underwater; never, per¬ 
haps, with death; and the chief risk he runs is 
from getting some heavy piece of ship lumber 
overturned on his long train of air-pipe, 
Greeks and Romans. It was the poets more than 
any other class of men, that, rendered the super¬ 
stitions of that age and these countries popular. 
The philosophers laughed at the popular religion 
of their country. To them, Jem teii and Mars 
were mere creatures of the imagination. But 
the poets sung the praise of the gods, and the 
people listened to them. It was the bard that 
enthroned Jove upon the summit of OlympnB, 
and made Yenus the object of adoration. They 
wrote the songs that were sung at the religious 
festivals. IIomeu had more influence upon the 
religious character ot the Greciaus, than any of 
their philosophers. 
In modern times the song of the poet has been 
more listened to, than the philosopher's discourse. 
From the time that Petrarch sang among the 
groves of Vanoluse, down to the present time, 
the poet has tuned his harp for thousands, while 
the philosopher has been left to discourse to 
comparatively few. Lord Bacon and Shaksfeare 
were contemporaries,—the one was the prince of 
modern poets, the other the greatest of modem 
philosophers. A few learned men have pored 
over Bacon’s pages, while age and childhood 
But I have a mission to accomplish. Many 
forget all the admonitions of the past, and act as 
though earth were their eternal home. I must 
call their attention to the mutability of earthly 
things, and endeavor to persuade them to seek a 
home in the skies; but, when time shall destroy 
their present habitation, the storms of just wrath 
shall fall upon their defenceless heads. While 
awaiting the hour when the term of my sojourn¬ 
ing here Bhall expire, I may make my temporary 
habitation as pleasant as possible, and plant the 
flowering jasamines about my dwelling. But 
every joy of earth is illusive,—and how often, 
the fairest flowers lie about me upon the sand, 
fading in the inhospitable air of this clime. So I 
may not give my affections to things of earth, 
lest I mourn, 
“The withering of the gourds that cheer 
My pilgrimage of care." 
The past threw many shadows upon the path in 
which I trod, and looking forward through that 
vail which Wisdom has woven between the present 
and future, I see, as “through a glass, darkly;” 
yet I trust the promises, and calmly await the 
hour when the sweet voice of a messenger-seraph 
shall whisper tenderly to my soul, “Child, your 
Father calls you home.” Bright rays, which 
propheoy to my soul of coming day, already beam 
upon me from that fair world where flowers of 
immortal bloom shall cheer my future home. 
Thus meditates the Christian. Ellath. 
Wadham'g Mills, N. Y., I860. 
Female Society. — You know my opinion of 
female society. Without it we should degenerate 
into brutes. This observation applies with ten¬ 
fold force to young men and those who are in the 
prime of manhood. For, after a certain time of 
life. the. literary man may make a shift (a poor 
one I grant,) to do without the society of ladies. 
To a young man nothing is so important as a 
spirit of devotiou (next to hia Creator,) to some 
amiable woman, whose image may occupy his 
heart, and guard it from pollution, which besets 
it on all sides. A man ought to choose his wife 
as Mrs. Primrose did her wedding gown, for qual¬ 
ities that “wear well.” One thing, at least, is 
true, that if matrimony has its cares, celibacy has 
no pleasure, A Newton, or a mere scholar may 
find employment in study; a man of literary taste 
can receive in hooks a powerful auxiliary; but a 
mau must, have a bosom friend, and children 
round him to cherish and support the dreariness 
of old age .—John Randolph. 
•must go forth to meet the world 
without the protecting care of kind parents, 
brothers, and sisters. No more social reunions 
for them, for they were all now separated. Of 
this and much more she thought, as she sat there, 
so busy with memory. But she covered all in 
her heart, and for the love of her husband was 
cheerful. For him and with him she would he 
happy. She would share life’s burden with him, 
she thought, as well as its bright aud beautiful 
side. 
Parents, too, thought with sad hearts when 
they parted with their daughter; thought of the 
beautiful flower which had grown up in their 
home, now about to he transplanted into another 
soil, surrounded with other influences. The care 
which they had bestowed was exchanged for that 
of another. Would it be bestowed as willingly? 
Would she he shielded from the hoavy storms of 
sorrow and adversity, or would these fall upon 
her, crushing and destroying? Yet they would 
not detain her with them if she could be any hap¬ 
pier elsewhere; and they gave her into the hands 
of another, earnestly praying that God would 
overshadow them both with His wing of protec¬ 
tion. 
Brothers, aud sisters, too, thought sadly at the 
parting. Thought of the time when she was a 
little child, when the whole day to her was a 
bright pluy-hour, and she was the light and star 
of their home. They had watched her as she 
threw off the easy carelessness of infant years for 
a more sedate step, and quiet, thoughtful air. 
They had talked with her of the birds and flowers, 
taught her to love them and their great Maker; 
had watched the noble seal of intellect on her 
brow, and loved her with a love such as brothers 
and sisters only can cherish and cultivate for 
'each other. Then, when they had left their home 
and gone forth into the world, as she was now 
doing, it was very pleasant to have her company, 
even for a short time, to cheer them. But those 
Feeling and Faith. —There are two classes of 
Christians: those who live chiefly be emotion, 
and those who live chiefly by faith. The first 
class, those who live chiefly by emotion, remind 
one of ships, that move by the outward impulse 
of winds operating on sails. They are often in a 
dead calm, often out of their course, and some¬ 
times driven hack. And it is only when the winds 
are fair and powerful that they move onward with 
rapidity. The other class, those who live chiefly 
by faith, remiud one of the magnificent steamers 
which cross the Atlantic, which are moved by an 
interior and permanent principle, and which, set¬ 
ting at defiance all ordinary obstacles, advance 
steadily and swiftly to their destination, throngh 
calm and storm, through cloud aud sunshine. 
The Heroism oi Economy.— It takes a hero to 
he economical, says Miss Muloch. “ For, will she 
not rather run in debt for a bonnet, than wear her 
old one a year behind the mode !—give a hall and 
stint the family dinner fora month after?—take a 
large house, and furnish handsome reception 
rooms, while her household huddle together any¬ 
how, in untidy attic bed-chambers, aud her ser¬ 
vants swelter on the shake-downs beside the 
kitchen lire? She prefers this a hundred times, 
stating plainly, by word or manner:—' My income 
is so much a year,—I don’t care who knows it,— 
it will not allow me to live beyond a certain rate; 
it will not keep, comfortably, both my family and 
acquaintance; therefore, excuse my preferring 
the comfort of my family to the entertainment of 
my acquaintance. And, society, if you choose to 
look in upon us, you must take us as we are, with¬ 
out any pretences of any kind; or, you may shut 
the door, and—good bye.”” 
Even 
in this he feels the sudden check and the want of 
air, gropes his way back to the obstruction, re¬ 
moves it, signals to his companions to be raised, 
and reaches the boat exhausted and alarmed, but 
not so much as to give np his place in the trade. 
His earnings mostly take the form of shares in 
what he recovers. If fortunate, his gains may he 
large; if unfortunate, they may he small; but no 
man can grudge him the highest prizes it is pos¬ 
sible for him to win. May Whitstuble always 
have the honor of producing such bold and dex¬ 
terous men as plentifully as she lias hitherto 
done, and may they have the wisdom to keep 
what they get.— Dickens' All the Year Round. 
Bristol, Wis., I860. 
The Test of Love. —It is a great practical 
principle iu the religious life, that a state of suffer¬ 
ing furnishes a test of love. When God is pleased 
to bestow his favors upon us, when his blessings 
are repeated every hour, how can we tell whether 
we love him for what he is or for what he gives ? 
But when, in seasons of deep and varied afflic¬ 
tions, our hearts still cling to him as our only 
hope and only joy, we may well say, “Thou 
knowest all things; thou knowestthat I love thee.” 
The letters I. H. S., so conspicuously appended 
to different portions of Catholic churches, are 
said to have been designed by St. Bernardine of 
Sienna, to denote the name and mission of the 
Saviour. They are to be found in a circle above 
the principal door of the Franciscan Church of 
the Holy Cross, (Santa Croce.) in Florence, and 
are said to have been put there by the saint on 
the termination of the plague of 1:147, after which 
they were commonly introduced into churches. 
The letters have assigned to them the following 
signification: 
Jean hominum Salvator—Jesus, the Saviour of inau. 
In hoc salus — In him is salvation. 
God will change the balance by-and-by, and 
then the heart will wear the crown on its head, 
and the understanding will go behind it to do its 
errands. 
The stream of life, down which we go would be 
clear and smooth enough, were it not fer the ob¬ 
stacles we ourselves throw into it. 
