[Written for Monre’a Rural New-Yorker^ 
NATURE'S VOICES. 
sobbed, “ My dear, kind, good Miss B- died 
without speaking, before another sunset; but she 
did not need to speak again,— her life had been 
all spent in doing good. 
"Then I felt that I knew my work, and ever 
since I have been a gatherer of old clothes, which 
I have distributed to the poor, visiting them in 
their homes, and carrying to them as I have found 
they were needed. Often so much would be given 
to me that I kept them in a room, mending them 
as well ns I could, that they might be ready when 
they were wanted. Many is the night, as I have 
sat watching the sick, that I kept myself awake by 
mending these old garments. I most valued old 
quilts, they seemed to go the furthest, and to do 
the most good. How many homes have been 
made comfortable by these things, and the happi¬ 
ness I have felt has more than re-paid all effort on 
my part ‘True, I had only time to gather up the 
fragments, aud to scatter them again, but it is 
wonderful how far these things go when there is 
a blessing. How many would come to me and 
say, ‘Aunt Philk, have you a dress, a coat, a pair 
of shoes, a bonnet, a shawl, or something?—nam¬ 
ing the articles needed. 0, how my heart has 
swelled with gratitude that I have been made the 
humble dispenser of so much comfort. 
“But things are not now as they were in the 
good ola days. Now it takes a long time to gath¬ 
er up. It was a great, while before I could seethe 
reason of this. I have been wearied, and often 
discouraged iu my efforts, as I went from house 
to house,— even in the houses where once I was 
most, liberally supplied. I thought ou t, and 
thought ou't; still it was a mystery. Well, one day 
I saw it. all so clear, 
obscurity, invariably bring off a finer, healthier 
flock, than those that are set artificially, subjected 
to daily visits of inspection, and waited upon 
with the silly pedantry of regular feeding and 
watering. a. 
South Livonia, N. Y., 1860. 
BY FANNIE CORWIN" 
Nature whupers all around us, 
With her voices sweet and low, 
Winning us from care and sadness, 
Giving life a brighter glow. 
I'rom the flower?, in beauty blushing, 
Comes a voice of gentle sound, 
Saying earthly beauty fadeth; 
Naught immortal here is found. 
When the gentle breeze comes wand’ring 
Over hill and verdant lea, 
Seems it not to softly whisper, 
Health and life I bring to thee? 
(Ah, that breeze! Of yore it lifted 
Tresses from the happy brow 
Of a last and fondly loved one; 
O’er her grave ’tis sighing now!) 
Nature speaketh all around us; 
Not in voices low, alone, 
But in notes of awe and grandeur, 
In majestic thunder tone. 
In the ragiDg of the tempest — 
In the lurid lightning's glare— 
Comes a voice that thrills our being, 
Telling us that (Ion is there. 
In the deep, old ocean'll roaring, 
As it breaks upon the shore; 
In the rushing of the waters, 
Pouring downward evermore, 
Is a voice of mighty power, 
Bidding earth’s proud sons revere 
nim who speaketh forth iu nature, 
Whom the hosts of heaven fear. 
Nature’s voices! heed their teachings, 
As on eye and ear they fall— 
They will draw us nearer heaven, 
For “ our Father made them all.” 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
OILY PEOPLE. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
“HOPE THOU IN GOD." 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
GONE. 
Did yon ever have any such persona in your 
neighborhood, and did yon ever notice how they 
manuever? If you have, yon cannot fail to think 
with me that “ oily " is just the epithet to apply, 
they have such a genteel way of smoothing out 
everything. They will sit down by you, and quiz 
you about your affairs, and seem so interested iu 
all of your concerns, that, before you think, you 
tell them all you know. Bat do you turn the 
tables, mum is the word,—they know nothing at 
all,—not even one word can you find oat about 
their business. Perhaps you havn't the least 
deception about you; and when you meet per¬ 
sons that you do not like, you use them jast as 
you feel, aud speak out what you think. Mark 
how these oily people glide through such diffi¬ 
culties. They use every one just the Hame, never 
allowing their feelings to influence them in the 
least,—before their faces,! mean. Behind their 
backs they talk worse than you do; but, for all 
that, they are extremely agreeable, while you are 
a sour, crabbed, old thing. Just so they slick 
everything over, and even make yon think they 
are just right, when you know they slander you 
_a , e • a 
BT KATK CAMKKO.Y, 
“ Hopk thou in Gon,” for ’tis from him 
Thy blessings all descend; 
Tby sun and shield He’ll ever be, 
Thy guardian and thy friend. 
“ Hope thou in God*'— let thy whole heart 
Be placed on things above; 
So shalt thou prove the length, the breadth, 
Of Everlasting Love. 
“ Hope thou in Gon." and though tby heart 
Is oft with cares oppress’d, 
Yet thou shall find the promise true, 
“ I'll give the weary rest.” 
“ Hope thou in God," though adverse winds 
Upon thy path may blow, 
Eternal hlias shall yet reward 
For all thy toils below. 
“ Hope thou in God," and even death 
Shall have do stiDg for thee; 
And o'er the grave thou shalt obtain 
A perfect victory. 
“ Hope thou in Gon," and when from heaven 
The message shall descend, 
Which bids thee lay thine armor down, 
He then will be thy friend. 
“ Hope thou in GOD;” and when at last 
Thy Savior bids thee rise, 
With songs of triumph thou shalt join 
The tnusie of the skies. 
Hartegrove, N. Y., 1860. g. A. F 
Gone from the world's temptations, 
It* sorrows and Its strife; 
Gone front the tolls and trials 
That make a war of life; 
Gone from those thorny oartb-roads 
To lloaveu’s shining track— 
The Jowl ones who have left ns, 
Oh, would ye call them back? 
Gone, with their dreams of bounty, 
Where beauty never dies; 
' Gone, with their joyous spirits, 
Whore tenrs'ne’er dim the eyes; 
Gone, with their earnest longings, 
Where faith is lost in sight— 
Would ye call them from such noon-tide 
Back to the shades of night? 
Gone from our tender keeping, 
Which yet was all In vain; 
Gon*- from our fond affection 
Which could not spare them paiu; 
Goue from their frleuds so loviug, 
To One who loved them more— 
Why mourn when they are happy 
Upon the Spirit-shore? 
Gone from all fears of evil, 
Gone from all thoughts of ill, 
Gone from Care's heavy burdens 
'Neath which we murmur still; 
Gone Irom the cross of anguish 
The promised crown to wear— 
Shall they cast aside its glory, • 
The weight again to bear? 
Gone from the weary striving 
'Gainst woildliness and sin; 
Gone from all outward tempters, 
Gone from all foes within; 
Gone where their spirit’s pinions 
Aru ever free to soar— 
Oh, would ye draw them earthward 
To wear Life’s chain once more? 
Ah, though our hearts are aching, 
And though our tears will fall, 
We would not, in our weakness, 
Our loved and lost recall. 
We leave them with our Father, 
Whose goodness we adore, 
Aud pray that, we may meet them 
Where wo shall part no more. 
Rochester, N. Y., I860, 
out of sight 
How detestable such characters are. Rather 
let any one be saucily blunt than to use bo much 
oil. The fact is, I canuot swallow it. 
Cayuga, N. Y., 1800. Amelia. 
-just how it was. Why, there 
were the old quilts, and old clothes, all on the 
mantle-pieces, — all changed into China and 
Glass." -.-. 
Lewiston, N. Y„ 1860. 
Geneva, N. Y 
THE LAST HOURS OF LA FAYETTE. 
TWritten for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
HE KN0WETH OUR FRAME.” 
MAKING FUN. 
No life had ever been more passionately politi 
cal than his; no man had ever placed his ideas 
A sorRCK of the sweetest and most satisfying 
consolation is the knowledge that there is a 
Friend, of unbounded tenderness, who is infinite 
in wisdom, and so “ knoweth our frame.” The 
human heart needs sympathy while beset by the 
muny cares and ills of the present state. Earthly 
sympathy is priceless. Dreary would lire be were 
there no hearts of whose love wc are assured, and 
whose kindness never fails; but sometimes the 
winds grow boisterous, and the arm of earthly 
sympathy is powerless to save from sinking be¬ 
neath the dark billows of sorrow, which seem 
ready to engulph us. Blessed it is then to trust 
for support to the out-stretched and all-potent 
arm of Him who “ knoweth our frame." 
Earthly joys are unsatisfying, and only mock 
our seeking. Our spirit's thirst can never be as¬ 
suaged by the springs of earthly pleasure, but it 
Is sweet to slake that thirst with the pure waters 
drawn by faith from the life-giving fountain open¬ 
ed by the love of Him who “knoweth our frame." 
Life is not all sunlight, neither is it all shadow, 
11 But we know by the lights and shades, through which 
oui pathway lies, 
By the beauty and the grief alike, we are training for 
the skies •“ 
and while we are affected by devout© gratitude 
that bo much pleasant light beams upon our way, 
we should also remember that it is indeed love 
that permits the shadow to fall. How strongly 
oar afl'ections are wedded to the things of time! 
Our hearts need disappointments and sorrows to 
divorce us from the world; and so the shadows 
are thrown,— really visitants of mercy,—to turn 
our thoughts heavenward, to the blooming plains 
where “shines one eternal day," with no shadow 
of grief to ever impair the brightness of its glory. 
We should, therefore, adore the love that gives 
the blessing, and trust the wisdom that permits 
the apparently adverse dispensations, knowing 
that as much of the one and as little of the other 
as shall be for our highest and final good, will be 
given by the Disposer of all events, for “ He 
knoweth onr frame." 
Thus, whatever may be our experiences, if we 
are the children of the Heavenly Father's care 
we should never listen to the daik utterances of 
Distrust, fur it is not only our duty but our bless¬ 
ed privilege as Christians to have peace,—yea, to 
“rejoice evermore." Though dark clouds shroud 
our sky in gloom, and it is but an uncertain light 
that glimmers upon our present pathway, the 
breezes of love will in time sweep them all away, 
and in the gorgeous light of that radiant future, 
over the splendors of which a shadow can never 
stray, we shall see that all events are wisely or¬ 
dered, and how all the circumstances of the pres¬ 
ent are conspiring for our good in the ultimate 
realization of the real and never-fading glory. 
This attests the unfailing promises of the kind 
one who “ knoweth our frame." 
Kind reader, if thou hast not a faith that doth 
evidence to thee the unseen, and if thou hast 
not a well-defined hope of a happy future where 
time shall proclaim that thy days on earth are 
numbered, this aabject hath an important lesson 
for thee which thou wilt do well to heed. There 
is One who hath sympathy for thee, and there is a 
time certainly coming,— it is but a little way off 
in the future,—when thou wilt know the worth of 
that Friend if'thou dost not now. And if through 
life thou dost continue to slight His love, how sad 
and hopeless will be thy condition when He 
taketh His friends home to dwell in light ineffa¬ 
ble. Haste, oh, haste to secure the unalterable 
friendship of Him who “knoweth our frame." 
Wudhams’ Mills, N. Y., 1560. Lllath. 
could see. His son George observed that with 
uncertain gesture ho sought for something in bis 
bosom, lie came to his father’s assistance, and 
placed in his hand a medallion which he always 
wore around Iris neck. M. de La Fayette raised 
it to his lips; this was his la9t motion. That me¬ 
dallion contained a miniature and a lock of hair 
of Madame de La Fayette, his wife, whose loss he 
bad mourned for twenty-seven years. Thus al¬ 
ready separated from the entire world, alone with 
the thought and image of the devoted companion 
of his life, lie died. In arranging hiB funeral, it 
was a recognized fact in the family, that, M. de La 
Fayette had always wished to be buried in a small 
cemetery adjoining the Convent of Picpus, by the 
side of his wife, in the midst of victims of the 
Revolution, the greater part royalists and aristo¬ 
crats, whose ancestors had founded that pious 
establishment. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE AGE OF TALK. 
It is not easy to foresee by what characteristic 
the present time will bo known to future ages 
The Intellectual activity of the day runs in so 
many channels, each keeping so nearly even 
course with the others, that one can hardly point 
out any particular distinguishing excellence, en¬ 
titled to give name to a period. Imagination has 
conceived a time when men followed rural em¬ 
ployments, in simplicity and purity of life, and 
mankind celebrated that us the Golden Age of the 
race. Then there was the Heroic Age,—the age 
when those called the children of the gods are 
supposed to have lived. Severity of discipline 
and the absence of all luxury, give to another 
period the name of the Iron Age. In Literature, 
the time of any Nation's highest purity and re¬ 
finement, is culled its Augustan Age. But, as re¬ 
marked above, our own age distinguishes itself 
in so many directions, that it is impossible to fix 
upon a single name that will do it full justice. 
Should one examine its merits with a view to de¬ 
termine its claim to a metallic designation, the 
Age of Brans would present itself as a singularly 
fit and appropriate title. Again, the pre-eminence 
of our time in works of benevolence,—in efforts 
to ameliorate want and suffering,—make it worthy 
to be known as the Philanthropic Age. Equally, 
the astonishing progress of this century toward 
perfection in the arts, entitle it to be denominated 
the Age of Invention. Indeed, so numerous are 
the ways in which the time manifests its superior¬ 
ity, that to mark it by a suitable name it is neces¬ 
sary to search out some excellence comprehen¬ 
sive of all others,—some characteristic common 
to the inventor, the philanthropist, the confidence 
man aud others; aud looking about for such uni¬ 
versal or general distinguishing trait, we are 
struck by the pre-eminence of this age in the ex¬ 
ercise of the social faculty, aud we straightway 
resolve that this should be celebrated as the Age 
of Talk. 
So ready is this age at Eelf proclamation, that 
it tells not only what it has done, but what it is 
doing, and what it is goiDg to do. Its failures 
are as well known as its successes. From the 
beginning to the end the public is as well in¬ 
formed of the progress uf an undertaking as the 
workers themselves. Every child knows, or may 
know, what pictures artists are painting, what 
books authors are writing, what works musicians 
have in hand, and how long before the publica¬ 
tion of new remedies for the potato rot and the 
cnrculia may be expected. The time is reticent 
of nothing. It talks with equal freedom of what 
it knows, what it believes, and what it guesses at 
The days of patient working and thinking in 
silence and secrecy are, for the most part, over. 
Nothing new takes the world by surprise, unless 
it is discovered accidentally. It seems as if the 
artist, the inventor, and the literary man dreaded 
solitary labor,—could not wait till the end of their 
wot k for their reward—must have the world think¬ 
ing of them while they are thinking for it. One 
poet announces (not publicly yet, that I know,) 
the title and plan of a poem whioh he allows him¬ 
self twenty-five years to finish! Wbat a time to 
be under the eye of expectation! One would ' 
think his faculties wonld be paralyzed by if. Will 1 
he produce a true poem? Will it be written 
throughout in obedience to inward impulse, or < 
will he feel that the outward demand, which the i 
publication of bis purpose has created, compels 1 
him to his work? Who knows, iudeed, but the 3 
superiority of ancient over modern works of art, 1 
may be owiDg, partly at least, to the artist, in the t 
former case, having matured his thought in * 
silence and solitude, and afterwards worked it t 
out under circumstances of less publicity than in 
the latter? As, to borrow a homely illustration, 
hens that steal their nests and brood in quiet and r 
[Written for Moore’* Ruial New-Yorker.] 
AN AGED WOMAN'S STORY. 
Much has been said and sung of changing, or 
selling, old clothes for china and glass nick-nacks 
with those peddlars who seem to scour this land, 
calling alike at the homes of refined culture, of 
honest industry, ami of thriftless degradation, 
awaking, by the sight of their well-filled basket?, 
the desire of possession. The peddlar enters, 
bending beneath the weight of his Cunningly ar¬ 
ranged ware, and the house is carefully searched 
from top to bottom, and old clothes are brought 
forth from their long seclusion. Perhaps there 
yet lacks something to complete the desired trade 
—it is, it may be then, modestly intimated that 
one more old coat, or a quilt, if they have one to 
spare, would bo about enough. The transfer is 
completed, and the clothes aud quilt which would 
have clothed and warmed some suffering child of 
sorrow, are changed for showy ornaments, while 
the gentle emotions of charity, and those higher 
feelings arising from self-denial and conscious 
ministration to the wants of poor humanity are 
checked; thus the actor, instead of rising in the 
scale of bejog, has, shall we whisper it, taken a 
step back. Their garments smell move of earth— 
their hearts are less pure, les9 fitted for mansions 
of rest. These reflections were suggested by the 
story of an old woman, which we give, with a 
short preface, nearly in her own words. 
One bright day, while visiting an old friend iu 
a neighboring town, an aged woman came in, who 
was cordially greeted as Aunt Phii.e. The lady 
Boon gave her a cap of tea, and some other re¬ 
freshments, after which she left the room saying, 
“I know your wauts, and will go and see what I 
can find for you." 
This seemed to relieve and quiet Aunt Philk, 
who then turned to us, with her bright eyes. We 
were much interested in that mild-faced woman, 
and drew from her her life's story. 
“It was a long time before I found out what 
We all have a work to do here, 
near together. The young lady in the stage-coach 
made some ludicrous remark, and the passengers 
laughed. It seemed very excusable; for, iu get¬ 
ting through the fence, the poor woman had 
made sad work with her old black bonnet, and 
now taking a Boat beside a well-dressed lady, 
really looked as if she had been blown there by a 
whirlwind. This was a new piece of fun, and 
the girl made the most of it She caricatured 
the old lady upon a card—pretended, when she 
was not looking, to take patterns of her bonnet, 
and in various other ways tried to raise a laugh. 
At length the poor woman turned a pale face 
toward her. 
“ My dear," said she, “ you are young, 
healthy, aud happy; I have been so too, hut that 
time has past.; I am now decrepit and forlorn. 
This coach is taking me to the death-bed of my 
child. And then, my daar, I shall he a poor old 
woman, all alone in a world where merry gills 
think me a very amusing object. They will 
laugh at my old-fashioned clothes aud odd ap¬ 
pearance, forgetting that the old woman has a 
spirit that has loved and suffered, and will live 
forever." 
The coach had now stopped before a poor-look¬ 
ing house, and the old lady feebly descended the 
steps. 
“ How is she?" was the first trembling inquiry 
of the poor mother. 
“Just alive," said the man who was leading her 
into the house. 
Putting up the steps, the driver mounted his 
box, aud we were upon the road again. Our 
merry young friend had placed her card in her 
pocket. She was leaning her head upon her 
baud—and you may be assured I was not sorry 
to see a tear upon here fair young cheek. It was 
a good lesson, and one which we hoped would do 
her good. 
The desire of the veteran of 1789 
was scrupulously respected and complied with. 
An immense crowd—soldiers, national guards and 
populace — accompanied the funeral procession 
along the boulevards and streets of Paris. Ar¬ 
rived at the gate of the Convent of Picpus, the 
crowd halted; the interior inclosure could only 
admit two or three hundred persons. The family, 
the nearest relatives, and the principal authorities 
entered, passed through the Convent in silence, 
then across the garden, and finally entered the 
cemetery. There, no political manifestation took 
place; no oration was pronounced; religion and 
the iutimate reminiscences of the soul alone were 
present; public politics assumed no place near 
the death-bed or the grave of the man whose life 
they had occupied and ruled.— Guizot's Memoirs. 
CLINGING TO YOUTH. 
I abominate the padded, rouged, dyed old 
sham: but I heartily respect the man or woman, 
pensive and sad, as some little circumstance has 
impressed upon them the fact that they were 
growing old. A man or woman is a fool who is 
indignant at being ealled (he old lady or the old 
gentleman, when these phrases state the truth; 
but there is nothing foolish or unworthy when 
some such occurrence brings it home to us, with 
something of a shock, that we are no longer 
reckoned among the young, and that the inno¬ 
cent and impressionable days of childhood (so 
well remembered,) are beginning to be far away. 
We are drawing nearer, we know, to certain 
solemn realities of which we speak much and feel 
little; the undiscovered country (humbly sougfct 
through the pilgrimage of life,) is looming in the 
distance before. We feel that life is not long, 
was my mission, 
—all of us have a place to fill, a part to act Per¬ 
haps yon do not know your work, but if you will 
ask our Father, he will show what He wants you 
to accomplish. Sometimes the answer seems long 
in coming. Yes, it was so with me, but now that 
I do know what my work is, I am thankful for it, 
for 1 love my task. For thirty years I was the 
village nurse,—that was my business. One night 
while I was watching Miss B- she suddenly 
started up saying, ‘ Why, Aunt Puilk, why don't 
you gather up the fragments, and give them to 
the poor?’ The effort was too mnch for her in 
her weak state,—she sank back exhausted, and as 
I watched, and cared for her during the long 
hours that followed, I pondered the words, for I 
did not take their meaning. Just as the morning 
was breaking, Miss B-again gathered strength 
to tell me, with much effort, that she meant to 
have me gather all the old clothes I could, and 
give them to the poor, for, said Bhe, ‘the poor 
will olten lhaukfulJy take from you things that 
they would refuse from those who are more richly 
endowed with this world’s goods. From you they 
only expect sympathy and couusel, bat the old 
garments that yon gather, you can mend, or show 
them how to mend, or make over themselves,— 
these they will be glad to get, and they will do 
them much good.’ This was all that she was able 
to say; for," said Aunt ’Phile, wiping her eyes 
with the corner of her ample apron while she 
Woman's Charity. —That was a beautiful idea 
of the wife of an Irish schoolmaster, who, while 
poor himself, had giveb gratuitous instruction to 
poor scholars, but when increased in worldly 
goods, began to think that he could not afford to 
give his services for nothing: 
“ Oh, James, don’t say the like of that," said the 
gentle-hearted woman, “don't —a poor scholar 
never came into the house that I didn't feel as if 
he f>rought fresh air from Heaven with him —I never 
miss the bit I give them—my heart warms to the 
soft and homely sound of their bare feet on the 
floor, and the door almost opens of itself to re¬ 
ceive them in." 
It was thought by the old heathens to be the 
grandest thing they could say of a man that he 
should one day eat at the tables of the gods. My 
brethren, we eat at these tables every day. At 
the table of my God I feast, and from His cup I 
drink. I have nothing which I have not re¬ 
ceived from Him; the Lord hath given me all 
that I have.— Sjatrgeon. 
The condescensions of an elevated mind, when 
it stoops to the apprehensions of others, will al¬ 
ways he overpaid by gratitude; the mild instruc¬ 
tions of wisdom, like the rays of an evening snr 
retain their magnitude, while they remit their 
splendor, and please the more by dazzling less. 
We often speak of being settled in life—we 
might as well think of casting anchor in the midst 
of the Atlantic Ocean, or talk of the permanent 
situation of a stone that is rolling down hill. 
prayers and God's mercy are like two 
; in a well, while one ascends, the other 
Is .—Bishoji Hopkins. 
