ff 
lieve that it is said in relation to her, that when 
Bhe was compared to a rose, the poet replied that 
“ he was no judge of colors, but that he often felt 
the thornB.” 
It is too late to criticise Milton's poetry. He 
is, perhsps, the Bublimest uninspired poet that 
ever wrote. Bat to the virtuous mind, there is 
more to admire in the man, than in the poet 
Perhaps, England never gave birth to a person to 
whom she is more indebted for the civil freedom 
she now enjoys than to Milton. " Paradise Lost” 
is a Bublime epic, but the life of its author is one 
still more sublime. S. L. Leonard. 
Butler, Wia., I860. 
LIFE AND LOVE. 
[Written for Moors'* Kuril New-Yorker.] 
LITTLE FANNIE. 
Li bb is a garden fair and free— 
But 'tig Love that hold* the golden key; 
For hand and heari 
Once held apart, 
Life’s (lowers are daubed with storm* of sorrow, 
And gloom to-day tnay be bright to-morrow. 
So reckless ever of wind and weather, 
Let Life and Love be linked together. 
Life is a diamond, rich and rare, 
But Love is the luster that danceth there; 
For hand aD<i heart 
Once held apart, 
Life’s jewels grow din) In the breath of sorrow, 
And diamonds to-day may he dust to-morrow. 
So reckless ever of wind and weather, 
Let Life and Love be linked together. 
Life has a rich and smiling face; 
But Love is the dimple that give* H graee; 
For hand and heart 
Once held apart, 
Life’* brightest beams are blanched with sorrow, 
And roses to-day may be lilies to-morrow. 
Bo reckless eTer of wind and weather, 
Let Life and Lore be linked together. 
Fab away in a foreign land, thou art sleeping, 
little sister. Years ago, tby tiny hands were 
clasped over the pulseless breast, and the cold 
earth heaped above tliee and all thy sweet beauty. 
My eyes have never seen thee, fair, preoions 
one; but in the soft, calm twilights, when the 
birds Bwung in the vincB oulaide the window, the 
mother, who loved us both, often spoke of thee, 
her angel babe, and my young heart learned to 
love the one whose homo was far away beyond 
the blue sky and its bright starB. 
Once, und only once, 1 stood beside the little 
grave, and oh! how my heart came up with its 
wishing—to look into thy sweet face. But years, 
great sober ytars, stood up between us,—the dead 
babe, and the living woman. 
Tears were in the eyes of our pale, gentle 
mother, as (die bent over the grassy mound, and I 
knew thy memory was busy at her heart, as the 
eager words came with quick broken sobs over 
her lips—.” My beautiful, my angel Fannie.' 1 ' 
Dark waves lift up their white crests between 
thee and me, when the autumn winds rock the 
birdless branches above thee. And when spring 
comes to our beans and homes with her robin 
songs and brig lit daisies, no loving bund may 
strew the fair blossoms ovi-r tby sleeping. The 
green leaflets lie unparted, and the sod remains 
unbroken at thy side, though that mother went 
to her grave pillow near five years agone. Some¬ 
times I go to her resting place; for miles have 
come in between her grave and me, and my mind 
gathers up the fancy of the welcome that greeted 
her approach into the “ Beautiful City." 
Years will go by, perhaps, ’ere you and I may 
meek—time may set his seal upon my brow, and 
his quiver upon my lipp, before the "Angel of 
Death shall curry me,”—yet the hope is true, and 
the faith strong, that I shall be with you in “the 
day when lie shall make up His jewels .” 
Suspension Bridge, N. V., I860. Franc M. Witmkr. 
[Written for Moore'* Rural New-Yorker.) 
ASK, SEEK, KNOCK. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
THAT LITTLE CHAIR. 
Ask and ye shall receive, seek and ye shall find, knoek 
and it shall be opened unto you.—Mathew 7: T. 
Ask ever for a thankful heart 
For all thy blessing* given; 
That thine heart may unceasing raise 
It* grateful *ongs to heaTeu, 
Aik for the promised Iotb of God 
To smooth life’* rogged way, 
And th»t from virtue'* pleasant paths 
Tby feet may never stray; 
For He hath said, ye who believe, 
Ask but of me, thou ahalt receive. 
And seek thou for the treasure* hid 
Within the sacred book, 
For treasure* rich and rare are stored 
For all who humbly look; 
And prayerful seek the pearl of price, 
A spirit meek and pure, 
Most precious in the Father’s sight; 
Hi* promises are »ure, 
That if ye seek, with earnest mind, 
Sternal riche* ye shall find. 
At the door of th* heavenly kingdom knock, 
In the twilight hour of life, 
To gain admittance to the blest, 
To part from earthly strife, 
Longing for thy heavenly r**t, 
Bid sin and toil depart; 
Reaching the gate of Paradise, 
Knock with unfaltering heart; 
For Christ, the gentle Savior, stands 
To open it with ready hands. 
Geneva, Wi»., I860. B C. D. 
BY MRS. b. r. haddock, 
“ Giv« me that little chair,'ti» long 
Since, visele**, it wn» put away, 
And those who occupied It once, 
Are grown np into manhood * day. 
Thu* spake the son to her who nur»ed, 
Long since, lit* tender jears with car*, 
And round him now uuotber group, 
Bin own, were gathered young and fair. 
That mother paused, and o’er her face 
A cad look panned—a look of pain— 
No other boon that *on could ask 
But quickly he was sure to gain; 
Bat thi* one favor, little, yet— 
The mother firmly answered nay— 
Ask not that little chair, my son, 
That I can never give away. 
That little chair—how deep it stirred 
Long buried memories in her heart— 
Like magic, that one little w ord 
Bade tear* from love's sealed fountain start, 
In the still churcli-yard roses grew 
Over two little narrow beds— 
Earth, cold earth, that mother knew 
Pillowed two little golden heads. 
She knew that weary years bad fled 
Since those sweet babes she laid to sleep— 
Sleep which cornea calmly o’er the dead, 
Changeless and cold, mystic and deep. 
Yet mem’ry would fondly paint again, 
Love-lit and bright, the merry blue e'en— 
Make life-like and rosy the cheek, 
And curl the soft hair just as then. 
And oft at eve, when shadows crept 
Over, around, enveloping all, 
Tearfully musing, yearning yet, 
Fancy would still the past recall. 
In the dim light seemed they to come, 
Those little one*, childish and fair, 
Prattling a*Joyously yet, 
Sitting in the little arm chair. 
Michigan, 1860. 
WAS HE A MAN, OR A BRUTE I 
&J5IL! 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
m. ILTON. 
John Milton was born in London in the year 
1008. He graduated at Cambridge, and was de¬ 
signed by his father for the Church, hut never be¬ 
came a clergyman. What would the world have 
lost, had he followed the wishes of his father. 
Upon his graduation he returned to his father’s 
house in Horton, in Buckinghamshire. It was 
during bis residence at this place, that he com¬ 
posed Comas, L. Allegro II l’enseroso, and Ly- 
sidas, three poems that would have immortalized 
any man. 
In 1G38 he visited France and Italy. Upon his 
return to England, he engaged in school teach¬ 
ing; but he was soon called from this employ¬ 
ment by the necessities of the times. The politi¬ 
cal storm that had been so long gathering over 
his country, now burst forth in all its fury. Mil- 
ton was not the man to look with unconcern 
npon such a contest. He was undoubtedly the 
most powerful writer on the popular side. He 
even went so far as to continue his advocacy of 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.J 
THE PEARL OF GREAT PRICE. 
GREAT MEN AND LITTLE CHILDREN. 
How fond Luther was of little children, and 
how many were the lessons he learnt from them! 
The Doctor’s little children were one day stand¬ 
ing at the table looking intently at some peaches 
that bad been served. 1.other observed: “ Whoso 
would behold the image of a soul which enjoys 
the fulness of hope, may lind it in infants. Ah! 
if wo could but await with joyful expectation 
for the life to come.” Again; “ Children, after 
all, are the happiest.” Mr. W. C. Bennett, one of 
onr sweetest of song-writers, indeed, has filled a 
little volume with poems, beautiful and touching, 
She has — and so, dear 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
HARD TRUTHS. 
Wo be unto the woman, in these days, who is 
compelled to keep “hired help,” especially if, by 
reason of infirmities, Bhe is unable to look into 
every chamber, every collar, and the corner of 
every cupboard and shelf, and peep into every jar, 
safe, and finally, into everything and place, every 
day of her life. If yon get an oldish, single woman, 
who, it would seem, had ycara enough to give 
aomo experience and judgment, ten to one she is 
notional, set, bigoted, and can't he turned from 
her ways any more than the North Pole; and in ft 
little while she is mistress, and you stand and 
look on, in mute astonishment, with folded hands, 
and weak, Bubmiasive countenance, wondering 
what will be the next thing in the programme. 
Then you try a youngish girl, young enough to 
be presumed, by you, to have something yet to 
learn, 
on his “ Ibitiy May.” 
madam, has yours— 
“ Cheeks as soft ns J uly peaches, 
Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches 
Poppies paleness; round Lige eyes 
Kvnr great with new surprise; 
Minutes (ill.iii will) shmleless gladness, 
Minutes just as hrimraed with sadness; 
Happy sigliK anil WHiiing cries. 
Crows, and laughs, and tearful eyes, 
Lights and shadows swifts* borne 
Than oil wind swept autumn corn: 
Ever sorno new tiny motion, 
Makiug every limb all motion; 
Catching up of legs and arms, 
Throwing hack anil small alarms, 
Clutching Ungers—Rtwijjhtoning jerks, 
Twining feet whose each toe works, 
Kickings-up, and straining risings, 
Mother’s ever new surprising*, 
Hands all warns, and looks nil wonder 
At all things t.he henvena under; 
Tiny scorns of smiled reproving*, 
That have more of love than honings, 
Mischiefs done with such a winning 
Archness that we prize such #inuing,” 
And so on. Fathers atul mothers, had they the 
power, would all siug in similar strains. 
The sluep of a babe, how beautiful it is! Barry 
Cornwall says:— 
“ All gently glide the stars, 
Above no tempest lowers, 
Below are fragrant flowers, 
In silence growing." 
Poets ought to be fond of babes and little chil¬ 
dren. Even old Sam Rogers, who had a sneer lor 
every one else, had a smile for them. Leslie, the 
painter, writes: “Mr. Rogers was very fond of 
children. On his visit to us, when ours were lit¬ 
tle ones, his first ceremony was to rub noses with 
them. ‘Now,’he would say, ‘ we are friends for 
life. If you will come and live with me yon shall 
have as much cherry pie as you can eat, and a 
white pony to ride.’ ” His stories of children, of 
which he told many, were very pretty. The pret¬ 
tiest was of a little girl who was a great favorite 
with every one who knew her. Some one said to 
her: “Why does everybody love you so much?” 
She answered: “ I thiuk it is because I love every¬ 
body so much.” That old heathen, Charles Lamb, 
once gave tbe “ memory of the good King Herod,” 
but there wu3 a screw loose about the poor gen¬ 
tleman. Soch a toast must have been given under 
great provocation, and there are babes and chil¬ 
dren—not mine, certainly not yours, my dear 
madam—who are enough to try the patience and 
temper of Job. 
pounds for composing St. But the fact that he 
was well paid for his labor, Jo no proof that he 
did not write his real sertiments. The king had 
written a book of prayers and meditations entitled 
“Icon, Basilike.” This production Mjlton se¬ 
verely attacked in a work called, “ Iconoclastea, 
or the I mage-Breaker.” In this work he severely 
censures the King for copying a prayer from 
“ Sydney's Arcadia.’’ Salam ash s, the celebrated 
Swedish scholar, about this time came to the aid 
of Charles 1st in his “Defensio Regift, or a De¬ 
fence of the late King.” Milton was employed 
to answer this book. His answer was entitled, 
“Defensio pro Populo Anglieano.” "It was ob¬ 
served by Honr.ES, in regard to the two disputants, 
that he did not know whose style was best, or 
whose arguments worst.” It was tbe composing 
of this book that cost Milton his sight. By the 
time he finished it be was entirely blind. 
But tbe times Boon changed. After having ex¬ 
ercised more power over England than any of her 
Kings had done for a hundred years before, and 
caused her to be respected among all the nations 
of Europe. Cromwell was borne to his resting 
place in Westminster Abbey, and the nation, 
in the midst of demonstrations of joy, crowded 
around the throne of Charles the Second. But 
there was one man in England, who did not 
acknowledge the claims of the new monarch. 
Milton still remained true to his principles, and 
employed his peu in calling upon his countrymen 
to defend their rights. But the case was hope¬ 
less. Oh the Restoration he was excluded from 
the act of indemnity, but through the kind offices 
of Sir William Davknakt he was returned to 
favor. He now retired from political contests, 
and devoted bis time to writing poetry. “ Para¬ 
dise Lost ” was published in 1607. For this work 
glory wreath of fame?—to-morrow it lies torn and 
trampled in tbe dust. And for riches and honors 
such ns this, (yet the best this world can give 
thee,) thou woold’at barter a soul so precious that 
the blood of Con’s beloved Son was freely shed to 
ransom it,—a sonl destined for heaven, for glory, 
for the company of Angels, and the presence of 
its God. Dost thou count upon length of days, 
and say, — “The treasures of this world I will 
possess, then heavenly treasures I will win? Is 
not thy life compared to the withering grass and 
fading flower that, in the morning flourishetb, 
and in the evening is cat down and burned? 
Daily lessona are taught thee of the uncertainty 
of life and the certainty of death, and well would 
it be for thee, 0 man, if thou wonldat profit by 
them and seek no more the riches of this world, 
“but tbe blessing of thy God that maketh rich and 
bringeth no sorrow with it.” 
Burely, surely, the Prince of this world leadeth 
on to victory, when man, created in the image of 
hiB God, with the light of Revelation beamin g bright 
his thoughts and Blndies was directed for life by j around him, chooses the broad way of death, be- 
u single phrase that caught his eye at the end of 
a pamphlet:—“ The greatest good of the greatest 
number.’’ There are single sentences in the New 
Testament that have awakened to spiritual life 
hundreds of millions of dormunt souls. In things 
of less moment reading has a wondrous power. 
George Law, a boy on his father’s farm, met an 
old unknown book, which told the story of a far¬ 
mer’s son who went away to seek his fortune, and 
came home, after many years' absence, a rich 
man. From that moment George became uneaBj, 
INFLUENCE OF BOOKS ON CHARACTER, 
But then, again, you are in perpetual 
spasms, if yon are not so utterly exhausted that 
you can neither hear, nor see, nor think. She 
will not assume any care or responsibility, what 
ever. It is, “ how will you have this?” and “ when 
will you have that?” and she must run to see 
every passer-by, and stand and chat with a com¬ 
panion, while the bread burns to cinders, or the 
table stands to he devoured by flies. After asking 
and getting directions, as to how, aud when, and 
wherefore, if they are ever accomplished, you 
must constantly go, and see, and call, — “are you 
doing this?”—have yon done so and so? “0, I 
forgot, marm, you’ll have to keep telling me, or 
I shall forget it, sure.” 
And the waste and destruction that goes on in 
your house, in one year—through neglect, forget¬ 
fulness, heedlessness—if it could he seen, in the 
aggregate, would astonish the most extravagant. 
A hired girl, or woman, is a constant sinking 
fund. No matter what you hire done, you lose 
more than you gain before yon get through with 
it, and five times out of seven, you have your 
sewing to pull out or your work to do over again. 
Bo my experience has been during my house¬ 
keeping of a dozen years. The good fairies 
deliver me from a position where I should have 
a number of servants to look after. When I have 
three, I am in purgatory—when I have two, I am 
driven to distraction—and when 1 have one, I am 
harrassed within an inch of my life! Yet, no one 
woman can accomplish all the labor incident to a 
large farm, and house, and the care of a family, 
even if in health; and if feeble and nervous, Hea¬ 
ven have mercy on her family! You must have 
some one—must try — must hope, that you have, 
at last, got some help, and so you must keep 
trying. But the best thing you can do is to sell 
your farm, put yonr money at interest, build a 
cabin seven by nine, and retire from active life; 
for as to living in any sort of comfort, or peace, 
or quiet, or as an intelligent, rational, human 
being, the thing is impossible in the present state 
of atfairs—or that is my impression at this date, 
the last day of the summer of 1860. 
A Farmer's Wife. 
SIMPLE PREACHING. 
A CORRESPONDENT of the Christian Intelligencer, 
writing from Saratoga, speaks as follows:—“One 
of the most delightful acquaintances I have 
formed at the Springs this season was Judge M’- 
Lean, of the United States Court. I was specially 
interested in his criticisms on preaching. ‘We 
want,' Baid he ‘ more simple, practical sermons— 
right to the conscience —made lively by Scrip¬ 
ture, history, and incident. I like an occasional 
anecdote, if well put; for oar Saviour spoke in 
parables. But I can not abide dry, abstract dis¬ 
cussions, or cold homilieB. Preaching should be 
piquant and popular, and suited to “common 
people.” There wub a capital lecture on pulpit 
rhetoric in the judge's remarks.” 
Luther, reproving Dr. Mayer because he was 
faint-hearted and depressed on account of his 
simple kind of preaching, as he supposed, in com¬ 
parison with other divines, reproved liim, and 
said:—“Loving brother, when you preach, pay 
little attention to the doctors and learned men, 
but think of the common people, and try to in¬ 
struct and benefit them. In the pulpit we must 
feed the common poople with milk; for each day 
a new church is growing up which stands in need 
of plain and simple diet.” 
hatchet and the plum tree has made many atiutb* 
teller. We owe all the Waverley novels to Scott’s 
eaily reading of the old tiaditions and legends; 
and the whole body of pastoral fiction came from 
Addison’s sketches of Sir Robert de Coverley in 
the Spectator . 
But illustrations are numberless. 
Tremble, ye who write, and ye who publish writ¬ 
ing. A pamphlet has precipitated a revolution. 
A paragraph quenches or kindles the celestial 
spaikin a human soul — in myriads of souls.— 
The World _ 
The wind is unseen, hut it cools the brow of 
the fevered oue; sweetens the summer atmos¬ 
phere, and ripples the snrface of the lake into 
silver spangles of beauty. So goodness oi heait, 
though invisible to the material eye, makes its 
presence felt; and from its effects upon surround¬ 
ing things, we are assured of its existence. 
Sometimes tbe sun seems to hang for a half 
hour in ihe horizon, only just to show how glori¬ 
ous it can be. The day is done; the fervor ot the 
shining is over, and the sun bangs golden—nay, 
redder than gold—in the west, making everything 
look unspeakably beautiful, with the rich efful¬ 
gence which it sheds on every side. So God 
seems to let some people, when their duty in this 
world is done, bang in the west, that men may 
look on them, aud see how beautiful they are. 
There are some hanging in the west now.— Beechei. 
The Power of Women. — Whatever may be 
the customs and laws of a country, the women 
of it decide the morals. They reign, because 
they hold possession of our affections. But their 
influence is more or less salutary, according to 
the degree of esteem which is granted them. 
Whether they are onr idols or companions, the 
reaction is complete, and they make us such as 
they arc themselves. It seems as if nature eau- 
neoted our intelligence with thiir dignity, as we 
connect onr morality with their virtue. This, 
therefore, is a law of eternal justice; man cannot 
degrade woman without himself falling into 
degredation; he cannot raise her without him¬ 
self becoming better. Let us cast our eye3 over 
the globe, and observe those two great divisions 
of the human race, the east and the west. One- 
half of the ancient world remain without progress 
or thought, and under the load of a batbarous 
cultivation; women there are serfs. The other 
half advance toward freedom and light; the 
women are loved and honored. 
Juvenile Imagination.— There seems to be a 
pretty strong tendency, in these mattcr of-fact 
days, to suppress the imaginative faculty in chil¬ 
dren. This is quite wrong. The imagination is 
quite as legitimate, in its way, as any other por¬ 
tion of the mental apparatus. “Facts are stub¬ 
born things,” and mere dry facts are far too stub¬ 
born to be a wholesome pabulum for the graceful 
and spiritual understanding of children. They 
find out, in time, that their dolls are only stuffed 
wit sawdust, and that Santa Claus is a myth. Let 
them enjoy their innocent illusions, then, while 
they may, and let the poetic, rather than the 
prosaic, Bide of their natures be cultivated first 
The fall was a step downward from innocence 
but also it was a step onward—a giant step in 
human progress. It made goodness possible; for 
to know the evil, and to conquer it and choose 
the good, is far nobler than a state which only 
consists in our ignorance of both. 
He who makes an idol of his interest* will make 
a martyr of hiB integrity. 
"Where love is, there is no labor; and if there 
is labor, the labor is loved. 
® Ti 
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