myold friend Memory keeps, a large quantity of 
fossilized hopeB and loves that I gathered, long 
ago, with the severest labor. 8ome of these fos¬ 
sils were beautiful blossoms once, with tender, 
verdant stems and leaves; but they were found in 
the bed of a stream which flowed from a fountain 
called Sorrow. The waters possessed peculiar 
properties, by which leaves and blossoms were 
readily petrified, and though by examining them 
one could see what they onoe were, their life has 
all died out, and they are nothing but fossils now, 
I have iron in tho shape of men's hearts, and 
peculiar petrifactions of several hearts belonging 
to the sorter sex. The latter are so perforated 
that they might be aptly styled honey comb 
hearts. My old teacher once facetiously remarked 
that they looked as though Cimn had wasted a 
quiver full of his best arrows on them. I think 
he spoke the truth, for I had it on good authority 
that Cupid was the principal agent in causing 
their petrifaction. 
Hut, in connection with my acquirements in 
mathematics and the natural sciences, I have also 
devotcVl much time to the fine arts. I can paint 
pictures of scenes, both serious und gay, with 
the moat perfect exactness; the only drnwback to 
their perfection being their invisibility to oil eyes 
but my own. They pertain to the pant mostly 
although occasionally I have made fancy sketches 
of the future. Next to the cabinet which Mem. 
ory keeps, is my Picture Gallery, and the most 
delightful hours of my life arc those in which I 
find leisure to walk in this gallery, and gaze on 
the pictures wheih I painted in my earlier days. I 
am also a dramatic performer, for ever since I 
entered school, dramas have been going on, in 
which every scholar is required to take a port A 
variety of parts have been from time to time 
assigned me, so that I flatter myself I could sus¬ 
tain myself in almost any situation now. In one 
scene, a 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
MUSINQB. 
Wild the midnight wind* are (weeping, 
And beneath the pale moonlight, 
Eddying snows, like summoned spirits, 
Haste athwart the somber night. 
Gloomily the horning prairie 
Paint* the sky with lurid glare. 
Like the smoke that rincth ever 
From the region* of despair. 
Howl* the wolf adown the ravine, 
A* in cities, far away, 
By the widow’s fire less hearthstone 
Famine clamors for Its prey. 
Thought, with raven wing, is brooding, 
Gloomy a* the night-bird's cry, 
From the blighted tree resounding, 
Bringiug fearful specters nigh. 
Now the strong are madly rushing 
O’er the battle Held of life, 
Heedless of the weak and fallen, 
Trampling on them in the strife. 
Now the sly and subtle fowler 
Spreads for Innocence his toils, 
Rends the air With fiendish laughter, 
When, unwarned, his victim falls. 
Power, with tyrant band, is ruling 
In tbo place whence Freedom falls; 
And beneath her prostrate altar, 
Unavenged for succor calls. 
Yet onr Got) serenely refgDetli, 
Cloude and night may hide Hi* throne; 
But a day His word hath promised 
That shall make life's mysteries known. 
Gon, His own elect, avengetb, 
Though He seem to tarry long; 
Truth and Right, now crushed and captive, 
Yet shall sing the conqueror's song. 
For the nations, weary, waltiDg, 
Half despairing in their gloom, 
Suddenly into Ills temple 
The liesire of Earth shall come. 
In the peaceful, grand hereafter, 
Reaping double for her woes; 
Earth shall see her sterile deserts 
Bud and blossom as the rose. 
Clay, Iowa, 18C0. 
nnd joy. Let parents spare no pains to make 
these festive seasons particularly sunny and 
bright to those dear ones that duster abont their 
firesides, and cling their tendrils around the 
heart of age, for they will ever be fertile spots in 
the journey of life, to which memory will often 
turn to rest and recruit its wasted energies, ere 
Bhe dies forever. 
The young man whose home has been lighted 
up with holiday associations of a pleasing char¬ 
acter, will not soon forget the instructions of a 
generouR father, or the timely admonitions of a 
devoted mother. The daughter, whose dearest 
recollections pertain to the “ loved ones at home,') 
will be among the last to forsake the path of 
virtue, and seek the pleasures of vice; for as 
memory lingers over loved objects and scenes of 
childhood, the arterial current will quicken its 
space with increased energy, and the tear Of 
affection will brighten the dedi turned instructions 
written on the tablets of the heart. 
AL1 hail! to the days soon coming to renew the 
blood of age—to awaken Into new life the affec¬ 
tions of youth—to gladden the sad heart with 
present and song—to burnish the crown that en¬ 
circles the brow of him who has reformed his 
ways, and made happy the home of wife and 
child—to again witness the renewed pledges of 
years agone. All hail to the days that stir op the 
Bonis deepest emotions, 
“ For the deepest in feeling is highest in rank, 
The freest is first in the band, 
And Nature's own Nobleman, friendly and frank, 
Lj the man with hi* heart in his hand." 
Wheatville, N. Y., 1800. X. Y. Z. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
“YOUNG BRIDE.” 
IWritten for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
SHADOWS. 
BT J. V. AZDKIUIOS. 
I am weary of this struggling. 
Weary of this constant strife— 
Weary of these wild heart-throbbing*— 
Weary of thi* pilgrim life. 
Weary of these ceaseless long-ngs, 
Never, never satisfied— 
Weary of this reaching after 
Earth-good, only mystified. 
Yet I’m thinking, a* I ponder— 
A* the shadows deeper grow— 
That there's something from us hidden 
It were better not to know; 
That these tears, and prayers, and strivings, 
To our human souls belong, 
And they soonest wear the guerdon, 
Who can “ an (far and be strong.” 
I am dreaming, in my wakiog, 
Or the hours forever flown; 
Of the heart* that beat so warmly, 
Of the hands that clasp my own. 
How these visions rise before me, 
Of the friends I loved of yore, 
Who have left me for a season, 
Waiting on the Other Shore. 
I am longing, Oh, how longing, 
Standing her* so faint and lone, 
For the light that never fadeth, 
Where my cherished ones have gone. 
Angel-beings hover near me, 
Whisper to my spirit, « Peace," 
Tell me of the Calm forever, 
Where my stragglings all shall cease. 
East Pembroke, N. Y., 1860. j_ p> 
Yocwc Bridb, a wreath I'd gently weave for thee, 
Of every opening bod nnd fragrant flower 
That breathes the word* of love, for pnre and free 
Was wedded love iu Eden's happy bower. 
Young Bride, a measured song to thee Fd sing, 
To cheer the early (troopings of thy heart; 
And cooling draughts of honied pleasure bring, 
That moonlit hows of love may ne'er depart. 
Young Bride, while joy la thine Td shed a tear, 
And sigh while other hearts are filled with gladness 
Hours of sorrow are ever lurking near 
To dim oar brightest hopca with sadness. 
Young Bride, while hope is dancing iu thine eye, 
And life's unmeasured path is strewn with flowers; 
I’d smile with thee, and bid the present fly; 
The past is gone, the future still is our*. 
Young Bride, to-day i* thine, and every day 
That break* the sable darkness of a night; 
To-morrow's sun may shod a cheerless ray, 
Clouds oft obscure the morning's early light. 
Young Bride, there Is a morrow coming fa*t, 
Death’s cold, relentless hand, thy brow caressing; 
Hope not to rhuu hi* touch, his withering blast— 
Rejoice in Gon; that morrow is a blessing. 
Gaines, N. Y., 18C0. 
[Written for Moore's Rurg. New-Yorker.J 
AN OLD WOMAN’S SCHOOL LAYS. 
very long time ago, I represented a little 
girl, skipping gaily abont In a lovely garden, with 
birds Ringing above her head, and golden sunlight 
kissing her fair hair. In another aat, I perBounted 
a child something older than the fair-haired girl 
of the first scene. She had large, melancholy 
ejes, full of tears, und held the hand of a little 
boy, younger than herself, while both sobbed in 
the abandonment of childish grid over the grave 
of their dead mother. After that, I played the 
part of a light hearted maiden, seated on a mossy 
bank, with early spring violets in her hair, and a 
dark eyed lover at her side. But that scene was 
boon over, and a more Borrowfnl one followed it. 
The part of a bride had been assigned me, but quite 
unexpectedly a change Was made, and, instead of a 
bridal robe, 1 wore the garb of a mourner, and 
wept over an open letter, which told of a sailor 
boj’s grave on a far foreign Bhore. Yes, I have 
been a conspicuous actor in sad as well as joyous 
scenes,—oftenest, though, in the mournful, when 
the orchestra played requiems and the drums beat 
death marches. Now I personate an old woman, 
withered and grey, with the light of youth faded 
ont of her cj cs, and the rose out of her cheek. 
There are wrinkles on hor forehead, and lines of 
sorrow utiout her month. Sometimes tears mois¬ 
ten her cheek, while at other times her face grows 
radiant, as though Hope had set a bright light in 
her Houl,—or, as though the voice of an angel 
whispered the word “Heaven” in her car. TbiH 
scene in the drama suits me better than any other, 
for it is the fifth act of the play in which I have 
been performing, and when the curtain falls—the 
dark death-curtain- 
I bav’k been a scholar for a long, longtime, and 
sometimes think I have learned quite enough— 
that, after threescore years of close application, 
It is^high time that I should graduate. But, not 
beinAmy own mistress, 1 am still required to re¬ 
main y under tutors and governors,” and know 
not but I shall continue in this state of pupilage 
for several years to oorac. My two masters are 
equally capable, although Old Experience, being 
somewhat more strict, has taught me much more 
than 1 could ever have learned from so mild an 
instructor as Observation. One peculiarity of my 
school ia, that the word “ vacation ” has never 
been heard In connection with iu 1 entered it at. 
a very tender ago, and not one hour of respite 
has been afforded me since. Some days I have 
been very weary of its confinement, and very 
much irritated with the sharp reprimands of my 
old task master; but I console myself with the 
thought that all the best and greatest, men that 
ever lived have been at the same school, and suffer¬ 
ed every annoyanco which I have to endure. My 
teachers often comfort me with the assurance that 
I have made rapid improvement under their in. 
strnctions, and am infinitely wiser than I nsed to 
bo. I, likewiso, have ray private ideas on that 
subject, and though I would by no means speak 
more highly of myself than I ought, to speak, 1 
do know that my knowledge has been wonderfully 
increased since I first entered this great World- 
school. As 1 look back over tho earliest years of 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
“WELL MEET AGAIN.” 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
ID O J\1 K, . 
One may teem to enjoy life when absent from 
home. The philosophy of epicureanism, the love 
of excitement, the thought of the noiae and bustle 
of crowded streets, the sight of magnificent 
household darling, that faded like a summer's 
blossom; er, perchance, the name of her who 
first taught his lips to lisp the name of " Mother.” 
As he pauses by her grave, vividly comes to 
mind that careworn face, lit up with smiles of 
love—her prayers and counsels—yet, more than 
all, the dying blessings still unfinished as her 
spirit took its upward flight. 
“Yon will meet them again,” said the minister 
of Gon, as he addressed sorrowing friends when 
they were called to give back their little ones, as 
yet unstained by sin, and in all the purity of 
childhood. Lovely they looked in their calm 
repose, attired in those snowy robes, hut more 
beautiful will they appear in the last great day, 
when Gon counteth up Ilia Jewels. As wo sadly 
turned from tho littlo, new-made graven, me- 
thought sweet, very sweet to them, would bo tho 
anticipation of meeting their darling ones in 
Heaven. 
“I must soon leave you,” said the aged father, 
who had lain upon his couch for many weary 
months, patiently waiting God’s own time to be 
released from this world of many sorrows, and 
while he askB the blessing of God to rest upon 
the stricken ones when ho is gone, how joyfully 
he assures them they “will meet again.” 
Who would not earnestly strive to secure that 
unwavering faith in the promises of Gon—that 
holy religion which will brighten tho gloom of 
calamity and sorrow—which will enable ua to 
meet without murmuring tho many trials and 
sorrows of life, and, as we draw near the dark 
river of Heath, give ns the joyful assurance of a 
blessed reunion in Heaven. 
York, Mich , I860. Mrs. If. Richards. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
OUR HOLIDAYS. 
associates. How gladly do wo turn onr thoughts 
back to those halcyon days of childhood, when 
sire and grandsire, with mother and grandame, 
and a merry troupe of brothers and sisters, were 
gathered around the cheerful old fireside, to par¬ 
take of the “fruits of the earth,” with thankful 
hearts, while neighbors and friends from afar 
joined the social circle, and passed the joyouB 
hours of a Thanksgiving day. Thattime-honored 
day has just passed, and the great results of its 
observance will be wrapped in mystery until all 
things shall be revealed in the light of Gon'a 
truth. The thousands whose hearts have been 
drawn out in gratitude and praise to the Giver of 
All Good for mercies past, and present blessings, 
will again and again return in imagination to the 
glowing hearth of neighbor and friend, or the 
childhood’s 
my performances will bo 
closed, and my Bchool-days will bo over forever. 
December 3,1860. A, M. P. 
GROWING OLD, 
spot to all most dear on earth, 
and dwell wii.h emotions, better 
felt than told, upon the scones that have endeared 
them to those with whom they associated, and to 
Him who searcheth all hearts, and knovveth the 
Bocrets of men. The consecrated heart and affec¬ 
tions will ever be held dear to Him who “be- 
atoweth with a liberal hand, and withholdeth not 
from them that walk uprightly.” 
But the festive Bcason ia yet to come, when all 
classes, from the aged patriarch to the prattler in 
its mother’s arms, feels its enlivening influence, 
and breaths a gentle sigh that it will so soon be 
gone; that nature will take its wonted course, 
aud miud and matter move on to their future 
destiny. This is tho time when age is renewed, 
and those whose “frosty locks proclaim their 
lengthened years,” fed their heart’s blood again 
coursing in their veins, as in early manhood’s 
prime, when breasting atorm with “might and 
main,” they wended their way at the merry 
gingle of “sleigh bells clear,” to halls of mirth 
and joy, where the mazes of the “ giddy dance” 
were threaded, or where the kindness of warm 
hearts had lured them to eat the Christmas pie, 
and share in tho rejoicings of loved ones, as they 
received Christmas gifts, rich and rare, fresh 
from the hands of old Santa Claus,” —or where, 
the more seriously inclined, “ watched the Old 
Year Out and the New Year in,” with psalm, and 
prayer, and praise. 
This is the anniversary of plighted love, of 
nuptial bans at the Hymenial altar, of new re¬ 
solves, new associations, and the commencement 
of new lives. The time when the drunkard for¬ 
sook his cups, and companions of revelry and 
shame; tho gambler shuffled his cards for the 
i last time, ami the trembling debauchee turned his 
back forever upon soenesof dissipation and vice; 
is remembered with tears of joy and gratitude, 
as this holiday season dawns upon the homes of 
civilized man. Let not the young pass this Eeason 
by without firmly resolving to be wiser and better 
when its anniversary returns,—let not the old 
man, who looks upon wife “wrinkled and gray,” 
think that love's fires more dimly barn, than when, 
half a century ago, they celebrated the nuptial 
tie with mirth and song,—nor may she forget 
that, though changed inform, the man's the same; 
“ Forever young, though life’s old age 
Hath every nerve unstrung,— 
The heart, the heaTt is a heritage 
That keeps the old man youDg.” 
As the holidays are coming on, let those whom 
long, long years have estranged from each other, 
recall the Beenes of bye-gone days, and ere they 
HOME ATTRACTIONS, 
happy home, 1 
It seems but a summer since we looked forward 
with eager hopes to the coming yearB. And now 
we are looking sadly back. Not that the dream 
has passed, but that it has been of no more worth 
to those around us. Ah the glowing hopes and 
ambitions of early life pass away; as friend after 
friend departs, and the stronger ties which hold 
us here are broken, our life seems but a bubble, 
glancing fora moment in light, and then broken, 
and not a ripple left on the stream. 
Forty years once seemed a long and weary pil¬ 
grimage to tread. It now seems but a step. And 
yet along the way are broken shrines where a 
thousand hopes have wasted into ashes; foot¬ 
prints sacred under their drifting dust 
not always “Sweet Home ” to the degree that it ia 
described. There are austerities, and asperities, 
and interdictions, and conventionalisms, that ren¬ 
der it unattractive, and besides, there is a famil¬ 
iarity with its scenes that docs not suit the spirit 
that is never satisfied bat with change. Depend 
upon it, where there are harsh words fur outraged 
“propriety,” as displayed in boisterous mirth, 
and cold formality is installed at home, there will 
be a drawing away from it and a continual search 
for excuses to evade its claims. Claims I It 
might be a question if homes thus Constituted 
have any claims upon living human hearts. 1 
feel glad when I 6ee any new device advertised to 
make home what it should be—a place of happy 
abandonment of care, a place wherein the soul 
can act itself in tbe light of innocent cheerful¬ 
ness. The man who published a book of Parlor 
Gamea has been of more benefit than many aer¬ 
oionizers. No good is lessened by Its teachings, 
no frivolity is inaugurated. It opens up a new 
avenue to happiness. It is tho new emotion that 
tho monarch longed for. Enlightened parents 
understand the necessity of enlisting all attrac¬ 
tions, and in those homes where they practice in 
this light, there is no discontent, no discordance, 
and every one is happy. There is a gentleman in 
town who has a large family that hag lung acted 
on this plan of home amusement. Instead of Bet¬ 
ting up as the father of his hoys, he abandoned 
that idea at their twelfth birthday, and became 
their companion—playing with his boys and J 
dancing aud singing with his girls, till his 
Tbb Cross. —The following striking passage iB 
from Henry Ward Beecher’s sermon preached a 
few Band ays since, in the pulpit of the late Theo¬ 
dore Parker, at Boston; 
“The cross has twined around it every associa¬ 
tion of dignity and beauty in the world. Not one 
other thing has received from the fertile minds 
and the all-fashioning handa of men of genius so 
many intrinsic beauties as the cross of Christ 
Millions never hear of it without a throb, nor see 
It without a genuflection. It dawns upon the 
child in the cradle next to its mother’s face, and 
it is the last thing from which the light disap¬ 
pears when this child in old age is dying. The 
cross is now as universal and as beautiful to the 
associations and the memories of men, as then 
it’was rare, peculiar and odious; it is that which 
now to us is not only suggestive of n fact in 
Christ’s history, but it is also a memorial of two 
thousand years of history. Around that Himple 
cross-wood, tbe heart of the world has gathered 
for twenty eentnries its 6tores of admiration, of 
love, of devotion.” 
green 
mounds whose grass is fresh with the watering of 
tears; shadows even, which we would not forget. 
We will garner the sunshine of those years, and 
with chastened step and hopes, push on toward 
tho evening whose signal lights will soon be seen 
swinging whore the waters are still, and the 
storms never beat 
own. 
Tdh Language of Nature.— Could we but 
make language express the beautiful images of 
Nature, how eloquent we should be! Could we 
trace in words the exquisite tint of the flower, or 
the sparkling of the rippling wave; the majeatio 
beauty of the forest, or tbe graceful inter¬ 
mingling of light and shade; the grandeur of the 
hoary cliff, or tho loveliness o( the laughing 
plain; the joyousnesa of tbe sunshine, or the 
tranquility of the twilight gloom; the terror of 
the storm, or the mildness of the evening breeze! 
Nature has a language of its own—a language 
which Is understood in every clime—which 
speaks silently to the heart of every beholder, 
through which he may communicate with their 
Creator and hia own, but which can find no utter¬ 
ance through the lips. 
Nature and Revelation, —Revealed religion 
leads better to the natural than the latter to the 
former. Natural religion, as it is called, assumes 
the reality, and deserves the name of religion 
only after it has received the seal of revelation. 
For natural religion, in the sttict sense, there is 
none. Revelation gives a certainty, a new per¬ 
ception to truths, which, though presupposed, 
have as j et no vitality, no influence on the con¬ 
science. Oratorically, the truths of natural 
religion are nothing; and the oratorical advan¬ 
tage of the Christian over the rationalistic 
preacher is beyond estimation. — V'met. 
severe 
neighbors, who belonged to the rigid church, 
questioned his sanity. Bat the severe neighbors 
cannot show Buch children as his. They are 
always at home, always happy, always contented. 
The rigid neighbors complain of noise that they 
hear at times, but it is not the noise of strife. It 
is of merry voices full of home harmony. 
of blow-pipe,—a bubble, rainbow-tinted, to bo 
sure, and very pretty to look at; but, as ifiy mas¬ 
ter assured me, not worth the trouble of making. 
But in a crucible which he had, an unsightly 
looking thing, he placed a piece of the refined 
gold of charity or love, Borne bits of dark metal, 
like “the widow’s mite,” and a substantial, un¬ 
elastic reticle, which he called a good conscience; 
and all these constituted a Good Name, which, he 
told me, was worth infinitely more than the empty 
bubble. 
After this, I studied Mineralogj', until I could 
distinguish every variety of mineral and fossil. 
There are now in my cabinet, the key of which 
Intercourse with Superior Persons.— It is 
the great event of life to find, and know, and love 
a superior person; to find a character that pre¬ 
figures heaven and the saints on earth. Such a 
one is left alone, as tho gods are. In all the su¬ 
perior persons I have met, I notice directness, 
simplicity, truth spoken more truly, as if every¬ 
thing like obstruction and malformation had been 
trained away. What have they to conceal! what 
have they to exhibit ? Between simple and noble 
persons there is alwoys a perfect understanding. 
They recognize at sight, and meet on a better 
ground than the talents or skill they chance to 
possess, namely, on their sincerity.— Emerson. 
Pulpit Controversy. — The proper contro¬ 
versy of the pulpit is controversy with sin, which 
is the great heresy. It is better to overcome 
evil with good, to absorb error in truth. Virtutm. 
videant. Wc must observe tho errora which 
appear in the places where we preach; those, at 
least, which have footing therein; but we must 
not do them the service of publishing them, and 
propagate while we oppose them.— Vinel. 
Double. —The most beautiful flowers are those 
which are double, such as double pinks, double 
roses, and doable dahlias. What an argument is 
this against the chilling deformity of tingle 
blessedness. “ Go marry!” is written on every 
thing beautiful that the eye rests upon, beginning 
with the birds of Paradise, and ending with ap¬ 
ple blossoms. 
