MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
SEPT. 5. 
fairies’ lflti-#flliB. 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE LOCK OP HAIR. 
In my drawer lies a curl, 
From a little baby girl; 
'Tis the soft and yellow hair, 
Twisted with a mother's care; 
And it brings to mind a day. 
When the child was borne away, 
Over ocean's foaming wave, 
Stormy winds and seas to brave, 
Little Mary was a child 
Full of glee, and meek and mild, 
As the moonbeam on a night. 
When the stilly waves are bright; 
And her smiiiug eve would say, 
Things she could not speak alway. 
When the storm was over head, 
And upon her cabin bed, 
Briuy waters dashed the while, 
Mary, undisturbed, would smile. 
When the sky was black, and fear 
Whistled iu the sailor’s ear; 
And the mast was stript of sail, 
And the cabin light did fail, 
While the ship began to roll, 
And the mournful bell to toll, 
As the waves rose mountain high, 
Hiding all beneath the sky. 
Then did Mary's smiling eye 
Seem to whisper “there is nigh 
Greater than the storm yon see. 
One who cares for yon and me." 
Thus did little baby girl 
Witfi the soft aud silken curl, 
And the ever cheerful smile, 
All our' weary hearts beguile. 
Bauemheim, N. Y., 1857. Eliza M-. 
For Moore'6 Rural New-Yorker. 
CITY AND COUNTRY LIFE: 
Addressed to Miss A—, of South Livonia, N. Y. 
My year’s residence in the city has unfolded to 
me many a new page in the book of Worldly Wis¬ 
dom. I have read it carefully and treasured np 
the knowledge in the cells of memory for future 
reference. Should you ever feel tempted to barter 
the calm aud rational delights of a rural life for 
the brilliant glare and glitter, Bnd selfish hollow- 
hoartedness of the beau raonde, better be denounc¬ 
ed as countryfied than to offer up all that is pure, 
and amiable, and holy, in the human mind upon 
the unhallowed altar of social conventionalism._ 
Do not understand me as depreciating all society 
in cities; far from it. There are many pure and 
noble spirits in oar brick and mortar Golgotha, 
but they are the exception and not the rule; their 
numbers are comparatively small. The mind de¬ 
velops tco rapidly in citieB to attain a healthy and 
vigorous existence; It lacks the moral element in 
its composition, without which intellect is a cnrso 
to its possessor. The mind can never gather to 
itself those glorious attributes of moral excellence, 
of grandeur, sublimity and beauty amid the con¬ 
fined and heated atmosphere of a town that it 
finds in the flower-gemmed, dew-laden untrodden 
fields of Nature; yet as a school for the study uf 
human nature, it is unequalled; for there all the 
hidden passions of fallen humanity are developed. 
There is no disgnise, or if any is attempted, the 
veil is too gauzy to hide the rottenness beneath. 
But I think I have speculated enongh on this 
point, or at least as much «s will be agreeable to 
you, and will gossip awhile about Dame Nature, 
who not only provides a boimtifal supply of ali¬ 
ment for our physical wants, but famishes food for 
the rich and gnshing affections of the heart. 
Plaoe man in one of her wildest dells or cragged 
mountains, amid Arctic snows or Sahara’s burn¬ 
ing sands, ami in every place, though deprived of 
all society, he will find some object among her 
works for his affections to rest npoo, —some leaf 
of stinted shrub or snow-drop, pearly white, to 
place upon hi9 heart’s broad leaves and cherish 
there. And Buch an object all must have or the 
affections must die out for want of exercise, and 
the man become a monster. Such an object he 
must have or life would have no aim, and all the 
fairy dreams of ambition fall ta earth never to 
rise again; and yet bow few appreciate the bounti¬ 
ful provisions Dame Nature has made for them, 
because, in leaving no want unsatisfied, no beanty 
to blush unseeD, she has precluded all inquiry into 
the properties of her glorious creation. 
We look upon the moss-fringed cascade, the mur¬ 
muring rill, the mighty cataract, the heaving bosom 
of old ocean, the humble violet, the graceful shrub, 
the majestic forest tree towering in pride to hea¬ 
ven—and amid all this grand, sublime and lovely 
imagery, see nothing to admire, because we see it 
so often. Bat place man alone amid the arid sands 
of a desert, and what a charm he beholds in every 
shrub and flower, and how he wonders that he 
never observed these beauties before. So it is 
with ns all in the relations of life. When we are 
beneath a clear and cloudless sky, and the san of 
prosperity shines oot, npon us, illuminating our 
pathway with the smile of joy, how little do we 
heed the humble flowers of true and generous 
friendship that bloom in meek and quiet beauty 
around us; but when the relentless sirocco of ad¬ 
versity has swept o’er the glowing panorama of 
human existence, and rendered life a desert of 
wrecked hopes and withered affections, oh how ; 
dearly do we love them. God grant that no deep ] 
Borrow may ever throw its sombre shadows o’er < 
your heart, bnt may the silken wing of the Angel ] 
of Hope and Joy overshadow yonr spirit for aye, ] 
and the bright flowers of happiness continue to | 
bloom in your path forever, shedding their fra- i 
grance around you in life and clothing the green i 
turf that rests npon your breast in death, with the < 
roseate hue of beanty. Miss B-. ] 
Detroit^ Mich., July, 1857. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE OBJECTS OF READING. 
Every philanthropist, as he desires the univer¬ 
sal diffusion of knowledge, must rejoice at the 
: multiplication of books; but when, as philanthro¬ 
pists, we look at the vast amount of trash which 
light-brained, inconsiderate, or misanthropic nov¬ 
elists are pouring forth upon tho world, and when 
we consider the craving desire of some for these 
productions in preference to the true and benefi¬ 
cial, our minds cannot be affected with pleasure. 
The object of all reading is one or the other of these 
three:—The acquisition ot knowledge; the improve¬ 
ment of the understanding; or the gratification of 
the fancy. The mere man of business, perhaps, 
may read mostly for the acquisition of knowledge. 
A gentleman or lady wishes for present pleasure, 
and future usefulness, and reads also for the pur¬ 
pose of improving the understanding as well as 
acquiring knowledge; and in works adapted to 
these purposes frequently finds opportunity to give 
free range to the imagination; thus letting the ac¬ 
quisition of knowledge, the cultivation of the 
intellect, and Ihe gratification of the fancy, all 
have their proper attention. To snch a reader, 
works affording not the former two, yield no plea¬ 
sure to the laBt. 
It remains to notice the reader who seeks the 
gratification of bis fancy—of whose reading this is 
the highest object,—and it needs not to be said 
that novels are his favorite and chief reading.— 
These are the works which he admires. He Iovcb 
such works as cut loose the reins to fancy, and lets 
it rove nnconfined into a world of its own make. 
He delights to be Burronnded with beings whose 
existence lives only in imagination. To him truth 
is insipid — it hR3 lost its power. Delineations of 
real life he admires not. Sober facts have no 
charms for him. He seeks something exciting — 
something, as he thinks, of more energy than sim¬ 
ple truth. Mistaken man! Such reading as he 
seeks tinbiuges the mind, disqualifies it for sober 
reasoning and deep thought, gives it a disrelish 
for everything serious—destroys its equanimity, 
blunts the finer sensibilities of the soul, and makes 
the reader irritable when his own feelings are 
crossed, bnt callous with regard to the feelings of 
others, and thus renders him incapable of receiv¬ 
ing eijoyment from the plain, matter-of fact world, 
or of imparting joy to others. Young ladies, per¬ 
haps, have more of this kind of readiug laid before 
them than young men, but happily some have 
learned wisdom from the experience of others,— 
Having observed the ill effects of such reading 
npon others, they abstain from it, and give their 
preference to works of a more Bolid character. 
Would that number of prudent selectors were 
many times increased. 
Young ladies, when you take a book into your 
hands, what is your object? Do you read merely 
to gratify fancy? Be careful, lest, in continuing 
in this course, it prove a snare to you, and in the 
end, “vanity and vexation of spirit” — for, be as¬ 
sured that the character of your chosen reading 
will bo the model of your minds. The Beenes 
which we every-day view around us do not more 
certainly leave their image in our recollections, 
than does our reading leave its true impress in onr 
minds. Novel reading is to the mind what alco¬ 
holic drink is to the body. It attracts bat to de- 
pscftlamj. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A PRAIRIE SCENE. 
BY HEBRON BELL. 
A Prairie Scene in the ruontli of June, 
Beneath the light of the silver moon; 
Tis charming to the poet’s eye 
As spectral clouds go flitting by 
And cast a shadow o'er the scene— 
The distant hills and vale between, 
Then passing on, the moon once more 
Shines down still brighter than before. 
Off to the right, on a lower grade, 
Tire grove presents a darker shade, 
Where murin'ring streams with waters bright 
Discourse sweet music through the night, 
And on the bough tho little bird,— 
His notes of praise no longer heard, 
Site silently with folded wings, 
Forgetful of tho songs he sings. 
The rosin-flower with Klately grace, 
Bends to the breeze, while on its face 
The dews ol' heaven gently rest, 
And sparkle like a silver crest— 
Tho tail grass waving evermore, 
Like ocean billows far from shore, 
Presents a scene, unequalled quite 
Throughout the brilliant hours of night. 
The moonlight and the zephyr's sigh, 
Mingle Hko spirits passing by. 
Now soft, as beauty's healthful cheek, 
Or voice that Lore's Hrst warm vows speak, 
Now bright ae maiden's eye of blue, 
When enpid’s darts are brought to view, 
Oh! matchless, such a Beene in June 
Beneath the full and shining moon. 
Prairie Cottage, Ill., 1857. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
EVERY-DAY HEROISM. 
As we peruse the pages of history, how fre¬ 
quently is our attention fixed by the relation of 
some great act of heroism. We read of men who, 
actuated by patriotism or its kindred affections, 
have dared to die; of martyrs who, rather than 
compromise conscience, have endured unflinch¬ 
ingly the keenest torture. We read, and onr souls 
go out in love and reverence towards snch great¬ 
ness, and we do well, for there is a sublimity in 
such exhibitions of moralpower. Gut iu our admi¬ 
ration of that heroism which has dared to die, we 
are prone to forget that which is daily, hourly act¬ 
ing around us, and which enables men to live tor 
principle. We lose sight of the fact that there 
may be more heroism in living than ic dying. 
There is in human nature a power to so concen¬ 
trate will and energy as to enable one to resist even 
nnto death, a visible, tangible oppression. It ena¬ 
bled our fathers to assert and maintain their inde¬ 
pendence; and it rendered tbe Christian Martyrs 
unconquerable; and many who now seem weak 
and vacillating would, if subjected to like tests, 
exhibit a moral heroism truly grand. 
A single drop of water falling npon tbe head, is 
not of itself unpleasant; yet the keenest torture 
of tbe Inquisition consisted of drop after drop, 
drop after drop falling, and continuing to fall on 
the same Bpot. So in life, it may not be difficult 
ceive; it elevates but to depresp, and excites but t0 res ' Bt wie temptation, bnt when it comes daily ( 
to benumb. hourly, in repeated and varying forms, then it is 
Do yon speak of any who have been benefited that the e * ,irit becorae8 “weary in well doiDg,” 
by novel reading? I might in turn point you to f nd 10 live UDf T° t,e ' 1 ma 3 require far more hero- 
the good resulting from alcohol. Bnt what, is it? 1801 Tbaa 1° endure the trial of the stake. It is not 
How does it, compare with the evil? You have *' be S rrtlt a ^ W® so much as the aggregate of 
seen and understand. I might speak of one made ^ ll ^ e 0IieH wb * cb determine one’s charaoter for he- 
rich by gambling, but would it be Bate for otherB r0 ' sm ' pbe ffia " wbo bv( -' H faithful to duty when 
to engage in the same low enterprise with an ex- weighed down by bodily ills, when oppressed by 
pectation of meeting with like success. I need P over, y au( i tbe counter influence of associates— 
not answer. You yonrselvei know well, that for * be ™ tta wbo niai utaiiis his integrity amid the on 
one made rich might be shown hundreds of losere, ceas ' n S* numberless temptations ot business and 
Bo among novel readers, there maybe some few P r 0 B P erit y —ma Y be B reater heroin the sight of 
in the wide world who have been benefited, bnt (,QD ^ ban auotber wbo tH ves bis life on the rack 
thenumbers of injured are doubtless greater. As, for r,lic 8atue cau heroes are around us.— 
then, you value your time—as you value your 110 not realize it perhaps, for their contest he¬ 
rn oral and social feelings—asyou value yonr Intel- tIie 6 ' bnt one of 80n * aa _^ B P' r * b * 8 • nv * 8 ’ , -'l e ; 
lectual powers—as yon value everything that dis- bDt we ma ^ baow tbem b Y their fruits; a blameless 
tinguiBheB rational beings from brutes, abstain aD( ^ an ' Dbaence f° r good exerted on all 
from novels, and choose in their stead, euch books arounc * them. Let no one imagine that the age of 
as are calculated to enlarge, invigorate, and store J e ™ 8 ! S paat ' J 7eiy one , w ’ 10 brin * 8 aU his 
the mind with useful knowledge. Emma. forte t0 bear 0n tbe accom P ll8b “^t of good-who 
Grinncli, Iowa, 1857. strives without ceasing to benefit society aa well as 
-♦-*.- self—to honor Gon rather than to get honor, is a 
Woman’s Laugh. —A woman hgs no natural I'wo. Gottleib Heyne was a hero; Washington 
grace more bewitching than asweetlaogb. It is was a hero; Luther and Wesley were heroes; 
like the sound of flutes on the water. It leapB sn d 80 ala °i evei Y one who lives and dies upright 
from her heart in a clear, sparkling rill, and the aDt * honest in motive and in act, though ho may 
heart that hears it feels as if bathed in the cool he poor, unknown, ignorant; yea,thongh bis man- 
exhilarating spring. Have yon ever pursued an hood may be concealed beneath a black skin and 
unseen fugitive through trees, led on by her fairy the garb of slavery, will stand forth a hero, n»ble 
laugh, now there, now lost, now found? We have, afl d Godlike, in that day “ when we shall see even 
And we are pursuing that wandering voice to this 88 we are seen.” T. D. Tooker. 
day. Sometimes it comes to us in the midst of Adrain, Mich., 1867. 
care, of Borrow, of irksome business, and then we 
turn away and listen, and hear it ringing through 
the room like a silver bell, with power to scare 
away the ill spirits of the mind. How much we 
owe to that sweet laugh! It turns the proseof life 
into poetry, it flings showers of Bunshine over the 
darksome wood in which we are traveling, it 
touches with light even onr sleep, which is more 
than the image of death, but is consumed with 
dreams that are shadows of immortality. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
COMMON SENSE. 
If some “Rip Yan Winkle” could wake from 
his twenty years’ sleep to-day, it seems to me 
nothing would strike him so forcibly as the lack of 
common sense shown in every department of life 
at the present time. Does any one say we have 
nothing to do with that since men are born, not 
made, we would only ask why is it that the world 
is so sadly degenerated? In old times, when ad¬ 
vantages for learning were few, men were made of 
giant minds—in these days, when every opportu¬ 
nity is afforded, men ace made with scarcely com¬ 
mon sense. This is no fault of Nature either, but 
only the result of that system of education which 
teaches that the body is of more valne than the 
mind, show than reality, fashion than sense.— 
Reader, did you never sigh for the fnlure of this 
fast people, for we have no childhood and youth. 
All come into tbe world men and women. An old 
fashioned boy would be a miracle. Tbe miniature 
gentlemen and ladies of onr republican country 
are taught that labor is degrading—the one quaffs 
his Havana and strokes his beardless chin and 
considers himself fully competent to take the 
place of his father—while the other drums upon 
the piano, and muses upon her chancesfor a mon¬ 
eyed establishment. O temporal O mores / would 
that people might be guided by common sense in 
the education of their children. 
Can anything be more senseless than the devo¬ 
tion paid to ceremonies and foreign fnsbions—to 
the utter disregard of all comfort and utility? Is 
it very sensible to “clothe ourselves in costly ar¬ 
ray” aud follow every whim of the “fickle goddess,” 
wheu perchance we have not. a shingle to cover 
our heads? No person can failto notice the foolish 
extravagance in all parts of our country at the 
present time. The very fact that the wealthy pay 
so much regard to splendor in dress and equipage 
causes thousands of the poorer class to go beyond 
their means, in order to keep up appearauces. If 
those who exert a prevailing influence in this di¬ 
rection could show more sense and act more in 
keeping with the principles of our boasted Repub¬ 
lic, how qaick would we see a change. Is it not 
true that we all show a grievous lack of common 
sense in our every-day life? If wc would list to 
her teachings would we not be better men and 
women aud make the world better for having lived 
in it?—would it not bo better to cultivate the 
mindB of our children than to give so much at¬ 
tention to the adorning ol their bodies?—in a 
word, to throw aside all false show and strive to 
become what the God of Nature intended us to be, 
creatures of common sense. Cayuga. 
-- 4 —«.- 
For Moore's Karol New-Yorker. 
CHILDHOOD’S MEMORIES. 
How many endeapng associations cluster around 
tbe memory of onr early childhood. In life’s 
whole journey it is the brightest spot. No joy so 
pare, no happiness so unclouded, as that of child¬ 
hood days. The anxious cares of later years dis¬ 
turb not its tranquiUity. Innocence aud Peace are 
Its guardian augeis, and no Borrow exists that a 
Mother’s Iotg may not dispel. The hoary-headed 
sire, whose palsied limbs refuse to carry him much 
further on bis pathway of life, dwells with pleasure 
upon tbe memory of bis early days—the happiest 
in a life-time. Imagination draws lor him the 
scenes of his childhood years. He seeB once more 
the peaceful cot, with its ivied walls, where he whb 
wont to dwell. He enters again its vine-clad por- 
talB, and a mother's form greets his eyes, and 
brothers and sisters are there jnst as they were in 
days gone by. He thinks he is a child again. Hib 
mother’s hand iB on his head, and ho hears the 
gentle tone of her low, sweet voice, as she waB 
wont, when he was a child, to teach him from the 
Holy Book, or guide aright his infant prayers. He 
has read these stories many a time since, but they 
never seemed half so beantifol as, when seated by 
bis mother’s knee, they fell in gentle accents from 
her tongue. The noble old elm beneath whose 
friendly branches he oft had reclined, still stands 
by the roadside. The murmuring rill before tbe 
door—tbe music of its waters seemed far sweeter 
than those of any other—keeps on its winding way 
as of old. The little garden—the scene of many 
a merry game—the orchard, the old school-house 
a few rods down the road, all, all, are there. But 
stern reality calls him from the pleasing dream, 
and with a sigh he leaves the contemplation of his 
early days. 
Childhood: fairest oasis in life’s great desert; 
many are thy pleasing remembrances, and never to 
be forgotten thy hallowed inflences. t. 
Girard, Bn., 1S57. 
Decision and Truth. — Whatever you think 
proper to grant a child, let it be granted at tbe 
first word, without entreaty or prayer, and, above 
all, without making any conditions. Grant with 
pleasure, refuse with reluctance; but let your re- 
fnaal be irrevocable,—let not importunity shake 
your resolution, let the positive “ No,” when once 
pronounced be a wall of brass, which a child, 
when he has tried his strength against it half a 
dozen times, shall never more endeavor to shake. 
Jeremy Taylor’s Idea of a Friend.—A friend 
shares my Borrow, and makes it but a moiely; but 
he swells my joy and makes it double. For bo two 
channels divide the river and lessen it into rivu¬ 
lets, and make it fordable aud apt to be drunk up 
by the first revels of the Syrian Btar; bnt two 
torches do not divide, bnt increase the flame; and 
though my tears are the sooner dried np when 
they run npon my friend’s cheeks in the fnrrowB 
of compassion, yet when my flame hath kindled 
his lamp we unite the glories, and make them 
radiant like the golden candlesticks that burn be¬ 
fore the throne of God, because they shine by 
numbers, by unions, and confederations of light 
and harmony. 
-- 4 — 4 -- 
Indolence is a delightful but distressing Btate, 
we must be doing something to be happy; action 
is nolesB necessary than thought to the instinctive 
tendencies of the human frame.— Uaxlitt. 
- 1 __ ^ 
Flowers are the alphabet ol angels, wherewith 
they write on hills and plains mysterious truth. 
Working and Thinking.— It Jg a no less fatal 
error to despise labor when regulated by intellect, 
than to valae it for its own sake. We are always 
in these days trying to separate the two; we want 
one man to be always thinking, and another to be 
always working, and we call one a gentleman and 
the cither an operative: whereas the workman ought 
often to be thinking, and the thinker often to be 
working; and both would be gentlemen in the beat 
sense. As it is, we make both ungentle, tbe one 
envying, tbe other despising his brother; and the 
mass of society is made up of morbid thinkers and 
miserable workers. Now it is only by labor that 
thought can be made healthy, and only by thought 
that labor can be made happy, and the two cannot 
be separated with Impunity. All professions should 
be liberal, and there should be less pride felt ip 
peculiarity of employment and more in excellence 
of achievement.— Ruskin. • 
44 1 remember once,” says Lamartine, in allusion 
to his parents, “ to have seen the branch of a wil¬ 
low which had been torn by the tempest’s band 
from the parent trunk floating in the morning 
light npon the angry surges of the Saone. On it 
a female nightingale still covered her nest as it 
drifted down the foaming stream, and tbe maleon 
the wfng followed the wreck, which was bearing 
away the object of his love.” 
When it is not despiBable to be poor, we want 
fewer things to live In poverty with satisfaction 
than to live magnificently with riches. 
PUBLIC BENEFAOTORB. 
We will not undertake to assert who was the 
actually original author of the remark, that infan¬ 
cy and old age are the two points of life which are 
nearest to heaven. We will, however, undertake 
to say that, tbe assertion is not strictly true. Man 
is uearest to God when he is Godlike, be he of 
what age he may. When lie has groped through 
tho darkness of the world, muitored any one of 
tbe greatmyatorieN which he bad honestly resolved 
to unveil, and so employed tbe gift of intellect as 
to have become worthy of being used as an instru¬ 
ment of divine purposes, then Is tbe man nearest 
to Divinity. 
What more sublime lot can a human being enjoy 
than that of having won a place among the broth¬ 
erhood of men who have, aB it were, helped the 
world on in its coarse. To be worthy of being 
registered In snch a brotherhood, the man must 
have more thsn ordinary Intelligence, and there¬ 
with untiring industry—a heart that cannot he 
deadened by labor, nor chilled by failure—aud a 
head that, shall forever keep up the proud pulses 
of the heart by promises of ultimate triumph. He 
who possesses all these is only below the angels.— 
He is in advance of his fellow men.— London 
Athenaeum. 
Notuing can be accomplished without labor, 
and with it, nothing is too difficult. Strength of 
mind, as well as physical force, is chiefly to be ac¬ 
quired by exercise and habit. Would you be 
avenged of yonr enemy ? Be virtuous, that he may 
have nothing to say against you.— Diogenes. 
Society, like silk, must be reviewed in all its 
situations, or its colors will decieve us. 
“PARTNER WANTED.” 
Almost every day past, as the eye glances over 
the columns of advert isements, it rests upon “Part¬ 
ner wanted;” sometimes in great capitals with a 
file of astonishers; then in Lillipnts of letters with 
a single exclamation point to challenge admira¬ 
tion, and again with a plain, sober period, and 
nothing more, 
44 Partner wanted!” Of course, everybody wantB 
a partner, from the ragman with his bag and hook, 
to bim whose ships flock into port like doves to 
windows.” 
Partner wanted in everything “lovely and of 
good report,” in everything worthy and unworthy; 
in crime and Christianity; in lumber and literature. 
What could be done without that liitleword “suet ?” 
Strike it out of existence, and enterprise would be 
a wreck, the world over; coal yards would boast 
no Lehigh, lakes no commerce, school rooms 
would be childless and pulpits without a voice. 
Every day, one sees three-line notices of partners 
found, when December marries May, or January is 
wedded to June, and the device is an altar and a 
cradle. 
Every day, beneath a willow and ap urn, the eye 
rests npon notices of partners lost, when stars are 
quenched in the morning, or loDg Bummer days 
are hidden behind the cold, gray cloud of night 
and death. 
Partners wanted! Why, down through the scale 
of being, to the brink of dreary nothing, every¬ 
thing advertises for partners. The voice of the 
turtle calls for its mate in the shadows; clouds in 
pairs, are wedded at the closing gates of day; the 
arms of tho forest trees extend and interlock, and 
build up the strong old Gothic of the woods, that 
defies tbe tempest and time; love-tokens and 
pledges of partnership float invisible as thought, 
through the orchards white with Spring’s sweet 
drift of life. 
Partnership is a synonym for life. There is but 
one thing made to be alone, and yet that one dis¬ 
solves all partnerships, for youth and age, night 
and morning, sooner or later, to-day or to morrow 
will be married unto it—“married unto Death.”— 
B. F. Taylor. 
AUTHORS NOT FATHERS. 
Mr. Walter Savage Landor has been calling 
the attention of the British public to the fact— 
made known by William Howitt—that, some of 
Shakspeare’s descendants are in-needy circum¬ 
stances. with a view of procuring relief for them- 
But it is quite impossible that any descendant of 
Sh shapes re should be in want, because there has 
been no such person in existence for nearly one 
hundred years. Shakspcare di- d in 10hi, leaving 
two daughters only, Susanna uud Judith. Judith 
married Mr. Thomas Quincy, a short time before 
her father's death. Three sons were born to her; 
but they all died before her, and sue herself died 
in 1CG2. 
Susanna, tire older daughter, married Dr. John 
Hall, and died in 1649. The sole issue of this 
marriage was a daughter, Elizabeth Hall, who was 
born before her grandfather's death, uud is men¬ 
tioned iu bis ivill, though called his “-uece,” a 
word used at that Lime to denote relationship gen¬ 
erally. She was twice married; first to Thomas 
Nash, and to Sir John Barnard; but she never had 
any children, and died in 1670. With her ended 
the direct line of Shakspcare. 
It is curious how few of the great men of 
England, whether in literature, science, or gov¬ 
ernment, have left descendants. The line of 
Shakspeare is extinct, as w6 have seen; so is that 
of Milton, Bacon, Newton, Harvey, Pope, Gibbon, 
JohnBon, Swift, Lord Mansfield, Pitt, Fox, Gray> 
Cowper, Collins, Thomson, Goldsmith, Gay, Con¬ 
greve, Hume, Bishop Butler, Locke, Hobbes, Adam 
Smith, Bcntham, Wollaston, Davy, Sir Joshua Rey¬ 
nolds, Flaxmau, Gainsborough, Sir Thomas Law¬ 
rence, either were never married, or never had 
children. Burke's son died before him, and so did 
Smollett’s daughter. Addison’s daughter died un¬ 
married. We are not aware that there are any 
lineal representatives of Chaucer, Spenser, Dry- 
den, Jeremy Taylor, Hooker, or Barrow. We have 
mentioned only euch names as occurred to us 
without a book; a little research might doubtlees 
much increase the list,— Exchange. 
■ -- 4 1 ^ ■ - - ■ 
THE SECRET OF MUSIC. 
Frank Howard, in his Treatise on the Art of 
Making a Picture, declare “ there is no work, ele¬ 
mentary or scientific, which teaches the praxis of 
of pictorial effect,, or that of making a picture.”— 
As with painting, so it is with music; Indeed, Dr. 
Marx, the latest writer on the theory, assures his 
readers there exists “no work on harmony or 
thorough base that can possibly fulfill the promi¬ 
ses held out to the student in musical composi¬ 
tion.” In this remark, Dr. Marx may Include his 
own work. There is at present uo written law for 
the composition ol' music, nnd composers have 
carefully eschewed talking or writing upon the 
subject. Haydn, who taught when in this country, 
after giving a number of lessons, was in the habit 
of dismissing the student iu these words: “1 have 
taught you all the known rules: there are others, 
but these I do not teach.” Mozart, when applied 
to by Weigl a well known composer, to teach his 
mode of composing, replied in the brief and deci¬ 
ded sentence: “ No; find out, as I had to find out.” 
On a recent occasion, when visiting a musical 
friend, he produced rather a long and ambitions 
composition, which,after listening to, I remarked: 
“The firBt eight bars are right, and the remainder 
all wrong.” Alter some pause, he said: “What 
makes you say the first eight bars are right, and 
tho others wrong? for I am certain there is not an 
error according to Cherubini." “That may be,” 
was my reply, 14 but no man can write musio from 
studying Cherubini.” Alter some time, he con¬ 
fessed the first eight burs were borrowed from 
Beethoven; but he bad so mystified the passage 
as to escape recognition of the plagiary. I am 
certain no one will ever write music by the aid of 
any work now before the public. The great theo¬ 
rists of the present day are too wise to publish, 
and most of them bind their pupils not to divulge 
their teaching until after their deaths. 
--♦«-*■- 
At night we cauuot tell whether the river is 
shallow or deep; so neither can we judge of a si¬ 
lent or secret man. To know him we must have 
light, or else be able to sound him. 
