... 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
SEPT. 26 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE. 
THE CHILDREN. 
BT MARY HOVF1TT. 
Bkautifui. the children’s faces I 
Spite of all that mars and Fears: 
To my inmost heart appealing; 
Calling forth love’s tendered feeling; 
Steeping ail toy soul rvith tears. 
Eloquent the children's faces— 
Poverty’s lean look, which saith, 
Save usl save us! woe surrounds us; 
Little knowledge s-*ro confounds us; 
Life is hut a lingering death. 
Give us light amid our darkness; 
I.et us know the good from ill; 
Hate us not for all our blindness; 
Love us, lead us, show us kindness— 
You can make us what you will. 
We aro willing; we are ready, 
We would learn if you would teach: 
We have hearts that, yearn to duty; 
We have miuds alive to beauty; 
Souls that any heights can reach! 
Raise us by your Christian knowledge; 
Consecrate to man our powers; 
Let us take our proper station: 
We, the rising generation, 
Lot us stamp the age as ounsl 
We shall he what you will make us— 
Make us wise, and make us good! 
Make us strong in tiino of trial; 
Teach us temperance, self-denial. 
Patience, kindness, fortitude! 
Look into our childish frees; 
See ye not our willing hearts? 
Only love us—only lead us; 
Only let us know you need us. 
And we all will do our parts. 
We are thousands—many thousands! 
Every day our ranks increase: 
Let us march beneath your banner, 
We the legion of true honor, 
Combating for love and peace! 
Train osl try ua! days slide onward, 
They can ne’er be ours again: 
Save us, gavel from our undoing! 
Save from ignorance and ruin; 
Make u* worthy to be mu.n! 
Send ns to our weeping mothers, 
Angel-stamped In heart and brow! 
We may be our fathers' teachers; 
We may be the mightiest preachers, 
In the day that dawneth now! 
Such the children’s mute appealing^ 
All my Inmost soul was stirred; 
And my heart was bowed with eadness, 
When a cry, liko summer’s gladness, 
Said “ The children's prayer is heard.” 
-- 
For Moore's F.ural New-Yorker. 
SHADOWS. 
Shadows —howthc-y come and go—now playing 
upon some distent bill-top—now gliding in the 
valley below — anon they flit across our pathway, 
then soon appear far beyond us. Shadows that in 
the distance are hut a speck upon the blue con¬ 
cave, deeper, darker grow! The storm-king hides 
behind their fleecy texture, and bursts suddenly 
upon us with threatening fury. Thus is our life! 
Shadows gather, then vanish—sunlight and shade 
ever striving for mastery. Shadows there are we 
love —treasm d shadows of earthly substances, 
which the faithful artist transfers to the valued 
canvas or polished plate. Death may woo the 
substance to bis cold embrace, and wo look for the 
last time upon the lifeless form of those we love; 
they may be estranged lrom us by the scarce less 
chilling touch of indifference or Neglect; yet to 
these shadowy mementoes we may turn and awhile 
forget they are the " Lost.” 
’Tis with these shadows I have been holding 
sweet companionship to-night—shadows gathered 
in days gone by; some bearing the impress of 
years, and others yet fresh from the limner’s hand. 
Loved faces of the family circle beam from the un¬ 
conscious plates; all here delineated, save one, she 
called from earth so suddenly, that, naught remain¬ 
ed save what was engraven iu memory upon the 
tablets of the heart. Relatives, too, claim a share 
in these mementoes. One loved one, far away in 
a Southern clime; one who hath ever been with 
me, a sharer of life’s joys and sorrows, loved none 
the less now, though absent. Hope tells of a happy 
expected re-union with Cousin Mat, ere many suns 
shall have wheeled their bosy rounds. A trio 
claims a passing notice—the features of two (who 
with myself) for years have Bhared each other’s 
confidence, and been figuratively styled the “ Three 
Sisters.” Time, not willing to let ns pass on thus 
joyously together, has filled our hearts with strange. 
feelings,— we meet,’tis trne as ever; the friend¬ 
ly welcome ia given as of old; yet too well I 
know the Eolian music of our friendship is over. 
Alas, for human friendship and poor frail humani¬ 
ty! Here are the familsr features of two, who but 
a short time ago, pledged to “love, honor and 
obey, till death should them part” Joy be with 
thee; thine is no passing fancy, founded upon 
sickly sentimentalism—long hast thou known and 
loved each other. 
Again, I look and trace the forma of two, who 
with ns shared the multiplied pleasures of the win¬ 
ter of ’56. Sportively was this copy entrusted to 
me, and he who gave it, now Bleeps beneath the 
deep blue waters—that merry laugh is hushed, the 
dark eye closed in death. No loved mother—no 
dear friend stood by thy dying couch, and wiped 
the death-damp from thy brow. Alone, (save one 
helpless as thyself.) was thy frail life-barque wreck¬ 
ed, and beneath the wild wave’s surges, thou 
sleepest the sleep that knoweth no earthly waking. 
Peace to thee, lonely slumberer. The shadowed 
companion of the dead is far away in the Western 
wilds, seeking for himself a home and fortune.— 
Success attend him. 
A group of school friends greet my gaze. Dear 
old Seminary where those friendships were form¬ 
ed—thou art a bright connecting link to the Past! 
Though the future may shed deep gloom o’er my 
pathway, though friends prove faithless, yet never 
can It cast a portentous gloom over the sunlight 
of Ft P--memories. My dear “ chum,” with her 
sunny countenance and welcome smile, greets me. 
Ab, Kate, yon were a friend indeed—bearing with 
my many failings kindly, and loving me to the 
last. Here are two who were my dearest friends 
within those classic halls—one a merry hearted, 
affectionate fi lend; the other, possessed of an unac¬ 
countable charm which drew all hearts towards 
her—patient, unselfish and sympathising; yet so 
frail, one’s thoughts ot' her are ever associated 
with the Angels aud Heaven. A Dd “ LoTTrs,” too, 
on whose brow care set so lightly,—the brief days 
of her girlish triumphs are done; for already has 
she pledged to another her life’s happiness, and 
alas, with that happiness, has forgotten and ne¬ 
glected her friend. Well, pei chance, ’cis best’tis 
bo. Life would be too bright were friends true and 
affection enduring. 
The last of these shadows is of two; gifted alike 
with high mental powers, the stamp of genius 
resting upon their brow, and who rejoiced in the 
title of friends. One now is winning by slow, yet 
certain steps, a pathway to collegiate honors; the 
other, in the busy metropolis, is making a steady 
and sure advancement in the legal profession.— | 
Oft-times I wonder if school memories are oblite¬ 
rated in their hearts, or has the world, with its 
honors and emoluments made friendship bnt a 
minor consideration with their high ambition? 
May they rise to emi i enoe is the heartfelt, wish of 
one at least; yet may they pause sometimes on 
the threshold of glory, and cast a passing glance 
back to the days of ’55. 
Cherished shadows — loved types of the past,— 
how dear are ye. As ye have been loved, so shall 
ye ever be shrined in the inmost sacred temple of 
the human heart. Millie. 
-, N. Y., September, 1857. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THREE PICTURE 8. 
THE PAST. 
A picture is painted npon the tablets of our 
memories—a strange picture—one that would be 
harshly criticized by many an artist. There ia in 
it a curious commingling of light and shade, some 
of the shadows east toward the sun. and some of 
the longest and blackest unexpectedly brightened 
by sunshine, and suddenly merging into light and 
beauty. The background is dim—we need not 
wonder—it was painted long years ago when the 
hand of the artist was unskilled. But no harsh 
contrasts or painfully prominent objects inter¬ 
rupt its quiet peacefulness; aud despite the 
shadowy outlines and the hazy light., we view 
it with more plea-.ure than any other portion.— 
Scenes which long ago we looked npon with a 
weary heart, now appear pleasant in the distance; 
for we can recall with thanksgiving the loving 
kindness, the tender mercy, which gave to onr 
trembling souls the confidence of love, and bro’t 
light where was once darkness. Some of them 
seem almost like fancy sketches, and we look half 
smilingly, hall sadly, forgetful of our idontity 
with the living actors. Bnt nearer theforegronnd 
the scenes are stamped with such marks of vivid 
reality that onr thoughts are turned to the homely 
and ever-preient facte of life. There is much in i( 
we would change, but we cannot But as we look, 
images of a bright aud glorious fnture throng onr 
vision, which, in coming time we hope to be able 
to reflect upon with unalloyed pleasure. 
THE PRESENT. 
Another picture is begun npon our life’s can¬ 
vas, and with darker shades than the first. Ex¬ 
perience, that rough teacher, has instructed us in 
many things that else most have remained un¬ 
learned. We commence — intending to choose the 
co'ors wiib more care than ol old — and to have 
an eye to the effect of which we were formerly un¬ 
mindful—but somi times through forgetfulness— 
sometimes through impatience—a careless touch 
mars the beauty of an otherwise perfect figure, aud 
causes ua to view with sadness uur imperishable 
handiwork. 
Dull, heavy care often weighs upon our heart, 
and the burden of our prayer is “bow long”— 
“how long.” Yet through the gathering dark¬ 
ness, with tearful eyes, do we look for the dawning 
of the day, for surely a light Bhall arise and shine 
into our hearts. But not now—not now—the day 
cometh not yet. 
THE FUTURE. 
Dim, shadowy forms, like those which visit ns in 
dreams, hover about us in the deepening twilight, 
and beckon us ooward to the royaterion* and un¬ 
known future. Sometimes an undefined fe-ir takes 
possession of’ our hearts, and we start back tremb¬ 
ling at the faint foreshadow of comiug evil.— 1 
Sometimes a joyous upspringing hope gives to us 
new life and strength, and cheers ns onward in the 
thorny path of life. 
Bnt “Onr future, as our past, before God lies,” 
why, then, need we fear? Let us clieriBb hope— 
hope that whispers peace to the bouI, and points 
us to our fnture rest. Jeannie Linsted. 
Independence, Mo., 1857. 
A Mothhr’9 Love.—W e are indebted to Lamar¬ 
tine's exquisitely fine pen, for the following touch¬ 
ing and graphic illustration of a Mother’s Love: 
In some Bpring freBbet, a river widely washed 
its shores and rent away a bough, whereon a bird 
had built a cottage for her summer hopes. Down 
the white and whirling stream, drifted the green 
branch, with its wicker cup of unfledged song; 
aud fluttering beside it, as it went, the mother 
bird. Unheeding the roaring river, on she kept, 
her cries of agony and fear piercing the pauses of 
the Btorm. flow like the love of the old fashioned 
mother, who followed the child she had plucked 
from her heart, all over the world. Swept away 
by passion, that might be, it mattered not; bear¬ 
ing away with him, the fragments of the shattered 
roof-tree, though he did, yet that mother was with 
him, a Ruth through all his life, and a Rachel at 
his death. 
LOVE CANNOT DIE. 
They sin who tell us love can die, 
With Life all other passions fly, 
All others art- but vanity, 
Iu heaven ambition cannot dwell, 
Nor avarice in the vaultii of hell; 
Earthly these passion* of the earth, 
They perish where they have their birth; 
But love is indestructible. 
Its holy flame forever burnetii, 
From heaven it came, to heaven returnetk; 
It soweth here with toll and care, 
But the harvest-time of love is there. 
{Robert Southey. 
SJiflicf fjtallauy. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
I WEEP FOR THEE. 
BY OAURIK OKAY CROOKS. 
I wtskp for thee—this bright, glad day, 
While summer’s latest breath is bringing 
From where yon shatter'd flow’rets lay, 
A sweet perfume,—and ’mid the singing 
Of yon sweet bird, 1 seem to hear 
A note so low, so soft, and sadden’d; 
It makes mo think thou ait not here, 
Or else 'twould bo more loud, more gladden’d, 
Aid then, I turn from thee, to see 
Thy grave in sight—and weep for thee. 
I weep for thee—when winter’s here, 
When mirth and song a spell is weaving 
ArouDd my heart;—when home-like cheer 
Upon each lip a smile is leaving 
I miss thee then—for iD some strain 
Which through the crowded ball is playing, 
A chord is touched;—which brings again 
T.ie past to me as I am Btraying 
Amid such scenes, l often flee 
Apart from these,—to weep for thee. 
I weep for thee—when eve’s at hand, 
While many a lovely group is kneeling 
Rround gtowing hearths; our broken band 
It brings to mind, and tears are stealing 
Adown my cheeks, as near I see 
A vacant chair—a robe unworn; 
Ah! yes, though shed so bitterly, 
Tears tell ol love for those we mourn, 
Of bleeding hearts so truthfully 
That ever—1 must weep for thee. 
I weep for thee—when friends seem cold, 
Aod errors wild, seem uuforgivoh; 
While every hour new griefs unfold, 
And earth seems far, far off from heaven 
I miss tboo, then;—the voice is hushed 
Which cheered me on;—aud closed the eye 
From which the pitying tear hath gushed, 
And stilled the heart, which heaved a sigh 
For others woe. Now mournfully 
I tceep for thee—I weep for thee. 
Honeoye, N. Y., 1867- 
For Moore’s Rural Now-Yorker. 
THE PASSIONATE PARENT. 
There is no sight more deeply painful to the 
trne Christian parent than that of a father or 
mother governing a child entirely, or at all, ac¬ 
cording to the whims of passion; for in his paren¬ 
tal character he booh and feelB the deplorable 
results of Buch a training, and as a Christian he 
cannot hut lament Buch a careful cnltivAtion of 
human depravity. 
The character of a child may well be compared 
to a plasUc materiel in the hands of a workman, 
which yields at first to the slightest touch or im¬ 
pression, and is jeadily moulded into auy shape he 
conceives — a shape of beauty or deformity — of 
weakness or strength; hut which gradually and 
insensibly hardens till at last it reqnlrqs great and 
constant exertion to change its figure, or becomes 
even totally unlmpresslble. Now if the workmau 
be skillful, and a tover of the beautiful and the 
useful, he will spare do effort to form his material, 
ere it has become unmanageable, into an object 
of service or admiration to his fellow-mam But if 
he he wanting in ability, or careless or malicious 
in disposition, be will either spoil his material in 
fruitless efforts, or waste hla opportunity in accom¬ 
plishing and even attempting nothing, or he will 
seize upon it to invent an instrument of evil. 
How complete here the analogy to the growth 
and formation of human character, from child¬ 
hood to maturity. How warm is the heart, how 
impressible the brain of the child, and how com¬ 
plete ia the power of the uarent. to lead it where, 
or make it what, lie will. The era of childhood is 
the golden opportunity ol' shaping the character 
for life. But as it pulses on through infancy and 
youth, it gradually loses this flexibility of nature, 
and manhood reached, in all important respects, 
its principles and practices arc forever fixed. If 
the parent appreciates his high trust, be will model 
his child alter all that is beautiful, aud noble, and 
good, and so make for himself “ a thing of beauty, 
and a joy forever.” Bat if he neglect his oppor¬ 
tunity or abuses it by leaving his child to its own 
ways, or directing it in the paths of vice, it will 
prove a sorrow instead of a joy—the curse instead 
of the blessing of his life. 
Those pft repeated, bnt too little heeded senti¬ 
ments Af wise and worthy men—"The child is 
father of the man”—“Just as the twig ia bent the 
tree is Inclined” — and “ Train up a child in the 
way he should go, and when he is old he will not 
depart from it”—indicate plainly the true charac¬ 
ter of a child, and the duty of the parent with re¬ 
gard to it. 
Now, how does the passionate parent fulfill his 
trust, and what is the result of his training? Pas¬ 
sion is a capricious tyrant, 3nd he who acts at its 
dictates must he guilty of gross inconsistency. So 
the acts of the parent uuder its influence, are 
often so flatly contradictory that the simplest child 
perceives it. To-day, for some mere wickedness, 
he administers to the child a slight or careless re¬ 
proof, and that, perhaps, as though it requires a 
paiuful effort; for such persona are, frequently, as 
extreme and unreasonable in their affection at one 
time, as in their resentment at another. To-mor¬ 
row, for an inevitable accident, ho poms npon it a 
torrent of invective, and perhaps with a blow, 
sends it sobbing and auflVring away; at one time 
he chastises it; at the next begs its pardon.— 
Now what is the necessary result of such treat 
meat? It must blunt and deaden all sense of right 
and wrong in the child—must destroy all love of 
truth, all fear of falsehood. It must, if continued, 
eventually destroy confidence in the declarations 
and promises of the parent, and respect and obe¬ 
dience to his advice and commands. It gives the 
child an advantage, in its maturer years, to taunt 
the parent with Ills inconsistency. This is not 
calculating too largely on results, or more than 
frequently occurs in actual life. 
It ia no less certain that we inherit the appetites 
and passions, than the forma and features of our 
parents. If, therefore, the parent he possessed of 
very Btrong passions, which have grown the strong¬ 
er by an unchecked indulgence, the child will 
partake of that disposition in a marked degree.— 
Character so positive and decided as such posse sb, 
leaves the deeper and more distinct impress on the 
offspring. The disposition may not b so appa- | 
rent in the child, at first, but it lies within, an un¬ 
developed germ, whose vital power, by timely and 
assiduous attention, may be mostly destroyed, bnt 
which by the least instigation or encouraqiment, 
will spring into a vigorous growth of tho most 
noxious influenco. This growth is as certainly 
cultivated by the passionate parent, as that tl ere 
is any force or influence in example. How sad is 
it then, that, when the greatest care and vigilance 
is necessary for the child’s welfare, its natural 
guardian should prove the most dangerous foe to 
its interests. Circumstances here, seem to com¬ 
bine, most unhappily, for the child's ruin. 
But perhaps the parents may be opposite in their 
characters, and the child resemble the better one. 
Hard, indeed, is the lot of such a child. The harsh 
and cruel treatment of the parent, is apt to crush 
its spirit and make it sad and desponding ever 
after. That child must possess extraordinary 
strength of character, who can bear up under 
parental reproof, as severe and constant as it is 
unmerited, with equanimity, cheerfulness and 
health. The better parent, too, is here an object 
for our deepest sympathy. However sincere may 
be its desires for the child's good, and however 
earnest its endeavors to effect anything towards it, 
it must, ever endure to see them thwarted by the 
hand that should be the most ready to assist. A 
sensitive spirit would sink under such circum¬ 
stances. The paaeionato parent has, here, aggra¬ 
vated wrong to atone tor. 
A bright, and happy child is the cheer and the 
ornament of a household. It is a common joy, an 
object of sympathetic thought and feeling to its 
parents. It affords entertainment aud instruction 
to young and old, as it indulges in its unchecked 
merriment—the very emblem of innocence and 
joy. But when the child’s character baa been per¬ 
verted and corrupted by snch a training as we 
have considered, it becomes a constant source 
of annoyance and offence. What is more unpleas¬ 
ant than a cross and peevish child, in word or 
act always showing its evil passions? It ia Btudi- 
oii8ly avoided by all except those who are charged 
with its care; for its presence ia infections and 
casts a gloom wherever it happens to be. 
Thus far when we have distinguished between 
the parents, we have mentioned the father, not, 
indeed, as excluding, hut rather as including, the 
mother. She, we know, is pre-eminently the edu¬ 
cator of the child. The earliest and most valuable 
lessons we receive, arc around the domestic fire¬ 
side, and from our mother’s knee. When she is 
properly qualified, we learn there lessons of love 
and noble ambition, aud imbibe a spirit life-long 
in its influence. But when Bhe is animated by the 
evil passions of our nature, how ch nged is her 
character! She, whom we have been accustomed 
to paint as all gentleness and loveliness, has be¬ 
come the picture of a Fury. Then, indeed, we no 
longer recognize her as a woman, but as a demon 
who has chained her spirit, and ia controlling her 
form at will. We might somewhat ohaDge the 
language of the poet aud say—“In man or woman, 
hut fur most in woman, and most of all in woman 
in her parental character,” is the sight of such de¬ 
grading passions painful aud lamentable. Her 
influence then is a mighty engine for evil If only 
the father were of this passionate character, and 
the mother right-minded, there might be hope for 
the child’s welfare; for it is mostly under her care 
and iu her society. But if the mother ia thus, she 
is most certain to render it miserable while in her 
charge, if not to destroy its happiuess for life.— 
When noth parents are bo unfortunately afflicted, 
results are too certain to stop at calculation. 
Stop, then, parent, stop and think. Are yon 
about to correct your child in passion aud notin 
reason, in anger and not in love; then check that 
rising threat,—stay that unmerited blow, and learn 
ere you attempt to govern others, how to control 
yourself. The Child’s Friend. 
Hackensack, N. J., 1857. 
-<*-♦-*■- 
INFLUENCE OF SONG. 
Most of ns have experienced the luxury of 
tears when listening to an old man who, having 
led a long long career of vice and crime, was at 
length banished from the country; and who, while 
undergoing his period of banishment amidst the 
wilds and jungles ot a distant land, heard, in the 
summer eventide, a Bweet voice, Binging in his 
own language the very song which had lulled him 
to hia infant slumber, when he knew crime but by 
name, and knew it only to abhor. It has been 
sung, too, by the cradle of an infant sister, one 
who had died yonng, and was now in heaven; the 
mother, too, was no more. 
But the song—the old song had not lost its in¬ 
fluence over him yet. Back came trooping upon 
him the old memories which had so long slumber¬ 
ed down there, in the unconaumed depths of the 
heart; the mother and the father; the household 
gathering; the old books; the old school house; 
the time-worn church, half hidden by the old yew- 
trees, where he had first heard the Bible read, all 
came back npon him as fresh as if it were yester¬ 
day; and, overpowered by his feeliugp, he gave 
vent to them in a flood of tears. And then the 
old man grew calm, and bis latter days were bis 
best days; and when the term of hia punishment 
had expired, he came back to his father's laud, 
and there, In that old village graveyard, amid 
whose gruasy hillocks be had played and gamboled, 
and where the mother and her little one were 
sleeping, he lay down his weary limbs, and sank 
peacefully away into a common grave.— Eliza 
Cook's Journal. 
-- 
What the Aok Wants. —The age does not want 
mere manualists and functionaries, bat whole- 
souled lovers of their kind. It does not want em- 
balmers with their spicep, but planters and Pro¬ 
methean lungs; not ideas plastered in pyramids 
and manBoleams, bnt moving in marts and throb¬ 
bing with the pulsations of joy and love. And if 
these happen to be a little unlike the old fashions, 
have no fear of being called visionaries—so long 
as you sec what you say—whether your neighbors 
aee it or blink it. See visions; It Is the thinker’s 
vocation; and turn them into facts; that Is the 
workman’s business. Dream dreams, and bring 
them to pass. Be hospitable to every faint, uncer¬ 
tain beam that straggles to your window. Who 
knows bnt it may travel from the skies, aud have a 
sun on its track?— Rev. F. D. Huntington. 
BROTHER JONATHAN TRAVELING. 
In the last number of Blackwood's Magazine, Ib 
a racy sketch of Brother Johal.hau as a traveler._ 
The writer, evidently a traveler of genial spirit and 
quiet observation, ip speaking of individual and 
national characteristics. Of the Germans, he sajB, 
they travel much and well, but they are ponderous 
in research and learning, deep in statistics and 
analogies, and care little for the lighter touches 
which brighten and shadow the life of man. The 
Spaniard seldom moves abroad except in his own 
land. The Russ travels luxuriously and diplomati¬ 
cally. Luxury is his recreation, politics bis study. 
*he Frenchman, with hiB language Bpoken, his 
1 ustoma ana manners adopted, by one-third of the 
c viUzed world, he is, perhaps, least of all men, a 
00 mopolitan—is the least at home among foreign¬ 
ers—he the least comprehends or understands 
the -laracteror characteristics of another people. 
He i 1 poor tiaveler, and a worse colonist. The 
Arner < fn is t.bua sketched; “No steam engine 
journe. a n ore fiercely, or with more rapidity, than 
our kimman across the Atlantic. Iu doing a cer¬ 
tain number of miles, a certain number of muse¬ 
ums, cities, rivers, ruins, mountains, churches, in 
a certain number of weeks or month*, he whips 
the whole world. His success in checking tavern 
bills, the skill with which he manages guides and 
post-boys, the energy with which he surmounts 
difficulties, the perseverance with which he writes 
himself every day, and at all times, aU. 8. citizen, 
are truly wonderful. His feet are untiring, hia will 
unrelaxing—yet we ca mot hold out to him the 
hand of fellowship, or recognize in him the true 
spirit of travel. He is a smart traveler, a regular 
go-ahead; bnt wo flud in his tracks little of the 
sentiment, the taste, or the heartfalness which are 
essentials of the gentle.” 
ELOQUENT PASSAGE. 
For the greatest human intellects there is no 
exemption from the common doom. I have some¬ 
times thought how sad, yet how sublime, mud 
have been the emotions of that maD, whose privi¬ 
lege it was to stand by the coffin of Shakspearc 
and gaze on that sweet and noble f.ice, when death 
had called out all the strange beauty which never 
Jives there. It was worth a lifetime to have stood 
there one minute—to have laid your hand on that 
broad brow, and started at the cold chill; and so 
pausing to have called up in memory all the mag¬ 
nificent creations of his genius, and worshiped 
him there in the silence and tbe gloom: 
Bui be is dead and gone ; 
At bis bead n grass-green turf, 
At bis beels a stone. 
So they all go. Man dies, but nature is eternal 
The seasons keep their appointed time; day re¬ 
turns with its golden splendor, and night with its 
eloqnent mystery. The same stars which lit the 
ghastly battle-field of Troy, rough with the dead 
bodies of ancient heroes—which shone on the 
marble, streets of imperial Borne, and on the sad 
eyes of Vigil sleepless iu the living glow of inspi¬ 
ration—the watch fires of the angel 4 , which, 
through centuries of devastation and change,have 
still burned on unceasingly—speok to os usthey did 
to Dante, and Bhakspeam, and Milton, of the di¬ 
vine glory, the omnipotence, the everlastingbean- 
ty and love of God!— Philosophy of Life. 
4 - 
THE SUMMER IS PASSING. 
The summer is passing. So the eye seeth, and 
the ear beareth. The telegraph does not bring 
the news, or the ocean steamer. Yet, a thouBund 
carriers are busy and ibe troth greets ua at every 
turn. We hear ripples under the Bunny keel ns 
the summer drifts away. We see the sails mellow¬ 
ing in tbe hazy sunlight. Ab wo lay down at 
night, the sweet, yet saddening melody of de¬ 
parture, mingles far out into the land of dreams. 
Under the Bentinel beaming of the midnight stars, 
the song goes on. At break of day, it continues. 
The sun has a soberer linge in its smile. The blue 
sky is not as clear. There are signs of hectic npon 
the foliage. The stubble-fields join their silent 
testimony. Tbe carol of the birdB iB less buoyant, 
and under our window by day and night, the 
autumn cricketsings bin sharp butplaintivo hymD. 
The wagons are creaking under the gathering 
sheaves, and well filled mows greet the eye through 
the wide swung doors. Tho threshers will now be 
busy, aud their steady hmu will come rising and 
falling upon tho winds over the fields. The good 
flails—bless them for their olden-tiine memories— 
are not. Gone with other things of the “ good old 
timeB of yore.” We only hear their measured 
beat in memory, and stop to dream of the days 
when we helped to Bwing them, and to heat out by 
single blows, the rattling grain.— Wisconsin Chief. 
Nature is gifted with something wonderfully 
liko imagination; forever re-produciDg herself, but 
ulways in new forms, new combinations, new lov- 
liness, and her humblest tree passes through as 
many phases as her fairest moon. Now the sum¬ 
mit is crimson and gold; now it rolU a great bil¬ 
low of green, and now it stands dark as the tolds 
of a storm cloud. So nature busies herself all the 
day, and all the year long, Is doing something new 
and something more for that tree; when it buds, 
when it blossomB, when it is full of summer glo¬ 
ries. In the morning, she amuses herself in laying 
its shadows all to the westward; in the evening 
Bhe trails them, like a mourner's robe, to the cast, 
and at noon she bundles them np under a tree. 
What mockery of sunset, of flame and of gold, 
when she touches it with frost. What a decora¬ 
tion of fairyland, when Winter endows it with 
pendants of diamond and pearl.— Chicago Jour. 
---■ 
Intercourse with Children. — The most es¬ 
sential point in our intercourse with children is to 
be perfectly true ourselves. Every other interest 
ought, to he sacrificed to that ot truth. When we 
in any way deceive a child, we not only show him 
a pernicious example, but we also lose our own 
influence over him forever. 
__— » 
The sun is best seen at his rising and setting. 
So men’s native disposition ia most clearly per¬ 
ceived when they are children and when they 
corns to die. 
Past events are as clear as a mirror; the future 
as obscure as varnish. 
