MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE, 
for Moore’s Knral New-Yorker. 
“THE ANGEL OF THE HOUSEHOLD.” 
BY KATE CAMERON. 
A little blue-eyed cherub 
Hath folded here her wing, 
And from her native Heaven, 
Doth countless blessings bring; 
Sweet peace, and calm contentment. 
Affection warm and pure, 
And that teudor sympathy 
That rnakes love strong and sure. 
She is a precious treasure. 
Entrusted to our care, 
Our daily lot to brighten, 
Onr daily ,joya to share; 
To make our trials lighter, 
Our happiness more sweet, 
And ever to guide Heavenward, 
Our resile*-, wandering feet. 
We watch her gentle slumber, 
And mark her baby ways. 
And hourly find new graces 
To win our love and praise. 
Her presence is like sunshine, 
That bids all clouds depart. 
And dlls with joy and gladness 
Eaeh loving, kindred heart. 
And when we see her smiling, 
We fancy Dial she hears 
The music of the angels, 
Denied to our dull ears! 
Perchance, boo. lier clear vision 
Undimin'd by mortal care 
May view the holy beauty 
That “ saints in glory wear." 
It iB a strange, deep mystery, 
This dawn of human life, 
When the bud of infancy 
With future years is rife; 
And sweet the task to watch it, 
Unfolding hour by hour, 
Into the perfect blossom— 
A pure and lovely flower. 
We wait, with eager fondness, 
For the sweet tinie to come, 
When her voice will make music 
Within onr pleasant home. 
When childhood’s artless prattle 
Will call forth new delight. 
And tiny foot-steps echo 
From morning until night. 
God grant that this dear Angel, 
With us may long remain 
To cheer our days of sadness, 
And charm away our pain. 
And when tliis treasure lent us. 
To Ilim we must restore, 
May she be a brighter Angel 
Upon the Spirit-Shore! 
Rose Cottage, 1857. 
-4—*.—i- 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE BLESSED FLOWERS. 
BY EMILY C. HUNTINGTON, 
“What a beautiful place,” says every passer-by, 
leaning from coach or carriage to look back upon 
it And so it is, very beautiful; the large substan¬ 
tial house, draped and festooned with clustering 
roses and gracefal creepers, and surrounded by 
the pleasant yard with its smooth green turf, clean 
walkB and shading trees. It is a home for real 
comfort too, as well as ornament, for you can see 
at a glance that it is a farm house, and the broad 
acres of carefully cultivated land about it show 
marks of the same hand that beautified the dwel¬ 
ling. But ten years ago, when that young girl un¬ 
der the maples was a little sickly child of seven, 
the pleasant homestead wore a far different look. I 
will show it to you. “ Look on this picture and on 
that» 
The house might be pleasant enough but that it 
looks so bare in the hot June sunshine, and the 
grass in the spacious yards, is trampled and rooted 
up in places by the pigs that have free access to 
the premises. The rail fence in front may have 
been a good one in its day, but it is falling down 
now. and under one of the largest shade trees is a 
great trough hollowed out of a log, the use of 
which is plainly indicated by the cobs trampled 
into the quagmire about it, and the sa vory odor of 
sour milk, <fcc., arising from it To be sure it is no 
great ornament, but then it is handy to the house, 
and the owner believes in the beauty of utility, so 
morning and evening a drove of tall, gaunt look¬ 
ing animals come shambling along at an awkward 
gallop to receive their rations. If you look a lit¬ 
tle forther you will Bee a garden with a few strag¬ 
gling beans and potatoes, and a dozen hills of en¬ 
cumbers, that seem to have been planted for the 
purpose of giviDg the bens a good place to scratch. 
The wood pile is sprawling over the back yard, a 
broken cart upturned in one corner. Your fancy 
can easily supply other particulars, and then you 
have a truthful picture of Nelson Warren’s farm 
house as it looked ten years ago—and I should not 
wonder, Reader, if you knew of some other farm 
that looks just so at this very moment. 
Yet Mr. Wakken was counted a good farmer by 
almost all the coantry round, His crops of wheat 
and corn were not scanty, and his potatoes were 
the finest in market. No one’s barns were better 
filled with hay than bis, and no one, if report were 
true, had heavier deposits in bank. It was only in 
attention to the little things, non-essentials he call¬ 
ed them, that he failed; and although he was al¬ 
ways going to “fix up a little after haying or har¬ 
vesting,” yet the idea of adorning his home, and 
makiDg it beautiful to tbe eye, never onoo entered 
his mind. Farmers bad not time to waste with 
such fooleries as setting out flowers, and as for 
making garden, field work was always so pressing 
it could not be attended to. He had no time to 
make a house for the hens; “ couldn’t Maby keep 
them out of the garden?”—and what hurt did it 
do to find the pigs under the shade trees, when no 
one ever wanted to go there? How many men 
have you heard talk just, so? 
One day when good Mrs. Wabben was busy with 
her kitchen work, scrubbing and scouring and 
running every now and then to drive out the 
ehiokena, and scare the pigs away from the door, 
little Mart, the pet of the house, came running in 
with her apron full of flowers. “ Oh, look mother,” 
said the eager child, “ at all these beautiful flowers 
Jennie Thayer gave me! And mother, Jennie 
says she’ll give me some Beeds and roots and then 
I can have a garden of my own, just like hers.— 
Oh wont it be nice?”—aad the little one danced 
about the room in her glee. “ But, Maby,” said 
her mother, 11 the fence is down so yon can't, keep 
the cattle out, and the pigs will spoil it.” “ Oh 
mother, aek father to fix it won’t you? I know he 
will.” “ Maybe so, but you must not be disappointed 
my child; your father is very busy.” 
“Nelson, I wish you would fix up the garden 
fence a little. Mary has set her heart upon hav¬ 
ing a flower gavden, and you know she cannot 
now.” 
I am sure Nelson Warren did not see the little 
eager face that watched him so anxiously, or he 
could not have turned away with only a half- 
audible something about “ too busy to attend to 
it,” and “putting nonsence in tbe child’s head.”— 
No it is not nonsence, or at least it is such nonsence 
as Goo and Nature puts into our heads, this in¬ 
stinctive love for the beautiful that dwells in every 
little child—and we should be far more human in 
our manhood and womanhood if the world did 
not crush so much ol' it out of as, and make us 
half ashamed of what is left. 
“Never mind, darling,” said the loving mother 
to the little one sobbing in her lap. “We'll fix 
the fence as well as we can ourselves, and then you 
must watch it and drive the pigs away.” 
ThnB comforted the tears were soon dried, and 
when the daily work was done mother and child 
toiled lovingly together until the broken fence was 
mended after a fashion, and the little garden com¬ 
menced. Day after day Mary was unwearied in 
her labors, and both father and mother encour¬ 
aged her, thinking the exercise might strengthen 
the slender frame, and tint the cheek that had al¬ 
ways been colorless. As the tiny plants grew in 
the Bun and dew and the buds began to show, little 
Mart seemed to love and cling to them almost as 
if they were human beings. One day, when the 
buds were just bursting into blossoms, the poor 
rickety fence gave way, and the whole drove of 
pigs, old and young, rushed into the ill-fated gar¬ 
den. No body saw them until, with grants of sat¬ 
isfaction, they had explored the premises thor¬ 
oughly, when poor Mary, with a scream of terror 
and indignation, discovered the rains of her 
treasures. Her mother tried to console her, but it 
was all in vain, and her father missing his pet 
wondered much that she should care for “ a few 
paltry Jlowers .” 
Mrs. Warren, forgetting perhaps in her com¬ 
passion for her grieving ohild, that reverence 
which St, Paul enjoins upon all good wives, re¬ 
proached her lord and master pretty sharply with 
what she called his “ shiftlessness' 1 in not beeping 
things in better trim about the premises, while 
Mary crept sobbing away and no one thought of 
looking for her for an hour. Then her father 
found her lying on the grand, with the remains of 
her precious flowers in her hands, hut fast asleep. 
He looked a moment at the little pale face with iia 
grieved look, and then, as a long sobbing breath 
shook her tiny frame, he lifted her tenderly in bis 
arms and carried her into the honse. “ She has 
cried herself to sleep,” he said, as he laid her in 
her ili other’s lap, and kissing her softly he went 
out. I don't know what he thought of that night, 
hut it was not long before the old fence gave place 
to a new one that was proof 3gainBt all assaults. 
Everything did not change at once, but grad 
ually the yards were made to look a little cleaner, 
and the great honeysuckle, that had lain matted 
in the grass ever since the house was painted 
years before, was somehow trimmed up and train¬ 
ed up over the windows; it did make a pleasant 
shade for them, and that was realty useful. Then, 
“just to please Mary,” the hollows were filled np be¬ 
fore the house, by the help of rainy days and 
pleasant evenings; and just to please her, though 
it was a foolish whim, the big trough was taken 
away from under the maple, but there was no han¬ 
dy place to put it, so after awhile Mr. Warren 
concluded to put np an out house for the pigs, like 
one he had read about. Then when the house was 
huilthe could not help feeling ashamed ofhis bony 
slab-alded, long-nosed breed, so just for an expeii- 
ment he bought a few of the improved stock he 
had heard so much of. I cannot tell how it all 
came about, but tbe whole place changed, and 
when Mrs, Warren and Mary eet out roses and 
creepers, Mr. Warren thought Borne frames might 
easily be made for them to run upon, and bo they 
went on until now at this present time there is not 
a more beautiful and happy home in all the land 
than that of Nelson Warren the farmer. And 
all because of those Blessed Flowers. 
MEW AND WOMEW. 
Women in their nature are much more joyous 
than men; whether it be that their blood is more 
refined, their fibres more delicate, their animal 
spirits more light and volatile; or whether, as some 
have imagined, there may not be a sex in the very 
soul, we shall not pretend to delermine. As vi¬ 
vacity is the gift of woman, gravity is thatof men. 
They should each of them, therefore, keep a watch 
upon the particular bias which nature has fixed in 
their minds, that it may not draw too much, and 
lead them out of the paths of reason. This will 
certainly happen, if the one in every word and ac¬ 
tion affects the character of beingrigid and severe, 
and the other of being brisk aud airy. Men should 
beware of being captivated by a kind of savage 
philosophy, women by a thoughtless gallantry,_ 
Where these precautions are not observed, the man 
often generates into a cynic, the woman into a co¬ 
quette; the man grows sullen and morose, the wo¬ 
man Impertinent and fantastical Taking these 
faota as a basis for our premises, we may conclude 
than men and women were made as counterparts 
to one another, that tbe pains aud anxieties of the 
husband might be relieved by the sprightllness 
and good humor of the wife. When these are 
tempered, care and cheerfulness go band in hand; 
and the family, like a ship that is duly trimmed 
wants neither sail or ballast,— Selected, 
The Sphere of tee Sexes. —All circumstances 
well examined, there can be no doubt Providence 
has willed that man should be the head of the hu¬ 
man race, even as woman is its heart; that he 
should be its strength, as she is its solace; that he 
should be its wisdom, as she is its graoe; that he 
should be its mind, its impetus, and its courage, as 
she is its sentiment, its charm and its consolation. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
RALLY. 
Come, buckle on your armor, 
Be ready for the fight; 
March to the battle-field of truth, 
And work with all your might! 
Come to labor, aud to conquer, 
For though the foe is strong, 
We know Truth will bo victor, 
And Right will vanquish Wrong. 
Ho! great aud wond’roua is the work, 
Ages have but begun; 
Come with brave hearts and willing hands, 
And it shall yet be donol 
Come to labor aud to conquer, 
For Gon will make us strong; 
In Him our cause shall triumph, 
And Right shall vanquish Wrong. 
Where Ignorance broods in darkuess, 
GOd’s light shall enter in, 
And free tbe struggling spirit 
From the galling chains of sin. 
Faith, Hope, and noble Valor, 
Unto oar land belong; *■ 
Doubt, Fear and Vico shall free us, 
And Right shall vanquish Wrong. 
Fell Hatred and oppression, 
Before our might shall fail: 
Mankind shall be as brothers, 
And Love reign over all. 
0, speed the “good time coming,” 
Around our standard throng: 
Work; Truth shall sooner conquer— 
Right quicker vanquish Wrong. 
Come, buckle on your armor. 
And battle for the Right; 
Though you eaa do but little, 
Do that with all your might 
For in the spirit’s warfare, 
Gon makes us great and strong; 
In Him our cause shall Humph, 
And Right shall vauquish Wrong. 
September, 1857. Roselia. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
PEN SCRATCHES FROM REAL LIFE. 
NO. IV.—IKEY HUTTON. 
Jkey Dutton lives in an old log cabin which is 
perched, like an eagle’s nest, npon the brow of a 
Bteep, rocky hill, commanding on the south side, 
a splendid view of the lake and mountain scenery, 
while it is shut in on all other sides by dense aud 
gloomy forests. The house is very much dilapi¬ 
dated to outward appearance, though woman’s 
hand has done much to improve the interior. The 
rough-hewn walls have been white-washed, while 
the board floor of the loft, which forms the ceiling 
is carefully papered with copies of the Tribune, 
Times, and even one or two copies of the Rural 
—which ought to have been bound—have been 
smuggled into this foreign service. A bed, cover¬ 
ed with a patch-work quilt of an exceedingly 
complicated pattern, stands in one corner, a cup¬ 
board fills another, while a huge, yellow “chist” 
adorns a third; two splint-bottom chairs and a 
Bmall, round table complete the furniture. The 
Beauty stock of crockery is arranged with the 
niceBt care, each plate standing on edge by the 
side of its fellow, each enp and saucer has a place 
to itself, and yet there is an abundance of room to 
spare, so limited is the store. And, I may venture 
to assert that no wealthy and more favored house¬ 
wife ever looked over her store of china and glit¬ 
tering silver with more appreciating eyes, than 
does the humble, toiling wife of Ikey Dutton, 
her precious treasures of coarse earthenware and 
pewter plate. 
Still, Mrs. Dutton does not consider herself a 
happy or a favored woman. If she hadn’t such a 
shiftless, ne’er do well for a husband, Bhe should 
be thankful, she says, morning, noon and night.— 
Morning, noon and night. Ikey Dutton tipped 
back in his chair in the chimney-corner, with eyes 
half-closed, and a bandanna handkerchief folded 
cornerwise, nod laid over his head so that the ends 
come flapping down about*liis ears, hears the re¬ 
frain of this charming home-song, with philosoph¬ 
ical patience. Wise as Socrates, he believes 
there is no use in disputing with women. “ Let 
’em alone and they’ll come to their senses,” is his 
private advice to himself, when his Xantippe-likc 
wife gets on her high-heeled shoes, and endeavors 
to drive him out to work for the support of the 
family. His supply of clothing is extremely limit¬ 
ed, and his indignant spouse steadily refuses to 
replenish it. It consists of a boot and a shoe, a 
pair of grey cloth pantaloons, which have been 
patched and darned until but a small portion of 
the original garment remains, and a well-worn 
overcoat, made of buffalo-robe, which some benev¬ 
olent person gave him last winter. In the winter, 
he found it very comfortable, even in the cabin 
where the bitter winds came in through many a 
crevice. Bnt when the snow-drifts that bung about 
the edges of the woods and alongside of the fences, 
had long disappeared, his warm coat was quite 
a trouble to him, and his ingenuity was put to 
great straits to obtain a substitute. He sat chew¬ 
ing tobacco and the subjeot of a summer-coat, day 
after day, to the great irritation of bis industrious 
help-mate, who had all she could do to furnish pro¬ 
visions for her two girls and “ old man.” 
Thus time passed on, until the season when 
“Sirius ragCB rabid through the air,” drew near, 
then a bright idea flashed like a meteor through 
hia cloudy brain, and, in obedience thereto, he 
hastened to cut off the skirts of his coat, thus 
converting the useful garment into a round-about. 
Well baB it been said that “ necessity is the mother 
of invention.” 
One day, however, he actually mustered suffi¬ 
cient energy to go fishing. He went out upon a 
dead tree that overhung the lake, aud sat patiently 
waiting lor a bite, for full ten minutes, then he 
went fast asleep and fell into the lake, and had it 
not been for the timely appearance of his Btrong- 
handed "darter, Polly Ann,” a coroner’s inquest 
would have been called to render a verdict of 
“found drowned,” upon the mortal remains of 
poor, old Ikey. As it was. he went home to din¬ 
ner, wet as a drowned kitten but blessed with a 
famous appetite. 
Ills amiable other half said quite audibly that 
“ Polly Ann wus alius in mischief, and she railly 
wished the gal had picked her berries, as she’d | 
orter—not gone strollin’along the lake-shore jest 
at the worst minit — in a few seconds more, the 
town might have been saved a bill of expense, and 
she, herself, a heap of trouble.” Jkey heard her 
remarks, with unruffled serenity. He sat down to 
table and make such a vigorous assault upon the 
meal of potatoes and corn-bread, that Mrs. But¬ 
ton dropped her knife, in astonishment, she look¬ 
ed at him with a severe and forbidding eye, she 
oven went so far sb to say that “ she should ra'ly 
be glad to see him so far gone, once, as to lose his 
appetite, jest once was all she’d ask, she thought— 
she could work with good courage, arter that,” 
but he quietly pursued the “even tenor of bis 
way,” heeding her soft insinuations no more than 
the tranquil moon would a yelping cur. 
Uncle Minki.er, of honeyed memory, is a suitor 
of the fair Polly Ann, but she declines his mar¬ 
riage-propositions with unwavering firmness, to 
the very great annoyance of both her parents, who 
think it would be such a grand thing for her to 
marry a man with so much money, bnt Polly Ann, 
albeit, not destitute of great and glaring faults, is 
yet free from a mercenary spirit, aud scorns to 
barter her independence for an old man’s gold.— 
Adieu for the present. More Anon. 
- 4 • 4 - 
For Mooro'a Rural New-Yorker. 
FLEASURE8 OF HISTORY. 
Wk generally consider History as incapable of 
yelding delight and really dread to peruse it, little 
dreaming that all the pleasures in the range of 
literature of which the enlightened mind is sus¬ 
ceptible may be found in its study. In childhood 
how eagerly do we listen to some hoary-headed 
sire, as he relates not fairy legends, but facta per¬ 
taining perchance to the early history of our 
coantry. And why the change? Why do we, af¬ 
ter the lapse of a few yearB, turn with indifference 
from the same instruction contained in books? In¬ 
dolence is chiefly the cause. When the vast fields of 
knowledge are first opened to our view we feel an 
insatiate longing to satisfy our thirst at its crystal 
fountains. Facte please na then, for the future is 
an unexplored region, unknown, save as we read 
from the faint scroll of the past. But as we ad¬ 
vance a step or two in life, somewhat of our ardor, 
and intellectual strength disappears, and intsead 
of finding pleasure in the chronicles of olden 
time, Fiction in her dazzling robe appears, and 
since the imagination is here feasted without ef¬ 
fort, Inaction with her magie wand closes the 
eyes of Intellect, and dries the fountains of the 
heart's sympathies. Forgetting then the idea that 
History is repulsive let us glance at some of its 
beauties. 
Wonld we give the reins to fancy we may wing 
our flight to Palestine and while Titus is before 
the walls of Jerusalem,with his myriads of soldiery, 
picture the scene—spear b and helmets glittering 
in the noonday sun or sparkling ’neath the moon¬ 
light of an oriental evening — battering rams 
heaving at the walls until they totter, Bhaklng from 
the battlements the despairing defenders—the 
streets filled with the famished, and dying, while 
the wrath of God hangs as a pall over the devoted 
city. If this be too sad, we may turn to the revel¬ 
ry of eastern courts—then further down the vista 
of time view Italy in her palmy days or wander 
through the Bhades of the Alhambra while yet the 
Moor is lord of Spain. Would we contemplate 
ambition! History fhrnishes an Alexander, 
Charlemagne and Wtlliam accompanied by the 
needed satellites in their path to glory and re¬ 
nown. Our admiration may bo excited by the 
queenly dignity of Elizabeth and we may shed 
tears, if tears we will, over the fate of the unfor¬ 
tunate qneen of Scots. Is the darkest treachery 
desired ? We have it in the person of King John. 
Bnt why dwell so long upon the pleasure-giving 
power of History. To the reflective mind it is 
enough to know that we are famishing material 
for future reflection. We live in the present- and 
without revelation we; cannot guess at the future, 
bnt we may know the past. We may converse 
with the Egyptian who is toiling fo build the 
pyramid or wander into the desert with the sonB 
of Isbmael. How distinctly sounds the voice of 
Hannibal as he vows destruction npon the Ro¬ 
mans while the flames of smoking Carthage rise 
distinctly before ns. 
History, in the words of a justly neglected wri¬ 
ter, is “ anticipated experience” and while upon 
its pages we view the crumbling monnmeuts of 
ambition and glory, we also find recorded the des¬ 
tiny of those whose aim is to be greatly good. 
Cayuga, N. Y., 1857 . Amelia. 
-- 4—4 - 
LANGUAGE OF NATURE. 
Nature, in all its forms, has a language for 
man; voices of grief in the winds, joy in itssongB 
ol spring, terror in the storm, and it whispers of 
calmness along the moonlight glades, and strength 
and quiet in the midnight heavens’ repose. It is 
the monopolist of grace; art can only imitate It; 
yet we reverence it, for it brings beauty from the 
skies and enthrones it on our hearth-stones. The 
one hath strewn her jewelry along the pathway of 
life, the other ever weareth hers, her proper adorn¬ 
ments; her beauties are enhanced by the manifold 
drapery that envelopes her, whereby she displays 
such grace that the eye is never satiated with 
gazing at her, nor the heart ever pained by com¬ 
muning with her. Or if we tire of the present, 
the visible and outward, beyond are the invisible 
and unknown realms of Imagination and prophetic 
vision. The present, even with all its splendor, 
sluks into insignificance when compared with the 
vastnessof the whole; and how infinite soever it 
be within its boBom, the ant has its home secure 
as the most splendid star. The same Power that 
suspended the uebuirc in the immensity of space, 
robed the lilies; the samo Being that caused the 
earth to teem with blossom and fruit for man, at¬ 
tends to the cry of the raven. And all His works 
are enveloped with and pervaded by beauty, as 
the rayB of the prism are one in tbe sun; and in 
midst of all, lie sits enthroned who created all 
things and gave to His works such magnificence 
and splendor. From His heaven He rales by es¬ 
tablished laws; Him, angels and seraphs worship; 
to Him, the earth and the stars do reverence; the 
deeps respond to His call, and the infinites of dis¬ 
tances hear Him and obey. Magnificent are thy 
works, worthy the majesty of God, yet shadows 
are they all, compared to Tbee!— Western Lit, 
Magazine, 
THE SUMMER IS DEAD. 
If you will stand by the kitchen door of the 
farm-house, you will hear the slow beat of the fune¬ 
ral knell, as regular in its strokes as e’er were 
passing tones that chimed from an old church bel- 
frey. One, two, three! ’Tis the sound of the farm¬ 
er’s flail. Loosely scattered npon the floor lie the 
broken sheaves, and steadily fall the strokes of the 
flail upon them. Yonder in the corner is the fan- 
niug-mill, near by the shallow basket and wooden 
shovel. The wide south doors of the barn are 
open, looking out on the green hills, and letting 
in the sun, that peeps in on the gTay spider-webs 
and gray nests of swallows which hang from the 
rafters. On his master’s coat near by, the dog is 
quietly reposing, now starting to catch a fly, or to 
faintly growl at the flock of poultry tbat^gathcr 
about the door. There is a branch of yellow 
leaves on the northern side of the maples, by the 
spring which flecks the bank with shadows, and 
like a crimson streak of light, the berries of the 
mountain ash flash in the sun. Last night, the 
harvest moon lent its full lustre to the hills, a 
cricket chirped beside our hearth-stone,—and 
through the open window of the kitchen, we heard 
the fowls moving in the apple-trees; then all waB 
silent again save the cricket which chirped by the 
stone. At length his voioe ceased; then an apple 
dropped from some tree down the orchard, the 
fowls moved uneasily once more, and the cricket 
commenced again, aud kept chirping on, until his 
voice was lost in the deep chant of the belfrey 
clock, alowly calling midnight. The nights are 
already becoming cool and long, and the pleasant 
warmth of one's bed would close his eyes long 
after the sun is abroad. The summer is indeed 
dead .—Litchfield Enquirer. 
THE BEAUTY OF AGE. 
There are extremes, my reverend seniors, into 
which we are tempted to fall when we find our- 
Belves upon the wane. Declining ladies, especial¬ 
ly married ladies, are more given, I think, than 
men, to neglect their personal appearance, when 
they are conscious that the bloom of their youth 
is gone. I do not speak of state occasions, of set 
dinner parties and full dress balls, bnt of the daily 
meetings of domestic life. Now, however, is the 
time, above allotheiB, when the wife mast deter¬ 
mine to remain the pleasing wile, and retain her 
John Anderson’s affections to the last, by neatness, 
taste, and appropriate variety of dress. 
That a lady has fast-growing daughters, strap¬ 
ping sons, and a husband hard at his office all day 
long, is no reason why she should ever enter the 
family circle with rumpled hair, soiled cap, or un¬ 
fastened gown. The prettiest woman in the world 
would be spoiled by such sins in her toilette. The 
morning’s duties, even in store-room and kitchen, 
may be performed in fitting, tidy costume, and then 
changed for parlor habiliments, equally tidy and 
fitting. The fashion of the day should always be 
reflected in a woman’s dress, according to her po¬ 
sition and age; the eye craves for variety as keen¬ 
ly as the palate; and then, I honestly protest, 
whatever her age, a naturally good-looking woman 
is always handsome. For, happily, there exists 
more than one kind of beauty. There ib the 
beauty of infancy, the beauty of youth, the beauty 
of maturity, and believe me, ladies and gentlemen, 
the beauty of age, if you do not spoil it by yonr 
own want of judgment. At any age, a woman msy 
be becomingly and pleasingly dressed.— House¬ 
hold Words. 
- -4 • »- 
HONOR THE GOOD. 
The true basis of distinction among men is not 
in position nor possession; it is not in the circum¬ 
stances of life, bnt in the conduct. It matters not 
how enviable a position a man occupies, nor bow 
much wealth he ha3 in store; if there be defects 
in his behavior, he is not entitled to that conside¬ 
ration and respect due to one who is his superior 
in a moral point of view, ’.hough he possesses 
neither riches nor honor. It is not that which 
gives ns place, but conduct which makes the solid 
distinction. We should think no man above us 
but for his virtues, and no man below os bnt for bis 
vices. Entertaining this view, we would seek to 
emulate the good, though it he found under a 
coarse exterior, and pity the evil, though it be 
clothed in the best garb and dwell in luxury. We 
would never becoms obsequious in the wrong 
place. 
Call no man mean, low or vulgar because he tills 
the soil or stands before the work-bench; for in 
point of true worth aud real manhood he may be 
much superior to the President of some bank, 
some eminent liquor dealer, or Wall street broker, 
or the rich nabob who dwells in yon miserable 
palace. 
The virtuous and high-minded sons of toil are 
Nature’s noblemen. They are lovers of good, 
lovers of truth, lovers of nature, lovers of each 
other, loverB of God. They were not born to shine, 
nor to be the recipients of empty honors; bnt they 
were born to be the heaven of earth, and a nation’s 
bulwark. 
- 4—4 - 
A Beautiful Faith. — “Beautiful, exceeding¬ 
ly,” is the burial of children among the Mexicans. 
No dark procession or gloomy looks mark the 
passage to the grave; but dressed In its holiday 
attire, and garlanded with bright, fresh flowers, 
the little sleeper is borne to Its rest. Glad songs’ 
and joyful bells are rung, and lightly as to a festi¬ 
val, the gay group goeB its way. The child is not 
dead, they Bay, but “ going home.” The Mexican 
mother, who lias household treasures laid away in 
the rampo sanio—G od’s sacred field—breathes a 
sweet faith, only herd elsewhere in the poet's utter¬ 
ance. ABk her how many children blesB her bouse, 
and she will answer; "Five; two here, and three 
yonder.” So, despite death and the grave, it is 
yet an unbroken household,and the simple mother 
ever lives in the thought. 
Light and I ink. —When one was about to con¬ 
struct a light house he was asked what was his 
object. " My object,’’ said he, “ is to give light and 
save life.” 
There is no affliction so small, but we should 
sink under it, if God uphold ns not; and there is 
no sin so great, but we should commit it, if God 
restrained us not. 
