.... . 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
NOV. 21 
fairs’ forf-JfiliiJ. 
CONDUCTED BY AZELE. 
BABIE BELL. 
Poem of a Little Lite that was but Three Aprils Long. 
BY T. B. A1DBIOH. 
« If the had lived, l think she would have been 
Lilies without and roses within!" Marvell. 
1. 
Have you not heard the poet tell 
How came the dainty Babie Bell 
I nto this world of ourtr 
The gates of Heaven were left sjar: 
With folded bands and dreamy eyes, 
Wandering out of Paradise, 
She saw this planet, like a star, 
Hung in the purple depths of even— 
Its bridges, running to and fro, 
O’er which the white-winged Angels go, 
Bearing the holy Dead to Heaven. 
She touched a bridge of flowers—those feet. 
So light they did not bend the bells 
Of the celestial atphodels! 
They fell like dew upon the flowers, 
And all the air grew strangely sweetl 
And thus came dainty Babie Bell 
Into this world of ours. 
n. 
She came and brought delicious May: 
The swallows built beneath the eaves; 
Like sun-iight in and out the leaves, 
The robins went, the live-long day; 
The lily swung its noiseh-s* bell, 
And o’er the porch the trembling vine 
Seemed bursting with its veins of wine!— 
How sweetly, softly twilight fell! 
0, earih was full of singing birds, 
And happy spring-tide flowers, 
When the dainty Babie Bell 
Came to this world of ours! 
0, Baiue, dainty Baiue Bell, 
How fair she grew from day to day! 
What wdtoan-niiture hik'd her eyes, 
What poetry within them lay! 
Those deep and tender twilight eyes, 
So full of meaning pure and bright 
As if she yet stood in the light 
Of those oped gates of Paradisel 
And we loved Babik more and more: 
O, never in onr hearts before 
Was love so lovely born: 
We felt we had a link between 
This real woild aud that unseen — 
The Land beyond the morn! 
And for the love of those dear eyes, 
For love or her whom God led forth, 
(The mother’s being ceased on earth 
When Babie came from Paradise) — 
For love of Him who smote onr lives, 
And woke the chords of joy and pain, 
We said, Sweet Christ!—v ur hearts bent down 
Like violets after rain. 
And now the orchards, which in June 
Were white and rosy in their bloom— 
Filling the crystal veins of air 
With gentle pulses of perfume — 
Were rich in Autumn's mellow prime: 
The plums were globes of honeyed wine, 
The hived sweets of summrr time! 
The ivory chestnut burst its shell: 
The soft-checked peaches blushed and fell! 
The grapes were purpling ia the grange, 
And time wrought just as rich C change 
In little Babik Bell! 
Her tiny form more perfect grew. 
And in her features we could trace*/ 
In stiffened curves, her mother's face.* 
Her angel noluro ripened too. 
We thought her lovely when she came, 
But she was holy, saintly now— 
Around her pale, angelic brow 
We saw a slender ring of flsme! 
v. 
God’s band bail taken away the seal 
Which held the portals of her speech; 
And oft she said a few strange words 
Whose in ratiing lay beyond our reach. 
She never was a child to us, 
We never held her being’s key! 
We could net teach her holy things: 
She was Chiust’s self in purity! 
It came upou us by degrees; 
We saw its shadow ore it fell, 
The knowledge that our God had sent 
His messenger for Batik BkllI 
We shuddered with uulanguaged pain, 
And all our hopes were changed to fears, 
And all out thoughts ran into tears 
Like sunshine into n.i a! 
We cried aloud in onr belief, 
“0, smite ns gently, gently, God! 
Teach ns hi bend and kiss the rod, 
And perfect grow through grief." 
Ab, how we loved her, God can tell; 
Her little heart was cased in ours; 
Our hearts sre broken, Babie Bell! 
At, last he came, the messenger, 
The messenger from unseen lands: 
And what did dainty Babis Bell? 
She only crossed her little hands, 
She only looked more meek and fair, 
We parted back her silken hair; 
We laid some buds upon her brow, 
White buds, like scented flakes of snow— 
Death’s bride atrsyed in flowers! 
And thus went dainty Baiue Bell 
Out of this world of onrs! 
-♦- 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
A FRAGMENT. 
-He was dead! Never again would those 
eyes look lovingly on me—those kind arms enfold 
mu. Hushed forever was that voice whose slight¬ 
est Bonn d was like the sweetest music to my ears. 
That heart JYhichhad beat so long and faithfully 
for me—to wbteii 1 bad been so often and so fond¬ 
ly clasped was stilled ?u death. He was dead!— 
and I was once more alone. 
I had stood alone in the world till I met John 
Gordon, and my heart went out to him with an 
intensity of feeling that I had never known before. 
Ajid when be told me that he loved me—when I 
knew that I was no longer alone—my heart was 
filled with a new and perfect joy. He stood be¬ 
tween me and God. I know now—I did not then 
_God in his mercy took him from me, that 
my uyeB, on dimmed by earthly visions, might be¬ 
hold the clear light of His Divine Love, and my 
heart be turned to that home which I had so long 
forgotten, and which I now first learned to love, 
because, alaB! he was there. 
We had been patted a long time, and when he 
returned it was to die. Long I strove against the 
dreadful thought. 1 1 could not have it so. How 
could 1 realize that he whose warm breath I felt 
upon my doth—whose protecting arms encircled 
me so closely—how could I realize that he must 
shortly leave rue—must lie down alone in the cold 
and silent grave. O, ye who love and live, pity 
me —weep for me, for / have no more tears to shed. 
And when, at last, 1 could no longer shut my eyes 
to the fading look of thatdtar face over which the 
shadow of death was so quickly stealing—when I 
knew that he must die — oh! I tremble at the 
thought of those days—how wildly, how passion¬ 
ately I begged and prayed that he might be spared 
—how madly I demanded him of God— how in my 
despair I alrnOBt grew to hate the Hand that 
“wounds to heal,” 
And so, day by day, hour by hour, the fast-roll¬ 
ing river of Time bore him onward, ever onward 
to the Ocean of Eternity, and, sitting by his side, 
his head npoD my bosom, so closely did our spirits 
intermingle that 1 almost seemed to hear the 
rushing waters, and to behold, far in the distance ( 
the green fields of the home to which he was has¬ 
tening. At last, at last, it came—that parting mo¬ 
ment -the frail bark passed the troubled waves, 
and was safely moored in the Harbor of Everlast¬ 
ing Rest. Gently the lamp of life went out—so 
gently, that we scarce knew when its poor, flicker¬ 
ing light was merged in the light of eternal day. 
I can speak of it calmly now. The long weary 
years that have passed since then have not chilled 
my love—have not seared my feelings; but they 
have brought to my heart a patient submission— 
an undying hope. 
His grave is by the sea-shore—and as I sit there 
waiting with a quiet heart, softly, yet clearly, 
through the never-ending roar I hear his voice 
calling me—“Dearest! best beloved!” I come— 
my worn and weary feet will soon be Btayed, “ We 
shall rest, in the city of our God, side by side, and 
forever!” Fanny. 
Rochester, N. Y., 1S57. 
-- 
THE CROWNED HEADS AT STTJTTGARDT. 
An American lady who witnessed the pageantry 
of the meeting of the royal families in this city, 
gives a full description of the scene, and of the 
great personages present, from which we copy the 
subjoined paragraph:—“The Emperor of France 
wears red pants—has short legs; they remind me 
of a speech once made about bis legs. I dare say 
you remember it. The Emperor of Russia Is an 
elegant looking man; his family are noted for | 
their beauty. The Princess 0!ga is said to be the 
handsomest woman in Euroje. The Empress of 
Russia is a regal looking woman. These ladies 
were dressed in white moir antique silks; a Btripe 
of white, live or sis inches wide, and a stripe of 
the same width covered with the richest fiowerB 
here; and then in the white stripe there was an 
immense bunch of flowers. The dresses were all 
something in the same &tyle—chip bonnets with 
white feathers and magnificent lace mantles 1 
cannot forgive the Queen of Greece for being a fat, 
fair, round-faced, red-faced, jolly-looking woman. 
I expected to see a ‘maid of Athens,’ and I don’t 
like my romances expelled. I was standing just 
behind the Queen of Holland; she turned and 
asked me for my countryman, Mr. Clark. I was 
quite surprised, as 1 had not been presented to her. 
The Queen of Holland is a moat cultivated and el¬ 
egant woman—still very handsome, though she has 
a grandson. 8be speaks English perfectly, and is, 
perhaps, the most accomplished woman in Europe. 
Iu the afternoon the Emperor and Empress of 
Russia left here. The French Emperor stuid till 
the next day. On leaving here, the Emperor of 
France gave fifteen thousand francs to the poor, 
aTk d twenty thousand to the servants of the King’s 
household. To those who waited on him person¬ 
ally he t *tave each a gold watch and chain. To the 
Aid-de c\ v Vr Cm&r Bejoldingen, appointed him 
by the King, he gave buttons of onyx and dia¬ 
monds which o wst an enormous mm; and to Count 
Urkull, Marecbal . de la Cona, h<? 6 ave a snuff-box 
with an immense diamond in the centre.' 
__ - 
HOOPS IN THE LAST CENTURY. 
In the Grandisou days, aa Harriet. Byrow shows 
us, the ladies made room for thiP gentlemen In car¬ 
riages, and for their own olrcumroronce in sedan- 
chairs, by slipping the hoop npon .the I U shoul¬ 
der. More accommodating were the ti.Hr ladies of 
a century ago than onr contemporaries’, we fear; 
for they would bear a remonstrance which we have 
no idea would be at all respected now. WheK the 
Messiah, as yet unheard, was to be rehearsed in 
Dublin, under the guidance of Handel himselt, 
publicly, for the benefit of certain charities, the 
advertisement of the rehearsal ended thusMany 
ladies and gentlemen who are well-wishers to this 
noble and grand charity, for which this oratorio 
was composed, request it as a favor that the ladles 
who honor this performance with their presence 
would be pleased to come without hoops, as it will 
greatly increase the charity by making room for 
more company.” Three years later, we find the 
committee, on a similar occasion, declaring that 
if the ladies will lay aside their hoopB ‘ for one 
evening, however ornamental, the hall will contain 
an hundred persons more, with full ease.” The 
grammar is here not. so good as the sense and 
spirit of the notice; hut It might not. be amisB to 
read it according to the construction, for that 
would certainly he an ornamental evening on 
which the ladies should lay aside their folly—the 
brightest evening of the year. 
-♦—*-- 
A Mother's Influence.— Hon. Thomas H. Ben¬ 
ton, in a speech in New York, turned to the ladies, 
and referring to his mother, said:—“My mother 
asked me never to use tobacco, and T have never 
touohed it from that time to the present, day. She 
asked me not to game, and I have never gamed; 
and T cannot tell ibis day who is winning aud who 
is losing in games that can be played. She ad¬ 
monished me, too, against bard drink; and what¬ 
ever capacity for endurance I may have at present, 
ana whatever usefulness T may attain iu lifo, I at- 
i tribute to having complied with her pious and 
t earnest wishes. When seven years of age, she 
. asked me not to drink, and I made then a resolu- 
r tion of total abstinence. I formed an abstinence 
; society at a time when 1 was the sole constituent 
i, member of my own body, and that I have adhered 
to it through all time, I owe to my mother.” 
€jjoi(t mistfUaim. 
For Moore'a Rural New-Yorker. 
THE OLD BARN. 
BT M t If. BKOOKPIKLD. 
Sweet remembrance clusters round me, 
Fraught with many a pleasing charm, 
Sitting here upon the door-sill, 
Of the old haj-acented barn. 
Now the southern bretr.e comeg swelling, 
Soltly through the open door. 
Wafting fragrance from the ha;-mow, 
Tossing straws along the floor. 
Yonder lies the meadow pasture, 
Smiling in the May dsy sun; 
Just beyond It is t e whea -field. 
There’s the woodland further on. 
Do you hear that soft low murrautf 
Listen now—you he .rd ii then— 
'Tis the streamlet's joyful prattle, 
In that far-off mossy , len. 
Pleasant mem’ries ri e before me, 
Gasin.- on the i.esr old farm, 
But the brightest visions linger 
Round the weather-tn aten bain. 
Visions of our early childhoood, 
You remember, sister mine, 
How we sported in its shadow, 
in the merry summer lime. 
How we climbed the high old scaffolds, 
How we ran a o: g the 0 y, 
Searchinr out each secret corner, 
Hunting hens' nests i i the cay. 
Yes, anoyou n ust jet remember, 
That old swing jns<. by the door; 
How we used to gather round it— 
8,' all we gather there no more? 
Now our band is broken scattered, 
Half the chain st eady gone; 
Shall we yet be linked together 
Once again in child hold’s home? 
Such sweet mem'iiea cluster round me, 
Fraught with many a pleasing charm, 
Sitting here upon the door-rill, 
. Of the old h .y-scented barn. 
F .'.r Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
A “FAMILIAR” LETTER. 
Jkpp. Co., N. Y., Oct. 1857. 
Dear Mu. Moobe: —You'll see, by lookin’ at the 
top of this sheet, that I’m way up here to Jeff. Co., 
aud, as I aiu’t got “nothin’ to do,” as the Poet 
Bays, and I kinder want to tell yon ha w I cum heie, 
and so forth, I'm a goin’ to write you a “ familiar ” 
letter. I’ve had a sort o’ hankerin’ fora longtime 
to write for the noozepapers, and I allers thought 
the Rural was a likely kind of paper (bein’ prent- 
ed so near hum tew, I sort o’ took a likin’ to it,) so 
when I saw them air “ familiar ’’ letters a failin’ so 
thick onto your devoted head, thateettled me, for 
thinks sez I, I reckon Mr. Moork won't feel mity 
riled ’bout my ritin’ him a familiar kind o’ letter 
now, senoe he’s got broke Inter the bizuess. Then 
agin I’ve traveled, you kuow, and p’raps some of 
the Rural folks baint, heerd much 'bout Jeff Co., 
bein’ its kinder onten the world, way out here— 
and thinks sez I, Mr. Moore prents for that feller 
over to Urope, (party smart ckap, though as for 
that matter / wont gin in to nobody.) But what 
a mistake he made in goin’ over there,—juat as if 
everybody didn’t go to V, ope now days. 
Now I’m goin' to tell you how T happened to be 
way up here. Wall, ye see, inter we’d got the har¬ 
vestin’ dun to hum, and pu'led the beans and lii- 
yuns, there was quite.»spell 'fora corn huskin' and 
tater dlggln’—so l made up my mind to bev a play- 
spell, and see a little of tho world. I’d heeru tell 
a good deal of the “Tion an’ Ilea,” so, sez f, I’ll 
take a tower through'em, down to Ogdinsburgh, 
where I’ve got an ant, and then, cornin’ back, I’ll 
stop to Jeff Co. and visit 6um crates there, that 1 
think something of, sal here I am, Mr. Editur.— 
Bnt, I’m anticipatin’. I’ll giv you a few portike are 
of the v’yage, ’fore l tell yon ’bout Jefferson. 
We got onto the steambote—sister Pukbk and 1 
—bag and baggage, one moonshiny night, and the 
bote, they said, was goin’ to Btart ’bout ’leven o’¬ 
clock. I may aa well tell you that havin’ never 
travi’d much, I’d never teen a steambote, but I 
detarmined to keep a still upper lip, and say noth¬ 
in’, lettin’ silence pass for wisdom, as I’ve Been 
snm folks do before. Howsumever, I made up my 
mind to keep up a sharp look-outto see how other 
folks acted, and fuller suit 
Arler eeeiu’ Phebe Inter the Ladles’ cabin, and 
tendin' to the baggage, I thought I’d go out outo 
deok awhile and look round. It was a galorhis 
site. The moon was shinin' brite enufi to e’ena- 
most eclipse sum o’ the bashful stars, which 
twinkled once in a while, and ihen went out, Ar- 
ter lookin’ at the moon, and the Btars, and the 
water awhile, I begun to git kinder sentimental, 
and was jnst thin kin’ of the folks to hum, and 
Glory Ann, when the alltifcdest screech l ever 
heerd woke me up, and fairly riz me offen my feet. 
I had no Idee ar. first but what the biler had bust, 
but 1 soon made out that they was ony glvin’ no¬ 
tice that they was goin’ to start. 
Wall, urter we’d ben goin’ a while, I begun to 
git a little nappiah, so I wenr down stairs and went 
up to a feller in a little closit countin’ over money, 
and sez !, “ Be you the Stewart?—I want ye to giv 
me a State Room.” He looked at me rather sharp, 
and handed over a key and said ’twas fifty cents. 
That stunned me a Jtitle, bnt as I was determined 
to go the hull animal, I forked over two quarters, 
thinkin’, arter all, It was cheap enuff to sleep in a 
state room. 
When I’d found the room by the Aggers on my 
j key, what d’ye spoze it was? Wall, / bad an idee 
that it was got up party stilish, but considerin' 
that the bote wan't very large, I thought ’twant 
likely to be bigger than marm’sspare bed-room to 
hum; but gracious ’twant big enuff to swing a cat 
in. Howsnmever, I undressed and laid myseir on 
to a shelf hilt inter the wall, and tried to git to 
sleep, bnt ’twas an imposlidllty. The ji&t and raf¬ 
ters and everything round the craft would strain 
and squeak as et they’d cum to pieces, and then 
every onct in awhile sum one with heavy boots on 
would walk along the ruff over my head. Then I 
began to think sposiu the bilers would bust, fer 1 
reckoned I was just shout over ’em, and just then 
I heerd that orful yell agin, and that settled me— 
T’d go oat ou deck and see what’s up. Wall, when 
I got out we was just goin’ into a place which 1 
reckoned was Pultney ville. All I could see was a 
row of popular trees along the bank, so I went in 
agin and found my way to the sleepin' cabin way 
down in the basement. There was three tiers of 
shelves on each side, about half on ’em lull of 
people, suoriu* like a house a fire, but as it looked 
kinder oncomfor able, I went up stairs inter the 
saloon and laid onto a cushioned settee the rest of 
the night. 
When I turned out in the rnornin’ I found we’d 
landed at Oswego. You never see sich a time as 
I had routin’ out Phebe. I guess the gal thought 
she was to hum, she slept so late. Tt’s a pretty nice 
kind of a village—Oswego is, though the harbor 
ain't nothin’ to speak on. Bat what heat me was 
the different kinds of craft iu pom There was 
two or three stearabotea 'sides our’n—sum lazy 
lookin’ propellers—lots o’ sail vessels—and canal 
botes pokin’ round without hosses. (Ye see the 
canal fuses with the liver, in the harbor.) There 
was snm little high pressure steam tugs, that wood 
fly round as cf they was somethin’, catch hold of 
a canal bote or a schuner and jerk ’em round 
quicker’n scat,—and lots o’ little boys Bcnllin’ punts 
round, like wigglers in a rain-water barrel. The 
dock was lined with grain ellivators. Ye see, Mr. 
Editor, they git wheat from Canerda—or anywhere 
else—and put it through their mills thtre, and 
’pon my word, ef it don’t cum oat “ Extra Genesee 
Flour”—every bar’l on't. 
The harbor whu’t but jest broad ennff to turn 
round, but we managed to git out inter blue water 
agin. ’Twas party ruff, and I cum nigh failin’ in 
with the scripter injunction—‘ Cast, ye np,” but 
dinner seemed to help me sum. The dinner table 
did look well, I vow—all laid out with crookery > 
and white cloths standin’s on end in tumbelera; 
but it didn’t look as ef ’twould satisfy a fellei’s 
hunger, and I couldn’t see a mite to eat ’ceptiu’ a 
ko i.eypatby slice of bread to each plate. Wall, 
without goiu’ inter pertikelars, sum mutton lugger 
idlers got somethin’ from a side table, and we 
made out a good dinner, considerin’. 
Arter dlnuer Prcsug cum to me, and sez she, 
Brother P-(Gracious! ef I didn’t earn nigh 
tellln’ my name that time.) Wall, arter all, Mr. 
Editur, l eprse I’m obleeged to tell ye who I am, 
cause Ed'tins don’t prent nothin’ unless they hev 
a responsible name, but I hate to, dredful. At fust 
I was a gold to sini Bathin’ flottshus, and Pdpurty 
nigh settled onto “ HustycuBi*,'’ when I happened 
to think it mile be swarm'—a feller can't tell the 
meaniu’ of half these heathenish words. So I giv 
it up, and defartcined to sine my hall name, Bayin’ 
kinder solty row,that I wan't ashamed on't (tkat.e 
an orfnl fib, howsQinr cer, Mr. Editor.) As well 
fust as last, forzino. My name is Peabody Green. 
I was named arter my rnuther; (her name was Pa¬ 
tience Peabody; you may hev heern on her.)— 
Now I’ll tell ye why I'm 'shamed. Ye see the hoys 
to hum used to call me Pea lor short; and they 
see it riled me, so they took to holleriu’ "habeas 
corpus" at me, meanin', I spose, that I mite hev 
the body, and they’d bo content with callin' me 
“Pea;” (but don’t ye think ’twas rather far¬ 
fetched?) How-amever, it riled me sum, so I 
mounted a standiu’ collar, and blocked out a whis¬ 
ker on each chop, In hopes that I’d be called Mr. 
Green, aud I kinder reckon on’t when I git ham 
from my tower. Now, Mr. Editur, I hope you’ll be 
pertikelar about siuiu’ the hull name. 
I’ve got t.o slop now, cause my sheet’s gin out 
—and J han’t got to Jeff. Co. yet, but ef ye say so 
I’ll git ye up a serious o’ three or four letters, ’bout 
my tower, and I won’t charge ye nothin’ neither, 
though I spose that feller over to Urope does. Ef 
you prent this, I’ll reckon that you’d like to hear 
from me agin. 
I’m goin’ to git in suihiu’ 'bout the “Tbousan’ 
Ileb” iu my next. Hopin’ you’ll excuse ray fa¬ 
miliarity, 1 am, yours respectably, 
Peabody Green, 
P. 8.—Please be pertikelar ’bout sinln’ the hull 
name. a- 
I HAVE LOST MY WAY. 
* I have lost my way,” a little girl su'd to me 
this morning. She had wandered too far from her 
father’s house. “ I want to go home,” the child 
said, and her tears fell thick and fast upon her lit¬ 
tle bands. I led the little lost one home; and it 
was sweet to witness the rejoicings of the parents 
over the restored lamb. 
I have lost my way, I repeated sadly to myself 
iu these deep labyrinths of life; my feet wander 
in strange paths; the fruit which I had so fondly 
coveted, like the apples of Sodom, turned into 
ashes on my Ups; memories of my glad prayerful 
childhood, come sweeping over my soul; I have 
left my Father's homeland I, too, want to go home. 
God has made the plrent a type of hia own infi¬ 
nite love; and if an earthly father can say, “It was 
meet that we Bhould be merry and be glad, for this 
my son was dead, and is alive ng-in, and was lost, 
and ia found,” how much more will our heavenly 
Father welcome the wanderer’s return to his pro¬ 
tecting love! The sweetest tears shed are those of 
penitence. Some of the noblest steps trod are 
those which return from wanderings. A greater 
than a father’s love waits to embrace the prodigal. 
— Selected, 
-- 
THE VALUE OF TIME. 
When the Roman Emperor said, “I have lost a 
day,” he uttered a sadder truth than if he had ex¬ 
claimed, “ I have lost a kingdom.” Napoleon said 
that the reason why he beat the Austrians was, 
that they did know the value of five minutes. At 
the celebrated battle of Rlvoli,the conflict seemed 
on the point of being decided against him. He 
saw the critical Btatc of affairs, and instantly took 
his resolution. He despatched a flag to the Aus¬ 
trian head-quarters, with proposals for an armis¬ 
tice. The unwary Austrians fell Into the snare— 
for a few minutes the thunders of battle were 
hushed. Napoleon seized the precious moments, 
and, while amusing the enemy with mock nogotift 
tion, re-urruuged his line of battle, changed his 
front, and in a few minutes was ready to renounce 
the iarce of discuMsiou for tho Bteru arbitrament of 
arms. The splendid victory of Rivoli was tbo re¬ 
sult. The great moral victories and defeats of the 
world often Inrn on five minutes. Crises come 
the not seiziug of which is ruin. Men may loiter, 
but time flieB on the wings of the wind, aud all the 
great interests of life are speeding ou, with the 
sure and silent tread of destiny. 
Men usually follow their wishes till suffering 
compels them to follow their judgment. 
ON THE RAIL. 
The following admirable sketch of the interior 
of a railroad car at day break, is from the Chicago 
Journal. Night passengers will appreciate its 
truthful ness: 
Long before we hear the roar of wheels, we see 
the glimmer of a growing light. Brighter and 
bonder it opens, like the Cyclopean unwinking 
eye; it is the head light of the Urate. Then the 
steady jar, then the miugled clank aa of a thou¬ 
sand shaken chains, and the care are here, “All 
aboard” and “ all right” follow each other in quick 
succession, and we are breathing the air of the 
close and crowded dormitory. Tho car lamps have 
gone out, disgusted; the little wakefalness of the 
sleepers has subsided, and a dim snoring outline 
of cloaks aud shawls and frightened looking heads, 
rocked here and there like a troubled sea, with 
white, compose the landscape; while over all, like 
pendulum-, swing plethoric carpet bags, slowly to 
and fro, tod little satchels brisk as mantle clocks, 
and bonnet* made of nothing, dance up and down 
like blossoms iu a rain; all timed to the motion of 
the train. 
But the dim grey turns to a cold-eyed white, 
and the breathing bundles begin to stir; out of 
sn egg-shaped paokage, Is hatched a woman, with 
locks disheveled, like Venus from the sea. A 
throe or two, and a rougher head emerges from 
cloak sud shawl, and shakes itself awake. A 
shapeleai heap turns out a man, bearded like a 
pard. A pair of boots thrust up like bow-sprits, 
goes out of sight, as owner comes in view. One 
is soothing an irritated hat with gentle touches 
of his elbow; another pulling at his wilted col¬ 
lar. Disordered tresses are smoothed with 
hasty touches of the hand, and crumpled sleeves 
persuaded into shape. One lady has learned her 
lesson from Grimalkin, and makes hor toilet pre¬ 
cisely like a cat. 
The cold clear light of early morning is always 
trying to human beauty; there are no tints to be 
borrowed, no softening shade to bo worn; a plain 
cold stare, that looks one out of countenance.— 
But in a railroad train the ordeal ia appaling. If 
a face ever locks faded, it ia then; if the hair has 
any grey in it, it ia sure “to show;” wrinkles are 
read like a sign-board afar off. If there be dis¬ 
content in the heart, it comes up into the mouth, 
and everybody lookB like people after a masquer¬ 
ade, or Richard after he becomes “ himself again.” 
* * + * * * * 
Everybody has experienced that curiosity — 
sometimes almost suspense—with which one waits 
for a coming lantern or a coming morning, when 
he has wedged his way in rt stage coach, or a dark 
car at night; curiosity to see who has persisted in 
making a pillow of bis shoulder, or whose feet 
have been entangled with his owd, or who has been 
Buying “ the smart thLngs” in the dark, or who pro¬ 
duced that snore that strangely mingled a sneeze 
and a bark And the curiosity is mutual, and with 
light comes decorum. The open mouth is shut up 
with a jerk; human letter X’s are closed like a 
pair of compasses; the man that was curled like 
a dandelion stem, and tho man that bowed like a 
bulrush, have disappeared, and all are “act np” in 
rows like so many tenpins. Who owned the snore, 
and who the wit, are problems to be studied out 
at one’s leisure. 
ROOKS AND PAPERS. 
Franklin said:—" When I see a house well fur¬ 
nished with books aud newspapers, there I see in¬ 
telligent and well informed children; but if there 
are no hooks or papers, the children are ignorant, 
if not profligate.” 
It must be remembered that in Franklin’s day 
there were but few books, comparatively, that 
were of an evil tendency, aud if he had lived in 
our times, Le would dou'otltES have said proper 
book.* and newspapers. It is asbume that so many 
volumes are being constantly thrown from the 
press that are injurious in their influence upon the 
beat, interests of the young. What a tremendous 
responsibility rests upon some of our great pub¬ 
lishing houses! And as to newspapers, how many 
of them pander to sin and licentiousness. One- 
fourth of the columns of some papers are taken 
up w ith the advertisements of quack nostrums for 
healing diseases resulting from vicious indulgence, 
and which are polluting to all who read them — 
We, therefore, would endorse friend Benjamin’s 
views as above, by addiug the word proper to the 
books and newspaper..— Selected . 
Something to Think Ui-on. —In Prof. Hitch¬ 
cock's late work on Geology, he has a chapter np¬ 
on “The Telegraph System of the Universe,” iu 
which he broaches the remarkable theory that 
“ou'r wordB, our actions, oven our thoughts inukr 
au indelible impression upon the universe.” This 
proposition he endeavors to sustain by an appeal 
to well established principles of science. He 
shows, by the doctrine of mechanical action, that 
every impression w da words, 
or his movements upon ihe air, the waters, or the 
solid earth, will produce a series of changes in 
each of those elements which will never eud. Not 
a word has ever escaped from mortal lip, he con¬ 
tends, hat It is registered Indelibly upon the at¬ 
mosphere we breathe. And could man command 
the mathematics of superior minds, every particle 
of air thuB set In motion could be tracod through 
all its changes, with aa much precision as the as¬ 
tronomer can point out the path of the heavenly 
I bodies. In like manner, the pictures of every oc- 
curronce propagate themselves through the reac¬ 
tion of light ou the substances ou which they 
impinge. 
Sklf-Culti’RS.—I t is our business carefully to 
cultivate iu our minds, to rear to tho utmost vigor 
and maturity every sort of generous aud houest 
feeling that belongs to our nature. To bring the 
dispositions that are lovely in private life into the 
aervico aud conduct of the commonwealth; so 
to be putrlota os not to forget we are gentlemen. 
To cultivate friendship, and to Incur enmities.— 
To model our principles to our duty and situa¬ 
tion. Tp be fully persuaded that all virtue which 
is impracticable is spurious; and rather to run 
the risk of falling iuto faults iu a course which 
leads ub to act with t fleet aud energy, than to 
loiter out our days without blame aud without use 
He trespasses against his duty who sleeps upou his 
watch, as well as he that goes over to the enemy. 
