himself?” as the bystanders said; or had the 
boy sinned enough to deserve the disgrace of 
being led along the streets like a criminal ? Who 
knows? Only God. 
Shoulder straps! They certainly add to a 
man's appearance. It is certainly more—more— 
well, romantic, to have an arm with shoulder 
straps steal round your waist than a plain coat 
sleeve, especially after they have been in an 
“engagement.” Shoulder straps! I know of 
one young girl who has lying away in the upper 
drawer of her dressing table, a pair all faded 
and blood-stained. Close beside them lies a pic- 
tare of a noble looking man who was mustered 
out of the service just six months ago. Look 
at the picture. A handsome head, sot proudly 
upou broad, massive shoulders: eyes blue and 
tender as a woman's; and a rich, oriental beard 
that a prince might have envied; there is a 
till he, persistence incarnate, leaves the scene. 
He catches sight of the motto, and the missiles 
of his tongue fly thick about it. lie interprets 
it thus: — “ HO, that means dig; dik, that’s latin 
for io-day; Mini, that’s for me, Well you have 
got. a motto:— 1 Pig io-duy for me.!' Good for 
you! for you will have to dig many ft day for 
yourself, till some one comes to dig for you one 
day; you know the size? six feet long, four feet 
deep, and two wide,” and seeing us disposed to 
reverie, Junks, fumbling in his vest pocket for 
his pony, makes bis exit whistling t he last negro 
melody. Our raven , who comes tapping at the 
door far too often, and persists generally, in 
staying evermore, has gone and we look at our 
monitor with a kindly feeling, as one that warns 
us that time is precious, and 
“ The present,, the present is all we have 
For our sure possessing.” 
Mottoes are mene tekels on the walls of our Bab¬ 
ylonish temples, and preach truth to us in golden 
words, though more silently than the pulsating 
clock. 
Hodik Mutt—To-day is mine 
hereafter 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
SPRING CLEANING 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
TRIUMPH HOURS. 
Some poor fellow writes from experience; and we 
do not wonder, if he has lived in as damp and chill a 
climate as some people have experienced this spring, 
that he calls the days “melancholy.'’ We think some 
of the readers of the Rural will appreciate the fol¬ 
lowing: 
“ The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the 
year,” 
Of cleaning paint, and scrubbing floors; and scouring 
far and near; 
Heaped in the comers of the room, the ancient, dirt lay- 
quiet ; 
The chairs all topsy turvy, the house in most dreadful 
riot; 
But now the carpets are all up, and from the staircase 
top 
The mistress calls to men and maids to wield the broom 
and mop. 
Where are those rooms, those quiet rooms, tlie house 
but now presented, 
Wherein we dwelt, nor dreamed of dirt, so cozy and 
contented. 
Alas! 1 bey're turned all upside down, that quiet suite 
of rooms, 
With slops and suds, and soap and sand, and tubs and 
pails and brooms; 
Chairs, tub; 
BY KATE CAMERON 
BY ANNIE M. BEACH 
June comes again, with bud and bloom. 
With balmy breeze, and song; 
We hear the music of her slep 
For which we've listened long; 
A thousand pleasant, memories 
Around her pathway throng. 
Ah! is this Summer’s very self ? 
Are these, t he cloudless days, 
Which since our childhood's happy time, 
Have won our love and praise? 
Is not a shadow on the earth ? 
And on the sky a haze? 
Well might it be —for dark the pall 
That o'er our land is flung; 
And mournful is the liiiter wail 
For hearts so brave and yonng. 
That never more will proudly beat 
Their kindred hearts among. 
One year ago, these vacant chairs 
Willi manly forms were filled; 
We heard the merry voices ring, 
That now are hushed and stilled. 
’Tis hard to bear,—yet it must be, 
For so our Father willed. 
It seems almost a mockery 
That. Die frail flowers should bloom, 
And 1 he birds sing,—while those we love 
Are silent in the tomb; 
Sunshine around ns, while our hearts 
Are dark with grief and gloom. 
“ O! ye of little faith.’’ Look up! 
Beyond the Summer snn, 
There dwells in cloudless majesty, 
The High and Holy One, 
Who reunites earth's severed ties, 
When Life's brief day is done. 
May He bind up the broken hearts 
That moutn their loved and lost; 
And safely bring to shore the barques 
That now are tempest-tossed; 
And show us that all cloudy paths 
By sunshine still are crossed 
Rochester, N. Y., 18M. 
There are hours of holy triumph, 
When the spirit and its Gon, 
Stand n- on the sacred mountain 
Which of old the Prophet trod. 
Stand and talk as friends familiar, 
Witli no shadow stretched between 
The uncover'd spirit'- vision. 
And the holy, heavenly scene. 
Upward borne on faith's strong pinions, 
From the damp of earthly ills, 
"Till wo breathe the breath immortal, 
Of the everlasting hills. 
And the King of Kings, eternal, 
Spirit-Father, meets us there, 
Bends a willing car to listen 
To the words we breathe in prayer. 
O, ye heirs or life immortal, 
When for goodly gifts ye pray, 
Kneel not down auiid Die idols 
Ye have built of earthly clay. 
Not. beside the dusty pathway, 
Which with weary feet ye tread, 
Not amid the grassy grave-inonnds 
Where ye bury up the dead. 
But arar from ills that grieve ye, 
As the Loim hath bidden, wait, 
For tlie promise of the Father, 
Even at the City gate. 
And ere long in show'rs of glory 
Shall the sweet, baptism descend, 
While the wings of peace, to fold ye, 
From the gates of crystal bend. 
Cambria, N. Y., 1801. 
speaks of no 
it calls up no reproachful past; it 
promises no future in which to built] air castles. 
Its rainbow arch spans but the present of the 
stream of time, and bases itself on the rising 
and setting glory of one day. It brings the 
Christian’s trust nearer to his heart, it takes him 
from the arbitration of fate, the dictation of 
plan, the weary watch lest purpose should come 
to naught, and gives a Providence to guide and 
care for him. The Christ ian is taught to im¬ 
prove the present day alone: to work w hile the 
day lasts; to take no thought for the to-morrow; 
to sow beside all waters, and trust the Re warder 
to give the nodding harvest. Half our care, half 
our moil and toil, half our life-fever, would 
vanish could we but live in the present.; if we 
felt that within the gold fringed borders of the 
azure day lay our true sphere of action, that we 
need have no anxiety for the future, no sorrow 
for the past. “ Sufficient unto the day is the 
evil t hereof,’’ is one of those gems of heavenly 
wisdom, that Napolkos set in his crown; and 
such a trust was better than an oracle ora de¬ 
cree of (ate. With a trust in to-day alone, we 
walk in freedom from care, and make our faith 
the supporter of our labor. 
“Nothing before, nothing behind, 
The steps of faith 
Fall on a seeming void, and find 
The rock beneath.*' 
So should we walk, for the Now is secure, and 
we know not how soon the angel may say that 
time shall be no more. 
“ Trust no future, howe’er pleasant, 
Let the dead past, bury its dead; 
Act, act. in the living present, 
Heart within and Gon o’erhead,” 
That, too, was what was meant in the old Latin 
maxim, “ Dam vivimux vivamus," thus beauti¬ 
fully rendered by Doddridge: 
“ ‘ Live while you live,’ the epicure would say, 
And seize the pleasures of the passing day; 
‘ Live while you live,’ the sacred preacher cries, 
‘And gives to Gon each moment as It flies;' 
Lord, in my view, let both united bo, 
I live in pleasure while I live to thee.” 
How many heart-aches have we forecast in the 
future, and built how many prisons in its 
gloomy clouds? Yet those w ere needless, and 
hindered our walk through life, though the 
gloomy shadows that fall from the clouds of to¬ 
morrow, have naught to do w ith to-day. The 
Curtain of night, with its starry glitter, shuts 
the future from the present, and the golden day 
stands sea-like between us and the past. We 
must have no regrets for the one, we must put 
no trust in the other. He that weeps for the 
past neglects the golden present, lie lets 
“ To day fly on its rainbow pinions to the throne 
And write its living record, 
without giving it a message of growth and ad¬ 
vancement to bear, since be tries to descry the 
to be in the far distance. More useless regret is 
wasted on the tomb of by-gone days, and anxious 
is, st ands, are standing round at sixes and at 
sevens, 
While wife and housemaids fly about like meteors in 
the heavens. 
The parlor and the chamber floors were cleaned a week 
ago, 
The carpet shook, and windows washed, as all the 
neighbors know; 
Bat still the sanctum had escaped—the table piled with 
books, 
Pens, ink and paper all about, peace in its very looks— 
Till fell tbe women on them all, as falls the plague on 
men, 
And then they vanished all away — books, papers, ink 
and pen. 
And now when comes the master home, as come he 
must of nights 
To find all things are " set to wrongs ” that they have 
“setto rights!” 
When the sonnd of driving tacks is heard, though the 
house is far from still, 
And the carpet woman on the stairs, that harbinger of 
disfigured 
so that he is scarcely 
reeognizalde! How we love this battered hero! 
How we nurse him to health again!—and then, 
if need lie, send him buck again to the battle¬ 
field. A woman, loving and tender — a woman 
at whose name our pulses thrill, has written: 
‘ Heroic males the country bears; 
Blit daughters give up more than sons; 
e'lass wave, drums beat, nod unawares 
You flash your soul out with the guns. 
And take, your heaven nt once.’’ 
HOW PAUL AND PETER LOOKED 
It is allowable to mention the general notion 
of the forms and features of the two Apostles 
which has been handed down in traditon, and 
was represented by tbe curly artists. St. Paul 
is set before us as having the strongly-marked 
and prominent features of a Jew, yet not with¬ 
out some of the finer lines indicative of Greek 
thought. His stature was diminutive, and his 
body disfigured bv some lameness or distortion, 
which may have provoked the contemptuous ex¬ 
pression of his enemies. His beard was long 
and thin. His head was bald. The characteris¬ 
tics of his face wore a transparent complexion, 
which visibly betrayed the Quick changes of his 
feelings; a bright eye, under thickly overhang¬ 
ing, united eyebrows; a cheerful and winning 
expression of countenance, which invited the 
approach and inspired the confidence of stran¬ 
gers. It would be natural to infer from bis con¬ 
tinual journeys and manual labor, that he was 
possessed of great strength of constitution. 
But men of delicate health have often gone 
through the greatest exertions: and his own 
words, on more than one occasion, showed that 
he suffered much in bodily health. 
St. Peter is represented to us a> a man of larger 
and stronger form, as Ids character was harsher 
and more abrupt. The quirk impulses of 
his soul revealed themselves in the hashes of a 
dark eye. The complexion of his face was full 
and sallow; and the short hair, which is de¬ 
scribed as entirely gray at the time of his death, 
curled black and thick round his temples and 
his chin, \\ ben the two Apostles were together 
at Antioch, twenty years before their martyr¬ 
dom. Believing, as we do, that these tradi¬ 
tionary pictures have probably some founda-' 
tion in Lruth, we gladly Lake them as helps to 
tlie imagination .—Life and Epistles of St. Paul. 
He looks for papers, books or bills, that all were there 
before, 
And sighs to find them on the desk or in the drawer no 
more. 
And then he grimly thinks of her who set this fuss 
afloat: 
And wishes she were out at sea in a very leaky boat. 
He meets her at the parlor door, with hair and cap 
awry, 
With sleeves tucked up, and broom in hand, defiance 
in her eye; 
He feels quite small and knows full well there’s noth¬ 
ing to be said, 
So holds his tongue, and drinks his tea, and sneaks 
away to bed. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
HODIE MIHI. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
ODDS AND ENDS. 
In the little room which we occupy at the Cal¬ 
careous Seminary is a window, through which 
comes tlie amber glories of the sunset, barred 
with ruby and amethyst, and from which we 
can watch the cloudy fleets, the 
“ Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with 
costly bales.” 
Here we are wont to sit. as the slant shadows 
point their long lingers toward tlie cast, and 
look at the gleams of light breaking through 
the crest of trees on a distant hillside, and at t he 
misty gold in the sky above, that, deepens with 
crimson tinge ns if the crucible in which the 
clouds had melted was heated by too fierce a 
blast. We watch the clouds as they sail slowly 
through t he airy deep, and again we repeat poor 
Pollock’s lines: 
“ The air is chill, and the flay grows late. 
And the clouds come In through tin; golden gate; 
Phantom fleets they seem to me, 
From a shoreless and impounded sea; 
Their shadowy spars and milk white sails, 
Fuihattcrcd, have weathered a thousand gales. 
Lo, wheeling there, in squadrons gray. 
They gather and darken along Die way, 
And each lo Its mountain anchorage flies, 
While the glory fades front the shining skies.” 
The day is dying, and the gold-broidered pall 
that spreads across the west is fitting drapery 
for him that lived a life of sunshine, yet 
“-heralded his millions to their home, 
In the dim land of dreams.” 
Lights glitter from lltc towers of invisible aerial 
castles, there to bum till the garish light of an¬ 
other day bids them fade: and so tlie day lades 
from earth, and is no more. Wo th an the cur¬ 
tain, and the lamp light, that makes the gilt 
letters stand out on the books in the little book¬ 
case, throws its gleam up over the window and 
sIiowb gilt letters there: Hoihd Midi. , Such is 
the odd latin motto which some thoughtful stu¬ 
dent, afore time in our place, put up to remind 
him of his duty. We like mottoes, and some¬ 
how there is much In the one into the rightful 
possession of which we have come. It brings 
up pictures of a thoughtful, pale-faced student, 
bending over hisbooks, and looking through the 
lettered page before him to the future beyond, 
forgetful that 
“ Info hath its must and may be, - of yore, 
While the same hues that tinge the clouds behind us, 
Color the shapings of the mists before." 
There is a presence about him that fills the room 
with glory; a sweet face gleams upon him with 
—There is a vast decrease in magnitude, 
when we analyze the vague impressions which 
haunt the brain, and compel every idea to prove 
its identity by expressing itself in words. Often 
we fancy that we have a great number of 
thoughts, when in fact we have only a great fog. 
— He who has clean teeth may talk nonsense 
if he choose, but he who has not, nas no right 
to open his mouth, though it be to utter the 
highest wisdom. Words of gold are not an anti¬ 
dote to tuusea. 
— Wet is not wisdom: bluntness is not smart¬ 
ness; and it would be well for its all lo remem¬ 
ber that when we have carried our obstinacy to 
the sublimest pitch there is a certain long-eared 
animal whose capacities in this direction lar ex¬ 
ceed our own. 
— To sit upon the fence may be pleasant 
enough, but to be forced to jump, with a savage 
dog on one side and a hedge of steel spikes on 
the other, is quite another thing. So when the 
force of circumstances compels a man of the 
non-committal stamp, to choose between right 
on the one hand, and popular opinion on the 
other, you may expect to sec some wry faces. 
— Mkn — and women too — often betray their 
weaknesses by the very means they use to oou- 
eeal them. You never hear a single lady go 
into extravagancies over “Woman’s Rights,” 
but you may be sure she will surrender her 
liberty to the first “tyrant” who oilers himself; 
and it is a well-known fact that the man who 
is always decrying the “ weaker sex,” is either 
morbidly sensitive to their opinion, or has been 
terribly disappointed in love. l. a. o. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
“SHOULDER STRAPS.” 
All over the land fair fingers are fashioning 
the glittering bands handsome shoulders arc to 
bear through the smoke and din of the battle. 
Mauy bright eyes have grown dim over the 
ornaments that are worn so proudly. Many 
pearly tears have been stitched in with the glit¬ 
tering bullion. In and out with tlie golden 
thread is woven the maiden’s dreams—dreams 
of giory and of love. In with the golden thread 
of bullion, and the more golden thread of glory, 
woven a sombre thread in the 
is sometimes 
shape of the enemy’s bullet; and gay shoulder 
straps, crimsoned with the life-blood of brave 
men. Oh, that all the men who wear them 
Were brave and noble! Oh! that all were loyal 
and true! 
Now, that our streets are somewhat thinned 
of them, it is sometimes pleasant to see a broad- 
shouldered, brave-looking man wearing shoulder 
straps. It seems just possible lie might be 
home on important business — at any rate, it is 
pleasant to think so. It is pleasant to see 
the stalwart, brave men that have so nobly 
answered to our country’s call. Looking 
upon them, we find ourselves questioning of 
many things. How does this brave-looking 
officer bear himself in battle? If the handsome 
head holds itself proudly, if the chiseled lips 
grow tremulous and pale, or if the order to 
I march is given with firm lips and unfaltering 
| tone ? Then we wonder if lie lias a great, large 
d, and spirit grand enough to be given charge 
SOu *rning so many of his fellow-men ? In my 
inion, it takes a man of no ordinary 
poor op be an officer. He must possess his 
samp to ‘ly front ordinary men. He must 
sou. different ’-eat enough to dispense justice 
m noble ajjd g vested in him with a light 
j U1 °*her powar " learned the Golden Rule 
f* , . iie hsv, '■ntify himself, in spirit, 
y lenrt. He must leu them as he would be 
with Jiis men, md mdan 
Judged. * t a little incident 
Was indignant and grievefl, n cities some- 
f •“**«* ni oae „ f ■<» Private, 
omeago. a .. ‘ norther - ' . ’ 
THE JOY OF PARDON, 
Blessed is ho whose transgression is forgiven, and 
whose sin is covered. —1’sai.m xxxii 1. 
Is it a refreshment to a prisoner to have his 
chains knocked otl ? A comfort to a debtor to 
have lus debts paid and obligations cancelled? 
What joy, then, must it be to a sin-burdened 
soul to hear the voice of pardon and peace in 
his trembling conscience! Is the light of the 
morning pleasant to a man after a weary, tedi¬ 
ous night? The spring of the year pleasant 
after a hard and tedious winter ? They are so 
indeed; but nothing so sweet as the favor, peace 
and pardon of God to a soul that hath been long 
restless and anxious under the terrors and fears 
of conscience; for though after pardon ami 
peace a man remembers sin still, yet it is as 
one that remembers the dangerous pits and deep 
waters from which he hath been wonderfully 
delivered and had a narrow escape. (), the 
unconceivable sweetness of it pardon! Who 
can read it without tears of joy? Are we glad 
when the grinding pain of the storm or racking 
fits of the colic are over? And shall wo uot be 
transported when the accusations and condem¬ 
nations of conscience are over? Tongue cannot 
express what these things are: his joy is some¬ 
thing that no words can convey to the under¬ 
standing of another that never felt the anguish 
of sin.— Flavel. 
NO MOTHERS IN NOVELS. 
The fact has recently been stated by a writer 
on modern novels and novelists, that few au¬ 
thors of fiction attempt to introduce into their 
works the character of a mother. 1 lichens has 
very few In tlie many volumes which he has 
writen. None of Miss Bronte’s heroines have a 
mother; and even Sir Walter Scott and Miss 
Edgeworth rarely Introduced the character. 
“The heroines of fiction have no mothers.” 
There are exceptions, but they are rare. The 
simple, uatural relations of life furnish small 
scope to the inventive genius of writers, who 
aim not so much to instruct as to startle and 
amaze. No one can have read novels without, 
having had the conviction forced upon the mind 
that secrecy and misunderstanding, not to say 
deception, underlie every work of fiction. By 
an outspoken word or candid avowal of the 
truth, the long-drawn, torturing array of cir¬ 
cumstances would melt into air, and the ro¬ 
mance be turned into the reality of daily life. 
This necessity of deception doubtless has much 
to do with the expulsion of mothers from the 
pages of novels. The heroine must remain the 
victim of attentions and sufferings front which 
no one lias authority or power to set her free. 
But a still stronger cause for the omission 
’sts in the fact that a heroine must bo suffered 
*■ out,, without restraint, those natural im- 
•td wild passions of her heart which any 
'wever worldly, would grieve to be- 
u 'died in a daughter. Liberty of 
. k v erty of action are inseparable 
j-g heroine of a sensation novel. 
an( j ' subjected for a moment to 
mother’s presence and 
’mother k. .llqwMxl 
, T e dull nml common- 
lo otoek of » , ulrr IMtc . 
Prayer.— How sweet it is to go to God and 
pour forth the inmost desires of our poor erring 
hearts. IIow beautiful in prosperity to tell our 
Father of our gratitude for all his benefits, 
now comforting in adversity to jtsk his assist¬ 
ance, and pray for strength and comfort to 
enable us to bear the ills of life without repin¬ 
ing; and what a solace to t he stricken ami be¬ 
reaved heart to have out: lo lean upon and con¬ 
verse with who knows all about us, and heareth 
and eareth for the wounded soul! Ilo “ was a 
man of sorrows and acquainted with grief;’’ 
how beautifully appropriate, theu, to trust im¬ 
plicitly in Jesus to [carry us through the dim 
labyrinth of sorrow. 
Singing.— Singing is a great institution. It 
oils the wheels of care—supplies the place of 
sunshine. A man who sings, has a good heart 
under liis shirt-front. Such a man not only 
works more willingly, but he works more con¬ 
stantly. A singing cobbler will earn twice as 
much money us one who gives way to low 
spirits and indigestion. Avaricious men never 
sing. The man who attacks singing throws a 
stone at the head of Hilarity, and would, if he 
could, rob June of its roses, or August of its 
meadow larks. 
Sin has a great many tools; but a lie is the 
handle which tits them all. 
