[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
FADED AND DEAD. 
BT MRS. 8. K, HADDOCK, 
Where are the green leaves, where are the flowers. 
That brightened with beauty the long summer hours,— 
Where are the rainbow*, where are the dews, 
Colors so radiant, gems so profuse,— 
Faded and dead, oh something so sad 
Breathes in those little words,—faded and dead. 
Where are the rosy cheeks, where are the eyes, 
Blue as that ether vail we call the skies.— 
Where are the white hands, dimpled and small, 
Once opened warmly in greeting to all — 
Where are the glossy curia, where the (air head,— 
Echo sighs mournfully,—faded and dead. 
Where is the rose wreath braided for me, 
Memory of young life, childhood’s bright glee,— 
Where am the fond hopes, where arc the dreams. 
Gilded with beauty by life's morning beams,— 
’Tis something unseen, yet something just fled 
Bends back the whispered words,—faded and dead. 
Earth, I am weary of thee and thy gems, 
Weary of watching the buds and the stems 
Wither away, and dream, hope, and heart. 
Tarry awhile and forever depart. 
Fain would I he where no voices fled 
Sing to me mournfully, —faded and dead. 
Michigan, Jan,, 1861. 
■V • • •+• - 
(Written for Moore's Rural New Yorker.J 
THE DEAD WIFE. 
Tin: best artist who ever placed chisel on a marble 
block had never accomplished anything so beautiful. 
The bands folded calmly, trustingly, above the stilled 
heart; the lids drooping over the eyes, shading the 
cheeks with their long lashes; every feature, not wan 
and pinched us by protracted Buffering, but full and 
rounded as though just ready to receive the life-giving 
breath, the life-current standing idly In the veins, and, 
last of all, those beautifully moulded limbs, not yet 
Chilled into the stillness of death,—all combined, 
made a sublime picture, that mortal hand might 
vainly strive to equal. The dark hair yet lingered in 
waves upon the brow that death lmd kissed to marble, 
the same happy smile rested on the lip that death had 
tried in vain to blanch. 
But one there was, whose sad heart «aw no beauty 
in it all. Surpassing beauty might be revealed to 
others by that form so motionless, hut to him it 
brought bitter desolation,—it swept from his young 
heart every dream of joy and love,—it cast, a black 
pall over all the earth. Hut one short month had lie 
called her wife, and now his sun, so lately risen, had 
sot in gloom. That bright young being who hut a 
month ago had joined her life with his at the altar, 
had left him forever,—forever! 
There are sorrows in this world wilder, deeper far 
than uro believed, until they have entered the heart, 
piercing even to its center. W’e talk of agony, and of 
bitter grief, hut to some they are unmeaning words,— 
by others comprehended, alas, too well! Now, in 
stead of her presence he had naught but her dying* 
words. 'I he death of the heart's idol may cause more 
real grief, the words of a dying wife have more influ¬ 
ence, than the death of one for whom nations mourn. 
“ My husband, will you always love your Mauv,— 
will you think of uie sometimes when the snow lies 
heaped and cold on my grave? Not of your childish, 
impatient wife, as 1 have been when you used to say 
so reprovingly, yet bo kindly, Mary,— but remember 
me as I was when you could call me your darling | 
Oakland, Oregon, Nov. 27th, 1860. 
Eds. Rubai. New-Yorker:—A well written letter 
I ha vejust received from a distinguished lady residing 
in Bowling Green, Ky. Her communication is dated 
August fith, and after complimenting my communica¬ 
tions for your journal, she speaks of her lively inter¬ 
est in Oregon, ever since its association with the 
names of Astor and Capt. Gray, touches upon its 
beautiful forests of fir and oak, its noble rivers, its 
lovely valleys, and its lofty mountain peaks. But the 
direct object of her letter is to inform me that she 
sympathizes with my suggestions in a former commu¬ 
nication, touching the importance of an organization 
among the ladies of the Atlantic States, in this age of 
humanity and reform, to be styled “A Belief So¬ 
ciety for the Bachelors of the Pacific Coast.” 
She informs me that she could come herself, ami 
have accompany her a circle of excellent young 
ladies, fitted to act in the various capacities named, 
and especially as sweethearts and companions, in the 
military pathway of many an unmated bachelor on 
this distant hut sunny shore. She wishes to know 
what point would he the most eligible on which to 
land hor precious freight. I answer, you cannot fail 
of success, cither in California or Oregon. There 
exists a stern necessity in both Btutes for a large in¬ 
flux of females. Teachers, domestics, cooks, seam¬ 
stresses, type-setters, wives, are wanted everywhere, 
and thousands of young men, and middle-aged men, 
«ay,—“1 would he glad to settle in life,” could I find 
a virtuous, amiable companion, whose heart i could 
win and love. 
On reading the letter of my fair correspondent to 
two young and prosperous merchants in this village, 
they raised their hands and voices and shouted,— 
“Tell her to coine to this (Umpqua) valley direct, 
and at. once.” From personal Interviews with Judge 
Williams of Portland, Oregon, 1 am permitted to say 
that his Honor will interest himself for them if they 
will come to that young and thriving city. Also, 
Col. Shiels and Judge Terry of Salem, will show 
them every (bachelor) attention and courtesy possi¬ 
ble, if they go to that pleasant viljage! In Albany, 
Corvallis, Eugene City, Oakland and Roxburgh, 
Oregon, they will find warm friends and admirers, 
ready to extend situations and friendship, and, on 
proper acquaintance, hands and hearts, doubtless, to 
all who are charming and intelligent. There are 
hundreds of young men here whose only consolation 
(in a certain direction,) consists in humming lines 
like the following: 
‘'There is a world where every night 
My spirit meets and walks with thine; 
And hope#,—I dare not tall thoo,—light, 
I.iko stars of love, that world of mine." 
Let Mrs. James G. Handy, of Bowling Green, 
Ky., rest assured that if she comes to Portland witti 
one score, or twenty scores, of amiable, virtuous, in- 
intelligent ladies, whose ages vary from 211 to 3ft 
years, and who are competent to grace both the work¬ 
room and parlor, they will receive a hearty and gen¬ 
erous welcome, and we trust never regret the step. 
They will touch at San Francisco, and thence go by 
steamer to Portland, Oregon. S. B. Rockwell. 
P. N.— Let any young or middle-aged ladies desir¬ 
ous of contributing /hemnrlrex to aid and advance the 
interests of this novel, yet noble and humane society, 
communicate with Mrs. Handy, at Bowling Green, 
K I- s. b. it. 
HE A MOTHER TO YOUR CHILDREN. 
wife. And some time, perhaps, another head will have 1 
taken my place on your heart, another ho enshrined 
within it. She will cheer you in your loneliness, 
I would not have It otherwise,- she will ho older, 
you will not havo to check her in her mirthfulness, to 
restrain her in iier sorrows, but sometimes give one 
littlo thought to your child-wife, — your Mary. 
There, let me rest once more on your bosom, put your 
hand on my head that T may feel its loving pressure, 
say you will not quite forget me. I’ll wait for you in 
Heaven, where God will lead you.” 
They took her from liia arum, they laid her hack on 
the pillow, and this was all. All! Oh, Heaven, if 
tins be all, and naught beyond! They folded her 
bridal robes about her, hut instead of orange they 
bound the cypress flowers in her hair, and In her nar¬ 
row coffin they laid her to rest! But alas for the liv¬ 
ing; for him there was no rest! All that great critic, 
the world, know of his sorrow, was carried to it thus 
concisely: 
“ P"’'A at. the residence of her husband, Mr#. Albert Wilde 
aged IS year#. A month ago to day we announced their mar’ 
riage. Thus mourning follow# rejoicing." 
The world never knew that it was worse than dying 
to part with her, never knew how he deluded himself 
with the hope that it was a strange dream from which 
lie would soon awaken,—never knew how, in his mid¬ 
night meanings, he chided her for staying away so 
long, and besought her once more to rest upon his 
heart. Oh, no! the world commended him for his 
calmness and fortitude,—calm, because his heart was 
seared, withered, broken,—strong, because too weak 
to show his feelings. And so it is many a one goes 
through the world hearing a heart wrung with an¬ 
guish, every moment suffering exquisite agony, hut 
scorning to let that sorrow ba seen which could not 
he alleviated, and they are perhaps envied their hap- 
piness and contentment; while others, chafed by 
lighter disappointments, wailing long, and loud, and 
draping themselves in weeds of woe, receive all the 
sympathy, and are pitied as suffering almost beyond 
mortal endurance. But God knows where the suffer¬ 
ing lies. 
In our ignorance concerning the ways of the Infi¬ 
nite, we would almost dare to question the mercy 
which could take one dearer to us than life itself to 
the Better Land, leaving ns to struggle on in sorrow 
and Buffering. ftVhy not with one blow show mercy 
to both? But, shall we, the creatures, question the 
acts of the Creator? Does He not thus teach us a 
great lesson? Where is one whose heart has been 
torn by such a parting, who would dare to sav there 
is no hereafter? Such a one would not be deluded by 
the false theory that this world is our only home. 
How we shudder at the thought that loved ones lost 
to us here are lost forever. When our life missions 
arc accomplished, surely there will he glorious re¬ 
unions in Heaven. Millioent Gray. 
Hillsdale, Mich., 1861. 
Be a mother to your children; he a companion for 
your boys and girls. The follies of the young are too 
often manifestations of the sins of the mother—sins 
of omission, of neglect of the child’s thought, which, 
instead of being trained, as the gardener inclines the 
twig, is allowed to he blown about by every passing 
breeze. Fill your child’s thoughts full; stuff them to 
repletion with the good, and there will he no room 
for the had to get in. You know how to satisfy the 
demands of the stomach; yet you do not attempt to 
cater for the nobler mental and moral nature. Bo a 
companion for your children. Teach them that, if 
weaned from your breast, they arc not put away from 
yonr heart, and from thence let them still draw your 
spirit, as they before found their life’s blood, lie a 
mother! 
11 My ear i# pained, 
My soul i# sick with every day's report 
OC wrong and outrage with which earth is tilled.” 
A mother! The fashionable woman whom we once 
met dancing wantonly at a city ball, when her only 
child lay at home sickening with scarlet fever, is not 
the type wo urge you to copy. She was hut an 
ostrich, who leaves her young on the desert sand. 
No, he a true mother, instinct with all the holy attri¬ 
butes of maternity. There are many of you who can, 
like us, point to the mansion of the bleat for the typo of 
a mother not dead, fur she still lives in our hearts, stir¬ 
ring us up with a sweet, soft voice, yet ringing 
louder her clarion blasts through our inmost sUbls, to 
duty. Ah! if you will hut accept the noble office you 
arc called upon to perform, if you will but occupy the 
heart of your husband, if you will but fold your chil¬ 
dren into your Own self, know their inmost thoughts, 
he their confidant, their life-spring, their guide, "tru¬ 
ant husbands,” as they are called, sons designated as 
“only n little wild,” will he rare, and the world will he 
renovated. To these purer joys, does the true woman 
say dress and fashion are preferable? Like all good 
actions, these will redound with blessings. In the ex¬ 
ercise of these duties, in the cultivation of home joys 
and affections, the exposure and consequent diseases 
will not lie met with. Life will uotbe a Constant state 
of invalidism. Will you think of these things? — 
Knickerbocker Magazine. 
[Written for Moore'# Rural New-Yorker.] 
PAUSE AND REFLECT! 
Hark yk ! for the winds are walling, *.v1 i_v wailinv o'er the lee. 
And methinks they bear upon them mournful warnings to the 
free. 
Have they swept around the grave stones of the fathers of our 
land ? 
Have they caught the spirit whisper# of that noble martyr band? 
For J shudder a# I hear them, voices of the distant dead,— 
Voices from the fields of battle, field# where North and South 
have bled. 
■' Oh ye heirs of blood-bought freedom, will ye break our golden 
chain,— 
Will ye madly clasp the viper that would make you slaves again! 
Who shall rend our noble banner, rend it# sacred folds in twai n ? 
Who shall dare to lift our standard where a brother's blood shall 
stain ! 
“Wo to thee, belov'd Columbia! wo to thee, our cherished land, 
When thou #oe»'t a #on of freedom falling by a brother's band ! 
When thou hearst the trump proclaiming that the Onion Oath 
is dead; 
Clow, oh! close thine eye# forever, Tor thy star of steurgtb ha# 
fled. 
"Then shall'tyrants his# upon thee a# I by reign of power is o'er; 
They will mock thee in thy anguish as thou fnll’gt to rise no more. 
And In many a sitnny region, and on many a distant plain 
Shall noble hearts and true ones know their beacon light to wane. 
Shall the world e'er cite Columbia, famous land of Washington, 
Asa weak and hapless haul.tr that your bleeding father's woo ? 
Shall it point you to your temple, rum so glorious in it# height. 
As a vessel broke in fragment# fragments that can ne'er unite? 
“Shall your sun be veiled in darkness e'er your day ha# reached 
it# noon,— 
Shall your boasted power and honor wear the sable pall so soon? 
Shall the spirit of true freedom find upon your soil a grave, 
And the waves of dark oppression madly triumph o'er the brave? 
" ShaJI your Eagle droop his pinions even while his piercing eye 
Can glance proudly o'er the nations, or arrest them with hi# 
cry ? 
No ! the world shall look upon him, noble bird of Liberty,— 
Ah a harbinger of safety, as the watchword of the Free! 
“Shall this glorious Union sever ,—will it break its pledge of 
love,— 
Will it vaseillate ? A’o, never, While the heavens remain above! 
But it shall live on forever, nobly great and nobly free. 
Justly wearing it# proud title, ‘Land of Light and Liberty 
Yes, and many who am writhing ueath a harsh usurper's hand, 
May, with joy, accept a refuge in our broad and goodly land ; 
They may cast their final anchor, they will #eek their final 
home, 
Where no usurpation darkens,—where no tyrant dare# to come! 
Farmington, N Y„ 188L A. It. B. 
♦ • ♦ * -v 
(Written lor Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE PEDESTRIAN - No. I. 
Little Hungry Minds. —If there is one lesson we 
would impress upon parents, it is this;—Don’t stifle 
your children's desire at proper times to ask ques¬ 
tions. This involuntary self-eduuHting process of the 
child’s is of more importance to its future Ilian many 
parents arc aware of. It sometimes, nay, often, costa 
an effort to break up a train of thoughts in which you 
may he interestedly occupied, but it will pay. I.iko 
the sticks and straws which the winged bird bears 
long distances in it# hill to construct its nest, these 
slender twigs of information may be worked into a 
structure which will 
1 he Family. — Tho family circle is God’s blessed 
ordinance, and is the sweetest, the happiest, and the 
most hallowed spot on earth. It is the nursery of 
affection, of friendship, and of virtue; the place 
where those tics of mutual dependence and help are 
first formed, which, in their expanded state, unite 
human society; and, according to tho manner in 
which the rights of the family circle are enjoyed, its 
duties discharged, and its true benefits realized, are 
the moral character, the stability, and the grandeur 
of a country. 
afford comfort and protection 
Iroin many a life-storm, a safe retreat, for quiet reflec¬ 
tion when tho spirit of evil is prowling about for j Philosopher, who judged men by the boot, as I do. 
Under favor of the Editor, I am going to relate to 
you, in these papers, some of the things I have seen 
and heard in my walks. You, my kind readers, will 
find our stroll sometimes taking ns amid the walls 
and pavements, the wealth and poverty of the citv; 
and, anon, lending us across tho meadows, pastures, 
and brOoku of the country. Sometimes wo shall walk 
far, and see little, and often wc shall find much to 
armwe us in a short tramp. Sometimes we shall 
study the things of inanimate nature,— sometimes we 
shall divert our minds with the study of human nature. 
T cannot promise to give you any account of valorous 
deeds of war, nor danger# braved by land or sea. Not 
that I have never met vmy such,- having once been 
sorely battered and bruised, in my younger days, in a 
Stubborn contest with Handy MrDoi <l\l, concerning 
a slate- pencil; and again having been once, with one 
other, cast adrift on the Erie Canal upon a rude raft 
without oar or pole, wlitre wo were nearly run down 
by a lingo "line boat” that came bearing down upon 
us. But as many of invader# w ill be. I hope, of 
the fairer Bex, it would oc hardly becoming to invite 
them to such rough scent-e,—their reading, it is well 
known, should ho of genii of unearthly power,—of 
mighty battles which are never to the strong,—of 
damsels rescued from danger by slim knights who 
neither wet their feet nor broke their suspenders in 
doing it. But alas I I have, no such tale to tell, never 
having seen even a single bandy-legged spookie,— 
and as for resettings, I’ve none of them, albeit I did 
once pull Miss “ Lkbvy ” MoDouo-al, (sister of Sandy, 
ulorcsaiil,) out of the horse pond by her carlo tty poll, 
but as she ran screaming home and was soundly 
spanked by her judicious mother for "playing with 
the hoys,” I never thought it romantic enough to de¬ 
serve a mention. 
Could I but leave the realms of sober Truth and 
walk in those flowery vales of Imagination, I could 
serve you such a banquet of wonders that all other# 
would seem tamo in comparison. But J forbear, mine 
be. it to relate a "plain, unvarnished tale.” Such 
tilings as all may see, if they search for them, I will 
tell you, and if by so doing I can interest one person 
ill my favorite mode of traveling, and thus tic the 
means of adding so much to the enjoyment of man¬ 
kind, I shall he content. 
Every sensible man, as well as every good Latinist, 
must agree with me that Foot is the chief end of the 
Pedestrian, and of course everything which concerns 
the ease and comfort of that member, must in tho 
same degree concern the Pedestrian. Nothing can 
be more important to the Foot than the Foot (or shoe, 
for I hold them to be ono.) Hence, it clearly follows 
that Roots are worthy the careful study of the Pedes¬ 
trian. To make this more precisely apparent, I may 
•shite It in the Syllogistic form, after the manner of 
my friend the Scholar. Thus: — 
That which is important to the principal part, is 
important to the whole. The foot is the principal 
part of the Pedestrian: Hence,—what is important 
to the foot, is important to the Pedestrian. Roots 
and Shoes arc important to the foot: Hence— Roots 
and Shoes are important to the Pedestrian, 
Again,— 1 must write about whatever concerns the 
Pedestrian. Roots and Shoes concern the Pedestrian: 
therefore — / must write about Hoots and Shoes. 
After such an array of logic as that, let no one dare 
to criticise me for my choice of subject. 
“What’s in a Name?” said the poet. 
“ What’s in a Boot?” says some fair reader. 
More than a stocking, sometimes, I assure you 
madam. The subject may well commend itself to all 
classes of mankind who think. To the Antiquary, 
the boots of all ages might furnish a motive for years 
Of Collecting. He may have ancient and honorable 
authority also for his search,—for was it not said of 
old, “ Ex jin/e Iferculum?" Now, although critics 
have taught differently, I am determined to maintain, 
to the utmost, that the author of tho remark was a 
of that quality, they may betake themselves to the 
venders of “Thrilling Romances,” who, for a couple 
of dimes, will give them such a collection of ghosts, 
hobgoblins, and men of strange adventure, as shall 
transport them quite off their feet and render such a 
sober going thing as a boot unnecessary. 
Whatever be the fashion, there are always many 
kinds of boots to be seen in tho streets, for every one 
make# to himself a fashion in that. In the first place, 
there is the dandy boot, which is the model of the 
fashion. It is high in the heels, stiff in the counters, 
thin in the uppers, and so short that when well worn 
the great toe must be in advance of the sole. So nar¬ 
row is it, that the toes, forsooth, must ride one 
another, a breeder of corns aud spoiler of the gait. 
I pray thee, gentle reader, have nothing to do with 
such an enemy to our Pedestrian comfort. There is 
another form of boot, which is low of heel, sole long 
and thin, and turned np at tho toes like a skate iron! 
In these the foot rebel#, and spreads the upper leather 
over the soles until you can scarcely pee them, and 
the man must walk holes in his boots. These are 
more sensible boots than the others, however; they 
are chiefly worn by men who are engaged In business 
and have no time for fopperies. There is the 
“Rowdy” boot, thick in soles and upper, stub-toed, 
and looking clumped, to borrow an adjective. These 
are worn by sailors, dock loafers, canal boatmen, 
and, sometimes, by "b’hoys” who “run with the 
machine,” as they phrase it. Then, there is your 
farmer’s boot, always thick, stiff, large, wrinkled, and 
terribly uncomfortable. 
There are shoes, long, short, heavy, light, good, 
bad, and indifferent. Shoes there are which tie, lace, 
button, and. worst of all, shoes with elastic bands. 
They are worn by all classes from dandies in pumps 
to poor students who are fain to save a few shillings 
by wearing cheap gaiters. Not that it is, by any 
means, a crime to save money, but that it is a doubt¬ 
ful economy which buys many poor things for one good 
one. The ladies wear shoes, but in what terms shall | 
a timid Philosopher speak of them? Generally, they 
are thin,—thin in sole, in upper, in counter, and of 
too little height, so that they only differ from none, in 
keeping tint stockings from the street. Strange it is 
that the weaker and feebler sex should dress less care¬ 
fully than the stronger! Yet It Is so; and among men 
the weaker a man’s constitution, the thinner his boots 
and clothing. Whereas your strong man, of large 
chest and powerful limbs, always wears the thickest 
of clothes and heaviest of boots. 
But there is also the sensible boot. This is always 
made of the best leather and costs the highest price. 
It is broad and loose, and respectability lurks in every 
wrinkle. The soles are long, but thick, and do not 
turn up in front. The owner of such a boot is well 
off in the world, is out of debt and lives well, lie is 
always of a certain age, that is, lias passed forty, and 
is a sensible, easy, old gentleman. And there is also 
the boot of the Pedestrian. When the Pedestrian is 
at a party, or on the street, let him wear what he 
will, but when he walks, let him look well to his 
hoots that they may afford him comfort. I prefer the 
kind called Balmoral, which arc thick-soled, stout, 
sewed, broad, loose on the foot, and tight about the 
ankle. Ladies who arc sensible, wear such in the 
street, and much comfort as well as health repay 
them for their sense. 
If then you love comfort, reader mine, wear such 
as these and you may walk as you will, secure that no 
niisplanted corn shall Invade your well used foot, and 
with its small torture spoil your patience. But if you 
desire to shoot, or from his hiding place to pull the 
speckled trout, or for aught else to tramp through 
field, and swamp, and brake, let your boots be so 
high they may touch tho knee; and stout, that they 
may not be easily torn; then treat them with a com¬ 
pound I shall tell thee of, and thou mighst defy 
the Flood of Noah until it reached the knees. Take 
of Resin, one half pound, and of Tallow, one pound, 
melt in an iron pot, stirring in the while a little lamp¬ 
black, and apply this while hot. 
With good boots, and long walks, gentle reader, 
may’atthon defy the grim monster a thousand years! 
Plato. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE TWO ANGELS. 
BY MARGARET SLUOTT. 
I iirard sweet voice# in the night, 
And lo ! tnjr room was filled with light. 
Two angels stood Ik- side my bed,— 
One at the foot. — one at the head. 
The ono was calm, and stern of face, 
Yet clothed with a celestial grace. 
The other, fair, and sad, and sweet, 
lake her who sat at Jesus’ feet. 
The angel spake— " Come thou with me 
And list thou what thy doom shall be. 
Thou hast done evil all thy dayB, 
And enrses took the place of praise. 
Of such the Master spake the doom 
II Whither I go ye cannot come !” 
“ Na J.” said the other, “ he shall live, 
For much the Master doth forgive, 
And much forgiveness works much love, 
Aud love to labor quick doth move. 
labor and love shall thus atone 
For all the evil he hath done.” 
Tho voices ceased, and in my room 
The light still banished all the gloom 
Trembling, I bade my heart bo still 
And wait to know the Master’s will. 
The voice said sweetly a# before, 
"Thou art forgiven, sin no more.” 
Since then J walk as though alono 
Yet seeing th’ In visible One, 
And with a weariness of earth, 
Longing, I wait my heavenly birth. 
Gainesville, N. Y.. 1861, 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE WISH AND THE PRAYER. 
careless stragglers, who arc heating tho air because 
there is nothing else left for them to do. Don’t turn 
your child away with a lazy, libbing, abstracted "I 
don t know." Rouse yourself, and give him food for 
thought in your answer, or that spirit of evil miry 
take possession of the apartment which you are to 
furnish. 
To the Historian, also, the subject is of great interest, 
for I maintain that civilization and progress may be 
accurately traced by the fashion of the Boot. The 
rudeness of savage life, the luxury of courts, the 
sturdy health of yeomen, the fopperies of dandies, 
and all the various moods of men in all ages, have 
found expression in the dressing of the foot. 
I Many other reasons might, indeed, be found to jus- 
Ol u life is determined for us —and it makes the tify my choice, but I forbear; for those who have the 
ltlrf VftVlf tVan li'lion <i>n __• t • Jf i < •« i • . • . . , 
mind very free when wo give up wishing, and only 
think of bearing what is laid upon us, aud doing 
what is given us to do.— The Milt on the Floss. 
philosophical soul which an author desires to find in 
his readers, will see for themselves more reasons than 
I could tell them, and as for those who are destitute 
INFLUENCES OF THE DWELLING. 
w K talk about houses, my friend: we look at houses; 
but how little the stranger knows of what they are! 
Search from cellar to garret some old country house, 
in which successive generations, of boys and girls 
have grown up, but be sure that tho least part of it is 
that which you can see, and not the most accurate 
Inventory that ever was drawn up by appraiser will 
include hall it# belonging#. There are old memories 
crowding about every corner of that homo unknown 
to us: and to minds and heart# far away in India and 
Australia everything about it is sublimed, saddened, 
transfigured into something different from what it is 
to you and rue. You know for yourself, my reader, 
whether there be not something not present elsewhere 
about tho window where you sat when a child am! 
learned your lessons, the table once surrounded by 
many merry young faces which will not surround it 
again in this world, the fireside where your father sat, 
till! chamber where yonr sister died. Very little in¬ 
deed can sense do toward showing u.# the Home; or 
towards showing us any scene which has been asso¬ 
ciated with human life and feeling and embalmed in 
human memories. The same few hundred yards along 
the seashore, which are nothing to one man but so 
much ribbed sea-sand and so much murmuring water, 
may be to another something to quicken tho heart’.# 
beating and bring the blood to the cheek. The same 
green path through'the spring-clad trees, with the 
primroses growing beneath them, which lives in one 
memory year alter year with its fresh vividness undi¬ 
minished, may be in another merely a vague recollec¬ 
tion, recalled with difficulty or not at all. 
Each in his hidden sphere of joy aud woe, 
Our hermit spirits dwell and range apart; 
Oar eves see all around in gloom or glow,— 
Hues of their own, fresh borrowed from the heart. 
— Recreations of a Country Parson. 
“Let me die,” said a little beggar-girl, lying upon 
a bed of straw; "let me die; earth is fair and beauti- 
lul, but what availeth it me? Iain but a beggar-girl, 
with no food, no raiment, no shelter, no friends to 
love and pity mb: for, alas, who feels for a beggar, 
—let me die.” 
"Let me die, ' said an orphan boy, languishing 
upon his bed of rags,—"Jet me die; everything is 
beautiful, nature is arrayed in ber loveliest green, but 
it only brings to remembrance the time when I was 
the happy child of doting parents. Now I am an 
orphan, with no kind father to provide for me, no 
mother to bathe my heated brow and alleviate my suf¬ 
ferings, no sister to smooth my pillow and minister 
to my wants, no brother, nor any ono to love, — “let 
rnc die,” And at last there was found a place,—not 
in all the length and breadth of tho green earth, but 
in Heaven,—where the weary dove might fold its 
wings. 
“ Lay me down and let me die,” said tho wounded 
soldier, a# his comrades boro him from the field of 
battle amid tho deafening shouts of victory. “I die 
contented. (), my country forever,” and he breathed 
out his life in the arms of victory. And when the 
dreadful new# had reached the cars of a fair-haired 
girl, far removed from the din and strife of war, she 
clasped hor hands in agony exclaiming, “O, let me 
die. I wish for life no longer, for ho is dead who was 
dearer to me than life itself —the peaceful rays of the 
setting sun are even now smiling upon hi.# grave, and 
the evening breeze singing his funeral requiem, — 
without him life is a blank, —let me die." 
“ 1s t me die,” muttered a drunkard, rocking to and 
fro upon the cold damp floor of his gloomy hovel; 
“there is nothing in the future worth living for; my 
health is destroyed; my character, - the brightest 
jewel ever committed to mortal charge,—is blasted, 
and my mind is racked with unheard of tortures,— 
let me die.” 
“Let me die,” whispered a dying Christian, casting 
her eyes upward, “O let me die; I can see tho pearly 
gates, and I long to euter. I can see the streets of 
gold, the river of crystal, the unfading flowers of 
I’aradise, the angelic host with their golden harps.” 
And then before his glorious throne, 
Wlio ruleth earth and sky, 
Sighed forth, like trembling music’s tone, 
“ Oil, Father I let me die.” 
And even the old clergyman who sat by her bed¬ 
side, as he listened to the breathings of that gentle 
spirit, to the glowing descriptions of the “Celestial 
City” that fell from her lips, softly murmured, “Now 
lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.” Omega. 
Columbus, Pa„ 1861. 
Now and Then. — Living was cheap enough in 
olden time. Socrates was supposed to have lived 
upon an income of seventy-five dollars; but lie lived 
worse than a slave. His coat was shabby, and lie 
wore the same garment both winter und summer; be 
went barefooted; his chief food was bread and 
water; and as he engaged in no business to mend his 
estate or income, it is not wonderful that his wife 
scolded. Demosthenes, his sister, and their mother, 
paid for their hoard $105 a year, and provided the 
house into the bargain. 
Fear of God.— There is no grace whereof I find so 
general a want, in myself and others, as an awful fear 
of the infinite majesty of God. Men are ready to 
profess and affect a kind of familiarity with God, out 
of a pretence of love, whereas, if they knew Him 
aright, they could not think of Him without dread, 
nor name Him without trembling. Their narrow 
hearts strive to conceive of Him according to the 
scantling of their own strait and ignorant apprehen¬ 
sions; whereas they should only desire to havo their 
thought swallowed up with an adoring wonder of His 
divine ineomprehenyiblcness. Though He thunder 
not always, He Is always equally dreadful. There is 
none of His works which doth not betray Omnipo¬ 
tency. I blush at Hie saUeiness of vain men, that will 
be circumscribing the powerful acta of the Almighty 
within the compass of natural causes, forbearing to 
wonder at what they profess to know. Nothing hut 
ignorance can be guilty of this boldness. There is no 
divinity but in an humble fear; no philosophy but a 
silent admiration.- Bishop Hull. 
A Clear Conscience. —How bravely a man can 
walk the earth, bear the heaviest burdens, perform 
the severest duties, and look all men square in the 
face, if he only bears in his breast a clear conscience, 
void of offence towards God or man. There is no 
spring, no spur, no inspiration like this. To feel 
that we have omitted no task and left no obligation 
unfilled, this fills the heart with Satisfaction aud the 
soul with strength. 
Good Manners.—G ood manners are blossoms of 
good sense, and, it may be added, of good feeling 
too; for if the law of kindness be written in the 
heart, it will lead to that disinterestedness in little as 
well as in great things — that desire to oblige, and 
attention to the gratification of others, which is the 
foundation of good manners.— Locke. 
Usefulness.—H ow barren a tree is he that lives, 
and spreads, and cumbers the ground, yet leaves not 
one seed, notone good work to generate after him! 
I know all cannot leave alike; yet all may leave 
something, answering their proportion, their kinds. 
•*- * • ♦ 
If the stars should appear but one night in a thou¬ 
sand years, how would men believe and adore, aud 
preserve for many generations the remembrance of 
the city of God which had been shown! But every 
night come out these envoys of beauty, and light the 
universe with their admonishing smile. 
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