cleanly and wholesomely cooked, are enough for any 
meal; they are much better for the system, and much 
sooner prepared than a dozen different viands, the 
preparation of which consumes the housewife’s entire 
time, 
[Written for Moore's Rural Nevr-Tt orker.] 
NIGHT IN THE CITY. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE OLD MAN’S DREAM. 
omen think more of feeding 
the stomach than the head? More of adorning the 
casket than polishing the jewel? More of primping 
and foolishly bedec king themselves so as to attract 
the notice of some shallow-brained fop, than in 
enriching the intellect with adornings that would 
win the admiration of the world? Row is it that 
females will be mere brainless doll*, Instead of whole- 
souled, earnest, life-working women? Why ia it that 
so many girls will be, when they could be otherwise, 
rattle-headed, love-sick, and frivolous simpletons? 
Girls, you have brains, and for your own sakes, and for 
humanity’s sake, do let the world know it, and feel it. 
Minnie Mintwood. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
A. PRAYER. 
BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
BY ANN IK M. BEACH 
What heroes from the woodland sprung, 
When, through the fresh awakened land. 
The thrilling cry of freedom rung, 
And to the work of warfare, strung 
The yeoman's iron hand! 
Hills flung the cry to hills aronnd, 
And ocean-mart replied to mart. 
And streams, whose springs were yet unfound, 
Pealed fur away the startling sound 
Into the forest’s heart. 
Then marched the brave from rocky steep, 
From mountain river swift and cold; 
The borders of the stormy deep, 
The vales where gathered waters sleep, 
Sent up the strong and bold,— 
As if the very earth again 
Grew quick with God's creating breath, 
And, from the sods of grove and gleD, 
Rose ranks of lion-hearted men 
To battle to the death. 
The wife, whose babe first smiled that day, 
The fair, fond bride of yester eve. 
And aged sire and matron gray, 
Saw the loved warrior baste away. 
And deemed it sin to grieve. 
Already had the strife begun; 
Already blood on Concord's plain 
Along the springing grass bad run, 
And blood hud down at Lexington, 
Like brooks of April rain. 
The death-stain on the vernal sward 
Hallowed to freedom all the shore: 
In fragments fell the yoke abhored— 
The footstepB of a foreign lord 
Profaned the soil no more. 
As old man wit before the lire 
On a windy winter night, 
And dreamed of a time in the “ long ago,’’ 
When his life was young and bright- 
Again a boy in hi* father's hall, 
He sported in innocent glee, 
Or romped with his fair-haired risttrs out 
In the shade of the apple tree. 
He dreams that he stands at the altar now, 
With the loved one by his side, 
And murmurs the words of the marriage vow 
In the ear of hi* fair young bride. 
And now they are wandering happily. 
As they did in the “ long ago;" 
He does not think she has blept for years, 
Where, in summer, the violets grow. 
And so it w as, as he dreamed that night, 
The white-robed messenger, Death, 
Came in at the chime of the midnight hour, 
And silenced bis struggling breath; 
And his soul passed in at the golden gate, 
Where his loved one went before, 
And lol they have met on the plains of peace, 
Where sorrow is known no more. 
They found him dead when the morning dawned, 
And they said, “ it is well, ho sleeps, 
For we know that his name is written down 
In the book that the angel keeps." 
They bore him forth, and the drifted snow 
Was cleared from the frozen plain, 
Where, years ago, in her grave robes clad, 
His beautiful bride was lain. 
And lo! as they hollowed the narrow bed, 
The sunlight around it shone, 
And they said, “ 'tis a sign that in hope they rest, 
Till the trump for the just is blown.” 
Cambria, N. Y., 1801. 
If always on the thorns my feet must tread. 
And heavy clouds hang darkly o'er my head; 
If all the sunshine from my life depart, 
And cold, gray ashes lie upon my heart; 
If all my hopes, like swift winged birds, must fly, 
And every flower of promise droop and die; 
If always through a mist of gathering tears 
My eyes watch sadly for the coming years, 
Oh, Father, when Death's river I're passed o’er, 
And my feet stand ujion the further shore, 
Shall not Thy seal upon my forehead be 
“ Perfect through suffering,” purified by Thee? 
Attica Center, N. Y., 186L 
Elmira, N. Y., 1861 
followers, the other its victims. Oh wayward, many- 
voiced, BOul-crowdetl city, night would have thee 
rest. Ah, who says rest? Now wealth illumes her 
gild d palace and quick invites the smiting siren, 
Pleasure. In her train comes song and dance, and 
merry mirth. Ah, joyous feast, whepe all these happy 
meet,—but none doth note how shrouded care comes 
too, and sits beside the board. Now, shame stalks 
barefaced through the darkened streets, and grinuing 
with delight, e»suares its hapleBa victims. Here, in 
this lowly cot, prone on a ragged couch lies a pale 
mother. Five tattered children crowd around to 
waVih how Death his struggling victim grasps, while 
o’er them hover those three fatal shadows— Want, 
Misery, and Despair,— cold and gaunt, waiting t.o 
devour. Come, child of innocent joy, and I will 
show thee other scenes. With shutters closely drawn, 
and curtains down, see ’round this table, tilled with 
spurkling wine, men sit — or rather demons. Ho for 
a song! Now loud bacchanalian voices join the fran¬ 
tic chorus, and oath, and brandished knife, and 
clashing glass, proclaim that vice and folly hither 
came to crush out virtue and reason. Pass on, — 'tis 
night, who will take note. See yonder pale lipht. 
High In his chamber sits the bending student pour¬ 
ing o'er bis books, — the restless fire within those 
deeply sunken eyes, denotes a being shorn of rest. 
A notlier scene. Come we to this dim-lighted room,— 
here is a couch closely curtained around. Lift softly 
these and gaze. A beauteous maiden tossing on her 
tear-stained pillow. What are yonder fleeting visions: 
tearful grief, and startled peace, and wounded love. 
I’oor child! night hath no rest for theo, nor day, nor 
life. Once more. See yonder cautious villain steal¬ 
ing towards that open window,— he has reached the 
sill, now creeping noiseless in,— follow. On this 
bed, buried in peaceful slumber, lies a strong young 
man. Did wo not see a gleaming knife upraised. 
Hold, murderer I — too late — down plunges the fatal 
NOTHING IS ALL DARK 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
LOST. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE SATCHEL OP A VOLUNTEER 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE SISTER. 
Perhaps the strongest, deepest, affection known to 
earth,—the purest, holiest feeling that burns within 
the soul,— is a sister’s love. Bereft of this, life loses 
half its loveliness. When this departs, one of the 
sweetest charms that lingers round our earth has 
vanished. 
How lovely is the bond that unites two sisters; but 
none less beautiful is the tie that binds a sister and 
a brother. Here is no envy. If one rejoices in the 
sunlight of happiness, the other’s heart o’erllows 
with the same joy. If grief overshadows one, they 
mingle their tears together. The sister breathes a 
sacred Influence around. She dispenses light and 
happiness wherever she moves. She gently rebukes 
an erring one; and Hint heart must indeed bo har¬ 
dened, which cannot meekly receive a sister’s mild 
reproof. Ami even if the wanderer has walked far 
and long in the path of vice, still a sister’s heart 
glows with the same ardent love for him. Art thou 
a sister? Forget not your sacred relation. Remem¬ 
ber you may exert a hallowed influence—one, which, 
though almost unnoticed, still is powerful for weal 
or woe. 
Remember your heart should be a fountain, whence 
should sweetly flow the strains of sympathy. 
Plant deep in the soul the seeds of principle, 
Tenderly guard and nourish the drooping plant of 
virtue, lest it die. 
Oh! there is something beautiful, elevated, sublime, 
in a sister’s love! Art thou a brother? If indeed 
you arc worthy of this title, never will you forget 
her who called you so. Are strong temptations near? 
Would vice allure you from the path of rectitude? 
Remember Unit a sister prays, and that “ your name 
is in her prayer.” Think of the deep anguish that 
went up. No farewell words were spoken,—there 
was no time,— onward shot the train like an arrow,— 
tho crowd stood silent, —many with pale Kps and hot 
tears on their cheeks. Mothers saw their sons for the 
last time. On tho platform lay a pile of satchels, one 
directed to tho writer, and at eve the family gathered 
around —I opened it, and the work of my boy was 
before me. He was scarcely eighteen, but had been 
an artist from ediildhood. I opened the portfolio 
containing his papers, and the first object that met 
my eyes was a large war oagle witli white head and 
neck, his talons full of arrows, the points tipped with 
red. Underneath was written, “ The eagle has been 
drinking the blood of traitors, father.” The next 
object was a portrait of Byron, under which was 
inscribed, 
“ Poured forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife, 
Throughout this purple land where law secures not life.” 
The words refei insecurity of Englishmen in 
Portugal, where thep were nightly assassinated in 
THE AGED LOVER 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
BORROWING AND LENDING. 
“ No longer a lover!” exclaimed an aged patriarch; 
“ah! you mistake mo if you think age has blotted 
out my heart. Though silver hair fulls over a brow 
all wrinkled, and a cheek all furrowed, yet I am a 
lover still. I love the beauty of the rnaidcu’s blush, 
the soft tint of flowers the singing of birds, and, 
above all, the silvery laugh of a child. I love the 
star-like meadows, where the buttercups grow, with 
almost tho same enthusiasm as when, with the ring¬ 
lets flying loose in the wind, years ago, I chased the 
painted butterfly. I love yon aged dame. Look at 
her. Her face is care-worn, but it has ever held a 
smile for me. Often have I shared the same bitter 
which they are denied. Is it not a privilege, as well 
as a duty, to share our means of enjoyment with 
others? All the blessings we enjoy are only lent ns 
for a while by our heavenly Father. 
Especially in this matter of books and papers, we 
should consider it a pleasure to lend. Who does not 
love to see some eyes brighten, and some counte¬ 
nance light up with gratitude at the prospectof read¬ 
ing a book which they were not able to possess, and 
which must over remain a sealed treasure to them, if 
every one was opposed to lending. And, after all, 
of what nse are books and papers but to be distributed 
throughout the world? Are they published merely 
for the few to whom Dame Fortune has given the 
means to gratify every wish? No! they are to send 
forth their influence everywhere; to assist m reward¬ 
ing virtue, and punishing crime; to bring joy to the 
hearts of the sorrowing, and encouragement to the 
weak aud feeble; to raise up the poor and ignorant, 
and give them new hopes and loftier desires. 
Then, let us lend our books, onr papers,—let us 
scatter them among those who have not: let us sow 
the good seed with a lavish hand, that we may reap 
an abundant reward. Let us “giveto him that ask- 
eth, and of him that would borrow, turn not away.” 
Carlik Mavwk. 
Ashtabula, Ohio, 1861. 
HUMAN DISTINCTION, 
”— Selected. 
If there be one moral truth more clearly estab¬ 
lished than another—one, the proof of which, 
beyond all others, is constantly within and around 
us, and before onr eyes — it would seem to be that 
which proclaims the hollowness and worthlessness of 
human distinctions; the artificial and conventional 
distinctions, that is, of birth and station, which men 
first create among themselves, and then fall down 
and worship. Every epoch of human life — every 
incident of human fortune — every phase of human 
existence, proefaims in language which stupidity 
itself can not fail to understand, that the human race 
is a brotherhood of common origin and liabilities, 
aud that no height of genius, no extent of power, no 
acquisition of knowledge, can do away the commu¬ 
nity of subjection to infirmity, misfortune, disease, 
and death, which is the characteristic of mortal 
being. “There is no royal road to mathematics,” 
said the pedagogue, wbeu his royal pupil complained 
of geometrical hardships; the prince, alike with the 
peasant, must gather up the riches of science by the 
toil of his own brains, or not at all. The king or 
emperor, though he be autocrat of a hundred lius- 
sias, or, like Napoleon, lord paramount of sovereign 
vassals without number, must eat or he will die of 
hunger; must drink as often as the beggar to whom 
a cup of sour wine is an unfrequent luxtuy; ia 
fatigued with even lees exertion than the beggar; 
writhes in agony, like the simplest mortal, under the 
infliction of a raging toothache; if tickled, must 
needs laugh, at whatever cost of dignity; when 
attacked by illness, is fain to swallow the same 
nauseous drugs that bring health to lesser men; aud 
finds at last no escape from death and corruption, 
not even in a royal tent, or a coffin of the richest and 
most costly wood, lined with purple velvet, and 
enriched with ornaments of burnished gold.— John 
Inman. 
A ore at many admirable actions are overlooked 
by us, because they are so little and common. Take, 
for instance, the mother, who has had broken slum¬ 
ber, if any at all, with the nursing babe, whose wanls 
must not be disregarded; she would fain sleep awhile 
when the breakfast hour comes, but patieutly and 
uncomplainingly she takes her timely seat at the 
table. Though exhausted and weary, she serves all 
with a refreshing cup of coffee or tea before she sips 
it herself, and often the cup is handed back to her to 
be re-filled before she has had time to taste her own. 
Do you hear her complain—this weary mother — 
that her breakfast is cold before she has time to eat 
it? Aud this not for one, hut for every morning, 
perhaps, through the year. T)o you call this a small 
filing? Try it, and see. 0! how does woman shame 
us by her forbearance and fortitude in what are called 
little things! Ah, it is these little things which are 
the tests of character; it is by these “ little ” self- 
denials, borne with such self-forgotten gentleness, 
that the humblest home is made beautiful to the eyes 
of angels, though we fail to see it, alas! until the 
chair is vacant and the hand which kept in motion 
all this domestic machinery is powerless and cold! 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
GIRLS. 
Why Christ Left no Image. —Four men who loved 
Christ with a love stronger than death, wrote His life, 
hut left uo hint of His height, complexion, features, 
or any point that could help the mind to a personal 
image. Others w>ote long epistles, of which he was 
the Alpha and Ot-sga; hut His form is as much kept 
out of view as tn« body of Moses, hidden by the 
Almighty in an undiscovered grave. The Christian 
tombs and relics of the first centuries show uo at¬ 
tempt to make an image of Christ. Too deep a sense 
of the divine rested upon the early Church to permit 
of any attempt to paint the human as it appeared in 
Him.— Rev. Wm. Arthur. 
Life’s Balm. —God over all! How the tired heart 
falls back upon this, like a babe on its mother’s 
breast. No rebuff' there! Ah! were we not so child¬ 
ishly impatient, were we willing to wait His time, 
instead of demanding onr own imperative now! 
Could we sleep sweetly, and trust Him for the waking. 
Be the sky bright or cloudy, could we only trust! 
Ah! many a hard lesson must we learn, many a re¬ 
bellious tear cboke down, many a despairing “why 
hast thou forsaken me ?” stilled, ere we can learn 
that sweet, tranquil lesson, “ God over all!” 
The Young Wife. — The marriage of middle age 
is companionship; the second marriage of maturity, 
perhaps the reparation of a mistake, perhaps the 
pallid transcript of a buried joy, but tho marriage of 
the loving young is by the direct blessing of God, 
and is the realization of the complete ideal of a 
lovely human life. Let those who have found that 
pearl, hold it fast and keep it safe. Within the doors 
where love dwells no evil thing should enter; and the 
loving bride who would be the happy wife must 
specially guard against her own impatience and des¬ 
pair when the lover is merging into the husband, the 
flatterer into the friend. 
Clouds. —We often live under a cloud, and it is 
well for us that we should do so. Uninterrupted sun¬ 
shine would parch our hearts; we want shade and 
rain to cool and refresh them. Only it behooves us 
to take care that whatever cloud may spread over ns, 
it should be a cloud of witnesses. And every cloud 
may be sucb, if we can only look at the sunshine that 
broods behind it.— Guesses at Truth. 
If none were to reprove tlie vicious excepting fj 
those who sincerely bate vice, there would be much 
less censoriousness in the world. Our Master could -L 
love the criminal while he bated the crime, but we Vr 
his disciples, too often love the orime but hate the r 
criminaL A perfect knowledge of the depravity of «£* 
the human heart, with perfect pity [or the infirmities of ft 
it, never co-existcd but in one breast, and never will. St 
The dangers of knowledge are not to be compared 
to the dangers of ignorance. Those contemners of 
studies who say, with Mandevilie, “ If a horse knew 
as much as a man, I should not like to be his rider,” 
ought to add, “If a man knew as little as a horse, I 
should not like to trust him t,o ride.” 
It is a3 great an absurdity to require of any critic 
that he should equal in execution even a work which 
he condemns, as to desire of the audience which 
hisses a piece of vocal music that they should in¬ 
stantly chant it in truer harmony themselves. 
Keef the horrors at arm's length. Never turn a 
blessing round to see whether it has a dark side to it. 
