afe’ Jpjprlmml. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
SUMMER. 
BY ELLEN C. L. KIMBBL. 
Long lines of <in»ty summer roads 
Stretch broarl and white across tbe hills; 
Daisies have grown where spring-time floods 
Broke tato rushing, rippling rills. 
The soft, warm lireatb of summer winds 
Strikes tbe faint harps among the leaves— 
So low, that pulses pause within, 
Rises the music that they breathe. 
Broad lieldsof golden, waving grain, 
Breaking in billows as tbe sea, 
Curve hound the bill-tops, nu^ again 
Wind down the valleys green and free. 
So calm! so silent! ro^s leaves fall 
In dreamy death from pendant boughs, 
Nature’s strong heart-beat, at God’s call, 
With tides of life the world o’erflows. 
Dreams of the Land beyond the sky, 
Sweet thoughts and fantasies have we, 
Mountains of cloud go sailing by, 
White fleets upon a peaceful sea. 
And counting them a* dreams of life, 
Slipped from our graip and floating on, 
Each with the other, half at strife, 
And all to windward swiftly blown. 
Wc look beyond them, where our eyes 
See the safe Harbor and the I’lains, 
The lAnd where Life’s first fountains rise, 
And Life’s eternal summer reigns. 
Charlotte Center, N.' Y., 1861. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
LETTER FROM AUNT BETSEY. 
The man that's tolling about his wife scolding on 
Mondays, is in a bid ‘'pickle,” to be Bare. I’d just 
like to be lookin’ in at the kitchen window next 
time his "A.” washes, and Bee how things do go on, 
for if he’s as much of a naipt us a body would think 
from hearing his side of the question, he really ought 
to be translated away from all that “ domestic discord 
and discontent.” As for his wife, she must be a 
dreadful cross woman, troubled with a drop of black 
blood in her heart, or something of that kind, if she 
can’t be satisfied when he tries to help her. 
There’s precious few men that have the knock of 
helping a woman more than they hinder, but it al¬ 
ways makes me good tiatured just to have Joshua 
try to help me, even if he knocked down twenty 
things where he picked np one, and put the fire all 
out trying to kindle it, 'cause he showed his good 
will, and that’s the main thing. I don’t happen to 
be constituted ho that I think a man isn’t a true man¬ 
or as near true as anybody gets to be in this world of 
mortal failin’s—if he don’t always see when he might 
do a chore to help his wife; for let folks that has 
boys to bring up, say what they will, and do what 
they will, to learn 'em to do chores in the house, if 
it isn’t in them to be quick to see, and handy to do, 
they can’t be made over. 
But about that scolding and feeling cross on wash¬ 
ing days. There’s quite a number of reasons why a 
woman may feel out of sorts-^-some of them ‘‘Counlry 
Cousin” and the rest have given—and seeing that 
I've had the cares of a family (as you may know by 
my gray hairs), maybe. I'm qualified to give a little 
bit of advice, too. It isn’t in human nfttur' to really 
like to be sweating over a tub of hot suds and soiled 
clothes, breathing steam and scrubbing till shoulders 
ache and fiugers are blistered; and the men would 
only have to try it a few times to find that it brought 
out some dirly streaks, even in their angelic natures; 
but when it has to lie done, a body must make the 
best of it, and one way to do this is to begin with 
that first law, order. Know just what you are going 
to do, and how you are going to do it, then go ahead. 
If you do yonr work alone, get your breakfast and 
have things go on as near right as they generally do; 
if you go to snapping, you’ll be likely to get snapped 
at back again, and that'll be a load for your heart to 
carry, a sigfit heavier than any your hands will find. 
Pick up things, and sweep your rooms, not as thor¬ 
oughly as you generally do, if you have uot the time, 
but still so that they'll look decent, for if you’re natu¬ 
rally tidy, having your rooms look worse than usual 
will be one tiling that'll fret you. There’s something 
in your personal appearance, too. It's all very well 
to have a wash-dress, hut there’s no sort of use in 
having it torn half oil' the waist, ripped under the 
arms, or any such thing. I dou't blame men for uot 
feeling much like helping a woman in such a rig, 
with her hair hanging down her back, like enough, 
and her face looking as street as could be expected in 
such a setting out; but if you look as well as you 
may, and ask as pleasantly as you can (if he don’t 
think to do it without askiog) to have wood and water- 
brought for you, you’ll be likely to get it. Then if 
you are sensible, you will be very glad to have your 
liege lord say, “Is there anything more we can do 
to help you?” to which you will answer, “ No, thank 
you;" and he will go to his work and you to yours, 
neither of yon to be disturbed by the other’s petty 
trials if you are wise enough to keep them to your¬ 
selves. 
Hoping that the afflicted “A.” and his wife may 
be benefited by confiding their troubles to the public, 
I am, respectfully, your Aunt Betsey. 
[Written for Moore's Kami New-Yorker.] 
AN HOUR A DAY. 
How much may be accomplished by regular and 
steady application to any undertaking for one hour 
each day! The value of time can scarcely be appre¬ 
ciated by those who are free to spend as much of it 
as they choose in pursuits of pleasure or improve¬ 
ment; it is only when business claims the almost 
exclusive attention that the worth of hours and 
minutes for purposes of relaxation and intellec¬ 
tual culture is realized. Not quite destitute of en- 
joyraeft can that life be reckoned which, though 
it must be for the most part given to exhausting toil, 
has yet a taste for elegant employments, and some 
hours for its indulgence. 
An hour a day for reading! Even this limited 
time gives opportunity during a lifetime for acquaint¬ 
ance with what treasures of Poetry, History, Philoso¬ 
phy, Fiction, Natural Science, besides the various sub¬ 
jects of every-day interest.' No one who can command 
an hour a day for reading need make the want of time 
an excise for ignorance. And to such as find a 
real enjoyment in reading, the pleasure is greater in 
proportion as the opportunity for indulging in it is 
less. Doubtless, too, they read with greatest profit 
who have little time for reading and much for reflec¬ 
tion. For, it is needless to say, it is not so much the 
quantity we read, as the quality, and the nse we make 
of it, that determines its value to ue. 
An hour a day for muBic! Those endowed with 
the singing gift, or the talent and opportunity for 
instrumental performance, find their skill and effi¬ 
ciency in this delightful art greatly increased by an 
hour’s daily practice. And in the prosecution of 
this, more perhaps than any other art, is seen the 
greater advantage of regular exercise each day, 
though for a short time, than less freqnent drills, but 
of longer dnration. Ner is it essential that one’s 
daily musical practice fill an hour of sixty consecu¬ 
tive minutes; it is, perhaps, even better that the time 
be divided into sections of fifteen or twenty minutes 
each, and separated by intervals of two or three 
hours. 
An hour a day for gardening! What creations of 
beauty can be produced on a small plot of ground 
with the aid of seeds and gardening implements, and 
at so little cost of time as an hour a day! Thirty 
minutes morning and eveniug faithfully Bpent in 
planting seeds, setting root*, hoeing, or pulling 
weeds, and in the various other processes of culture, 
are sufficient to keep a garden of moderate Bize in ex¬ 
cellent order the whole summer. And wbat other ma¬ 
terial possessions contributes so much to the health, 
comfort, and pleasure of a family as Bnch a museum 
of vegetable life? especially if cultivated by their 
own hands. 
An Ifbur a day to ait and muBe, to fill the sight with 
the beauty of earth and sky, to drink in the Bweet 
summer air at leisure to realize how delicious it is, 
to lend the ear to the pure voices of Nature, and to 
dream dreaniB on whatever subjects we please. Not 
the least of tbe enjoyments of life is an hour a day to 
sit and mnse. a. 
South Livonia, N. Y., 1861. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
WOMAN BORN TO DO THE LOVING. 
In a recent issue of the Bubal, I saw the above 
text enlarged upon by a “late moralist.” Now, with 
all proper respect for the writer of Buch a sentiment, 
we would inquire why, if his idea is true, women 
are born with such a talent for being loved? Why are 
women never all they could be mentally and morally, 
unless an affection equal to their own warmB and 
blesses their hearts? There are no more melancholy 
wrecks to be seen in the moral world than of unhappy 
wives whose husbands have cither recklessly or self¬ 
ishly left them to do tbe loving. 
Women cannot live on their own affection, and if 
the out-goings of their feelings toward those they 
love are not appreciated and returned — and they 
know instinctively whether they are or not—they go 
through life with a vacancy of heart that nothing can 
atone for to them. 
Jt is true that there are a thousand little sacrifices 
to be made, little acts of tenderness to be performed, 
that are the peculiar legacy of woman; but in the 
marriage relation, a woman is not truly happy unless 
there exists between her and her husband mutual 
forbearance—mutual Love. 
Many a woman passes the lonely years of her life 
in envying those who seem more blest than herself 
in the possession of some one to love them. Many a 
man of a refined and sensitive nature lives with a 
lonely yearning at his heart, because his common¬ 
place wife cannot return his affection in kind. There 
is no blame attached to those who act up to the 
measure of their ability, but the pain of unrequited 
love is just as keen, perhaps, as if it were wantonly 
withheld. 
Because, from his different constitution, the mani¬ 
festation of his affection is different from here, is no 
good reason why man should coolly lay the double 
burden on her, with the sage assurance that “woman 
was horn to do the loving.” b. c. d, 
Geneva, Wia.j 1801. 
TROUBLESOME CHILDREN. 
When you get tired of their noise, just think what 
the change would be should it come to a total silence. 
Nature makes a provision for strengthening the 
children’s lungs by exercise. Babies cannot laugh 
so as to get much exercise in this way, but we never 
heard of one that could not cry. Crying, shouting, 
screaming, are nature's lung exercise, and if you do 
not wish for it in the parlor, pray have a place de¬ 
voted toit, and do not debar the girl8from it. with the 
notion that it is improper for them to laugh, jump, 
cry, scream, and run races in the open air. After a 
while one gets used to this juvenile music, and can 
even write and think more consecutively with it than 
Without it, provided it does not run into objurgatory 
forms. Wo remember a boy that used to goto school 
past our study window, and he generally made a con¬ 
tinuous stream of roar to the school-house and back 
again. We supposed at first he had been nearly 
murdered by some one, and had wasted considerable 
compassion on the wrongs of iufaut innocence; but, 
on inquiring into his case, found him in perfectly 
good condition. The truth was that the poor little 
fellow had no mirthfulness in his composition, there¬ 
fore couldn’t laugh and shout, and so nature, in her 
wise compensations, had given him more largely the 
faculty of roaring. He seemed to thrive npon it, and 
we believe is still doing well. Laughing and halloo, 
ing, however, are to be preferred, unless a child shows 
a decided incapacity for those exercises. 
Our eye alights, just now, upon the following 
touching little scrap, written by an English laborer, 
whose child had been killed by the falling of a beam: 
“ Sweet, laughing child! the cottage door 
Stands free and open now; 
But, oh! it* sunshine gilds no more 
The gladness of thy brow! 
Thy merry step hath passed away, 
Thy laughing sport is hushed for aye. 
“ Thy mother by the fireside sit* 
And listens for thy call; 
And slowly—slowly as she knits, 
Her quiet tears down fall; 
Her little hindering thing is gone, 
And undisturbed she may work on.” 
The Way to Live,—A physician full of truth 
wrote the following:—The roses of this life are all 
found in the pathway of truth. Yet turn we ever so 
little aside, and the nettles of existence beset us on 
every band. On the cheeks of the obedient to physi¬ 
ological laws only, do the roses of health bloom 
perennially. Those only who riotously trample on, 
or unwittingly transgress them, find the lurking ser¬ 
pent of disease gnawing perpetually at their vitals, 
and their hold on life asfrail as “the spider’s most 
attenuated thread.” The roses or the nettles are 
ours; let us be wise. Instead of struggling through 
Hie and agonizing through death, let us, by learning 
and obeying the “laws of constitution and rela¬ 
tion." so discipline and harmonize all our func¬ 
tions of body and mind, that when “summoned to 
that mysterious realm,” we can depart, 
“Lika one who wraps the drapery of Lis couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.” 
— Herald of Progress. 
(Slicin' IpsnUattg. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
LOOK ON THE BRIGHT BIDE. 
BY KATE CAMERON. 
Os' why ehouid doubts distress ns, 
An' gloomy fears annoy? 
Wher Life wag meant to bless us, 
And fill our heart* with joy. 
Why,caring for tbe morrow, 
Sbiula we forget to-day,— 
And, iroodiog o'er our sorrow. 
Flirg ail our joyg away? 
t 
When roses bloom in beauty 
Shal we pluck but the thorns? 
And fioro the path of Doty 
Re trove all that adorns? 
fihall ve shut out the sunlight, 
Andwrap our souls in cloud, 
And li-f as if dim twilight 
Must everything enshroud? 
Oh, wlir should cares perplex us 
Tbroighout the live long day, 
And pelty trials vex ns, 
And d-tve our smile* away? 
It surely would be better, 
As all ran tell who’ve tried, 
To breakCare’s galling fetter, 
And leak an the Bright Side. 
Rochester, N. Y., H61. 
[Written fo) Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
A STROLL THROUGH THE FIELDS. 
June is the month of battles and of blossoms. The 
red, white, and blue wave in meadows, orchards, and 
gardens, and over rented fields. Tbe air is full of 
fragrance BDd bird-music. It is a balmy, happy, 
exhilerating season, freighted with song and fra¬ 
grance. Just dowD there in the black ash swamp, 
there is a troop of bltck birds — a rollicking, rackets 
ing, loquacious party, evidently out on a bender. 
They look like shreds of last night entangled in the 
bushes. 
Down through the glens and ravines, the streams 
roll in rapture, never complaining because there are 
impediments in their path. On they go, dancing, 
shouting, and singing, halting here and there to kiss 
a maiden flower, a Btraj violet, or wild lily, that has 
leaned over the banks to look at the pictures of their 
own loveliness mirrored in the water. It i* said that 
Narcissus fell in love with himself when be saw 
his own image reflected iu the water, and afterwards 
pined away into a daffodil. There stands a daffodil. 
I have anaLyzed some of its blossoms, but can find 
nothing there so insignificant as the dapper little 
dandies it stands for in song and fable. Flowers are 
fragrant—they are ornaments—they have medicinal 
virtues—they are “the alphabet of angels.” They 
show that God (speak it with reverence,) is a being 
of infinite taste. Hnt dandies, while like the lilies of 
tbe field, that t either toil nor spin, though Solomon 
in all his glory was not arrayed like one of them, are 
of no use whatever. They are not useful—they are 
not ornamental—they are not intelligent—they are 
not magnanimoaa. They will not work, because they 
aro indolent—they will not light, beoause they arc 
cowards. Will not the ladies be so good as to make 
nightcaps and petticoats for them, and put them away 
in dry goodH boxes until the war is over? 
Look at that blue bird; there is not a cloud spot on 
his sky-blue coat—no harsh storm of coming winter 
grates in the “ summer or his song.” The flowers 
seem to wake from their lethargy under the inspira¬ 
tion of his soft, sweet music—and the young leaves 
put their tender lips together and whisper pleasant 
compliments. There, too, is the sunny bosom of the 
robin. His yellow bill, shady wings, and dusky cap, 
are always welcome. A dear litte woman in a farm 
honse hard by has petted the birds and fed them so ■ 
that they are tame as chickens. The brown bird 
hops about the threshold to pick up the crumbs. The 
robin flies straight, into the kitchen, never fearing the 
eat, which has been taught to respect every crealure 
that wears wings. The pho be bird lias a nest in the 
cornice over tkc front door, and the children have 
climbed up and counted the eggB, but they know 
better than to disturb the mother bird when she 
desires to sit npon her treasures. 
In the field, within a stone’s throw, stands an elm 
oil which an oriole has swing his hammock. It 
seems to me that birds are endowed with the attribute 
of taste. They build their nests in the most graceful 
and beautiful trees and boshes. The elm is the queen 
of tbe American forest. It grows taller and remains 
green longer than any other tre Its language is 
patriotism. Did the reader eve notice the fact that 
it holds more birds’ nests than any other tree? A 
number uf naked throats leau over the edge of that 
hammock of hair, and wool, and wild grass. What 
awkward angular, and unlovely looking objects these 
birdlingr arc; but wait until these birds of song blos¬ 
som int< golden orioles. There, too, is that harle¬ 
quin of the air, the swallow, performing his gymnas¬ 
tic feats, and twittering in and out from the eaves of 
the old gray barm The luxuriant growth of grass in 
the vicinity affords a fine shelter to the vast family of 
young bobolinks that people the meadows. 
1 may as well state here that I am in the great 
cheese county of Herkimer, and in the beautiful town 
of Columbia. The fields through which I am strol¬ 
ling, belong to Henry Young, a celebrated cheese 
maker, whose cheese always commands tbe highest 
market price; he is a member of your great parish of 
readers. Beyond the hill is the dingy shop where his 
brother, David G. Young, manufactures the famous 
cheese knives, whose praise is on the lips of every 
dairywoman in the land. This little town, so 
sparsely settled, the farmers find it difficult to secure 
hands enough to do their haying and harvesting, has 
sent thirty-five stalwart men to the seat of war—and 
I have no doubt they will give the rebels “Hail 
Columbia ” when they rtacli them. 
There goes a Bnake! I was just thinking about the 
snake among the stare on the flag of South Carolina, 
but the associations are unpleasant, so let us pick up 
the strawberries scattered like rubles over the path¬ 
way. These deUcions morsels are scattered broad¬ 
cast over hill and vale, growing on every variety of 
soil and in every latitude. They are sprinkled over 
mountain and island, defying the frost and snow of 
the north, and the bnrning heat of the torrid zone. 
What a wealth of flowers Nature has strewn herea¬ 
bouts. They are “ the joy of the shrubs which 
bear them, tbe stars of tbe earth, the effusions of 
love, beauty, and grace.” They are made to gratify 
tbe taste of man, and perhaps they gladden unseen 
spirits that come on missions of mercy to file world. 
Children will gather them, sort them, and sing over 
them, anti never weary of their company. With 
adults, they are used as letters to spell out the pas¬ 
sions of our nature. Botany is one of the most inter¬ 
esting studies that the range of science can afford— 
presenting to the mind an uninterrupted sucteBsion 
of symmetrical forms, beautiful colors, and sweet 
odors. The girlish rose, the lady lily, the modest 
daisy, the snow drop, and the innumerable members 
of the sweet sisterhood, have each a separate ebarm. 
Should these impromptu notes fall under the eye of 
any youug lady who has leisure, I trust she will 
make herself familiar with the delightful science of 
Botany. Just before me is a delicate cluster of milk- 
white petals growing upon stems which hold them up 
to the lips. It is the Grecian Yal rian, and seems to 
be scented with the concentrated essence of a meadow 
of sweet hay,— I cannot enumerate the Forget-me- 
nots, the Pansies, the Pinks, and last, but not least, 
the Dandelions, 
There is a cloud,—the tempest drum shakes the 
heavens—the lightning leaps ont from the gray wall, 
and the rain, so much needed, has come at last, and 
I must hasten to the cottage which stands, like a 
nest, in the busheB. 
When I cast ray eye over these green fields and 
waving meadows, I see an unanswerable argument in 
favor of labor. Signs of thrift and comfort bear 
ready witness to tbe fact that labor meets with a sure 
reward. Nature has given each one of us two hands 
and one mouth, teaching plainly the lesson that we 
should earn our bread before we eat it. He who 
scorns tbe laborer is like Hermes, who had a mouth 
bnt no hands, and with that mouth made faceB at 
those who did the work, mocking the fingers that fed 
him. Seven years’ indolence would starve half the 
world to death. Agriculture supplies the broad 
table at which the world is fed—Grass and not Cot¬ 
ton is king. The grass crop is of greater value than 
the crop of cotton. Hurrah for King Grass! Three 
cheers for King Grass! Crown King Grass with the 
sweetest flowers! Let the birds sing hymns in honor 
of King Grass! Let the showers baptize King Grass! 
Let the thunder proclaim the fact that Grass is King! 
Let the lightning sabre the enemies of King Grass! 
C’oine to thy throne of honor and power. King Grass! 
Bway thy sceptre over thy subjects, King Grass. We 
thank thee, King Grass, for milk, and bntter, and 
cheese, and meat. We thank thee, King Grass, for 
the bread stored away for the brute creation. We 
will sustain thy rule and be tbe cheerful subjects of 
thy sway. * G. W. Bungay. 
WHAT WE HATE TO LEARN. 
One thing very slowly learnt by most human 
beings is, that they are of no earthly consequence 
beyond a very small circle indeed, and that really 
nobody is thinking or talking about them. Almost 
every commonplace man and woman in this world 
has a vague but deeply-rooted belief that they are 
quite different from anybody else, and of course quite 
superior to everybody else. It may he in only one 
respect they fancy they are this, bnt that one 
is quite sufficient. I believe that, if a grocer 
or silk-mercer in a little town has a hundred cus¬ 
tomers, each separate customer lives on under the 
impression that the grocer or the silk-mercer is pre¬ 
pared to give to him or her certain advantages in 
buying and selling which will not be accorded to the 
other ninety-nine customers. “Say it is for Mrs. 
Brown,’’ is Mrs. Brown’s direction to her servant, 
when sending for some sugar; “say it is for Mrs. 
Brown, and he will give it a little better.” The 
grocer, keenly alive to (lie weaknesses of his fellow- 
creatures, encourages this notion. “This tea,” he 
says, “would be four-ata d-six-pence a pound to any 
one else, but to yon it. ia only four-and-tb^c-pence. ’ 
Judging from my own observation, I Bh'ould say 
that retail dealers trade a good deal upon this singu¬ 
lar fact, in the constitution of the human mind, that 
it is inexpressibly bitter to most people to believe 
that they stand on the ordinary level of humanity,— 
that, in the main, they are just like their neighbors. 
Mrs. Brown wonld be filled with unutterable wrath, 
if it were represented to her that the grocer treats 
her precisely as he does Mrs. Smith, who lives on 
one side of her, and Mrs. Snooks, who lives on the 
other. She wonld be still more angry, if you asked 
her what earthly reason there is why she should in 
any way be distinguished beyond Mrs. Snooks or 
Mrs. Smith. She takes for granted she is quite dif¬ 
ferent from them, quite superior to them. Human 
beings do not like to be clusBed — at least, with the 
class to which in fact they belong. To be classed at 
all is painful to an average mortal, who firmly be¬ 
lieves that there never was such a being in this 
world. I remember one of the cleverest friends I 
have — one who assuredly cannot be classed intel¬ 
lectually, except in a very small and elevated class — 
telling me how mortified he was, when a very clever 
boy of sixteen, at being classed at all. He had told 
a literary lady that he admired Tennyson. “ Yes," 
said the lady, “ I am not surprised at that; there is a 
class of young men who like Tennyson at your age.” 
It went like a dart to my friend's heart Class of 
young men, indeed! Was it for this that I outstripped 
all competitors at school, that 1 have been fancying 
myself a unique phenomenon in nature, different at 
least from every other being that lives, that I should 
he spoken of as one of a class of young men? Now 
in my friend’s half playfnl reminiscence I see the ex¬ 
emplification of a great fact in human nature.— At¬ 
lantic Monthly. 
Wit that is not Wisdom.— The chief bar to the 
action of the imagination, and stop to all greatness 
in this present age of ours, is its mean and shallow 
love of jest and jeer, so that if there be in any good 
and lofty work a flaw or failing, or undipped vulner¬ 
able part, where sarcasm may stick or stay, it is 
caught at, and pointed at, and buzzed about, and 
fixed upon, and stung into, as a recent wound is by 
flies, and nothing is ever taken seriously or as it was 
meant, hnt always, if it may be, turned the wrong 
way and misunderstood; and while this is so, there 
is not nor cannot be any hope of the achievement of 
high things; men dare not open their hearts to us if 
we are to broil them on a thorn fire.— Ruskin. 
Parents must never put away their own youth. 
They must never cease to be ypung. Their sympa¬ 
thies and sensibilities should be always quick and 
fresh. They must be susceptible. They must love that 
which God made the child to love. Children need 
not only government, firm and mild, but sympathy, 
warm and tender. So long as parents are their best 
and most agreeable companions, children are com¬ 
paratively safe, even in the society of others. 
Let a man be a plain, quiet worker, not proclaim¬ 
ing himself melodiously in any wise, but familiar 
with us, unpretending, letting all his littlenesses and 
feeblenesses be seen nnhindered, and wearing an ill- 
cut coat withal, and though he be such a man as is 
only sent on earth once in five hundred years, for 
some special hnman teaching, we shall not be likely 
to call him inspired. 
Few persons are worth loving who have not some¬ 
thing in them worth laughing at. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
NOT DEAD, BUT SLEEPING. 
0. softly, softly tread, 
The friends are weeping; 
Still is the little form— 
The babe is sleeping. 
Cold is the marble brow, 
Its throbbing* o'er; 
Closed are the sightless eyes, 
They weep bo more. 
Pale are the icy hands 
Upon its breast; 
Silent tbe heating heart, 
For aye at rest. 
Still are the paltering feet, 
They come no more; 
They trend the golden street 
Of the other shore. 
That soH and bird-like voice, 
Though silent here, 
The heavenly choir doth swell 
In yon bright sphere. 
No sickness there can Might 
The budding flower; 
For ©n the “ Shining Shore,” 
Death bath no power. 
Then raise a joyous note— 
Away with weeping; 
The baby is not dead— 
'Tis only sleeping. 
Greene, Ohio, 1861. Nellim K. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
OUR INHERITANCE. 
Where is it? Ts it in thnt bountiful place where 
the pnre river of the water of life flows through 
verdant plains, where greves of trees, ever green, 
are laden with golden fruit and health-giving leaves, 
and the inhabitants never say, “I am sick?” Have 
we a mansion prepared for us in that holy city paved 
with gold, walled with jasper, and garnished with 
precious stones, whose massive gates are each a 
pearl ? Can we call God, the great Author, our 
Father,—are we joint heirs with Christ, to an 
inheritance so princely, so priceless ? If so, then 
are we rich indeed. 
But, if we have not title deeds to a more endnring 
inheritance than the forest-crowned hills and flowery 
vales of earth, we sre poor, very poor, though we 
may count onr possessions by tens of millions; for 
to all our earthly goods we can have but a paltry 
life-lease, a life-lease which will be worse than 
worthless when we become an inhabitant of the 
eternal world. 
The glorious borne awaiting the sons of God we 
may not hope to share, nor even taste the cooling 
waters which proceed from the throne of Gon. Our 
names are forever erased from the great family 
record—disowned by onr Father, and eternally de¬ 
barred from entering His presence. 0, my soul! 
how Bad a fate—rendered doubly more sad by the 
bitter reflection that our own hands closed the 
pearly gates opened by our loving Savior when he 
left the shining courts of the “beautiful city,” and 
came to our sin-cursed earth with offers of salvation. 
Now, shall we, who have still “the day and means 
<?r«grace,” spurn the prtceK** gift so freely offered, 
choosing, rather, glittering bubbles that dazzle our 
eyes for a time, bnt, fleeting as a shadow, quickly 
disappear, leaving us at last in darkness and despair? 
Shall we not, rather, strive first to lay up treasures 
in heaven, and, by self-denial and little deeds of 
love, constantly add thereunto, so that each success¬ 
ive day may find our inheritance increasing? Then, 
when our barques have safely passed all the breakers 
of life, and in triumph entered the port on “the 
shining shore,” we shall find awaiting us a rich, a 
perpetual inheritance. F. M. Turner. 
Oxford, N. Y., 1861. 
SURFACE RELIGION. 
Men use religion as ships do buoys and life-pre¬ 
servers. They are not used for purposes of naviga¬ 
tion, but just enough are kept on hand, so that, in 
case ft storm comes up, aud the vessel is shipwrecked, 
those on board can stick them under their arms, and 
float to a safe harbor. And men mean to keep 
enough religion by them to bear them up in time of 
trouble. But 1 tell you, you will find air-boles in all 
such religions life-preservers. A man’s religion, to 
be worth anything, must be a religion that takes pos¬ 
session of him from head to foot. Nothing is religion 
that does not enter into a man’s thoughts and feel¬ 
ings, aud the arrangements of bis life. That miser- 
ble varnish, that miserable whitewash, which men 
stick on tbe outside, and call religion; that chatter¬ 
ing of prayers, and humming of religious airs; all 
face-religion; all religion of hours and days; all 
Sunday-keeping religion; all that so-called religion 
which is but an external covering of pride and sel¬ 
fishness, of worldliness and vanity—it has the curse 
and wrath of God abiding upon it. Nowhere is there 
such a terrific invective againBt such a religion as 
that which fell from the lips of Christ Jesus. It is 
enough to make a man tremble, to give a man- the 
chills and fever, to walk through those chapters in 
the Bible where Christ preached to hypocritical 
men .—Henry Ward Beecher. 
Borrowing Trouble. —We are apprehensive that 
many persons are tempted to limit, or cease alto¬ 
gether, their contributions to charitable aud religious 
objects — including wants of tbe mind—through 
fear that the civil war may cause hard times. This 
is not a strange feeling. It would not be straDge if 
it truly foreshadows the future. But Christians 
ought to resist and overcome it. It is unbelief to 
withhold from the cause of God and from ourselves a 
due proportion of the means with which his provi¬ 
dence has favored us, lest peradventure he may here¬ 
after grant us less. It will be time enough to 
retrench in that direction when the necessity for it 
has come upon us. The Scriptural rule is to give 
and provide as God has prospered ns, not as we may 
conjecture that he will prosper us a year hence. 
“Trust in the Lord and do good, and verily thou 
shalt be fed.”— Watchman and Reflector. 
Confession. — The impulse to confession almost 
always requires the presence of a fresh ear and a 
fresh heart; and in our moments of spiritual need, 
tbe man to whom we have no tie but our common na¬ 
ture, seems nearer to us than mother, brother or 
friend. Oar daily familiar life is but the hiding of 
ourselves from eaoh other behind a screen of trivial 
words and deeds, and those- who sit with us at the 
same hearth are often the furthest off fro®, the J ee P 
human soul within us, full of unspoken evil and 
unacted good ,—George Eliot . . 
s-Cwr- 
