Am. 10 . t 
Sato' 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
AUNT PATTY'S TALK WITH HER NIECES. 
BT SOPHIA C. GARRETT. 
Come, Mart, get to weaving, 
And, Bess, to spinning go, 
This fussing and this fitting 
Will never, never do. 
The fashion now for dressing 
I hope will soon be gon ,! >— 
Unless it stops 1 surely think 
We’ll all to ruin run! 
Sleeves dying open at the wrist, 
Skirt* trailing on the ground- 
in mv young days, through all the land, 
Such wonders were not found. 
We dre.->ed in home-spun garments then, 
With aprons made of tow, 
And, singing, to our spinning wheels 
Each merry day we’d go. 
At morn and night, with foamingmilk 
We tilled each shining pail; 
Stones nerer kept us from our work— 
We laughed at winter’s gale! 
And, oli, upon the churning day, 
Such butter as we made! 
At night, within the crystal spring, 
The golden roll* were laid, 
Which long before the dawn of day 
Were carried off to town, 
Where once a year, or longer still, 
We bought a Sunday gown. 
And this most skillfully was made 
With neatest sleeves and waist, 
For foolish fashions in those days 
Were never given place. 
Our bonnets well deserved the name 
Of coverings for the head, 
All smartly trimmed with pink or blue, 
Just as our faucy led. 
Enough about our dress, dear girls; 
On lovers let me dwell, 
For Harry, Pmix.ii', Leonard, Mii.es, 
Are all remembered well. 
The plow and hoe, the rake and spade, 
They each could use with ease; 
Of habits good, In learning “bright,” 
They, surely, well could please. 
Your uncle, nodding in his chair, 
With book dropped to the door, 
Chose your Aunt Pattt, years ago— 
I’ve told you this before. 
But times have changed, I read your looks, 
You cannot weave or spin; 
Well, be good girls, and then, perhaps, 
The noblest you may win. 
Niagara Falls, 1861. 
♦ ♦ » 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
OUR HOMES. 
“ Home, home, sweet, sweet home, 
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.” 
The word home supposes all that is beautiful, 
tender, and endearing, and has been immortalized in 
song by poets whose names will never die. Touch* 
ingly beautiful visions of a pleasant home, ami a 
loving, devoted mother, flit like gentle-winged birds 
before the mighty ones of earth when weary of sick¬ 
ening applause, or the homage of a time-serving 
people. In all the landscape ol life there arc no 
flowers so rich with sweetness as the Amaranth 
flowers of Love and Affection, which are wroathed 
about the childhood home; and yet the most desolate 
of nil places on earth to me, the most terrible,— one 
of which I never think save with a shudder,— is the 
place / call home. 
Be not struck dumb at this confession, you who 
possess a home which is a miniature Paradise, or 
Ought to be, so that you read no further; for even as 
I write, gibes and sneers, which subside into mysteri¬ 
ous whisperings and sad, sob-like sounds of pleading, 
fall from the lips of my mother. Now a iiendish, 
maniac laugh, more horrible than might else, smites 
the heart of night,— it smites my heart, too. 1 hear 
it daily, yet always with a thrill of horror my puor 
words can never express. 
I can faintly remember when insanity, shrouded in 
mystery, stole over the threshold of our home, so 
changing our Angel-mother that her lips drop 
curses instead of sweet love-words. Her extrava¬ 
gantly beautiful lace scowls unending Hate, instead 
of glowing with the sunshine of Affection. Only 
this do I remember of what she was when we were 
happy. Away far away beyond the summits of great 
Pain, the pit-falls of Ignorance, the cesspool of 
Slander, the valleys of Despair, and the overwhelm¬ 
ing waters of bitterest Sorrow, the glorious light of 
the inother-smilo gleams across all my past grieving 
like the heaven born rays of a sinking sun over a sad 
pictured scene. I wandered through my childhood 
with no tender caress and no love to shield, save the 
insane love of an insane mother. Only the trees 
held me in their arms while the winds rocked and 
enng my lullaby. 
How differently might my life have shaped had I 
been blessed with a happy home and such a mother 
as you may kiss to-night, who never knew the 
sorrows which have embittered all my life. It 
behooves you, my happier brothers and sisters, to 
remember prayerfully the holy ties which gather you 
to that blessed place you call “ Home.” Do not 
forget to coin your tendcrest thoughts of “father, 
mother, and home" into sweetest tones, for, like Mrs. 
(iiT.DKRsi.EK ve's story, entitled “A Plea for Words,” 
the result will be happiness. You will see a match¬ 
less brightening of the “ dear old eyes,” a trembling 
of the lip, or, perchance, if you listen “ o’ night's 
when they are both together yet one alone,” you will 
hear “father” and “mother" rehearsing your pleas¬ 
ant words, and little acts of kindness, I f should say 
indebtedness,) and praising the glorious Giver for so 
precious a (lift as your humble self to beautify their 
otherwise desolate home. Remember them as ten¬ 
derly along all their life-journey, weaving happiness 
for the earth-home, lest they look with tear-dimmed 
eyes to that other Hume, and long to go before the 
appointed time. 
How many soldier-heart3 are beating to-night to 
the music of those two most musical of earth-words— 
“Home, mother.” How many mothers are praying 
for Jamib, or Shep, or Willie, or Ned, or Bex, the 
blessed boy, to come back after the wars, with a 
“ Hip, hip, hurra,” for home and happiness, and a 
blessing for the whitening locks and watching eyes. 
In my Jonrneyings I find a vast number of 
unhappy, wretched homes, which are created princi¬ 
pally by the twin-demons, Avarice and Selfishness. 
A man (and one will find too plentiful a number of 
them in the walks of humanity,! who would sacrifice 
the health, comfort, and happiness of his wife and 
children for the benefit of his “ Holden God" can¬ 
not expect other than a discontented family and 
cheerless home. Such a husband and father deserves j 
the contempt of his wife, the disrespect of his i 
children, and, to make more emphatic the truth*of [ 
I the above sentence, I will add that, in nine cases out 
of ten, he gets his deserts. 
Gon grant we may so live that whatever scale of 
earth-happiness we may Vie placed in, we may be 
enabled to sing with the angels: 
“Jerusalem, my happy Home.” 
New York, July, 1861. Mary 0'Merle. 
[Written fur Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
DISPARAGEMEN T. 
“There is an evil which I have seen under the Bun, 
and it is common among men,”—a disposition to 
depreciate, undervalue, and discourage everything 
which does not fully coincide with our own particu¬ 
lar views and opinions. There is no more despicable 
trait in a person’s character than this deforming, 
repulsive habit.. It is only one remove from slander, 
that most hideous of all traits. It does not filch from 
us the " priceless jewel of onr souls,” but it is the 
precursor of the fiend that does. It closes the door 
to sympathy, checks the gushing sensibilities, chills 
the warm affections, blights the ardent aspirations, 
mortifies, and wounds, and destroys many a beautiful 
spirit, with its sirocco breath. 
Many people imbued with this spirit have I met, 
whose happiness seemed to consist in rendering 
those aruuml them as uncomfortable as possible. 
Such people are usually wanting in delicacy, and 
their remarks never lose the sting by contact with 
this innate principle of good breeding. Go to such 
an one and confide a plan of earnest resolve,—a plan 
may be for assistance of others, or the pursuance of 
some noble object,— and see how much sympathy 
and enoonragement you get. Many a course has been 
changed, many a good resolution forgotten, many a 
plan frustrated, and many a lesson of distrust and 
suspicion learned In this school of life. 
This habit of depreciating children and youth by 
superiors, is very baneful in its tendency. Above all 
else should we avoid expressing doubts, and fears, 
and suspicions, to or of them. It never does any 
good to distrust onr neighbor, and continually watch 
for something not just as it should be, and far worse 
is it to distrust young people and discourage them. 
Often have I listened, in company, to the conver¬ 
sation among neighbors and friends, and could not 
but observe how watchful many were to discourage 
and oppose, and underrate in others what would have 
been leniently treated in themselves. The approach 
of such persons is to be dreaded as the approach of 
chilling December's breath. 
Oh, you who cannot perceive how much harm you 
are doing, unless it is plainly told you, hold the 
mirror of truth before your eyes,— read and under¬ 
stand. From childhood I have not only felt the 
effects of this erroneous practice, but have seen its 
effects in others. Often 1ms some earnest, enthusi¬ 
astic plan been utterly overthrown by discouraging 
remarks. Often lias ray faith In human nature been 
shaken, and my confidence withheld, by disparage¬ 
ments of those whom 1 would have called friends. 
Often have I grown utterly heartsick and weary with 
the unappreciative, unsympatliizing beings who 
seem destitute of every delicate perception. 
Oh, there are many, very many to whom words of 
appreciation and enoonragement would be more 
precious than gold. Beneath the assumed iciness of 
manner, and the eblllluB maxi Lie of reserve, there Is 
often a beartaching for sympathy, encouragement, 
appreciation. Did we but study onr own hearts 
more, we would learn to understand and respect the 
desires and yearnings after something high and 
noble in our brother. Did we but recall our own 
experience, we would be wary of interposing any¬ 
thing to discourage, and cease to disparage motives 
and actions which we did not understand. 
Lake Ridge, N. Y., 1861. Mildred Brown. 
• » ♦ - 
CULTIVATION OF THE VOICE. 
It has already been observed that the relative 
strength or weakness of the voice depends partly on 
the capacity of the lungs, and the general condition 
of the vocal apparatus, and partly on the number of 
muscles thrown into action. Experience 1ms also 
proved that the respiratory organs and the vocal 
muscles are not only as susceptible of a high degree 
of development as other portions of dur frame, but 
even to a higher degree. The cultivation of the voice 
is, however, required on grounds altogether irrespect¬ 
ive of the art of singing or public speaking. It is 
Indirectly, perhaps, the most important branch of 
physical education; for the amount of vital power 
depends chiefly on the health and vitfor of the res¬ 
piratory process, tiie regulation of which must be the 
first step in the cultivation of the voice. 
Parents are not generally aware how much might 
be effected by a proper mode of physical training in 
those constitutions where the chest is narrow, indi¬ 
cating a predisposition to pulmonary disease. In all 
such eases,* regularly repeated deep inspirations are 
of paramount value. On account of the elasticity of 
all the parts concerned, the expansion of the chest is 
in early childhood easily effected; the capacity of the 
lungs is increased and the tendency to disease is 
counteracted. 
There should be a sufficient pause between the acts 
of inspiration and expiration. In order that children 
should perform these chest exercises slowly, regu¬ 
larly and effectually, they require to be carefully 
watched, guided, and encouraged; for they soon get 
tired of them when left to themselves. Even adults 
will derive considerable benefit if, immediately after 
rising, they regularly for some time take deep inspi¬ 
rations, in order that the whole lungs may be prop¬ 
erly inflated; and then retain the breath as long as 
possible. The body must be in an erect position, and 
the shoulders thrown baek. It may also be observed 
that these exercises are best performed in the open 
air, or, at least, in a well-ventilated room, the win¬ 
dows being open for the time.— The Philosophy of 
Voice and Speech. 
Father and DAniHTKU.— There is no prettier 
picture in life than that of a daughter reading to her 
aged father. The old man. while listening to her 
silvery notes, goes back to other times when another 
one sat by his side, and whispered words be never 
will hear again; nor does he wish to do so; for in 
soft evening light he sees her image reflected in her 
child, and as one by one gentle emotions steal over 
him, he vails bis face, and the daughter, thinking 
him asleep, goes noiselessly in search of other em¬ 
ployment, Virgin innocence watching over the cares 
and little want9 of old age, is a spectacle fit for 
angels. It is one of the links between earth and 
heaven, and takes from the face of the necessarily 
hard and selfish world many of its harshest features. 
- >■♦■-»- 
The love which does not lead to labor will soon 
die out, and the thankfulness which does not em¬ 
body itself iu sacrifices, is already changing to 
ingratitude. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
“ NEVER DESPAIR.” 
BY MRS. A. I. HORTON. 
Never despair when clouds r>und thee are looming, 
Sighing and tears will not chase them afar; 
Never despondently wait for their coming, 
Clouds are not tempests—Sfl never despair. 
Never despair; though Hope'* 6tar be overclouded. 
Though hid from thy vision it.* cheering ray* are, 
Bright still it is shining—although awhile shrouded, 
Soon again twill beam o'er thee—so never despair. 
Never despair, though misfortune* o’ertake thee— 
With a brave, strong heart, meet them — they’re easier to 
bear; 
He who watcheth the sparrows will never forsake thee; 
Trust in Him always, and never despair. 
Never despair; though foes round thee hover, 
With Truth for thy champion, thou never needst fear; 
With patience, kind words, and kind acts meet them ever; 
If for friend* thou wouldstwin them, forgive and forbear. 
Then cheer thee up, weary one, sad or forsaken, 
Each one has his crosses, Ms sorrow, and care; 
Ne’er let thy faith, or thy coarage, he shaken, 
Hope and trust always, and never despair. 
Northville, Mich., 1S61. 
-* , ♦ - - 
A SUMMER-DAY IN HAYING. 
BY B. F. TAYLOR. 
A long time ago, we tried our band at painting a 
picture. With what success those who Bee it now 
must determine. The fly-leaves of many winters 
have been turned since then, but Nature is now 
repeating that sweet old syllable of recorded time, 
the Summer-Day in Haying. What a blessed thing 
It is, that Heaven i6 rich enough to portion off the 
years with “bran new” saminers; that we have no 
old, dilapidated months at all. Here is the old 
picture: 
Five o’clock and a summer morning! A silver 
mist hangs along the streams, a few downy clouds 
are afloat, and the landscape is heavy with dew. The 
cows turned out from the milking, are tinkling their 
way along the winding path to the woods: the robins 
are calling to each other in the orchard, and an 
enterprising hen in the barn is giving “the world 
assurance of” — an egg. Somehow, earth, in such a 
morning, looks as if it were just finished, the color¬ 
ing not dry, the moldings not “ set;” without a grave 
or a grief in it. 
Noting “the way of the wind,” and remembering 
that the sun “came out ” as it set last night, it is 
pronounced a good day for haying. 8o forth to the 
meadow they go, the farmer, the neighbors, and the 
boys, “armed and equipped;” a yonng bare-footed 
Commissary bringing up the rear with earthen Jng 
and bright tin pall. Much talk of “wide swaths” 
and “mowings round,” with laugh and jest, beguiles 
Ihe journey through the pasture to the field of battle. 
Coats and jackets fly like leaves in winter weather, 
and on moves the phalanx with the steady step and 
sweep, amid the tall, damp grass. One bends to the 
scythe as if it were an oar, and pants on in the rear 
of bis fellows. Another walks erect and boldly up 
to the grass, the glittering blaue 
freely and easily about bis feet. The fellow in Ken¬ 
tucky .Jeau expended hia strength in boasting on 
the way, and labors like a ship in a heavy sea, while 
the quiet chap in tow, that never said a word, is the 
pioneer of the field. 
On they move, towards the tremulous woods in the 
distance. One pauses, brings the snath to “ order 
arms,” and you can hear the tink-a-tink of “the rifle,” 
as it sharpens the edge of Time’s symbol. Another 
wipes the beaded drops from bis brow, and then the 
swath-notes blend again, in full orchestra. Onward 
still; they are hidden in the waving grass —all but 
a broken line of broad-brimmed hats, that, rising and 
falling, seem to float slowly over the top of the 
meadow. 
Ten o’clock, and a cloudless sky! The birds and 
the maples are silent and still; not a flutter nor 
twitter in woodland or fallow. Far up in the blue, a 
solitary hawk is slowly swinging in airy circles over 
the farm. Far down in the breathless lake sweeps 
his shadowy fellow. The long, yellow ribbon of road 
leading to town, is a quiver with heat. “Briudle” 
and “Rod ” stand dozing in the marsh; the sheep are 
panting in the angles of the fences; the horses are 
grouped beneath the old oaks; “ Pedro,” the faithful 
guardian of the night, has crawled under the wagon 
for its shadow, now and then snapping in his sleep 
at the flies that hum around his pendant ears; the 
cat has crept up into the leafy butternut, and stretched 
herself at length, upon a limb, to sleep; the canary 
is dreaming on his drowsy perch; and even the 
butterflies, weary of flickering in the sunshine, rest, 
like full blown exotics, on the reeds. The children 
of the neighboring school, all flushed and glowing, 
come bounding dowu the slope, in couples, the old 
red pail swung up between; and the clatter of the 
windlass betokens “the old oaken bucket” already 
dripping up into the suu, with its brimming wealth 
of water. 
Twelve o’clock and a breathless noon. The corn 
fairly "curls” in the steady blaze. The sun has 
driven the shadows around under the west and north 
walls; it has reached the noou mark on the threshold 
and pours the broad beams into the hall: the Morn¬ 
ing Glories have “struck” their colors, and a little 
vine trailed up the wall by a string of a shroud, 
shows decided symptoms of “letting go.” The horn 
winds for dinner, but its welcome note surprises the 
mowers in the midst of the meadow, and they‘11 cut 
their way out, like good soldiers, despite the signal. 
Back we are again to the field; aye, and back too, 
upon the threshold of childhood. A chance breath 
wafts to us the sweet, old-fashioned fragrance of the 
new-mown bay, and we are younger iu memory than 
we'U ever be again. The angry hum of the bees just 
thrown ont of honse and home; and the whistling 
quail, as she whirled timidly away before the steady 
sweep of the whetted scythes; and the shout of the 
children, as the next stroke laid o]ieu her summer 
bores to the day; and the bell-tones of the bob-o‘- 
imU swinging upon the willows in the “ Hollow.” 
C'a i t you hear — don’t you remember them all? 
And have you forgotten the green knoll under the 
wide-spreading beech — or was it a maple? — and 
hew huugry you were, at the morning lunch, just 
mm sympathy, though you hadn't “earned your 
silt” for a week? And the brown jng filled with 
pne cold water, and—in those old times, you know— 
the little black bottle, with something stronger, just 
“to qualify" it, as they said, that nestled lovingly 
together, amid the cool and dewy grass in the fence- 
corner? We are sure you remember how the mag¬ 
nificent loads went trembling into the barn, you upon 
the top. ami bow they heaped the new hay into the 
empty “mow,” till it was half as high as the ladder 
— up to the “big beam” — up to the swallow-hole; 
and how yon crept up with a young troop, and hid 
away in a dark corner, festooned with cobwebs, and 
“played” yon were a “painter” or a “catamoun- 
tain,” and growled terrifically, to the unspeakable 
dread of your little brother, or cousin, or somebody. 
Or, how, wearied of the frolic, you lay upon the hay, 
and counted the dusty sunbeams, as they streamed 
through the crevices in the loose siding, and won¬ 
dered how they got out again, and how many it took 
to make a day, and passed your fingers through them, 
to and fro, and marveled that you felt nothing. 
Many a time, you know, yon crept through that 
same meadow with Mary Gray — don’t you remember 
Mary? —she lived in the honse just over the hill — 
strawberrying. You picked in her basket —don't 
deny it —and you always felt happier than when yon 
filled your own, though you never knew why. Y r ou 
had a queer feeling sometimes about the heart, 
though you never knew what. Yon have found it all 
out since, no doubt. And Mary—what has become 
of her? Why, “There i3 a Reaper, whose name is 
Death,” that, goes forth to the harvest in sweetest 
Spring and latest Autumn and deepest Winter as 
well, and Mary and Ellen and Jane were long ago 
bound up in ‘'the same sure bundle of life!” 
Seven o’clock and a clear night! The shadows 
and the mists are rising in the valleys — the frogs 
have set tip their chorus in the swamp — the fire-flies 
are showing a light off the marsh — the whip-poor- 
wills begin their melancholy song — a star blazes 
beautifnlly over the top of the woods, and the fair 
beings that people our childhood, come about ns in 
the twilight — the fair beings, 
“ Who set as set* the morning star, that goes 
Not down behind the darkened west, nor hides 
Obscured amid the tempest of the sky, 
But melts away into the light of heaven.” 
-« ■ ♦ ■ *- 
OUR BANNER-ELOQUENT EXTRACTS. 
Joseph Holt, in a late letter to the citizens of 
Kentucky, portions of which have been published in 
the Rural, speaks thns of the Star Spangled Banner: 
“ Let us twine each thread of the glorious tissue of 
onr country’« flag about our heart strings, and look¬ 
ing upon onr homes, and catching the spirit that 
breathes upon us from the battle-fields of our fathers, 
let ns resolve that come weal or come wo, we will in 
life and in death, now and forever, stand by the stars 
and stripes. They have floated over onr cradles; let 
it be our prayer and our struggle that they shall float 
over onr graves. They have been unfurled from the 
snows of Canada to the plains of New Orleans, and 
to the halls of the Montezumas, and amid the soli¬ 
tudes ef every sea; and everywhere, as the luminous 
symbol of resistless and beneficent power, they have 
led the brave and the free to victory and glory. It 
has been my fortune to look upon this flag in foreign 
lands and amid the gloom of an oriental despotism, 
and right well do 1 know, by contrast, bow bright 
are its stars, and how sublime are its inspirations. If 
this banner, the emblem for us of all that is grand in 
human history, and of all that it transporting in 
human hope, Is to be sacrificed on the altars of a 
Satanic ambition, and thus disappear forever amid 
the night and tcmpent of revolution, then will I feel 
—and who shall estimate the desolation of that feel¬ 
ing— that the sun has indeed been stricken from the 
..i.g. ~r ..... ..... tiiat henceforth w« ni,*n v, Q i, n t 
wanderers and outcasts, with naoght but the bread of 
sorrow and penury for our lips, and with hands ever 
outstretched in feebleness and supplication, on 
which, at any hour, a military tyrant may rivet the 
fetters of a despairing bondage. May God, in his 
infinite mercy, save you and me, and the land we so 
much love, from the doom of such a degradation.” 
Henry Ward Bskoher in a recent sermon re¬ 
marks:—“That Flag means Lexington—it means 
Bunker Hill — it means the whole glorions revolu¬ 
tionary war. Tt moans all the Declaration of Inde¬ 
pendence mentis — it means all that the Constitution 
means. Not a symbol of authority of the ruler was 
allowed to go in it. It was ordained for the people 
by the people; that it meant and that it means, and 
by the blessing of God that it shall mean to the end 
of time. For God Almighty be thanked, that when 
base, degenerate man desired to set up oppressions 
at war with all the interests of American liberty, they 
could not do it under our flag. They must have 
another flag for such work. I thank them that they 
took another flag to do the devil's work. [Applause, 
suppressed.] If ever the sentiment of the text has 
been fulfilled, it has been in our glorious banner. 
* Thou hast given a banner to them that fear thee, 
Hint it may be displayed;' and displayed it shall be 
from the Atlantic wave clear across, with eagle flight, 
to the Pacific; that banner shall wave meaning all 
that it ever meant. From the North, where snow and 
ice stand solitary, clear to the Gulf and tropics, that 
banner has waved and shall wave forever.” 
WORK AND PLAY". 
Recreation can be fully enjoyed only by a man 
who has some honest occupation. The end of the 
work is to enjoy leisure; but to enjoy leisure, you 
must have gone through work. Play time must come 
after school-time, otherwise it loses its savor. Play, 
after all, is a relative thing; it is not a thing which 
has an absolute existence. There is no such thing as 
play except to the worker. It comes out by con¬ 
trast. Put white upon white, and you can hardly see 
it; put white upon black, aud bow bright it is! 
Light your lamp in the sunshine, and it is Kothiug; 
yon must have dark around, to make its presence 
felt. 
And besides this, the greater part of the enjoyment 
of recreation consists in the feeling that we have 
earned it by previous hard work. One goes out for 
the afternoon walk with a light heart, when one has 
done a good task since breakfast. It is one thing for 
a dawdling idler to set off to the continent or to the 
Highland, just because be was sick of everything 
around him; and quite another when a hard-wrought 
man, who is of some use in life, sets off as gay as a 
lark, with the pleasant feeling that he has brought 
some work to an end, on that self-same tour. 
And then a busy man finds a relish in simple recre¬ 
ations; while a man who has notLing to do, finds all 
things wearisome, and,thinks that life is “ used np;” 
it takes something quite out of the way to tickle that 
indurated palate; you might as well prick the hide of 
a hippopotamus with a needle, as to excite the inter¬ 
est of that blase being by any amusement which is 
not spiced with the cayenne of Tice. And that 
certainly has a powerful effect. It was a glass of 
water the wicked old French woman was drinking, 
when she said:—“ Oh! that this were a sin to give it 
a relish!”— Recreations of a Country Parson. 
-4—i ^ ■—» —— 
The mind is weak where it has once given way; it 
is long before a principle restored can become as 
firm as one that has never been moved. 
“COME UNTO ME.”—Matt. 11: 28. 
Mourner! to thee the Sartor speaks; 
Torn from the stranger's voice and flee; 
Thy weary, wandering soul He seeks; 
He whispers, “ Come to me.” 
The stranger paints Him harsh, austere, 
Doubts whether hope remains for thee; 
Points to a pathway dark and drear, 
Augments thy misery. 
But Christ proclaims the mourner blest; 
Bestows salvation full and free; 
Promises peace, refreshment, rest; 
He whispers, “ Come to me.” 
Why are thine eyes with weeping dim? 
Why presses guilt so heavily? 
Thy sins have all been borne by Ilim: 
Pea thine , on Calvary. 
Fix on His cross thy tearful sight; 
There thy propitiation see; 
“ Easy hia yoke—his burden fight;” 
lie whispers, “ Come to me.” 
O’er thee with temierest love He yearns; 
Thy guilt, thy grief, thy misery, 
These are th’ inducements He discerns 
For iortog thee 
Mourner, canst thou such love resist? 
Those arms outstretched to welcome thee? 
Be every doubt and fear dismissed; 
He whispers, “Come to me.” 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
BE HOPEFUL. 
We are living in a Vrorld of sunshine and shadow. 
Trials of greater op lesser magnitude are experienced 
in the life of every person, and in the ca&e of many, 
it is difficult to tell of which their lives have most,— 
joy or grief. Still, some appear always glad, while 
others are always grief-smitten. But there is a kind 
angel that comes with her priceless blessings to 
gladden earth, by bestowing her tranqnilizing bene¬ 
diction upon the tronbled and weary hearts of the 
children of men. Nor are her ministrations received 
alone by those high in authority or rich in earthly 
treasnre. Neither wealth nor power can secure her 
blessing. The humblest and most obscure are not 
unacquainted with the visitations of the sweet mes¬ 
senger-spirit that comes from the nightless realm of 
cloudless skies to whisper her comforting and in¬ 
spiring words, to refresh and strengthen the weary, 
to encourage the desponding, and to teach tearfnl 
eyes to look forward to a brighter future, or upward 
to a land where grief may never enter. Let the dis¬ 
heartened or sorrowing one listen to the whisperings 
of the white-winged angel, Hope. When thy heart 
' is sad from any cause, and the clouds hover gloomily 
over thy way, wait patiently for the day-dawn of a 
time when thy aky shall not be gloom-enshronded 
and thy heart heavy. If death severs a dear friend 
from thee, thank God that others still remain. If 
one thou hast trusted proves false, and bright pros¬ 
pects are buried in the supnlchre whence they can 
never come forth, trust that yet upon life’s way 
there shall be given to thee a heart of true nobility 
to increase thy happiness. Above all, listen over to 
thn (uMil .-Iiooririi/ Utterances of Hone. «•* «>><» r>'iriteth 
thy saddened spirit away to the land of the blessed,— 
the bright world of eternal felicity and untarnished 
glory. And rejoice ever in the Eternal Friend above, 
whose love can know no change and exceeds any 
earthly affection, -who will protect thee as an earthly 
friend cannot, and, by-and-by, take thee to repose 
forever in His arms of love. A. T. E. Clarke. 
Waflhams' Mills, N. Y., 1861. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker ] 
GOD’S LOVE AND CARE. 
“ Like aa a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth 
them that fear him.”— Bible. 
Blessed thought—and how expressive of the love 
and care of our Heavenly Father for the children of 
His kingdom on earth. Truly heart-cheering it is for 
His servants to remember, when borne down by the 
weight of affliction—when ready to sink in the waters 
of adversity—when disheartened and discouraged 
from the fiery ordeals through which they are called 
to pass—whatever their avocation and wherever their 
home,—the God of Heaven is not unmindful of them. 
We are glad to feel that we have the sympathies of 
our fellow creatures —but should not the remem¬ 
brance that the Infinite, in all the ills that befall us 
flora the errors of our sin-depraved natures, and from 
the persecutions of a fallen world, lends a pitying ear 
to our cries of sorrow, aud is ever ready to bind up 
the broken, penitent heart? Let us trust Him,—com¬ 
ing to Him in the way of His appointments,—and we 
shall learn by happy experience that He not only 
pities but will shield ns from the power of our adver¬ 
saries, bring us safely through life’s pilgrimage, and 
give us an inheritance where all will be well. g. 
Bath, N. Y.. 1861. 
- - 4—I ^ I -4 
Gradual Repentance. — Gradual repentance is 
like a man who wants to be taken out of a burning 
building, but who says to those about him, “ Now 
don’t take me out too suddenly; take me down first 
to a room where it is not so hot, and then to another 
room, where there is still less heat, aud so take me 
out gradually.” Why, the man would be a cinder 
before you could get him out. A man who wants to 
reform should do bo perpendicularly. 
The mirth of heaven is tfaankfuliiess and praise. 
The mirth of heaven upon earth—that is, of the 
converted mind — is the same, even praise to our 
God. If, then, cheerfulness and thankfulness of 
mind, which will endure even amid all the gloom¬ 
iness of the death-bed, and the dark valley, and the 
awful insignia of judgment — if these be desirable 
gifts of mind, these form parts of the desirableness 
of conversion. 
- <■♦ •-*- 
Alas! tbe heart is like the soil. Evil thoughts 
are native to it. Pure ami holy thoughts are exotics. 
Hence we cannot expect a spontaneous growth of 
grace; but mu3t cultivate its germs, when piauted by 
the Spirit, with patient assiduity. We must use dili¬ 
gently all tbe means of grace. 
— ■» * ♦ ■ »--- 
People say, “How fortunate it is that things have 
turned oat just as they have — that I was prepared 
for this!” — as if God did not arrange the whole. 
One might as well say, “ How fortuuate it is that I 
have a neck beneath my head, and shoulders under 
my neck!” _ 
True souls are made brighter by sorrow. The 
ocean is most phosphorescent after a storm. 
It is easy to love our fellow-men. Do good to 
them, and you will be sure to love them. 
