9 
$ 
/ 
The old path—how strangely old paths pre¬ 
serve their foot-prints! I remember tracing 
some along the Delaware, worn by the moe- 
casined feet of Indians nearly a century before. 
Tliis path was not entirely overgrown. I remem¬ 
ber—well, life was fresher to me then than now— 
that, returning after a few months absence, my 
mother ran down this path to meet me. She 
will not come now, and I feel my seventy years 
something of a burden as I climb the steps to 
tbe front door, and pushiug it open, walk trem¬ 
blingly through the empty hall. How crashing 
and rude one’s step seems breaking into the si¬ 
lence of years ! How strangely mold gathers, 
and walls crumble away! And generations of 
spiders, weaving their snares over those of gene¬ 
rations long passed, and alhhftving gathered dust 
from the crumbling walls, their webs startle one 
with a look like garments. The wide, open- 
mouthed fireplace is the least changed; yet it 
lacks—everything, except the crickets chirping 
bet ween tbe stones. In this corner my mother 
died, so they have told me. In that window my 
father sat, leaning on bis staff and looking to¬ 
wards the sunset, and before they were aware he 
had passed through it, Into rest. 
In the chamber Agnes died. 1 will climb up 
the stairs—6hc was my pet sister. How cruel it 
seemed to me then, that she should be blighted 
in the first unioldings of a wondrous beauty. 
Ah, me ! I have lived many years since then, hut 
have never seen a fairer face. Blighted ? Well 
things seem different to us when we are no longer 
young. She died beautifully. I recollect I stood 
in this window after the passing. I will stand 
here now, and, with folded hands, repeat those 
lines that seem to have been written for her: 
“ Gone in her childlike purity, 
Out from the golden day; 
Fading away in the light so sweet. 
Where the silver stars and the sunbeams meet, 
Paving a path for her waxen feet, 
Over the silent way.” 
I never think of my darling Agnes as being 
less beautiful; but Kate — Kate had a different 
beauty; it did not hush your breath, or soften 
your voice when you approached her—hut Kate 
was dazzling in her girlhood. Now — well, the 
frosts of earth blight more cruelly than death; 
blight soul and body. There they stood under 
the Holly. I remember it was Christmas. What 
merry old Christmases we had when we were all 
at home I Blarklt and Kate stood there under 
the Holly at their bridal. But Bi.arici.t proved 
a sad fellow! I never could have thought it! I 
have something to regret there as I encouraged 
it. I must never see her suffer. 
I will go down to the spring and drink. 
Strange! This used to bring me exhilaration, 
buoyaucy, such fullness of life that mere existence 
was a blessing. Now — well, it will quench my 
thirst for the hour, but the machinery of life has 
ran too long for the spirit to find anything but 
weariness. 
This old willow —old when I was young, 
gnarled, broken, and bowed almost to the grouud 
—how tenacious of life it seems ! I used to play 
among its curious, old, gnarled branches, aud 
CwAKL-iti fell from it, uiiCJauiick Lilb foicuctui on 
a stone, I picked him up aud laid him in 
mother’s arms. How pale and startled 6he was 
at sight of the gash! But Charley out-lived 
that—lived to find a grave at the bottom oithe sea. 
Ah, old tree! years of storms have swept over us 
both, we are both bowed, but yon will live on 
and still shade the spring when I am dust. 
That double row of elms have grown more 
lofty; their branches lengthened to a nobler 
sweep, and meeting midway, have formed an 
arch of green which somehow reminds me of an 
aisle in an old cathedral. Long live those elms! 
My father planted them when he brought his 
bride to tbis house, and my mother nursed them 
as tenderly as her flowers, 
I am glad that I saved this from the possession 
of strangers. Never while I live shall these 
wallB echo to other voices, or these paths be 
worn by other children's foot. Let the walls 
moulder and crnmblo away! I will make this 
the Mecca of my pilgrimage during my remnant 
of days, and gather up the threads of life where 
the Fates commenced the spinning. Would that 
this circle might lie the rounding of a perfect 
life and but the inner circle of the Infinite. 
“No, sir,” said I, “ he had just graduated at a 
Medical College when he received his com¬ 
mission." 
At this juncture the Conductor asked us to 
exchange places with an invalid, and ray friend 
getting a front view of ray hood saw that he 
had been talking not to seventy but seventeen. 
He apologised for the mistake, and at parting 
advised me to stick to my hood, saying it was 
better for me than the whole Materia Mcdica. 
When I alighted, I saw my friend at a dis¬ 
tance watching Hie crowd of travelers. Before 
I could make my way to hoi-, a portly Irish 
dame grasped me by tbe hand, and said how 
glad she was to see me—I was the very image 
of her sister, “dead aud gone.” I stoutly 
maintained the negative, and to my relief the 
expected woman appeared, upon which the pair 
went off in such a flow of tears as it moved my 
heart to witness. 
Dellte recognized me when she had accus¬ 
tomed her eyes to the dusky recesses of my 
overhanging hood, and without delay we entered 
the waiting wagon, and took our way over the 
hills. Shall I ever forget that ride ?—how the 
wind passing over me played sad havoc with 
Dellie’s curls and ended by whisking her hat 
off, and bowling it along the roadside to the 
detriment of plumes and ribbons?” 
There is a charm for me in all Massachusetts 
scenery, but Berkshire fills my heart completely, 
and so I rode along hardly daring to speak 
lest I might, lose the sight of one lichen-crusted 
rock, one beautiful pine, or one dear farm-home, 
so dear were they all for the sake of those who 
were and are not. And when I reached the 
family circle and sat around the blazing hearth, 
still more did I realize that I was at home — in 
the land of my fathers—the Mecca of my earlier 
vears. Dobe Hamilton. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE SOLDIEE FATHER’S SONG 
BV KAIjn WALDO EMERSON. 
Time and tide will not avail us, 
Lingering in the lap of ease: 
Baffling winds and waves assail us, 
If we miss the favoring breeze; 
And our voyage henceforth shall be 
O’er a rough tempestuous sea, 
Meeting with successes never, 
Till we sink at last, forever 
Let us then whate’er betide us, 
Keep our beacon ever bright; 
Anchor up, and helm beside us, 
Waiting for the morning light; 
On our voyage of life to start, 
Firm of band and stout of heart, 
Faltering in our purpose uever, 
Till we gain our rest forever. 
Rochester, N. Y. 
I heard, or seemed to hear, tbe chiding Sea 
Say, Pilgrim, why so late ar.d slow to come ? 
Am I not always here, thy summer home ? 
Is not jay voice thy music, morn and eve? 
My breath thy healthful clirr.ale in the heats, 
My touch thy antidote; my bay thy bath ? 
Was ever buildiug like my terraces? 
Was ever couch magnificent as mine ? 
Lie on the warm rock ledger, aud there learn 
A little hut sufflcee like a town. 
I make your sculptured arcMtectnro vain, 
Vain beside mine.’ 
Lo ! here is Rome, andNlncvah, and Thebes, 
Karnak, and Pyramid, and Giant's Stairs, 
Half piled or prostrate; and my uewest slab 
Older than all thy race. 
Behold the Sea, 
The Opaline, the plentiful ind strong 1 
Yet beautiful as is the rose lr June, 
Freeh as the trickling rainbow in Jnly; 
Sea full of food, the nourishcr or kinds, 
Purger of earth, aad mediitne of men; 
Creating a sweet climate by my breath. 
And, in my mathematic ebb and flow, 
Giving a hint of that which tUanges not. 
Rich are the Sea-gods: who gives gifts but they ? 
They grope the sea tor pearls, but more than pearls: 
They pluck Force thence, mk give it to the wise. 
For every wave is wealth toDtedalus, 
Wealth to the cunning artist who can work 
This matchless strength. Where shall he find, O 
waves 1 
A load your Atlas shoulders cannot, lift ? 
I, with my hammer pounding evermore 
The rocky coast, smite Amies into dust, 
Strewing my bed, and, in another age, 
Rebuild a continent of better men. 
Then I unbar the doors: my paths lead out 
The exodus of nations: I disperse 
Men to all shores that front the hoary main. 
I, too, have arts and sorceries; 
Illusion dwells forever will the wave. 
I know what shells are laid. Leave me to deal 
With credulous, imaginative man. 
For, thongh he scoop my water in hi6 palm, 
A few rods off he deems it gems and clouds. 
Planting strange fruits and sunshine on the shore, 
I make some coast alluring some lone isle, 
To distant men who must go there, or die. 
BV DORA HAWLEY 
A little ring of sunshine 
I carry in ju^hreast. . 
Just where nV^b v J.TA'M drooping head 
Oft made itself a nest. 
A little ring of nshine, 
A tiny tinted curl, 
That grew beside a milky brow 
With temples white as pearl. 
The tonch of baby fingers 
Has wandered o’er my face; 
And T will turn it heavenward 
To keep each holy trace. 
God keep me pure and upright 
And free from taint or stain. 
That I may clasp my jewel babe 
In blessedness again t 
Oft when the night drops darkly 
Upon the camp, asleep, 
Young stars their eyelids wink to see 
The tears a man can weep 1 
O I am strong, enduring, 
To walk in duty’s path. 
For when this toil and pain are done 
My life its crowning hath. 
While wrestling for my country 
In battle’s dizzy whirl, 
God keep my bosom casket pure 
To hold its little pearl! 
Locust Grove. Licking Co.. O. 
CIVIL WORTH OF THE SABBATH 
1. Toil needs it — to wipe off the grim and 
sweat of labor; to refresh by change of apparel; 
to restore and invigorate the body, exhausted by 
labor; to enliven the mind by change of the cur¬ 
rent of thought—and by all this to lit laboring 
men for the renewed toils of the week. 
2. Capital needs the Sabbath—to alleviate, by 
intermission, the care of accumulation; to ease 
the unbending of tbe strained and exhausted 
mind; to give a sense of the value of nobler ob¬ 
jects than silver and gold; to keep men's hu¬ 
manity and conscientiousness alive; to shield 
capital from harm, by securing the power and 
triumph of law and order in society. 
3. The State needs the Sabbath — to illumine 
the public conscience, that guardian of public 
safety ; to cause men so to recognize the Eter¬ 
nal Lawgiver, as to honor the earthly “ powers 
that be;” to secure tbe moral atmosphere in a 
community, whieh is the only sure support of 
law. 
4. The Republic needs the Sabbath, because in 
a Republic more depends than in any oilier form 
of government, upon the intelligence aud virtue 
of the people for its support. The grand super¬ 
structure of human rights needs just such a 
foundation as the Sabbath furnishes by its moral 
aud religious influences over men. Human free¬ 
dom lias no friend more powerful than the sanc¬ 
tified Sabbath.— Selected. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
UNDER MY HOOD, 
COQUETRY AMONG GIRLS. 
Five o’clock in the morning! Now I have 
no personal objection to that particular hour; 
indeed I consider it quite os useful in its dim, 
uncertain wav as any in the twenty-four, but to 
me it seems divinely consecrated to slumber; 
when therefore I was suddenly recalled to con¬ 
sciousness, one wintry morning, by the unshad¬ 
ed glare of kerosene upon my face, I felt 
aggrieved at once. In those long, delicious mo¬ 
ments of half wakefulness, what does one care 
for the fact that “the train leaves in half an 
hour,” 
My necessary haste in dressing rendered the 
“total depravity of inanimate things” strik¬ 
ingly obvious. Hooks and eyes set up wills of 
their own, refractory pins bent into worthless¬ 
ness, shoe-string6, unable to stand the pressure, 
ignobly broke in twain, and even my hair, usually 
so dutiful to the comb, was detected in a rno&t 
malicious tangle. Gloves were found after a 
diligeriF&earch, a handkerchief brought up from 
the farther corner of a trunk, and then breakfast 
received attention. 
The wind came in as the outer door opened 
with a vigor quite unwelcome. 
“There,” said I, “ I shall half perish with cold 
riding over those Berkshire hills to-day ; my 
new bonnet is a strong friend to neuralgia.” 
“Wear you hood, Dobe,” was the suggestion 
of my teasing cousin Hal. 
Now my hood had been a standing jest the 
whole season. It had been presented to me by 
a friend whose bump of veneration was largely 
developed, and doubtless when she planned its 
ample proportions she imagined me with a colos¬ 
sal head upon my shoulders. The cape was 
wide and deep, the crown large, and as for the 
front it was of no mean dimensions, extending 
forward and upward in a very aspiring manner; 
and last of all, its size was farther increased by 
a wide margin of fur. But it had been a con¬ 
stant comfort to me, and when Hal mentioned 
it, that wintry morning, I at once decided that 
it should hear me company; so, no sooner was 
my water-proof buttoned than I took my hood 
and tied its ribbons firmly beneath my chin. 
“ MiraUlc dictu!" cried Hal, striking an atti¬ 
tude of sorrowful astonishment; “I behold a 
damsel of the nineteenth century withdrawing 
from society—under her hood. Seriously, Dobe, 
don’t make a fright of yourself.” 
“ Seriously,” replied I, with as much severity 
as I was mistress of, “I care more for health 
than appearance — aud — I guess it’s about car- 
time." 
I reached the depot just as the train came 
puffing in, its Cyclopean eye glaring unwink- 
ingly through tbe early mists. 
“Tho’ lost to sight, to memory dear,” was 
the lust I heard from Hal through tbe car win¬ 
dow, then away we went over smooth meadows 
glistening in the morning sun, through rocky 
ledges rising perpendicularly on either side, 
along dashing streamlets circling witii their 
watery wiles many a charming island in minia¬ 
ture, between banks whose tapestry of ferns aud 
moss the trickling springs kept fresh and green, 
past homes of opulence aud poverty, through 
gay villages, and bustling towns. 
A charming woman in black Bhared my seat, 
while her sick boy laid in the one before us. Led 
on by a question of sympathy, she told me her 
sad story of losses, and ended by asking me if I 
had ever buried any children. 
I said “no,” and slowly turned my hood 
around till ebc saw my face, when sh* bogged 
pardon for thinking me seventy instead of 
seventeen. 
Two school-girls behind me were surprised to 
see so old a lady reading a book in the ears, and 
David Copperfteld at that! Again, I faced 
about and thoroughly enjoyed their surprised 
looks, as they saw seventeen not seventy. 
Mistakes were not quite ended 1 found, for the 
cars filling up again, an elderly gentleman asked 
for the unoccupied half of ruy seat. We fell to 
talking presently, of the war and of the armies 
east aud west. I remarked that I had a brother 
in the service. 
“Ah! a veteran I suppose.” 
I suppose that coquetry, in its legitimate 
form, is among woman’s charms, and that there 
is a legitimate sphere for its employment, for, 
except in rare natures, it is a natural thing 
with your sex. Nature has ordained that men 
shall prize most that whieh shall cost an effort, 
and while it has designed that you shall at some 
time give your heart aud hand to a worthy man, 
it has also provided a way for making the prize 
he seeks an apparently difficult one to win. It 
is a simple and beautiful provision for enhanc¬ 
ing your value in his eyes, so as to make a diffi¬ 
cult thing of that which you know to be un¬ 
speakably easy. If you hold yourselves cheaply, 
aud meet ail advances with open willingness aud 
gladness, the natural result will be that your 
lover will tire of you. To become a flirt is to 
metamorphose into a disgusting passion that 
which by natural constitution is a harmless and 
useless instinct. This instirict of coquetry, which 
makes a woman a thing to be won and which I 
suppose all women are conscious of possessing 
in Eomc degree, is not a thing to be cultivated or 
developed at ail. 
It should be left to itself, un6timulated and 
unperverted; and if, in tbe formative stage of 
your womanhood, by imitating them, or seeking 
to make impressions for Die sake of securing 
attentions which are repaid by insult and negli¬ 
gence, you do violence to your nature, you may 
make of yourself a woman whom your own sex 
despise, and whom all sensible men who do 
not mean to cheat you with insincerities as 
mean yours, are afraid of. They will not love, 
and they will not trust you.— Dr. Holland. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 
We were toiling up a long hill in a lumbering 
stage-coach, and were to near its summit that 
the mountain tops beyo id us were lifting them¬ 
selves up in sight. Aftfr another sharp pull we 
were on the breezy bright. The driver, with 
whom I had seated mys If, pulled up the reins 
with a loud “whoa” t> the jaded horses, and 
pointed out “the blue knob,” and otherfeaturcs 
of the landscape. TT 1M not know that I needed 
neither guide no: inter r. r I had hunted on 
those mounts’ 1 i ■ ■■ ■' brooks, raked 
hay in tue n . . ■ , - ■ over every 
winding r 
of the 1 Cl 1 thought I 
io old elms—I was not 
I i . ey used to be, and 
I 1 could not rub out. 
Srned to the driver with 
JOHN JAY AND THE INFIDELS. 
John Jat, when ambassador to Franco, was 
once in a company of infidels at Paris. They 
talked on recklessly, venting their spite at the 
Bible. Jay was silent. It troubled them. He 
did not pronounce their shibboleth. Theycould 
not go on while that grave, just, true man sat 
there a silent spectator, a sort of solemn judge, 
riveting at last their gaze. No wonder his bear¬ 
ing forced them lo speak, and when they asked, 
as if to relieve themselves of their confusion 
aud provoke his acquiescence, “ Do you believe 
lu Jesus Christ?” his silence had prepared the 
way for his confusing and confounding answer. 
“Ido, and I thank God that I do.” He was 
silent at the right time, aud spoke at the right 
time, aud when he spoke said the right thing. 
6ure—my eyes are not 
my glasses had a misfit 
Two or three times I ti 
the question half formed, but there was some¬ 
thing in his loud-voiced jway of talking that shut 
my mouth again. 
Well, well! Fifty ye-.u?, more or less, bring 
but little change to thotfeaturea of a landscape 
shut iu among the nnjimtains, and almost as 
little to some of its inhabitants, I thought, as we 
were whirled by a small, brown bouse, with its 
wood-pile on the windmrd side—I used to think 
it strange, when I was a boy, that it should 
always be on the windward side—with tbe same 
man swinging ids axe with the same measured 
stroke, a little more bunt and gray-headed, per¬ 
haps ; and the house mure mossy, with some of 
the clap-hoards loose; but the patch of meadow 
land, walled in by a ^econd growth of forest, 
looked not a day older. Then we passed the 
little tavern, with its creaking sign-post. The 
famous horse which was painted by a traveling 
artist and thought to bt a wonderful specimen of 
art, had been exposed)for so long a time to the 
peltings of rain-storms Ithat scarce a skeleton re¬ 
mained ; yet those looked like the same loungers 
around the door, Perijapa my eyes deceive me; 
they are not to be truslcd now as when I shot a 
hawk on the wing down by tbe brook yonder; 
but those forms I saw standing before the bar 
looked strangely likc-sorae I thought were under 
the sod in the graveyard. And yonder is the 
church on tbe hill. It has often 6truck me as 
singular that our fathers should build their 
churches on hills. And there was onec a school- 
house. Ah, its gone nOw! Nothing but a heap 
of stones overgrown with grass, and ft few 
LOVE YOUR ENEMIES, 
It has been objected to tbis command (». e., 
to love our enemies) that it is extravagant and 
impracticable, aud that it is impossible for any 
man to bring himself to entertain any real love 
for bis enemies. But this objection supposes 
that we are to love our enemies in the same man¬ 
ner and degree, and with the same cordiality and 
ardor of affection as we do our relations and 
friends. Our Lord, however, is not so severe a 
taskmaster as to require thut at our hands. 
There are different degrees of love, as of every 
other human affection, and these degrees are to 
be duly proportioned to the different objects of 
our regard. There is one degree due to our re¬ 
lations, auother to our friends and benefactors, 
another to strangers, another to enemies.— 
Bishop Tbrteus, 
FANCY DREAMS 
Some young ladies regard marriage as a fairy 
laud, where, violets and roses perpetually blos¬ 
som, where the cedar tree amVthe cinnamon 
tree ever flourish—where the waters of trau- 
quility and sweetness uninterruptedly flow. Tell 
them there are thistles and briars in that stead ; 
though they do not contradict, yet they do not 
credit you, for they believe that their love, their 
devotedness for each other, will exempt them 
from the cares, the vicissitudes, the anxieties 
which generally pertain to humanity All lov¬ 
ers, before marriage, conceive that their destiny 
will be au exception to the general rule. The 
future with them will be taujours couleur de rose. 
Could you give them a sketch in the pages of 
their future history they would not believe a 
word; they would set you down as a misan¬ 
thrope, a painter of gloomy aud unnatural scenes, 
an inimical represser of the hopes and aspira¬ 
tions of youth. The dark spots which the tele¬ 
scope of your experience might discover they 
would regard but as mole-hills in the moon. If 
they would but reflect a little, how much misery 
they would avoid.— Selected. 
CANDOR 
Wekk wo acquainted with tho way of intermix¬ 
ing holy thoughts and ejaculatory prayers to 
God iu our ordinary engagements, it would keep 
the heart in a sweet temper all tho day long, and 
have an excellent influence in all our ordinary 
actions anil holy performances. This were to 
“walk with God" indeed, to go all tho day 
along as in our Father’s hand; whereas without 
this our praying morning and evening looks but 
as a formal visit, not delighting in that constant 
converse which yet is our happiness and honor, 
and makes all estates sweet. This would refresh 
as in the hardest labor, as they that carry the 
spices from Arabia arc refreshed with the smell 
of them in their journey.— Leighton, 
There is nothing sheds so fine a light upon 
the human mind as candor. It was called 
“whiteness” by the ancients, for its purity; 
it has always won the esteem due to the most 
admirable of tbe virtues. However little sought 
for, or practiced, all do it the homage of their 
praise, and all feel the power and charm of its 
influence. The man whose opinions make tbe 
deepest mark upon his fellow-man, whose in¬ 
fluence la the most lasting and efficient, whose 
friendship is instinctively sought where all others 
have proved faithless, Is not the man of brilliant 
parts, or flattering tongue, or splendid genius, 
or commanding power; but he whose lucid can¬ 
dor and ingenious truth transmit the heart's 
real feelings, pure and without reflection. There 
are other qualities which are more showy, and 
other traits that have a higher place In the 
world’s code of honor, but none wear better or 
gather less tarnish by use, or claim a deeper 
homage in that silent reverence which the mind 
must pity to virtue. 
X AM BELOVED. 
I am beloved. What happiness to know it I— 
To know a father’s love indeed la mine, 
And that I love again ! How sweet to show it, 
And round his heart more firmly to entwine 
Thau Ivy ’round the oak! And oh, how sweet 
To gaze upon his face and to forestall 
His slightest wish, ere yet it be complete, 
Before the words from his dear lips can fall. 
I am beloved. What joy, what bliss to feel it I— 
To feed one manly heart is all my own, 
And that I love again! I scarce conceal it; 
Though 1 wonid fain control each word and tone, 
And close these eyes whon wilfully they wander, 
Until they rest upon the earnest face 
That watches from the well-known window yonder, 
Well pleased Love's silent eloqence to trace. 
Tnn religion of Jesus Christ is a vast remedial 
system, made up of many mighty forces, and 
containing within itself capacities of adapta¬ 
tion and adjustment to every phase of the 
world’s progress aud to every necessity of indi¬ 
vidual life. These mighty forces are to some 
extent dormant, and they must be awakened 
into action ; and the outlying field around the 
Church must be tilled by all the agencies 
which God lias placed in our power. To de¬ 
velop these inner Jforees, and to cultivate this 
outer field Is the boundeu duty of tliis age and 
this Church. 
Dreadful limits are set in nature to the pow¬ 
ers of dissimulation. Truth tyranizos over the 
unwilling members of the body. Faces never 
lie, it is said. No man need be deceived who 
will study the change of expression. When a 
man speaks the truth in the spirit of truth, his 
eye is us clear as the heavens. When he lias 
base ends, and speaks falsely, his eye is muddy, 
and sometimes asquint. I have heard au experi¬ 
enced counselor say that he never feared the 
effect upon a juror, of a lawyer who does not 
believe in bis heart that his client ought to have 
a verdict.— JEmerson. 
Knowledge of the world is regarded as an 
useful, if not an elegant accomplishment, hut 
this advantage, like every other good, is mixed 
with some alloy; the acute observer of men and 
manners cannot but be disgusted with the scenes 
that take place around him, and his knowledge 
may at last have tbe effect of souring his own 
disposition. 
Sinners are proud and foolish, and because 
they have no money, no worthlessness to bring, 
they will not come to the Lord Jesus, though he 
sweetly invites them. Well, sinners, remember 
tbis! it is not so much the sense of your unworth- 
iness, as your pride, that keeps you from a blessed 
closing with the Saviour. 
v 
V 
