t (1&-' - - - _ 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. • 
NIGHT. 
BY LIZZIE M. DYER. 
Night upon the grim Sierra, 
On the snow-capt peaks that rise 
’Till their summits bleak and dreary 
Blend them with the pnrple skies: 
Where, magnificently towering, 
Sway the fir and cedar trees; 
In the freeh’ning night-wind show’ring 
Odorous balsam on the breeze: 
Where the wind is sadly sighing 
'Mid the pine trees far away, 
Rising, swelling, surging, dying, 
Like a soul's impassioned lay, 
Pouring out its hitter plaining, 
All the garner'd store of years 
In a mournful dirge, bewailing 
Sorrows all too deep for tears. 
Night, too, on the valley, sleeping 
Calmly *ncath the starry skies; 
And where shining waves upleaping, 
Chant their soothing lullabys. 
Wierdand ghost-like, neaththe gleaming 
Of the vague and shadowy light, 
Nature slumbers,—dreaming, dreaming, 
I gaze upon the stare to night. 
Now I watch the moon slow-climbing 
O’er the pine-clad mountain's brow, 
And bethink me that its rising 
Gladdened other eyes but now; 
EyeB whose lightest glance could ever 
Thrill with rapture kin to pain; 
Eyes whose glaHce shall never, never 
Look within mine own again. 
Never 'till we re awaken 
In Ilis likeness who hath blest, 
Saying, “ all ye heavy laden 
Come, and I will give you rest.” 
Carson, Nevada, 1865. 
-- 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
ETHAN GRAY’S FURLOUGH, 
BT SUE BROWNE. 
Private Ethan Gray had been detailed for 
hospital duty. Not that he was really invalided, 
hut he had not been strong for several weeks, 
and was incapable of keeping at the front with 
his comrades, so he was held for reserve duty, a 
few miles in the rear, and proved a very skillful 
and efficient nurse. This duty was not his 
choice. He would much rather have shared the 
toils of the march and the danger of the battle 
field with his companions in arms, than to 
spend the days in dealing out quinine powders 
to the poor invalids under his care—men a few 
days ago so strong and brave, now so weak and 
helpless. His free, masterful spirit chafed un¬ 
der this forced restraint { and yet his hand was 
quick and tender to provide, so far as his means 
allowed, for the wants of those under his charge. 
He was thinking of these things, standing in 
the door ot his hospital tent, robbing together 
the palms ot his strong, brown hands, and fret¬ 
ting like a caged tiger against his prison bars. 
He was thinking, too, of his home away up in the 
Northland, of the low-eaved brown cottage, hid 
away among the hills in the dear old Empire 
State, the gnarled and knotted cherry trees 
before the door, the f ew acres of cleared meadow 
land and the many acres of bushes and briers 
that, but for the country’s call, which could not 
be disregarded, should have been ready for 
tillage ere now; lor with his strong arm and 
the help of Devoe, his sturdy little son by 
adoption—quite his son, by the love he bore 
him—the farm would soon have been under good 
cultivation. And then the true hearted, loving 
wife, who had given him her blessing when he 
left home, and the dear children she had borne 
him—little Mri.EY, his only son, the pet of the 
household, and Eva, the wee baby—all claimed 
a part in his thoughts; till the march and battle¬ 
field, tent end hospital were alike forgotten, 
and something glittering Id the moonlight very 
like a tear, stole down the rough brown cheek 
and lost itself in the uncut beard. 
In the space before the tent, an eager knot of 
men were gathering around a new comer, im¬ 
patient to receive tidings from home; for the 
mail had arrived and, weary of the dull monot¬ 
ony of their camp, they longed with intense 
earnestness for a message of hope, a word of 
love from the dear ones they had left behind. 
“ A telegram for Ethan Gray.” 
With a quick intuition of dread, Gray sprang 
forward and almost, snatched the paper from 
the man’s hand. A sharp, half-smothered cry 
of pain, as though he felt the stunning blow of 
a bullet, and Ethan Gray turned upon the 
bystanders a face almost as ghastly as they 
remembered faces looking skyward from the 
bloody and trampled sward, after the battle was 
over. It was one short sentence, three little 
words, that sent the blood back to the heart of 
the brave soldier, who had looked upon scenes 
of carnage and blood, where men lay stark and 
cold with the tender, peaceful smile a gunshot 
wound always leaves, when the features are not 
disfigured, resting upon their tape*, as though 
God’p, benediction hud fallen at the last upon 
his patriots. And this man, whose courage had 
never forsaken him then, paled now, holding 
himself could comfort the stricken mother, in 
this her first bereavement ? 
Gen. Meade's headquarters were not far, and 
he had heard—yes, the carrier averred, that the 
great and good man, whom a nation loved and 
mourijk, was with him at sundown. Grat’s 
determination was at once taken. He would 
see the President, and from him receive permis¬ 
sion to look his last upon his boy. 
It was near midnight., when hi6 horse, reeking 
with foam, brought him to the bouse occupied 
by the General and, before an uncurtained 
window,two figures which he at ouee recognized, 
gave new life to his flagging hopes, for in his 
excitement he had not stopped to consider that 
he had probably come ou a fruitless errand, He 
was admitted to the presence of thu Commander- 
in-Chicf of the armies and navies ot the United 
States. Gray never knew in what words he 
told his simple story, but when he had finished, 
and laid before him the message he had received, 
Lincoln drew slowly and deliberately towards 
him paper, pen and ink, and wrote a few lines. 
“Here is your leave of absence," he said, 
handing Gray the paper, “and from my heart 
I am sorry for you." 
Perhaps Ethan Gray wished at that moment 
that it were no sin to fall down at the feet of 
Abraham Lincoln aud worship him. But mil¬ 
itary rules are strict, aud he had been well 
trained; so he merely made a soldier’s salute to 
his superior officer and turned away. With an 
air and tone, half of upology, Lincoln said to 
Meade, as the soldier retired: 
“This boy was as dear to him as my Wil¬ 
lie - 
The bearded lip trembled and the sentence 
was never finished. 
Just as the bier passed beside a new grave, a 
tall, swart soldier knelt with the kneeling group 
around it, and the little coffin was again opened 
that Ethan Gray might look once more upon 
his hoy. Half an hour later and the earth would 
have shut from his sight forever the precious 
remains. 
When the golden grain ripens in the fields, 
aud the fruit hangs mellow and ripe in the 
orchard, Ethan Gray will return to hie family, 
and.scenesof war and strife will grow dim and 
far away in his memory; but ever, in his heart 
of hearts, will he cherish that name that every 
true American reveres. 
TWO HOURS PROFITABLY SPENT. 
A young lady, residing in the English metrop¬ 
olis, writes to a friend in the provinces thus: 
—“My friend, fashionabie Madame de R., tells 
me that, whatever are her engagements—how¬ 
ever numerous may be the guests in her house, 
it matters not—she always devotes two hours a 
day to the perusal of cuircnt literature, and by 
this means^she has everything at her finger’s 
ends. If a subject is started, she knows the 
antecedent circnm (dances, and Is not. obliged to 
ask some tiresome preliminary question, or ap¬ 
pear ignorant. In the country you read or not, 
as you like; but in London you must read—I do 
not say deep books, or even big books; but, 
happily, our periodical literature gives us the 
cream of thought with only the labor of skim¬ 
ming the surface. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New Yorker. 
FADED FLOWERS. 
BY CLIO STANLEY. 
“ There’s not a lieart. however rude, 
But hath some little flower 
To brisliten up its solitude. 
And scent the evening hour. 
“ There’s not a heart, however cast 
By grief and sorrow down, 
Bel hath some memory of the past, 
To lovo and call Its own.” 
THE WOMEN. 
When even the women, (Bays the Evening 
Post,) have lost their tender sympathy for weak¬ 
ness and admiration for heroism, what can be 
expected of the society which depends on them 
for refinement ? They seem wrapped in selfish¬ 
ness. Some of them are fortunate enough to 
attract “ Yankee beaux," and a few officers have 
married them. The girls are pretty and pert: 
they can play, sing and dance; boast that they 
cannot make any bread, except pone or hoecake; 
and show much spirit, or, as sotne would say, 
temper, by telling how “ Sherman stole their 
6poons." If they do not dip snutT, they are cer¬ 
tainly of the aristocracy. Some of the women 
in the country can spit as straight and as far as 
their husbands. These are matters which a sin¬ 
gle man would notice. There are pleasanter 
qualities, which can be discovered on dose ac 
qalntance. 
FEMININE -TOPICS. 
The more women look in their glasses the less 
they look to their houses. 
There is one good wife in the country, and 
every man thinks he hath her. 
Beauties without fortunes have sweethearts 
plenty, but husbands none at all. 
Beauty in women is like the flower of spring, 
but virtue is like the stars of heaven. 
Women grown bad arc worse than men, be¬ 
cause the corruption of the bc-6t turns to the 
worst. 
A man with a scolding wife when inquired of 
in relation to his occupation, said he kept a hot 
house. 
There are some things, which, though they 
may diminish yonng women’s chances for mar¬ 
riage, will make them, if the worst comes to the 
worst, most incomparable old maids. 
Count Albert he Bevel has, according to a 
Parisian correspondent of the Athenaum, been 
left two thousand pounds a year, by an eccentric 
Be still t be still 1 sad Memory 1 
Why eoraest t.hon to me, 
With visions of departed Joys 
And echoes or old glee ? 
It needeth not tho bright Spring bloom, 
Or Summer’s shining wing, 
To take me back to those dear days 
When every simple thing, 
From meadow-bntlercnp, to rare 
Sweet roses on the lawn, 
Was clothed with halcyon loveliness, 
Fairer than All the dawn; 
My joy was then the glad impulse 
Of an unclouded life. 
And every hour was borne along, 
With fullest pleasure rife. 
Gladness grew up within my heart 
Like some sweet child of light; 
I lived within her smile all day, 
And dreamed of her at night; 
And with those days is wovon in 
Full many a little jloiver 
Whose scent lies sweet npon the gale 
This wintry, evening hoqr, 
And oh I these memories of the past 
Are still my very own; 
They teach my heart sad melodies 
That thrill me with their tone; 
Forgotten 1 no, they cling to me 
In all my lonely hours, 
And bless me with the faint perfume 
Of tender, little foicers. 
There was the flower of friendship, nursed 
Amid the sunuy bowers 
Of school-girl life; ah me! how soon 
Went by those happy hours; 
And there the flower of innocence, 
Wet with a mother's tears,— 
It grew and gave bright promise back, 
To charm away tier fears: 
Young love, the brightest of all flowers, 
The sweetest at its birth, 
The one Immortal, fadeless flower 
That beautifies our earth: 
And all the radiant blossoms, that 
Were bora of faith and trust; 
To think how we have trampled them 
Down in the bitter dust / 
Down In the bitter dust 1 Alas! 
Sweet Memory, hold thy peace! 
I cannot brook remembrance now, 
So bid tbyooDg-blrds cease. 
Loivve no to pok »nUti,.(», 
Bereft of aong and scent; 
I’ll live on in forgetfulness, 
And be with that content. 
Philadelphia, Pa. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE DWELLINGS OF ROYAL FAVORITES. 
BY E. D. L. 
before his eyes that scarcely sullied piece of uncle, on the condition that., within two years, 
paper: 
“ Milev is dead!” 
His eyes were blurred. The letters swam and 
blended strangely. A mist was before him. 
This fora moment —then an eager, insatiable 
yearning to look once more upon the little face 
aud form, a part of himself, before they hid it 
away under the snow-shroud he knew was lying 
so white and still over the church-yard where 
they would lay him. And, too, who so well as 
he shall marry a tall, slim lady, of “harmonious 
proportions," with long and thick golden hair. 
She must have an open forehead, blue eyes, a 
brilliant white skin, a well made nose, a small 
mouth, graceful limbs; she it to be full of grace, 
and her character is to be slightly shaded with a 
poetic languor. Albert admits that the condi¬ 
tion is not a hard one, save in the difficulty of 
finding the peerless beauty who is to share his 
two thousand pounds a year with him. 
There are no more curious or suggestive facts 
in human history, thau the vain conceits and 
capricious conduct of those who, basking in the 
smiles of sovereign power, have risen to the 
dangerous eminence of royal favorites. The in¬ 
fluence of these creatures of tho king’s favor 
forms several distinct epochs lu modem history. 
Though many of them rose from utter obscurity 
to a height which cast a shadow even upon the 
throne itself, they seldom proved themselves 
capable of bearing prosperity with equanimity 
but, from various causes, soon fell into disgrace 
and were shorn of their ephemeral splendors. 
One of the active causes of their downfall was 
that they invariably made themselves odious to 
the people. Conspicuous among the causes 
which awukened this odium, was the folly they 
evinced in constructing palaces so splendid and 
luxurious that they vied in beauty and grandeur 
with those of sovereignty itself. To such a de¬ 
gree does tho love of show delude its victims 
that these characters were often guilty of the 
greatest blunders and inconsistencies. The 
most wary uud cautious favorites were not above 
this silly passion for display, and thus paved the 
way lor their downfall. 
Cardinal Wolsft, the favorite of Henry 
VIII., proud and inflated with the honors and 
princely wealth heaped upon him by his Indul¬ 
gent patron, constructed muny magnificent 
palaces. His revenue was equal to that of his 
capricious master, and he squandered most of it 
in this manner. The peculiar regard that the 
people entertained for this pampered prelate Is 
clearly shown by verses written at that time, in 
which are to be fouud many bitter allusions to 
to his birth aud his follies. One sample will 
furnish the sentiment of all: 
“ Has tho Cardinal auy gay mansions ? 
Groat palaces, without comparison; 
Most glorious of outward sight 
And within decked ;mnt device; 
More like nnto a paradise. 
Than an earthly habitation. 
He ooweth then of some noble stock ? 
His father could match a bullock, 
A butcher by his occupation." 
But envy kept close upon the heels of the 
proud Cardinal, and he was compelled to relin¬ 
quish Hampton Court, hie favorite residence, to 
the King, and accept the favor of “keeping the 
King’s palace*." In this mariner only could the 
most powerful subject England ever bad live in 
security in his own house. 
A similar folly committed by Buckingham, 
was the cause of the downfall of that Prince. 
The Roman tiara haunted the imagination of 
Wolsey, and the pride of having outwitted 
Richelieu excited the passion for display in Vil- 
leirs ; and they were drawn into extravagances 
which they would have otherwise avoided. 
But even the great and good Clarendon and 
the wary aud cautious Walpole committed the 
same error. Dunkirk House, the folly of the 
former, exists only in history; for it was torn 
down, a sad fulfillment of a deserved fate. The 
people believed it was built with money received 
from the salo of Dunkirk, a trophy of tho Revo¬ 
lution. The. expense connected with building 
so grand a structure compelled Clauendon to 
surrender it to greedy creditors ; and be retired 
w ith safety, if not with honor, to the Continent, 
and there devoted himself to literary pursuits. 
Houghton, the residence of Walpole, though 
it did not meet the same fate as Dunkirk House, 
was as ruinous to its founder. It is said of 
Walpole that, in early life, contemplating this 
folly of ministers, he remarked that it was an 
act of great imprudence in them to construct 
palaces. But, at the height of power, he forgot 
all this, and reaped the fruits of bis forgetful¬ 
ness in the public obloquy heaped upon him by 
an indignant and outraged nation. 
Thus it seems that neither the good nor tho 
cautious man can always withstand the seductive 
influence of the love of show and tho pride of 
pomp. 
NOTES ON OVERWORK. 
Unwise above many is the man who considers 
every hour lost which is not spent in reading, 
writing, or In study, and not more rational is 
she who thinks every moment of her time lost 
which does not find her sewing. We once heard 
a man advise that a book of some kind be car¬ 
ried in the pocket, to be used in case of an un¬ 
occupied moment—such was his practice. He 
died early and fatuous. There are women who, 
after a hard day’s work, will Bit and sew by can¬ 
dle or gas-light until their eyes are almost blind¬ 
ed, or until certain pains about the shoulders 
come on, which are almost insupportable, and 
are only driven to bed by physical incapacity 
to work any longer. The sleep of the over¬ 
worked, like that of those who do not work at 
all, is unsatisfying and nnrefreshiug, and both 
alike wake up in weariness, saduess, and languor, 
with an inevitable result, both dying prema¬ 
turely. 
Let no one work in pain or weariness. "When 
a man is tired, he ought to lie down until he is 
fully rested, when, with renovated strength, the 
work will he better done, done the sooner, 
and done with a self-sustained alacrity. The 1 
time taken from seven or eight hours’ sleep out i 
of each twenty-four is time not gained, but 
time much more than lost; we can cheat our¬ 
selves, but we cannot cheat Nature. A certain i 
amount of lood is necessary to a healthy body, i 
but if less than that amount be famished, decay , 
commences the very hour. It is the same with t 
, - — -■ mn ,1-Vi n *->r.Vsiafa ir. oil/-. TT i — rr himcnlf 
less than nature requires will only hasten his i 
arrival to the madhouse or the grave.— 77i<> J/or- ] 
alist, . 
“BRINGING OUR SHEAVES WITH Us.” 
BT MBS. ELIZABETH AKEBS. 
The time for toll is past, and night has come, 
The last and saddest of the harvest eves; 
Worn out with labor long and wearisome, 
Drooping and faint the reapers hasten home, 
Each laden with his sheaves. 
Last of tho laborers, Thy foot I gain, 
Lord of the harvest l and iny spirit grieves, 
That. I am bnrdened not so much with grain 
As with a heaviness or heart, nud brain; 
Master, behold my sheaves'. 
Few. light and worthless—yet their trifling weight 
Through all my frame a weary aching leaves; 
For long f straggled with my hapless fate, 
Aud staid and tolled till it was dark and late— 
Yet these are all my sheaves I 
Full well I know I have more tares than wheat; 
Brambles and flowers, dry stalks and withered 
leaves; 
Wherefore I blush and weep, us at Thy feet 
1 kneel down reverently and repeat, 
“ Master, behold my Bhcaves 1" 
I know these blossoms, clustering heavily 
With eveniug dew upon their folded leaves, 
Can claim no value or utility— 
Therefore ehnll fragrancy and beauty be 
The glory of my sheaves 1 
So do I gather strength aud hope anew; 
For well do 1 know Thy patient love perceives 
Not what I did, but what I strove to do — 
And though the full, ripe ears be sadly few, 
Thou wilt accept my sheaves, 
. .. — — ♦.-»-• 
■Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
LIMITS OF RELIGIOUS DISCUSSION. 
BY L. MG 0. 
DO IT WITH THY MIGHT. 
Fortune, success, fame, position, are never 
gained but by piously, determinedly, bravely 
sticking, growing, living, to a thing till it is 
fairly accomplished. In 6hort, you must carry 
a thing through, if you want to be anybody or 
anything. No matter if it does cost you the 
pleasure, the society, the thousand pearly grati¬ 
fications of life. No matter for these. Stick to 
the thing aud carry it through. Believe you 
were made for the matter, and that no one else 
can do it. Put forth your whole energies. 
Stir, wake, electrify yourself, and go forth to 
the task. Only once learn to carry a thing 
through in all its completeness and proportion, 
and you will become a hero. You will think 
better of yourself— others will think better of 
you. Of course they wilL The world In Its 
very heart Admires the stern, determined doer. 
It sees in him Its best eight, its brightest object, 
its richest treasure. Drive right along, then, in 
whatever you undertake. Consider yourself 
amply snflleientfor the deed. You’ll be success¬ 
ful. Never fear. 
CHANCE CHIPS. 
Puns are unpopular. Men with one idea are 
perplexed with a double meaning. 
When one ox lies down, the yoke bears hard 
upon him that stands up. 
Why is a petroleum dealer like au epicure ? 
Because he lives on the fat of the land. 
To describe a character by antithesis is like 
painting a portrait in black and white —all the 
curious intermixtures aud gradations are lost. 
Next to making a child an infidel is the let¬ 
ting him know that there are infidels at all. 
Credulity is the man’s weakness, but the child's 
strength. 
As for ourselves, we can say that night-fancies 
have long ceased to be afflictive. We confess au 
occasional nightmare, but we do not, as in early 
youth, keep a stud of theta.—'Prentice. 
A youngster while perusing a chapter of Gen¬ 
esis, turning to Ills mother, inquired whether 
the people in those days “ used to do Bums on 
the ground." lie accounted for his question, by 
reading the passage, “ And the sons ol' men mul¬ 
tiplied upon the lace of the earth." 
Ir you don’t want to fall in love with a pretty 
girl, don’t commence flirting with her, for this 
courting for fun Is like boxlug for fun. Yon 
put on the gloves in the utmost good htunor, 
with the most, friendly intentions of exchanging 
a few amicable blows; you find yourself Insen¬ 
sibly warmed with the enthusiasm ot the con¬ 
flict, until some unlucky punch in the “ vesket" 
decides the matter and the whole affair ends in ( 
a downright fight. i 
There arc certain truths which we never 
- ought to discuss or dispute about. They are 
s those truths which we believe by virtue of the 
i gift of faith. 
7 It will be seen that, in order to carry on a 
- course of reasoning to a conclusion, we must first 
t comprehend aud establish the propositions on 
1 which that conclusion depends. It will be seen 
. too, that in every conclusion ou truth'wherein 
- the expression of it involves the infinite, the 
argumeut on which it depends must likewise 
1 contain a proposition of a similar character. 
= To believe such a truth or conclusion, or such a 
5 proposition, the exercise of faith is indiapensa- 
> ble. 8o in an argumeut to maintain such a 
3 troth, we must continually be begging the ques- 
'■ tlon. We must ask our opponent to admit just 
1 what he is attempting to disprove. 
Let us 6ee the effect of an attempt to establish 
1 by a course of reasoning, for instance, that “ the 
. blood of Christ cleansetb from all sin." The 
’ argument might be, Everything that Christ 
1 said was true; Christ said His blood cleanseth 
r - -11 -2.. (I 14 t- Ant *roi»- — I-- 
> unbeliever, “I do not admit your premises. 
• Prove to me your proposition that ‘ everything 
that Christ said was true.’" The argument 
for this might be, “ The Son of God could say 
uothing but what was true; Christ was the Son 
of God, therefore everything He said was true. 
But tbe unbeliever says, “ I do not admit that 
CHRIST was the Son of God." In every argu- 
’ ment of this kind, one of the propositions on 
which tho conclusion depends will not be sus¬ 
ceptible of proof by reasoning. So the attempt 
to establish these truths by a course of reason¬ 
ing becomes useless. 
And, too, if we are fair, when wc* enter into a 
discussiou or argument, we must give weight to 
the reasoning of our opponent. Is there any 
benefit to be derived from a discussiou where 
either party is pro-determined, whatever the 
argument may be, to Remain of the same opin¬ 
ion ? Has a Christian fhe right to place his bo- 
liefin Cubist in the balances of hlsowti reasoning 
powers? How came he by this belief? Did he 
arrive at it through a course of reasoning ? Cer¬ 
tainly not. It is through the faith that is given 
him by Christ. If the Christian cannot rest his 
belief in the vital truths of Christianity on the 
results of his reasoning, (and wc believe no 
Christian can,) he has no right to argue and dis¬ 
pute about them with unbelievers who attempt 
to disprove them. By vital truths we mean all 
those a bokef in which demands the exercise of 
Christian faith as, for instance, such truths as 
“CnRisT is tbe 8on of God," and “Christ will 
save all who come unto Him in faith.” 
As we may never get at these truths through 
any other source than revelation, we may not 
expect to uphold them by reasoning. Christ 
never attempted to convince men by argument 
that He was the Son of God. He spoke to 
men in parables; and to whom He would, He 
gave the power to understand them and believe 
His statements. And when Thomas would not 
believe tho Lord had risen till he had put his 
hand in His side, Christ did [not attempt to 
convinco him by a course of reasoning. Paul, 
after he had tried disputation with unbelievers, 
determined to know nothing among the disci¬ 
ples save Christ and Him crucified. 
We cannot make ourselves believe more fully 
in the power and efficacy of Christ’s death by 
disputation, nor can wo establish, by argumeut, 
simply, auy truth which demands tbe exercise 
of faith. Let argument and ruasoulug, then, 
be coulined to those questions In our religion 
which are matters of argument, and let) faith 
reign supreme in her own sphere. 
Greatness. —There is a greatness before which 
every other sinks into nothiug; one which, when 
clearly seen In Its true dignity, produces the Jj 
most thrilling emotion of the heart. It is moral 
greatness—that uudeviating rectitude of action,, < 
which loads men to seek tho best Interests ot 
others, that Integrity ot soul which binds man C 
under every circumstance to truth and duty, aud I 
rears for him a monument encircled by that H 
eternal radiance which issuos from the throne J 
of God. ft 
3MB 
