[■Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE DUTY OF AMERICAN WOMEN, 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
MENTAL CULTURE. 
The position held by the women of America at 
this time, is one which may tend to crush out or 
drive on the horrible rebellion now raging through¬ 
out our land. The great mass of inen are now, and 
ever have been, constrained and governed, to a 
greater or less extent, by tire indomitable power of 
I woman. .Many are the men that would have gone 
down to a drunkard's grave but for the earnest 
entreaties of their wives, and many a one would 
there be noted for vice and crime, had it not been 
for the influence of a mother or sister. On the 
other hand, how many have been utterly ruined, in 
both character and pecuniary affairs, by the invinci¬ 
ble will of a headstrong wife. How many there are 
who to-day find themselves dragging out a misera¬ 
ble existence in misery and woe, by having com¬ 
plied with the extravagant wishes of a thoughtless 
companion. 
A person without mental culture, with a mind 
darkened by ignorance in this era when the golden 
light of education diffuses its enlivening beams so 
profusely over our fair laud, will grope his way 
through this life in starlight obscurity, instead of 
walking proudly erect in the effulgent, light of 
noonday. Such a person is indeed dead to one of 
the most lofty and refining pleasures of which our 
natures are susceptible. Folding his pinions, he 
shuts himself in his narrow prison-house, instead 
of soaring, on the “ready wings” of thought, above 
the base tlu'ngs of earth, to the “starry realms,” and 
learning to number and call by name each shining 
world, a? they move sublimely on their heaven- 
appointed course. 
When we realize that Gon has bestowed upon us 
minds susceptible of infinite expansion, which are 
to exist when the sun and moon have exnired. and 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
WHEN IT IS MORNING. 
BY LIZZIE O. BEEBE 
BT JURY CLEMMER AMES 
The moonbeams stole in through the half-open door,- 
They stole softly in just to peep, and no more; 
But they roguishly sketched, on the shadowy floor, 
A picture, and framed it with leaves. 
The breeze wandered in, as if panting to rest. 
But when it went in it ivas trying its best 
To tell what they said, as she leaned on his breast, 
The two pictured out on the floor. 
But the breeze only heard a low sob and a sigh, 
A low wailing sob. and a half smothered cry, 
And a deep manly voice, trembling out a good-bye, 
Was all the breeze heard to repeat. 
And the shadows stole out in their treacherous way, 
And challenged the poor frightened moonbeam to stay, 
As they swept o’er the picture a mantle of gray, 
O’er the picture sketehed out on the floor. 
The lover went, forth from his lady-love’s door, 
And sadly ho thought he might see her no more, 
For the battle field loomed in the distauce, and o'er 
Hovered death, all in wait for his prey. 
Hartford, Trumbull Co., <)., 1862. 
Hide your faces, stars of evening. 
Hide behind your ether vails! 
Hush your sweetly lisping lyrics, 
Softly sighing autumn gales. 
Once I loved you. stars of evening; 
Winds, I loved y our starry flow. 
When div life was set to music 
Years ago. 
Hover there, seraphic fires, 
Lingering there love's sweetest tone, 
Linked with one's beloved presence, 
Which the present cannot own, 
Where the wild, warm vows we plighted, 
Where the friends we worshiped so, 
Where the fire that filled our pulses 
Years ago. 
Gazing sadly toward our westward, 
’Mid our brooding noontide calms, 
Where the dream of love and glory 
Dreamed 'neath Eros’ morning palms! 
Counting o’er our lost ambitions, 
In Time's sober shadow seen, 
Who, exultant cries: Eureka I 
I am all I might have been. 
Vain, oh, vain our voiceless longing 
O’er our morning’s perished dust! 
Every hour in its bosom 
Holds the present's holier trust. 
And the saddest of onr sorrows 
Are Love’s angels in disguise; 
Let us entertain them kindly, 
They will give us wings to rise. 
Show your faces stars of evening, 
Fling away your cloudy vails; 
Lisp a low. a lulling lyric, 
Sweetly sighing autumn gales! 
Married to a purer purpose, 
Life is calmer in its flow — 
Wells the wjue within my pulses, 
To a rythm sweet and low, 
Softer than the dreams that thrilled me 
Years ago. 
BY JANE K. ITIGBY, 
When it is morning, a maiden fair, 
Twining the orange around her hair, 
Weddeth a brave young cavalier. 
Brush away lightly the dewey tear; 
Slumbers she sweetly, without a fear. 
Bridal is this ? Ah I the angel came. 
Writing in Heaven another name. 
Paler hands toyed with a bridal wreath;— 
Ernest, the cherished, has wedded Death. 
“ When it is morning." a sufferer said, 
u (rather the loved ones around ray bed. 
Weary, the slow-footed hours go by, 
Pacing the length of my time to die.” 
Little he thought it was guile so nigh. 
Silently, sadly, they move about, 
Watching the sands of his life run out 
Morning is dawning, the night is past, 
Sands of the hour-glass have ebbed at last. 
When it is morning. A sentry dreamed. 
Back in the homestead old, it seemed; 
Mother and sister with fond caress, , 
Joined with a father's hand to bless; 
Joy, for a morrow of wretchedness. 
Lo! it is morning; an hour of gloom. 
Dreams of the loved ones have sealed thy doom 
Saber, and musket, and spear, and shield, 
Needest thou not in the tented field. 
i; When it is morning, say, mother dear, 
Wont it he warmer away up here?” 
Want, with his withering presence there, 
Watched hr the child of the sunny hair, 
Marking, so early, deep lines of care. 
When it is morning, it wont lie cold 
Way up in Heaven, in It ers’ fold. 
Go, little wanderer, life to win; 
Surely, the Shepherd will let you in. 
But it is morning with.litem up there; 
Lover, and sentry, and child so fair. 
Robed in a garment without a stain. 
Invalid, freed from his couch of pain. 
Never shall say, ‘lam sick,” again. 
Always 'tis morning in spirit-land — 
Morn to the host of its ransom'd band; 
Mom, for the I.amh is the light thereof; 
Light of the beautiful city above. 
Piffiird, N. Y., 1862. 
Thus we see the broad and triumphal 
sway of woman. 
Now, if cadi one of this gallant band, throughout 
the United Stales, should seek how much she could 
do to aid her couulry in the maintenance of its God- 
given rights, we would have no fear in regard to 
the direlul effects of rebellion. If each mother 
would encourage her sons to forsake their loved 
homes and go forth to fight manfully the battles of 
their country, for the perpetuity ol their country’s 
honor and glory; if each sister would bind the war¬ 
rior’s sash upon her brother and friends, pointing 
out the perilous condition of our land, and urging 
to the rescue of all that is dear to American hearts, 
how immensely our present army would be swelled, 
how short would be the contest. Each mother, sis¬ 
ter, wife and friend should remember that their 
sons, brothers, Ac. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
ASLEEP WITH THE FLOWERS, 
The rose and the lily are passed away from the 
gardens of earth, their sunny tints grown dim 
beneath the yellow finger of decay, their fragrance 
gathered, and tlieir beauty gone. Only dead and 
dying leaves cling around the fading stalk, and the 
eye no longer lingers lovingly upon the many 
colored blossoms of the flitting summer time. We 
look in vain for the brightness they have scattered 
along the mazes of life’s pathway, and sorrow that 
of all earth’s beautiful there remaineth nothing of 
which we say not. “passing away.” 
The rose and the lily are indeed gone, yet a fairer 
flower than these did the autumn spirit bear away 
on its never pausing pinions. A fairer than these 
hath faded from an earthly garden, and left dark¬ 
ness and the shadow of the tomb where yet a little 
while and all was life, and hope, and happiness. 
“ Hushed arc the lute strings.'’ for the fingers that 
were wont to make sweet music are folded calmly 
over a heart that no longer bounds merrily to the 
very happiness of living. The red lips part no 
more with light or loving word, and the home 
friends, to whose great, love that kindly voice was 
sweeter than the warbling of birds, listen in vain to 
catch the sunshine of its merry tones, and seek to 
put l’ar from them the knowledge that they may 
greet its echo never more in life. Asleep with the 
flowers. 
“Ah, meet it was that one, 
Like this young friend of ours, 
So gentle, and so beautiful, 
Should perish with the flowers.” 
With the flowers, and as the flowers, that young 
life has gone out ere time had stolen one flush from 
the soft check, or traced one line on the fair white 1 
brow. 
She will not watch the rose give place to the lily < 
on Ihe cheeks of those who are dear to her, and i 
weep that all her might of earthly love is powerless < 
to save. She will not pour her unavailing tears < 
upon the heart-graves of the dead hopes that rose so 1 
are no better to be sacrificed 
upon the altar of our country than those oi others. 
If all should say there will be a sufficient force 
without my friends, what would be the condition of 
America and American institutions to-day. Why, 
indeed, our States would be overrun with desperate 
and blood-thirsty villains from their Southern lairs. 
Hence, let each true-American woman, who has a 
spark of patriotism in her bosom, who has any 
desire to behold her own dear land again restored 
to peace and tranquility as before, do all in her 
power to send her relatives and Mends to the assist¬ 
ance of our Government, now passing through its 
darkest and most doubtful hour of peril. a. c. 
Moravia, N. Y., 1862. 
urmg perseverance, as lor hidden treasure. What 
boundless sources of pleasure and profit are opened 
to those who delve deep in that mine which is ever 
opening new and richer veins to the miner's anxious 
gaze, prompting to deeper and deeper search. Of 
such wealth it is noble to be miserly. Behold the 
faithful miner as ho brings up lrom tho infinite 
depths gem after gem of priceless value: see what 
a strange light gleams forth from the soul-lit eye— 
what an exultant smile lights up tho countenance 
beaming with intelligence. Think ye that he finds 
not that which affords him a holy, undying pleasure 
—a pleasure that elevates and brings him nearer tho 
sphere the glorious Giver designs for His creatures. 
Who would not bow a williug votary at the shrine 
of knowledge, and dwell forever in the temple of 
the “ goddess of wisdom ?” Who would not quench 
his thirst at her crystal fountains, and roam in 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
SOMETHING ABOUT POETRY. 
Poetry and Genius have received only approxi¬ 
mate definitions. Critics do not agree, and the pur¬ 
pose of this paper is to suggest some thoughts on 
two extreme theories. 
Says Mac are AY, “ by poetry we mean the art ol 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
AFTER THE FUNERAL. 
In almost every household there is an enshrined 
memory, a sacred casket where a lock of shining 
hair, a ring or faded picture, tells of some one long 
since gone. The younger children, as they grow 
up, learn to look on the picture of the dead brother 
or sister as on th.e face of an angel. They wonder 
il'ihey ever shall be as good as they were! They look 
with tender awe upon the various relics of a sister 
never known, tho broken playlhing, the unfinished 
piece of work with the rusted needle just where she 
left it; and seeing their mother's tears, and hearing 
her talk of the child that was or would have been 
more lovely or intelligent (ban any of the rest, they 
meekly wonder if limy shall ever deserve to be 
loved as much as she was who is now in heaven. 
The orphan, longing for a mother dimly 
remem¬ 
bered. is sure if she had lived he never could have 
dishonored her, never could have been ungrateful 
or disobedient. 
Yet our daily life together is subject to many dis¬ 
turbances. Parents forget to be patient with their 
children; the noisy, trying little things are often 
roughly treated, their feelings wounded, and their 
gayety chocked; children of a family quarrel and 
overbear; friends grow critical and cold. To look 
upon the surface of general domestic and social life, 
it sometimes seems as if there were a few only 
who would not be happier separated. But when by 
death some are removed, then only can we measure 
the real depth of affection that was cherished for 
them. 
One beautiful trait of our humanity is the tender¬ 
ness with which we cherish the memory of the 
departed. Let death take from the household the 
troublesome and ungovernable child, and all that is 
remembered is his sweet and gentle words, his rare 
qualities, his loving way, his beauty and manliness. 
The child stands before his parent’s eyes, not as 
what he was, but as what he might have been had 
all God put in him been perfected by love and 
grace. He is now always “dear child" in their 
thought, and no longer selfish and unlovely. The 
children long for their dead companion with real 
and tender grief—they would be pleasanter were he 
back again: they are surprised to find how much 
they loved him. Friends long to have the oppor¬ 
tunity, now lost, to show their love. Why did I not 
prize him more—why did I not Ferve him better, is 
the universal feeling. 
Our cemeteries, carefully kept and richly orna¬ 
mented, may sometimes betray the harsh ostentation 
of wealth, but usually the polished and elaborate 
marble speaks the tenderness of grief; striving to do 
here wliat it feeds had been left undone before. 
Absence lends, to a less degree, the same halo of 
perfectness. So soon as we are separated from 
those we really love, then they seem more than ever 
desirable and necessary to us, and we send back 
messages of regret for past selfishness and unfriend¬ 
liness. 
the great central attraction of home. Perhaps their 
sorrow, from the very nature of woman’s duties, 
will he keener aud more lasting than the sons’, 
whose more busy lives give less time for sad reflec¬ 
tion. Their minds are stored with the precepts she 
had taught them, aud when they go Jonh to homes 
of their own they will remember and repeat to their 
children the precious words of wisdom. Tho loss 
of a mother is a life-long one to daughters. Often, 
often, when trouble comes to them, they will think, 
“ O, if mother were only living she would know 
just how I feel.” 
Sad and lonely must that home be from which the 
mother has gone forever. b. c. d. 
Geneva, Wis., 1862. 
A grand old tree is a sacred thing. There are 
other and greater reasons for sparing it than the 
siuger gave Ihe woodman. If a mansion be destroy¬ 
ed. it may be built again; ii a parchment has grown 
dim, the record maybe retraced; if a tablet be worn 
smooth, is there not an “Old Mortality" to deepen 
the lines anew? But if a tree is felled, no wit nor 
wisdom of mortal make can rear its shaft again, or 
kindle iff blanching arms to lifo. One that it has 
taken the Almighty years to build—“ according to 
law’’— JHs law —that has held it to earth as-with 
living fingers in a grasp that one hundred winters 
could not loosen—it seems almost a sin to rive it 
into rails, or sacrifice it to fire. 
Anchored thus, as with the fingers of an Almighty 
hand, how the winds have paid it tribute; how 
silently it has gathered strength and beauty from 
the thin atmosphere and the drops of crystal rain; 
how Nature has mantled its northern side with 
moss, and how it has extended iff arms to the rising 
sun! It seems strange to us so grand a column 
should be felled without a cause. So great a life 
should not be quenched without a passing thought, 
that the blue air would slowly close around the 
place il filled, and for an hour or two we might 
descry its azure outline, before the vandal wind 
would waft it quite away; and we sigh as we think 
that nevermore within our little day that earth shall 
wear the shadowy mantle of a tree, the air be filled 
with the soft whispering of leaves. Few sights are 
sadder than a murdered tree. 
interest. To reconcile this fact with his theory, be 
resolves Milton's poem into a number of small 
ones. It should be remembered that Poe was par¬ 
ticularly fond of short poems, and, much as he 
disliked Longfellow, he yet admired many of his 
shorter pieces. 
Macaulay was a giant, beside whom Poe was a 
pigmy. The “Country Parson” says “Poe is a 
humbug.” Perhaps the worfby Lord would read 
and enjoy the “Raven” which Poe tells us was 
written in accordance with his theory, but he cer¬ 
tainly never would write such a poem. Nay, we 
doubt whether he could write such a one. His 
mind had the appreciative element, but not the 
creative , for such a. poem. If he wrote poetry it 
must bear the impress of his gigantic mind, and, 
like Milton, lie must weave into it something oi' 
his universal knowledge. While Poe wrote the 
“Raven” and “Lenore,” Macaulay wrote the 
“Lays of Ancient Rome.” Christopher North, 
after having studied English poelrv for years, con¬ 
cluded that Paradise Lost was the great poem of 
the age. Now, where is iff power? Is it in pro¬ 
ducing an excitement, or an illusion on the imagin¬ 
ation? The latler seems more nearly the correct 
view, and hence Macaulay’s 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
GIRLS-NO. III. 
PUNISHMENT OF CHILDREN 
In the March number of the Atlantic Monthly the 
“ Country Parson ” lias a charming little essay on 
“ The Sorrows of Childhood,” in the course of which 
be makes these remarks: 
“ An extremely wicked way of punishing children 
Darkness is 
is by shutting them up in a dark place, 
naturally fearful to human beings, and the stupid 
ghost stories of many nurses make il especially fear- 
iul to a child. It is a stupid and wicked thing to 
send a child on an errand in a dark night. I do not 
remember passing through a greater trial iu my 
youlh than once walking three miles alone (it was 
not going on an errand) in the dark, along a road 
thickly shaded with trees. I was a little fellow: but 
I got over tbe distance in half an hour. Part of the 
way was along the wall of a churchyard —one of 
those ghastly, weedy, neglected, accursed-looking 
spots, w here stupidity lias done what it can to add 
circumstances of disgust and horror to the Chris¬ 
tian's long sleep. Nobody ever supposed that this 
walk was a trial to a boy of twelve years old. so 
little are tbe thoughts of children understood. And 
children are reticent; I am telling now about that 
dismal walk for the very first time. And in the ill¬ 
ness of childhood children sometimes get very close 
and real views of death. I remember, when i was 
nine years old, how every evening, when 1 laydown 
to sleep, I used tor about a year to picture myself 
lying dead, till I felt as though the coffin were clos¬ 
ing around me. I used to read at that period with a 
curious feeling of fascination, Blair's poem, ‘The 
Grave.' But I never dreamed of telling anybody 
about these thoughts. I believe that thoughtful 
theory is the correct 
one. 
We see as visiblk realities the beauties of Para¬ 
dise and the indescribable horrors of Hell, and flee 
the void 
“where eldest Night 
And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold 
Eternal Anarchy.” 
And the more we study, the more perfect is the 
illusion. The same is true of the “ Raven.” All is 
before us. The “ ebony bird,” sitting on the “ bust 
of Pallas,” croaking bis “nevermore,” is distinctly 
seen ;—it is an illusion on the imagination. So of 
other poems. Longfellow’s “Evangeline” pro¬ 
duces the same effect,—we see the exiles leaving 
their homes and follow Ihe beautiful maiden in 
all her wanderings. Bryant’s sweet poems and 
Saxe’s punning satires have the same influence. 
Macaulay's theory shall be ours till a better one 
is furnished, and our motto ever be 
“ Porta nascilur, non fit .” 
8t. Armancl, C. E., 1862. L. B. Hibbard. 
I heard a man who had failed in business, and 
whose furniture was sold at auction, say that when 
tbe cradle, ihe crib, and the piano went, the tears 
would come, and he had lo leave the house to be a 
mail. Now there are thousands of men who have 
lost their pianos, but who have found better music 
in tho sound of their children's voices and footsteps 
going cheerfully down with them to poverty, than 
any harmony of chorded instrument. Oh. how 
blessed is bankruptcy, when it saves a man's chil¬ 
dren. 1 see many men who are bringing up their 
children as I should bring up mine, if. when they 
were ten years old, I should lay them on a dissect¬ 
ing table and cut the sinews of their arms and legs, 
so that they could neither walk nor use their hands, 
but only sit still and be fed. Thus rich men are 
putting the knife of indolence aud luxury to their 
children’s energies, and ihey grow up, fatted, lazy 
calves, good for nothing at twenty-five but to drink 
deep and squander wide, aud the father must be a 
slave all his life iu order to make beasts of his chil¬ 
dren. How blessed, then, is the stroke of disaster 
which sets the children free, and gives them over 
to the hard but kind bosom of Poverty, who says to 
them “ Work,” aud working makes them men.— 
Beecher. 
When we are 
What to do with Troubles 
fully conscious that the cup of adversity lifted to 
our lips by the hand of God, is lifted by One who 
tenderly loves us, and whom wo supremely love, it 
beoomea sweet,—even as the bitter waters of Marah 
became sweet when touched by the wand of the 
prophet. Says a great writer—alluding to a fact in 
natural history:—“ The cutting and irritating grain 
of sand, which by accident or incaution has got 
within Ihe shell of the pearl oyster, incites the living 
inmate to secrete from his own resources the means 
of coating the intrusive substance, and a pearl is the 
result. And is it not, or may it not be even so with 
tho irregularities and unevenness of health and 
fortune in our own case? We too may turn diseases 
into pearls.” 
True Courage. — For a man to say that his soul 
is incapable of fear, is just as absurd as to say that, 
from a peculiarity of constitution, when dipped in 
water, be does not get wet. You, human beings, 
whoever you may be, when you are placed in 
danger, and reflect upon the fact, you feel afraid. 
Don’t vapor and say no — we know how the 
mental machine must work, unless it be diseased. 
For the thoughtful man admits all this—he admits 
that a bullet through bis brain ivould be a very 
serious thing for himself, and likewise for his wife 
and children —he admits he shrinks from such a 
prospect— he will take pains to protect himself from 
the risk, but he says that if duty requires him to 
run the risk, he will run it. This is the courage of 
the civilized man, as opposed to the blind, bull-dog 
insensibility of the savage. This is courage — 
to know the existence of danger, but face it never¬ 
theless. 
The Mother. 
The greatest moral power in the 
world is that exercised by a mother over her child. 
Demand not from her systematic account of it. She 
L acts from inspiration more than from calculation, 
-H and perhaps never says to herself what I say to you. 
0 God is with her in her work, and here is the. secret 
She appears to you perhaps to guess at it; but let 
" M her alone. She understands it better than you, and 
tT will accomplish more by guessing than you by 
-g\ your reasonings and calculations. Rely upon God 
X and the maternal instinct. “As a general rule, to 
which at least I have hardly seen exceptions,” says 
§ a contemporaneous writer, “ Superior men are all 
Y tlie children of their mother .”—Adolphe Monod, 
Tuning the Heart for Prayer.— The musician, 
before he can discourse sweet music, must tune his 
instrument aright; but if it be not in tune, he will 
not produce music. Iu like manner the heart is to 
be attuned for prayer. Unless this be, no petition 
uttered will constitute prayer. The neglected 
instrument cannot be put iu tune by a single act of 
the hand. Tho neglected heart eaunot, be put in 
tune by a single act of the will. It may require 
much time and effort, but, till it be done, prayer 
cannot be offered. 
M ike truth credible, and children will believe it; 
make goodness lovely, and they will love it; make 
holiness cheerful, and they will be glad in it; but 
remind them oi themselves by threats or exhorta¬ 
tions, and you impair the force of their unconscious 
affections — your words pass over them only to be 
forgotten. 
Faith is a star that shines brightest in the night¬ 
time of trial, desertion, and tribulation. 
