IIexrv, and Daniel Webster, willlongbe remem¬ 
bered as the greatest of orators. Could Webster 
have lived until now. and seen our glorious Union 
torn asunder, and that immortal league broken 
which was cemented by the blood of our fathers, be 
could have done as much to palsy the traitor's arm 
as all the batteries of the Potomac. 
One more name completes our catalogue of the 
illustrious. It is Washington. At its pronuncia¬ 
tion every true American heart beats with a feeling 
of profound gratitude. Well has he been called the 
“ Father of his Country.’’ What would have been 
our present condition had Washington never pre¬ 
sided over our armies, is a problem which Inlinite 
Wisdom alone can solve. Go to our National Cap¬ 
ital. and in the shadow of that gigantic monument 
pointing to HeaveD. tell us who could have taken 
his place in the Revolution? The silent voice of 
that mighty structure tells more for the memory of 
Washington than all the eloipience of a Demos¬ 
thenes or a Cicero. We have examples of brav¬ 
ery in Ajax and Achilles, of eloquence in Demos¬ 
thenes and Webster, of philanthropy in Howard 
and Wn.BEBFOKCE, of military skill in Bonaparte 
and Alexander, of Christianity in Wkslet and 
Whitfield: but when we blend them all in one, 
it is Washington. He possesses a more enduring 
monument than was ever built of stone or marble,— 
it is the remembrance of posterity. As long as the 
American people recollect the terrible struggle that 
established our independence, so long will the name 
of Washington be recognized as the brightest star 
in the constellation of true American heroes. 
Albion, N- f„ 1862. W. I II. 
changes. The shadow of a heavy sorrow darkens 
the hearthstone, and could we discern, we should 
see angels waiting on the threshold. The mother, 
with pale brow and quivering lip, now bends over 
her heart’s darling, and breathes a voiceless prayer 
for help. He whom we last saw clothing himself 
with gospel armor, now kneels in his closet, wrest¬ 
ling in prayer for submission to his Father's will; 
for he knows that his only son. the cherished, gen¬ 
tle-hearted boy, is passing away with the flowers he 
loved. Fit time; he was so like a half-opened, 
blushing rose, gathered just when it gave richest 
promise of fragrance and beauty. Even now the 
h weet face wears that nameless spell by which we 
know the spirit is putting on its angelic robes. 
With the setting sun, and last words of love, he has 
passed to his dreamless sleep. Then, when earthly 
love could do no more, the mother yields her idol 
up to God, and peace folds his wings over her heart. 
Again darkness hath thrown his vail over the 
city, and kind friends gather round the stricken 
group to speak tremulous words of sympathy, and 
bid them God speed on their journey; for the night 
train will bear them away to bury their dead beside 
the loved aud lost of past years. Tenderly and 
filly the man of God reud3 holy words of trust and 
hope, and breathes a prayer to Him who smites in 
love. Once more they gather round the marble 
form, reposing in the narrow couch of the tomb. 
Flowers wreathe his pillow, and the loving little 
hand clasps the last fragrant offering of a mother’s 
love. Blinding lears dimmed that last look, and 
aching hearts were pressed down with the coffin lid. 
One has passed out, who will never more return, 
through the household door. 
Who shall know the thoughts of the mother’s 
heart, as hour after hour runs by, and they speed on 
in the darkness, with the flashing of a thousand fiery 
sparkles, clouds of smoke, and the din ol rushing 
locomotive enveloping their flying tenement. In 
silence, and in tears, she rests upon the bosom of 
her husband, who, so shaken, yet so calm and 
thoughtful for her, would fain bear her grief with 
his own, 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
LIFE AND DEATH, 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
THEN AND NOW. 
Wri.r. and I went picking’ berries 
Just one little year ago, 
Up in gran'pa's old cow-pasture, 
■Where the fern and elethra grow. 
Sitting ’ncatli t[ie grand old chestnut 
Where the spring goes Babbling by, 
Willik'h face grow very thoughtful, 
Very earnest was his ey e. 
“Mat,” lie said, “my country calls me— 
I'iijust pick this afternoon, 
Then I'll say ‘good-by 1 to mother— 
Yes. i can’t be of!’ too soon.” 
Something choked me—not a berry, 
Though they nodded ripe and low ; 
1 was thinking—coulil I help it.?— 
Could I let my WtLUK go ? 
For a vision rose before me 
Of a held of niad'ning fight, 
And a face (twa? just like White’s) 
Lying upward, stark and white. 
’Twas but fancy—I’d not falter— 
T would be as brave as he ; 
“ Will,’’ I said (my voice was husky), 
“Go help win the victory 
“Thank you. MAY,” Willie answered, 
Then how silent each became 
Thinking, as we filled our baskets, 
One of sorrow, one of fame 
Was it fancy, or a vision, 
That I saw that summer's day • 
Willie's comrades said tiiey found him 
Where the dead in battle lay, 
Smiling sweetly, gazing upward 
As though seeing angels there, 
While the life-blood stilt was ruddy, 
Dabbled in bis golden hair. 
All alone I'm picking berries 
On this summer afternoon ; 
Willie waits for me in Heaven ; 
Willie went, and not too soon. 
[Springfield. Republican 
BY MARY M. BARNES. 
Give us life, our daily prayer is. 
For we ever shrink from death— 
Shrink from lying in the charnel 
When is gone this vital breath ; 
For the path ad own the valley- 
Hidden is from mortal sight, 
And k kmr we each must trace it, 
Seeking through its gloom the light. 
“ Wilt Thou. Father, guide me ever— 
Guide me through this sinful strife, 
And I know. then, true the saying, 
Life is death, and death is life. 1 ' 
Thus a fair young maiden munnnred— 
Prayed for guidance in the way, 
Asking that, through coming danger, 
Got- would keep her till the day 
The mom came. With golden fingers 
Casting off the robe of night, 
Waking earth to love and duty 
With a blessing for the light. 
But the sunlight lingers vainly 
On the lips whence comes no breath- 
Beams not forth the eye responsive ; 
And the car/h-hound call it dcatli. 
But to him, with eye prophetic. 
Through the mists beholds the shore 
That, the darkling water washes, 
Whence the tide sets nevermore, 
Come there ever visions holy— 
Faces free from care and strife 
Smile forth sweetly from that haven, 
And the Angels call it life. 
Millville, N. Y., 1862. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE POET BURNS. 
Robert Burns was born of humble parents, in a 
small cottage cm fhe banks of Boon. ITis father 
was a farmer, and supported himself and family by 
working leased land. Robert’s poetical genius 
showed itself at an early age. but his lather had not 
the means to give him a good education, nor spare 
him from the farm, so Robert was obliged to follow 
the plow, and turn out his rhymes while he turned 
over the furrows. But a genius like his could not long 
be kept behind the curtain, for ■' wisdom beholdeth 
her children afar off." At the present time his 
songs are in almost every hamlet, cottage, and pal¬ 
ace in England and America. Some of his best 
pieces were composed after ho returned from Edin¬ 
burgh and retired to his farm near Dumfries, and 
which he purchased trom the labors of his pen. 
Here is a pattern for farmers’ boys. But while 
you practice his virtues, turn away from his vices. 
The most of you have snug snatches of his songs as 
you pursued your respective tasks; but did you 
ever think that he was a farmer’s boy, or that he 
once held the plow? There is not a farmer’s boy in 
America but has had more advantages than Burns 
in his early years. The most of you live in good 
houses, ride in comfortable carriages and drive gay 
horses, while he lived in a hut, (compared with the 
dwellings of the present day,) rode on a pony, or 
trudged on foot. But each of us cannot expect to 
be a Burns, or a Shakspeare. or a Milton, or a 
Byron, yetweean all be better than we are. Times 
have changed much for the better, even in my re¬ 
membrance. N<3w farming has become a science, 
and the farmer, instead of the “clod-hopper - ' of 
former days, is the reading and thinking man. 
There are some exceptions—some whose Alpha and 
Omega is to plow and sow. reap and mow, and get 
the almighty dollar into their pockets as soon as possi¬ 
ble, with the least w-ear and tear of brains. These 
will soon be crowded off the stage of action, and 
the boys must, take their placeB. Then let them 
show us whether our agricultural schools, books 
and papers, town, county and State fairs, have been 
of profit to them. It there are any young farmery, 
just commencing life, who do not take an agricul¬ 
tural paper, let them send for one immediately. 
Time Is money, and the Rural is time saved. 
The season is approaching W’hen the farmer has a 
good deal of leisure, and is therefore the time to 
improve the mind; and the greater part of that 
knowledge must be obtained from books aud period¬ 
icals. It certainly can not be gained by lounging 
in the village store, or around the tavern, or at the 
corner grocery. I would nol have you always stay 
at home, for you must move in society to take off 
the rough edges; but theie is reason in all things. 
Live soberly, be industrious, aud you will be sur¬ 
prised at your own success. 
Government appreciated the talents of Burns, 
and called him from his farm to more active duties. 
Government will find you, whether it be behind the 
plow- or counter, in the school-room or office. But 
if you are called, remember Burns’ tale of “Tam 
O’Shauter. Alpha. 
King's Ferry, N. Y.. 1862. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
“ COME UNTO ME.” 
Divinely sweet and beautiful invitation! When 
the spirit is wearily tossed upon the billows of 
Life—when darkness gathers o’er it, and it seems 
ready to be overwhelmed by the waves of despair, 
a voice amid the storm whispers “peace”—and 
in gentlest, most winning accents, adds—“come 
unto me." Laughing childhood sits for a moment 
thoughtful amid its mirth, as some heavenly miu- 
istrant brings to its tender heart the message:— 
“ Sutter little children to come unto me, and forbid 
them not." In youth's morning, when the sunlight 
is ’‘gulden,’’ hope’s blossoms unchilled by disap¬ 
pointment. and life seems one summer day, amid all 
the happiness which flows from a glad, loving 
heart, there comes ever to the spirit an appealing 
whisper, “ Come unto me.” 
The white-haired pilgrim grows weary with the 
toils of life. Long has been the way, and though 
here and there, flowers bloomed beside it, yet the 
thorns were many and pierced often rudely aud 
deeply. Care has oppressed, labor been earnest 
and overmuch, friends false, death merciless; alone 
the weary one still wanders. Yet, ever amid life's 
burdens and life's sorrows a voice is saying—“Come 
unto me. all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and 
I will give you rest." Blessed words! how like 
heavenly dew they refresh the weary, drooping 
heart. Rest! hallowed word! not for a Urfef period, 
but rest eternal. How many hearts are sighing for 
it? Struggling vainly, hopelessly, day by day, in 
life's contest, which heed not the voice that says, 
“ Come unto me." Eternal rest! We strive to com¬ 
prehend it—to grasp the measure of infinitude the 
words embrace: but vainly, aud, lost in wonder, 
cease thinking of the duration, and dwell only upon 
the holy, happy state of those who find at last re-t. 
And all are bidden, “ come.” Atorra of heavenly 
mien and purity walked the earth jpng centuries 
since, and gave the sacred invitation. Tis He who 
upon the bosom of tempest-stirred Gallilee said, 
“Peace, be still." The same who, when death's 
shadow rested upon a lovely cottage in Bethany, 
wept with the sorrowing Bisters, and from the grave 
bid their dearly loved brother “ come forth." ’Tis 
He who on the cross atoned for sin, and drank the 
cup which might not pasB trom Him. The same 
pronounced the name of the weeping one at the 
sepulchre, changing her mourning into joy at sight 
of her “risen Lord '—and now, in sweetest tones, 
says to earth's weary ones, “ Come unto me and 1 
will give you rest." It is whispered us in every 
Startlingly, a strong voice at her side 
calls “tickets." Three are silently handed out. 
Where’s the third one?" “In the coffin," jars upon 
her heart-strings. 
At length the rosy dawn appears in the east, 
familiar hills and vales appear and vanish in quick 
succession, and just as the sun gilds the oily spires 
and sparkles on the boar frost, they pause. Again 
the mother stands with eyes on the coffin of her 
darling, then turns to meet the embrace of sorrow¬ 
ing friends, who have come to convey them to the 
rural cemetery, where a fresh-opened grave and 
tearful group await their coming. 
So they left the casket, to rest 'neath the waving 
trees and flowery turf, till the spirit gem should 
return to beautify its earthly robe. 
Buffalo, N. Y., 1862. Mrs. F. A. Dick. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE ILLUSTRIOUS OF HISTORY. 
HOSPITAL STORES —LINT, FRUIT, &c, 
laid evenly "together iu hats, makes better lint than 
linen scrapings, because, in undressing a wound, 
the ends of the threads can all be taken hold of aud 
pulled off, without leaving so many fibres in the 
sore to irritate the flesh. After Being washed and 
boiled as many times as a worn out w hite garment 
usually has been, the cotton muRt have lost its 
medical properties, and if will absorb the discharge 
from a sore as well as linen, so that these two ob¬ 
jections to new cotton are done away with in the 
old. If our Army Surgeons would accept this kind 
of lint, a greater supply eould-bevsent them iu much 
less time than call be otherwise. 
To the ladies let me say, now that apples, peaches 
and pears are getting ready to preserve or dry for 
the soldiers, do not leave them to rot in the house 
(as I have known some to do), while you go tearing 
through brush and over fences, after a few miserable 
elderberries, “because they are so nice for pies’ — 
but remember that sour fruit tastes better to a sick 
person with only a little fever, than almost anything 
else. And when you are putting up a box for the 
sick soldiers, and find a small space unfilled, tuck 
in a bit of poetry, or an interesting story, cut from 
some old paper you do not care to keep, or a few 
words of encouragement and hope iroffi your own 
pen. to be perused by those convalescents who drag 
away so many weary hours with nothing to do but 
think of the dear home they cannot reach, even for 
a short time. It. is enough to wear them out,, to say 
nothing of the pain of wounds that, seems still more 
tedious, when the mind gets liilly rested enough to 
realize it and the body feels at ease elsewhere. I 
also put a piece ot poetry in each housewife 1 make. 
Yours for humanity's sake, a. 
Ionia Co., Mich.. 1862. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
RETSEY GREEN. 
“There’s another battle, Betsey.” said the 
tailor’s foreman, as he handed her a coat which 
lacked cord and button holes: “only six killed out 
of Charlie’s company, I believe; they’ve got the 
paper over there." And he pointed to the other end 
of the room where sat his employer and two or three 
other men. Betsey looked that way, and just then 
the owner of the shop rose and came toward her 
with the paper in his hand. There was such a look 
of sympathy and pity iu his eye, that she, appre¬ 
hending the worst, asked eagerly, as her heart 
almost stopped and her check paled, “ what's the 
news?" “ Another battle, yesterday:" and just then 
Betsey’s eye fell upon the report—“ only six killed 
in Company D;" but in the short list she read, 
“ Charlie Green, shot throil/jh the head." 
Four days afterward, a letter came from a fellow- 
soldier who stood by her boy when he fell. He 
said, “Ob. Dick! I'm killed —my poor mother"— 
gasped and died. There could be no mistake. It 
was her Charlie, his father’s image, her only child, 
her all: her Cuarlie. who kissed her “good-bye." 
the day he was eighteen; her Charlie, brave, noble 
and generous, a victim on Freedom’s altar ; her 
Charlie, young and innocent, slain for the dread- 
fti] ransom of a nation's guilt. Oh God, that they 
who have had no part in our great wrong must be 
daily sacrificed. He who suffered the pains of Cru¬ 
cifixion, died ilie just lor the unjust; and so must it 
be now. 
Betsey Green is sitting by her window; her 
sewing lies on her lap and her hands listless and 
idle: she has no nerve, no will; her heart is paral- 
i/.ed aud wrapped in sackcloth. The hours come 
and go; the sun roaches the noon-mark on the floor, 
goes over into the far off West, and she remembers 
but these words, -‘Only six killed, —Charlie 
Green shot through the bead!” “ Oh, Dick, I’m 
killed—my poor mother!” 
Genesee Co„ N. Y., 1862. Mary J. CuosmAM. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THREADS FROM THE WEB OF LIFE. 
A pleasant picture rises upon my vision. A 
cosy little parlor, or library, genially warmed by a 
cheerful grate, with a brilliant burner shedding 
light, to every corner. The shutters are closed on 
the inside, so'that the cold winter storm is not seen 
or felt by the inmates. One in the prime and vigor 
of manhood sits at a study table in the corner, with 
books and writing materials before him. and with 
rapid pen is committing to paper some of the high, 
earnest thoughts we see depicted on the gravp, 
intellectual face of the writer, and by which we 
know him to be a minister of Christ’s Word. 
Near the center of the room a small table con¬ 
tains a pile of school-books, and by it sits a young 
girl, whose quiet, dignified bearing, and thoughtful 
brow, proclaim her the eldest daughter. .She is 
intent upon the morrow's lessons. On the opposite 
side, a bright-haired, blooming IIkhk, of eight sum¬ 
mers, sits with her lavorite “songs for the little 
ones at home” before her. which she rejoices in 
with never-failing delight. On a sofa reclines a 
little form, too weary with the day's sports to be 
interested in books and pictures longer. Now the 
sweet young lace is nestled on the pillow, the silken 
lash droops heavily over the dark eyes, and with 
sweetly murmured words of love and “good night, 
he passes to the land of dreams. Iu the back¬ 
ground, through folding doors, we see a quiet tab¬ 
leaux—a cheerful grate heaped high with glowing 
coal, and pictures, mirrors, ticking time-piece, et 
cetera. reposing in the shadows, with the open 
instrument and favorite music inviting the accus¬ 
tomed voice of song. The only occupant, seated in 
the easy rocker, is revealed to us by the dim fire¬ 
light as the wife and mother; while the half shadow 
on her pale brow, and the thoughtful tenderness ol 
the gentle mouth, are suggestive of busy memories 
of the past, of the loved and lost, whose forms she 
ever sees mingled with her present cares, loves and 
joys. Thus we leave her; for if in saduess, it is not 
in repining that she gazes upon the ruddy coals, 
which, though destined to turn to ashes and dark¬ 
ness,—even as did her fond hopes,— do now 1 so 
pleasantly send forth heat and radiance to all 
around, even as does the peaceful love and trust of 
the Christian hope which warms lrer heart. 
* h * it * if # * 
Wintry snows have given way to summer flowers, 
and summer in turn is gracefully yielding to the 
golden and russet wreath of autumn. The picture 
Many are the matches which I have had against 
time in my time and in his time (i. e , in time's time). 
And all such matches, writing or riding, are memo¬ 
rably unfair. Time, the meager shadow 1 , carries no 
weight at all; so what parity can there he in any 
contest with him? What does he know of anxiety 
or liver complaints, or income tax, or vexations 
connected with the correcting of proofs for the 
press? Although, by the way. he does take upon 
himself, with his villainous scrawl, to correct all the 
fair proofs of nature. He sow’s canker into the 
heart of rosebuds, and writes wrinkles (which are 
his odious attempts at pot hooks) in the loveliest 
female faces. No type so fair but he fancies, in his 
miserable conceit, that he can improve it; no stereo¬ 
type so fixed but be will alter it; and. having spoiled 
one after another, he still persists in believing him¬ 
self the universal amender and the ally ol progress. 
Ah! that one might, if it were but for one day in a 
ceutury, be indulged with the sight of Time forced 
into a personal incarnation, so as to be capable of a 
personal insult—a cudgeling, for instance, or a duck¬ 
ing in a horse pond. Or again, that once in a century, 
were it but for a single summer's day. bis corrected 
proofs might be liable to supersession by revises, 
such as I would furnish, down the margin ot which 
should run one perpetual iteration of stet., steL, 
dtet.; everything that the hoary scoundrel had 
deleted — rosebuds or female bloom, beauty or 
power, grandeur or grace—-being solemnly rein¬ 
stated, aud having the privilege of one day's secular 
resurrection, like the Arabian phoenix, or any other 
memento of power in things earthly and in sublu¬ 
nary births, to mock and to defy the power of this 
crowned thief, whose insatiate scythe mows down 
everything earthly .—Thomas lie Quincy. 
MATRIMONY” IN FRANCE 
A married Frenchwoman is in every respect her 
husband's equal; he is not her lord and master, but 
her friend. •• Mon ami” is the title by which she 
addresses him. The law may require her to love 
him. to honor him by virtuous conduct, but not to 
obey him. lie has. indeed, a certain superiority in 
the management of their common interests, but her 
rights are none the more effaced for that: in certain 
cases her concurrence is indispensable, and she has 
a deliberate voice with an absolute veto. She re¬ 
mains the mistress of her whole fortune, by making 
a reservation respecting her personal property. 
The husband and wife are two partners who club 
their capital for mutual advantage, but who keep it 
distinct in their accounts, to facilitate any partial 
and complete dissolution. She can make her will, 
and leave her husband without a sou of hers; if she 
dies intestate, her property, in some cases, slips 
completely through his fingers. She must will it to 
him for it to be safe and sure. 
The profits arising from the industry of the hus¬ 
band and wife, and the savings they may be enabled 
to put by, form a common stock, to tbejhalf of which 
the wile is entitled. The law places such confidence 
in her, that in the event of her widowhood, she. by 
right, is the guardian of her children. Between 
brothers and sisters there exists a perfect equality 
as to their rights of inheritance from their father 
and mother. If the parents are inclined to disturb 
this equality, or to favor a third person to the preju¬ 
dice of their children, the law fixes limits to the 
power of bequeathing. A Frenchman can not put 
off an offending son and daughter with a shilling, 
nor can he impoverish his neglected family by leav¬ 
ing large sums to charitable institutions. 
Chenango Co.. N. Y., 1862 
ments in the divine life; while he who finds gu<“ 
difficulty in the exercise ot this virtue, and iu whose 
bosom rankle feelings of hatred and revenge, has 
great reason to look carefully into the grounds of re¬ 
ligious hopes. It is not enough to say that we for¬ 
give. Our forgiveness must be practical. " e 
must show by our acts that we have truly forgiven. 
We must endeavor to do our enemy as much good 
as be has done evil to us. By so doing, we shall 
soften the heart of our enemy, and perhaps even 
win him over to goodness. Were this spit'd of 
genuine forgiveness more common among those 
who profess to he actuated by Christian principles, 
it would do much towards banishing injuries, and 
those dispositions which lead to them, from the face 
of the earth. 
-- 
Man’s anger kills, but God’s anger saves. Man, 
in his anger, hurls the offender down inaccessible 
heights, and tells him. as he lies crushed and wound¬ 
ed. “Lie there forever. You are disgraced—you 
have a bad uame-you can never rise.” But God s 
anger casts the sinner out ot the prison ot sin, am 
then, when he lies helpless outside, tenders him 
grace to lift hitn to heaven. 
He who is conspiring against the peace of another, 
necessarily loses his own. 
Dirt on the character, if unjustly thrown, like dirt 
on the clothes, should be let alone for a while till it 
dries, and then it will rub off easily enough. 
It is far happier to be deceived than undeceived 
by those whom we love. 
