A BRIDE IN THE LAND OF ROMANCE 
W iiat more nominally romantic than an Oriental 
bride, a bride in Persia? And yet see how Dickens 
describes her, in ‘‘All the Year Round:'’ 
A Persian bride, when first brought, is a queer 
little body, fattened up with rice and sweetmeats 
for the occasion, and sadly besmeared with cosmet¬ 
ics. Collyrium has bee ; u put upon her eyes to 
make them soft and languishing, and they are also 
elongated by some means, so that they may have the 
shape of ahnondB. Her hair is dyed of a coal black 
by indigo, or of a reddish brown by indigo and 
henna mixed with it, according to her own fancy, or 
of the broker. Her eyebrows are plastered and 
painted so thickly, that they look like a large piece 
of court-plaster cut into arches, and stuck upon her 
face. I say a large piece, because they are joined 
artificially by a thick line acrosg the nose. Her 
cheeks are painted in excessively bright colors, and 
two shiny locks of hair, gummed together, are stuck 
fiat on each side of them, in the shape of number 
sixes placed the wrong way. Her hands and feet, 
fingernails and toe nails, are dyed a lightmahogany 
! color, with henna. She has no more shape and 
figure than a bolster. Poor little thing! she plays 
such tricks with herself, generally, that at twenty 
she is au old woman, with her skin all shriveled and 
burnt up by canslicBand poisoned pricks of needles. 
This old, undersized creature waddles about the 
apartment of her new lord in the finest and largest 
troweera possible. She puts ou a great mauy pair 
of them, and is as proud of the size of her legs as a 
British damsel is of the size of her crinoline. 
She wears a smart embroidered jacket, with short 
sleeves, and a pretty chemisette, of some light, 
white si k material, embroidered with gold threads; 
but her arms and neck, are bare. She hangs 
upon her little person as many jewels, gold coins, 
and trinkets as she can possibly get at. She is 
especially fond of pearl, and diamonds, but is not 
particular as to their beauty or value. A diamond 
is a diamond to her, whatever its shape or color 
may be. She is very (iue, but never elegant. Her 
mind is entirely uncultivated. She has neither 
education nor accomplishments; but. she has a good 
deal of flowery talk about, roses and nightingales, 
with an undercurrent of strange, roundabout wit 
and drollery. There is an utter want of delicacy 
aud modesty in her conversation. She knows a 
great many things which she ought not to know; 
aud, child as she is in years, she would outwit t-he 
wisest man who over wore a gray beard. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
A PRATER, 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
COME, SING TO ME. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE LOST DARLING. 
Fathkr above, 
Look down from heaven, and let oar prayer 
Thv pity move. 
All glorious Thou— 
Our souls in deep humility 
Before Thee bow. 
BT ANXIB M. BEAOn. 
BT MILLY MKRTOJT. 
Comk, sing to me. my soul is sari, 
Yet music sweet may soothe the pain, 
Wakiug up memories.—warm and glad,— 
Of joys that may be mine again. 
Bing not to-day of broken ties, 
Sing not of blighted hopes, sweet friend, 
I would not hear of sad good byes, 
Nor sorrow's dawning, but its end. 
Thy song shall be of faithful hearts, 
That hoped and prayed thro’sorrow’s night, 
Till, suddenly, the grief cloud parts 
Before a burst of joy’s glad light. 
And if there come a tide of tears, 
’Twill waft this weariness away, 
Which resteth like a cloud of years 
Upon my doubting heart to-day. 
Then, after sleep hath sealed my eyes, 
And I awake, ’twill all he o’er, 
The sunshine of my soul will rise 
Unclouded, as it was before. 
Ilow strange we are!—the grief’s to-day 
That o’er the heart have coldly crept, 
To-morrow, we may cast away, 
Smiling as though we had not wept. 
It must he so I The joy and pain 
Making life’s shadow and its light, 
But When the Better Land we gain, 
We know “ there shall be no more night.” 
Cambria, N. Y ,, 1882. 
Mt darling babe—my beautiful, 
T’m gazing on him now ; 
But his cheek is pale, and blue eyes closed, 
And icy cold his brow. 
His dimpled hands are folded o’er 
His pure and sinless breast, 
Like some fair rose bud crushed at mom 
He lieth now at rest. 
He sleaps in peace—but O, my heart 
Is filled with anguish sore, 
L For I know on earth my darling 
Ik Will waken —nevermore. 
That I no more my babe shall clasp 
Close to toy loving breast, 
^ 1 At twilight dim, as tired with play, 
4 , u, sinks to peaceful rest. 
No more to list for pattering feet, 
Nor feel his soil arms twine 
Around my neck in fond embrace— 
Such joy® no more are mine. 
But O, my Father, at Thy feet 
I lay my burden down ; 
Help me to meekly bow and say 
Thy will, not mine, be done. 
Indianapolis, lud , 1882. 
By nature weak, 
Defiled by sin. Thy cleansing grace 
Aud strength we seek. 
Wayward and blind, 
To guide our erring feet a light 
In Thee we find. 
Thine is our breath, 
In Thee we live, on Thee depend 
From birth to death. 
Remove our feara, 
And ever guide us safely through 
The vale of tears. 
Thy watchful eye 
AU dangers see, afar or near, 
In earth or sky. 
The battle’s rage, 
The ocean’s fierce contending wares, 
Thy hand doth guage. 
Thou numberest 
Our days—Disease and Death obey 
Thy stem behest. 
Sorrow to all 
In measure meet as seemeth good 
To Thee, doth falL 
The joys of lore, 
From hearts that fondly cling to earth 
Thou dost removo. 
Never permit yourself) or any one, to repulse a 
child’s simplicity of confidence, in the matter of 
either question or remark, by a contemptuous laugh 
at its ignorance. On this point I have a life long 
feeling, which, I trust, as you have reaped the ben¬ 
efit of it, is not unhonored by you, and will influ¬ 
ence your maternal conduct through life. 1 can not, 
even at this later day. better express my sentiments 
than I did in a email volume published when you 
were much younger than you are oow, and which 
you must pardou me for quoting with increased 
earnestness, now that it is addressed to my own 
beloved daughter:—“It is most unwise, and on the 
parent’s part cruel in the extreme, to meet with 
ridicule, or harshness, or contempt, a child'B early 
efforts at expressing its thoughts, or at obtaining 
fuller information on subjects that are floating in its 
mind and have perplexed its juvenile comprehen¬ 
sion. Often has my heart ached over an intelligent 
child thus repulsed from the threshold of knowledge, 
covered with shame and mortification, aud para¬ 
lyzed by discouragement; and 1 have seen, in 
the bewildered countenance, the quivering lip. and 
the drooping head, the evidences that a cruel, per. 
haps fatal, blow had been Btruck at that important 
element, of all improvement, and advancement in 
life, self-reliance—and at that filial confidence which 
lies at the very foundation of filial obedience. .... 
Let one voice be beard in behalf of the timid, gen¬ 
tle, confiding child of your affections; and let not 
the simple, perchance foolish, question or remark, 
which in the ignorance of childhood it may utter, 
be responded to by the crushing burst of merriment, 
the cruel rebuke, or the harsh rebuff; lor each time 
that this occurs you place a barrier between that 
child and knowledge, destroy its peace, awaken its 
distrust, and sever one of those delicale threads of 
affection by which God, for benevolent ends, has 
bound that child's heart to its parents, and upon 
which, under God’s blessing, reals your only hope 
of guiding it through the snares of youth, and of 
recovering it from evil associations, should they for 
a season lure it from ihe rightful home of its affec¬ 
tions and duty.’—“ Letters to my Daughter" by li. 
A. West. 
[Written Tor Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
SCOLDING AND SUGGESTING, 
I don’t oiten write. I’m too old, and have too 
many cares. But I can’t help it now. Endurance 
is no longer a virtue. 11 Old Maids,” “ Old Maids,” 
and «Old Bachelors"—tit for tat, and vice versa ; a 
pretty, little girl’s and boy’s quarrel over the differ¬ 
ence between tweedle dum and tweedlo dee—or a 
smart little dialogue: “ Your hair is black.” “Well 
yourB is dark brown.” “’Tisnt. ’ “ ’Tis.” “taint, 
“’Tis.” “I say taint,” “Isay’tis.” “Taint.” “’Tin.” 
« Taint, ain’t ’ut” “ ’Tis-is-s,” etc., etc., ad nau¬ 
seam. 
What in the name of all that is womanly, is the 
profit of quarreling with coxcombs, who are too 
silly and shallow to attract attention in any other 
•way than by writing about something they know 
nothing about, and likely never will, namely— 
Woman. Here is a “Ladies’ Department” in the 
Rural, which ought to be filled by its lady readers 
with something profitable to them —which it is ap¬ 
parent, is open to them for this purpose, and which 
the Editor of the Rural would like to have them 
make a medium of profitable communication with 
each other on topics both interesting and profitable 
tr, them —in such a way as to reflect their intelli¬ 
gence and talent —their minde and hearts. Then, 
1 should like to know, why all this fiddle-faddle 
about old maids, etc.? Isn’t it plain that Old Maids 
exist by Divine forbearance or law? What is, is 
right; hence old maids, arc a necessity. It young 
men don’t like them, let them “place their affec¬ 
tions” on younger maids—that's all. 
But pray, isn’t there something really sensible, 
elevating, purifying and profitable to talk ab ut in 
this department? Are we willingSentimental “Sue,” 
or Melancholy “Maggie,” or Silly “Sally,” should 
talk this ineffable nonsense to hopeless slip-shod 
bachelors. Jn short, isn’t there something belter in 
our minds and hearts, women, young and old, with 
which to fill this department of our respected Ru¬ 
ral ? 1 believe so; and if I am at all seconded by 
the expressed sentiment of the Rural family, I will 
do what I can—little though it be —to rescue this 
department from these notoriety-seekiDg slouches 
of both sexes. 
Now, pray, don’t think I'm a vinegar-faced, old 
woman because I've talked plainly. I love all that 
is good and true—delight to see brightness and 
vivacity, spice aud vim in. all the. discussions con¬ 
cerning the philosophy of social life. But T do hate 
twaddle I and, like a woman, 1 can’t, hate it long 
without saying so, and then I feel better! Let’ 
have some other question lor discussion, then, be¬ 
side “Old Maids” —cant, we? There are questions 
of duty in social life, of duly in domestic life, of pro¬ 
priety in both—vital questions affecting our daily 
lab or—worthy of discussion, demanding our best 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
BEAUTIES OF NATURE AND ART, 
Our idols vain, 
Worshiped in haughtiness of pride, 
Thou dost disdain. 
Ambition's toil 
And lust of hateful avarice, 
Thy will doth foil 
For discontent 
And grasping greed, Thou hast prepared 
Fit punishment 
The nations learn 
To fear Thee, when thy wrath in war 
Doth fiercly burn. 
In pity, Lord, 
Regard our faults, and bend our will 
To keep Thy word. 
Forgiveness free 
Aud gift of everlasting life 
Belong to Thee. 
Thy power to save 
All men from just desert of sin, 
We humbly crave. 
Do thou implead 
Oppression's wrong—and bless and keep 
Our friends in need. 
The old chimney corner! It is endeared to the 
heart, from the earliest recollections. What dreams 
have been dreamed there! What stories told! what 
bright hours passed! It was a place to think in, a 
place to weep in, to laugh in, and much the coziest 
place in the house to rest in. It, was there where 
dear old grandmamma used to sit at her knitting, 
warming her poor rheumatic back against the warm 
wall; where grandpa used to fall asleep over his 
newspaper; where mamma used to place her spin¬ 
ning-wheel, and papa used to sit there too, and read 
in the great arm-chair. 
It was there where you used to read fairy tales in 
your childhood, folded all so snug, and warm, and 
cozy, in its great warm lap, while the wiud of a win¬ 
ter's night was whistling without. Your favorite 
plum-cake was never so sweet as when eaten there, 
and the stories you read by the sitting-room fireside 
were never halt so fascinating as those read in the 
chimney corner. 
If you were sad, you went there to cry. If you 
were merry, you, with your brothers and sisters, 
nestled there to have a right merry time. Even 
puss and the house dog loved the old chimney 
corner! 
Look back to the old house, whore every room, 
every nook is so full of pleasant recollections —the 
family sitting-room, where were so many happy 
meetings: your own chamber, with its little window, 
“where the sun came peeping in at morn;” mother’s 
room, still sacred with her presence. But, after all, 
Ever to shine 
Upon their path, vouchsafe to give 
A fight divine. 
Uncertain we 
Of death's approach, remind us still 
Watchful to be. 
The holy Cross, 
Discerned by taitli, our hope shall be 
When tempests tosa. 
’Till time shall end, 
Aud call to judgment wakes tin soul. 
Bo Thou our friend. 
CORRECTION OF CHILDREN. 
Never correct a child hastily, or in quickness ot 
temper. The cases arc rare, indeed, where imme¬ 
diate punishment is necessary or expedient. When 
an offense is committed that merits correction, or 
is attended by circumstances that make correction 
expedient, as a rule it is better, both for the child's 
sake and your own, that time be allowed tor reflec¬ 
tion. Count it. no sacrifice of time or patience, and, 
least of all, of parental dignity, to reason with the 
offender, to explain the nature of the offense, and 
the necessity for its punishment. One correction 
thus calmly bur. firmly administered, is a hundred¬ 
fold more potent tor good than a hasty severity, and 
will rarely need to be repeated if followed by con¬ 
sistent conduct on the parent’s part. On the other 
hand, when your judgment tells you that, correction 
ought to be administered, do not shrink from the 
duty, whatever the sacrifice of feeling or conve¬ 
nience. Some occasion will almost certainly aii-e, 
when, ou the part of your child, there will be plain, 
positive, intended rebellion against your authority ; 
not a passionate outbreak, but a stubborn, open 
revolt. In that case you must accept the challenge, 
making everything give way to the permanent set¬ 
tlement of that question. The best manner of doing 
this will depend much upon the age of the child. 
The rule tor your guidance is, that you are to assert 
your power rather than exhibit severity. Let there 
be sufficient of this, however, to show that you are 
displeased at its conduct, and then let the demon¬ 
strations ot your power be gradual and cumulative. 
Be in uo special hurry to close the contest, but give 
the little insurgent time to measure the disparity 
between you, and to realize the wisdom of unquali¬ 
fied submission. After that, revolt, and its suppres¬ 
sion, the child is in your hands to be made almost 
what yon will.— Ladies' Depository. 
The glory Thiue: 
And everlasting praise to Christ 
Satiou Divish. 
[Written for Moure's Rural New-Yorker.] 
“IT IS I, BE NOT AFRAID.” 
“ The ship was in the midst of the sea tossed with 
waves,” and Christ their Savior waa gone. The 
Master had constrained his disciples to get into a 
ship to go before him into the land of Gennesaret, 
while he departed into a mountain alone to pray. 
But the winds were contrary, and the “poor fisher¬ 
men” toiled aud rawed wearily until the fourth 
watch of the night. They were tired and discour¬ 
aged, aud, no doubt, felt nervous over the night's 
labor; and when Jesus came, walking on the sea, 
they were troubled, and cried in great fear, “ It is a 
spirit!” What did Jesus do?—did he stand afar off? 
— did he pass by ou the other side?—did he weigh 
the matter long, and keep the poor terrified seamen in 
suspense and affright? Ah, no! “ But straightway 
Jesus spake unto them, saying, 'Be of good cheer; 
it is I, be not afraid.' ” With what exceeding great 
joy the disciples welcomed that well-known aud 
well-loved voice. They forgot their fright and the 
storm aud waves, for their 8a\tob was near, and 
Peter, with all the eagerness of his impulsive 
nature, asked, “Lord, if it bo thou, bid me come 
uuto thee on the water." He wished to do all the 
Master could, aud Jesus said “Come.” Peter 
hastened, stepped down out of the ship upon the 
waters, but when he felt the boisterous waves aud 
raging winds, his faith failed him and he began to 
sink, when he cried “Lord, save me!” Peter's 
faith aud trust failed in the time of his direst need. 
But he kept his eye on the Savior, and cried tor 
mercy. And Jesus, did he let Peter rise and 
sink, and sink and rise, aud wait until the last gasp 
and struggle, as many do at the present day, when 
called upon to help a poor fellow struggle!’ over 
life’s boisterous pathway? No! No! “But imme¬ 
diately Jesus stretched tbrth his hand and caught 
him, and said unto him, 'O thou of little faith, why 
did'et thou doubt?”’ How could he doubt, when 
the Savior was so near ? Because he trusted in his 
own strength, and not Christ’s. What a lesson on 
faith was that for Peter, and what a lesson for you 
and I, reader, if we do not doubt but believe. 
I have read the touching and beautiful scene of 
Cubist walking upon the waters mauy times, as 
given by the apostle Matthew, audit always thrills 
my bo ul with renewal trust, utnl confidence, and 
faith, on the all-sufficient and all-powerful mercy 
and love ol the blessed Savior. "It is 1, bo nut 
afraid,” is ihe euro promise of One who knoweth 
and seelh all things, and when the dark and billowy 
waves of adversity nigh overwhelm us—when those 
we have, loved au«i trusted, bet ray—we need have no 
feat - if we look to Christ, and believe and trust all 
to Him His hand is waiting, His voice calling, 
“Come.” “I will never leave thee nur forsake 
thee," What a blessed, precious promise is that, 
though every earthly friend may prove a Judas, 
though storms assail, and winds beat, and enemies 
defame, if we have Jesuh for our pilot, let us be ot 
c/ootl cheer and be not afraid, for He will steer our 
ship surely and safely over the shoals of hu and 
temptation, and past every danger. He reaches 
forth his hand, saying to all, "Come!-’ 
THE TURN OF LIFE 
Between the years of 4ft and 60 a man who 
has properly regulated himself may be consid¬ 
ered in the prime of life. His matured strength of 
constitution renders him almost impervious to at¬ 
tacks of disease, and experience has given Bound- 
nees to his judgment His mind is resolute, firm 
and equal; all his functions are iu the highest order; 
builds up a competence on the iouudfttiou he has 
formed in early manhood, passed through a period 
of life attended by many gratifications. Having 
gone a year or two past sixty he arrives at a stand¬ 
still. But athwart this is a viaduct, called “ The 
Turn of Life,” which if crossed in safety leads to 
the valley of “ old age,” round which the river 
winds and then beyond without a boat or causeway 
to effect its passage. The bridge is, however, con¬ 
structed of fragile materials, and it depends upon 
how it iH trodden, whether it bend or break. Gout 
and apoplexy are also iu the vicinity to waylay the 
traveler, anil thrust him from the pass; but let him 
gird up his loins and provide himself with a fitter 
staff and he may trust in safety, with perfect compo¬ 
sure. To quiet metaphor, “ The Turn of Life,” is a 
turn either into a prolonged walk, or into the grave. 
The system and powershaving reached their utmost 
expansion, uow begin to either close like flowers at 
sunset or break down at once. One injudicious 
stimulant, a single fatal excitement, may forfeit be¬ 
yond its strength, whilst a careful supply ol props, 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
ANOTHER OPINION. 
“ There is a certain something about woman that 
makes it seem to us that her natural place is iu the 
house, and makes us dislike to see her engaged in 
out-door work.” 
How to Treat a Wasp.— “Listen,” said I, 
“ listen and attend, aud you shall have a moial and 
example. When the wasp uow on the window 
entered you flew at it with a kind of violence. I 
wonder it don’t sting every one ol you. Now, in fu¬ 
ture, let a wasp, when it comes, have its little bout 
aud make its little noise. Don’t stir a muscle—don’t 
move a lip — be as quiet as the. statue of Venus or 
Diana, Or anybody of that sort,uutil the wasp seems 
inclined, as at this moment to settle. Then do as I 
do now.” Whereupon, dipping the feather end of 
the pea in a crust of salad, I approached the wasp, 
and in the softest and tenderest manner possible, 
just oiled it upon the body—the black and yellow, 
like grooms’ waistcoats—when down it fell, turned 
upon its back, and was dead in a minute. “ There 
girls,” said 1, “see what kindness and a little oil 
dues. Now here’s ray moral and example—When a 
husband comes home iu au ill humor, don't, cry out 
aud fly at him, but try a little oil—iu fact, treat your 
husband like a wasp." 
There exists iu the consolation given by a woman, 
a delicacy which has always something motherly, far¬ 
sighted, and complete; bur when, to these words of 
peace and hope, are joined the grace of gesture, that 
eloquence of love which goes to the heart, and par¬ 
ticularly when the benefactress is beautiful, it is 
impossible to resist. —Balzac c 
I have taken her into my heart by faith till We 
are “ no more twain but one.” No union of spirit 
can be imagined more perfect than may be realized 
perhaps, even here.— Smith, 
Thus said a gentleman to me a 
short time since, as I was speaking of the necessity 
of a lady’s understanding driving horses, milking 
cows, and the like accomplishments, especially iu the 
country among the Ruralitos. Well, it made me 
feel just as if I would like to see him hung by the 
suspenders, not till he was dead, but till he was con¬ 
vinced of the folly of such a speech. It is getting 
to be very fashionable around little villages, partic¬ 
ularly for girls, to scorn the idea of milking. If you 
hire a girl to do housework now-a-dajs, before she 
decides to favor you with her company, she must 
know whether there is any milking to be done, it, 
isn’t pretty work, it soils the hands. “ Do you 
milk?” is a common remark to me, “why I am so 
afraid of a cow I wouldn’t milk for nothing.” Now 
my notion is that this is all “gammon.” It is not 
always necessary for a woman to do out-door work, 
but whenever it is, that woman who feels above 
doing what she can to help her husband, father, 
or brother, is just one peg below a simpleton, and 
L have always noticed that those int*u who make 
the most ado about “feminine women,” are the very 
ones who are the most ready to sit down and let 
a woman wait upon them. 
Managing horses is another very unmaidenly 
thing. It is very common to have a poor, old, su- 
perann ated horse that is perfectly safe for a wo¬ 
man to live. ,She has him “ hitched up for her,” 
and she takes the lines and holding them on a 
level with her ir se hangs on as if her life depend- 
ard's spots? It beams in the soft eye of the sby 
gazelle and awes in Leo’s bold, though generous 
mien. And once saw we true beauty veiled in hu¬ 
man form. In the stillness of evening, a mother 
knelt beside two sleeping babes. With clasped 
hands and face upturned to heaven, that mother 
prayed to Gou on high. And who shall paint the 
glowing beauty which shone upon her brow? ’Twas 
the spirit that we Baw,—effulgent beneath its clayey 
tenement. Devotion’s every grace, was there in¬ 
scribed. And consciousness of peace with Got), 
and hope that those dear babes should meet her iu a 
happier clime, lit up the countenance with that calm 
smile which angels may be wont to wear. Ah, 
thought we Nature's own pcncilings must win the 
palm front all competitors. And though a Phidias 
or a Raphael may almost catch the breathings of 
Nature, they caD never equal her, because Omnipo¬ 
tence is the Parent of Nature, man the lather of Art, 
Sumner, Iowa. 1862. R- u. g. 
aud the withdrawal of all that tends to torce a plant, 
will sustain it iu beauty and vigor until night ha6 
entirely set iu .— The Science of Life, by a Physician. 
Hope writes the poetry of the boy, but memory 
that of the man. Man looks forward with smiles, 
but. backward with sighs. Such is the wire provi¬ 
dence of God. The cup of life is sweetest at the 
brim, the flavor is impaired as we drink deeper, aud 
iho dregs are made bitter that we may not struggle 
when it is taken from our lips. 
Money should be regarded with a certain serious¬ 
ness; for it is the quintessence, or representative, of 
the gills of Providence aud the toil of mam It is 
hard to get and easy to spend. There is peril and 
blesseduess in it. To the wise and good, it is the 
best of all servants; to the weak and foolish, it is 
the most terrible of all tyrants. 
Though love cannot dwell in a heart, friendship 
ay; the latter takes less room and has no wings. 
