Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
MEMORY, 
in a temporal as well as spiritual point of view, 
that “eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard, 
neither hath it entered into the heart of man to 
conceive the good gifts that are in store for 
those who are faithful in every good word and 
work.” 
I bare one word to say in behalf of women 
who are ruining their husbands by extravagance 
—believing that much might be averted if there 
was an exact account kept of the family expen¬ 
ses. Each try to assist the other in doing it, 
and spend no money for any purpose that you 
would wish to conceal from one another. Thus 
a mutual confidence would be strengthened, 
which Is so necessary to domestic happiness. 
And let every woman see to it that her husband 
docs not sign any application for tavern keepers 
or grog shops to sell intoxicating liquors, the 
use of which is so fearfully increasing in our 
country — depraving the, senses oi the noblest 
work of God’s creation, and reducing him who 
was made a little lower than the angels, to the 
stupidity of the beasts that perish. Let every 
woman cry out agalnt this gigantic evil and ex¬ 
ert all the inlluence she possesses to eave her 
husbaod, brother or son ere it be too late. Let 
us retrench our expenses in these times of close 
pruning, that the sin of their destruction may 
not rest upon us. Let us bear impressively in 
mind that no licenses for the sale of Intoxica¬ 
ting llqnors can be granted, unless the names of 
twenty freeholders arc attached thereto, and let 
no Intelligent farmer so far forget his manhood 
as to be decoyed into any such degredation. 
This Is the prayer of your sincere friend. * 
There is a shady vale to which all may turn 
when the mind is weary with the present and 
the future looks dark and gloomy. It is the 
garden of Memory; In it dwell hopes and forms 
and scenes of long ago. How silent commu¬ 
nion in this blessed retreat strengthens and 
refreshes us! The pearly stream of happiness 
ripples along between shady banks, lined with 
trees that are laden with the fruits of duty and 
contentment. The refreshing breeze of remem¬ 
brance cools our burning brow. At our bidding 
there comes thronging before us loved forms, 
and bright thoughts arise that leave ua happier 
and better for the influence they bring. 
Clearest and most welcome among all the 
voices of loved ones there comes a mother’s 
gentle tones. Ob, how we love to recall each 
accent. How the remembrance of the simplest 
word sinks deep into our hearts. The happy 
days of the past afford a strange contrast to the 
present. And yet there is a corner in Memory’s 
spacious garden wherein are consigned the deep¬ 
est griefs that childhood could ever know. An 
unkind word or look of disapproval then had 
power to cause bitter tears to flow. If the re¬ 
membrance of a mother’s love brings exceeding 
joy, the grief is as great when wc dwell upon the 
last houre of this loved one. This was our first 
great grief, and afterward came trouble, thick 
and fast, because her gentle counsel and conso¬ 
lation had left 06 forever. 
The fields of Memory abound with alternate 
Joys and sorrows, over which we love to linger, 
for in them we live again childhood’s hours.— m. 
THE MEMORY OF THE JUST 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker, 
WELCOME SPRING. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker, 
GOLDEN DAYS. 
As 'mid the ever rolling sea. 
The Eternal Isles established be, 
'Gainst which the billows of the main 
Fret, rage, and break themselves in vain; 
As In the Heaven.*, the urns divine 
Of golden light forever shine; 
Though clouds may darken, storms may rage, 
They still shine on from age to age. 
So, through the ocean-tide of years, 
The memory of the just appears: 
So, through the tempest and the gloom, 
The good man's virtues light the tomb. 
Welcome fair goddess of the year, 
Whose charms increase as time advances 
Bedeck thy brow-no graceful peer 
Regards thee with ungenlal glances. 
Welcome! How our lives have grown, 
Than as the Icy winter colder— 
Sweet visitant from clime unknown 
Unlock the heart of each beholder. 
With breath perfumed from violet dells, 
Infuse with love oar inmost being— 
Let fancy wreathe her magic spells. 
For down life's track we all are fleeing. 
Welcome 1 Smile on us all we pray, 
Though old or cold or ill de«ervlng, 
Wo ope our hearts to thee to-day— 
Our love for thee is still unswerving. 
We greet with joy thy warbling voice, 
With joy thy silken emerald tresses— 
Spirit of sunlight be our choice, 
As thine, a charm that ever blesses. 
May wc, e'en though oar spring be o’er, 
Bear ever the pure oil of gladness, 
That when we reach the other shore 
We go not o’er In fear and sadness. 
nr ELIZA o. CROSBY. 
We stand beneath the sunny skies, 
And we feel the softened air. 
And catch the songs of merry birds. 
And the Bccnt of flowers fair; 
And like an incense from the heart, 
Rise unspoken words of praise 
To the Maker of all beauties, 
For the spring-time's golden days. 
Golden days each season bringeth; 
Summer has them burning bright, 
Lying with a quivering heat 
Over pastures daisy-white; 
And they shine on fruit and harvest 
Richer through the autumn haze; 
And the snowy robe of winter 
Gem-like gleams on golden days. 
Golden days has each swift season, 
Cloudless skies and sntiahine bright; 
Happy hours has each life-epoch. 
Filled with friendly lore and light; 
We look around on human life, 
And In sin's deadliest ways 
We find no life so wholly dark 
That has known no golden days. 
Golden days In the far future 
Shine O’er intervening years, 
To young eyes no shades revealing, 
Arching rainbows over tears. 
Ah, young form, with high hope thrilling, 
There are depth* of shadow dark— 
Weary toil and fruit of ashes, 
Ere you reach the shining mark. 
In the world's turmoil and struggle, 
Turning from the weary maze, 
Manhood’s thoughts roam ever backward 
To hie childhood’s golden daya, 
When the parents’ love protected, 
And there came no thought of care, 
And bright angels hovered near him 
Wafting up his evening prayer. 
Aged forms that Unger waiting 
Close beside death’s river brink— 
Ask them where is greatest blessing, 
What of golden days they think: 
They have caught the distant gleaming, 
Seeing dimly as through haze, 
And will point beyond the river, 
Saying, “ there are golden days.’’ 
Golden days wc each remember, 
Sunny with the light of eyes 
That are dosed In dreamless slumber, 
Opened now beyond the skies. 
Burdened hearts, O wait in patience, 
Though are shadowed all your ways, 
Murmur not, and In your future 
There will come some golden days. 
Life's true golden days depend not 
On the brightness of the skies, 
For to make them dark or sunny 
In our hands the magic lies: 
For a life of noble action, 
Though grief may darken the way, 
Brings happy hours, and leads at last 
Where life is one golden day. 
Rome, N. Y., I860. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker, 
GOD’S JEWELS. 
BY JEAN ROWLEY. 
The some one who wickedly remarked that 
the use of language was to conceal ^thoughts 
was wrong, of course, hut then, (as a’wise old 
lady once remarked,) “sometimes I wonder, 
and then again I don’t know." We certainly 
couldn’t get along without it, but as long as the 
world stands millions of unruly members will 
“tattle, tattle still,” and millions ofjslandered 
an d abused human beings will sigh “for Christian 
charity under the sun." If there were Jmore of 
this last named article In circulation, doubtless 
one of God’s noblest gifts to man would not be 
so perverted, but I suppose there is no use in 
wishing. St. Paul, to be sure, recommends It 
very highly, and we all know that children (and 
sometimes those of a larger growth) cry for it; 
but for all that, people are carefuFnot to import 
it in too large quantities from the native country. 
A little girl listening to a minister evidently 
blessed with sound lungs, Is said to have queried, 
“Mother, If that man lived up nearer to heaven 
would he have to talk so loud ? ” Never, until 
by prayer and faith wc draw nearer to a better 
country, Bhall we becomo more charitable and 
trnthful. 
No one has a real honest doubt that there are 
jewels in the world. We may have caught 
glimpses of gleaming, flashing brilliants in halls 
of mirth, where the proud wearers have Bwept 
past us and lost themselves again in the thronging 
crowd; or we may have only seen a pictured 
semblance of the great Koblnoor,*and, shutting 
our eyes, have tried to imagine those cold, hard 
outlines filled with “ white light broken Into rain¬ 
bows." Bntwe know, too, that there are imita¬ 
tions. There are “sham pearls, ” mocking the 
pure, pale brightness of real gems —“paste dia¬ 
monds,” which no rich Settings can ro-illumcafter 
the first deceitful glitter has faded. We are far 
more apt, however, to esteem the false as real, 
than the real as false. As well do we know that 
there arc real Christians. Yct concerning G od’s 
jewels, a certain class thluk it fine to appear to 
be skeptical. TVriiafis it is well that it is 60 . If 
all the restraints of public opinion and remark 
were removed, and each soul felt itself accounta¬ 
ble to God jfloae, I fear there would bo less 
rather t$an (Store religion in the world. It 
must be diamond hut diamond, or there will he 
no Jewel—only a duW, shapeless, formless stone. 
Does this make it auy easier for the Christian to 
endure the grating, Bcraplng, filing and sawing 
with which he is assailed on every side ? Most 
certainly not 
The days of wholesale martyrdom arc nearly 
past. Doubtless the cutting and polishing pro¬ 
cess is still carried on in remote corners of the 
earth by persecution as relentless and hitter as 
ever of old. Doubtless many, from loathsome 
dens of poverty, disease, famine and crime, in 
whose blighting atmosphere we wonder tbat a 
germ of truth can live—and from beds of suffer¬ 
ing where, unchecred, unhelped, they have lain 
and tossed for days, and months, and years — 
reach up to and find heaven, But for most it is 
different. The days have come when “a man’s 
foes shall he they of his own household.” As I 
said before, people do not really doubt religion. 
Tiy them and you null see. “ I dont’t believe 
Christians are one bit better than other people,” 
says one. “Why?” “Oh, they are 60 mean; 
they have such narrow minds and souls to match. 
Now, there’s Deacon A.; he’ll go Into a prayer 
meeting and talk and pray like a saint, and come 
away and drive full ns sharp a bargain as most 
sinners. He thwarts and crosses his children, 
abuses bis wife, overworks his help, and gives 
fifty cents a year to the heathen.” That last 
remark was evidently intended to finish both 
the Deacon and yourself. “Stay; do you know 
uothing good of Deacon A?" Ah, he assured, 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
SELF-PRAISE IS NO COMMENDATION 
Written lor Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
A BABY GONE HOME. 
Perhaps there are some — I may say many — 
who will glance at the heading of this and either 
pass it by with a sneer, or throw the old Rural 
aside, declaring that its pages are becoming filled 
with “disgusting nonsense,” and commence 
conversing with farmer A., or B., or whoever 
may have the patience to hear them, about their 
“splendid” horses, or “extra” dairy—unmind¬ 
ful of the vain endeavor of their restless listener 
to change the subject of conversation to a more 
worthy and more profitable theme. Yes, he 
must hear, if ho hears at all, the exaggerated 
truth of his neighbor’s boyhood days, or those 
of liis nearest relatives. There are families—in¬ 
telligent, well-meaning people—who are seldom 
visited, for no other reason than the disgust of 
their abominable bragging propensities. As 
soon as you cross the threBhhold, a “ chip of the 
old block ” steps boldly op to you with, “ we’ve 
got seven little pigs, and you 'aiut got but four!” 
or “sis,” throws a great rubber doll before you 
that you may admire it, and of course you must 
praise it or the “ old folks” will begin^ “ That’s 
the largest, best looking dolt we could find in 
Watertown!” 
Reader, please stop with me for a moment and 
reflect; sum up all the conversation of those 
evenings when you were bragging of your cat¬ 
tle, horses, swine, Ac., and what does it amount 
to?— simply nothing . You spent your time and 
gave to your neighbor the key to your charac¬ 
ter gratis, and, undoubtedly, much against his 
wishes. Do you fancy you “live, move, and 
have a being” to perform Borne charitable labor 
—which Is the duty of all men—-and then, when 
you have done, spend & week in scattering the 
perfume, for such to you it is, of your owu name 
among your neighbors? Remember the rose 
blossoms for another to pluck. The world will 
hear of your good deeds soou enough;—and 
what if it never hears of them ? Is not the one 
you rescued from the closing waves, or sheltered 
from the storm, a living witness to your deeds— 
a sharer of your generosity ? Is it not enough 
to know that you have, performed deeds worthy 
of the world’s commendation and the approval 
of the Impartial Rcwarder ? It is better to feel 
the fond embrace, or hear the voice of unfeigned 
gratitude from oue saved by your hand, than the 
praise of a thousand flattering tongues. “Let 
your light, so shine before men that they may 
sec your good works,”—not hear of them through 
the mediation of your own tongue or some con¬ 
fidential flatterers, and it will &liine pure —not 
through a twice-smoked glass. 
What if yon did give a gold dollar to the gray¬ 
haired beggar, and your neighbor saw you not ? 
What if you did adopt into your family the poor 
cast-away orphan, and friends did not commend 
you ? It was no less worthy of commendation; 
but eelf-praisc would cast a dark shadow over 
the good already done, and the deed would he 
looked upon as done merely for the praise. 
Again:-Self-praise is the precusor of false¬ 
hood-falsehood of the blackest dye — for there 
is no reason for it but the insatiable lust to be 
lauded. Let a person commence to praise him¬ 
self and before he is aware the truth will not be 
sufficient; hut falsehood, every ready, will fly to 
his aid, growing bolder and holder, leading him 
on and teaching him how to “ stretch the truth,” 
and not know it until his good works arc all 
eclipsed and he ca9t into outer darkness. There 
is nothing that appears more absurd to true com¬ 
mon sense than to hear a person always telling 
of the wonderful feats he has done,—what “ we 
are going to do," or what “ we have done,” when 
he never did more than his plain duty. 
Self-praise at best lasts but for a moment, and 
is gone! For a season all is well, and you glide 
down the stream of Fame without a stroke of 
the oar; hut when you reach the cataract of 
Truth —what then? Self-praise will not bear 
you safely over the fulls, and you are precipita¬ 
ted—amid the shouts of happy and joyous spec¬ 
tators—over, down, into the dark abysss of For¬ 
getfulness, your well-earned abode, never to rise, 
though every nerve be called to help, and the 
few worthy deeds you leave behind are unnoticed 
aud unpraised. 
Reader, if you cannot speak without praising 
yourself, be silent; better be dumb than thus 
murder your character aud render yourself abom¬ 
inable in the eyes of intellectual humanity. 
Belleville, N. Y., 186(5. 
WHAT WILL YOU HAVE! 
Boast of your little live baby to-day and call it 
all your own; to-morrow it may he numbered 
among thd things that were. Four short weeks 
ago, und we had a baby in our home. We 
thought ’twa* all our own —to watch, and love, 
through all the growing yearn of childhood. 
More than thirty »ea9one had waxed and waned, 
and the old homestead had not boasted “ A baby 
in the house," until last rosy June placed a tiny 
bird in our nest; and oh! how tenderly wc loved 
and cared for tt, and home was so happy. It 
lingered with us until the last cold winds of 
March moaned round our dwelling, and then Our 
little one ceased Its carol, drooped and faded like 
a blossom from our home. One mom, as day 
dawned, relentless Death touched hia icy finger to 
his little heart, and it ceased its beatings. Then, 
oh then , “ all our sunshine grew strangely dark.” 
Oh, our darling gone, gone forever/ Grandpa, 
whose form bends ’ueatb the weight of more 
than eighty winters, has lost, his little plaything. 
The old house again is silent and lonely. The 
little empty crib stands in the parlor, the little 
baby wrappings, the lock of hair, and the shadow 
of the little form, caught as it was about to re¬ 
cede from our 6ight forever, are all that now 
remain to tell us there has been “ a baby in our 
home.” 
“And a little child shall lead them." Was 
this why our little one was granted aud recalled 
almost as soon as given ? Perhaps, for we hope 
to meet him, sometime, where there will be no 
more partings. 
“ Another little form asleep, and a little spirit gone— 
Another little voice is hushed, and a little angel born; 
Two little feet are on the way to the home beyond 
the skies, 
Aud our hearts are like a voice that cornea when a 
strain of music dies. 
‘‘A pair of tiny, tiny shoes, and a lock cf golden hair, 
The toys our precious darling loved, and the dress he 
used to wear; 
The little grave within the nook, where the flowers 
love to grow— 
These are all that with us now remain, of our loved 
one here below.” Babt’s Mother. 
Onondaga Co., N. Y., April, 18(56. 
The following vivid sketch was introduced by 
the late Dr. Alexander into his “ Letters to 
Workingmen.” He writes in the character of 
a workingman: 
After a day’B work of copying, I was under 
the mortifying necessity of waiting an hour in 
the tap-room of a low tavern, to secure the ser¬ 
vices of a mail-guard, who was to carry a parcel 
for my employer. Amid the smoke, the spit¬ 
ting, and the clatter of n crowd of Inn-huntera, 
I could not but find »ome subjects for reflection. 
Tbe presiding genius of the bar was a bloatc^, 
whiskered young man, whom I had long known 
as the abandoned son of a deceased friend. I 
sighed, and was silent. Ever and anon, as 
Bquads of two or three approached his shrine to 
receive and empty their glasses, ami deposit 
their sixpence, I heard this short formula of the 
bacchanal minister, “What will you have? 
brandy? gin? punch? What will you have?” 
Aud the victims severally made their bids for a 
“ smaller,” a cock-tall, a sling, or a julep, as the 
case might be. 
“ Metliinks I can answer this question,” said 
I to myself, as I cast a glance around the murky 
apartment. And first to the young shoemaker, 
w ho, with a pair of newly-finished boots, Is ask¬ 
ing for grog. “ What will you have?” Young 
man, you will 6oon have an empty pocket. 
There comes my neighbor, the bookbinder. 
His hand shakes as he raises hts full glass. Ah, 
Shannon! I dread to say it; but you will have 
tlic patsy. 
The glasses are washed out., not cleansed, in 
the slop-tub. under the bar-shelf. Now a lresh 
bevy comes up, cigar in hand. “ Gentlemen, 
what will you have?” I choose to supply the 
answer for myself thus: The baker there will 
have an apoplexy or sudden fall In the shop. The 
tailor In green glasses will have, or rather has 
already, a consumption. Aud I fear that the 
three idlers in their train will have the next 
epidemic that shall sweep off our refuse drunk¬ 
ards. 
Sorry am I to see in this den Mr. Scantling, 
the cooper. Not to speak of himself, I have 
reason to believe that both his grown sons are 
beginning to drink. He looks about him sus¬ 
piciously. Now he has plucked up courage. 
He takes whiskey. You will have a pair of 
drunken sons. 
GOOD HINTS FOR WIVES AND HUSBANDS. 
[The following letter from the wife of a subscriber 
in Westchester county, N. Y., contains hints and sug¬ 
gestions worthy of being heeded by all to whom they 
are addressed.—E d.) 
We wish the back numbers of Rural from 
the commencement of the year, that the volume 
may be complete for binding. You will please 
understand that we do not use our papers for 
kindling-wood or tear them up as too many are 
in the habit of doing; but the five volumes of 
the Rural that we have, are filed and put to¬ 
gether iu stiff, home-made paste-board covers, 
with muslin on the backs, and figured wall-paper 
instead of embossed cloth on the outside—being 
all a domestic aff air, but strong, and wc can truly 
say tbat our library has no book better patron¬ 
ized. The children find in it an inexhaustible 
source of entertainment, aud the house-keeping 
columns arc rich in ideas which we have profited 
by in many ways. I hope that department will 
enlarge, for certainly rnnch of our success de¬ 
pends upon the proper and judicious manage¬ 
ment of house-keeping. 
It is an old saying that the wife can throw out 
of doors with a teaspoon as fast as the husband 
can bring in upon a shovel, or rather waste more; 
and I believe every word of it. Khe can by care¬ 
lessness, wastefulness and slotlifulnc&s drive her 
husband to bankruptcy in a few short years; 
and, on the contrary, though he be only a day 
laborer, she can, by prudence aud economy, lift 
him from the pit aud so encourage him by her 
efforts that they will soon have the satisfaction 
of being the possessors of a home all their own. 
“ But if,” I hear some oue say, “ they have a 
number of small children, and the mother is 
sickly—then what ? ” Oh, that alters the case a 
little, but let me say that sickness docE not enter 
the poor man's dwelling, in the country especi¬ 
ally, in one case Out of a hundred, because, no 
doubt they live mofe healthfully for want of 
means to do otherwise. So their poverty is a 
real blessing to them in that, respect. 
It is truly astonishing to reflect upon how lit¬ 
tle we really need t o satlsfiy the daiuimds of Na¬ 
ture, and how far short ihe great mass of man- 
kiud come from observing these necessities. 
Instead of “ eating to live,” as we ought, the 
adage is reversed, and an incalculable amount of 
misery follows in its train. Intemperance in 
eating and drinking, 6inoking and chewing, is 
the paramount evil of the day, and I believe has 
slain more than the sword during the late 
terrible rebellion. Oh, that men were wise and 
could realize the unalloyed happiness that is in 
store for those who live to use and not abuse 
the good gifts of a bountiful Creator! The earth 
yields its increase an hundred fold to those who 
arc willing to earnestly labor for it. I believe 
POWER OF AFFECTION 
Dr. Bei.frage was twice married. His second 
wife was a woman of great sweetness and deli¬ 
cacy, not only of mind, but to his sorrow, of 
constitution. She died after less than a year of 
single aud unbroken happiness. There was no 
portrait of her. He resolved there should be 
one, and though utterly ignorant of drawing, 
be determined to do it himself. No one else 
could have had such a perfect image of her in 
his mind, and he resolved to realize the image. 
He got the materials for miniature painting, and 
I think, eight prepared ivory plates. He then 
shut himself up from every Qne, and from every¬ 
thing, lor fourteen days, aud came out of his 
room wasted and feeble, with one of the plates 
(the others he had used aud burnt) on which was 
a portrait, full of subtle likeness, and drawn and 
colored iu a way no one could have dreamt of, 
having bad such an artist. I have seen It, and 
though I never saw the original, I felt it must 
he like, as, indeed, every one who knew lier,Eaid 
it was. I do not, as I said before, know any¬ 
thing more remarkable in the history of human 
sorrow and resolve. 
LITERATURE IN HINDOSTAN 
Last year, as we learn by a Paris letter in the 
Cougregatlonalist, no less than seventeen new 
journals, printed in the Hindoo language, were 
established in various parts of Hindostan. They 
curiously indicate the tendency of the Oriental 
mind to highly figurative ‘expressions. The 
names ol some of theta are: “ The Fresh Gar¬ 
land," “ That which Refreshes the Spirit,” “The 
Be6tNc\vs,” “The Light of the Eyes," Ac. One 
is a law, another a scientific journal, and these, 
with the others, abound in poetry. Books on 
various subjects, as geography, commerce, sci¬ 
ence, Ac., arc numerous, and every one ends with 
a poem, the subject of which is love. The fol¬ 
lowing is a specimen: 
“ The spring has come, let us walk in the gar¬ 
den. I will make thee garments of rose leaves. 
How long wilt thou conceal thyself, tliou whose 
beauty would excite the envy of Laila? Show 
thy face out of thy palanquin to me, who am 
mad with love for thee! Dost thou not wish to 
bathe iu the river of my tears ? ” 
Jewelry of a Princess in the Interior 
of Africa. — Dr. Livingston, in his recently 
published account of his voyage up the great 
river of Eastern Africa, says the sister of one of 
the chiefs wore eighteen solid brass rings, as 
thick as one’s finger, on each leg, and three of 
copper under each knee; nineteen brass rings 
on her left arm and eight of brass and copper on 
her right; also a large ivory ring above each 
elbow, or seventy-one rings iu all. She had a 
pretty bead necklace, and a bead sash encircled 
her waist. Tbe weight of the bright brass rings 
around her leg6 impeded her walking and chafed 
her ancles, but as it was the fashion she did not 
mind the inconvenience, and guarded against 
the pain by putting soft rags around the lower 
rings. So much for fashiou. 
Air is a dish on which one feeds every minute, 
thcrelore, it ought always to he fresh. 
The following beautiful lines are the last the 
late Thomas Hood ever wrote: 
Farewell. Life I my senses swim: 
And the world is growing dim: 
Thronging shadows cloud the light, 
Like the advent of the night,— 
Colder, colder, colder still, 
Upward steals a vapor chill; 
Strong the earthly odor grows,— 
I smell the mold above the Rose! 
Welcome Life! the spirit etrives. 
Strength returns and hope revives; 
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn 
Fly like shadows of the morn,— 
O’er the earth there comes a bloom,— 
Sunny light for sullen gloom. 
Warm perfume for vapors cold.— 
I smell the Rose above the mold! 
