3S2 
MOORE’S RURAL MRW-YORKER. 
yesterday in our hearts, then well will it be for 
us, for they are continually warring against our 
better ones, causing us lo exclaim in our des¬ 
pair, “The spirit I* willing but the flesh is 
weak.” Evil contended with good at the be¬ 
ginning and gained the victory, and in so doing 
has seemed to have gained courage to renew its 
attacks ever s-Idcc. But we arc enabled, by the 
aid of a higher power, to trample the evil one 
under our feet sometimes, and rise above their 
influence. Then let ns endeavor with our noble 
deeds to build a platform 60 high and so strong 
that even the evil one himself will not dare 
attack us, taking for our motto, “Nothing but 
may be better, and every better might be best.” 
Lima, N. Y., 1866. Saba. 
Written for Moore’s Kara! New-Yorker. 
AUTUMN EVENING. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
MEMORY, 
BY A LICK CARY. 
Editor Rural:— Noticing a neat little article on 
“Memory” in the Ladies’ Department of your genial 
paper, recalled to mind the following beaulifal lines, 
which I have never seen in print. Please insert them 
if you think them acceptable: 
O’eh Memory’s page we scatter flowers 
Called from life's flowing river, 
To tell us of the happy hours 
That now, alas, have fled forever. 
Fadeless flowers, each a token 
Of blest attachment, De’cr to end, 
Shining round the chain unbroken 
That softly bindeth friend to friend. 
Oh! in some dimly distant year 
. They ’ll recull the long departed. 
And claim perhaps one pearly tear 
For the true, the gentle hearted. 
Sweet Mcrn/ynj'e tear —the heart’s pure dew, 
Beneath its gem-like drops of light 
Bloom hope and love, forever new 
From being's dawn until its night. 
Mil*. N. Bill ELDS WlTlIEIiON 
Dawn, Mo., Nov., 1SC6. 
Thou under Satan’s fierce control 
Shall Heaven its final rest bestow ? 
I know not,, but I know a soul 
That might have fallen as darkly low. 
I judge thee not, what depths of ill 
Boe’cr thy feet have found or trod; 
I know a spirit and a will 
As weak, bat for the grace of God. 
Shalt thon with full-day laborers stand 
Who hardly cuust. have pruned one vine! 
I know not, but. I know a hand 
With an infirmity like thine. 
Shalt thou who hast with scoffers part 
E’er wear the crown the Christian wears 1 
I know not, but I know a heart 
As flinty, but for tears and prayers. 
Have mercy, 0 Thon Crucified ! 
For even while I name Thy name 
I know a tongue that might have lied 
Like Peter's, and am bowed with shame. 
Fighters of good fights-just, unjust. 
The weak who faint, the frail who fall— 
Of one blood, of the self-surne dust, 
Thon, God of love, hast made them all. 
BY ELIZA o. CROSBY. 
neart letters,’—not those “ dull, prosy, news 
letters” about “who’s married, or going to 
be,” and who Is dead, Or, perhaps, a regret at 
the want of any such calamity or blessing to 
earth, to write, it being “usually healthy;”— 
not these, but one that cornes laden with 
thoughts drawn from the “ heart’s deep well,” 
—thoughts which lead the soul “ up higher.” 
Those are the letters we love. But it is often 
far from our power to write such in return. 
Don’t you remember the first letter you re¬ 
ceived? What an event it was in your life; 
how you read it over and over, feeling two 
or three years older, and “more happy than a 
kiDg.” You laid it among your little store of 
treasures, to be re-read in after years. These, 
after the coming of the old stage, were anxiously 
looked for; and you used to go around to the 
little post-offlee and tremblingly ask, “ Is there 
any letter for me?” 
What, a charm old letters 
Brightly now the snn Is ehlning 
In this autumn day’s declining, 
For heavy clouds that, all the day 
Have lowly hung o’er enrth, away 
East ward roll. 
Pierced by sunset's go’,den wedges, 
CurliDg up with fiamtug edges. 
Like a scroll. 
Clear and bright with sunset gleaming 
Shines the sky, In fancy seetning 
But a faint and dim reflection 
Of His glory and perfection, 
Who on high 
Rules ALl-wise, yet loving, tender, 
And for us with sunset splendor 
Paints the sky. 
The wind passes with sighing breath. 
For the day drawing near its death; 
And along the valley river 
Mists of evening rise and quiver, 
Pure aDd white. 
And distant hills that clearly rise 
Against the shining evening skies. 
Gleam with light. 
Where the day, with soft caressing, 
Gives a holy farewell blessing, 
As if loth from earth to sever. 
Passing from us now foabver, 
With her honfs 
Lost or treasured, dark or shining, 
Crowu with cypress, or with twining 
Of fair flowers. 
When the light is slowly dying, 
When around ns shades are lying, 
And onr day of life is closing, 
In God's perfect love reposing, 
Clouds shall roll— 
Broken and rapid in their flight. 
Pierced by shalts ot Eternal light— 
From the soul. 
When Death's way our feet are pressing, 
We shall cast a backward blessing 
To weary heights of pain and strife, 
That lead nearer the perfect life; 
And as Day 
Goes with her hours in twilight dim 
To God, we with our years to Him 
Pass away. 
Glories of which wc vaguely dream, 
Workings that now mysterious seem, 
Infinite truths that dim appear, 
Faintly grasped by the finite here. 
Plain shall be, 
When from heavy earth-clouds’ shading 
We pass into Light unfading. 
And are free. 
Rome, N. Y., Nov., 1S66. 
SOLITUDE OF SINGLE WOMEN 
It is a condition to which a single woman 
must make up her mind, that the close of her 
days wlil be more or less solitary. Yet Ihere is 
a solitude wliieh old age feels as natural and as 
satisfying as that rest which seems such an irk¬ 
someness to youth, but which gradually grows 
into the blessings of outlives; and there is 
another solit ude, so full of peace and hope, that 
it is like .Jacob’s sleep in the wilderness, at the 
foot of the ladder of angels. 
“All things are less dreadful than they seem.” 
And it may be that the extreme loneliness 
which, viewed afar off, appears to an unmarried 
woman as one of the saddest of the inevitable 
results of her lot, shall by that time lose all its 
pain, and he regarded but us the quiet, dreamy 
hour “between the lights;” when the day’s 
work is done, and we lean back, closing our 
eyes, to lliink it all over before we finally go to 
look forward, In faith and hope, unto the com¬ 
ing morning. 
A life finished — a life which has made the 
best of all the materials granted to it, and 
through which, be its web dark or bright, its 
pattern clear or clouded, can now be traced 
plainly the hand of the great designer; surely 
this is worth living for. And though at its end 
it may be somewhat, lonelys though a servant’s 
and not a daughter’s arm may guide the failing 
step, though most likely it will be strangers 
only who come about the dying bed, close the 
eyt-B that no husband ever kissed, and draw the 
shroud kindly over the poor withered breast 
where no child’s head has ever lain; still, such 
a life is not to be pitied, for it is a completed 
life. It has fulfilled its appointed course, and 
returns to the Giver of all breath, as pure as He 
gave it.— Dinah Mulorh. 
possess,—sou venire 
of the “long ago,” relics of a saddened past,— 
for may be the hand which penned them has 
ceased from its labors. We tenderly lay them 
away, our thoughts wandering down “ memo¬ 
ry’s wildwood,” with strong yearning for the 
old days, with their dear friends, to come back 
again. We hear the knell, “ Never—forever.” 
Who will not say, “ Blessed be letters.” 
Lakeside, N. Y. "Cloudy.” 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker, 
“DIED YESTEBDAY!” 
Died Yesterday ! Have you not heard those 
words before? Certainly; they are not new 
words; but such as we hear, and perhaps speak, 
every day, and yet do they not ring In your ears 
even now ? Do you remember that brother 
who went from among you the strongest, mer¬ 
riest one of the whole group, whom you loved 
the beet, If there could be any difference in the 
love you felt for your br others ? He is far away. 
Soon you hear from him, and your feare are 
suddenly, almost entirely quieted; you begin lo 
think of him as safe, when the electric wires 
bring you the message “ dangerously ill.” Too 
far away to go to him, you watch anxiously for 
the morrow, when with lightning rapidity an¬ 
other arrow is shot into your heart, bearing the 
two words, “died yesterday.” Can you ever 
forget them? No, Indeed; might you not as 
soon forget to live ? 
Those of you who have never had cause to 
reverence those two words, ask yourselves the 
question, “ What, died yesterday?" Was it 
6ome noble, praiseworthy resolution, which you 
let carelessly slip away and fklMo be crushed to 
the earth,—some resolve perhaps to perform 
a known duty, which, being left, undone, “died 
yesterday.” It. may, indeed, hut probably never 
will, visit you again. It is pleasant to be and 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
SILENT EXPRESSIONS OF NATURE 
Silently the bright orb of day descends 
from his throne, and in his stead reign fair 
Luna and a thousand twinkling stars. “First, 
Evening draws her 
lets down her sable fall.” 
crimson curtain, then Night 
The dews of Heaven 
descend upon the Earth, a thousand blades of 
grass spring up apace, hut so still Is their ap¬ 
proach, so silent their coming, that did we not 
behold them wc might doubt their appearance. 
The trees put forth their green leaves, and bud 
and blossom. The tiny 6hrub springeth up and 
and becometh a mighty oak,—but all this is 
heralded hy no bustle and confusion. On all 
things wc behold the fairy touch of Beauty’s 
finger; with her magic wand she paints and 
enriches the landscape; she appears to us in 
almost every diverging path in our short pil¬ 
grimage. The air may be filled “ with the sub¬ 
dued loues of summer melody,” but ’tie silent, 
music. 
The God of Nature never meant all Die works 
proclaimed by a rush oi tumult and discord, hut 
that they should Impart a sacred lesson to the 
soul of man. And, indeed, nothing can speak a 
more eloquent language to the heart, if we but 
study the Book of Nature and endeavor to instill 
into our minds its precepts. For its lessons are 
impressed upon us (iu the language of auother,) 
“ as silently as the daylight comes when the 
night is done, or the crimson streak on ocean’s 
cheek grows into the great suu. Silently as the 
spring-time, her crown of verdure weaves, and 
all the trees, on all the hills, open their thou¬ 
sand leaves.” j. n, 
Cortland Co., N. Y. 
returns.” Shall we never see them again ? 
Memory returns, with lingering regret, to 
recall those smiles and the loved tones of those 
dear, familiar voices. In fancy they are often 
by our side, but their home is on a brighter 
shore. They visit us in our dreams, floating iu 
our memory like shadows o’er moonlight waters; 
and when the heart, is weary with anguish and 
the soul is bowed with grief, do they not come 
and whisper words of comfort and hope? Yes, 
sweet memory brings them back to us, and the 
love we hear them lilts the heart, from earthly 
aspirations, and we long to join them in 
that better laud. They hover round us—the 
etherial, dear departed ones — the loving and 
the loved. They watch with eyes that slumber 
not, and beckon ns to skies above, revealing 
many a tale of bliss and tenderness and love. 
They tell of sunny realms never viewed by mor¬ 
tal eye — of forms arrayed in fadeless beauty, 
whose lofty anthems are sounded forth in sweet 
angelic numbers to their Creator’s pruise. And 
this bright vision of the blessed land assures the 
weary mind that wc are Heirs of Immortality, 
and we glory In the thought. 
But why is it that wc are regarded hy those 
bright Celestial beings of another sphere with 
love ? Oh! is it not because they take an inter¬ 
est iu our welfare, knowing, as they 6urely must, 
that man, poor, weak mortal, is nothing but a 
“ waif” on the sea of time. Man may inherit a 
vast amount of wealth to-day—to-morrow noth¬ 
ing but his shroud. Dimmer shine the Btars in 
our household crown, but brighter in the dia¬ 
dem above. They are not selfish iu their happi¬ 
ness, but. fain would have us share it with them. 
Italy, N. Y., 1866. » l. b. a. 
THE TWO HOMES. 
Written for Mcbre’s Rural New-Yorker 
SCRAPS. 
THE POET PERCIVAL 
Professor Ticknor tells me that, while a 
guest at his house iu Boston at this time, his 
ways were peculiar. Sitting at the table opj o- 
slte Mrs. Ticknor, he would converse with her 
husband and sometimes with her with the great¬ 
est. fluency, but with his eyes downcast upon the 
plate, always avoiding the glance of Mrs. Tick- 
nor’s eye; and this was his habit always among 
females. The same shrinking from women was 
also seen in the drawing-room. And at the 
homes of his two Boston friends he was proba¬ 
bly more at home than auywhere else. I have 
been told that this dropping of the eye (while he 
apparently saw everything) was observable as he 
walked the street wrapped in his camlet cloak, 
“ the observed of all observers.” While on his 
Geological Survey of Connecticut he was often 
obliged t.o pick up a meal or a lodging where he 
could; and his dress was not always auch as in¬ 
dicated his character aud position. 
Throughout life he never polished his shoes, 
and his pants and hat generally showed that 
they had been used the full time of service. 
Clad iu such a habit he presented himself one 
evening at the door of a yonng ladies’ seminary, 
asking, as he was some distance from the vil¬ 
lage, for supper and a night’s lodging. The lady 
Principal met him at the door, and was not in¬ 
clined to grant his request. He urged it, how¬ 
ever, as he was tired aud hungry; and she finally 
yielded, following him into the kitchen, and re¬ 
maining while he ate his supper. Observing 
him more minutely, she thought he looked more 
intelljgeut than common beggars, aud engaged 
in conversation with him, when she fouud that 
he could talk upon a variety of subjects. The 
conversation at length turned upon poetry, and 
the lady, afterspe&king of other poets, mention* 
ed Percival, and went on to express her enthu¬ 
siastic admiration of his poetry, to the some¬ 
what startled yet quiet listener ; when checking 
hersell she asked, “ Do you know Percival ? 
Have you read his poetry?” To which the 
If people could only feel that, what a different stranger replied, in his gentle, lisping tone, “ I 
world this would be ! One more selection and —am—Mr. Percival, and I sometimes write 
I am through, hoping that the fly-leaves of poetry.” It is needless to say that he was gen- 
Memory’s book may be as well filled witfi the erously entertained that night, and that the re- 
poetry of life, beautiful poems, to be finished sources of his hostess were exhausted to do him 
bv the “Ancel of Good Deeds.” in the better honor. 
for “right,” did uwt always come up to the 
standard? If we could only “round off” the 
angles of life as easily as those! Where is our 
clasB now? We shall probably never all meet 
again, teacher and scholars; there are only four 
left at school, and one more is soon to go out 
with the parting benediction of her Alma Mater. 
My school-days at the old Academy, blessed he 
their memory, are ended, and I am one of the 
“ hoys lost.” 
Old school-days, happy by-gones. 
Will yc ever be forgot ? 
Writ on Memory’s fairest tablet— 
Days recorded with no blot. 
The fly-leaf of my book Is filled with poetry, 
copied from somebody’s one afternoon during 
public exercises. Here is some from Mrs. 
Browning’ s “Sleep:” 
“Of all the thoughts of Gon that are 
Borne inward unto bouIs afar. 
Along the Psaltnisl’s mu^ic creep. 
Now tell me if there any is 
For gifts or grace surpassing this, 
Hegiveth His beloved sleep J” 
Oh, how I have sometimes longed for that 
sleep, unworthy as I am, not willing to bide 
my time. How beautifully this same poem 
closes: 
“And friends, dear friends, when it shall be 
That this low breath is gone from me. 
And round my bier you come to weep. 
Let one most loving of you all 
Say ‘ Not a tear o'er her must fall— 
He giveth His beloved sleep!’ ’’ 
Here is a bit from Massey, which has the 
true fire in it: 
“ Ho, ye who in a nobie work 
Win scorn as flames draw air. 
And in the place where lion6 lurk 
God's Image bravely bear. 
Though trouble-tried and torture-torn. 
The Ungllest lings are crowned with thorn.' 
LOVED ONES GONE 
PASSING AWAY 
The loved one6 whose loss I lament are still 
in existence; they are living with me at this 
very time; they are like myself, dwelling in the 
great parental mansion of God; they still be¬ 
long to me as I to them. As they arc ever in my 
thoughts, 60, perhaps, am I in theirs. As I 
mourn for their loss, perhaps they rejoice in an¬ 
ticipation of our reunion. What to me is still 
dark, they see clearly. Why do I grieve because 
I can uo longer enjoy their pleasant society ? 
Daring their lifetime I was not discontented be¬ 
cause I could not always have them around me. 
If a journey took them from me, I was not, 
therefore, unhappy. And why is it different 
now ? They hayegone on a journey. Whether 
they are living on earth in a far distant city, or 
in some higher world in the infinite universe of 
God, what difference is there ? Are we not still 
iu the same house of the Father, like loving 
brothers who inhabit separate rooms ? Have 
we, therefore, ceased to he brothers ‘l—Rowan. 
tiou is a direct sermon to the living — Thon art 
mortal, and must die —the appeal reaches not 
the heart as a truth which cannot be safely tri¬ 
fled with. The general lact that all are mortal 
is not denied, hut its persoual application Is 
evaded. The dauger of deuth is regarded as 
remote — it will come, but not yet for many 
years — and “thus dies in human hearts the 
thought of death.” The most impressive les¬ 
sons are set aside as not demanding immediate 
consideration, and are regarded a6 obtrusive if 
they for a moment check onr intense worldli¬ 
ness. The solemn awe which for a moment is 
produced by the entrance into a family of the 
stern messenger, striking down its head, is soon 
replaced by the eager calculations of worldly 
profit which the event may bring in its traiu. 
It is not uncommon that seemly disputes arise 
about the division of property which the dead 
has left behind, and the house of mourning is 
thus converted into a scene of angry quarrels. 
So little is the true voice of the providence 
regarded, The obituary columns in a newspa¬ 
per, in which are recorded the exits of the dis¬ 
tinguished, instead of admonishing us of the 
vanity of human life, impart feeble impressions, 
too soon to be effaced. The voice is silenced in 
death of one who figured in the forum, the cabi¬ 
net, the eenate, or the pulpit, and after a few 
formal regrets, the strife is who &ball succeed to 
their vacated places. Men, eager for wealth and 
honors, ride recklessly over the graves of the 
dead, not laying it to heart that the closing his¬ 
tory of others will eoon become their closing 
history. O! that men were wise to consider 
their latter end! Then earthly distinctions 
would be estimated at their true value, and the 
strife would be, no-t to &hine in this world, 
but to make sure of a glorious immortality.— 
Presbyterian. 
LADIES SHOULD READ NEWSPAPERS, 
Ward's Life of Percival. 
Run not after blessings; only walk in the 
commandments of God, and blessingB shall run 
after you, pursue and overtake you. 
