extremities should be kept warm. Unless they 
are, the very worst results may he expected. 
Mothers, one and all, are you murdering the 
infants ? Consider the question carefully. They 
deserve better at your hands. You owe them 
a duty which you cannot Innocently neglect,— 
which you cannot innocently ill do. It is not 
performed merely in the endeavor to rig them 
out in a tasty and prettily conceived garb. If 
this be all that is attended to, your children’s 
blood will cry out to you from premature graves. 
Their comfort and health arc In your keeping; 
if your trust be Bacredly and faithfully kept, 
future generations will rise up and call you 
blessed. Mothers of the Run Ax Parish all over 
the land,—alike in Country, Village and City,— 
Written for Moore's. Rural New-Yorker. 
DE PEOFUNDIS. 
Bygone years of passion and pain. 
How in the distance do you seem ? 
Does the old bitterness wake again, 
Or has It passed like a faded dream ? 
How, in the morning’s cheerful light. 
With the song of birds and the breath of flowers, 
Do we think of the darkness and chill of night, 
And the dreary weight of its lingering hours? 
How, in the halt by the quiet stream, 
Do we look on the hill-tops, bleak and bare, 
And remember the lightning’s angry gleam, 
And the stormy wind that met her there! 
Or, at the close of the summer's day, 
When we sit in the shade, and our task is done, 
How do we think of the scorching ray 
That fell on ns from the noonday snn? 
Bygone years Of passion and pain, 
How has your weariness fallen to rest! 
How has your fever, and fret, and strain, 
Passed away from the aching breast! 
Sweeter the rest for the toilsome day; 
Calmer the sky when the storm Is spent, 
Pleasure may perish, but pain shall pay 
The after grace of a deep content. 
[Boston Transcript. 
I cannot say with willing heart 
“Thy will be done.” 
I feel Thy rod, its bitter smart, 
And all alone 
I wander on thro’ weary w ay 
And blackest night, 
Without One star with cheering ray 
To show the light. 
Thou bendest. my proud will to Thine, 
With firm decree 
Thou clairoest all that I called mine. 
Oh, God ! I flee 
In terror from Thy angry face, 
With sighs and fears; 
I clasp them in my close embrace, 
With groans and tears 1 
Not all the love that Thou didst give 
When Thon gav’sl these, 
Can canse my dying hopes to live, 
Or pangs to cease. 
Thou dashest down the cap of bliss 
That I had grasped. 
Thou showest me the emptiness 
Of what I clasped! 
Oh Lord ! such unavailing strife 
And mortal woe 
Must take this weary, weary life, 
Or make me go 
Straight to Thine agonizing Cross, 
And at Thy feet 
Find, while I weep my bitter loss, 
Thy mercy-seat. 
Rochester, N. Y., Oct., 1867. Ella D 
from the german 
which, we suppose, is the falling out of it, 
invariably have that effect. Probably very many 
disappointed, rhyming swains will cite Byron 
as a notable instance on their side of the ques¬ 
tion. But wc suspect that Byron had some 
little fitness for poesy aside from what his early 
heart experience afforded. 
A new volume of poems — “Voices of the 
Border”— was reviewed at length in a late issue 
of the Utica Herald. One paragraph by the re¬ 
viewer, relative to rhyming in the abstract, is 
so very pertinent that we copy it for the benefit 
of “ whom it may concern 
Almost anybody can learn to construct verses. 
The. requirements are, ordinary intelligence, a 
tolerable ear for rhythmic movement, the super¬ 
ficial reading of (say) Griswold’s “ Poets and 
Poetry of America,” and a little practice in 
versification. There arc probably several hun¬ 
dreds of young persons in the country capable 
of turning off an unlimited amount of rhymes 
on almost any subject. This merely technical 
skill does not prove particularly detrimental to 
its possessor, provided he neither employs too 
much of his time in its practice, nor flatters 
himself into the foolish notion that his verses 
are poetry because they are rhymed, and that 
the mechanical ability to make them constitutes 
genius. If the young person in his leisnre 
hours grinds away on his rhyming mill and 
keeps the fact to himself, all will be well. He 
may even acquire thereby a certain polish of 
style and power of expression. But he will 
soon tire of the monotonous crauk and learn to 
estimate what he produces at its real value. 
But let him show some of his verses to a friend, 
who is indiscreet enough to pronounce them 
fine and excellent, and he its at once elevated in 
his own estimation to a level vastly above where 
he belongs. Forthwith assuming an alliterative 
nom deplume , he dispatches one of his gems to 
the favorite newspaper, with the importunate 
request that it appear in the next issue. If the 
indulgent editor comply and the poetaster once 
sees himself in print, it Is all over with him. 
His machine is set iu motion on all conceivable 
occasions, and the ultimate result is likely to be 
a volume of verses like these “Voices of the 
Border.” Given, years ago, the young man of 
GodV angels took n little drop Of dew, 
New Mien from the heaven's lar-off blue, 
And a fair violet of the valleys green. 
Shedding Its perfume In the moon's Bofl sheen, 
And a forget-me-not so sin all and bright 
Laid all together gently, out of sight, 
Within the chalice of the lily white: 
With humbleness and grace they covered it; 
Made parity and sadness near to “it 
And added pride to this, and sighs a few, 
One wish, but half a hope, and bright tears two; 
Courage and sweetness in misfortune’s smart, 
An d out of this was moulded—woman s heart! 
[Cassell's Magazine. 
WHO RULES. 
THE DEATH OF SUMMER 
By the lengthening twilight hours; 
By the chill and fragrant showers; 
By the flowerets, pale and faded; 
By the leaves with russet shaded; 
By the gray and clouded morn; 
By the drooping ears of corn; 
By the meadows, overspread 
With the spider’s w avy thread; 
By the soft and shadowy sky; 
By tin? thousand tears that lie 
Every weeping bough beneath— 
Summer, we perceive thy death! 
Summer, all thy charms are past: 
Summer, thou art wasting fast; 
Scarcely one of all thy rosea 
On thy raded brow reposes. 
Thrush and nightingale have long 
Ceased to woo thee with their song; 
And, on every lonely height. 
Swallows gather for the flight: 
While the wild witid’H dreary tone, 
Sweeping through the valleys lone, 
Sadly sighs with mournful breath. 
Requiems for sweet Summer’s death. 
[Chamber's Journal 
ought to be in bed; and keeps them in bed in 
the morning, when they ought to be up and 
doing. 
She makes It vulgar to wait on one’s self, and 
genteel to He idle and useless. 
She makes people visit when they had rather 
stay at home, eat when they are not hungry, and 
drink when they are not thirsty. 
She invades our pleasures and interrupts*our 
business. 
She compels people to dress gayly, whether 
upon their own property or that of others, 
whether agreeable to the Word of God or the 
dictates of pride. 
She ruius health, and produces sickness, des¬ 
troys life, and occasions premature death. 
She makes fools of parents, invalids of chil¬ 
dren, and servants of all. 
She is a'Virmentor of conscience, a despoiler 
of morality, and an euemy of religion, and no 
one can be her companion aud enjoy either. 
She is a despot of the highest grade, full of 
Intrigue and canning, and yet husbands, wives, 
fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, and servants, 
black and white, have voluntarily become her 
obedient subjects and slaves, and vie with one 
another to see who shall be the most obsequi¬ 
ous. 
ABOUT BHYME AND POETEY, 
In these days when the type-us fever prevails 
to an alarming extent, the amount of so-eaUcd 
poetry that is inflicted upon the reading public 
is immense. The literary aud news journals 
teem with verse—some good, much very indif¬ 
ferent, and an abundance exceedingly had—and 
at frequent intervals the supply is sweUed by a 
new volume, (generally of old poems, reprinted,) 
contributed by some one more or less known to 
fame. The mania for writing is probably more 
wide-spread in this country than in any other, 
and it is not surprising, perhaps, that, in their 
desire to get ahead on the road to literary re¬ 
pute, many find prose a very slow vehicle, and 
so mount Pegasus, aud go off on a “galloping 
rhyme.” 
Rhyming is as much a disease as is dyspepsia, 
and may he pretty certainly set down as dan¬ 
gerous just in the ratio that it is chronic or 
acute. An occasional half-dozen stanzas, even 
if absolutely void of merit, may not harm the 
writer, but an Injudicious draft upon the re¬ 
sources of song will work Injury to oven the 
most gifted. The chronic rhymester fancies he 
lives in a world of rhythm, and that nothing is 
well done which is not ended with a “Jingle.” 
He seizes upon evAry available opportunity to 
invoke the mnse. * A marriage is gladly wel¬ 
comed by him as a fit subject for song; aud a 
death is greedity appropriated to the same end. 
And of all execrable “poetry,” that termed 
“obituary” is most to be execrated. Now and 
HEAVEN IN THE HEAET. 
We listened, not long since, to an able acr- 
mon preached by an eminent divine, in the 
course of which he said, with a low - voiced 
emphasis that thrilled the hearts of all present, 
“hell begins here.” As opposites arc most 
naturally suggested to the mind, our thought 
at once appended to his remark—“ and so, also, 
does heaven begin here,” 
We all hear, at some time or times in our 
lives, faint preludes, as it were, of the sweet 
and beautiful song of the Redeemed; into our 
souls there comes, now and then, soft echoes of 
the holy music of heaven. These are the begin¬ 
nings of that purer life which is to come, and 
In them we taste somewhat of the gladness that 
is without alloy, with which “ the pure in 
heart” arc to be made glad when they “shall 
see God.” We may have, always, a little of 
heaven in our hearts. We do have, indeed, 
oftener than we think. It comes in through a 
good deed doue, a generous impulse yielded to, 
or a noble resolve faithfully kept. But it bene¬ 
fits us most, and others altogether, when it Is 
breathed out iu genial words of encouragement, 
in pleasaut smiles, and in the atmosphere of a 
sunuy manner. 
I Good-nature will be one of the marked 
features of heaven, else we greatly mistake 
And good-nature here will let about as much of 
heaven into the heart as anything else wc know. 
This isn’t, on the whole, a very good-natured 
world. It might be a great deal more bright 
and cheerful than It is. But we who make it up 
are directly chargeable for any deficiencies in 
this respect. Our kindly ways are used too 
much as wc use our best clothing—only ou 
special occasions. We ought to wear them con- 
stantly. They will not become old and thread¬ 
bare, and lose beauty. On the contrary, they 
will impart a charm to the person which is ever 
fresh and attractive. 
Iu how many hearts has hell really begun, 
that might feel heaven’s warmth and cheer, if 
they would! They strive, seemingly, contin¬ 
ually after bitter aud unwholesome things, when 
the sweet and palatable are right within their 
reach. They go hungry and longing for love, 
and trust, aud happiness, when these are all 
around them, and are partaken of by others no 
more fortuuately circumstanced than they. 
Whose is the fault? All the love and the hope, 
the goodness, the richness aud beauty of earth 
are free, and of them there is no stint. They 
belong to him that has not shared them, and is 
athirst, as much, aye, more than to him who 
has appreciated them, and who has received 
them into his life until it is full thereof. In 
them all arc the foretastes of celestial joy, and 
through them all eometli the blessiug down 
which briugs heaven into the heart. 
MUEDEEING THE INI A NTS, 
THE WOMEN OF A SCOTTISH ISLAND 
A correspondent of the Glasgow Herald who 
recently visited tbc ialuuil of Lewie, iu the He¬ 
brides, says: — “The women do all the heavy 
work. They dig, they delve and hoe; they carry 
heavy- loads of manure to the fields, and in the 
peat season you may see them aU day carrying 
creelfula of peat from the hog. You will often 
sec a man trndging along the road beside a wo¬ 
man, but the creel Is always ou the woman’s 
back. If they come to a river or ford, the wo¬ 
man crosses first, deposits her creel on the other 
side, and then returns to carry the man across. 
I only saw this once, but the farmers T : tell me it 
1- a thing of every-day occurrence. When the 
creel is empty, tbe man sometimes slings it over 
his own shoulders, and then mounts upon the 
back of the woman, who carries them both 
across together. This, I am told is the only oc¬ 
casion on which, by auy chance, you see ft creel 
upon the back of a man. The woman in the 
rural districts here is, in fact, a beast of burden, 
and men, in looking out for wives, look largely 
to muscular development. A story i6 current 
among the English-speaking fanners that illus- 
tus” lifts up his voice “In Memoriam” with a 
touching, beautiful tenderness that thrills the 
heart, aud dims the eye with tears. But it is 
rarely that mourning is effectively done in verse. 
There are few hearts that can sing, while they 
weep, with such sweetness as Tennyson breathed 
when he sang— 
“ ’l'is bettor to hnvc loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all.” 
Though the saddest plaints are those the muse 
Let us understand that a house should bear 
witness in all Us economy that human; culture 
is the end to which it was built and garnished. 
It stands there under the sun and moon to ends 
analogous und not less noble thau theirs. It is 
not for festivity; it is not for sleep; but the 
pine und the oak sh:ill gladly descend from the 
mountain- to uphold the roof of men as faithful 
and necessary os themselves; to be the shelter 
always open to the Good and True; a hall which 
shines with sincerity, brows ever tranquil, aud 
a demeanor impossible to disconcert; whose 
inmates know what they want; who do not 
ask your house how theirs should be kept. 
They have arms, they cannot be kept for trifles. 
The diet of the house does not create its order, 
but knowledge, character, aetiou absorb so much 
life, and yield so much entertainment, that the 
refectory has ceased to be curiously studied. 
With a change of atm lias followed a change of 
the whole scale by which men aud things arc 
wont to be measured. Wealth and poverty are 
seen for what they are. It begins to be seen 
that the poor are only those who feel poor, and 
poverty consists iu feeling poor.— Emerson. 
gives voice to, they are generally the heart’s 
fancies, and not really and truly the heart’s 
regrets. 
He who has the disease of rhyme ouly in its 
acute form, finds it influenced, like rheumatism, 
by the weather or other outside circumstances. 
From certain evidences—not a few of which, in 
the shape of rejected manuscripts, have met 
their fate at our hands—we conclude that acute 
attacks come oftenest in the season of the fall¬ 
ing leaf. Autumn is wonderfully fruitful of 
effusions that treat glowingly of the “golden 
corn, ” the “ ripened grain," the “ leafless 
boughB,” the “gorgeous dyes,” the “purple 
flush,” &e. We hardly dare state just how 
many of this character have come to the Rural 
sanctum, during the last month, desiring, as we 
do, to preserve onr reputation for veracity; hut 
the number i6 not small. Our readers would 
doubtless be gratified by the perusal of some of 
them, but space Is too precious to permit of 
their insertion. A specimen or two, however, 
we arc tempted to give. This treats of the 
shortening days: 
“ The sun, that, in summer gave light till eight, 
Now sinks in the west at five, 
On other lands to shed its rays, 
Ou other shores to rise.” 
It will be readily perceived that the rhyme 
here is rather peculiar, aud not altogether per¬ 
fect. But it is a tolerable sample of much of 
Autumn “ poetry.” Here is the climacteric of 
a lengthy effort, upon which the reader may 
pass judgment for himself: 
The cold November winds are near; 
Jack Frost has visited us thrice; 
Telling us in truthful tomes 
That summer’s passed at last.” 
Note the exactness with which it speaks of 
Jack Frost’s visitations. All poetical license 
justly 6eoming, the poet explicitly declares the 
number—“thrice.” The word doesn’t quite 
rhyme with “last," to be sure, but perfect 
truthfulness should never give way to rhyme. 
Love—alas! that such is the lamentable fact— 
seems highly provocative of the acute disease. 
Fortunate, indeed, is the happy lover who does 
not see sonnets in his dear one’s eyes, songs in 
her silken hair, and odes without number in her 
every queenly grace. The probabilities are that 
he will attain to his most cherished hopes, will 
live long and happily, aud will die blessed by 
A MUSICAL CATECHISM 
FRIVOLITIES 
What is a slur ? 
Almost auy remark one singer makes about 
another. 
What is a rest ? 
Going out of the choir for refreshments during 
the sermou time. 
What is singing with an “ understanding ?” 
Marking time on the floor with your foot. 
What is a symphony ? 
Flirting with the soprano singer behind the 
organ. 
What is a staccato movement ? 
Leaving the choir in a huff because one is dis¬ 
satisfied with the organist. 
What is a swell ? 
A professor of music who pretends to know 
everything about the science, while he cannot 
conceal his ignorance. 
What are grace notes ? 
Greenbacks received for the quarter’s salary. 
What is a turn ? 
When one singer is discharged to make room 
for another. 
How do you produce a discord ? 
By praising a lady 6inger at the expense of a 
rival, who overhears you. 
How is a shake produced ? 
By catching the bellows boy asleep when the 
choir is ready to sing. 
What is a flat? 
A singer who supposes ’himself or herself in¬ 
dispensable to the success of the choir. 
“ Hello, Bill lend me five dollars!” “You’re 
mistaken in the man, sir, I’m not a five dollar 
Bill.” 
“ How do you mix your colors ? ” said a con- 
“ With brains, sir ! ” 
quite as much so. Now that cold weather is 
upon us again, we are reminded daily of this 
fact. Hundreds of little girls walk our streets 
whose dress is utterly unsuitable for the season. 
It was so a year ago, and we fear another twelve- 
month will bring forth no improvement. If au 
appeal to mothers everywhere would avail in 
behalf of all iUy clad little ones, we would make 
it with the greatest earnestness. Any sensible 
person must admit that permitting a child's 
limbs to go naked in mid-winter is wickedly 
cruel. And yet the prevailing style of chil¬ 
dren’s dress furnishes so meager covering for 
the lower part of the body that, nakedness is 
certainly approximated to. A cotton stocking, 
stretched tightly around the limb,'can have 
little warmth in it, and can he worth little to 
keep cold out. But it sulflceth;—at least so 
fashion says, and mothers foolishly subscribe 
to the dicta. 
In this respect—and] we trust they] will par¬ 
don us for putting it so plainly;—the mothers 
are culpably wrong. Because fashion cries out 
for the murder of the innocents, she should.not 
be wickedly heeded. If the authorities in mat¬ 
ters of dress will not contrive, some style for 
children more conducive to (their health and 
well-being than the present, mothers should 
invent it themselves. It is not enough that a 
child’s feet be snugly encased iu go6d shoes. 
The limbs need more than is given them. To 
put furs over your little girl’s shoulders, and 
than send her out with almost naked^limbs, is 
the height of absurdity, is even„criminal. The 
noisseur to a great artist, 
was the reply. 
There is a story told of an Indian, who having 
seen a gentleman with a wig and spectacles ex¬ 
claimed in amazement. “Ilia, two scalp, four 
eyes, by golly 1" 
Is “ chaff” the more reprehensible in old or in 
young people ? In young people, certainly, be¬ 
cause although it’s had-in-age, it’s most unques¬ 
tionably worse iu youth. 
A good sort of a man in Maine was recently 
asked to subscribe for a chandelier for the 
church. “ Now,” said he, “ what’s the U3e of a 
chandelier? After you get it you can’t get any 
one to play on it.” 
The great objection to smart children is, that 
when they commence having whiskers they leave 
oil having brains. By forcing children, you get 
so much into their heads that they become 
cracked in order to hold it. 
“Don’t be aftber making fun of the bird,” 
said a newly-imported Hibemiafl to a lad whom 
he discovered aanoying a land terrapin with a 
bull-rush, “how do you know but he has blessed 
fine feathers under his overcoat.” 
The bulletins of fashion state that “ some of 
Swearing.— Swearing is the lit expression of 
human rage, and the most exact interpreter of 
its real meaning. He who utters the fearful 
word of damnatiou against his fellow man, is giv¬ 
ing veut to a feeling which, had he the power, 
would really consign him to hell. Anger is thus 
not only murder, but murder of the worst kind; 
it would not only kill the body, but would cast 
both soul and body into hell. Swearer, see what 
your oath means! Angry men, see what your 
auger means! 
Pithy and True.—E lder Swan used to say 
that if the doctrine of universal salvation be true, 
then the Bible ought to read: “ Wide is the gate 
and broad is the way that leads to heaven, and 
everybody goes there; strait is the gate aud nar¬ 
row is tbe way that leads to liell, and you can’t 
find it If yon trv.” 
No man knows less of pleasure than he who 
habitually 6eeks it. For him there is but a step 
between novelty and satiety, and the charm of 
the former is utterly destroyed by the intemper¬ 
ate haste with which he plunged iuto the latter. 
God certainly hears what we speak; hut we 
many times do not hear what he spcak3, though 
he speaks peace to us. God always hears the 
prayer of faith, and answers it, hut we do not al¬ 
ways hear what that answer is. 
With Love the heart becomes a fair and fer¬ 
tile garden, glowing with sunshine and warm 
hues, and exhaling sweet odors; hut without 
it it is a bleak desert, covered with ashes. 
