■Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
BLESS ME ALSO, O, MY FATHER P> 
Girlhood's sonny days are over 
With to-day: 
They, with all their wayward brightness, 
Pass away. 
Woman's earnest path before me 
LLeth straight; 
Who can tell what grief and anguish 
There await ? 
Guide me. Father, God of mercy, 
On the way; 
Never from Thy holy guidance 
Let me stray, 
Give what meed of joy or sorrow 
Pleaseth Thee, 
Whatsoe’er Thy will ordaineth 
Best for me. 
In the shadow and the darkness 
Be my star: 
In the light, lest radiance dazzle, 
Go not far. 
Make me patient, kind, and gentle, 
Day by day; 
Teach me how to live more nearly 
As I pray. 
That my heart so mnch desireth 
Grant me still, 
If that earnest hope accordeth 
With Thy will. 
Should Thy mercy quite withhold it, 
Be Thou near; 
Let me feel I hold its promise 
All too dear. 
Here, upon Life's very threshold, 
Take my heart: 
From Thy holy guidance let it 
Ne'er depart. 
When life's stormy strife is over, 
Take me home— 
There to be more fully, truly. 
Thine alone. [.V. 0. Picayune, 
BY ELIZABETH BOUTON, 
“And when E-.vc heard the words of his father, ho cried 
with a great and exceedins bitter ci v. and said unto his father 
‘ Bless me also, oh ! my lather.'"—G en. 27: 34. 
On a plain of lair Assyria 
Near four thousand years ago, 
Rose a voice of anguished pleading 
From the depths of human woe,— 
“ Has my father but one blessing? 
Bless me also, even me.” 
Forty centuries have glided 
Down the restless sea of time, 
And that prayer is still ascending 
From the wronged iu every clime,— 
“ Bless me also, oh, my Father! 
Bless me also, even me.” 
Want, beside the door of plenty, 
Wonders why each varied lot, 
Mutely asks the great All-Father— 
AskB althongh it knows it not,— 
“ Hast Thon not reserved a blessing 
For me also, even me ?” 
The bondman miserably wearing 
All be knows of life away, 
Brutalized, degraded, toiling 
Unrequited day by day, 
Pleadeth—“ Bless me ob, my Father 1 
Bless me also, even me.” 
He on whom the curse of madness 
Falleth with its blighting power, 
By his incoherent ravings 
Wildly asketh every hour,— 
“Has my Father then no blessing 
For me also, even me ?” 
Want and shame, and sin and sorrow. 
Weakness, suffering, grief and care,— 
All that moves God's heart to pity,— 
Breathe a constant voiceless prayer: 
“ Bless me also, ob, my Father 1 
Bless me also, even me !’■ 
fair, white brow 
Time’s own fin - ger has left no trace Up - on the fair, white brow, Up 
4. Tick! took! 
Old clock ! 
You look go softly down, 
To see the form that is sitting now, 
With silvered head, that is bending low, 
Beside the hearth, alone. 
2. Tick! tock ! 
Old clock! 
You tell the sarue old tale I 
Of sunny years, when the children's feet N 
Were bounding forth, iu their joy to meet 
The firBt spring blossom pale. 
3. Tick ! tock ! 
Old clock! 
You tell of days of truth! 
When golden sands through the hour-glass ran; 
And rainbow-light did with glory spau 
The splendid dreams of youth. 
5. Tick! tock! 
Old clock! 
You tell us of the Past! 
And still your finger is pointing on 
To brighter hours, when our rest is won,-r 
And Time shall cease at last.— Marie Mason. 
[From Song Oar den, Second Book, published by Mason BiO'hers, 
SPEAKING OUT, 
In the long run the habit of keeping back much 
of what he thinks acts destructively on the man 
himself. The practice dims his conscience and al¬ 
ters his very creed. He suppresses so much that in 
the end he blots out part of himself, and hardly 
knows what he believes as a man, and what as a 
partisan. While the process of decline is going on, 
the man’s utterances lack the warmth, the clear 
ring, the ehsrp edge, which we find in the ideas that 
come straight from the heart and brain. That is why 
partisan speeches sound so hollow. That is why the 
writings of able men in the leading columns even of 
the chief journals so often lack edge and distinct¬ 
ness, and seem the work of an intellectual machine, 
rather than of a living intellect. It is for the same 
reason that most men are so much smaller than na¬ 
ture meant them to be. Nature meant them to be 
big and well formed; but they are stunted and dis- 
proportioned, because some of their faculties have 
never been exercised at all. They will not speak 
out, they will not say what they think; so they be¬ 
come like unto the thing they worship—the God of 
corporate action, whose gospel is that of Suppres- 
Wrltten for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
VOCAL MUSIC. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MY OLD HYMN - BOOK. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
PERSONAL CHRISTIAN EFFORT 
Music, harmony, sweetness of sound! What a I 
great and glorious subject of thought! IV e can I 
never fully appreciate or analyze the power of music, 
but we know that it is able wonderfully to excite 
aud move the minds of men. 
Said a distinguished writer; — “ Give me the writ¬ 
ing of the songs of a nation and I care uot who 
make its laws.” Iu France, where musical talent is 
more carefully cultivated than in our own land, its < 
influence can he more clearly distinguished. Look 
over the history of that country, and you will find 
that French soldiers have ever been accustomed to | 
fight best 3 nd bravest when cheered on by some 
national anthem which tilled their hearts with 
thoughts of grandeur aud glory. At Waterloo, 
where the once bright star of Napoleon's destiny 
sank to rise no more, the noble Old Guard, falling fast 
before the furious onset of overpowering foes, formed 
a rampart of brave hearts around their beloved Em¬ 
peror, and sang one of their favorite airs, 
“Where can one better be than it) the bosom of his family ? 
And above the groans of the dying and the roar of 
cannon, the death song of that devoted band rang 
out loud, clear and sublime. 
Should we investigate the history of the “Mar¬ 
seilles Hymn,” "God Save the Queen,” “Hail Co¬ 
lumbia," "The Star Spangled Banner,” and other 
patriotic songs, we would discover that these 
national airs have all exerted a powerful influence 
on the minds of the people. 
We find the Bible full of melody and song, from 
the commencement even to the close of its inspired 
pages. We read of the morning stars singing to¬ 
gether, of choirs of angels singing, of the people of 
God singing, and that, at the last great, day all those 
who love aud honor the Lamb are to have golden 
harps in their hands and to sing the praises of God 
forever. Truly, “music hath charms.” Truly, the 
great poet was right when, inspired by the Muse of 
Song, he wrote,— 
“ The man who hath not music in himself, 
And is not moved by concord of sweet sounds, 
Is fit for treason, stratagems aud spoil-.” 
Where can be found the person so intoxicated with 
pleasure or overwhelmed by misfortune, as to resist 
influences of music 
a penny I could have spent it very comfortably, in 
buying a red or blue cotton ball and a couple of 
needles to sew my doll’s clothes with; but it was 
not so easy a matter to dispose of this bright York 
shilling. Yet I gladly gave it for the hymn-book, 
and thought I did well. 
My first care was to replace the missing covers 
with pasteboard, and great skill was requisite to 
place the stitches at regular distances, that they 
might be an addition to its appearance. As soon as 
this was accomplished, 1 sat down and began to 
search diligently for those hymus which I had heard 
sung. 
“ Oh, for a thousand tongnes to sing, 
was on the first page, and l had no trouble in find¬ 
ing ft- „ „ 
“ Alas, and did my Saviour bleed,” 
began with a large A, by means of which I ascer¬ 
tained its whereabouts, and to this day I distinctly 
remember the side of the leaf on which this byinu 
is found. After a time I learned the use of the in¬ 
dex, and felt proud when I could find the byjnns 
without looking for the large letters. My old hymn- 
book became my constant companion. Whether I 
sat by my mother and nursed my doll, or attended 
to the case of a sick kitten, or "watched gap” for 
my brothers, it was still with me; aud being pas¬ 
sionately fond of poetry, I soon committed many 
of its beautiful liymus to memory. At that time 
my mind was free from care; if mother smiled on 
me I was happy,—the future gave me no concern. 
I did not then shrink from the winter’s blast, nor 
grow languid beneath the sultry rays of the sum¬ 
mer's sun. No dream of the realities of life had 
flitted across the cloudless horizon of my childish 
mind, and although I eagerly learned the lines com¬ 
mencing, , „ 
“ Vain, delusive world, adieu, 
no thought of bereavement, or separation from 
friends, dimmed the beauty of a world which I 
deemed all brightness. Oh, happy, guileless child¬ 
hood ! Boon of Heaven! Bright link in memory’s 
chain! When could the mind be better prepared 
for good instruction? The hymns I then learned 
appeared on this earth. Their relations of spirit 
were sensitive and organic, far beneath the reach of 
intellectual consciousness. They seemed able to 
communicate tidings through the ethereal medium 
by some subtle telegraphy of feeling, which tran¬ 
scends understanding, aud belongs to a miraculous 
region of life. For when Fanny died in her German 
home, Felix, amidst a happy company in England, 
suddenly aware of some terrible calamity, from the 
disturbance of equilibrium and dread sinking of his 
soul, rushed to the piano, and poured out his anguish 
in an improvisation of wailing and mysterious strains, 
which held the assembly spell-bound aud iu tears. 
In a few days a letter reached him, announcing that 
his sister had died at that very hour. On receh mg 
the tidings he uttered a shriek, aud the shock was so 
great as to burst a blood vessel in his brain. Life 
had no charm potent enough to stanch aud heal the 
cruel laceration left iu his already failing frame by 
this sundering blow. The web of torn fibrils bled 
invisibly. He soon faded away and followed his 
sister to a world of finer melody, fitted for natures 
like theirs.— Alger's Friendships of Women. 
rows of “Oliver Twist,” they probably have done 
us no harm, and have uot made us more unsympa¬ 
thizing with the real miseries of little children aud 
the poor. Cannot the spirit of love aud the gospel 
be taught us in a novel as well as in a Sunday School 
story? I would that our Suuday School literature 
had more genius to touch the heart, and preach the 
gospel to rich and poor. We want a Christian lit¬ 
erature, that, without the occasional coarseness aud 
low humor of Dickens, will take us by the hand, as 
he has done, and will lead us down into the abodes 
of the wretched and even of the criminal, and show 
us that here are human hearts, men, women and 
children, still, though terribly changed into the 
form of beasts by the Circean touch of sin, and 
teach us how to pity aud reach and benefit these. 
In conclusion, novel reading, though I may seem 
to have advocated it with considerable earnestness, 
is, after all, the least important department of liter¬ 
ature, the most fleeting and uusubstautial, It is 
chiefly for mental refreshment that we read it. It 
is not the regular aud solid food of the mind. It 
should be used for spice and not for meat. It should 
be used sparingly, and only the best should be used. 
Iu vacation one may permit himself to read a novel 
or two. 
FEMALES IN FICTION 
The truth is, that men and women who set about 
building up a second-rate three-volume novel, enjoy 
working at their hero’s or their heroine’s notions, 
just aslittle boys enjoy the tortures of a sparrow. 
•The luxury of describing bursting hearts, to some 
writers, seems very considerable. Those who go in 
for this sort of maudlin composition will soon find 
that for scenic effect, and for producing general dis¬ 
tress and complication among the other characters 
of a novel, there is no quality that works so well as 
pride. And their own weak sentimentality is pleased 
with the imaginative contrast between "a marble 
exterior” and pent up agony inside it. The num¬ 
ber of ladies who in modem fiction have dismissed 
their lovers with a cold, haughty curve of their lips, 
and then rushed up violently and buried their faces 
in their bed-clothes, must be. legion. It is not much 
to say that they almost all do it. There is scarcely 
a pair of lovers out, in any really feeling magazine, 
who can be said to be always on speaking terms. 
They are forever passing each other in the park with 
a haughty bow, and turning away sharply and sud¬ 
denly to conceal their internal anguish. Love, in 
fact, as it is portrayed in romance, has by no means 
an easy time of it .—Saturday Review. 
the soothing influences of music ? No matter how 
low the condition, how debased the soul, there is 
still in the human heart, itself described as a won¬ 
derful musical instrument,— “a harp of a tbousaud 
strings,”—a chord which trembles and thrills unbid¬ 
den in response to, and in unison with, the notes of 
heaven-horn melody. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
“ALL ALONE NOW.” 
The words fell upon my ear the other day from 
the lips of a wanderer—one whose home and dear 
ones live only in the memory of far-off childhood 
days. And then as i listened I seemed to hear the 
mournful echo coming from oh! so many hearts that 
throng earth’s crowded highways, and I asked my¬ 
self why is the world so cold and selfish—why does 
it brush so rudely past these homeless, friendless 
ones ? They need so much kindness, so much 
love. There are many who err, perhaps ; hat, dear 
reader, what if you aud I had been drifted out from 
home-love and influence as early as thev, alone upon 
the sea of life, a prey to the world’s cruelty and 
vice ? Perhaps no mother ever taught their infant 
hearts to pray, or told them who would keep them 
from sin and make them pure. Blame the world, 
not them; they have enough to hear. If you aud I 
had faced it thus, perchance young and all untried, 
we would have drifted away with the current too. 
Hearts, though spotted with the world's impurity, 
eauuot be altogether had. Hidden away under all 
the rubbish of sin, there will ever live some blessed 
gleam of feeling, pure and warm—some little germ 
of the better life those hearts might lead. Nourish 
it, ye loving ones, with your tender words, with ear¬ 
nest prayers. “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto 
the least of these, ye have done it unto me.” 
Grace G, Slough. 
Beginning of Life. —What we call life is the in¬ 
troduction to life, rather than life itself; it is the 
vestibule of the temple, aud uot the temple. Afflic- 
tious are but for a momeut, aud they are to be fol¬ 
lowed by au eternal weight of glory. Though they 
may appear long now, they will seem very short 
then. It will seem a very short journey to have 
reached such a home, and a very brief battle to 
have won such a prize. Life itself is short, and, 
therefore, our troubles canuot he long; hut eternity 
is long, aud there will be no troubles there. That 
is always a reflection which may, in some degree, 
modify our grief. 
-- - ♦»» - 
Money. —Men work for it, beg for it, steal for it, 
starve for it, and die for it; and all the u bile, from 
the cradle to the grave, nature aud God are thunder¬ 
ing in our ears the solemn question :—“ What shall 
it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose 
his own soul?” The madness for mouey is the 
strongest and lowest of passions; it is the insatiate 
Moloch of the human hearts before whose remorse¬ 
less altar all the finer attributes of humanity are sac¬ 
rificed It makes merchandise of all that is sacred 
in the human affections, and often traffics in the aw¬ 
ful solemnities of the eternal. 
A Paris journal thus catalogues the beauties of 
the Princess de Mettemich:— “ Eyes which have the 
sweetness cf a German reverie; teeth of brightest 
enamel; a forehead smooth and clear as an infant's, 
high and wide as that of a thinker; abundant silky 
brown hair; the form of head as Greek as that of 
the Venus of Milo; her car like a pink shell; the 
beautiful fall of her shoulders, the exquisite form of 
her arm, the long, aristocratic hand, aud the narrow, 
dainty foot. Be she dressed in blue, red or yellow; 
be she coiffed with her toque over her eyes, or with 
a sergeant deville's cap, as she appeared one day at 
the Tuileries—she is and remains a princess.” 
In the good old times a Persian girl who owned a 
Little property—a hut or fishing boat—was thereby 
legally authorized to pick out a husband for herself. 
If she wished to commence her hunt for a husband, 
she would hang up her blue apron in front of the 
door of the house aud post herself behind it. The 
young meu of the village would then pass by the 
apron one by one in a long procession, and dressed 
up in their best Sunday clothes. As soon as the 
Female Labor. —Every year females are taking a 
more active and extended part in industrial enter¬ 
prise, and the number and condition of those at 
present employed in each branch of business would 
at once deeply interest aud astonish our readers. 
There are thirty-eight thousand more females than 
males in New York, and three or four times that 
number are dependent on their own labor. It has 
been lately stated that not less than three thousand 
of these are eugaged in the manufacture of hoop 
I skirts alone. Of the one hundred and fifty thou- 
[L sand school teachers in the Uuited States, over one 
(r hundred thousand are females. Many of the New 
York establishments, like Stewart’s and others, each 
f employ eight hundred and one thousand women in 
manufacturing articles of female dress. 
Beautiful Thought.— The sea is the largest of all 
cemeteries, and its slumherers sleep without monu¬ 
ments. All other grave-yards, in all other lands, 
show some distinction between the great and the 
small, the rich and the poor; but in the ocean cem¬ 
etery, the king and the elowu, the princ e aud the 
peasant, are alike distinguished. The same waves 
roll over all — the. same requiem by the minstrels of 
the ocean is sung to their honor. Over their re- 
maius the same storm beats aud the same sun shines, 
and there unmarked, the weak and powerful, the 
plumed and unbonded, will sleep ou until awaken¬ 
ed by the same trump. 
Separate from the World. — “ There is no 
greater mistake,” says an eminent divine, “than to 
suppose that Christians can impress the world by 
agreeing with it. No! it is not conformity that we 
waut; it is not being able to beat the world in its 
own wav; but it is to stand apart from and above 
it, aud to produce the impression of a holy and a 
separate life: this only can give us a true Christian 
power.” These are golden words. We commend 
them to those who profess to he Christ’s “peculiar 
people.”_ ^ t ,, r _ 
Those have generally most need to fear, who think 
they have no need to fear. Vain confidence is the 
forerunner of shame. 
We distinguish four seasons in love. First comes 
love before betrothal, or spring; then comes the 
summer, more ardent, and fiercer, which lasts from 
our betrothal to the altar: the third, the richly 
laden, soft, dreamy autumn, the honey moon; and 
after it the winter, bright, clear whiter—when you 
take shelter by your fireside from the cold world 
without, and find every comfort and pleasure there. 
In each season the beauties seem supremely beauti¬ 
ful, and add to life all its sweetness. 
Pat visits only on alternate days, thou wilt be be¬ 
loved the more; for he who multiplies his comings 
and goings fatigues his friends. 
Idleness is hard work for those who are not used 
to it, and dull work for those who are. 
