of the besieged city to watch a passing fray, she is 
attired a la mode. A silver veil half conceals, half 
discloses, the wondrously beautiful face, while jew¬ 
eled zone, and broidered vesture, enhance her fatal 
loveliness. Andromache, whom we at first suspect 
of being strong-minded, is found at her loom,— 
[ Homer keeps the ladies pretty closely at their 
looms, but, alas J not weaving plain household 
stufls, but beauteous embroidery in webs of gold: 
spendthrift Fashion ever simulating honest Work!] 
even Andromache sits for her picture, abating her 
queenly prerogatives, exactly as a Fifth Avenue belle 
of ’68 would, with 
“ Her hair’s fair ornaments, the braid that bound. 
The net that held them, and the wreath that crown'd. 
The veil and diadem.” 
And O, the charming love-gifts presented to Pene¬ 
lope by her suitors 1 Only three are described, but 
from these we may safely dream that the others 
were tuperb. Antixocs gave her a robe of “shin¬ 
ing dyes,” with varied, intermingled hues; confined 
at the “lessening waist” with twelve golden clasps, 
the long drapery trailing 
“-In light. waveB redundant o’er the ground.” 
[Any way, our long skirts are no modem abomina¬ 
tion.] Another gentleman, with an unpronounce¬ 
able name, brought a gold and amber bracelet, with 
star-shaped ear-rings, 
“-that casL a trembling light 
and Pisander a necklace, wrought with the choicest 
art. We pass by all the tantalizing wardrobes of 
gods and godesses, and away from this vivific Ho¬ 
meric painting, so grand with age — so fresh with 
immortal youth. 
Through Ages of Iron, and Kingdoms of Brass; 
through media;val cycles; through time of all sorts, 
and civilizations of all complexions, Fashion, in the 
form of Display, has reigned pereistingly. For the 
love of Beauty is of most heavenly origin, and has an 
eternal life in the soul. Fashion is one of its expo¬ 
nents,—many-6idcd, oft repeating itself, sometimes 
outre, but, in the main, with its face steadily set 
toward the outward evolvement of a glorious in¬ 
ward Sense. Solemn, but superbly robed Senators, 
and 6tatoly dames, bedigbt in blue and purple splen¬ 
dor, and glowing with jewels, trail past, down the 
long Romanic procession of ages; Egyptian extrav- 
flash on the sight, and luxurious pageantry 
Of all returnings, that one “after the funeral” 
is the saddest. Who that has ever followed a be¬ 
loved one to the grave, will say that it is not so V 
During sickness we went in and out, anxious, sor¬ 
rowing, suffering. The solicitude to relieve and 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker, 
WHY SHOULD I WEEPP 
BT REV. A. J. STAN. 
BY JAMES G. CLARK, 
Out of the shadows of sadness, 
Into the sunshine of gladness, 
Into the light of the blest— 
Out of a land very dreary, 
Out of the world of the weary, 
Into the rapture of rest. 
Out of to-day’s sin and sorrow, 
Into a blissful to-morrow, 
Into a day without gloom; 
Out of a land filled with sighing— 
Land of the dead and the dying— 
Into a land without tomb. 
Out of a life of commotion. 
Tempest-swept, oft as the ocean, 
Dark with the wreck drifting o’er— 
Into a land calm and quiet, 
Never a s torm cometh nigh it— 
Never a wreck on its shore. 
Out of the land in whose bowers 
Perish and fade all the flowers— 
Out of the land of decay— 
Into the Eden where fairest 
Of flow’rets—and sweetest and rarest— 
Never shall wither away. 
Out of the world of the wailing. 
Thronged with t he anguished and ailing, 
Out of the world of the sad— 
Into the world that rejoices— 
World of bright visions and voices— 
Into the world of the glad. 
Out of a life ever lornful. 
Out of a land very mournful, 
Where in bleak exile we roam— 
Into a joyland above us, 
Where there’s a Father to love us— 
Into our “Home—Sweet Home.” 
BT H. WALLACE 
Is there no grand immortal sphere 
Beyond this realm of broken ties. 
To fill the want? that mock us here, 
And dry the lears from weeping eyes, 
Where winter melts in endless spring, 
And Jnne stands near with deathless flowers, 
Where we may hear the dear ones sing 
Who loved us in this world of ours ? 
I ask, and lo t my checks are wet 
With tears for one I cannot see; 
O mother, art tbou living yet, 
And dost thou still remember me? 
I feel tliy kisses o'er me thrill, 
Thou unseen angel of my life; 
I heat thy hymns around me trill 
An undertone to care and strife; 
Thy tender eyes upon me shine, 
As from a being glorified; 
Till 1 am t.hinc. and thon art mine, 
And I forget that thon hast died. 
I almost lose each vain regret 
In visions of a life to he; 
But, mother, art thou living yet, 
And dost thon still remember me? 
The springtime- bloom, the summers fade; 
The winters blow along the way; 
But over every light and ebade 
Thy memory lives by night and day. 
It eoothes to sleep my wildest pain 
Like some sweet song that cannot die, 
And like the murmur of the main. 
Grows deeper when the storm is nigh. 
I know the brightest stare that, set 
Ret u ni to bless the yearning sea; 
But, mother, art thon living yet, 
And dost tbou still remember me? 
I sometimes think thy soul comes back 
From o’er the dark and silent stream, 
Where last, we watched thy shining track 
To those green hills of which we dream; 
Thy loving anus around me twine. 
My cheeks bloom younger in t.by breath, 
TUI thon art- mine, and I am thine, 
Without a thought of pain or death; 
And yet, at times, mine eyer are wet 
With tears for her I cannot eee; 
0 mother, art thou living yet, 
And dost thou still remember me? 
Why should I weep f 
The loneliness of life tbou hast forgot, 
Love’s wither’dlcaves from thy young heart have dropped, 
Heaven’s lullaby the tide of tears has stopped, 
And thou dost sleep. 
Why should I weep f 
A dearer dream than earths e’er knew is thine, 
And lasting loves around thy heart entwine; 
But shadows now-, and faded flowers, are mine, 
Since tbou dost sleep. 
Sweet is thy sleep t 
I wish that I could lay me ’mong the flowers 
Of thy ftiir home, in famed Elyslan bowers, 
And Heaven wonld re-unite these hearts of ours 
When I should sleep. 
’ I will not. weep, 
Though my ead heart, chimes with the moaning sea, 
Remembering only its great love and thee; 
For soon, forgetful of the ills that be, 
I, too. shall sleep. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A HASTY REVIEW OF FASHION, 
BY ELIZA WOODWORTH. 
Fashion is very old-fashioned. Those good sour 
men and women who disparage the Present because 
of the reign of Dagon, would, ir they searched, find 
little consolation in their beloved Past. Costly trim¬ 
mings, hoops, and email bonnets have been for the 
last years among their chief plaints. But as for the 
first grievance, the Past is at least the peer of the 
Present; and something worse, if we consider the 
dress of the sterner sex, which is now so tastelessly 
plain. Hoops flourished triumphantly in a re-ver- 
nant rcigu in Shakspeare’s days, under the name 
of farthingales, and were probably provocative of as 
much elegaut sarcasm as during their present epoch. 
It was Shaksfeare, too, who iudited this anxious 
dialogue respecting Pbtruchio’s wife’s bonnet: 
Petroliiio— 1 1 Why, 'tis a cockle, or a walnut shell; 
A knack, a toy' a trick, a baby's cap : 
Away with It; come, let me have a bigger." 
Katharine— ” I’ll have no bigger; this doth fit the 
time, 
And gentlewomen doth wear,” &c. 
But oue trusts that these people, who are ever 
vaunting the “old times,” and “old customs,” will 
soon be satisfied, for they are fast traveling toward 
ns. We are verging upon the narrow skirts, Bhort 
waists, and canon curls of their dear antiquated by¬ 
gone. Hereafter we may have Elizabethan ruffs, 
and “shirts and shifts embroidered with gold;” and 
gentlemen may own fealty to the slumbering fash¬ 
ions of Henrt VII., and throng Washington on In¬ 
augural days, glorious as young Lord Nalx, who 
went to the marriage of Prince Arthur in a gown 
of purple velvet, trimmed with “ pieces of gold so 
thick and massive that, exclusive of the silks and 
furs, it waa valued at a thousand pounds.”* Ah! 
most literally and truly “dear/” Good 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker, 
“PEACE, BE STILL!” 
ganzas 
in dress, amongst dimly perceived allies, and con¬ 
temporary peoples; the vision grows distincter, as 
the times draw nearer, and the gay cavalcade streams 
on, until it reaches the dawn of Christendom's orient 
magnificence; past it into days of chivalry and 
music, flaunting banners, and gallantly plumed 
knights, and,—Vive la bagatelle! here we are at the 
Tournaments again! 
There is no precedent for the good sour people. 
We have gone “ round the circle,” and find nor 
example nor hope. Bon-Ton is self-existent; Fash¬ 
ion is like the fabled bird, ever re-arising and re¬ 
newing itself. 
Montview Cottage, Niagara Co., N. Y., 1868. 
It is among men who try to get a living by some 
shift or trick of laziness that we hear the familiar 
words, “The world owes me a living.” A loafer 
who never did a useful thing in his life, who dresses 
at the expense of his tailor, and drinks at the cost 
of his friends, always insists that the world owes 
him a living, and declares his intention to secure 
the debt. I should like to know how it is that a 
man who owes the world for every mouthful he 
ever ate aud every garment he ever put on, should 
be so heavy a creditor in account with the world. 
The loafer lies about it. The world owes him 
nothiDg but a very rough colfin aud a retired and 
otherwise useless place to put it in. The world 
owes a Living to those who are not able to earn one 
—to children, to the sick, to the disabled and the 
age d_to all who, in the course of nature or by force 
of circumstances, are dependent; and it was mainly 
for the supply of the wants of these that men were 
endowed with the power to produce more than 
enough for themselves. To a genuine shirk the 
world owes nothing; and when he tells me, with a 
whine, that the world owes him a living, I am as¬ 
sured that he has the disposition of a highway rob¬ 
ber, and lacks only his courage and his enterprise. 
—,/. G. Holland. 
Written lor Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
HT BE! WILL BE! 
humble garments,—from those whose lots are cast 
among the lowly,—to whom this world seems one 
great workshop. So much are they below what 
they would be, that the task of climbing higher in 
the Beale of social existence seems almost an im¬ 
possibility, and they, all through life, continue to 
sigh, “ If1 might be," instead of shapiug their long¬ 
ing into a resolve. So tired grow the hands, so 
weary the brain ^oppressed with the cares, perplexi¬ 
ties and responsibilities of life, that the soul reaches 
out for somethiug higher and more ennobling than 
what it has been accustomed to experience in the 
dull routine of every-day life. 
“ If I might be" is the first awakeniug of youth’s 
bright dream of glory, greatness aud goodness. 
When he reads the record of fame and sees the 
names of the honored written there, —when he 
learns that many of the renowned have overcome 
difficulties and risen above discouragements, even 
worse than lie in his own pathway,— he exclaims, 
“Can this be so? Why may not I, too, leave a 
name, that will live, as do theirs, to tell that I have, 
been ?” But the task seems too great, and after the 
first unavailing effort, the faint heart falters, and 
we find him striving for wealth only; dreaming 
that this will fully satisfy his hungering thirst for 
and render all his after life a continual 
Bygones 
old days,—days of white kid boots and golden spurs; 
of precious stones, and costly furs, aDd be-jeweled 
dresses. Further back, and we catch glimpses of 
gay tournaments, waving banners, and gallantly 
plumed knights; but these, alas 1 shall uot return 
till Time has buried ns, aod much of the civiliza¬ 
tion which we hold dear. Still, It is a comfort to 
believe that, shortly, gentlemen will doubtless dou 
knee-breeches, and silver buckles, and long, trouble¬ 
some, picturesque cues, and turned-up, unprofitably 
broad hat brims. Their present dress is so prosaic! 
One really fails to discover how anything relating 
to dress, either in the past history of the world or 
in its future prospects, is to comfort the good sour 
people. If SnAKSPBARE is too far hack, and they 
cry out for the times of the Revolution, a mere 
bird's-eye view of the Bona Robas of the Ton is very 
distressing. Stern investigation diepels the popu¬ 
lar idea that our recherche fore-mothers were partial 
to homespun. They wore what costly “things” 
they could get, with the additional sin of having 
every atornus imported. If they wait after the days 
when the Republic was “ settliug” on its basis, and 
all the distingue women were vaguely supposed to 
have been economical, our anxious eyes rest at once 
upon the wife of Minister John Adams, at the Brit¬ 
ish Court, where she had a “splendid” opportunity 
of showmg Republican simplicity, attired in a dress 
cap trimmed with a wreath of white flowers, and 
blue sheaves, and two black and blue flat feathers, 
[“half a guinea apiece;”] a dress of satin striped, 
sapphire blue derni saison, trimmed with broad black 
lace; and crape flounce; and leaves of blue ribbon, 
flecked with white floss; and wreaths of black vel¬ 
vet do., spotted with steel beads, and white do., 
do., in Vandyke style,—” very elegant," she affirms; 
also a full dress handkerchief and a bouquet, of 
roses! Nathless, she was a very sensible woman, 
and brought up John Quincy in a very sensible 
manner. 
Since those days, Fashion has, according to her 
accusers, waxed worse and worse, so that we may 
turn from them all, even from Gen. Washington 
and his “ Lady” flashing through the streets of New 
York in a coach and six, back, back to the hazy 
Patriarchal Ages. Alas ! how fond were those syl¬ 
van princesses of jewelry. Even Isaac allured his 
to make a purchase. One of the clerks, a modest 
young man, stepped up to wait on her. The young 
lady threw back her veil, saying: 
“ I want ‘ Rock Me to Sleep.’ ” 
The clerk got the song, and put it before her. 
“ Now,” said the young lady, “ I want ‘ The Wan¬ 
dering Refugee.’ ” 
“ Yes, ma’am,” said the clerk, bowing, and in a 
few minutes he produced the “ Refugee.” 
“ Now, ‘ Kiss Me,’ ” said the young lady, of course 
meaning the soug above mentioned. 
The poor clerk’s eyes popped fire almost, as he 
looked at the young lady in ntter astonishment, for 
he was not aware of the fact that a song by that 
name had been published. 
“ Wb—w’hat did you say, Miss?” 
“ 1 Kiss Me,' ” said she. 
“ I can’t do it; I never kissed a young lady in my 
life,” said the clerk. 
Aud about that time a veil dropped, a young lady 
left in a hurry, clerk felt queer, and dealer lost the 
sale of some music. 
The wind is a musician by birth. We extend a 
silken thread in the crevices of a window, and the 
wind finds it, and sings over it, aud goes up and 
down the scale ou it, and poor Paganini must go 
somewhere else for honor, for lo! the wind is per¬ 
forming upon a single striug. It tries almost any¬ 
thing on earth to see if there is music in it, per¬ 
suades a tone out of the great bell in the tower 
when the sexton is at home and asleep, it makes a 
mournful harp of the giant pines, and does not dis¬ 
dain to try what sort of whistle can be made of the 
humblest chimney in the world. How it. will play 
upon a great tree till every leaf thrills with the 
notes in it, and the river that runs at its base is a 
sort of murmuring accompaniment. Aud what a 
melody it sings when it gives a concert with a full 
distinction, 
scene of happiness. 
How little do we know of our own hearts! As 
time rolls on cares become more perplexing, the 
60 ul grows weary of its sordid burden; and as the 
shadows of life’s twilight come creeping on, and 
the witnesses of old age gather around, he sees the 
thorny, dusty path which he has trod, aud 6ighs, 
when too late, that he has passed the glorious 
“ might be." The remembrance of his toil for gold, 
which has absorbed every other wish and hope, 
seems a blank. “ Oh, if I bad been more faithful 
in the improvement of my intellect, if I had rightly 
used my spare moments, satisfaction would now fill 
the place of regret! Now it is too late. The fet¬ 
ters of the grave are already clasping themselveB 
upon me, and to the Judge of all must 1 relate the 
storv of a life misspent.” Is there not many a one 
A New Employment for Women. —Rev. W. T 
Wylie of Newcastle, Pa., a clergyman whose parson¬ 
age i6 on a beautiful hill, aud partially surrounded 
by a vineyard of his own planting, recommends 
grape culture as an employment, suitable and profit¬ 
able for women. “I believe,” he says, “ that the apt 
and diligent woman could cam ten times more 
money in a year by raising grapes than by plyiugher 
needle.” His own vines, to which he attends only 
as a relaxation from the studies and duties of his 
ministry, yield him diversion, health and pecuniary 
profit. After working in his owu vineyard, ho finds 
himself all the more strengthened for working in the 
Lord’s. Even if women do not accept Mr Wylie’s 
suggestion, some of his ministerial brethren who 
have country parsonage, and a good hill-slope, may 
think it worth trying. 
A bad debt—the owing of a grudge. 
What is often found where it is not V Fault. 
“ The voices of the night”—Those blessed babies. 
When is small beer not small beer ? When it is a 
little tart. 
The right man in the right place is the husband at 
home in the evening. 
are the only paper currency that 
Good newspapers 
is worth more than gold or silver. 
The difference between a local paragraph and a 
false eye—One is an i-tem, and the other an eye 
pro tern. 
Why do Irishmen resemble the waves of the 
Atlantic? Because they never cease lavin’ the 
shores of the “old countbry.” 
Before you 6cold be sure that you are right your¬ 
self. He that attempts to cleanse a blot with blot¬ 
ted fingers makes a greater blur. 
Why are young ladies at the breaking up of a 
party like arrows ? Because they can’t go off with¬ 
out a bean, and are in a quiver till they get one. 
“ I am about to do for you what the Evil One never 
did by yon,” said a quaint parson in his “valedic¬ 
tory” to his flock; “ that is, I shall leave you." 
“I don’t like Robert; he’s a fool,” said Robert’s 
irate bachelor nncle; “he’s still in love with his 
wife, and the honeymoon was over as much as six 
weeks ago!" 
A Yankee has invented a new and cheap plan for 
hoarding. One of bi6 lodgers mesmerises the rest, 
and then eats a hearty meal—the mesmerised being 
eatlstied from sympathy. 
An enthusiastic young lady in Boston wa6 heard 
to wind up her admiring remarks on a statue in a 
shop window thus“ I don’t know whom it repre¬ 
sents, but it’s a splendid likeness.” 
A credulous man said to a wag who had a wood¬ 
en leg, “How came you to have a wooden leg?’ 
“ Why,” answered the wag, “ my father had one, 
and so had my grandfather. It runs in the blood.” 
The wife makes the home, and the home makes 
the man. 
“ Sunday is the golden 
Longfellow says that 
clasp that binds together the volume of the week." 
Few things are necessary for the wants of this 
life, but it takes an infiniie number to satisfy the 
demands of opinion. 
Ladles generally 6hop in couples. When a lady 
has any money to spend, she dearly loves taking a 
friend with her to see her spend it. 
A fashionable woman, iu Fifth Avenue, boasts 
of having over three hundred dresses, more than a 
quarter of which are entirely new. 
A witty doctor says that tight lacing is a public 
benefit, inasmuch as it kills all of the foolish girls, 
and leaves the wise to grow up to women. 
It is ill bred to use slang words or phrases. In¬ 
decent and profane expressions are something far 
worse than ill bred. They indicate that yon do not 
reverence God or respect man, and they are also 
vnlgar. 
A trial of skill between the girls and hoys of 
West Point, Ga., to settle the mooted question, 
“ Are the mental capacities of females equal to 
those of males?” resulted in a decided triumph 
for the girls. 
At a recent ball in New York, some of toe ladies 
had three servants to hold up the trails Of their 
dresses. Probably if their dresses had been “ hitch¬ 
ed up” round the ueok, in accordance with the 
laws of health and morality, one trail tender would 
have been sufficient. 
ABOUT THE DOOR, 
The Church, Negatively.— God never meant his 
church to be an asylum for indolence and selfishness 
—a chapel of ease, where formal professors may sleep 
in quiet, and lazily dream about their hopes and 
privileges. It is not a receiving vault, in which the 
corpse of dead religion may be decently laid away, 
and never be seen or heard of any more. Nor is it 
a pleasure ground, whose trees are grown mere y or 
ornament;—but a garden, a vineyard, where every 
TOant ia rome.oted to bear fruit, and is only a cum- 
