FEMALE BEAUTY. 
Choice fpsteUawg. 
PERSONAL GOSSIP. 
adits’ fftpattownt. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
LOVE’S REGENERATION. 
BT MARIE B. LADD. 
You have known me long, and known me rough, 
In my wild and wilful race,— 
A man who has taken oath's enough 
To have them writ on his face,— 
But now this wretch, who drank and swore 
With the best of you all at sea, 
And joined the broils of his mates on shore,— 
I cannot think it was me. 
Not truly me as to-day I am,— 
Love timing my pulses warm; 
But when the ocean lies in a calm 
Wc cannot think of the storm. 
However it came about, I wear 
On my tanned and brawny arm 
Some yellow Moss of a maiden's hair, 
That clasps my life like a charm; 
Keeping my evil thoughts at ebb, 
Wherever I sail or row. 
For she who wove the gossamer web 
Is pure as a fleck of snow: 
As pure as Bnow or angel fair, 
An d tender and bright her eyes ; 
The sunshine always lives in her hair, 
An d gloom in her clear smile dies. 
With my rude speech and graceless hulk 
How could I her love have got V— 
I like a battered, unwieldy hulk. 
And she like a white-sailed yacht. 
THE PILGRIM MOTHERS. 
T urn humorous Artemus Ward once complained 
of the song writers, because they forever sung of 
“mother.” It was “Rock me to sleep mother," 
“Dear mother I've come home to die,” “Let me 
kiss him for his mother,” etc., etc. We do not wou- 
der at Aktemus’ complaint, nor at his touchiug 
petition—“Give father a chance.” The poor pa¬ 
ternal parent had 60 long been left nnmentioned 
that an appeal from some one in his behalf was very 
timely. It is natural to infer that all the while we 
had been singing of mother he had been away, for 
pretty soon after the appeal we began to sigh and 
Ring —“Father, dear father, come home!” And a 
few of us are thus sighing and singing yet t 
Some of onr fathers have always been kindly re¬ 
membered, however,—the Pilgrim Fathers, for 
instance. In fact they seem to have quite monopo¬ 
lized onr regard. All New England and a consider¬ 
able portion of the rest of mankind, have united in 
doing them honor. They have been sung of, and 
orated about on Independence Days, and toasted at 
anniversary dinners, and their memories kept green 
in many and various ways. But no one ever wrote 
an ode about, their wives, — our good old grand- 
dames who cooked their victuals, and watched over 
their households, and tended their Puritan babies. 
In view of this we feel like inquiring—Why Buch 
culpable neglect? We are not alone in considering 
the matter worthy of consideration One lady, at 
least, of whom we have heard, properly believes 
that there should be a division of honors between 
our Puritan parents. Being invited to furnish a 
toast to bo read at the anniversary celebration of tho 
Pilgrim Fathers, she replied as follows: 
“The ‘Pilgrim Fathers,’ forsooth. What had 
they to endure in comparison to the Pilgrim Moth¬ 
ers ? It is true they had hunger, and cold, and sick¬ 
ness, and danger —foes without and within—but 
the unfortuuate Pilgrim Mothers! they had not only 
these to endure, but they had the Pilgrim Fathers 
also! And yet their names are never mentioned. 
Who ever heard of the Pilgrim Mothers? Who 
ever gave a dinner in honor of them? Who ever 
writes songs, drinks toasts and makes speeches in 
recollection of them? This self-sutliciency of the 
men is beyond endurance. One would actually sup¬ 
pose that New England had been colonized by men, 
and posterity provided for by special providence,” 
We admire her spirit, and are especially pleased 
by her allusion to the self-sufficiency of the men. 
It is abominable,—the way these “lordsof creation” 
do air themselves! All men,— and when we say 
“ men ” we do not mean to embrace the ladies,— 
(or rather we do not mean that they shall,)—must 
acknowledge that posterity has been provided for by 
but one special providence, and that that was away 
back in the time of the drat fruit-gathering. We 
are driven to the conclusion, then, that the present 
generation owes something to the Pilgrim Mothers: 
something in the way of existence, at least, and it 
may be a little in the way of ccrtaiu characteristic 
traits and principles. 
The Rural, therefore, pleads for the Pilgrim 
Mothers. It demands that their portraits shall hang 
eide by side with the long faced ones of the much 
be-written Pilgrim Fathers; that the poets who 
sing of Plymouth Rock shall sing also of those who 
rocked the cradles of the youthful Puritans; that 
the Ruths who followed their masculine Naomis 
across the water and literally made “ thy people my 
people” shall have honorary mention,—and that 
their faithfulness and firmness and patience shall be 
written of in odes, and complimented in toasts, and 
spoken of in speeches, and so handed down from 
generation to generation. And to this end, if need 
be, let the ladies organize a society to commemorate 
the landing of those excellent dames, and thus in a 
measure perpetuate their virtues. We pledge our¬ 
selves to pen an ode for the opening assemblage, in 
which the mothers shall receive fitting eulogy 1 
- ^ «»♦ * >» - 
Origin of “Flirt.”—' This word is derived from 
the customs of the gallants of Louis Fourteenth's 
time, who used to address their girlish friends as 
“ma fleurette,” or “my little flower.” The noun 
fieurette finally grow into a verb, and the term 
“fleuretter une demoiselle” was used in speaking 
of terms of attention paid to a beauty. After the 
importation of “fleuretter” to Englaud, it degen¬ 
erated into “ fteuter,” and finally to “ flirt.” So say 
the authorities. 
- ♦■ »♦« « » - 
Advice to Girls. —The New York Evening Ga¬ 
zette tells young ladies what to beware of if they 
would have a fresh, healthy, and youthful appear¬ 
ance:—“Late hours, large crinoline, tight corsets, 
confectionery, hot bread, cold draughts, pastry, de- 
collette dress, modem novels, furnace registers, 
easy carriages, late suppers, thin shoes, fear of 
knowledge, nibbling between meals, ill-temper, 
, haste to many, dread of growing old.” 
-- 
A bitterly ingenious epigram is that of an old 
Greek poet on marriage. In translation it runs 
thus: 
Two happy day? in marriage are allowed— 
A wife in wedding garb and in her shroud. 
Sure, then, that state cannot be called accurs’d 
Where the last day’s as happy as the first. 
The ladies of Arabia stain their fingers and toes 
red, their eyebrows black, and their lips blue. In 
Persia they paint a black streak around their eyes, 
and ornament their faces with various figures. The 
Japanese women gild their teeth, and those of the 
Indians paint them red. The pearl of the tooth 
mu6t be dyed black to be beautiful in Guzurat. 
The Hottentot women paint the entire body in 
compartments of red and black. In Greenland the 
women color their faces with blue and yellow, and 
they frequently tattoo their bodies by saturating 
threads in soot, inserting them beneath the skin, 
and then drawing them through. Hindoo families, 
when they wish to appear particularly lovely, smear 
themselves With a mixture of saffron, tumeric and 
grease. In nearly all the islands of the Pacific and 
Indian oceans, the women, as well as the met), tat¬ 
too a great variety of figures on the face, the lips, 
tongue, and the whole body. Ju New Holland, they 
cut themselves with shells, and keeping the wounds 
open a long time, form scars in the flesh, which they 
deem highly ornamental. And another singular 
mutilation is made among them by taking off, in 
infancy, the little linger of the left hand at the 
second joint. 
In ancient Persia, an aquiline nose was gotten 
thought worthy of the crowd; but the Sumatran 
mother carefully flattens the nose of her daughter. 
Among some of the savage tribes in Oregon, and 
also in Sumatra and Araeau, continual pressure is 
applied to the skull in order to flatten it, and thus 
give it a new beauty. The modem Persians have a 
strong aversion to red hair. Turks, on the contrary, 
are warm admirers of it. 
In China, small, round eyes are liked, and the 
girls are continually plucking their eyebrows, that 
they may be thin and long. But the great beauty of 
a Chinese lady is iu her feet, which in ber childhood 
are so compressed by bandages as effectually to pre¬ 
vent any further increase in size. Tbe four smaller 
toes are beat under the foot, to the sole of which 
they firmly adhere; and the poor girl not only en¬ 
dures much pain, but becomes a cripple for life. 
Another mark of beauty consists in finger nails so 
loug that casings and bamboo are necessary to pre¬ 
serve them from Injury. An African beauty must 
have small eyes, thick lips, large flat nose, and a 
skin beautifully black. In New Guinea the nose is 
perforated, and a large piece of wood or bone'in- 
serted. In the northwest coast of America an 
incision more than two inches in length, is made in 
the lower lip, and then filled with a wooden plug. 
In Guinea the lips are pierced with thorns, the 
heads being inside the mouth, and the points resting 
on the chin. 
PROMISE TO A BABY. 
Lord Eldon was sitting in his study over a table 
of papers, when a young and lovely girl—slightly 
rustic in her attire, embarrassed by the novelty of 
her position, but thoroughly in command of her 
wits — entered the room and walked up to the law¬ 
yer’s chair. 
“ My dear,” said the Chancellor, rising and bowiug 
with Old World courtesy, “ who are you ? ” 
“Lord Eldon,” answered the blushing maiden, 
“ I am Bessy Bridge of Wobley, the daughter of the 
Vicar of Wobley, and papa has sent me to remind 
you of a promise which you made him when I was a 
baLy, and you were a guest in hiB house on the occa¬ 
sion of ycur first election as member of Parliament 
for Wobley.” 
“A promise, my dear young lady,” interrupted 
tbe Chancellor, trying to recall how he had pledged 
himself. 
“ Yes, Lord Eldon, a promise. You were stand¬ 
ing over my cradle, when papa said to you, * Mr. 
Scott, promise me if ever you are Lord Chancellor 
when my little girl is a poor clergyman’s wife, you 
will give her husband a living ; 1 and you replied, 
1 Mr. Bridge, my promise is not worth a crown, but 
I give it to you, wishing it were worth more.’ ” 
Enthusiastically, the Chancellor exclaimed, “You 
are quite light. 1 admit the obligation. 1 remem¬ 
ber all about it,” and then, after a pause, archly 
surveying the damsel, whose graces were tbe reverse 
of matronly, “but surely the time for keeping my 
promise has not yet arrived? You cannot be any 
one’s wife at present?” 
For a few seconds Bessie hesitated for au auswer, 
and then with a blush and a ripple of silvery laugh¬ 
ter, she replied “No! but I do wish to be some¬ 
body’s wife. I am engaged to a young clergyman, 
and there is a living in Hertfordshire, Dear my old 
home, that has recently fallen vacant, and if yon 
will give it to Alfred, why then, Lord Eldon, we 
shall marry before the end of the year.” 
Is there need to say that tbe Chancellor forthwith 
summoned his Secretary; that the Secretary forth¬ 
with made out the presentation of Bessie’s lover, 
and that having given tho Chancellor a kiss of grati¬ 
tude, Bessie made good speed back to Hertfordshire, 
hugging the precious document all the way home ? 
-- 
THE SPRING FASHIONS. 
Wednesday, the 25th ult,, was an opening day in 
New York. The following is an outline of the styles: 
Bonnets are growing small by degrees and beauti¬ 
fully less. By next year it is believed they will have 
vanished out of existence, and be regarded only as 
pleasant memories of the past. The substitute now 
in vogue consists of a diadem crown of tulle frosted 
with silver, arched over the forehead, and about the 
size of a small oyster shell. This is to be laid right 
in front of the chignon, now worn more on the top 
than at the hack of the head. The lace strings are 
elaborate, tasteful and becoming. The charming 
head-dresseB are of various colors, the most fascina¬ 
ting being the Sultan, or scarlet, the Mettemich, or 
light-green, and the Carambicr, or plum-colored. 
The trimmings are colored blondes, or plain and 
frosted colored tulle. 
In dresses the gored skirt of no less than nine 
breadths, and haring biased seams in the back, is 
the style. Over them will be basque waists and 
sashes, the lower part of the basque being trimmed 
to represent belts, which are no longer worn sepa¬ 
rately from the dress. The trail for evening dresses 
has not yet been tabooed, but, as if to compensate 
for the additional material required in the trail, fash¬ 
ion has decreed that low necks in the evening are to 
be the future style. In other departments there has 
not been any appreciable alteration. The modistev 
have no fears of the immediate introduction of 
panniers lately worn by the Empress Eugenie, the 
personification of fashion, whose dictates are un- 
murmuringly obeyed by the women of two conti¬ 
nents. The old saying that one might as well he 
out of the world as out of the fashion, is inapplica¬ 
ble to tbe Empress, who can never be out of fashion 
until she is out of the world, as everything she 
wears is fashionable. 
Synonyms.— In Hebrew, Sunshine and Happiness 
are words of the same meaning. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
RETROSPECTIVE. 
A MEMORY OF THE OLD 8TONB SCHOOL-HOUSE IN 
FENFIELD, N. Y. 
BY GRACE G. SLOUGH. 
Softly to-niglit in the waning light, 
Sweet memory clasps my hand, 
And leads mo backward over the years, 
To a beautiful Eden land. 
There are bands outstretched, and hearts that greet 
With words that, are true, I know, 
Unshadowed brows, and eyes undimmed, 
In that land of the long ago. 
There arc skies > hat bend over pleasant fields, 
Over daisied valley aud hill; 
There's an old gray school-house standing close 
By the banks of a gushing rill. 
The paths are all worn by the childsh feet 
That have bounded so gaily there, 
And I hear the laughter and songs of glee 
That, rang out on the summer air. 
I have wandered far since those olden days,— 
My feet are brown with earth’s dust; 
My beautiful treasures arc faded, all. 
Corrupted by moth and rust; 
And I wonder if all these weary years 
That have saddened my own heart so, 
Have marred the old haunts, with their sobbing rains, 
And their drifting waves of snow. 
I come, but alas I rude stranger hands 
Have torn the old walls away, 
They never guessed what treasures there were 
Shut up in those walls so gray. 
I miss the pond and tbe old oak tree, 
But the brook still plashes along, 
And all of old that is left there now 
Is the rippling of its sweet song. 
Ah, where are the child hearts* Some like mine 
Have looked long amid earth s mould, 
For the treasures they sought in the daisied fields, 
When they gleaned the blossoms for gold; 
Some dear ones dropped softly asleep, 
Ere the shadows of years ooold fall, 
Only remembering the old-time days 
That gladdened the hearts of us all. 
The summers will come, and flush, and fade 
Over their heads I know; 
But, their hearts will never know fading or bloom, 
Nor their brows be shadowed with woe. 
Aud over our life-boats the storms will sweep, 
As we’re drifting out at sea, 
But we'll yearn in vain for the guileless hearts 
That sang ’neath the old oak tree. 
-♦ > « - » >• »- 
THE PROBLEM OF BEING. 
“ To be or not to be,” is not the question. We 
were bom into the world. Some, perhaps, looking 
at the mauy unpleasant things which existence has 
brought them, may say that being bora was the 
worst that could have happened. Possibly it was. 
But, unfortunately, it is the one great thing that 
cannot now be got around. 
Having been bom, then, and presuming at the 
outset that the idea of suicide is not to be enter¬ 
tained for one moment, the question becomes one 
touching upon the avaMtbUity of being. What are 
we going to make existence worth ? 
Iu the individuality of life lies its solemnity. If 
your jife, and the lifves of a dozen of your friends, 
were, a sort of stock’ company atlair—all the being 
and The doing equally divided among the eutirc 
number—the being aud tbe doing would not &eem 
so momentous. Some responsibilities can be shirk¬ 
ed off npon others more able or more willing to bear 
them. This one of being cannot so summarily be 
disposed of. We must take it up every day, aud do 
with it as we will—only bear it. Compauionships, 
be they never so sweet; happy associations, be they 
never so beneficial in their influences, have no power 
to aid us. Single, and alone, we must take up onr 
daily load of life, and walk on. How can we best 
do this ? 
A great requisite to make life available for good, 
is a belief in inherent goodness. A faith that there 
is good in all things, will be cerbaiu to draw good 
out of all things. The heart that is always filled 
with doubting*,—that is vigilant to discover the 
bad but sees nothing of the good,—never gets rich 
and blest. There is, in the work-a-day hurry and 
bustle surrounding us, much of deceit, and, we may 
as well frankly admit, not a little of genuine wicked¬ 
ness. We camiot well close our eyes to this fact, 
We leara the truth of it early enough by observa¬ 
tion, aud very much too early by actual personal 
experience. But it should not destroy our faith in 
innate goodness. Let us study human nature as 
thoroughly as we may, aud search out as many of 
its hidden sins as is possible, but never without a 
belief that hack of all we may discover which is 
unquestionably bad there lies much that is unques¬ 
tionably good. 
And in our study of human nature let us do as it 
is claimed charity should—begin at home. Men are 
far too apt, to judge of it as though they stood on 
an eminence high above the common level. There 
is just about so much human nature in every man 
aud woman of us, aud nowhere can any certain few 
show that in them is it more or less human than in 
their fellows. In tbe careful study of ourselves we 
shall learn pretty nearly the 6ame lessons that we 
fancy aru enclosed in the garb of others. Very like¬ 
ly too, we shall find that the modicum of evil in our¬ 
selves isn’t so very much less than in our neighbors. 
Our ideas of v|ilue, or worth, are but comparative, 
at best, and veiy imperfect. We may never attain 
the true standard of valuation. We may hold, 
always, the richest lives to be the poorest, and 
overlook depositories of real wealth where we think 
are only rags aud poverty, it is in this that the 
problem of being proves too deep for our solving. 
In measuring our own lives, even, we are more 
superficial than we think. We judge of our actions 
mainly in the light of their effect upon ourselves, 
and leave out of miud their broader outreach,—their 
effects upon others. Our doing may appear barren 
of all fruit, for us; for others it may be yielding a 
bountiful harvest. 
It needs much pruning and “heading-in" to make 
a fruitful tree: the same process is necessary to 
make a fruitful life. All being has its offshoots, 
branching out in various directions; and these 
must he trimmed down, and kept constantly under 
control, that the vitality which nourishes them may 
be serving the growth of essential parts. Lopping 
off pleasures here, and passions there, may cost 
sacrifice; hut the sacrifice holds a sweet promise 
within it. Symmetrical being is its own reward; 
and such being comes only through careful cutting 
away of branches that may sometimes blossom, but 
can never bear ripened fruit. 
-- 
Never lay a stumbling block in the way of a mau 
who is trying to advance himself in the world hon¬ 
estly aud uprightly, for he is likely to walk over it 
and laugh at you afterward. 
A correspondent of the New York World, writ¬ 
ing from Berlin, thus speaks of Prof. Morse, the tele¬ 
graph inventor:—“Prof. Morse was in town last 
week. During his stay he called upon Col. Von 
Chauvtn, Superintendent of the Build Telegraphic 
System, to make sundry inquiries. After answer¬ 
ing his questions, Col. Von C. said that the opera¬ 
tors had heard of his presence and would be de¬ 
lighted to see him. Mr. Morse assented to the 
presentation, and was then shown into a large ope¬ 
rating room ; at a word from Col. Von C., the occu¬ 
pants rose up and stood a la milUaire, ‘You have 
the honor to see before you, gentlemen, the Father 
of the Telegraph,’ said the Superintendent. All 
bowed aud bowed again, till, as a friend says, who 
relates the incident, the fond parent seemed quite 
embarrassed in the presence of ao much of his child. 
Heal 60 called upon Herr Von Phiufsuorn, Gen¬ 
eral Director of the Post and Telegraph Department. 
Herr Von Phllipsborn did not wait for him to be 
shown in, but ou receiving his card came out to the 
ante-chamber to meet him; then, taking both his 
hands in his own, he asked whether he really had 
the honor of speaking to Mr. Morse.” 
Mr. Disraeli, who was so recently made Premier 
of England by the Queen, has a remarkable history. 
He was born La London in 1805, his father being 
Isaac Disraeli, author of “ Curiosities of Litera¬ 
ture.” He was educated at a private academy in 
London, and while very young became the clerk of 
an attorney, where he remained three years. Weary 
of this drudgery, aud aspiring to higher position 
than he could hope for in the legal profession, 
through his father’s distinguished friends he ob¬ 
tained admission into the best society iu London. 
Here he soon became a decided favorite on account 
of his persoual beauty, bis elegant manners, and his 
brilliancy in conversation. When 19 ho visited Ger¬ 
many, and on his return to England eutered upon 
his literary career, which was remarkably brilliant 
and successful. Ambitious of political as well as 
literary renown, after repeated failures he at last 
obtained a 6eat iu Parliament, and has gone ou up, 
conquering one obstacle after another, until for 
years he has been the leader of the House of Com¬ 
mons and minister of finance in the English cabinet 
Georoe Chuikshank, the veteran caricaturist, is 
described as “a middle-sized, broad-shouldered 
man, in age, but yet full of vigor, sharp-nosed, 
hawk-beaked, eagle-eyed; with small, firm mouth, 
broad forehead and eager look, equally expressive 
of work, wit, humor and readiness.” He is always 
a marked mau among men, and attracts much at¬ 
tention. Still energetic, he began work when nine¬ 
teen-twentieths of the present world were not horn. 
LOST LITTLE ONES. 
Looking at each other across the river, across the 
valley, are the white stones that mark the sleeping 
places of our dead. The little brown mounds grow 
more frequent in the village cemeteries, and sad pro¬ 
cessions have, of late, with mourarul frequence, 
wound up the path to the resting place where the 
cradles, now without rockers, lie silent aud dumb. 
The tiny soul-buds, just softening and swelling in 
the 6UDshiuc of paternal love, just throwing the 
dimpled tendrils around our necks, and tumbling 
sweet, broken syllables in our ears, are, with one 
gust of snow, swept away and hidden in the ground. 
There are the empty chair, the 6ilent playthings, the 
little drees, limp for the want of the little form, aud 
the crumpled shoes that will be dented no more with 
pattering feet; all wreathed with sad remembrances 
of the happy hours when the closed eyes danced with 
wonder at each fresh sight of -the new creation. 
Love for the little ones is all the world round the 
6ame. The sparrow croons just as tenderly over her 
“browuies” as the oriole over hers, clothed In vel¬ 
vet and gold. Hearts are inside of us all, aud no 
costly wearing makes love the less or more. Brown 
hands can build castles in tbe air as deftly as white 
fingers, and ail wring with equal sorrow at tbe wreck. 
But tbiuk how full of pleasantness the little lives 
have been; the unfinished riug of their tiny years 
has been plaited all around with love and blossoms, 
the scent of the lilacs and lilies. Tho memory of 
caressings that in after years we forget, the dear ones 
carry with them to 1 leaven. Banished from one par¬ 
adise to another — from this, where shadows some¬ 
times drive away smiles, to where there aje no 
shadows any more. 
Sad it is to die young. Is it not sadder to die old ? 
Ilow many there are that have babies that never 
grow up, that live life-long in tbe memory as the 
little ones that never wandered till we laid them 
quietly down beneath that green coverlid that 
needeth smoothing aud softening no more. 
Upon that mysterious, unknown sea that rolls all 
around the world, how mauy little souls daily drift 
out 1 Mothers iu every land are crying on the shore, 
of their great loss, in anguish and in tears. But yon¬ 
der Invisible hands welcome the little earth-orphans, 
and celestial voices shout iu glad delight that another 
angel is bora iu Heaven ! — Radii. 
■ -. « •» ♦-»- »■ 
TESTS OF CHARACTER. 
A great many admirable actions are overlooked 
by us, because they are so little and common. Take, 
for instance, tbe mother, who has had broken slum¬ 
ber, if any at all, with the nursing babe, whose 
wants must not be disregarded; she would fain 
sleep a while when the breakfast hour comes, hut 
patiently aud uncomplainingly she takes her timely 
seat at tbe table. Though exhausted aud weary, 
she serves them all with a refreshing cup of coffee 
or tea before she sips it herself, aud often the cup is 
handed back to her to be refilled before she has had 
time to taste her own. Do you hear her complain— 
this weary mother—that her breakfast is cold before 
she has time to eat it ? And this not for one, but for 
every morning, perhaps, in the year. Do you call 
thi6 a small thing? Try it and see. O! how does 
woman shame us by her forbearance and fortitude in 
what are called little things! Ah, it is these little 
things which are teste of character; it is by these 
“ little” self-denials, borne with such seif-forgotten 
gentleness, that the humblest home is made beaatl- 
ful to the eyes of angels, though we fail to see it, 
alas 1 until the chair is vacant, and the hand which 
kept in motion all this domestic machinery is pow¬ 
erless and cold! 
---- 4 »- 
Beauty of Old People.— Men and women make 
their own beauty or their own ugliness. Lord Lyt- 
ton speaks of a man “who was uglier than he had 
any business to be;” and if he could but read it, 
every human being carried his life in hi6 face, and is 
good looking or the reverse, as that life has been 
good or evil. Ou our features the fine chisels of 
thought aud emotion are eternally at work, Beauty 
is not the monopoly of blooming young men and of 
pink and white maids. There is a slow growing 
beauty which only comes to perfection in old age. 
Grace belongs to no period of life, and improves 
the longer it exists. 
,faMrat& gUadiag. 
Written for Moore’a Rural New-Yorker. 
WHO SHALL ROLL THE ROCK AWAYP 
Who shall roll the rock away. 
That keeps the stubborn heart from God ? 
Who shall bid the wanderer stay, 
And leave the paths of sin untrod* 
Who shall speak with winning voice. 
And reach the hardened, sin-worn heart t 
Who bid the repentant sool rejoice 
From vicious practices to part V 
None bnt the Holy Spirit may 
Recall t he lost and erring one, 
Illume the heart with truth’s bright ray, 
Which lights the erring sinner home. 
To God who hears the fervent prayer. 
Address thy deeply anguished cry, 
Ask Him the loEt one to prepare, 
To dwell at last with Him on high. 
Ask Him to roll the rock away, 
That keeps the blinded heart in sin; 
He can the tide of evil stay,— 
The stubborn heart to peace can win. 
WHEN THE END COMETH. 
However carelesB-minded we may be, there will 
come, in our soberer moments, questionings as to 
what awaits us wheu the end shall approach—the 
end of this little fragment of being which we call 
life. Just so sure as that the days steal by, shall we 
come, sooner or later, to something new and strange, 
and of which we cannot fore-judge. We all feel this, 
more or less deeply; and we all question within 
oursel ves if we are ready to welcome this new and 
strange something into our lives. For we all be¬ 
lieve that the end of which wc speak is not really 
an end; that there is more beyond; that farther 
away into the forever than we can conceive, our 
beings are to reach,—that there is for us no abso¬ 
lute death. 
Men may drive away these questionings, in a 
measure, and may perhaps delude themselves for 
a time into the belief that they have only to deal 
with the present. Bnt is it wise to do this ? Is it 
prudent to say “Soul, take thine ease?" It is 
not doing away with the grave fact of the coming 
change. When the end cometh,—and the end, as 
we term it, will come,—we shall be obliged to face 
—what ? 
In our whole catalogue of words there is nothing 
like that brief “ forever,”—brief, as a word; longer 
than flniteness cau measure, as a time. When the 
end cometh, the forever will begin. Here we can 
count upon nothing as lasting, but in that unend¬ 
ing forever all things will be as unending as the 
forever itself. Wc shall joy on or sorrow on, laugh 
on or weep on, sing on or sigh on, with never a 
pause—never a summons to cease. Here we may 
be glad for a season and then sad for a season,—the 
forever knovv6 neither season nor change, Here we 
may do evil, if we will, and satisfy conscience by a 
promise of better deeds by-and-by,—in the forever 
we must reap the bitter fruits of our evil-doing, or 
the sweet rewards of doing well. Ah, that incom¬ 
prehensible forever! There are men whom the word 
haunts like a very demon,—men whose living is 
blackened by sin aud crime; who pretend utter 
recklessness of tbe future, but in whose mind the 
little word echoes and re-echoes like a never-dying 
reproach. 
And there are others who whisper it sweetly to 
themselves—for whom it is the refrain of a soug 
that makes music in their hearts from morning 
until evening. To them it is suggestive of eternal 
gladness. Their full acceptance of salvation through 
Christ makes of the forever, for them, a long Sab¬ 
bath of Rest. They feel that when the end cometh, 
there will come also Peace. 
When the end cometh .—It may be next year, or next 
week, or—to-morrow. It cannot be far oil', at the 
most. It may be nearer than wc think ; our short 
to-day may even now bo illumined somewhat by 
the light of the never-ending to-morrow. Only a 
little while, and we shall greet the end which is but 
the beginning, and shall take into our life an eternal 
joy or sorrow. 
SINGING WITH THE UNDERSTANDING. 
There are poems, it is said, grander than ever 
bard wrote, which “ripple through lowliest lives,” 
unheard and unseen. There is music also in the 
heart of man, though the lips be powerless to form 
it and the voice to utter it. And sometimes, wc 
wot, this music has more of grandeur and beauty 
than that which lacks neither voice nor utterance. 
We think of this often, when our heart is yearning 
for the power to break forth into music aud join 
the voices of Nature iu their grand anthem of praise 
to God. We think of it, wheu, in church or vestry, 
or under the bright blue canopy of heaven, the 
gladsome hyrnus of faith and trust, which our 
fathers sung, go up once more to the very throne of 
God. Aud there is consolation in the thought to 
us, as there may be to some who read this, that 
though the lips be unskilled aud the voice un¬ 
taught, the heart may keep time aud tune. 
An d we believe that oftentimes this music of the 
heart is more acceptable to God than is the music 
of the lips. Praise that is true praise consists not 
in skill or science. Better the thankful heart 
than the sweetest voice without it. The heavens 
declare the glory of God, though it be with un¬ 
spoken voice, more than the streams that ripple and 
the birds that sing. 
Then should ye who have the power to praise 
God with the voice, cherish it as one of the sweet¬ 
est and highest gifts of God. And we, who have 
not this power, will still thank God that we can 
sing with the understanding, and make melody in 
our hearts. 
Old Age without Religion.— Alas ! for him who 
grows old without growing wise, and to whom the 
furture world does not set open her gates, when he 
is excluded by the present. The Lord deals so 
graciously with us in the decline of life, that it is a 
shame to turn a deaf ear to the lessons which he 
gives. The eye becomes dim, the ear dull, the tongue 
falters, the feet totter, all the senses refuse to do 
their office, and from every side resounds the call, 
“Set thine house in order, for the term of thy pil¬ 
grimage is at hand.” The playmates of youth, the 
fellow-laborers of manhood die away, and take the 
road before us. Old age is like some quiet chamber, 
in which, disconnected from the visible world, we 
can prepare in silence for the world that is un¬ 
seen.— Tholuck. 
-■« •» «« »»- 
Cheerfulness. — He who would march well 
through ill to good, must march to music not by 
groans; and the harder the road, the braver and 
cheerier must the music be. 
