adics’ fqiartMcnt. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
IN THE SUN. 
What ! fearful that the gun's bright rays shall kiss 
My cheek too ardently ? 
Too oft before, 
In childhood’s happy time, has its bright beams 
Shone on my head, darkened my brow, and waked 
My heart to keener happiness; and that 
Which caused such pleasure then cannot but cheer 
The woman’s soberer mood. 
O but to know 
Again the freshness and the pleasure keen 
I knew when first its rays unbound the chains 
Of winter’s icy reign, and brought to view 
The early flowers, and leafy charms of spring, 
And I with spirit light revelled in It 1 
Shine on me now fair sun t and 0, bring back, 
Life’s early freshness to this careworn heart, 
And melt away the frosts of worldliness, 
And let me feel once more, as then I felt 
In childhood'e guileless, care-free, happy hour! 
Aug. 7th, 1368. E ' c * D - 
i-ft —-t- —*- 
A WOMAN’S OPINION OF MATTERS. 
Mrs. Monel threw down the Rural of Aug. 1st in a 
pet. She had just been reading the piece entitled, 
“Mental Outreach of Woman.” 
“Humph!” she exclaimed, “I’d like to hear Isaac 
Monel, — my respected husband, — tell tne that he was 
growing away from me menially, when we both went to 
the district school together, studied the same books, and 
since we’ve been married,—now going on twenty years, 
—have always read the same papers, and been equally In¬ 
terested in them 1 I'm sick of hearing so much about 
what Mrs. Partington calls ‘the narrow spere or wo¬ 
man.’ If a woman is a fool, In respect to general infor¬ 
mation, it is most generally because she’s got a natural 
taete for it, and not at all owing to her place in life. 
“I couldn’t count the young men that I’ve known 
whom Isaac’s had to work for him in the last fifteen 
years, who would work the season through without 
taking up a newspaper or showing the least interest in 
public affairs. Many of them would read a dime novel, 
or a stirring story, to be etire; but when I looked at the 
materials to make voters I have not been proud of my 
country. What men and women both need, in my hum¬ 
ble opinion, is not so much a mental outreach, at a spirit¬ 
ual fiireacb, to grasp at the vices and lollies that grow so 
rankly in their souls. Better hearts are in far greater de¬ 
mand than anything else. 
“ Then as to men having so much more expansion of 
mind,—I’ve Been not a few ‘ big men' who set up for an 
uncommon share of cultivation; and in spite of greater 
confidence and flow of language, they seemed to have 
Just as many narrow prejudices (more, too, many times,) 
as my hard-working husband; and I’ve heard many of 
them use arguments in a discussion that a boy a dozen 
years old ought to be ashamed of. After men learn to be 
really and truly men, in manly Independence of thought 
and action, it. will be quite time enough for them to talk 
about the narrow minds of their benighted wives and 
daughters.” Aunt Rachel. 
Aunt Rachel deserves our most grateful thanks 
for so faithfully reporting Mrs. Monel’s remarks. 
When we wrote the article which moved that lady’s 
indignation, we had a vague fear that we might be 
misconstrued by some good wives and mothers for 
whom it was by no means intended. It seems the 
fear was not without foundation, and Mrs. Monel’s 
eloquent rejoinder rather amuses than amazes U6. 
ipur only wonder Is that, with the comprehensive 
mind which she manifests, aided viy much breadth 
of reading, aud, we should judge, no little close 
observation, she should never have observed that 
there are some women with minds less comprehen¬ 
sive, who read less, who think less, solely because 
domestic details have circumscribed their mental 
outreach! 
We have re-perused the ofiending article, and 
really, Aunt Rachel, we do not see why sensible 
women like yourself and Mrs. Monel should take 
umbrage at it. It does not belittle the sphere of 
your sex. It does not complain that woman is of 
a truth narrow minded, and therefore not man's 
equal. It does not argue to deprive her of one sin¬ 
gle prerogative to which she may lay claim. As to 
whether she be naturally the inferior or superior of 
man it ventures no word of belief. It merely 
asserts that woman’s surroundings have a tendency 
to dwarf her capacity for thought and to work her 
an injury. So assorting, it earnestly desires her not 
to yield a willing slave to circumstances, but to 
guard against their baleful influence by every means 
within her power. 
If the same daily routine of domestic duties, con¬ 
tinued year in and year out, does not have a ten¬ 
dency to limit thought, then we are at fault con¬ 
cerning the proper relation of cause and effect. If 
woman can give almost constant attention to the 
perplexing details which fill up her days, with her 
mhid ranging unfettered and free over the wide 
domain of meditation, theu those details are more 
purely mechanical than we have all our life long 
supposed, and being a wife aud mother is a matter 
of trifling moment. We do not yet believe that 
such is the case. We know that any duty makes 
its levy on the mind, and enforces the demand if it 
be faithfully performed. If duties of any kind are 
continuous, they are all-absorbing, Man gives to 
his work all his mental force, while engaged upon 
it, but he leaves it at more frequent intervals than 
woman leaves hers, and then his mind reaches out 
into other and broader paths. 
“ Better hearts are in far greater demand than 
anything else,” our feminine friend declares. But 
is that quite relevant to the point under discussion? 
Does the goodness of a person's heart operate in 
any known ratio to increase the mental scope of 
that person? Not in the least would we decry 
heart improvement. Yet the heart does not think. 
The best-hearted individual whom we now remem¬ 
ber, in the common acceptance of the term, was 
but one degree removed from idiocy. Benefit the 
heart as much as you will,—and the good work can¬ 
not be carried too far, —the surroundings of the 
person are unchanged, and their influences remain 
to work out their own natural results unless striven 
against. Will a woman with a heart tender and 
loving as Mari’s of old-time, find the petty trials 
of house and home keeping less hampering than 
another like Martha? Will not their tendencies 
be to narrow her mind, though her heart remain as 
large and loving as ever ? 
Please remember, dear Aunt Rachel and ind 
nant Mrs. Monel, that we are not discussing I 
question of Woman’s Rights, —that we have x 
taken ground against your kind in anything 
have said. The rather have we sought to elevi 
womanhood, as we always shall. In the art! 
complained of we grant her all we grant to tm 
and only deprecate the conditions which work 
her detriment. Read it again, good friends, and 
yon then throw the paper down “ hi a pet” we v 
simply confess that yon ought to be petted! 
It has been ascertained that some ladies u 
as fiddlers do resin—To aid them in drawing 
A "WISE CREED. 
The mother of G<ethe, the celebrated German 
poet, said of herself, “Order and quiet are my char¬ 
acteristics. I despatch at once what I have to do, 
the most disagreeable always first. I always seek 
out what is good in people, and leave what is bad to 
Him who made mankind and knows how to round 
oil the angles.” The saying has in it the very best 
philosophy of life. Performing disagreeable tasks 
always first and quickly, will take away more than 
half the unpleasantness the days contain. Hunting 
for what is good in those around us will not fail to 
repay with blessing. 
How much to be commended is the trait of char¬ 
acter which Goethe’s mother manifested in this 
expression. We can readily believe she was a sunny- 
hearted woman. Gcethe himself bore testimony in 
this regard. “From my dear little mother,” he 
wrote, “I derive my happy disposition and my love 
of story-telling.” Her sunny-heartedness was due in 
a great measure to her wise creed of life and thought. 
It is erroneous to think that the natural disposition 
is wholly responsible for habits of doing and think¬ 
ing. Natural dispositions may be overcome by 
steady persistence; and habits naturally enough 
formed, may be broken up. We ought not to be 
willing slaves to our Innate propensities. A creed 
like that cited may be our deliverer. 
« «»■♦«» » ii i 
A NESTORIAN CUSTOM. 
The following curious custom of the Nestorian 
Christians, as related by Rev. Arthur Boglan, is 
commended to the serious attention of the young 
gentlemen and young ladies of our own country who 
propose to commit matrimony. After the marriage 
ceremony has been performed the wedding party is 
taken in wagons from the church to the house of the 
bridegroom’s parents. When the second wagon, in 
which the bride is seated alone, reaches the gate 
opening Into the yard in which the house is situated, 
it is halted, and the bridegroom’s mother come6 to 
meet it with a baby and three suits of baby clothes 
in her arms. She throws the child and the clothes 
into the arms of the bride, who is required to un¬ 
dress and drees the baby three times in the presence 
of her mother-in-law, who watches every movement 
as only a mother-in-law can watch a daughter-in-law. 
If the newly-made bride does not perform the 
operation to the satisfaction of her severe judge, 
ehe is considered unfit for her new position, the 
wagon is turned around and'she is taken back home 
for farther instruction, and the poor bridegroom is 
compelled to live in single blessedness until his wife 
is educated up to the proper standard. 
-» • 
GOSSIPY PARAGRAPHS. 
Those who think that prima donnas and actresses 
sometimes receive ovations In this country, should 
read the following account given by the Fremdenblati 
of Vienna, of the farewell performance of the canta- 
trice Helene Magnus, at Kiagenfurth, in phleg¬ 
matic Austria“ After having literally covered her 
with bouquets and flowers, the audience with one 
voice begged her to crush a rose with her foot, and 
the petals were distributed to the spectators, who 
disputed for them at the peril of their persons and 
clothing. A young aud beautiful baroness, trans¬ 
ported by her inexpressible admiration, east herself 
at the feet of the diva and feverishly kissed her hand. 
Several ladies ogriper age were so agitated by the 
bravos and accUmt.tions that they (ell it to a o won. 1 ” 
Which we think was rather overdoing the thing. 
A young Russian Princess has a wonderful house 
in Paris. In the bath-room the wali6 and ceiling are 
hung with white muslin on a ground of rose-colored 
satin, and the floor is covered with white velvet 
cloth. The water falls into the marble bath from 
chased silver taps, and above is suspended a dais, 
from which filters 6cented water. The dressing- 
room is lined with gold shot with pink, grey and 
silver; two columns of pink and white marble sup¬ 
port a tablet upon which rests a mirror framed in 
gold and silver foliage; a few choice objects of art 
stand about; and in the mirror-room sky-blue hang¬ 
ings of velvet drape the numerous looking-glasses. 
Patti, who charmed so many thousands by her 
melodies before she went abroad, aud who has since 
nearly turned the heads of our friends over the wa¬ 
ter, has at last been married to the Marquis de 
Caux. The ceremony took place in a Roman Cath¬ 
olic chapel in London, before a distinguished assem¬ 
bly, among whom were Mario, Grisi, and many 
other musical celebrities. It is said by correspond¬ 
ents tb&t the beautiful prima donna has sold herself 
for a title. The Marquis is represented as old, 
deeply in debt, aud a roue. For the purpose of pay¬ 
ing his indebtedness the Marchioness will remain on 
the stage five years longer. 
In New Zealand, as the story goes, there exists a 
very old custom,— part of the established marriage 
ceremony,— of knocking the heads of the bride and 
bridegroom together just before the union is com¬ 
pleted. Whereupon some rhymester who must be 
unhappily wed, sayst 
In Christian lands it isn’t so: 
The bridegroom and the bride 
To loggerheads bnt seldom go 
Until the knot is tied. 
Mrs. Stanton, writing from Feterboro, Madison 
Co., says there is a base ball club of girls in that 
village. Miss Nannie Miller, a grand-daughter of 
Gerrit Smith, is the Captain, and handles the bat 
with much grace and vigor. And Mrs. S. adds ?— 
“ It was a pretty sight to see the girls with their 
white dresses and bine ribbons flying, in full posses¬ 
sion of the public square, last Saturday afternoon, 
while the boys were quiet spectators of the scene.” 
Russia leads the world on the woman question. 
There the husband and wife are two persons entirely 
independent of each other in the eyes of the civil 
law. There is a complete political equality between 
the two. If the wife possesses the necessary prop¬ 
erty qualification, she can vote for members to the 
provincial general councils, her sex being no ob¬ 
stacle to the exercise of the right. 
We don’t know to whose credit or discredit the 
following should be given. The last sentence is not 
without merit in these warm days,— it is so decid¬ 
edly cool:—“Women are not naturally fuuny. They 
range above, or below it. They may be keen and 
witty, but not apt to be humorous. Nevertheless 
they are good creatures — many of them.” 
A little girl, excited over the beauty of her 
aunt’s teeth, as she sat busily engaged in conversa¬ 
tion, her face all smiles, and the gold glittering from 
her uppeT jaw, exclaimed, “Oh! Aunt Mary, 1 
wish I had copper-toed teeth like yours!” 
Fite young ladies, in Salem, HI, having been of¬ 
fered $100 if they could and would saw a load of 
wood, twice in two, in one day, they accepted the 
task and accomplished it triumphantly. 
A celebrated Irish physician, speaking of the 
physical degeneracy of modern women, says we 
must take good care of our grandmothers, for we 
never shall get any more. 
Choice fPKttbmg. 
THE CHILDREN. 
BY CHARLES DICKENSON. 
When the tasks and the lessons are ended, 
And the school for the day is dismissed, 
The little ones gather around me 
To bid me good-night and be kissed; 
Oh 1 the little white arms that encircle 
My neck in their tender embrace; 
Oh 1 the smiles that are halos of heaven, 
Shedding sunshine of love on my face! 
Oh! my heart grows a? weak as a woman’s, 
And the fount of my feelings will flow, 
When I think of the paths steep and stony, 
Where the feet of the dear ones must go; 
Of the mountains of sin hanging o’er them— 
/ Of the tempests of Fate blowing wild, 
For there’s nothing on earth half so holy 
As the innocent heart of a child! 
They are idols of hearts and of households, 
They are angels of God In disguise; 
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, 
His glory still gleams in their eyes; 
Oh! those truants from home and from heaven, 
They have made me more manly and mild; 
And 1 know, now, how Jesus could liken 
The kingdom of God to a child. 
I ask not a life for the dear oue6 
All radiant, as others have done, 
But that life may have just enough shadow 
To temper the glare of the sun; 
I would pray God to guard them from evil, 
But my prayers would bound back to myself,— 
Ah I a seraph may pray for a sinner, 
But a sinner must pray for himself. 
The twig is so easily bended 
I have banished the rale and the rod; 
I have taught them thegoodness of knowledge, 
They have taught me the goodness of God; 
My heart It a dungeon of darkuess. 
Where I shut them for breaking a rule, 
My frown is sufficient correction, 
My love is the law of the school. 
I shall leave the old house in the autumn, 
To traverse its threshold no more; 
Ah! how I ehail sigh for the dear ones 
That meet me each morn at the door! 
I shall miss the “good-nights" aud the kisses, 
And tbe gush of their innocent glee, 
The group on the green, aud the flowers 
That are brought every morning for me. 
I shall miss them at morn and at even— 
Their song in the school and the street; 
I shall miss the low hum of their voices, 
And the tramp of their pattering feet. 
When the lessons of life are all ended, 
And Death says, “ The school is dismissed I” 
May the little ones gather around me, 
To bid me good-night and be kissed. 
-■» » > ♦ > -» - 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
LONGFELLOW’S CHARACTERISTICS. 
The best writers have a current in their style. 
This gives it life. Perhaps no one in literature,— 
certainly not in American literature,—ha6 this more 
eminently than Mr. Longfellow. It is the success 
of the man—of the poet rather, as Mr. Longfel¬ 
low’s prose is not distinguished for this quality. 
But his poetry has it, all of it. It matters not 
whether in a spirited, didactic or other vein; it 
is all the same; tbl'-e is the notion, the activity. 
Evvmi in. SibM“.r/a, quiet as it is, 
this characteristic.^present; everything lives and 
-moves : the hymn is fluttering in the church 
window; there is abound of worship—not only a 
word expressive—bit the true sense of the 60 und. 
The branches of the trees are in motion; even the 
grass is springing up tb “kiss feet” that are walking. 
But when he reaches the martial element, then it 
is that his genius,—the genius of true stirring mo¬ 
tion, as though armies were marching, trumpets 
were sounding, and not words saying it,—shines 
forth. This is more specially seen in his “Arsenal 
at Springfield," a poem that became popular di¬ 
rectly, and has since held its own, nor will it soon 
be forgotten. So his lines on the death of Wel¬ 
lington, published first in the Atlantic Monthly in 
its firet issue, without signature, but recognized at 
once. Here the “war steamers" are as true war 
steamers as ever floated on the water. You can see 
aud feel them “speeding over” from the French 
shore. In describing the “panels” and furniture 
of the ships, the same activity prevails. The air is 
brisk; there is a morning for you, such as you sel¬ 
dom get on the “ channel.” Still is the entrance 
of “ the warrior,” but you find it the “ Destroyer,” 
ever busy. And so it is from beginning to end — 
activity throughout. 
Note his “Resignation.” Also his evening piece, 
—“ When the Hours of Day are Numbered,—and, 
most of all perhaps, his little lyric, “ The Psalm of 
Life.” 
“ Tell me not in mournful numbers 
Life is but an empty dream 
and so on, with the regularity of a stream. This 
poem has nothing to recommend it but its moral 
and its motion. There is not a new thought in it; 
ail is threadbare; yet it lives, and stands a chance 
to live. Why? Because it is alive —alive with 
motion—and that motion is the characteristic of 
the poet, a part of his life; he but lets it out in 
numbers,—and it is not all mechanical, as has so 
unjustly been charged of the poetry of Mr. Long¬ 
fellow. f. G. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE STANDARD OP THE BEAUTIFUL. 
There is much talk among Art critics about the 
true standard of the Beautiful, though the old Ital¬ 
ian masters in painting, and the old Greek sculptors, 
are universally regarded as the highest tribunal, 
from which there is no appeal. But there is a higher 
light towering above the ancient; there are galler¬ 
ies of paintings in every laud, free to every rambler. 
Sometimes a whole collection is hung along the 
bank of a river. Sometimes they are suspended 
from the mountain side. Some more choice and 
exquisite than any that decorate a saintly shrine in 
fair Italy, are hid away in woodland dells. Others 
hang against the sunset sky, or the purple morning 
elomls. Before these pictures critics are dumb; 
here they find no fault,—for the artist is the great 
God, the All-Perfect. 
Nor did the ancients monopolize all the manly 
beauty, queenly grace and maiden loveliness of all 
ages. There are, even now, in these sordid times, 
men's faces, calm, pure and perfect in form and ex¬ 
pression as the sculptured faces of the demi gods; 
infants that Raphael would have copied without 
change of tint or expression; maidens more beau¬ 
tiful than pictured Madonnas. True, such beauties 
are rare as diamonds of the first water, and perfect 
pearls, aud all tbe best things of earth are rare. 
Still, there are enough to serve as models, without 
goiug on from age to age, copying what becomes at 
last but the shadow of a shade. Amelie Pettit. 
LISZT AND HIS PLAYING. 
A 'writer in the Chicago Tribune remarks thus 
of an hour with one in whom is the rare combina¬ 
tion of an Abbe and a pianist of marvelous power: 
Everything conspired to brighten the effect pro¬ 
duced upon us all, but I had the advantage of oth¬ 
ers, for it was the first time I had ever heard the 
great pianist, and “ all first things are voted best.” 
To begin with:—The time was favorable. It was 
getting towards twilight — just that hour when 
music most enthralls. All was quiet within—with¬ 
out there were only four of us to listen—and we 
could all look out through the great window be¬ 
yond the piano — over the lonely Campo Vaccino — 
toward the west where the ruins of an ancient im¬ 
perial palace outlined themselves against a sky of 
fading gold and purple—a picture lovely at any 
time, but doubly so when seen under the influence 
of such a spell as only music can produce. 
When Liszt began to play he looked like another 
being. His self-consciousness gradually vanished, 
and the complacency left his mouth. His face 
spoke music no Less than the instrument beneath 
his wonderful hands. It wa- as eloquent as that 
of the most impassioned orator. He was no longer 
the man, but the master. I sat where I could see 
his profile, and while be was thundering over the 
bas6 notes, bracing himself, as it were, against lus 
handa, I thought, as I have before said, of our Geu. 
Washington, whose bust I had seen the day before 
in the villa of Prince Doria. Even in repose his 
features bear a likeness, but when they are in action 
the resemblance is more positive. Some have liken¬ 
ed him to Dante, but his face lacks the severity and 
solemnity of tbe poet’s. 
I bad heard of the peculiarity of his touch, and 
now I particularly remarked it. He does not strike 
the instrument. The tones seem to follow his finger 
ends as if the keys had been magnetized. Even bis 
tours de force are made rather by up than down 
strokes. He seems literally to draw tbe souuds 
from the instrument. He’ gave us first a little 
caprice in the waltz time by his son-in-law Bulow ; 
then, something of his own—a composition illus¬ 
trating certain phaseB in the life of St. Francis— 
his hopes, his fears, his mortal agony, his final re¬ 
lease and transport—a work requiring great feeling 
and great energy of execution; a favorite theme, 
but one that he never renders, he told my German 
friend, unless he feels that he has sympathetic lis¬ 
teners. This work has been illustrated for him by 
Gustave Dore. One of the pictures we saw. It 
was treated with the same vigor and imaginative 
power that originated the designs for Dante’s In¬ 
ferno. But this idea of putting the life of a Catholic 
priest into the Chiaro 'scuro of music and painting, 
reminds me of the experiences of Gottschalk, who 
averred that he perceived music through every sense; 
“ the chord of the diminished seventh, the perfume 
of the heliotrope, the color blue aud the taste of 
pine-apple all producing the same sensation.” 
OLD AGE. 
That men, generally, should dislike old age is 
after all but natural, as it diminishes physical 
strength, deteriorates personal appearance, and 
blunts the edge of many of our enjoyments. But 
the thinking, reflecting Christian man, who knows 
that life here can only be temporary, and that, how¬ 
ever favorably circumstanced, it will always be bur- 
thened with cares, anxieties and disappointments, 
and who believes that it is but the precursor of 
another one, higher and more perfect, which shall 
last forever, should meet it cheerfully, as it brings 
to him the certainty that the time is approaching 
when he will be released forever from all the dis¬ 
abilities to which flesh is heir to. 
Happy is the man whose heart retains its youth 
even under the pressure of years, who, though 
grave, can still be cheerful, whose hopes are as 
strong as ever, though the objects are changed, 
who has lost nothing of tbe finer tastes and senti¬ 
ments of his earlier years, who can still admire the 
beauties of nature, in whose ear the voice of youth 
sounds pleasantly, and the laugh of children is as 
music, who can enter into their pleasure aud share 
in their enjoyments with a keener relish, perhaps, 
because they recall the memory of by gone days, 
and who can travel the down hill road of life with 
more of hope for the future than regret for the 
past. For such a man even old age has its pleas¬ 
ures—for though at times the shadows of the past 
may darken his spirits, he has but to turn his 
thoughts to the future to dispel them. How vain 
and empty appear to him all Chese honors aud dis¬ 
tinctions gained by trafficking with truth, justice 
or religion; how worthless that accumulation 
which, while it corrupts and enervates the soul, 
cannot satisfy the heart, aud which he who has 
wasted his life in gathering must leave behind; aud 
how idle and hollow that popular applause in which 
the weak fanatic fancies he hears the voice of God. 
Blessed are they who die young, without know¬ 
ing sin or tasting the bitterness of life; and next 
blessed are they who, having grown old in years, 
have lived long enough to realize the utter worth¬ 
lessness of early promises and to appreciate with 
all their hearts the hopes that lie beyond. 
-■» ■« ♦ »- »- 
ONLY. 
Only one drop of water at a time that had found 
its way from the mighty ocean through the dike, and 
was slowly wearing a little channel. Only one 
drop! Yet if that little child in his morning ram¬ 
ble had not notieed it, who ean tell what the terrible 
results might have been ? 
Only a stray sunbeam! Yet perchance it hath 
pierced some wretched abode, gladdened some 
stricken heart, or its golden light found its way 
through the leafy branches of some wild wood, kiss¬ 
ed the moss-covered bank where the tiny violet grew, 
and caused shades of beauty to adorn its lovely fortm 
Only a gentle breeze! But how many aching 
brows hath it fanned, how many hearts cheered 
by its gentle touch! 
Only one stray bullet that pierced the noble 
soldier-boy as he trod the lonely midnightlround, 
faithfully guarding the precious lives intrusted to 
his keeping, and the life blood slowly ebbed out, 
and the sunbeams fell on the cold face of the dead. 
Only a sentinel! And yet one soulmorehad pass¬ 
ed from its earthly tenement to meet its reward at 
the hands of a merciful God. 
Only a drop of ink! And yet it carried the news 
of death to anxious ones at home, andjeaused the 
tear of anguish to trickle down the furrowed cheek 
of a widowed mother, 
Only a frown! But it left a sad, dreary ache in 
that child’s heart, aud the quivering lips and tearful 
eyes told how keenly he felt it. 
Only a smile! But ah! how it cheered the broken 
heart, engendered a ray of hope, and cast a halo of 
light around the unhappy present; made the bed¬ 
ridden one forget its present agony for a moment as 
it dwelt in sunshine of joy, lived in the warmth of 
that smile .—New York Presbyterian. 
ALL’S WELL. 
The day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep 
My weary spirit, seeks repose in thine; 
Father, forgive my trespasses, and keep 
This little life of mine. 
With loving kindness cartain thon my bed, 
And cool in rest my burning pilgrim feet; 
Thy pardon be the pillow for my head— 
So shall my sleep be sweet. 
At peace with all the world, dear Lord, and thee, 
No fears my sonl's nn wavering faith can shake; 
All’s well, whichever side the grave for me 
The morning light may break I 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE SILENT CITY. 
Only a little way from the busy streets, thronged 
with glad and sorrowing hearts, where tired hands 
so long for re6t, where brows grow so weary, as the 
restless tide of life ever sweeps on, always the same, 
yet not the same,— only over the river, and there is 
rest. Life has some resting-places ; there are cool, 
grateful shades where we may lie down and sleep 
softly, with only God and the angels to watch over 
us,— where we shall never think, as the sweet flow¬ 
ers bloom, that the world has ever garnered mockery, 
for all will be pure and true around us. 
Yes, one of life's resting-places. Death is not 
here, amid these cool, deep shades, where we only 
hear the whispers of the trembling leaves, and the 
soft triLl of birds. Even these seem to know there 
are sleepers here, for their songs are low and sweet. 
Over yonder, through the trees, I ean just see a 
marble statue, with one finger pointing upward,— 
upward from the earthly to the life of the heaveuly 
beyond. Not death, — oh no! —they only forget 
sorrow,—only rest from toil, and then awake to the 
blissful meed He giveth His own. 
These quiet avenues never echo the tread of hur¬ 
rying feet; the dwellers in this city never weep — 
their hearts never know pain,—kind hands have 
brought them here, oh, so tenderly, and pillowed 
the dear heads in slumber, then strewn their couches 
with flowers. Here, love, like some sweet priestess, 
has chiseled her most precious thoughts in marble, 
wreathed crosses with flowers, and plaited beautiful 
crowns, white and pure as the angel-hands that hold 
them. Love lives forever, and who can tell what 
crowns of unfading beauty infinite love hath given 
the glad, free spirits that wander over the mountains 
of Hope on the other shore? 
Close by Indian Trail Avenue, on a plain stone, I 
read the one word “ Mother." Some home is lonely 
now; there's a vacant chair by the hearthstone since 
she is gone away. Hush! tread softly—she’s sleep¬ 
ing. Poor heart; you say her arms do not reach for 
you as they used to,—that her lips have grown cold. 
Look; the angel says “up yonder”—the mother- 
heart is up there — tender, loving, as when it folded 
you so warmly in sweet childhood. Here I read 
“ Father,” there “ My Husband,” there “ Our Child.” 
Ah, I almost hear the silvery laughter that went rip¬ 
pling through the old home, ere the sweet blue eyes 
and golden hair were folded here. 
And there is a lonely mound where the bending 
branches can sweep it caressingly. See, loving 
bunds have strewn it all over with sweet geraniums 
and pale forget-me-nots. Some one is wandering up 
and dowu the world very lonely to-ijay. There are 
hands that reach for the warm clasp of those that lie 
folded so calmly away under those blossoms; there 
are eyes all filled with tears, because a dear brew is 
so white and still,—and a heart that waits and longs 
to come here and be hushed to rest forever under the 
whispering leaves. 
And whole homes are here,—all the dear ones 
that knelt by the old fireside are sleeping now, and 
the angels are watching very lovingly, and far above 
Lite glad summer sky beud9 down in blessed bene¬ 
diction, for God is love. Softly the birds sing all 
througn the long, golden days, and at night the dews 
fall gently, and autumn mornings will come when 
the leaves will rustle down over gleaming marble 
and tiny mound, but the slumberers will not waken, 
for they are at rest. Grace G. Slough. 
Mount Hope, Rochester, July, ISOS. 
- ■ i » « ' >- 
JARGON WITHOUT LANGUAGE. 
I heard two persons on the Wengera Alp talk¬ 
ing by the hour together of the names of ferns; not 
a word about their characteristics, uses or habits, 
but a medley of crack-jaw titles, aud nothing more. 
They evidently felt that they were ventilating their 
botany, and kept each other in countenance by alter¬ 
nate volleys of nonsense. Well, friend, they were 
about a6 sensible as those doctrinists who forever 
talk over the technicalities of religion, but know 
nothing by experience of its spirit and power. Are 
we not all too apt to amuse ourselves after the same 
fashion? He who knows mere Limnean names, 
but has never seen a flower, is as reliable in botany, 
as he is in theology, who can descant upon supra- 
lapsarianism, but has never known the love of 
Christ in his heart. 
True religion’s more than doctrine, 
Something must be known and felt. 
[■Spurgeon's Note Book. 
. . ■ - 
OUR CONVERSATION. 
Bishop Latimer, when examined before Bonner, 
atfir6t answered without much thought or care; 
but, hearing the movement of a pen behind the 
curtain, he perceived that a writer was taking down 
his words, and the effect was to make him con¬ 
siderate and wary. He said he then realized as never 
before the force of his Lord's premonition—“ By thy 
words thou shalt be justified, and by thy words thou 
shalt be condemned.” 
How changed would be much of our conversation 
if we were suitably aware that an invisible hand is 
recording our utterances ! As there is an eye that 
6ees our actions, however hidden from human 
observation, so there is an ear that hears whatever 
we speak. Every word is registered, and we shall 
have to meet it in our final trial at the great day. 
-• »•« - »«-» - 
Jesus.— Talk of eradicating the name and the 
religion of Jesus, from the world and the hearts of 
men! Go aud pluck down the stars from their 
courses, aud tell them no more to illumine with 
their far-reaching splendors the dome of night. 
Quench all the glory of God in his handiwork. 
Bid day uuto day no more to utter speech, and night 
unto night no more to declare knowledge. Stop 
the sun in the glory of his coming, and bid it rejoice 
no more as a strong man to run a race; and you 
shall succeed as well and Labor as successfully as to 
try to take Jeans and his teachings out of the hu¬ 
man heart, or out of the soul’s great wants and 
aspirations.— Bad. E. Case. 
