STREW LIFE’S PATH WITH BLOOMING FLOWERS 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
LIFE AND DEATH. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
HEAVENLY VOICES. 
What is life f Tis a dream; tie a vision of night, 
Now cheerless and dark, now happy and bright; 
But never uncertain, like shadows at play, 
Like the flower of the morning ’tie fled In a day. 
What is death ? ’Tis a siumber so peaceful and deep 
No memories of waking shall cause us to weep; 
It is rest for the weary, where sorrow nor pain 
Shall pierce the sad spirit nor wound it again. 
Porter, N. Y. A. b. h, 
BT HELEN L. SMITH 
Around me the night winds arc sighing, 
I list to their low monrnfai cry; 
On the hearth the last embers are dying, 
And darkness thick shrouds earth and sky. 
On my window the raindrops are falling; 
On my heart is a burden of tear*; 
And I list, for sweet voices are callingl 
My name through the dim mist of years. 
O, those voices with melody filling 
This dull, aching void in my heart, 
My soul with their tenderness thrilling 
And robbing my grief of its smart! 
In the “summer land” over the river 
My loved ones I know are at rest, 
Where the tempest of sorrow shall never 
Disturb the repose of the blest; 
And yet, a? I sit here and ponder, 
Alone in the darkness of night, 
My thoughts in their loneliness wander 
To sceues that were joyous aud bright. 
I remember loved ones who were near me, 
The light of whose smiles made me glad. 
And low whispered words that to cheer me 
Were spoken, when lonely and sad. 
To me never more shall be given 
The joy of their presence again, 
Till I rest with the ransomed in heaven, 
O, then I shall meet them, yes, then 1 
But now while in darkness and sorrow 
The straight narrow pathway I tread, 
They speak to my son! of the morrow, 
And silence my doubting and dread. 
Then come to me, heavenly voices, 
I long for your mnsic to-night; 
While yon whisper my lone heart rejoices 
And throbs with a blissful delight. 
Wheaton Ill., Sept., 1868. 
3. Pluck the rose, and*wear the wreath ! Drink the breath of heaven! AU sweet nature* varied charms For our good were giv - en. 
In demanding the heart God lays his claim on all 
the faculties, on hand and eyes, on tongne and 
pen, on the intellect and tbo will. .<< 
This demand is the standard of duty. It is the 
only proper measure of tribute due by every sub¬ 
ject to the King of kings. Let it be met, and the 
whole life is shaped to a holy service. Every em¬ 
ployment becomes a stewardship, every gain a holy 
trust. Even through the dry deserts of worldly 
traffic and toil, we discern the King’s highway, by 
which the pilgrim may press on to the roy ai pres¬ 
ence. Life, even in its humblest and homeliest 
phases, comes to wear a new aspect. The very 
treadmill of daily tasks becomes like the holy 
ground by the burning bnsb, for God is there, and 
consecrated aims hallow at once the purpose aud 
the struggle. Wealth, whether it is gathered in 
larger or smaller measure, is like the two mites of 
the poor widow, sanctified to the Lord’s use, and 
the sordid stamp or figure on the gold is trans¬ 
figured till we see in its place only the image and 
superscription of the King of kings. 
Doubtless, when tried by the standards of the 
world, or even of a fashionable Christianity, alto¬ 
gether too prevalent, all this may appear merely 
sentimental or even romantic. How many there 
are who adjust their measure of duty to their gTeat 
Sovereign, by a standard borrowed from their esti¬ 
mate of political obligations—and even this dwarfed 
in the borrowing. They render to God the merest 
pittance of their time, their thoughts, their affec¬ 
tions, or their wealth. The chief subject that en¬ 
gages their attention is their own ease or their own 
emolument. They must build themselves stately 
mansions. They must provide themselves sumptu¬ 
ous tables. They mast study their own ease and 
luxury. The cause of the Master receives at best 
but the crumbs that they can afford to spare or 
throw away. They are forgetful of their solemn 
stewardship.— N. Y. Evangelist. 
ea ? Take the good, and, for the rest, Trust a bounteous hea 
you; And, 0 nev - er stop your ears, Lest in age they fail 
Would you scorn the blessings sent. Tho' not all 
Lis - ten to the joy - ful birds, That so gaj 
Ne’er dis-daiu the bounteous gifts. For with scorn re - fuse them; But prepare to give ae-coimt Of the way you use them, 
[From the Young Shawm published by Mason. Brothers. 
■Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker, 
CHILD - FACES. 
Not such faces as we meet in life’s great counting 
house, all furrowed with lines of care, lines of re¬ 
morse, of passion, money lines, shrewd, grasping 
lines,— oh, no, not such as these, but the glad, 
happy faces of little children. It hardly 6eems pos¬ 
sible, as we look at the innocent brows, that they 
can ever be like ours, or that those pure, trusting 
hearts, so folded and sheltered by a mother’s love, 
can ever be steeped in sin. 
The mother of Benedict Arnold little thought, 
when she left, her warm kisses on his child-lips at 
eventide, blessing again and again her boy, that he 
would ever become the guilty traitor he was. O, 
the world is so full of sin, aud childhood’s heart is 
so yielding to each Impression! Each day some 
new line of beauty or deformity is added to t.he sweet 
young face; each day some new thought of sin or of 
purity is born in the tender heart, and that thought 
lives forever. 
There are outgrowths in human character whose 
germ was planted there by a father’s blessing, a 
mother's kiss—by lessons taught in drops of dew, in 
beautiful llowers, and songs of birds — by thoughts 
of God awakened in the tender child-heart.— by 
the gentle, firm clasp of dear hand6 —by loving 
words — and watered there with prayers all love, all 
earnestness. Do yon ever think of this, mothers, 
when you teach y onr little ones to ^ay “Oar Father” 
at morn and even? You are making your child’s 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MISS ROSSETTI’S POEMS.—No. II 
BY ELIZA WOODWORTH. 
One of Miss Rossetti’s fortes is Suggestiveness. 
In perusing her poems, a constant sense of more 
than is expressed is borne to the soul of the reader, 
and forms his most delicious pleasure. They are 
full of the melody of 
“ —the beautiflzi songs unsnng;” 
songs without words, because beyond the reach of 
speech, and too subtle to be “clothed upon” by 
any mortal's warp or weft This luxurious impal¬ 
pability, which is like the aroma breathed from 
spice-words aud flowers, is recognized in “ The 
Prince’s Progress,” from the first dilatory step of 
the journey to Its conclusion. Indeed, the poem 
holds a dimly limned Allegory of Timc’6 Thief, but 
the outer story is vivid as a picture in fresh mosaic, 
while the words forming it arc as carefully fitted. 
A queenly bride awaits a Prince, dwelling in a far 
land, to whom she is betrothed. Already he has 
long delayed. His journey is the sabject of the 
poem, which opens with a reference to the anxious 
watcher, who is growing weary and sad. 
“ Till all sweet gums sad juices flow, 
Till the blossom of blossoms blow, 
The long hours go, and come, and go; 
The bride she steepetk, waketh, sleepeth, 
Waiting for one whosi coming is slow : — 
Hark! the bride wcL«cth. 
“ How long shall I wait, co'le beat, come rime ?” 
‘ Till the strong Prince cent's, who must come in time,’ 
Her women say. 1 Theresa mountain to climb, 
A river to ford.f ’ 
But he for whom she waits hae not yet 6et forth. 
“ In his world-end palace the strong Prince sat, 
Taking his ease on cushion und mat; 
Close at hand lay his stall' and Me hat. 
‘ When wttt thon startt the bride waits, 0 youth.’ 
* Now the moon's at full—I tarried for that— 
Now I start in truth.’ 
Probablt every person, whether of the masculine 
or feminine gender, likes to hear or read some pleas¬ 
ant gossip about another person. This i6 what gives 
books of biography such popularity. “The proper 
study of mankind is man,” (the common one is 
woman,) aud>ve all like best to 6tudy him in little 
sketchy chapters, furnished by himself or some 
one else. Of course a living man or woman makes a 
Therefore 
more gratifying study thau a dead one, 
contemporaneous biography is preferred to that of 
subjects long since passed away. 
We have had many histories of eminent men and 
women; and we are to have another volume, where¬ 
in the “Eminent Women of the Age” are to furnish 
bright examples of womanhood. Fanny Fern is 
one or those engaged in compiling it. it seems she 
thought Gail Hamilton one or the “eminent,” 
and so wrote to her requesting facts for a sketch of 
herself. Gail replied in a manner quite character¬ 
istic, i She began by saying; 
Mr Dear Mrs. Fern ' The coolness of New Yorkers 
is astonishing. You are about to burn me at the stake, 
and will I have tho goodness to send on shaviugsauddry 
wood by the next mail f 
Thank you, ma'am, I will. 
Then she gives the “ Life and Sufferings of Gail 
Hamilton. Written by Itself. And with Former 
Translations Diligently Compared and Revised. ” 
It runneth in part as follows: 
To the best of my knowledge and belief, I was born in 
the New York Independent, some time during the latter 
half of the present century, and before the Independent 
had been annexed to the domains of Theodore, King of 
Abyssinia, against whom the great powers have just ad¬ 
vanced an expedition. Simultaneously, or thereabouts, I 
w f as also born in the National Era. So I mnet be twins. 
On that grouud it has never been satisfactorily settled 
whether I am ro.vself or Mrs. Simpson of Washington. If 
I am Mrs. Simpson, I am the wife of an officer, who, to 
his infinite regret, was not killed in the late unplcsant- 
ness, aud am a lineal descendant of that Simple Simon, 
who once went a fishing for to catch a whale, though all 
the water lha! he had was in his mother’s pail. If T am 
not Lanneelot, nor another, but only my own self. I am, 
like MclcMsedock. without father, without mother, with¬ 
out descent, and my enemies fear, also, I have no end ot 
life. On ore point commentators arc agreed, that I am 
not an “ Eminent Woman ” of my time, and therefore 
have no part nor lot in your book. Ill fact I am 
Neither rnan nor woman. 
1 am neither brnt;e nor human, 
I am a ghonl! 
To this very lucid account of herself Gail adds 
somewhat further, chiefly this: 
And all I ask is to be let alone. From the Independent 
I graduated into the Congregationalist, of blessed mem¬ 
ory : and from the Era I paddled over into the Atlantic. I 
nourish in immortal vigor on the cover of Our Young 
Folks, and at sundry times and in divers other manners 
and places have, I fear, contributed to the deterioration 
of our youth. 
Having once signed herself 11 very respectfully,” 
Ac., she qualifies the signature by a postscript, 
thereby conclusively proving that she is a woman, 
her statement to the contrary notwithstanding. For 
do not the fair once always add a postscript? But 
the addenda shows her to be property sensitive. 
“ So much of the woman as appe re in an author’s 
writings is public property by her own free will, all 
the rest belongs to her reserved rights.” she says. 
And she says rightly. However curious we may be, 
then, touching Gah. Hamilton’- identity, we must 
question no further. She has drawn the veil over 
herself, and we may learn nothing more unless 
Fanny Fern ruthlessly tears the veil away. 
The fragrance of the myrtle is uot in blossoms 
that open, glow for a little season, and then fade 
away; but in the evergreen leaves. It is fragrant 
all the year, yielding its sweet odors through win¬ 
ter’s rough blasts, as well as through the showers 
and sunshine of summer time. And the more the 
leaves are tossed, the more richly do they exhale 
their delicious aroma; and when bruised, they are 
most fragrant of all, diffusing as they are crushed, 
the- same delightful odors as long as a fragment of 
leaf remains. 
So the Christian’s example is unconscious and 
perpetual, HL= H r, ypt’ftnce unbiA- 
ken, his enjoyments unfailing, his grace like a river, 
sparkling and singing evermore. His is not the 
mere influence of word, of promise, oT sunny sum¬ 
mer time. There is no set time for show, or glitter, 
or display. There is no rehearsal of piety for great 
occasions. There are no programmed scenes to be 
unrolled according to chronometer and audience 
in the panorama of his life, and accompanied by 
phrasely word and tinkling music set to the ex¬ 
hibition. 
The believer's influence is like the fragrance of 
the myrtle tree — an inseparable sweetness of life, 
gracious as it is undying: and it breathes through 
6toms of adversity aud bereavement as freely as in 
mornings of dewy joy. And when most severely 
tried, troubled and persecuted, then is his example 
the most Christly in forbearance ani love. Like the 
myrtle leaf, bruised and torn, the saint of God, in 
the time of his sorest affliction, exhales the most 
heavenly spirit all abroad, as if the airs and blooms 
of Paradise should yet make Eden of this wilder¬ 
ness.— Clark's Gospel in the Trees. 
In one of the Saturday Review articles on Wo¬ 
man, the one entitled Buttercups, we find the fol¬ 
lowing: 
In after-life men have lovers. The home and the 
husband and the child absorb the whole tenderness 
of a woman where they only temper and moderate 
the old external affections of her spouse. Bat the 
girl-friendship is a much more vivid and far more 
universal thing than friendship among boys. The 
one means, in nine cases out of ten, an accident of 
neighborhood in school that fades with the next re¬ 
move, or a partnership in some venture, or a com¬ 
mon attachment in some particular game. But the 
school friendship of a girl is a passionate idolatry 
and devotion of friend for friend. Their desks are 
full of little gifts to each other. They have pet 
names that no strange ear may know, aud hidden 
photographs that no strange eye may see. They 
share all the innocent secrets of their hearts, they 
are fondly interested in one another’s brothers, 
they plan subtle devices to wear the same ribbons 
and to dress their hair in the same fashion. 
No amonnt of affection ever made a boy like the 
business of writing his friend a letter in the holi¬ 
days, but half the charm of holidays to girls lies 
in the letters they get and the letters they send. 
Nothing save friendship itself is more sacred to 
girlhood thau a friend’s letter; nothing more ex¬ 
quisite than the pleasure of stealing from the 
breakfast table to kiss it and read it, and then tie it 
up with the rest that lie in the nook that nobody 
knows but the one pet brother. The pet brother is 
as necessary an element in buttercup life as the 
friend. He is generally the dullest, the most awk¬ 
ward, the most silent of the family group, He 
takes all this sisterly devotion as a matter of bore¬ 
dom. He is fond of informing his adorer that he 
hates girls, that they are always kissing and crying, 
and that they can’t play cricket. The buttercup 
rashes away to pour out her woes to her little nest 
in the woods, and hurries back to worship as before. 
Girlhood, indeed, is the one stage of feminine ex¬ 
istence in which woman has brothers. 
To make your home happy, see that you make 
your wife feel that yonr aflection and tenderness for 
her are in no degree diminished from the day when 
you firet sought her. Do not let her have, when 
you can help it, to sit alone and go out alone. You 
would not have done so “once upon a time.” Do 
not reserve all your blandness aud fragrance for 
strangers or casual acquaintances. There are some 
men, judging from whose out-of-door maimers it 
would seem that nothing was left to be desired, 
who are, nevertheless, of the urso-major tribe at 
home; men who keep their pleasant ways, and 
genial smiles, and cheerful words for company, and 
who can only be silent, or peevish and exacting 
with their wives. Have such men any just reason 
to complain tbat their homes are not happy? 
There is a good deal of undeserved censure passed 
on women on account of their not making home 
more attractive. Much of this blame is fairly 
chargeable on men. With what heart can a woman 
strive to make the fireside cheerful when she 
knows, from bitter experience, that the companion 
of her life will come home to criticise her cookery, 
to disregard her personal appearance, and to let off 
upon her wounded but patient ear fretful lauguage 
on account of everything tnat has gone wrong 
out-of doors! See to it that you do your part to 
make home happy by cheerful encouragement to 
your wife. 
“ Strong of limb, if of purpose weak, 
Forth he set in the breezy mom, 
Crossing green fields of nodding corn, 
As goodly a Prince as ever was born; 
Caroling with the caroling lark; 
Sure his bride will be won and worn 
Ere fall of the- dark.” 
Yet he pauses at 6ight of 
“ A wave-haired milkmaid, rosy and white,” 
to quaff a draught of that 6he carried, and would 
then have pursued his way, but— 
“ Was it milk now, or was it cream f 
Was she a maid, or an evil dream 1 
Her eyeB began to glitter and gleam: 
He would huve gone, bin he staid instead, 
* * —and talked to the maid, 
Who twisted her hair in a cunning braid, 
And writhed it shining in serpent-coils, 
And held him fast 
* * in her subtle toils.” 
H tarried until— 
“ At the death of night, and the birth of day, 
A gentleman near London went to visit a woman 
who was sick As he was going into the room he 
saw a girl kneeling by the side of the poor woman’s 
bed. The little girl rose from her knees as soon as 
she saw the gentleman, and went out of the room. 
“ Who is that child?” the gentleman asked. “O, 
sir," said the 6ick woman, “that is a little angel 
who often eome6 to read her Bible to uie, to my 
great comfort; and she has just now given me 
sixpence." 
The gentleman was so pleased with the little girl’s 
conduct that he wished to know how she had learned 
the word of God, and to be so kind to poor people. 
Finding that she was one of the scholars of a neigh¬ 
boring Sunday School, he went to the school and 
asked for the little girl, who was afraid when she 
was calied'Vi the gentleman; but he was very kind 
to her, and asked her if she was the little girl that 
had been to read the Bible to the sick woman. She 
said she was. The gentleman said, “ My dear, what 
made you think of doing so?” Sheanswered, “Be¬ 
cause, sir, l find it is said in the Bible that * pure 
religion and undefiled before God aud the Father is 
this — to visit the fatherless and the widows in their 
affliction.’” “ Well," said he, "and did you give 
her any money?" “Yes, sir.” “And where did 
you get it?” “Sir, it was given me as a reward.” 
Woke the song of mavis and merle, 
And heaven pat off its hodden gray 
For mother-o’-pearl,” 
Then the loiterer arose, and “girt his slackness,” 
and lo! he entered upon a new region, inexpressibly 
dismal. 
“ —The grass grew rare, 
A blight lurked in the darkening air. 
The very moss grew hueless and spare,— 
The last daisy stood all astnnt; 
Behind hie back the soil lay bare, 
But barer in front. 
“ A land of chasm and rent; a land 
Of rugged blackness on either hand. 
If water trickled, its track was tanned 
With an edge of rust to the chink; 
If one stamped on stone or on sand, 
It returned a click. 
“ A Lifeless land, a loveless land, 
Without lair or nest on either hand; 
Only scorpions jerked In the sand, 
Black as black iron, or dusty pale; 
From point to point sheer rock was munned 
By scorpions in mail. 
“ A land of neither life nor death, 
Where no man bniidet b or fashioneth,— 
Where none draws Jiving or dying breath; 
No man corneth or goeth there, 
No man doeth, secketh. saith, 
In the stagnant air." 
On, through this dire country, “wrenched and 
ribbed” by “volcanic- upset,” the Frinee traveled, 
until one night he saw a light which— 
“ —flashed from a yawn-mouthed cave, 
Like a red-hot eye from a grave.” 
Here dwelt a man, self-buried an hundred years 
from the light of day, bent over his quenchless fire, 
and fain cooking the Elixir of Life, which now 
lacked but one ingredient. The Prince lingered; 
the old atomy died, just as the broth turned rosy 
red; so filling a phial, the royal laggard went forth. 
Hark! to the sobbing voices from far. 
<* When there blows a sweet garden rose, 
Let it bloom and wither if no man knows; 
A Roman Kitchen.— Fancy the kitchen of a Ro¬ 
man patrician ! Its walls are covered with pictures 
in fresco, its floor is of marble, its utensils are of 
finest bronze, lined with silver and with gold, and 
are all designed to represent something in air. earth 
or sea. It might be a pleasent pastime to broil on a 
grindstone whose silver bars represented the l ibs of 
skeleton fish, or to fry in a silver tortoise or in a 
huge terrible spider. To boil water in an elephant’s 
head, and to pour it through the trunk for a spout, 
might be rather entertaining. There were fancy and 
poetry in the kitchen of those days. The Romans 
added to their model kitchens an apiary and u fish 
pond; and it is bat an old story to tell how fish 
sporting in the water were often shown to guests, 
and then cooked and served, that there might be 
assurance of their freshness. 
OUR SPICE BOX, 
The French Em tress. —The Empress Eugenie is 
a beauty of a peculiar type. The rich blonde hair 
with its tinge of auburn, the bright, transparent 
complexion, and the somewhat lengthy oval of the 
face, manifest her Scotch descent, while her walk 
and carriage, the liveliness of her gestures, the fire 
of her glance, the pretty foot, and the sensuous 
power of her presence iudieate the southern woman. 
This peculiar mixture of races in the Empress sur¬ 
prises while it attracts; it arouses attention and wins 
admiration. The happy woman wno attends to the 
adornment of her person, i. e., makes her dresses, is 
Madame Moga. She clears 200.000 francs annually 
by her business, since no one in fashion would wear 
a dress that had uot been manufactured in her shop, 
Marine view—The eye of the wind. 
The flowers of time—Four o’cloeks. 
Can two weak members make one firm ? 
The fruit of life—The current of our being. 
The shadow of Fortune—The ghost of a chance. 
Profitable gardening—Raising one’s own celery. 
Dress parade—A fashionable woman’s toilette. 
The way of the world—A great mauy millions of 
tons. 
A striking sensation—Being struck with par¬ 
alysis. 
An electric shock—Painful intelligence by tel¬ 
egraph. 
The reason we admire pretty feet—Because all’s 
well ‘.bat ends well. 
The reason that tea binds women together is be¬ 
cause, to them, it is T wine. 
The bent of a fashionable woman’s mind, and body, 
too, just at present, is the Grecian bend. 
A surprise wedding is when a man marries a 
woman he doesn’t know, and wishes he had never 
known. 
When waiters take your order at fashionable 
hotels now-a-days they leave their photograph, that 
you may identify them when they return. 
The Truth-Teller.— Wherever the seat of the 
soul is, I am confident it lies much nearer to the 
eye than to the tongue. This organ, as Talleyrand 
wittily but perversely said v though he was not the 
first who said it,) was given man to conceal his. 
thoughts; bui that cannot be said of the eye. How 
the soul looks out from ill Even when the tongue 
is honest, it cannot utter truth and feeling half so 
well as the eye; it is a poor, imperfect, faltering, 
blundering organ, in comparison. But in the eye, 
the soul beams and kindles and lightens, and flashes 
the truth in that light which is truth’s most glori¬ 
ous emblem.— Greyson Letters. 
Procrastination.— Virtue is not a mushroom 
that springe!h up of itself in one night, when we 
are asleep or regard it not; but a delicate plant that 
eroweth slowly and tenderly, needing much pains 
to cultivate it, much care to guard it, much time to 
mature it. Neither is vice a spirit that will be con¬ 
jured away wiLh a charm, slaiu by a single blow, or 
dispatched by one stab. Who, then, will be so 
foolish as to leave the eradicating of vice, and the 
planting in of virtue into its place for a few years 
or weeks? Yet he who procastinates his repen¬ 
tance and amendment grossly does so; with his 
eyes open, he abridges the time allotted for the 
Boudoir.— This word is used to denote a lady’s 
private apartment, in which she receives only her 
i most intimate friends; aud it carries with it ideas 
of refinement and luxury. If, however, we trace 
^ the word to its origin, v>c Bud that the root, or first 
J syllable., boub, is the same as our English word pout; 
j and that the term signifies, literally, a place to 
y which a woman retires to sulk —a poutcry , as we 
j) might call it. Like many other words, however, it 
L has lost the tinge of reproach and vulgarity it once 
W| bore, and has acquired an air of elegance which 
\. conceals all trace of its low birth. 
HAPPr Persons.— There are persons who may be 
called fortunate, if not elect, namely, those who, 
from Hie felicity of their natural constitution, de¬ 
sire only what is good, who act for love, and show 
pure morality in their actions. In these happy be¬ 
ings the superior feelings predominate much over 
those common to men and animals. 
If thou bearest slight provocations with patience, r 
it shall be imputed unto thee for wisdom; and if Jlj 
thon wipest them from thy remembrance, thy heart 
shall feel rest — thy mind shall not reproach thee. jl 
p, i L"’ i ^^^^B 
K a ’ : :ifcjh; i n 
■ r 
hm 
WtmA ™ 
IL&K& 
