AU6. 10 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
500 
MOSS-ROSES. 
White with the whiteness of the snow. 
Pink with the faintest rosy kIow, 
They blossom on their sin-ays; 
They glad the borders with their bloom, 
And sweeten with their rich perfume 
The mossy garden ways. 
The dew that from thoir brimming leaves 
Drips down, the mignonette receives, 
And sweeter grows thereby; 
The tall Juno lilies stand anear, 
In raiment white and gold, and hero 
The purple pansies lie. 
Warm mimdiiuo glitters over all, 
On daisied sward and ivied wall. 
On lily, pansy, rose; 
While flitting round each garden bed, 
With Joyous laugh and airy tread, 
A fairer sunbeam goes. 
A little human blossom, bright 
With childish, innocent delight 
Of life yet in its dawn; 
With am shine prisoned in her hair. 
Deep eyes unshadowed by a eare. 
She gambols on the lawn. 
She checks the light elastic tread, 
And stays to hear, far overhead. 
The lark's song to tts close; 
Eyes shaded by two tiny hands— 
Wo pray God bless her as she stands. 
Our little daughter Hose. 
Yea, bless the Hose, dear God, since we 
Have given the Lily back to thee. 
That bloomed with her awhile ; 
Yea, bless her deeply, doubly now. 
For her dear sake, whose angel brow. 
Reflects thine awful smile. 
How often in her childish faee, 
Our hungry, longing eyes can trace 
The looks of one a way; 
How often iu her merry tone 
A music wakes, more sad tliau moan, 
Of accents hushed for aye! 
God bless the child to blossom here, 
Our clinging human hearts to cheer, 
Till life has reached its close; 
To grow in sweetest grace and bloom, 
To beautify the dear old home, 
Our precious daughter Rose! 
t .III the 1'ear Roun 
-• * ♦ 
DOROTHY’S RIVAL. 
BABINGTON WHITE. 
In the days when the thnnder of Whitfield s 
voice had but newly resounded above the crowd 
at Moorfleld’s, Mr. William Bolton, a simple coun¬ 
try parson of the Established Church, lived very 
happily with his only daughter, Dorothy, on the 
outskirts of Hammersley. 
The parsonage was a comfortable red¬ 
brick house, very square and very uninter¬ 
esting from a picturesque point, of view. It 
stood a little way back from the high coach- 
road to London, with an orchard on one side, 
and on the other a common cottage-garden, 
with two long flower-beds and a broad 
gravel-path, arid vegetables growing In the 
mild distance, and espaliers in the back¬ 
ground. All the roads were London roads 
In those days ; and people lived on the 
London road without ever seeing the me¬ 
tropolis, which figured, glorious and radi¬ 
ant, In their day-dreams; an enchanted city 
—not actually paved with gold, but alto¬ 
gether marvelous and beautiful. 
To Dorothy Bolton the red house, tbe or¬ 
chard, and the gardeu were very pleasant 
and dear. What, indeed, could be more 
beautiful than the parlor, with Its two prim 
hook-cases, the needlework pictures of a 
shepherd and sherpherdess smirking from 
their oval frame; the little room In whch 
her father composed Lila sermons, with 
much aid from grlra-Iooktug blade-leather- 
bouud books, labeled Barrow and T1 llofcson ; 
the lufalllble eight-day clock In the hall, 
which groaned and rattled In such an awful 
manner before the striking of an hour, 
and above the dial of which there was 
something scientific in t he way of a sun and 
moon that wore never quite In working or¬ 
der, All these things to the eyes of Miss 
Dorothy were boauttful; nor did she pine 
for any brighter or gayer existence than 
that which she enjoyed, or languish Tor any 
respite from the many duties of her simple 
life. She had no higher aspiration than to 
sit In the parlor wearing out her bright 
young eyes lu the fine stitching of her fath¬ 
er's shirts, to help her mother at bread- 
miklng, or to trudge Into Hammersley on a 
tine morning by the parson’s side, to share 
lu his round of visits among the poor folks, 
or to read that now and doligntrm story of 
Pamela aloud to her father and mother in 
the long winter evenings. 'These things 
were at ouoe her duties and her pleasures, 
in this peaceful homo alio had grown from 
childhood to womanhood, and wits so inno¬ 
cent and childlike still, that she thought it 
was her gipsy hat and scarlet ribbon that 
made suen a picture of brightness and beau¬ 
ty lu the little mirror that reflected her 
fair young face every Sunday morning whUe 
the bells were ringing for church. Yes, 
Miss Dorothy Bolton—or Mrs. Dorothy, a 3 
peoplo were more apt to call a damsel lu 
those days—had grown from a sunburnt, 
hoydenlah girl into a very lovely youug wo¬ 
man, witnout any consciousness or the 
transformation. The parson and his wife 
saw that their only child was now, Indeed, 
a comely young person; but these.’good peo¬ 
ple would have cut their., tongues out rather 
than they would have confessed as much to the 
damsel herself. 
“ Handsome Is who handsome does,” said Dor¬ 
othy's mother; and the girl felt as if horgood 
looks were In some manner dependent on the 
neatnessor her stitching and the lightness of her 
last batch of bread. 
By and by, however, there came to Hammers¬ 
ley Parsonage some one who, although by no 
means prone to dilate upon Dorothy’s personal 
attractions, permitted the young lady to discover 
her power to charm. The new-comer was a cer¬ 
tain Matthew Wall, a young clergyman, who 
came to share the burden of the vicar s duty, and 
who hud so far proved himself a very worthy and 
efficient member of the Church. 
Indeed, in sober truth, efficiency and energy 
were much needed for the cure of souls In Ham- 
mersley. The town was large and crowded, the 
people rough and disorderly; aud an awakening 
voice was needed to arouse a people who had long 
been dead to the spirit and careless as to the let¬ 
ter of the faith. 
William Bolton, the vicar, had a simple mind 
ana a kindly nature; but something more than 
these arc required for tbe salvation of such a 
town as Hammersley; and this something more 
seemed to have been given to the poor benighted 
creatures In the person of Matthew Wall. 
The vicar preached a very orthodox sermon of 
the soporific school,and had a heart and hand ever 
open to the appeal of the poor; but, as his means 
were small und hl3 Judgment very faUlble, he 
effected with the best Intentions, very little real 
good. He waa getting old ; and he liked bis after- 
dinner pipe In the orchard In summer, and by the 
chimney corner In winter. He liked to take his 
nap in the long winter evenings, white Dorothy 
road The Life und Surprising Adventures ot Rob¬ 
inson Crusoe, or Religious Courtship, or an odd 
number of the Spectator. He visited his poor 
from time to time, and he was not unwelcome to 
them even when he came empty-haude'd ; but It 
seemed as if hfs visits did very Htue good. Ham¬ 
mersley was, in truth, too big a place for this sim¬ 
ple pastor, and the people of Hammersley too rug¬ 
ged a race for bis mild rule. 
Matthew Wall was a very different pastor. 
Fatigue and discouragement were alike unknown 
to him. He had the energy of a Whitfield or a 
Wesley; and, In that day, Whitfields and Wesleys 
were needed In the Church as well as out of It. 
William Bolton Invited his curate to dinner on 
Sundays; a dlnuer served directly after service- 
substantial and ponderous, after the old fashion. 
But Mr. WaU would eat very little between the 
services; fie did better justice to the nine o'clock- 
supper. The vicar, who exhibited a hearty appe¬ 
tite both at dinner and supper, called Matthew a 
poor trenoherman. It la possible that Matthew’s 
chief delight at the parsonage was not to be found 
In his trencher. He sat by Dorothy at. supper, and 
seemed to derive much satisfaction from her 
society. He found her sweet-tempered and 
modest as Pamela, pious as Dorcas; and before 
he had been six months at Hammersley he made 
a formal demand for her hand. 
The vicar hummed and hawed, and consulted 
his wife, 
“ Sure, ’twould be but a poor match for her,-> 
he said. “ Matt ''Vail has but his cure of seventy 
pounds a year, and a few hundreds to come 
from his father by and by. The rogue has good 
parts, I dare say, artd has done good service 
amongst, Hammersley folk with his fiery talk and 
hunting them out In their dens; which Is pushing 
a parson’s trade farther than I should care to 
push It. f doubt but he’s touched with the 
Wesley and Whitfield madness; and we shall 
have him turning his coat some day, as the two 
Wesleys dkl—to the shame of his family and 
mends.” 
Happily for Matthew Wall, the vicar, after con¬ 
sulting his wife, thought fit to say a few words to 
his daughter. 
The girl reddened and cast down her eyes, and 
when hard pushed by her father's questions, con¬ 
fessed with tears that she loved Matthew very 
dearly, and would go to her grave unmarried 
sooner than she would give her hand to any but 
him. The vicar was no Squire Western. He ex¬ 
pressed his astonishment by a long whistle, and 
reproved bis daughter for a sly puss; after which 
feeblo protest he consented to receive Matthew 
Wallas bis future son-in-law. But there was to 
be no marriage for three years to come. Matthew 
was but flve-nnd twenty, Dorothy Just turned 
eighteen. The young couple pledged themselves 
very readily. They met on Sundays, walked to 
and fro together between the parsonage and the 
church, dined and supped together; and when¬ 
ever Matthew's business happened to bring him 
near the garden-gate on week-days, he would 
step in to say a few words to bis Dorothy. 
The three years passed very pleasantly. Mat¬ 
thew Wall had become a power In Hammersley 
before his period of probation was ended. There 
were some who called him wild and fanatic,—for 
to he earnest In those luke-warm days seemed a 
kind of fanaticism; but since In many Instances 
the drunken became sober, and tbe reprobate be¬ 
came decent beneath his sway, folks were fain to 
admire his earnestness. The bishop of the dio¬ 
cese complimented the young man on the change 
he had brought about In Hammersley. 
“ I'm pleased you should show these folk that 
'tts possible to do good without deserting the 
Church we have sworn to hold by, sir, aud that 
'tts as easy to bring the stray sheep back to the 
true fold a&do lure them Into a strange one,” said 
the bishop, at a grand ceremonial luncheon of 
which he deigned to partake on a certain occa¬ 
sion. 
Parson Bolton was gratified that his curate 
and future son-in-law should win this meed of 
praise from episcopal lips. 
“ But, there’s more ot the Methody about our 
Matt than 1 quite relish, for all that," he said to 
his wife lathe confidence ot connubial discourse. 
- r. is not given to mortal man—least of all to a 
religious reformer—to please everyone. There 
were people In Hammersley who did not like 
Matthew Wall. His long, earnest, even fervid 
discourses displeased a few. He had refused in¬ 
vitations to tea and supper-parties—solemn and 
yet boisterous festivities given by the richer 
tradesfolk of Hammersley—and had thus offended 
many. There were Wallltes and Hiitl-WalUles In 
Hammersley ; and the anU-Wallltes were strong. 
Amongst them the most notable people were a 
certain Mr. Jorboys, grocer and cheesemonger, 
hts wife, and daughters. The Misses Jorboys— 
Sally and Letty—were accounted beauties. They 
wore hats aud muffs and gowns, which their 
father brought from London when ho ^ent thither 
for colonial produce; and t hey rook It 111 of Mr. 
Wall that he had been so prompt to devote him¬ 
self to the parson's dowdy daughter, who had 
never known what It was to powder her lialr, or 
sail along the High-street prim and stately In 
pannier-hoops. 
Itwas nigh upon Christmas, and there wa 3 
to be much joviality at tbe parsonage, for this 
must be Dorothy’s last Christmas at home. A 
neat little house In Hammersly had been hired 
by the curate, and comfortably furnished out of 
funds provided by bis father, with certain addi¬ 
tions lathe way of dragon-china tea-service, a 
brass-handled bureau, and liberal store of home- 
spun linen, provided by Mrs. Bolton, who with 
her own hands prepared the nest Tor these young 
turtle-doves. 
“I could have wished my Dorothy had fancied 
Squire Hever, of never Farm, who waa like to 
die ror her last winter,” the parson’s wife said to 
her gossips; "but she’s been like one bewitched 
since Matthew courted her. ' Sure, would you 
have me break my faith with a saint, dear ma¬ 
dam ?’ she cried, when I told her how young Hev¬ 
er would have made a lady of her, with her own 
coach and a black footboy. Audi do tbluk the 
simpleton's right In that," Mrs. Bolton would 
add with an air of conviction. " I’ve seen young 
men more mannerly in turning a compliment, 
and softer spoken; but If ever there was a saint 
on earth since St. Paul, I think Matthew Wall is 
one,” 
Of late the lady’s gossips had been somewhat 
slow to respond to this observation; and she was 
not a little vexed on one occasion by the conduct 
of her particular irlend Mrs. Jorboys, who went 
so far as to shake her head and groan audibly at 
this point In the conversation. 
“ 1 hope you have nothing to say against my 
daughter’s sweetheart, ma’am?"' the parson’s 
wife observed with some acidity. 
“O no, ma’am," Mrs. Jorboys replied with a 
sigh more dismal than the last; I have nothing to 
say against him.” 
There was an unpleasant emphasis on the word 
say that went nigh to freeze Mrs. Bolton’s 
marrow. 
“I don’t quite take your meaning, ma’am,” she 
said stiffly. "Mathew WaU may not he a rich 
husband for out Dorothy, but ho don't need to be 
groaned over as If he were a beggar.” 
“ You wasn’t talking of beggars, as I 
know of, ma'am,” Mrs. Jorboys answered 
with acrimony. "You was talking of 
saints.” 
"And what then, ma’am?” 
“I have my thoughts, ma’am. I should 
be vastly sorry to hurt your feelings, Mrs. 
Bolton, hut my thoughts are not my own 
making, and 1 can’t help it If they are of a 
nature to lead to wbat you was so clvU as 
to call groaulngand hereupon Mrs. Jor¬ 
boys sighed again, while Miss Letty and 
Miss Sally sighed lu chorus. This occurred 
at a ilatnmereley tea-party, from which 
Dorothy chanced to be absent. 
The pitrson’s wife went home perplexed 
and miserable. The next batch of bread 
was heavy and by no fault, of Dorothy’s, 
though her simple head was a Hale dis¬ 
traught. by thinking of the great change 
so near at. hand. It waa the chief bread'- 
maker whose mind wns most troubled, 
whose hand was most uncertain. Those 
groanings and head-shakings of Mrs. Jor¬ 
boys haunted the good soul by day and 
night, and Dorothy could but wonder what 
made her mother so thoughtrul. 
“ I fear there’s something troubles yon, 
ma'am,” the girl said, in the petty, respect¬ 
ful manner of those days. 
“ Nay, my dear, I have no trouble but 
the thought of losing thee,” answered the 
mother; "undHit’s for thy good, I’m con¬ 
tent we should part.” 
"Due it's not parting, dear madam; ’tls 
but living In separate houses. Do you think 
there’s a week will pass without my paying 
my duty to you? Aud I’ll come to help with 
the bread-making. If you’ll suffer me." 
This was Christmas-eve. There w.as to be 
fine fun at the parsonage that evening, end¬ 
ing with the compounding of a beverage, 
made of eggs and spices and ale, that had 
been compounded at a certain hour on 
every Christmas-eve since the vicar had 
kept house. The beverage was always com¬ 
pounded In the parlor, and partaken of with 
all solemnity out of a great sliver tank¬ 
ard that was said to have belonged to 
OUver CromweU. Dorothy vowed that It 
was but a battered old thing, and she had 
seen finer, spick-and-span new*, at a sil¬ 
versmith's In the High-street. 
The curate was to drink tea at the par¬ 
sonage, and assist, not only in the com¬ 
pounding ot the beverage, but In the com¬ 
position of that much more sacred mixture, 
the 1 lirlstmas pudding. To these simple 
diversions Dorothy looked forward with ex¬ 
treme pleasure. She thought of her be¬ 
trothed with unmeasured tenderness, with 
reverence and devotion, amounting almost 
to fanaticism. She believed in him as 
a being almost too saintly for earth. Mrs. 
Bolton had ample occupation for her han^ 
