£ mm 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
DIRGE FOR THE DEPARTED. 
BY IIEBRON BELL. 
Tiie sunlight struggles, pale and dim, 
Through fleecy clouds that wrap the sky; 
I miss the song-bird’s morning hymn, 
For winter’s nigh, 
And they have sought a warmer clime 
Where flowers still bloom ’mid tangled fern, 
But soon, when comes the warm spring-time, 
They will return,— 
When April skies are bright above, 
When sparkling fountains dance and play, 
Their songs will echo in each grove 
And meadow gay, 
But she, who had the power to send 
Such joy from out her ample store, 
And with my own sad nature blend, 
Will come no more. 
Beneath yon elms, that to the skies 
Their long and leafless branches wave, 
Swayed by November’s wind, she lies 
“ Low in her grave.” 
The cold winds, o’er the wooded height, 
Sigh like the far-heard ocean’s surge, 
And chant, through all the dreary night, 
A mournful dirge. 
My heart is crushed,— it could not bear 
The blow,—she was my only friend,— 
Oh, why should life, so young and fair, 
So early end ? 
When twilight with the southern breeze 
The golden hours of day prolong, 
Then she would gently seek to please 
With sweetest song. 
Her happy voice, when she was glad, 
Would echo through my throbbing heart, 
And then, at times, so low and sad, 
That tears would start. 
Oh, lonely hours I yet shall see— 
Oh, bitter tears I yet shall weep, 
Ere I shall sink, dear M—, like thee, 
In Death’s calm sleep. 
But firmly to one hope I cling, 
The sweetest to us mortals given, 
It is that I’ll yet hear her sing 
With choirs in neaven. 
Fayette, Mo., 1859. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
FADED FLOWERS. 
It wa3 on a pleasant day, not long since, that, 
looking over an old box which I had not seen in 
some time, I discovered a cluster of faded flowers. 
I was about examining them more closely, when 
I heard a gentle rap at the door. On opening 
it, whom should I see but dear aunt Patience. 
Aunt Patience is a widow lady, about sixty years 
of age. She lives with a maiden daughter, in a 
little vine-covered cottage a few miles from us, 
and, though she enjoys good health, she but sel¬ 
dom visits us, on account of the distance. She 
keeps her eye3 open, and by this means has 
become quite a wise woman. There is not one 
among her acquaintances for whom she has not 
a kind word; and her pleasant yet dignified face 
always seems to bring peace with it. The little 
children leave their sports and run to meet her, 
crying, “Aunt Patience is coming;” and the 
quiet housekeepers smile a satisfied smile, as they 
place the rocking chair for her by the open win¬ 
dow. Always “patient and loving,” we think she 
is rightly named. 
“ I am glad you have come,” said I, taking her 
bonnet and shawl, and putting them carefully 
away. Aunt Patience smiled; then, taking her 
knitting, commenced her work. 
“ Always at work, aunt,” said I. 
“ Don’t you know that 
‘ Satan finds some mischief still, 
For idle hands to do?’ 
Ah! you must never be idle, Alice. But what 
have you there?” 
“ ’Tis a withered nosegay, aunt, Fannie gave 
it to me —and you know Fannie is dead now,” 
said I, softly, as the memory of that dear friend 
came over me. 
“Yes, yes, Alice, I know it full well. She was 
a faded flower on earth, but her pure spirit blooms 
in Heaven.” 
“Yes, aunt, and when she gave them to me she 
said, ‘ Think of me often, Alice.’ I do very often, 
aunt. This little bud 'she wore in her hair the 
last evening I saw her,—I begged it to put with 
other flowers that she had just given me. They 
retain their fragrance, if not their colorf said I, 
as I carefully laid them away. 
“Alice, dear, on that never-to-be-forgotten day 
on which Fannie died, did not the Angel of Death 
beg that sweet bud to place with others which he 
had that day gathered? Th a jewel, —her soul,— 
was taken away, and the casket only remained. 
So with your flowers, Alice, —the life of them has 
departed,—the faded flowers only remain. The 
sweet fragrance which they even yet give is like 
the good deeds, kind words, and pleasant smiles 
which Fannie herself has given, which, though 
past, are not forgotten. That sweet bud is a fit 
emblem of herself, thus early transplanted to the 
bright land where is no parting, and where the 
righteous shine forth as the sun in the kingdom 
of ‘ their Father.’ ” 
“Ah,” said I, “you have found the true secret 
of happiness. You hope to meet Fannie in that 
better land. Is it not so, dear aunt?” 
“Yes, Alice. ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I 
shall not want,’ even in the hour of death.” After 
a few moments’ pause, aunt resumed: 
“ Do you know of any other faded flowers ?” 
“ I think not, aunt.” 
“ There are very many faded flowers, Alice,— 
more than is sometimes supposed. How many 
flowers that once grew in human gardens are 
faded. They lie cold, and alone,—they sleep the 
dreamless sleep,— their bright eyes are closed, 
never to be opened here,—their merry, laughing 
voices, that once sounded in joyous glee through 
their happy homes, are^husbed, and the little 
dimpled hands lie folded over bosoms that are 
never to know more of pain or care. How many 
of these are in the old church yard,—how many 
faded in years gone by, and whose graves are 
forgotten,—how many lie in the depths of the 
sea,—how many whose last resting places will 
never be known till the earth and sea shall give 
up their dead. Another faded flower, Alice, is 
the aged, respected mother, cared for and loved 
with the pure affections of a child’s heart. Mother 
toiled against poverty to give her children an 
education and to clothe them, and shall they ref use 
to provide for her wants, and to increase her com¬ 
fort by every means in their power? What if the 
infirmities of age rest heavily upon her? They 
will never leave her,—never turn her upon the 
cold charities of the world alone. ‘Honor thy 
father and thy mother,’—how often in ehildhood 
have they heard it from her venerable lips, and 
now they obey the command cheerfully. May 
you, Alice, ever remember to love and cherish 
this faded flower.” 
Aunt Patience continued:—“ The wife, worn 
down with care and watchfulness, is another faded 
flower. Care has taken the rose-tint from her 
cheek and the once bright and beaming expres¬ 
sion from her eye. The hilarity of youth is 
gone, — the step is slow. Husbands need not 
remind them of it,— it is enough that it is so. 
We know, ourselves, that ‘we do fade as a leaf.’ 
Let them lessen our cares; let them take more of 
the responsibility of the family upon themselves, 
and they will not be so ready to perceive the 
inroads of decay; or, perceiving, and knowing 
the cause, will wisely refrain from the reminders 
in which some husbands are inclined, either un¬ 
wittingly or heartlessly, to indulge. Many a wife 
toils on alone, as far as the interest or care taken 
by the husband is concerned, and then, added to 
all their trouble, is the taunt, ‘Hew you have 
faded.’ By-the-by, Alice, I find that husbands 
are very apt to see ‘ faded flowers’ in the persons 
of their weary wives on their return from an eve¬ 
ning’s pastime amid the young and gay. I saw 
Mrs. S., and Mrs. H., last Sabbath, at church. 
They wore a look of care, and I thought, Alice, 
perhaps their husbands had seen ‘faded flowers’ 
on their return from the last party.” 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
INDIAN SUMMER. 
When the smiling summer’s ended, 
And the golden harvest past, 
Cold, gray clouds, by storms attended, 
All the azure overcast; 
When the “sunny days” are over, 
And the “ melancholy ” come,— 
When each little wild-wood rover 
lias secured its winter home,— 
And the birds have all forsaken 
Every forest, grove and bower, 
Where, whene’er a bough is shaken, 
Fast it sheds a yellow shower,— 
When the flowers have all departed, 
And the chill winds sob and moan, 
Till we’re sad and weary-hearted 
Listening to their dirge-like tone,— 
Then , how welcome the appearing 
Of the Indian Summer fair, 
With its golden light, so cheering, 
And its mild and mellow air. 
Over mount and river stealing, 
Making hills and hearth-stones bright, 
With a soft, blue veil concealing 
Half the faded landscape’s blight. 
Oh, its sweet and dreamy sadness, 
And its happy peaceful sigh, 
Like a smile of holy gladness 
In the dying Christian’s eye. 
Gently whispering winds caress us, 
Summer seems returned again, 
With a few, sweet days to bless us, 
Ere stern Winter’s cruel reign. 
November, 1859. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
CULTIVATE THE BEAUTIFUL—Ho. 1. 
Truly! this world is beautiful! It is no new 
thought, but it came to me this morning with 
Aunt s conversation was suddenly broken off by g UC h freshness and force that I strove in vain 
a rap at the door, which proved to be a call upon repress its utterance. It seemed, indeed, as 
her to visit the sick, and thus ended her descrip- though it were borne to me on every ray of the 
tions of ‘ faded flowers.’ Very sorry was I that au nljght streaming in at my window, and irradi- 
we were interrupted,—for I was being educated, a ting not external things simply, but my inner 
and wished to learn more. Dear me, I did not SO ul rejoiced and reveled in its beams. God made 
know before that there were such flowers as aunt the sunlight beautiful, and the earth it shines 
has last described,---my idea was that husbands upon. Beautiful in every phase, and form, and 
and wives faded together. Alice. combination,—beautiful in its external workings, 
Canandaigua, N. Y., 1859. —beautiful when, unfolded and explained, we 
-- trace the chain of causes, linked in one whole, 
MARRIAGE OF IDA FAIRFIELD. necessary to produce the various phenomena of 
- nature, until we are lost in admiration for their 
It doubtless will interest the many attached Great Architect,—beautiful, even in its mystery, 
and widely scattered personal friends of Mary S. It is we ll at times for'^ uuman soul to feel its 
Bassett, and the more numerous readers of the 0 wn littleness—to shrink into itself—to compare 
chaste and beautiful poetical productions of her the finite with the Infinite, the mortal with the 
pen, full of high-toned moral and religious senti- Immortal. Go forth on an autumnal morning, 
ment, which have so frequently appeared in the when nature sleeps, and the earth is strewn with 
Rural New-Yorker and in some of the magazines dry leaves,—emblems of our decay,—and you still 
to which she has contributed, over the signature feel the force of this assertion. Does not the sun- 
of “Ida Fairfield,” to learn that she was married light shining on them come to us as does that 
on the evening of Sept. 8th, at the residence of glorious ray of hope which emanates from Heaven 
her mother, in Independence, Allegany Co., N. Y., as we stand beside the ashes of a departed friend— 
to Wm. L. Clarke, Esq., of Rhode Island, the Rev. these shall rise again? Each particle shall be 
Jared Kenion, officiating. The invitations to the endowed with life,—shall drink the sunlight and 
wedding were confined* with few exceptions, to the dew, and nature shall rejoice. Nor is Earth 
relatives of the family, as it was intended to be as less beautiful when shrouded in white,—emblem of 
private as the circumstances would admit, as the purity. We recall the promise of seed-time and 
bride had lost a venerated father, and a much- harvest, and are strengthened patiently to await 
loved brother and sister, within the last eighteen its coming. We could hardly greet the spring- 
months,—yet, the company was large as the time with so cordial a welcome were it not for the 
family connections are numerous. Miss Bassett winter—or the summer, were it not for the spring- 
is a grand niece of the late Gen. Erastus Root of time. The very change is both restand recreation, 
this State, and a niece of Joseph Sheffield, Esq., These frames of ours, protected with such care, 
of New Haven, one of the Railroad Kings. Her are formed of atoms old as is Creation’s self. They 
uncles, George St. John of New York, and Thos. are but the form, the dress which the spirit takes; 
St. John of Mobile, gentlemen of fortune, were the mere machines to work its ends,—to carve its 
present, and among the most liberal contributors imagery! They are not ourselves! Yeteven these 
of the numerous articles of massive and beauti- are beautiful. See the blood coursing andrecours- 
fully and elaborately wrought silver plate, and ing without our will, painting the passions in the 
other bountiful and well-merited gifts of friendship face, and strengthening us for our life-work. The 
and affection, which adorned a side table in one nerves,— those little monitors, miniature tele- 
of the parlors — the admiration of all, and the graphs, messengers ofjoyandwoe,—are they not 
envy, perhaps, of some of the less fortunate among beautiful? What wonder that the ancient poet 
the fair guests. said, “Man, know thyself.” The human frame is 
MARRIAGE OF IDA FAIRFIELD. 
the fair guests. said, “Man, know thyself.” The human frame is 
The company was an interesting one, much of a mimic world. What spirks of thought has not 
it from abroad. The mother, an intelligent mat- art borrowed from its workings, 
ron, exhibiting the dignity and grace of the olden Pardon this digression; but are we not too 
time, of New England birth and education, yet an prone to bury ourselves in the cares and perplexi- 
early settler of this Switzerland of New York, pre- ties which our own human passions have woven— 
sided, surrounded by four married daughters, and to become soured by disappointments and failures 
two daugliters-in-law, all matrons of dignity, the in our own futile and imperfect schemes, becoming 
most of them returning to the home of their child- mere plodders, toiling because we must, and shut- 
hood from a distance, to be present at the marriage ting out the joyousness, the light and the beauty 
of a cherished sister. Fairy fingers and fairer which are ready to greet us at every turn of our 
lips, dispensed sweet music, inspiring and impart- pathway if we but woo them? Do we not some- 
ing an interest to a scene, made elegant, by the times carry this spirit into the family circle and 
presence of more than one of those birds of Para- the school-room? The world reflects back to us 
disc whom Heaven had destined to wander here ^ image of our soul. If the picture is dark, rest 
upon earth for the benefit and happiness of man, ± ,, . - ... TIT 
among them, the fair bride, exhibiting an unpre- assured that there is something wrong. W e never 
tending and charming native simplicity, and the adequately prize a privilege until it has been de¬ 
fairy bridesmaids, one of them a young sister, in n j e( j us . thus we grow callous and indifferent to 
their appropriate and beautiful adornments around d a blessings simp ly because they are common, 
whom the graces, or mountain fairies, might have } h ’. 1 J J 
danced a cotillon. The evening, with music and A healthy body is the first of Heaven s blessings; 
feasting, the meeting of friends and congratula- a healthy mind the second; and yet, with both 
tions, passed cheerfully away. The next morning, 0 f these, how often we render ourselves miserable, 
howpver. tearful eves told of the Damns' ot manv. 
however, tearful eyes told of the parting of many, 
never to meet again upon so joyous an occasion. 
There is virtue, love, kindness, gratitude and 
The bride, after a few parting visits, will leave charity in the world if we but seek for them. Just 
the quiet home of her nativity among the Allegany a s naturally as each seed sown in the soil draws 
hills just before they r ’ se into those lofty moun- therefrom that nutriment necessary to perfect its 
tain ranges, and stretch away to the sunny South— " c , 
to seek a new one at Ashaway, Rhode Island, the growth, each different in its kind, so do human 
residence of her fortunate husband, where she will beings draw around them spirits congenial to their 
doubtless meet a generous welcome. May the best na t ures . Mind acts upon mind with a reflex influ- 
-e, and we cannot dices, ourselves of it. We 
tains, who aims to accomplish a noble mission, in leave our impressions upon persons and things 
a humble and quiet way, by doing good. 
Wellsville, N. Y., Sept. 10,1859. 
with whom we are associated, and just so certainly 
will they make their impressions upon us. The 
Note.— The above was received during our absence, company we keep, is as true an index to our mind 
ssissjy asth ° u s h ° urevei ? th ° u s ht were written -. Smi . ie 
bride is a favorite with so many of our readers that we amid a group of children, and a dozen smiles will 
venture to “ assume the responsibility.’’ Tlie scene „ ree t y OU j n turn. Speak a cheerful word, and a 
described must have been a trying one to its apparently » J ^ . 
faithful delineator —a bachelor ex-M. C., who has long dozen cheerful voices will respond. There is an 
delayed becoming one of the principals on “so joyous eman ation from your spirit which will warm or 
an occasion.” We hope our friend will soon correct the . , . ,, ..... 
single defect in his character. chill theirs just as naturally as a heated body will 
impart warmth to the atmosphere around it, or a 
cold one frigidity. Go cheerfully to your work; 
teach them as though you loved to teach, and they 
will love to learn. Words are the signs of thought, 
but are not always necessary to its interpretation. 
An expression of the countenance, a glance, a 
motion, the movement of a muscle, involuntary 
though it may be, is sometimes more potent than 
words. There are passions and emotions which 
words lack power to paint, yet intuitively a child 
comprehends them. The lips may speak words 
soft or stern to clothe a thought, yet the soul will 
shine through them. No person need hope to 
excel in any vocation which he does not love. 
That only can be well done which is entered into 
with heart and mind in the work. Awaken the 
curiosity of a child and lead him on from truth to 
truth, and the labor of instructing becomes a 
pleasant pastime. A love of knowledge once 
awakened, it will burn on like a heavenly fire, 
brighter and purer. b. a. m’n. 
Lockport, N. Y., 1859. 
CELEBRATED AUTHORS. 
Dr. Johnson preferred conversation to books, 
and owned that he had hardly read a single book 
through, declaring that the perpetual task of 
reading was as bad as slavery in the mine, or 
labor at the oar. 
Byron was an exceedingly rapid writer and 
composer. He produced the whole of the “Bride 
of Abydos ” in a single night; and it is said with¬ 
out even mending his pen. The pen is now pre¬ 
served in the British Museum. 
Pope never could compose well without first 
declaiming for some time at the top of his voice, 
and thus rousing his nervous system to the fullest 
activity. He says, “the things I have written 
quickest have always pleased me best.” 
A friend once said to Moore, the poet, that his 
verses must slip off his tongue as if by magic. 
“Why, sir,” replied Moore, “that line cost me 
hours, days and weeks of attrition before it would 
come.” 
It cost Lord Lyttleton twenty years to write 
the “Life and History of Henry II;”—Gibbon 
was twelve years in completing his “Decline and 
Fall of the Roman Empire;”—and Adam Smith 
occupied ten years-in producing his “Wealth of 
Nations.” 
Calvin studied in his bed. Every morning, at 
five or six o’clock, he had book, manuscript and 
paper brought to him there, and he worked on for 
hours together. If he had occasion to go out, on 
his return he undressed and went to bed again, 
there to resume his studies. 
Bacon could only compose in a small study; he 
fancied that a contracted room helped him to con¬ 
dense his thoughts, and always invested the cere¬ 
mony of writing with solemnity. He knelt down, 
before composing his great works, and prayed for 
light from Heaven. 
Balzac, the finest writer in French prose, who 
gives vast majesty and harmony to his periods, 
has been known to bestow a week upon a single 
page of composition, and was never satisfied with 
the first production of his thoughts. 
Martin Luther’s literary labors were enormous; 
during an interval of less than thirty years, he 
published seven hundred and fifteen volumes; 
some were pamphlets, but the most were large 
and elaborate treatises. He was very fond of his 
dog, which was ever by his side. 
“The Comforts of Human Life,” by R. Heron, 
were written in a prison, under the most distress¬ 
ing circumstancas. “The Miseries of Human 
Life,” by Beresford, were, on the contrary, com¬ 
posed in a drawing-room, where the author was 
surrounded by every luxury. 
Steele wrote excellently on temperance, when he 
was sober. Sallust, who declaimed so eloquently 
against the licentiousness of the age, was himself 
an habitual debauchee. Johnson’sessay on polite¬ 
ness is admirable, but he was himself a perfect 
boor. Young's gloomy verses give one the blues, 
but he was a brisk, lively man. 
We find the depressed and melancholy Cow- 
per, who passed so many days of religious des¬ 
pondency and doubt, devoting the hours of night 
to the production of the mirth-provoking story of 
“John Gilpin.” 
All the friends of Sterne knew him to be a most 
selfish man; yet, as a writer, he excelled in pathos 
and charity. At one time beating his wife, at 
another, wasting his sympathies over a dead don¬ 
key. So Seneca wrote in praise of poverty, on a 
table formed of solid gold, with millions let out 
at usury. 
It is a remarkable fact that the mass of poetry 
which gave Bums his principal fame, burst from 
him in a very short space of time, not exceeding 
fifteen months. It was a sudden, impetuous flow, 
which seemed soon to exhaust itself.— Flag of Our 
Union. 
Money. —The desire to be rich is not evil in it¬ 
self. It is nonsense for a man to stand up and dis¬ 
claim the desire for wealth, and urge upon itself 
the idea that he should be poor. Money is neither 
an evil or a good of itself; it has not a moral char¬ 
acter. It is simply an agent, and whether it be 
good or evil depends upon the manner in which it 
is used. It is like a sword. Whether a sword be 
in the hands of a Benedict Arnold, bathed in his 
country’s blood, or in the hands of a Washington, 
wielded for justice and liberty, it is a sword only, 
and has not a character. Whether it be an instru¬ 
ment for good or evil depends upon the character 
of him who holds the hilt, and not the sword itself. 
So it is with money. It is an agent; it is a gigan¬ 
tic motive power, that thunders around the world. 
If the devil stands engineer, it thunders on, 
freighted with untold mischief, scattering oppres¬ 
sion and cruelty and wrong. But if it is guided 
by the spirit of love and truth, it is like the sun, 
shedding light and summer upon the world. It is 
an angel of mercy and love, when directed by th 
Spirit of Christ.— Beecher. 
Men’s lives should be like the days, more beau¬ 
tiful in the evening; or, like the season, aglow 
with promise, and the autumn rich with golden 
sheaves, where good words and deeds have ripened 
on the field. 1 
THE SUNSET ISLE. 
WnEN the sun is setting golden, 
Setting crimson in the west, 
Staining all the sky around him, 
Purple, ruby, amethyst; 
When his glories burn so brightly, 
Ere he vanishes from sight, 
That the forest stands transfigured 
In the splendor of the light. 
Then I seek, with hurried footsteps, 
Once again the river’s side, 
Gazing, with an eager longing, 
Far across its glassy tide, 
Where its waters, like a crescent, 
Curving far into the land, 
Seem to meet the blue above them, 
Hiding all the further strand. 
Rising slowly from its bosom, 
Gleaming rosy through the mist. 
Lies a tree-embowered island, 
Which the parting sun has kissed; 
Graceful forms are flitting lightly 
’Neath the ever-waving trees; 
, Liquid tones of sweetest music 
Flutter to me on the breeze. 
And they call to me in accents 
I have heard in days of yore, 
Ere they sought the spirit mansions, 
Ere they pressed the spirit shore; 
And I still my pulse’s throbbing, 
Lest I lose some precious word; 
And I chide the murm’ring waters, 
By a passing zephyr stirred. 
And. they beckon to me fondly, 
Beckon each with shining hand; 
But the foot of living mortal 
May not press that mystic strand. 
When the crimson deepens purple, 
And the purple turns to gray, 
Then the white mist gathers thickly, 
And the island fades away. 
Never eyes but mine have seen it, 
Never ears but mine have heard 
Those soft tones whose liquid music 
Living memories have stirred. 
And my heart has been kept tender, 
Softened by the holy smile 
Of the angel ones at evening 
Gathered on the Sunset Isle. 
[Burlington ( Vt.) Free Press. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
IMMORTALITY. 
TnE heavens and the earth are the works of 
Omnipotence, and they are worthy of God. Thou, 
too, 0! man, art the work of his hand, and shalt 
thou be unworthy? Was not the earth made for 
man, and not man for the earth? If the former, 
then man is the superior, and earth is made sub¬ 
servient to his wants, and if the earth, in all its 
beauty, its glory, its exalted grandeur, is a mere 
footstool for the creature man, how superior must 
he be. How near must he approach to Deity, and ’ 
what brings him nearer than immortality ? Are 
all the wonderful powers of his mind to be wasted 
in one shortlife, and then sink into insignificance, 
the creature of a day, like the feeble insect of a 
summer’s sun? If so, what object hast thou in 
life? “Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to¬ 
morrow we die?” Is this poor life so full of sor¬ 
row, disappointment, and blighted hopes,—to-day, 
fraught with bliss and brightest prospects, to¬ 
morrow filled with crushed and bleeding hearts,— 
is 4ife like this, the whole of our existence? No, 
we know it is not so. Often as we have gazed on 
the glories of departing day, have we longed for 
purity of heart, and freedom from sin—longed for 
a time when we should bask in the sunshine of 
eternal peace. Those feelings and sensations of 
the soul, struggling in vain for utterance through 
the coarser fabric of human nature, are proofs of 
immortality. I know and thank God that there 
is a time when I shall put off this mortal part,— 
that my existence is not temporal, but eternal,— 
my soul shall rise on wings of immortality, and 
soar unrestrained through the regions of thought, 
to fathom eternity. Yes, man thou art immortal. 
Thou hast been created “ only a little lower than 
the angels, and crowned with glory and honor.” 
Piffard, N. Y., 1S59. Jane E. Higby. 
Going Home. —“Going home!” Is it so, be¬ 
reaved Christian ? Then let us comfort one another 
with these words. We may weep beside the graves 
which are hallowed to the memory of the departed, 
but the sunshine of heaven shall illumine our tears, 
and bring a rainbow of promise over our hearts. 
True, our friends cannot return to us — but ob, 
blessed thought! we shall go to them; nay, we 
are already going to them. We have set out on 
the journey which is to_ bring us where they now 
dwell; and ere long we shall be clasped in their 
embrace, and gladdened by their concern. Eager¬ 
ly they await our arrival, for the joy is incomplete 
without us; and as we think of the glad meeting 
which will restore us to each other, and banish in 
a moment the pain of past separation, the distance 
between us seems to lessen, and we say to our¬ 
selves,—“Patience, sad heart; bear up a little 
longer; we shall be at home presently.”— Life's 
Morning. 
In Search of a Pastor. —A Congregationalist 
pastor, in Connecticut, made a hard hit at certain 
tendencies, in more than one Christian denomina¬ 
tion, in saying that “when a pulpit was vacant 
now-a-days, the church generally appointed a com¬ 
mittee to go and make inquiry of some Theological 
Professor, or of some other eminent divine, for a 
suitable candidate. The first question about him 
usually was, Is he a popular man ? The second, 
Is he a good speaker? Third, Is he social and 
easy in his manner? Fourth, Is he a man of de¬ 
cided talents? Fifth, Can he live on a small 
salary? And then, as the committee was about 
taking leave, with hat in hand, and one foot over 
the door sill, it is sometimes added—‘ he’s a man 
of piety, we suppose.’ ” 
