MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
EEB. 27. 
lafc’ SEte- 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
MIGHT FANCIES. 
BT KATK CAMERON. 
I love to gaze on the sunset, 
When its golden gates unbar, 
And the stars look down like angels 
From their azure homes afar. 
Whon the moos walks forth in beauty, 
With a calm and saint-like grace, 
And a smile—half love, half pity 
On her pure and holy face. 
It was a fancy of girlhood, 
Yet one that I cherish still, 
That moonbeams are Love’s messengers, 
That may be sent out at will. 
And many a kiss I've wafted, 
For them to bear to the lips 
Of loved ones whose beaming beauty 
Is now dimin’d by Death’s eclipse. 
Yet I know they still are shining, 
Though their glance 1 cannot see, 
I’erchance from the stArry Heavens 
They are looking down on me. 
And so the Night-time seems dearer 
Than the sunny hours of day, 
And sweet are the thoughts it brings me 
Of the dead, and far away! 
Rose Cottage, Feb., 1858. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
MY SISTER’S GRAVE. 
It was the evening of my birth-day, and I stole 
away from merry friends and strolled to the church¬ 
yard. The full-faced moon had just arisen, and was 
throwing its brightest rays upon the sacred spot as 
I approached. A feeling of sadness too deep for 
utterance came over me as I came to where my 
own dear sister was sleeping. How many times 
had she rejoiced, and brought to me some little 
token, as the roll of the year brought round my 
“birth-day.” She was my only sister, ever kind, 
and ever affectionate, always seeking to lead me in 
the path of holiness. Well do I remember when, 
in her last sickness, she called me to her bedside 
and strove to impress upon my youthful mind the 
pleasure, as well as the duty of serving God, and as 
she spoke to me with all the tender love of a sister 
—with my hands clasped in her own, and with her 
sweet, pale face before my eyes—she wished me to 
promise that I would be a servant of God, that I 
might become an heir of everlasting happiness. I 
hardly understood her words at the time, yet I felt 
that whatever fell from her lips must be right; she 
seemed like au angel, and when, from her exertion, 
she became exhausted, I gazed upon her with the 
most intense love, and did not dare to think that 
she must die. Years have passed away, my sister’s 
ashes have mingled with the dust, and in the calm 
and sweet repose of death she has sweetly slept.— 
We have planted flowers on her grave and often 
wandered there and wept,—but not for her, oh no; 
for that were sinful, for her freed spirit has joined 
itself with the angelic choirs;—butthatwe are left 
to tread life's path alone, without the guidance of 
a gentle sister’s love. The stars were shining 
brightly, as I stood in pensive meditation by her 
f r ive, and all was quiet, and with a saddened heart 
I knelt upon the cold ground and offered up a 
prayer for grace to live a Christian’s life, so that 
we all may meet in a paradise of Immortality. 
Orange, N. Y., Jan., 1858. T. A. W. 
HOME ON SABBATH NIGHT. 
“01 Sabbath night, 0! treasured home! 
Fond pride of memory’s train, 
A thought of ye, where’er I roam, 
Shall bring my- youth Again.” 
Ok all the pleasant fancies that follow in the train 
of memory, thoughts of home are predominant.— 
’Tis the Mecca towards which we are ever turning 
with a devotion scarce exceeded by the most fa¬ 
natical follower of Mahomet. Home! ’tis one of 
the sweetest words in our language, expressive of 
all the heart holds dear, hedged round by every 
holy impulse, guarded with a vigilance that ex¬ 
cludes every impure thought or revolting word, it 
stands prominent amid the holy places of man.— 
That man cannot be happy who has not some quiet 
spot where he can steal away from the busy world, 
sure of a joyful welcome from the loving spirits 
within—where the tendrils of the heart are inter¬ 
laced, forming a network of love through which 
no selfish thought can creep, and over which no 
Upas tree of desolation can throw its deadly shade. 
But the Sabbath home, where re-union and thanks¬ 
giving mark the birth of each holy day—where 
the eyes glance volumes of love and all is peace 
and harmony,—this is the perfection of earth.— 
Where the circle is completely formed, with no 
broken link, no chair made vacant by absence of 
the loved—none rioting away their patrimony and 
saddening the heart by unhallowed excess; but 
where happiness spreads her silken wings over the 
hearthstone, shedding joy on every heart, we lind 
the faint outlines of a heavenly Sabbath Home. 
Little Genesee, N. Y., 1868.' Katjb. 
A RURAL LETTER. 
Dear Rural :—For several years you have been 
a very pleasant weekly visitor, and have contribu¬ 
ted largely for the instruction and entertainment of 
eur fireside circle. So richly freighted with useful 
knowledge you have come to us, have furnished so 
many bright gems of thought and various interest¬ 
ing miscellany, and, withal, have come so nicely 
dressed, that we have assigned to you an honored 
place among our favorite weeklies. 
Many changes have come over our household 
since first we met. Death’s dark shadow has cross¬ 
ed our threshold, and there is a desolate spot in 
our hearts and around our hearthstone; hut we 
extend to you the present year a no less cordial 
greeting—for she, too, was a friend and admirer of 
the Rural. She has passed away, put off this clay¬ 
ey tabernacle for immortality, and entered upon the 
realities of that spiritual existence into which our 
mortal vision cannot penetrate, hut of which we 
love to think, and towards which each additional 
link, dissevered from our earthly treasures, serves 
but the more forcibly to draw our thoughts and 
aspirations. 
0! the ineffable glories of the immortal state 
where the soul, disencumbered of mortality and 
delivered from the debasing power of sin, shall ex¬ 
pand in immortal vigor, and develop the beauty of 
its original purity as created in the image and 
likeness of God. 
“ But minds, tbo’ sprung of heavenly race, 
Must first be tutored for the place, 
The joys above are understood 
And relished only by the good.” 
Malone, N. Y., Jan., 1858. Myra. 
“BEAUTIFUL HANDS.” 
As a young friend was standing with us noticing 
the pedestrians on the side-walk, a very stylish and 
elegant girl passed us. “What beautiful hands 
Miss-has!” exclaimed our friend. 
“What makes them beautiful?” 
“Why, they are small, white, soft and exquisitely 
shaped. The fingers taper down most delicately, 
and there is a roseate blush on the finger nails that 
no artist could imitate.” 
“Is that all that constitutes the beauty of the 
hand? Is not something more to be included in 
your catalogue of beauty which-you have not enu¬ 
merated to make the hand desirable?” 
“ What more would you have?” 
“ Are they charitable hands? Have they ever fed 
the poor? Have they ever carried the necessities 
of life to the widow and orphan? Has their soft 
touch ever soothed the irritation of sickness, and 
calmed the agonies of pain? Do the poor bless 
those rosy-tipped fingers as their wants are supplied 
by them? 
“ Are they hands? Have they been taught 
that the world is not a play ground, or a theatre of 
display, or a mere lounging place? Do those deli¬ 
cate hands ever labor? Are they ever employed 
about the domestic duties of life—the homely, 
ordinary employments of the household? Or does 
the owner leave all that to her mother, while she 
nourishes her delicate hands in idleness? 
“Are they modest hands? Will they perform 
their charities or their duties without vanity? Or 
do they pander to the pride of their owner by their 
delicacy and beauty? Does she think more of 
their display than of the improvement of her intel¬ 
lect and character? Had she rather be called 
‘the girl with the beautiful hands’ than to receive 
any other praise for excellency of conduct or char¬ 
acter? 
“Are they humble hands’? Will their owner extend 
them to grasp the hard hand of that old school-fel¬ 
low, who sat at the same desk with her, and on the 
same recitation bench, but who now must earn her 
liviag by her labor? Or will they remain conceal¬ 
ed, in their exclusiveness, in her aristocratic muff, 
as she sweeps by her former companion? 
“ Are they religious hands? Are they ever clasp¬ 
ed in prayer or elevated in praise? Does she remem¬ 
ber the God who has made her to differ from so 
many of her sex, and devote her mind, her heart, 
her hands to his service? Does she try to'imitate 
her Savior by going about doing good? Or are her 
hands too delicate, too beautiful to he employed in 
good works? 
“These are qualities that make the hand a beau¬ 
tiful one in my estimation. There is an amaranth¬ 
ine loveliness in such hands superior to the 
tapering slenderness of the fingers or the roseate 
hue of the nails.” 
“Fob, poh, you treat this subject too seriously. 
Besides, you forget the most valuable particular to 
a young man like me. Will she cheerfully give me 
that hand to keep?"—Hartford Courani. 
THE HOME MOTHER 
Some one writing for the Masonic Mirror, has 
drawn a picture of a home-loving, child-loving 
mother: 
“ We must draw a broad line between her and the 
frivolous butterfly of fashion, who flirts from ball 
to opera and party, decked in rich robes, and fol¬ 
lowed by a train as heartless as herself—she, who 
forgetful of the holy task assigned her, neglects 
those who have been given to her charge, and 
leaves them to the care of hirelings, while she pur¬ 
sues her giddy round of amusement. Not so with 
our home mother, blessings be upon her head. 
The heart warms to see her in her daily routine of 
pleasant duties. 
How pleasantly she sits day after day, shaping 
and sewing some little article for use and adorn¬ 
ment for her little flock! And how proud and 
pleased is each little recipient of her kindness.— 
How the little faces dimple with pleasure, and the 
bright eyes grow still brighter, as mamma decks 
them with her own hands, in the new dress she has 
made! How much warmer and more comfortable 
they feel if mamma wraps them up before they go 
to school! No one but she can warm the mits and 
overshoes, or tie the comforters around their necks. 
There is a peculiar charm about all she does, the 
precious mother. They could not sleep — nay, for 
that matter, she could not—if she failed to visit 
their chamber, and with her own soft hands arrange 
them comfortably before they slept. Her heart 
thrills with gratitude to her Creator as she looks 
on those sweet blooming faces, and when their 
prayers are done, imprints a good-night kiss on 
each rosy mouth. It may he, too, a tear will start 
for the little nestling bird in its chill, narrow bed, 
for whom her maternal care is no longer needed. 
It sleeps, though the sleet and snow descend and 
the wild winter howls around its head. It needs 
no longer her tender care! A mightier arm en¬ 
folds it! It is at rest. She feels and knows that it 
is right, and bends meekly to the hand that sped 
the shaft, and turns with a warmer love, if it he 
possible, to those little ones who are left to love. 
How tenderly she guards them from danger and 
with what a strong, untiring love, she watches by 
their bedside when they are ill. 
Blessings on the gentle, home-loving mother. 
Angels will look with love upon her acts. Her 
children will rise up and call her blessed, and the 
memory of her kindly deeds will enfold her as a 
garment.” 
When two loving hearts are torn asunder, it is a 
shade better to be the one that is driven away into 
action, than the bereaved twin that petrifies at 
home. — dairies Reade. 
The heart of a generous woman, provoked and 
slighted, can do great things.— Brantome. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
REVERIE vs. REALITY. 
Careless and languid, imaginary bliss,— 
What is there fruitful or noble in this? 
Fancy creations of grandeur and gold. 
Fancy creations of raptures untold, 
Flickering hopes of a harvest of good, 
Guesses and dreams of what might be or should,— 
What do such indolent reveries bring, 
Bating the shadowy thought of the thing? 
Fancy, indeed, is a thing to be prized— 
Looseness of fancy, is folly disguised; 
Fancy is priceless to please and suggest— 
Indolent fancy is useless, at best. 
Lolling day-dreamers, (some millions and more,) 
Know that your brain-ghosts are profitless lore; 
Genuine man-food is substance and fact— 
Genuine man-life is living to act. 
PROOF. 
Tilings are as they are, not as day-dreamers wish', 
A snake is a snake, though they think it a fish; 
If, closing their eyes, they build castles in air, 
It follows, by no means, the castles are there. 
All fancy and hope, are but fancy and hope, 
And never in plebian, noble, or Pope, 
Were known of themselves to search out or produce 
i A thing having tangible value or use. 
A sad kind of wealth is chimerical wealth— 
| A sad kind of health is chimerical health; 
The poorest of fancied abundance may sell— 
The ghastly consumptive ma y fancy he’s well. 
^ APPLICATION. 
Since these things are so, it were well, it were wise, 
To labor and reason much more than surmise,— 
And since the ideal is merely ideal, 
To get all we possibly can from the real. 
Pulaski, Osw. Co., N. Y., 1858. v G. C. B. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE DOMINION OF THOUGHT. 
Society is so constituted that it must be govern¬ 
ed. Men may attempt to cast off the shackles 
which their nature imposes upon them, but it is in 
vain; engrafted in his nature is a certain longing 
for happiness, and experience teaches that a social 
life, where correct ideas and principles are the 
mainspring of action, is a circumstance insepara¬ 
bly connected with that happiness. We must be 
governed. The question then is not, shall we, or 
shall we not, recognize a ruler; but rather, to whom 
and to what among the myriad of men and princi¬ 
ples which claim our suffrages, shall they be grant¬ 
ed? Superstition, in its day, gyved both soul and 
body. Ambition hath grasped at the universe, and 
hurling its thunderbolts against all opposers, it 
chained them to the wheels of its conquering 
chariot. Men have bowed the knee to avarice, and 
sung Te Deum at the shrine of mammon. All these 
have been recognized as the mighty ones of earth, 
and, embodied in the spirit and being of history’s 
so-called heroes, have worn the coronet of power.— 
Yet they have failed to maintain their empire— 
have failed to meet the requisitions of man’s na¬ 
ture—like the blazing meteor, they have astonished 
the world for a time, and then, like it, have gone 
out in darkness. 
Those who have governed the world are called 
heroes. But wo mu^t distinguish between the 
true and the false. The latter, building on base 
and common principles, their influence has per¬ 
ished with them—the former, deriving character 
from principles Divine in their origin, have influ¬ 
enced not only their own, but succeeding genera¬ 
tions. There is a power and authority with which 
the true hero is invested, which enables him to 
battle successfully with every antagonism. This 
power is given by Thought. It is true that all men 
possess thinking powers, but in this they differ as 
in all things else, and this it is which makes one a 
man, more than another. “The degree of vision 
that dwells in a man, may be taken as a correct 
measure of tlie man.” Wherein is one man supe¬ 
rior to another, but in the possession of a “ faculty 
which enables him to discover the inner heart of 
things, and the harmony that dwells there?” What 
is Manhood and Heroism but embodied Thought! 
All are not men who wear the human form; but the 
human form is recognized as man, in proportion 
as Thought is the spirit of his being, urging him 
on to actions outreacliing into the environing 
world of mystery, and evincing aspirations for 
something beyond and more elevated than the 
mere necessities of his existence. 
The power to rend in twain the veil of mystery 
which envelops our being — to solve the prob¬ 
lem of life, and read understandingly the volume 
of creation—this power it is which anoints one 
man king over his race, and clothes him with au 
authority before which men bow with reverence.— 
In the man then, with whom and in whom Thought 
is a living reality, we discover a power which 
recognizes no higher created authority, and which 
is as enduring as the foundations of creation.— 
Time and its mutations have builded up and de¬ 
stroyed earth’s proudest empires. Having brought 
the whole world into subjection, Alexander sighed 
for another world to conquer; but where now is he 
and his glory? The Pyramids of Egypt stand as 
monuments of greatness, but where is the great¬ 
ness which they represent? Oblivion shrouds 
equally both the men and their glory. They were 
hut men, ruling over men, by an authority external 
in character, and ephemeral in nature. They 
recognized no higher authority, and the hand of 
time has inscribed on their palace walls, “ Mene, 
Mene, Tekel, Upharsin.’’ But wherever we turn, we 
discover on every hand that Thought is Eternal.— 
Ambition and tyranny may rule the flesh, but they 
cannot affect the heart Thought rules the spirit, 
and through the spirit, the flesh; for “as a man 
thinketh, so is he.” Those may meet with a mightier 
opponent, and fall—true, living Thought acknowl¬ 
edges no superior, submits to none, conquers all.— 
Superstition compelled Galileo to retract his theory 
of the revolution of the earth. Y’et the thought 
lived and asserted its being, and no sooner had he 
pronounced the words of recantation, than he ex¬ 
claimed, “ But it does revolve, nevertheless.” 
Belfast, N. Y., 1858. T. D. Tooker. 
In this world there is one god-like thing, the es¬ 
sence of all that was or ever will be god-like in 
this world: the veneration done to human worth 
by the hearts of men.— Carlyle. 
COPERNICUS. 
Copernicus, after harboring in his bosom for 
long, long years, that pernicious heresy — the 
solar system—died on the day of the appearance 
of his book from the press. The closing scene 
of his life would furnish a noble subject for an 
artist For thirty-five years he has resolved and 
nurtured his system of the heavens. A natural 
mildness of disposition, bordering on timidity, a 
reluctance to encounter controversy, and a dread 
of persecution, have led him to withhold his work 
from the press, and to make known his system but 
to a few confidential friends and disciples. At 
length he draws near his end; he is seventy-three 
* years of age, and he yields his work on the “ revo¬ 
lutions of the heavenly orbs” to his friends for 
publication. The day at last has come in which it 
is to be ushered into the world. It is the 24th of 
May, 1543. On that day—the effect, no doubt, of 
the intense excitement of his mind operating upon 
an exhausted frame—an effusion of blood brings 
him to the gates of the grave. His last hour is 
come; he lies stretched upon the couch from which 
he will never rise, in his apartment at Fauenburg, 
in East Prussia. The beams of the setting suu 
glance through the Gothic windows of his cham¬ 
ber; near his bed-side is the armillary sphere, which 
he has contrived to represent his theory of the 
heavens; his pictures, painted by himself, the 
amusement of his earlier years, hang before him; 
beneath it his astrolobe, and other imperfect as¬ 
tronomical instruments; and around him are 
gathered his sorrowing disciples. The door of his 
apartment opens; the eye of the departing sage is 
turned to see who enters; it is a friend who brings 
him the first printed copy of his immortal treatise. 
He knows that in this book he contradicts all that 
had ever been distinctly taught by former philoso¬ 
phers; he knows that he has rebelled against the 
sway of Ptolemy, which the scientific world had ac¬ 
knowledged for a thousand years; he knows that 
the popular mind will be shocked by his innova¬ 
tions; he knows that the attempt will be made to 
press even religion into the service against him; 
but he knows that his book is true. 
He is dying, but he leaves a glorious truth, as 
his dying bequest to the world. He bids the friend 
who has brought it, place himself between the 
window and his bed-side, that the sun’s rays may 
fall upon the precious volume, and he may behold 
it once before his eyes grow dim. He looks upon 
it, takes it in his hands, presses it to his breast, and 
expires. But no, he is not wholly gone! a smile 
lights up his dying countenance; a beam of re¬ 
turning intelligence kindles in his eye; his lips 
move; and the friend who leans over him can 
hear him faintly murmur the beautiful sentiments 
which the lyrist of a later age has so finely expres¬ 
sed in verse. 
“Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell, with all your feeble 
light; 
Farewell thou ever changing moon, pale empresB of the 
night; 
And thou, refulgent orb of day, in brightest flames ar¬ 
rayed, 
My soul, which springs beyond thy sphere, no more de¬ 
mands thy aid. 
Ye stars are but the shining dust of my divine abode, 
The pavements of those heavenly courts where I shall 
reign with God.” 
So died the great Columbus of the heavens.— 
Everett. 
MAN’S DESTINY. 
The appearance of man upon the scene of being 
constitutes anew era in creation; the operations 
of a new instinct come into play — that instinct 
which anticipates a life after the grave, and reposes 
implicit faith upon a God alike just and good, who 
is the pledged “rewarder of all who diligently seek 
Him.” And in looking along the long line of 
being—ever rising in the scale from higher to yet 
higher manifestations, or abroad on the lower ani¬ 
mals, whom instinct never deceives—can we hold 
that man, immeasurably higher in his place, and 
infinitely higher in his hopes and aspirations than 
all that ever went before him, should be, notwith¬ 
standing the or.e grand error in creation—the one 
painful worker, in the midst of present troubles, for 
a state into which lie is never to enter—the befool¬ 
ed expectant of a happy future which he is never 
to see? Assuredly no. He who keeps faith with 
His humble creatures—who gives even the bee and 
the dormouse the winter for which they prepare— 
will to a certainty not break faith with man —with 
man, alike the deputed lord of the present creation, 
and the chosen heir of all the future. We have 
been looking abroad on the geologic burying 
grounds, and deciphering the strange inscriptions 
on theirtombs, but there are other burying grounds, 
and other tombs—solitary church-yards among the 
hills, where the dust of martyrs lies, and tombs that 
rise over the ashes of the wise and good; nor are 
there wanting, on even the monuments of the per¬ 
ished race, frequent hieroglyphics and symbols of 
high meaning, which darkly intimate to us, that 
while their burial yards contain but the debris of 
the past, we are to regard the others as charged 
with the sown seed of the future.— Hugh Miller. 
A Good Man’s Wish.— I would rather, when I 
am laid in the grave, that some one in his manhood 
would stand over me and say:—“There lies one 
who was a real friend to me, and privately warned 
me of the dangers of the young, no one knew it, 
but he aided me in the time of need. I owe what 
I am to him.” Or, I would rather have some 
widow telling her children:—“ There is your friend 
and mine. He visited me in my afflictions, and 
found you, my son, an employer, and you, my 
daughter, a happy home in a virtuous family.” I 
would rather such persons should stand at my 
grave, than to have erected over it the most beau¬ 
tiful sculptured monument of Parian or Italian 
marble. The heart’s broken utterance of past 
kindness, and the tears of grateful memory shed 
upon the grave, are more valuable, in my estima¬ 
tion, than the most costly monument.— Dr. Sharp. 
The roots ©f plants are hid under ground, so that 
themselves are not seen; but they appear in their 
branches, flowers, and fruits, which argue there is 
a root and life in them. Thus the graces of the 
Spirit planted in the soul, though themselves in¬ 
visible, yet discover their being and life in the 
track of a Christian's life, his words, his actions, 
and the frame of his carriage.— Leighton. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
MINISTERING SPIRITS. 
BY IDA FAIRFIELD. 
“ Hb shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep 
thee in all thy ways.” 
Doth thy foot falter, treading life's way, 
Faileth thy dim eye, watching for day? 
Seemeth life’s frail bark, shattered and torn, 
Over the rough waves, by swift billows borne? 
Shrieketh the tempest, so wild in thine ear, 
That humanity faileth, benumbed by its fear? 
Gleameth no light on the desolate path, 
Save the meteors glare, and the lightning’s red wrath? 
Lo! all about thee, though veiled from thy sight, 
Spirits are hovering, joyous and bright, 
Soft arms enfold thee, thy strength and thy stay, 
How canst thou fatter, or fall by the way I 
Eyes o’er thee watching, ne'er slumber nor sleep, 
Charge have these Spirit’s, thy footsteps to keep, 
Lest torn by the briars, or dashed by the stone, 
Thou shouldst sink to the blackness of darkness unknown. 
These shall not fail thee, though long be the night, 
Tireless and vigilant, guiding aright, 
Stilling the tempest, and steering the bark, 
Lighting faith’s bright star, to gleam through the dark. 
And ever sufficient for thy greatest need, 
They patiently wait till thy soul shall be freed 
From its sister of dust, its fetters of clay, 
To dwell in the regions of unclouded day. 
And when on life’s ocean, thy perils are past, 
And the soul’s ship is moored in its haven at last, 
When the thin veil is rent from thy spirits away, 
And truth sheds upon thee, its glorious ray; 
Then bearing thee up, on their radiant wings. 
While Heaven’s high dome, rejoicingly riDgs, 
No longer invisible, there thou shalt see 
The Spirits who minister here unto thee. 
Independence, Feb., 1858. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorkor. 
TRUE SUCCESS IN LIFE. 
Who is the truly successful man? Mr. Catch¬ 
penny says, “of course he who has scraped together 
the most money — whose note will pass without an 
endorser,—who holds many mortgages, and has a 
large deposit in hank. He of course is the man; 
what else is worth living for, and striving after.— 
Get, gold honestly if yon can , but get it at all events; 
a man without money is of little account in the eye 
of the multitude. He is only fit to be a hewer of 
u-ood and a drawer of water. What he was created 
for is hard to determine!” Stop one moment, Mr. C.; 
do not jump at conclusions. How did your rich 
men obtain their riches? If by honest dealing, in 
the true sense of the word, prudence and temper¬ 
ance combined,—by steady, energetic action,—by 
earning their money in an honest calling, not grind¬ 
ing the poor to the dust; if they have obtained it 
in this manner, I will say God speed to them, and 
can rejoice at their success. But if, on the other 
hand, they have coined gold by handing the spark¬ 
ling cup to their neighbor — the taste of which is 
pleasant to the palate hut will sting like a viper, 
and hurry the victim of indulgence to a premature 
and dishonorable grave, — if they have converted 
whatGon made to nourish and sustain His children 
into a subtle poison, the constant use of which will 
dethrone reason, and often makes man a brute and 
a murderer, and which dissolutesa thousand happy 
firesides and makes earth a dreamy waste; if from 
the young man, enticed to the snare or tier who would 
decoy him from the path of virtue, by the greed of 
an unscrupulous landlord,— who, for the sake of a 
high rent, cares not for what purposes his premises 
are used, can he only get more gold; if the widow 
and the orphan are robbed to increase his unjust 
gains; if the Sabbath is desecrated by being spent 
in counting up ill gotten accumulations, and in 
forming plans for the future— can this be called true 
success? 
He who is truly successful has learned to rule his 
own spirit, to return blessings for cursings, to he 
unjustly slandered and to move on calmly; only 
mindful to be true and faithful in all situations and 
circumstances. Though rich, he does not glory in 
his riches, remembering he is only a steward and 
must render an account at that bar where justice 
will be dispensed to all; but uses his riches mainly 
to benefit others—scattering his blessings all around 
him, as the sun scatters clouds and darkness by its 
silent influence. If at the head of an establishment, 
—be it a bank, farm, or a manufacturing house,— 
he does not appropriate the lion’s share of the pro¬ 
fits, and grow more selfish as his riches increase; 
but stands ready to increase the pay of those under 
him unasked as the profits increase. If poor, hav¬ 
ing neither silver nor gold, houses and lands, and 
can barely support a dear wife and children; still 
he toils on cheerfully and hopefully, having made 
his peace with his Maker,—having resolved to obey 
and follow the Savior, even unto the end, and work 
out for himself a true Christian character —he is 
faithful to the light he possesses. Such a man will 
shine as the stars in the Heavenly Jerusalem, and 
when ages shall have rolled on will still be progres¬ 
sing in virtue and holmess. This is true success in 
the only true sense of the word. Let the young strive 
after it, as the Pearl of Great Price. May the 
man of business in all his strivings after the things 
that perish with the using, be sure to obtain this suc¬ 
cess even at the expense and loss of all things else, 
—may the old remember if they have not yet 
secured the prize that a moment’s delay is danger¬ 
ous, as the present is the only time for action. 
Rochester, N. Y., 1858. W. J. G. 
A Sckidtural Sum. —Christian readers, here is 
a sum in addition for you to work out. It will re¬ 
quire diligence and care, and admit of no wasted 
time. Add to your faith, virtue; add to your virtue, 
knowledge; add to knowledge, temperance; add to 
temperance, patience; add to patience, godliness; 
add to godliness, brotherly kindness; add to broth¬ 
erly kindness, charity. 
The Answer. —“For if these things be in you and 
abound, they make you that ye shall neither be 
barren nor unfruitful in the knowledge of our Lord 
Jesus Christ” 2 Peter, i., 5, 8.— Christian Index. 
Defective Religion.— A religion that never 
suffices to govern a man, will never suffice to save 
him; that which does irot sufficiently distinguish 
one from a wicked world, will never distinguish 
him from a perishing world.— Howe. 
