376 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
NOV. 80 
Written for Moore’s .Rural New-Yorker. 
THE FIELD OF LIFE. 
BY LIBBY NEAL. 
Childhood is the golden gate 
That opens to the field of Life, 
For fair young hands bright flowers wait. 
And nettles, too, for them are rife. 
In that fair meadow, green and wide, 
The jewelled flower of Virtue grows, 
There crystal streams of pleasure glide, 
And Hope’s bright star reflected glows. 
There, too, are sterile paths of crime 
That by too many feet are trod, 
And up the mount of Vice they climb 
Regardless of the better road. 
Wisdom there, a fruitful tree, 
To all its golden apples yields, 
And all who choose can taste and see 
What fruit may grow in Life’s broad fields. 
Folly, the deadly Upas, stands 
And casts its deep and poisonous shade, 
Where Wisdom, with her lavish hands, 
Rich, luscious sweets might have displayed. 
Art thou a sower in Life’s broad field ? 
Then scatter there the seed of Truth, 
For that the golden wheat will yield 
Affording food for endless youth. 
And should the tares of Error grow, 
They soon may choke the sprouting grain, 
Unless you labor there bestow, 
Your careful sowing will be vain. 
Then guard thou well the gentle grain 
Until the glorious harvests come, 
Then on the whiten’d harvest plain 
Of endless bliss, you e’er may roam. 
Northville, Mich., 1858. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorkev 
MY CARD-BASKET. 
There it goes, bottom side up on the floor, its 
contents scattering in all directions over the car¬ 
pet Here are cards of nearly every description 
—school cards, wedding cards, and cards of friend¬ 
ship, plain, enamelled and colored! I never tire 
of looking at these bits of pasteboard, these 
souvenirs of affection. They call forth dim recol¬ 
lections and bright memories from the graves of 
the past They speak of the heart’s joyous spring¬ 
time, of youthful hopes and aims, of early friends 
true and unchanging. 
Here is one, upon which is penciled the simple 
name, Florence. I shall not soon forget her 
whose chubby fingers traced these lines. A bright, 
beautiful girl—full of health and happiness, al¬ 
ways lively, always gay, with a smile on her face 
and a song on her lips. Of all the loved compan¬ 
ions of my girlhood, she was, to me, the deareBt; 
my most intimate and fondly cherished friend.— 
Hand in hand we searched the fields for berries, or 
hunted nuts in the wild-wood, and side by side we 
studied in the old red school-house. Together we 
built our play-houses amid the driving snows of 
winter, or upon the green sward of summer, and, 
sitting in our mimic dwellings, clasped in each 
other’s arms, painted our would-be futures after 
our own fanciful imaginings. Once while seated 
thus, a lady paused before us, and her voice grew 
tremulous with emotion as she said, “ Girls these 
are to you the sunny days of life, bye-and-bye 
shadows will fall across your pathway, and though 
you may hereafter dwell in elegant mansions, or 
preside over lordly halls, yet, believe me, never 
again will you enjoy a tithe of the happiness 
which you now do, in these humble play-houses of 
your own constructing.” Our young hearts were 
awed by her solemn tones and tear-filled eyes, and 
we instinctively clung closer to each other, but 
not until I left my “ own native home,” not until I 
walked a stranger among strangers, did I fully rea¬ 
lize the truth of her words. I know not how it is 
with Florence, but presume she is still looking 
forward with hopeful eyes to the happiness of the 
future; for, not long since I received a neat little 
billet containing a piece of bright-colored silk, 
together with a pressing invitation to be present 
at her marriage—three weeks from date. 
Ah, this is from another old friend, Adam—& 
homely though time-honored name. He was neither 
handsome nor attractive. No, but he possessed a 
warm heart, and willing hands, which more than 
made amends for his plain appearance. Many 
times has he made paths for me through the deep 
snow, or drawn me on his sled to school. And the 
ripest and sweetest apples which grew in his 
father’s orchard always found their way into his 
capacious pockets, and from thence were readily 
transferred to my little check apron. But I did 
not half appreciate his kindness then—I love him 
better now and would like once more to grasp his 
toil-worn hand and look upon his honest manly 
brow, for there are few such—few like him under 
God’s canopy of blue. 
Here is one with a beautiful and expressive de¬ 
vice—a “ child angel” seated in a boat and bear¬ 
ing a flag upon which is inscribed “ Farewell”— 
Winnifred G. is written underneath. Sweet girl, 
little did she realize that she so soon would bid 
farewell to earth scenes and sail out upon the open 
sea of death. But so it is. Her sparkling eyes are 
closed, her gleeful voice is hushed, and deep be¬ 
neath the grave-yard sod they have laid her fair 
form. Her voyage is ended, safely her bark is 
anchored upon eternal shore. 
Here are one, two, and there is another, making 
three in all, with the same bold, dashing signature 
—Herman 8 . He was one of the big boys that 
only attended school during the winter, but was 
always very kind and considerate toward us little 
folks. Sometimes he would praise the neatness 
and ingenuity of our snow houses and when the 
fields were sheeted over with ice, invite us to slide 
with him on his sled. Oh, what nice rides we did 
have, for he could guide the sled so nicely there 
was no danger of being upset in a snow bank, or 
of running against anything which might chance 
to lie in our course. Then he also attended the 
same singing-school, and found the pages for us, 
and kept the candle snuffed. Altogether he was 
quite a favorite. But he, too, has left the loved 
scenes of his childhood, and now every night goes 
whistling home to his own warm fireside, where a 
dark-eyed matron awaits his coming, and could 
you peep into that wicker basket in the corner, 
you would find a nameless something, with its 
papa’s forehead and eyes peering out from its close 
wrappings. 
Next comes Maggie’s careless autograph, 
“ Madge ”—with her black, roguish eyes twinkling 
under their long lashes. Many a scheme of mis¬ 
chief has been planned in her ever fertile brain 
and carried into action by her busy hands and rest¬ 
less feet Who would have thought then, that she 
would ever be a school-ma’am, and rule so success¬ 
fully the black, blue, and grey-eyed urchins which 
daily gather round her for instruction. 
Isn’t it pretty? so delicately white, with simply 
“Babie ” written in the center. That is what we al¬ 
ways called her—partly because she was so small, 
and partly because she was the youngest of the 
family flock. She was a model for the painter— 
with her nut-brown hair curling over her pure 
brow, her sky-blue cyeB beaming with intelligence, 
her rosy cheeks dimpling with smiles, while 
through her slightly parted lips issued a voice 
sweet as spring’s first bird notes. She was one of 
earth’s loveliest—no, not earth’s, for her dimpled 
hands have long been folded upon a lifeless breast, 
and her lovely form prisoned beneath the coffin 
lid. Peacefully she reBt6, and the green grass 
waves and flowers bloom Bweetly above her grave. 
There are many, many others here, around which 
cluster hallowed associations, some bright and 
joyous, some sad and mournful, but I cannot see 
them for my tears, so we will gather them together 
and place them once again, carefully, prayerfully, 
in my card-basket. Omega. 
Wyoming, N. Y., 1858. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
GLEANINGS,—No. Ill, 
“ Leaves have their time to fall.” 
Ocotobeb leaves of every hue—red and yellow, 
golden brown and faded green—are strewed over 
side-walks and heaped up in gutters. But just 
imagine country leaves l I fancy they look bright¬ 
er— more beautiful than those of city growth. 
Scattered in such boundless profusion in the val¬ 
leys; carpeting the orchards; piled in the farm¬ 
yards. I wonder if farmers keep their door-yards 
as scrupulously free from leaves as Mrs. Prudence 
Prim does her door-walks, carefully gathering each 
leaf as it falls, and transferring it to the gutter? 
I think it’s too bad. I wouldn’t sweep the leaves 
from my walks. I would leave them for weary 
little feet to paddle in—feet that never stray out¬ 
side of city walls. A very good excuse for lazi¬ 
ness, Mrs. Prim would say, but then I remember 
so well how I used to love to play in the leaves 
when I was a little girl. There was such a world 
of music in their rustling; snatches of bird-songs, 
whisperings of April buds and summer flowers. 
Ah, the leaves are old friends of mine. 
Mrs. Prim has her carpets of velvet and brus- 
sels. What do you think Adam and Eve had? 
Why, bright green grass, (Paradise velvet!) in the 
summer, and fallen leaves in autumn. Very neat, 
elegant — and then so economical! I think our 
first parents were blessed with delightful tastes. 
N. B. I’m sure I could subsist upon apples, (I 
believe you liked “the fruit of that forbidv.ta 
tree,” Eve?) and be content with carpets of fallen 
leaves. Yes, I think I could be prevailed upon to 
adopt this mode of living, providing I could find 
an Adam to share my little Garden and help me 
eat apples! 
Autumn in Eden! Just think of it! Ah, Ad.w • 
“By one man sin entered into the world and death 
by sin.” 
Beautiful October leaves! I love them better 
than the bursting buds of April, just as I love the 
sunset better than I do the sunrise. 
Falling, falling! how I like to watch them 
Gold and crimson, brown and green. They v il 
soon be gone, though. 
“ Leaves have their time to fall.” 
Isn’t it a pleasant “time?” 
Rochester, N. Y., 1858. Winnie Willian 
NAMES OF WOMEN, AND THEIR MEANINi 
Mary, the commonest of all female names is 
also one of the sweetest given to women. It is 
not strange that it prevails so universally. It sig¬ 
nifies exalted; Maria and Marie—the latter Frenc 
are only other forms of Mary, and, of course, have 
the same meaning. Martha signifies bitternes 
Anne, Anna, Hannah, and probably Nancy, are 
from the same source, and signify kind or gra¬ 
cious. Ellen was originally Helen — Helena in 
Latin, and Helend in French; according to some 
etymologists it has the meaning of alluring, but 
others define it as one who pities. Jane, now 
generally familiarized into Jenny, signifies, like 
Anna, kind or gracious. For Sarah or Sally, there 
are two definitions — a princess and the morning 
star. Susan signifies a lily, and is a fitting name 
for a tall, slender flower-girl, of delicate com 
plexion and native grace. Rebecca, plump. 
Lucy signifies like light, and was anciently given | 
to girls born at day-break. It may also be con¬ 
sidered as meaning brightness of aspect, and ap¬ 
plied accordingly. Bertha, bright, and Alberte, 
all bright Louisa — in French Louise — is the 
feminine of Louis, and signifies one who pro¬ 
tects. Fanny or Frances, means frank or free. 
Catharine or Katharine, pure or chaste, is one of 
the best of our females names. Sophie, from the 
Greek, means wisdom. Caroline and Charlotte, 
queens. Emma, tender, affectionate, motherly; 
Margaret, a pearl or a daisy; Julia, soft haired; 
Juliet and Juliette are the same as Julia; Agnes 
means chaste; Amelia, and Amy, or Amie, belov¬ 
ed; Clara, clear or bright; Eleanor, all fruitful; 
Gertrude, all truth; Grace, favor; Laura, a laurel; 
Matilda, a noble and brave maid; Phebe, light of 
life. 
Change.—S uch are the vicissitudes of the world, 
through all its parts, that day and night, labor and 
rest, hurry and retirement endear each other; such 
are the changes that keep the mind in action; we 
desire, we pursue, we obtaiD, we are satisfied; we 
desire something else, and begin a new pursuit — 
Johnson. 
True humanity consists not in a squeamish ear, 
not in starting or shrinking at tales of misery, but 
in a disposition of heart to relieve it True hu¬ 
manity appertains to the mind rather than to the 
nerves, and prompts men to use real and active 
measures to execute the actions which it suggests. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
SONNET TO NIGHT. 
BY ORRIN P. ALLEN. 
Now softly steal the evening shadows on, 
And stilly Night o’er Day’s departing beam 
Doth fold her veil, and hold her sway supreme. 
Not Night that ruled old Chaos wild, ere Mom 
Arose with love, ere Nature’s light was born, 
But Night lit up with gems, with Cynthia’s gleam, 
And sweet Hesperus fair, whose silver stream^ 
Of angel light, doth Night’s dark brow adorn. 
Night’s gentle spirit sweet is brooding now 
O’er half the sphere, diffusing peace to every breast, 
Te all alike it comes, to soothe the brow, 
To lord and lowly serf it breatheth rest, 
And hut and palace home it doth endow 
Alike with scenes of hope and visions blest. 
Hackensack, N. J., 1858. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
AUTUMN MUSINGS. 
The Autumn winds are sighing, 
The falling leaves among ; 
The flowers frail are dying— 
Their requiem is sung. 
And Nature's sadly weeping, 
The lops of all her fair ; 
The cold, rude blast is sweeping, 
And moaning thro’ the air. 
The tall, tall trees are bending 
Their heads before the blast, 
As tho’ to Heaven sending 
Loud Wartinge for the Fast. 
And my spirit, too, is sighing 
O’er the withered hopes of Spring, 
Life's roses, dead and dying, 
Can no more gladness bring. 
Hartsville, N. Y., 1858. Enola. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
NOVEMBER NOTES. 
The “Butternuts,” 1858. 
Dear Rural:— Are you aware of the great trans¬ 
formations that Lave taken place all over the 
country within the last few weeks? Have you read, 
in any of your exchanges, of the dissolution of 
“ Lady Summer? ”—and shall I try to repeat a few 
lines from your pages, the melody of which is 
ringing through my brain even now, about the 
“ sweete Ladye? ” 
“Through my dream, there came a sound, 
As of voices sighing — 
Lady Summer, fair and young, 
Gently lies, a-dying.” 
She, that a few days ago, “ gently lay, a-dying,” is 
now no more—it happened out here in the country. 
The gay carnival of Nature is now ended, the beau¬ 
tiful bangings of “Royal Purple,” crimson, and 
gold, have been removed, and but a few rustling, 
tawny-colored leaves, are all that remain of the 
rich pageantry of a few days ago. 
But this change has been gradual—Dame Nature 
does nothing in a hiyjy. I remember her first • 
essays, here and there in the woods a dash of crim- i 
son—here and there a blotch of gold—occasionally, 
a shred of orange—and, now and then, a wave of 
purple, all so brilliantly displayed upon the emer¬ 
ald background, that even the unobserving eye 
noted it, and the mind exclaimed, “Summer’s 
gone!” TheD, when wo were becoming familiar 
with the display, and our minds had realized the 
truth of the ussortlon, “ Summer’s gone,” she ap¬ 
plied her colors more lavishly, and great patches 
of gold and purple, broad spots of orange and lake, 
with all the gradations of color, from fiery red 
and golden yellow, down to a quaker-like brown, 
light up the old woods, and make them brilliant, 
even in their decay. Indeed, were we not assured 
that she is a good calculator, and altogether an 
economical body, we would fear lest her artist- 
storos would be exhausted. But we have the 
assurance that there is another Summer yet to 
oome, and another Fall Exhibition to take place, 
no less brilliant than the one just closed—there, 
are pulsations of love and gratitude to be awakened 
in our hearts another year, as in this — there are 
cold, sordid minds, to be awakened from their 
lethargic slumbers, by a communion with living, 
breathing Nature—there are fainting souls to be 
revived, and grief-Btricken hearts to be comforted, 
as only an earnest reception and enjoyment of the 
Autumn glories, can revive and comfort. So, 
however bountifully blessings are beatoweef this ' 
Autumn, we are certain that enough remain for the 
succeeding Autumns, till “seasons are no more,” 
and lu this certainty we rejoice, content only u> 
smile and be happy. 
Jut to some this season is fraught with sadnet 
the Autumn days are in truth 
“ The melancholy days — 
The saddest of the year.” 
The clouds are gloom-laden; the winds wail con- \ 
tinually, “Passing away, passing away,” and the: ' 
ummer joy seems to have flown with the Summer j 
songsterB. Some, (let us pity them,) solemnly re¬ 
gard the decay of the closing year as typical of 
their own, (as indeed it is, and as a type should 
be welcomed, not shunned as a shadow). Do not 
such forget that the returning Summer, brings 
again its birds and flowers? and do they not also 
forget, (else why the cheerless thoughts connected 
therewith?) that Death should be but the UBhering 
in of a glorious Spring-Time to the soul There¬ 
fore, Ob, Misanthrope, whoever thou art, drink to 
thy fill of the beauties of nature, and draw there¬ 
from some sweet teachings, whereby thy Autumn 
of life may he divested of its imaginary terrors, 
and clothed, Oh! so brilliantly, in the garments of 
hope and rejoicing. But I moralize and wander. 
Well, the great change had come; the variegated 
tapestry of Fall was hung from every tree-top, 
displayed from every mountain-side, looped upon 
every bush and vine, reflected upon the surface of 
every quiet streamlet, and multiplied in the rip¬ 
pling waves of every lake, all over the land. The 
flaunting streamers were waved from the maples 
and oaks in the woods, and shown from every 
solitary tree, in pasture and meadow-lands. Then, 
when the gala-robe was fully assumed, came another 
change—slowly did it steal over the land—almost 
reluctantly, and in this wise:—First there fell a 
crimson leaf) rattling, dancing down through the 
branches — then another, and another — then a 
rustling shower of little golden shields, as a rude 
gust of wind swept through the branches, until 
soon the turf was strewn with the little withered 
relics of the summer—all gold, purple, crimson, in 
one common grave! Among the first to yield, 
were the Butternuts—for a long time have their 
brawny, leafless arms been waving in the breeze— 
next the trees in the pasture-lot were disrobed, 
and their garments scattered — the more exposed 
borders of the forest, followed in order. The inner 
trees still bore their leafy banners aloft, but I could 
hear the sounds of a gradual dismantlement at any 
hour of the day, and I could look up at any time 
and see a glittering leaflet, or a broad, shining, 
ragged leaf, skimming discontentedly through the 
air, soon to rejoin its companions on “ terra firma.” 
The tall poplar and the drooping willow, alone 
retain their verdure, and that is “ much the worse 
for wear”—long, (but not long,) may they wave. 
Not a bad place to dream in are the depths of 
the leaf-strewn forest-aisles—not a bad place for 
the manufacture of bright idealities in the busy 
brow of fancy—nor is it a hard couch, that can be 
formed of the fallen leaves, some bright afternoon, 
(if in the Indian Summer, so much the better,) when 
the slant November sun is juBt brilliant enough to 
diffuse a golden haze through the tangled branches, 
and to light up the brown boles of the great 
beecheB and maples, when the air, redolent of the 
fragrance of the pine-cones, is full of the great 
silence of nature, and a dreamy languor overcomes 
us, what harm (answer me, Oh! ye stern practi- 
calists,) if we indulge in a few day-dreams? What 
harm if we review our past lives, happy or other¬ 
wise, then, skipping the stern present—as we used 
to skip the hard words in the spelling-book—we 
look down the long vista of the future? We build 
brave castles, and people them as inclination sug¬ 
gests; we float rich barques of pleasure down the 
current of time, listening to sweetest strains of 
music the while—are we not benefited, or at least, 
are we injured mentally or morally, by occasionally 
loosening the reins of fancy, and at one wave of 
the magic wand realizing what perhaps we never 
may through the stern realities of existence?—in 
fact, are we not too practical, and should we not 
seek some relief from care, even though it be ob¬ 
tained by dreaming in the Autumn woods? I 
think so! 
But the name Fall—is it not suggestive? The 
golden fruit falls from the laden boughs in the 
orchard—the hickory-nuts fall in the woods—the 
blossoms and leaves fall all through the land—and, 
finally, the rain falls. And these Autumn rains, 
they do not resemble the Spring and Summer 
showers; while those distil gently from the heavens, 
raising to new life and beauty tho last season’s 
flowers, these come pouring down like miniature 
deluges, preceded by misty, foggy, gloomy clouds, 
and followed by cold days, which cause us to ex¬ 
amine anxiously into the state of the wood pile, 
and mentally to resolve that, “ that corn had better 
be husked.” But sometimes they are welcome— 
it is not an unpleasant sensation to awaken at night 
nd hear the rain pouring from the eaves and 
gutters, with the certainty “that we can’t work to- 
morrow ” impressed upon our minds. We are will- 
; >• to forego work, and to pass the i itable hours 
i reading, correspondence,, music, 4nd social 
converse within, while without the floods descend 
upon roof and casement, keeping time to our 
..ppy thoughts. But these “rainy spells” have 
i :i end, and once more the sun appears. Storms 
■.nd sunshine, sunlight and shadow, how ceaselessly 
they follow us, and checker our pathway. Some 
great grief-cloud overshadows us, then is dispelled 
by the rays of joy—dark masses of vapor enshroud 
us, then through some ragged rift, we see the 
si; er-lining, aud go on our way rejoicing. Well, 
November days end, and the Winter glides swiftly 
by. Spring showers and Summer flowers greet 
us, then another November, then— then —Ah! the 
future, it belongs not to us to read—the present is 
o u s, let us be content therewith, remembering that 
“ But few rare pearls are drifted to our feet, 
As on the dreary shore of life we stray; 
So, when perchance we find them, is it meet 
To cast in careless scorn such wealth away?” 
I trow not! 
Charlotte, Monroe Co., N. Y., 1858. j. B. s. 
Type Setting. —A printer accustomed to set 
type never thinks what the letters are which he is 
to put into his stick. He never looks at one of 
them as they go in. But when he first began to set 
type, it was a very different thing with him. He 
looked and read, “And as they departed thence,’: 
etc, and so began, “ And” — a; and then he had to 
sea which end was up! He puts in a and then 
•oiaes ton. He takes np the wrong letter! He 
uts that back, and gets the right one, and making 
are about it, puts the right one in. Then he gets 
and puts that in. Then he thinks, now there is 
a space wanted, and he divides the word from the 
next one. Then comes the next word, and he 
looks at the types letter by letter, and makes mis¬ 
takes at that! But go a year after, and let the man 
set up the same verse:—“And as they departed 
thence, Jesus began to say unto the multitudes”— 
he read as much as that, aud then click! click! 
click!—it is all done! What made that? How 
those different faculties of the hand—the muscles— 
all work! What an immense amount of trial and 
discipline has been condensed into that automatic 
power! This is a wonderful element of human 
mind!— H. W. Beecher. 
The Secret of Eloquence. —I owe my success 
in life to one single fact, viz.: that at the age of 
twenty-seven, I commenced and continued for 
years, the process of daily reading and speaking 
upon the contents of Borne historical and scientific 
book. These off-hand efforts were made sometimes 
in a corn-field, at others in the forest, and not un- 
frequently in some distant barn, with the horse 
and ox for my auditors. It is to this early practice 
in the great art of all arts that I am indebted for 
the primary and leading impulses that stimulated 
me forward, and shaped and moulded my entire 
subsequent destiny. Improve, then, young gen¬ 
tlemen, the superior advantages you here enjoy.— 
Let not a day pass without exercising your powers 
of speech. There is no power like that of oratory, 
Ciesar controlled men by exciting their fesrs; 
Cicero, by captivating their affections and swaying 
their passions. The influence of the one perished 
with its author, that of the other continues to this 
day.— Henry Clay. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A HOME IN HEAVEN. 
Irrespective of the foundation on which such 
hope is based, who is there that does not hope for 
a home in heaven—in the land of the blest? But 
how vague and indefinite are our ideas of that 
home. Have we really the idea of home before our 
minds, as it is understood in regard to this world, 
when we think of the land of the hereafter? Are 
not our thoughts more of a general, than a specific 
dwelling place? Of heaven as our home, more 
than of a home in heaven. But how unsatisfactory 
would it be to a homeless wanderer on earth, to 
tell him that the world was his home. He would 
tell you at once, that was just what he complained 
of, — that his home was too large, — he could not 
appropriate it,—and, therefore, it was of hut little 
use to him. That he wanted some definite abiding- 
place, where he could gather around him the repre¬ 
sentatives of his own individuality — where he 
could be himself. 
The love of home is a principle implanted in our 
natures, and the associations of earth, from infancy 
to old age, all tend to strengthen the principle.— 
Shall it be extinguished, then, when we exchange 
worlds? Shall the desire of home, friends, and a 
circle of kindred spirits, for social and intellectual 
companionship, find no part in the aspirations of 
that higher life? Say, rather, that these desires 
shall be so purified, so subjected to the law of love, 
that they shall there find ample scope for their ful¬ 
lest fruition. Yes, 0, Earth-Wanderer, you shall 
have a home in heaven, — a definite abiding-place, 
— “a house not made with hands,” where you can, 
even now, if yon will, be laying up your treasures. 
And when you go to occupy that mansion, you can 
have the privilege of arranging those treasures—of 
adorning that mansion according to the dictates of 
a taste sanctified and refined. Yes, you, yourself, 
will have this work to to do. There is no higher 
joy on earth than to feel that God has worked 
through us, through our own individuality, to the 
attainment of triumphant achievement; and I have 
no doubt that this same feeling, exempt from all 
that here tends to make it Belfish, will form an in¬ 
gredient in the cup of heavenly bliss. But there is 
one thing that we all are too apt to do in our 
earthly homes, that we shall not think of doing in 
the heavenly. We shall not copy others. Our 
garments, our homes, and all that pertains to us 
there, shall be an out-speaking of our own indi¬ 
vidual selves. 
When we prepare our homes here, there is always 
something to prevent the fullest expression of our 
feelings; something to detract from the pleasure 
of that which we really accomplish. In the first 
place the material with which we have to work, is 
too coarse to become the embodiment of the soul's 
highest ideal, — and in the second, we know that 
however much we may beautify and adorn, we can¬ 
not dwell therein forever. Sooner or later we 
must leave it all. But there will be nothing of 
the kind there. We shall then have reached our 
rest,— not the ■qest of inaction, bat of endless pro¬ 
gression, — the outward form shall keep pace with 
the inward development. 
Oh, with what a fullness of joy shall we lay hold 
of the material which God has prepared for us, 
that we may embody the glorious ideals that find 
birth in our souls. Not a thought, not a feeling, 
but shall live in its fullest and most appropriate 
expression. There will be no deception,—nothing 
to hide what we are, or show what we do not pos¬ 
sess. All will be plain, and open,— glorious with¬ 
out and within. 
When we go forth on errands of mercy or inves¬ 
tigation through the boundless kingdom of the 
Infinite, and return with fresh laurels on our brows, 
— with new flowers and evergreens that we have 
been permitted to gather from the garden of our 
God, that we might transplant them to our own,— 
we shall find no symptom of decay in those that 
we left for a season. No dust or cobwebs will have 
gathered around our treasures,—no gnawing worm 
or stinging insect will have found their way into 
our flowers of perennial bloom; no mildew will have 
blighted our paradisiacal fruits. All all will be 
brighter and fairer, even, than when we left Oh, 
what joy to return to such a home, and feel that it 
is ours forever! And yet how little do we think 
about those homes! Though we profess to believe 
that there are such mansions preparing for us, how 
seldom do we turn our attention from the things 
of earth to contemplate them, and when we do, 
how vaguely indefinite, — how like airy nothings 
are our ideas concerning them. This ought not to 
be. Heaven is a reality,— our homes there will be 
a living, tangible reality, just as certain as God is 
a reality. Away, then, with this refining, ethe- 
rializing process, that makes the blessings of the 
future life au intangibility—that leaves the soul 
nothing to fix itself upon. Let us think of those 
mansions as real,—of those homes as our prospec¬ 
tive, but certain possession,—let us call to mind all 
that is beautiful or glorious, all that is refining or 
elevating, of which we know, or can form an idea, 
in our conceptions of those heavenly dwellings,— 
those unfading possessions. There is no danger 
of our over-doing the picture, for “It hath not 
entered into the heart of man,” the glories of that 
place—neither, indeed, can it, till he can have the 
privilege of seeing without the intervening me¬ 
dium of his grosser organization. 
We are too much afraid of materializing,—too 
fearful of letting our imaginations run beyond the 
death-birth to which we all are hastening. Tho’ 
we may fail in our highest flights to form a con¬ 
ception of the lowest conditions of that life, may we 
not at least rise higher than though we made not 
the attempt? Will it not have an elevating effect 
upon the character — a tendency to lift us above 
the low and groveling passions that so often assail 
ns? Try it, my friends, and note its effects. Let 
your home in heaven be as a present reality, and 
let your course of life be arranged, acted out in 
in reference to that home, and I am much mistaken 
if you ever have cause to regret it. L 013 . 
Columbus, Ohio, 1858. 
Virtue is like precious odors, most fragrant 
where they are incensed or crushed; for prosperity 
doth best discover vice, but adversity doth best 
discover virtue.— Lord Bacon. 
