[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
HOME. 
[Written for Sioore’g Rural New-Yorker.] 
aspirations. 
. J ua e e » oiten get “sold," and the moat glit¬ 
tering articles prove to be undeniable “tin ” and 
brass. ’ W bat little genuine is made now-a-days, 
is mostly for “private individuals;" bo that the 
•‘ true metal" exists chielly in the unpretending 
old-fashioned pieces, that few know of, save the 
possessor, Nevertheless, this is j„ st as pure and 
valuable as if a thousand covetous eyes daily 
gazed upon it, or a thousand smooth-tongued, and 
false of heart, breathed constantly around with 
their corroding influences. 
This world is about half “bogus,” any way,- 
gold and glory are resident humbugs, that most 
of us fall in Jove with, and if we do not get bitten, 
it is more good luck than management.” But 
a Irue Genius would scorn the idea of creating 
only to get a naw,—would not thank the world to 
build him a monument, simply because he had 
“earned It" When there is music in the son], he 
sings, "because he cannot help but sing.” It is the 
s<ml that gives the wondrous cunning to the 
artist’s pencil. “ The thoughts that breathe, and 
words that burn,” are not those born with many a 
thirsty effort,—hand on the purse, and eyes on 
fame,—hut they speak because they lire, and can¬ 
not die. The spirit of a real mind is plainly visi¬ 
ble in every work to which he directs his atten¬ 
tion; it pursues Art and Science from pure love 
of toe truth and wisdom they contain. No labor 
is degrading to the true of heart,-for “there is no 
excellence without labor,”-and the conscious¬ 
ness of a Will to do, and the power to succeed 
wherever Fortune places us, is far more satisfac¬ 
tion, than all the world can say about it. 
Prattsburgh, N. Y., I860. jBIWIg 
What pleasing memories, what fond recollec¬ 
ts tions, cluster around the word home. There is no 
r\ oth< w word in our language that can awaken such 
Tjte happy thought® as this simple monosyllable,_ 
there are joys surrounding it that all cares and 
— turmoils of life cannot destroy. 
No spot on earth can be more dear to us than 
our childhood’s home. It matters not that time, 
in his ever-changing course, has scattered the 
happy group that once gat hered around its hearth, 
or placed many weary miles between us and it,— 
aided by imagination, we cross mountain and 
desert, forest and lake, and once more stand I 
uo>r dark and drear the frowning pkj 
Bends o’er the cheerless path I tread_ 
I weep where life's loved idols lie, 
And hear the mattering blast o’erhead;- 
I pause where hearts, ns brave and strong 
As that which beat* within my breast, 
Hare ceased their Weary throbs, ajjd long 
Have «1 umbered in unbroken rest. 
I pause where Friendship’s smiling form,— 
The idol of my early life,— 
Bowed 'noath Adversity's wild storm; 
Forsook me In the hour of strife,_ 
T pause and weep, for surely there 
Is comfort. In the tears that start,— 
y ct why tbUB bow to dark Despair 
While Hope is left to cheer my heart? 
Here, ’mid the wrecks that thickly lie 
Around me in the battle's strife, 
Beneath the dark and frowning sky 
That mirrors back n wretched life, 
111 dash these bitter tears away. 
Blot out the past and weep no more,— 
Change clouds and storm to bloomW Mav 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
WEAVING. 
[Written for ifoorn’i 
’a Rural New-Yorker.] 
GUARDIAN ANGELS. 
Ik and out the shuttles go, 
Weaving light and dark betw een, 
Like the Winters drifted snow 
And the Summer's wealth of green 
Now a smile, and then a tear, 
Joy to meet, and grief to part, 
Here a hope, and there a fear, 
Pleasure’s thrill, and sorrow’s smart. 
Every action, every thought, 
On the fabric leaves its trace; 
And with good or evil fraught. 
Each has its appointed place. 
Working ever, day and night, 
Is this tireless human loom, 
Weaving in the threads of light 
’Mid the lines of cloud and gloom. 
Not for us the shades to blend. 
Seeming good and seeming ill, 
Nor can we the pattern end 
Till the last heart-throb is still. 
Often to oor view appear 
Broken threads of purpose crossed; 
Thus the truth is taught us here, 
Naught is ever wholly lost,— 
For at last those threads will be 
All united, smooth and fine. 
And no flaw we then shall see 
In the mighty plan divine. 
Bo it ours in faith to wait, 
Hoping ever, toiling still; 
We are not the slaves of Fate, 
But the creatures of God’s will! 
And from His almighty hand 
All our blessings wo receive, 
He our destiny lias planned, 
Let us in His love believe. 
All that now so dark appears 
While earth's shadows dim our sight, 
All our doubts and all our fears 
Will be clear in Heaven’s light ! 
Rochester, N. Y., 1800. 
I-v the vale where drooping willows 
Slow and silent ware; 
Where the winding streamlet murmurs, 
There they made thy grave. 
When the sweet repose of Nature 
In her bounty dressed, 
Wooed the pensive Autumn sunshine 
Didst thou sink to rest. 
Cairn as summer’s mildest zephyrs 
Came thy quiet sleep, 
And it bowed our hearts in sorrow, 
Silent tears to weep; 
But we know an angel message 
Bade thy spirit go, 
Leaving all thy soul held dearest 
In the world below. 
Swiftly moved the tiny vessel 
Near the darkened stream,— 
Sweetly closed the waxen eyelids 
Calm as Childhood's dream,— 
I reused they then the drooping lashes 
On the marble cheek,_ 
Cioscd the lips that never after 
Loving words might speak. 
In the churchyard, by the brooklet, 
There they made thy bed, 
And the winter snow is lying 
Cold above thy head; 
But we know thou hast gone homeward 
To that happy land, 
And thy spirit walks triumphant 
'Mid an angel band. 
There aro stronger ties in Heaven 
Since we know thou’rf there, 
And we hope some day to meet thee 
All Uiy bliss to share. 
Sometimes, as we walk in darkness, 
Thou wilt hover near, 
When rough waves are beating hardest, 
Calming every fear. 
Brightest thought that cheers our pathway, 
Is that angels fair 
Guard and guide our wayward footsteps 
By their watchful care,_ 
That those loved ones gone before us 
To that region far, 
Whence qp tvav'lor e’er returnetb, 
Guardian Angle are. 
South Danby, N. Y., 1800. Mart A. B. 
jojful group gathered there, and grow happy in 
its association. The hind neighbors and frionds, 
the old school-house with iu group of merry 
children, the little stream that flowed gently by, 
the clump of stately pines that made such sweet 
| music in the passing breeze,—all are subjects that 
memory loves to dwell upon. 
In after years, when childhood has merged into 
youth, and youth into manhood, when the ties 
that bound us to ehilhood’s home have been 
severed far and wide, when the group that used to 
welcome tin there has been scattered,—some to 
the tomb, and some out upon the great sea of life, 
— we still dream of a home : not, perhaps, the one 
MERE MONEY-MAZING, 
Certainly 
nothing is more common than 
energy in money making, quite independent of 
any higher object than its accumulation. A man 
who devotes himself to thia pursuit, body and 
ch. Very little 
you earn; add 
Drains will do; spend less than 
guinea to guinea; scrape and save; and the pile 
of gold will gradually rise. John Foster quoted 
a striking illustration of what this kind of deter¬ 
mination will do in money-making. A young 
man who ran through his patrimony, spending it 
in profligacy, was at length reduced to utter want 
and despair. He rushed out of his house intend¬ 
ing to put an end to his life, and stopped on 
arriving at an eminence overlooking what were 
once his estates. He sat down, ruminated for a 
Lime, and rose with the determination that he 
would recover them. Ho returned to the street 
WOMAN’S TURN, AT GIVING ADVICE 
lx the Newburgh Daily News we find the fol¬ 
low ing ■’ letting oil of steam,’’ by an angry wo¬ 
man : 
“We’ve been lectured long enough, and now 
it’s our turn. Wouldn’t a series of “Hints to the 
Gentlemen” he particularly appropriate? Think 
how nice it would sound, now! * * * Do be 
a little sensible in your fashions—wear that 
weary sigh, and | stove-pipe hat of yours so that it will protect 
your head and cover your ears —what is the use 
of that miserable little concern perched on the 
top ot your head? And as for the ridiculous way 
you have — which fashion sanctions, of course (!) 
oing with your chests unprotected, except 
m shield of starched linen, when all the 
you is snugly encased iu warm broadcloth. 
***** » 
(Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
MY MOTHER. 
[Written for Moore' 
's Rural New-Yorker.] 
life. 
How strange is Life! ’Tis a mingling of sun¬ 
beams and shadows, smiles and tears, mirth and 
sadness; and on our frail barks swiftly glide down 
the river Time. Some aro freighted with a rich 
store of sympathy and love, and at each port leave 
a treasure of light and joy; others are ladeu with 
bead-like tears. Yes 1 tears of regret for her who 
heaped his childhood’s treasury with her gentle 
ministrations, pouring the sweet oil of her conso- 
. * a ^ on u l )0n I* 10 wounds in his young, sensitive 
nature. The calm, innocent faces of his youthful 
years are looking up to him now, and hr. clasps n -( ot 
their hands gratefully, for they are leading him 
back to his “Mother.” A pale, sweet counto- it! 
nance, which once bent nightly over his pillow, mm 
while loving lips invoked blessings upon his head, W il 
now appears, like a star in the Armament of the 
Present, and it shines serenely upon him, as in 
times past. Every cloud of ambition is f 
away from the clear depths of filial affection, 
while ho thinks of “ Mother, Home, and Heaven.’ 
Holy trio of associations, inseparably connected! 
—can we wish it otherwise? 
Perhaps I have conjured up to the mind of my I r i c ]< 
reader, an humble dwelling-place. Its roof was | m j c 
thatched, mayhap, and wild roses latticed the win¬ 
dows with Nature’s curtain of hanging vines._ 
The morning sunlight struck through it, and fell 
upon a carpetless floor; but was not that old 
"wooden settle,” by the chimney corner, softer 
than the velvet cushioned sofa, where ,- 
form is now reclining? And why? Ah, the 
heart was lighter— conscience did not str 
pillow with thorns then, or make 
uneasy slumber, 
do not haunt me longer with sterr 
gaze.” Perhaps, many years have elapsed 
you have thought of “Heaven; 1 
“Mother” is closely associated with it, 
not utterly discard the Bible, or deny the exist¬ 
ence of a Gon, but your time is too precious to 
dwell upon those subjects. “ My mother’s spirit 
is iu Heaven—if there is such a place,” was the 
conclusion which you arrived at, when you bent 
over her coffin-lid, to take “the last look ” of the 
cold, marble featured—beautiful in their calm re¬ 
pose—and the withered hands, clasped over a i 
heart that throbbed out its life for you; and now 
her memory is always linked with that hymn she 
used to sing, about 
“ The bulwarks with Salvation strong, 
Ami streets of shining gold.'’ 
Pause here a moment, and recall that time, when 
a loved voice read to you about “the city of the 
Great King.” You listened with wonder and 
silent uwc, and then stole away to ponder alone 
upon its glories, and wish that you could die 
when Mother did, for she knew the way there.— 
Thank Gon! my mother is jet alive, and although 
the “ blue waves of distance ” roll between us ■ 
now, I often murmur: 
i 
“ Can 1 e or forget my mother, j 
Hor, whose love has round me twined- ( 
Tho in dijjUint I wsiidfir* 
Love like her’s I ne’er can find. 
Soft nnd gentla was the kiss £ 
She bestowed upon her child. 1 
Sure on earth no more such btiss, t 
Can again be mine.” c 
Illinois, Fob., lStiO. ADD n 
fWritten for Moore's Fun ,1 Now-Yorker.] 
TRUE GEN, US. 
man is the worst. We’d rather have charge of * 
wild hyena—Van Amburgh’s big elephant is hard' 
ly more difficult to get along with. * * » Ex¬ 
ercise, gentlemen! don’t sit curled up over your 
swept | ledgers and law-papers all day long. Help your 
wife about her sweeping—chop the kindling 
wood — go out and dig in the garden. Don’t yon 
see how much healthier your man Patrick is than 
you are? Patrick hover lias the dyspepsia; Pat- 
no ver complains of feeble health! Then we 
it go on at the same rate for half-a-dozen 
nns, and say nothing hut tho truth, either- 
Now, isn’t it very evident that you need lecturing 
as much ns we do? and does not the cap tit re¬ 
markably well, when it is turned the other side 
out ? At any rate, there is no necessity for tronb 
your weary ling yourselves so very much about our welfare - 
. —> Pray don’t take the trouble to lavish advice oft us, 
ew your .when we go out, and when we coma in. We’re 
you cry out in getting tired of it. And we should think after so 
l' hant01ns of thc Pftst! much experience, people would have discovered 
n, reproachful that we generally do about as we please ” 
I since 
hut the name of ~ 
You do 
mm me xurong, on, on to the end. What is life? 
A flying phantom,—a passing thought,—the light¬ 
ning’s flash,—a floating bubble, sparkling a mo¬ 
ment upon the wave, then gone forever,_a 
dream,- a vain and empty show. Listen to the 
silvery laugh of that sweet babe — how bird-like it 
gushes forth, free and wild,— it ceases; lo! ’tis 
changed to the old man’s groan. Life to some is 
as though heaveu’s pure light were ever stream¬ 
ing around their pathway; loving words, like con¬ 
stant strains from 3 sweet /Eolian harp, ever 
sound in the ear, distilling as delicious dew 
| through the heart; while to others, alaa! ’tis all 
sadness, all sorrow—no ray of bright gladness 
struggles through the mist to dispel the gloom — 
the heart-lyre seems broken, no strain comes upon 
the anxious, listening ear to play with harmonious 
sweetness,— all, all is harsh discord, and the 
unhidden tear starts to the drooping eye. 0, why 
will we withhold the word and smile of love? 
Its influence is as the sweet, fragrant flower, shed¬ 
ding its rich perfume,—it costs us nothing; why 
Jionor ami shame from no comlition rise ; 
Act well your part, there all the honor lies’.” 
The human heart is a restless thing,-ever crav¬ 
ing, never satisfied. This must be the reason why 
we 80 oltenthiukours the most common-place, neg¬ 
ative, wearisome life in the world, and really long 
for some variety of interest,-some excitement, 
different from this quiet, every-day kind of an 
existence. We have sometimes even gone so far 
as to half murmur at Providence for easting our 
lot in such a very comfortable, but out-of-the-way 
quarter of the “foot-stooL” Foolish children!- 
we do not know what we aro thinking about. It is 
not at all probable that we should be happier in 
every respect, could we have the whole world to 
select our habitation from, and all the convenient 
“ appurtenances thereto," of gold, honor, and fame. 
Fame?—foolishness!—that is not n .. A 
THE MIRAGE OF LIFE. 
J HE child’s eyes are enchanted, but he does not 
know it, and he believes in all he sees. He does 
not doubt the shimmer and the glory of the scenes 
that lie before him. To him the future is no 
sandy desert strewn with dead men’s bones: it is 
a wide-spread savanna, fruitful as the tropics, and 
delightful as Elj’sian plains. He gazes down the 
vista of life, and every phantasm seems to his 
ardent eight as a real, pleasant thing. There is 
not a pageant looming in the distance, there is 
uot one of the dissolving views which hope 
creates and fancy touches up to bewildering 
brightness, that the child does not aecept as real, 
ind soon to be proved so. All the prismatic 
i iews that appear to flash across his forward path 
ie thinks are really lighting it, and tliut he shall 
»e touched and beautified by their radiance when 
mec he is there. Bright and fair is the apparent 
WOMAN’S WORK. 
If half, or one-hundredth portion of the time 
bestowed by ladies upon following, with monoton¬ 
ous labor, those lines and figures which may now 
be bought in any country shop were given to in¬ 
vention, instead of servile imitation, what a new 
and glorious ora would dawn upon our manufac¬ 
turing world! So soon as figures of beauty be¬ 
come so common as to be exhibited in the win¬ 
dows of every shop, they ought surely to be left 
to mere mechanism to multiply and carry out,— 
Hie higher orders of taste and fancy should than 
gets petaties three times a 
ioot in haying-time,” is about 
1 the richest man, after all. 
, that the secret of all enter- 
persoverance, is the inborn 
influence. Doubtless this is 
ss; but while a certain kind 
J or ambition, ia eommend- 
he who labors to excel in 
or the “name of the thing,'} 
most earthy part of his 
It may be very natural to enjoy a “se/isa- 
our own creating,—to triumph over 
petty rivals, and jealous enemies,—while we stand 
coolly by incog, and witness even them doing 
homage to our powers. But this is a low gratifi- 
cation, and goes far to prove that we are. in 
reality, unworthy of much that a w 
obtains for us. 
It is not often that those most < 
worthy occupy the highest positions 
goes; for they have sense, and at 
shrink from so great responsibility, 
wish that notoriety, and fame, whi 
the world to make public propi 
thought, word, and deed,—even com 
their physical pointy and giving lei 
tions of the same, for the amuscmci 
of genius, appreciating outsiders, gi 
no; the many superlatives, “ first," 1 
est, Ac., look better applied to otb< 
our own; and it is deceitful “di 
“ lends enchantment to the view.” 
V e would not hint that genius j; 
he, a rare thing in this world,— far 
we are led to believe-that it exists in 
quality which might be likened to je 
the cunning of the workmen 
A Pretty Fancy.— When the day begins to go 
up to heaven at night, it does not spread a pair of 
wings and fly alolt like a bird, but it just climbs 
softly up on a ladder. It sets its red sandal on the 
shrub you have watered these three days, lest it 
should perish with thirst; then it steps to the tree 
we sit under, and thence to the ridge of the roof. 
From the ridge to the chimney, and from the 
chimney to the tall elm; from the elm to the tall 
church spire, and then to the cloud, and then to 
the threshold of heaven; and thus, from round to 
crimson round, you can see it go, as though it 
walked up red roses.—If. F. Taylor. 
Heroism lives longer in the mind when associa¬ 
ted with women than with men. Florence Night¬ 
ingale and Grace Darling will be remembered 
when hundreds of their masculine peers aud su¬ 
periors are forgotten. 
B J repared. No man knows what a daj 
may bring forth; what miseries, what good or 
what evil, what afilictions, what temptations 
what liberty, what bonds, what good success, or 
what bad success, a day may bring forth; and 
therefore, a man need every day be in the closet 
with God, that he may be prepared and fitted to 
entertain and improve all the occurrences, suc¬ 
cesses, and emergencies which may attend him 
in the course of his lif e.-Thoma* rl . 
too vigorous and active serves only to 
the body to which it is joined, as the 
wels are soonest found to wear their 
Cheerfulness, temperance and tranquility are 
nature's best nurses. 
