tt 
Written for Moore’s Ettfcat New-Yorker. 
OUR LOVED ONES—GONE. 
Gone from earth’s darkness—gone to rest 
Away in the beautiful land of the blest, 
Where a beautiful river of silvery light 
Waters the gardens, with flowers bright; 
There with the “ Angel Band ” robed in white. 
There are our loved ones gone—gone. 
Many a'tirne we have clasped the hand 
Of friends who are now in the spirit land; 
And many a rime we hare seen the tear 
Fall from the eye when death was near 
But nothing affects us, as when from here 
Out loved ones are gone—gone. 
Two of oar little loved ones bate flown. 
An d are now with the Angela around the throne, 
A white winged messenger bore them o'er 
The dark waters of death to that brighter shore. 
In glory they'll reign forevermore; 
The loved ones, gone—gone 
Oh, oar Father! why could not I 
Have died for them? why, oh why I 
I’ve tasted earth’s bitterness, and wish not to stay, 
My spirit longs to be away' 
Fain, fain, would I go to the realms of day, 
Whither our lOved ones are gone—gone. 
Bnt I will murmur no more: for I seem to hear 
Angel voices whispering near, 
Telling me this! when life’s journey is o'er 
I shall meet those who have gone before 
There’s a home for m-r on the other shore, 
There, where our loved ones are gone—gone.' 
Ettie 8. 
» •* 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
“BABY-TALK” 
I am well aware that this momentous subject, 
however ably discussed, may fail to awaken, in 
the public mind , the deep interest that the 
“ Polish Question,” 11 Mexican Affairs,” or even 
the “ Great Rebellion ” has. Nevertheless, as 
the subject seems to have assumed such serious 
dimensions in the mind of Mtnnie Mintwood, 
I feel impressed to say a few words upon it, 
“ Why need jyeople use 'baby-talk' to children?* 
Because it is perfectly natural for a lovi n g mother: 
just as natural as to hug and kiss her babe: and 
I should like some evidence that it is not just as 
intelligible as “plain English’’ to babies. 1 
mean babies, not great, cross, mischievous chil¬ 
dren, old enough to remember it, if they should 
happen to get their buinp of ’-sublimity*' silenced 
in the process of silencing their “ veiling,” I 
candidly think there is a shorter way of silenc¬ 
ing theifi than rocking them half a day in a cra¬ 
dle; unattended, too, by the danger of arresting 
any proper development of the head. 
Just across the street lives my excellent 
neighbor, Mrs. Johnson. A multitude of fam¬ 
ily pares compel her sometimes to let little Sol¬ 
omon— named after his good old grandfather- 
lie in his cradle a little a longer than he chooses: 
but her cheerful voice, raised to a musical pitch, 
exclaiming, ” Hi de diddle de dee! what a maty 
mama’s little Solt.ik ? Donty ki, mama will 
take de darling birdie dis minute,” soon changes 
Soli.ik's cry to a happy, crowing laugh. 
Now, I suppose a “ sensible ” woman would 
have said, “Solomon, my son, why do you 
weepi 9 It is very unmanly; cease those infan¬ 
tile wailings. 1 will attend to your necessities 
as soon as convenient.’’ Probably he would 
have comprehended every word without dan¬ 
ger of stretching bis intellent to “idiocy.” 
Bless me!—I can imagine such a woman, with a 
face as seldom lit up by a smile as the remotest 
comer of the Mammoth Cave is by sunlight, 
and hear her arguing the propriety of dressing 
boy babies In doeskin pants, frock coat, and 
standing collar, because it takes so long “ to rid 
themselves of early impressions.” 
What sense is there in the “ Ha, Ha, Ha.” of a 
good, hearty laugh ? Mucli in the pleasant feel¬ 
ings it expresses; but. if we were good, "com- 
mem-sensed" people, I suppose instead of “ Ha, 
Ha, Ha,” we should keep our faces perfectly 
straight, and say, “ I feel a very exquisite sense 
of pleasure within!" The same with “baby- 
talk.” The babe appreciates little beyond the 
radiant smile and happy voice of its mother, no 
matter whether expressed in meaning or un¬ 
meaning words. 
Blessings upon mothers who can use “ baby- 
talk,” for I never knew a fretful, impatient one 
who did. nor never knew a child injured by it, 
nor one that ever called bis toes “dosies” or 
“ wofdes ” when he became old enough to speak. 
One great and good man said, “ When I was a 
child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, 
I thought as a child: but when I became n man, 
I put away childish things.” and I guess the 
mast of children do the same. 
As to its sounding “ flat.” many people think 
everything “flat” pertaining to babies; and as 
to the “ logic,” I “ fail to see ” the need of any ; 
but I never failed to discover beauty, and music, 
in the imperfect language of childhood, nor in 
the voice of the happy mother as she responded 
in the same tongue. Nettie. 
Canastetn, N. Y., lftftt 
Domestic Comport.— The most prominent, 
among temporal things, to make life pleasant, is 
to be within the walls of a well-ordered house. 
Not conspicuous for its finery or costliness, but 
by its fitness, its air of neatness, and content to 
all who enter to enjoy its comforts. The woman 
who does not make this a grand item in her rou¬ 
tine of duties, has not yet learned the true dig¬ 
nity of her station; does not enjoy the blessings 
of life; and indirectly despises her [family and 
the Word of God. “ Hlie lookelh weU to the mays 
of her household was spoken by the wisest man 
that ever lived, and will be told as a memorial of 
all those noble women who have been eminent 
in “looking well” to the ways of their house¬ 
holds. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
“MISSING.” 
Dear Reader, mine, has sad experience 
taught you the fearful import of this won! ? Is 
there a vacant spot at your fireside, a missing 
link from the home chain? As you visit the 
haunts so fraught with recollections of the 
sweet long ago, never to be forgotten, are you 
reminded of one who was wont to wander there 
with you, and sitting on the old rock by the hill¬ 
side, dream dreams of beauty for the future,— 
dreams never to be realized, for lie is missmj? 
O! fearful word! What tales it tells of 
crushed hopes, and bleeding hearts! We see it 
written everywhere. The evening breeze that 
fans your cheek wafts the sad music of the 
word to some poor stricken heart. This lovely 
Autumn afternoon, as I sit watching the sun as 
it sinks lower and lower in the western horizon, 
I am thinking of oue who fell on a far-off field 
of bloody strife, whose life-sun set ere it was 
noon. They told us lie was “missing,’' —that he 
fell while rallying his comrades to the last 
charge of that fearful battle; but they could not 
tell us when, or where, he died. 
“ Fallen In battle,—we never may know, 
Tbe spot where they dealt, thcr the last fatal blow; 
Thou hast found tliee a grave in the land of thy foes, 
And we know not the place where thy ashes repose.” 
The gay and happy may pace the rooms, even 
as now, but it is lonely still. Wc hear the joy¬ 
ous laughter, the merry jest, but heed them not, 
—one is missing. These rooms, once familiar, 
will never re-echo the sound of his footfalls 
again. He sleeps his last, long sleep, far from 
his childhood home, far from the friends who 
weep. 
‘■No rolling drum disturbs his rest 
Beneath the quiet sod, 
The mold lies heavy on his breast. 
His spirit is with God.” 
Friends, you who never have waited with 
anxious longing lor tidings from loved ones,— 
who have never read the lists of “killed, 
wounded and missing ” with a heart-sickening 
fear that you would recognize me familiar name / 
—you who who know r not what, it is to spend 
days of anxiety and sleepless watching, for 
“ loved ones gone to war,” do you realize what 
all this suffering is for S' Do you think, as you 
glance careless!) over the names of our brave 
boys “fallen in battle.” that it was for your in¬ 
terest they suffered and died? That they are 
fighting your battles: How many home circles 
are broken that your health-stones may remain 
undesolated? True, you may have given up 
your t ime and money to assist in this great strug¬ 
gle, but what are these in comparison with a 
life dearer to you than your own? 
Some of our boys have returned, others will 
come, but how many are “missing.” We will 
welcome the returning braves with open arms, 
though our hearts seem almost breaking for those 
who never wUleormogam. How many have looked 
" forward to the close of this cruel war as the 
time for the realization of their fondest antici¬ 
pations, whose hopes are already dashed to 
earth, and, instead, the bitter cup of sorrow- 
pressed to their lips. Listen to the mournful 
wail, as it rises from thousands of stricken 
hearts this night, “ Father, if possible, let this 
cup pass from me,” O! that He who is “ as the 
shadow of a great rock in a weary land, a 
covert from the storm.” may bind up these 
crushed and bleeding hearts, and grant that all 
Hi 
this suffering may not be in vain. 
Niagara Co., N. Y., 1863. 
Mate. 
MUSIC AN AMUSEMENT OF THE HOME. 
What shall the amusement of the home be? 
When there are the ability and taste, I regard 
music as combining in happiest proportions in¬ 
struction and pleasure, as standing at the head of 
the home evening enjoyment. What a never 
failing resource have those homes which God 
has blest with tills gift ! How many pleasant 
family circles gather nightly about the piano! 
How many a home is vocal with the voice of 
song or psalm. In other days, in how many 
village homes the father’s viol led the domestic 
harmony, and sons with clarionet or fiutc or 
manly voice, and daughters sweetly and clearly 
filling-iu intervals of sound, made a joyous noise! 
There was then no piano,—to the homes of this 
generation the great, the universal boon and 
comforter, One pauses and blesses it as he 
hears it through the open farm-house window, 
or detects its sweetness stealing out amid the 
jargons of the city—an angel’s benison upon a 
wilderness of discord, soothing the weary brain, 
lifting the troubled spirit, pouring fresh strength 
into the tired body, waking to worship, lulling 
to rest. Touched by the hand we love, a mother, 
sister, wife—say is it not a ministrant of love to 
child, to man—a household ucity , now- meeting 
our moods, answering to our needs, sinking to 
depths we can not fathom, rising to heights we 
can not reach, leading, guiding, great and grand 
and good, and now stooping to our lower wants, 
the frolic of our souls reverberating from its 
keys? The home that has a piano, what capac¬ 
ity for evening pleasure and profit has it! Alas! 
that so many wives and mothers should speak of 
their ability to play as a mere accomplishment 
of the past, and that children should grow up 
looking on the piano as a thing unwisely kept for 
company and show.— lien. J. F. W- Hare. 
Maxims for Parents and Teachers.— 
Never give reproof, if it can be avoided, while 
the feelings of either party are excited. If the 
parent or teacher be not calm, bis influence is 
diminished, and a bud example is set. If the 
child is excited or provoked, he will not foal the 
force of argument or rebuke. On the other 
hand, do not defer long. Seize the. first favora¬ 
ble opportunity while the circumstances are 
fresh in the memory. Reprove each fault as it 
occurs, and do not suffer them to accumulate, 
lest the offender be discouraged by the amount- 
Written for the Rural New-Yorker. 
INVOCATION TO SLEEP. 
BT CLIO STANLEY 
Come, gentle Sleep! 
Come on the viewless wings of night. 
Come with the glancing star beams dight, 
Hasten once more in t hy robes of light, 
Oh, gcntFsloop! 
Come, sweeter: Sleep! 
Come with thy dreams of rare repose, 
Come wit h the scent of poppy and rose. 
Haste, ou the softest wind that blows, 
Oh, gentle sleep! 
Come, calmest Sleep! 
Come with the murmur of Lethean waves, 
Come with thy vision of grass covered graves, 
Haste from the far-away, dew dropping caves, 
Oh, gentle Sleep* 
Conic, deepest Sleep! 
Let me no spirit of darkness discern. 
Let me no future of suffering learn. 
Let me no leaf of the mystic scroll turn, 
Oh, gentle Sleep f 
Come, peacefal Sleep! 
In thy dim shade let my wandering feet 
Other twin footsteps but once again meet, 
Other sweet eyes from the spirit world greet, 
Oh, gentle Sleep I 
Como, kindly Sleep 1 . 
Come with the heart that with tenderness beats, 
Come with the lip that a love word repeats, 
Come, come, with -vision that never retreats, 
Oh, gentle Sleep! 
Come, holy Sleep’ 
Come, and the drowsy air hush with thy spell, 
Let the old voices the old story tell, 
Come, tho’ thy dreams bring no somnd but farewell, 
Oh, gentle Sleep! 
Philadelphia, Pa., 1863. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
HENRY D. THOREAU.* 
We avail ourselves of the opportunity af¬ 
forded by the appearance of this posthumous 
volume, to give a brief sketch of its author. 
His name is probably not familiar to most of the 
readers of the Rural. Though one of the 
most loyal, enthusiastic Americans that can 
well he Imagined, his works are almost un¬ 
known to a laygc proportion of his countrymen. 
This is a fact which we mention with shame 
and confusion ol‘ face, and wc write those lines 
in the hope of turning the attention of the pub¬ 
lic, to a'slight degree at least, to the few vol¬ 
umes which ho has left us his contribution to 
American Literature. 
Trorkau, as we have just hinted, was not a 
voluminous author. He wielded the pen with a 
chariness that was a source of keen disappoint¬ 
ment to those who admired his genius so greatly. 
We say genius , for he was emphatically a man 
of genius. True, it developed Itself in an eccen¬ 
tric mode, but it was still genius, and that, too, 
of a high order, His mind, too, was v> ell stored 
with useful knowledge, while he possessed an 
inexhaustible fund of curious information. 
Those who read bis works with that apprecia¬ 
tion which they so richly deserve, will not hesi¬ 
tate to acknowledge, the truth of these state¬ 
ments. 
Thoreau’# life was an enigma even to those 
who knew Mjn best; and no one could know 
him well. No deep sea soundings were suffi¬ 
cient to fathom the depths of his eccentricity 
and originality. "We may account for this, to 
some extent, perhaps, in the fact that a grievous 
disappointment befel him in his early life. The 
only record of it is in these mysterious words:— 
“ I long ago lost a hound, a bay horse and a 
turtle-dove, and am still on their trail. Many 
art- the travelers I have spoken concerning 
them, describing their tracks and what calls 
they answered to. I have met one or two who 
had heard tho hound, and the tramp of the 
horse, and even seen the dove disappear behind 
a cloud; and they seemed as anxious to recover 
them as if they had lost them themselves,” 
There is a bidden meaning to these words 
which will never be discovered, and which 
lends a deep, romantic interest to the character 
of their author. We shall never understand 
how much the event, or events, referred to, 
modified and determined hi* whole subsequent 
life. 
Thoreau; was in every sense a child of Na¬ 
ture. He loved her with a devotion that almost 
passed comprehension. lie communed with 
her continually, and studied “ her visible forms” 
with a minuteness, an acumen, and an untiring 
diligence, which have never been surpassed. 
He considered most of the luxuries and many of 
the so-called comforts of life as not only not 
Indispensable, but as [positive hindrances to the 
elevation of mankind. Scorning the advantages 
and conventionalities of civilized life, he betook 
himself to the woods and the fields, and for two 
years, from 18-15, lived a hermit ou the shores 
of Walden l’OUd. near Concord, Mass., in a 
house erected by his own hands. His purjioso 
in going to this wild place, as he expressed it, 
“ was to transact some private business with the 
fewest obstacles. 1 wished to live deliberately, 
to front only the essential facts of life, and sec if 
I could not learn what It bad to teaeb, and not, 
when i came to die, discover that I had not 
lived. 1 wanted to live deep and suck out all 
the marrow of lire, to live so sturdily and Spar- 
tan-llkc as to put to rout all that was not life, 
to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive 
life into a comer, and reduce it to its lowest 
terms, and il' it proved to be mean, why then to 
get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and 
publish its meanness to the world; or if it were 
♦Excursions By Henry D Thoreau, uutkor of 
« Walden," and “A Week on the Concord anil Merri 
mack Rivers.” Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 13G8. 
sublime, to know it by experience, and be able 
to give a true account of it in my next excur¬ 
sion.”— [Walden, p. 98.] 
And yet in t he midst, of this solitude he was 
not alone. To him solitude was the most com¬ 
panionable of all companions. Ho held familiar 
converse with the trees, the streams the sky, 
and all the inhabitants of earth, air or water, 
and desired no other companions. Animals 
which shun the approach of man recognized 
in him a brother and a friend, and forgot their 
native wildness in bis presence. We are not 
surprised, then, that he loved the Indian, ad¬ 
mired his character and mode of life, treasured 
up with the tendcrest care all relics of his unfor¬ 
tunate race, and sighed for a more, extensive and 
practical acquaintance with them. 
TiiORkam's writings have a singular fascina¬ 
tion for nil those whose hearts have anything in 
common with his, and who can look witli charity 
and patience upon his peculiar traits. We will 
not enter into a minute examination of his style, 
in order to discover the secret of its power. 
Those who are acquainted with it require noth¬ 
ing of this sort, and those w ho are not, can 
easily solve the problem for themselves by a 
perusal of any of the author’s works. We will 
only add that the volume before us contains an 
admirable biographical sketch of Thoreau by 
one of his warmest admirers, Mr. li. W. Emer¬ 
son. Wo are indebted to it for some of the 
facts stated in this article, and would heartily 
recommend it to the attention of all who desire 
to know more of this remarkable and versatile 
man, whose life was emphatically, in his own 
words, “ a Life of simplicity, independence, mag¬ 
nanimity and trust,” * 
-^ -4 - 4 - - - 
MORAL PRECOCITY UNDESIRABLE. 
Do you expect from a child any great amount 
of goodness. During early years, every civilized 
man passes through that phase of character 
exhibited by the barbarous race from which he 
is descended. As the child features—flat nose, 
forward, opening nostrils, large lips, wide-apart 
eyes, absent frontal sinus, Ac., resembles for a 
time those of the savage, so too. do their instincts. 
Hence the tendencies to cruelty, to thieving, 
to lying, so general among children—tendencies, 
which evcji without the aid of discipline, will 
become more or less modifiedjust as the features 
do. The popular idea that children are “inno¬ 
cent,” while it may be true in so far as it refers 
to evil knowledge, is totally false in so far as it 
refers to evil impulses, as half an hour’s obser¬ 
vation in the nursery wall prove to any one. 
Boys when left to themselves, as at a public 
school, treat each far more brutally than men 
do; and were they left to themselves at an earlier 
age, their brutality would be still more con¬ 
spicuous. 
Not only is it unwise to set up a high standing 
for infantile good conduct, but it is even unwise 
to use very urgent incitements to such good 
conduct. Already most people recognize the 
detrimental results of intellectual proeocity, but 
there remains to be recognized the truth that 
there is a moral precocity which is also detri¬ 
mental. Our higher intellectual ones are 
comparatively oomplexed. By eonseqenee they 
are both comparatively late- in their evolution. 
And with the one as with the other, a very 
early activity, produced by stimulation, will be 
at the expense of the future character. Hcnee 
the most uncommon feet that those who during 
childhood were instanced as models of Juvenile 
goodness, by-and-by undergo some disastrous 
and seemingly inexplicable change, and end by 
being not above but below par; while relative 
exemplary men are often the issue of a childhood 
by no means promising.— British Quarterly. 
» «■» -- 
SOWING YOUR WILL OATS. 
In all the wide range of accepted British 
maxims, there is none, take It for all in all. more 
thoroughly abominable than this one as to the 
sowing of wild oats. Look at it on what side 
you will, and I defy you to make anything but a 
devil’s maxim of it. What a man—be he young, 
old, or middle-aged— bows, that, and nothing else, 
shall he reap. The only thing to do with wild 
oats is to put them carefully into the hottest part 
of the fire, and get them burnt to dust, every 
need of them. If you sow them, no matter in 
what ground, up they will come, with long, 
tough roots, like couch-grass, and luxuriant stalks 
and leaves, as sure as there is a sun in heaven - 
a crop which it turns one’s heart cold to think 
of. The devil, too, whose special crop they arc, 
will etc that they thrive-and you, nobody else, 
will have to reap them, and no common reaping 
will get them out of the soil, which must be dug 
down deep again and again. Well for you If, 
with all your earc. you can make the ground 
sweet again by your dying day .—Tom Broicn at 
Oxford. 
- 
Words.— Just as in some fossil, curious and 
beautiful shapes of vegetable or animal life, tho 
graceful fern, or the finely vertebrated lizard, 
such as now, it. may be, have, been extinct for 
thousands of years, are permanently bound up 
with the stone, and rescued from that perishing 
which would have otherwise been theirs—so in 
words are beautiful thought* and images, the 
imagination and the feeling of past ages, of men 
whose very names have perished, too, preserved 
and made sale forever.— 'Trench. 
- » - -- 
Idkak Inexpressible.—A ll of our thoughts 
have not words corresponding to them; many 
of them, in our yet imperfectly developed na¬ 
ture, can never express themselves in acts, but 
must be appreciable by God only, like the silent 
melodies in a great musician’s heart, never to roll 
forth from burp or organ.—De Quiucey. 
- 4-*4 - 
Family Dissension.— From what stranger 
can you accept attachment if you are at variance 
with your own family ? 
NEVER AGAIN. 1 
Broken tins golden chord, 
Severed the silken tie; 
Never again will the old days come. 
Darling, to yon and I 
Dead the henutifnl Past! 
Scattered arOnnd its bier 
Pale thoughts lie thick, and memories 
Of days that were no dear. 
Memories? Fold them up— 
Lay them sacred by; 
What avails it to dream of the Past! 
The Future! for you and I! 
Broken the silken chord, 
Severed tho golden chain, 
Linking us with the beautiful days 
That never can come again! 
- - - 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE LIGHT OF FAITH 
“then we shall know as we are known.” 
When the finger of Odd touches the eyelids 
of the. human creature, the scales fall off. As 
the thought of Him fills the soul, it no longer 
looks through the media which the poor, blind 
world has given it, all bedimmed with deceit, 
selfishuess and error, but step by step it is led up 
higher, until it looks, as it were, through the 
eye-glass of the Infinite. How the darkness 
fleeth away before the glorious sunlight of 
Truth. The mountain tops glisten, and the 
valleys glow. Everything beautiful liecomee 
more beautiful. Nature is more lovely; its 
skies brighter, its flowers fairer, its landscape 
fierener. Why? Because God is in them all. 
To him whose eye-sight, is thus cleared, wicked¬ 
ness is no loss dark, and his eyes grow more tear¬ 
ful as he beholds the fallen and recognizes them 
as the children of a common Father. As his 
vision is enlarged, his heart and fingers work 
more earnestly, for he knows that a brother for¬ 
ever fallen is a wound inflicted on all the race, 
while one recovered makes glad the heart of 
humanity. 
But what of the work which sorrow hath 
wrought? Do we always reap good from the 
sowing of fears? I trow not. Though often 
“upon the stepping-stones of our dead selves we 
rise to better things," yet many times we de¬ 
scend still lower. As he who is thus illuminated 
travels hopefully but perhaps wearily on, he 
glances backward over the rough places which 
once caused his feet, to bleed. At first he is 
softened by a view that makes his eye grow 
misty, then his Lice grows stony, and his lips are 
compressed, a lit representation of the desolation 
within. The shrine to which he brought what¬ 
ever savored of hope and pleasure is broken, and 
if he strives to gait her together the fragments 
and build another, they, too, are hurled from 
him. lie rises and goes to his work ccider, but 
not better, because he looked within instead of 
upward. 
We hear much about the war :ts a developing 
power. So it is. We are told that every fatal 
bullet pierces many hearts, and when the blood 
ceases flowing, they are nerved with stronger 
and bettor purposes. There are fruit and flow¬ 
ers where before were only weeds and fallow 
ground. But not always. Often it is like the 
violent storm that sweeps all before it instead of 
the gentle rain that mellows and fertilizes. The 
thought of blood, and suffering, and death, pre¬ 
vents any ray# of light from coming that might 
have brought a vision of hope to tho desponding 
soul. They hear no harmony from out the dis¬ 
cord,—see no light from out the darkness. So 
with the little roughnesses that we meet with 
every day; they do not always round off the 
corners,—only make the angles sharper. It de¬ 
pend* upon ourselves whether sorrow develops 
the good that is in us or not If we rise above 
it, it strengthens us; if it rises above us, then 
are we rendered weaker. 
Do you never feel heavy-hearted when you 
see those 1 to whom no light comes? borne of 
them, perhaps are blessed with little of this 
world’s knowledge, anti possess a dim view of 
the way homeward. They grope this way and 
that until the spirit is chafed witb much search¬ 
ing and no finding. Whence am 1? What am 
I? Whither going? Who is the Father? are 
questions which come to us with fearful mean¬ 
ing. and the silence which follows is still more 
fearful. The waves surge to and fro, and they 
listen in vain for the mandate, " So far shalt thou 
come, and no farther.” In the midnight they 
sue no Infinite Father, no incarnate Christ 
upon whose form they may lean their mangled 
breasts. When at last the tempest has spent 
itself, there is a calm, but 7io joy. Through the 
long vista of ages, from Creation’s first morning, 
there comes the edict, “ Let there be light, ’ 
but it is not for tliee. The worn spirit is quieted, 
an d bye-und-bye, iu the distant East, he sees a 
single ray of light, and in fullness of time there 
is the perfect dawn. 
The vision of many is rendered clear by long 
waiting and much suffering, as the best eye¬ 
glasses are rendered perfectly pellucid by the 
process ol’ beating, bo the spiritual vision is 
made free from impurities as by fire. Very 
likely human nature writhes in the midst of the 
Uiuue, and tho natural eye is dimmed as the 
spiritual eye grows brighter; but what is the 
mortal to the immortal ? The world, with its 
work and sorrow, sometimes bears heavily, but 
the restless, doubting soul is a greater burden. 
You would fain close tho eyelids, and fold the 
hands over the still bosom of such an onp, so ( 
that darkness and doubting may be no more,— 
but not yet. God has given us much light in ^ 
this world, but it is not perfect, yet in the dim- v 
ness we may hear a soft, still voice saying, 
“ Now we look as through a glass darkly, but < 
then we shall see him face to face. m. m. m. j 
Lima, N. Y., 1863. I 
