woods.” Who throw up the sash io the cool parlor— 
look upon the blossoming orchard, and lilac bending 
with its weight of odor? 
WHAT MONEY WILL NOT BUY 
Who bring syringes and 
roses to make bright the dear old sitting-room? 
Who will gather the ruby currant, or pick the juicy 
fruit from the ancient pear tree? Who sing at eve¬ 
ning hour as lie, our silver-haired father, sang? What 
voices will echo through those rooms? Ah! hence¬ 
forth stranger ones, forgetful those which have 
echoed are forever hu»bed — or bands that planted 
those trees and flowers are moldering. Stranger! 
tread lightly, for dear to one heart will ever be the 
remembrance of all things associated with the Old 
Homestead. L, a. M. 
May, 1861. 
[Written tor Moore's Rural New-Yorker ] 
MARY'. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker ] 
SUMMER. 
desirable things. And yet, wbat, seems odd at first, 
people are often willing to sell for it possessions 
which money will not buy. For instance, no amount 
of wealth can purchase beauty, although many a fair 
face has grown haggard in the effort to gain the 
merest competence. It is trne, money will buy 
jewels and laoeB, and any quantity of dry goods, but 
it depends upon skill in their arrangement whether 
they shall palliate or aggravate the lack of personal 
charms. The youth and bloom and freshness which 
a miserly maturity has sold, no niter expenditure can 
replace. For nature's curls and pearls and roses, it 
offers rouge and dentistry and a wig. 
Then it is equally true that money cannot purchase 
health, although it commands the skill of the physi¬ 
cian and the stock of the apothecary. It avails 
little that it can buy cart-loads of Herrick's sugar- 
coated pills, or cases of those microscopic ones 
whose tiny coats, like many larger and darker ones, 
hide an infinitesimal soul. Medicine and advice may 
leave the patient better or worse; we can never buy 
with certainty a favorable sanitary condition. With¬ 
out dwelling upon the hurtful tendencies of luxury 
and idleness, we must admit that there is more 
resemblance in sound than in significance in the two 
words, health and wealth. 
Again, wo can buy neither learning nor ability. 
The bookseller who owns a magnificent stock is 
oftentimes a very narrow-minded man. He is no 
I Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] I wiser for the wisdom, no better for the goodness with 
IDEAL AND HEAL. wbich his Selves are laden. He must go through 
- another and far longer process, before he can Intel- 
. ° one, we presume, wiH deny that “man’s mis- lectually appropriate the contents of his books, 
sion in this world iB to work, and not to dream,” Nay, it is doubtful whether he would be wiser or 
? ill how many persons there arc who fail to appro- better if he should read them all. He Is like the pro- 
en< this great truth, until bitter experience teaches fane Legree who still was the owner of piety in the 
them that “ life is, indeed, a reality,” and not a mere person of Uncle Tom. He has and has not. He can 
speculative adventure,” subject to the caprice of an sell that to another which it is utterly impossible that 
rdent and lively imagination. Taking Webster as he should ever possess himself. Although Mrs. Tod- 
onr criterion, we find the Ideal to consist in certain , dlejobs assures her daughter's preceptor that they are 
airy nothings which an exuberent fancy has able to afford her a capacity, vet he feels that the 
Whl "b " Tr ” * Dd 8 name ’ I”- *• mistaken. It l one of those tilings 
bile we have implicit faith in the old maxim that which they can never hope to buy. 
man is an “ imitative being,” experience also proves Moreover it is difficult for a rich man to buy the 
that he is an •' imaginative being,” strongly disposed truth, although the scriptureB recommended such a 
a times to plume the pinions of his ever growing purchase. He is more liable to be deceived than an- 
fanc.es and soar away Jnto regions more congenial other. He is caressed by flatterers on the right 
to his tastes but alas! not always conducive to his hand, and fleeced by beggars on the left. He is con- 
prosperity. Too often, like BlP Vak Wjnklk of the stantly urged and wheedled into assisting the 
mystic days of yore, will his dreamy and visionary unworthy, while modest merit, unknown and unob- 
hpiii hold him, as it were, spell-bound, until Time trusive, struggles vainly to help itself. He secs 
shall silver his locks, and old age come suddenly human nature in a mask, nnd It „ mn <,i, ™ 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
VISIONS AT TWILIGHT. 
BY AXA'IK V. 1IKACH. 
Now the dusky twilight shadows 
Steal in silence through my home, 
Day-time toil once more is ended. 
Evening hours of rest hare come, 
And my heart, care-bound, no longer 
Now may roam. 
Early stars look throDgh the maples 
From the sky serenely clear, 
Sweetly softened by the distance. 
Evening chimes fall on my ear, 
Making music that I dearly 
Love to hear. 
Hear the robins in the orchard 
Just beyond the garden wall, 
Is there any music sweeter 
Than the robin's evening call, 
Any sound that is more truly 
Dear to all? 
As I wander through the garden 
In the gloaming, well I know, 
By the incense sweetly rising. 
Where my fav’rite flewers grow— 
Purple violets, dewy, fragrant, 
Hiding low. 
While I bend to breath their fragrance, 
Fainter sounds the far-off chime; 
And the robin's plaintive vesper 
Ceases, and the evening time 
Grows more holy, till Its stillness 
Seems sublime. 
Looking upward with rapt vision. 
Spirit forms I seem to see 
Gazing down, with eyes most holy, 
From their heavenly heme on me; 
And they seem to look npon me 
Lovingly. 
Twilight deepens—I am dreaming 
Of the “ city paved with gold,” 
And I seem to see before me 
Wide the “pearly gates ” unfold, 
And in spirit scenes of glory 
I behold. 
And I bow me where the angels 
Vail their faces with their wings, 
And I hear the glorious anthem 
Chanted to the “King of Kings.” 
Tis a dream, but, oh, the rapture 
That it brings. 
In the east the moon is rising, 
And my visions flee away, 
And I hie me to my chamber, 
Weary with the cares of day; 
Yet for toil my heart grows stronger 
While I pray. 
Penfield, N. Y., 1861. 
Mart! the sweetest name on earth, 
The dearest household word! 
Where is the heart that does not thrill 
Whene’er the Bound is heard? 
Perchance a gentle mother’s name, 
Who, in thy early youth, 
Led thy young, erring feet to tread 
The pleasant paths of truth. 
Mary —thy sister, kind, and true, 
Thy childhood's constant friend, 
Whose voice, in evening prayer and hymn, 
With thine was wont to blend. 
Mary— the blushing, dark eyed girl, 
Who met thee in the street, 
And shared with thee the giddy dance 
When hours were flying fleet. 
Perchance it was the gentle bride, 
Who, at the holy shrine, 
Gave her soft trembling band to thee, 
And murmured “ I am thine.” 
Mary —thoult find it far away 
In Scotia’s highland homes, 
And merry Eugland echoes it 
From out her princely domes. 
Upon the vine clad hills of France, 
’Tig Marik, ever true, 
With lightsome step, and fairy form, 
And eyo of witching blue, 
Thou’lt find it in Italia's bowers, 
With every soft breeze blent; 
Devotion, bending to the sound, 
A holy charm hath lent. 
0, ever blest and holy name! 
Simple, but sweet, Tis given, 
A spell ’round many a spirit thrown, 
To lead it up to Heaven. 
Cambria, N. Y., 1861. 
Tint breath of Summer fans my brow, 
Her voice is in my ear; 
And earth, in all It* loveliness, 
Proclaims her presence here. • 
The bnds and blossoms fill the air 
With perfume from each cup— 
There is a bird on every bough 
To catch the echo up. 
And oh, in every human heart, 
However worn and lone, 
Bright Summer wakes with thrilling touch 
A sweet, long-silent tone. 
And thoughts of happy eeasons past, 
And pleasures longsiot*- 
Bring back our loved and absent ones, 
Bring back our sainted dead. 
And so we bless the azure sky, 
And bird, and tree, and flower, 
And all thioga that remind our hearts 
Of Summer’s magic power. 
And wc rejoice that round our way, 
Though ofteD dark and dim, 
Gon sends so many messengers 
To draw our souls to Him. 
Rochester, N. Y., 1861. 
The heroism of private life, the slow, unchronicled 
[ martyrdoms of the heart, who shall remember ? 
Greater than any knightly dragon slayer of old, is 
the man who oveicomes an unholy passion, sets his 
foot upon it, and stands serene and Btrong in virtue. 
Grander than the Zenobia is the woman who 
struggles with a love that would wrong another or 
degrade her own soul, and conquers. The young 
man, ardent and tender, who turns from the dear love 
of woman, and buries deep in his heart the sweet 
instinct of paternity, to devote himself to the care 
and support of aged parents or an unfortunate sister, 
and whose life is a long sacrifice in manly cheerful- 
and majestic uncomplaint, is a hero of the rarest 
ness 
typei—the type of Charles Lamb, 
The young woman who resolutely stays with father 
and mother in the old home, while brothers and 
sisters go forth to happy homes of their own: who 
cheerfully lays upon the altar of filtel duty that cost 
liest of human sacrifices, the joy of loving and of 
she is a heroine. The husband who 
being loved 
goes home from the weary routine and the perplex¬ 
ing cares of his business with a cheerful smile and a 
loving word for his invalid wife; who brings not 
against her the grievous sins of a long sickness, and 
reproaches her not for the cost and discomfort 
thereof; who sees in her languid eye something 
dearer than the girlish laughter, in the sad face and 
faded cheeks that blossoms into smiles and even 
blushes at his coming, something lovelier than the 
he is a-hero. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
A CHAPTER ON MATRIMONY. 
old-tirne spring roses 
The wife who bears her part in the burden of life- 
even though it be the larger part—bravely, cheer¬ 
fully: never dreaming that she is a heroine, much 
less a martyr: who bears with the faults of a hns- 
band, not altogether congenial, with loving patience 
and a large charity, and with a noble decision hiding 
them from the world; who makes no confidents and 
asks no confidences; who refrains from brooding 
over short-comings in sympathy and sentiment, and 
from seeking for perilous “ affinities;” who does not 
build high tragedy sorrows on the inevitable, nor 
feel au earthquake in every family jar; who sees her 
husband united with herself indissolubly and eter¬ 
nally in their children—she, the wife in every truth, 
in the inward as in the outward, is a heroine, though 
of rather an unfashionable type .—Grace Greenwood. 
deserved hanging. I don’t care a fig what you say 
about the “bliss of married life,”—it is the bliss of 
cate and dogs when each one is trying to bite and 
scratch the other. Why just see how married people 
live. Do you suppose I’d put my head under the 
yoke? Bless me! no, I'd sooner put it in a hornet's 
nest. When you are lovers Jt is all “honey and 
pie,” but when you are married it is “ root hog or 
die.” Don't you believe it? Just remember when 
your now husband was your bean,—how carefully he 
watched over you,—your lightest wish was his law. 
Did you hint at some habit that was offensive to you, 
how quick did he refrain from it, (in your presence I 
mean.) llow is it now. You go your way, be, his. 
Those delicate attentions he was so lavish of he 
reserves for other ladies not his wife. Do you men¬ 
tion anything you dislike, he plainly gives you to 
understand yon are to mind your own affairs. How 
many homes there are where the “lord of the 
manor ” sits down to his meals, day after day, with¬ 
out a smile or word of encouragement for his wife, 
and though she may work day after day. trvincr to 
THE RIGHT USE OP THE TONGUE 
! U8e the tongue. Bnnyan had become uneasy 
about himself, had left off swearing, and had nearly 
made up bis mind to leave off dancing. His neigh¬ 
bors took him for a very godly man; and, “to relate 
it in my way,” lie say", '* l thought no mau in 
England could please God better than I. But poor 
wretch that I was, I was all this while ignorant of 
Jesus Christ, and going about to establish my own 
righteousness. 
" But n P<>D a day the good providence of God 
called me to Bedford to work at my calling; and 
in one of the streets of the town I came where there 
were three nr four poor women sitting at the door in 
LADY PHYSICIANS. 
on the shores of which, according to tradition, 
Moses was found. The city retains its Oriental char¬ 
acter, and iu this respect is unique. The streets are 
so narrow, and the caves of the booses project so far 
over their basements, that persons can step from one 
building to another. This peculiarity of architecture 
is ndopted to secure coolness in the heat of summer, 
and also to afford better means of escape in time of 
danger. The superstructures of this house are of 
brick, of a dull red color, and when plastered 
externally, which is quite common, their appearance 
is exceedingly gloomy. The ground floor is usually 
occupied by merchants and mechanics, and the 
upper apartments serve as residences. Most of the 
shops consist, of a small square room, in front of 
which, on a shelf, and around the casement nf tlm 
Judiciously combined, then, the real and ideal 
fatuities are capable, when leagued together, of 
proving happy and glorious to their possesser; hut 
we would again caution the person of a speculative 
mind to beware of day-dreaming, and constructing 
” iu an ideal world. There 
action in our 
.mu me only advice any one can give is for everyone 
to do as they please, only beware of humbug. 
loci ° 
Harmony ok Redemption tn toe Bible. —The very 
fact that the Bible has but one great subject running 
through all its histories and prophecies,—that salva¬ 
tion by blood is the focal point in which all its 
various lines of light converge, is to me one of the 
strongest evidences that it came from God. When I 
consider that the writers lived hundreds and thousands 
of years apart, that they were found in all walks of 
life, and that they wrote in different languages, I can 
find no way to account for the unity which pervades 
it, but by admitting that these various writers were 
all moved and guided by the same high intelligence. 
No matter who held the pen, whether Moses in 
Midiau, or David in the mountains of Israel, or Eze¬ 
kiel lying on the river’s bank, or Daniel in the palaces 
of Babylon, or Paul iu a prison at Rome, or John in 
the solitude of the bleak isle of Patmos, the records are 
all essentially the same, and blend together as one 
great whole. Just as the various notes and chords 
of the musician’s oratorio express the one great 
thought of the composer, so the grand hymn of reve¬ 
lation presents but one central idea; whatever chords 
in the harp of inspiration are touched by the chosen 
hands, they ultimately settled upon the key-note, 
“ Salvation through the blood of the Lamb.” 
his “Temples of Fame 
must be a combination of thought and _ 
researches after wisdom, if we would avoid the 
unhappy conclusion which Douglass Jerkold has 
so forcibly personified iu his reflections upon the 
visionary, by saying: “ Wliat angel purposes did we 
woo, and what hag-realities did we marry.” One of 
the best incentives to action for those persons who 
are ever seeking that “Eldorado ” which is to fulfill 
their wildest and most sanguine expectations, is to 
refer them to some of those heroic minds that have 
grappled with realities, surmounted obstacles and 
difficulties of no ordinary kind, and ult imately proved 
to the disaffected, that “ where there is a will there 
is a way. ' Of such there are many examples, even 
in our own country. Prominent among America’s 
great and self-made men is Eum Brmiurr, and 
although poverty compelled him to stand by the 
forge and mold refractory 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker ] 
THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 
There is a dear old place, where the birds warble 
their earliest songs, and sunset shadows linger, 
which I have ever loved as home,—love still, though 
mine no longer,— though 1 may never again roam its 
green fields where I gathered the luscious straw¬ 
berry, the wood where the wintergreen nestles its 
red berries among the moss cups,—or the grove 
where the ripe chestnuts rattled musically down 
with the brown leaves. 
I remember an hour, when a child I stood ’neath 
the evening sky, moonlight making each tree and 
flower, with the ancient home-roof itself, more beau¬ 
tiful—and dreamed of the future —of the change it 
would bring to that home, and those whose presence I 
hallowed it as such —of a time when the stranger's ' 
foot might pass ruthlessly over every spot to me so 
dear. Thus I mused until the “ voices of the night" 
seemed blent in harmony to the sad music of my 
heart, and I wept that change was written upon all 
things. 1 ears have come and gone. The future of 
them is realized. 
They are gone, all gone from the mountain home." 
The songs are hushed —forms which glided there, 
have crossed forever the old door stone, and are laid 
to rest where the May Pink and Myrtle blossom o'er 
“My Father —My Mother Loved Me.”—S end 
your little child to bed happy. Whatever cares 
press, gives it a warm good-night kiss, as it goes to 
its pillow. The memory of this, in the stormy years 
wbich fate may have iu store for the little one* will 
lie like Bethlehem’s star to the bewildered shepherds. 
“My father — my mother loved me!” Fate cannot 
take away that blessed heart balm. Lips parched 
uitli the world s fever will become dewy again at 
this thrill of youthful memories. Kiss your little 
child before it goes to sleep! 
_ iron into shapes, many 
am) peculiar, the workings of his wonderful mind 
kept stroke with the hammer, and its scintillations 
flashed forth with the “Sparks from the Anvil.” 
Through its many and mysterious workings, he is 
now enabled to read upwards of fifty languages, and. 
singular as it may appear, so blended together was 
li is practice and theory , that his fancies, even, had to 
go through several conjugations of the Greek verb , 
before they could liberate themselves, for the very 
simple reason that he carried a (.'reek grammar iu 
the crown of his hut. This single example should 
rouse to new activity the day-dreamer, for it is a 
substantial proof of man’s capabilities when rightly 
directed, and proves that if he makes a right disposal 
ol those means which are placed at his command, 
his “ambition will be exactly proportioned to his 
powers. Let it then be onr duty to live and to 
labor, ever mindful of ihe future. Neither should 
we forget that the ideal of our existence may be 
molded into practical results, if we are irue and 
faithful* but on the other hand, if we close onr eves ^ 
to the scenes and events transpiring around us, 
indulge in vain illusions of future greatness while 
the energies remain dormant, we shall at last awake 
to find that our air-castles have vanished, and our 
visions of eminence remain but in the storehouse of 
memory. C. E. Bentley. 
Van Buren Centre, N. Y., 1861. 
Faith. —When Charles V. imperiously requited the 
Confession of Augsburg to be abandoned, and gave 
the Protestant leaders only six months more iu which 
to make up their minds finally, the cause of the Refor¬ 
mation was thought hopeless. But Luther exclaim¬ 
ed:—” I saw a sign in the heavens, out of my window 
at night; the stars, the hosts of heaven, held up in a 
vault above me: aud yet I could see no pillars on 
which the Master made it to rest. But I had no fear 
it would fall. Some men look above for the pillars, 
and would fain touch them with their bands, as if 
afraid the sky would fall. Poor souls! Is not God 
always there?”—Dr. Gill. 
Beautiful things are suggestive of a purer and 
liighei lite, aud fill us with a mingled love and fear. 
They have a graciousness that wins us, aud an excel¬ 
lence to which we involuntarily do reverence. If 
you are poor, yet modestly aspiring, keep a vase of 
flowers on your table, and they will help to maintain 
your dignity, and secure for you consideration and 
delicacy of behavior. 
a ^eur sinte, and the earliest spring flower was 
brought to Cheer u pale sufferer,—one who had ever 
watched for their coming, arid loved dearly the sun¬ 
shine and flowers. And when she slept so sweetly,- 
we could not wish she might waken to suffering like 
hers,- we placed the myrtle she had loved so well 
beside her, and she rests where the household graves 
are numbered. 
Another home is mine, pleasant, perchance, as 
that, but the old one is dear as ever,—and I ata 
thinking —sadly thinking ,—who will dwell there? 
The birds are singing in the maples, the flowers have 
come from their winter retreat, and blnr.™ 
The wise man has his follies, no less than the fool; 
but it has been said, that herein lies the difference — 
the lollies of the fool are known to the world, but 
are hidden from himself; the follies of the wise 
are known to himself, but hidden from the world. A 
harmless hilarity, and a buoyant cheerfulness are not 
unfrequent Concomitants of genius, and we are 
never more deceived than when we mistake gravity 
ior greatness, solemnity for science, and pomposity 
for erudition. 
In all societies, it is advisable to associate, if possi¬ 
ble, with the highest,—not that the highest are always 
the best, but, because if disgusted there, we can at 
any time descend; but if we begin with the lowest, to 
ascend is impossible. In the grand theater of human 
life, a box ticket takes us through the house. 
ThisKife.— This life!—what is it? The vision of 
a day—the pleasure of an hour; then gone, aud gone 
forever! No, not gone forever; for man will live iu 
rapture or in woe, as the result of a few years of life, 
—a few days spent in time. How fearful the thought! 
What eternal interests hang upon life's fleeting 
moments! Joys eternal, or pangs interminable, and 
all depending on the course we take—the way we live. 
Success seems to be that which forms the distinc¬ 
tion between confidence and conceit. Nelson, when 
young, was piqued at not being noticed in a certain 
paragraph of the newspapers, which detailed au 
action wherein he had assisted; “but never mind,” 
said he, “1 will one day have a gazette of my own.” 
