[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
'WHEN THOU ART DEAD.” 
BY ELLEN rfC^KIMBEt. 
Through long and silent watcbc* of tbe night. 
Counting the palm* beat* growing taint and slow, 
Watching tbe moonbeam# riaing, pure and white, 
From out tbe depth* where eastern breezes blow, 
We marked the hours that through the silence run, 
That scarce had como ere they hnd swiftly fled, 
And asked of that sweet soul, SO nearly home, 
“ How aliall we think of theo when thou art dead?” 
Now, when have passed the parting and the pain, 
When weary hands are folded on the breast, 
When lips that part not at the whispered name 
Have chilled and settled into perfect rest, 
We look in ailence to the RiTer'» shore, 
Where the dark angel hath her footsteps led, 
And in our sorrow ask the question o’er, 
“ How do we think of thee when thou art dead?” 
A band of brighter spirits must have come 
With the grim archer from tbe Kivnr’s side, 
For there fs left no shadow in oiu home, 
No darkness fell upon ns as she died. 
The tears we thought to drop upon her brow 
Fail in the shining light of peace it wears; 
Dead, and yet glorified, we can but know 
She haa no need to be baptised by tears. 
We think of her, not as of one laid down 
To dreamless sleep beneath a flowering sod, 
But as of one gone on to claim her crown 
In the u celestial r.ittes *’ built by God. 
Held in tho keeping of a Father’s love. 
We say, with doubt’s dark uight forever fled; 
Remembered as in fields of Life above, 
Not a* a slumberer where rent the dead. 
Charlotte Center, N, Y.. 1861. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
“THE OLD HOMESTEAD.” 
“Dear, me!” exclaimed Rose Dashe, peeping 
over her cousin Herbert’s shoulder, as he sat by the 
open window one bright midsummer morning; “ how 
very interesting you are contriving to look with 
those viny shadows on your classic brow, fas a poet 
would say,) and, us 1 live, t( are in yonr haughty eyes 
that I thought as seldom dimmed us a young eaglet’s! 
What can you be poring over that lias unlocked your 
soul’s hidden fountains in such uu unaccountable 
manner? Some dismal magazine stuff about 'life’s 
enormous issues, eternal conflicts, infinite sorrows,’ 
Ac., &c.” And Rose having talked herself breath¬ 
less, sunk into a luxurious rocking-chair and began 
to shake with a restless hand Mid slender sterna of 
velvety prairie roses gilding the window sills, for the 
childish pleasure of watching the prismatic flash of 
in-dwelling dew drops. 
A slight smile lit up the young man’s grave, earnest 
face, like a stray sunbeam on a shadowy forest lake; 
and without a word he handed her the urticlo he had 
been perusing — a simple, pathetic poem, called the 
“Old Homestead,” artless and unpretending, yet 
with a life and soul lucking in many a grander pro¬ 
duction. IfosE glanced over it with a scornful smile 
hovering upon her “crimson threaded” lips. “I 
didn't expect this of you, cousin,” was her first ex¬ 
clamation. “Didn’t you know that every shingle 
in the roof of tho old homestead had been rhymed 
upon and wept over till the subject is exhausted? 
I am so weary of it. I honor true, noble feeling as 
heartily as any one, but T despise an atfectation of 
sentiment. There is a moral grandeur in the picture 
of Marius, the kingly Roman, with his flowing robes 
falling regally about his stately figure, standing fixed 
and immovable among the ruins of Carthage, the 
level rays of the unshadowed tropical sun falling upon 
marble fanes and broken columns; palm trees waving 
in the fervid air; blue, fathomless skies above, and 
far to the south the boundless, infinite and melan¬ 
choly desert. Hut an American, dressed in the un¬ 
graceful garb of the nineteenth century, leaning on 
a broken gate in front of a tumble-down mansion, 
bewailing the passing away of a certain period, 
vaguely known as the “good old time,”—it is simply 
ridiculous. 
Herbert's dark eyes, usually calm and unclouded 
in their intense blueness, softened into dreaminess, 
as he listened, and swift as the messenger of Pros- 
ckro, his thoughts had traversed many a league of 
gusty plains, bowery valleys, and sounding seas; and 
the gray walls of the old homestead, remembered 
with passionate longing, were before him—stately 
in their wry simplicity, wearing but an added 
grace from the flight of years, and hallowed by death¬ 
less associations. Tho ancient, silver-leaved willow 
that drooped to earth on one side of the gate-way, 
the spiry poplar aspiring to heaven on the other; the 
roses of saintly white that filled the summer winds 
with fragrance in the rejoicing morn or purple eve; 
the golden lilies that swung their perfumed vases by 
the southern door-stone; the blue-eyed meadow blos¬ 
soms iu the wavy grass; tho chiming water-fall in the 
green heart of the forest, flinging its diamond waters 
over shelving rocks and high, bloom-covered banks; 
the transparent spring cupped in the cool emerald of 
tile meadow; the willowy brook that wound its line 
of light around the old play ground; the lonely glen 
where the wild vines trailed their fair green foliage 
and dainty flowers; and the reedy, complaining 
sweetness of some lone bird's song, awoke strange 
echoes in his boyish heart, and filled it with unsatis¬ 
fied longing. Were these less dear in remembrance, 
because they have blessed the youth of myriads of 
others? The presence of deep joy among hoary 
mountains and in the solemu forest; the deep mys¬ 
tery and golden romance of the western hills where 
tbe “sun went down,” the terrible beauty and 
relentless power of the wandering ocean that swept 
tbe sands of many a happy shore—were these unfor¬ 
gotten emotions trite and common place, because 
others had felt them too? And ten-fold more than 
all the rest, the atmosphere of peace and rest that 
filled the old homestead.— the enfolding love whose 
fibers cling around its object with moveless tenacity-, 
and found but its faint shadow in a life of constant 
devotion and unshrinking self-sacrifice,—the care 
and watchfulness that never slumbered,—the mothers 
gentle words of love and counsel, which, soft and 
low spoken though they were, sounded through the 
long avenue of years with undiminished strength,— 
the father’s lofty teachings and proud encouragement, 
that stirred the sonl like the trumpet that calls to 
battle,— and the boyish passion that made his life a 
perfumed alter fiarne, and deified one fair and earnest 
girl, and awoke grand aspiratiuns and firm resolves 
that might have changed his fate, only that the purple 
spring violets which early bloomed above the bright 
young head were fairer there than laurel. Oh how 
vain and poor seemed the dreams of ambition, and 
the pride of the warrior, compared with those holy 
memories! Ah, Rose! there is more of pure and 
noble feeling in the common sentiment that makes 
the old homestead a Mecca of the heart, than in all 
the haughty emotions that swelled the Roman’s chain¬ 
less bosom. Lacra E. W. 
Cokocton, N. Y., 1861. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
AUNT BETSEY TO NEPHEW “A.” 
Ik I aint completely cut up! That nephew of mine 
has given me a sight better chance to see how much 
of a saint he is than 1 could pessihly have had look¬ 
in’ in at bis kitchen window, and I know, just as well 
as I want to know, that when his wife scolds he 
either sulks or swears,— maybe he don’t do the last 
right out, but its just as bad in that case to feel ngly 
as to speak ugly, for if he don’t say it he'll act it, you 
may depend. . 
I’m not a bit ashamed to own that its “no new 
matter for me to speak my mind,” for what do folks 
have minds for if they can’t use ’em, and if a body 
does get “riled up ” occasionally,— as I do solemnly 
believe every mortal does, without respect to sex ,— 
I say its not a bit worse for them to spit it right out 
in a downright scold, and have it done with, than to 
let it bile Inside of ’em and finally come out in a 
“married man’s” grumble or whimper; (I don’t 
understand tbe languages much, but I'm sure that 
rev-er-ie must mean either one or both of them 
words, for “A.” certainly did do both in that what 
be called a “ Bo-lil-o-quy;’’) and if his wife has any 
spunk, as I hope she has, she’d a sight rather he 
would have scolded at her “like blazes” than to 
have him go whining ’round,—“hardly believing 
that there was a man in Christendom, not possessing 
the patience of Job, that could pass through the 
ordeal he had with unruffled feelings.” 
Now, Nephew A., do juBt let your wife kiss you 
and smooth out that awful pile of wrinkles on yonr 
forehead, then set down and tell your Aunt Betsey, 
who, unfortunate soul, had nothing but your good at 
heart when she wrote that letter, (though she did feel 
a little ashamed of you,) if you wasn’t just a little 
“ riJed ” when you answered it If you think it'll be 
safe, you cau ask JOBUCA whether I’m a paragon or 
not,— 1 can tell yon that I aint. a parrot, ’cause I 
know enough to talk without being learnt, —but par¬ 
agon is a kind of bird I don’t know much about, 
never see one yet, but maybe 1 shull when Polly 
K oun and 1 make you that visit. 
It seems that yonr wife hasn’t got any vanity to be 
flattered, or else she's rather worse than your Aunt 
Betsey, for she didn’t get good natured “contem¬ 
plating her power,” even when you was trudging 
round—building a fire and not- building one, bring¬ 
ing in wood, etc. 
If I thought Joshua did do things to help me 
because he was afraid of me, I’m afraid I should get 
so proud they’d turn me out of meeting; but he don’t 
act a bit. like it, somehow, though you do infer, from 
an extensive lot of supposed facts, that I can took 
him into doing things. 
Do you want to know what I think alls you? It’s 
a disease that’ll be more fatal to your happiness than 
the measles or chicken pox; for though it may not 
break out quite bo thick, it’ll leave dreadful deep 
scars, unless you can get a little of tbe oil of forbear¬ 
ance 1.o take. As near as I can make out, you’ve 
Caught it by staying ’round a certain swamp, watch¬ 
ing a kind of will-’o tbe-wisp culled “woman’s angelic 
nature,” and you nevor’ll get well till yon and your 
wife get a good large bottle of that oil to keep in the 
house. When yon take it, put a few drops of com¬ 
mon sense on a lump of sugar,—that’s Yankee for 
love, you know,— and Bwallow it first, for the oil is 
rather hard to take. 
I shall either have to look at Joshua to make him 
“toe ’round” when he finds there aint auy fire for 
supper, or else stop writing and make one; and I 
know you'll advise me to “be consistent” and show 
a little ‘' angelic nature ” for once ,—so good bye. 
Aunt Betsey. 
“KISS ME GOOD NIGHT, MOTHER.” 
A Philadelphian, justreturned from Washington, 
has related to the editor of the Press the following 
incident of the recent disastrous battle at Manassas 
Gap: 
In the Government hospital, on the day after the 
battle, lay a youthful member of the Ellsworth 
Zouave Corps, who, notwithstanding the frightful 
nature of his wounds, bore bis Bufferings with a 
patient heroism akin to inspiration. For a long 
time he seemed unconscious of the presence of his 
heart-broken mother, who watched by his couch 
fondly, yet in anguish of spirit, and lay like one in a 
trance. At length, turning slowly over on his side, 
his vacant eyes met her longing, agonizing gaze. A 
train of long-buried recollections seemed instantly 
to have awakened themselves in his bosom, and, 
murmuring with the artlessness of a child, “kiss 
me good night, mother,” he fell hack, and was deadl 
The gentleman, to whom the incident was related, 
pencilled the following liuos, in the cars, during his 
trip from Baltimore to this city: 
Mother, dear mother, the day has seemed long 
Since the lark warbled bis matinal song. 
Sadly the hours have passed since the morn; 
Darkly the moments that ne’er can return! 
No beaming hopefulness, no joyous ray, 
No cheerful sunshine to brighten my way. 
But, mother, your kiss torus the darkness to light; 
Kiss me good night, mother, kiss me good night. 
Mother, dear mother. I'm longing for rest— 
Longing to slumber for avo with the hlest; 
But when my sad spirit from earth-life is free, 
Still shall thy presence seem nigh unto me! 
Oft thy wild kiss of parting shall fall on my brow— 
Thy sad, tearful eyes gaze upon me, as now— 
And often I'll say, with the angels in white, 
“ Kiss me good night, mother, kiss me good uight!” 
Many such incidents of that fearful day could doubt¬ 
less be related, and we cannot regard it as ever too 
late to recall them. 
Unmarried Ladies. —The single state is no dimi¬ 
nution of the beauties and the utilities of the female 
character; on the contrary, our present life would 
lose many of the comforts, and much, likewise, of 
what is absolutely essential to the well-being of every 
part of society, and even of tbe private home, with¬ 
out the unmarried female. The single woman is as 
important an element of social and private happiness 
as the married woman. The utilities of each are 
different; hut it is vulgar nonsense, unworthy of 
manly feeling, and discreditable to every just one, 
to depreciate the unmarried condition. 
What greater thing is there for two human sonls, 
than to feel that they are joined for life— to strengthen 
each other in all labor, to rest on each other in all 
sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, and to 
be one with each other in silent, unspeakable memo¬ 
ries at tbe moment of the last parting?— Adam Bede. 
TnERE are as many kinds of silence as there are of 
conversation or any sort of noise-making. 
THE SUNNY SIDE THE WAY. 
BY JOHN SWAIN. 
Coldly comes the March wind— 
Coldly from the north— 
Yet the cottage little ones 
Gaily venture forth; 
Free from cloud the firmament, 
Free from sorrow they, 
The playful children choosing 
The sunny side the way. 
Sadly sighs the north wind 
Naked boughs among, 
Like a tale of monrnfulness 
Told in mournful song! 
But the merry little ones, 
Happy things are they, 
Singing, like the lark, on 
The sunny aide the way. 
There the silvery snowdrop, 
Daffodils like gold, 
Primroses and crocuses 
Cheerfully unfold; 
Poor! those cottage little ones 
Poor! no—rich are they, 
With their abinmg treasures on 
The suuny Ride the way. 
Coldly oft the windfi blow 
On the way of life, 
Spreading in the wilderness 
Care, aud pain, and strife; 
Yet the heart may shelter have, 
Cold though be the day, 
Choosing, like the little ones, 
The sunny side the way. 
[Written for Moore's. Rural New-Yorker.] 
CHARACTER. 
It is said that our characters are engraven upon 
our features. Doubtless this is true to a greater or 
less extent; yet there are few who are adepts in 
reading the language there expressed, from the fact 
that, men learn, almost from their infantile years, to 
dissemble and appear other than they are. This may 
seem a sweeping assertion, nevertheless it is gene¬ 
rally true. Who cannot recall to mind from early 
childhood the numberless times his antics were sud¬ 
denly interrupted, to pass through the ordeal of 
scrubbing, combing, and dressing, because company 
were in the parlor and he was wished to appear nicely? 
Perhaps with a smile he remembers the grave face he 
thought necessary to put on as only becoming on 
such occasions. Thus it iB through the successive 
years of childhood, youth and manhood, each has his 
perfect ideal of character which he wishes to possess, 
or at least seem to possess. The wicked, scheming 
man will seek to keep on the right side of public 
opinion, well knowing that it is important in accom¬ 
plishing his own selfish ends. 
An attentive observer will readily interpret the 
superficial character, ever assuming excellences, 
which he is unwilling to trouble himself to cultivate. 
He puts on airs like falso faces, to hide the real, and 
disciplines himself to answer the requirements of 
tiin® and place; but as no one can be forever on his 
guard, when thought, which cannot be chained, gains 
the ascendency, the mask will fall, whether in the 
crowd or the retirement of home, and before he is 
aware, the operations of bis mind are almost legibly 
written upon his face. 
There are two other d tines of character closely 
resembling each other in appearance, though widely 
differing in heart. For ibis reason it is unsafe to 
trust our judgment respecting them, on a limited 
acquaintance. They seem purposely to close the 
door of their hearts against our curious gaze, and we 
are left to form our opinions from their outward con¬ 
duct. Such an one, though not always unsocial, is 
extremely reserved in expressing his own particular 
views on any subject, whether of interest or indiffer¬ 
ence. Yaiuly you may seek to draw him out by 
freely giving your own opinions, or surprise him by 
the suddenness of a question. He will deliberately 
take his own time to answer, and in some way will 
evade saying just what you wish to know, without 
seeming intentionally to do so. What he says never 
seems studied, and is always truly sensible. One 
having but little knowledge of human nature might 
pass him by as a cold, indifferent character, incapa¬ 
ble of the deep and strong emotions of the heart. 
But the discerning mind secs evidence, in the earnest 
eye, firm lip, and thoughtful face, of vigor of intel¬ 
lect, decision of character, aud emotions too strong 
and deep to lie near the surface, aud he cannot rid 
himself of the idea that there is something very 
interesting going on in the silent workings of that 
heart. Perhaps he has at sometime thrown open the 
doors of its sanctuary, and permitted a friend to 
enter only to be unappreciated, misunderstood, or 
betrayed ; aud has bad a bitter experience which 
determined him forever to close its portals to human 
eye. Or it may be that, it is full of evil designs, aud 
deep laid schemes, and thus he seeks to keep its dark 
unfoldings from your view. Probably you will be 
unsuccessful in gaining any further knowledge of 
him, unless you make him your confident and friend, 
and thus commit yourself to his power. But if up¬ 
right in heart, if you prove yourself worthy of his 
confidence, he will probably be gained in time, and 
you may rely upon his friendship, which will be as 
lasting as life. He will prove himself worthy the 
confidence reposed in him, and would sooner die than 
betray a friend or act an unmanly or ungenerous 
part. 
Though such an one may continue to close his 
heart to his brother man, it is not so with woman. 
Sooner or later she will find the key, enter in and 
with impunity read on its walls the inscriptions of 
years. More closely observant, and more persever¬ 
ing, she is better enabled to do this successfully. 
Happy and wise is she if she does so before commit¬ 
ting her happiness to his keeping. It is said that the 
qualities we lack in ourselves we most admire in 
others; and is it not thus that the gentle, confiding 
woman is drawn toward that firm, resolute man. with 
an almost irresistible impulse? She glories in his 
firmness and feels secure in relyiDg upon his judg¬ 
ment, while he admires her for her gentleness and 
dependence. Unhesitatingly she leans upon that 
stroug arm and counts his loTe sacred, for she knows 
that it is unchanging in its character and as strong 
as death. 
Such a nature, elevated and purified by the power 
of grace, may accomplish a high and noble lifework, 
one the recording angel might hasten to write in 
the hook of remembrance. Loise Osborn. 
Caldwell's Prairie, Wis., 1861 
He only sees well who see9 the whole in parts, and 
the parts in the whole. There are but three classes 
of men—those who see the whole, those who see but 
a part, and those who see both together. 
HOME. 
0 what a volume of associations is contained in 
that little word " Home!'" The mention of it warms 
our blood, and brings to the heart of every one emo¬ 
tions that throb with fervency, ft is suggestive of 
everything sublime. When we speak of home, as it 
should be, we speak of a glorious institution; an 
institution of divine authority; an institution which 
has educated for wider fields of thought and action, 
and from whose bosom came the neighbor, the 
citizen, the patriot, the philanthropist, and the 
Christian. 
There arc predilections and charms connected with 
every home. Its endearments do not flow from the 
external appearance of a house, but from far more 
noble causes — from pleasant associations; from the 
admonition of a kind father; from the caresses of 
a mother’s love; from the amusements of brothers 
and sisters. 
As the college student is ascending the hill of 
science, upon whose eminence all his hopes are 
placed; as he is thus grasping for knowledge and its 
advantages, he looks back with cheerfulness upon 
the Jialcyon days of childhood — upon a home where 
be received the first impressions that are to guide his 
conduct through life: a home where the inculcations 
of truth and morality were instilled into bis yet 
tender mind. 
Although pleasant it is to roam in foreign climes, 
it is still more pleasant to breathe the fragrance of 
our own native hills, visit the fields and the groves in 
which we so fondly rambled with our companions, 
stndying the wonders and beauties of nature; the 
pond where we Bpent many an hour in angling, for 
which our only recompense was weariness; the sum¬ 
mer-house, in whose bowers we passed many a hot, 
summer’s day in pernsing Shakspeare; and last, but 
not least, to see the old school-house where we 
received our first ideas of nature, men and books. 
All these fondly-remembered recollections of a 
Home are endearing to every one. .It is not always 
in the gorgeous palaces of pomp that we can find a 
home in the true acceptation of the term. Discon¬ 
tent, jealousy, and hatred, find their way too often 
into these princely dwellings. Onr social interests 
depend upon the fountain; and as is the character of 
the one, so will be the destiny of the other. 
A Home to go to is one of the greatest comforts of 
this world’s gifts. The gentle scenes of home ever 
live; the pleasant fancies of the fire ever glow with 
the same smiles; friends may go and come, hearts 
grow cold, but a pleasant, home, “ Home, sweet 
home,” where childhood lived and loved its reveries, 
never—never dies. 
“Man, through all age* nf revolving time, 
Unchanging man, in every varying clime, 
Deems his own land of every land the pride, 
Beloved by Heaven o’er all the world beside ; 
His noMB the spot of earth supremely blest, 
A dearer, sweeter spot than all tbe rest.” 
RIDICULE AND REPARTEE. 
The fatal fondness for indulging a spirit of ridicule, 
ana the injurious atid irreparable consequences 
which sometimes attend the too prompt reply, can 
never be too seriously and too severely condemned. 
Not to offend is the first step toward pleasing. To 
give pain is as much an offence against humanity as 
against good breeding; and surely it is as well to 
abstain from nu action because it is sinful as because 
it is impolite. A roan of scare amt breeding will 
sometimes join in the laugh which has been raised at 
his expense by an ill-natured repartee; but, if it was 
very cutting, and one of those shocking sort of 
truths which, as they can scarcely be pardoned, even 
in private, ought never to bo uttered in public, be 
does not laugh because be is pleased, but because be 
wishes to conceal how much he Is hurt. As the 
sarcasm was uttered by a lady, so far from seeming 
to resent it, he will be the first to commend it; but, 
notwithstanding that-, he will remember it us a trait 
of malice, when the whole company shall have for¬ 
gotten it as a stroke of wit. Women are so far from 
being privileged by their sex to say unhandsome or 
cruel things, that it is this very circumstance which 
renders them more intolerable. When the arrow is 
lodged in the heart, it is no relief for him that is 
wounded to reflect that, the hand which shot it was a 
fair one. 
HOW TO ADMONISH. 
We must consult the gentlest manner and softest 
seasons of address; our advice must not fall like a 
violent storm, bearing down and making those to 
droop whom it meant to cherish and refresh. It 
must descend as the dew upon the tender herb, or 
like melting flukes of snow: the softer it falls the 
longer it dwells upon and the deeper it sinks into 
the mind. If there are few who have the humility 
to receive advice as they ought, it is often because 
there are few who have the discretion to convey it 
in a proper vehicle, and who can qualify the harsh¬ 
ness and bitterness of reproof, against which corrupt 
nature is apt to revolt, by an artful mixture of sweet¬ 
ening and agreeable ingredients. To probe the 
wound to the button), with all the boldness and reso¬ 
lution of a good spiritual surgeon, aud yet with all 
the delicacy and tenderness of a friend, requires a 
very dexterous and masterly hand. An affable de¬ 
portment and complacency of behavior will disarm 
the most obstinate; whereas if, instead of calmly 
pointing out their mistake, we break out into un¬ 
seemly sallies of passion, we cease to have any 
influence. 
Cleanliness — Its Moral Influence.—A neat, 
clean, fresh-aired, sweet, cheerful, well arranged and 
well situated house, exercises a moral as well as 
physical influence over its inmates, and makes the 
members of a family peaceable and considerate of 
the feelings and happiness of each other. The con¬ 
nection is obvious between the state of mind thus 
produced, and habits of respect for others and for 
those higher duties and obligations which no laws 
can enforce. On the contrary, a filthy, squalid, nox¬ 
ious dwelling, rendered more so by its noisome site, 
in which none of the decencies of life can be ob¬ 
served, contributes to make its unfortunate inhab¬ 
itants selfish, sensual, and regardless of the feelings 
of each other. The constant indulgence of such 
passions renders them reckless and brutal, and the 
transition is natural to propensities and habits incom¬ 
patible with respect for the property of others or for 
the laws. 
Tiie moral nature of man is more sacred in my eyes 
than his intellectual nature. I know they cannot be 
divorced — that without intelligence we should be 
brutes — that it is the tendency of our gaping, won¬ 
dering dispositions to give pre-eminence to those 
faculties which most astonish ua. Strength of char¬ 
acter seldom if ever astonishes us; goodness, loving¬ 
ness and qniet self-sacrifice are worth all the talents 
in the world. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker ] 
THE CROSS AND CROWN. 
BY KATK CAMERON. 
Powder Mill Piety. —Said a little girl who had 
just been reading the newspaper account of an explo¬ 
sion, “ Ma, don’t you think that people who work in 
powder mills ought to he pious?” There was a great 
deal of human nature iu that question. The world, 
like the little girl, thinks that all who are especially 
exposed, ought to be prepared for sudden death. 
But is not the whole world a vaat powder mill? Is it 
not filled everywhere with the elements of destruc¬ 
tion? The very air we breathe may become pois¬ 
onous and slay us. The water wc drink may contain 
some deadly ingredient which neither sight nor taste 
can detect. We are encompassed even 1>y unseen 
dangers. We are never certain of to-morrow. Then 
should we not be prepared, whatever our age, our 
business, or our locality, for sudden death? 
The Sum ok Piety. — Tho sum of piety towards 
God, it is most truly said, “ consists in love.” This 
quickens, vitalizes, gives significance and power to 
everything else. Not, indeed, that love excludes 
knowledge, purity, rectitude, and faith. It rather 
includes them all, fills them all, being itself the vital 
element on which their value depends. Wicked men 
may know much about God and religion, but they are 
wicked because they do not love. Tbe devils know 
God aud believe in God intellectually, but they are 
devils because they hate God instead of loving him. 
But he who truly loves God will be right in every¬ 
thing else. His faith will be unfeigned, his benevo¬ 
lence will be quick and active, be will abstain from 
all filthiness of flesh and spirit, perfecting holiness 
in the fear of the Lord.— Rev. Dr. Murdock. 
he Peaceful Fruits or Pain.— There are lessons 
jatieuce and submission, yea, and of gratitude, 
ob are best learned when the head is low. There 
i mellowing of the man which is the cloudy 
linn weather of weakness or decline — a softeuing 
lie spirit, an enlargement of experience, a meeker 
ting on God, a weaning from, the world, and a 
uing of faith; in short, the whole of that matur- 
process which, in believing men, constitutes the 
itness for glory. If you cau not be thankful for 
pain, the sickness, the restraint, be thankful lor 
peaceful fruits. 
-- » ■ ^ < ♦ - — 
epentanoe. —False repentance has grief of mind 
humiliation only for great and glaring offences, 
;1 it supposes pardon for these obtained. True 
mtance is a continued war against sin, a perma- 
t inward shame for its defilements, till Death 
ids a retreat.— Venn. 
A 
She wore a eras upon !ier heart, 
’Twas not of pesri or gold; 
Nor glistened it with costly gems, 
Nor jewels rare and old; 
No blessing of a mitred priest 
Had over it been told. 
No mortal ere could 6ee it shine 
Upon the maiden'* breast; 
And yet its presence gave her soul 
Sweet peace and holy rest; 
Nor would it ever suffer her 
To be sad or distressed, 
She heard the voice that speaks to all 
Of high or low degree, 
Saying, “ Arise, take up thy cross, 
A»d come and follow Me.” 
She answered, “ Where Thou leadest, Lord, 
Lot I will follow Thee.” 
And thus the path of suffering 
Unshrinkingly she trod; 
She did not heed the piercing thorns 
That sprang op from the sod; 
She only tbonght that every step 
Brought her ‘till nearer God. 
When sorrow, want, and sickness came, 
To meet the blow she bent, 
Remembering whose gracious hand 
The bitter cup had sent; 
And in her trials prayed to be 
Calm, patient, and content. 
And when the angels came for her, 
She laid her loved crons down, 
She conld not bear it through those waves 
That all things earthly drown; 
But in its stead she wears to-day 
A saint’s immortal crown! 
Rochester, N. Y., 1861. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yor-ker.] 
RELIGION-WHAT IS IT? 
It is penitence kneeling at the altar of mercy 
imploring forgiveness and obtaining pardon. It is 
love giving the affections to Gon and keeping his 
commandments. It is benevolence breathing good 
will to maD, and doing unto otherB as we would they 
should do to us. It. is sympathy pointing the sinner 
to the sinner’s Friend. It is kindues- ministering to 
the sick npon his suffering couch, and to the prisoner 
in his gloomy cell. It is compassion relieving the 
sufferer, and helping the needy in their distress. It 
is charity, with her arms of love laden with loaves 
and garments, searching for the hungry and naked. 
It is pity weeping at another's woe, and speaking 
kind words to the abandoned and forlorn. It is for¬ 
giveness blessing her enemieH, and praying for an 
offending brother, it is mercy with her angel arms 
raising a fallen foe. It is virtue robing the soul with 
purity, and trampling temptation under foot. It is 
gratitude pouring out her offerings of praise to a ben¬ 
eficent Providence. It is resignation in adversity, 
paying, not my will but Thine be done. It is submis¬ 
sion kissing the rod of chastisement administered 
by a Heavenly Father’s hand. It is humility dwell¬ 
ing with meekness in the lowly vale. It is exaltation 
standing upon the mountain top surveying the nrom- 
iscd land nnd ....uing non, wnose throne is in the 
heavens, Father. It is faith believing God, and 
working by love and purifying the heart. It is hope 
anchoring the soul in heaven, and cheering the spirit 
by anticipating the object of its desires and expecta¬ 
tions. It is assurance, with a hope blooming with 
immortality and eternul life —calmly, peacefully, in 
the hour of death, committing the spirit to Gov who 
gave it. It is victory, in the morning of the resur¬ 
rection, triumphantly exclaiming—0 death, where is 
thy sling; O grave, where is thy victory; and ascrib¬ 
ing thanks to God who giveth the victory through 
the Lord Jesus Christ. M. H. M. 
Williamsvllle, August. 1861. 
e more the soul is filled with Bivine love, the 
it is drawn away from its own depravity. Ike 
t is inclined to follow self, the more to follow 
tel. 
