[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
DREAMS. 
O, reactifcl dream*, how yt> tome ami go 
Over the spirit, we cannot know; 
How ye bring to our yearning’ heart* once more 
The dear Ones who passed to the mystic shore; 
And the lost and the absent awhile call back 
To walk with us o'er the lone life-track. 
But sweet it is, when the cares of day, 
By the Angel of Sleep, have been banished away 
from the beautiful realm where the free soul flies, 
When the oalin stars look from the holy skies, 
To see the uniting of severed bands, 
And feel the pressure of friendly hands. 
O, beautiful dreams, yc are gifts of love 
To the pure in heart from the father above; 
And visions of darkness, ye, too, are sent, 
With haunting voices ye cry “repent;” 
For a fearful realm is the land of sleep, 
When hidden guilt in the heart lies deep. 
Fond voices sweet that are hushed for aye 
from the weary paths of the restless day, 
Life's griefs seetu less and its joys more bright, 
I If ye speak to me in the solemn night; 
And every dream of the loved and true 
Strengthens my heart for the right anew. 
And so may it be when the last long sleep 
Shall settle above me in calmness deep; 
When my soul forever unfettered flies 
To the land of the blessed beyond the skies, 
The life-day done and its labors through, 
May I part no more from the loved and true. 
Cambria, N. Y., 1862. 
[Written for Moore's Rural Now-Yorker.] 
SECOND-CLASS FEMALE WRITERS OF FICTION. 
The number of tales evidently written with a 
tacit understanding on their author's part that such 
imaginings aie but beings of a breath, is not more 
tin amazement than a modern anomaly in literature. 
Certainly, there have been second-class story writers 
for centuries, who were happy if they received but 
a passing glance from the dear public, aud expect¬ 
ant, with a stoicism that would have been sublime 
had it not been so stupid, of talking a Lethean plunge 
out of sight the moment that their immediate dibi ts 
ceased. Now, the number of these apparent self- 
negators is swelled to thousands. Volume-writers 
see their books die with a pang; but in these latter 
days the mass of female magazine story-tellers ap¬ 
pear to haVe discovered that to be quickly handed 
by Forgetfulness into Oblivion is, on the whole, a 
pleasant little ceremony. 
But oftentimes, while Appearance is asserting one 
thing, Reality, in the author's mind, is living out the 
opposite; and wo may be sure, lor multitudinous 
reasons, that many a woman has written fiction out 
of her sore need,—and because the popular taste 
demanded that, and thatonly,—in a famished, dissat¬ 
isfied mood, sadly conscious of forcing her nature 
from a higher course. Rhe knew that her talents 
were adapted to other purposes—to longer-lived 
work: that though she could never move where 
the Be Stakes, Brontes, and Avstinb of novclistic 
lore, hold their high court, she had, nevertheless, of 
other sorts, a kindred degree of strength. But the 
Time is often the maker of the Fate; and it the 
predominating impulse ol the present" is to reject 
Wisdom because clad in graver robes than Folly, 
the Wants, both social and pecuniary, will rise up to 
do Time's bidding. 
To such women the consequences are most sad. 
Let none suppose that the fictions written by them 
are an author’s effortless play. On the contrary, 
they require, from the circumstances under which 
they are composed, an outlay of mental labor which; 
will look with pitying and forgiving eyes upon his 
suffering earth-wearied children, and at last grant 
them the boon they so fervently ask, “ Even so, 
come, Lord Jesus.” Omega. 
Columbus, I'a., 3862. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
JUDGING AND BEING JUDGED. 
All the world should not be judged by the few 
with whom we come in daily contact. If our hus¬ 
bands, or wives, are disagreeable, or unreasonable, 
we are not to conclude all men and women are 
equally so. To me, there is regret and sorrow in this 
sparring and accusing each other. It shows so 
vividly how much disagreement and bitterness 
there are among families where all should be har¬ 
mony and love. 
How tew people there are who are qualified to 
live whole lives, peacefully, together. Or if they do 
not quarrel, there is no love, and each heart is 
silently weeping and breaking. It is generally con¬ 
ceded to be more in a woman’s power to reuderhome 
bright, or cheerless, than in a man’s—perhaps, be¬ 
cause she is more constantly .there. Nearly all 
men will be influenced in time, by a patient, gentle, 
loving woman. A few. It is sadly true, will heed¬ 
lessly trample on every generous, noble impulse, 
and unfeelingly, ruthlessly, rend asunder every 
heart-string, and render a woman’s life a curse and 
death a welcome messenger. Cold, unsympatlosing, 
unloving, exacting, to the last, but O, wc hope, not 
many such. And there are some, as good men as 
ever lived, bound to fretters, pouters, and every 
way uncomfortable wives. And some men who 
would have been noble, aud useful, have been 
driven to the grogshop by an untidy, disorderly, 
careless wife, who, perchance, was kind and good 
natured. We are not perfect, and we muBt not 
cease to strive more and more to follow the golden 
rule, and to forgive as we hope to bo forgiven. 
To be married is not to enter a state of unalloyed 
felicity, nor a respite from care, nor yet an exemp¬ 
tion from watchfulness and self-government. It is 
to enter upon a new and untried existence; and 
werh we rightly attuned and adapted, it would afford 
us the greatest happiness which can be enjoyed in 
this present, life. Queecuy. 
BY-GONES. 
“Dear me! If I could only live my life over 
again, I wouldn’t be where I am this hour!” sighed 
Mrs. John Turner to herself, as she slipped the 
stocking she was darning off her left hand, and 
commenced softly rocking to aud fro with a most 
lachrymose expression of countenance. “ I can see 
every day just where I might have acted with more 
wisdom and prudence, and it keeps tormentin’ every 
hour of my life. If I could only live it all over 
again! But it’s too late now; and all I can do is to r 
sit down and mourn over what mighl have been!” a 
Anri Mrs. John Turner resumed her stocking, I 
and continued her lamenting—a vague, weak, indefi- t 
nile sort of lamenting, which did not have its root o 
in any deep, present, purpose of amendment; which 
was not a healthful repentance of the mistakes and a 
wrong-doing of the past, and would not make of n 
them stepping-stones to future growth and improve- v 
rnent. And how much of this weak, aimless regret, <’ 
over mistakes and follies of the past, there is in the n 
world. It amounts to little or noth ing , after all; for p 
if these lugubrious people were to live their lives 1< 
Over again, it Is very probable that they would not 
be very much improved. The same habits of heart u 
and character would produce like results, and tl 
nobody will grow, morally or mentally, without a 1 
determinate, overshadowing purpose to do so. b 
Dear reader, it is folly and nonsense to waste your g 
life in vain regrets over might-have-beens! Of v 
tney are composed, an outlay ot mental labor which; course, there’s no denying that you ought to be a 
if it. could be appreciated, would appall in place of great deal wiser and better than you are. Look the 
amusing their readers. 1 bus women toil on, the facts in the face, lie sorry, with a true and sincere 
shuttle of whose thoughts would ply easily betwixt 
the sober-colored, substantial stuil's of life, but who 
weave these airy, gossamer fabrics with a great pain 
at the heart—a consciousness of lost time, of misdi¬ 
rected talent, and even of moral wrong done to 
themselves. The real strength of a mind so bent 
from its inclination is scattered amid rubbish. It is 
sad to find a brilliant thought, like a bewildered 
stranger, astray. In our fashionable “ lady novels,” 
wo sometimes see a few lines where Nature con¬ 
quered and forced away all meretricious entice¬ 
ments, and something true and strong starts 
out in Hashing disagreement with surrounding inan¬ 
ity. These are gleams from the woman’s real life, 
undimmed by false Arf.—those are her wasted gems, 
dropped where those capable of appreciating thorn 
will seldom search, and rejected by (he more fre¬ 
quent reader, hurrying on to the 11 denouement.” 
Le Roy, N. Y., 1862, Eliza Woodworth. 
- — »—» ♦ i 4 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker,] 
IS IT WRONG? 
Poor Susan, sorrow Ruth never before laid so heavy hands 
upon her. She prays daily for that which mortals have no 
right to pray for,—death ,—[Rural New-YorJcer. 
Alas, there are many such in our land—many 
who are hopelessly mourning ever the utter ruin 
and desolation of the heart’s fairest prospects— 
whose light of life is gone out, and who, with tear- 
blinded eyes and stumbling feet, grope along life’s 
pathway, murmuring, “How long, 0, Lord, how 
long”—who are daily wishing and praying for death. 
Is it wrong? 
Earth's varied scenes of beauty attract not their 
eyes, her sweetest music-strains charm not their 
ears, her fleeting joys and pleasures allure them 
no longer; their hopes, their aims, their very hearts 
arc dead; life is a burden; and knowing and feel¬ 
ing this, is if. strange that they should look forward 
to the deep peace and quietness of the grave, where 
“ the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary 
are at rest!” Is it wrong? 
Only on the bosom of the Infinite is there perfect. 
rest; only In the arms of His love can the mourners 
of earth find the sympathy and consolation which 
they need; in His presence alone is there “fullness 
of joy." And is it wrong to anticipate (his blessed¬ 
ness, nay, to wish and pray for the time to come 
when they may lay down their burdens of toil and 
care, of grief and suffering—when their feet shall 
stand firmly upon the other side ol the liver, their 
wailing changed to singing, their bitterest sorrows 
to everlasting joys —when “God shall wipe away 
all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more 
death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall thero 
be any more pain?” Is it wrong? 
We pray lor life and life’s daily blessings; then 
why not for its last and greatest blessing —its 
crown ? Is it wrong to pray for death? 
Perhaps so; but. i believe the good Father above, 
knowing their human weakness and imperfection, 
repentance, for all the opportunities which you have clenched fiercely, and on every lineament is plainly 
wasted, tor all the wrong you have done, and the stamped the patriot's wordR, *• My Country ami my 
good you have omitted to do, and then set yourself God;” and on the pule, resolved brow of the sleeper 
bravely to work to make the must of what remains, by his side is written. “ Victory or Death.” A look 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
WORKING FOR PAY. 
by Kate woodland. 
Tiik mortals of earth are nil working for pay; 
v The youthful nod aged, the sober mnl gay. 
The learned and the ignorant, lowly and high, 
The poor and the wealthy, nil look hy-and hy 
for K<mrJhing to pay them for conflict* and strife, 
for the struggles of hope and the labors of life, 
s 
j The Miser is working for glittering pay, • 
And he counts o'er his treasures mid hoards them away, 
And thinks their possession will pay him for toil, 
For suffering privation, for sin-laden spoil; 
While the poor man, who labors till daylight is o’er, 
) Is content if he keeps pressing want from his door. 
The Belle, who rejoices in flounces and beaux, 
Gets tlie pay that she works for as fast as she goes; 
The Student, who pores o'er his volume at night, 
i Sees afar in the distant his payment so bright; 
Life's workshop is tilled with tlie toilers for fame, 
Whose future reward is the glory of name. 
i The Patriot Soldier, who looks for no bay 
To garland lus brow, is yet working for pay, 
And receives it the moment lie sees id his feet 
TJie country ho loves in her triumph complete; 
And Martyrs, who die for the truths that they love, 
Take their pay in advance, uml invest, it. above 
The Mother, who toils for the child of her love, 
Is content if good, wise, great., or noble, lie prove; 
The Philanthropist feels that his labors are paid, 
If one wretched bosom more happy he’s made; 
And the Christian will suffer all sorrowing now 
for the crown (hat hereafter shall circle his brow. 
In some form or manner, for some kind of pay, 
The mortals of earth are all working to day; 
Alaal for the many who never will gain 
The riches they covet for heart, body, or brain; 
Alas! for the hopes that are Scattered in air, 
For the souls that grow weary with labor and care. 
Alas! for the prospered who find, when too lute, 
That their pay has been drawn from a Wurthhss estate; 
Alas! lor the hands that must reap what they sow, 
When the harvest is thistles, anil gathered in woo; 
Alas! for the reaper, whose bountiful seed 
Was sown by the wayside, or choked |,y the weed. 
But the faithful who labor, whose struggles and strife 
Are rewarded by nothing they meet with in life, 
Shall surely receive all the pay that is due, 
In the Master's Own time, With Jolt interest, too; 
We shall reap wind we sow, be it herbage or dust, 
For God, in His Infinite wisdom, is just. 
Carlton, N. Y., 1862. 
4 » t —♦ 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
LEAVES FROM MY JOURNAL. 
THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
The battle is over, the fierce conflict ended, and 
night, silence, and death brood over tbo field which 
a few, short hours ago swunned with countless 
hosts, and resounded with the roar of cannon and 
the clashing of bayonets, blended with the shrieks 
of the wounded and dying. 
Oh! that bloody battle-field, that scene of carnage 
and desolation! It haunts me by day and night,— 
my waking and sleeping dreams; and as 1 sit here 
with my bead bowed upon my clasped hands, 
endeavoring to shut out the awful sight, nnd cheat 
my heart into the belief that ii all i* but some dread 
phantasy of an overwrought imagination, it but. 
looms up before me the more vividly still. 
The pale moon, which is now smiling so calmly 
upon me, smiles, also, upon that battle-field; and 
the bright stars hold their holy vigils there as here. 
Those cold moonbeams,— how mockingly the rays 
bathe the gory field with its heaps of slain, and the 
ghastly upturned faces of the dead Me thinks the 
expression of the pale, dead faces, is a type ol their 
lust thoughts and vvords. A calm serenity pervades 
the countenance of one, as if his last words were, 
“Mother, Homq, Heaven.” Another has his hand 
clenched fiercely, and un every lineament is plainly 
stamped the patriot's words, “ My Country and my 
was the most danger there was he found, and they 
appeal to my pride to stifile my wild grief, and think 
proudly of one who sought, no higher honor than to 
die for his country,— that he was buried with mili¬ 
tary honors, and his name inscribed upon the scroll 
of fame. 
Oh! how little they know the human heart,— a 
mother’s heart. What has it to do with pride when 
its best a flee lions are concerned? Pageantry, potop, 
and fame! What are they to me? Can they give 
me back my boy, or sooth my aching heart? What 
is glory to me, or I to glory —the poor fleeting 
honors of this world? p 
’Tis said he fills an honored soldier’s grave. Oh 
rather give him back to me, and let Him be buried 
in the old graveyard at home, where I may weep 
and pray over his grave. Methinks ’twould cool 
my burning brow to rest it upon the sod that covers 
his dear dead heart. They say many are bowed 
with sorrow, this day, as I. They do blit jest,—did 
ever mother love like me? Was ever boy like mine? 
The country had its thousands, 1 had but my one— 
could it not have spared him to me. ’Tis said, Oh, 
God! that Thou art. full of mercy and loving kind¬ 
ness, but I feel only thy heavy rod. Why is this 
bitter cup presented to me? Why this burden 
heavier than I can bear? Why? Am I talking 
wildly, sacriligiously ? I know not: 1 only feel and 
know that tuy boy is //one, forever gone. 
Oh, Father, deal gently with a mother’s broken 
heart; let me not. question the wisdom of Thy 
decrees; teach my rebellious lips to murmur, “ Thy 
will be done,” and day and night will f bow before 
Thy footstool, praying, ever praying, that my boy 
and 1 may meet again, and sit down together upon 
the bank of the river of life, which maketb glad the 
“ city of our God.” 
Oh! young, betrothed maiden, thy slight form 
drooping with its weight of woe, in the shadowy 
depths of thy dark eyes, burdened with unshed 
tears, can be read a tale of anguish that, can never 
pass away; and thy small, pale hands, pressed upon 
thy heart, which is slowly breaking for the noble, 
true and brave, who, loving thee, loved his country 
more, and shed bis best blood in its defence. Terri¬ 
ble, indeed, iH thy first realization of sorrow and 
death I 
How sadly to-night the wife gathers her little 
flock around her, longing yet dreading to hear the 
worst. 
“ Oh ! pale, pale face I Oh! helpless hands; 
Sweet eyes by fruitless watching wronged, 
Yet turning ever toward the land 
Where war’s red hosts are thronged, 
She secs no conquering ling unfurled, 
She hears no victory's brazen roar, 
But a dear face which was her world, 
Perchance, she'll kiss no more. 
Yesterday, they say, a tick) was won,— 
Her eyes ask tidings of the fight; 
But tell her of the dead alone, 
Who lay out in the night 
In mercy tell her that his name 
Was not upon the fatal list, 
That not among the heaps of slain 
Dumb arc the lip* she's kissed.” 
In the present great national crisis, our women 
should leach themselves the bitter lesson of life, 
“to suffer and be strong.” Even now, many are 
the Spartan mothers of our land who. with uutrem- 
bHng band, buckle on the swords of their sons, and, 
without, a tear or sigh, exclaim, “ I have given him 
to his country, the God of battles defend him!” 
My heart is full of deeper sadness, and my tears 
fall like rain, when 1 think of one who “went forth 
from among us to fight, bleed, and die, if need be, 
tiir his native land. Noble, true, and brave, “none 
knew him but to love, none named him save to 
praise.” But he, too, perished in the “good cause.” 
Wen* the green laurels which thou hadst already 
won, too heavy for the young brow around which 
they were entwined? With “ Excelsior ” forever on 
thy lips, and burning in thy heart, did it not cause 
thee a pang to enter into the “ valley of shadows”— 
out off in all the promising brightness of thy young 
manhood, with the great untried field of Life spread 
out before thee, in which those thoughts to accom- 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
SYMPATHY. 
Bkar ye one another's burdens.—Gal. 6: 2. 
Of all divine commands the gospel gives, 
None hath more deep import than this, for none 
So great and good hut they mny hid their hearts 
Remember it—none so east down by sin 
lint they this holy law uiay strive to keep. 
i 
ITmlmnd, who bast the pence mid joy of her 
Whom thou hast sworn to love, in thine own hands. 
Scorn not, to listen to her potty griefs. 
She will return thy love with grateful heart. 
How peaceful shall your journey he, as down 
Life's troubled stream yo glide, it' ye but heed 
The Savior's words, “ Each other's burdens hear.” 
Sister and brother, in your childhood’s home, 
By love surrounded, still we know that youth 
Hath its own griefs and cares till it hath learned 
Life's deep stem lesson, discipline O, learn, 
This precept well; ’twill bless ye now, and be 
A sweet reniemhranee cvennwrc, if, 
In life’s young thorn, each other's griefs ye hear. 
Neighbor, is there within your midst but one 
Sickness and want hath sorely visited; 
Relieve his needs, speak words of cheer, and with 
A loving heart share all his sorrows, and 
The God of Love- will look with pitying eye 
Upon thy day of grief, and heal thy wounds. 
Christian, striving by the aid of prayer 
To gain the victory over sin and win 
A fadeless crown above, thy heart is not 
The only sent of strife. Others, like thee, 
Are fighting the good tight; seek them, 
Mingle thy tears nnd prayers with theirs; bear yo 
Each other's burdens, and fulfil 1 Christ’s law. 
Geneva, Win., 1862. B. C. D. 
WHO ABIDES? 
The worldly man loves the world. That is the 
object of his affection; but that is changing and 
perishing; the world passeth away. The Christian 
loves God; that is the object on which he fixes his 
heart; and God is everlasting; in Him there is no 
change; lie endures forever. And while the loved 
object in which the worldly mail delights vanishes 
away, and while he himself is hurried away from 
its enjoyment, the object of the Christian’s regard 
abides the same; and as that object fills and satisfies 
the soul, he himself may bo said to abide, for he can 
never bo permanently separated from the God he 
loves. Yen, he himself shall live forever and dwell 
where God is — he abidoth forever. 
The love of the Christian, in opposition to the lust 
of the world, abideth forever. If by it we under¬ 
rate the inordinate desire which we have for these 
things, that, too, passeth away. But the love which 
the Christian has for God, the object of his regard, 
is inextinguishable. It abides forever; and so does 
his love for his fellow-creatures. Charity, love, 
never fuilcth; whether there be prophecies, they 
shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall 
cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish 
away, * * And now abideth faith, hope, charity; 
these three; and the greatest of these is charity, or 
love; it abides forever. And the Christian's love is 
inseparable from himself; as that endures, so he 
abideth forever. And the world passeth away, and 
the lust thereof; but he that doeth the will of God 
abideth forever. 
- > < » ■ <- 
THE TRUE MEASURE OF LIFE. 
Life is measured by quality, not by quantity. 
Not bow long, how easy, how tranquil, how golden 
bright, but how much, and in what kind, is the ques¬ 
tion. Methuselah lived a thousand years. Jesus 
lived thirty. Doubtless Methuselah was eupeptic, 
moderate and well to-do; and doubtless on New 
Year’s day he gave a grand dinner to his grand¬ 
children and great-grand-children lo the thirtieth 
and fortieth generation: told them how he had suc¬ 
ceeded in reaching his very green old age, what he 
ate, what he drank, how many miles he walked, how 
Don’t, my friends, spend the rest of your years of sadness overshadows the joyous lace of one, as if plish so much, didst not thy whole soul go forth in many hours he slept; and bade them to do likewise, 
in fruitless lamentations. Because you have done 
wrong, that is no proof that you always need to do 
so. Resolve to do right, to make more of yourself, 
with the help and strength of God, aud for you the 
“end shall be better than tlm beginning.” If there 
were less weeping anil more working in the world, it 
would be better for lh« whole race. I'se your com¬ 
mon sense, which most of us do shamefully abuse. 
What good will you accomplish, what better oil'will 
you be, for simple regret that works no change nor 
growth? Be slothful no longer, but prove, by a 
better living, that your repetitaucfc is of that kind 
which makes the experience of the past tributary to 
the present, and ivorketli out a reward great and 
eveilasting.— Home Magazine. 
BE HAPPY AS YOU ARE, 
Wife, and mother, are you tired, and out of 
patience with your husband's and your children’s 
demands upon your time and attention? Are you 
tempted to speak out angry feelings to that faithful, 
but perhaps sometimes heedless or exacting hus¬ 
band of yours, or to scold and fret lo t hose beautiful 
ones? Do you groan, and say, “what a fool I was 
to leave my father, where 1 lived in ease and in 
quiet.” Are you, by reason of the care and weari¬ 
ness of body which wifehood and motherhood must 
bring, forgetful and ungrateful fur their comforts 
and their joys? Oh wile, and mother, what if a 
stroke should smite your husband and lay him low— 
what it your children should be snatched from your 
arms, and your bosom — what if there were no true, 
strong hearts for you to lean upon — what if there 
were no soft little innocents to nestle in your arms, 
and to love you or to receive your love? How 
would it be with you then? 15 patient, and kind, 
dear wife. Be unwearying, and long suffering, dear 
mother, for you know not how long you may tarry 
with them. Let there he nothing for you to remem¬ 
ber. which will ring your heart with remorse if they 
leave you alone. Let there be nothing for them but 
sweetness and love unutterable, if you are called to 
leave them by the way. Be patient, be pitiful, be 
tender of them all; for Death will step, sooner or 
later, between them and you. And oh! what would 
you do if you should be doomed fo sit solitary and 
forsaken through years and years? Be happy as 
you are, even with all your trials; for, believe me, 
thou wife of a loving and pure husband, thuro is no 
lot in life so blessed as thine own.— Rahway Repub¬ 
lican, 
■ - ■ 4 * ■ 4— -. - - 
The most, important lesson of life is to know how 
to be happy within ourselves, when homo is our 
comfort, and all in it. Do not refine away happi¬ 
ness by thinkiug that which is good may be better. 
he found it hard to die and give up that world in 
which, perchance, he had found naught save happi¬ 
ness Another lias his lips half parted, as if with 
his latest breath he called upon the being he loved 
boston earth, — “Mother. Oh, Mother!”—believing 
the strong love she bore for him would revive his 
failing energies, and fan the flickering fires of life 
into a flame once more. What a bright, happy look- 
one young face wears, his arms thrown carelessly 
above his head, like a tired child lying down to 
rest, and a smile hovering around his lips as if his 
dreams were very pleasant, Alas, they will know 
no awakening. 
The news of the “great battle” has spread far 
and near with lightning speed, and who, save those 
who experience it, can imagine the darkness of the 
pall which to-night enshrouds so many hearts and 
homes in our once peaceful land? Jlow many, 
to-night, are on their bended knees, wrestling in 
prayer to God to have mercy upon their loved ones, 
longing wildly (hough vainly to hear some tidings 
of the absent, and suffering all the horrors of that 
suspense which “ maketh the heart sick even unto 
death.” What sighs aud moans of anguish break 
upon the startled air, full of grief too deep for tears. 
Woman, patient, loving, self-sacrificing woman, her’s 
is Ihe heaviest burden; her’s is the rankling wound 
that never heals; pangs sharper than a two-edged 
sword pierce her bosom. She finds the heart can 
“ break and brokenly live on.” God help the moth¬ 
ers, daughters, and wives who have just received 
the “latest war news” confirming their worst fears. 
Listen to a mother’s mournful wailings: My boy! 
my boy! my brave and gallant boy, my only son, 
Ihe pride and darling of my life, dead:- 1 That noble 
young bead so often pillowed upon my bosom, now- 
resting upon the gory battle-field; those bright, 
golden curls dabbled aud stiff with blood; the lung, 
dark lashes never more to lie lifted by will of the 
sleeper, sweeping his pale cheeks? Ah! the light of 
the whole world has died out lor me; now those dear 
eyes, which ever beamed with love, are closed,— 
those chiseled lips that I would gladly die to press 
to mine once morel What name lingered there 
last, dying away with his latest breath? Whose 
should it be save mine , his mother’s? No other love 
has ever stepped between us — mine in life, mine in 
death! thank God, all mine. 
Dead! Will the sun shine on the morrow, the 
birds sing, and the flowers bloom as on yesterday? 
Will I never more hear my darling’s bounding foot¬ 
step cross the home threshold? his merry voice ring¬ 
ing out, making music all around? They tell me 
he was not afraid to die. Afraid! my gallant boy, 
who never feared ought save doing wrong? That 
he fought bravely, and to the last his slight figure 
could be seen iu the thickest of the light,— where 
the prayer — 
“ spare me, great God, lift up my drooping brow ; 
I am content to die, but oh, not now,” 
Who bent above thee whispering, “ Let me kiss auu l MUUC,Uttn * ™ UI lo avtHU ine wear ana 
him for his mother?” Far from home and friends tear of conscience and love. Jesus put his whole 
he died, and found a lonely grave among strangers; bt ' ing into * ct > 5 rowded the ^' 'litles into the 
but. such as he need no marble slab or glaring m omeuts, died daily for his mothers apd sisters,and 
epitaph to mark his resting place, for his name is Baidt0 his McndB ’ “ Would ^ ou th< ‘ life ever- 
advising them to be temperate in all things, especi¬ 
ally in working and thinking, to keep themselves 
anxious; to let other people take care of themselve% 
and to be particularly careful to avoid the wear and 
tear of' conscience and love. Jesus put his whole 
being into every act, crowded the eternities into the 
engraved upon the scroll of fame, and enshrined in 
loving hearts. Darkly and heavily will the shadows 
gather around his home, without the light of his 
presence, and loved ones weep bitter tears, for he 
will come no more. The night is fast waning, and 
the stars are fading from the sky; soon all nature 
will awake to life, and light, and joy, but mocking 
the terror-stricken earth. In our blindness and 
short-sightedness, we call out, “ Who is sufficient tor 
these things?” “ Let us bow meekly, knowing that 
il will all be revealed in His good time.” 
A. A, Co., Maryland, 1802. A. W. C. 
Titk little vexations and minor miseries of life 
can only be met with patience and philosophy. 
They can't be “put down” like an insurrection, nor 
expelled like a bad church member. The best that 
can fie done with them is to pay as little attention 
to them as possible, and not to double their power 
by fretting over them. As the immortal Shakspeare 
says—we don’t remember exactly where— 
“ for every evil under the sun 
There is a remedy or there’s none; 
If there is one, try and find it; 
If there Isn't, never mind it.” 
-> » ♦ ■ -*- 
The best Legacy.— The most precious legacy 
that a parent can give to a*child, is that throughout 
all its after life it should, iu connection with every¬ 
thing that is wise, and true, and just, and pure, and 
Spiritual, call to mind father and mother. It is a 
blessed privilege for parents to write their names 
on the child's conceptions of wisdom, and truth, 
and justice, and purity, and spirituality, so that 
all through life, when the child thinks of these 
things, he shall instantly associate with them father 
and mother.— II. W. Beecher. 
» i ^ > 4 ■ ■ 
There are miseries which wring the very heart. 
Some want even food; they dread the winter. Others 
eat forced fruits; artificial heats change the earth 
and seasons to please their palates. I have known 
citizens, because grown rich, so execrably'dainty as 
to swallow at a morsel the nourishment of a hun¬ 
dred families. Great arc they who can behave well 
in these extremities. Let me he nor happy nor 
uuliappy—that, is, neither rich nor poor. I take 
sanctuary in an honest mediocrity. — Bruyere. 
said to his friends, “ Would you have the ,life ever¬ 
lasting, do as I do; take up the cross.” Methuselah 
is a name in the Hebrew Bible; Jesus is the power 
and victory of an endless life iu the world's heart. 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay, 
better one moment ol Jesus than a thousand years 
of Methuselah.— 0. B. Frolhingham. 
COMFORT AND COUNSEL. 
Grace, mercy and peace be with you. I am 
well, and 1 verily count more of the sufferings of 
my Lord, than of this world's luster and over-gilded 
glory, I dare not say but my Lord bath fully 
recompensed rny sadness with 11 is joys, my losses 
with His own presence. I find it a sweet and rich 
thing to exchange my sorrows with Christ’s joys; 
my afflictions with that sweet, peace I have with 
Himself. Go on, my dear brother, in the strength 
of the Lord; put Christ’s love to the trial, and put 
upon it burdens, and then will it appear lOve 
indeed. We employ uot IT is love, and therefore we 
know it not. Lotus be faithful, and care for our 
own part, which is to do and suffer for Him; and 
lay Christ's part on Himself, and leave it there. 
Duties are ours, events are God's. When our faith 
gooth to meddle with events, and to question God’s 
providence, and beginneth to say, “How wilt thou 
do this, and that?" we lose ground. We have noth¬ 
ing to do there. It is our part to let the Almighty 
exercise ITis own office.— Rutherford. 
-« . ♦ . «- 
God’s Care.—“ I was once called,” says Mr. Jay, 
“to attend the dying bed of a young female. In 
answer to my inquiries, she replied, “I have little 
to relate as to my experience. 1 have been much 
tempted; but this is my sheet anchor. He hath 
said, ‘Him that corneth unto me 1 will in nowise 
cast out,’ I know 1 come to Him, and 1 expect lie 
will be as good as His word. Poor and unworthy 
as I am, He will not trifle with me nor deceive 
me. It would be beneath His greatness as well as 
goodness.’ ” 
- +«♦»-» - - 
Man’s works, even iu their most perfect form, 
always have more or less excitement in them. 
God’s works ure calm and peaceful, both ill nature 
aud in His word. Hence Wordsworth, who is, 
above all men, tbo poet of nature, seldom excites 
the feelings, because he is so true to liis subject 
