HOMESICK. 
nr MH8. c. a. gii.i>kbblkktb. 
Homksick for tlie waves’ low murmur by blue Eric’s peb¬ 
bled shore; 
Homesick for the vines that clamber lovingly about rny 
door; 
Homesick for familiar faces that will smile on me no 
where religion requires no such sacrifice; aland 
where the only sacrifice demanded is to give 
yourselves to the service of God, renouncing sin 
and everything which tends to wean the heart 
from Him. m. w. 
Naples Academy, N. V., 1863. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
WHAT WOMEN MAY DO FOR THE SOLDIERS. 
Homesick for the days now ended, passed from sunshine 
into gloom; 
Homesick In this stately paiacc, where a fettered child I 
roam; 
Homesick in the frescoed grandeur, for my dear old cot¬ 
tage home. 
Homesick for the silent voices—tones whose melody has 
ceased; 
Homesick in this worldly bondage, struggling to be re¬ 
leased; 
Homesick at this splendid banquet, longing for a simpler 
feast. 
Homesick for the dewy roses—roses are not, fragrant here; 
Homesick for the stars above them —there they seem so 
very near, 
Bending downward in the twilight; now they glitter far 
and drear. 
Homesick in this tangled coiling, crested fate, compas- 
sionless, 
Cannot hold the wild free crescent, backward sweeping, 
me to bless 
With its deeper, stronger surgings, where my love lies 
fathomless. 
And the arras of the present lifts its foldings in my sleep, 
And the blossoms, stars, and loved ones waft me benedic¬ 
tions deep, 
And the morning nor the real cannot clutch the kiss I 
keep. 
Necromancers wierd and pitying take me back in dreams 
to dwell; 
Soothe my lonely, homesick spirit—string the lute and 
mend the shell; 
And I sing, and sing, and listen, under memory’s subtle 
spell. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE MOTHER AT THE GANGES. 
’Tis night in India. The moon which, per¬ 
chance, has looked upon happier homes, now 
shines down upon a mother in her agony. In 
the hush of night she strives to calm her agita¬ 
tion, but in vain. She gobs in uncontrollable 
anguish, and clasps still closer to her bosom the 
object of her grief. It, is her babe, her darling, 
and she knows that another morning's sun will 
herald the day of its saeiifico to the god of the 
heathen—the river Ganges. In her blind faith 
she thinks that such a sacrifice, however great it 
may be, and at whatever cost to her motherly 
feelings, must be made, c-lse it will bring down 
the wrath of the river god upon her. 
In this hour of trial, while the scalding tears 
are falling upon the upturned face of the sleep- 
iug child, as she stooped to press the young brow 
to which the Angel of Sleep had lent double 
beauty, she could hot exclaim:— “ How can 1 
give thee up? Thou whom, with all a mother's 
tenderness, 1 have watched so lovingly and suf¬ 
fered not even the light winds of heaven to visit, 
thy cheek too roughly; would I had never made 
the fatal vow—had never pledged thy life. And 
yet, methiuks, that even now, while thou art so 
calmly sleeping, death is only brother to the 
sweet angel that now guards thy slumber; and 
the eyes of my before offended god w ill smile 
approvingly upon me. While I fee] that if is 
more than agony to sever the tie of natural atf'ec- 
tion, it still is blessed, when it purchases the 
favor of the great avenging spirit” * * * 
Midnight. No sound is heard save the troubled 
breathing ol the sleeping mother, and the little 
child close folded In her arms. She dreams; 
dreams of her child dearer than life to her. She 
hears the roar of the turbulent, river. And out of 
it there comes a voice demanding her babe. Sho 
seems frozen to icy torpor, and yet lo disobey is 
death. A struggle. It is over; and amid the j 
roaring of the waters, and the beating of her own j 
heart, she hoars the infant scream of her darling! : 
Her arms are stretched out to save it, but an 
invisible power holds her back and whispers , 
that it is of no avail. She wakens: but not to j 
find herself childless. No; lor the horrible scene j 
must be re-enacted and become a reality. In the , 
depths of her heart she wishes it were even as 
the dream,— past. j 
The night had been long and dreary; yes, very r 
long and very dreary. Anxiously, though trein- j 
bliugly, the mother waited for the dawn. Each 
hour had been stretched to double length by the n 
stern power of agony. All night had she waited ti 
on the banks of the wild rolling Ganges. “ But c 
look! The morn in russet maullo clad, walks a 
o’er the dew of you high eastern hills,” and u 
Bmmah’s sun has risen. Its first beams fall o: 
scorchiugly on the mother’s pale brow as it v 
ushers in the dreaded',day. pi 
Part of the weary night has been whirled tl 
away in wreathing a fiury bark in which to place a < 
her precious burden; and as she bound each Vl 
dewy flower among the soft, green leaves, tears, p" 
full, fast tears, fell like sacred pearls —for a 
“Oix! if / could only do something for my 
o country." I have often beard ladies say, as they 
read accounts of “battles fought and victories 
B won.” “If / could do something to serve my 
country, how gladly would J do it” You can do 
i something, although you cannot go on the “tent¬ 
ed field,” or engage in a battle,—you can cheer 
‘ Up those who have gone, for they will get down- 
spirited at times. Write long, cheerful letters to 
5 them. Don't write that “ you are afraid this ter¬ 
rible war will never end—that you have no con¬ 
fidence, whatever, in our Generals,” Ac., &c. 
As 1 said before, write cheerful letters—full of 
home news. That is the kind they like,—they 
seem like a visit home, if John Such-a-one, and 
Susan Some-body-else, have token it into their 
heads to get married, or “the baby,” has cut a 
new tooth, or can say, “ papa,” toil him of it. 
You may think them trifles —but “he” will not. 
Mothers, wives, and sisters, it is your duty (as 
well as pleasure,) to write cheerful letters to 
your friends in the array, for any one knows that 
a cheerful soldier will do his duty better than a 
disheartened one, who wishes he were at home 
again, for wife writes that she can hardly get 
along. Put the best side out. Thiuk of the 
many comforts you enjoy while he has to be con¬ 
tent with a small tent, hard bread and raw pork, 
and every day the same. “ Count your inarcies,” 
as “ Uncle Tom” said to “Aunt Cih.ob.” Some, 
perhaps, have no near friend in “ this terrible 
war”—us they call it —and it is a terrible war, 
when we thiuk only of the gTcat loss of life, and 
the wretchedness of those Left to mourn,—but 
when we look beyond, and see the great good 
that will result from it,—that thousands who 
wore in bonds sbull be free, and our land rid of 
such a terrible curse— then, I say it is a glorious 
war! And those who have no near friends to 
write too, let them write to their schoolmates, for 
surely they must have some friends in this war. 
Some of you, perhaps, are good nurses, and are 
not very much needed at home. Go to the hos¬ 
pitals and nurse some poor sick soldiers — you 
are needed there Many die for the want of a 
woman s care —and shall a little false delicacy 
keep you from giving it? Gon forbid. 
Spencer, Tioga Co., N. Y., 1863. A. B. 
-- 4 »♦-—_, 
WOMAN AS A MOTIVE POWER. 
What a wonderful solution to life’s enigma 
there is in petticoat government! Man might lie 
in the sunshine, and cat lotuses, and fancy it 
“ always afternoon,” if his wile would let him ! 
But sho won't, bless her impulsive heart and ac¬ 
tive mind! She knows better than that. Who 
ever beard of a woman taking life as if ought to 
be taken. Instead of supporting it as an una¬ 
voidable nuisance only redeemable by its brevity, 
she goes through it as a pageant or a procession. 
She drosses for it, and simpers, and grins, and 
gesticulates lor it. She pushes her neighbors 
and struggles for a good place in the dismal 
march; she elbows, and writhes, and tramples, 
and prances to the one end of making the most 
of the misery. She gets up early and sits up late, 
and is loud, and reckless, and noisy and unpity¬ 
ing. She drags her husband on to the woolsack 
or pushes him into parliament. She drives him 
full butt at the dear, lazy machinery of govern¬ 
ment, and knocks and buffets him about the 
wheels, and cranks, and screws, and pulleys, 
until somebody, for quiet's sake, makes him 
something that she wanted him to be made. 
That’s why incompetent men sometimes sit in 
high places and interpose th. fr poor, muddled 
Writ ion for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A DREAM PICTURE. 
BT JAMES O CLARK. 
I drkamkd I lived midst leafy borders, 
Near a broad and swelling Hood, 
Where were heard the mighty waters 
Singing to #n ancient wood. 
O’er my forest pathway clinging 
The wild-grape and myrtle grew; 
Round my forest homo were springing 
Flowers of every breath atid hue. 
Gently waved the groves of willow, 
Glancing in the sunbeams bright,— 
While the wood bird’s music, mellow, 
Floated on (.he morning light. 
All around was blooming summer— 
All was still beneath, above, 
Save the water’s ceaseless murmur, 
And the song bird's voice of love. 
Oft beside that solemn river 
I have seen the dying day, 
Passing, bang its golden quiver 
Brightly over bower and bay. 
Far below the eastern mountains 
Towered above the trenjtiling tides, 
With ten thousand caves aud fountains 
Sparkling on tlieir rocky aides: 
From the rock* the ivy growing 
Twined amidst the fountain waves; 
Crystal spars and gems were glowing 
In the waters anti the caves. 
High above those slopes enchanted 
Slept, the pride of former day s; 
Gilded balls and castles haunted 
Glittered in the sunset bhuce 
There were realm* renowned in storv, 
Fallen from tlieir regal might,— 
Reveling in the transient glory 
Of the day’s expiring light. 
Distant temples, crimson painted, 
Reared their domes thro' purple skies, 
Veiling shrines that once were tainted 
With the guilty sacrifice. 
Then a brazen wall surrouaded 
Battlements and towers dim; 
Dungeons wild, by light unsounded, 
Yawued beneath its arches grim. 
OI wbat notes of wo and mourning 
Oft had pierced their sullen gloom, 
When the slave, in fetters burning, 
Shrieked within liis deathless tomb. 
Scenes like these had now perished, 
Time-worn lay the rusty chain,— 
Death no more was madly cherished 
O’er a life of living pain. 
But beneath each frowning portal 
Stood a tablet, mould’rlng near, 
Carvod with tttleH of deeds immortal,_ 
Records dark that none might hear. 
Thus while crystal caves and fountains 
Sparkled at its mighty base, 
Slept the city of the mountains, 
Mute in dreams of undent days. 
I have watched it* fading towers 
O’er the fountain’s golden spray, 
Till the western wave* and bowers 
Whispered to the twilight gray. 
I have loved its haunted alleys 
In the visions of my youth,— 
I have viewed its bord’ring valleys 
When each vision seemed a truth. 
O ! that land of perished pleasures 
Still returns, In dreams, to me, 
With its shining domes and treasures 
Mirrored on the shining sea. 
■ — — ^ -T- 
Written for Moore s Rural New-Yorker. 
WRITINGS ON THE EARTH. 
defense from foes, and in piers and wharves for 
ships, A nation or people expresses its sense 
_ ot the need and worth of education in the form 
of school-houses, seminaries and colleges. Jails 
and prisons speak the determination of society to 
secure safety to itself by restraining and punish¬ 
ing its criminals. Pillars, columns, obelisks and 
monuments perpetuate the memory of great men 
and important events, The great Chinese wall 
speaks an ancient people's dread of foreign inva¬ 
sion. The pyramids of Egypt, and Stonehenge 
ot England, have stood till their meaning is: lost 
from the traditions of men. But a small part of 
man's writing is done on paper. All over the 
earth, wherever human life has been sustained, 
be has set his impress in characters, made feeble 
and scattered at first, but growing more and more 
firm, polished and abounding as the writer’s brain 
acquired completer ideas, aud his hand gained 
superior skill aud power. ‘ At 
South Livonia, N. Y., 1863. 
BE A WHOLE MAN 
IV k are not sent here to do merely some one 
thing which we can scarcely suppose that we 
shall he required to do again, when, crossing 
the Styx, we find ourselves in eternity. Whether 
I am a painter, a sculptor, a poet, a romance 
writer, an essayist, a politician, it lawyer, a 
merchant, a hatter, a tailor, a mechanic at fac¬ 
tory or at loom —it is certainly much for me in 
this life to do the one thing 1 profess to do as 
well as I can. But when ! have done That, and 
that thing alone, nothing more, where is my 
profit in the life to come? J do not believe 
that I shall be asked to paint pictures, carve 
statues, write odes, trade at exchange, make 
hats or coats, or manufacture pins and prints 
when I am in the Empyrean. Whether I be ! 
the grandest genius on earth in a single thing, 
and that single thing earthly—or the poor peas- 1 
ant who, behind his plow, whistles for want of j 
thought—r strongly suspect it will be all one 
when I puss to the competitive examination — * 
yonder! On the oilier side of the grave a ' 
Kaffae lie’s occupation may be gone as well as 1 
a plowman’s. This world is a school for the ' 
education, not of faculty, but of a man. Just as ] 
in the body, if I resolve to be a rower, and only 
a rower, the chances are that J shall have, in- * 
deed, strong arms, but weak legs, and be stricken 1 
with blindness from the glare of (he water; so in 
mill; 
i Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
IT SHALL BE WELL WITH THEE, 
nr imsin Mi.vnvoon. 
“Sav ve te the righteous that it shall be well with him.”— 
Tt shall be well with thee, Oh I faint and weary pilgrim, 
Toiling and struggling up the heavenly way; 
, fear not f the clouds that loom so froivningly above thee, 
Will break, and thou wilt see the perfect day. 
It shall be well with thee; tho’ storms may thickly gather, 
And rudely sweep across thine anguished soul. 
The Lord hath said “he chasteneth whom he ioveth,” 
We reach Hire’ Sorrow's gate the Heavenly goal. 
It shall be well with thee; tho’ Death’s rude hands have 
gathered 
The fairest flowers that in thy garden grew, 
The licaven-bom spirit leaps upward at its calling, 
And earth’s flowers bloom in Heaven, for thee, anew. 
It shall be welt with thee; forthfo’ the glim’ring darkness, 
The glad light streams from th ! Eternal Shore, 
c that Bright Land, the Loro saith to the righteous, 
“It Bliall be well with thee forevermore.” 
Hilldale Farm, Tomp. Co., N. Y., 1863. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
LIFE IS NOT A CLOUDLESS DAY. 
We go forth in the delicious freshness of a 
balmy summer morning. From out her silver 
bow leap golden arrows of light, illuminating 
with sudden glory the cold, gray mountain 
peaks: gliding softly down the grassy hillside 
slopes to the valleys where blue-eyed violets lift 
their modest heads; skimming lightly across the 
quiet waters where golden lilies sleep, then nest¬ 
ling among the deep recesses of the lonely wood 
and gloomy mountain gorges, till all nature 
throbs with sweet delight, 3nd our bounding 
hearts pulsate in harmony with •• the great heart 
of nature.” Not a cloud drifts across the smiling 
sky: softly the balmy south breeze hisses the 
flowers, and dallies with tender leaves; the air is 
vocal with music —the silver throated warblers, 
wild with the intoxicating wine of beauty, trill 
forth such exquisite strains of melody that we 
almost fancy ourselves transported to the original 
Eden. In the abandonment of wild delight, we 
lor the moment forget that clouds follow the sun- 
the mind, if I care but for one exercise, and do of ’joy are drowned in wailings 
cousult the health of the mind altogether, I may, ol 
like George Morland, be a wonderful painter of It . 18 noou ’ ' 8 K larf - transporting 
pigs and pig-sties, but in all else, as a human mus5c ° f the morning; the soft, and gentle 
being, be below contempt —an ignoramus and a as fo° u P>h maddened to fury, lashes the 
drunkard. fragile flowers, and tears the giant oak from its 
We men are not fragments—we are wholes’we 1,0,1 ’ ren,ls fr0in the forests their bright vest- 
arc not types of single qualities—we are realities monUH °* S reeD i ftn *l scatters tho shreds in rnani- 
of mixed, various, countless, combinations.— acal tffoe, uver the distant plain. Dark, angry 
Therefore, 1 say to each man, “As far as you Poking clbuds, overcast the sky, and from their 
can —partly for excellence in your special men- f?fo° t!i y crests leap fearful spires of flame. Flash 
tal calling, principally for completion of your end 8ucc f P(Js flasfl ‘l"“- k succession, with a con- 
in existence—strive, while improving your one CU8S *° n 80 terrific in its awful sublimity that we 
talent, to enrich your whole capital as Man. It tremblingly humble ourselves before the “God 
is in this way that you escape from the wretched of ^ ,la ‘ m wkr,SP presence the mountains trem- 
narrow-mindnesB which is the characteristic of lj le, and “the hills melt like wax.” 
every one who cultivates his specialty alone.”— It is evening. Calm and serene as a sleeping 
Buiwer. infant the day went out, and in the gentle hush 
-- of this holy vesper hour, as I sat gazing on the 
IF YOU MEAN NO, SAY NO. voluptuous masses of gold and purple clouds that 
- roll up In fiery billows against the western sky, 
When a man has made up his mrad to do or I think this day of sunlight, clouds, and tempest, 
not do a thing, he should have the pluck to say is a very perfect type of our earth-life. If it but 
so plainly and decisively. It is a mistaken kind- have as glorious a consummation, then shall we 
ness—if meant as kindness—to meet a request uot have lived and died in vain, 
which you have determined not to grant, with As we launch our precious “life-boat” on the 
“111 see about it,” or, “I’ll think the matter placid bosom of the stream of time, richly 
over," or, “I cannot give you a positive answer freighted with hopes of joy to be, we look up, and 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. )10 ' v ’ : call in a few days and i'll lei you know,” the sunlight of joy flashes in our faces, blinding 
WRITINGS ON THE EARTH. ma > sa ‘ d ; Perhaps, that the object of these 118 with its dazzling light. We look down into 
- ambiguous expressions is to “let the applicant the lucnlent depths, and gems of hope are spark- 
Thk world has a Literature not found in books, down easy;” but their tendency is to give, hint ling there; then lightly dipping our oars, we 
Its characters are infinite in variety of form, and UH ' , i cs8 trouble and anxiety, and possibly to pre- glide gaily over the limped waters. With hearts 
its authors a countless 
intellect between the things tube done and the which it gives expression 
people that can do them, making universal con¬ 
tusion in the helpless* innoceuce of well-placed 
incapacity. The square men in the round holes 
are pushed into them by their wives. 
The Eastern potentate who declared that wo¬ 
men were at the bottom of all mischief should 
have gone a little further and seen why it is so. 
J t is because women are not lazy, and don’t know 
what it is to be quiet. They are fcemiratnidcs 
and Cleopati as, and Joan of Arcs, and Queen 
Elizabeths, and Catharine the Seconds, and they 
riot in battle, and murder, and clamor, and des¬ 
peration. D’ they can't agitate the universe and 
'play at ball with hemispheres, they'll make 
mountains ol warfare and vexation out of domes¬ 
tic molehills, and social storms in household tea¬ 
cups, Forbid them to bold forth upon the free¬ 
dom of nations and the wrongs of mankind, and 
they’ll quarrel with Mrs. Jones about the shape 
of a mantle or the character of a small maid sor¬ 
es host. The instruments by von1, bis seeking what he requires in a more pro- by care and fear unburdened, we laugh, and sing 
ission to thought are Of quite pit-ions quarter until after the golden opportunity the sunny hours away, noting not the narrow, 
another fashion, and far more numerous than 
those by means of which the language of books 
is written down, and a single leaf, bread, firm 
and enduring, has been the writing-book of all 
the centuries since the world began. 
One man composes a house, as another a poem, 
and a set of men, diggers, masons, carpenters, 
painters, paperers, glaziers, Ac., give architectu¬ 
ral expression to the composer's thought, and the 
result, more or less original—differing in greater 
or Jess degree from every tiling else of its kind— 
is read w ith pleasure or its opposite, according as 
it conforms to or violates the principles of taste, 
and tho reader’s eye has been educated to recog¬ 
nize and enjoy beauties, and to discern and be 
pained by blemishes in the house-building art. 
A fort is constructed, and judges of military archi¬ 
tecture examine the structure, and, as they read 
strongh and safety, or weakness and insecurity in 
its defences, the perusal of the work fills them 
has passed. Moreover, it is questionable wheth¬ 
er the motives for such equivocation are as phi¬ 
lanthropic as some people suppose. Generally 
speaking, the individual who thus avoids a direct 
refusal, does so to avert himself pain. Men with¬ 
out decision of character have an indescribable 
aversion to say No. They can think No—some¬ 
times when it would be more creditable to their 
leaden strip, that already encircles the horizon, 
or the rocks that lie beneath our bounding 
bark, till the gloomy clouds of sorrow loom 
high above our heads, shutting the warm sun¬ 
shine of joy from our hearts, and the pitiless 
storm beats unmercifully on our bowed forms, 
while the waters rise in angry billows over 
our defenseless heads. Then, in bitterness of 
courtesy and benevolence Lo say Yes—but they spirit, we cry:—There is no hope for us, forget- 
vanL To call them the weaker sex is to utter a with a sense of power and endurance, or gives 
dislike to utter the bold word that represents 
their thoughts. They prefer to mislead and de¬ 
ceive. 1t is true that these bland and considerate 
people are often spoken of as “ very gentleman¬ 
ly.” But is it gentlemanly to keep a man in sus¬ 
pense for days, and perhaps weeks, merely be¬ 
cause you do not choose to put him out of it by a 
straight-forward declaration ? He only is a gen¬ 
tleman who treats his fellow-men in a manly, 
straightforward way. Never seem by ambigu¬ 
ous words to sanction hopes you do not intend to 
gratify. If you mean No, out with it. 
hideous mockery. They are the stronger sex, 
the noisier, the most persevering, the more sell- 
assertive sex. They want, freedom of opinion, 
variety of occupation, do they? Let them have 
rise to feelings of dissatisfaction and disappoint¬ 
ment. The curious in naval architecture examine Man’s Greatest Ambition.— The great end 
the lines and proportions of a ship, and as they of prudence is to give cheerfulness to those hours 
read fitness and adaptation to the element it is de- which splendor cannot gild, and acclamation 
signed to traverse, they admire the inventive cannot exhilarate—those soft intervals of un¬ 
genius that gives man rule over the faithless sea; blended amusement, in which man shrinks to his 
that bridges lake and ocean with structures of naiiu-al dimensions, and throws aside the orna- 
sucb beautiful form and such splendid movement: meats aud disguises which he feels in privacy to 
that inscribes even on the water characters of be useless encumbrances, and to lose effect when 
‘ ® " n “Mves, tears, it. Let them be lawyers, doctors, teachers, signed to traverse, they admire the inventive 
* .1 * . i * ir , 1 a tautl pearls—dor ft preachers, soldiers, legislators—anything they genius that.gives man rule over (he faithless sea; 
mo ii i s oats arc ioj am to <. mt too plainly like — but let them be quiet — if they can.—J/iss that bridges lake and ocean with structures of 
of lb. sorrow wbicl, tamovs glonou, sunlight a**,. «,cbtatutiW form »„J,uch qtadM mover,,™.: 
71 Tl ■ I ml rf ll C lilCuilf hnantir wiicvbr n ai .-J T < *1 _ * 
ot the sorrow which heaven’s glorious sunlight Brandon. 
and earth’s lesser beauty might not dispel. She 
goes with her babe to the water; it requires time Forti n 
to nerve herself for tho struggle. She draws | m t ( fo v0 | 
back! Her heart refuses to make the sacrifice! thousand 
But, it is only for a moment. Summoning all does not 
lierirantio strength, all her desperate fortitude, ao t | 10 j )e;i 
with a silent prayer she launched her tiny bark p; son - n | u 
on the wild, merciless waters. For awhile it prised inti 
floated on its surface., then sank beneath the or w j 
deep, blue waves: the parted waters met again. imH1]: 
covering another sacrifice to a heathen god. foi*th 
Fathers and mothers, you who deemed her 
heartless before, and destitute of natural affec- A bleas 
tion, renounce your cruel opinion and make when her 
amends. Thank Go» that you live in a land and tempe 
Fortune does not change men and women. It 
but develops their characters. As there are a 
thousand thoughts lying within a man that he 
does not know till he takes up the pen to write, 
so the hear! is a secret even to him who has it in 
his own breast. Who hath not found himself gur- 
such power and loveliness. 
One naan puts his religious though 1 on paper 
in the form of a prayer or sacred poem: the re¬ 
ligion of the many is read in characters written 
on the earth, and called churches, cathedrals, 
mosques and temples. The farmer writes Ids 
prised into revenge or action or passion, for good thoughts in fields of wheat, corn, oats and barley, 
or evil, whereof the seeds lay within him latent 
and unsuspected till the occasion called them 
forth. 
A fleasant wife is a rainbow set in the sky 
when her husband's mind is tossed with storms I 
and tempests. 
in meadow, pasture, orchard and garden; in 
buildings and fences; and he changes and im¬ 
proves the picture, year by year, till it supplies 
the soul with beauty as well as the body with 
food. The engineer engraves his thought on the 
earth in long lines of canal and railroad, in mag¬ 
nificent bridges and tunnels, in fortifications for 
they become familiar. To be happy at home is 
the ultimate result of all ambition, the end to 
which every enterprise and labor (ends, and of 
which every desire prompts the execution. It is, 
indeed, at home that every man must be known 
by those who would have a just estimate of its 
virtue or felicity. 
Immortality of Thought. —One great and 
kindling thought, from a retired and obscure 
man, may live w'hen thrones are fallen and the 
memory of those who tilled them is obliterated, 
and like an undying fire, may illuminate and 
quicken all future generations. 
ting that the gems are still beneath the waves 
though we see them not, and He who spoke to 
Galilee’s raging billows,—“Pence be still,'' yet 
“ holds the waters in the hollow of His hand,” 
and it becomes us to mist Him, both in the 
bright, sunny days of prosperity and the dark 
hour of deep adversity, knowing that He order¬ 
ed) it all for our good, 
O, should we not, in view of the great uncer¬ 
tainty of this life, and the certain fulfillment of 
our destiny in the Life to come, endeavor to 
chose from among the pearls w ithin our reach, 
that one priceless pearl of truth, w hich will guide 
us safely by the hidden rocks, and dangerous 
shoals of sin and unbelief into the peaceful har¬ 
bor of eternal rest, w’here the unceasing sunlight 
of God’s smile rests in a holy calm upon the 
heavenly plains, forever scattering every shade 
of sorrow’ from the sunny bowers of peace, where 
earth-weary spirits enjoy a calm repose. 
Oxford, N, Y., 1863. F. M. Transit. 
-- 
Genius and Religion. —We do not speak 
lightly when w r e say that all works of intellect 
which have not in some measure been quickened 
by religion are doomed to perish or to lose their 
pow T er: and that genius i« preparing for itself 
a sepulchre when it disjoins itself from tho uni¬ 
versal mind. Religion, justly viewed, surpasses 
all other principles in giving a free and manifold 
action to the mind. 
Sharing Happiness— Men of the noblest dis¬ 
position think themselves happiest when others 
share their happiness with them. • 
