§ 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
“GOING HOME.” 
BY ELLEN 
I.. It 1 M B E L . 
Childish feet are straying Homeward, 
Some have entered tliere to day, 
Passed, perchance, from paths of darkness, 
To the p'.act for which w o prav. 
Gone, w e know not from what suffering,— 
Pled, we know not from what sin,— 
Oh ye gates that open Heavenward, 
Swing together, shut them in 1 
Thry, at least, arc safe from shedding 
Crimson streams of brother's blood; 
Safe from giving life's best Jo ring 
To the wartvard rolling Hood. 
And have died with bands close gathered 
In the tender clasp of ours; 
Goi> be thanked that we could fold them 
Pure as snow, and full of flowers ! 
Bravely have (heir elder brothers 
Answered to their country's call, 
In the ranks of rushing thousands 
Silently to bleed and fall. 
Still, dark with blood the future rises 
Crossed by many a bar of gloom, 
And the little ones are safest, 
Early called and gathered Horn*. 
So, Oh, Father, to Thy keeping 
Give we what we called “our own,” 
Gono n little time before us 
Thro’ the portals leading Home; 
Safe from all the storms of sorrow 
Dark'tiing now their laud of birth, 
Given with tears for hope lights faded, 
To the breast of Mother Earth. 
Yet, with love’s divinest token 
Yielded to a tenderer eare 
Than the homes below can give them, 
Or our human weakness bear, 
They are safe from pain and sorrow, 
We alone can hear the rod. 
With these blossoms safely nurtured 
In the garden of our Gon. 
Charlotte Center, N. V., 1863. 
to try their powers and exulted in sweet suc¬ 
cess,—success brought by no unlawful means. 
It was here all our youthful hopes budded in 
the light of purity, ere we felt the “ cares of the 
world ” marring the workmanship of Divinity. 
Closely linked with memory's visions of child¬ 
hood’s happy home, float faith’s wide and holy 
fancies of that other home. Heaven! Has the 
mystic chain been broken aud a loved one lost 
from the home below? How rapidly, borne on 
faith's broad pinions, the soul kbnred above all 
earth’s atheism to our childhood’s heaven,—that 
glorious land where there is neither sun, moon, 
or stars, but glory forever is the light thereof. 
Oh, how sweet, in a moment of freedom from 
the shackles and mists of the world's busy life, to 
go back to our childhood, its happy home, and 
glorified visions of heaven! Our childhood, 
when a mother’s gentle hand, and low, sweet 
voice, guided us through our griefs into the light 
of cureless glee. Our pleasant home, whether a 
low-roofed cottage, or a wide and stately man¬ 
sion. it matters not; there were nooks aud play¬ 
grounds there that no other home can equal 1 
Our childhood’s heaven—a place full of glory and 
happiness beyond comprehension, plainly viewed 
by the eye of trusting faith! What, in the later 
years, has proved purer,sweeter, nobler, or truer? 
Nothing! Oh, sweet words, sweet visions, leave 
us not till our cloudy way is done; aud our feet 
have entered l be portals of that land beyond our 
childhood’s sky, concerning whose inhabitants it 
was said, “ Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven!” 
Girard, Penn., 1863. Lura. 
SOLDIER’S WIVES. 
&hsm 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
EARLY DREAMS. 
O, glorious dreams of early days 
When life was young and hope was high ! 
I walked upon your flowery ways, 
And basked beneath your summer sky, 
And thought your tun would ever shine,— 
Forever gleam your star of love, 
And ever was this sweet thought mine;— 
Our Gon is good who reigns above. 
O, visions bright I I hold ye yet, 
But ashes non in memory’s urn; 
Your sun in lurid night 1ms set, 
Your flowers of hope, where’er I turn, 
Are withered by the spicy rill; 
Dead leaves and wild winds fill the grove 
Where Love lies buried deep and still;— 
But Gon is good and reigns above. 
The briery walks of life I tread 
With broken staff and bleeding feet; 
The naked boughs no fruitage shed, 
No gushing fountains yield their sweet. 
But ever as I near the goal, 
This thought still nestles like a dove 
Within my weary, waiting soul; 
A pitying Father reigns above. 
Avoca, N. Y., March, 1863. 
F. H. G. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS. 
Written for Moore’s Rurai New-Yorker. 
WHAT IF YOU WERE A PRESIDENT’S WIFE? 
Such was the question I asked my only daugh¬ 
ter as I read the article entitled “ Presidents’ 
Wives,” in a late Rural. What if you were to 
be a President’s wife?—what would you do? 
What kind of culture would you give your mind? 
What would you lind for your hands to do? How 
would you educate your heart? You would 
want to be a representative woman. You would 
not want to imitate the follies of foreign courts; 
and yet you would wish to impress the represen¬ 
tatives of foreign nations, not only with your in¬ 
dependent American character and opinions, but 
with the polish and refinement which is looked 
for in ladies occupying such a position, and the 
cordiality and simplicity of goodness and purity. 
I have often heard boys told that they might 
yet be Senators and Presidents; but it is not in 
my memory that 1 have heard girls lold that they 
may become Senator’s and President's wives. 
And yet the humblest may aspire to that posi¬ 
tion. Mrs. Ahuaham Lincoln, in her early 
days, scarcely dreamed, probably, that she should 
marry a man who would occupy the place that 
her husband now occupies — whose name would 
shine, bright among other names iu our nation’s 
history. There have been a good mauy unpleas¬ 
ant things said Of Mrs. Lincoln, but it is get¬ 
ting to be pretty well known that they have 
originated with the disloyal ladies of Washing¬ 
ton. and have been propagated by prejudiced 
partizans. Hut suppose all that has been said 
were true; is it more than would very likely be 
said of a large proportion of the wives of Ameri¬ 
can lawyers, occupying the same legal position 
that Abraham Lincoln did when he was elected 
President of tho United States? How many of 
the lady readers of this department of the Rural 
feels qualified to take the place which Mrs. Lin¬ 
coln now occupies, as her successor? How 
many of the young ladies who spend their time 
making formal calls, indulging in frivolous gos¬ 
sip, and neglecting the higher culture which all 
ought to secure, but would do differently if they 
were assured that their husbands would one day 
occupy the high position to which the humblest 
citizen may aspire? And why not make this 
preparation ? 
Oh, if girls only knew the value of time, and 
were compelled, at school, to study something 
that would render them something more than su¬ 
perficial, we should have better and happier fami¬ 
lies. 1 wish some one who has the ability would 
give the young lady readers of the Rural tho 
ideal of an American President's wife. 1 wish 
the girls who may read this would take the ad¬ 
vice of one who has seen considerable of the 
world, aud learned the value of rarer and higher 
qualities of tho mind and heart, and aim to culti¬ 
vate in themselves what they think should be tho 
characteristics of a President’s wife. 
Yours, Mrs. Jane^C. Overton. 
WeedynOok, March, 1S63. 
What an immense amount of heroism among 
this class passes unnoticed, or is taken as a mat¬ 
ter of course; not only in this most righteous war 
which we are waging, but in those of all past 
time. For the soldier, he has his comrades about 
him, shoulder to shoulder; he lias praise if he do 
well; he has honorable mention and pitying tears 
if he fall nobly striving. But alas! for the sol¬ 
dier’s wife! Even an officer's wife, who has sym¬ 
pathizing friends, who has the comforts and mauy 
of the luxuries of life; whose children's future is 
provided for if their father fall; what hours of 
dreadful suspense and anxiety must she pass, 
even in these favorable circumstances? How 
hard for her ! But for tho wife of the poor sol¬ 
dier, who in giving her husband to her country 
has given everything; who knows not whether 
the meal she and her little ones are eating may 
not be the last for many a hungry—desolate— 
day; who has no friend to say “ well done. ’as 
the lagging weeks of suspense creep on, and she 
stands bravely at her post, keeping want and 
starvation at bay; imagination busy among the 
heaps of dead and wounded, or traversing tho 
wretched prison dens and shuddering at the 
thought of their demoniac keepers; keeping down 
her sobs, as her little daughter trustfully offers 
up her nightly prayers “for dear papa to come 
home;” or when her little son. just old enough 1o 
read, traces slowly with his lingers the long list 
of killed and wounded, “to see if father’s name 
is there;” shrouding her eyes from the possible 
future of her children should her strength give 
out under the pressure of want and anxiety: no 
friend te turn to when her hand is palsied with 
labor; nor waving banners, nor martial music, 
nor one procession to chronicle her valorous 
deeds; none but God and her own brave heart to 
witness her noble, unaided struggle ; when 1 
think of those solitary women scattered through¬ 
out the length and breadth of the land, my heart 
warms toward them; and 1 would fain hold them 
up in their silent struggle, for all the world to 
admire. 
When the history of this war shall be written, 
(and that cannot be now) let the historian, what 
else soever he may forget, forget not to chronicle 
this sublimo valor of the hearthstone, all over 
our struggling land .—Fanny Fern. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
CHILDHOOD, HOME, AND ; HEAVEN. 
I 
What sweeter words than these are there in 
any language? Childhood, Home. Heaven! 
What words can make visions brighter, purer, or 
more beautiful than these? 
Tn after life how sweet are memory's visits to 
the home of our childhood? It matters not that 
it was a dark and dreary spot, or a sweet, bright 
nest among groeu hills. It was the home of our 
childhood, it was here wejknew those blessed 
hoars of innocence and, glee, before the first 
gloamings of the world’s heartless sophism had 
cast their subtle rays upon childhood’s purity of 
thought and trust of heart. It was here our 
firs 1 pure thoughts unfolded; here that our 
minds, ruled only by innocent gayety, rejoiced 
A Persevering Woman.— A young married 
woman in Brandon Vt., whose husband enlisted 
in the 6th Vermont regiment, could neither read 
nor write. Being devotedly attached to her hus¬ 
band, and cut off from all communication with 
him except by letter, she could not endure the 
the thought of being compelled to submit his 
epistles, designed for her alone, to others to read 
them for her. And with the refined instinct of a 
true woman tind wife, she shrank with aversion 
from committing tho secrete of her own heart to 
the pen of an amanuensis. So, day after day, 
since her husband's absence, she has taken her 
two little ones by the hand, and led them to the 
district school, laid aside her bonnet aud shawl, 
seated herself upon a bench by the side of her 
children, and devoted licrseIf to study. Within 
a brief period of time, so earnestly has she set 
herself about the task, lids devoted wife and 
mother has surmounted every obstacle, and (al¬ 
though alien born.) has acquired the rudiments 
of an English education. She now writes a fair 
hand, and reads with fluency. 
Tribute to Woman. —The celebrated traveler. 
Layard, paid the following handsome tribute to 
women:—“I have observed that women in all 
countries arc civil, obliging, tender and humane. 
1 never addressed myself to them decently and 
friendly without getting a friendly answer. With 
ruan it has often been otherwise. In wandering 
over tho barrens of inhospitable Denmark; and 
through honest Sweden and frozen Lapland; 
rude and churlish Finland; unprincipled Russia; 
and the widely spread regions of the wandering 
Tartar: if hungry, dry, wet, cold or sick, the 
women have ever been friendly, and to add to 
this virtue (so worthy the appellation of benevo¬ 
lence,) those actions have been performed in so 
free and kind a manner, that if I was dry I drank 
tho sweetest draught, and if hungry ate the 
coarsest morsel with double relish." 
AVe pride ourselves upon living in an enlight¬ 
ened age, but may be led to doubt it if we reflect 
upon the general superstition that is prevalent 
among the greater portion of the people, and the 
general belief In signs and presentiments, which 
represent- the ignorance of the last century only 
in a slightly modified form. If there is any class 
of people free from these ridiculous notions, it 
certainly Is not the rural part of community. 
The Moon seems to be the especial ideal of 
these representatives of ancient ignorance, and 
its influence so potent that it ought uot to bo won¬ 
dered at if they should appoint a day of worship 
and sacrifice unto it. For some unexplained 
reason, the moon is said to bo in affinity with 
onions, aud if tho feeble rays of the new moon 
fall upon the bed where the seed is sown.no 
onions need be expected to gladden the heart or 
moisten the eyes if the cultivator. The old moon 
is fond of squashes, melons, cucumbers, Ac., and 
is supposed to pay particular attention to their 
welfare, while the new moon, iu the ignorance of 
its few days, seems to think that vines, instead of 
vegetables, are what’it wanted. Teas planted in 
the new moon become frantic aud run to vines, 
without yielding the husbandman a pea to liar 
vest! Not that these things have ever been 
tested and found true, for to doubt it for an 
instant would be an insult to the Lunar Divinity 
that might call down the wrath of the angry 
planet upon the unbeliever. Such an effect upon 
the weather has the moon, that the “man in the 
moon ” and the “ clr/k of the weather” must be 
one and the same persons. If the season is a dry 
one. no change is to be expected until it changes, 
and if it is designed to have a wet season, it is 
very considerately turned so that one of its horns 
points downwards! The moon is supposed to 
exert numerous other influences, to enumerate 
each of which would fill a volume. 
Iu nearly every household can be found an 
almanac that is regularly Consulted in regard to 
what kind of weather Is provided for the coming 
year, and notwithstanding the fact that the same 
almanac may be iu use whore there are different 
kinds of weather ai the same time, and that it 
must necessarily be incorrect for many locali¬ 
ties, it is implicity relied u pon, aud all operations 
are guided by it. and if the almanac maker hap¬ 
pens to have blundered into the truth, it is hailed 
as an argument, in favor of their belief, white, 
when it is wrong, it is regarded as a mystery that 
cannot be explained. 
The fable in regard to the “Signs of the 
Zodiac,” which has descended from the ancient 
mythologists, is as implicity believed as it was in 
the days of Homer, aud each part of the body is 
supposed to be under the influence of a particu¬ 
lar star or constellation ! 1 low has it happened 
that this part of the Heathen Mythology has been 
retained, and the remainder cast aside ? 
Friday is regarded as a very unlucky day. and 
any one that is so reckless as to undertake any 
enterprise upon that day, is looked upon as worse 
than fool-hardy,—in fact, almost sacrilegons! The 
only reason that is given for this is, that it has 
proved a very unlucky day to that class of per¬ 
sons the world was fortunate in getting rid of. 
“ If tho firsi Sunday iu each month is stormy, 
so will be each succeeding Sabbath of the month.” 
Govern yourselves accordingly, worthy sages! 
In regard to those who place confidence in 
’•'Astrologists," “Fortune Tellers," Ac., they are 
to far gone to receive any attention, but there are 
a thousand “signs-” that are observed and acted I 
upon in many houkholtls, while a belief in dreams 
aud apparitions is quite prevalent. This is not 
only degrading to community, but contrary to 
all precepts of the Christian faith aud of belief in 
the truths of the Bible. Wilton. 
DON’T EXPECT TOO MUCH. 
Tub woman who refuses to marry when a suit¬ 
able opportunity offers, because the gentleman is 
not perfection, will be very apt to die an old 
maid. The man who does not wed because he 
cannot find an angel in a hoop-skirt, will be cer¬ 
tain to go to the grave an old bachelor. You 
will never have a friend, says the ancient proverb, 
if you must have one without a failing. The 
best of men have their faults; and so have the 
best of women. Indeed, to Is: very candid, as 
there is no diamond without some flaw, we should 
begin strongly to suspect the human quality of 
any man or woman who seemed to be wholly 
destitute of infirmities. Don’t expect too much, 
therefore. Consider yourself a pretty good speci¬ 
men of humanity, manufactured when Nature 
was in charming spirits, and had her “ hand in,” 
and ask of nobody to lie much better than you 
are. You will discover that to be both a safe and 
certain rule in estimating the value of others. 
Don’t expect too much, or else you will be cer¬ 
tain to get too little. One extreme inevitably be¬ 
gets another. Men differ materially, and some 
appear to be sent into the social world especially 
to put to a slow death, by torture, tho gentle, con¬ 
fiding, si i fiering creal ures who cal I them husbands. 
Women differ quite us greatly; and not a few, 
like Xantippe, are admirably constructed to 
teach patience and philosophy to the domestic 
martyrs who enjoy the honor of paying their hills, 
and denominating them “ darlings.” 
But the majority of men and women do not 
belong to this extreme class: of extremists, who 
seem to live like turtle-doves, with no diminution 
of love to occasion doubt, and no species of care 
to introduce matrimonial disquietude. The 
great mass, on the contrary, belong to that 
junte milieu in which “love-spats” are not unfre¬ 
quent, and moments of positive wedded happi¬ 
ness are by no means rare; in which mutual 
“ tiffs’ occur, just a* summer clouds dim tho sun¬ 
light, only to render the subsequent edaircisse- 
menl doubly delightful. This is the general 
experience of wedded life. Expect no more, and 
yon will seldom enjoy less. Never expect too 
much, we repeat, and you will not be severely 
disappointed. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
AN INVOCATION. 
MARTHA 
LA FLEUR. 
Father: I'm weary—weary. Oft my spirit 
Falters along this thorny, dusky w r ay, 
Grant, Holy One, it may be mine to inherit 
A blissful rest where it is endless day. 
Father, my soul cries out to Thee in anguish, 
And vainly beats its prison-bars of clay, 
For Angel ones, “gono home,” I sadly languish, 
And darker grows this lone and fearful way. 
Sometimes, amid the clouds, so darkly looming, 
Soft rays of Heavenly light around mo fall, 
And bright Winged seraphs, in their angel plumage, 
In loving accents oft my spirit call. 
Father, my spirit, weary and benighted. 
Longs for an entrance to that blest ahode, 
With those, the loved, “gone home,” tho re united, 
And tune my Heavenly Harp in praise to God. 
Quincy, Mich., 1S63. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
SABBATH EVENING. 
LIVING AND MEANS. 
The world is full of people who can’t imagine 
why they don’t prosper like their neighbors, 
when the real obstacle is not in banks or tariffs, 
in bad public policy or hard times, but in their 
own extravagance and heedless ostentation. 
The young clerk marries aud takes a house, 
which he proceeds to furnish twice as expensive¬ 
ly as he can afford, and then his wife, instead of 
God hath given us another first day,—first and 
best, blessed day of rest and devotion. How 
beautiful is the name even, Sabbath,— God’S rest 
Sweet is the sacred truth this day,—sweet the 
Savior’s love filling the soul,—sweet are the 
thoughts of Ileaven, which, like angel-voices, 
gently call us away to higher beauties, and fuller! 
more enduring joys. Now 
“Slowly from the scene 
The stooping sun upgattors his spent shafts 
Ami puts them back into his golden quiver.” 
How grand the scene now,—the expanded west 
filled with splendor infinite, softened brightness 
of an ineffable glory beyond, bursting through 
those gates of gold. 
Sweet and peaceful at the Sabbath’s close Is the 
hour of twilight, 1 would almost have it always 
Sabbath evening, could it ever be so clear and 
still, softly resting Ou the spirit like the gentlest 
weight of bliss. Our quiet Rinsings become de¬ 
votional and kindle iuto rapture. 
“ Come to thy lonely bower,—thou who dost love 
The hoar of musing. Come before tho brow 
Of twilight darkens, or the solemn starts 
Look from their casement. Mid that hush of soul 
Music from the viewlc:.-. burps shall visit thee, 
SucIi at thou never hcardst amid the din 
Of coarse enginery by toil aud cure 
Urged oti without reprieve.' 
The light becomes soft and fades away amid the 
darkening shades. Dim grow the objects about 
he, and we Instinctively turn our eyes above, 
where now 
“ Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven 
Blossom the lovely stars,—the forget-me-nots of the 
Angels." 
taking bold to earn a livelihood by doing her 
own w ork, must have a hired servant to help Voices from unseen ones call our spirits upward 
spend his limited earnings. Ten years afterwards softly,-just audibly, as to Angels approaching 
you will find him struggling on under a load of Paradisecomo tho distant murmuring sounds that 
debts and children, wondering why luck was al- steal through its gates ajar, 
ways against him, while his friends regret his un¬ 
happy destitution and financial ability. Had 
they from the first been frank and honest, he need 
uot have been so unlucky. The single man 
“hired out” in tho country at ten to fifteen dol¬ 
lars per month, who contrives to dissolve his 
year's earnings in frolics and fine clothes; the 
clerk who has live hundred a year, and melts 
fifty of it. into liquor and cigars, are. paralleled 
by the young merchant who fills a house with 
costly furniture, gives dinners, and drives a fast 
horse on the strength of the profits he expects to 
realize when his goods are sold and his notes all 
paid. Let a man have a genius forspending, and 
whether his income be a dollar a day or a dollar 
a minute, itisequally certain to prove inadequate. 
The man who (being single) does not save money 
onsixjdollars a week, will not lie aide to on sixty; 
and he who docs not lay up something in his first 
year of independent exertion, will be pretty apt 
to wear a poor man’s hair into his grave. 
AN OBSTINATE MAN. 
Imagination.—A contented citizen of Milan, 
who had never passed beyond its walls during 
the course of sixty years, being ordered by the 
government not to stir beyond itsgates, becameim- 
mediately miserable, and felt so powerful an 
inclination to do that which he had so long con¬ 
tentedly neglected, that, on his application for 
release from ibis restraint being refused, he be¬ 
came quite melancholy, and at last died of grief. 
The pains of imprisonment, also, like those of 
servitude, are more in conception than in reality. 
We are all prisoners. What is life but the prison 
of the soul? 
We ought to be ashamed 
never proud of our shame. 
If you would be tolerated, be tolerant. If you 
of our pride, but | would hear the truth, tell it. If you would not 
be troubled, don’t be troublesome. 
An obstinate man does not hold opinions, but 
they hold him; for when he is once possessed with 
an error, it is like a devil, only cast out with great 
difficulty. Whatsoever he lays hold on, like a 
drowning man. he never loses, though it do help 
to sink him the sooner. His ignorance is abrupt 
and inaccessible, iuprcgnablo both by art and 
nature, and will hold out to the last, though it 
has nothiDg but rubbish to defend, it is as dark 
as pitch, and sticks to anything it lays bold on. 
I is skull is so thick it is proof against any reason, 
aud never cracks but on the wrong side, just op- 
posito to that against which the impression is 
made, which surgeons say does happen very 
frequently. The slighter and more inconsistent 
his opinions are, the faster he holds them, other¬ 
wise they would fall asunder of themselves; for 
opinions that are false ought to be held with 
more stric tness and assurance than those that are 
true, otherwise they will be apt to betray their 
owners before they are aware. He delights, most 
of all, to differ iu things indifferent; no matter 
how frivolous they are. they are weighty enough 
in jiroportiun to his v eak judgment; and he will 
rather sutler self-martyrdom than part with the 
least scruple of his freehold; tor it is impossible 
to dye his dark ignorance into any lighter color. 
He is resolved to understand no man’s reason 
but his own, because he finds no man can under¬ 
stand his but himself. His wits are like a sack, 
which the French proverb says is tied faster be¬ 
fore it is full than when it is ; and his opinions 
are like plants that grow upon recks, that slick 
fast though they have no rooting. His under¬ 
standing is burdened like Pharaoh’s heart, and is | 
proof against all sorts of judgments whatsoever. 
—Butler. 
Nature keeps writing her books in every 
one’s heart—new editions of the same old poem 
read with new delight; her gem-books are bound 
in the hearts of women; these are her gift-book’s 
and each happy man claims the copyright. 
As we look above we think of Heaven and the 
loved ones there, and apart from the shining 
throng we almost gee the dear fond face of a 
mother or sister, stooping to smile on us from its 
clear, azure depths. Nor yet are we alone amid 
these quiet contemplations. 
“ * * Iti fcUowship more close 
Thun tram with n.mi, pure spirits hover near, 
Prompting to high communion with thesuorce 
Of every perfect gift. Lift up thy soul! 
For ’tis a holy pleasure thus to find 
Its nu loilv of musing so allied 
TopneedV Dijon,*' 
Yes, we fondly think that those whom we have 
loved in life—whom we have seen lying calm and 
beautiful in the white robes of the sepulchre— 
whom we have laid with many tears to their last, 
long rest, come down sometimes from their bliss¬ 
ful abode to visit us in the holy bush of this hour. 
“ * * They are hero 
Whoso garments like tho tissue of our dreams, 
Steal o'er the e and win it from the world. 
They smile on us so sweetly, and their bands 
Clasp ours, and their calm pressure woos away 
The throb of grief so tenderly, l would 
That twilight to the purple peep of dawn 
Had kindly lingered.'' 
Shall we have twilight in Heaven ? Shall we 
never wish, as now, to sit apart from the shining, 
joyous throng, in the soft vesper light, where the 
full glory shines not, iu qiuet, rapt contemplation 
of all the soul delights in 1 Grief, surely, there 
cannot be—but will the heart never seek relief in 
tears, from the exceeding joy that it cannot utter 
or contain ? 
But here, amid our graver contemplations, we 
strangely group together the fanciful and the real 
—fashioning the dim forms of visible things to 
suit our varying caprice, and move delighted 
amid our own creations. A shining web our fan¬ 
cy weaves of all that is dear iu remembrance- 
all that is fond in hope. We haste away to dis¬ 
tant dear ones—look in, unseen, upon “ old famil¬ 
iar faces” aud linger, spirit-like, about each 
soene of hallowed associations. Here we lived 
and loved —aye perhaps lost, and sadly come 
over our souls the thoughts of other days. 
“ Fresh a* the first t>eum glittering on a sail 
That brings our friends up from the under world, 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sink* with nil we love below the verge, 
So sad, so fresh—the days that are no inure. 
Dear as remembered kisses after death 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy formed 
On lips that are for others. Deep as love, 
Deep as first love and wild with all regret, 
Oh, death in life, the days that are no more.' 
Night bolds her reign—mild empress, and her 
subjects sleep. Stillness has settled upon the 
universe. Calm and holy are our thoughts, and 
all the influences upon our hearts, as the soft 
moonlight that rests, down-sent, upon a sleeping 
world. Not a leaf is moving. Scarce a hum I 
hear, only one sound, clear and steady now, but 
often wild and dissonant as the tempest's roaring 
—the ceaseless dashing of an inner-spirit sea up¬ 
on its confining shores. 
I gather here, dear reader, a few pebbles and 
give to thee. c. 
Lima, N. Y , 1S63. 
Mind. —An enlightened and exalted mind is a 
brighter manifestation of God than the outward 
universe. 
