THE AHOME:
. FIRESIDE MONTHLY.

 

NOVEMBER, 1859.

 

BY J. H.

r HE spirit of sadness is inseparably

connected with human life. It
may be the fruit of atliictions, which
hush the noise of passion and nourish
tender sympathy; it may well up
from the depths of reason, as it uh.
folds the character and teaches the
true destiny of man; it may be the
inward feeling of a lost happiness, and
a vague longing for a holier state; or

(4 shading itself from light, may dwell

in the brooding silence of the soul ;—
but in all its forms it seems wedded
to What is changeless and enduring in
character, twining itself about the
heart, and strengthening the powers

 

 

of the soul, as with bands of steel.
Joy is only the “light on the ‘cloud”
of humandife ;
“ There’s not a string attuned to mirth
But has its chord in melancholy."

Sarcasm is but the breaking forth of
woe-begone bitterness at heart; and
cheerfulness, with a just view of life
must often sober its smiles with se-
rious thought,——but sadness, whether
it gently ehastens feeling, or weighs
heavily upon the heart, is our constant
com anion. -
’ influence may be best seen in
character and works of these
asterminds, to whom we ever turn
with afl‘ection and reverence. We
trace it in the hopeless cries and sob-
bing faith which mark the confessions
0f Augustine, in the resolute Win and
tender sensitivencss of Luther, in the
.elfipunishing humility of b’ascal, in

the gloomy independence oftromwell,

in the soulstrickcn earnestness of

  
   
  
   

 

Neandcr, in the puritanie allegory of
6
VOL. VIII. 15

SADNESS IN LITERATURE.

WARD.

Bunyan, in the keen insight and pro-
found religious spirit of Bacon. Its
influence is still more clearly revealed
in poetry, which, ifit did not coin into
winged words the inmost experience
of the heart, and the deepest medita-
tions of the soul, would lose its power
over our feelings. David seldom
breaks forth in songs of peaceful joy,
but rather in wailings over sin, and
longings for the “light of God’s coun-
tenance ;” and there is a lofty, yet
desolating mournfulness, in the pro-
phecies of Isaiah and Jeremiah. The
Greek tragedy has a certain truthful
utterance of grief, and delicate touch
of sorrow, mingled with “the lone
contemplations of destiny,” which give
a pathetic and often tearful sadness to
its characters. Lucretius shrouds his
works in the intense gloom of a god-
less matcrialism. Horace, even in
his lyric moods, while believing in the
philosophy of Epicurus, can not cast off
saddening thoughts. But in Dante,
whose portrait shows his features fur-
rowed with the lines of abiding sor-
row, there is an almost crushing sad-
ness, which belongs to-no other pOGt,
and which is the true interpreter 0f
the Divine Comedy. Petrarch is ever
striking the noteslof a tender. melan-
choly, as he gazes tearfully into the
heavens for the image 0f Laura.
Chaucer beautifully shades his pictures
with the dark colors of his own spirit
and Spencer lends a gentle, meditative
grace to the “ Fully Q“W“-” In our
early minstrclsy there is a graphic
pathos, bringing out clearly the Page
of passion and the depth of sorrow;

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204 THE HOME.

 

and the elder dramatists have the true
touch of nature, as they picture the
play of emotion in tragic colors. Nor
was it possible for Shakspeare to fail
of infusing the experience of his inner
life,—-his lonely sorrow, his humble
faith, his silent questionings, his weary
aspirations for “ knowledge gained not
here,”——into the countless character
of his drama, and the changing emo-
tions of his sonnets. And Milton has
left abundant marks of bursting vehe-
mence of sorrow hardly less than
Dante’s, though without his sarcastic

 
  

bitterness, d which may be seen as
clearly ' " ,( pathetic allusions to
himself, 0 v relieve the grand sub-
limity of ‘ aradise Lost,” as in the

personal griefs which find expression
eneath the mask of “Samson Ago-
nistes,” or in the twilight mellowness
of “II Penseroso.” Hence while the
spirit of sadness thus assumes an in-
finite variety of form in the works of
genius, and often from its jar with
earthly interests becomes fearfully
~dark, we see that it is both natural to
human life, and is the only true basis
11 on which a great soul can rise.

hat is greatness, but a sounding of
‘the depths of the heart and conscious
fellowship with truth? A man who
has not known the “divine depths of
sorrow” and learned thereby his true
State, can not have that soul-abiding
earnestness, that vital sympathy with
mankind, and that sad hopefulness of
thought) WhiCh. endear the greatest
:minds.

Subject as we are to' changes of
feeling, we must also expect changes
in the character 0f literature. We
easily explain, therefore, the sinewy
strength, keen analysm, and religious
spirit of the literature of the Eliza-
bethan age, as the 1‘88"“? 'of that im-
pulse which the Reformation gave to
the English mind, and Justly impute
the shallowness and 0011001th refine.
ment of the literature of the 18th cen-
tury, to its material views and skep-
tical unbelicf. Nor is it strange that
the literature of the present century,
should be entirely different. A spirit

g,

i?

 

of sadness, like the mists which envelop
the valley and shut out the rays of
the morning sun, has come over our
literature and changed its character.
Doubtless its intensity is due, in great
measure, to a reaction from the cold-
ness of the previous age -, yet its source
may, also, be found in the influences at
work, in our time, and in order to ob.
serve their action from different points
of view, we may ascribe them to the
emotions, to speculative tendencies,
and to deep spirituality.

I. The absence of an adventurous
spirit, the stirring up of sympathy
and quickening of thought, caused by
the French Revolution, and the great
material activity of the age, have
given to literature a subjective charac-
ter. It is manifest not less in the
searching study of the inner life, than
in the tendency to analyze and de-
scribe feeling. The habit of retrospec-
tion has made the sensibilities keener,
and lent a “precious seeing” to the
inward sight. Hence, both a deeper
love of humanity has been leavening
society, and the pathetic and tragic
elements of our nature haVe reCeived
greater culture. Indeed, the tragic
element has become so greqt, that the
movement of the drama has lost its
interest; dramatic writing is confined
chiefly to the study of character; and
the habit of looking into the darker
recesses of the heart, has changed the
aim of the novel, from the picturing
of chivalrous and romantic scenes, to
a delineation of the struggles, sorrows,
and hopes of daily life. The novel is
now the agent of reform, charged fre-
quently with the advocacy of
and insuring success only by its
dissection of the passions and '
stronghold upon ourfiympathies. The
deep interest in biography, the search-
ing after the inmost truth of character,
andfiie autobiographies and confes-
sions which form such a large and
p0 ular part of literature, also, fu
nis evidence of the craving thirst f0,
truths which relate to the very myste-
ries of being. The suggestiveness of
modern writers, the touching of hid-

 

 

 

   
     
  
   
      

 

   
  
 

 

 

SADNESS IN LITERATURE.

205

 

den chords of feeling, the quiekening
of those thoughts which refuse the
dress'of language, may be owmg to
the same cause. And poetry? Wthh
was once so healthy, unreflective, and
through plenitude of life, hardly con-
scious of its power, now cfmcems
itself mainly with the emotions of
the soul,—thus giving» PerhaPS, the
best picture of the tendencies of the
age. Meditative poetry must ever
wear a “ robe of darkest gray,” if its
solemn strains accord with “ the still,
sad music of humanity ;” but, when,
to a meditative spirit, we add the
tendency to “ anatomize the soul,” to
penetrate and flood its mysteries with
imaginative light, and to break the
harmony of poetic emotion by strik.
ing notes from separate chords, when
all should be struck together, we at
once divine the source of “that mel-
ancholy, which so evidently character-
izes the spirit of modern poetry.“
A mournful cadence, as if keeping
time to “an undertone of woe” seems
to be the very melody of our best
poetry,—-a melody which gushes out
with tearful pathos, not only in dusky
paintings of excited passion, and in
the pastorals of quiet meditation, but
even in the joyful songs of Moore, in
Mrs. Heman’s fullness of tearful sen-
sibility, and in Keats’ tributes to the
spirit of classic and ideal beauty.

As the effect of this generous cul-
ture of the emotions, we must notice
morbid feeling and a love of solitude.
When the emotions are thus excited
to unusual activity, morbid feelings

'are sure to follow. The torrent will
flow in regular channels, but
‘ s resistless over all bounds; and
men oi‘genius, must feel with throb-
bing intensity'the thoughts which
they send forth, we can hardly im.
agine the burden which Goethe threw
off by writing “Werter,” the sense of
relief which the compl"tion 0f the
-“ Robbers" gave to Schiller’s heart,
and the joy which came to Byron
upon sending “Childe Harold” into
the world, The spirit of these works

0 A. H. Hallam.

 

 

shot quick as lightning through the
heart of the age, and the eager excite-
ment thus aroused, has not yet; been
hushed. Following the same course
but happily in a milder mood, the;
genius of Dickens has quieted many
a heart stricken with anguish; the
earnest sarcasm of Thackeray his laid
bare the vices of fashionable life; the
spirit-stirring novels of the gifted, but
lonely “Currer Bell,” have given
sanctity to the heart of woman;—
while Bulwer, reviving upon English
soil a sickly German sentimentality,
early became the exponent of bluster-
ing cockneyism, maudllfifieling, and
affected wisdom,—-traits”lwhich his
later works have partially atoned
for. In poetry, morbid feelin has,
perhaps, reached its acme. ence
in spite of the light which it sheds
upon the inner life, much of it must
perish with the spirit which creates
it. The want of harmony among the
poetic powers has become so great,
that some elements of poetry have
been cultivated to the exclusion of
others ; and while formerly the scenes
of Nature excited quiet joy or tender
melancholy, they now attract us as
reflecting the hidden workings 05 the
mind and heart. The flowers, the
forest, the change of seasons, the twi-
light, the silent stars and the gloom
of night,—all now awake some re-
sponse in our own minds, and this is
so strong a characteristic of Tennyson,
that much of his poetry has beeutel'm‘
ed a kind of “ dramatized landScap.”

And here is the orinin of that phase
of morbid feeling, which is seen in a
love of solitude. When weighed down
with the pressure of inward emotion,
we naturally seek to hide Ourselves
from sight, and especially when we
are the prey of morbid feeling, grief
becomes too tender to desire sym-
pathy ; the sad unrest of the soul too
agonizing for consolation; the silent
thoughts mo precious for another’s
knowledge-

“ Bug, {or the unquiet heart and

A Use in meuured language 1
the sad mechanic exercise,

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain."

brain,
lea,

 

    

206

THE HOME.

 

The spirit of poetry alone can inspire
the hearts of the solitary to easy ut-
terance. Bryant writes his solitary
' musings upon the leaves and flowers;
and beside the babbling brook Per-
cival tinges his finest lyrics with the
shades of his emotions, and shows far
more acquaintance with the scenes ‘of
nature than with the haunts of men;
and the splendid apostrophes to na-
tural scenery and its associations
which throng “ Childe Harold” could
never have been written but by one
who had felt all the tearful bliss of
solitude.

II. Another and perhaps the chief
cause of the spirit of sadness may be
traced to the speculative tendencies of
the age. A love of speculation seems
to be a natural trait of northern na-
tions; but the influence of the critical
philosophy, the spirit of the Revolu-
tion of ’89, and the new problems
suggested by the progress of civiliza-
tion, have brought it into special ac-
tivity. Earnest feeling, bold inquiry,

and the want of reverence as great as

confidence in reason, have left few
subjects untouched. In former times,
the simple record of a fact was enough,
and vcneration gave it, in the lapse of
years, a superstitious character; now
the fact is worth little, unless we
know its cause, and so wide has been
the sweep of speculative inquiry that
even histor has either been under-
mined hy the skeptic, or made into a
tissue of Conflicting theories.

One of the results of the French
Revolution was the creation of a fresh
interest in humanity, and speculation
has, accordingly, been busy in devis-
ing philanthropic Syfétems. Save the
age of the Reformation, pg time has
been louder in adVOCfltlng reform.
Philanthropy has eyer Imagined a
millennium near, while exulting over
Utopian constitutions and “ Social con-
tracts,” which would endOW than with
perfect freedom. But there Is always
a tendency (except with the most
cautious), to generalize too hastily,
and 'while these reformers have made
splendid theories, they have forgotten

 

 

that man, being the creature of pas-
sion, can hardly keep himself from
breaking over laws which bear all
the revisions of age; they have re-
garded society from their own, not
from a univemal stand-point; they
have mistaken a deep consciousness of
evil for their ability to cure it. Hence
the “confusion worse confounded”
which prevails in speculations upon
society, “the mournful regrets of .ex.
pansive philanthropy,” and the de-
spair, '

“That's terrible,

For one who is not God, and can not right
The wrong he looks on." .

Any agitation of social questions
will also affect the religious welfare.
Nor will deep meditation stray far
from this source; The feelings, too,
pulsating with quick throbs of sym-
pathy, will share largely in the emo-
tions which religion prompts in the
heart. The merest survey of the lit-
erature of the age, must include the
big waves of speculative doubt, which
surge and dash in the ocean of reli-
gious truth, and often break angrily
upon the desolate shores of infidelity.
This conflict is only the outward in-
dex of the unrest of the soul. The
Kantian doctrine, which so exalts reav
son, as almost to clothe it with the
attributes of Deity, and which appears
in the spirit of self-reliance as op-
posed to reverence for authority, has
given rise not only to a new zest for
speculative inquiry, but to a skeptical
way of thinking. It has done away
with the faith and reverence which
were wont to twine so gracefully
about religious truth, and lend a
superstitious awe to its teaching;
and in their place, has introduced the
age of doubt, and denial, and rever-
ence for reason alone. The earnest-
ness, which grew out of the rude
bursts of passion and the freedom of
thought incident to the French Revo-
lution, has lent fresh vigor to specu-
lations upon the problems of life and
the mysteries of future existence;
and the reason, casting aside revealed
truth, has striven to construct from

 

 

 

 

 

 

SADNESS IN :LITER ATURE.

207

 

the depths of self-consciousness a sys-
tem of religious duty capable of satis.
fying the cravings of the soul. But,
with such a boundless range of prob-
lems, as extended from the “Eysmry
which clouds the Infinite, which en-
folds the soul upon leaving the body,
which leads astray every Searcher
into the origin of evrl, and which
presses so hard upon the greatest
minds, that they either bow before it
with reverence, or turn away in de-
spair, to the darkness in which the rea.
son gropes, while attempting the so-
lution of that great problem which
contains in itself the solution of so
many others,-—VVhat is truth ’i—with
the feeling that they are not only of
the greatest importance, but that a
few years of effort must leave them
solved or unsolved forever,——with the
reason taxed with speculations upon
subjects into which no intellect has
yet shot a ray of light, and distracted
by a wilderness of opinion,—witlr the
light of revelation grown dim,—and
with the wearying aspirations of the
heart for some being superior to
itself, in whom it may confide its
sorrows, in such a state, it is no won-
der that the noblest minds of the age,
have been robbed of their peace, and
darkened by a sadness deeper than

rief, and caused by the restless agony
of doubt. The struggles of the strong-
est have not brought satisfaction, and
the efforts made to probe the disease,
have only revealed its alarming ex.
tent. Speculation has taken such strong
hold, that life with many has lost the
' very name of action, and the mind
broods, Hamlet-like, over its own in-
troverted self. It is also characteristic
of a speculative mind, to push its in.
quiries in every direction; nor is such
a mind free from the danger of enlist.
ing in mad pursuit of the igm's fatuus
Of an ideal. Perhaps one of the great
vices of the age, may be traced to that
intense reaction from material activity
which finds full scope only in visions
of ideal attainment, which looks with
eager hope to the future, but with
l’01'1'ow upon the present, and which

 

 

has been aptly termed; “a purblind
Argus,-all eyes and no sight.” Its
influence upon religion is to arouse
unhealthy skepticism, to substitute .
feverish anticipations of a time, when
the conflicts of faith shall be trans-
muted into strong belief, for a clear-
sight into the diseases of the soul, and
to create unsatisfied spiritual agony,
in place of inward harmony and clild-
like trust.

When such unrest is united with
keen sensibility; and feeling, adding
strength to reason, redoubles the in-
tensity of bold inquiry, the conflict
becomes so close and tragic that only
kindred feeling can interpret it ac-
curately. The myth of Prometheus,
as the symbol of this state of being,
has been a favorite subject with mod-
ern poets. Shelley masks in it his
wild atheism; Mrs. Browning finds
consolation in translating it as given
by Eschylus; Percival breathes into
it his struggles and audacious yearn-
ings ; and Goethe, in the similar legend
of “Faust,” gives vent to his bold
graspings, his subtle insight, and his
many-sided experience. But astill
deeper tragedy is enacted in our time.
To plunge boldly in a sea of doubt,
the waters dark, but the spirit bony-
ant; to find the sea, an ocean, the
island of hope, a barren rock, dashed
over by the waves; to feel the strength
giving way, the courage turning to
fear, the cheer of'hope yielding to utter
despair; to sink, “where fathom line
could never touch the ground ;” t0 “59
perhaps to the surface, and find the
sun gone down, and not even astar 111
sight; to sink again and be borne for-
ever along the currents of the deep ;—
this is but'the typical fate of Infiny
who strike out a Path Of 1351‘ng
doubt. Such was the experience of
Blance White ; Swrllngl‘JFt escaped a
similar fate; and the spmtualhght of
Leopardi went out in hopeless gloom.
But some recovering themselves, put
trust in a single truth of Christianity,
as the being of God ; others so baffled
that only a vague aspiration remains,
shroud themselves in a misty spirit.

  

208 THE HOME.

 

ualism ; others so wearied as to desire
only rest, whereVer it may be, take
refuge in the Infallible Church ; yet
there are many, who, trampling upon
doubt, and forcing the Sphinx to solve
her riddle, at length gain inward peace.
They belong to a company of heroes,
as yet unchronicled in history, but far
more worthy of the name than those
whose deeds astonish the world. For
the conquest of the foes that now as-
sail religious belief, even if the Contest
be silent and personal, is a test of
courage and moral strength far exceed-
ing that of a martial or civic triumph.
As the leader of this band, stands
Dante, and around him are grouped
such men as Schiller, Coleridge, Foster,
Arnold, Carlyle, Martineau, and Rob-
ertson. If their features are sobered,
like those of the “ sadder and the
wiser man,” by a_tragic experience,
and if their works send out a spirit of
sadness, of noble and chastened sorrow,
yet the kindling eye, the earnest sym-
pathy, the liberal and sincere piety,
which they indicate, are as beacon
lights to those still struggling with
the powers of darkness -, hope bright-
ens, courage inspires, doubt leaves
their hearts, as from the song of these

. champions the words ring out,

“ Onward in Faith and leave the rest to Heaven.”
111,. As the result of this constant
dwelling upon the interests of the soul,
a vital spirituality has infused itself
into literature. Especially is this true
of the higher class of imaginative
works. They do not simply body
forth the lows and griefs of Common
life, but grasp those hidden emotions
and thoughts, which, being of the
Spiritual life, so often elude the power
of language. They combine the fruits
of abundant meditation, with a, keen
and microscopic insight Into the ser-
rows and aspirations of the soul. If
they do not embrace the doctrines of
Christianity with sufficient exactness
to satisfy the theologian, they.yet
partake largely enough of its spirit to
strengthen the heart, and to set forth
clearly the grandeur and beauty of
divine truth. In short, they include

 

that kind of religion which meets the
sorrows and wants of men, rather than
any regular body of divinity. And yet,
for this very reason, sadness presses
upon the heart. The deeper sensibil-
ity to the suffering of humanity, and
the truer perception of spiritual rela-
tions which mark our time, have made
the ties of sympathy which bind man
to man, much stronger than ever be-
fore; and it is natural for such feelings
to speak out in the language of sad-
ness. But this sadness, unlike that
which comes from the depths of some
divine despair, wells up from the stir
of inward emotion, is the companion '
of holy thought, and imparts unspeak-
able beauty to character. It loves to
muse in the dim religious twilight, or
in the mysterious stillness of the night,
and to hear the songs of children, the
forest’s wailings, the brook’s prattle,
and the voice of sympathy. It finds
that '

“Even the meanest flower that blown all Em

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”

It creates a pure joy instinct With
love of the true, the beautiful, and the
good. But most of all, it seeks “ the
inner cloud-world of man’s spirit.”
There, brooding in deep silence, or
moved by aspirations for that future
home,

“ Where the ideal in mystery no more,

Where doubt and error flee with night away,"
it forms a mystic and holy language
of its own.

Wordsworth was among the first
to give this meditative spirituality to
literature; and the “Excursion,”—in
its fullness of lofty thought, itstraeing
of the mind as it acts on nature, its
unfoldings of the inner life, its far
gropings into the spiritual world, its
hymns of faith and ~)oy, its lifting up
and chastening of lowly objects by
virtue of a pure imagination, -— the
great representative poem of the age,
—not less than the ode on “ Intima-
tions of immortality,” whose sweet
harmony of thought and feeling touches
so many deep emotions, and the “Son-
nets,” so full of exquisite beauty and
human love—bear ever increasing teen

 

 

 

 

 

 

THERE’S. NOTHING LOST.

209

 

timony of his power. The works of
Coleridge share, also, with those 0f
Wordsworth, in creating this influence.
It was the earnest and successful labor
of his life to gain that philosophical
groundwork of belief upon thCh faltb
can securely rest. His wljtmgs are 311
votive offerings at the shrlne of truth;
and his words, richly freighted with
the lessons of a wide experience and
the fruits of spiritual vision, where like
the preaching of a new gospel. to the
eager youth, who frequented Highgate
in his later years. The mantle of
Wordsworth and Coleridge has fallen ‘
upon worthy successors. De Quincy
shows the same spirit, as he recalls the
memories of an uncommon childhood,
and pens, with firm faith, the history
of his mental and spiritual life. Mrs.
Browning utters the same plaintive
loneliness of feeling, the same holy as-
pirations, and seems,—like the mourn-
ful mystic Novalis, whose “Hymns
to Night,” are full of spiritual and
impassioned emotion,—to have her
true poetic home amid the mysteries
ofthe spirit-world. Longfellow echoes
the same thoughts in his “Voices of
the Night.” \Vhittier is true to the
same great ideas of right, and delights
in thesame religious sentiment. Emer-
son is ever ardent in the pursuit of
ideal beauty and spiritual good, but
not without a sad mournfulness, as
seen in his “Threnody,” and “The
Sphinx.” Lowell unites the humanity,
calmness, and depth of Wordsworth,
with the graceful tenderness of Keats.
Bryant is never content with ic.
‘turesof feeling and nature, butbreaks
forth in meditations u on human life
and immortality; and ana, casting in-
trospective glances into his own heart,
and partaking deeply of the spirit of
our elder literature, has given new
sanctity to the truths and yearnings
of the soul. And Tennyson, taking
up, in the matchless lyrics of In Me.
moriam, the familiar strains of Sorrow
811d trouble, and infusing them with
a truly sympathetic insight into the
religious character of this century, has

 

also added the consolations of the

Christian life. The same tendency
is visible in painting and sculpture.
Artists have especially sought, those
subjects which appeal to spiritual emo-
tions; and Cole’s “beage of Life,”
Faed’s “Evangeline,” Bartholomew’s
“Eve,” and Cr'awford’s “ Orpheus,”
are each types of this new element in
art.

Thus, regarding excess of emotiqn,
strong speculative tendencies, and
deep spirituality, as the leading causes
of the spirit of sadness, peculiar tothe
literature of our time, we can not but
look forward with hope to the future,
The various influences now at work.
as they blend with each other, settling
deeper into life and literature, and
losing the morbid intensity which at-
tended their development, will form
a basis upon which the most enduring
works can be built. The great truths
of the soul which have been brought
to light, the new shades of feeling
which have been detected, the diffu-
sion of knowledge, and progress of
science which has never before been
so great, and the union of philosophy
with religion, which is beginning to
show itself, not only in works of the
imagination, but even in theological
treatises,—— all these are elements
which have entered largely into the '
permanent literature of all nations, in
every age, and which are the peculiar
elements in the literature of our own.

 

THERE’S NOTHING LOST.

Titan‘s nothing lost. The tiniest flowor
That grows within the darkest vale,
Though lost to view has still the power
The rarest perfume to exhale’; _
That perfume, borne on zephyrs Wings,
M“! visit some lone sick Ones bed,
And. like the balm affection brings,
’Twill scatter gladnens ronnd her head,

There’s nothing lost. The drop'of dew
That trembles in the mac-bud 5 breast,
Win seek its home of ether blue,
And fun again as pure and blest,
Percbance to revel in the spray,
0r moisten the dry, parching sod,
0,. mingle in the mountain spray,
'0: sparkling in the bow of God.

 

 

    

210

THE HOME.

 

 

“A TRIFLE JEALOUS.”

BY HRS. H. L. BOSTWICK.

RS. Somersfiame out of her dress-
i ing-room and took her place at
thefiteatable, looking .much disturbed
and a little displeased. Mr. Somers
——kindest and most watchful of hus-
bands—sitting opposite, was quick to
perceive the cloud upon her brow.

“ What troubles you now, Louise?
Does your new dress fit badly, or has
some critic among your dear ‘fivc
hundred,’ passed an unfavorable judg-
ment upon it 2”

“ Neither, Charles. The dress fits
beautifully, and is admired by all
who have seen it,” replied the lady,
wing a little smile. “Yet,l con-

" ‘ ’,it is the sole cause of my trou-

ble. The fact is, the dress is not
likely to be finished for Mrs. Hall’s
party to-morrow night, and I can not
elp' feeling a little disappointed.
Lora has the headache so much, and
gets on so slowly, that I have been
ready to wish I had procured some
other seamstress.”

“ Do not do that if you can possi-
bly avoid it, Louise. 1 have discov-
ered that her mother is a widow, and
in feeble health, and that from former
affluence, they have been reduced to
absolute destitution. Lora, though
singularly quiet and reserved, seems
to me an intelligent and high-minded
girl whom it Would be something
more than charity to aid. Besides,
you promised to employ her for two

, weeks, did you not ’l’

“I told her that if she suited me,
and the work was not too confining
for her, I would keep her that time;
but, really, I do not like to wear an
old dress to Mrs. Hall’s, when you
were so kind as to give me a new
one expressly for that occasion.”

“No,—and you must not. Can’t
you send for Miss Prindle to help the
girl finish it?”

“Miss Prindle is so jealous and
consequential, that I doubt whether
filib'would work with Lora at all. If
she did, Mr petulancc would keep the

 

poor child in tears half the time.
But she would do the work very
quickly; much more so than Lora
can do at her best.”

“I advise you to send for her then
by all means, but do not part with
Lora. Your doing so in dissatisfac-
tion might seriously injure her chances
of employment elsewhere. Get Miss
Prindle here early before Lora comes,
and explain the matter to her, and by
a little supervision you can surely
prevent her from treating the poor

 

 

 

’girl rudely.”

Mrs. Somers assented, and early
next morning dispatched an urgent

summons to Miss Prindle, one of

that uncomfortable class of genteel
dress-makers who “ only‘ go out to
oblige their dear friends.”

As Mrs. Somers sat by the window
watching for her appearance, and seri-
ously uneasy in view of the half-
finished dress, she was surprised to
see her husband, who had left an hour
before for his place of business, re-
entering the gate, accompanied by
Lora the sewing-girl. They passed
into the hall, and Louise heard them
conversing together in low but earn~
est tones. Then the gentleman ush-
ered the girl into the little back-par-
lor used as a sewing-room, and calling
a servant t0 bring a fresh supply of
coal, came whistling into the room
where his wife was sitting.

There was a peculiar expression of
mystery and gratification on his face,
which Louise did not fail to note, as
well as the unusual accompaniment of
the whistle. With a smile she in-
quired why he had returned at that
hour, and what event had so pleas-
antly excited him. '

“ Business as well as pleasure
brought me,” he answered, evasively,
and added, “lam glad you decided
to keep Lora, and especially desirous
that you should retain her a few days
longer, at all events. But here comes
Miss Prindle, and I leave you to the
enjoyment of her amiable society.”
And with a bow of exceeding polite-
ness to the incomer, he left the house.

 

 

aW‘ 9r -

 

 

.mm A

 

 

“A TRIPLE mamas." 211

 

“Good morning, dear Mrs. Som-
ers; delighted to see you. For .no
other person’s bidding in the Wide
world would I have eft home this
morning, I do assure you. And now
I can only give you four hours; then
I must go and get up the‘Misses
Blonde for their ball. Who 13 your
girl, Mrs. Somers ?”

“ Lora Warden."

“No! Pray, Mrs. Somers, who

'recommended her to you ’9”

“One or two of my friends rec-
commended her sewing, and Mr.
Somers discovered that her family
are in extreme need.”

“Ah! How nearly is the dress
com leted '9”

“The waist and skirt are made,
but not trimmed. The sleeves, I
presume, are not yet touched.”

“Monstrous! Nevertheless,l can
finish it if you give it me alone, but I
never sew with that kind of girls; be-
sides, I shall probably have to rip
half her work. So, unless you send
her away, I can not undertake it.”

Louise reflected, but the proposi-
tion was by no means agreeable to
her better feelings. No—she would
not sacrifice oor Lora to this domi-
neering Miss rindle. She answered,
“ That would disappoint her severely,
for she expects to sew for me a fort-
night. Besides, Mr. Somers partic.
ularly requested that I should keep
her at least a few days.”

“ Ah l—Indeed l”

The artful tones were so curiously
modulated, that Louise looked up in
surprise.

“ Why do you say that, Miss
Prindle 2”

“ Oh, because ;—-—nothing. Only I
have heard of gentlemen where she
sews making that request before.”

“ Miss Prindle l”

“Why, Mrs. Smears, I haven’t
said any thing, and wouldn't for the
world. Only if one’s very dignified
reserVe makes a pretty vail for one’s
real character, and some people can
see through it, and others can’t, I
don’t know that I am to blame.”

 

The poison took effect. Jealousy
was not one Mrs. Somers’ faults ; she
loved and respected her husband with
her whole heart and mind, and some-
times in view of the superior noble
ness of his character, had felt hersel
quite unworthy to be his companion.
But Miss Prindle’s manner more than
her words excited suspicion, and the
circumstances of the morning troubled
her. Why had Mr. Somers returned
home that morning? And why had
he stopped to converse with Lora in
the hall? and why, unless for the
pleasure of her society, had he earn-
estly insisted that she should be re-
tained '9 

Ashamed to ask questions, or to
appear disturbed, Louise led the way
to the sewing-room, and’ exhibited
the dress.

“It was magnificent—superb—it
was a color exquisitely becoming to
Mrs. Somers, and it ought to have
been well made.”

At any other time Louise would
have rebuked the insulting speech
and pitied the poor girl who heard it
with quivering lips; but the poison
worked in her heart, and she remained
silent.

“ You don’t expect to finishthis '2”
questioned the sharp voice of Miss
Prindle.

“I think I can, easily,” was the low
but decided answer. “Yesterday I
could not scw steadily, but to-day
my head is better.” .

“The sleeves are not commenced,
I suppose,” remarked Mrs. Somers-

“Oh yes,” and the girl held them
up, beautifully made and trimmed.

“ Humph! You must have sat up
the whole night. But it cured YOPI‘
hlead,l suppose,” sneered Miss Prm.
d e.

“I was obliged to sit up a part of
the night with my mother, 80 when
not waiting upon her,I sewed upon
the sleeves.”

Miss Prindle was closely scrutin-
izing the Work, and now exclaimed,
triumphantly, “One of these sleeves
is made wrong side outward?

 

   

 

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212 ram noun.

 

“There is no difference in the
sides,” returned Lora, with a burning
check.

“I beg your pardon, miss. Your
large experience is for once at fault.
There is no difference in the fabric,
but in the fold. You perceive, Mrs.
Somers, one of these sleeves has the
crease outside and the other inside,
and on a rich dress like this it is sure
to be noticed. Then the trimming
is sewed quite too near the edge.”

“ It was Mrs. Somers who directed
it,” said the poor seamstress.

“If it is wrong, Miss Prindle, you
can alter it, as you know precisely
how it should be placed ; and, Lora, I
think the dress had better be given to
Miss Prindle, to finish entirely. Your
plain sewing is very well done, but a
dress like this requires more experi-
ence. After these parties are over,
ifI need you, I will send for you.”

How was it that Mrs. Somers’
really kind heart did not smite her
for such injustice to her helpless sew-
ing-girl. Alas! Miss Prindle’s vile
insinuation was rankling within. Still
she thought of her husband’s displeas-
ure, and even then might possibly
have recalled her words, had not the
young girl, who, rising with dignity,
already had her bonnet in her hand,
turned toward her and said :

“I am ready to go, Mrs. Somers;
bat, if you please, could I see Mr.
Somers one moment?”

‘The lady’s eyes flashed. Never
was question so ill-timed. “Mr.
Somers is not at home,” she said,
“and will not be until evening. Am
I indebted to you 2”

“Not at all, madam; you paid me
last night,” the girl answered, reso-
lutely forcing back the tears Mrs.
Somers’ manner called forth; and
then bowing a good morning, she
went out.

Louise retired to dress and receive
calls, but her conscience was restless,
and the day were away heavily, in

 spite of the triumphant completion at
' if _;‘"§arly hour of the beautiful party

  

. «An hour before dinner her
' ’ if."

‘vxh. .

 

husband came in with a hurried step,

and holding a bundle of papers in his

hand. .

“ ls Miss Prindle gone ?” he said,
“because I have something to say
which her gossiping tongue must not
repeat, at least at present. Something
that I think will give you more pleas-
ure, Louise, than all the gayeties of
the evening.” He unfolded a news-
paper, and pointed to a paragraph.
“This paper was handed me as I was.
passing into my office this morning
by a gentleman who had heard of
Mrs. Warden and her daughter.
One reading convinced me that the
paragraph referred to them. Hear
it: ‘If Mary Warden or her heirs,
supposed to be living in this city, de-
scendants of Ralph Singleton of Sin-
gleton Hall, Somersetshire, England,
will call at No. . . . Wall-street, they
will hear of something to their ad-
vantage.’ I recollected that Lora had
once spoken of her English home,
and the name of Singleton; and not
knowing where she now resides, I
came home to see if she were here.
I overtook her at the gate, and ques-
tioned her all Icould without too
much arousing her curiosity, lest, after
all, there should prove to be a mis.
take. And for the same reason I did
not mention the matter to you. I
went immediately to Wallostreet, but
the writer of the paragraph was out,
and but an hour ago returned. My
consultation with him was entirely sat-
isfactory. He is the executor of Ralph
Singleton, who died notlong since, leav-
ing nearly one hundred thousand pounds
to his daughter, Mary Warden, if
living; if not, toher children. It seems
to have been the old story of parental
harshness, a runaway match, disinher-
itance, emigration to America, ov-
erty, and finally the death of the us-
band of Mary...and father of Lora.
The old gentleman, who had no other
child, dying repented his severity,
and left her the whole of his fortune.
Thus I have sketched the story, in or-
der that you may help me break the
news to her in the gentlest possible

I

 ;
I: 1
 5
.. g

 

 

 

 

n . --,.:...m. . .. .. .

 

“A ramwumus." ' I 213

 

 

manner. What a surprise fer poor
Lora! \Vhat news for her suffering
mother? Come, let us go in and tell
her immediately.” .

Louise did not rise from her chair,
but sat for a moment like one stun-
ned, then buried her face in her hands
and wept bitter tears. “ 0 CharleS!
You will despise me for what I have
done ! Miss Prindle ponsoned my
mind against her with foul Slanders,
and l discharged her.” V

“ You what, Louise? You don’t
mean that you sent her away '9”

“Yes, I did, Charles, I sent her
away—and what is worse,l do not
even know where she lives. But I
will find her, Charles,I can surely find
her.”

“And you trusted Miss Prindle’s
malicious tongue rather than that
young girl’s pure and noble face?
Louise, had you not told me yourself,
I never could have believed it of you.”

Oh, what would not the young wife
have given as those bitter words fell
upon her car, to recall the past few

'hours. But she would not stop to

feel them,-—no, she must act. Going
to her room she returned in a mo-
ment with her bonnet and shawl.

“I am going to Mrs. Burns,” she
said. “It is possible she can direct
me to Mrs. Warden’s.” And her hus-
band volunteered to accompany her.

Mrs. Burns did not know the wid-
ow’s present residence; she had for-
merlyJived in Pond-street, but re-
moved some time ago. To 0 home
and dine, and then seek the ouse in
Pond-street, occupied more than an
hour, and Louise insisted 'on accom-
panying her husband.

“But it is nearly time for you to
dress for the party,” suggested her
husband. ,

“I shall go to no parties, Charles,
until the girl is found,” she answered,
decidedly; ‘and Mr. Somers was
Pleased with her resolution, and did
no"! Oppose it.

rom Pond.street they were di-
rected. to another and yet another
Wm“?th tenement, and still the lost

 

remained unfound. ‘As they stopped
and looked around in uncertainty, a
woman came out of a house near
them. , -

“Can you tell me,” said Mrs. Som
ers, “if a Mrs. Warden lives in this
neighborhood?” ‘ w

“ She lives in that house, up stairs,”
replied the woman, pointing to a.
window, “or, I should say, she
did live there. She died an hour
ago.”

“ Died! of what disease?”

“The doctor said it was a heart
trouble, and I reckon it meant a great
deal. She was‘feeble enough in com-
mon, but this morning she was about as
usual, and sat in her chair trying to
sew. Before noon Lora came home
from her work-place, and _we heard
them talking and sobbing together.
Then all of a sudden she took a fit
like, and never came out of it. I’ll
show you up.”

They pressed up the stairs, and en-
tered the bare and desolate room,
where the heiress of Ralph Singleton
—whose forgiveness, like that of
many other stern hearts had come too
late—had breathed her last. A few
sympathizing neighbors had performed
the last offices for the dead, and Lora
set apart in her anguish mute and
tearless. She did not see the new-
comers, until Louise bent and kissed
her forehead. It was no time then to
speak of the past, but the softened
expression in the girl’s eyes, as she
lifted them to the tearful face of the
lady, told that she was not unforgiv-
ing.
Very cautiously and kindly Mr.
Somers communicated to her.the tid-
ings of the great fortune Whif'h “’33
to end forever her grinding “"19? the
weary bondage of 89111 and bod)“
But the girl groaan blfiterlYaflnd he,”
words were arrows in her listener s
ears.

u Oh, what is it to me now? If it
could but have come one hour sooner !
If my mother could have heard you
say that her father forgave and blessed

her i”

 

  

214 .

THE HOME.

 

“Hush, dear,” interposed one of
the women, soothingly. “ Mayhap
she knows all now.”

“ But I should have seen her smile
once more before she died! My
poor, poor mother,——l never saw her
smile after my father’s death. She
said her own father’s curse pursued
her; it bled her heart to death. But,
oh mother! the suffering is over
now—” and tears gushing freely re-
lieved the overcharged heart of the

organ.

ver from that night Mr. Somers’
house was Lora’s home, and in it she
was cherished and beloved as a dear
sister. And when the “great panic”
came, and Charles Somers trembled
in the near prospect of financial ruin,
it was her hand that delicately con-
veyed to him of her abundance, more
than enough to steady his tottering
credit, and put all his business inter-
ests in safety.

Mrs. Somers was never again jeal-
ous of her husband, but she dearly
loves to speak the praises of her
adopted sister in the hearing of Miss
Prindle, who, if she were permitted,
would train her pliant tongue to ca-
jole and flatter the heiress with as
much facility as it once sought to
blacken the fair fame of .the sewing-

girl.

 

USES OF SORROW.

We see a shadow upon every good;
But let our heavy sorrows have their way,
And as they well into a tearful flood,
What comfort may not come? Ah, who
can say ?

Grief hath a mission holler than joy—
It moves the selfish. find it warms the
cold; . ‘
A common sorrow will e on pain destroy,
And chiigge the lung and beggar to one
mo .

Our griefs should make us gentler to our
kind
And as ’we comfort need more comfort
PM;
‘80 using serrow, we oar tears shall find
Have wash‘d some grossness of our souls
away.

 

LITANY.

“ I will pray with the spirit, and I will pray with
the understanding also."—l Con. xiv. 15.

Faox the recesses of a lowly spirit,

My humble prayer ascends ; 0 Father, hear it,

Upsoaring on the Wings of fear and meekness,
Forgive its weakness.

I know, I feel, how mean and how unworthy
The trembling sacrifice I pour before thee.
What can I offer in Thy presence holy,

But sin and folly ?

For in Thy sight, who every bosom viewest,
Cold are our warmest vows, and rain our
truest;
Thoughts of a hurrying hour, our lips repeat
them,
Our hearts forget them.

We see Thy hand, it lead us, it supports us,
We hear Thy voice, it counsels and it courts

us
And then, we turn away,-—and still Thy kind-
ness
Pardons our blindness.

And still Thy rain descends, Thy sun is glow-
mg
Fruits ripen round, flowers are beneath us
blowing, .
And, as if man were some deservxng creature,
Joys cover nature.

Oh, how long-suffering, Lerd but Thou de-
lightest
To win with love the wandering—Thou in-
vitcst
By smiles of mercy, not by frowns or terrors,
Man from his errors.

Who can resist Thy gentle call, appealing,
To every generous. thought, and grateful

feeling,
That voice paternal, whispering, watching
ever? ‘

. My bosom, never.

Father and Saviour! plant within that bosom

These seeds of holiness, and bid them blossom

In fragrance and in beauty bright and vernal,
And spring eternal.

Then place them in those everlasting gardens
Where angels walk and seraphs are the war-
dens,
Where every floweg that creeps through
death‘s dark portal,
Becomes immortal.

j

A sum, an expression, will tell 8
history, there are years of associathP
in it, long years of memory and the“
shadows.

 

‘1,
l
-'
,

.
I

I

v

 

 

 

an.

 

CHILDREN—OUR IWNING SERMON. 215

 

CHILDREN—OUR THANKS-
GIVING SERMON.

BY THE EDITOR.-

“ I-I‘LDREN, God bless them ! who

can help lovinghthem l” says Mr.
Sparrowgrass. “ ildren, God bless
them! are the only beings for whom
we have no ‘imperfect sympathies.’—-
We love them through and through.
There is nothing conventional in the
hearty laugh of a child. The smile
of a child is unsusceptible of artifice.
I once corrected one of my little ones
and put him to bed for having been
stubborn at his letters. Then I waited
until he fell asleep, and then I watched
beside him until he slumbered out his
sorrows. \Vhen he opened his eyes
he stretched out his little arms, smiled
up in my face, and forgave me. The
Lord forgive me for the waling I
gave him ! I owe him an apology
which I intend to make as soon as he
is old enough to understand it. There
is nothing so odious to the mind ofa
child as injustice, and young married
people are prone to expect too much
and exact too much of their eldest
born. If then, we are unjustly severe
from our want of experience, it seems
to me there is something due, some
reparation on our part, to the individ-
ual whose feelings we have injured.
If we lose temper with a gentleman
six feet high, and call him hard names,
we often find it convenient to apolu-
gize. It seems to me that three feet
of wounded sensibility is, at least, en-
titled to respectful consideration.
What do you think of that, Mrs,
SparrOWgrass “I” triumphantly asked
the brilliant Mr. Sparrowgrass.

IVe think it very good, and that it
proves Mr. S. to be posses-zed at least
0f 'a gentle and refined soul; and it
gives us great respect for his heart,
although, hitherto, we have often been
Obliged to consider him a very stupid,
blunderi’ng gentleman, who .was al-
“313 getting unnecessarily into hot
water. His remarks to Mrs. S. con-
firmed, the ideas which were floating
In our brain and condensed their fog-

 

 

giness into a refreshing dew which
we propose to prinklc over the hard,
unopening hearts of a portion of our
readers.

Children are often very cruelly
wronged, both by parents whose very
intensity of affection makes them aux.
ious that their children should be per-
fect; and by those who find personal
chastisement a swifter and easier
mode of punishment than one which
patience, with firm, kind temper, and
the exercise of reason would lead them
to inflict. If parents would remem-
ber that they,‘ themselves, are far
from rendering perfect obedience to
their Father in heaven, and far from
fulfilling all the commands of their
own conscience, it might teach them
charity for the impulsive little ones,
and suggest to them patience in in.
quiring into the cause of the fault,
discretion in judging of the force of
the temptation, and love in apportion-
ing the proper punishment.

Fathers and mothers who have not
the entire control of their own tem-
pers are very apt, either through
carelessness or recklessness, to visit
the sins of their own impatience upon
their ofl‘ending and unoffending chil-
dren. In this they do a double
wrong; they increase the petulance
and irritability of their own disposi-
tions, and they outrage and deaden
the sensitive affections of their oil'-
spring, of whom they demand an ex-
cellence far superior to their own
example. Mr. Sparrowgrsss, for in-
stance, doubtless an amiable man
generally, “got out of patienpe," ‘33
the common expression is, With his
little boy for being stubborn at his
letters. The little follow my haj’e
been confused, or wearied: mime" “1'
teutionally perverse; but his father
did a great wrong; for he 10,“ ,the
control of his own temper? and "‘fim‘
ed upon the child appunishment which
his conscience, the moment the Clam'
or of hi. mg“ subsided, assured him
was too severe. Filled with remorse,
he kept watch by the couch where the
boy he had wronged was sleeping ofl‘

. v
‘W-r‘ww m,-

vw-unv-u any-m -

-— «hor'l‘r‘

 

  

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T

“a, was...“ .m. to. uvl‘

 

218 THE nous.

 

his sense of injury and injustice. The
father pictured to himself the resent-
ment he should have felt toward any

- stronger man who should have treated

him so; and made up his mind to
bear the look of reproach or dislike
which should darken that innocent
face upon his awakening, as no more
than his just reward. at when, with
a soft, tremulous sigh, which, light as
it Was, fell like lead upon the heart of
the father, the child awoke,-—-the rosy
lips part and the eyes unclose, and
instead of the look of distrust and
aversion, there was the forgiving
smile, the little caressing arms, the
loving voice. Doubtless the tears
gushed to the eyes of Mr. Sparrow-
grass; doubtless he felt how much
more great in its simplicity was the
heart of the little child, than the weak,
bad, tyrannizing heart of the man.

If parents governed themselves bet-
ter, there would be less government,
of a coercive and severe kind, over
their children. Children should obey;
when they do not obey cheerfully and
joyfully, they should be compelled
into submission. But if no unkind,
unnecessary, and thoughtless com-
mands were laid upon them, there
would be less rebellion. The child
has its rights; and it has a very keen
sense of what belongs to it; its deli-
cate susceptibilities, its little wishes
and references, should not be con-
tinualy'tfampled under foot by the
stern sway of the parent. 

We do not believe in the death

enalty for men; neither do we be-
lieve that the tender flesh of children
should be bruised, and battered, and
welted, and scarred for their little or
great misdemeanors. It must be a
hardening process to the mind of the
chastiser, as well as the chastised, this
continued beating, and thumping, and
knocking. It is not calculated to
make a man either smart or amiable,
to degrade him by blow-‘1 or by a
whipping. If a man is in the situation
.of a slave and com ellcd to submit,
it makes him dul, obstinate, and
Metal; if he has an opportunity to

 

resent it, he is angry and revenges
himself, or is disgraced in the eyes
of men, and called a coward.

Something of the spirit which in
after life gives a man suitable pride
and dignity of character, must burn
in the boyish soul; and an unreflect-
ing parent may do irreparable injury
to that spirit by humiliating punish-
ment during youth. There is a young
man now in the Lunatic Asylum, in
this State, rendered hopelessly insane
by the personal chastisement and cons
sequent mental torture, also, inflicted
upon him by his father, for a very
sinful act. The deed was bad—a
theft, we believe—but was the severe
punishment any better? He no doubt
intended all for the son’s good; but
too close an examination into the
motives for a fault, too searching an
inquiry into the circumstances, and
too careful a judgment of the charac‘
ter and disposition of the child, can
not be made, if parents would not de.
plore such melancholy results. This
is by no means a solitary case: Mrs.
E. Oakes Smith tells a similar one in
her “ Bertha and Lily,” and we could
cite another from personal observa-
tion.

It is the solemn duty of parents to
make themselves acquainted with the
different characters of their children,
which vary as much as the flowers in
the garden vary. Far be it from us
to dictate to parents how they should
govern their family. \Ve wOuld only
ask them to use judgment instead of
severity, and patience instead of ill-
temper; to remember that all natures
can not be squared by one rule; that
the infinite shades in the disposition
of those living blossoms should be
carefully studied; that they must .
have some sunlight of freedom, some
fresh air of unrestraint, or they will
be dwarfed and stunted, and that the
Christian government is one of love
and not of fear.

1

WRONG none by doing injuries, or
omitting the benefits that are your-duty-

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

mum. 217

 

ROSELAWN.

BY CLARA AUGUSTA.

II.
ARSHALL Houstan left me with-
out one affectionate word—he
whom I had always regarded 88_8
brother; to whom I had given a SIS-
ter’s love. I felt this Indifference
keenly, but I had no one to complain
to, and all must be borne m Silence.
He wrote me on a busmess matter
shortly after his return to Cambridge,
but there was no word of sympathy
or consolation in the brief epistle.
Days passed slowly into months,
and Roselawn was insufferany lone-
some. Mrs. Rowe still remained,
but she had no social element in her
composition; and beyond the daily
lessons I saw but little of her. She
passed most of her time in her room,
and rather avoided than sought my
society. I began to feel that I could
live thus no longer; I was getting
sad and dispirited, and so I conclu
on taking into the house some one of
my own age and sex for a companion.
Judge Moreton, my aunt’s executor,
and my guardian, was indulgent II]
the extreme towdrd me, allowing me
to act in all things as I chose ; and he
cordially approved my plan of having
a companion to cheer,my solitude.
My choice fell upon Elsie Graham,
the youngest daughter of John Gra-
ham, a gardener by occupation. El-
sie’s parents were poor, and their
family large, and they gratefully ac-
cepted my proposal.
Elsie Graham was beautiful—with
a strange wildering kind of beauty
Which charmed all those coming with-
in its influence. Her manners were
winning and graceful; and I soon
1emined to love her deeply and ten.
derly. That she, in turn, was strongly
attached to me,I was well satisfied,
for thongh she was a year my senior,
She would sit for hours at my feet,
looking up into my face with a quaint
mixture of love and reverence in her
30“, bright eyes. She shared with
me the instructions of Mrs. Rowe;

6

 

and an apt scholar she proved herself.
Afterward, when I engaged at music,
teacher, she astonished me by the ra-
pidity with which she mastered the
most difficult compositions, and the
flexibility with which she sang the
most trying arias. I grew very proud
of her—so much so as if she had been
my sister, I think ; and I felt grateful
to an overruling Providence that had
permitted me to become the friend
and patron of Elsie Graham.

From time to time, my quiet life
was disturbed by rumors which reach-
ed me of Marshall Iloustan’s disso-
lute habits; but I tried to banish
thoughts of him as much as possible;
he was young and impulsive, I said in
extenuation, and would be better by-
and-by from having sowed his wild
oats. Consequently, I was illy pre
pared for the news which agitated the
whole circle of his acquaintances, but
which was not told to me until it
could be no longer withheld. Mar-
shall Houstan was expelled from col-
legel The intelligence came upon
me like the crushing ofa thunderbolt.
lie was discharged because he had
disgraced the honorable institution
where he studied; reasoning and ex-
postulation had been repeatedly tried,
but without effect; the forbearance of
the faculty had been tried beyond en-
durancc, and the fatal edict of expul-
sion had gone forth.

Four days after my regeption of
this piece of unwelcome news, as I
was s” ing in my room, Elsie having
gone out to walk, the door of the
apartment where I sat was flung hur-
riedly open, and Marshall H008?“
came in. Irose up quieklynoffenng
him my hand, but he flung II? from
him with an impatient gesture, mid
sinking down in a chair. 13'd I“ head
upon the table. I was startled by
the wild haggardness of _hlS face, and
its fiery, intense expressmn-

u For Heaven’s sake, Marshall,
what has happened 'I” I asked him.

u Enough, Agnes! enough to make
you despise me!”

I went over, and sat down by his

 

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 mum...“ 0......“ .....‘....

 

218 THE BONE.

 

 

side. “Tell me all about it; I have
a right to know.”

There was a mighty struggle be-
tween his pride and his repentance,
but the latter triumphed; and with
an effort, he laid bare to me the whole
truth. It was a story which has been
told a hundred times. He had fallen
into the temptation of bad company
-—he had been unable to resist; he
had visited drinking-saloons and “gam-
bling hells”—-first, to kill time, after-
ward, to drown conscience in the ac-
cursed bowl, and to engage with pro-
fessional gamblers in an occasional
game for small bets on either side.
The stakes had gradually risen—night
after night he had indulged in the fas-
cinating sin—until at last his whole
property had been swallowed up, and
his word of honor passed in payment
of several thousands which his actual
possessions failed to cover.

It was at this time that the death

 of Aunt Ethel had called him to Rose-

lawn; and knowing the state of his
mind at that period,I no longer re-
proached him for his absent-minded
indifference toward me. I did not
marvel that he should have wished
to have been the heir himself instead
of me. He had returned toJCam-
bridge, and with the proceeds of the
sale of his stocks, he had discharged
his debts, at least, as far as the amount
0-4;: {it of. But so far from

 
 

d1  . the practice which had
ruin   he only plun more
deeply into the vice, and with

mpacious creditors on every side
clamoring for their dues, he had fled
from Cambridge to escape from their
clutches. He knew the character of

_ each one of them well; knew that

they would permit no obstacle to in.
tervene between them and vengeance
if he was unable to pay their de-
mands, and remained where he could
be touched. He said that he had la-
bored sedulously to keep his conduct
a secret to the oflieers and tutors of
the college, but at last chance had be-

'trayed him, and expulsion and dis.
firm hfldgbeen the consequence. I

 

knew that this relation cost Marshall
much humiliating suffering, and it
pained me scarcely less to listen than
him to confess. But I exerted my
owers' of self-control to appear in-
different, and I do not think he sus-
pected the acuteness of my feelings.
And now, that I knew all, what
comfort could I offer him? [made
my decision immediately. He was a
brother to me—I would make a sis-
ter’s sacrifice. Two months more

and I should be eighteen years of age;

qualified to be my own mistress and
the mistress of my property. The
five thousand-dollar legacy should, be
paid to Marshall ,without delay ;
Judge Moreton would not object to
that; and then, whenI was by law
the arbiter of my own fortune,I would
raise money enough to pay every cent
of his indebtedness. He should be
relieved of this millstone of responsi-
bility, and begin the world anew. I
did not ask the sum of his creditor’s
shims, for I knew that it was very
large by the de3pondent expression of
his countenance whenever he alluded
to this particular branch of the sub-
ject. I took his hot hand in mine,
and talked to him a great while—I
spoke out ,my heart’s anxieties; I be-
sought him, by all he held sacred, to
turn from evil; I tried earnestly and
tearfully to show him the terrible
consequences of persistence. IIe laid
his head in my lap, and wept like a
little child. I think the tears made a
better man of him. Very faithfully
and solemnly he promised me that I

should never have cause to blush for .

his conduct again; and I took the
consolation home as a balm for my
deep anxiety and doubting fear.
Before I had an opportunity to ex-
plain to Marshall the additionl had
made to my household, Elsie came
into the room, with that sweet gentle
grace so peculiarly her own. Oh,
how beautiful she was! I had never
seen a brighter glow on her cheek, Or
a clear sparkle in her eye. Marsha1
arose to go out, but I detained him/-
he must know her position in the

mm)...“ -. 

 

 

 

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“LAWN. 919

 

family sometime; as well now as
afterward.

“Elsie, this is Mr. Houstan, of
whom you have heard me speak;
Marshall, Elsie Graham, my friend
and adopted sister.”

He bowed low before her; I could
read his admiration of her exceeding
loveliness in the deep reverence of
that first salutation. For a moment,
I regretted the accident of their meet.
ing, but Elsie knew his short-comings,
and to this knowledge I trusted {Or
her safety in his society.

 

I applied at once to Judge More-
ton; confided to him the whole af-
fair from beginning to end, and the
result proved that 1 had not mistaken
his generous character. He placed
the five thousand dollars of the legacy
in my hands, and approved of my
plan to give Marshall 3 chance of
“ making something of himSelf.”

I iiitrusted this money to Marshall,
instead of employing an agent to
transact the affair as most persons
would have done. I wished to try
his strength, to ascertain whether he
was in earnest in his promises of
reformation. . He was absent only a
week, before he came back to Rose-
lawn, and with a happy smile on his
face told me that he had settled just
two-thirds of his liabilities, and ap-
peased the rapacity of his greedy
creditors, for the present at least,
And now he wanted to talk with me
of his future prospects. He would
like to remain at Roselawn for a few
weeks, if 1 would permit—he thought
quiet and the sacred recollections of
the place would be beneficial to him.
Afterward, a situation in some iner-
cantile house as bookkeeper or an.
countant would meet his views; but
how was this to be obtained? Dis-
graced in the eye of the world, stig-
matized as a gambler, expelled from
conege—who would take him into
confidence withauch a character? I
Was doubtful, but I did my best to

.cheer him; and while seeking expedi-

VOL. vux. 14

 

ents,l thought of the parting words
of Mr. Rutherford : “ If you are ever
in need of a friend, remember Clinton
Rutherford; and apply to him as to
a relative.”

I retired to my room to ponder on
this mental suggestion, and after much
thought, I decided that the next day’s

mail should carry a letter to Mr.”

Rutherford, asking his presence at
Roselawn on a matter which nearly
concerned my peace of mind. It
would prove his professed friendship,
if nothing more.

It was early in June, and a walk in
the meadow adjoining the turnpike
was my daily recreation ; and at sun-
set I went out as was my custom.

[was thinking all the time of Mar- .

shall and his interests, and so intent
was I upon this theme, that I failed to
notice the coming of a gentleman
down the path from the city. There-
fore, it was with some surprise that I
heard the voice of Clinton Rutherford
at my side.

“ Miss Snowe, will you welcome an
unexpected visitor?”

“ Most cordially —notwithstanding
the start you gave me in coming upon
me thus stealthily—the more espe-
cially, since Iwas going to send for
you to come by tomorrow’s post.”

I wished to go about the business
at once, never pausing reflect on
what his errand to this.
be; so I went on to ’

tler ace, the story” .
dis ', and my wish to ai

  
      

  

d him in
every honorable endeavor. He 
heard the unpleasant tale—every par-
ticular—he said, and it was. this
knowledge that had brought him to
Roselawn. Walking to and fro be
neath the flowering locust-trees, he
told me that he I come to Offer
Marshall the plea} of _ confidential
clerk in a large mercantile establish
ment in Philadelphia, of which his
brother, John Rutherford. was the
acting partner. He had high hopes
for our unfortunate friend, and would
consign him to the care of his brother
in full faith of his finqwbrmation.



 

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A. .5. ..M.m..~ ..

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220' THE HOME.

 

 

We had a long conversation upon
this matter, and then Mr. Rutherford
accompanied me up to the house.
Marshall received him with pleasure,
though the flush of mortified pride
rose to his cheek, when Rutherford
delicately alluded to his misconduct,
and offered him the cl rkship. Mar-

‘l'shall was only too gla to accept it;

and the warmth and empressement of
his gratitude evidently embarrassed
his generous friend, for he looked at
his watch, and declared it time for
him to return to the city. Ivetoed

gthis intention forthwith; Mr. Ruth-

erford must not think of leaving
Roselawn for some days; we should
enjoy the society of so good a friend.
He consented to remain, and a little
later, when Elsie came into the par-
lor, I thought that he was glad he
had done so. His eyes scarcely left
her face; he noticed every gesture,
and hung upon every word. When
she sang and played, by his request,
he was close to her side, and his
praises were enthusiastic when she
had finished. I did not wonder at
this, for Elsie Was very beautiful.
Mr. Rutherford lingered at Rose-

. lawn for some days. I need not deny

that his resence gave me pleasure,
although e said little to me in com-
Earison to his attentions to Elsie.

ut she ‘ . ect in manner as well
I was plain and unat-

' not to be ex ected
a gentleman nth)“
Rutherford would waste his in

being agreeable to a woman like my.
self. This thought, truthful though
1; was, gave me unlimited pain; it is
very hard, sometimes, to take an un-
shrinking view of a stern reality.
When with Elsie, he was gay,
witty, and devoted; they were never
sober for an instant, and whole hours
I would sit unnoticed by the window,
listening with an aching heart to the
sparkling sallies which fell from their
happy lips. When, by chance, he

     
  
   

 was left .alone with me, his whole

manner changed ; he was graVe, even

p solemn—Wire but little, and had

 

a curious way of scrutinizing my face
whenever I laughed or looked sad.
This manner confused me; I fancied
him making comparisons between
Elsie and myself, and I grew cold and
repellent under pressure of the idea.
No woman can endure a severe, cal-
culating scrutiny of this kind, from
one whom she respects, with calm-
ness.

At the expiration of a fortnight,
Mr. Rutherford announced his inten-
tion of leaving Roselawn the following
morning. Marshall was to accompany
him, he said, and they would leave in
the early train. He glanced up at
me as he spoke, and then at Elsie.
She blushed, turned pale, and rising
hastily, went out of the parlor. Mr.
Rutherford and I were alone. He
was turning the pages of an annual,
restlessly and uneasily; I was sew-
ing on a frock for Elsie. There was
an unpleasant silence which I felt
must be broken, somehow, so I ven—
tured to give the first thought which
entered my brain utterance.

“ You have decided hastily, Mr,
Rutherford; why not remain longer?”

“I have lengthened my visit greatly
beyond my original intention, Miss
Snowe; why do you say that I should
stay longer i”

I knew of no reason, so I gave
none. He waited a moment, then
continued, “My business has been
brought to a close, I believe; at least,
I must think so, from appearances.
Is not this your opinion i”

I did not comprehend him, and
still kept silence. He arose, and
drew a chair to my side. Glancing
up at his face, I saw that there was an
unusual look of determination upon
it, and a slight tremor broke the firm
lines about his mouth. He was go-
ing to tell me of his love for my
adopted sister, and ask, perhaps, my
consent to his suit. I shut my lips
tightly together; I would receive his
words with composure.

“Miss Snowe,” he said, abruptly:
“ are you like your name ’9”

I answered him coldly and calmIY'

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

A

mLAWN. ' 221

 

 

“Possibly I may be, under certain
circumstances.” 1,

He looked fixedly at me for a mo-
ment, then caught my hand in so close
a grasp that he gave me physmal
pain, and exclaimed, “Then hear me.
For oncel yield to the .Wealmess—
remember for the last time as well
as the first. I have remained here
day after day, hoping to thaw your
nature, but I have only frozen It.
Once, and fer all, I make the confes-
sion: I have loved you as I never
shall love again—no! God forbid!
The heart of an honest man] have
given you, and you fling it away!
And yet you ask me whyI do not
stay longer!” Both anguish and de-
spair were in his tones, but I was
stricken with an astonishment which
sealed my lips, and he went on:
“Agnes, my darling—J will call you
so once—what have I done to deserve
this frigid indifference? Scorn me,
spurn me, any thing but this calm
stolidity ! But in parting, let us say,
FareWell, in peace—frzends we can not;
er be, but let us separate in good-MIL.

“Shall we be more than friends 2"
I involuntarily lifted my eyes to his
face, and I know that the new happi-
ness of my soul spoke through them.
He gazed down upon me a moment
as though he would read my secret
heart; then gathered me up in his
arms, and kissed my lips.

 

Mr. Rutherford said that he had
loved me at first, when I had besought
his advice years ago; and he had al-
ways intended to seek me when l was
old enough to know fully my own
mind. He had not Wished to bind
me by vows which I might repent
when I had grown older, and so he
had waited. It was the sentiment
which he had entertained for me
which had brought him up to Rose-
lawn so suddenly; he had felt as.
lured that Ineeded a friend then, if
at any time, and he had.come to re.
have my mind from anxiety on Mar.
shall’s account. But why had he
been so very attentive to Elsie? I

 

 

couldn’t help asking him the question,
though people might think it was like
casting a doubt over my faith in him.
He smiled as he answered nae—smiled
at this little exhibition of -womanly
jealousy, I imagine.

“I remained much at the side of
Elsie, I admit; partly because she
closely resembles my only sister-Q
now with the angels; and partly be.
cause your coldness drove me to her
society. You know, Agnes, that you
were a very iceberg.”

That night, after I had retired to
my room, Elsie came to the door to
ask if she might come in for a little
while. Whenl had given permission,
she came and sat down at my feet, in
her favorite way, and with her sweet
face all tears, smiles, and blushes, she
told me a story.

Marshall Houstan loved her; she
loved him in return; what should she
do to obtain my sanction? She knew
all his faults, she said, but she was
not afraid to trust him; she firmly
believed that she could help make a
better man of him; she should be
unhappy all her life if she thought it
must be spent apart from his. I had
my misgivings; dearly as I loved
them both, I was fearful to confide
my gentle Elsie to the care of one
who had been so weak. But Elsie
pleaded the case so uently, and
my own newly-bor ‘
s an incentive-
issed her ten

    
  

  

me.
There was a double wedding, one
pleasant Sabbath morning, in the old
church in the maple wood; Elsie
gave up her young life to add happi-
ness and light to that of Marshall
Houstan; and I was made Mrs. Ruth-
erford.

Marshall took his young wife to
Philadelphia, and engaging a neat
house, the two began life. He found
employment in tile .store of John
Rutherford; and m his employer he

gained a steadfast, Were friend.

’

 

 

!
l

  

222 THE nous.

 

Let me here remark that his prom-
ises of reformation were more than
verified. He stands, to-day, among
Philadelphia’s most honored citizens,
possessed of wealth and influence;
but, better than all, his character is
without a blemish. And Elsie is one
of the happiest little Wives in all the
«Quaker city. '

My husband discharged all Mar-
shall’s debts, immediately on our
marriage, and sent him the receipts,
but he has long ago repaid him, prin-
cipal and interest. We have a pleas-
ant hone in Boston ; and we pass all
our summers at Roselawn. I love
the old place, and my dear Clinton is
always willing to gratify me in every
reasonable thing.

God be thanked for bringing me
up to such happiness as has fallen to
my lot; and let me not fix my affec-
tions so deeply on earthly objects as
to forget the duty I owe to a benefi-
cient Heaven.

 

“WEAK AND WOUNDED,
SICK AND SORE.”
BY ELLEN c. LAKE.
{Bonsn over the marble whiteness
Of a brow in deathly rest,

Are the locks whose golden brightness
Your fingers have caress’d ;
Heavy with such mortal coldness,
r more can rise,
_ loving boldness

r shining eyes.

  
 
  

emn silence ~ u
' g breath has lel‘t‘
And think of the sunny islands ~
From your sea of life 'bereft ;
"Then shutting the gates of dreaming
Forever upon your soul,
You mourn that such sun bright seeming,
The darkness of death should hold.

  

God knows that no other shadow
Is like this in which you grope;
For before your life's fair meadow
Had brought to it.“ bloom your hope,
Death struck from your hand the chalice,
Fill’d up to the brim With bliss,
And led through the darksomc valleys
The beloved one that you miss.

"Tia hard to believe sincerely
The right of the smarting blow,

 you see 0t plainly, clearly,
{yet-Else way‘your faith should go;

a

W...

 

 

But smother the bitter feeling
That strives for life in your soul,
And pray for the chrism of healing
That over your heart must roll,—

Must roll ere the dreary yearning
And the deathly weight of woe
Are dimm’d by the steady burning

Of a faith sublime and true;
For stricken and faint with sorrow,
And far from the shining strand,
But Om: can show you the morrow,
And touch with the healing hand.

 

WHAT IS SHE LIKE?

BY D. A. 8188.

0
WHAT is she like? A little ween,
That haunts the brushwood of the glen—
A bright-eyed, shy, brown-coat‘d thing
Whose simple notes so clearly ring, .
We feel ‘tis glad as innorent,
And which, in every heart, is blest ,
With thoughts of simple, cheerful life 
Devoid of passion, pain, or strife, '

What is she like? A violet

Amid the lowly mosses set,

Whose tender, pure, and perfect hue
Scarce noticed by the common crew,
To every eye that .views it near

Must render it serenely dear,
Connecting it, in memory, '

With beauty, peace, and purity.

What is she like? A quiet star,

That, in the broad sky burns afar,

To vulgar minds a shining dot,

But telling, unto higher thought,

A beautiful and mystic story

Of spiritual strength and glory—

()f progress without haste or rest
Toward all that's highest, noblest, best.

 

MODESTY.

Modesty in woman is the charm of
Charms—it is like the mantle of green
to nature, without which she is adesert,
or a morass. ~lt is modesty which
supplies the very nerves and soul to
beauty. “A fair woman without vir-
tue,” saith the Bible, “is like pulled
wine.” It is a woman’s point of

.honor, which she can never allow to

be insulted with impunity. Her hon-
or, like the snow, is melted with the
slightest touch. It is like rose-water
in a beautiful glass; break but the
glass, and how doth the fragrant es-
sence embrace the dust, and lose for-
ever its charming sweetness.

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

A PEEP AT PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE. 223

 

 

A PEEP AT PRIVATE CORRE-
SPONDENCE.’

BY l. DILANCY.

E shall ask no pardon of our

readers for publishing the fol-
lowing letters on a subject of so much
importance, and shall only premise
that the writers are Miss L. D., of
Ohio, and Mrs. J. T. B., of N: Y,

Await, Onio, June, 185—.

DEAR COUSIN J ENNY:-I have been
perusing your last letter, dated (to my
shame) six months ago, and in it I find
this sentence: “if at any time in the
future you get perplexed or in trouble,
u, let me be your confidant.” lt
ay be that you had prophetic vision
en writing those words, for though

(it in trouble, 1 am in some measure
erplexed. Do you remember in the
days of yore, when you and I were
merry girls at the old Academy of
H , of a certain treatise upon
matrimony, which graced the county
gazette, and of which your corre-
spondent was the author? lfso, you
will smile to think that the one who
discoursed so eloquently upon mar-
riage, its duties, pleasures, &c., should
now be seeking light upon that self-
same subject; yet so it is. “Am I
in love then, you ask!” That is half
whatl wish to know. You will not
longer doubt that I am erplcxed,
will you? The truth is,I ave been
planning these years how every thing
was to come about, and now my plans
are all thrown in confusion, by an en-
tirely different happen of things. Of‘
course I was going to have a long,
pleasant courtship‘with some splendid
an, like our Charley M , of old,
and after all our wild oats were sown,
We Were to be married, have a honey.
moon trip, and then settle (gradually)
down to staid.married life. But in-
stead of a’ that, here comes an Esq.
Jones, who is ten years my senior,
And has only just found out (through
fr! 8, I suppose) that he needed a
W! e, and after one or two sittings of

 

 

 

the court (courting, of course), has pro-
posed that the parties in question do
henceforth lay aside all differences
(did you ever dream of my becoming
a lawyer?) and join suit. But laying
aside bantering, I wish you to write
me a long, long litter, and fill it with
whole ounces (l inelose three stamps)
of experience and wisdom. l wil
propound a few questions which I
wOuld like answered, give you a short
description of the Esq., (am I too
jovial to be in love?) and leave the
rest for you to fill out as you choose.

lst. Do you believe in learning to ~'

love, especially after marriage? Some
writers say a marriage of‘ any but de
voted lovers will never be a happy
one. 2d. Do you believe happiness
leans toward the union of' natures like
or unlike? Do you think discrepancy
of age a great objection? Do you
think a still man would make as good
a companion as one not quite so ab
sorbed in thought? for,l suppose,
still men think more deeply. You
may think me foolish, dear Jenny, for
asking so many curious questions, but
you know that l have always been
happy, and as you are my senior, and
have had four years’ experience in
that (to me, yet untried) relation
called marriage, I wish to know your
views of the probability of my enjoy
merits of, or in, that. on. My
promised descriptio "

will e brief. I'Ie ‘ _ 
(“*ny, however), ha “" t eyu,
but; 'ight ones, brown hair, good
complexion, 650.; but this you Will
care little for, unless the last five
years have changed you much. His
sentiments upon public questions are
g00d so far as I know. He is tem-
perance, antioslavery nd reformatory.
His religious princip e! are, according
to his own account, better than his
prictice. His landlady says he is a.
very kind man. i have used up my
time, and must say good-by. Please
answer at your first leisure.
Best wishes from your cousin.
LU.

       
   

"‘ 1% 1”“.

 

 

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224 THE HOME.

 

Wssrrmm, N. Y. July, 185—.

DEAR LUCY :—I last night returned
from a two weeks’ tour among the
rocks and hills of old Connecticut,
which fifteen years ago was our home,
as you well know, and foremost among
the letters awaiting me I found one
from yourself. Had I been at home
upon the arrival of that'letter, Lu, I
should have been tempted to send you
that old coPy of the (zazette, contain-
ing said dissertation, to punish you for
never writing one word of uncle, aunt,
or cousins save yourself. But your
patience is doubtless nearly spent, and
will endeavor to answer your ques-
tions as nearly as I can. I believe in
learning to love, most certainly, for in
this country, the men do the choosing,
i. e., when it comes to words, and it is
quite improbable that one female in
five, if the choice had been hers, would
have chosen her own chooser. I agree
in the abstract with the writers to
whom you allude, and yet think their
proposition too sweeping, for as some
ove before marriage, and for lack of
return have that love turned to hatred
after; so may not one esteem before
marriage, and have that esteem, be-
cause well-founded, ripen into love
when more closely united? Will you
smile if I tell you that I have learned
to love thus? Did. Not that I did
"2 fondly too, but I did
 " that George was a
,   is manners, a little
more "v 5 in fact, a littl  ‘re
like Char ey M , to whom y‘ u al-
luded. I see clearly now that my real
husband is far superior to my ideal
one, and in this knowledge I am blast,
It might, perhaps, causea look of sur-
prise upon the face of many a staid
married woman ,were she to read the
letters which passed between here and
Connecticut during my absence. They
were written under the injunction
which George’s comical brother gave
.us on our marriage day, “to always
keep courting.” And by this I dunot
mean silly love-letters, filled up with
nonsensical terms of endearment, and

   

 

with fiatterygfiggnd gossip; but mes-

 

sages of heartfelt interest in each
other’s welfare, ‘and transcribed pages
from the inner life. And, by the way,
Lu, if you contemplate marrying, get,
if possible, far enough away to hold
a correspondence, however short. If
you get a good sensible letter, one
that shows earnest thought, and a lit-
tle originality thrown in is excellent,
and if the daily life corresponds with
the professed sentiments, then you
have one firm ground for a hopeful
future; but if, on the contrary, you
get a letter like that which I described
as silly, and which, moreover; has a
mixture of bad grammar and poor
orthography, and, moreover, shows
that the writer must have nearly e -
hausted his subject, you may bett

keep your love for a worthicr obje

As to your next question, my impréf’:

sion is, that if enlightened judgmenj,
control the actions, it makes but little
difference whether the tastes are sim-
ilar or no. If there is selfishness on
either side, there must be sources of
grievance, for we have, none of us,
any right to be selfish, and, if on the
contrary, all be open, honest, and true,
the strongest opposites may agree to
disagree, and enjoy quiet happiness.
Nay, I sometimes think of the two it
is better to be unlike than like. It
enlarges our views, gives us more
zest in our particular spheres, and
oftentimes causes persons thus thrown
together to appreciate peculiarities of
character, which, under other circum-
stances, might ever have seemed un-
pleasant, perhaps repulsive. In that
fine story of the Scarboroughs, by the
author of Susy L. Diary—a story
which I' recommend to you as one of
great merit—-—she makes her hero, Esq.
Paul, say, “Appreciation is better
without congeniality than congenial-
ity without appreciation.” I am con-
vinced plainly, dear L., that the num-
ber is beyond computation of fretted
husbands and wives, whose lives are
embittered by being misunderstood
and misjudged; whose faults areieen
as through a magnifying glass, an

whose virtues, as through the3 same

 

fl, .1...

 

 

 

 

 

 

. I l I o
A PEEP A'!‘  CORRESPONDENCE. 225

 

inverted. I remember that I used t0
fancy how much I should have George
read to me, in the long winter eVen'
ings, when we were alone. It was
but a fanciful dream WhiCh never
came to pass. He seldom .reads a
loud word, save in the morning ser-
vice, and yet it is not selfishness
which prompts his refusal. I am
thankful now, as I see him devouring
whole sentences at a glance, and the"
going forth to his labor, or busy with
some mechanical device, or mapping
out a plan for future operations, or
engaged in any of the thousand occupa~
tions which ever—ever keep him busy,
that, instead of wasting his hours in
fostering my laziness, he said to me,
fienny, love, have you ever read the
I“ ry of the wealthy gentleman who
" “fell out with his servant because he did
not blow his (the master’s) nose after
applying the handkerchief? If I sup-
ply you with books and papers, and
then employ my time in useful occu-
pation, will you not press your own
bright eyes into the service, and spare
me ’2” I suppose some would find
fault with him for refusing at all,
but I never could find fault with one
who is consistent, and George can
never wait to be read to. * * * *

I think the chances for happiness in
parties whose ages are unlike, depends
upon what they were married for.
Physiologists claim that a man should
be seven years his wife’s senior. I
heed this claim but little, and yet
think that women are usually older
for their years than men, and conse-
'quently think that sometimes a young
woman may be a fit companion for
an older man, especially if he be
One who has kept his heart young.
Do you remember Nellie Osgood,
who refused Charley M point
blank, to the utter astonishment of
the whole town, and afterward mar-
ried Dr, Somers, who was fifteen
{1631's older than herself 2 Well,

ellie, with her quiet good sense,
Which we had always given her credit
for'befope that, refusal, proved herself
an Wpt at reading human nature, for

 

 
 

 

    

“is

0“

she receives every day a greater
wealth of affection than M—’s wife
does in a year. If you ever visit W.
again, I will take you to the two
homes, and prove my words true.

Of my views upon the subject of
marrying an older person for the sake
of their shoes, as the saying is,  e.,
their money), you are well aware. It
is worse than foolishness.

I conclude by your last question,
that the Esq. is not inclined to be talk-
ative! Have you learned this from
his friends or from your own experi-
ence during those sittings to which you
refer? But no matter, forI suppose
you are well informed. I think still
men are good, bad, or indifferent, just
as handsome men are, according to
circumstances, or rather, to their na-
tures. A sullen stillness, or a pursy
one, or a stupid one, are miserable
bores, but a busy stillness I like.

Your own judgment will have to
be the guide after all, Coz, for a dis-
sertation from me containing six
sheets instead of two would not tell
you whether you are to be happy or
no. George says that he never pities
a man who gets a cor wife one par-
ticle, for they mig t have found out
who they were getting beforehand,
but I cannot say as much for my sex
quite, although I had such good luck,
that I sometimes think nearly so.
You had ought to haveasked me sev-
eral questions about wilfig 

   

si .- e question. Please take ydtu'
wedding trip this way and I Wlll crit-
icise your old man. Pardon me the

expression.) ours ever,
‘ Jssur

 

MUSIC.

Amid the lden gifts which. Heaven .

Has left, “It: portions of its light, on eartn,

None hath such influence as music hath,

The painter's hues stand visible before us

In power and beauty; we can trace the
thoughts .

Which are the workings of the poet’s mind:

But music is a mystery, and viewless

Even when present.

' -""" 'i'MWWWWWmmu.-m~

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but“: rhaps you are “*a’ ‘ on at.“ y ‘

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226

 

 

THE WRONG RIGHTED; OR, THE OLD HEART AND THE NEW.

BY MINA VICTORIA VICTOR.

HEN I saw one after another

rise and ask to he prayed for, I
wanted to follow their example; but
l was too obstinate to give it up that
way. I fought and held out, day
after day, until one day about a week
after my steady attendance, a mild-
fitced old man who sat near me, and
who I supposed had observed my
trouble and distress of mind, spoke to
me, asking ifI did not desire the
rayers of the congregation in my be-
half. My first impulse was to insult
him for meddling with other people’s
affairs, but his face was so kind, and
so meek, that my wickedness died out
of me, and bursting into tears I cried
—“ Pray! pray ! Oh, pray fog me!
I’ve been trying a week, and cannot
pray for myself.” They prayed for
me fervently and I listened humbly,
trying to help them. I went home
feeling worse than ever—not so re-
bellious—but despairing like, and cast
down. My life had been one of sin
for so long, it seemed, impossible for
God to forgive me,-for Jesus to wash
me white by his blood. I did not
see how it could be done. I was on
my knees nearly all night. The next
day I went back, I looked as misera-
ble as I_ felt. The congregation
prayed forms—4h” asked the Lord

 to take awiy' my burden and are

me that though my sins had be ‘ as
scarlet they should be made» white like
wool. All of a sudden the change
came. There was a great light about
me, sparks of fire as it were floated
in the air,—-I felt a rush of joy that
made me dizzy, and Ifell powerless.
on the floor. They raiSed me up, and
in a minute or two I began to see
again, and to shout the praise of the
Lord. My tongue was loosed; I
know not where I found words; I
confessed my sins, I cried that Jesus
Christ had atoned for them—that I
wu‘ among the redeemed. I shouted
aJamie the. fullness of my joy. I



 

felt strangely. Some wept, but [only
laughed and sang. I was a new crea-
ture; Satan had beat a retreat and
left the Lord the conqueror in the
field. I had no more doubts; but
went away from the meeting in a
tranquil frame of mind.

All-the rest of the week I remained
assured of the grace that had been
given me; sometimes I was in an
ecstasy—at all times I was happy-—
happier than I had ever been in my
life. My heart was continually cry-
ing—Glory to God! I remembered
the prayers of my long-forgotten
mother, and cried to her, to heaven,
that they were answered. On Sunday
I was baptized, and partook of the
body and blood of my blessed Saviour.
How sweet wasrthe feast! I trem-
bled with my feelings, but after all
was over, felt calm and happy again.

I soon sought to let y0u know of
my new state. I thought it would
give you pleasure to hear it,-bcsides,
I could not rest until I had asked your
pardon; Ah, Miss Martha, I wonder
now how you can find it in your
heart to forgive me.”

“Do not mention it again, Mr.
Reynard; it is past. I cannot tell
you how sincerely glad I am to hear
of your new prospects; I hope that
you may be given grace to continue
to the end.”

“ Amen! the Lord grant it! And
now I believe that faith without works
is nothing! I’ve made you and
your’s lots of trouble. I don’t con—
sider myself really entitled to any
more of your father’s Chicago real
estate than will cover the loan 1 made
him». It’s true, the mortgage was fore-
closed, but I gave him no chance to
redeem it. Now, it’s my wish to
transfer that real estate to you, to
make out a deed of it in your name,
as a small compensation for the sick-
ness and troublel’ve‘caused yon. NOW,

pray,don’t object, don’t, Miss M‘hat’?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

4......

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o... A.” A.

    

.‘r.. I
9'

m

 

7‘ lg, ‘  
THE ting-Bremen.

“ Mr. Reynard, I hardly know
Whether—”

“But I know what my duty is;
you must allow me to be the Judge in
this case, seeing I only want to do
right, and ease my conscrence. In
fact, I’ve had the deed made out, I’ve
signed it, its registered, and here it is,
a wedding present to yOU, hoping
you’ll find some time a man that’s
worthy of you.”

Tears came into the blue eyes of
the young girl.

“I’m deeply touched and gratified,
as well as thankful, Mr. Reynard.”

“I haven’t felt so well satisfied in a
long time, Miss Martha.”

“And now, if you will not feel
hurt, Mr. Reynard, I should like to
return you a package I have made 'up,
of the expensive presents which I re-
ceived from you, and which I have no
right nor wish to retain.”

“ Indeed, Miss Livingstone, I do not
see why you should not keep them. I’ve
nobody else to give ’em to, and I
think you’ll acknowledge they’re not
just the kind of trinkets for a man to
be wearing.”

His manner was so humble and
deprecating that Martha hardly knew
what further to urge, though she felt
reluctant to keep things which could
only remind her of an unhappy epi.
sode in her life.

“ Keep them to remind you of how
great a sinner has been converted,” he
continued. “By the way, Miss Man
the, can you tell me any thing about
that girl who sprang up so like a
spirit the night that—that I saw you
last? I’ve thought much about her
lately, and I’d like to inquire her out,
She’s an uncommon girl.”

“She is indeed,” replied Martha.
“ Why would you like to find her 1”
—-she was still a little loth to trust
the entire good will of a man so
depraved as this had been.

“I gathered from her words and
looks, that night, a little assistance,
coming from a friendly hand, would.
do her no harm. Not thatI wish to
ofler Dr charity—she’s too prombfor

 

that, any one may see. But a pres-
ent, now—something substantial that
will help her along, and make her
comfortable for life. I’m rich, and
ought to be making atonement for the
past. She’s spirited, and smart, and
overworked. I’d like to set her up in
some good business.” ‘

“That is a noble thought, Mr. Rey-
nard,” continued Martha, with spark-
ling eyes. “ I know that she deserves
your kindness as highly as any one
upon whom you can bestow it.”

“I’d like to make you the agent in
the afi‘air, if it would not be too much
trouble. Supposing you call upon her
to-night, and ascertain, as women have
ways of doing—they’re cunning crea-
tures—what you think will please her
best, and then I’ll be able to make my
calculations with more certainty of
pleasing.” - '

Martha readily promised this, and
soon after her visitor retired. Won-
der at the exceeding change which his
conversion had already effected in his
character, for a time almost drove out
the tide of sweet and blissful thoughts
which swelled in her happy heart.
She was made very much at her ease
by the gift from Mr. Reynard, which
would enable them to preserve the
homestead and fully and instantly
cancel all claims against her father.
How happy she was! how bright the ‘
future looked! She did not fail to
sink upon, her knees, when she re-
turned to liar chamber, and thank the
All-Father for having removed the
thorns from her path and made the
crooked places straight. She longed to
have Ralph return, that she ""81";
communicate the wonderful news.

He did return at duslo}i0 find her
brilliant and elate, and 1301mm“ ‘0 her
little history of the events 0f the daY-
He was surprised to he” .(3f the
character of My, Reynard’s went, and
in consideration afihis present repent-
ance, almost forgave him the past.

“ Are you not glad that you did not
kill him, as you threatened?” laughed
M3,“... “ The Lord has taken his
me in hand and attended to it much

 

  

 

. vu-

,
.i

 

228 THE HOIE.

 

more wisely than you could have
'done.”

“ ‘ Vengeance is mine—I will repay,
saith the Lord.’ Mercy is his, too.
Well, dearest, I will confess that it is
much better, as you say.”

“You will go with me, of course, to
help me do my errand with Elea-
nor 2” she asked, when tea was re-
moved.

He assentcd,‘and they went to sur-
prise the inmates of the humble home,
who had not expected again t0,see
them. They were received with the
cordiality which their kindness had in-
spired. They found another guest
there, Martin Morris having come to
spend the evening. Mr. Irving was
pleased with the young man, and soon
got into a friendly and interesting con-
versation with him. He found him
to be aqe’ry intelligent, thoughtful
person, with" well-developed views of

is own, and the power of gracefully
defending them. Ralph had always
sought and preferred the society of
these quiet, self-trained men, to that
of the ephemera of what is habitually

called society. He met Mr. Morris,

upon terms of equality, and conceded
to him all that was his. Mrs. Strong
joined much in the conversation, while
the two girls had rather drawn aside,
to, talk‘in low voices together, after
the fashion of young maidens. By
the time that ten o’clock came, Mr.
Irving had found out the business and
late losses of the book-keeper, and that
his dream of the future—that Arca-
dian dream, which, in one shape or
another, haunts all youthful hearts,
until hope deferred kills hope—was
to emigrate West, to own land and a
home of his own. It did not take any
extraordingry degree of shrewdness to
furthermore discover, that the image
which haunted that ideal and impossi-
ble home was that Of the broad-
browed, bright-eyed girl Sitting Oppo-
site, upon whom the lover’s glances
continually rested with a yearning
sadness.

f‘Tiat the girl returned this hopeless
yet deep and,‘1,deathless passion, on

.95 .

 

 

stolen glance which she fixed upon the
book-keeper betrayed to the watchful
guest—a look of love, wild, desolate.
and absorbing, and unperceived by any
but Ralph’s furtive eyes.

The visitors arose to go,

“Are you engaged to that clever
young gentleman?” whispered Mar-
tha, smilingly, in her friend’s ear.

“No!——and never expect to be,"
was the brief, cold reply.

What was Martha’s delight and
surprise, to receive. the next morning,
a visit from Aunt Randolph.

“I’ve come down to straighten up
matters for you, foolish children,” she
said, with her benevolent smile.
“ You’ve neither father nor mother
here, and you must mind me instead.
You and Ralph must be married.
Ay ! blush, its very becoming to
young girls—a rosy blush is. He’s
been writing to ask my advice—told
me he would prefer an immediate
marriage, but hardly dared propose it
to you,—wished me to electioneer for
him. Now, I’m no friend of early
marriages; I think you too young, by
several years, to become a wife; but
since matters stand as they do, and a
long and lonely separation may ensue,
if you are not married,—why, ‘be-
tween two evils choose the least.’ Let
us see how quickly you can prepare
yourself. Come! no tears! I shall be
suspicions that they are crocodiles‘
tears, for you look as bright as‘a rose
in the morning dew.”

“ But, dear Aunt, I’m so—so—it’s
so sudden—”

“ I know it, my love—it is sudden.
but I hope you will he never the less
happy. God bless you, Martha, is my
prayer. There, my dear, calm your-
self, and I will go with you to buy the
wedding-dress.’

The consequences of this unexpected
dialogue were, that Eleanor Strong
was summoned a few hours later to
come and sew upon the bridal robe.
Martha herself ai ed in making it, for
they would give her but three or four
days for preparation. The words of
thawo girls were almost as liw and

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

THE WRONG RIMED.

229

 

merry as the stitches they set in the
snowy silk ; for Martha was very
happy, and Eleanor shared sympa-
thetically in her joy, shutting down
the dark prospects of her own life
deep in her heart.

“It never rains but it pours.”
Upon Eleanor’s return home, the
second day of the sewmg, she took
with her a letter, superscribed to her
address, in a large, uncouth hand,
which had been handed her by Mar-
the just before she tied on her bonnet.
She was impatient to know what it
meant; but found tea waiting, and sat
down to the table before she opened
it. When the meal was over, she
took it from her pocket.

“ Here is something, mother, let us
guess what it contains.”

“If it came from your new friends,
it can hardly contain any thing evil, so
let us hope it is something good.”

“ I’m sure I have not the slightest
idea what to expect—l dread to break
the seal—it seems as if it was some-
thing of importance.”

With rather unsteady fingers Elea.
nor opened the envelope and found a
letter and two other pieces of writing
-—she looked first at the letter, which
read :- '

“Miss ELEANOR Srsoso:-—Please accept
the inclosed from your friend and well-
wisher. I once appeared before you in
rather an unfavorable light; but I‘ve got rc-
ligion, and humbly hope my heart is changed.
All I ask of you is, to make your good for-
tune, if you think it such, known to a cer-
tain young man named Martin Morris, of
whom I have heard a good report. He‘ll be
lpt to sympathize with you. With many
wishes for your health, happiness, and pros-
perity, and asking the blessing of the Lord
upon you, I am your respectful friend and

admirer, Jaoos REYNARD."
“And what do you think the in-
closures are, mother 'l” exclaimed

Eleanor, in a flurried voice, while her
face flushed with excitement, after
looking at them a moment. “ The
first is a deed giving me three hundred
3N1 fifty acres of land in one of the
most beautiful and flourishing parts of
Iowa, set forth as being well we red,
timbered, being partially incl '  nd

 

improved, and having upon it a log
cabin. The next is a draft for five.
hundred dollars, upon the Artisans
Bank—enough to enable us to emi-
grate, and buy such farming imple-
ments as will be necessary to do the
work with. Ah, mother, who shall
say that God ever forgets his chil-
dren? He tries us sometimes to see
of what temper we are made; but His
goodness is boundless. Jacob Rey-
nard ! this is indeed a miracle!”

“,For which we will thank Heaven
all the days of our lives.”

“ Oh, mother—I am overcome by
our good fortune.”

“ Who will you have though, to
cultivate this splendid farm for you 2”
asked Mrs. Strong, as a smile gave
her words more meaning.

Not a word ansWered Eleanor, but
arose, and sat by the window, lost in
a trance of bewildering ‘dreams, such
as had not visited her soul for years.
She looked into the future and saw—-
long reaches of meadow land, fringed
with stately trees waving their
branches in the golden light of sunset;
a stretch of upland, with rounded hills
rising like billowy crests of the emer-
ald sea, green with beauty—between
the openings of these hills, a lake
stretching away in long lines of rosy
ripples—near by, upon a gentle rise
of ground, a modest cabin, overrun
with clambering wild roses and honey-
suckles—a beloved mother sitting by
the fragrant curtain of the window, a
happy child shouting under the ghade
of the oak-tree close by the spring, a
young wife standing in the door, With
wistful eyes looking off over the field
of undulating wheat, for a form that
comes bounding lightly Over the stile,
approaching with a cheer? face “"91 a
loving, (gm-dial greeting. at a Vision
was that for the soul of a tell-worn.
care.wom, povertystricken New York
seamstress. Let us hope that it may
yet be realized to the sweetest and
fullest possibility -

Eveu‘ while she dreamed, Martin
Morris came in. Could it be that her
spirit had drawn him by unseen influ-

.. q-.-.'_. “mm, 1.“ , an wwNVMEV. a

 

 

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sac

ences within its sphere, and impelled
him teatime and find out the joy which
was in store for him. He made an
apology for calling again so soon.

“ You are welcome,” said Eleanor.
“I have very~extraordinary news to
communicate,” and she handed him
the letter and the inclosures.

- “I have felt that this good fortune
would some time come to you,” he
replied, after musing several minutes
over the communication; “it seemed
as if you would not be permitted to
do so much good, yet go unrewarded.
Yet I have, of late days, despaired,
and been more bitter than I ought.
Now, Eleanor, I can congratulate you
with all my heart, and assure you that
I shall be a more contented man since
you are prospered. I shall no longer
regard my own narrow means as so
pitiful. A stranger has done for you
what I would have done.”

“ You have been my friend in need,
M in,” said Eleanor, in a soft voice,
‘2 ' \I shall never enjoy one day of
my- plbsperity unless I can also make
it advantageous ‘to you. You have
wished to go West—you think your
health suffers from your close and com
fining occupation—you shall have
the management of my farm, and half,
“least, of the profits.”

Let not the modest reader infer
that Eleanor wished to propose, in
this round-about way, for the hand
and heart of Martin Morris. She
knew perfectly well that he loved her,
and had loved her for years, and that
only his poverty and her responsibili-
ties had kept him silent. She saw at
once, that one of his delicate and hen-
orable mind would shrink from com-
ing out with a proposal which he had
so'long withheld, JUSt at a time when
it might seem entirely selfish and
mercenary. ‘ With the candor of all
genuine natures, she preferred to give
him an opportunity which he might
improve, or not, as he felt. Without
committing herself in the least to my
maidenly impropriety, she WOUId re-
move from him some of the embar-
rassment of his situation.

 

 

THE HOME.

“ You are too generous, Eleanor.”

“There is no generosity between
friends. I shall not wish to manage
so large a farm alone, and if you do
not accept the offer I shall have to
employ somebody else ”-—and a little,
sly, provoking smile, which the girl
sometimes ha l, danced about her lips
and eyes.

Martin IOOlic'Il earnestly into her
face—so earnestly that she blushed.

“I do not wish to seem eager and
selfish, Eleanor; but you know that I
could not live so near you, have so
many interests in common, and not
desire more.”

Her head drooped lower, and her
lip trembled.

“ lfl go with you, it must be as
your husband. Otherwise I had
rather stay where my solitude and
obscurity will nevermore be mocked
by hopes such as your womanhood
has aroused in me.”

“ Martin, you read my heart long
ago, I belieVe.” _

“ And it is mine! Dear Eleanor!
how often have I longed to call you
so, yet dared not. Let me say it
now, dear Eleanor l”

He secured the hand which rested
on the table, the little hand brown
with toil, and pressed it to his lips.

“ Ah, wilt thou love my hand, dear,
_'I‘o lay along in thine?
Like a little stone in a running brook
It seems to lay and pluc—

“Let drop the poor, pale hand,
dear, unfit to mate with thine l”—-so
said Elizabeth Barritt, and I humbly
echo her. “My hand is hardly fair
enough for a wedding-ring, Martin.”

“And a thousand times more pre-
cious is it to me on that account.
Every ache and pain of it, every
weary day of labor, has the more
endeared it,” and he pressed it to his
heart, that she might feel the strong
vibration of the emotions whic
stirred him.

Mrs. Strong had been putting little
Constance to bed. She now came
on and saw at a glance how matters
st ear Martin still clung’to the

 

 

 

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THE WRONG RIGHTED.

timid hand which would fain have
withdrawn itself.

“ May I call you mother ‘2” he
asked, as she took her seat near—
“Eleanor has said that I may some
time call her wife.” _

She looked into the glowmg, manly
face, whereon was no shadow of
shame, dissipation, or avarice, and felt
that she had found a son and not lost
a daughter. Smiling back his eager,
joyous smile, she answered—“ God
bless you, my children. It makes me
happy to see your happiness. If a
mother’s commendation is of worth,
as I think you will esteem it, know
that I regard you both as worthy of
all the blessings you can attain.”

 

CHAPTER XVII.

Not for this span of life aloue,
Which as a blast doth fly,
And like the transient flower of grass,
Just blossom, droop, and die ;
But for a being without end,
This vow of love we take;
Grant us, 0 God! one home at last,
For our Redeemer's sake.
Mas. Sioovaxsr.

IT was Easter Sabbath of the pres-
ent year, a bright, beautiful day.
Amid all the interesting ccrcmonials
of that day, there were none more so
than those which took place in a cer-
tain church upon a well~known ave-
nue. The altar, the font, the reading
desk, the communion table, were pm.
fusely adorned with Easter flowers.
Roses and japonicas, with many other
rare and costly blossoms, the choicest
of generous conservatories, made the
whole air of the church heavy with
delicious perfume.

' Before the service, which preceded
the baptismal rites and communion
service, a wedding party appeared be-
fore the altar, and two couples were
united in marriage. The brides had
dresses and bonncts alike ; and though
many of the partially-assembled con.
gegation knew the radiantly beautiful

cos of Martha Livingstone and her
bridegroom, Mr. Irving—none knew
the other noble-looking couple with
whom-they stood. After the mar-
liege benediction was pronounced,
they retired to a pew, as little cx.sed

 

. ... _ aw ~o<-~v h  Wu"

    
      

281

to the curious as possible; re.
maining throng the sermon, and
listening with reverent atttention to
the discourse. ‘ ' »

Amid those who came forward to
be confirmed were both the brides.
Removing their bonnets they bowed
their beautiful heads solemnly to re.
ceive the laying on of hands. The
same day that they took upon them-
selves the vows of earthly love, they
spiritualized and solemnized their new
relation, by taking upon themselves
also the vows of the church.

Aunt Randolph, Mrs. Strong, and
Jacob Reynard were with the bridal
party,'who, one and all, with the ex.
ception of little Constance, partook of
the communion. With afl'ections thus
sanctified and hopes thus attested, who
shall doubt but that these unions will
be as happy as it is in the nature of
the perishable relations of earth to
become ? _

It was a memorable and beautiful
occasion,—not the least so among the
many which the past winter has called
forth. The feet of these young begin
ners have yet a long journey to go,
and they may find rough and thorny
places, wild rocks and threatening
mountain-paths, even as they have
already found ; yet if the love of God
be in their hearts, and not the selfish-
ness of the world—if they find the
peace which Christ, the Comforter,
left to his beloved ones, before he
went to his crown of thorns and cruel
cross—if they grow in the grace and
glory ofa truly Christian lifeé—it will
matter but little in the eternal order-
ing of things, whether a few moreor
less transient shadows lay across their
pathways here. Peace be with them,
and the blessing of the All:1‘athel‘-

[ms mm] .

 

Tam: Lows—True love is a natu
ral sacrament; and if ever a young
man thanks God for having saved
what, is 'noble and manly in his soul.
it is when he thinks of offering 1; u,
the woman he loves.

' ~ ‘ , ‘9’, us}; _' . a. »- -».
, hr- .MVWWrM.- - was ,., A . n.» _

282

THE HOME.

 

A STRING OF GOOD THINGS;

OR, FRUITS FROM THE FRESHEST FIELDS.

N looking over some old documents,
we have fallen upon a chapter of
the old laws of the Massachusetts
colony. Some of the enactments are
so unjust and impolitic, that we of
this day are led to wonder, what kind
of people the early Puritans really
were. Here are some of the enact~
ments which were enforced until long
after the time when Roger W'illiams
was “banished” for persisting in his
non-conformity :—

“None shall travel, cook victuals,
make beds, SWecp house, cut hair, or
shave on the Sabbath-day.

“ No woman shall kiss her child on
the Sabbath, or fasting-day.

‘ilf any man shall kiss his wife, 'or
Wife her husband, on the Lord’s day,
the party in fault shall be punished at
the discretion of the magistrates.

“Whoever shall profane the Lord’s
day by doing unnecessary work, by
unnecessary traveling, or by sports
and recreations, he or they who so
transgress shall forfeit forty shillings,
or be publicly whipped; but if it
shall appear to have been done con-
tumaciously, such person or persons
shall be put to death, or otherwise se-
severely punished at the discretion of
the Court.

“ N 0 one shall run on the Sabbath-
day, or walk in his garden or else-
where, except reverently to and from
meeting.”

This, Certainly is .not the spirit of
our day Christianity, and a blessed
thing it is not; for such intolerance
would deluge the land in revolution
and blood. What other time than
the holy Sabbath do our men of bus-
iness have in which to “ kiss their
wives,” ramble with their children in
the garden, and thus enjoy the blisses
of home? 0 unwise CQtton Mother !

In a late most admirable paper, by
Henry Giles, we find the following
somewhat singular, though striking
passage. He is alluding to the “ noti~

 

ces of new books” which form so im-
portant a feature in our daily and
weekly newspapers. Mr. Giles writes
of the critical expression :—

“We who live in distant villages
take the puff in its literal significa-
tion, and cry aloud for joy, that a new
book is born into the world. Fools
that we are, not to be aware that a
grandl y new book would be a birth to
glorify a Nation or a. Century 1 But
then the puff of the dead book gives
it, to us in our remoteness, a sort of
life. There is a theory, which one
might call ‘ Moral Astronomy’—-
that maintains the possibility of your
smallest deeds becoming known to
you in the more distant stars. N ow
suppose that one had just published a
book, and died while reading the glo-
rification of Jenkins, he would rush
from star to star, with full persuasion
that he had left on earth, behind him
-—an eternal name. Tomkins, indeed,
might a few hours after, demolish it
in a slashing article, but the author
would be millions of orbits away be
fore the report of it could reach him
—indeed, it could never reach him-
and through all the universe, the au
thor would be carrying with him the-
sense of an immortal fame, which,
after all, was but an illusion left by
the lie of Jenkins. And yet it was
merely a chance, that he was not made
everlastingly miserable, by ossibly
the deeper lie of Tomkins. a far-off
villages we are to books in almost
this astronomical relation. Tley are
often dead, gone, and in their graves
forgotten before We have knowledge
of their birth; and by the time such
knowledge comes to us, we are thrown
into bitter quarrels about their litera
ry merits, when they are quietly re.
posing in oblivion.”

What a capital thrust is this hu-
morous illustration at that theory of
speculative theologians who preach
the “Moral Astronomy” referred to!

No person is better qualified to
judge of an abstract question than
H‘ry Giles. His estimate of the

 

STRING 0F GOOD. THINGS.

A

late Sir William Hamilton is so. ad-
mirable, and the characterization is so
complete that we cannot resnst the
impulse to quote :— .

“Sir William Hamilton’s is one of
those great minds whose influence and
power immeasurably surpass their
mere quantum of production.. They
are not to be judged by quantity, but
by! quality ——not so much by what
they teach as by what they suggest-
not by what they communicate—but
by what they inspire and excite. To
such order belonged Bacon, Newton,
Pascal, Kant, Spinoza; and, copious
writers though they were,—also, Pla-
to and Aristotle: in fact, to such or-
der belongs every original, profound,
or creative mind,—whatever be its
kind or mode of revelation. In read-
ing his ‘ Lectures,’ one is at the same
time, not only learning to think, but
how to express thought; not only
studying a particular system and phi-
losophy, but gaining knowledge [of
philcsophy universally, both in its his-
tory and its literature. Hamilton had
an art, that was all his own, of uniting
copiousness with compression. .Com-
pression in Kant, though admirably
lucid—is yet so intense, as to tire the
most vigorous attention ; copiousness
in Fichte—though involving 3. mar-
velous genius of analysis, yet often

erplexes and obscures his meaning.
gamilton seems to have the com-
pression of Kant, but with a faculty
of illustration, anecdote, and incident,
that relieves attention, while it em.
bles the mind more thoroughly to
grasp the subject: he seems to have
the eopiousness of I: Ichte, but with a
clearness of vision so distinct, and
with a chain of reasoning so unbro-
ken, that the clue of thought is never
lost in a labyrinth of phrases.“ How
often in reading Kant does one long
for the author to expand and exempli.
1‘y_h0w often in reading I‘ itche does
one long for the author  condense
and to define. Such longmgs never
arise in reading Hamilton—because
they are always anticipated.”

Lectures upon popular subject! are

 

fast becoming a great instrument of
progress in knowledge. People, now.
a-days, have too little time to kee
pace with the wonderful strides mak-
ing in all departments of science and
physics, and prefer to depend upon
the popular lecturer or essayist, nth.
er than to resort to books and reports
and “papers” for the necessary in-
formation. This fact is calling into
the field many accomplished scholars
and investigators, who thus become
instructors in a truly cosmopolitan
sense. Thus Prof. Mitchell, of Cin-
cinnati, delivered many lectures upon
Astronomy and Telescopic Discovery,
in this city, last winter, drawing im-
mense audiences. It is fair to say, he
did more for the real enlightenment
of the people than a thousand “new
b00ks,’ or a host of coil e tutors
could have accomplished. in Europe
the lecturer is a most important 1'-
sonage. There much of the best tui-
tion is imparted, in Law, Medicine,
Literature, and the various depart-
ments of science, from the lecture ros-
trum. It will be thus in this country
ere long. Our people haVe become
tired of the mere talk of the profes-
sional lecturer who travels the coun-
try over, repeating everywhere, for
fifty dollars per night, his skim-milk
fancies or opinions upon subjec ~
which really have no value in the:
selves for the people—which hear
about the same relation to the lectures
by Professor Mitchell and the Euro-
pean doctors referred to, that their
milk does to the richest, sweetest
cream. We think it can be safely
said, that the day of these genteel
talkers of small matters has 2,005 by
—that the day of a wiser, more thor‘
ougth educated class 11“ come-

Speaking of lectures, we. may give
this paragraph from Dr. Reid s bmith-
sonian discourses~ Referring ‘90 the
causes of the deterioration of health,
and the necessity for more thorough
ventilation in our houses and public
buildings, he says =-

«Tho general condition and health of
the people is greatly influenced by

 

 

 

   

pram-EVE,”

  

234 THE HOME.

 

the air they breathe, and this, in the
course of time, affects the appetite;
then the health gives way rapidly from
the combined influence of bad air and
want of nourishment. The low tone
of the constitution induces a craving
for unwholesome stimuli which affects
the system still more powerfully.
There are but few questions connected
with the material well-being of man
more important than that of improv-
ing the condition of the dwellings of
the people. It is every day becoming
more and more a moral, a religious,
and a political, as well as a physical
question. Many are driven to the
very extremes of socialism in its most
repugnant forms as often from the
want of proper habitations as from
any other cause. If the family sys-
tem and the home circle are essential
to the foundation of a nation’s pros-
perity and happiness, then too much
importance can not be attached to the
improvement of the habitations of
the people. Wherever the laws, the
institutions, the state of morals and
religion, and the resources of a coun-
try lead to their being carefully made,
the effects are manifest in the external
aspect of the people, to say nothing
of the many other blessings that flow
from this source. But let them look
to the other picture, and there it will
be seen that if this object be neglected.
whether from defective legislation,
imperfect adaptation, or careless and
indifferent landlords and proprietors,
via; and intemperance are certain to
mark the results.”

This subject of ventilation deserves
more attention than it has yet recoiv.
ed, from the intelligent classes in this
country. Attention has been some.
What directed to the Subject, and much
toward correcting the evils of con.
struction in buildings; but very much
remains yet to be done, and lecturers
must be the instruments of the re.
form, since the great majority of pee.
ple will not read on the SUllJeCt, while
they are perfectly willing to be talked
to, and will adopt good suggestions
very readily. '

 

HINTS TO YOUNG MOTHERS.
III.

1TH regard to the control of

children, there can be no rule by
which all can be governed alike.
Health, temperament, disposition,
each affect the behavior of the child,
and should be considered in its man-
agement. Children of excitable te‘m-
perament (and this is now by far the
largest class), require greater wisdom
in their training than others. Their
over-active minds and delicate bodies,
are truly a serious care to those who
have the rearing of them. Example
is the best of teachers, as the infant is
purely imitative in its nature: and
here, let me impress it upon parents,
that faults of their own are reflected
in their offspring, and although it may
be necessary to punish those faults,
the necessity might be avoided by a
proper self-control in the majority of
cases. Qualilies go by inheritance
it is true; but many more are gained
by household education. If you wish
to have sons and daughters excellent
in every characteristic, exhibit that.
exclelence in your own conduct daily.

Children are very apt to look upon
their parents as perfection in all things,
and woe to that parent who discovers
to the little confiding mind so palpa.
ble a deformity, as to be perceived by
it. There can be no greater humilia-
tion on one side, or grief and disap-
pointment on the other. If you have
forbidden a child to do an action, no
matter how insignificant, be careful
that it does not find you doing the
same thing, and thereby have its sense
of justice outraged, exce t, of course,
in such cases as Where t e reason of
the difference can be explained.

The writer 'was once teaching a lit-
tle follow to feed himself at table.
Childlike, he put in his food as fast as
he could, and in very large mouthfuls.
Itook great pains to show him the
proper size of a mouthful, such as he
should take, using the expression “ do
not stuff your mouth.” Happening
to have him at table with myself one

 

 

 

 

 

 

It.

HINTS T0! YOUNG MOTHERS.

day, not long afterwards, I was sur-
prised to see him watching me with
an expression of outraged confidence
on his baby face, and laying down
my knife and fork,l smiled and asked
him what was the matter. “ Es stuff
as mouf l” replied the little fellow in
so grieved a voice that I could not re-
frain from laughing; for l Instantly
comprehended that he had been com-
paring the size of my mouthfuls With
those I had instructed him to take.
So soon do children begin to criticise
and compare.

Be careful about showing irritation
of temper, for there is no habit so
catching. If the mother of a family
is a scold, or fault-finder, ten chances
to one it' every child she has does not
turn out a scold and fault-finder; not
only making themselves miserable,
but sending out evenwidening circles
of misery into the families they shall
raise, and they after them. Women
have a good excuse for irritability
in- their sensitive organization, and
strength so often over-taxed : but
when the injury done by indulgence is
so great, it is worth while to try the
length of your endurance.

Beware of making uncharitablc. re-
marks about your friends or neighbors
in the presence of children. It is a pe.
culiarity of these little folks to like
gossip about their elders, and I have
seen children sit hours in the house to
listen to the Conversation of their pa-
rents and neighbors when it was of a
perSonal character, who Would other.
wiSe have. been happily at play. The
effect of such conversations on their
inexperienced minds is to give them
Very incorrect and unhappy notions
of persons and things, and an anec.
dote treasured up in this way has often
been of great injury, not only to the
child whojudged wrongly. but through
the child to others w om ‘ it influ-
enCed, as well as the person Judged.

Do not suffer a child to be made
afraid of any thing. F 881' is not only
undignified, but a source of the great
est discomfort to the possessor; and
do not teach children to doubt your

VOL. vm. l5

 

 

 

936

word by promising them any thing
which you do not perform, whether it
be a favor or a punishment. Their
minds are not so occupied with busi-
ness that they forget it, whatever-it
may be. They are, on the contrary
expecting you to keep your word,
unless you show them by your con:
duct that you make promises with-
out intending to keep them ; thereby
learning them to place no confidence
in what you say, and teaching them a
lesson of equal untruthfulness. Nei-
ther, when you command a child, use
a great many words, but remember
to speak pleasantly though firmly, as
if you did not doubt its instant obe-
dience. Such a manner will nearly"
always insure obedience; but if, for
some peculiar reason, it fails, insist
upon being obeyed promptly, in the
same calm, kind, and firm manner.
Almost the whole secret of securi

the respect and cheerful obedience of
children lies in that one neglect of
parents, arising from carelessness.
They imagine it easier to have an 0c.
casional battle with a child to subdue
its temper when it has got beyond the
bounds of reasonable endurance, than
every day, and all the time to require

[just the same respect of authority,

which in time becomes a habit, and
the child is insmsible to any restrain.
and of course happier than when hit]!
the time indulged and half the time
restricted in proportion.

Let no mother fin-get that she is
responsible for the happiness of the
children she brings into the world.
Let her endeavor to cultivate in them
such tempers, motives, habits. and
principles as shall secure that happi-
ness, not only by making them be-
loved and respected by otherS, but
peaceful and contented within them-
selves.

To preserve their health is the first
duty, and after that to teach them
usefulness, virtue, self-respect, and
cheerfulness. The latter is of much
greater importance than most parents
perceive: A cheerful, self-reliant dis.
position 18 a greater gift than a for-

 

 

4
l
‘y.
l

- ......“_._..,.. i ,-

   

  

236 THE HOME.

 

tune, and it is never too early to begin
to inculcate it in the infant mind. Do
not allow a child to dwell upon a hurt
or grievance of any kind, but by live-
ly, hopeful, or playful remark teach it
to regard the accident as of no serious
importance. A child will frequently
laugh instead of crying, if, instead
of making a great ado over some lit-
tle bump it has received, you affect t0
pity the floor or the table or what.
ever it has come into collision with.
Its mirthfulness is excited by the
ludicrousness of the idea, which it
quickly perceives, and the trouble is
forgotten. Never forget the real good
-of the child in the pleasure you your-
self experience in lavishing pity and
tenderness upon it: but mix up with
these endearments wholesome lessons

aof patience and content, or, if need be,

.  fendurancc.
~ .' 3 DR. E. L. Sr. Jonx.

 

‘.‘ AS A LITTLE CHILD.”

"“ ILL you go into the ears, and
wait, or sit here in the depot
‘till we are ready to start.”

“Take. me into the ears, papa,” was
:answered in such a pleasant voice,
~that my attention was immediately
turned to the speakers, while waiting
ifor my own ticket.

ln theml recognized the face of a
partial acquaintance, one whom I had
often met on the cars, whose business
daily took him into the city. and now
he held by the hand “his Charlie,” a
'mild, blue-eyed boy of six summers,
who had been in to spend the day
'with grandma and cousins,

Tieket procured, the first one that
met my eye as l entered the car was
Charlie, alone on his seat. Something
like half an hour passed away, all was
hustle and jostle among the crowd
within and without, and the car was
well filled—all but one seat. Little
Charlie still sat alone. l.\l) symptom
of uneasiness was betrayed as he
watched one after another come in.
Many noticed the little fellow, seem-
ingly wondering at his quiet demeanor,

 

for he looked likea timid child. Fi-
nally a gentleman who sat" back of
him said, in rather an alarming tone,
“Where is your fathers-"my boy ’l”
But it did not alarm Charlie, there
was no trouble expressed in the reply.
“In the de ot—he will be here before
long.” “lint are you not afraid he
will be left, hark ! there is the bell.”

A few moments more, and the con-
ductor’s well known, “all aboard!”
“ all aboard l” came sounding through
the cars. “ There,” said the persistent,
strange gentleman, “ do you hear
that? the conductor has shouted ‘all
aboard,’ and see, we areImouing, we
shall soon be off.”

Dear child. We began in our own
hearts to have fears that something
had occurred to detain the father—
that the alarm of the old gentleman
was not altogether an idle one, though
evidently persisted in, to try the
courage of the little fellow. This time
too, Charlie appeared alittle disquieted,
but starting, he took hold of his fath.
er’s shawl, which hung across the seat,
and said, in a confident voice: “No,
he will come, for see he left his shawl,
and said he would come back.”

His trust was not to be disappoint-
ed, for when we were Well under
motion, the last one on was Charlie’s
father. The little trial had passed
from that young heart. He did not
say any thing, but his animated looks
told better than words: “Did I not
tell you he would come back, my father
would not leave me.”

I thought of the words of our bless-
ed Saviour. “ Whosoever shall not
receive the kingdom of God (18 a little
child, shall not enter therein.”

Many a trouble, many a hapless
detention, from following the course
we had Worked out as the best,—many
an ill we would have so gladly averted,
if we had had the power to do so,
comes to chill, and almost to paralyze
us for the time being, yet, if we have
the trust in 'our Ileavenl y Father,
that little Charlie had in his earthly
one, shall we ever doubt Hun, 01'
love Ilim less, for our trials?

 

 

 

  

 

.1! 
:’ s
3 
l}

a:
a
‘ i

 

-'.r i“r,“"“,<.h‘ "
fif'fioLN . < '

 

 

THE CHILD ARTIST. 237

 

~ We have many pledges. of his love
left us, earnests of the fulfillment of
many a promise, as Charlie looked
upon the “'sh'awl,” an assurance of
remembrance which could not be mis-
taken. ' JANE E. Foors.

 

THE CHILD ARTIST.

AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF WOLFGANG
XOZABT.

EAR Prague, on the vine-clad hill
N of Kosoheez, at the foot of which
the beautiful and rapid, ' but noisy
waters of the Moldau river flow and
lose themselves in the green forests
of Bohemia, was built a modest man-
sion which had formerly belonged to
Dunek.

In a narrow room of this small
house were assembled together one
eVening a musician (who was an old
organist of the chapel of Prague), his
wife and two children, a little boy of
six,-and a little girl not quite eleven
years old.

The most abject poverty seemed to
have fallen upon this family. it was
very Cold, and not a spark of fire lit
the hearth; the clothing of the chil-
dren was still tolerably good, but the
black coat worn by their father hung
in tatters, their mother’s gown was
so worn out that it was impossible to
conjecture of what material it had
been originally made. Four straw-
bottomed chairs, and a damaged spin.
net formed the sole furniture of the

_room.

A mournful silence which each one
seemed to fear to break, seemed to
enchnin one and all of this unhappy
family, The mother spun her yarn
listlessly; the father continued to read
from a large Volume, from the form
of which it was easy to see that it was
a Bible; the little girl knit at a wool-
en stocking, and the little boy, who
for some time had been restlessly
wandering round his father’s chair,
and surveying his mother and sister,
pretending at the same time to make
a loud noise, in order to attract their

 

attention, now sprung with an im-
patient bound toward the spinnet,
climbed with considerable difficulty
upon a stool which brought his arms
on a level with the keys, and com-
menced playing.

He executed the gamut several
times with a lightness of touch and a
precision of which no one would have
supposed so slight and frail a creature
to be capable; then, suddenly be-
coming animated, from gamut he

 

passed to the chords, and from chords.

to a sonata by Dussek, then, abandon-
ing himself to his childish and ca-
pricious fancy, his little fingers flew
over the board, striking each note
with such force as to shake the window
panes, and sometimes causing such
expressive modulations that tears came
into the eyes of those who listened.

The father ceased reading, thg.

mother stopped her spinning, and the
girl her knitting, to listen to this
wonderful child.

“ Come and kiss me! Come Master
Wolfgang!” exclaimed the organist,
with the cntlmsiasm ofan artist and a
father ; “ come here ! Some of these
days, with the help of God, you will
be a great master, a great composer,
a great man; poor child, why am I
not richer to make you happy?”

“ Tell me, father,” said Wolfgang,
growing bolder as his father caressed
him; “ when shall we have our supper,
I’m so hungry '5”

“ Poor child,” said his mother, in 8
voice of grief. She arose and went
to a closet, took out a slice of bread

and brought it to her son. “Eat

thlS,” said she, “ eat it, for l have my;
ing else to give you.” 
“ And what is sister to do I!” de.
manded Wolfgang, taking the piece of
bread. .
“There’s just such a slice as yours

for her, if she should be hungry,”

answered the mother.
“ And for you too, dear mamma ’l”
inquired Wolfgang, Still unSatisfied.
«For me, oh, i am not hungry,”
answered his mother.

“Isn’t papa hungry i” asked the

 

 

 

 

 

 

233 THE noun.

 

 

 

child, whose features expressed a cer-
tain uneasiness.

“Your father, like me, is not hun-
gry,” answered the mother, who could
not suppress her tears.

The little girl now dropped her
work, ran to her mother, threw her-
self into her arms, and exclaimed,
sobbing:

“There is no bread for papa and
you, and that is the reason why you
say you are not hungry! I am not
hungry either, dear mamma !”

Little Wolfgang looked from his
mother to his sister, and ceased eating
his morsel of bread.

“No, my dearest girl, I am not
hungry, I assure you ; eat your bread
in peace, my Frederica,” '

“ Well, I will do so, mother, on one
condition—that you will share it with

6.”

“And I will share mine with
papa,” said Wolfgang, breaking his
bread in half, and offering one piece
to his father. “Take it, papa, take
it!” exclaimed the child, stamping his
little foot,“ or so surely as I am
named Wolfgang Mozart,l will not
touch my half.”

A tear fell from the poor organist
upon the bread offered him by his
son.

“ Do as our children wish, wife,”
said he to the mother. “ Oh, why am
I so poor ’l”

“You are very poor then, papa ’2”
asked Wolfgang, with touching sim-
plicity.

“That is too true,” said the musi-
cian’s wife, with a sigh.

The organist resumed. “ All my
time haveI consecrated to you two,
my dur children, In the hope that one
of these days you might be able to
supth yourselves.”

“And you too, papa,” interrupted
the little Frederica.

“Sister,” said Wolfgang, with a
serious- look which contrasted
strangely with his childish face, and
youthful accents, “since papa has
worked for us. until now, we must
work for him in our turn.”

 

“But you are too young—too lit-
tle,” said his father with emotion.

“ Too little !” exclaimed \Volfgang,
as if highly indignant at the observa-
tion of his father; “too little! I
shall soon be as high as the piano I”

“ Poor little love!” said the mother,
passing her long and slender fingers
through the light curls of her child’s
hair, “why, what could you do,so
young and delicate as you are '2”

“Papa, who knows, says that I am
a fine player on the piano; well,
then, I’ll give music lessons!”

The father and mother smiled
through their tears.

“ And whom will you give lessons
to; where will you find scholars as
small as yourself?” said the mother
of Wolfgang, kissing his forehead.

“ l’ll teach grown people ; of course
I will i” .’

“My brother is right,” said
Frederica. “Listen to me. The
other day, walking with him near the
great chateau that you See from the
window, the lady of the castle called
me, and asked me if we Were the
children of Mozart the organist. I
said Yes; then she said, pointing to
Wolfgang, this is, then, the little boy
who plays so admirably on the piano?
At your service, madam, answered
my brother. After that, the lady
begged us to go inside, and she urged
Wolfgang to play on the piano—a
splendid piano, papa, with golden
flowers inlaid on the wood—and then
the lady was so much pleased with
Wolfgang’s playing and mine, that
she gave us a whole dueat—you
know, mamma, I gave it to you."

“And you told me your adven-
ture, my child,” said Frederica’s
mother; “why do you repeat it
now 2"

“Oh! I know why,” said Wolf-
gang; “ if papa will let us, my sister
and I will wander all on-r the coun-
‘try. We are pretty, especially
Frederica. The lady of the castle
said so. We will go everywhere.
Everywhere they will make us play

the piano, and give us ducats; W6

‘9»; =

      

  
  
 
 
    
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
   
  
   
   
  
  
   
  
  

 

   
   
 
  
  
     
   

     

 

 

 

.2;
.-

  
   
 

THE CHILD ARTIST. 239

 

will give them to you, and you will
not be poor any more.” '

“I tell you wife, this is not a bad
idea,” said the organist, looking at the
mother.

“But it will tire the children,”
answered the tender mother: '

“It will, perhaps, tire I‘rederlca,
but I am not so easily fatigued. I
have gone twenty times,.at least, to-
day, up and down the hill on which
our house is built; and Will begin
again, if papa wishes” .

“ Oh!’ said Frederica, “the happi-
ness of being useful to my parents
will prevent me from feeling tired.”

“Poor creatures! no! I am not
unhappy!” exclaimed Mozart, with a
burst of feeling; “no! when God
gives a man two angels like you, my
children, that man can not call him-
self unhappy !"

“Leopold,” said his wife, with an
anxious look at her husband; “do you
intend to turn into money the talents
given to these poor little beings '2”

“Why not, wife, if it be the will
of Heaven?” answered Mozart.

“I am afraid.”

“Afraid of what, momma?” de-
manded little \Volfgang; “l am not
afraid ; I will go boldly into the par-
lor,I will take a seat at the piano,
and you will see how I will play, and
play, and play, until papa says it is
time to stop.”

“ And when my brother is tired, I
will take his place, mamma,” said
Frederica. “Oh! dear mamma, do
not oppose our project; [will pray

' to God every morning and evening to

give us strength to earn money for
you, mamma.”

“Yes! yes, dear momma,” said
Wolfgang, caressing her; “you will
see how good I shall be, and how
much money I will cam. You have
Often told me that God protects obe-
dient children; then He will protect us.”

“See how weak he is,” said the
Wife of Mozart, taking Wolfgang and
beginning to undress him for bed;
“398! and you would make him
tPavel to earn his livelihood?”

w!“

 

 

“ God is great, my dear wife,” an-
swered Mozart; “he gives strength
to the weak, courage to the timid, and
success to such as have faith in him;
tomorrow I will set out with my
children, wife, and when the sun rises
tomorrow, we shall be far from
here.” .

“The will of God be done,” said
the good mother.

* -* i V: i - 1'

One evening, at Vienna, there was
a grand concert at the palace of the
Empress of Austria, Maria Theresa
wife of the Emperor Francis 1.

A most brilliant company had me
together in the saloons; nothing was
to be seen but plumes, diamonds, em-
broidered coats, and dazzling robes.
Suddenly, to the great astonishment
of everybody, a man dressed very
simply, followed by two children,
appeared at the door of the principal
saloon.

The countenance of this man was
respectful and modest, that of the
children was bolder. They did not
appear to be intimidated in the least
by all the fine lords and gay ladies
who surveyed them with curiosity.

“ ls this the organist of whose won-
derful children all Vienna is talking?”
asked the Empress of the master of
ceremonies.

“Yes, madam,” answered he; “and
I can assure your Majesty that there
is nothing to equal them. I heard
them yesterday evening at the French
Ambassador’s, where I had the honor
to be invited. The little girl 18 33'
tonishing, but the little boy is 3 Per'
feet wonder. 0

“Let them begin,”said the Empress.

The master of ceremonies requested
Mozart to seat his childrei, at the
piano; the organist conducted, them
to the instrument, before “glob he
seated both of them. The young
Frederica was dressed in a white em.
broidered silk dress, and the little
Wolfgang had a coat of like cloth
with a vest of moire of the same
color, both being embroidered with
wide gold lace.

II

 

 

 

    

240

 

THE HOME.

 

Frederica commenced. Her execu-
tion was so perfect, so brilliant, that
every one was in ecstacies over the
pale and delicate child ; when she had
finished, a concert of praise arose
around her.

“ That is nothing to what my little
brother can do,” said she to those
who complimented her; and the
young girl watched with maternal at-
tention to see that her brother was
well-seated at his case, and so raised
that his little arms should have full

lay.

Then the little boy, smiling on
those around him, rested his little
hands on the keys, and without ef-
fort, without appearing to doubt that
his talents would excite general ad-
miration, he let his little fingers run
over the keys, and come and go. They
seemed to play with the keys which
they flew over, and drew each time
from them pure, sonorous, sad, and
harmonious sounds. All eyes were
fastened on those little fingers, so
agile, so delicate, and playing with so
much expression; the most skillful
leader of an orchestra could not have
possessed to a greater degree, the
knowledge of harmony and modula.
tion. .Admiration and interest filled
every heart; the key-board was cov-
ered with a napkin, and the boy was
so accustomed to the keys, that he
played under the napkin with the
same precision and rapidity. The
Emperor, the Empress, and the whole

‘ Court were enchanted.

When Wolfgang stopped. out of
breath, tired, and his poor little fore.
head povered with perspiration, the
Empress made him a sign to eome
and kissg‘her; he got up to obey her,
but may giddy by the lights and the
praises'of the crowd, and still stifi'
withhafing been seated so long, at
the first step he slipped and fell. A
young" lady ran to him, and lifted
him up.

“ You have hurt yourrelf, poor lit-
tle-dear,” said she with the utmost
mrnees.

As if dashed by the beauty of the

O

 

lady, the child was silent for a mo-
ment, then recovering his voice, and
pressing in his two pretty little hands
the slender hand which had raised
him, he exclaimed :

“ You are very beautiful, madam, I
want to marry you.”

A burst of laughter greeted his
words, but without being disconcerted,
the boy resumed, “ My name is Mas-
ter Wolfgang Mozart; what is your
name ?”

“Mine is Marie Antoinette," an-
swered the young lady, in a voice
which went to the heart.

Alas! this woman whom the child

.Mozart chose so ingenuousl y, was the

Archduchess of Austria, the future
queen of France; the poor girl was
not so fortunate as to be destined to
become the wife of Mozart. Later,
on the day when the great composer
was publicly crowned and saluted by
the applause of the whole population
of Vienna, that very day the young
and beautiful Marie Antoinette, the
queen of France, the wife of Louis
XVI., mounted a scaffold.

Such is fate. God holds it in His
power, and hides it from humanity;
but be it what it may, sad or happy,
a good conscience consoles the unfor-
tunate, or heightens the happiness
which may he possessed.

But to return to our young hero,
seated for the moment on the knee of
the Empress, he reCeived, from her
royal hand, bonbons, flowers, and
precious jewels.

“ IIow warm he is!” said the Em-
press, wiping the brow of the little
musician with a handkerchief of per-
fumed cambric; “ you must be very
tired, my little boy 'l”

“- No, madam,” said Wolfgang,
chewing a suganplum, “I am so glad
to please papa, that I never feel
tired.”

“Dear little soul 1” answered the
Empress; “ you love your father very
much, then 'i"

“Oh! madam. he is so good; he
never scolds me.”

“You mustbea very good boy then 1”

q‘.

nyugiflww . » I

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

CHOICE .SENTIMENTS. 241

 

“ Oh yes; but then it is so easy to
be good; l have only to do as papa
wishes, and then I am always good,’

“ But you must get very tired wrth
playing on the piano}.

“Well, sometimes it does not ex-
actl y amuse me; but my father says
one must not do only what 18 amus-
ing.” .

“ Do you know that if you go on,
you will be, one of these days, a great
musician 'l”

“I hope so, madam; when I am
grown up, I will write operas, grand
operas. Oh ! how happy papa would
be if he could see his little son
crowned.”

“And you would be happy too.”

“When papa is pleased, I am al-
ways happy.” ~

By thinking thus, a young man is
sure to make his way, and attain his
aim. I have shown you Mozart as a
little child, playing with marvelous
facility, and the admiration of all
Vienna ; he went thus, with his father
and sister, all over France, Italy,
England, and Germany; everywhere
he was admired; everywhere be ob-
tained the most precious praises—-
those which his father addressed to
him everyevening, as he lay down to
sleep, thanking God for having given
him two such children as Wolfgang
and Frederica. _

At fifteen years of age Mozart, be.
ing at Milan, Composed Mithridutes,
which obtained the most brilliant suc.
cess.

Thus began Mozart. The little
musician became a great man, and a
great composer.

 

CHOICE SENTIMENTS.

In no work of the year have we
found more real gems of thought,
than in the. new novel of Mrs. Stowe.
We may be permitted to quote a few
paragraphs:

TH: FnAaFULNEss or L0vn.—What
makes the love of a great mind some-
ishing fearful in its inception is, that

 

it is often the unsealing of a hitherto
undeveloped portion of a large and
powerful being; the woman may or
may not seem to other eyes adequate
to the effect produced, but the man
cannot fin-get her, because with her
came a change which makes him for—
ever a ditfereiit being. So it was with
our friend. A woman, it was that
was destined to awaken in him all
that conseiorlsness which music, paint-
ing, poetry, awaken in more evenly
developed minds; and it is the silent
breathing of her creative presence that
is even now creating him anew, while
as yet he knows it not.

 

ROMANCE—LEI. us look up in fear
and reverence and say, “ God ” is the
great maker of romance. He, from
whose hand came man and woman——
He, who strung the great harp of Ex-
istence, with all its wild and wonder-'-
ful and manifold chords, and attuned
them to one another—He is the great
Poet of life. Every impulse of
beauty, of heroism, and every craving
for purer love, fairer perfection, no-
bler type and style of being than that
which closes like a prison-house
around us, in the dim, daily walk of
life, is God’s breath, God’s impulse,
God’s reminder to the soul that there
is something higher, sweeter, purer,
yet to be attained.

 

Tun Scorraa.——Therefore, man or
woman, when thy ideal is shattered-—
as shattered a thousand times it must
be—when the vision fades, the rapture
burns out, turn not away In $81)?-
cism and bitterness, saying, “There '8
nothing better for a man than that he
should‘ e .t and drink,” but rather
cherish the revelations of those hours
as prophecies and fineshadegs of
somethino real and possible, yet to be
attained in the InfinhOOd "f immor-
tality. The scofling spirit that laughs
at romance is the apple of the devil’s
own handing, from the bitter tree of '
knowledge—it opens the eyes only to.
see eternal knowledge.

 

  

THE HOME.

 

EDITOR’S RETREAT.

BE CHOICE [N YOUR READING.

CARLYLE, in a late letter to Mr. Ailibone,
regarding his “Dictionary of Authors,”
gives expression to the following just senti-
mentsz—

“Readers are not yet aware of the fact,
but a fact it is, of daily increasing magni-
tude, and already of terrible importance to
readers,—that their first grand necessity in
reading is to be vigilantly, conscientiously
select; and to know everywhere that books,
like human souls, are actually divided into
what we may call ‘sheep and goats ’—-the
latter put inexorably on the left hand of the
judge ; ’and tending, every goat of them, at
all moments, whither we know; and much
to be avoided, and, if possible, ignored by
all sane creatures !”

Furthermore, the sheep even can not all
be. done justice to, in this day of light and
knowledge. Marvellous discoveries in sci-
ence increase upon us so, that the scien-
tiflc student is obliged to confine himself to

special branches—he can not know, every
thing, boundless as may be his desire. No
doubt Humboldt, that great spirit who has
lately passed away, felt himself an ignorant
man, in comparison with what there was yet
to discover and to learn, in consideration of
the miracles of nature and the illimitabie

wonders of the universe. No doubt he was
obliged to choose. He lived to be over
eight! years Of age—a worker always; yet
he had no time to spare.

After a‘ person's taste is once formed, he
will take to some special branch or branches
in literature, and follmv out the bent of his
inclinations; but nothing is more indiscrimi-
nate than the appetite of a hungry young
mind, to whom any kind of intellectual food
is Welcome, and which devours every thing

,set before it.

Whileghe eager, craving mind is thus en-
deavoring to feed itself, it is one of the most
serious duties of parents to select it, to take
from it that which must prove hurtful, “,1
see that it is provided with what will not
only satisfy a present want, but give it tone,
Maurine, power. Fine intellects are often
«imbuny weakened or perverted for

 

want of a little judicious guiding in their
youth. “ All play and no work,” in reading,
unnerves the youthful mind, and unfit: it for
any serious labor in later days, when it may
bitterly regret its early indolence. Thus it
is that youth should no more be allowed to
feast upon fiction and poetry alone, than to
live entirely upon sweetmeats and bon bans.
They are excellent and very pleasant, given
as a reward, or a relish to heartier things;
but they are not to be depended upon to
nourish the full powers of our growing na-
ture.

THE EVIL 0]" COMMON ASSOCIA‘
TIONS.

A friend whose child has been injured by
its association with children of the public
schools, writes as this well-timed protest
against this commonality in associates :—
“ Tastes was, as education and habits difl'er.
Some persons‘ are alive to gentle impressions
and tender sentiments, while the same ob-
jects, the same utterances, will twaken in
another person no particular emotion.
Where one sees God and beauty, another he-
holds only materiality. This dissimilarity is
in education chiefly, though not wholly.
Let a child have a parent whose heart is
keenly alive to impressions of beauty, and it
will, as a general thing, have eyes to see and
ears to hear the perfection of life around.
But let the parent be coarse, vulgar, bad,
and the almost certain result is the same
characteristic in the child. The best natures
are those alive to emotions ,of, and love, for,
the beautiful; the worst natures are those
in whose heart dwells no love for the divinity
which is manifest upon every hand so pro-
fusely. How earnestly then, is to be urged
the duty of parents to school their children
through good examples and associations—to

,make them love birds and music and flow-

ers—to ‘see God in the clouds and hear
Him in the windl’ How does it become a
necessity to divert the young, exuberant
tendrils of the mind into the right atmos-
phere? Our systems or “education” are
false, miserably false and ruinous; for what
school teaches the love of the beautiful as

"'"t.

to.
§

. g"

‘1 “1mm ~m¢ij£fli m' '5‘"

i.

 

   
  
   
  
   
    
 
    
    
  
  
  
   
   
   
   
 
 
  
    
   
  
   
 
   
  
   
  
   
  
 

 
  

EDITOR’S RETREAT.

   

  

2‘43

 

one of the fundamental principles of all
knowledge? Send no child to the ‘ Com-
mon-School,’ for it is the nursery of the
common vices—coarseness. deceit. 10"! for
display, proclivity for rude companionship,
familiarity with impure thoughts and words
and deeds, are all learned at the ‘ Common-
School." Rather teach the child at home;
form its mind there, and give it a strength
and dignity to resist contamination; then it
is prepared for the schooling of books and
pure teachers, but it is never fitted for the
debasing influences of the ‘ Common-
School," wherein are gathered hundreds of
young minds whose bent to sin and vulgarity
has already been given them.

“What am I saying? Preaching a homily
on education! Well, I have spoken my
heart, nevertheless. My soul has been har-
rowed by seeing lovely, pure-minded chil-
dren rendered perverse and bad simply by
bad training and bad associations in ‘ Com-
mon-Schools;’ and I exclaim 7, ' t the
perversity of parents, who will‘ impure
what God has made pure. Let every parent
solemnly realize that his or her child is a
pliable creature, to be molded into perfec-
tion or imperfection, as the hand directs-4
realizing this, a parent’s anxiety may suggest
the proper ways and means of teaching the
offspring of their love the ways of the pure
and the good and the true."

a n A o o w s .

Let us welcome even the shadows, What
would the world be without them ? A burn.
ing sky, unchanged, unsoftened by flying
clouds, glaring down upon a world where
every object stood up boldly in the sunlight,
No coolness, no mystery ; no tenderness,
no uncertainty ; no vague, delicious gloom—
only intolerable light! How beautiful are
the shadows! especially in the early autumn,
when they shiver and thrill in the pale sun.
shine— when the fluttering leaves drop

down, casting their shadows for the last

time; when the hOrizon is red and misty
like a oeuser which is burning odors; when
the clouds drift slowly. throwing large
patches of gloom over the golden stubble of
the reaped new; They are sometimes very
dreary in the short, fierce winter days. but
even then we know that they will pass. It

 

 

must be so with the human heart. It could
not hear unclouded prosperity, it needs the

shadows to soften, refine—to teach it pity
and hope.

WIDOW WICKS.

The dearest, daintiest little creature
Was this bewitching widow Wicks ;
Youth painted every blooming feature
The tender bloom of thirty-six.
Her neck was like the lily white
(The lily-white that druggists mix),
And like a carmine saucer bright
Was either cheek of widow Wicks.

To gayiy toss her glossy ringlets
Was one of her most graceful tricks ;
One knew not in those angel winglets
What false plumes with the true might mix.
In Bleecker-street, 2020,
A brown-atone palace built of bricks, .
Where nice young men were always plenty,
Bearded the lovely widow Wicks

She boarded there ; with smiles coquettish
She came to breakfast, dinner, tea ;
Though all the rest were cool or pettlah,
She laugh‘d and talk’d in childish glee.
With many a bright, light-feather’d arrow,
She strove some stray heart to transflx ;
Yet to her great chagrin and sorrow,
She still relnaln’d sweet widow Wicks.

At  there came a wealthy miner—
A man some seventy odd years old ;
He seem'd to duly love and prize her,
And she—hhe duly prized his gold.
Too blind he was for any lenses
To show him true her pretty tricks ;
He minds not what his foe or friend says—
He marries charming widow Wicks.

Alas, the day on which he did, oh i
It proved the sorriest of his life ;
For soon he learn'd a charming widow
Was not, perforce,a charming wife.
She spent his gold like so much water,
Instead of kisses, gave him kicks,
And did so much she hadn‘t ought to,
He wish‘d her once more widow Wick!-

0" night he died,—'twas rather sudden—
she my have choked him—none could say.
No one can see the stain of blood on
Such weeds as her fair form array.
She is so rich, and so angelic!
Her smiles and tears so sweetly mix,

She can not long remain a relic,
This widow Lurks, late widow Wicks.

NOVEL ouaaus.
“ E. M.,” the wulher'Wi”. has picked up
a piece of the aurora -borealis—a piece about
six inches in length, luminous, and something
like a silver wire. We think the aura“,
borealia would make much prettier “ charms”

 

 

     

 

 

  

  

244
than that ugly, tariferous telegraph-cable,
and shall keep a sharp look-out on the next
interesting occasion of its appearance. Un-
fortunately, it is like the gifts of the god-
mother to Cinderella—it vanishes after a
certain time; but it would do, at least, for
one evening‘s display, like the fire-flies which
the Cuban ladies entangle in nets and wear
in their snowy robes and ebon tresses, living
gems, darkling and sparkling in tremulous

glory.

 

rns: 0Ln ARM-CHAIR.

How our mind reverts to other days at
. the sound of Eliza Cook’s “Old Arm-Chairz”
“I love it, I love it, and who shall dare

To chide me for loving that old arm-chair ?"
It has a power in it, which few songs pos-
sess. At the fireside it will bring loving
memories: in the loneliness of the study it
will bring tears.
“ l‘ve bedew‘d it with tears,
And embalm‘d it with sighs."
Ay, even as we write, the tear is in the
eye,—for
“ A mother sat there, _
And a sacred thing is that old ar it." I
The woman who penned that :1: wiI
be a household favorite so long as there is a‘
spark of love for the dead in the bosoms of
men. ‘
This song is said to have brought the pub-
lishers thousands of dollars. It was sold by
its author for ten dollars! as we learn from
the following receipt now public:
“ Received, May 14, 1841, of Mr. Charles
Jefi'reys, the sum of two pounds, two shil-
lings, for copyright of words of a song writ-

ten by me. entitled, “ The Old Armchair,”
music by Mr. Hine. Euza Coox."

AN OLD Liam's “Asrnn"-Tnouams.

Why should not the “aside"-th0nghts of
“the sex” have utterance? If they are a
little sharp and savor of strong tea and
pickles, it is no reason why the “stronger
sex” should have a“ the Satire and sharp
sayings to themselves. Therefore we claim
the privilege of transferring the following
to our pages—premising that we do not
know the “old maid” who said it :_“Men
sow wild oats, and women buttons. The
shortest way to a man's heart is down his
throat. Man‘s love is like the moon: if it
dons not grow larger, it is certain to grow

THE HOME.

,
smaller.

 

 

 

A man may ‘ do good by stealth,’
but as to his blushing ‘to find it fame,’ that's
all nonsense. Man shrinks from cold meat.
Does this arise from man‘s innate presump-
tion ofalways ‘ruling the roast“? Man takes
a woman with a dowry, in the same way
that he accepts the hamper that brings him
a handsome present of game. Men have
two ways of extinguishing the flame of love
—they either let it burn out quietly, or else
they snuff it: out by one blow. In a
dilemma, during the time a man has been
standing like a fool, fumbling for an excuse,
a woman will have invented ten thousand.
Wives are often foolish enough to sit up for
their husbands: but you hear of few hus.
bands who have the patience to sit up for
their wives. How many men are there who
think they are making themselves exceed-
ingly popular, when they are only making
themselves extremely ridiculous. Men have
been gointed out to me who were said to be
' . I have watched them, and
H ry great thinkers—men who

QM a great deal—but then it
was evidently about themselves. An old
maid’s only confidant is her pillow- All her
cares, wrongs, and thoughts, both sleeping
and waking, are confided to its soft embrace.
It is the only depository and witness of the
tears that she sometimes sheds over broken
hopes. More than this, it is a confidant that
never mocks—‘never betrays her.” If any of
our “:protectors ” feel injured at this, let
them sue us for libel!

We elsewhere quote some of the good
things of “The Minister’s Wooing.” Let us
here give this holy tribute to woman :

 

Till FAITH OF WOMAN.

The fact is, women are burdened with
fealty, faith,reverence, more than they know
what to do with; they stand like a hedge of
sweet peas, throwing out fluttering tendrils
everywhere, for something high and strong
to climb by, and when they find it, be it
ever so rough in the bark, they catch upon
it. And instances are not wanting of those
who have turned away from the flattery of
admirers, to prostrate themselves at the feet
of s. genuine hero who never wooed them,
except by heroic deeds and the rhetoric of a
noble life.

 ;,.'e&': .

A m rm“ *x:<»~‘~ia*5¥’;$' w

., R

 

I

 

 

t. ............ My. _... c

’ '”“Wm9a»flhx~ds a

  
  

 

 

HOME HINTS AND HELPS. 245

 

 

 

HOME HINTS AND HELPS.

OVEMBER is a glorious month, notwith-
*- standing the wry faces it sometimes
compels us to make, either at a laugh dun»
soaking rain, or a sharp, biting, “050’ Wind‘
Between these two, what fun we have had
when we were children, rustling the heaps
of crisp leaves that had drifted into corners,
throwing sticks at the great'chestnut and
walnut trees, to make the frost-ripened fruit
come down and fill our baskets, shaking
down the rosy-checked apples—(which shak-
ing was a very naughty practice)—and brim
full of vigorous life, inspired by the month’s
tonic atmosphere, doing whatever mischief
we could.

When we were older, we enjoyed the ex-
ceptional sunny days—oh! so much! So
mellow, calm, and quiet, like the mood of a
happy old age. The year has d elk toil,
and sits serenely in its rocki ’  ‘-
atively) ready to fall asleep  lt' ul
glow is on the ruddy countenanc , 3 peace-
ful expression in the clear, honest eyes, per-
fect content is delineated on every feature.

But imagination aside, it is a time for the
thrifty honsekeeper also to feel content.
The long summer heats no longer impair the
strength ;_ the dust, flies, and mosquitoes are
gone, the house-cleaning is all done up, and
the house has on its comfortable look for the
winter. There is time now to think of
Thanksgiving and other dinners, where our
friends are to be invited; time to read of
evenings; time for the children‘s indoor
games,—in fact, we feel more at home in

_November than we did in July.

But there is still the winter sewing to do;
and this is just the time to 'do it in. The
quiet, half-lonely, but entirely agreeable
seclusion of a long rain-storm inspires the
fingers with a love of the needle. Such
days seem especially made for cutting and
fitting. No danger of intrusions then.
Bring out the childrens’ wardrobes and look

- them carefully over. How man! new gar-
ments to nuke 9 Are they warm enough?
New garments are more comfortable than
old ones in cold weather. Lay aside the
thinner ones tin summer. Have the children

  

 

all get nice warm stockings and drawers ?—
long, close drawers, to come down inside the
stocking, and afford some real protection to
the tender young limbs? Have the little
girls all got_ wooled sacques to cover their
arms and shoulders, or long-sleeved winter
dresses? There are a thousand things to
do; but there are three hundred and sixty-
five days in the year, and the ceaseless doing
of little things every day b.rings it around
right at last. Do not wait for a want to
come before you try to meet it.

Do not begin to get the rooms too- warm
just at once. Accustom yourselves and the
children to a moderate temperature; but
provide against absolute cold or dampness.
Never think it too much trouble to build a
fire where one is needed. By observing this
rule many constitutions will be saved, as
well as many doctor's bills.

A tight, well-protected house is the best
thing, heave fuel ; but even the saving thus
fideho gain really, unless you have the

' cre ’ to ventilate your rooms thoroughly
as often as the air becomes too dry or ofi'en-
sive in quality. A draft is a bad thing; but
no fresh air is worse.

As much of our comfort and health de-
pend upon the table, and the manner in
which it is supplied, it is well to study to
make up by cunning skill in preparation of
food, for the greater variety of summer.
Winter fare is quite different in its character,
as it should be ; and we may venture to eat
more rich and substantial dishes in cold than
in hot weather. The delicate and 000"!)8
custards, creams, jellies, &c., 1080 We" "mil
in the season of frost and anew; and P“?
dings, pies, fried-cakes, and rid"?g “"3 "1
favor ; nor do we esteem these things injm'l‘
one when properly made. “d “do”!!!

eaten. “ Good diet makes good blood, and .

good blood makes good brains,” says some-
body, and we agree—but always in modern.
tion.

From the H Young Housekeeper‘s Friend"
(noticed in the proper place) we make free to
quote the following suggestions, which every

 

 

  
   

 

246 was some.

 

hausekeeper will do as well to learn by
heart :—

As a. general rule, it is most economical to
buy the best articles. The price is, of
course always a little higher; but good arti-
cles spend best. It is a sacrifice of money
to buy poor flour, meat, sugar, molasses, but.-
ter, cheese, lard, &c., to say nothing of the
injurious effect upon the health.

Of West India sugar and molasses, the
Santa Cruz and Porto Rico are considered
the best. The Havana is seldom clean.
White sugar from Brazil is sometimes very
good. Refined sugars usually contain most
of the saccharine substance, therefore there
is probably more economy in using loaf,
crushed, and granulated sugars, than we
should at first suppose.

Butter that is made in September and 0e
tober is best for winter use. Lard should be
hard and white; and that which is taken
from a hog not over a year old is best.

Rich cheese feels soft under the .pressure
of the finger. That which is very strong is
neither good or healthy. To kee th
is cut, tie it up in a bag that wil
flies, and hang it in a cool, dry
mold appears on it, wipe it oti‘ with a ry
cloth.

Flour and meal of all kinds should be‘kept
in a cool, dry place.

The best rice is large, and has a clear,
f“ill! look. Old rice sometimes has little
Nick insects inside the kernels.

The small white sage, called pearl sagO. is
the best. The large brown kind has an
earthy taste. These articles, and tapioca,
ground rice, 310., should be kept covered.

The cracked cocoa is the best; but that
which is put up in pound papers is often very
good.

Shells are apt to be musty. Try a quarter
of a pound before buying a quantity.

To select nutmegs, prick them with a pin,

 
   
 

, If they are good, the Oil Will instantly spread

around the puncture.

Keep codes by itself, as it! odor affects
other articles. Keep tea in a clase chest or
canister.

Oranges and lemons keep best wrapped
close in soft paper, and laid in a drawer of
.hn.

 

When a cask of molasses is bought, draw
off a few quarts, else the fermentation pro-
duced by moving it will burst the cask.

Bread and cake sh0uld be kept in a tin
box or stone jar.

Salt cod should be kept in a dry place,
where the odor of it will not affect the air of
the house. The best kind is that which is
called Dun, from its peculiar color. Fish-
skin for clearing coffee should be washed,
dried, out small, and kept in a box or paper
bag.

Soft soap should be kept in a dry place in
the cellar, and should not be used till three
months old.

Bar soap should be cut into pieces of a
convenient size, and laid where it will be-
come dry. It is well to keep it several
weeks before using it, as it spends fast when
it is new.

Cranberries will keep all winter in a firkin
of w r in the cellar.
ould be put into the cellar as
e dug. Lying exposed to the
m green, and makes them
watery. ome good housekeepers have sods
laid over barrels of potrtoes not in immedi-
ate use. To prevent them from sprouting in
the spring, turn them out upon the cellar.
bottom.

I To thaw frozen potatoes, put them in hot

water. To thaw frozen apples, put them in
cold water. Neither will keep long after
being frozen.

Cabbagcs should be buried in sand, with
the roots upward.

Turnips and beets should be put in a dry
part of the cellar. Carrots keep anywhere.
Onions keep best spread, and in a cool place,
but should not freeze. Parsnips are best
buried in a pit in the garden, and not opened
till March or April, in cold parts of the
country.

Squashes should be kept in a dry place,
and as cold as may be without freezing.

Inspect every part of your house often,
and let every place be neatly kept. Habits
of order in housekeeping save a great deal
of time and trouble, and the most thorough
way of doing every thing, is the most
economical of labor and money, in the
end.

  
  
  
    

        

   
  
  
  
  
  
  
   
   
  
  
 
  
  
  
  
 
   
  
   
    
  
  
   
   
   
 
   
   
 
  
 
   
  

     

 

 

‘ zuflwarv A j

 

 

 

 

EDITOR‘S TABLE. 247

 

EDITOR’S TABLE.

OVEMBER—the month of gust and blast

and storm and rain—of which HOOd sang
so ludicrously, and other poets have memor-
ized in melancholy strains, is close at hand
as we write. Even now the wind pufi's omi-
nously down the chimney, and the wail at
the house-corners proves the “ spirit of dark-
ness” to be near. There is something very
solemn in this approach of winter. Another
summer of our short life is gone forever-—
its flowers and fair skies and sweet dreams
swept away into the past: and the leaves
which lie all torn and blasted at our feet,
come to tell us, in their own forms, of the
winter which will soon besiege each door.
We will not moralize at our “table,” though
the theme is tempting and our mood is in
harmony with the theme. Let us have our
friendly chat without the to ' of
the solemn messenger of w

 
 
  

d

—— We present a ma
things this month—a source 0 as much
satisfaction to the editor as it is to readers,
Clara Augusta concludes the pleasant episode
at “ Roselawn”—Mrs. Bostwick gives us a
charming story—the editor’s long-drawn-out
“Old Heart and the New ” is concluded (no
doubt much to the relief of that “large cir-
cle of readers” who dislike longocontinued
stories).

The December number will issue
early in November—the January number
early in December. Both of these numbers
will contain matter of a highly pleasing
character. It is the wish of the publishers
and intention of the editor to make the com.
ing volume far superior to any yet published
0f the magazine; and Our already engaged
matter places the general excellence of the
volume beyond the contingencies and among
the certainties of the year. In the proper
place, the publisher will make his own an-
no“ncements:—-here we can but say, no
effort of our own shall be wanting to fulfill
all his flattering promises; and with the help
Of our most admirable corps of contributors,
we have no fears 0f the result. .
~Since our last report of things in

 

 

 

style, there are no changes to report. Win.
tcr goods are displayed on Broadway, both
in the stores and on the street. The re.
porter comes in from a promenade through
the thoroughfare, for the purpose of “ post-
ing” us on the styles, with the following
rather unceremonious note:

Bonnets are still passing away; growing
“ small by degrees and beautifully less.” It
is supposed that by another. season the race
will be extinct. In the mean time, they make
the most of themselves. If they are little,
they are bright. Let our readers pull a yel-
low hollyhock, a scarlet poppy, or a crimson
dahlia, and put it on the back of their heads,
and they will have the present style of bou-
net. Dress patterns are no longer punished
with many stripes; plaids, large and small,
in brilliant colors, and set figures on black
grounds, are taking the place of the bays-
der Unmitigated yellow is at present
v' of a refined taste. Cloaks, having
reached their greatest possible
e, are now beginning to recede.
They are smaller, and some have sleeves.
Bishop and coat sleeves are struggling
against the supremacy of these flowing and
wing-like appendages, which have given the
bodies such an angelic appearance of being
full-fledged for flight. Valencia plaids, pop-
lin in plaids, and a new fabric of silk and
linen, raised and heavy, also in plaids, called
Ottoman velvet, are worn for street dresses-
Girls are teasing their papas for velvet
cloaks, and those who cannot afford them
are looking furtively upon the rich and ex.
pensive furs already opened for inspection-
But we will not refur (to this subject, for a
certain toilet needs refuning to 50 badly)
that it awakes an involuntary sigh-

With the long erenings a hand,
come the visions of parties, little and big]
Not the good old-time party, when friend
met friend in real hospitality, glad to have
the pleasure of company; but parties of
ton, where the invited are not only not
friends of the host, but are rarely ac-
quainted; or’ if acquaimeda are invited for

 
 
   
   
 

 

 

 

.; .Ar .. Aux. hm Amilj- dd

 

 

 

7..._~......y.».au.

 

 

 

3
,
.

  

248

 

THE HOME.

 

 

some mbtive other than friendship. We
will instance Mrs. Bas Bleu, who was once a
neighbor in the five-story house over the
street. She was a “lady” of undoubted
pretensions; kept a carriage and five ser-
Vants; eat four o‘clock dinners, and always
attended opera. Well, she gave a party,
and discourscd thus as she sat by the glow-
ing grate ruminating over the assemblage to
be. Her thoughts were unconsciously sylla-
bled, and a listener heard the f0110wingz—
“Mr. Fitz-Gammon, by all means—he‘s so
elegant, and his mustaches look so well.
Mr. Porter, because he gives such a literary
air to one‘s soirees. Those everlasting Miss
Greens, they play the piano so good‘
naturedly for dances—it saves hiring a fid-
dler. Mrs. Sharp, because it won’t do to
slight her; but Ihate her, I’m sure! The
Graham girls, and Mrs. Brown; I hope
they‘ll be sure to be here, they dress so well.
The Braggs—they’re vulgar and ugly, and
they do not even dress in good taste; but
they’re immensely rich—they always create
a sensation. Mr. Tenor, to sing ‘ en
Mavourneen.’ Mrs. Griggs, to go
to her‘s, next week. Flutilla Jen
with Mr. Tenor. Mrs. Chatterton—
to everybody, fills up all the pauses. Mr.
Flint; Mr. Bas Bleu wants to borrow some
money of him. Miss Grey, because the
Grahams patronize, her. The Martins—zeta
sing duetts. Mrs. Vance; her diamonds are
superb. Dear m ‘! l‘ve so many friends, I
don’t know wheregto begin or end. I'm sure
it’s very unselfish of me to give parties to
people I care so little about! But they do
say my parties are the parties of the sea-
son.” We didn’t dare to inquire why we
Were invited, and have never been able to

 
   
   

guess!

The recent marriage of senor
Oviedo, of Cuba, to Miss Bartlett, of this
city, has become the country‘s talk, from its
very magnificence. The lady’s bridal dress
cost $5,000, herjewcls $15,000, and the for.
tnne she wedded is reckoned at ore.-
84,000,000. Hence the newspapers gave up
columns of “valuable space” to a descrip-
tion of the ceremony and the taking off of a

 

39393 American belle by an old Spanish

   

r. The “valuable space ” referred to,

 

 

is almost daily filled with matter quite as ab-
surd and useless; all that we can complain
of is the deplorable fact that money can,
will, and does cover up follies of a nature
which must entail unhappy results, It is a
fact beyOnd all question, that seven-eighths of
the marriages in “high life,” in this metrop-
olis, are simply matters of contract: dollars
are placed in one balance, female charms and
“position” in the other; and love and in-
telligence, and the noble} virtues of
humanity, are sent out of doors as mere
servants, to come and go as they are bid. It
is of this class—a. rapidly increasing class,
we regret to say—that Mrs. Child speaks of in
this passage: “I never saw a marriage ex-
pressly for money that did not end unhap-
pily. Yet managing mothers and heartless
daughters are continually playing the same
unlucky game. I believe men more fre-
quently marry for love than w'omen, because
they free choice. I am afraid to con-
' 0e a portion of women marry
think they will never have
, and dread becoming de-
pende‘ . uch marriages do sometimes
prove tolerably comfortable; but a greater
number would have been far happier single.
If I may judge by my observation of such
matters, marrying for a home is a most tire-
some way of getting a living.” We have yet
to peruse that “ valuable paper” which has
polnted out the folly and Vanity of all this
recent pomp and circumstance of dollars,
except it be the New York "Saturday
Press,” which gives us this happy entende-
meat:

 
  
   

 

 

El arte del amor de Oviedo.

(Oviedo’a Art of Love)
$t,000,000.

———This Saturday Press is one of the
sauciest and most alive of all our weeklies.
From a late number we glean these speci-
mens of the pittoresque in art:

“Pre-Raphaelite pictures: pictures to be
ruffled for.

“High Art: Church's ’Art of the ’Han~
des.

“ Light Fantastic Tow: a steam-tug tow-
ing a sail-boat.

“The Last Rows of Summer: the late
boat races at Hoboken.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

'u

EDITOR‘S TABLE. 249

 

“Sons of Maul-ta: Keenan and Mor-
rissey.

“Men of mark: members of target com-
panies." ‘

._.__We will use, in the course of the
coming volume, several stories to run
through two or three numbers: but will say,
to save answering inquiries of parties who
propose to write a series for us. that these
stories are alify provided for. What we
now wish from contributors is matter to be
contained i three to ten pages of our
number. Essays, papers on art and litera-
ture, home sketches, tales of good moral,
good poems, pleasant chat adapted for quota-
tion in the “ Editor's Table,” will all be wel-
come, and receive every pr0per attention.
We hope to have liberal favors from our
goodly number of most excellent con-
tributors and literary friends.

Mrs. C. A. Halbert‘s sketch of Freid-
rich Schiller, in our last, was
paper. This lady will prep
papers s'nnilar in character,
volume. This announcemen
will greatly please the readers of this maga-
zine, with whom she is deservedly a favorite.

 

  
 
  
 

—— The recent enormous show of pearls
at the Ovicdo-Bartlett wedding, has attracted
no inconsiderable attention to these gems;
and we find crowds going into Tiffany's, and
Ball, Black & Co.‘s, to see their superb
necklaces, brooches, breast-pieces, &c. The
pearl is really a very common affair—its pale
beauty and purity of lustre are what com-
mend it. The little gem comes from a con.
cretion formed within the hard envelope ofa
shellfish, but particularly in what. is called
the mother-of-pearl oyster, which nearly re-
sembles in shape the common oyster, but is
larger, being usually about three inches in
diameter. The pearls are most commonly
contained in the shell, but sometimes they
are found in the thickest and most fleshy
Part of the oyster. A single oyster will fre-
quently contain several pearls; and it is 011
record that one has been known to contain
one hundred and fifty. The pearl itself is
supposed to be the result of some accidental
deposit or extravasation of the liquor
secreted by the animal in the gradual enlarge-
ment of its shell—very small in the first in-

    

stance, but increased by Successive layers of
pearly matter. The formation of the pearl
has, hOWever,.embarrassed both ancient and
modern naturalists to explain, and has given
occasion to a'number of very curious by.
potheses. Some have even supposed that
pearls are formed like other stones in mi.
mals. There is no fairer gift than one of
pearls; and if any of our readers contem-
plate a holiday remembrance to their loved
ones, let the pure pearl be the chosen gem.

 

We shall not be able to use—“ I
would not stay away,”—“A Talk with the
Graces,"—“ Jeannie May,”—-“ Hope is Life.”
—“ The Double Love,” and “A Night with
the Spirits.” Some of these are very good,
but not adapted to these pages.

 

“The Women of America” is now
becoming a more significant phrase than
heretofore. In the days of our mothers it
simply meant an order of beings endowed
with good sense, modesty, and patriotism.
It now means more, if we read the women

 

   
  
  
  

of -ica; for then we have before us the
nent ones of our sex who have, of
e such ornaments of society, lit-
nd art. Mrs. Stowe, Mrs. Howe,
arriet Hosmcr, (the sculptor), Mrs. Lily
Spencer, (the artist), Alice Carey, Mrs.
Sigonrnethrs. Hale, Mrs. Mowatt, Miss
1‘} ms (of Alabama), Marion Harland, &c.,
& what a brilliant list is here of those
who have won from the l
recognition! And how

ors of a general
nld.tiie list be
prolonged if we could add hose now becom-
ing noted as scholars and thinkers in the
higher walks of science. It may be truth-
fully said that our women of note compare
proudly with those of the sex who have be-
come identified with the greatness of other
countries. It has been said that France has
as much distinction from Madame de Staci as
from the most brilliant of its philosophers.
Fanny Burney (Madame D'Arblafl, Mrs.
Macaulay, Agnes Strickland, and numerous
other females, shed the highest lustre on Eng.
land. The Irish boast of Miss Edgeworth, of
the Porters, of Lady Morgan, and of Lady
Blessington, with spirit indicative of the high.
est appreciation. Scotland, too, has gained
in honor throngh the educated genius ofmore
than one of its “bonnie, bright.eyed 1m»

 

‘4

, HAM‘ mi

xm.‘

 

 
 

THE HOME.

 

 

OOKS crowd in thicker and faster, as the
holidays approach. We' have on our
table over a dozen received within a few
days. We are much obliged to the pub
lishers for these early copies, and only re-
gret our inability to notice new books as we
could wish. Among these we may mention:
I. Tm: MINisrsu’s Woomo. By HARRIET
Bsacnsa Srown. New York: DERBY dz
JACKSON. 12mo. 565 pages.
I]. Poms. by WILLIAM Macxwoarn PRAED

With an Original Memoir: 2 vols., l2mo.
New York: REDFIELD.

III. A Saucer GLOSSARY or Exams}! Woans
used formerly in Senses different from
their Present. By RICHARD CHEVERIX
Tasscn, D. D. New York: Rnortun.
12mo. 218 pages.

IV. Tm: POETICAL Wosxs or EDGAR ALLAN

POE. With an Original Memoir. New
York: Rum-WELD. In blue and gold.
With Steel Portrait.

V. True YOUNG I-Ioussxssrsa’s Fa B

Mas. Consumes. 12mo., 254
ton: BROWN, Tsunami 8t Cm

VI. Tm: Hour. CIaCLs. A Col
Piano-Music, embracing most of the pop-
ular Parlor-M ic of the day, viz: Waltzes,
Mazurkas, Qu rilles, Schottishes, dtc., dzc.
Boston: Oman Dn‘sos & Co.

01' Mrs. Stowe’s new book (1.) we canfot
Pl‘éfiefiy speak 1' the brief space allotte to
in this'd‘e , i  A proper notice would
require as; ra‘l _ ges. We must say, how-
ever, that it is supreme in all the qualities
of excellence in fiction. It is instinctive
with action, with characters drawn with
wonderful distinctiveness and power, full of
pathos and stem sermons, with a climax
which sustains the interest and effect so as
to leave nothing to be wished for. Any
fiction-writer, living or dead. might be proud
of such a contribution to literature.

This poems of Praed are at length gum.
cred inftwo beautifully-printed volumes, (11.)
If It-is‘,»strange that no English edition of this
 gay, melodious rhymes has been
giants the public. We are glad the enter~
buxom American publisher has supplied
the want. The admirers of Prsed‘s muse

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BOOK NOTICES.

are many. The mantle of Moore fell upon
his shoulders, if upon any. The freshly.
written biographical sketch will add to the
interest of the volumes.

Dean Trench is one of those men whose

literary energies are exhaustless. In the
field of words he is a perfecuugh Miller of
capacity, and his researches after “ re.
mains,” fossil adjectives, verbaand substan-
tives, have served to identify him as one of
the most intelligent and satisfactory oi phi-
lologists and lexicographcrs. The last of his
pocket editions is just issued by Redfield,
(111.) It is more than its name purports—is
a glossary and a history (or rather a biogra-
phy) of nearly five hundred words, whose
sense and signification are now different from
their first and former usage—in this respect
m ' than his “Study of Words,”
able and interesting. "
3 us Poe, in blue md [old-—
a (1 available form, (IV-l The
volume embraces all of Poe’s poems; and
his article on “ The Poetic Principle ;" also
a memoir, understood to have been prepared
by Charles F. Briggs, Esq., who was per-
sonally acquainted with Poe, and therefore
speaks of what he knows. It does not re‘
lieve a shadow of the dark coloring already
thrown around the dead poet‘s memory.

Mrs. Cornelius gives us, in “The Young
Housekeeper’s Friend” (V.), a new and re-
vised edition of the werk which was first
published in 1845. The hand of a good
housewife and a careful editor is visible upon
every page, rendering the volume a real help
to the party for whom it is especially pre-
pared. .

Oliver Dltson of Boston, in “ The Home
Circle” (VL), gives us an almost endless
variety of popular and favorite music, in a
very desirable\ form. In sheets, this music
would cost over ten times the price of the
volume. The arrangements for the piano
accompaniment are full of harmony and
force—all chromatic intricacies being
avoided. The workwill have a large sale.