THE
FIRESIDE

AHOME:

MONTHLY.

 

DECEMBER, 1859.

 

 

   

A LEGEND OF ELSINORE.

BY T. B. ALDlZICH.

“ Oh, LEAVE those groups of heliotropes,
Therese, for an hour or so;
You drink their strong perfumes too mnch ;
I almost fancy that you grow
Ethereal, like them. Well, you smile:
But waste with me this twilight time;
I’ll be your Laureate, little Queen:
And crown your royal brows with rhyme,
So, leave those groups of heliotropes,

vat. VII]. 16

 

a.

 

That blossom on the grassy slopes;

And leave the daisies in the dew,
The larkspurs and the pimperuels :

I have a ballad made for you,

With rhymes as fine as marriage—bells.”

“ What’s it about?” “A faire ladye
Sitting upon a castle wall,
Watching the dreary shadows fall,

And looking toward the sea!” ’9
“ We are like her in that,,save the castle-wall;
But what of the lady—the olden tale?
Did she love a page ? Did her cheeks grow pale
At her father’s scorn for the man she loved?
And all her entreaties never moved
The stout old Baron? Isn’t it so ‘3”
“ In most of the ballads I chance to know.
But not in this. Nor lord, 1101‘ Page,
Nor any knight of that iron age‘

Won the lady that lived by the sea!
And yet for all,
She sat on the gloomy casue'wa“

And died of love’s sweet malady !"

 

  

v2 54

THE HOME.

 

 

 

From the dizzy castle tips,
She would watch the silent ships
Like restless phantoms, coming and going ever-
more,
While the twilight settled down
On the sleepy little town.
on the gables quaint and brown,
That had shelter’d kings of yore.

Her blue eyes drank in the sight,
With a full and still delight;
For it was as fair a scene as aught in Arcadie:
Through the yellow-beaded grain,
Through the hamlet-studded plain,
Like a trembling azure vein,
Ran the river.to the sea.

Spotted belts of cedar-wood
Partly clasp’d the widening flood;
Like a knot of daisies lay the hamlets on the hill;
In the ancient town below,
Sparks of light will come and go,
And faint voices, strangely low,
From the gar‘i‘ulous old mill,

 

Here the land, in grassy swells,
Gently me; there, sank the dolls
With wide mouths of crimson moss, and teeth
of rock and peat;
And, in statue~like repose,
An old wrinkled mountain rose,
With its hoary head in snows
9nd musk-roses at its feet!

And so oft she sat alone,
In the turret of gray stone,
Looking o’er red miles of heath, dew-dabbled,
to the sea,
That there grew a village cry,
How Maud’s cheeks did lose their dye,
As a ship, once, sailing by,
Melted past the sapphire lea.

‘ ‘edy Maud,” they said “is vain ;
‘ w and fine disdain

 

.m
She walks o’er mead and moorland, shewan-
ders by the sea—
Sits within her tower alone,
Like (Enone carved in stone—
Like the queen of half a zone——
Ah, so icy proud is she !”

When Maud walk’d abroad, her feet
Seem’d far sweeter than the sweet
Wild flowers that would follow her with iri-
descent eyes;
And the Spangled eglantine,
And the honeysuckle vine,
Running round and round the pine,
Grew tremulo'us with surprise.

But she pass’d by with a stare,
With a half unconscious air,
Making waves of amber froth, upon a sea of
maize ;
With her large and heavenly eyes
Looking through and through the skies,
As if God’s rich paradise
Were growing upon her gaze l

Earlene-glle led all one way,
’Ali‘dlall  at the gray ‘
And the  jagged rocks, that tooth the
dreadful beach ; >

‘V \-

 

There Queen Maud would stand, the SV

With the white surf at her feet, , f'

While above her wheel'd the fleet .
Sparrow-hawk with startling screech.

When the stars bad hlossom’d bright,
And the gardens of the night

    

   
  
   
    
   
  
  
  
   
  
 

 
 

  

  
       
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
       
       
       

 

 

may»,  rt, ~

.‘+‘

11:3

"nan-a 11‘

"vagu-

‘fisngy ‘ w

t
i’

,-_ wen,

 

 

A LEGEND or ELSINORE. 2&6

   

 

Seem’d full of golden marigolds, and violets
ustir,
Maiden Maud would sit alone, ‘
And the sea with inner tone,
Half of melody and moan,
Would rise up and speak with her.

And she ever loved the sea—
God’s half-utter’d mystery—
With its million lips of shells, its never-ceas-
ing roar;
And ’twss wellthat, when she died,
They made Mend a grave beside
The blue pulses of the tide,
’Mong the crngs of Elsinore.

   

    

I , , , ‘
l‘f/ I!" /l 

// , v” "‘ :
7‘15 4";

One chill, red—lenf-fulling morn,
Many russet autumns gone,

 
    
  

   

A lone ship with folded wings, lay dozing off
the lea;
It came silently at night,
With its wings of murky white
Folded after weary flight——
The worn nursling of the seal

Crowds of peasants floch’d the sands;
There were tears and clasping hands;
And a sailor from the ship pm'd through the
grave-yard gate.
Only “ Maud,” the head-stone rend;
Only “ Maud f” Was't all it sum 3;
Then why did he how his head,
Weeping, “ Late, alas! too late I?"

 

And they call’d her cold. God knows. . . .
Underneath the winter snows
The invisible hearts of flowers grow ripe for
blossoming!
And the lives that look so cold,
If their stories could be told,
Would seem cast in gentler mold,
Would seem full of love and spring.

 
   
  
   
    
  
    
   
    
    
   
  
    
  
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
     
 
   

 

“ Therese, to your heliotropes!
They faint for you on thymy slopesl
Gather the daisies in the dew,
The larkspnrs and the pimpernels‘
You have the rhymes I made for you I” l

“ And sad they are as funeral bells?
They chill my blood. 0 Launcelot,
I fear I am like your ‘ fair Lsdye’—-
I watch for my lover here by the sea!
The May is here, but it brought him not :

“ He wrote us he would come home in May :
We were to walk in the young May-moon !
Its crecsent tum’d to an orb. ’Tis June :
I am weary waiting day by day l”

. t.

I press’d the handshe had given me,

And turn’d and stared at the twilight see;

How could I speak of the ship that was‘lost,

A month ago, on the English coast?

 

 

 
   
 
 
 
 
 

250

THE HOME.

 

SLEEP.

. “ Jam vero videtis, nihil esse Morti tam
siniile, quam Somnum."
CICERO, de Senectute, xxii.

“ 0 thou soft natural death! that art joint

twm
TO'sweetest slumber 1”
JOHN Wsnsrua: The White Devil.

“ How wonderful is Death,
Death and his brother Sleep !
One, pale as yonder waning moon,
With lips of arid blue;
The other, rosy as the morn
When, throned on ocean’s wave,
It blushes o’er the World :
Yet both so passing wonderful!”

SHELLEY : Queen Mal.

“ Though Death should grimly stalk into the
house, ,
And stand beside the slumber of a child,
Think you that gazing on its mimic self,
Sleep, eautiful and wondrous, in the crib,
His owlish eyes would not wing suddenly,
Through cycles of decay, back to the time
When  Was one with Sleep, and passing

air ;
' i: you he would not sigh: “Sleep on,
sleep on !‘ .
Thou copy and thou counterfeit of me,
And teach the world that I was beautiful.”

Cassans : Llewellyn.

HEN the first man fell asleep,
(using that phrase, in a natural,
" not spiritual sense), he is supposed by
Milton to have confusedly identified
the sensation with that of dissolution
itself. Death, indeed, was then a thing
unknown, above conception because
beyond'experience; but equally so
was sleep. And though every at-
tempt to describe sensations so unique
must, more or less, involve a sort of
ca: post facto ascription of subsequent
impressions, still the Miltonic suppo-
sition is too natural not to be in ac.
cord with what men in general would
assume as Adam’s actual feelings.
On a green shady .bank, profuse of
flowers, pensive he Sits down:

“ There gentle sleep
First found me, and with soft oppression seized
My drowsed sense, untroubled, though I
‘ thought
I then was passing to in former stat’c',
Insensible, and forthwit to dissolve.

affinity between Death and
and ever has been, uni.

 

 

versally recognized. The Divine
One, who spake as never man spake,
said of a.dead and buried follower:
“ Our friend Lazarus sleepeth.” The
brigands of revolutionary France—
earthly, sensual, devilish—proclaimed
death an eternal sleep. e image is
everywhere in vogue, and 'analo y
always holds good; the relationship is
remarked by every age, in ever
clime, by saint, by savage, and by
sage. Not a mortal day passes, but
sleep is a familiar presence. Not a
mortal life, but closes in longer,
dee er, stiller, more perfect sleep.

he epithets bestowed on death by
the ancients, are profusely borrowed
from its living counterpart, or living
similitude, or foreshadow. If they
call it a dam necessitas, they call it
also a dare quies. It is a ferreus som-
nus. On the other hand, somnus,
sleep. itself, is mom's image. It is
letho similimus. I It is consanguineus,
lethi sopor, Death and his brother
Sleep—is that an original idea of
Shelley’s? Not by centuries upon
centuries. Gelidw mortis frater lan-
guidus, is an old-world paraphrase for
man’s nightly repose.

When considering, in that discur-
sive manner of his, how a man may, in
some measure, make death familiar to
him, Montaigne pronounces it to be
not without reason that we are taught
to consider sleep as a resemblance of
death—calling attention to the facility
with which we pafls from waking to
sleeping, and the little concern we
feel in losing the knowledge of light
and of ourselves. "Perhaps the
faculty of sleeping would seem use-
less and contrary to nature, since it
deprives us of all action and sense,
were it not that by it Nature instructs
us that she has equally made us to
die as to live, and from life presents
us the estate she reserves for us after
it, to accustom us to it, and to take
from us the fear of it. But such as
have by some violent accident fallen
into a swoon, and in it have lost all
sense, these, methinks, have been very
near seeing the true and natural face

  

 

 

 

\ SLEEP.

m

 

of death.” Such an accident Michael
himself had experienced, and his ex-
perience he details for the use of .
others. ‘

“ When boys go first to bed,”
says holy George Herbert,

“ Thev step into their voluntary graves;
Sleep binds them fast; only their breath
Makes them not dead.
Successive nightS, like rollingwaves,
Convey them quickly, who are bound for
death.”

Which of us but has, at some time,
felt a sweet thrill, and been conscious
of an awe, and an earnestness, solemn
as strange, when joining in the peti-
tion of England’s Evening Hymn—to
be taught so to live, we may dread
the grave as little as our bed?
George Herbert had anticipated
Bishop Ken in this Christian aspira-
tion, and glorified Death as a trans-
iigui‘ed form :

“ Therefore we can go die asleep, and trust
llalf that we have,
Unto an honest, faithful grave; "
Making our pillows either down or dust.

Shakspeare makes the Duke, in
Measure for Measure, thus reason-
with life—when reasoning that it is a
thing that none but .fools would keep:

“ Thy best of rest is Sleep,
And that thou on ro k’ t- 1
fear,“ p vo s , yet grossy
Thy Death, which is no more.”

In the same strain, only more at
large, reasons George Chapman, of the
same age, in his now forgotten
tragedy of Caesar and Pompey:

“ Poor slaves, how terrible this'Death is to
em! _
If men would sleep, they Will be wroth With

all _
That interrupts theni ; physio take, to take
The golden rest it brings; both pay and Way
For good and soundest naps; al friends con-
senting ' _
In those invocations; praying all ’
‘ Good rest the gods vouchsafe yo“,
when Death, ' I
Sleep’s natural brother, comes; that 5 nothing

But

worse, ,
But better (being more rich—~and keeps the

store— _
Sleep ever fickle, wayward still; and poor);

 

Ohl h(;]w men grudge, and shake, and fear, and

His sterh approaches 1”

The hunting Lord, gazing on Chris.
topher Sly, who lies dead-drunk before
the ale-house on the heath, is moved
to exclaim: “Grim death, how foul
and loathsome is thine image!” Pan.
lina preparing Leontes for a view of
the supposed statue of his wife, bids
him expect “to see the life as lively
mocked, as ever still sleep mocked
death.” We have.a Shakspearean
glimpse of Lucrece asleep, her hair,
like golden threads, playing with her .
breath—

“ Showin life’s triumph in the lap of Death,
And deat ’s dim look in life's mortality :
Each in her sLasr themselves so beautify

As if between them twain there were no strife,
But that life lived in death, and death in life."

,One of the “ leading articles,” so to
speak, in the Newes, of Sir Thomas
Overbury, describes death as 'slee ’s

icture drawn to lie, or, “ the twili t
of life and death.” “In sleep,” he
says, “ we kindly shake death by the
hand; but when we are awaked we
will not know him. Often sleepings
are so many trials to die, that at last
we may do it perfectly.” Elsewhere
he affirms, in the paradoxical style so
much cultivated, that “no man goes
to bed till he dies, nor wakes till he
be dead.” To the same effect writes
Jeremy Taylor, that .we so converse
every night with the image of dent
that every morning We have an al‘
merit of the resurrection. Sleep an

death have but one mother, and they V

have but one name in 09mm0'P.
Charnel-houses are but Kmm‘e‘enai
“ cemeteries” or “sleeping-Places B”
and “in sleep our sensesare as fast
bound by Nature, as our J0"!t are by
the grave-clothes; and unless an angel
of God awaken us every morning, we
must confess ourselves as unable to
converse with spirits. But, however,

death itself is no more; it is but a“

darkness and a shadow, a rest and a
forgetfulness. What is there more v.
death? What is there less in sl u

Coleridge‘s Monody on th“

  
 
    
   
    
 
  
   
 
  
    
   
   
   
  
   
    
 
   
   
   
   
   
  
   
  
   
 
   
     
   
   
 
 

if .

,‘u '

~ 0 ,



. t. r

  

    

258

rrnn .noun.

 

 

of Chatterton, opens with the excla-
mation:

“ Oh’_ what a wonder seems the fear of death,

’ - ‘ Seeing how ladly we all sink to sleep,

Babes, Chil ren, Youths, and Men,

Night following night for threescore years and
ten 1”

One section of Tennyson’s In Me-
moriam opens with the hy othesis,
 , “ If sleep and death are tru y one ;”
 another, with the apostrophe, “Sleep,
 kinsman thou to death and trance ;”
while a third addressed to the dead
friend here he“ in remembrance, be-

,' gins with this soothing stanza—

“ When in the down I sink my head,

Sleep, Death’s twin-brother, times my breath ;
Sleep, Death’s twin-brother, knows not D eath,
Nor can I dream of thegas dead.”

This twin-brotherhood is, almost
everywhere among the poets, an ac-
knowledged relationship. Yet Wilsbn

' utters a protest against it, when he
', mfies the Ettrick Shepherd object
-' that “sleep is not death—nor yet
death’s brother, though it has been
ca’d see by ane who suld hae kent
better—but it is the activity of ‘spirit-
ual life.” How this objection affects
the poetical assumption, it would, per-
haps, be difficult to show. For the
poets all along assume the sleep of
eath to have its dreams, its activity
of spiritual life. To sleep—muses
Hamlet—to slee , perchance to
dream; ay, theres the rub; for in

t sleep of death, what dreams

ay come—must give him, the pro.
posed self-slayer, pause. The good
' yuan, dying, is, in Bryant’s Thaila-
topsis,

   
  
  
  
  
   
  
  
    
     
   
   
      
     
      
      
       
 
      

f

“ Like one who wraps the drapery of his

0000
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.”

Many a time has death been taken
for sleep, and sleep for death, the
dead for those that slumber; and the
_ slumbering for those that are “no

flare.” Innocent childhOod looks on
 ‘, “of the departed, and believes
 ,1 r ‘- to be life’s common every.
" 1Anxious watchers rivet their

  

   

 

gaze on the calm sleeper, and fear that
calm to be of the sleep that knows no
waking. Arviragus finds Imogen “as
dead,” “thus smiling, as some fly had
tickled slumber, not as death’s dart,
being laughed at. . . . . . I thought
he slept ; and put my clouted brogues
from off my feet, whose rudeness
answered my steps too loud.” “ Is he
so hasty,” complains Shakspeare’s
Henry I V., when the Prince has re.
moved his crown—~“ so hasty that he
doth suppose my sleep my death ’5”
The Prince had not removed that
“golden rigal ” until he had watched
a downy feather by the lips of the
king, which stirred not—until he had
called, andthere was no answer——
whence his inference, “this sleep is
sound indeed,” the sleep that no morn-
ing will break, no fatigue redress.
So, again, with the parents of Juliet,
after she had drained the friar’s
draught. Thomas Hood—who, in his
Hero and Leander, pictures a form on
which “you might gaze twice ere
Death it secured, and not his cousin
Sleep, that through those creviced lids
did under-peep’ --has described, in a
fragment called The Death-Bed, with
exquisite pathos and simple power,
what some of us have witnessed, and
having witnessed, have desired for
ourselves, if the desire be lawful: so
imperceptible the passage from calm
slumber to calmer death, so unob-
served the merging of one in the
other. .

“ Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied—
We thought her (lying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.”

The sight of sleeping childhood is
often suggestive, to their elders, of the
more solemn rest that rcmaineth for
all the children of time. Three-and-
twenty years ago the same Thomas
Hood, being at Coblentz, and gazing
on his wife and two children asleep in
the same chamber, was moved to an
almost wish that he and they might
then and there find mortality swal-
lowed up of life, sleep merged in

 

 

 

 

.. in. a.»
.rfi*r-V  r

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

0

sneer. gag  ;

   

'8.

 

death. He recognized his universe of
love, all that his God could give him
or remove, there sleeping, save him-
self, in mimic death; once arose the
half-cherished, half-withstood yearn-
ing—

“ Almost I wish that with one common sigh
We might resi n all mundane care and strife,

And seek to et er that transcendent sky
Where Fatliger, Mother, Children, Husband,

Wife, . . "
Together pant in everlasting life.

The aspiration—or, rather, un-
formed fancy—might be a strangely
sad or sadly strange one. But
thoughtful and suffering minds, versed
in worldly trials, and already wound.
ed in the battle of life, are not unapt
to think sad thoughts, and strange,
beside slumbering childhood. Watch-
ing the serenity that there abides, and
remembering the awful anti-type of
ivhich a placid symbol is before us,
well may the wistful desire rise from
heart to lips. May my last- end be
like this! Like it, in some respects,
we know it will be; for is not Death,
even that of wrinkled eld, the brother
of sleep, even that of babes and suck-
lings? Mrs. Browning’s stanzas, ad-
dressed to an infant sleeping on the
floor, tired of all the playing,
touchingly illustrates this aspect of
our theme; the minstrel is near as
tired of pain as the child seems of
pleasure; God knows that, she says;
and then she anticipates a comin
sleep for herself, after life’s fitful
fever, wearied with the din, and toil,
and vanity :

“ Very strong too, by His grace
Gently wrupt around me;
Shall i show as calm a face, .
Shall I sleepas soundly !
Differing in t us, that you _
Clasp your playthm s sleeping,
While my hand shall top the few
Given to my keepm !
Differing in t Is, that
Sleeping shall be colder,
And in wakinipresentlv,

Brighter to eholder.”
The last stanza of another peem of
her’s, The Sleep, is set in the same
key——a soft, low minor—

“ And friends, dear friends—when it shall be
That this low breath is gone from me,

l or those thou lovest best,

 

     
  
  
  
  
    
 
 
 
  
     
  
   
  
  
   
 
 
   
  
   
   
  
 
 
 
   
  
  
   
     
  
  
  
  
   

And round my bier ye come to weep, .. «5 "1 .
Let one most loving of you all,
Say, ‘ Not a tear must o’er her fall—

He giveth His beloved sleep.’ ”

But our discourse must end for the
present number. We should‘ be
pleased to quote from the poets of our
special love, and may do so in some
future paper.

“ Blessed be Sleep l”

 

REGRET.

I was'rs my heart in cease“ Highs,

In ceaseless tears I dim mi e eyes,

I lose myself in reveries— .
With listless feet I walk about, '
At windows I look idly out;

Yet see not the gold-tinted skies,

Nor trees, nor hills at which I gaze,

Nor rivers running musical ways,

Nor feel a soft surprise ‘

When the sun plays

With rosy rays, A
Like fingers, lifting the Vale crown of haze.

Or if I take a poet’s book,

And through its dreamy vistal look,

Isee, as one sees in a dream:

In vain the minarets gleam,

The eyes of ladies ’neath long lashes besm,-—

In vain are waving plumes of knights,

In vain the troubadour sings love‘s delights,

Or spurs ring through the hall,

0r ivy climbs the wall,

0r sparkles diamond robe, or waves the vel- 
vet pall, 1

0r rings low laughter round,

Or swells imperial sound

01‘ golden instruments with myrtle bound—

It doth likememory seem,

Or a forgotten once-enchanting dream.

 

0h why, my heart,

Dost thou thus walk apart

From thy past self, and from the '0’“
around, v

In memories tender and. profound? a

One, from the email, close throng

Hath sung her farewell song

And gone away for long

Into the wild, the dryad-haunted West; a,

Where prairie-fires at night

Her dreamy visions light,

And the wild rose doth bloom to grace her
breast. ’

Poor heart! than ill eculd st spare

From out thy treasures, few but rare,

This, purely, star-like, fair;

And like a child that for its mother cries

Thou canst not see the toys which n
tempts thine eyes. My

 

t

 

THE HOME.

 

“AUNT MARTHA.”

BY ALICE CARY.

“ IVE me your fan, Rose; I broke

mine all to pieces boxing the

'ears of my poodle; and, just see, he

' . has bitten a great hole in my new
lace flounces i”

“Well, I can’t help it, but Aunt
Martha can darn it, so it will look as
well as new. Get her fan, if you
want one; I can’t spare mine; no
matter whether she has one or not.”

“I don’t k ' w where Aunt Martha
is; and, besidgs, her fan is too plain

. for me.”

“Hasn’t she gone down stairs
yet?”

“ No.”

“ Well, upon my word. She ought
to be there'-how stupid she is. I
never knew her to be in time for any
thing, and shall not be surprised if she
has to be waited for at the Day of
Judgment,” and Miss Rose tossed her
golden curls indignant] , turned her
back upon her sister ll’lorence, who
had asked for her fan, and proceeded
to rub her cheeks with a very rough
towel.

Florence replied with spirit, less to
._defend the person called “Aunt Mar-
,_ ” 'I fancied, than to censure Rose :
"You would find fault with an angel.
I am sure Aunt Martha can’t be
blamed, justly, tonight—she had to
get the rooms ready, assist us to
dress, see about the refreshments, get
the baby to sleep, and a thousand
other things, before she could think of
herself.”

“Oh, you are very good to Aunt
Martha all at once—Just as if you did
not make her lace your boots, and
comb your hair, and darn your stock-

 

) '

 
 

to have so good a home, and the dear
knows she ought to do something to
r Iggy for it, but she is welcome to do
/ ‘- tter any day, for all any of us would
. care.” .
1 ' “ l guessUncle Dick would care-—
»' n’t know what would become of
l I ' V it were not for her.”

  

ilgs! I’m sure she ought to be glad .

 

“ Well, she and Dick ought to be
friends, nobody else cares for either of
them.”

“ Here, see if I am all right; any
powder in my eyebrows? pull down
my skirt! hair look fit to be seen?
hoop too small?”

And the two ladies, Misses Rose
and Florence Lytle, having com leted
their toilets, and each submitte her-
self to the inspection of the other,
descended from the dressing to the
drawing room, where the “ few
friends” they expected were already
assembled.

From my own dressing-room, sepa-
rated from that of the young ladies
only by a lace curtain, the above con-
versation came to my ears. Who
was Aunt Martha? and who was
Uncle Dick? and what their posi-
tion in the Lytle family, and toward
each other? Speculations conCerning
them preoccupied my mind, and be-
spoke my sympathy.

Mrs. Lytle’s rooms were the com-
plete index of her nature and grade of
cultivation—abowily vulgar and ex.-
pensively tasteless—carpets, decora-
tions, and draperies, all of the most
brilliant colors and abrupt contrasts ;
and the guests were in .harmony with
the furnishing—the ladies sparkling
with jewels and bracelets, and the
gentlemen presenting that profusion of
eye-glasses, studs, and chains, for
which so many of our young men are
chiefly remarkable. There were cards
for the oldish and more quiet people,
and it was at the whist table I ex-
pected to see Aunt Martha, but a
glance assured me that she was not
there. Among the young people, the
Misses Lytle were singularly attract-
ive, and yet they were not pretty, nor
' iable, nor intellectual, but, on the
contrary, forward, impertinent, loud-
voiced, and talkativo; nevertheless
they were sufficiently courted to satis.
fy even their exorbitant vanity.
Verily, there is no accounting for
tastes. Such charms as they pos-
sessed, they displayed with great
liberality —- wearing the shortest

 

 

 

 
   
     
         
     
     
       
     
       
       
     
       
     
     
     
       
     
   
       
     
    
     

“‘"cnw.m_ , ‘-

'Ifzg‘wwxv‘fl‘

 

 

k
\

 

“AUNT MARTHA.” _ 

  

 

sleeves, and the lowest necks to their
dresses that could be worn. No ear-
rings were so long as theirs, and no
bracelets so broad, and What With a
regardlessness of preprieties, and one
fantastic ornament and another, they
really had about them a certain rude
style, which passed among their own
set for elegance. In the estimation of
their mother, they Were accomplished
to .a preeminent degree, and she
never suspected that their music and
dancing fell in the least degree short
of erfect execution.

is the evening wore on, inquiries
were made from time to time, chiefly
by the elderly gentlemen, for Aunt
Martha, and I observed that each in-
quiry was put with a degree of tender-
ness approaching to pity, which led
me to suspect some infirmity on the
part of Aunt Martha—she was hump-
backed, perhaps, or lame, or wasting
with consumption, and at every little
cough I started and looked round, ex-
pecting to see her bloodless face and
attenuated features. My mind was
diverted, before long,‘ by observing
that Miss Florence’s pink brocade was
spotted with ice-cream, and that Miss
Rose’s lace flounce was loosened from
her skirt and dangling half a yard be-.
hind her.‘

“ For goodness’ sake, go to Aunt
Martha and get your flounce pinned
up !” whispered Florence.

“ Where is she? snufling ashes in

- the corner?” and Rose turned, as she

spoke, toward the tea-room. I ob-
served the direction, in order to ascer-
tain what manner of personage this
Aunt Martha might be.

My expectations were disappointed,
and my interest deepened at a glance.
Instead of white satin ribbons a
spectacles,l saw a blooming me
of thirty or thereabout, dressed With
quaker-like simplicity and Mness,
and having on her face that expression
0“ sweetness and patience which indi-
cates a womanly heart, and so far
trimSeends that more obvigus beauty
which the vulgar praise. ' g F

A little child was leaning 0v??- her

 

b

 
  
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
  
  
  
   
   
   
   
 
    

lap in affectionate familiarity, when I
first noticed her; but from none of
the children of larger growth did she
seem to elicit the slightest attention.

Some white streaks showed along
her temples already, and no effort had
been made to conceal them by 0mg.
ment; she evidently took kindly to
her fate—that of an old maid and a
dependent—the hardest, I think, which
ever comes to any woman.

Her black silk dress and white col-
lar were unmistakable; but tucked
under her belt was a half-blown rose,
not uite in harmony with the charac-
ter drew for her. How came it
there? I became curious to know,
when I heard her say to the child,
whose fingers found their way to it—
“ No, no, my,dear, you may have my
watch to play with, but not that ;”
and, as she spoke, there came a flush
to her cheek, and she looked stealthily
around to see, I thought, whether she
had been observed. I was not lon
in discovering the twin of the rosebug
she wore, in the button-hole of Rich- -
ard Lytle, the man, of all others, least
likely to ‘ engage . her affections, I
thought; but how little we can divine
the elections which the heart makes
for itself, often against all wise 
ment and knowledge and under "
ing. Dick Lytle, for so he was c
was one of those amiable, but we ’
less fellows, whom everybody lik
and nobody respects. Possessed .65 r.
a handsome person and fine natural
endowments, he might have. made
himself a ndme and a POSI-t n of
which to be proud, but f9? 9; 01‘ 0f
energy and a habit of Ind! .erencei
killing to all honorable attainment.
When he approached Aunt Martha, 1
could not keep my eyes from follow-
ing him, for in the form and method
of what he should say, I “'85 Prepared
to read her destiny. I saw nothing of
that indefinable manner which betrays
the interested heart—no softening of
the smile or lowering of the tone, as,
with an accent of slight mockery, "
said, “ I am come to solicit the ho iv '
of dancing with you, Aunt Ma . ‘ ' "

       
    
    
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   
  
 
 
  
   
 
 

  

    

THE

 

HOME

 

Why should she wear his rosebud

when he called her Aunt Martha? I

_ could not understand that; but that it

: i must end in disappointment I felt at
. once.

His check was flushed, and there
was a look of dissipation about him
which greatly marred the effect of his
beauty. Aunt Martha declined to

1. dance, and, laying her hand lightly on
. I ' his arm, whispered something, the im-
3 ‘ port of which I guessed by his reply.
“ N 0, ’pon my honor, not another drop
tonight, Aunt Martha.” She looked
half imploring and half incredulous,
and he went on—“ How could I, if I
dis leasedyou 2”
‘he conclusion of his answer was
simply the prompting of a natural
allantry ; but it was not.s0 that Aunt
Iartha understood it, as I knew by
her downcast eyes and blush.
With some polite words about

monopolizing too much of her time, ,

he left her, and before long I dis-
. covered, both by his boisterous mirth
z . and the anxious pallor in her face, that
~ the promise had not been kept.
It was touching to see with what
‘ tgpder device she drew him aside, and
g 1 a erward contrived to cover his re-
1, 7 ° gamut from invidious remark.
fj- rfisr herself, there was no need of
 at  e or apology. No one saw her
” .. tglhle quietly away, and she was
a ' ’. Cpeither missed nor inquired for after-

‘ q _ ward. _
I The image of her sweet, sad face
never left me from that time, and, for
the sake of cultivatingcher acquaint-
ance, I'often availed myself of Mrs,
Lytle’s hospitality. A group of us,
Dick Lytle being the central object of
attraction, were gathered about the
fire one day, when a milliner’s boy
brought home a new bonnet.

“ ()h, mother! what is it, and who
is it for “l” were the eager Inquiries of
Florence and, Rose, as, tearing the lid
» from the hand-box, they produced its

contents — a plain straw. bonnet,
‘ “ mmed with a blue ribbon.
? ‘clamations Q! surprise and dis-

a,

  
 

   
  
 
 

“ 0 followed fast upon One 311;,

other. “Surely, mother, you don’t
design it for yourself?” cried Rose.
“ Why, it’s plain enough to belong to
some old body in'the Home of the
F riendlcss.”

Mrs. Lytle laughed, and, with the
absence of delicacy which character-
ized her, replied : “ You have hit the
nail on the head exactly; it was for
one of the inmates of the institution
you mention 1 got the bonnet,” and
she tossed it into Aunt Martha’s lap.

“It’s out of season,” cried Flor.
ence; “however, I suppose it’s no
difference.”

“Not in the least,” replied Aunt
Martha, meekly. “It will soon be
spring. and then it will be quite the
style.”

“ Quite the old style, by that time,”
retorted the young lady. “ What in-
duced you to buy blue ribbon at this
season, mother?”

“Why, it’s the old ribbonl were
last summer, myself. What were the
use of buying a new ribbon for Mari
tha? She don’t care.” '

“ Why should she not care ’l” asked
Dick, taking the bonnet upon his hand.

Aunt Martha cast down her eyes,
and her lip trembled.

“ I suppose she need not thank you,
Mrs. Lyt e,” he continued, turning the
bonnet abOut; “ but it is in better
taste than any purchase I ever knew
you to make for yourself.”

Aunt Martha lifted up her eyes and
smiled.

“Yes, decidedly better taste,” he
continued; “if it were trimmed with
a green instead of a blue ribbon, it
would suit my fancy, precisely.”

“ Whew i” said Mrs. Lytle, lifting
up her eyebrows, and adding the next

inute, “I wish you and Aunt Mar-
" could live in a house by your-
wc could,” said Dick.

'selfis l”

’v- t .

3' ‘l ' ” Mrs. Lytle continued,
. '

. r, anage to keep house
,- y" assistance,” and she laid
, .‘ -.: upon the last word.

' '  rlslaughed,and said they
. . " to tfy the experiment.

   
 

 

  

 

 

 

an» -

    
  
 
   
       
   
   
    
  
   
  

   
  
  
  
   

 

 

 

 

 

 

“ AUNT MARTHA”



 

Dick laughed too, for he could do
no better, poor fellow—he had no
home, and no means of obtaining one
~80 the laughter was probably af.
feced, and the gayety of tone, as he
answered—

“ I am afraid you will never know,
my dear young ladies—rat least, not
till you see my parting wmgs_
that yOu have entertained an angel l”

“lam afraid, then, we never shall '

know it,” responded Mrs. Lytle, with
an afl'ectation of pleasantry too thin to
disguise a feeling of bitterness.

“ Have you mended my lace
sleeves, Aunt Martha?” asked Rose.

“Oh no,l forgot it!” she replied,
rising with an expression of painful
solicitude in her face.

“ l must have them by seven
o’clock,” Rose said, in a tone of com-
mand rather than of entreaty.

“To insure you against disappoint-
ment,” I interposed, “I will assist in
the mending.” I wished for some ex-
cuse to accompany Aunt Martha to her
own room. She saw my motive, and
accepted my offer; but in her painful
confusion dropped the bonnet.

“ Here, take this thing along,”
called Mrs. Lytle after us, giving it a
toss with her foot—“I don't want to
see nor hear any more of it.”

“I should not imagine you would,”
replied DiCk, taking up the bonnet and
followin us.

“Oh, heigh-ho l” he sighed, as he
seated himself at the fireside and
locked his hands over his head.

“What is it ’l” asked Aunt Martha,
biting off her thread in order toslip it
through the needle.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, im.

have just get talent enough to curse
me—l wish I had more or less.”

“ I assure you I don’t willingly eat the '
bitter bread of penury.” _

“ You are not yourself to-day,”
said Martha, pulling the white thread
from her needle, and fingering among
the spools in her work~basket.

“ No,” he replied, “ I wake up once
in a while, and see myself as others
see me.”

“ Not to-day, Richard, you don’t.”

“Not as you see me, dear Martha, I
know; for your eyes are full of the
light of charity ; but I am only a poor
semblance of manhood.” He dropped
one hand beside him and the other
across his eyes.

Aunt Martha had succeeded in get-
ting a black thread into her needle by
this time, and, placing her chair beside
him, she drew together the gap in the
coat sleeve. “

I withdrew to a distant window,
under the plea of getting nearer to
the light. “ It’s of no use, Martha,” I
heard him say—“ let me appear just
as worthless as I am—it can’t be kept
of? long, at any rate.”

“ Why, Richard,” she whispered, in
a tone of the tenderest reproach, “ you
must not give way to such moods—,
they will not do any good.” '

“ No, I know it,” he replied ; “I
don’t expect they will do me any good“ “
—nothing will do me any good—that
is the worst of it—-I am losing all
ambition, all pride, all honor—don’t
shake your head—I am perfectly
aware of my condition—that is what:
makes it so hopeless. I would drink
and forget my sorrows, but for the lit-
tle impediments of , having 'nelthel‘
money nor credit.” "r.

“How wildly you #110”

o

ee ifl talk wildly—die you suppose -I
ould sit here, 'a prey to the blue

patiently, and he added directly—“I u put your hand inimy Pocket, and

“ Why, Richard I” she exclaimed,
“ h)w can you say so? it is not talent
you need.”

“Then why do I sit here by another
man’s fire? why do I Wear such a coat
as this 2” he turned the ragged elbow
toward her, and con.cluded, smiling,

 

devils, if I had a sixpen'Ce with which
to dissipate them . Oh no, Aunt
Martha, I am not quite so lost to all
right reason as that l” . 2-4;...

She slipped her hand in his pocket,
and brought up a piece of money, ,
which I suspect she did not find there,

  
     
    

 

THE HOME.

 

exclaiming with an air of triumph,
“ What stories you do tell, Richard.”

“And what stories you tell, you
good angel!” he replied, and taking
up her hand, pressed it to his lips.

She was more than re aid,'and, as
she bent over the torn Face she was
mending, there came so sweet and

» cheerful a light to her face, I thought
she was the most beautiful woman I
had ever seen.

I think Richard thought so too, for
he sat for some time repeating
snatches of poetry——

' “ A mid whom there were none to praise, and very
few to love,”

He began,'and went on—

‘A being not too bright nor good {or human na-
ture‘s daily food."

And ended with singing—
“ Oh to abide in the desert with thee l"

“Aunt Martha,” he said directly,
laying the money with which he had
been playing on the table beside her,
and speaking in a tone that indicated
seom of himself, “look at me from
head to foot, now—patched, and
brushed, and darned (thanks to you),
into a sort of threadbare decency, and
tell me about how long I shall be in
,l'eaching the gutter?” -

{She shook her head and frowned
deprecatingly, but he went‘ ona—“I
think lean compute the time pretty
accurate] , m self; nevertheless, I
should like to hear your opinion.”

“How crazy ou talk! but,” she
added ingenuous y, “poets are all
craz , I suppose.” ‘

I e smiled, and she went on with
womanish tact——“B the way, that
last poem of yours as been running
in my head all day—let me see—how
does it open?
but it struck me 115 bein the mos
beautiful thing you ever (ii .”

Richard had been lopping iimberly
on the table—he eat upright now—a
new; spii-it had been infused into his
1 u . . ‘.

1“ Do you like it, truly 2” he asked.
oil, I confess it is a favorite of

H

Own, if I may be pardoned the

    
  
    
   
   
  
  
  
  
   
  
  
  
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

vanity of saying so.” And he re-
peated several stanzas aloud.

“ Will you repeat all of it ’2” asked
Aunt Martha.

‘ He did so, from beginning to end,
with a great deal of musical tender-
ness, and dwelling lovingly on the
lines which he thought best.

“That oem should make your
name famous,” she said when he had

'done.

He drew a sigh of satisfaction, and,
perhaps, to evoke further praise, said,
“But, Aunt Martha, why, if my
verses are worth any thing, does not
somebody praise them besides you ’I”

“ Why didn’t they praise ‘ Paradise
Lost 2‘ ” she replied; adding, “I think
ultimate immortality is nearly al-
ways proportionate to temporary ne-

lect.”

“That is very true,” he said, and
added, in an ironical tone, but evi-
dently pleased. with what she had
said—“ if the neglect my verses suf-
fer now implids their excellence, I
am booked for the laurel—there can
be no question about that.”

“Undoubtedly‘it is the lot of ge-’
nine to be unappreciated at its first
appearance,” replied Aunt Martha,
receiving seriously what he had spo-
ken in jest; “the men who are the
landmarks of the ages have stood too
high above the heads of the generation
they lived in to'be fairly judged.”

Richard smiled, thrust his fingers
through his abundant hair, and said
the consciousness of deserving praise
was, after all, better than praise. He
stirred the fire, and after some cheer-
ful talk, mingled with half humorous,
half melancholy 'jests upbn himself,
he took up a volume of B rns’ poems,

I can’t remember‘nd read some of the t , erest pas-

ages with great sweetness and power,
Now and then he stopped, and, with
a cheek aglow with enthusiasm, re-
peated some lines of his own, kindred
to the poet’s, as he thought, in senti- ‘
ment or fancy.

Aunt Martha could not see the in-
equality—ind she often preferred

 

Richard’s vers . So thehours went

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

v

 

 

 

 

K "m‘flVfi. A” ,, A,
~

« AUNT mama." 

 

 

by very pleasantly to both, and the
night fell, the mending of the lace
was completed, and the book shut up.

“Ah me!” sighed Richard, rising
and buttoning his coat, “ the night
shows stars and old clothes by a bet-
ter light. DoI leok absolutely tor-
lorn, Aunt Martha?” and he turned
himself slowly around before her, pull-
ing collar and waistcoat down.

“ Never saw you look better,” she
responded with great sprightliness;
“ your neckcloth is Just a little awry,
that’s all,” and rising on tiptoe, she
adjusted it, carefully tucking the rag-
ged corners out of sight.

“ Now for your brush,” he said,
drawing himself up, “ my tile is a lit-
tle the worse for the wear.”

She brought his hat from where it
lay in the corner, smoothing it with
her hand as she came. ‘

“ It shows plain enough that it has
had bricks in it, doesn’t it '2” he said,
taking it from her, and smashing it
down on his head. She more than
reassured him, by saying, such eyes
and hair as his were adornment
enough for any man.

“ A man's a man for a’ that,"
he said, producing a pair of old gloves,
and drawing the best one on.

“I like to see gentlemen without
gloves, especially when they have
hands like yours,” Aunt Martha said.

“ I don’t,” Said Richard, adding, as
he threw the gloves in the fire,
“. cursed be poverty.”

“By the way,” exclaimed Martha,
“1 have a pair of new gloves, a little
too large for me.  should not be
surprised if they just fitted your
hand.” '

She unlocked a drawer where she
kept her black silk dress neatly folded,
her white cashmere shawl pinned in a‘
towel, together with the few letters
she had ever received, and some trink-
ets of small value, and brought them
forth smelling of rose leaves.

“They are exquisite,” said Rich-
ard, eying them with the delight he'
took in every thing beautiful, “ but I
shguld think they were your size ex-

f

 

  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
   
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
  
 
   
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  

actly,” and he began to measure one
of them across the back of her hand.
She withdrew it hastily, repeating the
kindly lie, that they were a little too
large for her. ‘

He knew well enough that she had
not spoken truly, and, moreover, that
they were all the gloves she had,
nevertheless, he put them on. '

Her eyes followed him wistfully to
the door, and, as he was about to pass
out, she ventured to ask timidly where
he was going. He did not leok at
her as he said, “Down town, to see
if will print my verses.”

“ Oh, I am so glad !” she cried never
doubting hisword; “come home early.
I will wait for you, and keep the fire
bri ht.”

1e readily gave the required pro-
mise, put his arm around her waist,
kissed her cheek, and, with her gloves
on his hands and her money in his
pocket, went away. '

When he was gone, she sat by the
fire and sang to herself snatches of
old love-songs for a long time, and I
forbore to disturb her happy musin
by the melancholy prophecies whichfi
knew we ld be all too soon fulfilled.

I left er there at an early hour,
and went sadly to bed. She had no
need of me that night—he heart was
company enough.

About midnight I awoke" from dis.
jointed dreams of Richard and Mar-
tha. A terrible snow-storm was ra-
ging,‘ and the shutter at my window'
was swinging noisily to and fro-
rose to fasten it, and as I raised the
sash I saw Martha leaning from a
neighboring window, and lOOkmS 0“
into the wild night. I thought at
first she was in her night-dress» bl“? I
perceived directly that it was the
snow, fiercelv driving through the air,
With which'her head and shoulders
were covered. .

She must have been leaning from -
the window'a long time I knew; and «4.5,. - ‘
also knew that it was Richard '0 " N '
whom she was looking. , 

Many a night after that she 106
for him, and when he came” n

 

 

9766 run seas.

 

ing and imbecile, nursed and com-
forted, and protected him from
I censure. I saw that his way was
 steadily downward, and that, though
5_ pleasant influences might sometimes
detain him a little while, nothing
could detain himlong from the lowest
- degradation. Aunt Martha could not
see it, howeVer, for nothing so blinds
the eyes as the heart; and when he
would stay at home for a night or
two and read Verses, and lament his
short-comings, and attribute what
manhood was left in him to her good
influence. she would grow enthusiastic
in the belief that he was going to lead
a new life; and what beautiful visions
she saw in connection with this new
life, the reader can readily imagine.
Whatever they were, she never told
them, and few persons ever suspected
that she had a heart—better for her if
she had not had one—poor Auut
Martha!
I found her one evening tying a
geen ribbon about the straw bonnet
rs. Lytle had given her. “Is it
your taste?” I said, admiring it. A
girlish flush suffused her face, and I
discovered directly that the. new rib-
bon wa a present from Richard—he
had sold a poem that day, and this
was the result of part of the pro-
ceeds. “It was so kind, so thought-
ful of him,” she said, as she surveyed
the bonnet when the trimming was
concluded. Richard came in swhile
she held it on her hand, and, taking it
up, praised the taste with which the
ribbon was disposed, and himself fit-
ted it on her head, and tied the strings
beneath her chin. “The effect was
charming,” he Said, “she must never
wear any thing but green.” “She
would Wear any color that he liked,”
she said, and as she SpOkc, perhaps to
cover the confusion of so hold an
avowal, she stepped hastily from the
room. We tacitly reocwed the im-
ression, both of us, that she went
aw stairs. '
 “ ichard had taken a glass too much
lie was communicative, but quite
«1951', ‘fivertheless; 'and evidently

i

.3.

* i
. a
i

l
i

 
  

 
 

 

weighing the import of' his words
when he said: “I have just been
thinking to-day hOW I might reform
and marry Aunt Martha, and become
a respectable citizen, instead of being
the vagabond I am.”

“ Why don’t you ’9” I asked. “It
would be comfortable, wouldn’t it?
to have a wife so good and devoted as
she would be—for she really is an
angel. She is truly a noble woman.
I am glad you appreciate her, and
should be glad to see you married, if
you were only worthy of her.”

“Well, I’m a fool, and there’s an
end of it,” he said, musing to himself,
rather than replying to me.

“ Why so '2”

“ Because, in the first place, I never
will reform—4 am adoafer by nature
——and in the second place, if I could
reform, I would not marry her—I
know all her worth—know that she
loves me, and that she would kee me up
as nobody else ever can, or wil ; but,
Lord bless my soul, she can’t be any
thing else to me but ‘Aunt Martha.’
I wish she could, or that she liked me
less. I have never taken any pains to
conceal my faults, nor. have I given
her any reason to believe I loved her,
and this last is about the only sinI
can thin of, Of which [am not guilty.
()h ho, hum ! from being loved by
good women, good Lord deliver us.” .

He set his feet on Aunt Martha’s
little work-table, adjusted her chair so
as to monopolize the fire, and lighted
a cigar.

I thought I heard a suppressed sob,
and looking .round saw Aunt Martha
standing in a recess on the opposite
side of the room—she had been there
during our conversation and heard itall.

That night Richard was brought

'home at a late hour, drunken to dis-

traction. Martha did not wait for
him, and in her soul, as well as in her
room, there was thick darkness.

“And so she died of a broken
heart,” cries the reader, “and Dick
repented—planted flowers at her
grave, and lived a life full of useful-
ness and honor.”

- 4’.
a... . 1:.» V .

 

 

 

 

 

   

- “kw: - '

   

    
   
     
   
  

      
 

   

 

 

,.

- ~;

<- is ‘2'».

~91 '\

.
' D.
a p,

“ AUNT IARTHA.”

No, my friend, the story must end
less romantically—hearts are not
broken so often as poets would have
you believe, and men, whose habits
are fixed for evil, do not reform so
often as imaginative women are dis-
posed to hope.

Richard is living with Mrs. Lytle .

still, confirmed in his dissipation, and
no longer 'ashamed of it, even b
transient fits, as he used to be. He
writes a drinking song now and then,
and, when he begs a dollar from his
relative, is, among a set more dcgra
ded than himself, the prince of good
fellows. Rose and Florence are
handsomely settled in life, and each
the central attraction of a gay circle,
and Aunt Martha, an old maid still, is
living in a leg but on one of our west-
ern prairies, taking care of the six
children of an insane brother, of whom
she is the nurse and keeper. In a let-
ter, received from her lately, she gives
me such insight into her melancholy
life as would enlist the sympathy of
the most careless—nevertheless, it
breathes a spirit of cheerful resigna-
tion that ought to put to shame the
thousands who are repining, without a
tithe of her hard fortune to endure.
In enumerating her privileges, she
mentions the two or three books which
sometimes ofa Sunday she finds time
to read, and I remarked that they
were the same that used to be Rich-
ard‘s favorites.

. ‘VhCn She has made inquiries abuut
everybody else, she adds, “And, by
the way, can you tell me any thing of
Richard Lytle'l I do not see his name
any more, and fear he has yielded to
the influence of unworthy companions.
Surely, in his case, the light that led
astray was light from heaven, for he
was full of the best impulses, and p03.
sessed a genius that few men can
boast of.”

In a postscript, she begged that I
would inclose in a letter, and send to
the nearest postoflice, five miles from
where she lived, a couple of yards of
green ribbon for her bonnet—the pre.
cise shade of that she wore the spring

 

she went away from Mrs. Lytle’s, if I
remembered what that was.

I did remember what the- shade
was, and sent the ribbon, sighing as I
thought of the thousands of unloved
women whose hearts are wasting their
sweetness on the desert air.

 

.
fig

THE ODD-FELLOWSHIP OF
NATURE:

BY IRS. FRANCES FULLER BARRITT.

NE morning—one of those morn—
ings so delightful in summer,
when there has been a rain the night
before, and you waken to find the
shrubbery glittering with innumera-
ble gems of dew, and the breeze play-
fully trying to shake them off; and
when the flowers smile up so freshly
from the grateful earth that it makes
your heart throb faster—one of those
mornings, I had drawn my chair close
up by my garden window, and began
extemporizing, previous to dotting
down the essence, the elaboration, of
my rambling thoughts. With my
eyes fixed in dreamy abstraction on
the waving boughs of the locust-trees
in front of my windows, I began :
“ \Vhat a beautiful world it'isl” said
I, admiringly; “and yet, I am not
happy—none ofus are happy ! Dis-
content and selfishness are apparent
everywhere. Ifonly these evils could
be removed, life could be very pleas~
ant here, notwithstanding that some
sorrows must be borne by us all- I
wonder if any one ever was contented"i
I have thought sometimes I could be
contented if ' there were more Of 09‘“
tain principles in the WOPld- If
Friendship, Love, and TI‘Uth “bOde

permanently everywhere. For if these;N

three were exercised, there is a certain
fitness of things to man’s condition,
which, by their aid, would and will
render man very happy. But so

long as the heart of man has no rest,
ing-place in the friendship and truth:,,..
of his brother, he can not be truly 1.,

happy, and never will be contented,

There is no such discord inthe real

 

 

 

 THE HOME.

 

world, as we see in the world of man-
kind. In the beautiful harmony of
nature is a type for us. Here each
atom helps its brother atom; and
here one degree or organization as-
sists all the others. The earth is full
of the principle of life in its various
forms. It gives out vegetationmand
the tree grows and thrives from its
sustenance, and in turn sheds down
its whole burden of foliage to enrich
the earth. The ocean yields up a
constant evaporation from its floods—
and the heavens, in their turn, pour
down refreshing rains, not only re-
filling the springs, but doing a mission
ofimercy to the earth upon its way.
So through the whole creation, and
not one note of discord is heard. It
is man alone, perverse and selfish man,
who takes from his brother to rob
him, and who wounds his brother’s
heart without striving to console him.
Ah, if only he could follow the teach-
infisI of the great mother,——-Nature I”

ere the locust-trees whispered to
each other, and nodded their graceful
heads to me in such a beautiful man-
ner my heart_was touched.

‘ Yes,” I continued, “if we could
establish Friendship, Love, and Truth,
there would be no more wars, no
more persecutions, no more suffering
poor, no more crime, no more disa-
greements. Then men would neither
slaughter nor oppress each other.
Neither wrong nor neglect each other.”
And asl said this, the bush honey-
suckle, near my window, began wag-

ing its head very gravely, as if it
said, “ No, indeed! no indeed l”

“An institution of the kind now
exists,”l Went 0“, Without minding
the audience of my Vegetable friend;
“ and t e excellence and beauty of its
prineip e, are testified to by many a
widow, l shelterless and now made
comfortafie, and by many a fatherless
child, now fed, clothed, and educated,
How heavenly a thing is brotherly
 ,, love—how angel-like is charity,——h0w

honored is friendship, and how godlike
' in truth! There is in human nature
8006 fiterial enough, if we knew

 

how to work it up. ,Every heart has
its fountain of sweetness as well as its
fountain of bitterness, but we do not
understand theirfiroper management.
Now in Nature t ere is no unfit pro.
portion of the pmsonous properties.
Every thing has a use, and without
man’s interference, the kingdom of
nature would go on harmoniously to
the end.”

At this, I observed the trumpet
honeysuckle turning its long tube,
like a deaf old man, toward me, and I
smiled as I fancied there must be a
little excusable vanity in nature, Since
every thing took such an interest in
being praised: but, resuming my so-
liloquy, Iaffected not to see it, and
continued: “Neither can we be en-
tirely indifferent to these lessons.
Harmony and Love are insensiny
taught us, not only by inanimate, but
animate things. In the spring-time,
when the stern old winter, ike a mer-
ciless tax-master, leaves our doors,
why do our hearts bound so? Why
do we kiss all the rosy-checked chil-
dren, and laugh merrily With our
neighbors? Ah, we are already feel.
ing the influence of the universal love
in nature, and as the little blades of
grass come up Side by side so amica-
bly, and the little flowers show their
pretty heads in clusters, and the cat-
tle look so contented in the meadows,
and the birds sing so mirthfully in the
sunshine,———why, it were impossible
not to be slightly infused in the spirit
of Friendship.

‘ Whether we look, or whether we listen,

We hear life‘s murmur, or see it glisten ;

Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within that reeches and towers,

And grasping blindly above it for light,

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;

The cowslip starties in meadows en,

The huttercup catches the sun in its chalice,

And there’s never a leaf and blade too mean

To be some hsppy creature‘s lace ;

The little bird sits at his door in the sun,

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,

And lets his illumined being o'errun

With the deluge of summer it receives ;

liis mate feels the eg beneath her wings,

And the heart in her umb breast flutters and sings.-
So, for a while, man grows amiable,
and unconsciously mimics the exam-
ple of the outward world in senti-
ment. But, although this is natural

 

  a: W : ..:;_ A1 A _
  7 Hi: ‘ j
.

 

WV

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

l

1
n
Y
t
t

» p .7‘ an?”

 

 

 

 

WITHERED FLOWERS. - 

 

and pleasant, it is not enough,—na-
ture may give us examples, and we
may admire them, but”—at this in-
timation that I was about to make an
exception to the teachings of nature, I
caught a stiff, prim-looking evergreen
staring me in the face With a look as
dark as ever I saw on an evergreen~
“ But man must rely upon the princi-
ple within himself, and the precepts
of Divinity. We must ‘love our
neighbor as ourself,’—we must ‘ visit
the sick, relieve the distressed, bury
the dead, and educate the orphan.’
We must keep our word with our
brother, and regard his interests as
well as our own. This is a duty we
owe to our fellows, and one which re-
quires the highest qualities of our na-
tures to perform perfectly.

“There is a great deal of so-called
sympathy in the World—but it is the
hot-house sympathy of minds too fas-
tidious to endure the sight of real
suffering. The story of woe may touch
their hearts for a moment, but the ac-
tual sight of it fills them with disgust.
The true essence of charity or benev—
olenco never existed in their souls.
To cultivate this nobler principle, is
the object and practice of a generous-
minded order of men at the present
day; and Friendship, Love, and Truth
are their watch-words. God bless
them !-—-and all nature bless them l”

As I ended my soliloquy, the, Si].
ver-lined poplar, round by the other
_window, clapped its thousand little
palms together with such an earnest
good-will,l would have fancied my-
self surrounded by a soiree of gentle-
men in white kids, had not my eyes
testified to my enth. solitude. A
moment afterwards, when I looked

’ out of the window, I saw the flowers,

the pinks and phlax, and sweet clover,
bending their heads together, and evi.
dently deeply engaged in discussing
the merits of Odd-Fellowship.

 

HE who labors for mankind, with-
out a care for himself, has already be-
gun his immortality.

VOL. 111. 17

 

WITHERED FLOWERS.

Sraases are the memories, oh, wither’d
flowers,
That to my heart ye bring in wordless
speech;
Brightly as sunshine falls on distant towers
And gilds 1their outlines—of the past ye
teac .

For from my childhood and its sunny pleasures
As with a key ye turn the lock of years,
Ye lift the lid, and bring forgotten treasures
Before these eyes that watch the store with

tears.

Have ye a mirror in your wither’d petals,
Wherein I read the history of my youth,
That ye give backlike glass or polished metals
A thousang ?visions fraught with life and

trut

Again I view my home at quiet even:
The sparrows hopping on the gabled eaves,
Windows illumined by the crimson heaven
Varnish’d with joy and framed with quiv-
ering leaves. '

I seem to hear the murmur of the ri r,
As it flows on beneath the archin‘gwgridge ;
To see the moonlight with its white-lined
shiver, -
Lying in bands upon the pebbly ridge.

And, stranger still, I have the self-same feel-
m ,

That traced the letters of my old romance ;.

The glow of love, o’er alLaround me dealing

One hue of joy—that old forgotten trance.

A moment since, and some unknown con-s
nection,
Gave me a strange reality of bliss;
I press’d another’s hand in dear affection;
I felt my forehead glow beneath a kiss.

Now but the light is vanish’d from’ my Spirit.
A cloud conceals the splendor ofImy Blty,

HOW could I build on mortals who inherit.
The common fate—to live—to love—to ch

For they are dead, those loved one...

is fleeting, 3
And steals away the props on we
trust;
Leaving one only hOpe of future ‘ ,
A stamp for memory, and a h of dust

Leaving affections like. these wither‘d flow”,
That we may hold and turn with reverent
hands; .
And thoughts that picture out the glorious
bower-s,
Of which these figures are but shadow’d
bands. , 

  
 
  

‘.. ‘

mates «a

- .s 'Wwywml.»safi' “g
m... 5..  ,M

 

 

  
 
 

  

  

THE HOME.

 

 

PRESENTIMENT.

A STORY WITH A MORAL.
BY MISS GRACE LORRETTE.

“ I ever trembled at our bliss—
wa there are farewells in a kiss l"
A YOUNG couple stood at the bay
window of a back-parlor, in an
old mansion. Before them, in the
moonlight of a June evening, lay ter-
races of flowers, and gray marble
steps leading away to a lake, whose
waters rippled musically beneath the
bright sky, and broke, with a pensive
sound, at the feet of the last terrace
, and its blossoms.

They were the only occupants of
the apartment; though, ever and
anon, laughter, and music, and flying
steps, echoed in the hall, chambers,
and drawing-rooms. Even from the
great kitchen came the sound of bus-
tle and, preparation, and the table-
ware w'costly cut-glass jingled and
rang in the dining-room. Musicians,
in a distant room, at times sent forth
preparatory preludes. This young
couple seemed the only ones in all
that crowded ‘old mansion that were
idle and totally unconcerned in what
was happening-,precisel y for the rea-
son that they Were the most concerned
of all—the morrow-morning bringing
the hour that was to unite their desti-
flies.

The bridal dress, the vail, and the
orange-flowers, lay ready upon the
white counterpane in the bride’s
chamber. The bridemaids had tried
on their dresses before the mirror
there, and had planned all things as
near to perfection as possible. Very
much against the will of the bashful
young betrothed, thh the assistance
of the groomsmen, they had com-
pelled the timid couple Into walking,
and standing, and sitting, once through
the ceremony-anticipatory—lest on the
morrow all their movements should
not be comme ilfaut. '

 And now the guests, from a dis-
 : who had arrived that evening,
had retirgd to their couches, and the

“FI

 

young astistants, with their smiles,
their sallics, their laughter and merri-
ment, considerately stole slyly from
the apartment, leaving the en aged
people alone for any little word they
might choose to say to each other this
last time they were to meet before
the wedding. »

It was more by the enchanting
moonlight, than by the lamp which
was burning dimly on the table, that
the forms of the lovers were revealed,
as they stood in the window with the
sweet south wind stirring their gar-
ments and trembling in their hair.

His arm was around her, and his
tender, passionate, and almost solemn
eyes were fixed upon her face with an
intenseness of devotion that betrayed
him inscnsible to the beauty of the
night, or to any other beauty than
that embodied and living in that
young and lovely face. His other
hand lay caressingly upon the head
nestled on his bosom, with its lonn‘
curls llowing from beneath his touci
—glorious curls, promised to the
sweet bondage of the silvery vail and
orange-flowers ! .

The glow of happiness of the lover
changed suddenly to surprise, as, after
watching for some moments the half-
averted face, that, lifted partially to-
ward the moon, was too serious for
blushes, he saw, one by One, a shower
of tears drop from the drooped lashes
of the maiden.

His own truthful soul told him how
one might weep even from unuttcra-
ble happiness; and his appreciation
of woman told him, too, that there
might be many things at a hour like
that to call fo the tears. But there
was something nusual in those tears.
He remembered finding the young '
girl in a melancholy revei‘ie several
times that day—her usua 1y hopeful
face covered with unaCCountable
gloom.

It was, therefore, with a half-awak-
ened feeling of doubt and alarm that
he turned her fees to his own, saying.

“Tears, Evelyn—and tonight i”

The maiden blushed and made no

 

 

 

 

 

 

 m.

. v.

‘ em: ‘7'; ‘-

  

 

 

 

 

PRESENTIMENT.

   

 

reply. And when he kissed her fore-
head, and begged to know if she was
unhappy, or if she repented of her
promises, she buried her face in his
bosom and burst into such a passion
of sobbing, that he was really
alarmed. The thought that possibly
she did repent their betrothal came
over him, and caused him to turn pale.
While his form almost quivered with
the fear, his brow clouded with pride,
and he spoke in an accent of the deep-
est reproach—-

“Evelyn!”

The weeper was calm in a moment.

“ Forgive me, forgive me, Robert!
I am very foolish,” she said, lifting
her .hcad and throwing her arms
around his neck.

The doubt as to her truth vanished
in a moment, and Robert pressed her
passionately to his heart, inquiring——

“ What is foolish, dearest?—surel'y,
I shall have to believe, if you do not
explain, that you are afraid to trust
the future to my keeping.”

“ No—no—no! not that—but—do

ou—belicve in presentiments T’

The dreadful question was at length
asked, and the lover laughed, in spite
of the' anxious and solemn face with
which the hesitating girl had put it.

“ Campbell says that ‘ Coming
events cast their shadows before l’ ” he
replied, gayly; “ and I am compelled
to be a believer, since those six
plagues of attendant lords and ladies
married us tonight. But what fearful
foreboding has had power to sudden
your spirits?” he asked, as he per.
ceived even then the tears stealing
down her cheeks.

“I know that you will think it idle
—but, indeed, indeed I can not help
it!”

“ What can not you help, Evelyn i”
said the lover, smiling to reassure the
timid girl, trembling on the tip of a
confession.

“ I cannot; help the dream I had last
night, from making me sad. \Vould
you believe it, I dreamed I was
‘ Ginevra,’ in the mournful old story—
I hid in the chest-—I felt all the despair

 

I

dreadful!” said the young creature,

of finding it closed on me forever—it
seemed to me hours and days—I
thought the most of your sorrow, and
papa’s, and mamma’s—I grew faint——

gasped—I suffocated l—oh! it was

  
  
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
  

fixing her eyes, full of prophecy and
melancholy fear,'upon her lover.

Despite of himself, he felt a little
awed at their serious expression, and
there was a little tremor in-the gay
tone with which he said—

“And woke up, I suppose, with
your pretty nose smothered in the

illow l”

“ N o, indeed,” was the rcpl y, “ not
at all; but the moon was shining full
into my room with such a mournful
light, I could not sleep again—I never
felt so glad before to have the sun
rise ;—-and yet, all day, the dream has
haunted me in such a manner, and all
the music and laughing sounds to me
as if it said——

“ They nought her that night and they sought her
next day,

And they sought her in vain till a week pua‘d
away."

When Mary Morrison commenced '
singing it as they were trying the
bridal dress on me,I grew so faint
that I had to sit down. It has affected
me so strangely—I cannot tell why;
—only I fear—do tell me, dear, can-
didly, whether you do not think it is»
a warning?”

And putting both hands on the' .
shoulders of her lover, she remained
breathlessly waiting for an, answer,
her dark eyes dilated with eagerness,
fixed upon his face. “-‘

“ Why, no; certainly not,” he ‘fn'
swered, impressively, hopmg to qufet
the feelings which he. saw W‘el‘e'ln-
tensely excited. “ Your llflifgmatlon’
your emotions are too vmd: You
will soon injure and Woaken “"5 deli-
cate frame of you“, if .Y‘?“ allow Snell
fancies to take possesswn of your
mind. Indeed, you have been quite
pale and altered tO'day. \Vhen you
have whispered that little word
‘Obey’ to me,l shall forbid you 
harbor such terrible presentimentsw
and he laughed lightly. “Tofil;Q 

. ->
.x

 

v... . ..w-~ “mun... ma-~ ........

r
,3 .

ii;

t,

3 «
. .-
1 I;

l

r

.

A

    
  
  
  
  
   
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
   

    

THE HOME.

 

 

sure,” and he glanced back into the
old-fashioned parlor, whose pictures,
and recesses, and heavy furniture, en-
veloped in dark shadows, smiled very
faintly in the flickering light of the
expiring lamp, “one might almost
fancy here that the lumber-room con-
tained '

‘ A chest that came from Venice, and had held

The ducal robes of some old ancestor ;’
but we know it don’t,—at least, I saw
none when I went with John to bring
out half-a-dozeu dusty tables, to
‘ groan’ once more beneath the weight
of luxuries.”

Half convinced‘ by his laughing
manner that the heavy fear which had
lain on her heart all day was only a
feverish fancy, wrong to indulge, the
young girl smiled once more as she
said—

“I will try and not let it fret me
any longer, dear Robert.”

“ Go, now, dearest, to your slum-
bers; and be sure to wake up well
and happy. Tomorrow—tomorrow!
God bless you, beloved l”

He folded the fair being closely to
his breast, and turned away. He had
nearly reached the door that opened
into the hall, when, in the moonlight
and shadow of the dim room, a light
figure glided after him ;—though she
had received his parting embrace, to
meet on the marrow as his bride,

velyn was close beside him—was in
his arms — sobbing —— murmuring—
moaning broken words :—

“ Forever—forever !--I feel it here
——forever l” she half-uttered, pressing
her hands over her heart. “ Why do

on leave me? yet, gO—gol—I said
{would try not to feel so.”

Robert was alarmed by this new

evidence of the morbid power of her

' = min strong fanciCS, OVBI‘ one to whom

he,’ ’was so devoted. He said a hun.
died words of tenderness ; and again,
Uafter soothing her agitatlon somewhat,

if; he bade her good-night.
 I Beautiful, as if tempting her to her

the lake, with its deep waters,
‘ o- in the moonlight, with a soft
10093 of adulation, winning her away

r‘- 8’}

 {a
' ' , "4
.

 

from her terrible dream. The south
wind, sandaled with rose-leaves,
passed by, its invisible garments
sweeping backward with a rustle, and
its breath perfumed with the sweet-
ness of its dcwy and melodious lips.

The pulse again beat gently in the
bosom of the maiden, revived by the
fresh coolness of the air ;—-and there,
before her eyes, that lake Sparkled
with fascination, like the beautiful but
accursed spell that steals over one
looking into the still eyes of a\ser-

ent.

Yielding to its influence, she glided
from the window, over the terrace,
down, down—never staying to even
pluck a flower—down to the very
edge of the' water, and sat upon the
last gray-marble step, leaning over
and looking down into the waves
which crept up to her feet, and an-
swered the gaze of her prophetic eyes
with that subtle smile which water
will, sometimes have, even when the
holy‘dnoon is floating above it.

Upon the last gray-marble step the
young girl sat; her dark hair stream-
ing around her, a few stray tresses
rocking to the musical waves as they
stole up and looked with their allur-
ing faces softly into the eyes of this
child of imagination and oil-Fate!

“ What said you ? lost—lost—loatl
I can not think I heard you right, [air air,
For God a sake, say I did not hear you right."

Half an hour before the time ap-‘
pointed for the performance of the
marriage ceremony, Robert Mortimer
passed the threshold of the bride’s
mansion, through the hall, and tapped
lightly at the door of the apartment
in which hem to join his betrothed.
It was opened by Evelyn’s mother, to
whom he held out his hand. But the
hand she placed feebly in his was cold
as ice, and Her lips quivered as she at-
tempted to speak. Surprised and in
some consternation he led her to a
seat, and glancing round the room
found it deserted.

“'Perhaps I have intruded earlier
than—my dear Mrs. Grey, Evelyn
can not be ill ’9” he stammered, in con-
fusion.

 

r... sagyu _ .

 

 

 

 

PRESENTIMENT.

g

While the pale lips of the mother
were still essaying to speak, the sister
9f the bridegroom, Mary Morrison,
a lovely young girl, came running in
tears and terror up to her brother,
sobbing,—

“Our dear Evelyn .is gone—we
can not find where 1—8116 Was not in
bed last night, and her scarf was found
floating among a cluster of lilies in
the lake this morning. Do not—do
not look so white, my own brother—

erhaps—perhaps she may be found!
gou frighten me, Robert—do not”—
and throwing her arms around him
the weeping girl strove to arouse him
from the still despair which seemed to
have come over him so suddenly as to
leave him no power to move.

Several others who had been flying
through the grounds and over the old
mansion in consternation, now gath-
ered around him, as he stood, growing
paler and paler, looking into the
pleading face of his sister as if striv-
ing to comprehend what she had said.

“Merciful God! then her presenti-
ment was trued” at length he ejacu-
lated, in a tone of such utter anguish
as startled the color from every
cheek.

As he said this, he sank slowly
upon the floor and bowed his head to
his hands. No one, attempted to
soothe him; there was so much that
mocked at words in his manner—be-
sides, their own hearts were heavy
.with fear and foreboding. One by
one they stole from the room to con.
tinuc their search. The lake was
dragged, and so strong was the sup-
position that she must have erished
in its waves, that gradual y from
every corner of the house and garden,
the searchers came and stood upon the
banks awaiting the recovery of the
cor se of the victim.

he father, trembling, yet striving
to appearcalm, supported his wife in
. his arms; the awed and weeping”
; bridemaids clustered together; si~
lenee and loom hung over all the
guests; while a few ofthe young men
labored hard at their sad task.

happy accident which had befallen the

 

   
   
   
   
 
   
    
  
   
  
   
   
  
   
   
   
  
  
   
    
  
   
  
 
 
  
  
   
  

The little pleasure-boat usually at-.
tached to the steps of the terrace, was
found to have drifted away, and was
floating loosely through the water ;_
the scarf which had been found upon
the first alarm, attached to the lilies
some distance from the shore—proo'fg
so evident, that none doubted the un-

beloved Evelyn.
And all the while they were drag.
ging the lake, Robert sat motionless
upon the floor, with his face buried in
his hands. When the words—“ Eve-
lyn is gone,” smote upon his ear, a
conviction, a thousand times stronger
than his bride’s presentiment, came
upon his soul and paralyzed his pow-
ers. The dream, the tears, . the sad-
ness, the emotion of Evelyn rushed
back to him, and what he had deemed
an over-sensitive and vivid imagina-
tion, now seemed to him tobe truth!
—a truth at once so terrible and so
certain that there was nothing to be
done but to believe it. If it had not
been for the memory of the youn
girl’s prophecy, what he heard woul
have roused him into a storm of
energy—lake, nor wood, nor death it-
self, should have kept her fate long a
mystery. Under'other circumstances,
hope and love would have prompted
him to aid in the search. But as it
was,,he doubted not but that she 
lost forever; and the fullness of 1 
air .overtook him at once. 
Sitting there in his helpless griefi
with the clammy sweat of his forehead
oozing through the fingers Pmssed
tightly over it, one sound rang hollow
and wild through the (185019439 311d ‘
empty chamber of his soul—EVE] ’8 -
Words of the preceding nght—‘i 0"
ever, forever !—-—I feel It here—for-
ever !” ' -
Minutes upon minutes—an hour—-
passed by, and he had not stirred, nor
spoken, nor groaned. .
It was an awful wedding-morning!
Suckknlya hand, soft and moist,
was laid upon his brow—a Word wag, .
breathed into his car by a sWeet and V‘ "‘
trembling voice— ' 

THE HOME.

 

 

 

 

 

' “ Robert I”

, . Had that hand been a touch from

‘ , the divine fire of heaven, it could not
i “ ~ ‘have thrilled him more. Had that
;g ‘. voice been speaking his admittance to
f‘l . ' immortal happiness, it could not have
l: béen more welcome.

1 He sprang to his feet. Before him,
; blushing, laughing, confused, trem-
l bling, anxious, stood—Evelyn l

Five minutes afterwards she found

time to explain.

“That merry, wicked, cruel, dare-
‘devil brother, Harry, of mine, had the
i': impudence to creep up to the window

last night and listen to our conversa-

tion. You know him, he always has
laughed at my ‘Sibylline horrors,’ as
he says—declaringl will some time
- put myself into. a moonbeam and
drown myself in a dew-drop. He
says my parting with you last night
was so very alarming,” and the young
girl’s dark eyes danced roguery at her
lover, “ that he had to set about a cure

 

' f

i ¥ “3 at once. So, what must he do but fol-
‘ i , low me down to the lake last evening,
ff , a fling my scarf into the water, unfasten
5.53 ‘ the boat, take me up as if I was an

1 infant, carry me into the house and
 . look me up—not in ‘a chest that came
 from Venice,’ but in an old clothes-
 press, in the third story. It was for-
? tunate that the look was somewhat
' ’ fiat}, or I should have been there. et.
, c has punished me sadl , indee —I
l ;, do not .see how he con (1 have the
" heart to do it, for your sake and
I is ' mamma’s. I urged him very hard to
 spare her, at least, the fright, and take
’ her into his confidence; but not any
fort would he give me. It was
. a pity,” he said, “that I should

1,. .311 my tender parting from you

.  “thing—that it Would not be at
5; a: ” omantic unless my presentment
 ' came to pass. Indeed, the Wicked
 , ‘ rogue has some wisdom, after all, for

1-: I. do not think I shall ever have
another presentiment as long as I

lieu,” and, brushing the happy tears

 her checks, the dreamer drew
' ‘ “ (lover to the portico, from which
they could see the unhappy party by

 

 

 

the lake-side. “Do see that miser-
able Harry, tugging at the drag, with
such a sad face,” she continued, mer‘
rily—“ and my mother—m oor
mother ;” and clapping her little hands,
she shouted, at the height of her
musical voice, something that made
wretched father, and desolate mother,
and tearful bridemaids, and grieving
guests, turn hastily with one accord to
behold,b y the side of the delighted lov-
er, glowing, radiant, happy, beautiful, ‘
the fanciful victim of a—I’rescntiment.

 

THE BALLAD OF THREE LIT-
TLE SOULS.

BY JULIETTE H. BEACH.

Tuner: children play’d one summer day,
At sunset, by the ebbing sea,
And moor‘d within the shining buy,
A painted boat rock’d lazily. '
With prattle full of baby-lore, -
And bits of song that told their glee,
They clamber‘d in, and from the shore
The boat went drifting out to sea.

“ Mother l” the cry came faint and far.—
Benenth the swiftly darkening skies,
They saw the home-light like a star,
And shoreward gazed with wistful eyes.
Their mother, on the toy-strewn shore
Stood ’mid the prints of little feet,
And with white lips, but weak no more,
Sent words of peace, and blessings sweet.

“ Pray, darlings !” and with clasped hands,
And fear and faith blent in her tones.

She knelt upon the foot-mark‘d sands,
Whispering “ Dear Christ ! Thy little ones!’

Three little heads, together bent,

Strove on her form their eyes to keep;
She knew their voices, softly blent,

Said “ Now I lay me down to sleep.”—

And so they pass'd from mortal night—
But in the billows faintly borne,
She heard “ 0 mother sweetl good night i"
From the dear lips of her first-born.
Then rising, wan and tearleSS-eyed,
She said, “ Lord, praises he to thee i
For these white souls shall never ride,
Storm-toss‘d and vex’d, life’s treacherous
sea I”
And when at midnight came the sound
Of searchers rowing mournfully,
And pale lips said. "The boat is found,
And-this, that floated on the seal"
She took the little well-worn hat,
Kiss’d it, and laid it on her breast,
And when her silence fears beget,
Friends softly said, “ She is at rest.”

 

 

MAJ“

 

. AMPATO SAPO.

AMPATO SAPO :

A LEGEND or 81‘. ANTHONY.
BY umv' J. cnosnx.

“ From the u lin range of lessure,
You tliepgrlappes  blissshllfclasp ;
But the wine of their enJoyment
Shall slip euthwu’d through your my
WxLul E, 1am,”

A CENTURY ago: the Mississippi
swept 'on as when Chateaubriand
wrote of it,—“ a river of mighty soli-
tudes, rolling amid undreamed won-
ders of vegetable and animal exist-
ence.”

Dark moss-wreaths clustered amid
the boughs of cypress as luxuriantly
then as now, and the rich festoons co.
quetting with the breezes, borrowed
from the golden sun-rays that quivered
upon them, a changeful, varying
brilliancy.

Children of the forest saw this
grandeur, and the finer, more impres-
sible natures transferer it to the
spirit world, where beauty was con-
stant and immortal. Further up on
the banks of the river, where nature
put on a holder, stronger aspect. stood
the Wigwam of a chief. Within
were various tokens of rank; rich
skins and gay blankets depended from
the roof, and the sides of the cabin
boasted many trophies of victory in
war and success in the chase. The
dress of the chief, who had just re-
turned from a two-days’ absence, was
an odd mixture of military and Indian

equipments. Bes1de him was a seat

—originally a tree-bole—branching
into three divisions, each division
terminating with the claw of a beast,
and the remainder curiously carved,
and stained with high-colored paints.

Lashed upon a board which stood
upright by the stool, was an infant, a
few months old. A submissive squaw
was turning a piece of venison which
roastted by the coals, giving a pleasant,
odor to the room, and some corn-cake
was baking on a flat, round stone in
the ashes. Looking up deferentially
through her eyelashes, she said in the
dialect of her tribe, “ Think ye they’ll
come before long 'l”

 

    
  
 
    
  
  
   
   
  
   
   
  
   
    
  
   
  
   
   
 
  
   
   
  
 
   
 
  

l  ,
' ‘ as
“May be,” was the curt reply;
“ draw up fresh coals—-when the blood
runs so fast it gets worse smoked.”

“They come,” said the sachem a
few minutes after, as he saw a (gauge
crossing the river. '

The diviners, held to be the ~Magi
of the tribe, entered. For an hour or
more, with the paraphernalia of their
art spread about them, with mysteri-
ous signs and movements, they coun-
seled over the future of the infant
bound to the board. They argued
that sorrow was before her; the trail
of life, though it lay through a beauti-
ful forest, had hidden thorns, and one
of these should pierce her heart: the
sun of life, for a while unshadowed,
should be hidden at noon-day under a
dark and heavy cloud.

So they called her name Ampato
Sapo; or, Dark Day.

a .e s- n a a» -

The child of dim forebodings had
grown to womanhood. Dark:browed
sons of the forest thought her 9. mar-
vel of beauty. Gifts of curious
workmanship and articles of value,
obtained at the trading forts on the
frontiers, were laid hopefully at her
feet; the hunter, too, brought his
offerings, but in vain.

Ampato was slight and graceful in
figure; her laugh was musical, yet its
echoes quavered on the ear like a song
in which joy and rapture blent wit
the plaintive notes of grief; her dark
eyes had a noble look of wistful
yearning, and the shadows 9f than“
lashes lay upon her cheeks llke the
shadows of summer leaves-

At length there came from the
Iroquois tribe an embafisy 0f gOOd'
will, substantiated by Strings 0f “lam-
pum and the Calumet Of 9309; The
bearer was a young c “3me his
lithe, well-knit frame always distanced
competitors in the race, and his swift.
footed need first won the goal.

He was tall, handsome and renowned.
Nature, had gifted him for an orator,
and the language of his tribe, held by 
many. to be susceptible even of an 
Attic elegance, was a fit medium

   

" for his eloquent appeals. A cap rich-
ly plumed, a dark green coat of for-
eign manufacture, spangled with star-
shaped ornaments, a silver belt,
leggins of black, which were fastened
in silver bands and terminated by gay
moccasins, constituted his showy
wardrobe.

Quanonchet pleased the old chief
well. The glances of his eye met
Ampato’s, kindling in her soul that
mystic lire called—love; and .when he
came again, a coal-black pony, richly
caparisoned, h trpdffléghtly beside his
,nob {geldih '~‘~_‘ »-‘I‘hat same night
- 'Iéohqmgs of t e marriage-dance re-
 §bunfiedthr0ugh the forests, and she,
whose step in the dance was light-est,
whose eye glowed with the deepest
joy, was the bride of the chieftain.

a a * a a *

 

The seventh year of wedded life
had dawned, and the third moon hung
its silVer crescent in the evening sky.

On ,Ampato’s dusky brow were
traces of sorrow. The stem immo-
bility of her features was only re-
lieved by a tender sadness which

\ hovered about her tcarless eyes.

The third moon waxed strong—it

stood in the east full-orbed and red.

a. The sachem arrayed himself in full

dress, as when he had first appeared

before Ampato. Never had he looked

better; their children, the “Light-

. _ footed Gazelle ” and “ Blue-eyed

  Dove,” ran to and fro across the

i "" ‘ cabin in high glee, as he frolickcd

with them. There was a fascinating

tenderness in his manner as, a little

a. while after, he attempted to caress

g"? Ampato, who then sat nursing the

’7’ Blueeyed Dove in a little rocker he
had bought her, the Week previous.

“Quanonchet,” said Ampato, re-

proachfully, but sadly. The arm of

“the strong man fell by his side, and,

 away, he took up his plumed

it  to pass out. “To-morrow night

fi- . . .
I come, back,” said he, as his tall
figure darkened the doorway...
 An expression of anguish passed
 over Ampato’s features as, in reply,

'50 pOinted her dark hand upward.

 

   
 
 
 
   
  
  
   

  

THE HOME.

 

 
 
 
 

The old love struggled in the savage
heart for mastery; but at that mo-
ment a wild whoop from the shore,
where his canoe lay moored, hurried
him away. Soft furs and rich blan-
kets were therein to spread a couch
for the expectant bride. Ampato’s
heart-touching entreaties and bitter
tears could not stay Quanonchet from
his purpose. ‘

A few miles down the river lived
an Indian of great power and. influ-
ence. To him who should win Pocas-
set, the Indian’s daughter, would be
transferred honors and possessions,
for which Quanonchet thirsted.

That night, according to the Legend,
when the sun went down behind the
earth, and the moon came up in the
cast, a group of friends gathered

around Ampato as she stood upon the'

shore. In answer to their dissuadings
she replied, with a hand upon her
throbbing heart, “Imust go soon—
so let me go before she comes.”

The light canoe was launched,——her-
self and babes placed within. The
paddles were thrown out, and the tide
bore them slowly on. Her death-
song, clear and distinct, came back in
mournful numbers to those on the
shore.

“ The Msnitou calls and Ampato will go
Where the beautiful suns never fade-'-
Where hearts are not rrush‘d by ,the burdens of woe,
Nor life's roses with thorns all inlaid."

“ The Great Spirit loves when the Chieftain forgets,

And his voice to Ampsto is,——‘ Come l’ "

The listeners heard no more; the
death-bark sped on swiftly with the
hastening current, sweeping over St.
Anthony into the watery chasm be-
low 1

The spot which saw the fated life
go out was long marked by the wild,
tempestuous whirl of its waters; and
those who, at evening, steed upon the
banks of the river, affirmed that very
often they saw the spirit of Ampato,
in her wanderings from the spirit
world.

 

OUT of good men choose acquaint-
ances; of acquaintanCes, friends.

 

 

 

 

 

awn!"- r

Ali

 

 

HOW TO RULE A HUSBAND. . ~»

 

 

HOW TO RULE A HUSBAND.
OMPLAINTS are heard in every

community, of women’s “usurp-
ing authority over the .men,”—of
wives refusing the “ obedience,”--the
“ Submission,”-—-t~he “reverence” due
to their husbands. Such wives are
doubtless quite numerous, and con-
stitute one of the sorest evils under
the sun.
But a little while ago, an esteemed
friend of mine, thus afflicted, took oc.
casion to unbosom to me his grief,

.which, he said, he found it impossible

longer to restrain. I really pitied the
poor man, who doubtless expected
from me some expression of sympa-
thy. All I could do in this way, how-
ever, was to make him acquainted
with my own case. It had been with
me an invariable rule to regard house-
hold occurrences as inviolable family
secrets. But I ventured, for the first
time in my life, to depart from this
rule ; and I told my friend, that I, too,
was ruled by a wife!

“ Can that be, John,” he remarked
with much surprise. “ Is it possible!
Ihad supposed, in common with all
the men in the neighborhood, that if
there was a man in town who had a
gentle, obedient, submissive wife, that
man was John Lawton.”

“Whatever people may think, what
I say is“ true,” I replied. “ Between
your case and mine, however, there is

. a wide difference. You complain of

your lot as a very unfortunate one.
You have not, y0u say, seen a happy
day since the first year after your
marriage, nor expect to see another
during the period of your present
connection. I have not, since I be-
came a husband, experienced an un-
happy day from the cause you. men.
tion, nor do I expect too see one while
I or my present wife shall live.” ‘_
This remark seemed to inerei " J
friend’s surprise; and he asked'a'n
explanatl(m- This I readily gave him,
by relating to him my conjugal ex-
perience of nearly twenty years; a
task which I shall not attempt in this

 

communication. One or two occur- 
rences, indicating the mann er in which
I was brought, and am still kept, un-
der the control of awoman,must sumce_
A few weeks after marriage, m
wife had arranged a visit with a fe——
male friend residing several miles
distant, who had invited a few select
friends, among whom was one whose
residence was but a few doors from
our own, and whom my wife had pro-
mised a seat with her in the carriage.
On informing Mrs. L. that an import-
ant business matter required my at-
tention, in an opposite direction, in
one of the distant towns of the coun-
ty, on the day of her appointed visit,
and thatl expected to use the horse
and carriage myself :—“ Very well,”
she replied ; “ my engagement 'of
course, must not be allOwed to inter-
fere with any business of yours. I
deeply regret the conflict of our ar-
rangements, however, as I had anti-
cipated much pleasure from the con-
templated visit; but I ‘shall much
more regret any derangement of our
business plans. I am sorry that did
not——as, I own, I ought to have done
—consult with you before Concludimr
my arrangement. Another day woul
probably have answered as well. My I,
disappointment is but a deserved pun-
ishment for my error, and I "shall try
(to bear it v‘ith due patience- It af- '
fords me so ne relief to think the dis-
appointment will be felt more light
by my friends than myself.” '
Theso words, deriving not 6 little
force from the peculiar manner and
spirit in which they were uttered,
were conclusive. I at once determin-
ed, that, at whatever sacrifice or in-
convenience to myself, the ViSit should
not be interrupted; and I PmmPtlY
told her “Old Cub” and the carriage
were at her service. She seemed un-
willing, however, to accept the offer,
until I assured her, that if she eon-
suited m pleasurein the matter, the
intended. isit would not be giv Weill),
adding, that my business mig  per.
haps suffer no serious detriment from ’i
a day’s postponement; or, if I should

  
   
  
  
   
   
  
  
  
  
   
  
   
   
   
 
   
  
   
  
   
   
   
  
   
  
  
  
   
   
  
 
   
   
  

.._ -«1  ‘ wean. w»... ...A ems—sou smack-v. we...“ .

.. 4n.

.xwya. swwm- Manna- . . ambwgum.
~14- 4  . v . a V_' A 1 j j ,

if
‘1

"think otherwise, I could find some

  
   
    
 
 

W"

other conveyance. Fortunately, the
eVening's mail brought me intelli-
gence whichrendered the journey un-
necessary, and relieved her from all

‘ embarrassment.

Another case. Our house, owing
to my limited means, had been rather
scantily furnished. As soon as I
deemed it expedient and safe to make
a further outlay,I requested her to
order, at any time, such articles of
furniture as she should judge conveni-
ent or necessary. ' A few days after-
ward, I ordered, for my own special
convenience; an article for which there
remained a suitable place—the only
place, in fact, in the room in which
the article would be most convenient
for my use. Its delivery by the car-
man was to her the first intimation of
my purchase; when she informed me
that she had that day selected a piece
of furniture, which, if agreeable to me,
she-intended to order. But both articles
were designed for the same place;
and although there was no other place
in the house in which the article se-
lected by her would be of any essen-
tial service to her, she at once conce-

nded the superior claims of the book-

case, and proposed going immediately
to notify the shopkeeper that the in-
tended purchase had been given up.

Notwithstanding the readiness and‘

evident sincerity with which the con-
cesswn was made, her countenance

' betrayed a feeling of disappointment

which she strove in vain to conceal.
As in the former case, I promptly re-
linquished my claim, assuring her that
I did so with the greatest pleasure, as
the inconvenience to me of occupying
another'room would be far less than
it would be to he? i‘0 dispense alto-
gether with the use Of the article she
desired.

Such has ever been her deference to
my opinions and judgmenF—so ready
and cheerful her compliance with m
wishes—that to serve her has been my
greatest pleasure. Call it abjectness,
servility, slavery, or what else you
please; it is a service from which I

 

THE HOME.

 

desire no discharge. I would not ex-
change conditions with any “10rd of
creation” who exults in his power to
enforce his behests. All the service
Ihave rendered is but a just return
“for value received.” The most 0b-
stinate stickler for woman’s submis.
sion and reverence, could not ask for
a longer measure of these than I re-
ceive; and I appreciate them the more
highly, because I believe them to be in
their nature such as those old sainted
preachers, Peter and Paul, enjoined.
In these two lies the secret of a wife's
power. Says the adage, “The ele-
phant may be led by a hair,” imply-
ing what is equally true, that he can
not be brought into subjection by
force. So John Lawton is not the
man that was born to obey the com-
mands of any woman. \Vith him,
the milder treatment is more effective
than would be the “usurped authority"
by which some of his sex are said to
be governed. Weak, indeed, would
be his claim to humanity, if he eculd
resist the power of a cheerful counte.
nance, pleasant words, and kind ac-
tions, a power to which he is not
ashamed to acknowledge willing sub.
jection, a power of which,I believe,
its possessors generally are themselves
unconscious, and which is the more
potential because thus undesignedly
and spotaneously exercised. To this
mode of controlling husbands, I have
no objection. The greater the num-
ber of rulin wives of the above
description, t e greater will be the
number of loving husbands and hap-
py h'omes.

‘ I close with a few brief hints to
complaining husbands. The advice I
gave to the friend alluded to, I here
repeat, in substance, for the benefit of
those similarly afllicted. I do not say
that they have no just cause of com.
plaint, nor that the evil Complained of
may be wholly prevented or cured by
any course of conduct they may pur-
sue. But I recommend to them a
strict self-examination, an impartial ‘
review of their past‘ conduct. They 
may possibly detect in themselves is

 

 

 

 

 

 

279 HOME.

 

 

errors which have contributed much
to the evils of which they complain,
and the correction of which. errors
would essentially mitigate their trou-
bles, Some may find, that while they
insist on a strict fulfillment of the ob-
ligations of wives to “submit them-
selves to,” and to “reverence their
husbands,” they .themselves come
short of the reciprocal duty to “love
their wives, and be not bitter against
them.” The faithful discharge of the
duties of husbands would greatly
diminish the number of unkind and
unsubmissive wives. If, by the faith-
ful performance of the duties which
Infinite Wisdom has assigned to
woman, she' acquires the controlling
influence I have ascribed to her, then
the man who would acquire a corres-
onding influence, must practice, with
equal fidelity, the duties enjoined upon
him by the same high authority. .
What has been said upon this sub-

ject, suggests several important in-

 

quiries, w iich may he considered in a
future cmnmunicatiOn. J. L.
II 0 M E.

BY MRS. A. J. DICKINSON.

01!! there’s many a weary footstep in this
pilgrimage of ours ;

Many a thorn adroitly hidden ’neath the
petals of the flowers;

Many an arid, burning desert, that by man-
hood must be cross’d;

' Many a goal in earnest (Ought for, or forever

must be lost;

Many a deep and ’wild’ring sorrow that must
wring with grief the soul;

Many a wave o’erwrought with anguish that
must o‘er the spirit roll.

But there is a green oasis in the desert’s wide
expanse, .

And the dreariness around it, serves its beau-
ties to enhance.

’Tis our home, within whose shelter dwell the
ones we love the best,—

Ob, how sweet, when toil is over, here to
seek and find our rest. .

Here is she, the loved, the chosen,—chog¢n
from the rest of earth,

Nearer, dearer, far than others link’d to us
by blood or birth; -

She Wllo caused the first love flutter t
awaken in the heart, .

‘ She is here, beside the hearthstone, with her

 

  
   
   
  
   
   
  
  
   
  
   
    
 
  
  
 
   
   
   
   

And who, in succeeding day-dreams, alway
play’d the angels part;

baby on her breast :—

Weary laborer, way‘worn traveler, tell me if
here be not rest?

Then, perchance, a tiny footfall thine own
step in haste may meet,

And a face upturn’d in gladness, and in love
thy vision greet,

And the music-tones of childhood sweetly
fall upon thine ear, . ?

And “ Papa!” Oh, word most thrilling! from
the rosy lips thou hear,

And the little dimpled fingers clasp thine
own to lead thee home; _

Weary workman, in life’s vineyard, from this
haven wouldst thou roam?

There is rest beneath the roof-tree, here is
shelter from the strife, ,

And the buffetings and dangers which bese
the outer life :

Here unbosom all thy sorrows, here disclose
thy hopes and fears,

Here are none to mock thy sadness, none to
turn thy joy to tears.

But remember, Oh, remember! that above
this world of ours,

With its sunshine and its shadows, with its
rainbows and its showers, ,

There's a home, a purer, brighter, than is
found beneath the skies,

Which the soul will enter into when this
earthly body dies;

If might we use the blessings which He gives
us here below,

And the glory of that dwelling we on earth
can never know.

But faint glimpses of its splendor in His
word to us is given, '

To sustain us in our pathway as m
earth to heaven,

And remember, 0h, remcmber! that thy home
beneath the skies, .

’Though it is so dear unto thee, only bid!
thy spirit rise,

Where the glory fadeth never, and thou
shalt never roam, , ,

But where thou shalt dwell forever In thine
upper, better home.

 

WE sacrifice the present in regret-
ting the past that has already gone,
and in tormenting ourselves about the
future that has 00‘? yet Pome~ It is 
pretty much the same With a widow. ‘
Between the husband she has lOSt and
the husband she is expecting, her
days are spent in alternately sighing
over what she can not change and
what she can not command.

 

 

 

   

HOME.

 

 

 SHADOW ON THE WALL. .

BY E. 0. JAMES.

HRISTMAS-DAY was drawing
near its close. The sun had been
long down, and the last traces of its
setting were now obscured by the
dense clouds of a rising storm. The
moon, struggling through the forecast
mists, shed a dismal gleam of light
over desolate wastes of drifted snow ;
while the wind, which rose to a fuller
strength as the night came on, wailed
strangely and sadly through the sway-
ing trees.

0n the broad hearth-stone at home
the “yule log” blazed and crackled,
and the red flames leaped up with a
hot-breathed gladness into the yawning
mouth of the old brick chimney.
Many were the faces that shone in its
cheerful radiance—faces dear from
old associations; and young faces
whose merry look betrayed no trace
of sorrow. The well-loved past and
scenes of former days where coming
up from their quiet rest into the light
of the old man’s memories, while the
younger portion of the circle sat silent-
ly listening with wonder to the tales
of past adventures. ~

As my grandfather had concluded
a story of border life, which absorbed
the attention of the whole group for
nearly an hour, it came Aunt Eleanor’s
turn next, and while we were all
anxiously waiting, she thus began her
“ o’er true tale,”-—-for my aunt never
indulged in romance or fiction:

“ ()n the southern slope of one of
those beautiful hills which environ the
city of Fredericksburg, and stretch
for many miles along the pleasant
Rappahannock, stood a large old-fash-
ioned house, in the years ago, whose
time-worn walls Were partially con.
cealed in the warmer seasons by the
luxuriant mantle of the Virginia
creeper that, spreading over the por-
tico, ran across the small windows
and clambered along the gabled roof.
A group of horse-chestnut trees, and
ahedge composed of the briery bushes
of the barberry and blackberry, with

 

here and there a sweet brier, covered
with its delicate pink blossoms, in-
closed a yard verdant with the early
grass which spread around the eastern
and western sides of the mansion. Be-
neath the vine-covered windows, and
along the slope of the hill, extended a
garden, rich in the summer-time with
fruits and flowers, and from the ter-
race the beautiful Rappahannock could
be seen gliding like a silver serpent
among the pleasant hills.

“ It was toward sunset on a
bright day in the early spring,
when our carriage rolled in between
the antique pillars of the old gateway
at Hillside, and down the lawn
toward the portico. The tender germs
of the maple and beech leaves had ale
ready burst their swelling buds, and
came timidly forth into warm spring
sunlight, and the early grass was
spreading its verdant carpet over the
russet trail of the winter. There
was joy at our arrival. Spon as the
sound of wheels was heard on the ear-
riage road, faces appeared at the bay
window of the hall, and before we
reached the colonnade the sound of
children’s voices' shouting “ they have
come, they have come !" rang out
clear and merrily on the air. Warm
and welcome was the reception we
experienced (there is a pleasure in
going ‘cousining’ when those you visit
are happy to receive you, and such
were ours), for we had been long ex-
pected and had not met for years.

“ Cousin Annie Chester was my
companion, and I had brought little
Willie with me, too, at the solicita-
tions of the children, that they might
have a playmate. When the bustle
of arrival and multiplicity of ques-
tions—which followed so fast that but
one answer could do for all—had par-
tially subsided, and the quiet of the
evening came on, we gathered a hap-
py company in the room 0f the house-
hold, as we are gathered here to-night.
A very pleasant room it was, though
old fashioned. Its deep window-seats
were nicely cushioned, its clumsy.
looking mahogany tables, with dark

 

 

 

 

 

 

.-..¢‘

 

THE SHADOW ON THE WALL.

time-colored surfaces, highly polished,
the curious carved wood-work, the
fire-place, surrounded by small Dutch
tiles, the antique-looking portralts of
the race of former proprietors, and
the screens placed around, made the
apartment 3. favorite with the family.
The children were in high spirits, and
caused the old house to resound with
the music of their merry voices; but
as the night crept on, they became
more quiet and at last went tired to
bed. ‘

“As there was other company in
the mansion, so that almost every
habitable room was occupied, Willie
went to.sleep with his cousin, just re-
turned from boarding-school, in a re-
mote chamber at the further wing of
the house.

“There was much to talk over,
much to tell, in the room of the
household that evening,—many in-
quiries to answer and numerous mes-
sages to deliver, so that the night was
quite far advanced before we retired
to our chambers. It was a spacious
apartment into which we were shown,
as our kind hostess bade us good-
night, and had the old look corre-
sponding with the rooms which we
had before visited. The ceiling was
vaulted, and there were deep embra-
sures to the windows, which opened on
the garden and the western hills. We
had reached it by threading an intri-
cate series of corridors and passages,

-which led, with many turns and wind.

ing ways, through every part of the
mansion. So difficult, indeed, was it
to trace your way through this laby-
rinth of halls, that the moment I
heard the clang of the door at the
further end 'of the corridor, as it
closed between our kind guide and
ourselves, my timid mind suggested
the thought of danger and the impos.
sibility of escape-

‘5 But there could be nothing to
fear. We were far away from the

, city, with its dens of crime and

misery; far from the confusion and
bustle of the town, surrounded only
by scenes of country quiet and rural

 

 

  

repose. The very night itself inspired M. .

a sense of security and peace, As I
opened the lattice and looked out into
the silent starlighal the mild, warm
breath of the sout wind passed by
laden with a thousand sweet

scents,
diffused from young buds and flowers.
The odor of earth, newly upturned——
first breath of hope to the first
laborer after his garden withered—
was fragrant on the evening air,
breathing of hope, and peace, and
plenty. The little frogs, from their
damp swamp homes, trilled merrily
out upon the night, while the bright
stars, so far away, winked their laugh-
ing, lustrous eyes as they looked
down through the dew-sweet air. '

“Listening to the cheerful min-
strelsy of the little swamp-singerS,
we lay long awake, until the very
sounds we loved to hear had lulled us
to repose,_and the consciousness of
outward objects was lost in the
dreamy mists of sleep.

“I know not how long we slum
bered thus, but I‘remembered being
suddenly startled into wakefulness by
a slight noise in the room, as though
some light object had fallen‘ to the
floor. The early dawn had just be-
gun to streak with gray the raven
tresses of the night. A dim, faint
light stole into the chamber, just suf-
ficient to render the more prominent
objects perceptible through the gen-
eral gloom. I listened a moment in

sinful anxiety, but all was silent.

hinking it might have been but a
mere imagination, or the effects 0f
some distempered dream,1 “'33 fall-
ing back into drowsinesS, When my
eyes inadvertently felliupon 8 Shadow
moving on the wall—the Shadow Of a
human being, who heede to _be
greping about in searchsof, something
that he could not find. -I now became
confident that another person besides .,
ourselves was in the Chamber, and all "
thoughts of sleep were banished; in
a moment I was wide awake—a
wakefulness more terrible than death.
The dim, ghostly shadow assumed a
hideous form in my distorted imagi-

  

 

-4‘:=£~7*n Imus? WJ~4~€4W~ELW£3M<

i

 

. others, and I could not.

  

we nation, and now seemed to be stalking

stealthin forward, until it disap-

eared; at the same time I distinctly

e.er the sound.0f breathing ap-
proaching near the bed. What could
I do? A cry for help would but be
lost in the deadened silence of the
halls, and bring to a more speedy
close the horrible design of the mid-
night intruder. I could not seek
safety in flight, for I knew not
whither I should go, and the dreaded
object, which I could now dimly dis-
cern, seemed between me and the
door. In my fear I had unconsciously
awakened my companion, who, being
even more timid than myself, almost
fainted when she realized our situa-
tion. I felt a cold, creeping sense of
horror come over me,—a feeling that
I never can forget, and one I pray that
Ishall never know again. I was be-
coming stupefied with fright. Silent-
ly, and almost paralyzed with terror,
we drew ourselves under the bed-
elothes, expecting every moment the

‘ consummation of the fiendish purpose

which had drawn the intruder hither,
for we could distinctly hear him mov-
ing with cautious steps toward us.

“ ‘ What shall we do '2’ I whispered
to Annie, in an agonized voice ; but a
shudder was the only response.

“ All the scenes of my past life
now flew by me in rapid succession.
Itried to think of all those acts for
which I should make atonement; I
tried to pray, but that great, over-
whelming sense of terror eclipsed all
At this mo-
ment the bed began to shake‘ so vio-
lently that it was Only by pressing
both feet as hard as I was able against
the foot~board thflt I could prevent its
bein heard.

“ here was nOW no sound in the
room save the quick, loud beating of

 your hearts, and I ventured to look

forth, in, the vain hope that I had im-
agined all this which seemed ,so terri.
bly real. But as I did so, the creature
which had so alarmed us crawled
noiselessly forward upon its hands
and knees, and finally laid down di-

THE HOME.

 

   
  
   

rectly under our bed. At the same
moment I felt a cold, clammy hand
laid upon me; and recoiled with a
shudder from the touch—my brain
whirled ! But the hand was Annie’s;
she seemed to have become frenzied
with terror and began to mutter un-
intelligible gibberish. My anxiety for
my companion became almost equal
to my fright. I cannot express the
dreadful feeling :hat spread over me;
it was a terrible deadliness. I could
not speak; I could not even move.
I felt myself dying with horror.

“How long we were so situated I
could never tell, but it seemed a life-
time before we heard another. sound.
We had suffered the utmost agony of
suspense, and it seemed that even
death would be a pleasure, that it
might relieve us from this distress,
when the object crept slowly and
cautiously from the place it had
taken, and, while we were expecting
murder every moment, passed to the
wash-stand, where it deliberately pro-
ceeded to wash its hands, and then
came groping back.

“ The dawn was advancing, and ob-
jects gradually became more distinct,
but not enough as to render them dis-
tinguishable only as general forms.
My apprehensions were confirmed——
it was a living person coming thus
strangely on toward us. I could en-
dure it no longer; every object began
to swim in a maze before me. v Per-
haps it was a mother’s love, perhaps
more frenzy, which prompted me, but
in my agony I called wildly for Wil-

1e.

“ ‘ What, mamma ?’ was the af-
frighted answer.

“ It is needless to relate our joy. I
sprang from the bed and elapsed my
poor child convulsively in my arms.
And then we all cried together—such
achange of emotions could find no
other utterance; and morning came
over the hills with the rosy blush of
the spring-time before we could con-
trol ourselves sufficiently to prepare
for the coming day.

“It appeared that the apartment

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a Y n
HINTS T0 YOUNG MOTHERS.

  

 

which \Villie and his cousin had occu-
pied that night, on account of .the
number of visitors at the mansion,
was one in which a crazy woman, who
frequented the neighborhood, was
often allowed to rest. According to
her custom, she had entered that even.
ing, and finding the. bed occupied,
took off the quilt, which she wrapped
around her, and then placed herself in
an opposite corner- The removal of
the coverlid had awakened Willie,
who, fearing to rouse his bedfellow,
as he had never seen him until this
night, got quietly out of bed, and
leaving the room wandered about
among the strange old halls and pas-
sages, until by the merest accident he
entered our apartment. Uncertain
whose room he was in, and frightened
even at the sound of his own footsteps,
he groped about as we have seen him.
The cold night air drove him to take
refuge under the bed. While there
his childish nature suggested to him
that some inoffensive act might at-
tract attention without exciting sus-
picion, and he had therefore gone to
the wash-stand to wash his hands.
He was on the point of returning
when my timely exclamation dispelled
his fear, and changed our terror to
most rapturous jo .

“ The night of horror left upon my
mind an impression which nothing can
erase. 1 often now look back upon
it, and sometimes the thought of the
foolishness of such timidity occurs to
'me. But it was too fearfully real to
regard in such a light, and often in m
dreams I see that ghost-like ‘Shadow
0n the Wall.’ ”

 

WOMEN.

SHERIDAN beautifully said ;—.“ W0,
men govern us—rlet us render them
perfect; the more they are enlight-
ened, so much the more shall we be,
On the cultivation of the mind of
women depends the wisdom of men.
It is by women that nature writes on
the hearts of men.”

 

HINTS TO YOUNG MOTHER
- - 1v.

LET no mother trust the education
of her children entirely to others
if possibly she can avoid it. If shé
feels disqualified for teaching by any
deficiencies of her own education, she
ought, by all means, to use What lei-
sure she may have in qualifying her-
self in those branches which her chil-
dren are pursuing. This, perhaps, is
equally the duty of both parents: for
children are always far more deeply
interested in that which seems to in-
terest their parents, than in other sub.
Jects. But if it is important to show
a sympathy in the pursuit of the ear-
lier elementary branches, in order to
fix their attention sufficiently upon
them,it is even more important when
the pupil becomes farther advanced
to be able not only to assist your
children in their studies, but to be
competent to judge of the propriety
of the course of instruction they are
following, as well as of the merits of
authors, and the perfection of theories.
Those children who are handed over
to teachers, no matter how able, who
have no special sympathy with their
pupils, almost invariably learn by rote,
instead of having that thorough under-
standing of their subjects which fa-
miliar instruction and conversation
imparts to the confiding, youthful
mind. It frequently happens in this
way that a very expensive and appa-
rently thorough education is nearly
lost upon a son or daughter, Who:
after going through all the text-books,
and having all the usual masters, turns
out a dull and really ignorant Person 5
the fault having been that no one ever
engaged his or her attention 63/ 831m-
]Juthy—the most sure and universal
mode of instructing successfully.
Teach your children to inquire into .
causes when they see effects, instead
of allowing them totake up with any
absurd or superstitious explanations
which may have desccnded through
generations of uneducated and credbu.
lous persons. There is no training of

 

  
 

  

 
   
   

“Wm—#31»- ‘flm-‘Jm . w:   L.

   

THE HOME.

 

 

 

 

e human mind more surely eno-
bling than that which comes by a
close observance of, and inquiry into
the mysteries of Nature. If youoare
able to instruct your child in these
mysteries—to teach him the exquisite
and harmonious relations of things—-
to explore with him the intricate but
delightful paths of science, and to
make of him a chemist, botanist, ge-
ologist, or naturalist, or to explore
with him the great and wonderful
truths of astronomy, you give him
one of the most surest means of hap-
piness as well as of usefulness; and
you make of him the noblest of what-
ever he is capable of being. ' Admit-
ting that you are not able to go far
with him in these pursuits; only then
go as far as you can, and give him a
taste for the study or studies. .

This course, too, will develop not
only his highest morality; but will
show to you and to him the peculiar
bent of his mind, for he will be sure
to have a preference for some one
thing over another, and thereby you
can decide upon his future profession.
Supposing that he does not find his
peculiar talent in the natural sciences,
the acquisition of this knowledge is a
help to him in the attainment of any
other kind of knowledge. Try him
then on mathematics and mechanics,
or on logic. During all this ex lor-
ing, you will be deeply delig ted,
and your child led insensibly to an
understanding of and confidence in his
own powers in some particular sphere
of action. In doing this for him or
her, you renew your own youth and
experience ()Ver again the enthusiasm
of school-days and student-life.

After thus becoming acquainted
with the capacities of your children,
by joining in their studies, and having
perfected their knowledge by furnish-

.ing them the best books on their {3.

vorite subject, decide for them or
with them upon a professron. Every
child, male or female, should have a.
profession, trade, or handicraft of
some sort. The origin of loaferzsm is
the want of this, in nine cases out of

 

ten. The want of this among women
results still more deplorably. How,
let me ask any kind father and tender
mother, can you reconcile yourself to
the righteousness of bringing children
into the world to turn them off, as
soon as they arrive at the estate of
men'and women, to depend upon mere
chance? There is no doubt as to the
unkindness, not to say, wickedness of
such a dcsertion of your duties. Hith-
erto your child has depended upon
you for every thing—maintenance,
instruction, sympathy—and, all. at
once, either by becoming of a proper
age, or by your death, he or she is
cast upon his or her inexperience to
contend not for bread only, but for
position, consequence, character, every
thing desirable, unarmed with a knowl-
edge of any occupation that could se-
cure the one, and too timid and de-
spairing to know how to make sure of
the others. For the sins, sufferin ,
and shame which too frequently fal s
to the lot of these weaponless ones
set in'the front rank of the battle of
life, not themselves, but their parents
are too often responsible. Because a
son has come to maturity physically,
is no reason he should be considered a
man, unLess you have so formed his
mind that he is ready to take upon
himself a man’s duties. Through all
kinds of errors will he struggle, and if 
he fall not, it will be by virtue of an
inherent manliness that may defy
temptation and trial of any kind; and
even by his. success you do not stand
ac uitted of neglect.

our daughters you are training up
for what? To get married 2 But they
may be unfortunate in marriage, or
death may deprive them of protection
and support. What then? They are
ignorant, helpless, and desPairing.
To keep a cheap boarding-house, to
wash gentlfimen’s shictS, to sew for a
few cents a day, to drudge at the
most menial and unprofitable employ-
ments, unable to educate or even com-
fortably clothe their children—this is
the fate awaiting them in case of any
accident to their prosperity. Let me

 

 

 

 

 

HINTS TO YOUNG MOTHERS.

. 57 'l
’a .
 ti,

“.1.

 

counsel and entreat you to do what
you can to prevent it. Educate your
daughters not only in books and every
accomplishment you can afi‘OI'd, but
also in some one particular branch .of
industry which would afford a mam.
tenance if necessary, and in that one
branch see that they excel. It is true
that men have hitherto jealously
guarded the avenues of trade from the
encroachments of your sex; but when
you have become really fitted to com-
pets with them in the knowledge of
and capacity for any business within
your desires, it will be in vain for
them to resist you. The time is com-
ing when woman may be truly inde-
pendent, in the way perfectly com—
patible with delicacy and feminine
dignity.

In these few hints which I have

given concerning the treatment of,

children from infancy to maturity,
I have arrived at condensing instruc-
tion into a small space, believing that
if you value my suggestions the sub-
ject will continue in your minds, and
you will elaborate it in your own
thoughts. And let me here again re-
mind yon of the importance of physi-
ological knowledge, as well for your-
selves as your children. It is impera-
tive upon you, that before you assume
the responsibilities of motherhood you
should know with what a terrible and
wonderful, as well as beautiful, being
you are gifting your offs ring. Gather
about you the best aut ors on Physi.
ology and Medicine, and by an under-
standing of the first, endeavor to avoid
the necessity of the latter. And now
go over these imperfect suggestions
from first to last, and begin to think
upon the subject. Follow up thinking
with reading; and reading again With
thinking; and as fast as your daugh.
ters are old enough, teach them what
you have learned, and council them to
continue the study. Neither excuse
your sms; but be especially faithful
with your daughters, for with them
rests the weltme of future genera-
tions. Dn. E. L. Sr. J OIIN.

Norm BY rna Emma—Let us add,
vm. vm. 18

 

as an appendix to this most valuable
series of papers, the following advice
and hints on the dress of children from
the pen “3f Mrs. Pullan. It is reason-
able and wise. The lady says:

“ While advocating the cause Of
children, and deprecating in their be;
half any unnecessary wounding of
their sensitive natures, we would as
earnestly condemn the folly which,
from the desire of gratifying maternal
vanity, dresses the children in materi-
als and in a style fit only for grown-
up people. Simplicity of toilet, next
to simplicity of manners, makes the

,charm of childhood: nothing can be

more repugnant to good taste than a

little gir who looks more like an over-

dressed doll than a happy, ruddy

child; and it is positive cruelty to

fetter their limbs or hearts by the

constantly reiterated consideration of
their clothes. Among winter materi-

als, merino has long been deservedly

the favorite for children’s dresses.

The fabric is so soft and beautiful ; the.

single color usually so much more be-

coming than any set design; and the

fact that the fabric is the same on both

sides, and will bear turning, makes it

so economical. In choosing merino,

it is well to hold it up to the light, to

see if there are any thin or defective

places in it. The twill should be the

same on each side, and close and fine.

Cashmere leoks nearly the same on

one side, but is plain on the other, and

not nearly so thick; consequently it

is much less warm, and it will not

turn. The high colors, scarlets: enm-

sons, and cerite, in all their shades, are

always the most expensive. They,

however, are often fashionable, and

will frequently bear a good dark

color, when dyed, if they become.
soiled before worn out. Blue, except

sky.b1ue, is almost always dingy

looking; and the dye “FHIOYOd fre-

quently causes the material to rot, so.
that a dark-blue merino is usually one,
of the dearest purchases that can be

made in the line. The greens are so

terribly trying to the complexion, that
none but the fair and
i

youthful should' .

     
 

      

    
 
 
   

u a-.. aunt-i“... .-.~...... swym...“

..

“s. '43.. .--.v . -~_.‘u.

J i

THE HOME.

 

ttempt to Wear them. The browns
are among the most useful and gener-
ally becoming colors ;—-—we2}§t‘w well,
and looking haudsmne to tl’l  d; and
the tribes of fawn, stone, and gray,
brightened up with one light rich
color, make the most tasteful and ele-
gant of inexpensive morning robes.”

 

WINTER MANAGEMENT OF
FLOW E ES. ‘

HE following direction for the

culture of fluorite. house-plants,
will be welcome, just at this time, to
our lady friends :

BULBUS FLOWERS IN rm: House.—
The culture of bulbous mots in a
green-house or light room, during the
winter, is comparatively easy, pro
vided two points be attended to. The
first is, to keep them near'the light,
and turn the pots or glasses round
frequently, to prevent their growing
crowded ; and the second is, when the
plants have done growing, to give
them little or no water. For want of
attention to these points, bulbs have
been known to produce foliage year
after year without showing any signs
of blossoms.

All bulbs, at a certain period of the
year, are in a dormant condition—-
thiS, in a state of nature, being in-
variably after the seed has ripened.
But 88, in a green-house, many of the
family do not ripen seed, the period
should be watched when the leaves
show indication of decay ; and at this
time the supplies of water should be
lessened, and shortly afterward the
earth should he suffered to get dry,
and remain so until the season re-
turns, when’ the bulbs regerminate.
Many sorts of bulbs will keep best in

, pots, under the soil, in a dry, sandy

place, and in the same tcm erature as
that in which they are in t e habit of
growing ; but others, such as the hya-
cinth, tulip, narcissus, 850., may be
taken out of the soil, and preserved
until the return of the proper .season
for transplanting.

 

The pots should at this stage‘be
taken into the house, and placed in
any convenient situation in a room
without a fire, till they have formed
their blossom-buds, which will be in
the latter end of October, when they
should he removed to a window in a
room where there is a fire. They
will throw out abundance of branches,
and will continue flowering beautifully
during November, December, and
January, and, if they are regularly
watered every day, till the following
March. The seeds of the plants which
are to come into flower in March, to
succeed them, should be sewn in pots
at the latter end of August, and the
pots may be placed in any situation,
under cover, where they will have
plenty of light, and can have air oc-
casionally.

Early in November they should be

'thinned out, or transplanted, so as to

leave only six or eight plants in a pot,
and these pots should be plunged into
a shallow box, half filled with eoal
ashes, and placed where they will not
have much heat, and yet be protected
from frost. While in this situation,
they should be regularly watered once
or twice a week.

CAMELIA JAPONICAS-—Tu grow the
Camelia to perfection, considerable
care is necessary. Any one in repet-
ting plants, will observe how liable
the roots are to get matted together,
so as to render them altogether im-
pervious to water, which often runs
down by the sides of the pots, leaving
the middle dry. These, and they are
many, who make a parlor-plant of the
camelia, are often disappointed and
discouraged at seeing the apparently
well-formed flower-buds turn brown
and drop off, just when expected to
open. With some this ariSes from
not having been repotted the previous
spring; it is evidentthat the numerous
roots must have exhausted all the
goodness of the soil in forcing shoots
and buds. Water will then just keep
the plant alive, but affords no strength
for the flower to come to‘ perfection.

With others, the plant is much in-

 

,, been

 

 

 

 

 

0

WINTER MANAGEMENT or FLOWERS-g}.

    

 

jured by the strong, dry stove-heat
kept up in the room, a state'of at.
mosphere not at all congenial to the.
camelia, and particularly when flow-
ering. The leaves must at all times
he kept clean and free from dust. _ A
little attention to these pomts, particu-
larly not suffering them to stand
during the summer in the hot sun, and
keeping them well watered, Wlll make
the parlor cultivation of this beautiful
plant by no means difficult. When
placed out of doors, they should not
stand too near each other—a free cir.
culation ofair improves their appear-
ance and strength.

GREEN'IIOUSE PLANTS. —To put
green-house plants in proper order re-
quires some taste and Judgment. Most
plants have a peculiar location in their
native state, therefore it is equally re-
quisite that they have something simi-
lar in their artificial location,——in the
green-house or in the parlor.

The geranium ‘may be pliced in a
situation as close as poSsible to the
glass, where they can obtain the full
influeHCe of the sun. The camelia, on
the contrary, requires a shady situ-
ation, but should be so placed that a
free circulation of air can act upon it,
which should be wholesome, or the

flower-buds will eventually drop ofl‘

before they expand. All kinds of suc-
culent plants, like the cactus, should
be placed on shelves in a warm, dry
situation, where they can receive the
sun and air. ()u the front shelves,
small plantS, of almost every kind,
may be placed, and particularly the
hardy kinds, as China roses, bulbs,
and those that are of a dwarf habit.
If this plan be observed, their appear-
ance will be. graceful and pleasing.

\V hatare familiarly known as Dutch
bulbous roots, intended for bloomng
in pots, during the winter season,
should be planted during the mouths
of October and November, and be left
in the open air until it begins to freeze,
when they should be placed in a green-
house, or in a room, ex posed to the
sun. They will need occasional mod-
erate wateriugs until they begin to

 

 

   
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  

grow, when they should have “hand-
ance of in mild w *ather, and plenty
of wa n the saucers underneath
the pots ey should also be exposed
as much as possible to the sun, air, ’_,,
light, to prevent the foliage from grm;

ing too long, or becoming yellow.

   
 

MIGonErrE FLowaas 'rnuoUGHour

THE YEAR.—With a little management,
it may be contrived to have Mignonette
in flower every month during the year. ‘
In order that the plants may flower in
winter, the seed should be sown in the
open border in July. Or, if it be
more convenient, the seed may be
sown in pots in that month, placing
the pots in a balcony, or outside a
window, or in any situation where they
will have abundance of light and air.
In September the plants should be re-
moved to the pots in which they are to
flower, and only a. suflicient numlxr
left in each to make the pots look full,
without the plants being so crowded
as to occasion them to be drawn up.

Some taste is also required in ar-
ranging the plants in such a manner
that the whole will form a mingled
group, not too formal. Their various
colors and forms should be So managed
that there will not be too much same-
ness, which will be the case it' several
plants of a similar 'kind are put to- I
gether. Some plants, of tall habit, ..‘_
should be selected and placed separ- "
ately.

MIXIATURE AND Boranox Rows.—
The miniature family of roses, as its
name implies, consists of plants 0f
dwarfish habit. The. low growth of
these plants, and the small size of their
tlHWCFS, present a striking Cent ‘tISt. in
comparison to the other Vill‘lctleS.
They should be grown by themselves,
for when planted among the strong
and rapid growers, their beauty will
be comparatively lost siglitof. These
beautiful little plants vary in color
from white to dark crimson, and when
pm]th in good, rich Soil, frequently
combine the loveliness and beauty of ‘
some of the larger varieties in minia-

ture. The Bourbon 1‘0StS are Very
‘
“popular. 'lhey are gum-tu of a

 

.n...

..~w’ar‘-4m .*w-...‘AkufiuvwwfluMm'G-“ dew
u :

.
z.
i
..

b‘.

r!

 

rodu-
loom
' in a
r 'mod-

strong and vigorous growt
cing a constant succession
the whole season. They
- strong, rich soil, and will
tely close pruning.

 
 
  

 

 


" COUNSELS T0 TIIE YOUNG.

EVER be cast down by trilles. Ifa

spider breaks his web twenty times,
twenty times will he mend it again.
Make up your minds to do a thing,
and you will do it. Fear not if trouble
comes upon you ; keep up your spirits
though the day may he a dark one—-

“ Troubles never last forever.
The darkest day will pass away i"

If the sun is going down, look up
to the stars; ifthe earth is dark, keep
your eyes on heaven. \Vith God’s
presence and God’s promises, a man
or child may be cheerful.

“ Never despair when fog's in the air.
A Iunshiny morning will come without warning’!"

Mind what .you run after! Never
be content with a bubble that will burst;
or a firewood that will end in smoke
and darkness. But that what you can
keep, and which is worth keeping.

4‘ Something sterling that will stay
When gold and silver fly away."

Fight hard against a hasty temper.
Anger will come, but resist it strongly.
. A spark may set a house on fire.

THE HOME.

 

  
   
    

fit of passion ma give you cause to
mourn- all the aysef your life.—

Never revenge an injury.

“ He that revengeth knows no rest : .
The meek possess a peaceful breast."

If you have an enemy, act kindly to
him, and make him your friend. You
may not win him over at once, but
try again. Let one kindness be fol-
lowed by another, till you have com-
passed your end. By little and by
little great things are completed.

" Water failing day by day
Wears the hardest rock away."

And so repeated kindness will soften
a heart of stone. -

Whatever you do, do it willingly.
A boy that is whipped at school never
learns his lessons well. A man that
is compelled to work, cares not how
badly it is performed. He that pulls
ofi‘ his coat cheerfully, strips up his
clothes in earnest, and sings, while he
works, is the man for me—

“ A cheerful spirit gets on quick :
A grumbler in the mud will stick."

Evil thoughts are worse enemies
than lions and tigers, for we can get,
out of the way of wild beasts—but
bad thoulghts win their. way every-
where. eep your heads and hearts
full of good thoughts, thatbad thoughts
may not find room—

“ lie on your guard, and strive and pray,
To drive all evil thoughts away."

 

 
  
  

 

 

 

 

' EDITOR’S RETREAT.

    

 

EDITOR’S RETR  '

I Dxcsussn.

D ONTH of darkness ! How the days

seem to shrink away from it by grow-
ing shorter, and how the “night, and storm,
and darkness,” seem to strengthen at his
coming! All around us are the dead leaves
of the summer gone. The vine which
covered over all the porch, and gladdened
all the birds of June with its load of roses
and .perfume, is stripped, as if for burial, and
the wind makes complaining notes through
the leafless branches. The trees are barren,
like old age when the gray hairs even has
dropped away, and the knotty hand trembles
as it puts forth the patient staff: they surge

tient things; and we some times dream that
they have gathered up their roots from out
the freezing earth, and moved away, like
spirits, silently into other lands. But they
will swing their arms through the long win-
ter—they will sigh and moan in their deso-
lation—will stand still for awhile in the spring,
as if to renew their youth in the warm airs
of April—then will put forth buds and
leaves, and gladden and be glad all the sea-
son through. What is it, then, that Decem-
ber teaches? Not the going away of life,
and freshness, and beauty, but the deeper
truth, that even the trees and vines must
have their night of rest and repose, that
they may be ready for the vigorous life at
the end of the reign of winter. We are an
too prone to find fault with nature’s various
moods—with rain, wind, lightning, heat,
cold ; but let‘Is realize fully the office which
these visitations perform, and our minds are
filled with wonder, our hearts with thankful-
ness, at the wisdom of the changes and the
seasons. Let December come, then, with its
days of gloom, its nights of storm and thick
darkness: it all is rest for nature’s summer
forces, and in it are the germs of all the life,
and glow, and fruitage, of the coming year.
Let some of our poet friends sing for us the
joyous “ Song of December,” with a refrain
which will echo sweetly by the hearthstone
while the grand diapason of the winds make
solemn harmonies without.

 

and moan through all the darkness like sen-  Th0” 13mm” 9’ dark’ W‘th S‘IV‘V‘M" mark—-

 

  
   
 
   
   
   
  
  
  
   
   
   
  
 
 
 
   
  
   
 
  
  
 
   
   
    
    
   
   
  
 
 

  

’G or run sous.
From Charles D. Gordetti comes thing,

lyric, for the purity of life against the’ I ,
purity of its desecration : ' ’

Black glooms the Night, but the fire glea'ms bright-
What shall I sing of? wrong? or Right?
In the gloom without, stalks Wrong, no doubt ;
Yet the ruddy flame puts Wrong to shame, ‘
And my fireside hath an honest fame
’l'hat'l do not like to flout.

This world~is fair, there is light to spare ;
Then why are such shadows flung everywhere ?
Shadows of lust and of passion, thrust
In each brightest place of the World‘s wide space,
By man, with the Cain-brand on his face,
And his feet on his Fathers’ dust!

Canvases black as a Mummy's sark
w ith many a stain-«that shrieved and strain
0n the mildew‘d wall of some palace tall
By the Arno‘s bank : I would give them all
For one sunlit Claude Lorraine l '
The other mom, in the virgin dawn,
On the spot where innocent flowers were born,
Two brutes -— nay, men l — brutes were nobler
then—
Wlth bosoms bare to the stainless air,
Fought, like—who knows what like they were?
There no such thing in my ken!

Fought? for what i‘ For a vengeance hot :-
For a savage hatred, wine-begot ?
For a Wrongito right ? For a word‘s despite 2'

No ! they fought for gold 1 They were bought and
sold !
They fought for a pitiful handful of mold l---
'1'hat shadow was black as Night!

The world is fair : there is light to spare :
Yet Shadows like this lie everywhere I
On river and plain is some bloody stain l
Are our souls debased by this Salvator taste ?
Oh, God ! that these Shadows might be ofl'aced,
By some sun-born Claude Lorraine l

.orva us run RIGHT»

Ay, give it; for Qiere is need of salva,
tion for the fast departing virtues which
once found a resting-phI-ce With “5. 38 a peo-
ple_ where now are those simple 
which used to preside over homes, under
whose eaves the very swallows would twitter
their happiness and content? Where those
pure hearts and minds which used to enj0y
all things which were pure and good. because
they were so—that used to enjoy friendships

  

  

   

THE HOME.

 

nd affections from their [Very soul’s decps?
Where the charity which felt for suffering,
which alleviated it as a privilegtg which
knew nothing of the “societies  at now
absorb all the means of the community for
“it support? We have for our companion-
ship, not the right but the fashionable—not
the just but the politic—not the truth but
dissimulation! Is it not so? Look where
you will, and how little can you see of real
old-fashioned hospitality,—real old-fashioned
graces and goodness! Visit any thorough.
fare where people congregate, and the impu-
dent airs of the fashion devotee send you
sickening home. Go into any shop, and the
necessity of guarding against untruth from
the storekceper and all his clerks, shows too
plainly the absence of truth—the immense
deterioration in the average standard of in-
tegrity. Upon all sides we see action gov-
erned almost entirely by not what is consci-
entiously right, but by what is policy. Is it
not so? Who will give us the Right again—
who shall restore our lost virtues?

THE BEAUTY OF PURITY.

We were lately reading in a railway-car.
Before us sat a lady with a little girl, whose
sweet face fairly made the car sunny. She
chatted, and sang, and enjoyed every thing
so’well that none could help entering into
h” moods. Here, we thought, is the influ-
en'gs which one pure and sweet nature will
exertover the circle around her. Does that
man of care in front of her become absorbed
in his projects and responsibilities, the pret-
ty question of the little grace dissipates all,
and he forgets, for awhile, the enemy of his
happiness and health. Does the old man on
the other side become listless and sad in his
thoughts of life and death, the Scht face of
the child sends a smile to his wan and wrin-
kled features WlllCll it does the heart good
to me, And the youtq; folks sitting on the
back seats look at her and grow more loving
toward one another.

' is the “philosophy of life” sought
I 7' ong by the wise—11 little child gives
us the true interpretation :——innoccnce and
kindness are the keys which unlock the doors
of the heart and let in the sunlight of grace.
Apply these virtues to our every-day life, to
our business, to our pleasure, to our social

 

relations, and we have a new existence open-
ed before us. Men, in pursuit of their daily
rounds of duty, steel their hearts against
tender and sweet influences; they grow sus-
picious and “shrewd;” they take thoughts
of how they shall get advantages in trade,
and “position” in society; and everywhere
the dear, blessed virtue of kindness, of de-
sire for others’ well-being is borne down,
crushed, murdered all the time.

Oh, that men and women were more like
children! More like them in loves, and
graces, and purity! Christ did not say of
men and women—of such is the kingdom of
Heaven; but of children—just such as the
dear child we saw in the car.

It is often remarked of the truly great and
eminently pious, that “they are simple as
ehildren,"—are unaffected in their manners
and unselfish to a degree which makes every
one love them. It is not a particular and
especial virtue given to them—itis just be-
cause they always remain childrcn in their
Sitnplicity and purity of heart. This should
doubly endear the child to us, and it should
be Our study to do naught that can mar the
moral beauty of their natures. Alas! how
few parents understand this in its true light!
How debasing to true development are those
systems of education which throw the good
and bad together, and ultimately result in
giving the child a demeanor, thoughts, wish-
cs, which are fatal to moral grace and
beauty.

A proper training for the child is to make
it retain what nature has given it of love,
and trust, and hopefulncss, and admiration
for the pure: do the majority of children
receive such treatment as will tend to a de-
velopment of these attributes of scul.’ If
they do, where then does all the conceit,
all the love for show, the taste for the ficti-
tious, the habit of dissemblance, ifnot of ac-
tual deception, come from? Let each pa-
rent of a child which has lost its early
simplicity of character answer.

THE TRUE TEST.

A picture has been on exhibition, in a
prominent gallery of this city, which has
been the subject of some comment. It was a
Venus, painted by Mr. Page, an American ar-
tist ofsome celebrity, now residing in Europe.

 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

EDITOR’S RETREAT.

    

 

The question has arisen how far personal
exposure is tolerable and allowable. Some
papers have taken the stand that nudity is
not, necessarily, immodesty, but is rather de-
sirable where the artist w0uld deal with the
highest class of subjects, namely—to render
nature so truly and purely as to lift the
mind above the possibility of a base infer-
ence. Other papers (and, strangely enough,
the New York Herald!) have held the exiti-
bition to be improper, bad in its tendency,
and debasing to true art.

We have thought much upon this question
of “privilege to art,” which claims the right
to deal with a class of subjects forbidden in
life and in thought even; and we can not
find it in our judgment, or in our sense of
what is right and proper to admit the propri-
ety of such exhibitions as the one named.

The position of the Herald beyond ques-
tion, is the true one :——any delineation, in
marble, on canvas, or in words, which can
cause the modest check a tinge of shame—
which can excite questionable remark or
doubtful inference is not a proper nor a tol-
erable performance. Exposure of the person
is always shrunk from by a properly educated
person, and nature hersclf teaches the limits
of the allowable. In cases where a tragedy
is enacted and nature is outraged, the mind
recoils, and the effect is one of pity and pain.
Thus. in the “Dying Gladiator,” the “ Lao-
coon’» “The Greek Slave,” etc., the telling
0f the tragedy is allowable because the im-
pression is one of profoundest pity. Had
“ the Greek,” for instance, not been exposed
in a market-place, and had the exprcuzon
of the subject been other than one of suffer-
ing, it would have been too immodest for
any decent recognition.

When, instead of the cold and pallid mar.
ble, we have the canvas and the tints of a
warm pallettc, with accessories of any char-
acter which the taste of the artist may die.
mm, the ground of propricties becomes
doubly dangerous; and 8 subject must show
an absolute necessity for any undue exposure
of the person to warrant the delineation.

Was this the case with Mr. Page’s work?
Not at all. Ile went not only back of any
necessity, but made a pretence of a subject in
order to paint the figure of a female in im~

 

  

-we have seen in print before.

 

proper manner and language. Ilis work
calls “Venus Leading the Ships of mucus
to the Latin Shore.” These “ ships" scarce-
ly appear‘in the scene—indeed, are not a
feature of it, and are simply thrown in u an
excuse for the real picture ofa figure pam‘
a-la-Tt'tian, with not a shadow around her
person, not a look, or attitude, or feature to
lift the subject into the ideal so as to render
the impression pure. As a work of mere de-
lineation it is fine; but, as the evolution ot'a
thought—as the expression of a sentiment,
it has not a shadow more of claim upon
propriety or decency than those exhibitions
which even the “authorities” of New York
were called upon to suppress. We, there-
fore protest against such pictures, and shall
mourn the day when American art and the
American public shall tolerate the moral
enormity without expression of disgust.

CONTENT.

The following comes to us from a friend :
is it original? It seems very like something

It ought to
have formed a sub-chapter to our late essay
on “Contentment :”

Mistaken mortal, ever fretting,
Grasping, grinding, groaning, getting,
Be content !

lt' thou hast enough, be thankful,
Just as if thou lmd‘st a bankful,
Be content i

If fortune cast thy lot but humble,
Earn thy bread, and do not grumble,
Be content !

Have the rich, think'et thou, no trouble?
Twice thy wealth, thy aorrowa double-
Be content l

List the lore of learned sage!—
Those wise men of the Grecian .80!-
Be content !

Their reckoning up of all earth's riches,
Wu compaaa'd in one short phrase, which is
Bemntent l

The rich man gets, with all his heaping,

But are“, and drink, and food, and fleeping,
Be content l .1 

Though in sleep the rich men gain  "

Poor men sleep when rich men may 1.
Be content!

Remember, thou for wealth who rakest,
« Rought thou broughteat, nought thou taken
Be content l

  
 
 

       

mm

'..._...-au._m. . 1.4”." l
 - . -v.
a l ,. _

 

«aargwm‘f mac-u...” ' “ii-9‘.

THE HOME.

 

“Sheathed is the river as it glideth by,
Frost—pearl’d are all the boughs in forests old,
The sheep are huddling close upon the wold,

And over them the stars tremble on high.
Pure joys these winter nights, arOund me lie :
’Tis fine to loiter through the lighted streets
At Christmas-time, and guess from brow and pace
Thedoom and history of each one we meet ;
What kind of heart beats in each dusky case ;
While startled by the beauty of a face
In ashop lightamoment ; or, instead,
To dream of silent holds, when calm and deep
The sunshine lieth like a golden sleep—
Becalling sweetest looks of summer dead."
HE extract we quote, from a modern
English poet, is a whole text for the
month of December. The riVer’s icy sheath
We have all often seen, sometimes with pleas-
ure and sometimes with dread, according to
whether our systems were braced up to meet
the icy spears that invisibly pierce us, when
the Frost King has his spearsmen abroad;
or whether so sensitive, and shrinking from
debility or too luxurious habits, that We
could not with impunity encounter his ma-
jesty’s armed hosts. But we agree with the
poet, that “Pure joys these winter nights
around us lie.” We really cannot guess the
effect of an endless summer upon humanity,
in our country; but our present summer of
’9! four months suspends social pleas-
 in the city. With the return
_ ‘ l‘foome again the hospitalities and
gay loiflverybody puts on their hand-
some silks, and velvets, and furs; and
their best hat and overcoat, and parade
Broadway by daylight: and by gaslight
there are all sorts of social and public amuse-
ments that wealth, talent, and ingenuity can
invent. Then, indeed, “’Tis fine to loitcr
through the lighted streets ;” but while we
see all the beauty and gayety, it is well to re-
gard pitifully, if not with actual benevolence,
that other class, to whom winter brings no

such deli ts. Let us thank God, reverently

  
  

 
 
 

and I that we are not, as they are,
in a , _ , ondition: that our feet are not
bare “ ; our breasts beaten upon by the

.merciless winter-winds: and let us resolve to
{award such institutions as have it for their

HOME HINTS

   
  

 

AND HELPS.

to be sending clothing to the natives of a
clime where perpetual summer r'eigns.

City pleasures in winter are very exciting
and fascinating; but we dOubt whether they
are as real and as satisfactory as those of the
country. We. have a strong affection for
country sleigh-rides, country parties, and
even country balls, where a whole neighbon
hood, whose acquaintance dates from child-
hood, meet togcthcr to be merry and social
for a winter evening. There is real merri-
ment—and not simpering, languid, whisper-
ing, fashionable ostentation of enjoyment,
where no enjoyment is. There everybody
is supposed to be invited, because his or her
presence is desired by the inviter, and not
for any peculiar attraction which may be af-
forded to other 'lnviters, or because the in-
viter feels compelled to do so rather than
lose a Valuable influence in some certain
quarter. In short, We‘still cherish the idea
that cordiality and sincerity, in some man-
ner, pertain to the country, and that there we
are certain of meeting with “ friendship that
is not feigning, and loving that is not mere
folly,” as Shakspeare says that friendship
and love are. ,

But it is our duty, in this department, to
give our lady readers some housekeeping
hints. If you have been good housewives
and attended to previous hin‘ts, you have al-
ready nearly finished up the work of the
current year. Still, lest you should have
some little jobs of whitewashing, cleaning,
kc, left to do, we shall give you a few good
receipts: promising that, in the coming year,
you shall have the benefit of our best ex-
perience personally, and our best judgment
editorially, in selections from the most relia-
ble authorities.

Demons Our-noon Wan—Mix whiting
(Spanish white) with buttermilk to a con-
sistence a little thicker than common lime
whitewash; to every pailful (two and a
half gallons?) of the mixture add two table-
spoonfuls of salt and one-half pint of boiled
Linseed oil.

ANOTHIR vsar HARD Wan—Mix one-

 

 

 

 

 

 

nous man's AND Ems;

 
   

 

 

half bushel of lime; one-half lb. of white ‘

Vitriol (sulphate of zinc); two quarts of salt;
and five 1bs_ of, sugar—any refuse sugar will
answer.

Tlxrsn Wasnssm—Take half a bushel of
nice unSIaked lime; slake it with boiling
water; cover it, during the process, to keep
it in the strainer; and add to it a peek of
clean salt pi’eviously’ well dissolved in warm
water, three pounds of ground rice boiled to
a thin paste, and stirred in boiling hot, half
a pound of clean glue which has been
previously dissolved by first soaking it well,
and then hanging it mm a slow fire in a
small kettle within a large one filled with
water. Add five gallons of hot water to the
whole mixture; stir it well, and let it stand
a few days covered from the dirt. It sh0uld
be put on right hot; for this purpose, it can
be kept in a kettle on a portable furnace. It
is said that about one pint of this mixture
will cover a square yard upon the outside of
ahouse, if properly applied.

Brushes, more or less small, may be used
according to the neatncss of the job re-
quired. It answers as well as oil paint for
wood, brick, or stone, and is cheaper. It
retains its brilliancy for many years. There
is nothing of the kind that will compare with
it, either for inside or outside walls. Color—
ing matter may be put in, and made of any
shade you like.

And these hints are reasonable for the
. larder: '

To Passsavs Benn roa Wmng...Take
two parts of the best common salt, one part
of good loaf sugar, and one part saltpetre;
beat them well together; to sixteen ounce,
of butter thoroughly cleansed from the milk,
put [one ounce of the above composition ;
work it well, and put it into pots when quite
firm and cold.

To MAKE YELLow Bunsa nr Win-an.—
Just before the termination of churning, put
in the yelk of eggs. It has been kept a
secret, but its value requires publicity.

To Fassnss Saar BU'n'fl.-Work it over
in small quantities in cold water, changing
the water till it is clear. Then mix a tea-
spoonful of white sugar and a table-spoonful
of fine salt into each pound of butter. Do
up in rolls, or pack in jars.

 

  
 

To Cnaer Bunk—Scrape off the 0
side of the butter you may require, and put
it into a stewpan by the side of a s1ow fire,
where it must remain till the scum rises to
the top, and the milk settles to the bottom;
carefully with a spoon take off the scum;
when clear it is fit for~use. - ‘

Here is a capital recipe for clear starching
—-a process which even many a good house
wife does not well understandz—Collars,
under-sleeves, or hmdkerchiefs, of very fine
muslin or lace, will not hear much squeezing
or rubbing when washed. They can be
made perfectly white and clean without
either, by the following process: Rinse
them carefully through clear water, then
soap them with white soap; place flat on a
dish or saucer, and cover with water; place
them in the sun. Let them remain two or
three days, changing the water frequently
and turning them. Once every day take
them out, rinse carefully, soap, and place in
fresh water. The operation is a tedious, and
rather troublesome one, but the first. em.
broidery comes out perfectly white, and is
not worn at all ; where, in common washing,
it would be very apt to tear. When they
are white, rinse and starch in the usual way.

Also some directions for those good things
which “ all hands ” like:

Cans PANCAKES.—-Mix yelks of two eggs ‘
with half a pint of cream and two Ounces of
sugar; rub a pan with lard, and fry as thin
as possible. Grate sugar over them and
serve hot.

BELL FRITTERS.—Stil‘ into a pint of flour 6
pint of boiling water, until it becomes
smooth. When cool, beat into the mixture
seven eggs and a little salt. Have read!
some boiling lard, and fry the batter‘“
spoonful at a time.

Suns repulse—Three c“PS of flour,
one cup of suet, one cup or "isms! one cup
of molasses, two cups of milk, one teaspoon.
ful bicarbonate of soda. Chop the 5"“ ""7
fine, Put it in the flour with theflngre‘
dim“, Imd swam it two hours. M g, eaten
with lemon dip- ‘ , ' f ‘1

COURT-PLASTEB is made by covering .ghin
silk with a coat of isinglass. The latter 1.
also a principal ingredient in the manufactu
of postage-stamps.

 
     

   

THE HOME.

 

 

 
 
 

NE of the most prominent features of. a
lady’s dress is the sleeve, upon which a
great deal of good and bad taste is exhibited,

both by the ladies themselves and by the
“artiste” maker. The present styles are
pleasing, if not very imposing. The sleeve,-

' termed the Marie Stuart style, comes up
every few years, and is now ton. It is com-
posed of a succession of puffs from the shoul-

der to the wrist, confined at short intervals

by bands around the arm, and made not

wit “ample fullness,” but simply looseflAn-

other style has puffings or other trimmings

on the upper part only, with a full bishop
sleeve, or a flowing one below. Any one of

these will look well on thin people, or those
whose arms are unduly long and meager:
while a sleeve of very simple form, drooping

from the shoulder, is most becoming to the
plump and petite. Of these the Sultana is,

' though not the newest form, one of the most
elegant and distingue. It is somewhat like

a mandarin sleeve, wide at the bottom,
where it is generally cut square, and open

up the seam to within an inch of the top.
Sometimes it is so cut as to fit tight round

the shoulder; at others it is made as wide at

the top as at the bottom, and set into the

~ corsage in full box-plaits. The inside of
 ' such I sleeve requires to be trimmed with
 inch wide satin ribbon of the color of the
 lining, and box-plaited in the center. The

under-sleeve, if trimmed with ribbon, ought
to be ornamented quite to the top, in the
,. form of a cone. w

 Madame l’ullan offers, in a paragraph on
U this subject, in one of her late papers, the
following hints: “We would suggest to
these who study economy, that a remarkably
pretty one may be made of black illusion,
trimmed with black velvet ribbon, and,
when completed, lined with somewhabstiii‘
white not, The sleeve, With its velvet
" ould be made perfect without
, lug, which can readily be wash.

 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
     

  
  
 

and pretty as a white illusion Sleeve: and

4

,_ more appropriate: it is also much

» any dress trimmed with black Velvet,

 

EDITo’Rs TABLE.

very rich on it. They are, indeed, daily be-
coming more fashionable, as velvet, their
most appropriate concomitant, is more and
more worn.”

-—We receive many kind notes which it
would be a pleasure to quote if they were
not too personal. Miss C. H. W., of Tual-
tin, Oregon, says : “I shall always take ‘The
Iiome’ so long as it sustains its present char-
acter—it should be in every family.” Miss
Harriet L., of Geneva, begs us to “consider
her good for at least two clubs, as she con-
siders it a duty to work for such a magazine.
She would canvas for no other.” Little
Susie Gray, of Robinvale, Chatauque county,
“wants us to publish more stories for little
folks," and says “she will get a subscriber
for every story we will give her!” Orlando
G., of St. Louis, wishes us to make a gen-
eral agency in that city, where “The Home”
can be had, like other monthlies, by the
month. He adds: “it is the best family
magazine I eVer read—each number is worth
a year’s subscription to me, and I know that
others would think as much of it if they only
knew its character." And so the records
run. Let us say here that we, editorially,
thank all for their sympathy and good words,
and will do all in our power to render the
monthly more desirable in future than it has

‘ been in the past. That the publishers mean

to do their part is apparent from their pros-
pectus. .
—— We cheerfully read contributions in-
elosed to us, where the MS. is perfectly legi-
ble, written on one side only, and shows at a
glance that the author knows how to express
her or himself. But, MS. which is written
in a blind, blurred hand, on both sides of
the sheet, is, we may say, the especial hor-
ror of editors ; and many a really good con-
tribution is marked “ Rej.” for no other rea.
son than the editor’s want 0f time and
patience to decipher the ehirography. We
have on hand several of such MS. which we
should be glad to have re-prepared, viz :—
“ A Life for a Heart,” “The Great Ogre Of
Talktown,” “ Every one to His own Busi-
ness,” and “The Mother’s Hope, Lost and
Found.” Those of our young friends who

 

 

 

 

 

 

EDITOR‘S TABLE. ‘

 
   

,.

 

ask that we shall read compositions they may
submit, and criticise them, are asking what
we can not perform for want of time. It is
a good idea. for the young to write upon any
given theme, and have their work submitted
to some elder and properlyaqualified person
for corrections and criticism; but we are too
much occupied to perform such an office,
and must here decline to receive the remit-
tances prepared by several of our young
friends.

._._. The following item was given in our
November issue, but with several typograph-
ical errors, which will excuse its repetition in
a corrected form. ‘

We will use, in the course of the coming
volume, several stories to run through two
or three numbers: but will say, to save an-
swering inquiries of parties who propose to
write serials for us, that our "continued"
stories are already provided for. What we
now wish from contributors is matter to be
contained in from three to ten pages of one
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 especial attention. We
hope to have liberal favors from our goodly
number of most excellent contributors and
literary friends.

It will be seen, by reference to the pub-
lishers’ announcements, who are to prepue
the serials and special papers of the coming
you“ These engagements can not fail of
rendering this magazine a greater household
favorite and more popularly acceptable than
ever.

‘ We are frequently asked by interest-
ed persons to “notice” this, that, and the
other thing—to call attention to some book,
or teacher, or school—some nostrum or ware
which has wondrous virtues. Suppose we
should open the pages of the magazine to
such notices, what would be the result? The
disgust of readers, and no good results to
follow to publishers, editor, or the “favored”
party. It is not our intention to do these
favors, for two reasons: first, we can not
pufl' any thing; second, we will not aid in
putting off upon the public any thing of
whose virtues we are not fully advised; and,

 

 

  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
  
  
  
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
  
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
   
 
   
  
 
  
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
     

as we are not so advised in regard to f... 
things asking the editorial mention, the
“notice” can not be given. We prefer that
the magazine should be judged by a higher
and nebler standard of literature than no'
tices which are, after all, but advertisements
given as a favor; and, therefore, say to
those who apply, by letter or in person, for
these favors, we can not consent to do them.

——Our Book Notices are crowded out
this month in order to make room for the
title and index pages to the volume. We
have several works to which we should have
referred with pleasure, had space permitted.
We may name as some of the books of the
month: “Sword and Gown,” by the author
of “Guy Livingstone ;” “The Old Stone
Mansion,” by Chas. J. Peterson; “Ger-
maine,” from the French of Edmund About,
by Mary L. Booth; “Lizzy Glenn; or, the
Trials of a Seamstress,” by T. S. Arthur;
“The Adventures of Verdant Green,” by
Cuthbert Bede; “The Life of Mary Stuart”
(Queen of the Scots), from the French .of
Lamartinc, “Household Library" series; and
“Poems,” by Susan Archer Talley. The
magazines of the month are very fine, as
they always are at the year’s close and open-
ing. The most beautiful, and, we may say,
one of the most admirable of all, is the
“Cosmopolitan Art Journal,” which is a
perfect gallery of superb illustrations and
fine articles by eminent pens. The “ Atlan-
tic”. has passed into the hands of Messrs.
Ticknor & Fields, of Boston, and doubtless
will increase upon its phitherto excellence. g, ,
“ Godey” and ‘Knickerbocker” promise flne ,
things for the flew year. Altogether. We \
think it may be said that our magazine me"
ature is quite up to the best standard “hid!
the tastes of their patrons will bear—t0 be
much in advance of that taste "mild be t0 
lose subscribers and soup to end the publica-
tion entirely. Those 800d: diam" “19d
souls who keep clamoring, f9? 0“" newspaper
and periodical literature to beat} 
more “solid” and useful, would “  .
selves and all their means“ in a magazine or .
paper, and then become so good as to lose .
their subscribers! they would then learn the
"acuity of catering to the taste of readera'
to as great a degree as was proper to retain H 

 
 

‘6‘,

     

THE HOME.

 

   

u: readers. Lead the taste gently, is a
good maxim for pulflishers-it will not be
forced. It shall be the effort of this maga‘
zine to lead—it certainly shall not follow :—
it shall be made as good, useful, and desira-
ble as all circumstances will allow.

—— A movement is on foot, in New
York, to erect a monument to Dr. Kane. It
proposes, in order to create a fund, a series
of lectures by eminent persons, at the Acad-
emy of Music. Geo. Banks leads off, tobe
followed by Mr. Mitchell, the astronomer.
The list includes the name of H. L. Hosmer,
of Ohio, a gentleman of fine talents and
great excellence of character. Our sympa-
thies are in this work; Dr. Kane stands out
as a hero and martyr in the cause of scien-
tific investigation and personal search for
the lost Sir John Franklin. Such men de-
serve monuments; and we sincerely hope
the means will be found to honor Dr. Kane's
memory as it deserves.

PUBLISHERS, ANNOUNCEMENTS.

In laying before the old patrons of our
magazine the programme of the new year,
we take a pride and satisfaction which never
before has been so fully permitted us—pride
in our monthly, and satisfaction in its mate-
rial and literary success. We shall open the
year with the change of title contemplated
upon our removal to New York, at the be-
ginning of last year, but then prevented by
seasons which it is now useless to refer to.

 I The change, we a sure, will ‘please every

I patrOn; and it is purpose to make it, in

‘ . 3 - all respects, such gag as the homes
a

and daughters of A uire. Some of
the [features of the jiear 0 given On the
cover-page and fly-leaf: in the front of this
number. Let us especially refer all to them,
that they may realize the good things in
store. ,. 3,

-—-We desire to thank our old friends
and patrons fun ‘he faVOPable 00n8ideration
show ,mont fy under its new auspices
d ,' year past. Their liberal co-oper-
Iti sympathy has enabled us to carry

 
  
  
      
    
    
 
 
    

  

 

forward our enterprise most successfully—
even beyond our most sanguine expectation.
While we desire to have all feel an interest
in the publication, We ask for it no sympathy
from personal or local considerations, and
wish [it to be taken upon its merits, solely.
This will relieve all from the claim preferred
by some magazines of a cheap character, for
support from reasons other than the merit of
the publication. All we wish is for our old
and new subscribers to give us just the
patronage merited. Compare this monthly
with any published at its price, in this coun-
try, for real, substantial excellence and pop-
ular interest: if it does not merit a prefer-
ence over all, don’t take it! With this we
lay the claims of the magazine before all, and
hope for such a list as will not fail to place
us in possession of the means for still greater
improvements and enlargement in future
volumes.

—- Most inviting offers are made for
clubs and canvassers, for which Write to us for
“special circular.” We shall make it an ob-
ject, for ladies and canvassers generally, to
work for the “Monthly.” We not only'pro-
pose to publish a capital and popular maga-
zine, but also propose to circulate it; and to
this end we invite attention to Our offers to
clubs and lists. Send for “Special Circu-
lar I”

———-All correspondence with us should
be directed tc our address, in full. Com-
munications for the editor can be sent to us,
in our care. In writing for the magazine,
parties who wish their communications re-
turned in event of their non-acceptance, will
remit stamps.

—— Parties wishing to obtain the numbers
of “ The Home” containing all the story, “The
Wrong Righted; Or, the Old Heart and the
New,” can have them by applying to the
publishers, and remitting one dollar for
eleven numbers. The story has excited
unusual interest, and has served to fully to
confirm our opinion of it, as announced in
our last December issue, namely : that it
would prove the best serial of the year.