.THEHOME: 3 wanting, for ttge 213ife,ttgemutlget, ttge Sister, ant] tlge @aug‘gter. VOL. V.—FEBRUARY, 1858.—N0. II. 7‘ . ‘4 MARTHA WASHINGTON. BY MRS. C. 5*.” HALBERT. HE venerated forms of 0ur,Revo- lutionary sires are first receding . ehind us. , Ofthe kervhivfed matrons and White-haired patriarchs, who, not Inany years since, filled the seat of Onor in so many of our homes, how ‘eW remain! How few are left who Gard the boom of the first gun at VOL. v. 4. Lexington, or caught with swelling hearts, the Clear, jubilant pen] of In- dependence Bell, as it rung out Liberty to all the people. When wintry winds howl around the farm-house, and snow-drifts blznlket the windows, who narrates to eager grzmdehildrcn imprisoned within, the fearful story i _ V l i V i 3. . 56 THE HOME. of the camp at Valley Forge? What feeble and palsied hand still among us vaunts having led forth the gentle dames of the Republican Court, in the stately minuet, and what aged matron loves to linger with a pleasing vanity on the olden time, when she danced in the moonlight with the gallant F renchman? We have just laid the beloved forms of Mrs. Madison and Mrs. Hamilton in the grave, and soon there will not be upon the face of the earth, a single man or woman, who can say with a just pride, “I have seen Washington.” It becomes us, while the last of the Revolutionary heroes still linger with us, to glean again and again the fruit- ful fields of their memories, and gather the sheaves into the sure garner of written history, winnowing not too se- verely, for the straw and chafl‘ of to- ,day, will be sacred in the eyes of our posterity. We have no new features to present in the life of Martha Wash- ington; but it is good to stand often before. the portraits of Our ancestors, the fair and gentle, as well as the stern and mail-clad, to learn what elements both of strength and grace, were, molded into our young republic. Martha Dandridge, destined to ap- pear so conspicuously in the annals of her country, was born in New Kent 00., Va., May, 1732. Her family was ancient and honorable; and it was no- ticeable, that all the connexions of Washington, near and remote, be- longed to the patricians of the land. Martha is first introduced to us, as a favorite belle at the court of Gov. Dinwiddie. Iler youth, beauty, and fascinating manners, drew around her a large circle of admirers, among whom were many sons of aristocratic families, suitors for her hand. She:- gave the preference to Daniel Parke Custis, and was married to him at the age of seventeen. The union was as happy as it was brilliant. Col. Curtis was a fine specimen of a Vir- ginia gentleman, a man of honor, in- tegrity, and refined tastes. He bore his beautiful bride to his plantation, where she. proved by her excellent management, mere girl as she was, no poor toy for the drawing-room. Four children crowned this union, two of whom died young, and were speedily followed by their father. Thus at the age of twenty-four, Mrs. Custis was thrice bereft—was left alone with two tender babes, and the sole management of a large estate. Many eyes were soon turned upon the young mistress of the “White House,” (name prophetic;) many well-born gentlemen, looked enviously on her broad and fertile meadows, and counted over and over her vested funds. But the suits of _none prospered, and it was not till Col. Washington. then in the flush of his first success, addressed her, that she could be persuaded to lay aside the weeds of widowhood. Irving describes their first, accidental interview; after premising, that the young soldier, while on military busi- ness of urgent haste, was captured by a Mr. Chamberlayne, in whose family Mrs. Custis was staying, and carried home almost forcibly to din~ ner, he says: “The dinner, which in those days was an earlier meal than at present, seemed all too short. The afternoon passed away like a dream. Bishop was punctual to the orders he had received on halting; the horses pawed at the door; but for once, Washington loitered in the path of duty. The horses were counter- manded, and it was not till the next morning, that he was again in the saddle spurring for Williamsburg.” The gallant Colonel pushed his suit with a soldier’s directness, and soon it was whispered, that bridal prep- arations on a magnificent scale were going on in the widow’s mansion. On the 6th of January, 1759, a brill- iant assemblage, gathered from the elite of Virginia, assisted at the mar- riage. “Much (says a historian) hath our biographer heard of that marriage from gray-haired domestics, who wait- ed at the board where love made the feast, and Washington was the guest. And rare and high was the revelry at l ? . Mamm- cw.» wwww-L . , svms. E ,1, ,i i Q MARTHA WASHINGTON. 57 X that palmy period of Virginia's festal age; for many were gathered at that marriage, of the good and great, the glfted and the gay, while Virginia, Wlth joyous acclamation, hailed in her youthful hero a prosperous and happy bridegroom. . Mrs. Washington accompanied her husband soon after, to that home over Which she presided for nearly half a century. Mt. Vernon was not then the palatial mansion it 'afterward .be- Came. It contained but four rooms on the ground floor, and, although am- ~ Ply large for Washington in his bach- elor days, was quite strait enough for the guests who trooped in true south— ern style, to welcome his accomplighed Wife. The colonel immediately set about the adornment of his house and grounds. Six busts, “ two wild beasts not to exceed twelve inches in hight,” and “sundry small ornaments for Chinmey-piece,” were ordered from urope; also shrubbery not indigen- 0us here. Mrs. Washington had her Chariot, with servants in white and Scarlet liveries. Seldom did they sit down at their beautiful board, without guests, often the royal governor, or some high military personage. The most perfect system reigned at Mt. Vernon. Washington, the mest methodical, accurate, and punc- tilious of men, was never annoyed by disorde‘rgiv domestic arrangements. rs. ashington arose with the dawn, and managed to make a general Inquisition of the house, while her guests were still wooing their pillows, never soiling the exquisite neatness of her light, flowing dress, though she Was no stranger to the kitchen and Store-room. After breakfast, it was her invariable rule to retire to her room and spend an hour in private devotions. It was in daily commu- nlon with her God, that this Christian mistress and mother learned to pos- sess her soul in quietness, and to maintain that unruflied serenity for Which she was so remarkable. Mrs. \Vashington devoted herself V very faithfully to her two surviving children. They were the sunshine of Mt. Vernon. It is amusing to find among the Cheshire cheeses, white bis- cuits, caps and tuckers, ordered from London on one occasion, these items: for Master John Custis, six years old, “six little bOOks for children be- ginning to read,” and “ten shillings’ worth of toys; ” also, for Miss Patty Custis, four years old, “one fashion- able dressed baby,” to cost ten shil- lings. This “Patty ” Was a babe at her father’s death, and grew into a peculiarly fair and graceful girl. By her sweetness of' disposition, she won strangely on the stern nature of her adopted father. By rank, fortune, V and personal charms, she had seemed predestined to the brightest lot of all Virginia's daughters; but just when the promise of her girlhood was rip— ening, she was cut down. Then it was that Washington, all unused to the melting mood, knelt by the bed- side of the dying girl —the fountains of his heart all broken up—and poured forth agonizing prayers for her restoration. Bereaved again and again of her idols, the sorrowing mother rested her love on her only remaining child, John Parke Custis. She could not bear to deny him any thing which his soul craved, and often allowed him ir- regular indulgencies, which the more judicious foster-father could not sanc- tion. With his best efforts he could never carry his ward through a sys- tematic education, suitable to his posi- tion and fortune. By Washington’s influence, the boy was not taken from school and sent on his European trav- els when he was scarcely sixteen. About a year after, a new diver- sion arose. Young Custis was in love —- engaged — and only waited his father’s consent to bring a bride to Mt. Vernon. The match was suit, able enough, but premature; and, as even the cautious guardian could not but acknowledge “Miss N elly’s ami- able qualities,” the young lovers, after an unlocked for constancy of mor 58 THE HOME. than three years, were married. During the war, Col. Castis was Gen. Washington’s aid-de-camp, and his wife and four little ones, resided at Mt. Vernon, mitigating greatly the loneli- noss of Mrs. Washington by their cheerful Society. Just after the sur- render of Cornwallis, the gallant Colo- nel fell a victim to a malignant fever, and expired in the arms of his mother. But we anticipate. After sixteen years of such wedded happiness, as does not often fall to one human lot, ,Mrs. Washington surrendered her husband to her country. During the whole Revolution, he never once vis- ited the home he loved so much. But the wife might well be content, who received such assurances as this: “I should enjoy more real happiness in one month, with you at home, than I have the most distant prospect of finding abroad, if my stay were to be seven times seven years.” Mrs. Washington was not idle dur- ing this long absence. Besides much additional care of the estate, she con- stantl y superintended sixteen spinning- wheels, and the Corresponding labors of the loom. She once showed a friend two home-made dresses of cot- ton, striped with silk, the stripes being woven from “the ravelings of brown silk stockings and old crimson damask chair covers.” It was her patriotic pride, when her husband he- came chief magistrate, to attire him in a complete suit of home-spun. She was always a careful economist, lib- eral in hospitality and charity, but never permitting wastefulness in her large household. Mrs. Washington was accustomed to say that “ she had heard the first can- non at the opening, and the last at the closing of all the campaigns of the Revolution.” As soon as the Gen- eral took up winter quarters, it was her habit to join him, and remain un- til spring. It must not be supposed, that these annual journeys to the American camp, although they were attended by such royal and affection- ate demonstrations as made them ‘ n 9 often triumphal, partook at all of the character of a modern pleasure trip. Performed usually.in early winter, over frozen mud roads by slow stages, for the General would never suffer his favorite carriage horses to be be overdriven, they must have surely tasked the patience of her, who was waiting to embrace husband and son. Nor did this patriotic woman find in ‘thc log-huts of Morristown and Valley Forge, the elegant comforts to which she had been accustomed from infancy. But little did she repine so long as her presence could win smiles from the grave brow of \Vashington, and. soothe his chafed and anxious heart. Mrs. Ellet’s Reminiscence of her winter at Morristown will show how cheerfully she bore her discom- forts. her as comfortable as possible, had secured two raw apprentices to fin- ish off a private room for her in the left of his rude dwelling. “She came,” says one of these boy carpenters, “ into the place—a portly- looking, agreeable woman of forty- five, and said to us, ‘Now, young men, I care for nothing but com- fort here; and should like you to fit me up a beaufet in one side of the room, and ‘some shelves and places for hanging clothes in the other.’ “'e went to work‘with all our might. Every morning about eleven, Mrs. Washington came up stairs with a glass of spirits for each of us; and, after she and the General had dined, we were called down to, eat at their table. We worked very hard, nail- ing smooth boards over the rough and worm-eaten planks, and stopping the crevi‘ces in the walls made by time and hard usage. We then con- sulted together how we could smooth the uneven floor, and take out or cover over some of the huge black knots. We studied to do every thing to please so pleasant a lady, and to make some return in our humble way for the kindness of the General. On the fourth day, when Mrs. Washington Her husband,wishing to make ‘ . ‘ .&.§2-‘l.rz~ WW , -,.~,u.- my. , .— a u l . i 1 i l i l t l b: ,3 MARTHA WASHINGTON. ‘ came up to see how we were getting along, we had finished the Work, made the shelves, built the bcaufet, and converted the. rough gar- I'et into a eomfbrtable apartment. ‘AS she stood looking arOund I said, Madam, we-have endeavored to do the best we could; I hope we have suited you.’ She replied, smiling, ‘I am astonished! Your work would do honor to an old master, and you are mere lads. Iam not only satis- fied, but highly gratified by what you ave done for my comfort.’ But we must not imagine that the Company gathered almost daily within Phe peor apartments of Mrs. Wash- lngton, during these dreary winters, Was rude and unpolished. The gal- lant Roehambeau, and chivalrous Kos- ciusko, found high converse and gen- tle curtesy at her table, though they missed the sparkling wines and epic- llI‘ean viands of other days. But chiefest and most sacred ‘ I among the friendships formed at this time, was that with wives of the offi- cers ; and a noble company they Were, each one worthy of her lord and coun- try. Ungrateful shall we be, when We forget to celebrate those heroic dames, who yearly made toilsome Pilgrimage to the patriot camp, to Share the dangers and sufferings of 011!“ war-chiefs, and inspirit hearts Often ready to faint, by their own Prophetic courage. There was that 1n the demeanor and conversation of ‘these women, and of their sisters throughout the land, which put to ‘Shame the vaunt of Burgoyne, that ‘he would dance with the ladies, and Coax the men to submission.” We learn, that Mrs. Washington did not occupy herself wholly with the amenities of social life. Like the Ann J udsons, Lady Sales, and Flor- ence‘ Nightingales of blessed renown, She visited the sick and wounded sol- diers, and performed those soohting ministries which only a womap can fender. She was a universal favorite 111 camp; her arrival \ 'as a sign for gen- eral gladncss, and heartfelt benedictions 59 arose from many watch-fires when the name of good “Lady Washington” was uttered. A cotcmporary thus describes her person at this time: “ She is about forty, or five and forty, rather plump, but fresh and of an agreeable countenance.” It must have been an exquisite mo- ment in the life of Martha Washing- ton, when, aftcr an absence of nine years, she welcomed her husband Vic- torious to his beloved home. He came back with added furrows in his cheek, and many more threads of sil- ver in his hair, but he were such an amaranth as never befiire bound 3. conqueror’s brow. He who refused to be Caesar, came home, to forget his fame in the arms of his family. \Ve love to fancy that hour ; —- W ashing- ton at home — his grand-children, some of whom he could never have Seen, prattling around him — the old servants coming with proud delight to shake hands with their beloved master — the visits of recognition to his noble steeds and old familiar spots. There were jubilant thanksgivings as- cending to the Prince of Peace on that memorable Christmas-day, from many devout hearts, but none more fervent than those of George and Martha Washington. Long had the re-united pair antici- pated the time when they “ should be suffered to grow old together in soli- tude and tranquillity.” It seemed now to have arrived. \Vashington re- turned to his old pursuits—filling fields, fattening herds, and adorning grounds as aforetimc. Within doors, his comely lady presided over his en- larged establishment, with the old energy and grace. So laborious had her duties become, that we find her ever-thoughtful husband seek- ing a housekeeper to relieve her “from the drudgery of ordering and seeing the table properly covered, and things economically used.” After six years of such rest as those only who have worn the public yoke can enjoy, Washington was again i called by his country, to take up? his «kn—i. .W. 3...»... “v.3. ‘ 60 THE HOME. - burden. During the eight years of his Presidency, his faithful wife was by his side. Her position was one of peculiar delicacy. It devolved upon her, with the President, to establish the social usages of .the government. They had no precedents to guide them, for such a Republic as the American had never existed. They were to es- tablish an etiquette, not stately and punetilious like that of European Courts; nor, on the other hand, too democratic; but sufficiently imposing to give dignity to the Presidential mansion. Washington and his lady arranged the ceremonials of their so- cial life with admirable discretion,— nobody dared trespass the bounds of decorum in his presence, nobody could 'help being cheerful in hers. The annals of the first Republican Court have been often written. Even foreigners commended the ease and grace, with which Mrs. Washington filled her high position. The state dinners did not disgrace her taste, or the vaunted skill of Hercules the cook. v In 1797, Washington, venerable in years, and laden with glory, returned finally to the bosom of his family. The simple and tranquil dignity of his last days, were such as poets' love to' sing. The scarred companions of his victories came and went as they listed through his hospitable doors. “ The wise men of the East” laid their homage at the feet of the ineorrupti- ble Hero; and the grateful peans bf a filial nation, rocked him to his final rest. Kneeling by his motionless remains, and looking u on that majestic counte- nance, Mrs. ' ashington found strength to say, “ ’ Tis well; all is now over; I shall soon follow him; I have no more trials to pass through.” She had indeed survived all her family; five graves had opened to receive her dead, and nothing new remained for her, but to lie down by their side. Earth had crowned her name with immortal re- nown; it could do nothing more, and she desired to make what haste she y; could, to rejoin her departed in an- other country. The tWO years that Mrs. Washington tarried in widow- hood, were like the still close of an autumn day, thoughtful, but not sad. She omitted no accustomed duty, neg- lected no wonted act of Christian court- esy. In the year 1801, she gently ex- pired. If any mother, since the virgin of Judea laid her babe in the manger, deserves to be esteemed happy, that mother is Marty Washington. Other sons have lived virtuously, and wrought manful and illustrious deeds, but to whom, like our Washington, have strength, and will, and opportu- nity been given, to enlarge the birth- right of Freedom on the earth? If any wife should be saluted as “ fortu- nate,” thatwife is Martha Washington. The daughter was not indeed pre-em inent in those severer qualities, in which the mother so much resembled . the noble matrons of antiquity; but ' she had these sweet graces and ameni- ties, which enabled her to soften the austere character of her husband. She was born to be the companion, not the parent of a hero; and as such, this chaste, delicate and true woman, forms the fit complement to the glory of Washington. THE London News, speaking of the cost of ladies’ dresses, says: “We, take this mischievous —‘almost fatal -—-extravagance in female dress, to be one result of continental despotism. All forms of fantastic luxury, signal- ize the reign of despotism every where, naturally, and to the satisfaction gen- erally of the despot. Nothing is so alarming to absolute rulers, as to see their people too much occupied by the most important interests of human life, to care for more superficial ex- citements; and nothing pleases such rulers more, than to see the whole public bent upon pleasure, and exer- cising their wits in a contest of ex, travagance." w. auw-Ww-ra . A l THE RUSSIAN LOTTERY TICKET. 61 THE RUSSIAN LOTTERY TICKET. TATE lotteries have been called, and, we think, with justice, “ gam- bling institutions.” Their principles are undoubtedly those of the hazard table, and their effects in all countries have been to foster an improvident yet avaricious spirit, and a supersti- tlous dependence on luck, which in- Jure alike religion and morality. Ex- amples of their evil working are, unfortunately, too abundant through- Out Europe ; and in our own country the state lotteries are also amply pro- ductive of evil. In Russia the insti- tution flourished, and on one occasion Was —no thanks to the vicious sys- tem -— the accidental, or more prop- erly speaking, the provideutial means Of rewarding a deed of kindness, which We now proceed to detail, altering the Circumstantial, though not the essen- tial facts of the case. Toward the end of the last century, When the Empress Catharine, com- monly called the Great, was making War on Turkey, building the marble palace, and setting an example of lav- lSh expenditure and bad morals to er Russian capital, there stood in the province of Libau a certain poor vil- lage named Vetski. Like most of the rural villages in Russia, Vetski had One long street of cottages built of trunks of the trees laid one upon an- other, plastered with clay, thatched With hemp and reeds, and standing each in its own yard, enclosed by a rude timber fence, all but the gable- end, in which was the entrance door. At one end of the street stood a church, also of Wood, with a copper Vane and a cemetery full of crosses. At the other stood the hofl', in build resembling the cottages, but very much larger, rising to two stories, and supplemented by a porch, a court-yard, and the great ranary; for there should have dwelt the Lord of Vetski. Round the Whole village lay fenceless and half-cultivated fields in the midst Of a plain, bounded on the south by a forest of birch and pine, and seemingly without limits in every other direction. As commonly happens in Russian villages, all the inhabitants followed one calling. Nobody but coopers had lived there since the church and the hofl' were built, but one Leof, a shepherd, whom the boyar brought with him from the south to look after his Saxony sheep, and he died three years after, leaving a son and a widow. Small communitiesfi especially in secluded situations —are apt to have characteristics of their own; and it was so with the coopers of Vetski: far and wide they were known for a closeness of hand and society exceed- ingly unlovely. The traveling mer- chants, who bought their wares and supplied them with necessaries, were men from their own village. Their priests had succeeded each other reg- ularly ——father and son. They were all related in some degree ; and it was popularly said that a stranger would have no chance of room in their church-yard. These good people had regarded Leof with no friendly eyes; first, because he was not a cooper; secondly, because he came from the borders of Lithuania; and thirdly, because they thought their boyar unduly favored the stranger. In the last cause of dissatisfaction Leof and his family had little reason to rejoice. Count Vetskinhofl' be- longed to a class of noblemen by no means rare at the court of the great czarina. Vetski, with some leagues of the neighboring plain and forest, the old timber hofl', and, of course, all the coopers, constituted his estate; but his ambition was to lead the ton of St. Petersburg, and he was foremost in every thing foreign and fashionable. The Saxony sheep had been a move- ment in that direction. The flock was purchased, and a shepherd, who chanced to be ‘a free peasant, brought, with fine promises and great conde- scension, from his home On the banks of the Niemen ; but the winter of that northern plain was too hard for the sheep; they began to pine, and the ... 5.... MW... 62 THE HOME. count forgot them, as by that time he had married one of the czarina’s maids of honor, and required a still more expensive establishment in St. Petersburg. To meet that demand, ' the old family hofi' was shut up, all the housmhold retainers summoned to the capital, and, except once a year, when a steward came at the end of summer to get his lord’s dues, no sight or sound of their master reached the cOopers. Thus left out of mind, the Saxony flock grew thinner every win- ter. Their poor shepherd tended them night and, day, hoping the count would remember his services, till at last a fever, caught in searching for two lost lambs which the wolves had carried off, brought him to the church-yard, where, contrary to pop- ular opinion, he found a grave. His wife, Anna Ivanoua— Anna, , the daughter of John, as her Christian and surname ran in Russian fashion— had come with him from among her people and kindred, after what neigh- boring peasants considered a rather tedious wooing, when Leof’s pros- pects had become brilliant through the patronage of Count Vetskinhofl'. Anna’s dowry consisted of a spin- ning-wheel, a Polish cow, and a pew- ter teapot. She had, besides, a dowry of good looks, being ruddy, fair, and flaxen-haired; and, better than all these, Anna was kindly, prudent, and, according to her imperfect light, pious. Though overwhelmed with sorrow when poor Leof died, she eontrived to live on among the coopers in her now lonely cottage, and rear her infant son, also named Leof, with the help of the spinning-wheel and the Polish cow; for these were, under Provi- dence, the widow’s only support. The steward sent the remnants of her hus- band’s flock to his uncle’s farm on the Dnieper, saying, the count had made little profit by that business; but /Anna might keep the cottage and pay dues for it, till a better tenant turned up. Happily nobody of that kind ap- peared; but the dues were a heavy burden, especially 1n hard wmters. They were paid, however, and herself ' and son honestly maintained till little Leof’s seventh birthday, when there occurred the heaviest snow storm ever remembered in Vetski. It was‘the middle of October; win- ter was not quite expected; but sea- sons are apt to change with sudden haste in the north. The day had been cold and gloomy, and toward evening fierce blasts began to sweep the plain and forest, driving' before them masses of heavy clouds, which gradually left no trace of daylight, but a lurid glare in the west. Well did the villagers know these signals of the tempest, and every family pre- pared, as best they could, for a long stay within doors. The cattle were secured in their winter-quarters at the rear of each cottage; large supplies of firewood were carried in, and the coopers bade each other good-night as they retired into their homes, where every stove was heated, and every door was made fast. With the night, down came a perfect deluge of snow, such as more southern climates sel- dom see— thick and fine, and frozen as hard as sand ; it came on the blast in one continuous drift, closing up every window and crevice, till the villagers could hear, but no longer see the storm. Anna had carefully brought in her Polish cow. Little. Leof had helped to carry in firewood, and now sat by the stove watching with no small in- terest the baking of a barley-cake, which, together with a piece of hard cheese and a mess of salted cabbage, was to furnish a more than common supper. Both mother and child had worked hard and eaten little that day. The winter was come, but they had provisions; and Anna was telling the small but intelligent boy how thank- ful they should be; when, in the pause of the storm, she heard a loud knock- ing at one of the village doors, and a man’s voice crying, “Good Christian people, let me in from the snow; I am an officer on my way to serve the czarina.” No one opened; and at door after i 2 i f E i g THE RUSSIAN LOTTERY TICKET. 63 door she heard the traveler knock, now with entreaties for the sake of charity, then with threats of his own and the czarina’s vengeance; but the Strong doors stood firm, and the coop- ers remained silent. Anna was no Stranger to the character of her neigh- bors. She knew their habitual churl- lshness would be just then fortified by the conviction that whatever dwell- lllg the traveler entered, there he was likely to remain storm-stayed for a considerable time. She was a poor and lonely widow ; the stranger might be_ a wandering robber, an escaped criminal, an evil man of any sort; but he would be frozen; no living thing could long abide that drift ; and, Without another thought, she placed the lighted splinter, which served for a candle, in her horn lantern, unbarrcd Fhe door, and called through the driv- lng tempest, “Come! here is shel- ter.” Her call was answered by what at first seemed a moving mass of snow, ut on nearer approach proved to be a man and a poor benumbed horse, Which he led along by the bridle. thtle Leof came valiantly out to help, but the blast drove him in; and by the joint exertions of Anna and his mas- ter, the poor horse, a beautiful Ukraine, Was relieved from his cold covering, and comfortably installed beside the Olish cow, with the best barley straw the cottage afforded by way of fodder. _e door was once more barred, and Wltll many expressions of gratitude to the widow, and wrath to the rest of the villagers, the traveler proceeded to divest himSelf of a light riding- CIOak, which must have proved a poor protectirm from the storm, thereby revealing an officer’s uniform, with a Supply of gold lace and cambric ruf- 88, which would have told a more skillful eye than Anna’s that he be- 10nged to the same expensive and fashionable school as her long-absent landlord. The widow only perceived that he must be some great noble- man; that he was young and hand- some, and had, in spite of his weari- ness, a gay, good-natured, thoughtless look. She could not presume to ask so fine a gentleman any questions; but accepting her humble invitation to the best seat beside the stove, he told her that he was a captain of hus- sars on leave of absence to visit his uncle, who lived on his estate in the north, and having almost overstaid the prescribed time, hunting and shooting with his country Cousins, he had taken a short way across the coun- try, hoping to reach St. Petersburg in time to join his regiment before they marched against the Turks. Anna listened with reverence as she set the supper before him. The widow had never heard so much of the great world, nor had the captain before sat down to such an entertain- ment. The rough earthen dish of cabbage, flavored in honor of the un- expected guest, a trencher containing the barley-cake and the hard cheese, a drinking horn of quass, (the small- est beer of Russia,) a wooden platter, a spoon, and an old knife were placed on the low, uncovered table, which stood a fixture in the middle of the cottage room. A blazing splinter of pine in the tall wooden candlestick, showed its humble furniture; the bed, covered with a scarlet blanket, and generally reserved for ornament— for straw on the top of the large stove served for family use; the wooden cistern with its two spouts sus- pended by leathern ropes over a great tub; a low bench, a stool or two, a shelf containing the pewter teapot, and certain utensils of almost equal value; the well-employed spinning- wheel; and in a niche, with a horn lamp burning before it, one of those rude pictures of the Saviour, which the unlettered peasants of Russia are apt to behold with superstitious, rather than pious regard. Anna was one of the few who better understood the meaning of the symbol. She had no Bible, and, like most of her class, never learned to read; but the priest of her native parish had been earnest and laborious beyond the l l l 1 4 i a i i J l l 1 i a 5 i I i _....H‘-.‘_.<. 3 i i i i i l 64 THE HOME. generality of his brethren in the north, and the widow had profited by his simple sermons. Their practical fruits were shown on the present occasion, though in a rustic fashion. The good woman responded to the wistful looks of her little hungry Leof by giving him his private share on a low stool in the corner, and then, leaving the board to the great stranger, retired to eat her own supper off a trencher in her lap, according to the code of good manners in which she had been instructed. The captain’s noble associates in hon and garrison would have been astonished to see the justice he did such fare; but fourteen hours’ traveling and a snow storm are apt to equalize viands, and Anna felt no little pleased to hear him say that he had supped like a czar. The cottage contained three apart- ments opening from each other—the room of general service, which has been described ; the granary, in which every thing, from barley straw to salted cabbage, was laid uplfor the long winter ; and the cow- ouse, now doubly tenanted. When the widow had made things look neater than usual, she wished the stranger a good night’s rest, and retired with her little boy to say their prayers, and sleep in the granary, comforting herself with the reflection that though it was cold, she would be at hand to give the poor horse and cow straw during the long night. The long night disappointed the ex- pectations, or rather the fears of the coopers. In, its course the storm gradually changed to a clear, keen frost, which by sunrise made the deep snow hard enough for sledge traveling. Quietly the widow prepared a break- fast for her still sleeping guest; and when at last she woke him, the young officer rose a joyful man to find that he could pursue his journey; for, though Anna had no sledge to lend, she knew there might be one hired among her neighbors, and the officer said he was willing to pay. It rather surprised the widow that he made so little way with the cabbage and hard cheese, compared with his doings the night before ; but the man was impa- tient to go, and, though all the coopers were now up, there was some trouble in getting a sledge among them —— ev- ery vehicle of the kind being the joint property of two or three families; and the officer was obliged to pay them all. Anna felt terrified for his finances when she saw the number of kopecs (a coin somewhat less in value than a cent,) given to young Peter, two paper roubles made over to stout Ivan, and a whole silver one sacrificed to the leathern wallet of old Feodore ——such being the familiar designation of each proprietor. Half amused, half angry, the officer called them knaves, and took the sledge for his journey. “I will come back a Colonel,” he said, “ when we have conquered the Turks; and if they ever take your son for a soldier, let him inquire for me. My name is Demetrius ()rloff.” “Noble sir,” said Anna, “I hope they will never take my son for a sol- dier. I,have nothing in the world but him ; and — do n’t be angry —— but there is little good learned in the army. Besides, the Turks might kill him.” “Never fear my good woman,” said the gay young officer, as he helped to harness his own horse, whose Ukraine spirit was rising again in spite of the barley straw. “They won’t take your son; but you have been kind to me; ” and he pulled out his purse once more. There was not much in it. Anna would have con— sidered it inhospitable to take a kopec in any case ; but after his expense for the sledge, it seemed perfect reb- ' bery. . “ N o, no! ” she cried. “‘Noble sir, you would n’t put an affront upon me before all the coopers, and I a stranger and a widow here.” The officer was puzzled, for he saw the widow was in earnest. Moreover, he was in haste, and, pulling out what seemed to Anna acard of bright, red pasteboard, with strange signs and “a THE RUSSIAN LOTTERY TICKET. 65 k figures on it, he said, “ Well, keep this; It may be of use to you. Nothing of the kind ever turns out lucky in my hands; ” and urging his horse away, he drove over the plain like one to Whom time was precious. . Anna stood wishing him a good Journey till he was out of sight, and then turned to look at 'the card, on Which little Leof had flxed his wonder- lilg eyes. She had seen .Polish gyp- SIBS telling fortunes with such things, and heard that noblemen in St. Peters- burg lost and gained money by them. Ough a sensible woman, Anna’s 0p- ROrtunities of learning had been too limited to raise her entirely above the s\lperstitions of her people; she therefore concluded that the card Innst be a charm, which would bring good to the cottage, and she stitched It With the figures up, on the the cen- ter 0f the scarlet blanket which cov- ered that ornamental bed, as the {Post respectable place of deposit. * v: * * at *- The passing of twelve years brings "filmy a change in the world, but still Flme jogs on at a slow and sober pace 11} Russian villages; and it was par- t1(3.111arl y so among the coopcrs of Vet- Skl. There had been births and buri- als; but the passing traveler could demct few traces of change or im- PTOVement there. The cottages still St00d, rough and-weather beaten; the fields were half-cultivated, yet the hofl‘ was inhabited ; for Count Vetskinhoff n0W resided in it with a discontented c011.11tess, and a still more dissatisfied retmue. The steward said he had 0ft court on account of a disappoint. merit in the great lottery. What a Ottery was, nobody in Vetski knew; but as the dues were more sharply 00ked after than ever, the coopers thOught it had something to do with 0813 money. They never saw their 3"“, except on his Hungarian horse after the wolf hounds; yet it was a Well-ascertained fact, that, when not hunting, Count Vetskinhoff was al- Ways out of humor about some un- lucky chance which he and the count- ess said they had lost in St. Petersburg. Within the widow’s cottage there were greater changes. The little Leof had grown up a tall, muscular youth of nineteen, able to pay her dues by working on the count’s land, to culti- vate a crop for home consumption, and to hew firewood in the forest without fear of bears. Leof had his father’s fair face and yellow curling hair. He had the same strong arm, honest and faithful disposition. Anna had brought him up well, for there was not a better son in the province; and now, as the decline of life drew on, her earthly hopes began to rest on the youth, somewhat as they had rested on her lost Leof. In their hard work and solitary life the mother and son had grown to be companions. True it was that as their estate improved to the extent of two cows, besides bar- ley, flax, and cabbage ground, the Coopers so far relaxed their hereditary laws against aliens, that the stout Ivan demanded the widow’s hand in mar- riage, and the old Feodore required to have her son betrothed to his eldest daughter; but these overtures had been civilly rejected, and the code was re-established in a more than an- cient severity, Leof and his mother be- ing henceforth considered guilty of an affront to the whole cooper commu- nity. Offended pride, which has done such deadly work in camps and pal- aces, found scope for mischief even in Vetski. Had things gone well, and the count and steward remained si- lent, our tale might have been differ- ent; but many troubles came at once on the widow. As sometimes happens in the north, the summer had been so warm that streams and brooks had been dried up, and the flax on which Anna’s spin- ning-wheel depended, utterly failed. A worse consequence of that drought was an e idemic among the cattle of Libau. . Every proprietor lost some; and, in spite of her own and her son’s utmost care, Anna’s two cows sickened and died. Still they had the 3 , i l 3 i 66 THE HOME. barley, and might have weathered the winter, though the widow’s strength was not what it had been ; over-exer- tion to save the flax and cows had left her weak and sickly; but, in an evil hour, the count projected a wooden bridge to span a certain rivulet flow- ing through his fields. To that work the peasants were summoned as usual, and among them Leof. The steward was surveyor general, and his special ride was the engineering knowledge e had acquired in St. Betersburg. Moreover, his chosen system was that of hurry and half doing. Leof knew nothing about bridges ; but he thought the supporting piles were not sunk deep enough in the bed of the stream, which, though then shallow, was apt to run strong and high with spring and autumn rains, and he honestly said so. “ Oh, he is a judge of work cried his cooper companions. “ What a wise young man! He knows better than the steward, who has seen all the bridges of Neva, and our boyar, who has lived all his life in St. Peters- burg.” 'n Leof' was a free peasant. His, 'father and mother did not belong to the estate, and he braVely answered, “ The steward and the boyar may do as they will ; but the first flood that comes will let you see how much they learned from the bridges of Neva.” That reply, with sundry additions, was reported to the steward. The steward reported it to the count, and “ the greater the truth, the greater the libel,” was fully proved in this in- stance; for scarcely was the bridge finished when the continuous rain of the Russian autumn set in. The riv- ulet rose above all its banks, and on the following morning there was not a trace of the bridge to be seen. From that hour Leof was a marked man; and count, steward, and c00p- ers soon found an opportunity of ven- geance. Late as it was in the cam- paigning season, the great czarina required a new levy of troops to serve v in the partition of Poland, and the usual order was sent to all boyars to furnish their quota of peasants. Ten was the number charged upon Count Vetskinhofi'; and in those days he could send either serfs, or free peas- ants who had been born on his estate. A mounted messenger brought the order late on Monday evening, and early on Tuesday morning Leof and his mother were awakened by a loud knocking at their door. Flinging on his sheep-skin coat, the young man opened it to the servant of the boyar, who desired him to come immediately, for he was wanted to do something particular at the hofl“. “ What can it be, mother?” said Leof, as he hastily prepared himself for the unexpected honor. “ To cleave firewood, my son,” said Anna, recollecting what well-squared logs he cut; “ take your father’s new hatchet with you. I have kept it scoured in one corner these twenty years ; but one must have something fine when one works for great peg- 1e.” Taking the treasured hatchet, Leof set forth. The widow had visions of advancement over all the ecopers for him, as she prepared his breakfast; but the day were on, and Leof did not return. There seemed to be a bustle in the village, but no one brought her news; and though scarcely able to spin, toward evening she crept up to the hofl'. The great doors were closed, and all was quiet there; but on inquiring of the steward’s boy, she learned that her son and nine others had been marched off under a strong guard of the b0 ar’s retainers to the chief town of ibau, “ where they were to be made soldiers.” The compulsory nature and harsh discipline of military service in Rus- sia, renders it peculiary terrible to the peasantry ; and with her only son the poor and sickly widow had lost every thing. She knew there was no use in application to either the count or the steward. As a free peasant, they were not obliged to mantain her; and the management of the matter “we” THE RUSSIAN LOTTERY TICKET. 67 ——__._¥ showed but too plainly that her son had somewhat incurred their enmity. If. she could find out Captain Deme- trius Orlofi‘, might not he do some- till]ng All the widow knew of him Was, that he had gone to St. Peters- bUI‘g; but she had no money or strength for that long journey. Bro- ken-hearted, the lonely widow re- turned to her cottage. There was mourning in more homes than hers- that day; but the days passed on, and the weather grew worse with the early storms of the winter, and Anna Sat in her desolate grief, scarce caring 01‘ knowing how things went around her. One day, when the frost had come, and the sky looked brighter than usual, she had been praying in 01‘ own simple fashion for poor Leof, fOl‘getting that the outer door was unbarred, when the sound of a sledge- ell was heard outside, and a muflled tI‘aveler pushing it open, asked, “Is this the cottage of Anna lvanoua?” “ It is,” said the widow, in great amazement. “Then I bring you good news of your son Leof," said the traveler. “I am postmaster of Libau. His com- Eany stopped at my post-house, and e asked me if ever 1 came this way, to give you this hatchet.” “Oh, sir, is my boy well? ” said Anna, taking the weapon of rustic toil, Pound whose shaft poor Leof had fast- ened a lock of his own yellew hair. “Yes,” said the postmaster, who, l10twithstanding his many and compli- cated duties in a Russian province, Was a just and kindly man; “your SOn looked wonderfully well, and bade 111% tell you not to grieve for him, fOI‘ he would pray for you and fight 01‘ the czarina.” Anna’s eyes filled; but at this moment she recollected the postmas- tBI‘, being a great man, might know ‘ptain Demetrius. To her joy he had known him; but almost immedi- 8ately he added, “ Do you not know 9 is dead these ten years? The captain (.511 in a great battle in Servia. How did you know him, my poor woman "9 ” “ He came here in a snow storm one night,” said Anna, “and gave me this charm,” holding the blanket up for confirmation. Never had the postmaster of Libau looked so much astonished even at all the sights of his office. “It was a good charm, I’m sure, though We have been very un- lucky at last,” said Anna. “A good charm indeed,” said he, recovering speech. “My good wo- man, shut your door and, let me tell you that is the prize ticket of the great St. Petersburg lottery. It has wona clock which is thought one of the wonders of ‘the world, and has been advertised for since I came into ofliCe. The clock is valued at eighty thousand roubles. So your fortune is made; but tell nobody, and keep the ticket safe till Iwrite to St. Peters- burg.” Without waitiug for a reply, the postmaster sprang into the sledge, leaving Anna bewildered. All she understOod was, that a great many roubles were to be got, and, of course, her son’s freedom, by that charm; but, being a prudent, patient woman, she folded it up carefully inside the blanket, to await the result of her new friend’s writing. Write the good man did, a full ac- count of the transaction to his supe- rior at St. Petersburg, by whom it was evidently laid before the em- press, and within a month, as Anna sat one evening at her spinning-wheel, wondering why no news had come, the whole village of Vetski was sur- prised by the arrival of a splendid sledge, in which sat two travelers. One was Leof, dressed in astonishingly fine clothes, and the other they called the great boyar; but he was a cou- rier commissioned to present Anna with ten thousand roubles and an or- der from the empress, conferring on her an annuity of a thousand roubles for life, as purchase money for her long-kept charm, otherwise the prlze ticket. It is said that there never was such sorrow among the coopers as when' 68 THE HOME. this story was made public; and each recalled to mind the knocking at their door in‘ that terrible snow-storm. The widow and her son were hence- forth no strangers among them. In short, the became great people in Vetski. llh the marble palace of St. Petersburg, visitors still marvel at and admire the musical clock, formed like a miniature Grecian temple, and capable of playing some of the choic- est compositions of Mezart and Haydn as if performed by two full orchestras; but the most remarkable for the story of its being won by the long-lost lot- tery ticket, which the postmaster of Libau recognized on Anna’s scarlet blanket. Reader, good and bad deeds are seeds, whose fruit springs up while we sleep. Happy are they who cast bread upon the waters. It returns af- ter many days. RULING WIVES. OW admirable is the Divine ar- rangement of the family consti- tution ! How wisely adapted to pro— mote the happiness of mankind! Upon the husband are enjoined pro- tection, tenderness, and love; upon the wife, reverence and subjection; upon the children, subordination, honor, and respect to parents. If the hus- band, the lawful head and governor of the household, exercises his authority in an arbitrary, unfeeling manner, or arrogates the control of matters which nature and propriety have assigned to the wife; if the wife, forgetting the duty of submission, seizes the reins, and attempts to bring every thing into subjection to her will; or, if the children, disregarding the com- mand to honor and obey their parents, become wayward and vicious ; — in ei- ther case, the happiness of the domestic circle is marred, if not wholly de- stroyed. Which of these cases most seriously affects the peace and enjoy- ment of the family, it is not necessary here to inquire. It is often said that the influence of the wife and mother, is most powerful in molding the char- acter of a family. Hence, if her influ- ence, when well directed, is most pro- ductive of good, we may justly infer, that, when ill-directed, it is most ,po- tent for evil. Certain it is, that the violation of the duties of no other de- partment is more revolting to a just sense of propriety. A domineering wife has within her - self the elements of misery. Of all the family, she is the most unhappy. The most despoticmistress can not al- ways have her own way; and, as the duty of cheerful submission is repug- nant to her nature, disappointments are extremely painful. The thwart- ing of her purposes or wishes in the smallest matter, makes her unhappy for days. Though all the family should submit to her rule, she would find in the imperfection of their ser- vice, a perpetual source of uneasiness and complaint. It is interwoven into the very nature of such persons, to scrutinize the conduct of others with the utmost vigor, and to be troubled by every act that does not square with their ideas of propriety. They regard no one as a true friend, who does not make the gratification of their wishes a paramount object. These persons are generally censo- rious ; and, being also naturally jeal- ous and suspecting, they censure upon the slightest evidence, often unjustly. And this injustice is sometimes aggra- vated by, a refusal to receive any ex- planation. A marked case once oc- curred in my presence. A husband was charged with a wrono' ° whether' 0 ’ justly or not, I had not the means of knowing. He attempted to explain. The wife refused to listen, and endeav- ored to drown his voice by incessant clamor. Determined to be heard, he continued the attempt. Next he was commanded to “Be still!” but per- sisted in the fruitless effort to obtain a hearing, until she put an end to the contest, by abruptly leaving the room and closing the door, and thus gained the victory ! That there were in this house, .fl.¢..,.,... , . v=vawm . . i g E i a c‘ ut-TQMM‘. A‘ “mu—m WW.» um « w 'L'm'v -. a. z, «I aama'! : w-r .6m'vgr v .4 “y.- .- -"mrav MY NEIGHBOR’S STEP-SON. 76 '\ Was inclined to regret that I had called. My husband had decided that it was necessary to keep Jamie and Hart Son entirely away from Wallace, and “193’ were given to understand this. "hen Wallace chose the court for 1113 Playground, they were to leave it to is possession. I had not been Seated many minutes at the win- OW on this morning, beforeI 0b- sePVed Wallace loitering about the court, and looking in our direction, as if he were watching for some one. I thought it probable that he was wait- ing for Jamie and Hartson, with the Intention of accompanying them to School; and, pushing open the blind so “33‘? he could see me, I sat watching 13 movements. He was within a 9W feet of the window, and when I Opened the blind, he turned his back "13011 me, casting a. glance at me over ‘3 Shoulder as he did so, and there 6 StOOd with his usual defiant air. 61‘ a few moments he turned toward me again, as if he could en- “,l'e my watchfulness no longer, and sald) “You look as if you wanted to Warn me off, but I believe—” and ere he stopped as if his want of re- spect were not sufficient to complete 0‘ Sentence he had begun. ‘ “ ‘YGSW said 1, understanding him, YOU have as good a right here as any One. The only thing I claim is, that my boys shall not be here at'the gall“? time with you.” "Oh! they are not to come near mefihen,” said he. "I intend to see that they avoid as "well as possible the company of such 035 as lead them into mischief. Thift is right, is n’t it '2 ” sOmewhat to my surprise, he Ooked me firmly and frankly in the tie“ and said, “ Yes, ma’aln, that is “glib!” _“ And you have led them into mis- chmf, have you not? ” . “I suppose I have," he replied with 111‘3-S‘Sumed indifference. He moved off 8‘ fljW Steps, and then turned back un- Bitsxly. “ Is Jamie sick 2 ” he asked. It occurred to me at once that he might have seen Hartson during the morning, and without answering his question, I said, “What made you think Jamie was sick? ” “Because there was a light in his room all night.” “You could not have slept vefiy soundly if you saw it,” said I. e dropped his head as if there were something to blush for, in the fact that he had not slept very soundly. “Then he is sick,” he said, grind- ing his heel into the sod, and casting a furtive glance from under the rim of his hat. “‘ Yes,” I replied, “he has had a high fever all night, and was slightly delirious.- We sent for a doctor toward morning.” “ I thought so,” said he, walking off with what seemed to me, a somewhat anxious look upon his features. “I shan’t coax him to the races again,” he called back when half across the Court. ‘ “ No, I trust not,” I said, confiding more in Jamie than in Wallace for this. —— CHAPTER IV. ROBERT. “ An evil soul producing holy witness, In like a villinn with a smiling cheek ; A goodly apple rotten at the bear Oh ! what a goodly outside falsehood hath." Mnncumr or Yum. JAMIE rested quietly the greater part of the day, but Ellen, who was still weak, and who had been much excited by her brother’s absence the preceding day, and with his illness during the night, fell in the afternoon into one of those nervous spasms which had troubled her so much at one time. Our family physician was again called, and remained with her two or three hours, until she had fully recovered and had fallen into a quiet slumber. It was near sunset when] entered the library again, and I once more saw Wallace lingering in the court. He approached when he saw that I noticed him, and asked if Ja- mie was worse. “Very much as he 76 THE HOME. I was in the morning,” I told him, wondering at the anxiety he seemed to manifest about him. “ I thought it was the doctor’s car- riage here so long,” he said. r “ Oh, yes!” I replied at this ex- planation. “ Ellen is ill. He was called for her.” “ It was not Jamie then 2 ” he said, as if much relieved, and was turning away, but he did not appear quite satisfied, and came back. “ Can I see Jamie for a minute?” he asked. I hesitated, somewhat surprised at this request after the conversation we had had in the morning, and he added, “I do n’t mind about your not letting them play with me. I W0 n’t trouble them. Only just—I want to speak to him this once. There’s something I want to ask him.” “Very well,” said I, without being at all able to explain whyI was so strangely interested in the boy I was so anxious my own children should avoid. “Very well, Jamie is asleep now, but I think he will wake soon, and you can see him then if you like. You can come in here and sit till he wakes.” I waited for him, as he com- plied with this permission, thinking that a boy who stole money from his father’s till, was hardly a proper guest in my house, or a safe occupant of my library, and half regretting that I had given it; but the firm, easy head with which he entered the house and came to me, had something in it to insure confidence. Surely the boy was not a thief. “Here are books,” said I, “you can find something to read until he wakes.” “I can’t read when my mind is full of something that bothers me,” said he. “ Who was it that told you yes- terday that we had gone to D. . . . ? ” “ It was your brother.” “M brother!” he exclaimed in a tone t at might have'been surprised, or might have been indignant or con- tem tuous, I Could not tell which. “ es, your brother, Robert Heber, came to me to inquire for you.” “Robert Heber! Don’t call him Robert Heber! He! ” ex— claimed Wallace, with hissing con— tempt. “Isn’t he your brother? Is n’t his name Heber’! ” I asked, gazing at the burning red which had flashed into the boy’s face. “ No, ma’am, no. He is nothing of the kind; I would change my name if it was like his,” he said, with more emphasis than was really consistant with respect. ' “I thought you were brothers,” I said, still astonished at the violent passion the boy shewed at this error on my part. “What is his name if it is not Heber ? ” “Ford— Robert Ford: the only son of his beloved mamma.” “ A step-brother ’2 ” “Yes, ma’am, I suppose so. At least he has stepped in where he was n’t wanted.” “ You speak very unkindly,” said I. “ He seemed anxious about you. He came here to ascertain where you were, and was ready to go for you.” “Yes, I dare say,” said Wallace with the same stinging contempt. “ He was anxious. He knew we were going to D. . . . a week ago. It was he that first put it into my head to coax Jamie and Hartson. I shouldn’t have thou ht of it. No doubt he was uneasy. thought he came to you. Something he let fall last night made me think so.” “ But what could have been his m0. tive?” I asked, not half as incredu- lous at this, asI thought Iought to be. “I do n’t know,” said Wallace; “something under the ground. Al' ways is when he plays trumps. do n’t know, nor care, I’m tired spendr ing my time digging after a mole. His mining never comes to any thing asI can see, except to get me pun- ished. That always does him as much good as it does me hurt, so I expect it ’s even somewhere. He do n’t seem quite satisfied this time though’ something is wrong.” “I am sure there is some‘ A, w'urw- , WMWIWW-Mc. MPWIKVVIAIM F, ....,,,. V t , _, ,. MY NEIGHBOR’S STEP—SON. 77 \_ thing wrong with you, my boy,” said I- “You have a step-mother it Seems n “ Yes, ma’am.” “And, if I am not mistaken, you we allowing a bitter feeling toward 91‘ and toward her son, to drive you away from home, and into all man- ner of evil. Is n’t this true? ” “ D0 n’t know,” said he half sul- le‘flY- “ No, not exactly. I ain’t of my account any how. They ’ve just Stolen my father away from me, and ,ey can have him. I don’t care. _ Just as soon they’d make him think I’m the worst boy in the world, 1‘51_ not. I hated to have him stop emg SOI‘I'y though. I believe he’s g ad now.” :‘ Glad because you are bad ’! ” ‘ Yes, glad because it makes her so muCh happier.” f‘ 0 you love to believe such thmgs r; n :‘ N 0, but I must.” ‘I think you must believe them Fom your own choice. It is impos- mble that they are true.” “ You may just as well think so, for, you do n’t know but Ido.” . ‘DO you really believe that it 15 a pleasure to your parents to have 3’ 011 steal oranges, and run away to the “W58, and do such things, as you ae- nOwledge you do? ” “I know that nothing can make my father very happy or very comforta- eafixcept when she is pleased, and '1 0 18 never so well pleased as when ‘ ave been punished, or am just go- ‘Pg to be. So I do some good by get- g Into scrapes.” _ ‘But what do you think of pleas- mg“ God? the God that made you? ” “ He did n’t make me.” , Why do you speak that way?” “I‘d 1, somewhat sternly. ‘ Because I do n’t think there is any GOd; but if there is, he didn’t make me. If He had, he would take care of me. He would n’t have taken {my mother away from me, and then 8t my kind father fall into that sly W0- man’s hands. I know He would not.” “You have no own brother or sis- ter 2 ” said I, looking at him with com- assion. “ No! I had little Jamie, but he ’3 dead. “That was hard for you to lose your mother and brother, but —” “No,” said he, interrupting me, “I’m not sorry for Jamie, I’m glad he ’s dead. “No,” said I, looking searchingly into his face, for he seemed all the while struggling with the emotion he was ashamed to show. “You do not say what you mean; you are not glad that your brother is dead? ” “Yes, I am,” said he resolutely. “ He had better be dead than to live as I do. He couldn’t bear it. I can bear any thing. I was made to be bad; but poor little Jamie—I am glad God took him.” “You do believe there is a God then ’§ ” “ Oh! that’s only my Sunday. school way of talking, as Fleury says. But if there isa God, Jamie is with Him.” “I trust he is,” said I. “ Have you ever been to Sunday-school ’2 ” “ Yes, ma’am, when my mother was alive.” “ Do you remember your mother?” “ Yes, ma’am,” said he, looking at me with his lips close shut, and a strange gleam in his eye, as if it were half way between defiance and the first glimmering of a tear. He seemed striving hard to cover up with the hirsute which his rough life had given him, all shew of that royal nature which still bore within the impress of his Maker, but these glimpses of a finer feeling would flash out in spite of him, like the glistening of the dia- mond which a prince might wear in his disguise. “ Did you love your mother ’I ” —-- The look was more than half-defiant now, and the lips firmer shut, and he made no answer. But the look an. swered me. . “And do n’t you think she would be happier to have you continue in ..._...._.....i .. W. a-.. .. ‘. ...w. 4......“ mm...._....;. ..... . Sabbath school? Would it not be following her wishes, and showing your respect for her memory to re- main there?” “ I could n’t go. I do n’t want peo- ple to talk good things to me, when I know that every body is so bad. I should say bad things to the teacher, just asIam saying them to you. I do n’t want to be talked to. Let me O z 7’ I had stood at the door during this conversation, for I was just about pass- ing out, when it commenced, and as its interest deepened, I had lost sight of every thing except the boy before me. “I thought you wished to see J amie’! ” said I, stepping aside as he rose from his seat and came to the door. “ 801 did,” said he hesitating and looking down, as if his wish to see Jamie were something to blush for, “but Ido n’t want to be talked to. Who told you that I stole oranges?” he added, suddenly breaking out into his hirsute again. “ Did Jamie C! ” “He told me about the affair at Talcott’s grocery. Don’t you think he ought to have told me '4 ” “Yes, if he liked,” said he, coolly. “But do n’t you think it was right for him to do it? Wasn’t it just what your mother would have wished you to do under the same circum- stances ’l ” “ Do n’t talk to me about my mother.” It was hard work for him to keep from breaking down now. “ When my mother was alive,” he con- tinued, in a milder tone, “ I had all the oranges I liked. My father used to bring them up from the grocery, and mamma would cut them up and give them to me and Jamie, and they loved to see us eat them and eat them with us; but it isn’t so now. Mis- tress Sly has always been mad, when father brought fine an orange or any thing. else. She says they hurt me, and so he never brings them now.” “ Did they hurt you 2 ” “Yes, always, when I ate them '78 THE HOME. ‘- where she was. But they don’t hurt me when I help myself. ' I ’ve a right to them. They belong to my father, and he would rather I’d have them than not, if I only won’t bother him about it. I know he had. Fleury says so. He says we must fi ht peo le with their own weapons. Ighat ’s t 0 only way in this cunning world, and if my father has a boy, he hopes he will be smart enough to take care of himself.” “ Who is Fleury ? ” “ Why he ’s — Fleury —— the one that went to D. . . . with us.” “ Oh, that man ! Is he a friend or relative of your family? ” “ He ! no, he ’s ———I thought he was a Methodist minister at first. He told me he was.” “ But is he ? ” “ I guess not,” said he, with a queer flash in his eye, “I’ve heard him ex- hort at Methodist meetings though. He can talk first rate.” “ He deceived you then, did be? Do you think he is a good adviser? ” “ Yes, ma’am, he ’s the best friend I’ve got,— the only one. He always says pleasant things to me, and tells me how to get along in the world.” “ I hardly think from your own ac. count, that you Cget along very well in following his irections.” Jamie called me at this moment; and finding that he was awake, I took Wallace to his room and returned to the library, waiting till he left, that I might prepare J amie' for the night. After a few moments, I heard the door close, and thinking he had gone, I went to a linen closet for something I wanted, and was about to enter Jamie’s room from another direction, when I perceived that Wallace was still there. He was sittin on the edge of the bed and holding Iamie’s hand in his, apparently having remained in that position since he first entered the room. Just as I approached the half- open door, he stooped over the bed and spoke in a low tone. I saw at once that his errand had not been done, and was about to retreat, but his words arrested me. . way» «um-m...» «q ~,.w Lr ‘V' . ., , _ ,...m»~.~u-m "vw~x~ - ‘ “9pm.”... 7r ~. ~ but I would like to tell her.” g “It was I that made you sick, Jamie,” said he, “I am very sorry. have been so afraid—afraid;—I Wanted to ask you to forgive me. I do n’t ever want to make you so un- 1:Blppy ’31s you were yesterday at . “It wasn’t a good place to go, was WWallace Cl ” said Jamie, rubbing the b03’s hand softly between both his own “ 1‘. was good enough for me, Jamie, but not for you. I do n’t wish you to go to such places. I liked you be- fiause you had the same name, and Just such brown eyes as my little brother that died, but I would n’t make you bad for the world. Your mother says, you must not play with me any more, and it’s just as well, I’m not fit for you to play with. But Wanted you should know that I was sorry. Will you kiss me good-by ’! ” .“ 0h, Walla! Walla!” said Ja mle, throwing both arms about his neck, and drawing his face down to Is own, “don’t be bad any more. You Would be so happy if you would Only be good, and not go to such places.” “ N0, Jamie, I could n’t,” said he, unclasping his hands, and raising him- ‘Self, as if the thought stung him. ‘There ’s no way for me to be happy, and it’s no matter what I am. I’ve n0 mother to be sorry for what I do» as you have. Do n’t tell her 13111M: I asked you to forgive me, will you, Jamie? ” “ Not tell my mother?” “ N0, do n’t tell her that.” _“I like to tell my mother every thing, and I should like to tell her t very much.” “No, Jamie, don’t tell her that. She will think,—she knows lam very Pay, and ,she will think—will think It 8 like one of Robert’s sly’s. Please do n’t tell her, just this once.” “ Well, I we n’t if you care so much, Wallace bent over the bed and gave him one silent embrace, and was gone. ‘3 MY NEIGHBOR’S STEP—SON. 79 I said nothing to Jamie about hav- ing overheard this conversation, butl pondered much upon it. My resolu- tion, that Wallace should be denied access to my boys, was a good deal shaken, but I said nothing about it as yet, except to my husband. It seemed to me an obvious duty to try to draw him in among us; to entice him away from his evil courses, and to cultivate the good there was in him. But my time was very closely occu- pied, and he resolutely avoided us from this time, so that for some weeks I saw nothing of him. One morning, just as the rose-leaves had begun to glow with red and yel- low autumn hue , Ellen’s bay window was again greete by the white, still face of Robert Ford, who inquired anxiously if we knew any thing of Wallace. He was searching for him, he said, and came to us for information. No, we had known nothing of Wallace since the races. Ah! he seemed a little surprised at this, he had been with very bad boys, and he was afraid he had run away, he believed he had threatened it, and he was afraid he had gone. He should be very glad if it were possible to save him from making his parents so much trouble, and he left us. I was much oc- cupied with company during the day, and mentioned this call of his to no one; but the next morning, as we were gathering in to the breakfast- table, Hartson said to Jamie, “ I saw Wallace in the court last night. I hav n’t seen him before for a great while.” I had just been giving di~ rections to two or three persons, and was somewhat absent at the moment, but the remark attracted my atten- tion. “Did you?” said I; “Uriah was here to inquire for him yesterday.” “Who, mamma?” said Ha-rtson. “Uriah, his step-brother; he was afraid he had run away.” "Ma, what mtes you. 0811 him Uriah ? ” said Hartson, “I heard you call him so once before—his name is Robert.” 80 THE HOME. “ Is it 'l ” said I, still absently. “I thought it was Uriah? ” “Why no, mamma,” said Hartsbn, “you knew it Was Robert—Robert Ford.” “Yes, my son, so I did,” said I, re- covering m self. , “Then w y do you call him Uriah? ” said my husband laughing. “I don’t know; I suppose he re- minds me of some Uriah. Oh, yes! —- Uriah Heep -— that is it.” “Not a very complimentary mis- take,” said Mr. Mills. “ “fell,” said I, “ he might look one in the face when he speaks, if he does not wish to be called Uriah.” (To be continued.) LETTERS FROM QUIETSIDE. I. , GIRARD, January, 1858. Y dear M. . . . :-—-Having found myself at leisure for some time past, I yielded to the strong prompt- ings of my heart, and re-perused files of letters, which for years have re- mained in the privacy to which affec- tion had consigned them. I knew that many a time “ the nerve whence agonies are born,” would be touched, and sorrowful memories would be aroused from the lethargy which the lenient hand of time had thrown over them; but I believed, also, that the revival of past scenes, the actors in which, at least many of them, had passed to another sphere of existence, would, like sorrows experienced, “ do good like a medicine ; ” and that thereby my heart might be made bet- ter. And it is even soz—a sooth- ing influence rested upon my spirit; like withered roses, the odor of which remains, long after vitality is extinct. These former friends, though dead, spoke soothing words to my heart. Hence the value of OLD LETTERS. « What is a letter? let all'gction tell ; A tongue that speaks to those, who absent dwell; A silent language uttered to the eyeZ Which envioas distance would in vain deny ; A 1111): to bind, where circumstances part ; A nerve of feeling, stretched from heart to heart; Formed to convey, like an electric chain, The mystic flash — the lightning of the brain ; And thrill at once, through its remotest link, The throb of passion by a drop of ink." Who knows not the electric——the "‘mystz'cflas ” elicited by the very sight of a letter, even before it has reached the hand, or the auto— graph of a dear friend has met the eye, and been recognized. The per- sonal interview can scarcely surpass in enjoyment, that which is derived from reading a warm, cordial, affec- tionate letter, penned by the hand of friendship, at the dictation of a heart glowing with sincerity and truth; while the writer is far, hundreds of miles, perhaps, away; employed, we know not how,— at the moment we are reveling in associations linked to- gether by this “electric chain:”— and memory’s picture gallery, under the full glow of the “lightning of the brain,” is presenting to the “mind’s eye,” scenes of the other days;— loves “ O’Lang Sync.” This is a part of the enjoyment evolved by a letter received from one with whom we still hope to enjoy so- cial intercoursc,——- whose pleasures and pursuits are such as we can under- stand; can participate in even in fancy. We can sit by the side of ab- sent friends— no matter how far dis- tant they may be; can chat upon various topics, caress the children, toy with the baby, enter into all their plans and projects for the future, of- fer advice which is cheap, beeause the market is glutted,— say nothing of assistance, because that is a rare com~ modity, not so readily come-at-a-ble; in short, we may enact all the reali- ties of' a bonafide chat by the home hearth-stone, while the parties may be antipodcs to each other. And this is a true pleasure, a sterling enjoy- ment; one of the embellishers of life, the enliveners of existence. There are few, probably, in enlightened countries, who have not enjoyed this pleasure to a certain extent. But there is another, a higher and holier enjoyment connected with letter read- _jng, which is perhaps more rare; that _ ‘ warm. t. «swmm. "we... ., . ~ .W. 1"W%~wammmmv~mmemm <. R .. ~ My,» wvv" ... K 0f l‘e-perusing letters which one has received at different times, all along 8 Journey of life. . Let us suppose a sexagenary unty- mg and looking over the letters re- cfilved at intervals through life, from 18 youth up to the present time. 0 Sacred to his feelings have been the thOughts of his friends when thrown “P011 paper for his own special benefit, that he felt it almost a sacrilege to destroy them; therefore, he has care- filly preserved all that he ever re- ceived; and handles those antiquated 1‘38 With a feeling nearly allied to sOlemn awe. It is believed that all children are “Npathetieally attracted, and fer- Vently attached to particular persons, W 9 seem to possess the power of a.ming their young affections. For eir plays, they frequently select those their own age, but their strong- est attachments are generally for those Vel‘y much their seniors. can recollect several such, who, at different periods of my childhood, W011 the strongest affection of my in- fantile heart; the very thought of W 0111, even at this remote distance of time, thrills the nerve of sympa t ya to its “ remotest link.” he power of sympathy is wonder- ful 3 like no other element in the nat- ur‘al world, so much as it is like elec. trlclty. A flash—it comes—is gone ; ut its influence remains. One until r10W unknown, elicits a throb, a thrill, a Passionate impulse, for which we can scarcely account. Heart flows ,out to meet heart—the connection 13 complete; and until memory’s cells are closed, this remembrance will lin- ger around the heart, and as often as the Object is presented, its chords will VIhrate with a response which no other charm can evoke. In the lan- guage of the Poet, we feel, N u 2; it was not that nature had shed o‘er the scene, wDul‘est of crystal, her brightest of green ; 1 '88 not the soft murmur of streamlet or rill ; ,T - “0— it was somethin more exquisite still. was that friends. the be oved of my bosom were Wham-si- ; 13:18 l{ands each dear scene of enchantment more D LETTERS FROM QUIETSIDE. 81 And_that showed how the blessed charms of nature thfinygleos‘eg them reflected from 100ks that we love. The perusal of old letters affords, perhaps, more aliment for serious and solemn thought, than almost any other reminiscence. Here is one, from the very earliest friend of our life : the one who first called out our childish thoughts in confidence, who elicited the first idea of affection, aside from the filial and fraternal sentiment, which had “grown with our growth, and strengthened with our strength.” We occupied the same seat in the school-room, sought the same retired nook at recess, where we might un- bosom freely to each other our little cares. When we had a holiday, and were allOwed to visit, our steps were guided to each other, as naturally as drops of water flow toward each other and mingle, as they fall upon smooth, hard surfaces. Sometimes too, when for disciplinary purposes we were placed under restraint and kept at home, meetings were arranged stealth- ily, and a few delicious moments were stolen, and a few confidential words were exchanged, all the more, perhaps, because they were stolen enjoyments. Where is now this treasured, early friend— the one who perhaps elicited the purest feeling of our nature, more akin to the love of angels than any sen- timent we have since realized? Alas for the lapse of time! We know not the fate of that dear friend. Long years have rolled back to those “ beyond the flood,” since I saw her in all the spiritual beauty and viva- city of childhood; afterward in the first buddings of womanhood. News of her marriage and establishment, her character as matron, mother and friend, were such as to justify the promise of her early life. Whether she is still a denizen of earth, I know not. Memory alone keeps the regiS- ter of our early attachment. If she still lives, her name even is unknown to me ; if she is an inhabitant of heaven, I can think of her by her childhood’s name and characteristics. Oh! shall I meet her there —shall we look into I i i i l i l 82 THE HOME. each other’s eyes with the same beam- ing love and joy, and recognize each other by the fond names known to us on earth? This is a glorious, heart- filling thought. I know not why any ' should wish to disallow it or consider it a weak delusion. If it be so, it is a bliss without alloy—a thought which fills the heart and soul with that, which is “ our being’s end and aim;” conducts the spirit through God’s universe, amid the surround- ings of perfect beauty, which expand and fill life’s powers with the fruition of all that can be conceived, of the things that are in store for those who are willing to accept them as gra. eious gifts from God. Friends of my childhood! though scattered and dispersed, 1 know not whither; probably forgetful of the delights of many scenes and events of early life; these little missives, ex- ressive of Childhood’s loves and joys, ts sorrows and cares, recall the whole; by them we retrace the past, revisit the green spots that may here and there be found on memory’s waste, enjoy that union of spirit with which we commenced existence, and look forward to a bright future with a firm hope, that then and there we shall see as we are seen, and know as we are known, in the full fruition of a heavenly union. Here is another from one whose school-life closed as mine commenced. He was always a kind friend —- took a brotherly charge of me, in many respects; he was an older brother to Inc—the only one I ever had. In my early womanhood, he went to a distant part of the country, and for a long series of years, nothing was known to each of the other. It' so happened, that a. business transac- tion occasioned a letter from him to a member of my family who was ab- sent; this letter. required an imme- diate acknowledgement, and the duty of writing devolved upon me. After noticing the business, I reverted to former scenes. “While I mused the fire burned,” and, one after another, memory'yielded up to her stores, un- til my sheet was filled. This that now rests upon my table, is the reply to mine, written upon the spur of the moment, and dispatched on the wings of the mail—not as well fledged and strong in those days as now——-but it came as quickly as pos- sible. What a flood of recollections did it call forth. His seemed to have been aroused by my letter, and he poured them forth with all the fer- vency of youth. At length he says: “But I am carried back—back— back on the track of life. Be not alarmed, my dear friend of other years; I am a grayheaded, toothless old man, surrounded by my own fam- ily. Mrs. L. . . . unites with me in the request that you will indulge us ' with a letter occasionally. One other favor we urge, that you will come and spend the summer with us.” Circumstances forbade my accepting this invitation; and soon afterward I heard that my friend had gone to his rest. Had it not been for this letter, these delightful reminiscences would have remained engulfed by the great dcmolisher, or rather the great absorber Time. Many of the famil- iar friends of early life have been stricken down by his scythe, one after another have fallen, until my own existence seems more like a transla- tion to some other sphere, than that this is actually the same earth to which I was born. But praise and thanksgiving to Him, who so constituted us that we are susceptible of high intellectual enjoy- ment, and enabled by letters to hold converse with living friends, and by memory to hold communion with loved ones in heaven. Time, while he removes our living joys, and places them beyond our ken, can not de- prive us of the power of recalling and re-enjoying scenes of former bliss, forever fled. He may throw a mist across the vision, by which, for a time, they are 'obscured; but an incident, a word, a letter will awaken a chord in i i l i l i l l s l 5 LETTERS FROM QUIETSIDE. 83 k memory’s harp, that shall vibrate ten thousand symphonies, and call up V1v1d remembrances of the past, which shall glide before us and “smile an 61, or a fury frown.” ' . he ancients had a most impress- }Ve way of illustration, by personify- mg familiar objects; and even ab- stract ideas were thus made the vehi- cles of very profound instruction; 9nd they were sometimes very happy 1n thus flashing upon the mind a new thought, which, though it was often Very quaintly expressed, was well calculated to arrest and fix the atten- Plon. For instance, “ Chronos Time) 18 said to have been the son of oelus, (the invisible heavens,) the most an- CIent of the gods, and that not improp- erly, since it is evident that the m0- tlons of the heavens measure forth to 118 the duration of time. He is gen- erally described as an old man bare- !leaded, with all the indications of age 11} his eye, forehead, and countenance ; his shoulders are bowed, and he graSps feebly a sickle, and sometimes a key in his right hand; in his left, he holds a serpent, which is repre~ Sented as continually bitinghis own tail.” . All these symbols are designed to fllustrate Time as revealing all secrets, 111}pairing and devouring all things, still consuming and yet renewing it- 3.elf by a perpetual circulation. “Some- tunes he is described with six wings, 11nd feet of wool, signifying that time passes softly, yet will be found to be Vel'iy swift in his progress.” 0 most of us the emblem of wings 2nd woolly feet, is fully understood. Tempurs fugit” is a maxim, or a Proverb that no one will pretend to contravene. Under this conviction it Should be our care to make the most Of this, so evanescent treasure; the preSent instant is all that we can ever possess. The past—where is it? even the last flying minute—it is gone; Where? gone to take its place “ with years beyond the flood.” “’Twere W}se — ’ t were greatly wise to talk Wlth our past hours, and ask them what report they bore to heaven.” The future —-who knows it? none but He who first marked the divisions of Time; He who placed the rolling orbs in space, and gave them for signs, and for seasons, for days, and for years.” But here is another old letter. The writer, when we were acquainted, was a lad in his teens, and myself but very little older. While both were young, our lots were cast at a distance from each other, and his name was scarcely remembered during the long lapse of years which passed, without any com- munications or knowledge of each other. This letter tells me that he had been defrauded in a business transaction, by a person living some- where in 'the region of the country where was my home. That his own lawyers had sent it to a firm here years ago, but not having heard any thing from them they had relinquished all hope of ever recovering the debt. At length the thought occurred to him that he would try a lady friend, in— stead of professional men. Accord- ingly, he wrote to me, and forwarded the correspondenee of the lawyers. It so happened that I was acquainted with both the lawyers in this region, although they lived some fifty miles away from me, and the fraudulent debtor more than one hundred miles, in another county. I immediately opened a correspondence with the le- gal gentlemen, and revived the busi- ness, which they had nearly forgotten. In less than three months another lat ter informed me, that after employing four lawyers for three years, a lady had been the means of recovering a debt of several hundred dollars, with interest, which his own lawyers had relinquished as a hopeless debt. A very handsome present to me was en- closed; this was my first and only pettifogging fee. So thankful was be for the assistance I had rendered, that the present, which I thought quite too large for my acceptance, he thought should have been uintupled. All this reviv scenes innumera- 84 THE HOME. ble, which had been waited away on the wings of old Chronos, or trampled beneath his wool-shod feet, until this one circumstance called them out, with many collateral trains that had been laid by, awaitin the electric flash which should t rill at once through the “ remotest link” of the chain of association, and “ bring times past to the present view.” Such are some of the pleasures re- sulting from epistolary converse. Scarcer does the letter of to-day af- ford greater enjoyment, than that which was dated half a century ago; that which tells of the present, inter- ests us by its connection with current events, but that which recalls the past, comes to us with an awful sol- emnity, like the spirit of departed years, lifting its spectral finger to the dial-plate of Time and asking, “ How old art thou ’9 ” Here are files received from friends who wrote frequently, with whom an uninterrupted correspondence was kept up for many years, but their pens are now folded in their cases, no more to cheer my heart with words of kindly affection. These letters ex- tend through many years, and connect the past with the present, by the re- dtal of many incidents, which serve as signals to call up other events, other actors in life’s drama, till their last act was concluded and the curtain dro ped. fiere is a file comprising more than one hundred letters, the correspond- ence of more than thirty years with a very dear friend, and it is still in progress. Who can describe the ex- quisite joy, the thrill of delight elici- ted by these welcome harbingers of IOVe and friendship. How many lit- tle links do they extend back and forth, from heart to heart, and bind- ing in warm contact those whom ad- verse circumstances have separated by hundreds of miles. Their peru- sal seems like re-living these scenes of pleasureable recollections; and if sor- rows are revived, which had been al- most, or quite forgotten, they are shorn in a great measure of their poig- nancy ; for “ Memory stands sideways half covered with flowers, Andt'ltllisplays every rose, but conceals the sharp ' om.’ The lenient influence of Time soft- ens sorrows by robbing them of the bitter pangs of disappointment, anp the deep despondency and discourage- ment, ever the concomitants of a pres- ent grief. How happily is the human constitution adapted to the trials of life. At first they fall upon our hearts with a crushing avalanche of force, threatening utter prostration ; but the sympathy of dear ones tendered in all gentleness and sincerity seems, if it do not entirely extract the sting, so to neutralize its virus that half its bitterness is removed. Almost unconsciously we find our- selves turning from the spectral grief, which has been ever present in our sleeping as well as our waking hours, and has haunted our footsteps contin- ually whichever way we turned. Like the punishment denounced upon Cain the fratricide, it lies at our door. We can not drive it from our heart, nor banish the sombre shadow of its black wings from our homes, not even from the closest retirement, consecra- ted to devotion. The word of God is precious—consoling; in Him, all its premises are yea and amen. Yet, for the want of a living faith, we fail to make that application which lifts the soul from the dark depths of the “slough of despond;” and we ap- proach, without entering the Holy of Holies, where the most High reveals, all his glory not only, but all His mercy, His justice, His goodness, and His truth. In this unsettled state of feeling, a letter from a Christian friend, crowded with expressed sympathy and affec- tion, filled with experiences of deep grief and corresponding memories of God’s sustaining grace, of palpable darkness which has been illumined by the Divine ray, emanating from the declaration “What I do now ye know not; ” and by implication we feel a Nye-m. t,- EARTH’S LINGERER. 85 ¥ blessed assurance that hereafter all shall be explained, and we shall be made to rejoice that the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth. Our heart is refreshed by the poetic sentiment: “ Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust Him for His grace ; Behind a frowning Providence, He hides a smiling face.” The promises of God, thus vitalized by the experiences of a friend, seem to reach our hearts in a more tangible form, we can speak face to face of our sorrows, and every word of response alls upon our anguish with soothing, healing influence. If personal inter- COurse with cherished friends come 1’0 our griefs with healing comfort, not less is the influence of these old letters. Although Time has brushed lS wing over and smoothed the sharp- nesses which once lacerated our souls, Yet these letters, while they recall more vividly the days of darkness, Present also, in alto relievo, all those Consolatibns which constitute the “ joy f’f grief.” They range before the ‘mind’s eye” scenes forever fled, While we, in the spirit, frequent other 1;lines and places, and hold communion Wlth the dear departed. “ From their tombs the sainted numbers 0! our lost companions rise," and point to the glorious Resurrection morning, to which all our fervent h9pes tend ; the expectation of which lssipates our gloom and starts “ A new creation in the soul, An Eden in the heart." Who would shrink from the trouble 0f.preserving letters—those of friend- 3.1p we mean— when they afford so rich a fund of enjoyment in after 3' 831‘s. The time required is scarcely 13? be thought of ; just endorse the tlme of receipt and acknowlegdment, and place them on file. At the close 0 the year, encase them in a labeled wrapper, and assign for the file a num- b_el‘ed “ pigeon hole.” In course of mile, these letters will refresh your Spirit like “the face of a friend,” Which “ Holy Writ ” declares “ doeth good like a medicine.” Blessings on old Cadmus, and upon every improver of letters, and belles- lettres down to the time of lightning letters. Bless letters of all kinds; but more especially bless old letters. “ So mote it be.” L’AMIE. EARTH’S LINGERER. BY HELEN L. BOSTWICK. WIND of spring! wind of spring! with the promise-laden wing, One that loves thee groweth wan, in thy soft breath withering; Vainly she hath sought to stray Where the dandelions fold From the sun their borrowed gold, 0n the meadow~slopes to-day. Thousand blooms to greet thee spring, is there healing on thy wing For a nipt bud withering? Summer breeze! summer breeze! toying with the idle trees, With the gleaners’ tangled locks, and with fairer things than these, Where sweet echoes used to wake In the haunts of flower and bird, When our Etfie’s voice was heard, Now is silence for her sake; Hast thou brought from fragrant trees, in the far off southern seas, Balm to cure her deep disease ? Autumn gale! autumn gale! with the mel- ancholy wail, Bringest thou no sunset tinge for the cheek so waxen pale? See! her hand is shadow-thin, And the ringlets on her brow Never looked so dark as now, Even with white buds braided in! Bring’st thou nothing but a wail for the beauty grown so frail, Check and temples waxen pale? Winter blast! winter blast! moaning for the glory past, . Is there vigor in thy breath for the faint one fading fast? Hark! the answer, “ Lo! I bring For the form so fair and fleet, Pillow cold, and winding sheet, For the rest—an angel’s wingl " And the plumed soul, upward past at sweet fountains pure and vast, Bathes in heaven’s 0Wn airs at last! “ Oh, this life Is nobler than attending for a cloak, Richer than doing nothing for'a bauble; Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk.” 86 THE HOME. “EVERY HEART KNOWETH ITS OWN BITTERNESS.” BY MRS. X. P. A. CBOZIEB. You call the babe a happy thing, A fonnt of bubbling glee, And wish yourself a child again Upon your mother’s knee; You see not the bright gem that starts To stain its rose-cheek fair, Or, you would know that babes have griefs And bitter ones to hear. You look upon the Indian child, Within his wild-wood bowers, And think he must be happy there, Amorig the birds and flowers; But, all! within his heart, revenge With error‘s whisp’ring lure, Is troubling all that crystal fount, That else might flow so pure. In all the gathered pride of gold, The man of wealth rolls by; You look upon the glittering pomp With eager, wishful eye, Arid Envy comes and steals away Contentment from your heart, The blessed boon God gave, to take From poverty its smart. Saw you not on the rich man’s brow The inwrought lines of care? The frowns, that passion’s red-hot iron Has branded deeply there? Ah! happiness folds not her wing Within his palace hall, For with the wine of wealth he drinks, Is mingled bitter gall. You gently strike the trembling lyre, And touch the sweet guitar, And in the labarynthine dance, Bid sadness flee afar; But ’mid the careless flow of mirth, The tears, unbidden start, For there ’s a bitter, bitter fount In every human heart. ECHOES. From the dim and deep recesses Of my spirit’s inmost shrine, Come faint echoes of the voices That have once kept time with mine; But the lips are cold and silent, Whencc those tender accents fell, Death and change have taken from me Those dear friends I loved so well! 'From the green and pleasant valleys Where life’s sunny days are spent, When my heart with joy is throbbing Orin calm mood is content, Come sweet echoes of the visions That have fill’d my dreaming hours, Since I first with eager foot-step Roamed thro’ Fancy’s fairy bowers. From Thought’s lofty cloud-wrapp‘d mountain, Where my soul is sometimes found, When the ties that draw it earthward For the moment are unbound, Come the echoes of my yearnings For a purer, nobler life ; They, alas! too quickly perished, Conquered in the world’s rude strife. Thus is the e’er changing Present, Link’d unto the changless Past By the spell these mystic echoes Have around my spirit cast. And will not the great Hereafter When its mysteries unfold, Echo in its glorious music Tones once heard on earth of old? KATE Cannon. VERMONT. BY Has. H. a. G. mar. I was born amid thy mountains, Vision— girt with summits bfue, Where the spring’s snow-swollen fountains Foam and flash the valleys through. Where was bred the mountain eagle,— Where the rock-flowers drank the dew, Where Ascutney o’er my cradle Toward the west his shadows threw. ’Neath the sumachs and the pine-trees, O’er thy rocks a child I climbed, And the northland’s deep toned breezes With my fancies mixed and chimed. All thy forest’s mystic voices, Were a music prized and dear; What, where wind and storm rejoices, Knows the mountain child of fear? From thy shadowy, toppling highways, 0ft a wandering glance I threw, Where the steed with widening nostrils Down the wheel-locked carriage drew. Now thy peaks have faded round me, Only memory’s dream remains, But I love earth’s beetling hillsides As I ne’er shall love its plains. Iron highways pierce thy mountains, And the traveler hurrying through, Sees no flash on all thy fountains, Sees, like dreams, thy summits blue. But thy green slopes and thy valleys, Still with childhood’s tones are rife, And a thousand young eyes‘wakening, Learn the joys of mountain life. Arthur‘s Home Magazine. - 4. v»ma~.y,,wm.-N - “nae/Am“. NV km”. “.m‘,A «41?: us..- v3.2”:sz "v -a “ RESPECTABLE LOOKING.” 8"] ¥ “ RESPECTABLE—LOOKIN G.” BY MRS. H. L. BOSTWICK. “MR. Leonard,I thought you told me those people were wealthy ~the Whartons, I mean—who called here today '2 ” “ N0,I didn’t, my dear; I believe they are wealthy, but I did not tell You so, for that was not the question you asked me. You inquired if they were respectable-looking, and I said, yes}, which was the truth. The more Intimate I become with the Whartons t 8 more I am convinced that they belong to what is emphatically ‘ Na ture’s nobility.’ I am sorry that in Your eyes they are not ‘ respectable- ookingj :1 .“Now, Mr. Leonard, don’t mor- alize'! Respectable enough,I doubt not, they are in your sense, but you now perfectly well what I meant by 0 question. I fancied, from your esCription; that they were more—— at 01‘ more —” “ More fashionable, I suppose.” ‘Yes; more genteel, more au fait t9 the customs and manners of the elty.” “Call it by the right name then, arah? Do n’t let any one suppose you mean respectable, when you only mean cityjied ? ” “ But,Mr. Leonard, did you observe what queer figures the Whartons made? They wore calf-skin shoes, both Mrs. W. and the daughters ; and the Style of their bonnets,l verily be- love, was that of summer before last! on Mrs. Wharton dresses her hair *0 0ddly,l could not restrain a smile; and such shakes of the hand as they ii 1 gave! My fingers aehed under I“: lnflietion, for their hands are none 0f the softest.” “ Well, Sarah, I must say, that af- t(‘1‘ all these persons’ kindness to us, u: among utter strangers, and after I ave repeatedly invited them to call“ on you, I did suppose you would . eel like giving them a cordial recep- tiOn, without picking flaws in their ress. I saw nothing very peculiar about it. Their shoes were of the only description they could haVe worn over these muddy roads, and it would surely have been folly to ride so short a distance. As for their bonnets and hair arrangements, if they were not in the latest style, they were cer- tainly becoming, and not sufficiently out of date to offend the eye of any, save a very sensitive fashion-worship. er. They are sensible people, who do not think it proper to adopt city modes in a country farm-house, and I honor them for it. You had no rea- son to expect them to call upon you dressed as for a Broadway excursion.” “Bless me! Mr. Leonard, how much do you know of this family, pray? You advocate their cause very warmly.” “Why, I know that when we came to this place for the benefit of coun- try air, and diet for our sickly, pining children, the Whartons offered us ev- ery service in their power; they sent us their domestics until we could procure efficient ones, tempted the poor childrens’ appetites with every imaginable delicacy, placed their car- riage at our disposal that they might. ride, and in numerous other delicate ways showed their kindness of heart. and genuine politeness. I know that when I called at their house, I found civery thing comfortable and elegant), in. doors and out, and as intelligent} and truly refined a family as was eveg'r m lot to meet. I invited them here, and now after all this, if you ‘shave been treating them stifliy, bee. use their appearance does not quite cord with your ideas of what is ré‘ speetable-looking, I must say you hav displayed a lack, not only of good ' feeling, but of good breeding.” “ Oh! do n’t be alarmed, Mr. Leon- ard, I fancy I know what is lady-like, and what rude conduct, without your instruction. I do feel grateful to them and told them so. To be sure I did n’t ask them to call again, for I should ' be mortified if any of our city friends should visit us; and find them here. Not but they are well enough in their O 88 THE, HOME. way, and intelligent, as you observe. Country people have a great deal of time to read and inform themselves; but they are not in my set, and I do n’t think I shall trouble myself to return their call. And one thing, Mr. Leon- ard, I must request of you, that is not to ask them to call upon us after our return to the city. Country people never look so outre as when shopping or making calls in New York. To think of those shoes and bonnets in our drawing-room! monstrous! You ’11 remember, will you, Mr. Leonard?” “And thus add positive rudeness to incivility ; Sarah, your conduct ab- solutely dlsgusts me! No —make yourself easy. I respect the Whar- tons too much to willingly expose them to your haughty airs again. And now, pray, drop the subject?" “ Hi, hum ! Half-past four, and Mrs. Brattle not come yet. Her let- ter gave me much encouragement that she would be here to-day. I am all im atience to learn about that Bond treet wedding. Abby’s im- portant epistle I have read a dozen times out of pure ennui. She seems very much taken with her new beau, young Morgan. I hope it may be a match, for it is said he is to go in busi- ness ,with millionare Bowman’s son. 9 Mr. 1:.eonard, if you can coax the doctor to say that Bell and Willie are suffi- ‘ cientlly convalescent to be taken home, Iwisl‘i you would do so. I’m sure they sat enormously, and are getting terr' oly sun-burned. Besides, Abby is :4 oung to be left with only your old -, it for company. It must be dull r her, poor girl! Iwill write her ‘ t long letter this evening. Oh! I am so homesick in this out-of-the-way- place.” “Did you know those people at church withthe Bowmans this after- noon, Abby? I never saw them in our church before; but one seldom sees more respectable-looking people. Who could they be?” , “I can not tell, mamma. Some friends of the Bowmans, Ifancy, and also of my old beau, Charles Morgan, as he seemed in their company.” “ Well, it is quite certain it’s worth our while to make their acquaintance. I liked their appearance exceedingly. Those silks were rich and elegant, yet plain; a pretty sure sign of long-estab- lished respectability. It is only the paroenus who flaunt and dash. And that reminds me, Abby, that you ought to take at least one .of the feath- ers off your hat. Such an over-dis- play of finery looks as if one were not quite sure of one’s position. Mr. Leonard, what are you laughing at? I thought you Were asleep? ” “So I was, my dear, until your ‘respectable-looking people ’ awak- ened me.” “ Do you know them?” “I do, and so I believe, do you.” “Impossible! Pray, where have I seen them before? ” “At Clearspring, last‘ summer, where we went with little Bell and Willie after their attack of measles and whooping-cough.” “ At that wretched place? Indeed I saw nobody there! I never was so homesick in my life, “ Yet you saw the Whartons there.” “ Those people who made such nice jellies and blanc—mange for the chil- dren ? ” “ Yes — and who called here in calf-skin shoes and two-year old bon- nets, and who had such ’hard hands. Well; you saw them at church to- da . “ Oh! Mr. Leonard, you must be mistaken. I do hope you are mis- taken. How did you find it out? And how came they here? ” “ I will tell you first how I learned they were here, that you may see one result of your treatment of them, and it is a result which I think you will not only see, but appreciate. A week ago, I mentioned to Mr. BOW-. man my desu‘e for a special partner, “.3 in my busmess, and he at once sug— gested a friend of his who had recently I removed to the city, and promised to I of those Clearspring people! c .. rid “ RESPECTABLE-LOOKING.” 89 ¥ speak to him on the subject. This he did, but obtained only the assur- ance that ‘ Mr. Wharton would prefer not to be connected with Mr. Leon- ard’s affairs.’ The name immediate] y .made all clear in my mind, and I have to thank my wife for the loss of very Valuable assistance in my business.” “ Unforgiving old wretch! But do tell what brought them to New York ? ” “ Soon after we left Clearspring, the 01d gentleman met with an acci- dent, Which lamed him slightly but Permanently, and rather unfitted him OI'theeareofhislarge farm. Aboutthe .same time, his property having greatly 11101.Based in value, in consequence of the location of a new railroad, he sold the Whole, with the exception of thc‘ fiautiful homestead, which is occu- filed by his eldest son, and open for 13 return, should he ever desire it. artily for the purpose of making a 01118 for his second son, or rather, the 8011 Of his wife by a former marriage, - e 1‘ emoved to this city; I presume also 6 wish to give his daughters the 9§t educational advantages was an ad- 1t“mill motive. The son has risen ing a clerk to one of the most prom- ismg {merchants dn street, and “OW In partnership with young Bow- man- What is there in this to dis- mrb you, Abby? Ah! Iforgot that B‘Pald you attentions a year ago.” And Charles Morgan is the son That mounts for all! Oh! mother, what 1 y 011 do? And how foolish I have meen. How he must despise us. Oh, etheri1 it is too bad! ” at in fell ’9 name do ou mt‘zt‘ln now: Abby ’2)” , y m other, do you remember writ- 8_ me from Clearspring a most BRIACUIous .letter— to amuse me, you Con ~givmg an account of some 0;“? people who lived near you; in they called upon you that day, 9, . tliiedmost ludicrous old-fashioned did mild sggagtfwkward things they ‘ m ‘lTO be sure, I remember ; it makes e augh now ;—and what of it? ” von. v. 6. “The very evening I received that letter, Morgan called, and I, just for sport, read to him pretty freely from it. I remember he laughed, and said it would be a rare treat if the ‘ corn- fed bumpkins,’ as you call them, should come to visit us in New York. But it struck me, there was irony in his tone; and, mother, he has never been in this house since, and only bows coldly when we meet.” - “ What an idiot you were, Abby I But it is by no means certain that he would have proposed to you, if no such coui‘re-temps had taken place.” “Indeed, I am certain of it; and, that he came that evening with the in- tention of making a declaration. Now,I have not only lost him, but lost his esteem forever, through that odious letter —-” “ Now, Abby, hush! I am half crazy with being blamed for every thing. Mr. Leonard, are they really very rich, and living in style—these Whartons ’! ” “They are rich enough to live as they please, and no doubt think proper, now they have changed their residence, to make corresponding changes in their manner of living; yet, I venture to say, they will never lose that simplicity and truthfulness of character, which is of healthy coun- try growth ; that freshness and vigor of mind, and independence of action, which city-spoiled nonentities can never imitate. And now, Sarah, if you desire it, I am ready to call with you upon the Whartons, at any time you may name; promising, however, that you will not find them one whit more ‘ respectable-looking,’ than when they made chicken-soup and currant- wine for our puny children in the farm-house at Clearspring.” THERE are individuals who have ac. quired a literary reputation without writing a line; there are others who have a name for bravery, and never fought. The former write, and the latter fight, by proxy. THE HOME. A BLIGHTED BUD. “ Weep not for him that dieth — For he sleeps, and is at rest ; And the couch whereon he lieth Is the green earth’s quiet breast. “ Weep not for him that dieth, For friends are round his bed ; And many a. young lip sigheth, When they name t e early dead. “ Weep not for him that dieth, For his struggling soul is free, And the world from which it flee’th Is a world of misery. “ But weep for him who weepeth, Whose trials are not o‘er, Blest, blest is he that sleepeth — Weep for the dead no more i" N the following brief memoir, may be found the true source'of real and lasting happiness. The truthful incidents relate to one who, by re- flection and effort, guided by revelae tion, found “ sweet content ” here, and a bright hope for the Life that is to come. In it there is encouragement, especially for mothers, to sow preci- ous seed as soon as the soil is given to their supervision ; bearing in mind, that they who sow sparingly shall so reap, and when sowing bountifully, the promise is, they shall reap also bountifully. If the fruit be sparsely realized on earth, it shall be garnered ' in heaven, where fruition shall never be marred by disappointment. Richard C. A. . . . was born in Buf- falo, N. Y. When about four years of age, he was attacked with scarlet fever, which came to him in a violent form; but with God’s blessing he re- covered, after being to human view in the near prospect of death for three weeks. . Though apparently regaining his health, it waS'perceived that his , constitution had sustained a severe shock, for the nervous system became very susceptible and much impaired. His mind appeared not to share in his bodily debility ; the intellect-afl‘orded cat promise, expanding steadily, while the moral perceptions developed with the advancing mind. He was instructed at home by his mother un» til seven years of age; and during that time became well advanced in the primer studies usually taught in schools. (due of his early teachers ' was remarkable. observed: “ He would learn mere in one day than other pupils in a week.” At that early age, his love for study It never appeared a task to him to acquire knowledge, but a source from which he derived the highest enjoyment. About this time, he first com- menced attending the Sabbath-school, in which his interest was not only shown by being punctual at the hour ap- pointed, but by learning his lesson per- fectly. The book he weekly received from the library for perusal, was al- ways read and put by carefully until returned. He would have been very much mortified to have injured in the least one of those precious little volumes, (for so he esteemed them,) while in his temporary possession. May other dear children follow his example; for it is with pain their faithful teachers observe in too many instances the abuse of the Sabbath- sehool library books, while in the hands of some of the scholars. Many are so thoughtless as not to return them at all — thus they become lost or destroyed, as if of no value. At this early age, he seemed to feel the importance of that discipline of mind which conduced so much to form the fixed rinciples which ever guided his life. ‘he internal cenflic‘t with re- gard to the regulation of his actions, was often noticed, and the effort made upon himself to do what was right. When a little boy, he was very much afraid in a. thunder storm, and would run to his mother argd hide his head in her lap until it had passed. The causes of the phenomena were ex- plained to him, while he was assured he was as safe then, if he would trust in God, as at any time, and he was ad- vised to ask his Heavenly Father to re- move his fears. One day, soon after this conversation, he said to his mother, “I think I shall never be afraid of light- ning and thunder again. I have asked God to take away my fears.” This seemed his first effort of- faith in his Heavenly Father. He never manifes- ted the least terror in a storm afterward, "'-\1rv-'w-—~.‘ u ‘mrmmvmm I“ - wax “mmwwwmhv\m ’ .. , . , ,..._... A BLIGHTED BUD. 91 \ while he ever appeared wholly free from the fear of those things from which children often suffer. The fear 0? the dark was wholly unknown to 1m. . Richard manifested great conscien- tiousness and truthfulness, of which Seyel‘al anecdotes might be related. 18 teacher tells the following: at the first school he attended, it was en- Jomed that every scholar who had transgressed the rules, should report himself daily of so doing. ' It was ob- served, Richard was very desirous to Obey, but, when casually breaking the rule, in every instance he would stand up at the close of school, and before the teacher and pupils, acknowledge enhad done so; a circumstance re- quiring no little courage in a child of §even years. He seemed to have an 3nnate horror of any thing approach- mg a quarrel; and sometimes came Ome weeping, after being assaulted by haughty boys in the street, taking patiently their ill-treatment, rather than say angry words in return. It Was not known that he ever told a falsehood, nor was it ever necessary t0 punish him but on one occasion, which was for disobedience to his father—a fault which called forth Ram ful recollections afterward, and was SIncerely regretted, while tears would fill his eyes whenever he spoke of it. He excelled in all the studies to Which he gave attention, distinguished himself by the best scholarship, and gamed the first honors of school. He ad_acquired a good knowledge of the atin language before he was ten years of age. By his own prompt- mg he became very fond of the study Of natural history, and the knowledge aeqlured of the animal and insect lngdom was remarkable; he could generally tell the peculiarities of any 011,8 of them. The books in his fath- er 8 library were his delight, and he reveled among them as in a garden 0f sweets. He had a taste and correct appreciation for the beautiful in Scenery, would observe and point out the beauties of a landscape, which those of less acute observation would rarely notice. He would watch from the piazza at his home the clouds at sunset with intense delight, and loved to contemplate nature in all her vari- ous forms. Richard’s temper was mild and winning. He manifested the warm- est affection for his parents, brother, and sister, and all his numerous friends. Wherever he went, he was sure to make friends, and was a general favor- ite; possessing social qualities, he en- joyed highly the society of congenial spirits. It can not be remembered, through his short life, when he did not seem to exhibit the Christian graces; even in his childish plays, and the subsequent occupations of youth, the fear of God, and the love for good- ness seemed to control every action. He ever expressed much sympathy for the poor and suffering. The duty was often delegated to him of carry- ing the necessaries for alleviating their wants, and he never seemed happier, than when going on such errands. When not thought expedient to be- stow money to an applicant at the door, a shade of sadness would pass over his countenance, as though fear- ing a needy one might have been de- nied. He loved to bestow generously, and in doing so, followed the dictates of his enlarged heart. The gratifica- tion of self, was always a secondary object; and not unfrequently he would renounce his own enjoyment to conducc to that of another, while the deprivation was as cheerfully sub mitted to as if a favor had been conferred upon himself; thus he realized the sweetest pleasure by striving to promote that of others. Evening after evening has he been found in the kitchen, imparting some useful lessons to his father’s hired man, which, owing to his gentle man- ner, and the interest he manifested for them,were always gratefully received. In so doing, the joy was realized that “it is more blessed to give than to receive.” He was early instructed in the his. torical parts of Scripture, and so well 92 did he understand them, that for hours he would entertain his “ dear lit- tle sister,” (as he always called her,) who was eight years younger than himself, by relating one story after another from the Bible. The shorter catechism he could repeat perfectly, before he was nine years old, which, when he became more of an invalid toward the close of life, it was a source of much spiritual enjoyment to revert to its plain Scriptural truths. May this encourage other young per- sons to learn this excellent compend of Christian truth, that it may afford the like consolation to them in after life. He seldom read books of fic- tion, and only when the moral was decidedly good. He did not enjoy them—his taste was formed for more substantial aids to thought, something upon which to fix principle, and to guide in the performance of right. Nothing less than truth could satisfy his ardent desire for knowledge and improvement. His remarks in rela- tion to works of fiction, were very a reciable to any thinking mind. He felt that time was not profitably employed in reading the imaginary creations of others, so often very un- like real life, and not calculated to make one more competent for per- forming its serious duties. The natural thoughtfulness of his mind, united with the affliction caused by the deprivation of health, produced a sobriety of character rarely found in one so young. The duty of show- ing respect to the aged, so much neg- lected by many young persons in these days, called forth his comments of disapprobation. It seemed a grat- ification to him to show them all the attention in his power. He often sought and enjoyed their society more than that of his youthful com.- panions. His parents sought to cul- tivate affability and politeness of manner, and with good success; for often his gentlemanly behavior has called forth commendation. It sloon became apparent his infirm- ities were slowly assuming a more THE HOME. formidable character, and his physi- cians forbade his attendance at school, and any continual mental or physi- cal application; consequently his stud- ies and daily reading was necessarily abridged; still, he was 10th to renounce his books, and it was difficult to di- vert his attention from them. Feel- ing keenly his deprivation in not be- ing able to advance so rapidly as he ardently desired in the attainment of knowledge, which trial, united with increasing debility, led him (as he often expressed to his friends) to re- flect upon the uncertainty and transi- tory nature of all on earth, and di- rected his attention to the future and after life. He conversed mostly with his grand- father, then residing in his father’s family, on religious subjects, and his increasing interest in them. He felt himself a sinner standing in need of God’s forgiving love and mercy ; nor did he find peace, until hoping in the Sa- viour’s pardoning love. His convic- tions of sin were from the depths of the heart, while beseeching the throne of grace most fervently, and urging his friends to do so on his behalf, un: til he found joy in believing. When he could humbly claim the promises to the penitent, he desired to rofess his faith before the world. Ie was united to the people of God and the visible church, the summer that he was f1 fteen. He ever after appeared to grow in the divine life, never wandered from his first love, while his consistent walk was a living example to many older professors. The Bible now became his daily delightful study in connection with various commentaries, and the con- sultation of the marginal references, while the remarks he often made, showed how well were appreciated and prized its blessed truths. His mind was sometimes disturbed with temptations,—— “ What if the Bible was not true, and was all a fable— how can I know that it is really God’s word?” These doubts he communi- cated to his mother, who directed his ““J‘V': <~4melwv .v~e.‘r BABIES. 93 _¥ attention to the writings of good and earned men, who have established the authenticity of the Scriptures by unmis- takable evidences. After reading them, and looking carefully to the in- ternal evidences, and consulting his own happy experience of the truth, his dpubts vanished, and he became con- Vlnced and satisfied. If all young peo- ple would take this course, the word Of God would be perused with more satisfaction, and become a living influ- ence to guide their daily life. This dear child ardently desired to engage in every enterprise to aid the cause of his Saviour, and it was with much regret after gathering around lm an endeared class in the Sabbath- 8thool, that he was obliged to relin- quish it on account of ill health He lOved the little boys composing his Class, and they expressed the strong- est afl‘ection for him, while the hours 91‘ teaching never afforded sufficient tl111e, as he said, to tell them all he Wlslled about the good men of the Bible, and the kindness of the dear edecmcr. He was taught by wisdom from above a just appreciation of worldly amusements, and never manifested any love for them. The exercise of lal and fraternal love, the enjoyment of rational and innocent amusements, and the practice of Christian duty, constituted his constant happiness. t Was observed he appeared “ always ,appy,”— he was so, with the excep- tlon of short intervals, when contem- Plating the future, and fearing he SlIOUId be disabled from active scr- Vlce in his Master’s vineyard. In in- fancy he had been given to God in a tism, and devoted to the ministry. t was hoped by his parents God 'W0uld sanction this choicc,and prepare their child for that solemn service. He looked forward to it himself With ardent hope, and often ob- served, “1 think nothing could make me happier, should my life be pre- served, than to be a missionary ; how I should delight to labor for Christ.” Writing in his journal he says: “How I prize God’s blessed word ; it is to me the best book, while a crucified Saviour appears to my heart more and more lovely ; ” at another time: “If it should be my Heavenly Fath- er’s will to restore my health, 'I would delight to go to the far west, and pro. claim His love to perishing sinners.” (To be concluded.) BABIES. ‘ ABIES! scions of humanity formed and fashioned like the parent stem; very innocent and lovely; the most helpless of all creative beings; the pride and pet of the parents; the common center of their heart’s deep- est affections, binding them still closer to earth. The treasure is theirs, they are to do with it as seems to them good, and no one has a right to remove it from them. This little body is to be clothed in costly fabrics, wrought and fashioned by the careful hand of the industrious mother, that it may excel all others in the charms of beauty and fashion. Thislittle form, which is all in all to them, they are to rear and deco— rate, until it shall become one of com- manding grace and beauty, the pride and admiration of all observers. Kind reader, will this not meet the common acceptation of the term ba- bies? But, fond mother, ought it to answer your ideas of them; of your own for instance? Ought we not to behold in them somethinn' farther, higher, more sublime than T have yet defined? ' Must this little body be the ultimate of our hopes and affections? My own heart responds, no; this is not all, this is not a just definition of babies. Shall we not then, consider them “well-springs of hope,” causing our hearts to throb With emotions never known before? As human caskets, possessing jewels of Divine workman- ship; as perishable forms, but pos- sessing immortal minds. The reali- zation of our fondest hopes, the re. newing of our very selves, calling 94 THE HOME. forth all the finer feelings of our na- tures, and rendering us less selfish and worldly. As links uniting still closer the hearts of the parents, and bearing them Upward to heaven, by daily reminding them of the words of our Saviour, “Of such is the king- dom of heaven.” And have we the exclusive right to these immortal treasures? Has not the Creator who gave them us a prior claim? And can we act then, wholly as we please in the management, and dictate as we. choose the removal of what is not our own, but merely lent us .for a time not specified. Should we not as parents, rather be laying up for our little ones food and cloth- ing for the mind—that immortal part—a store of useful knowledge, words of wisdom, and examples of kindness and benevolence? Ought not the first ideas which impress the in- fant minds of our children, be of more value than the beauty of their form, or the fineness of the fabrics in which they are arrayed? Should it not be the subject of our prayers and anxious endeavors to so cultivate our own minds, that we may be capable of instilling the tender minds of our little ones with the best possible knowledge, both by exam 1e and precept, that when the kind as- ter shall see fit to call home these ob- jects of our affections, we may pos- sess the heart-consoling thought that We have not been worshiping the baby “which is of earth, earthly ; ” but that immortal part, which will then serve as a link binding us to heaven. SUSAN E. Wrcxnam. TWO WAYS OF CORRECTING A FAULT. “ ELL, Sarah, I declare! ‘you are the worst girl that I know of in the whole country!” 6‘ done ’! ” “ See there! how you have spilled water in my pantry ! Get out of my mother! what have I sight; I can not bear to look upon you — you careless girl ! ” “Well, mother! I couldn’t help it.” Mrs. A. . . ., the mother, is a very worthy woman, but very ignorant of the art of family government. Sarah, her daughter, is a heedless girl of about ten years old. She is very much accustomed to remove things out of their proper places, and seldom stops to put them in again. On the occasion referred to above, she had been sent to put water into the tea- kettle, and had very carelessly spilled a considerable portion on the pantry floor. After the above conversation, which, on the part of the mother, sounded almost like successive claps of thunder on the ears of her daughter, Sarah escaped in a pouting manner, into an adjoining room, and her mother wiped up the slop in the pan- tr . yWell, thought I, my dear Mrs. A. . . ., if that is the way you treat your daughter, you will probably find it necessary to wipe after her a great many times more, if you both live. Such family government as is here set forth, seems to me to be lia- ble to several serious objections. The reproof was too boisterous. Chil- dren can never be frightened into a knowledge of error, or into conviction of crime. It is their judgment, and their taste for neatness and order which need training, and not their cars. It was too unreasonable. The child was, indeed, careless; but she had done nothing to merit the title of “ the worst girl in the country.” Children are sensible of injustice, and very soon find it difficult to respect those 'who unjustly treat them. It was too passionate. The mother seemed to be boiling over with dis- pleasure and disgust; and under this excitement she despised her darling child; the very same that in a short time afterward, when the storm had blown by, she was ready to embrace in her arms as almost the very image of . _..» w -.~ “’1' 7:— -wm.wm. A HOUSE WITHOUT Perfection. It was inefficient. Sarah retired under the idea that her mother Was excited for a very little thing, Which she could npt help. Thus she blamed her mother and acquitted her- se . Mrs. B. . . . is another mother in the same neighborhood. Mrs. A. . . . Wonders why Mrs. B. . . . has so Very good children. Says Mrs. - . ., “I talk a great deal more to my children than Mrs. B. . . . does. frequently scold them most severely, and I sometimes whip them, until I think they will never disobey me again. And yet, how noisy, careless, and disobedient my children are! IFS. B. . . . says but little to her Children, and yet her family moves Ike clock-work. Order, neatness, and harmony abound, and I never eard of her whipping them at all.” ’Tis even so! And Ishould like to tell Mrs. A. . . . the grand cause Of her failure. She has not yet learned to govern herself, and it is {10!} therefore surprising that her fam- 11y is poorly governed. Mrs. B. . . . has a daughter Cath- arine, about the same age with the Claughter of Mrs. A. . . . Not long Sines, Catharine committed in a hurry, the same act of carelessness as above r(Blated, and Mrs. B. . . .’s treatment 0f it, reveals her secret of family gov- ernment. » “Catharine, my daughter, can you tell me how this water came on the floor? ” “I suppose, mother,l must have spilled it a few moments ago, when I filled the teakettle.” “ Why did you not wipe it up, my daughter?” “I intended to return and do so; 111: on getting engaged on something else, I forgot it.” “ Well, my daughter, when you do Wrong, you should try to repair it to the best of your ability, and as soon fis possible. Get the mop and wipe It up, and try not to do so again.” . Catharine immediately does as she ls bid, remarking, “I will try to be more careful another time.” “ IMPROVEMENTS.” 95 Mrs. A. . . . may be found in al- most every community. Mrs. B. . . ., though perhaps a more rare person- age, yet graces many families in our land. A IIOUSE WITHOUT “IM— PROVEMENTS.” HAVE been tempted to write the following from the fact, that I be- lieve that most people who are blessed with a habitation, wherein all the ge- nius of the nineteenth century has been brought to bear in its construc- tion, have not a realizing sense of their privileges, I Would like to in. quire of those individuals if they ever lived in a house minus the “ conveni- ences '2 ” Was there a single door from eel- lar to garret, that would shut prop- erly? Did n’t the windows shake with aguc-fits, every gust that blowed? Did n’t the cistern give out in June, and the well in J uly? Was 11’t every crevice in the wall a place wherein you might exercise patience, grace and corrosive sublimate. Allow me to relate my experience. Icommenced housekeeping in just such a place. The only thing that at- tracted me to it, was the good old- fashioned chimney fire-place. How meekly innocent it looked on that eventful afternoon, when I went to sur- .vey our new possession. It was a jewel of a convenience, “ so much more com- fortable than a stove,” remarked my husband, “ so much pleasanter to knit by,” said I. We were delighted, and decided to move in immediately. Now, I was a country-girl, and had a full supply of feather-beds, woolen blankets, and bed-quilts; these were my pride. My carpets were made of rags, but clean and whole. My linen, home-made, but fresh and snowy. . It was early spring-time, all na- ture was beginning anew [like 213. I packed my winter-bedding in a cham. ber closet, stored my surplus linen in _ ..... Muhammad—unau- 96 an oaken chest, spread my carpets, “set up my dishes,” and we com- menced living. The first night of our regency, we looked over our lit- tle house with satisfiiction written in our countenances in unmistakable lines ; “ comfortable ! ” was our unan- imous vote. But, alas! that human hopes are so easily wrecked. Shall I weary your patience by telling you how the miserable water, and the still more miserable clothes-yard, (which was a newly-turned green 'swa‘rd,) in the course of the summer, turned my snowy linen to an inter- esting safl'ron color? Or, how anxi- ously we waited the arrival of the first cold night, that we might try our pet fire-place? We piled on the wood and chips, struck a match, and it burned furiously (for a minute,) then,--—oh ! death to all hopes ofcom- fort, the smoke came puffing down, and in spite of all efi‘ortsto the con- trary, it would “ come down,” and if we persisted in having a. fire, we must have all the windows open, or else suffocate. Shall I tell you how many tearsI shed, when one cold day in De- cember I went to my closet to get my woolen blankets, and found that the mice had chewed them; to pieces, and built a city of the fragments? Or, how the .moths made my carpets more ragged, than the original ele- ments of which it was composed? No, I’ll not distress you with a de- tail of all my grievances, but simply state, that if any one has an ungrati- fied wish to exchange a modern house for my primitive one, I am both ready and willing. M. HUNTER. FEMALE EDUCATION. OTHING else so much conduees to the prosperity of a state, and to the individual happiness and wel- fare of‘ its citizens, as the general dif- fusion of knowledge. Hence, we have cause to rejoice at the liberal public provision which has been made for this purpose. There is much, . THE HOME. I however, in a good, practical educa- tion, which is not to be acquired in the public schools under the best rep- uted system of instruction. Thou- sands of youngladicsanuuall y grad uate from the seminaries, and consider themselves educated, who are sadly deficient in that knowledge which is of the greatest practical importance. They are, it may be, accomplished, but they are far from being educated, in the true sense of the term. They have not been fitted for the duties and responsibilities 01’" life. A ma- jority oi'them, have but a very super- ficial knowledge of the studies they pursued in the schools, and to those solid acquirements which so highly adorn a woman, and without which she can not fulfil her true destiny, they are utter strangers. Indeed, it is with me a question, whether most of the acquisitions which constitute a modern female ed- ucation, are of any great utility—— whether they do not produce a dis- relish for useful knowledge. The highest object of many of this class of females, is to fit themselves to move in fiisbionable circles. As to any aims of" usefulness, they have none. To qualify themselves for the weighty responsibilities of the mistress of the family, in the proper discharge of which an important part of a woman’s usefulness consists, is not among the objects of their aspirations. Of the mission and true dignity of woman, they appear to have no just concep- tion. Can we rationally hope that they will ever attain a station in life, above that of a bare respectability? I would by no means speak dis- paragingl y of school learning; but its utility consists mainly in its being usefully applied. It can not com- pensate for the want of general reading. A single year’s use of'a well- selected library, combined with the practice of the active duties of female life, is of vastly greater value than all that is embraced in a popular female education. Yet, how few young wo- men avail themselves of these cheap .vA— "fi‘WWWW we“ ' w ~erfl. 44-" . I - Versation. “ OH! I WISH I was RICH.” 97 k moral and intellectual improvements! {PW very small the number, compar- atively, who devote a brief hour daily to mental culture! And what is the I‘esultof this delinquency? A large majority of the delinquents are intel- ectual dwarfs— mere blanks in soci- ety. If by accident they find them- sElves in a well-informed circle, they are dumb, or expose their ignorance y venturing to participate in the con- 1 say, if by accident; for We can hardly suppose they frequent SPCh company from choice—prefer- 1'mg associates whose minds are as uncultivated and barren as their own. be present is said to be an age of reform. Who will say, that reform 111 female education is not among the Wants of the age? But where shall we begin, and by whom, and how ,8 it be accomplished Z Evidently “1 the family, and by the parents. Very parent should be, and may be an Efficient, practical educator. Moth- e1‘8 should endeavor to create in their alighters a taste for solid, useful feadmg. Most of the‘present read- ing Flatter in many families must be amsfhed. So long as the fictitious lll’li‘zll’llcations of the day come into the mls of our young women, their moral and mental improvement is ,OPed for in vain. But as preven— 10" is more easy and certain than cure, let parents see that this poison- olls» dissipating literature is never per- mftted to enter their dwellings. Let amiable books be early placed in the lids of children, as a safeguard $31M“; this corrupting literature. Ortunately, while our country is agwed with worthless books, it t ounds also with works adapted to a e Mints of children and youth. By “(Emmi and wise selection of books periodicals, a relish for solid in- aopllation. may be early created, and heOuudatlon'laid for eminent useful- evzs- But the subject amplifies with ry moment’s Consideration, and not be disposed of at the present ltlMg. Itvmay be resumed on some uture occasion. C. E, D, “OH! I VVISI‘I I ‘AS RICH.” ITTLE Meeta, thine are not the only lips that have let fall these words; but ’t is in vain. There are no fairies now-a-days to wave a magic wand over thee, or drop gold and pearls into thy lap. But, little one, dost not know thou hast riches, which the great and fortune-favored ones of earth do co vet? Wealth may be theirs, but be assured their treasures have been “weighed in the balance, and found wanting.” Thy riches will out- weigh them all, for thou art rich in that which gold can not buy; youth, health, hope and love’, and oh! above all, trust and faith. That richly-dressed lady who just passed, whose gay attire won thy childish admiration, would joyfully exchange positions with thee, could she at the same time with her velvet robes, lay down her weary, pining heart, and take up instead, thy inno- cent, hopeful, joyous one; with its sweet faith and confidence in affec- tion, and its deep trust in all things good, and true, and holy. No, no l— a velvet bodice is not always laced over a contented, happy heart, nor do diamonds always sparkle on brows serene and peaceful; many an anx- ious thought and heavy care lie con- cealed beneath. The devotees at mammon’s shrine, often find the fires they have kindled at the altar of vanity, have burned out, and left only “ the ashesof their perished fancies.” They have, may- hap, drank of the full cup of life, and found the chalice, which looked so sparkling and foaming at the brim, held bitter dregs at the bottom. Its enchantment is over, and they see life as it is. And the time may come one day to thyself, little Meeta, when thou too wilt find that “ Gold and gems are not the thing! To satisfy the heart ; " when thou wilt see the flowers fading thou didst pluck when thou first set- test out on thfwalk of life ; when 98 THE HOME. thou wilt s the buds of prom- ise which were so bright and fair in the morn, drooping and fading ere noon; when thy young hopes, like the lark, soared fearlessly and joyously in the morning light, sit with folded wing and music hushed like the homeless dove, but bearing no olive branch as sign of peace; then wilt thou look back upon the gifts thou held, and wonder that ye were not content. But that ye need not experience poverty of the heart, even though the morning sun be clouded, though the flowers of youth may fade, and the gold grow dim, cultivate that heart’s garden; lant therein amaranthine flowers of ope, and love, and truth, which never fade, but will gladden and perfume all thy life; “these choicely culled, and elegantly ranged, will bear ‘ trans- planting to the skies.’ ” And to form the store-house of truth, gather pearls of wisdom and diamond thought, wherewith to make a coronet to deck thy spirit’s brow ; thou wilt find thou hast riches that the breath of the world can not tar- nish, and besides which the gold of Ophir becomes dim. ‘ “ VETA VERNON.” O AUNT REE ENN AND THE CHILDREN. “ LLIE! Allie! what 'is the mat— ter; dear? What are you so sorry about? ” “Oh, aunt Ree Enn, l was lean- ing over the well-curb to see the shadow of my flowers, and I almost fell in; it scared me so I lost my flowers, and I know I can ’t find any more so pretty, so I can’t help but cry.” “Run here, darling, and jump on my lap s0, and I will tell you a true story about a little boy I saw in a railroad car. He seemed to be a poor boy, traveling alone, and his clothes were quite coarse and old; but he had a very p etty new cap that he seemed quite plécd with—taking it off, looking it over, and then trying it on again, with a happy, sat— isfied air. By-and~by, while he had it on, he put his head out of the window, and the cars just then rushed by a large pile of wood which was too near the road, and a stick struck his pretty cap and tore it off. Do you think he cried for his pretty cap, which he would never see again? Oh, no! he looked very much terrified for a mo- ment, and then clasping his head with his hands so, and looking at the other passengers, he said with energy, ‘ How good God was not to let it take my head ofl.’ You see that lit— tle boy had the true spirit of thank- fulness; he looked at the mercies he received, not at his losses. And when you think how good God was not to let you fall in the well, do you not feel very glad? I am sure I do too. There, now, take another kiss, and run off in the orchard and find more flowers.” * a a s- an- *- “ Oh, aunt Ree Enn ! What a dull, lonesome place this is! I can’t see any thing at all here but fields and woods.” “I suppose it seems lonely to you, dear Mattie, because you are used to living in the village, and this is not your home. Perhaps if you had al- ways lived here, it would look as pleasant to you as it does to my lit— tle boy. One day he came to me, with his bright blue eyes dancing with pleasure, and said, ‘Oh, ma- I’ve been looking around, and I do think this is the prettiest and best place in the world; for here the big trees shut out every thing but the two best things, and they are home and heaven- I can’t see any thing but them;’ and ofl‘ he ran singing and shouting with glee.” ,To gain the highest stations, we are often compelled to walk over regions destitute of feeling and virtue. palm is a native of the desert. The THE BANKRUPT MERCHANT. . 99 PARTING WORDS. BY MRS. J. II. HANAFORD. THOSE Parting words! they fell upon our ears Like the far sounding of a solemn knell; nd linger now as lingers in the vale, The sweet-toned echoes of thelvesper-bell. Those parting words! they faded on our ears As fade the sunset hues of parting day ; et linger in our hearts as still remains, The holy presence of the twilight ray. ThOse parting words! we clasp them to our hearts, A8 clasps a mother her beloved child; “1‘ memory to each precious sentence clings, A3 child to parent when the storm is wild. ‘ Those parting words shall in our mem’ries sound, AS sounds for miles Niag’ra’s mighty roar, d blend their cadence with the welcomes sweet, Which yet shall greet us from the heav- enly shore. Then sound the pasan song of triumph far, 01‘ parting words shall yet in welcomes end; A5 morning moonlight, and the gleam of stars, 0ft with Auroral brightness calmly blend. \ THE BANKRUPT MERCHANT. BY HELEN L. PARIELEI. _ THE cloud has burst, the storm has come, pd swept my house, but not my home ; Silver, and gold, and rank, and pride, smile to see them swell the tide! My steeds are in another’s stalls, y marbles grace another’s halls, y pictured gems so rich and rare, ave left my walls all cold and bare. What care I for the empty room? leave it to its chill and gloom; ‘y household gods were never made '10 live in sunshine — die in shade. I pass along the cr0wded street, en turn aside who used to greet; hat care I for their altered mien ? I am what I have ever been. A man — if not a millionaire— A breather of the self-same air, A dweller on the self-same sod, A creature of the self-same Godl Turn with me down this narrow street, No lordly mansion here we meet; Yet proudly fling I back my door, Bankrupt in wealth, I am not poor. For here are household treasures three; And clothed with sweet simplicity, Comes she to greet, who yesterday Could fling the gold like dust away. Her broidered robes, her diamonds rare, The setting, not the jewel were; A new Cornelia, but to me She is the gem of all the three. From the sweet shelter of her breast, My babe springs forth to be carest; My fair-haired girl leans quietly With timid clasp against my knee. Well may I smile at scattered wealth ; Contentment, love, and hope, and health, Are store enough to bless one hearth With all the real wealth of earth. And better than this home of love, We seek a surer rest above; Where shelt‘ring wings around us cast, Shall hide us from the stormy blast. And what if one should press before, And enter at the open door; \Ve will but trim our lamps anew, And wait to greet the bridegroom tool THE FAMILY. m’ mus. H. p. A. caozmn. Tait family is like a book — The children are the leaves, The parents are the cover, that Protection, beauty gives. At first, the pages of the book Are blank, and purely fair, But time soon writeth memories, And painteth pictures there. Love is the little golden clasp That bindeth up the trust, Oh, break it not; lest all the leaves Shall scatter and be lost. HUSBAND AND WIFE. As through the land at eve we went, And plucked the ripened ears, We fell out, my wife and 1, Oh, we fell out, I know not why, And kissed again with tears. For when we came where lies the child We lost in other years, There, above the little grave, Oh, there abo the little grave, We kissed 'n with tears. a. i i l l FREEDOM FOR THE CHIL- DREN. THE following sensible and much needed paragraph is from Black- wood’s Magazine : “A child of three years of age, with a book in its infant hands, is a fearful sight! It is too often the death-war- rant, which the condemned stupidly looks at—fatal, yet beyond its com- prehension. What should a child three years old be taught? Strong meats for weak digestions make not bodily strength. Let there be nurs- ery tales and nursery rhymes told them. I would say to every parent, especially every mother, sing to your children, tell them pleasant sto- ries; and if in the country, be not too careful lest they get a little dirt upon their hands and clothes; earth is very much akin to us all, and in children’s out-of-door plays, soils them not inwardly. "' “Thereisin itakindof consanguinity between all creatures; by it we touch upon the common sympathy of our first substance, and beget a kindness for our poor relations, the brutes. Let children have a free open-air sport, and fear not, though they make ac- quaintances with the pigs, the cows, and the chickens—they may form worse friendships with the wiser-look- ing ones; encourage a familiarity with all who love to court them— dumb animals love children, and chil- dren love them. There is a language among them which the world’s lan- guage obliterates in the elders. It is of more importance that you should make your children loving, than that ou should make them wise, that is, ook-wise. Above all things, make them loving; then will they be gen- tle and obedient; and, then also, pa- rents, if you become old and poor, these will be better than friends that will never neglect you. Children brought up lovingly at your knees, will never shut their doors upon on, and point whs‘e they would ave you go.” 100 THE HOME. #- WOMAN AND FLOWERS. THE editor of the Louisville Journal has a very readable article under this head, from which we cut the closing paragraph. It is full of the true poe‘ try of natural and refined sentiments: “Blessings on the heads of those who send flowery presents to those whose energies have been desolated by disease! Flowers impart not only fragrance and beauty to one’s sick' room, but they absolutely light up the gloom that hangs around it like a dark curtain, and cause cheerfulness to take the place of heaviness and op‘ pression of the heart. Often has our soul felt exceedingly grateful to these dear women who have considered our low estate, and sent flowers, fresh, fragrant, and beautiful, to cheer our .' invalidism. Could we strew their pathway through, life with flowers, how eagerly would our hand perform the task! Had flowers no other of: fice than to minister to the pleasures of the sick, that of itself would he rea' son sufficient why they should be cul- tivated. But when we remember that they are not only an ever plcaS' ant joy to the eye, but are also true and genial teachers of moral truth and excellence, as well as tender prom 3' ers to the highest, as well as t 0 most refined sentiments, we can perceive of how great importance it is that the hand and heart 0f woman’s power is in her loveliness, and she ought to do every thing to encourage it. ‘ Her loveliness has broken the bondage in which man; a sinful man was bound, and whlc had resisted persuasion and force through many a year. Let her in’ crease her power by adding to her loveliness, and this she will not fail to do if she gives her heart up to“, love of‘ the beautiful poetry of earth.” 4/ SIR Thomas Overbury said of a man who boasted of his ancestry, that he was like a potato—the best thing be' longing to him was under ground. WHO DOES IT? 101 EDITOR’S DEPARTMENT. w B o D o s s x 1'? 013A“ sun Baum— New York spends daily ovooo for cigars, and $8,500 for bread. It is not ° expense of the necessaries of life which makes '0 m“! Maple poor l ERR are fifteen hundred dollars a day . more for cigars than for the staff of m°° Now, is it really woman’s extravagance ‘1‘.“ turns the prosperity of the country to nu“? Do the women smoke these cigars? . the half yard of silk which a few ex- qm‘ltes trail in the dust, or the laces they .“nt in the air, cost more than this enor- m‘ty 0f twisted tobacco? Extravagance in 1 is woman's one great folly. Men have :0?” Of them, and are so wedded to their .les that they will bear very little to be d lhout them, while woman, with more . {when and more consciousness of right, 1:?“th the cry against her own pet sins, “pi: are bright-hued, and therefore con- uouas and says when they are pointed out he.“ “ Why, to be sure, what fools we are! ” r W:th out to her! yes; by some little edi- ""10 Bits in his tobacco-fumed sanctum, “Erma eyes scarcely cleared from last . ‘3 Orgies, and smokes real Havanas over part)"colored sheet, in order to whip up “Mien-down nerves to their required 3 “1d writes about woman’s extrava- "nie :ecause it is the fashion, and he is in not “:1 ‘ paragraph. Now, all editors are . .0 editors, and they do not all write their visions obscured by tobacco-smoke n {DGthing stronger; but one can not help - "‘8 that those who rail most unreasona- :titw;::r:;aix:;av:g;:nc:, are veryhapt described. L re e as non we ave like the . . et them red. It Is much “11mg of Shimei, and we may be M This showy female folly that 32:18 enough, but it is also palpable men beer-1k more about these faults of wo- “88 they are less willing to talk “)0 . writ“ their own. If women did more of the Ol‘go Th "18» they would be less written about. 9 pa, . eir I'tgl'aphists must have something for m Pflmgraphs. The political economist d some cause far all the evils that Arid they have serious objections to as- exist. sailing their own darling foibles, so they as- sail ours; well knowing that women are lit. tle addicted to defending themselves with the pen, and still less with the cow-hide. Where do women have their club-rooms? Where do they drink their claret and chamo pagne? Where do they take those late oys- ter suppers that induce dyspepsia, and ruin the general national health? Is it woman alone whose foolish dress and careless habits with regard to health is destroying the phy- sical comfort of the children, and making pigmys of the race? Do not these indul- gences of the stronger sex descend also as an evil inheritance to their children? Dear brethren, do try to lift a little of the beam out of your own eyes, before you go quite distracted over the motes in ours. Gamma UP Owns— We are glad to see that so many of our subscribers are getting up clubs, and adding other names to their own in the localities where they live. Why can not all do this ? It requires but little e£ fort, and adds a pleasant circle among their neighbors to our Hoax family. Courarxroas roa Passions—Are you going to let them slip out of your hands without an elfort? Here are fine premiums that somebody must win, and the number of competitors is remarkably small compared with last year—indeed we believe there is yet only one that can be called a competitor. They are certainly worth trying for, and this year when there are so many who find little to do, we should suppose the number who seek these premiums would be increased in- stead of diminished. We think "some may have been discouraged by the supposed number of those who will compete for them; but we have never offered so valuable pre- miums as this year, and there certainly never were better chances for the success of com- petitors. .1. OUR PREMIUMS. WHEELER & WILson’s SEWING MACHINES.— A sewing machine in every household would lighten the mother’s cares beyond compari- son, and we believe it is acknowledged on al- hands that the low-priced ones are neither the cheapest nor the best. Wheeler 8: Wil- son’s is deservedly popular, and, as far as we know, has carried off the palm among those offered to the public. lParNCE & Co’s MELODEONS.-—- These are furnished in various shapes, sizes, and prices to the lovers of melody. They are a great desideratum, filling a place where there was before a great lack— in those families who could ill afford the higher priced pianos, and who yet felt that an instrument of music was a source of much happiness in the household. Peculiarly appropriate as they are for sacred music, they are also much used for Sabbath schools and all smaller assemblages where music is required. Indeed one needs but a glance at Prince 8: 00’s melodeon factory, which at this moment looms broad and high before our library windows, to know how greats. demand has been created for these instruments. OUR CORRESPONDENTS. M. D. C.-- We acceded to your request. M. L. M.— Your contributions are on file for the next number. Thank you. Dr. P. . . .— Your composition is too much like the talk of Flora Casby. You have enough to say apparently, but one gets utterly bewildered in the effort to know what is the subject of any particular para- graph. Untangle your remarks, and we may be glad to hear from you. “C. S. B.”—-Your communications are crowded out of this number. They will find room next month. S.— We have attempted to read your poe- try, and it has driven us nearly distracted. It is so much like a charivari. “H. C. E.”—Y0ur contribution is wel- cbme, and we shall find room for it as soon as possible. , H.— The CASKET is no longer under our 102 THE HOME. #_I_— care. We have resigned in favor of Mark Forrester. Allow us to introduce you t0 the readers of THE HOME. Glad to hear from Bella again. \ “C. M. S.”—Accepted. Various other communications have been received, which will claim attention as soon as possible. We trust our correspondents will be patient; we intend to do justice to all, but our pen doesn’t go by telegraph, and can only get over a given space in a given time. Send us good contributions—facts. Don’t bury your talents in a napkin, or think that every one knows all that experi- ence has taught you. ' WHAT OUR FRIENDS SAY OF US. One lady who sends us a club from a west- ern state, says: “Owing to the hard times it is almost impossible to get subscribers. Yet there are a ‘chosen few,’ who feel as if they could not expend one dollar in a better cause than to take your priceless magazine; read it themselves, and then cordially invite their 1 neighbors and friends to partake of its good' ness. I sent my mother the Jan. number which she read and then sent forth on a mission among friends and strangers. Who knows but that will be an introduction to many names upon your list, and many happy faces around our one great fireside.” Another says: “Having a little quiet leisure this even' ing while my six little ones are sleeping: and I am waiting for “my darling” to re' turn from his weary day’s marketing some 0f the produce of the farm, bee-house, and dairy, I will venture to visit you, (on paper’) to thank you for the pleasure and profit you have given us and many of our friends duf‘ ing the past twenty months by your judiciouB course in editing ‘ THE HOME.’ All our 210‘ quaintanc'es that take it speak highly of it: and my husband says it is decidedly the best family monthly he ever saw, and he has inspected most of the popular periodicals of the day.” And another western friend says: “I BOOK NOTICES. 5‘ Shall send some more subscribers soon — not With any thought of a premium, but from my great desire to see your good work extended In the. west." Another, upon whose judgment we place {high estimate, says : “I should like to as- smt in circulating “an. Hons,” as I regard it without exception as the ‘ best of its kind’ “1 the country.” And Mrs. Sigourney, in a kind letter re- cently received from her, says: “Indeed You have made an excellent book. I speak advisedly. Rejecting the trash, the aimless Stories and mawkish fashion plates, which disgrace and degrade so many serials, you have steadily kept in view the duties and h"‘PPiness of woman in her true sphere. For this I honor and praise you. It is pure pa- triotism.” We might copy much more of this kind mm our private letters, but we ask pardon Of our friends for having used them thus far. hose we have selected are from persons whose opinions are of the most undoubted Worth. The Commercial of this city notices our 3 number, saying that it has been accus- tOmGd to notice us from month to month, commending our neat appearance, but never loOking within. Did they suppose a “ HOME ” °°l11d exist outside of the house ? Now they have got the door open we hope they will 001i in often. a E c x r 1: s . N}! THE FRUOAL. . BEEF Hasnso.— Take the bones of the ~10th to be hashed, and break them small; stew them in very little water, with a bunch of 8Weet herbs and a few onions; roll a lump 0f butter in flour; brown it in a stew-pan; pm" the gravy over it, and add the meat to e bashed; cut the onions in thin sli- ces; & carrot also, and a little parsley shred finely ; stew gently until the meat is hot tbrough, and serve. MAnnow Bosls.— Saw them into conveni- ent sizes; cover the ends with a little dough made of flour and water, and tie in a floured Cloth; boil them an hour and a half; serve on a napkin with dry toast. 103 CALr’s Livsn—A new way.-— Lay the liver in vinegar for twelve hours—it will render it firm ; dip it in cold spring water and wipe it dry; out it in even slices; sprinkle sweet herbs crumbled finely over it; add pepper and salt, and dredge with flour; fry in boiling lard ; remove the liver when a nice brown ; pour away a portion of the fat, and pour in a cupful of water, with a lump of butter well rubbed in flour, in which aspoon- ful of vinegar or cayenne, or lemon juice has been stirred; boil it up, keeping it stirred all the while, and serve the liver up in it; thin slices of hot bacon fried should be sent to table with it. RED HERRING.—When they have laid in water some time, soak them in milk for two hours; then split them down the back; have ready some melted butter in which has been mixed the yolk of two eggs, pepper, and nutmeg; rub the herrings well with this bread, then broil them over a gentle fire. Ran SUGAR Bss'r PIE.-— Pies made of the red sugar beet are said to be delicious, some- what resembling rhubarb in flavor, though more rich and substantial. It is served with vinegar, or spices, to suit the palate. The root may be used without boiling, if chopped fine; prepare the crust; bake as you would a green apple pie. In winter soak the beets over night before using. BOOK NOTICES. Lucr Howann‘s JOURNAL. New York: HARPER & Baornsns. ‘ This new work from the ever-busy pen of Mrs. Sigourney, we have perused with un- usual interest. It is a quiet picture of do- mestic life, such as can not fail to charm and benefit those who read it. No one can fail to be better, from the knowledge of such wo- men as LuCy Howard and her mother. We are not greatly given to “melting moods,’f but we had rejoiced with the young mother in her thankfulness “ For a woman‘s crown of glory. 1:01- the blessing of a child,” and we could not but weep with her in her bitterness, over the new grave in the wilder- ness. In speaking of her child, Lucy says; 104 THE HOME. ‘ “She could not sleep the first night for watching him.” How many a mother has thus watched, when an immortal spirit ‘first folded its wings upon her bosom. Lucy Howard and her mother, are each models of the domestic virtues, and the work, coming as it does from one of the most revered writ- ers in America, will be read and welcomed everywhere. Tns ATLANTIC MONTHLY; Terms, $3,00 per annum. Pamrs, Ssnrsos 8; 00., Publish- ers, Boston. The third number of this new tenant of our literary affections has come to us; and we find it as it has hitherto been, replete with the spirit of Oriental America. “The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table,” (who, by the way, is autocratic enough,) says in this number, that the Atlantic is not so called because it is “ a notion.” Now we ’ve a no- tion that it is an ocean, whether it took its name from this fact or not. Fair ships sai] over it, and we are all obliged to them for hoisting the American flag in those seas of literature, where so many piratical crafts are sailing, under other colors. They sail over depths too, that we western people some- times hav n’t lead and line enough to fathom — perhaps the cable “pays out” dif- ferently where there is an oriental atmos- phere above the water. Who but" a seaman could write “TACKING Sam on SHORE?” , In fact, who but a seaman can read it? What do we know about “ FULL sun Br,” and “FULL roe STAYS?” It is all heathen greek to us. The poem is a splendid thing, however, when one does undelstand it, and will well repay the efi‘ort. “ No time to spare! It is touch and go, And the captain growls, ‘ Down Emil Hum Down 1' As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw, W‘hlle heaven glows black with the storm-cloud’s rown. 6‘ High o'er the hut ht—heads flies the spray, As we meet the s och of the plunging sea ; And my shoulder at“! to the wheel I lay, A. I answer, ‘ An, us, 813! HA-A-B-D A-Lll l "I Do n’t you see the whole life of the helms- man stiffened against the spokes of tha wheel 9 “With the swerving leap of a startled The ship flies fast in the eye of the win ." Of course it does— it is alive and terrified And then when the tank is made, “ What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall :' Isteady the helm for the open sea; The first mate clamors, ‘ BcLAY runes, ALL 1 ’ And the captain's breath once more comes free." But we don’t intend to quote the poem. The Monthly is a necessity to all who wish to know what American literature is doing, and it will take a more than Mrs. Parting- ton’s broom and mop to “ sweep out the At- lantz'c.” Mooss’s RURAL New Yonxsn: 32,00 per year. D. D. 'l'. Moons, Publisher, Roch- ester, N. Y. We are indigenously a friend to an agri- cultural paper, for they are particularly fitted, not only for all tillers of the earth, but for all dwellers upon it. We are the better in all depaItments of life, for being fully ac- quainted with the proceedings of dame Na- ture. And, among the papers of this class, with which the country is supplied, Moore's Rural New Yorker enjoys a well-earned pop- ularity. It is handsomely illustrated and filled with well-culled articles, and can not fail to be a messenger of usefulness'wherer ever it goes. Tun Coun'ra‘: Genrumu: Published at Albany, N. Y., by Lurnsa TUCKER. & Son. Terms, 62,00 per annum. We have never seen more than three or four numbers of this paper, but judging from those which have come under our eye, we should consider it as maintaining a high stand among the class of papers to which is belongs. The last number says: “To ex- tend a knowledge of such improvements, as the best farmers of the present day are mak- ing money by, to further their more general introduction, and aid in eliciting new modes and means—to prevent imposition by hum- bugs—to show wherein common, every-day labors are to be lightened, and how they may ,be most usefully directed,-— with at the same time a view to rendering home enjoy- able and beautiful 7- to this mission in brief have we dedicated the COUNTRY Gsuususu.” Tm: Omo FARMER: Teens Baown,‘Pub- lisher, Cleveland, Ohio. 82,00 per year. This is an agricultural paper dating some- I what further west; being published at Cleve- land, Ohio; but it is ably conducted, and has the best corps of contributors, of any paper of its kind that we know.