THE  0 ME:
FIRESIDEAMONTHLY.

MARCH, 1859.

 

 

 

 

‘  ' "ill

.4. v H I!
i I .livl .‘ .‘ll lllllllllll 

 

ASPIIODEL.

" DRAW aside the silken curtain,

I Put away the window pane,
Let me feel the Soft air blowing——

r, Let me hear the river flowing,

_ ()ut beyond the silent plain;

.' And the murmur of the willows,

 To the water’s gladder strain.

Let the perfume of the lily
Fill with sweetness all the air;
Letthe roses in their glory
Tell the lover’s thrilling story
To the aspen shivering there :
- Rose and lily mate for duty
'v To the sorrowing every where.

Let me feel that She is near me
Who once walk’d this garden o’er:
On the air I hear her breathing!

; ~ in my hair her fingers wreathing! '

or _ ’Tis her footstep on the floor,

’3 . ' Gliding to the solemn chamber \

' Seal’d with “ Gone! ” above the door. "A,

-. '°'- VII. 7. ' - 



 

 

THE Home

 

 

Twilight deepens.- Oh, yev'wardens
0f the heart’s lone citadel,
Bear me backward to that morning .
When youth challenged life’s first warning—
“ Measure joy and sorrow well ! ”
With a laugh whose ringing echoes
Made the hills most musical.

 

“ammo: ~....mmp..xm...v..—¢. ‘ .
v-z'dl v”
. I  .2‘. ' 2' :‘

 

 

i

i
,.
I
,.
1
i
i
-,
a.

_ ,e M.» m. -... “tween” 4,

i
y
f,.
i
w.
i,
l
i.

     

m germ ~

' The years loom’d up not grim and hoary,
Heavy-lidded, mocking-eyed; 3' ‘
Hills, whose beauty still must haunt me,
Lifted up their jubilante ‘ :.
Till the soul within me cried, , a
“Child of fortune, Nature’s creature,
Here let fear be crucified l”

 

“ Here,” it cried, “ shall I learn wisdom,
Gather lore from Nature’s store;

Fields and flowers shall teach me beauty—

Bee and bird shall teach me duty, ) .
And the river’s shaded shore, . -

With its murmur to the shadows,
Teach me worship evermore.”

 

\

 

 

)5

ASPHODEL. 105

 

 

 

 

Bear me onward, oh, stern wardens
Of life’s solemn citadel,
Over years of fleeting pleasure——
Over seasons sow’d with treasure,
Precious more than words may tell— »
Fold your pinions by the garden
Where I won her, Asphodel.

 

Won the morning-star of being,
Bade the evening-star arise,

Gave to life more joy and glory

Than was told in verse or story—
Sending to the bending skies

Flames of blisses, flash of passion
From our charmed, transfix’d eyes.

Glory lit the eastern heaven, ‘
Stars and moon rose silently ;

Side byfside we watch’d the river——

Watch’d the stars and waters.quiver,
Timing to the minstrelsy, "

Waken’d by the ringing pulses
Beating Love’s full reveille.

:g‘fr “a...

 

 

7 «mm-u, ~24.

106 THE HOME.

f“ Sweep on, Time! My Asphodel
Blent with life as all of it;

Hope laid gifts upon Love’s altar—

Faith ne’er knew its prayer to falter—
Not a shadow’s shade might flit

By the hearthstone of the dwelling
Where our fire of Love was lit.

Precious months, by angels number’d !
; Blisses by the seasons spann’d !

 ‘ One in heart, and hope, and being, ’,
' ; One in trust of the All-Seeing, "
* How our vigils watch’d the Hand
That was bearing freight of blessings
Adding to our household band !

'I' i I’ i *

Close again the parted curtain,
Shut away the pleading light ;
Sorrow leaps the height of blisses,
Breaks the Spell of Love’s caresses,

Blinds with tears the aching sight; ‘
i . Loved and lost! my sad soul echoes—
Gone! it cries through all the night.

 

 

 

 

K As hodel sleeps in the kirk-yard— 

’i ife and babe together laid : 

"  Far beyond the rushing river,

 3; Where the aspens sigh and shiver

 U By the graves the years have made,
' ‘ My lone footsteps keep the trysting
Nightly with the loved and dead.

le You, FEB. 10th, 1859. n, g. x.

, ‘31. ., Susan“,

 

  

“.gwa. «._ \

   

Wéfiw - yak,
‘ “'r- we can” ’

q
R

‘rv "wth

'1, t.” .,

- iflww «va
, . 3‘.
a

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

U
LITERATURE OF WEDDED LOVE. 107

 

 

LITERATURE OF WEDDED
LOVE.

S we believe that the elements of
high poetry exist wherever human
hearts beat with true vital heat; and
as we furthermore believe that the
emotional and truly human life of a
man and woman, so far from being
over when, from lovers, they become
husband and wife, then only begins
to attain its full growth and capacity
of bearing fruit and flower of peren-
nial beauty and fragrance, we are
tempted to inquire into some of the
causes of this one-sidedness which we
have charged the poet with, and to in-
dicate briefly some of the real poet-
ical capabilities of wedded love, and
the sort of treatment they require in
being wrought into actual poems.
The first and most obvious tempta-
tion to limit the poetical represention
of love to the period before marriage,
lies in the fact that this period seems
spontaneously to supply that begin-
ning, middle, and end, which narrative
or dramatic poems are truly enough
supposed to require. Courtship, in
ordinary eases, divides itself into two
phases, the termination of each of
which is a point of definite interest,
. toward which all the incidents, all the
talk, all the surprises, suspensions,
difficulties, and triumphs, which make
up the plot of a love-story, are di-
rectly subordinated. A man falls in
love with a woman, and has to win
his way by degrees, more or less rapid
and eventful, to her affection; this is
the first phase, rich, as experience
proves, in elements of poetical pleas-
ure, which all men and women are
capable of enjoying without effort.
Then follows the period, richer still
"I all the materials for varied inci-
dent, in which the social arrangements
come in to interpose obstacles be-
tween the lover and his \mistress, and
to keep the interest of the reade. or
Spam“)? always on the stretch. The
adYantage is beyond all computation,
which this natural framework, made
ready to his hand, confers upon the

 

 

poet who seeks mainly to amuse his
audience by a Series of connected oc-
currences, in each of which the least
cultivated, the least thoughtful, the
least generous, can take an interest
that demands no strain, scarcely any
activity, of the imagination, the heart,
or the reason. And the free, vigor-
ous exercise of the imagination is so
rare among mankind, that it is little
wonder that poets have been content
with making their appeals to sympa-
thies, that are sure to have been famil-
iar to the hearts of their audience at
some time or other in the actual ex-
perience of life, and need but the
'aintest outline of reality in the repre-
sentation to awaken them again. But
though it must be allowed that the
love of husband and wife offers no
such obvious and facile series of con-
nected incidents, with well-marked
divisions, and all tending, by due
gradations of interest, to one event;
and though in proportion as the inter-
est of poetry is made to turn less
on striking outward circumstances, a
heavier demand is made upon the im-
agination of both writer and reader,
and a mere passive reception of famil-
iar thoughts and feelings becomes no
longer sufficient for the enjoyment of
the poem; yet this only amounts to
saying, that poetry has some higher
function than to amuse idle people,
some nobler ofiice in cultivating the
heart, and enlarging the range of the
inner life, than can be attributed to it
so long as it merely strikes one chord
of feeling, or at best plays over and
over again, from the beginning of
time to its close, the same old tune in
different keys and on different instru-
ments. It is, indeed, quite true that it
would be impossible to mark the
commencement of any poem, WhICh
should deal with ordinary Wedded
love as its main subject, by an event
as definite as the first meeting of a
man with his future mistress; or a
feeling as definite, as distinct from his
previous state of mind, as the first
awakening of the passxon that is to
rule his life henceforward through the

x  M .: .,

 

l
5
,1
l:
5I
3-.
i
g.
i,
i
H
’1

 

 

9...-..M-

108 THE HOME.

 

story.~ The same remark applies
forcibly to the want of any event
equally definite with marriage to
serve for a termination, unless all
such poems were to have a mournful
close, and end with a death-bed, or
fall into the old tragic vein of seduc-
tion, adultery, and murder. We
must candidly consent to give up that
source of interest which lies in the
changes produced upon the outward
relation, upon the union or separation

, of outward existence between the two

persons, whose inner relations, whose
mutual influence upon each other, and

r afi‘ection toward each other are by

supposition the subject of the poem.

 There can be no want of incident so

long as character influences fortune,
and fortune character; so long as
the destinies of human beings in this
world are carved out by their virtues
and their vices; so long as wisdom
and goodness sweeten the bitterest
cup of adversity; so long as folly and
wickedness infuse gall into the bowl
of nectar which fortune hands her
favorites in jeweled gold. It is the
stupidity of poets which can see no
incident in married life, so long as the
marriage vow is kept to the letter, in
the grossest interpretation of that let-
ter; and which has for the most part
induced them, when they have intro-
duced married people at all, to use
marriage to give a spicier piquancy
to intrigue, or a darker glow to
hatred and revenge.

But this notion of want of incident
unfitting married love to be a subject
for poetry, is closely connected with
another notion still more false, vul-
gar, and immoral.

The romance of life is over, it is
said, with marriage; .nothing like mar‘
riage, is the congenial reply, for de.
straying illus10ns and nonsense. In
which notable specunens of “the wis-
dom of many men expressed in the
wit of one,” there are tWO remark-
able assertions involved. The first is,
that love is an illusion; the second,
that, marriage. destroys it. We ,may
concede to the wisdom of the market-

 

place thus much of truth, that the
love which marriage destroys, is un-
questionably an illusion. We may
also concede to it this further truth,
that the love of husband and wife is
no more the love of the man and
woman in the days of their courtship,
than the blossom of the peach is the
peach, or the green shoots of corn
that peep above the snows of Febru-
ary are the harvest that waves its
broad billows of red and gold in the
autumn sun. If, indeed, there are
persons so silly as to dream, “in their
days of courtship, that life can be an
Arcadian paradise, where caution,
self-restraint, and self-denial are need-
less; where inexhaustible blisses fall
like dew on human lilies that have
only to be lovely ; a world from the
conception of which pain and imper-
fection, sin, discipline, and moral
growth are excluded—marriage un-

doubtedly does destroy this illusion,

as life would destroy it were mar-
riage out of the question. If, too, at-
tracted originally to each other by
some slight and undefinable charm,
by some chord of sympathy vibrating
in harmony at a moment’s accidental
touch, often by the mere force of the
tendency at a particular age to what
the great Florentine calls——
3‘ ' I
222:2}: :‘n°:i§°£§;i?£l?.it‘é£5§:2?-

two young persons fancy that this
subtle charm, this mysterious attrac-
tion, is endowed with eternal strength
to stand the shocks of time, the tempt-
ations of fresh attractions, the more
fatal because more continual sap of
unresting egotism, ever active to
throw down the outworks and under-
mine the citadel of love; and trusting
to it alone, think that wedded happi-
ness can be maintained without self-

discipline, mutual esteem, and for?

bearance; without the charity which
covers the defects it silently studies
to remove; without the wisdom and
the mutual understanding of character
to which profound and patient love
can alone attain—this is another
illusion which marriage will destroy.

 

v.w wag-r.

 

 

x”

 

 

I‘LITERATURE or ,wsnnsn LOVE. 109

 

What is, however, generally meant
by the sayings we have quoted, is,
that there is nothing like marriage
for taking the passion out of people,
for taking out of them all disinter-

ested aspirations, all noble hopes and

fears, all delicacy of sentiment, all
purity of mind, all warmth of heart——
nothing like marriage for making
them see, in respectable money-mak-
ing, in respectable dinners, respect-
able furniture, carriages, and so forth,
the be-all and-the end-all of human
existence. So far as marriage in our
actual world realizes these noble pred-
ications—and, so far as it does, the
result is mainly owing to the miser-
able views of life and its purposes
which society instils into its youth of
both sexes; being still, as in Plato’s
time, the sophist par excellence, of
which all individual talking and writ-
ing sophists are but feeble copies—
just so far is married love, if the
phrase is to be so outrageously per-
verted, utterly unfitted for any high
poetry; except a great master of
tragedy should take in hand to render
into language, the too common tragi-
comedy of a human soul metamor-

hosing itself into a muck-worm.

ut surely every one can look round
among his acquaintance, and find mar-
riages that are not after this type,
marriages which

“ have wrought
'l‘wo spirits to one equal mind,

With blessings beyond hope or thought,
With blessings which no words can find."

The romance of life gone! when
with the humblest and most sordid
cares of life are intimately associated
the calm delights, the settled bliss of

Ome; when upon duties, in them-
selves perhaps often wearisome and

- uninteresting, hang the prosperity and

the happiness of wife and children;
when there is no mean hope, because
there is no hope in which regard for
Others does not largely mingle—no
base fear; because suffering and dis-
tress can not affect self alone; when
the selfishness which turns honest in-
dusm')’ ‘30 greed, and noble ambition

 

to egotistical lust of poWer is exor-
cised; when life becomes a perpetual
exercise of duties which are deli hts,
and delights which are duties? nee
romance meant chivalry; and the
hero of romance was the man who
did his knightly devoirs, and was
true and loyal to God and his lady-
love. If, with us, it has come to
mean the sensual fancies of nerveless
boys, and the sickly reveries of girls
for whose higher faculties society can
find no employment, it is‘only an-
other instance in which the present is
not so much wiser and grander than
the past, as its flatterers are fond of
imagining. To' us it appears, that
where the capacity for generous devo-
tion, for manly courage, for steadfast
faith and love exists, there exists the
main element of romance; and that
where the circumstances of life are
most favorable for the development
of these qualities in action, they are

romantic circumstances, whether the'

person displaying them be, like Alton
Locke, a tailor, or, like King Arthur,
a man of stalwart arm and lordly
presence. Nor do we see that the
giants, dragons, and other monsters
of the old romance, are in themselves
one whit more interesting than the
obstacles that beset the true modern
knight in his struggles to perform
manfully the duties  his life, and to
carry out the noble s‘p‘irit of that vow,
which he has solemnly taken at the
altar, to love, comfort, honor, and
keep, in sickness and in health, the
woman who has put her youth, her
beauty, her life, and happiness into
his hands.

It may, however, be said, that mar-
ried life, when it is not utteriyfior-
rupted into crime and wretchedness—
when, that is, it in any degree {10‘
swers to its ideal-49 necessarily
monotonous; and that, though to be
husband and wife, it {nay be a per-
petual source of dismth and (16-
light, it offers no scope to the poet,
whose story must march, his charac-
ters develop, and their passions and
affections exhibit change, gradation,

mugs—u- Avuw v w.w—.~._r, A’s

 

 

 

mun...

 

110 ma non ~

 

and culmination. We have already
admitted so much of this objection,
as to concede to the period before
marriage greater facilities for marked
gradation of interest depending on
changes in the outward relations of
the persons whose fortunes and feel-
ings are being narrated. We have
said, that those outward relations once
fixed by marriage, the action of the
poem which is to depict married love
must lie within narrow limits, and
that its interest must depend on more
subtle delineation of shades of charac-
ter and feeling, on a perception, in a
word, of those effects which spring
from the conduct of the affect-ions in

married life, and these influences

which circumstance and character
combine to work in the affections,
and which, slight and common-place
as some persons may choose to think
them, are important enough to make
human beings happy or miserable,
and varied enough to account for all
the differences that an observant eye
can find in modern family life. And
the fact, which few persons will dis-
pute, that in our actual family life
there is fohnd, quite irrespective of
distinctions of class and differences of
wealth, every possible gradation of
happiness and misery, of vulgarity
and refinement, of folly and wisdom,
of genial sense and fantastic absurdity,
is a sufficient answer to those who
talk of the monotony of married life
as an objection to its fitness for yield-
ing materials for poetry. In real
truth, there is much more monotony
in courtship than in marriage. A
sort of spasmodic, and, to spectators
well acquainted with the parties, a
somewhat comical amiability is the
general mask under which the genu-
ine features of the character are hid-
den. Moreover, the ordinary inter-
QSts of life become throughout that
period comparatively mmpxd; and
overs are proverbially SWP1d and
tiresome to every one but themselves.
No .doubt this has its compensating
advantage for the poet, who trans-
forms his readers into the lovers for

 

the time being; but it certainly gives
monotony to all manifestations of the
passion in this its spring-time, which
is not found in the same passion when
the character has removed from the
first shock, and life, with all its inter-
ests, again enters into the heart, but
invested with new charms and higher
responsibilities, and with the deeper,
fuller affections, swelling in a steady
current through the pulses.

So much for those more obvious
objections that may in great measure
account for ’the almost universal re-
jection of married love as a theme
for poetry. We do not care to argue
against any one who says, much less
any one who thinks, that it is only
young men and women who are in-
teresting. Even with respect to mere
sensuous beauty, it is a great absurd-
ity to suppose that its splendor and
charm are confined to two or three
years of early womanhood. “Beau.
coup de femmes dc trente ans,” says a
shrewd French writer, after enumera-
ting the supposed attractions of youth
in women, “on! conserve ces awntages;
beaucoup de femmes de dizhuit ans no
les out plus, on he (as on! jamais cu.”
Certainly no Englishman who uses
his eyes needs this assurance; and no
one who delights in the society of
women can doubt that they continue
to grow in all that charms the heart
and intellect, in all the materials of
poetry, after they become wives and
mothers.

There is, however, one solid objec-
tion to the tenor of our remarks, to
which we are inclined to give great
weight. We can fancy many persons,
for whose opinions we have the high-
est respect, protesting against the in-
trusion of the poet into the recesses
of married life, against the analysis

of feelings that were not given us to r

amuse ourselves with, against

“ Those who, setting wide the doors that bar
The secret bridal chambers of the heart,
Let in the day." _,
Literature was made for man, and
not man for ' literature. There are,

unquestionably, scenes which the

 

 

‘ >w~nbié1s4~nn¢ -vv nun...— Au.

 

 

a

 

guy—yew ->‘nnov~ aw

 

LITERATURE OF WEDDED LOVE. 111

 

imagination had better leave alone,
thoughts which should find no utter-
ance in printed speech, feelings upon
which the light and air can not dwell
without tainting them. But without
in the slightest degree trenching upon
ground that should be sacred to
silence, we conceive married life as
one of the most powerful influences
at work upon the character and hap-
piness of individuals and of nations,
to present capabilities of noble and
beautiful poetry, that, so far from
weakening the strength or vulgarizing
the delicacy of domestic affection,
would exalt and refine it. We see
no reason for supposing that the con-
jugal relation would suffer in purity
of spontaneous power by being passed
through the alembic of a great poet’s
imagination. If it became the subject
of morbid poetry or of weak maudlin
poetry—supposing such a combina-
tion of terms allowable—the same re.
sult would follow as from the morbid
or weak treatment of any other
powerful human emotion—the poet
would influence only weak and mor-
bid people. Nor do we see that the
danger is really so great of getting
morbid, trashy, unhealthy poetry on
this subject as on the more familiar
subject of 10% before marriage. It
would demand qualities of genius
which in themselves are a strong
guarantee—the power and the taste

,of delineating subtle shades of char-

acter and feeling, a perception of the
action of character upon fortune, an
Insight into the working of practical
life upon the affections, and their re-
action upon it. Such topics are not
to the taste, or within the capacity, of
melodramatic or sensualized minds;
and whatever good poetry was pro-
duced on the subject would, as all
good poetry does, abide and work
upon the highest class of minds,
and go on ever.spreading its WhOIe-
some influence, and giving the tares
ess and less room to grow. Our
domestic life is not so uniformly
eautxful as that it may not be
profited by having its faults, its short-

 

comings, its miseries, brought into
the fulLlight of consciousness, as only
poets can bring them; and bright
pictures of what that life might be,
what it sometimes is in actual experi-
ence, may surely do good as well as
give pleasure. But we are not so
much concerned to vindicate a large
field of strictly ethical teaching for
poetry as to open to her almost 1m-

tried and certainly unhackneyed re.

gions of beauty, pathos, and varied
human interest; to bid her cease to
stop at the threshold, and boldly, fear-
lessly, and reverently, penetrate into
the inner shrine of love—cease to
sing forever of the spring-green and
the promise, and remember that love
has its flush of Summer, and its glow
of Autumn, and its Winter’s lonely
desolation.

One word before we close 
two special advantages to be anticié.

pated from the habitual extension of
poetical representation to married love.
The subject, in the first place, interests
mature men and women; who must
feel, at the perpetual iteration of the
first stage of passion in literature,
much as if their bodily diet were con-
fined to syllabub and sweetmeats.
Poetry is comparatively little read
by grown people who do not pretend

to cultivate literature as a special ‘

study—mainly, we apprehend, be-
cause it confines itself to repeating,
with a variety of circumstance, ex-
periences which they have passed
through, and of the partial and one-
sided truth of which they have long
ago been convinced by their more
mature experience. A poetry which
interpreted to them their own lIYBS,
which made them see in those llves
elements of beauty and greétne§sa 0f
pathos and peril, would .Wm then‘ at-
tention, stimulate their interest, and
refine their feelingS, just 33 3111011 38
the same effects are produced by
ordinary love-pOGtrY 0“ the young.
We shall not argue the QUGStiOD
whether the latter effect has been
upon the whole for good or not; such
an assumption lies at the root of all

 

, .é-‘T‘ " ~

 

uvfiwun‘h‘l“ m... . m

A .«....;..s‘ .v...

. “may. «an. r

   

1“ 5

,V
V
4

’ . simply ascetic.

112

an. Mm.

THE Hem

 

discussion upon particular extensions
of the poetic range. To us it appears
indisputable that, along with some
(perils, the representation of any phase.
.Of human life by a man of genuine
poetic power is a step toward im-
‘ proving that phase practically, as
well as an enlargement of the range
of that life which forms so important
a part of a modern man’s cultivation,
the life he partakes by imaginative
sympathy.

 second advantage which we
should anticipate from the proposed

extension would be the creation of a'

literature which would, in some im-

' portant- respects, rival and outweigh

any real attraction which the properly
styled “literature of prostitution.”
may have for any but mauvaz's sujets.
It may shock some good’and innocent

‘ , people to be told that such literature

18 attractive to any but abandoned
men and women. A statistical ac-
count. of the perusal of the worst class
of French novels by the educated
classes of this ,Christian and highly

, moral country would probably be a

startling‘revelation. One can only
say off-hand, that a familiar acquaint-
ance 'with this class of works is com-
monly displayed in society: and the
Ir ‘. us are not very recondite. These
novels depict a certain kind of real
'life without reserve; there is flesh
and blood in them; and though some
of the attraction is due to the mere
fact that they trench on forbidden
ground,'some to the fact that they
stimulate tendencies strong enough in
most men, and some to their revela-
tions of scenes invested with the
charm of a license happily not famil
iar to the actual experiences of the
majority of their readers, there can
belittle question that one strong at.

V traction they possess is due to their

being neither simply sentimental nor
In accordance with

' an established maxim, which tells us
thatcormptio optimt' pessima est, these
books are almost inconceivany worth-
1033, even from an artistic point of
View, but the passions of these novels

 

are those of grown people, and not of
babies or cherubim. We can con-
ceive a pure poetry which should deal
with the men and women of society
in as fearless and unabashed a spirit,
and which should beat this demon of
the stews at his own magic—should
snatch the wand from the hand of
Comus, and reverse his mightiest
spells; though, doiIbtless, this task
belongs more to prose fiction,as the
objectionable works are themselves
prose fictions. In the poems we have
already mentioned, this has been
done. There is no reason why liter—
ature, or poetry in particular, should
be dedicated virginibus pueresque;
men and women want men’s and
women’s poetry; the affections and
the passions make up the poetic ele-
ment of life, and no poetry will com-
mend itself to men and women so
strongly as that which deals with
their own passions and affections.

 

HOPlNG.
BY cum mans“.
IN beauty was the world brought forth,
From chaos, gloom, and night,
And peopled with irradiant forms,
And images of light!
Spann’d by the rivers, crystal clear,
Wash’d by health-breathing seas,
Perfumed by myriad dewy flowers,
Shaded by grand old trees,
And curtain’d by the golden light
0f Heaven’s arch’d canopies.

Why sit me down in dubious thought,
Crushing all joy to tears?

Forcing down Love, and Hope, and Faith,
Through all the dismal years!

God did not form immortal minds
To grove] in the dust—

To waste high powers in sickly shade,
And leave the soul to rust!

But to look up, and tread down Fate,
Look up to Him, in trust.

Little’s the credit we deserve,
Who fail to see the star
Which angels’ hands have set on high,
, To beacon us afar! 0
But if we toil, trusting in Him
By whom this light is given,
We’ll very likely gain on earth
Contentment’s priceless leaves ;-—
But if this life rewards us not,
There’s perfect life in heaven.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“gage.”

 

.THE WRONG RIGHTED. 113

 

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

BY MET’I‘A VICTORIA VICTOR.

CHAPTER IV.

To what gulfs,
A single deviation from the track
Of human duties, leads even those who claim
The homage of mankind as their born due,
And find it, till they forfeit it themselves.
Brnou.

God hath yoked to guilt
The pale tormentor-misery.
Barasr.

T was already twilight when Mrs.
I Livingstone returned from prayer-
meeting to hear from Martha of the
absence of Mr. Irving, and to look for
her husband with some impatience, as
she had a little wifely confidence to
communicate with regard to some
projects of the ladies of her church for
forming a new society.

The dinner-hour came, and passed,
without bringing Mr. Livingstone.
The cook was provoked, for he had
exercised his best skill upon the veni-
son pasty and cranberry-sauce; and
now the pasty was spoiling by the
kitchen fire. At length he sent up
word to that effect, and the clock
striking seven, dinner was ordered
upon the table. The mother and
daughter sat down to a solitary re-
past—a very unusual thing in a fam-
ily which almost always had visitors.

“I declare, mother, I have not had
half the appetite I usually have,” said
Martha, as she trifled with the dessert.
“Nothing is good without papa is
here to enjoy it. I wonder what de-
tains him!” The street-bell rang.
“I believe that is him now,” and she
ran to see. “No! only this note
from him for you, mother. Do open
it, please, and let me hear.”

“How vexatious, Martha, when I
had so much to tell him! Detained
by business, I suppose, and is so
thoughtful as to let us know,” and the
haughty woman of the world reached
out her jeweled hand, took the letter,
indolently broke the seal, and began
to read,

“Let us go into the library,” she
murmured, after glancing over a line

 

or two, and she left the dining-room,
after motioning to the butler to clear
the table without waiting for his mas-
ter. “ Here is news, Martha, and I
was afraid of the prying eyes of the
servants,” she said, as she‘closed the
door upon them. “Wait a moment,
until I have read the letter.” '

She sank into an arm-chair, and
was engaged for some time in perus-
ing the two or three closely-written
pages. Martha, who was watching
her with anxiety, saw her grow deadly
pale, as at its conclusion her parent
dropped the letter into her lap with a

roan.

“ Oh, mother, what is it? Father ,

is not ill—not dead ’l—for this is his
own handwriting. What shall I do
for you, mother? you look as if you
were going to faint l ” ‘

“Be silent, and read the letter,”
whispered Mrs. Livingstbne.

Martha obeyed; there was a mist
before her eyes, but it cleared off,
and every letter and word was plain
and cold upon the paper :

“ Mr Drums-r WIFE :—It does not matter
how I begin or end this communication. It
is doomed to break your heart, and I can
not soften the bl ' by an flourishes. God
knows I pity y u and .ou child. Prepare
for the womb—nerve yourself to bear it——.-
for there is nothing much worse than what
I have to confess to you. For five years .I
have been a guilty man ; and now, the 
sequences of my guilt are falling upow.
head—«not upon mine alone, or I could, .
it. But to think of you, my proud with.
blushing with shame at my dishonor-sign
think of the pure check of my daughter 

with this disgrace—this it is that Punifllefi'

me worse than the fiends of hell could
otherwise punish, I have brooded over it
until I am almost insane. .For several years
I have had an agent in Chicago fondle pur.
chase and sale of property there. Five years
ago he Wrote me of some real estate upon
which there threatened to be an enormous
rise, but other parties were after it, and
bound to have it. I must send him the
money, eighteen. thousand dollars, immedi-
ately. I was hvmg up to my income__
indeed, a little more extravaganuy m

“M...—_._.....m..—.....-_. Wflm—W—mewm ., u. . W ..

m ...,..a. “Mr w,-u-vm..v..-..m —m‘sm-».->

1
i

 

 

. '
. i.
.4,
. I
- 3

114

THE HOME.

 

was warrantable; and I did not like "to
ask the firm for a loan, as I knew they
wished the money for use in their legitimate
business. I could abstract the money from
the bank in which I was a director, and it
' would not be known, and in the mean time,
by the rise and sale of the real estate, I
should be much more than able to replace it.
I took the money, and sent it on. My agent
efl'ected the purchase, and was much grati-
fied. He wrote frequently of such oppor-
tunities. My avarice was excited. The
prospect of becomin rich so speedily, of ac-
quiring an immense fortune with scarcely an
effort, was tempting. I abstracted money
whenever required. I heard of the rapid in-
crease of value of my real estate. I. was
counseled to hold on to it, and I should be-
come a millionaire. In the mean time, the
certainty of future wealth led me into every
indulgence. You know how we have lived.
I have not hesitated to gratify your every
wish—we have rioted in luxury. When my
own income did not suffice, habit made it
easy to dip my hand into the treasury. I
will only say in my defense, that I firmly ex-
pected to return it all, with interest, before
the deficit should be discovered. It was for
the purpose of doing this, that I ordered my
agent to dispose of some valuable property
and send onto me the sum thus raised,
when I found that the crisis was threatening
to shake our firm. 'I knew that my partners
would .haVe a close and careful overhauling
of. books, to see where they were standing.
I sent peremptory orders to Reynard to
raise ahundred thousand dollars for me—
about the amount of my deficit, I suppose.
But the hard times were already upon us.
Real estate did not sell. Money was not to
be had at any sacrifice. There were no
 ’, transactions—no exchange. I was in aclose

 place. .My partners werea examining into
1 5 accounts, and I trembled with the prospect

“a. “0.4....” .. n...

r ........ new». “a. .-.-.

 

of a detection, which before had never trou-
bled me. Growing desperate, I wrote again
4. to Reynard, and mortgaged my whole Chi-
cago property to him, worth two hundred
thousand, at least, far fifty thousand in gold,
which he was to send me by a certain day.
' He raised the money by some means, and
sent me. I emptied it mto our vaults, and it
saved us from suspension. Since then, we
.have been doing well, and I was waiting for
. something to turn up by thh I might re~
 deem my mortgage m the West. upon which
 ' my hopes of affluence hung. That Reynard
" isVIthe evil spirit himself. Something in my
anxiety and eagerness awakened hlS suspi-

I L' dons. He came on here, and by artifice and
‘ ., Gunning incredible, he found how I stood.
 I am in his power. He threatens to betray

 ~ . me to'the firm. You see how I am P130“-

I am still in debt to them, and can not now
{nuke up the deficit, while all my real estate
“waged to» the man who is bent upon

 

my ruin. Of course, if he compasses my
destruction, it will be to his benefit, for he
will foreclose the mortgage, and be one hun-
dred and fifty thousand dollars richer than
he is. My property in this city will be
seized upon by my creditors here. Thus,
by the persecution of this scoundrel, I shall
be beggared and disgraced, when, in a few
weeks’ time, I could have made all right,
paid back the money abstracted, redeemed
my property, and been in a flourishing busi-
ness. It was to extort black-mail that he
came here. But when he saw our beautiful
child, he made her the prize which was to
purchase his everlasting silence. If I would
bestow upon him my daughter’s hand, he
would carry me through all difficulties, and
make me a richer man than ever. He is
himself wealthy; became so, I have no
doubt, through guilt much blacker than
mine. I need not say that I spurned to pur-
chase my own safety at such an awful price.
Better poverty, disgrace, and death, than to
see her the wife of such a brute. The scorn
with which I received his proposition,
awakened all his malice. He swore he
would make no other condition. The offer
of all I had did not move him. He swore to
see the officers of the firm this night, and
lay my case before them. If I do not fly,
I shall be arrested before morning. I have
made up my mind to fly—not without a des-
perate struggle. 1 leave you to meet the
disgrace alone; to hear my name associated
with that of Schuyler and Huntington; to
break the terrible news to my beloved child.
Oh, if that misery could be spared mc—if
she, loving and innocent as she is, could be-
lieve me all that I have seemed, I could bear
the rest. But I dare not talk of this. I.
have given you an account of what you will
hear from harsher lips, that you may know
what to expect. I knew that you and Mar-
tha had rather hear my disgrace, than that
she should be offered up a living sacrifice to
the cruelty of that man. I would much
rather. Farewell. Break this news gently
to our child. What good does it do to rave
and beat my breast and forehead now? I
am cold and calm; I do not think of
home—of the past—or of the future. I have
ten thousand dollars in gold with me. I go
to a foreign land with this paltry sum. As
soon as I can, with safety, I will let you
know where I am, and ask you to come to
me. Keep all your jewels and bring with
you. They will serve to sustain you, until I
can, sometime, perhapS, get something to
do—perhaps repair my fortune, and repay
my creditors. Our child may marry some
wealthy foreigner, and forget in future hap-
piness the calamity I have brought upon
her youth. Merciful Heaven! I am trying
to think of something to comfort you. Do
not let this kill yen. Kiss my child, ask her
to forgive her unhappy father. When this is

 

 

 

 

THE WRONG RIGHTED.

received by you, I shall already be out of
the city.”

The letter fell from the girl’s stiff-

ened fingers, and she and her mother -

gazed at each other in the stupor of
terror and amazement. After a mo-
ment, they threw themselves into each
other’s arms in a wild and hysterical
outburst of sorrow. They did not
know how to bear misfortune—and
such misfortune as this!

“What shall we do '9 ” cried Mrs,
Livingstone.

"‘Oh, if Ralph were only here!
There is no one—nothing will help
us! ” ,

“Why did he not take us with
him? He has left us, Martha, to
bear the weight of his disgrace.”

“Disgrace! yes, mother, that is
the bitterest of all! Poverty we
could have borne, almost cheerfully—
we would have hoped for better days
—-but now there are no better days !
Oh, my father ! ”

The tone of shame, reproach, and
bitterness with which these words
were spoken, would sure] y have been
punishment to the foolish man, who,
for the sake of indulging to the excess
of luxury the family of which he was
so proud, now had placed them in
this terrible situation. He sought
to plant them before all others, and
he had, indeed, but as targets for pity
and ridicule, for these would, doubt-
less, be the most the innocent suffer-
ers would receive from exulting com-
petitors in the race after the prize
they had lost. Mrs. Livingstone
knew enough of the world to realize
.this. She paced the floor in a dis-
tracted manner, calling down merci-
less reproaches upon the head of her
husband. The sin, in her eyes, was
not so bad as the consequences. She
forgot, that, by her ambitious extrava-
gance, she had contributed much to
his temptation.

“Yes, Martha, you may be sure
we §hall not be spared one drop that
Waltce and uneharitableness can dis-
t!” Into our cup. We have been en-

Vied, now we shall be despised. Our

 

115
friends will be eager to make the
most of this. The worst of it is, we
will be left poor as well as disgraced.
No matter what infamy your father
had perpetrated, had he been success-
ful in it, it would have" been over-
looked. But to fail—that is another
matter. There will be plenty of
righteous indignation now! Think
not that you will see Dick Doolittle,
or one of his tribe again. Think not
that you will receive assistance or
sympathy from one of the circle of
which you have been the idol. My
poor child,I know how you will be
treated,” and looking into the pale and
troubled face of her child, she wept
afresh.

“I expect the girls will treat me
coldly, the most of them; they are a
sneering kind of a set, anyhow. But,
surely, mother, we have plent of
warm friends, who will help us all
they can. Not that I care, for we can
never be happy again. Oh, I~ wish
that Ralph were here to give us some
advice!”

“ I did not think Endicott Livingstone
would make such an idiot of himself,”
burst forth his wife, ceasing to wring
her hands, as a feeling of indignation
for a time checked other emotion.

“ I wish 1 were dead ! ” added Mar-
tha. “ I do not want to live! How
can we face our acquaintances, mo-
ther? I wish to-morrow would never
come!”

“I think if we had all committed
suicide together, it would have b
as well.” ‘

“Mother! mother! what shall we
do? ” .

“ Let me tell you what to do,” said
a voice at the door. .,

They .looked, and beheld JaCOb
Reynard. Admitted by 8 _Sel‘Vimt
to the hall, he remarked to him: that

, he would find his own way to the

library, as the ladies expected him.
He now came in, and carefully closed
the door.

“ Do not speak so loud,” said he;
“walls have ears, and . we do “not;
want these to betray us. Let metal]

 

 

. ,....4...n.,.~4~..4. v

awn“. «- «miss... km...

 

.. “Jam:- ... all»... gamma awe nn¢m“m:~ama- .c.may~..w.u; .. . A“; u “A; .'M-L«<17)n-\- < ~ -‘ ‘
- " no ' .«M _ .. w . r « - a ., _. .. ,V ' . . _. , _
V ...~ . . I .g 'v't‘l' ! ..~<_ J, .-_ .‘  . « N“ g .- -.v\ ~ w by ,1 - v A

 

; A“

a....__. saw. ._

116 . I THE HOME.

 

- you what to do, sweet Martha. .Save

your father, your mother, yourself—
restore your parents to more un-
bounded prosperity than before. I
have not yet breathed your father’s
secret to a living soul. I am rich.
Accept my hand, and I will not only
release every mortgage whichl hold
upon his property, but I will make up
the amount deficient in his bank ac-
count, and leave him at the top of the
heap. Think on it, Miss Martha, you
have the power in your own hands.”
The young girl stood listening and
shuddering. Her mother looked from

one to the other.

“ Perhaps you think it is out of the
frying-pan into the fire,” remarked
their visitor, with a leer. “But, re-

ally now, I have too good an opinion

of myself to look on it in so bad a
light. I am not young, nor very hand-
some; but I have money enough to
cover a ten-acre lot; I’m a good dis.

osition to those I like,.and I swear I
ike,Martha Livingstone the best of
any of man or woman kind I ever saw
yet. Say you’ll have me, chick, and
neither your father or'mother shall
ever want for money to spend whilel
live. - And you shall have a silver
wedding-dress, live where you please
and as you please—walk upon gold,
if you wish. P’raps your afraid your
genteel friends will make fun of me
-——but Lord, they never yet made fun
of a fellow who coul 'ingle as much
change as I I You ' see how glad

, If‘hey’ll be to come to the wedding.

'gerly at her.

’ Come, answer me, my dear, for time

is precious! ”

Not a word did the girl utter, even
of refusal. She only gazed in her
mother’s face, who was looking ea-
Alas ! she saw.that her
mother wavered, that she shrank
from the terrible ordeal before her,
and would fain fshelter herself from
it, even in the unhappiness of her
child. '

“ Do not look at me so, mother; I
can not bear it ! ” she whispered.

“ But 3’ our victim is already fled—
hel is beyond recall,” said Mrs. Liv—

 

ingstone, turning from the anguished
countenance of the young girl.

“I know where he is. I have kept
track of him, and could set the officers
of justice on him yet, if I choose.
There’s a vessel sails from Boston to
the Mediterranean seas, to-morrow,
and in that vessel your husband in-
tends taking passage, thinking that
search will be made in other direc-
tions. I can send officers after him
by the night train. Shall I do it ? ”

“ If you really loved me, you would
be merciful to me and to those I
love,” answered Martha, at last. “ Oh,
Mr. Reynard, do not be so cruel!

ave my father, and I willbless you
forever!”

“I don’t want your blessing,” he
muttered, gazing upon the face up-
lifted in entreaty, which might have
moved a stone, for she had thrown
herself upon her knees in the desper-
ation of her pleading. “I want you.
I’ve got houses and lands, and a
pocket full of rocks, and now I want
a young wife to help .me enjoy them.

There’s no use in your coaxing. 

only makes you prettier. From the
moment 1 set my eyes on you, Ire-
solved to get you if I could, and I
would be a fool now to give up the
chance. You have the choice set
plainly before you—either to promise
to marry me a week from tonight,
or to see your father in prison to-
morrow.”

“ Oh, Martha, this is dreadful!
worse than we feared even. Your
father arrested—brought to trial—
Jeered at in the courtroom—found
guilty—”

“ What would you have me do? ”
asked the girl, still upon her knees.

“The Lord knows, I do not,”
groaned Mrs. Livingstone. “I shall
not seek to influence you. et your
own heart answer. I shall die, any-
how. I feel that I never can recover
from this shock.” ‘

“If we only could die, and be at
rest,” sighed Martha. “But, dear m0-
ther, I will make an effort to save us
all. I will go to the directors, and

 

 

 

 

 

 1 j ,_ “up-rt

'. ‘ - . .
 4.; ‘ . - - ‘

a 

THE WRONG RIGHTED.

’ throw myself upon their mercy. I

will plead my father’s cause—tell
them the temptation, and the intended
repayments—beg of them for your
sake, for mine, to be generous, and
not expose his fault to the public.”

“ Great good that will do you,
miss. I have the power to expose
him; let the directors do as they
choose; and I will proclaim his shame
at the street-corners. ‘Pride must have
a fall.’ Make me mad, and you’ll find
I’m not to be trifled with; be kind,
and you’ll see how much I will do to
humor you. Set the Wedding-day, and
I post ofl‘ to-night to bring back your
father; and all things will be as they
were before.”

“My father himself would not ask
it of me,” whispered Martha.

“He loved you too much. You
are not willing to make as great a

sacrifice for him; if you were, you -

would not hesitate, choosing a prison
for him, rather than an uncongenial
match—”

“Mother! mother! do not say any
more. You shall not lay your ruin
or death to me, whatever comes.”

“I believe I am beside myself,
Martha ;——do not mind me.”

“ Whatever comes of my decision,
g0, Mr. Reynard, and recall my fa-
ther ; let me see him restored to all
that was his, and you may claim
Whatever wedding-day you choose.
Tell him it was my free choice,

and that he need not refuse it. Go,
instantly ! ”
“ There, that’s sensible! I thought

you’d come round at last. It’ll all be
l‘lght now; and you won’t find me
such a scarecrow after all. There’s
lots of girls will envy your fine feath-
erS, chick. But I’ll not bother you
any mOre this evening. I’m off to
oston to'- bring back the governor,
and straighten out things. Expect to
See us to-morrow. . Hope to find you
Coking bright on our return. You
shall MW. 3. set 0f diamonds, my
du‘fkg” He bowed himself out as
sm‘lmgly as if he had been the most
agreeable person in the world.

 

117

“You are our savior, my daugh-
ter,” said Mrs. Livingstone, endeav-
oring to comfort the victim. who sat
upon the floor with her face buried in
the cushions of the sofa. “ After all,
it may be that he will make a toler-
able—”

“ Do not say any thing to me to-

night, dear mother. Let the matter
rest; we can not make it better or
worse. Why did Ralph Irving go
away to-day? Perhaps, if he had
been here, he might have done some:
thing for us. It is fate—all fate!”

CHAPTER V.

“ Thou art like night, 0 sickness l deeply stilling,
Within my heart, the world‘s disturlu'ng sound,
And the dim quiet of my chamber fillin
With low, sweet voices by life’s tumu t drown'd';
Thou art like awful night i thou getherest round -
The things that are unseen, though close the lie,
And with a truth clear, startling, and profound!
Giv’st their dread presence to our mental eye."
Mas. HIHANS.

UPON the afternoon of the next day
Mr. Livingstone arrived home. The
humiliating emotions of shame and
regret with which this proud and self-
loving man met the family which he
had rendered unhappy, need not be
dissected. “The way of the trans-
gressor is hard;” and probably he
would have thought that the moun-
tains falling up him and crushing
him, would be relief, if they could
but hide his g fi‘Om those whose
nearness and mess made their
knowledge of it the more unbearable.
He knew that his wife would find
some crevasse of reproach through
which the swollen waters of grief
might seek their level; but, much as
he dreaded her outbursts of sorrow,
and the more stinging silence 01‘ the
haughty manner she knew so well
how to put on, he shrunk most frfml
the pale face and suffering expressmn
of his daughter. When he entered
the room where they awaited him,
his wife gave him-her hand coldly,
hiding her tear-stained face in her
handkerchief; but when he turned,
with that troubled, entreating look,

v

'?

 

 

O

[the wedding went n.
a 'morning was the t'

I-

 

118

THE HOME. ' -

 

to Martha, she flung herself into his
arms, and kissed him.

“You still love me, then 2 ” he
whispered.

“ If I did not love you,I should not
have sent for you, father. It was not
to save myself, for I would prefer—”
here she hesitated, loth to pain him any
more by an avowal of the terrible
repugnance she felt to keep the prom-
ise which had been extorted from her.
“Mother, father,” she continued, with
a solemnity of manner new to her, “I
want to see you friends,” and she

laced their hands together. “And

wish no reference ever made to the
why or wherefore of what is coming.
Since all is forgiven, ‘let the dead
past buryc'rts dead.’ ”

'And ‘flthe dead past I buried its
dead,” except that its ghost was ever
present, peering out from the'haggard
face of Mr. Livingstone, laughing hol-

low] y through his soft laugh; shadow-

ing the handsome faceof the mother,
as if there were a black vail over it;
and hanging the white livery of the
shroud upon the whilom roses of
Martha’s cheeks. Each knew of the
presence of the ghost, but no one
spoke of it. Servants and guests felt
its mysterious presence, but could
give no “local habitation and no
name” to their surmises. ,

In the mean time I reparations for
Christmas
et for the cere-
mony, seven day mm the one of
Mr. Livingstone’s return. Of course,
not much preparation could be made.
No guests were to be invited, except
two or three intimate friends. Mr.
Reynard haunted the house a great
deaL Every time he came, he had
some costly present for his intended
bride; now a diamond brooch, now
an opal necklace, 01‘ other trink-
ets, which he doubtless thought must
purchase her happiness. I

“The fair sect is mightily taken
with such things,” he mused, as he
spent hundreds of dollars on a single
gift, which he vainlv hoped might call
a smile into the~fixed, sad eyes, whose

 

downcast looks were but Seldom
raised to his own. “She’s a Splendid
woman, and she shall be splendidly
fixed up! Folks may laugh at me
behind my back, but they’ll envy me
my wife, as well as my money. Ja-
cob Reynard, you’re a fortunate man,
and you owe it all to yourself! ”

Jacob Reynard did not look to the
settlement of hislast accounts when
he esteemed himself so rich a man;
he did not see the bankruptcy which
stared him in the face when he should
attempt to do business in that “spirit-
ual world to which we are already en-
tered.” He did not see, and he did
not care. Conscience-hardened, his
soul was dwarfed to such small pro-
portions, he was seldom reminded
that he possessed one at all. “Money
makes the mare go,” was his elegant
and appropriate motto; he probably
never queried whether she would
plari‘y him to the gates of heaven or

el .

In the presence of the bridegroom
elect, Martha seemed more like a
deaf and dumb girl, than a youthful
being, sentient with hope and joy.
She made efforts to adopt a manner
more becoming to the relation she
was so soon to assume, but words
would not come, smiles would not do

her bidding. The apathetic “yes,”

and “no,” the listless acceptance of '

formal attentions were all he could
gain. for the present comfort of his
passxon.

In the presence of company she
was unusually gay. A critical eye
would have detected the feverish char-
acter of her mirth, the cheek which
was hot and red, the eye which was
dry and glittering. She displayed
her costly presents, to such of her
friends as chanced to call, with an
avaricious demand upon their admir-
ation, quite different from her usual
dainty reserve.

‘ It may be, that, for a few moments
at a time, she persuaded herself
these were the chief objects of exist.
ence, and that, after all, she was
making a brilliant match. They

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE WRONG RIGHTED. 119

 

certainly very much reconciled her
mother to the turn affairs had taken.
She feared, and she regretted; but
she had not the moral courage to face
the tempest of public contempt, and
thus silently permitted the lamb to be
made ready for the sacrifice, without
attempting to interfere. Of two evils,
this was to her the least.

The bride and bridegroom (oh,
hateful words! what a thrill of hor-
ror they sent along the electric nerves
which should have trembled with
pleasure at the sound!) were to leave,
immediately after the ceremony, for
a brief journey South, and were to be
accompanied, at Martha’s request, as
far as Washington, by her parents.
To be torn so suddenly from them,
and given into the keeping of this
repugnant stranger—the thought was
desperation and despair. As much as
she could, she put it from her, keep-
ing her hands busy, and thus trying
to divert her mind. When Christ-
mas-eve arrived, the trunks were
pitcked and standing ready, and, as

artha saw them,strapped and locked,
fate seemed to grasp her with an iron
hand—they were one of those rude,
palpable proofs of the direction her
destiny was taking, which brought it
more vividly to her comprehension
than any other thing had done.

It was Christmas-eve. What a
long time seemed to have passed since
that night one year ago. Then, she
Was young and happy; she went
Wlth her mother to behold illuminated
churches, to bow before decorated al-
tars: and to join her clear voice with
the mighty gladness of the organ in a

.Ymn of praise. Now, she was old—
a hopeless old woman at heart (so
Sh? t'hOllght)—with only the ashes and
chlll of life about her. She heard the

e S chiming, as an exile hears, in

I"331118, the chimes of the village
G “Hill at home.

b Well, after all, it was not so very

ost any of the girls she knew

would be glad of a chance to renew

the story of Beauty and the Beast,

When there three-'were hundred thou-
v0L. VII. 8.

 

 

 

sand dollars to be made by it. Didn’t
that intimate friend of her mother’s,
Mrs. Sinclair, tell her, with an en-
couraging smile, that “it was better
to be an old man’s darling' than a
young man’s slave.” And, perhaps,-
she knew. Her own mother, and al-
most everybody she knew, except
Mr. Irving, thought more of appear-
ances than of realities. Many of the
married people she had observed,
were mismated, and treated each
other with polite indifference, yet
they seemed by no means unhappy.
Each had his or her own interests and
ambitions, and could afford to let the
other alone. To be richest, handsom~
est, best-dressed, and gayest—was
that not worth living for 2 .‘She knew
more than one girl who would envy
her—even with that incumbrance
which she must take with her good
fortune.

No doubt, either of the Misses
Doolittle, who were Martha’s partic-
ular friends, would have thus consoled
herself. No doubt, her own mother
hoped that she would find such conso-
lation. But Martha was not quite so
much of a lay-figure for the proper
display of the modes, as she might
have been—perhaps owing to the doc-
trines and example of Ralph Irving,
more than to any other salutary influ-
ence. Her Christmas-eve was not one
of joy or expectancy. To herfastidious
eyes, the vulgaritfes and ignorances of
Mr. Reynard were worse than his
vices. Sensitive and refined, she
shrunk from the ridicule which she
knew would be secretly, if not openly,
perpetrated. She felt that the blaze
of diamonds even, could not extin-
guish his glaring deficiences. Amld
wilder thoughts, there obtruded Itself
the fancy of Dick Doolittle congratu‘
lating her uponherv mamage- She
could see the malicious laugh lurkmg
behind his elegant OOmPl‘mentSa and,
strange thollgh  be, She dreaded his
delicate satire more than many more
serious evils.

:4 It is the intensest vanity alone
That makes us bear with life,"

 

“WWW-Ohm“.-. ,......

 

129 THE-noun.-

 

says Festus; and certain it is that
ridicule is a more effective weapon
than even policy itself. Martha had
the vanity and the sensitiveness of
youth. She doubted the transfiguring
power of gold being able to hide the
defects of her future husband ; she
had not yet gained the ne plus ultra
of fashionable training, when the cheek
can no longer be made to redden with
shame or modesty. With hidden
despair gnawing her heart, she went
to her chamber Christmas-eve.

“I do not like to disturb you, my
darling,” said her mother, coming
into her room upon Christmas morn-
ing, “ but it is getting late. The cer-
emony is to take place at ten o’clock,
and it is now a little after eight.”

“ Is it so near the time, mother?
I have tried to rise severaltimes, but
can not—I get dizzy. I do not know
what is the matter with me. I think
if Annette would help me to get upon
my feet, perhaps I- should get over
this, and be able to dress.”

“ Let me assist you,” said her mo-
ther, alarmed at the expression of
her eyes, which were heavy and lan-
guid. She took hold of the burning
hands, and raised her up.

“My dress, mother—my wedding-
dress!”

“‘I believe you are very ill, my
child! ”

She might well believe so, for, at

that moment, Martha sank back upon ‘

the bed. With the effort to rise, she
had fainted, or rather, sank into the
unconsciousness of fever. Her new.
ous system had been over-tasked,
and had giVen way beneath the ruth-
less press of coming events,

Within two hours it was fully ap-
parent that there would be no mar-
riage upon that day. The services
were postponed, and the family phy-
sician called to take their place,

Jacob Reynard was pacmg the par.
lors like a bafiied animal. He was
Very suspicious of some plot, and
insisted upon seeing his Sick bride.
Mr. ananrs. Livingstone were not
only alarmed for their daughter, but

 

afraid of the anger of their tormentor.
He was admitted to her chamber, and
had the evidence of his senses that she
was really very ill.

“What do you think of her? ” he
asked the physician.

“I think that a week or two of
perfect mental and physical quiet will
restore her. She has never been ill,
and has a most excellent constitution.
But Iinsist upon perfect rest. Sub-
mit to your disappointment, Mr.
Reynard, and do not attempt to
hasten her convalescence, if you would
claim your bride this winter.”

A week or two was an age to this
man’s impatience; but, as there was
no gainsaying the decrees of sickness,
he was obliged to submit. He could
not exactly blame Martha or her pa-
rents for her illness; it was not very
flattering to himself to guess that her-
ror and dislike had thus affected his
future wife; but, as she had shown no
disposition to break her promise, he
knew very well that she was the last
person at fault in the matter. '

That same evening Martha came
out of the semi-unconscious state in
which she had remained all day.
Turning her eyes to ascertain that
there were no others present in the
room, except her parents, who were
Sitting near, regarding her, she whis-‘
pered to her father. He approached, ..
and bent his ear to her lips. '

“God has granted us this respite,
father, to give you a chance to redeem
yourself. Work speedily .and, se-
cretly. Take all my costly tfinkets,
mother’s jewels, sell your carriage,
borrow of your friends, raise enough
money to redeem your honor at the
bank,—then, if the stroke comes, it
can not harm you much. You will
be poorer, but so much happier. It
will save me, too! I have been think-
ing about it all day, when you sup-
posed me insensible to every thing.
Be Cautious! ”

These words came like a glow of
light to the darkened heart and con-
science of Mr. Livingstone. He had

suffered so much in contemplating

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE‘WRONG'RIGHTED. 12]

  

 

the fate of his beautiful and idolized
child, that poverty no longer had the
terror for him which it once had. Ap-
pearances were no longer his Lares
and Penates. He would have two or
three weeks in which to make efforts
to cover his deficit; if he succeeded
in. that, the loss of his Chicago prop-
erty would be a cheap getting out of
his difficulties. He would refuse his
daughter to his persecutor, and if he
threatened him with exposure, he
would defy him. He might shake
the confidence of his‘partners in him,
and cause'people to talk about him in
the streets, but he could prove noth-
ing worse than that he made every
effort, even to the sacrifice of his ac-
customed home luxuries, to replace
money which he borrowed in a flush
hour and repayed in a dull one.

“ It shall be as you say, Martha, if
I can make it so. Dear child, if I
can but spare you—and I will! ”

Martha saw the air with which he
lifted up his head as he said this;
there was hope and determination in
it, and she was content. She pressed
his hand, and repeated her warning
to be cautious, for the sharp eyes of a
practiced rogue were upon his every
movement. “Desperate evils require
desperate remedies,” and neither Mr.
Livingstone, nor Martha, unused to
 deception as she was, thought it wrong
to maintain such a manner toward
Mr. .Beynard as should beguile his
SUSPICIOI'IS.

When he came in, a few moments
later, Martha allowed him to hold
her feverish hand, and repaid his anx-
lous hopes that she was better—
would soon be well—with a faint
Smile. That smile almost reconciled
1m to a temporary delay, for it was
the first smile he had ever received
from her.

A low fever, not exactly dangerous,
11% very prostrating, followed upon
the first attack. The doctor would
Permit no visitors, except the bride-
gg‘l’lgm elect, who was allowed a half
. every mornin and evenin to
s“ by her bedside. gMany long h%urs

 

of the day and night for the ensuing
fortnight were passed by the sick girl
in silence and darkness, outwardly;
lying in a dim chamber, with the
nurse, upon whom she made but few.
requirements, asleep in her easy chair
—-silent and still she lay, but her
mind was preternaturally active. Ex-
cited by fever to unusual quickness,
it created a world of its own, and
lived a life in those two weeks.
Traits which had lain dormant, quick-
ened, and spran into existence.
Truths which had fallen into her heart
in careless moments, and sank out of
sight, now revealed to her the intrin-
sic value of their brightness—pearls
of great price, which had been trodden
down by a thoughtless, girlish foot.
One thing she had learned, which she
could not easily forget—the instabil-
ity of worldly prosperity. If an
one had hinted at reverses a mont
ago, she could hardly have realized
that misfortune was a possible thing
for her; love, hope, praise, beauty,
luxury, idleness, freedom had always
been hers, as thrones belong to
queens; yet, suddenly, as the thun-
derbolt strikes the fairest tree in the-
forest, a blight had fallen upon her.
She had stared shame, disgrace, and
poverty in the face; ay, and they
were still hunting her, kept at bay for
a season only, it might be. -
More than this, worse than this,
her confidence in humanity had been
shaken—in professed and apparent
good, which hitherto she had accepted
unquestioned. Her father had been
to her the embodiment of manhOOd-
legarding his fault with all the gen-
erous excuses of her ready 10W: §h°
still saw that, at least, hypocrisy
must have been practiced, for she had
heard him declaim  those 111-
discretions in others of which he. was
at the time himself guilty ' Neither
could she entirely free her beloved
mother from the sin of selfishness, in.
the part taken in. .late matters.
She saw that her posmon in society,
the daily indulgence in accustomed
ease, were dearer to her than any nice.

-

|

...
v. .

.
"5.334.. ‘ '

u"

 

 

  

immw ‘4W‘A‘mnfl‘l‘nb m an. n' . '_

emu...

i .~.~...~._.u~.i

.«..,..4.‘ a.“ -

......_._--a._. A ._,

 

' fime.»mewW-uuflg._n~m”...— .n.

1.22 ‘ THE HOME.

 

drawn line of principle. Church-
member and exemplary woman, she
was not one to follow in the footsteps
of Christ, and die for the truth
rather than forsake it.

Doubt and despondency took pos-
session of the girl’s mind. Trouble
had come upon her, and she had no
weapons with which to meet it; en-
durance she had not learned; faith
had never been awakened ; a firm re-
liance upon the ultimate goodness
and ability of God to support her
in sorrow, and turn a crown of
thorns into the roses of joy, she had
not yet attained—neither had she seen
it developed in the characters of either

i of her parents, in the time of need.

She esteemed it very cruel not
to be permitted to be happy in her
own way; she murmured at fate for
robbing her of her birthright; she
did not wish to he resigned to any
thing so unjust. .What had she
done thus to be thwarted in her
youthful hopes? She did not care
to reconcile herself to any thing so
preposterous. The sickness of her
mind‘was more dangerous than that of
her body. She would have thanked
God, she thought, to have taken her
life at once, and not have afflicted
her thus. This was the first phase of
her mind when left to its solitary
meditations. In bitterness of spirit,
she cried to her Father in heaven, like
a wayward and petted child, to take
her life, for her punishment was more
than she could bear. If she was to be
«vexed, and tried, and troubled, and
disappointed through all her earthly
career, she would acknowledge at
.once that she had neither strength nor
will, and pray to be removed from
:the petty conflict. _

During the darkest period of her
:sorrow, .her father was exerting him-
self to the utmost to get rid of his
embarrassments. His heart revolted,
more than ever, at the thought of
his child becoming the wife of that
YUlgarxand purse-proud villain. Wife!
would she ever be his wife in the
eyes of the angels of heaven? no,

I
a .

“is

 

only an unhappy victim, sacrificed to
lust upon the altar of family pride.
Every day such sacrifices are made;
they are legal; therefore they can
not be criminal. Sometimes Mr.
Livingstone hoped that he should ar-
range all things satisfactorily; but
many circumstances were against
him; especially, that he could take
no step to dispose of any property or
to borrow any money, except in the
most secret manner. His wife had
given up her jewels, and expressed a
reluctant compliance in any arrange-
ment which he should see fit to make.
(To be continued.)

 

A SONG.

TO MY WIFE AT HOME.

WHEN a stranger ’mid strangers I roam, love,
And no friendly face can I see—
When afiection doth link every step, love,
That lengthens between you and me—
The light of thine eye, love,
The light of thine eye,
,_. Illumines the mansions within, love,
The light of thine eye.

When storms o’er the mountains advance,
love,
And terrors ride madly the blast,
A pilgrim  wander alone, love,
And shrink from the winds rushing past-—

When night hovers over my path, love,
And down o‘er the dark rolling stream,

I haste to the village beyond, love,
Where flickering lights dimly gleam—

When weary I sit at the board, love,
And strive to chat merry and free,

With a weight at my heart to seem gay, love,
You absent, I never can be—

When around the great hearthstone we sit,
love
Every bountenance beaming with joy,
While my heart plays truant with you, love,
Caressing that rosy-lipp’d boy——

When sleepless I turn on my couch, love,
While the hours drag lazily by,
And fancies are crowding my brain, love,
I never can justly tell why—
The light of thine eye, love,
The light of thine eye,
Illumines the mansions within, love,
The light of thine eye.
8. P. B.

 

 

 

 

 

 

DAVID r. STODDARD.

123

 

DAVID T. STODDARD.

THE KAN AND ‘1‘!!! HINISTIB.
BY MRS. CAROLINE A. HALBERT.

PENING Thompson’s delightful

memorial of his early college
friend, Stoddard, we were struck by
these remarks of Tholuck:

“Oh, that we were richer, in our
German language, in biographical
works, which are adapted to illustrate
and promote a truly elevated and
practical Christianity, by laying open
the sanctuary of the' inner life! We
are able, even in the circle of our
own acquaintance, to mention a great
number of Christians—and among
these, names of the first rank in the
religious world—who are indebted
essentially to works of biography
for the confirmation and stability of
their spiritual life.”

We can not value too highly the in-
fluence of such biographies as a stim-
ulant and moral teacher. Creeds and
catechisms are a stone of stumbling
to unbelievers, but vital religion,
written in the life, is a book which
will be read of all men. Even
Divinity itself was regarded very
much as an abstraction, until it be-
came manifest in the flesh, and dwelt
among us full of grace and truth. Ever
smce the Lord of glory bound among
the fragrant leaves of the Book of
Life so many precious memorials of
saluted believers, and especially since
the Saviour of the world sat to the
rude fishermen of Galilee for his
Divme portrait, Christian biography
has been one of the most elevated
and inspiring of human studies.

Happy the man whose character is
worthy to bear the scrutiny of after
generations; upon whose features, view
them as you will, in front or profile,
In action or repose, you can detect no
smllzk of conceit, no covert malice
lurking under a smile, nothing which
13 not genuine and truthful. Many
an “mil-demon is conspicuously bla-
Killed in saintly calendars, and Judas
“1,1 Walk arm in arm with John
While the world stands; but while

‘ army

 

such men as Pascal, Swartz, Oberlin,
Martin, and Edwards remain, none
but willful skeptics will bewail the
the hollowness of religion. To unfold
the sacred interior life of such as
these, whose thoughts kindle daily
into aspiration; who have wrestled
down all earthly hopes and idolatries,
setting their foot upon them; who
have, through grace, quenched even
that fierce intellectual thirst which
would hinder them in the singleness
of their Christian cause; who have
made it their great life ambition
to tell over and over the simple story
of the cross—to enter the sanctuary
of such lives, is like opening “vials
full of odors,” whose rare and costly
fragrance will perfume the air for
many generations.

Christianity has had no sweeter or
more sublime exem lification than
among missionaries. rom Paul, the
apostle, to Xavier, the Catholic; from
Xavier to Cary, Judson, Scudder, and
Poor, no age, not even the darkest,
has been without its select company,
who joyfully forsook houses, friends,
and fame, that they might preach
Christ to the perishing.

Now that the missionary work has
become comparatively safe and easy,
and a highway has been thrown up
into the wilderness, some doubtless
have entered it from motives of moral
cowardice. Some young men who
feared to grapple with life at home,
to struggle in its battles, and take
their chance with their fellows, have
grasped the skirts of this giant power
to be borne through life by its reelst-
less will. Such .men are a cipher and
a dead weight abroad, as they “:0?”
be at home. But we are of opm}0n
that that mighty missionary Orgamza'
tion which has alread girdefl the
world with a zone of lig 15, and 15 fast
lighting its beacon fires 0’1 every
island of the sea, 03“ Show Snell an
of Great Hearts toifing among
the jungles of India and the'snows of?
Thibet, with the besotted Cafi‘re, and.
the cannibal Fegee Islander, as history
can not parallel. [t is good to turn

 

 

' ‘muWAd-ammmmww *

124 THE HOME.

 

aside from the dusty highway of life
and lift ourselves awhile to the level
of these heroic men, to feel in their
presence the littleness of those aims
and purposes we have pursued, and
the pitiful smallness of those trials by
which we have been so sorely pressed.
Thus we.have been refreshed in read-
ing the life before us, and it is with
the hope of alluring our readers to its
perusal, that we propose to sketch
briefly one of the purest ornaments of
modern missions.

David Tappan Stoddard was born

in Northampton, Mass, Dec. 2, 1818.
He was able to trace on his “ family
tree” an unbroken line of pious an-
cestors, honorable alike in Church and
State. Directly descended from Gov.
Winthrop, of Mayflower memory;
connected on the father’s side with
New England’s greatest theologian,
Jonathan Edwards, and on the mo-
ther’s, with Benjamin Franklin, there
was much in his ancestry to excite an
earnest emulation.
' The valley which cradled the in-
fancy of Stoddard, is one of the love-
lieshbirth-s ots in the world. The
village of orthampton, with its cool,
‘quiet streets, its capacious, old-fash-
ioned houses—their fronts shaded by
broad-spreading elms—Round Hill in
its midst, with its sunny lawns and fra-
grant shrubberies, and, chiefly, the old
grave-yard, planted all over with grave-
stones, and the worn footpath leading
always to the hallowed spot where
Brainurd slumbers—the whole picture
bathed in the sober light of an au-
tumn day, is still clear on the retina of
our memory, as when painted there
in our early childhood. The rare
scenery which trained the eye and
heart of young Stoddard is enthusias-
tically described by his biographer:

“Fer almost any elevation in
Northampton, the eye takes in on
either side the sweep 0f hIHS—Some
wooded, dihers cultivated to their
summiv—which bound the horizon
twenty miles to the north. Directly
to the south, stand the twin moun-
tains, Holyoke and Tom, their roots

 

interlaced beneath the bed of the

river that now divides them, and

which seems to have forced its pas-

sage through their onee united barri-

ers. Extensive meadows, which, like

the delta of the Nile, are liable to a

yearly deposit of alluvium from the

overflow of the river, and the fatness

of whose soil is like that of Goshen,

stretch southward and eastward al-

most to the base of the mountains.

From time immemorial, these mead-

ows have been bought and sold, and

inherited without any division of
fence or wall. Thousands of acres

thus lie in fields divided only by the

meanderings of the river, from whose

banks rise meadows, orchards, and

arable plots like a succession of ter-

raced gardens, whose perfect culture

answers to Emerson’s picture of Eng-

land, as ‘finished with a pencil instead

of a plow.’ At intervals of a few

miles, villages are seen reposing upon

genflc'slopes, in the shade of abund-

ant’ trees, with an occasional cupola ,
or spire, the symbol in every New

England town, of the supremacy of
knowledge and religion.”

Reared in a refined Christian house-
hold, in a community remarkable for
intelligence and morality, with Nature
drawing him heavenward, day by day,
our young friend grew up a cheerful,
rollicksome boy, with a face as fair
as a girl’s, and a nature as gentle.
There was little, we imagine, in fea-
ture or disposition, to recall the an-
cestral Edwards, whose high, serene
forehead seemed a Mount of Transfig-
uration in which thought dwelt in
company with unutterable realities.
We find little in the youth of Stod-
dard noteworthy here; though, doubt-
less, many precious recollections of
it are cherished in household mem-
ories. That great spiritual change
which turned the bias of his life,
occurred at New Haven during his col-
lege course. He had, from child-
hood, been the subject of many seri-
ous impressions, but seems then first
to have embraced Christ with full
purpose of heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

-,

" Mun
-—I-—

u...

 

 

DAVID '1‘. sronmnn. 195

  

 

Very early in his religious life,
Stoddard was impressed with the idea
of peculiar consecration and eminent
usefulness. He chose the ministry
for his profession, and turned his
wishes toward the missionary field.
The singleness and fidelity of his
heart were soon put to the test. In
consequence of his marked taste and
talent for scientific pursuits, he was
appointed, in his junior year, to an
honorable and lucrative post in the
Southern Exploring Expedition then
about to sail. The romance of the
enterprize, with the opportunity of
studying those wonderful Southern
heavens under skilled observers, was
most alluring to the young enthusi-
ast, whose passion was astronomy;
moreover, he was but a stripling of
nineteen, remarkably tall and slender,
and needed some robust employment
to give tone and firmness to his mus-
cles. But he had strength put
aside the glittering tempta  'L and
hold steadily on his chosen way, ar-
ing that if he once turned aside to
pursuits so congenial, he should never
find the moment for return. Years
after, when he found his strength so
soon wilting under the burning skies
of Persia, he may have questioned
whether the choice was wisely made,
and whether a year or two of sea
training would not have added many
years to his missionary life; still we
must greatly admire the purity and
smgleness of his heart.

While at Yale, Mr. Stoddard con-
structed a telescope, of no mean
power, with his own bands, which
afterward was borne over the Koor-
dish mountains, and did him signal
service among the Nestorians. He
graduated with honor in 1838, and,
Shortly after, went to Marshall Col-
lf‘ag'e, Pa., as tutor. Here he was so-
licited to accept a professorship at
Marietta, though he was scarcel y
tWenty years 01d, In declining the
very tempting proposal, he seems to

V9 made up his mind deliberately
to be drawn aside from the ministry
by 110 Secular consideration. “The

 

question then came up,” he tells us,
“ will you spend your life in chemi-
cal experiments, or in laboring as a
minister of the Gospel for the conver-
sion of souls? ”

The following year We find him at
Andover, earnestly engaged in his
theological studies. Writing to his
brother, near the close of his course,
he says:

“ To be a Gospel minister—oh, 'I
feel that it will be a blessed privilege.
There is nothing like it in this world.
If I know my own heart, I would not
exchange the prospect for any earthly
good.”

Soon after he was licensed to
preach, he spent a Sabbath at Mid-
dlebury‘, Vt., and occupied the pulpit.
By chance, or rather by Providence,
Dr. Perkins, the veteran missionary
to Persia, then home on a recruiting
visit, was present, and thus describes
his first impressions of his future as-
sociate:

“After I entered the meeting-
house on Sabbath morning, there
came in a young man, and ascended
the desk, whose appearance was quite
youthful, yet very mature, and whose
whole air seemed to me more angelic
than human. I was no prophet. But
hardly could the mind of Samuel of
old have been fastened more confi-
dently on David, the son of Jesse,
as the future king of Israel, than did .
my heart fix on David T. Stoddard,
from the moment my eye rested on
him, as the young man, whom, of all I
had ever seen,I could wish to have as
our companion in the toils, and trile
and joys of missionary life, and Whose
prayer and labors here the Lord
would delight to honor in the 881“-
tion of souls.” ,

As the result of this inteerew, Mr.
Stoddard embarked in the sP’mg Of
1843 to join the Mission of the .Amer-
ican Board at Oroomiah, Pers1a. A
few weeks previous, he 8d 
Miss Harriet Briggs: ’1 ladybf great
sweetness, high culture, and earnest
piety; seldom is a more congenial
marriage consummated on earth, , . ,

‘ .

  

a "
l
.
l
l
g.
,

 

l
l
l
l
l
l
3

1-26 THE HOME.

 

Of the many farewells spoken, es-
ppcially to those aged parents in

orthampton, of the last look at
those venerable elms, the ancestral
corner in the old burying-ground, the
peaceful Connecticut rolling through
fruitful meadows, and the twin moun-
tains—we will not speak; such fare-
wells have been spoken again and
again, and will be, until every islet of
the sea utters the praise of Jehovah.
As these young missionaries stood
upon the deck of the Emma, and
waved a last adieu to weeping friends
on shore, as they saw the last head-
land of their country fade into the hori-
zon, and felt that they were “alone in
a wide, wide sea,” they could still
say through their tears, “Who would
not leave home—ever so dear a home
as ours—at the call of his Father in
heaven Ix”

After much tossing by sea and by
land, climbing snow-crested moun-
tains, and crossing torrid plains,
sleeping beneath Turkish tents, and
riding at midnight in the cool moon-

, light, our missionary friends reached

their field of labor in June, 1843.
Oroomiah, the ancient metropolis

, , of the north-western province of Per-

sia, lies at the foot of the Koordish
mountains, and contains about twenty-
five thousand inhabitants. Near it is
a remarkable salt lake, whose sul-
hurous waters are denser than the
Bead Sea; around it, on every side,
stretches the plain of Oroomiah, ri-
valing, in its tropical luxuriance, the
rich valley of the Nile. As our mis-
sionary band galloped- across this
glorious valley, then in its greenest
verdure, surrounded by welcoming
troops of native converts, and led
with festive songs into the mud-walled
city, they had need of all their sober-
mindedness to subdue their fancies to
the real color of their future life.
And yet there was enough in their
position to ouse the noblest enthu-
siasm of the Christian heart. They

were among a primitive and most in-

teresting people. Shut in on every
Side by the mountains and the lake,

 

it seemed as if God had preserved
this little inch of earth as an altar
whereon the fire of a pure worship
might be kept burning through the
long night of Mohammedan rule. Nei-
ther infidel nor Persian fire-worshiper
has been able to proselyte these sim-
ple children of Nestorius, and though
the Jesuit is ever at their ear, there
has always been a remnant among
them to protest against the papacy.
Dr. Perkins says they may be truly
called the Protestants of Asia. A Do-
cile and eager to know the truth, they
require only to be taken by the hand
and led back to the true fold. Strip
the religion, which they already pro-
fess, of its cumbrous ceremonials, and
let it be breathed upon by the living
Spirit, and what prevents this people
from becoming a moral nucleus for
Christianizing Asia? Why may not
the Light of Life spread thence over
Arabia, Turkey, Koordistan, China,
and India?

Burning with desire to preach the
living Gospel to this people, Mr.
Stoddard felt it hard to wait till he
had acquired the language; and such
was his zeal, that in five months he
was able to converse intelligibly in
modern Syriac. The male seminary
was then given into his charge.

“We all felt,” says Dr. Perkins,
“that no living man could be found
more competent to assume the very
responsible task of rearing a genera-
tion of pious Nestorian preachers,
whether we regarded the very high
order of his own intellect, his finished
culture, his moral charcter, or his
holy walk and conversation.”

This seminary, which was his dear-
est care while he lived, contained
about fifty young men, many of them
preparing to preach in the three hunf
dred villages which dotted the plain.
The Bible, here so ignominiously ig-
nored in our schools, was there made
the basis of education, and was sel-
dom laid aside two hours at a time.

How heartily Mr. Stoddard entered
into his labors, and how little he was

disposed to draw back after having

 

own. ‘9..— - o... .-

_ ‘_V r.

 

x

\—

..~-.—.. .

rv-z —-

‘ no - .%~,_‘__,~M

DAVID 'r. STODDARD. 127

 

tested it, we learn from his letters:
“Let those stay in America who
must, but let those who can, preach
salvation and eternal life in the region
and shadow of death;” again, “There
has not been a day that l have sighed
for my fatherland.”

But soon clouds began to lower.
From causes, beyond the control of
the mission, the Patriarch of the Nes-
torians assumed a hostile attitude,
and, finding they would not concede
his unjust demands, dispersed their
village schools, sent back a thousand
children into a life of ignorance and
debasement, excommunicated their
helpers, and, for a time, held them in
a state of the most painful suspense.
The Jesuits also exerted such influ-
ences at the Persian court, that they
came near being expelled from the
country. Mr. Stoddard was severely
tried. He could bear separation
from friends, and physical hardships
with perfect cheerfulness, but to be
hindered in his work, to see his dear
pupils going back into barbarism,
severely tested his faith. He writes:
“I think I have suffered more in my
feelings, since I came here, than in all
my life before ;” and yet he adds, “I
am teaching ten or a dozen boys in
my family with just as much interest
as if I were a reacher in Park Street
church; and do not envy the situa-
tion of any living man; I am just
where God would have me be, and
here I mean to stay just so long as he
wants me.” This is indeed the true
missionary zeal which will conquer
the world.

After the storm there came a great
calm. Those that plagued them,
Seemed as if smitten by an invisible
hand. Confidence was not only re-
stored, but greatly strengthened ; the
straying? sheep returned joyfully to
the fold, and the villagers thronged
everywhere to hear the tidings of sal-
vation.

S00n there came across the great
WéteFS, with the salutation of the
{IIISSIonaries to the churches, a cheer-
mg message—a revival among the

 

Nestorians! It had a marvelous
sound, and we were slow to compre-
hend that the same Gospel which
Whitefield and Nettleton preached,
which chimed on the Sabbath air of
the New World from ten thousand
spires, was alike operative in the
mud-walled churches, beneath the
shadow of Oriental mountains. For
twelve years these faithful men had
been sowing the seed of truth in an
arid soil, and little did they perceive,
while the threatening clouds lowered
over them, that they were heavy with
the nourishing rains for which they
had so earnestly prayed. It was in-
deed a Pentecostal season. The re-
vival, which commenced in the two
seminaries, spread from village to
village, till the songs of rejoicing con-
verts echoed among the fastnesses of
the mountains—the venerable native
churches, which for centuries 'had
served only to sepulcher the dry cere-
ments of a dead religion, now re-
sounded with a living Gospel, and a
wave of spiritual life and verdure
spread over the whole of this deso-
late region.

No wonder that Mr. Stoddard’s
spirit kindled as he marked the blessed
change, and he seemed, in vision,
to see all Asia speedily gathered to
Christ. His house became a Bethe].
“We emptied one room and one closet
after another for prayer, until there
were seven or eight places where our
pupils could retire. These were oc-
cupied from morning to night by
those, who, in the bitterness of their
souls, were crying out to God. And
very often, when the city was all
wrapped in slumber, I have heard
earnest voices, on this side and .011
that, of those who were wrestling With
the angel of the covenant for a bless-
ing.” .

Succeeding this harvest of mgather-
ing, there followed two years of un-
broken toil. Preaching and teaching,
sitting in twilight onosome house-top
conversing with a quiet group about
Christ, superintending the erection of
new seminary buildings on a mountain

 

 

 

    

1-28

WWWAm..-\.~k.-bm~xu:m.¥mfi v«fins—I‘mhtm.“.Auul-r~"\- ....w...._-..“N....-.__.- _ . V  .

THE HOME.

 

side near the city, and, above all,
watching the spiritual growth of those
young men through whom he hoped
to live and speak long after he rested
in his grave, it is no wonder that his
frail body could not keep pace with
the ardor of his soul. For many
months he was nearly laid aside from
labor, and his brethren urgently ad-
vised him to try the effect of a voy-
age to America. But the thought of
leaving his place vacant, with no one
to enter into his labors, was too pain-
ful for him; it was decided that he
should take his family and spend
some months in traveling leisurely
through Turkey, and visiting the mis-
sion stations there. Having with
great painfulness, on account of his
exceeding. weakness, reached Trebi-
zond, on the Black Sea, the Lord met
him in the way, and gave him a cup
to drink whose bitterness none but
the exile can know. His beautiful
and beloved Harriet,‘the mother of
his babes, and his daily joy in the
house of his pilgrimage, was taken,
in a moment, from his side. They
had, unawares, fallen in the very
track of the cholera, then on its tre-
mendous march eastward, and Mrs.
Stoddard, full of life and hope, was
stricken down. After her peril be-
came manifest, scarcely a half hour
was given her for parting and prep-
aration.

“When near her end,” said Mr.
Stoddard, “I pointed her to Christ, as
a precious Saviour, motioning upward
.with my finger. Her eye followed
the motion, and as she lay gazing
most earnestly to heaven, her breath
gradually became shorter and shorter,
and she breathed for the last time.
So gently did she pass away, that it
was some time before we could say,
‘She is gone!’ There was not a
sigh, nor a struggle, nor a moving
feature. All, all was peace.”

At dead of night, with n0 uttered
prayer, and no strengthening psalm,
one bent and feeble mourner com.
mitted to the inhospitable ‘soil of a
strange city, all that was most lovely

 

and cherished in his eyes. When the
day dawned, he gathered his two mo-
therless babes in his arms, and fled to
the mountains. When the tumult of
feeling had somewhat. subsided, Mr.
Stoddard wrote :

“Oh, it came like a thunderbolt,
and I reeled and staggered under the
dreadful blow. Had it not been for
the remembrance of my little chil-
dren, and the thought that perhaps
God had something more for me to
do among the Nestorians, I should
have rejoiced to lie down by her side.
Do not think this a dreamy senti-
mentalism. I mean that I should have
been glad to lay my bones by that
new-made grave, that with kerl might
awake to the joys of heaven.” But
he adds, “I trust I may say with
truth, grace got the mastery of na-
ture, and when the next morning I
rode up the mountain to Mr. Pow-
er’s health retreat, I felt a calm trust
in God which bore me above the
waves of trouble.”

In all this sorrow, he charged not
God foolishly, and though he felt all
the billows go over him, he could
still look up from the depths, and see
the stars shining calmly in the sky,

and feel a Divine Hand let down to

strengthen him.

God was evidently leading him to _ ‘

America. A few weeks later, we
find him on board a steamer with his
two little daughters, one still a babe,
conveying them home to their weep-
lng grandparents; and thus it hap-
pened that he, who left Persia for a
few months, found his reluctant ab-
sence prolonged to three years.
Having lent his little ones in solemn
trust to those who would love them well
for the mother’s sake ; having felt the
blessed balm of sympathy laid like a
healing ointment on his bruised and
aching heart; having seen the dim
eyes of his parents brighten as they
looked again on the Benjamin for
whom they had sorely longed, and re-
cruited, in a measure, his broken
health, he longed to be “ homeward
bound.” But it was thought best by

 

x, I
'<o

.. l.’ '- v.
.-

 

 

 

 

DAVID T. STODDARD. 199

  

 

the Prudential Committee of the
Board that he should tarry still longer
and build up his enfeebled constitu-
tion, and, as he was able, animate the
missionary zeal of the churches at
home.

It thus became our privilege to
listen to him at one of the great an-
nual festivals of the Board. We
shall never forget him. That tall,
thin, shadowy form, that almost boy-
ish face irradiated with a heavenly
glow, the animation of his voice, as
e told us, in glowin words, what
God had done for the estorians—the
form, the face, the unction of his
words lie in our memory with all the
sweet vividness of a morning land-
scape in the spring. Never had we
felt, as when looking upon that young
countenance, whose very lines seemed
molded into the expression of radiant
happiness, that he who forsakes all
for Christ, shall receive a “hundred-
fold” in this life.

0n the 14th of February, 1851,
the eighth anniversary of his union
with the sainted Harriet, Mr. Stod-
dard was married to Miss Sophia
Hazen, a beloved and most useful
teacher in Mt. Holyoke Seminary.
They embarked the following month
for Persia, taking with them the old-
est daughter.

His welcome to Oroomiah must
have been most grateful to his feel-
ings. To Dr. Anderson he writes:
“ Our progress, across the plain, re-
sembled more a triumphal procession
than a caravan of weary travelers.
Every successive mile added to our
numbers, and our way was almost
blocked up by the people who came
"1 ‘rongs to meet us—some on
horseback, some on foot,-—— bishops,
priests, deacons, village school-teach-
ers, members of the seminary, with
whom I had many times wept, and
Frayed, and praised—all pressing for-
ward in eager haste to press our
hands and swell the notes of welcome.

hree years ago, these same persons
fouowed us out of the city, holding
the horses by the bridles, and begging

8

 

us not to leave them, while the tears
chased one another down their cheeks,
and their mournful looks bespoke the
sorrow of their hearts.” And as he
entered his old home, a thousand re-
membrances animated him. “ On
this stairway how often have I stum-
bled over the pupils, when, unable to
find a closet, they had kneeled down
here, under cover of night, to pour
out their souls to God. In this wood.
house, our pupils, straitened for
places of retirement, divided the
room by piles of wood into compart-
ments, that each might find a little
Bethel where he could meet his Sa-
viour. Under these trees they usedto
sit, at early dawn, bending over the
pages of the Book of Life. After three
years’ absence, all these scenes came
fresh to my remembrance, and pro-
duced mingled emotions of joy, grat-
itude, and praise.”

We should like to follow this good
man, step by step, through the six
years of his remaining pilgrimage—to
accompany him on those preaching
tours among the villages, when

made the air jubilant with songs and \

hymns which he had learned at his
mother’s knee, and to get into sym-
pathy with that pure and lark-like
spirit which was always singing an-
thems of praise, because always in

harmony with God and his works. ‘

We should like to sit in his school-
room, and see him opening to his
pupils the manifold treasures of his
elegant culture, with as much enthu-
siasm as if he were a Professor in the
University at Berlin,—gathering up,
by methodical calculation, all

fragments of time, that he might make
scientific observations, 'or construct
microscopes and magic lanterns for
his pupils, pressing his great mechan-
ical skill, with all his facultiesalflto
the service of Christ, and maintaining
in the midst of an ungo‘ny People
such near and unbroken communion
with God, as anehorets have wrestled
for in the deserts and rocky SOIitudes.
If there is any weapon which can
cleave asunder the compacted mail

 

l
E

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

130 THE HOME.

 

of infidelity, it is the life of such a
man as Stoddard. When a young
man of marked strength and promise,
of choice and varied scholarship, an
enthusiast in the most absorbing of
scientific pursuits, of warm, social,
and domestic attachments, not only
consents to leave all his earthly as-

irations behind him, but counts it
103/ to live in life-long association with
a rude and degraded people, contract-
ing himself to their small capacities
that he may lift them to his hopes,

' ;- how, we ask, does the infidel account
", for the phenomenon?

fone more scene in the life of Stod-
,'and We leave him. On Christ-
-day, 1856, he laid down to die.
{1‘ bus fever had taken fatal hold on
is” enfeebled system, and medical
s ll was vain. During a’ whole
month .in which his soul was taking
leave of its attenuated frame, perfect
peace possessed him, and sat radiant
on every feature. "‘ All about me,”
he would say, “is so peaceful, the
bed is so peaceful, the room is so

 
 

~ peaceful, and every thing is done for

me so 'quietly;” and again, “I lie
here afld think of the good, both
among the living and the dead, par-
ticularly of my dear mother,—she
seems very near to me.” .

When he awoke from sleep, the first
whisper of his feeble lips was often
some text or verse full of praise; and
even in his delirium, his heart, like a
pure fountain, sent forth only pure
and sweet waters. His sick chamber
was a Beulah, and through its win-
dows he seemed to look out into liv-
ing pastures, and to see one like the
Son of, God walking in the midst of
the garden. ' There were no stormy
winds to trouble the waters when he
went :" down into Jordan. His last
words, whispered faintly in the ear of
his wife, were, “ A11 Well—do you
u derstand—all right.” And so, lean-
' g on the arm of his Beloved, he van-
ished out of our sight. _

Devout men carried this holy ,man
to his burial, and laid him down to
Sleep, till the morning of the resurrec-

 

tion, among the people he‘had loved
so well; and often in the twilight,
while the shadows are falling around,
his loving disciples gather about his
grave, and chant there, in their own
Syriac, the sweet and melodious
strains they had caught from his lips.

 

BROTHER BEN’S WIFE.

1mm: 1m: NOTE-BOOK OF AN OLD BACHELOR.
BY HELEN L. BOSTWICK.

“ ROTHER BEN, what is the mat-
ter with your wife? ”

I put this question with much real,
and little apparent interest, for the
overshadowed prospects of my bro-
ther’s once happy home had of late
filled me with the deepest anxiety;
yet, while determined, if it were pos-
sible, to aécertain the cause—the first
secret Ben had ever kept from me, his
twin brother—I did not wish need-
lessl y to alarm him.

Ben threw away the cigar he had
just lighted, and looked me steadily
and gloomily in the face. “True
enough,” he said, “what is the mat-
ter 2 ” .

“It is a mystery that I would like to
have explained, brother Ben; tending,
as you are aware I am, toward matri.
mony, such fluctuations of the domestic
barometer interest me. Fancy Jenny '
P . . . ., transplanted to '-my home,
growing thin, and white, and silent—”

“Charley, stop, for Heaven’s sake!
I am just about distracted. Feel my
hand, Charley.”

I did so, and found it dry and
parched with fever, while his pulse
beat full and hard, and too rapidly
for me to count.

“Charley,” be commenced @in,
“for three months I have been the
most wretched being in existence.
Anna is in a decline—I feel sure of
it. She is dying; but her disease is
mental, and I am the cause! You
look doubtful, but it is the solemn
truth, I do assure you!”

Thoroughly alarmed at the increas-
ing seriousness of the matter, I wished
first to pacify, that I might the better

~qu
I

's

 

 

 

 

 

Lt ,-

BROTHER BEN’S WIFE. 131

 

question him; so I answered, quietly,
“You are excited, Ben, and alarmed
about your wife, more than is at all
necessary, Idare“say. That she is
suffering from debility and nervous
prostration is evident, but there are
remedies for such ailments. Apply
to Dr. R. . . . at once.”

“I consulted him, weeks ago. He
can not help her, for, as I told you,
her malady is of the mind, and med-
icine but increases it. I shall lose
her, Charley, and all through my own
rashness and folly.”

“ Pshaw, Ben ! you talk like a mad
tragedy actor. What have you done?
Given her a few harsh words, I sup-
pose, when you were perplexed about
business, and the remembrance of it
goads your tender conscience, and is
worrying you to death.”

“Not me, Charley ! Good God, if
it were only me, I could bear it ! ”

“Why have you never told me of
this before, Ben ? ”

“Because I was a coward. I waited
for you to ask me; and yet I hoped
and flattered myself that my fears
‘had i , ome degree deceived me, that
othe did not perceive the change
that palls me so much. You were
at house last night, Anna tells
me; Icame here now to see if you
would speak. Tell me what in her
conduct and looks struck you most
forcibly.”

Now it would never do to tell
brother Ben that the marked change
in the whole appearance of his wife
had so utterly startled and shocked
me, that it was impossible to desig-
nate one thing as more notiCeable than
the rest; that her hand was cold and

clammy, and her smile only half net? -

ural as she rose from her listless atti-
tude to greet me; that she conversed
with an effort so apparent as to be
absolutely painful; that no persuasion
,‘CQSJld induce her to sing~ or play for

3.13%}. and that I utterly firm to in-
i'terest her in a game of chess, for-

merly her favorite recreation, and
One that called out alike the glee of
her sunny, temper, and the sparkle of

 

her brilliant intellect. I could not
tell him that her languid eye and de-
jected manner had haunted my dreams,
and distracted my thoughts from tip
day’s labor. I answered simply :

“ You know, Ben, that for several
weeks past, owing to a pressure of
office business, I have been but an un-
frequent caller at your house, and,
therefore, it is probable that the
change struck me more unfavorably
than it would otherwise have done.
Her listless appearance, and want of
interest in any subject I could name ,
surprised and troubled me, but they
are, doubtless, the effect of physical
debility, and will yield to proper
treatment.” .

“That is the way she is, Charley.
Absent and spiritless, rousing herself,
by an effort, when she sees that her
manner is the subject of conversation,
but relapsing ' to indifference the
moment the a is removed. I
have no hope errspeing her re-
stored to the g y demonstrative crea-
ture she was six months 'ago. Not
the least hope in the’world, Charley.”

I well remembered how beautiful
and joyous she had been on her wed-
ding and how, for. two bright
yea she had made his heme an
earthly Paradise. Fr'om whence had
this dark cloud arisen ? What spirit
of evil brooded over my brother7s
hearth? I must fathom the mystery
to the bottom. ~

“ Courage, Ben,” I said, affecting a
cheerfulness far from genuine; “I 
undertake the case, and feel confidentr
that it is curable.

strange state of things.” -   ..

Ben looked moodily out offie Wln‘“
dew, and remained silent. -

u ' _ , n

“lypu quaprel? ,,

“Then you deserve to Sllfl'erl”
was the thought tbfi sprang to my
lips, but I checked It nWlSe expres-
sion. That Anna was sometimes ex-
acting and a little 'Willflll, I well
knew. It was the fault of her earl
training, which, upon the death of her

First tell me 811‘  ‘
you can respecting the causesof this Q

,»
l
:1.

E
‘l
l
i

 

 
  

‘..»~ A»..- 4-4554... mm. m.— thua-nu... Aw*-. .. . 

rm

M

O

132

mg... a-.. -,._........M...._ ... _

THE HOME;

 

parents in childhood, had not been
iven into the most judicious hands.
at then she was so true-hearted, so

i generous, so quick upon reflection to

: see and acknowledge where the right

i lay, that the idea of her being seri-

 . ously blamable in any difference with

3 her husband, was too strange to be

readily admitted.

“Never mind, Ben, married coup-
les have always quarreled, and with
one exception, I suppose, always will.
Make haste, and relieve your bur-
dened spirit by a full confession.”

My poor brother! I had never
thought his cheery face could wear
such a settled gloom. He drew back
his chair, that the light might not re-
veal the workings of his features, and
began:

“ Charley, do you remember the
night of Mrs. Light’s grand party ".3 ”

“Perfectly wel nd that Anna,
from being the .the company,
ran away at a ridic ' usly early hour,
because you were il —-or she feared
so.”

“Well, from that night I date her
decline and my misery.”

“ Go. on.” '

“That night I returned ‘froq my
business, fretted and anxiou’ about
some money matters, and found Anna
awaiting me with considerable impa-
tience.

“‘You will be late at Mrs. Light’s !’
was her first exclamation. '

_. ,,_“I had forgotten the party, al-

 gh she had showed me the cards

 “two days before, and spoken of it, as

r: a something expected 'to be very de-

_   I felt every way disinclined
toga and answered hastily:

‘ “ ‘ t seems to me the party season
will nevé" 1d. Iam tired of them,
and, more er, learn not well to-
night. Don’t you think we had bet.
ter stay at home? ’ '

“I was mg surprised to see her
countenance a l, for she was fond of
amusements, though always Wllllng
to give them up for a quiet evening
at home, when I could spend it With
her, which was but seldom of late.

a 

 

  
 

 

 

“‘If it were an ordinary affair, I
would not mind, but I shall be sorry
to miss this one,’ she answered, dis-
contentedly.

“‘ What! if I remain home with

on 2 ’

“ ‘ Oh, no! ’ And her countenance
brightened at once. ‘If ou will
only be sick, and sit by the fire, and
let me bathe your head, and make
you herb tea, I shall be delighted.’

“ ‘ But upon second thoughts,’ I an-
swered, ‘Imust return to theflstore
for a little business matter, and it is
scarcely possible that I can be with

ou.’

“ ‘ Then, if you do not object, I will
go with Mrs. H. . . .’

“I did not object, but was far from
being pleased. I think if my feelings
were analyzed, I wished her to remain
at home, upon the mere possibility of
my returning to pass the evening with
her. As I left the room, she followed
me with an undecided air.

“‘Which will you do'!’ she said
smilingly.

“ ‘I can not tell,’ was my reply, ‘I

may return, or I may not.’
“ ‘Then if Mrs. H. . . . can shall

I go '2 ’
“ ‘.Just as you please,’ I ansivered,
shutting the door behind rme.» I

thought she would have remained, ‘

and when at my return I found her
gone, bitter and unkind thoughts
took possession of my mind. Disap-
pointed at the loss of the quiet, cozy
evening I had anticipated,l was ready
to accuse her of preferring the society
of her gay associates to mine, forget-
ting that she had really no reason to
supposeI intended to return. I did
not design to upbraid her with this,
but determined in some manner to
manifest my displeasure. In a very
little time her light step was in the
hall, and her hand upon the door.

“ ‘ Oh, Ben! Did you really come?
How I wish I had staid at home. If
you could only have told me_’

“ ‘I thought, Anna,’ said I, gravely,
‘that I sufficiently indicated my de-
sign of returning.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BROTHER --BEN’S WIFE. 138

  

 

“She drew back, and looked con-
fusedly in my face, as if trying to re-
call the words I had used. I saw
that she was wounded, but she did
not come to me and seek a reconcili-
ation as I wished, in my selfishness,
that she should do. She only sat
down, looked pensively in the grate,
sighed a little, and began taking off
her embroidered sleeves and jewelry.
She unhooked a bracelet from her
arm that I had never seen before, and
my curiosity was immediately excited
regarding it.

“ ‘ Let me see that,’ I said, abruptly,
and reaching toward the bracelet.
She noticed the request only with a
little coquettish shake of the head,
and kept on toying with the orna-
ment. ‘Where did you get it, Anna?’
I inquired.

“ ‘It came from a friend,’ was her
quiet, and, as I thought, evasive an-
swer.

“My anger was roused by it, and
though I had not the smallest sus-
picion that she had become possessed
of thel-hracelet in any questionable
 '.I thought that by allowing
»_  ppose this, I would draw the
tru' 'm her. . 

,‘z‘étfind frox‘mwhom,’ I asked, ‘have
you been fortunate enough to receive
so expensive a, present?’

“She smiledvsaucily, without look-
ing up, and drawing the glittering

   

‘ links backward and forward over her

wrist, remained silent. It was my first
unpleasant experience of those quali-
ties I had so much admired in Anna
before hergmarriage, and which had
enabled her unfriended girlhood to
overcome obstacles that would have
crushed one less determined. The
proud spirit and strong will had never
before come in contact with my own
Without an immediate and graceful
yielding upon her part, and playful
as her opposition to my wishes had
been thus far, it annoyed me, and I
W1shed it at an end.

“For the purpose of ending it, I
rose to take the jewel from her care-
less hold; but, rising quickly, she

 

glided to the mantel, laid the bracelet
upon it, and stood by, keeping guard
over it with one beautiful bared arm.
Ah, me! how round and fair it was
then, how wasted now! ”

“ Well, go on.”

“I think she expected that I would
follow, and attempt to take it from
her, as I had often done before, after
a playful scuffle. But play was no
part of my intention now, especial]
asI perceived that a costly ring whic
I had given her a year previous, and
which she constantly wore, was miss-
ing from her finger. I reseated my-
self, and asked coldly :

“ ‘Where is the ring I saw on your
finger this morning? ’

“ ‘A friend has it,’ she returned,
with equal coolness.

“ ‘The same who gave you the
bracelet ? ’ '

“ ‘The same ’

“ ‘ Will you ‘me who it is? ’

“ ‘I do not ch se to.’

“ ‘ But will you tell me ?’

“ ‘ No, sir! ’

“ ‘ Do you know the consequences
of such concealments, Anna, even in
trifles? Do you know that they de-
stroy all confidence in married life,
and make oftitrfigmiserable and irk-
some bondageif’sii'No answer, but I
thought a tear dimmed her eye. If I
had then spoken kindly ! But I went
on, ‘You can take what course you
choose, Anna, but recollect this thing,
that if you persist in refusing the sat-
isfaction I ask, you do it at what
most wives would consider a very
great risk.’

“This time the smile was full of
scorn and defiance. She gathered up
the ornaments without a Word, and
the moment I finished speaking, bade
me a polite good-night, and went to
her own room.

“ Of course, as my temper Cooled,
I grew very much ashamed Of my 1111-
wise harshness. T0 SUPPOse that a
wife like my Anna would brook to be
suspected and questioned like a mar-
ried coquette or an easy-laced ‘ wom-
an of society!’ What expedient I

 

i
‘L
i
4.
l
i
g
a
As

 

 

 

  

134

THE HOME.

 

might have decided upon to bring
about a recohcilation, I can not guess,
for a glance at the mirror changed the
whole current of my thoughts.

“My wife had left the door of our
room slightly ajar, though from my
position,I could see nothing within.
But accidentally directing my eyes to
a mirror opposite, I could see her de-
positing the bracelet in a private
drawer of her bureau and, after looking
it, place the key among the folds of
the bed-curtains ; the last place prob-
ably which would occur to any one
inclined to search for it.

“My plan of action was fixed at
once. I waited until her breathing
assured me of her sound sleeping,
and then stepping noiselessly across
the room, secured the key, and
unlocked the drawer. Don’t look

.shocked, Charley—110 man ever gets

so nearly jealous as I was without do-
ing~some very" mea ings. I exam-
ined the bracelet clgsely; it had the
initials A. M. upon the inside. Touch-
ing a well-concealed spring, a minia-

a ture sprang from the cameo clasp ; a

very faniiliar face—no other than that
of my friend and business partner,

‘ ; fax-kAbel Mansfield—and around the rim

 
        
 

W'theseiwords:  to one be!"
. .9
:5,

loved.’ V ‘
sailed a few

V‘A.‘ ‘.

“Abel Mansfield h
'days before in the California steamer;
his wife, a lovely and delicate woman,
and. an intimate friend of Anna’s, was

- fa, frequent visitor hour house. I
, , ‘will not pain y , harley, by a de-

tail of the feelings that bewildered
and oppressed me. I ‘did not believe
that Anna intended to conceal the
gift from me; I believe that hadI
approached the SUbJect with less ir1.i_
tation of manner, she would have
acquainted me with all the circum.-.
stances. But I was vexed and dis_
tressed that she had received it at all;
mentally accusing her of that kind of
‘married trifling,’ whlclg common as
it may be in our best so ety, I had re-
joiced in believing my Wife an utter
stranger to. Little sleep visited my
PmOW that night, and breakfast was

 

a comfortless meal. Anna at first
seemed disposed to cheerfulness, but I
would not be coaxed out of my tor-
ment. In the evening I again referred
to the bracelet and ring, avoiding,
however, any intimation that I had
seen it without her knowledge. My
manner was harsh, and she gave me
only sullen replies. '

“ Weeks passed away—miserable
weeks, marked only by increased
coldness, and wretchedness on both
sides. Her continued silence on, the
unhappy cause disturbed and disap-
ointed me. I began, with a horror
that chills my blood to remember, to

entertain fears that she had more  

cause for concealment than I had sup-

posed; that her intimacy with my’ 

absent partner had beenzpf fiesss
harmless character than first appe ed.
Yes, Charley—open your eyes ' as-
tonishment—I was partially de-
mented. Day and night I brooded
over the blasting of my domestic
peace, yet I must have dissembled
well, ince even your watchful eyes
failed to detect an trafis: of the
heart’s disquiet. inally,.g;after 'a
month had passed in this wayfflié‘ame
to the determination to bring matters
to a crisis. I would bear the torment
of suspense no longer.

“One‘day afterwdinner, for the .

first time since our‘fq‘uarrel, I seated
myself .on the sofa by Anna’s side,

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

She had her sewing in her hand, and, 2

as I approached, bent lower over her
work. .
“‘Anna.’I said calmly, and with-

out removing my eyes from her face, ,
‘I have this morning taken a resolu- 1  r '

tion from which nothing can tempt
me to swerve. This wretched ,an-
her of living must come to an end.

d'That you are no longer happy With

me is increasingly evident, and my
own state of feeling for the last few
weeks is too harrowing for me to an
alyze. You know the origin of this
miserable change, and that the remedy
rests solely with yourself. Give me
your entire confidence, or we must
henceforth walk separate paths, and

I

S

" f" 

 

 

 

 

 

  

BROTHER BEN’S WIFE. 

 

dwell in separate homes. Will you
take one day for consideration, or
will you decide at once?’

“At the commencement of my
speech, her face had expressed only
blank astonishment; as I proceeded,
her breath came hurriedly, a Spas-
modic clenching of her fingers about
the little ivory basket in her lap, as-
sured me that she had not listened
unmoved. But her countenance and
tongue she had under the most perfect
control; not a muscle changed, not a
sound escaped her lips. In one mo-
ment more I had left the room and
9 house, but looking back, as I
1door,I saw that her face
ss1 an ashy paleness. I saw

chis, but‘l 1d not hear her fall; Char.

ley,‘ I“ swear it! Had I even ima-
gined the fearful excitement under
which she was laboring, I would never
have left her thus—never, so may
Heaven judge me I”

Brother Ben stopped, looked in
my eyes despairingly, while I poured
out a glass. of water, and went on in a
broken voice :

“ After leaving the house, I walked
about rapidly—up one street and
down another—uncaring, and almost
unconscious whither my feet turned.
An hour had passed when I entered
my counting-room. ThereI was met
by a hurried message summoning me
home. I found Anna lying cold and

“ unconscious upon the bed, to which

'  been carried by the servant-

, {Who fiuad her lying in a fit upon
thé‘h‘mlor floor. She must have
fallen there almost immediately upon
thy departure. Half distracted, I
dispatched a second messenger for
0’9? family physician, but he was ab-
89 "from home. A noted practi-
t   another state, however,
wasv ma'visit at his house, and re-

. sturned with the messenger. He pro—

nounced it a case of sudden conges-
tion of the brain, and prescribed for
her, asking no questions. Charley,
conceive, if you can, of the agony of
the hour that followed. .011 the

table by the bedside lay the identical
VOL. vn. - 9

 

ring I had given her, fastened to a
small black cord, which I remem-
bered seeing about her neck.

“‘Where were these found?’ I
asked of the girl who attended upon
her mistress.

“ ‘ They fell from the bosom of the
dress, sir, when we unloosed her
clothes,’ was the reply. This was
comfort, yet it went to my heart with
a sharp, sharp pang. My poor, proud,
suffering Anna! Through all our
long and cruel estrangement, she had
worn my little gift next her heart.

“ Well, Charley, the moment that
consciousness returned, and she be-
came aware who was bending over
her, she drew my ear to her lips, and
began the confession that a few hours
ago I had so imperiously demanded.
As earnestly now I begged her to be
quiet—-to rest. In vain I hushed her
lips with kissesgfind taking the ring
from its cord, flipped it upon her
finger, bidding her be silent. She
would not, butinsisted with a sweet
but very melancholy smile, on telling
her story, as there was so little to tell.

“Charley, the bracelet was never
given her at all: and she was not
even aware that it contained a minia-
ture. She exchanged ornaments with
Mrs. Mansfield for that one evening
at Mrs. Light’s, with the intention of
meeting in the shawl-room after the
party for a re-exchange. But Anna,
being in haste to return to me, did
not wait for her friend, but were the
bracelet home. Early next morning
she returned it to its owner, and re-
ceived her ring again; but stung. by
my unkindness,'she would not putit
upon her finger, but were it alwayl
around her neck. The dropping 01'
the key among the curtain-folds was
an unconscious act, for she was be-
wildered and greatly agitated by what
had passed.

“ Our acknowledgrifisnts were full
and mutual,——-for Anna would not
allow me to bear What She termed
her portion of blame—and our re-
conciliation complete, though, as I
perceived, on her part very sad.

‘.

 

,7 _.._‘-_-:~’r.'ou.«= -’-- mm' v " I

 

.136

 

._..--

THE HOHE.

 

And this is the strangest part of the
story; she has never recovered either
her health or spirits. A subdued re-
serve in her manner, a quiet languor
in her attitude, that increased instead
of wearing away, soon became so de-
cided as to alarm me. I feared that
the severe ordeal through which she
had passed, had abated her affection
for me, but this she solemnly denies,
and I believe her. I can not mistake
the brightened expression and quick-
.ened pulse with which she greets my
coming, nor the anxious attempts to
seem interested in my lens for her
pleasure and comfort. either does
she believe me changed. She can not;
. for never, even in the sweet uncertainty
of courtship, did I strive so earnestly to
.win her smiles, as since that cruel
misunderstanding. Nothing interests
sher. Even the little household cares ,,
in which she found so much delight,
.are now a burden. ~Her step is slow,
.her eye heavy, and a decided, though
:a athetic melancholy pervades every
:3 ing she does or says. The fact is,
<Charley, ‘my injustice and severity
crushed ,her fine high spirit :—-—I only
- 1 ay they may not have broken her
. eart,-——and though she cherishes no
ill-feeling, and even insists that she
was chiefly in fault, the ‘ shock has
been too great for her gentle nature ;
.the iron has entered her soul, and no
,.care, no affection can heal the wound.
Now, Charley, advise me if you can,
but donot flatter me with empty en-
icouragement.”

“Pardon me, Ben, I. see no partic-
ular Opening for flattery of any kind.
But what reason does Anna herself

ive for this strange alteration?”
: , “ None at all, except an unaccount-
.able lassitude and depression, utterly
fare; to her nature.”

“ ave you tried the effect of
genial company and amusements? ”

“ Both; an‘d the effect - was bad.
.She shrinks within herself, and enjoys

 ' g; besides being tormented
lith the knowledge that curious eyes

  mnpon her. Nothing pleases her

 auto be let aloha”
.A ‘ ‘

 

“ But you must not let her alone 3
you should take her upon a journey.’

“I have repeatedly urged it, but
her repugnance to traveling is so
great, that in her present conditionl
can not think it would prove bene-
ficial.”

“ There must be some method taken
to arouse her from the stupor that is
creeping over her; this paralysis of
heart, and nerve, and brain. For it
is simply that, though the physicians
would name it by long Latin names,
and make a scientific mystery of what
is to me as clear as that glass of
water.

your suggestion of a separation. The? ‘
reaction following was too great for
her strength, and her health failing, a
despondency which she can not ac-
count for, nor reason away, and yet
has no power to resist, winds its toils
about her. You must break up all
this. Devise something that shall
start a fresh train of thought and feel-
ing, and turn her life-current into new
channels.”

“Very well, Charley; only “tell,
me how."- I would gladly give eveer ~

dollar I am worth to-night, to hear "

her carol one strain, or laugh one of
her old trilling laughs, or even have‘
a hearty cry. Any thing but this
frigid apathy that is sappirig the
springs of her very life.”

An hour longer we sat together,
Brother Ben and I, and when at length
he arose and buttoned his coat for a
walk home, his animated countenance
contrasted very satisfactorily with his
first appearance in my. office that
evening.

at «I- 4k I: «I- t

It was the third morning after. the
above interview, that, as I sat at my
round table arranging some briefs for ,
the approaching term of court, I was
startled by a tremendous peal of the
knocker, and the almost immediate
apparition of a lady in my ante-room.

I say startled, for I had not expected
brother Ben’s wife to make her

Anna’s mental constitu '
is peculiar. She was stunner?” ,
whelmed by your distrust (if her an

'i
,1

 

 

 

 

 

 

"[4

 

 

 

 

 

   

    

 

. ill afford to lose.
. losses and theirs. You will still occupy the

BROTHER BEN’S WIFE. 137

entrance quite so early or so noisily.
She was there, however, and evidently
for a purpose, for as I rose to meet
her, she raised her vail and confronted
me with a changing cheek and an ea-
ger gaze of excitement and alarm.
Declining the chair I offered her, and
then next moment sinking helplessly
into it, she placed an open letter in
my hand.

“Brother Charles,” she began, with
a tremor in her voice delicious to
hear, for it spoke of fountains of feel-
ing unlocked and irrepressible; “Bro-
ther Charles, I am in great trouble,
and have come to you for assistance.”

 I bowed, and she pointed to the
letter, which I read immediately, I_

can not say attentively; considering
that it was the same letter which I
had, with such an infinity of trouble,

persuaded Brother Ben to write only ,

the evening before. It ran thus:

“ Mr BELOVED WIFE :—When this meets
your eye, I shall be in New York, en route
for California. Do not blame me that I could
not bid you farewell; I deemed it best that
both should‘be spared that anguish. Per-
haps I have erred in keeping you in igno-
rance of my business embarrassments, and
my late most disastrous failure—disastrous,

ause I am indebted to many who can
I go to retrieve my

house, and my brother will see that you
want for nothing. Go to him freely in any
trouble. I beseech you. care for your health,
and (19 not grieve for me. We may yet be
happy. Forgive me, dear Anna, all the un-
happiness I have caused you, and remember
me only as the truest and most devoted of
husbands.”

My heart smote me as I threw the
letter~ upon the table, and met the
agonized gaze that was lifted to mine.
I tried to,recollect some of the com-
mon-place consolations that I had
prepared for the trial, but she stopped
me.

“ You see, Charles, something must
be done, and quickly. He must have
confided all to you. Do you know

6‘ amount of his indebtedness?”

‘Not over fifteen thousand,”I an-
swered, With the utmost veracity.

e100ked infinitely relieved, and
grasped my hands in both of hers.

 

“ Oh, if .he had onl told me l—only
told me! But I have been so—so
self-absorbed of late, so blinded, that
he could not expect sympathy from
me. Strange—strange I did not guess
what so preyed on his spirits, and
robbed his nights of sleep. I deserve
it all, but he must not go, Charley,—
he must not go. He must be re-
called.”

“Well, Anna, any thing you have
to pro ose.”

“ by, what can I propose, except
to discharge the debts myself, as a
wife should. Is not mine his? You
know what I have-in the bank; “take
it; and the rents of the houses on
High Street are mostly unpaid. Take
them, or, if necessary, sell the houses.
Take all—is it not his ‘l ”

“But your own support, Anna? ”

“My support! What do I need '9
Can’t I live in a cottage with him?
In a garret—anywhere“; and wear
calico, and help him to commence
anew ’3 ”

“Well, Anna, if you really mean
this, I will do my best to intercept
him, though there is reason to fear
that he may sail before a letter can
reach him.”

She paced the room in uncontrol-
lable excitement. What would not
Ben have given to see her now!

“We can telegraph,” she said,
nervously tapping the table, as if in
imitation of the wires. “He can not
much more than have reached New
York. Send dispatches to the hatch,
and the shipping agents. Some of
them must reach him. At all events,
we can try.”

I promised all she wished, procuf‘ed
a carriage, bade her take a composing
draught and lie down the moment
she reached home, and promised to
be with her in an hour. The“, as
long as she could see me from the
carriage windows,l Walked very fast

toward the telegraph office; after-
ward, I returned very leisurely to my
briefs. I

When I went to Brother Ben’s
house an hour after, I met once more

 

    

  

138

the Anna of old days. Anxious she
still was, but spirited, earnest, full of
hopeful plans for the future, impatient
to show to her husband that she was
, not the frigid, insensible block she
had appeared.

In due time that gentleman arrived,
and received from his restored wife
smiles, tears, kisses, and a legal sur-
render of all the property she had in—
herited from her parents, and which
she had hitherto retained in her own
name. I confess that Ihad fears of
another “ reaction,” but there was no
danger. The delicate balance of her

I mind was restored; and it never again
wavered.

Years of sweet content and ha pi-
ness have passed since then, and ro-
ther Ben has long since returned her
“ loan ” with interest. How much of

the little conspiracy detailed above,‘

he may have disclosed to her, I can
not guess, but I do not think she
knows to this day that at the very
moment she was pacing my oflice,
distractedly wringing her hands, and
imploring me to save her from prospec-
. " California widowhood, Brother
B" 7'was sitting in a private parlor of
a little hotel in the suburbs of the
city, vainly endeavoring to do justice
to an excellent mutton-chop and dish
of coffee, while waiting with restless
impatience for the message that was
to confirm his newly-raised hopes, or
dash them forever.

arm.

 

THE PRISONER’S GUEST.

BY MISS MARY J. CROSMAN.
“ A little child shall lead them."—IsAuu.
u AN you tell me where’s the
State’s Prison ’9 ” asked a tired,
trembling voice. .

The company of urchins playing on
the outskirts of Auburn paused, and
the largest of the group said, “You
see whar that old engine’s a puflin’,
don’t- ou’! wal, it’s right 801031? the
road—4yon’ll see the great, high walls
in slam-mud the men walkin’ on
‘em whim: guns.”

 

 

THE HOME.

“ Better walk straight, or they’ll
pint at you,” was the volunteered ad-
vice of a second, known as “ Wormy
Wel.”

The motherless-looking group went
on teasing a poor three-footed mastiff,
and the little heated traveler, drawing
up his form erect as possible, hurried
along.

He stood by the gate. “ Will you
please to let me come in, sir ?——-my
father’s here.” .

The gate-keeper looked up from his
toil, lifted his hat deliberately, wiped
the moisture from his face, and pock-
eting his red handkerchief, advanced
slowly, turned the key, and admitted
the boy.

He passed up the stone steps into
the hall, and sat down ; presently the
chaplain ,eutered. “ I want to see
my father,” were the words that met

F his look of inquiry.

“How long has he been here, my
little fellow "l ” -

“ This is the second year,” and the
child’s lip quivered. The questioner
hesitated. “They said he stole some
horses—~so he was brought here ; but
mother don’t think he did ; ” and per-
fect faith seemed written on every‘

feature, and spoken by every expres- '

sion of his countenance.

“ What was your father’s name
and the chaplain took the small hand
on the settee-arm in his own. t
; “Charles Winfield.”

“What kind of a looking man is,
or was he? ”

“ He was tall, and real good-look-
ing; had black hair and eyes, and
white, clean teeth, and nice whiskers ;
he used to buy me primers, and let
me drive, and a great many things.”

“ What shall 1 call your name? ”

“My name is Charles, too, but
everybody calls me Charley.”

“ And you are lonesome without
your father?” , Charley essayed to
speak, but something in his throat
hindered. “You shall see him in
about an hour,” said Mr. Mann.

The chaplain sat for awhile in deep
thought. He knew Charles Winfield

R I,
p. .

 

 

 

_ ..;»--A

~=L:\'"

1: Kiwi s'

 

THE PRISONER'S GUEST.

L39

 

—-he had known him years before.
Their acquaintance commenced in
youth, at a well-filled seminary,
where for several months they occu-
pied the same room. Winfield was
a. gay, impulsive, youth, but good-
hearted, intelligent, and handsome.
Evil associates and a small fortune
had been his ruin. The school year
closed, and the two parted, cherishing
high hopes of success and happiness.
Ten years passed, and they met for
thefirst time as convict and chaplain!

That morning, Mr. Mann had vis-
ited Winfield in his cell, for he was
just recovering from an attempt to
end his life. In the afternoon he was
thought able to work, so the chaplain
sought the carpet-factory, the depart-
ment in which Winfield labored.
He advanced to the keeper’s stand.
“How does Winfield appear?” he
asked.

“Wall,” said the personage ad-
dressed, after relieving his mouth of
its encumbrance, “ he wants a pretty
straight hand, but there’s more man
than animal about him, and the man’s
the part to touch; some of ’em ’11
bend like a young hickory, but it

’oin’t these proud, high-headed ones,

i

F“ cl

mind you,” and with thumbs in his
button-holes, and a countenance that
indicated every thing but good man-
agement, he modestly hinted at the
success and originality of his tactics.
However, a convict near by, over-
hearing his comparison, gave him a
frigid, furtive glance, which seemed
to say, “ You’ll see who’ll bend, per-
haps.” “’Cording to your talk, par-
son, the devil’s got both hands on
Winfield, and he don’t mean to let
go,” continued the keeper, giving
himself and the subject a different
position.

“I shall trust a. good deal to your
management,” was Mr. Mann’s ap-
preciative reply; “ it‘s about time to
086, isn’t it?” said he, turning to
cave.

“Just about,” said the colloquist,
Pressmg Ithe spring of his hunter.

The Signal for closing sounded.

L
w

 

The prisoners defiled in at the lower
stone door. Winfield hesitated a mo-
ment, as he reached out for his ration
of mush and molasses; he had eaten
nothing since the day before, but
hunger was only a drop in his cup of
misery. ,
They started out for his cell—Mr.
Mann, Charley, and his attendant.
That day, in blindness and bitter.
ness, the prisoner had cursed his God;
that day his spirit had chafed and
fretted like a fearful demon ; that
night the tempter’s power was shaken,
and like the carol of a bird after the
storm-clouds break, there floated to
his ear the notes of a childish hymn,

“ There is a happy land,
Far, far away."

With a groan, a smothered “ Oh, dear! ”
he pressed his temples wildly, mutter-
ing, “the last line‘s true enough;”
yet Abaddon trembled. He paid no ,
heedgto the knock at his door; the
slide was moved.

“Mr. \Vinfield, don’t you want to
see us? there’s a little fellow has a
claim on you, out here.”

“A claim to make you more
miserable,” rumbled a voice in his
heart.

They turned the key, and the iron
door swung heavily in; pale and
haggard sat the prisoner on his cot,
with his ration before him, untested,
He started nervously—“ Charley!”
said he, with thrilling emphasis.

“Father! father! is it you?”

The chaplain and his attendant
drew back. The passionate hold of
the parent relaxed; words of affec-
tion were spoken; and Charley’s
dark, hopeful eyes lit up with joy—-
he forgot the cell, the striped a Patel,
all, save the presence of his fat 91‘-

Finally, the husband found vglce to
say, “How is your mother? does
she ever say any thing about me?”
he Whispered, straining the Chlld to
his bosom.

“She cries eVery day,” replied
Charley,-with a manner that enforch
the words he spake; ‘f and she prays
every night for you;‘and we all do,

. k
1.

ma;

. V'

f .

. “35-7

 

 

 

140

 

THE HOME.

 

though little Fanny can’t pray much
——all she can say is, ‘God, p’eas to
let my papa come home ! ’ ” and, for
the moment, Charley seemed rather
to plume himself on superior attain~
merits.

There was a pause.

“Who did you come out with? ”
asked the father.

“Not any one. Uncle James came
after mother this morning to go to
stay there till to-morrow night, and I
was to go to grandpa’s; but they
didn’t expect me, and I thought it
would n’t be wrong to come out here
-—I wanted to seeyou so bad, father,”
and the child laid his head back on
the parental shoulder, and stroked the
thin'cheeks with a love that sin had
not diminished. “You have to wear
these clothes Sundays, pa? ” queried
Charley, rather abstractedly, for his
thoughts wandered toward the snug
little wardrobe of his own. “Mo-
ther has made me a nice coat out of
your green one, and trimmed it with

uttons and braid. You’ll leave
these clothes here, won’t you, father?
for I hever want any made out of
them,” said Charley, with a half shud-
der, as' he remembered certain habits
of home economy. “Fanny,” he con-
tinued, “has got a new red dress and
cape just alike, and a little, white
plush bonnet she ,wears to church,
and she will carry ma’s hymn-book,
and hold it open when they sine.
How long before you can come home,
fatiher ’ir” asked Charley, rather tim-
id y.

“ Home!”—-——the'word had a strange
and thrilling vibration—its memories
were like apples of gold! its pictures
were vivified before him. He saw
the faithful, patient wife tenderly
pleading for his return, or. devising
ingenious plans to. break the snares
that had bound him. Though her
love and labor had failed, they were
not lost, as the fruit yet to be gath-
ered should testify. '

~ Winfield wiped away the tears,
and endeavored to throw off the sor-
row that pressed him so heavily...

 

“ Where will you sleep to-night, my
son '2 ” asked he, the parent triumph-
ing over the prisoner.

Mr. Mann heard the question, and
pushing back the door, said, “I will
furnish him with a, bed, and perhaps
we had better retire now—he must
be hungry, I think.”

“I don’t know but I'ought to go
back to-night. Uncle James said
there would be a. bright moon.”

“ How far ‘2 ” asked the chaplain.

“It’s fifteen miles, but I’m not
afraid.”

Mr. Mann stated that he was to
take an early ride on the boy’s route
the next morning.

The father and child parted !

A heavy pressure of guilt rested
upon Winfield’s conscience for we
eeeding days; still the living voice
of dulcimer sweetness sounded,
“Though your sins be as scarlet,
they shall be as white as snow.”
The winning tones of his child floated
at every nightfall to his ear—they
lingered byhim till morning, and the
din of the machinery could not drown
them through the laborious day.

Ere the prisontime closed, Charles
Winfield was another man; under,
the Highest, a little child had led
him into the up-tending path. That
path the united family now walk to-_
gether.

 

EDUCATION does not commence with
the alphabet. It begins with a mo-
ther’s look; with a father’s nod of
approbation, or a sign of reproof;
with a sister’s gentle pressure of the’
hand, or a brother’s noble act of for.
bearance; with handfuls of flowers
in green and daisied meadows; with
birds’ nests admired, but not touched;
with creeping ants and almost’ imper-
ceptible emmets; with pleasant walks
in shady lanes; and with thoughts
directed, in sweet and kindly tones
and words, to nature,‘ to beauty, to
acts of benevolence, to deeds of vir~
tue, and to the center of all good—to

7 God himself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE CRIPPLE.

  

141

 

THE CRIPPLE.
BY PHILO EARLE HARDY.

To childhood all the years

By summers bright are told,
How ’mid the curling hair

Is laid the sunshine’s gold;
But on this tender head,

If thus we count the years,
Winters had come alone,

Laden with pain and tears.

The face was pale and wan,

With large, sad eyes of brown,
Into whose wistful depths

All pitying, one look’d down;
Upon the brow so white

Deep lines of pain were drawn,
And from the sad, thin lips

The careless smiles were gone.

How dark and damp the hair
Lay on his temples blue;
And oh, the childish hands
Look’d sad and pallid too.
The tiny, helpless feet
No bounding tread had known,
His trembling, boyish life
A weariness had grown.

No nodding clover heads
Beneath his step were crush’d;
No springing from the bank
Where dancing brooklcts gush’d;
No climbing where the sun
First tinges all the trees ;
No dashing through the woods
Where sobs the chilly breeze.

No dancing gay and free
Out in the sunshine warm;

No breasting wild, fierce winds,
Or meeting winter’s storm.

Grown old and worn, when scarce
His boy-life has begun,

Groping in shadowy gloom,
While others meet the sun.

God keep the waters sweet
Down in his stricken soul,
Or o’er it blighting waves
In bitterness will roll.
Not always will it last,
All feet at last grow still——
His life may grow all bright
Beyond death’swaves so chill.

h;

HOME AMUSEMENTS.

THEIR simplicity and cheapness do
not measure the amount of hap-
Pifless they confer. In cities ‘there
are many temptations to spend the
long winter evenings away from
Omea and, at the same time, to spend
money and health with reckless ex-

travagance. ‘But, the majority of our '

 

 

 

readers could not, if they would, go
out five or six nights of the week to
the concert, lecture, ball-room, thea-
ter, or opera. Their places are be-
side the glowing hearthstones of the
country, where, although peace and
plenty abound, there may be danger
of dullness and ennui, leading to ill-
temper, or carping, or, what is just as
bad, indifference, monotony, and dis.
satisfaction. Cultivate home amuse-
ments. Every thing which brings
cheerfulness, gayety, and delight to
the home circle, should be courted.
It is not only the hearts of the chil-
dren which are made merry, but the
rosy-checked daughters, tall enough
to expect occasional visits from their
sweethearts, and the brown-faced
youths, who might otherwise be idling
about the village shops, who grow
smiling and content where the influ-
ences of home are cordial and mirth- ,
ful, while the hearts of the “old folks”
grow young to witness the innocent
hilarity which prevails.

Mothers, if you wish your sons to
be steeled against the tempta ions
which beset them in their out-door
life—sisters, if you love the company,
converse, and affectionate regards of
your brothers—make home a place of
pleasant associations and harmless
amusement, and you will bind them

‘ as with a golden chain.

 

READING.-—Keep your view of men
and things extensive, and, depend
upon it, that a mixed know dge is
not a superficial one. As ar as it

goes, the views that it gives are true; , 1' '

but he who reads deeply in one class
of writers only, gets views which are
almost sure to be perverted, and
which are not only narrow, but false-
Adjust your proposed al.1110131,,“ . 0f
reading to your time and inclination
——this is perfectly free to every man;
but whether that smog": be large 01‘
small, let it be varied In Its klnd, and
widely varied. If I have a confident
Opinion ,on any one pomt connected.
with the improvement of the human,
mind, it is on this.—.—‘Dr. Arnold.

  
  
 
   
  
    
  
  
 
  
     
  
  
  
  
   
   
  
   
  
  
   
   
  
   
   
   
   
   
    
   
  
   
   
 
 
 

THE HOME.

 

  
 
 
 
  
  
  
  
   
  
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 

MARCH.

“ 'l‘he stormy March is come at last,
With wind, and cloud, and changing skies ;
I hear the rushing of the blast,
That through the valley flies.

“ Ah, passing few are they who speak,

Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee !
Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,
Thou art a welcome month to me."

Thus sings Bryant of the first month of
spring. It is not difficult for the true poet
to find beauty in every season and scene—
even the dull, gray sky of a November rain,
or the long, level stretch of sand which
makes the monotony of the desert—for
every feature of Nature has some charm to
recommend it, and the heart of the poet is

' keenly alive to its appreciation. We were
selfisth pleased when we first saw these
lines, because March is our birth-month, and

’ 'we'. would fain associate it with something of
sweetness and promise, albeit songs were
sung in favor of April and May, and the
muses frowned upon the first fretful and in-
con‘sant child of Spring. In the latitude
~in,whichwe passed our childish days, this
month often was bedecked in the mantle
and garland of April. Many are the fragile

, anemones, the pale, blue violets, and the

: ‘ _ golden crocuses we have gathered from

 sunny nooks, beside emerald-fringed and
silvery brooks, on bright, delicious days of
fist-oh, when our wayward feet, weary of

v  winter’s thrall, strayed from the “beaten

I.”  paths” of school out into the meadows and

I?“ over tthill-sides. And the skies! they
' are, indeed, “Changing,” but not always

, stormy; 'their blucnessis as fresh and deep
as the first sweet thrill of love in a youthful
heart; and the clouds troop, in graceful
throngs, white-robed and golden-winged,

"through the dreamy azure like doves of

‘- > heaven floating in dreams of bliss. Yet the

. poet probably has given expression to the

one great charm which it can boast, when
he says, “thou bring'st the Itope:”e-the hope

'3‘”?- And the promise are much, and the bearer

dbould be welcomed as a messenger with
 tidings :-
h 3‘1?!“ hriu'stthehope of those calm skies,
 not: time of sunny showers,
mm .

O

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

     

1‘  y
«In,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

‘l

EDITOR’S RETREAT.

When the wide bloom, on earth that lies,
Seems of a brighter world than ours."
cosrsurunnr.

“I never complained of my condition,”
says the Persian poet, Sadi, “but once,
when my feet were bare, and I-had no money
to buy shoes; but I met a man without feet,
and was contented with my lot.” The say-
ings of many of these Oriental bards and
sages are brief and precious as the tiny vials
of otto of roses put up in the same enchanted
lands—little packages of perfume, worth
more than their weight in gold; or, like
golden-belted bees, flying about, laden with
more than their own size of honey, which
they have sipped from aromatic flowers fiam-
ing in the rich sunshine of those eternally
calm heavens. It would be strange if our
poets and philosophers should bundle us up
any such tiny packages of wisdom. Yet we
stand much more in need of them than the
indolent and dreamy Orientals, who can
draw contentment out of an opium-pipe as
naturally as the sun draws dew out of the
fiower-chalices. We need rest—peace—re-

.pose! we need to ponder all that can be

said in favor of contentment; for we are a
restless, jealous, and ambitious people, who
bring, even to our otherwise happy and
prosperous firesides, the spirit of emulation
and pride. Yet when we speak of repose,‘
we do not mean that idle and nerveless
state of lussitude—that delicious nothing~
ness of body and soul which the lotus-eaters
craved: such a life is unworthy the high
powers of the Christian character or the full
development of the rational mind: we would
indicate “the peaCe that passeth under-
standing,” growing out of duties fulfilled
and conscious stability of worth and place,
as fruit, corn, and flowers grow silently out
of the cultivated soil. Labor should bring
repose, as the day brings night; but to the
American mind the appreciation of the word
seems almost impOSSible. We do not toil
that we may afterward enjoy—but that we
may transcend some other worker, or reach
to some height which when attained, is
scorned by the restless feet which still toil
,onward, until their owner wrishes, crying,

 

 

 

 

 

narrows RETREAT. 143

 

“Excelsior!” “Excelsior” is a glorious
motto to invigorate the lingering heart of
youth; but it should not urge him on, to
perish in the prime of life amid the rigors of
ambitious wintery heights. Such was not the
purpose of the All-Father, who appointed
the-seasons of night and day, of growth and
rest, of labor and enjoyment. Contentment!
it is a golden word which should be mingled
with the other upon “that banner with a
strange device.”

non ALWAYS TOIL.

.One of the “aching senses” is the long-
ing, which seizes us at times,‘ to flee away
from the whirl of life, and seek some quiet
spot where there is no care, no thought of
the world; only calm, deep peace. We
pursue the rounds of our daily being with
mind and nerves strained to their utmost
capacity, and it were strange, indeed, if a
sense of weariness did not come to win us
away from our cares to some sweet nook of
repose. But to the sensitive soul, whose
hopes are not for the accomplishment of
some ambitions scheme, who rather craves
for the communion of kindred souls, and
longs to be away from the tumult of life,
this feverish existence is terrible to endure,
and being becomes a constant penance from
which death alone seems to offer escape. It
is evidence to us, when these high and pure
souls so crave for repose, that there is a
“dim retreat” beyond the horizon of this
day where shall be the fullness of peace,
and the soul shall enjoy, in all its boundless
capacity for joy, its natural life. One of the
'most beautiful evidences of the immortality
within us is this longing, if the emotion was
but rightly marked and understood; and
when we hear the pure and beautiful of
earth pleading for peace—peace! we know
truly that it is the voice of the better nature
crying for its own.

The world is rough and wild with care—

The people are hurrying to and fro—
We are weary and worn, we sigh with despair—
Where—where shall we go ?
. Where shall we go to be free from this,
Just for a time to put it by ?
Where struggle from out the desperate mass?
Give us rest or else we die !

In there no spot where violets grow,

L039: and dim, and silent, and sweet,

Where flOWers that lie in the moss below

Perm!“ t" humble, aching feet ?

 

A dim retreat,

Whose very secresy makes it sweet l

80 silent, no sound doth ever come

Of the battling world ; only the hum

0f bird wings and the breeze

Sighing its love out to the trees,

As we sigh loves of one another!

To such dim nook in spirit we steal,

Letting the blind world reel ;

While we, like children, are lull'd to rest

With the soothing sense of a mother‘s breast.
The yearning we feel‘ior this repose, arms
us with trust that it will be found—if not on
earthly hills and dales—at last, in the Golden
Land which lies beyond the dimness of mor-
tal sight.

We are not of those who believe the only
standard of excellence should consist in the
amount of hard and sordid work done.
“ Labor is worship! "—very true; and so is
rest worship. “They also serve who only
stand and wait.”

I o r. - n a - n o L .

The fashion magazines have got so they .
address little girls as young ladies—“ young
ladies, from five to ten years of age,” says
one of them recently; and the class thus
formally spoken of, and catered to, ngdoubt
feel their immense importance. We can
see, in our mind’s eye, the daintily-dressed,
graceful, and accomplished little creatures,
enacting, with suitable gravity, their parts
on the 'stage of life—that is, on the velvet
carpet o mamma’s parlor,—no more to be
put to blush than mamma herself, regarding
with calm scrutiny the dress and manners of

the miniature men and women who call ‘V
upon them. They are already blazé in',,‘_

worldly experience; they would be almost
as much mortified to be betrayed iQto enthu‘éi-i
asin, delight, surprise, or astonishment, at any
earthly event which might possibly happen.
as would mamma’s fashionable friends. P00?
little things! we admire their elegance. their
attainments, their precocity; but We Pity
them for what they have lost. The lily has
has been painted, the rose adorned; in
place of sweet, unconscious grace and “flees
joy, there is studied beauty and measured
happiness. The drop of dew that glistened
in the flower’s heart has vanished; and in
its piace has been fastened a hard, cold,
gold-encircled geml Pinned to its proper
place. Not that beautiful or fashionable

 

 

   

a. m..-....Ww _..._. «v...

144

THE HOME.

 

dress implies a loss of the peculiar charms
of childhood; but we know too well, that in
the circles where such expression reigns, a
thousand otherinfluences are at work, whose
fruit is vanity, self-consciousness, pride of
position, arrogant criticism, and those senti-
ments of worldliness to which young souls
should be kept strangers.

course BACK soon!

“ ‘You are coming back soon?’ Coming
back! Who ever yet came back and found
all things unchanged? Drive up the long-
remembered roads, and you will miss here a
tree, here a patch of daisies and buttercups,
and here an old gray farm-house, which you
had fondly hoped would outlast your day
and generation. Enter the town which was
once a happy village to you, and what do
you see? Only a puny little village, with
the pleasant Walks you used to love turned
into ambitious sidewalks, and paved with

I the roughest of stones; with the old familiar

houses and fences remodeled and new
painted, till you lose all the old land-marks;

4 with every thing changed, and you, it may

be, “at of all! Sit down, if you will, in
your onely room; call up the forms of
those you loved, who are now scattered far
away, and try to people the dusty streets
with more beloved faces. Can you succeed?
Is it not a poor, pale phantom that you

' strive to press to your aching heart? Was

it wise in you, after all, this ‘coming
back?” So writes somebody, very pret-
tily; and, somehow, nothing we have read
for imany a day, has had so sad and yet
sweet a sound to us. There is so true and
go'pathetiga thought wrapped up, suggest-
ing more than it can express. One involun-
tarily falls to musing, and pursues the idea .
far away into melancholy regions, brooded
over by the pale sunlight and purple mist of
Indian-summer memory.

Then nothing, nothing upon earth can
ever absolutely make ,up for separation be-
tween those who l‘ove. They may meet
again, as fond, or fender than ever, but each
has suffered an irreparable 1058 for which
nothing in the future can atone- Each has
Changed, and when they meet, they are not,
«gun not be, what they were when they
' _, .One has slept when the other wak-

 

ened, laughed when the other. wept, wept
when the other laughed—the bond of sym-
pathy has been broken, and the gap must
forever remain. “ Long absence,” says a
writer, “like a great misfortune, hasin itself
a. reconciling power.” And the Creator has
mercifully so fashioned our hearts, that this
is true; but it is also true that, like a great
misfortune, it leaves its inefi‘aceable scar.

It is not always the scene and the person
whom we return to meet that have changed,
so much as it is our own perception of them
which is altered; and this makes another
thing to be dreaded in long absence. The
“daisies and buttercups, the old gray farm-
house,” are even as you left them, but you
gaze upon them with different eyes. The
face of the one you love has not altered, but
you see it in a different light—its relations
to you are not the same. Therefore do the
long partings of parents and children, bro-
thers and sisters, husbands and wives, seem to
us sadder than the death-bed fareWell—a
pain, a risk, which should not be lightly in-
curred.

A man tears away the clinging tendrils of
his heart from the soil of home, goes far
away, transports them to a foreign soil,
where, after drooping and sickly years, they
become acclimated, and flourish, perhaps as
vigorously as ever; but they are not the
same bloom of the soul, and will have a
strange look to the eyes at home, which
have grieved after them, if they ever return.
He may go away empty-handed, and come
back with the golden bowl of fortune in his
grasp, but the power to enjoy the draught
may have perished, and all that would have
made it sweet be turned into bitterness, so
that he has lost more than he has gained.

“What matters it if a man gain the whole
world and lose his own soul?” There are
many soul-losses besides that fatal one here
referred to~losses which no earthly pros-
perity ever can make up—losses more mel-
ancholy than any wreck of material fortunes
—and it is these losses which make “ com-
ing back! ” so sad a thing-

0, thou that dost inhabit in my breast,
Leave not the mansion so long tenantleas;

Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall,
And leave no memory of what it was.

7

 

 

 

«Y

 

HOME HINTS AND HELPS. 145

 

HOME HINTS AND HELPS.

‘ T has been weil and often said that the in-

fluences of a happy childhood are a
shield to a man in the after-temptations of
life, and an inducement to him to perform
his duties faithfully. It is believed that a
mother’s prayer is often answered, long after
the heart from which it exhaled has become
dust, and scarcely a trace of humanity re-
mained in the reckless child for whom it
was breathed. Too much has not been said,
and too much importance can not be given
to these influences. But that they may
have their full power, the home must be a
happy one—remembered as such by the
yearning affections of the growu-up heart——
not thought of with bitter recollections of
harsh words, ready blame, and undeserved
severity. There should be sympathy be-
tween parents and children. And the mo-
ther is not the sole person upon whom this
responsibility rests. Too many fathers think
they are doing their whole duty to their
families, because they spend their days in
toil for them; and take no pains to impress
upon the clinging, sensitive spirits which
turn to them for love, as naturally as the
sunflower turns to the sun for light, that this
labor is one of affection. The following re-
marks, made by an English writer, repeat
our sentiments upon this subject better than
we could express them ourself; every word
is as true as it is forcible; and we wish all

fathers who need the advice therein con»

tained, were obliged to hear it read by the
gentle voice of some beloved wife, every
day, for a year :

“The father who plunges into business so
deeply that he has no leisure for domestic
duties and pleasures, and whose only inter-
course with his children consists in a brief
Word of authority, or a surly lamentation
over their intolerable expensiveness, is
equally to be pitied and to be blamed. What
right has he to devote to other pursuits the
time which God has allotted to his children?
Nor is it an excuse to say that he can not
Support his family in their present style of
“Vng without this effort. I ask, by what
right can his family demand to live in a
manner whigh requires him to neglect his

 

most solemn and important duties? Nor is
it an excuse to say that he wishes to leave
them a competence. Is be under obligations
to leave them that competence which he de-
sires? Is it an advantage to be relieved
from the necessity of labor? Besides, is
money the only desirable bequest which a
father can leave to his children? Surely,
well-cultivated intellects; hearts sensible to
domestic affection, the love of parents, of
brothers and sisters ; a taste for home pleas-
ures; habits of order, regularity, and indus-
try; hatred of vice and vicious men, and a
lively sensibility to the excellence of virtue,
are as valuable a legacy as an inheritance of
property, simple property, purchased by the
loss of every habit which would render that
property a blessing.”

Another thing to be considered in the
diffusion of that social atmosphere which is
the life of home, is the intelligence as well
as the domestic qualities of the mother.
There has been a great inconsistency in the
good advice so freely lavished upon yoman
by the other sex—and their own, too, for
that matter. It seems to have been the gen-
eral impression that a woman of high educa-

ion, brilliant aCcomplishments, superior
powers of conversation, and especially a lit-
erary woman, could not make a good wife,
mother, and housekeeper,—as if there were
something conflicting in the association of
intelligence and good-sense with the high
duties of a parent and even the common ex-
cellencies required in domestic labors. Now
we believe that “a soul occupied'with great
ideas, best performs small duties ;” and we
feel our sex degraded by the narrow and petty
remarks made upon silence ; ignorance and
superstition being the qualities most recom-
mendatory of those whom these same egotis'
tical cavilers expect to be angels of forbear-
ance, humility, love, and feminine WiSdom.
We have never found that igmmnce im‘
proved the temper of a woman; that a mean
mind fitted her better to shine as a light to
her household; that the absence of all noble
ambition and subjects of thought and reflec-
tion proved necgssarily the existence of 
taia traits of gentleness, generosity, 

~35

 

     


3
i
l
1
i
i

m...—

146

THE Hour.

 

goodness so desirable to possess. 0n the
contrary, we have observed that scandal,
gossip, i"-tcmper, cowardice, and the indo-
lence which wait upon a vacant mind, were
very apt to be the occupants of a breast
filled with no high aims in life, unconscious
of the greatness of its moral duties as a wife, a
mother, and friend. We have sometimes
thought it even better to be a regular blue-
ttocking than to have no aim in life but a
new dress, or a visit to a set of gossiping
and frivolous-natured acquaintances. “ The
trivial services of social life are the best
performed, and the lesser particles of domes-
tic happiness are most skillfully organized
by the deepest and fairest heart." When
the father grows more in tenderness and
sympathy, and the mother more in thought
and culture, then the children will feel more
deeply the holy influences of the happy
home;
“Then reigns the world's great bridals, chaste and
calm,
Then springs the crowning grace of human-kind."
[We did n't intend to quote Tennyson in
this department, but since we have, we will
follow it up with useful information for
washqrwompn, to keep the feminine balance
duly adjustedi]

The washerwomen Of Holland and Bel-
gium, so proverbial for their neatness, and
who get up their linen so beautifully white,
use refined born: as a washing-powder instead
of soda, in the proportion of a large handful
of borax powder to about ten gallons of
boiling water; they save in soap nearly one
half. All large washing establishments
adopt the same mode. For laces, cambrics,
etc, an extra quantity of the same powder
is used, and for crinolines (requiring to be
made very stiff) a strong solution is neces-
sary. Borax being a neutral salt, does not
in the slightest degree injure the texture of
the linen; its effect is to soften the hardest
water, and, therefore, it should be kept on
every toilet table. To the taste it is rather
tweet, is used for cleaning the hair, is an ex.
cellem dentrifice, and, in hot countries, is
Iled in combination with tartaric acid and
r . “aloof sodaas a c.ooling beverage.

“I can not be made with hard water';

 

all water may be made soft by adding a tea-
spoonful of borax powder to an ordinary-
sized kettle of water, in which it should boil.
The saving in the quantity of tea used, will
be at least one fifth. To give to black tea
the flavoring of green tea, add a single leaf
from the black-current bush.

Loan or TEA CARL—One cup sour milk ;
one cup sugar; one tea-spoonful rose water;
a little nutmeg; one mble.spoonful of but-
ter; one tea-spoonful of soda; two and a
half cups flour.

Dxnoaan’s Bursa Pastime—Sixteen
table-spoonfuls of flour; one quart of milk;
six eggs; salt; beat the eggs to a froth on
a plate, and after it is mixed beat it fifteen
minutes. Either boil or bake.

Nam-on Snon‘r GiNGERBREAD.—Elght cups
flour; three cups sugar; one of ginger; one
of butter; six eggs; one tea-spoonful of
soda.

SALEM Commas—Three and a half pounds
of flour; one and a half of sugar; one of
butter; one tea-spoonful of caraway seeds;
one and a half cups of milk; half tea-spoon-

.ml of soda.

Sena Sosa—To two bars of Windsor
soap, add two pounds of soda that is used
for washing, and twenty quarts of water.
Boil it twenty minutes.

A NEW Punched—One quart of milk;
halfa pound of flour; halfa pound of but-
ter. Melt the butter in one pint of the milk
-—mix the flour in the other pint. Two
table-spoonfuls of rice boiled soft, mix all
together, add seven eggs beaten to a froth,
baked three quarters of an hour. Sauce for
the pudding: one glass of wine; one of
brandy; one of rose water; one of water;
one pint bowl of sugar; one egg; one cup
of butter. Let it boil up at once.

PLUM Panama—One stale brick loaf;
take oil‘ the brown crust; cut it in slices, and
spread them with butter. Pour over it one
quart of boiled milk, and let it stand until
morning. Grate in One nutmeg; one tea.
spoonful of salt; eight eggs well-beaten; a
pint bowl of stoned raisins; flour the raisins,
and bake two hours. To be baked immedi-
“81! after putting in the raisins and eggs.

 

 

 

 

EDITOR’S TABLE.

147

 

EDITOR’S TABLE.

EW York has on her least inviting as-

pect at this present writing. “Metro-
politan Slush,” as it is expressively designated,
being a most widely-disseminated profuse
and characteristic combination of water,
snow, mud, soot, and debris generally.
Broadway is absolutely dreary, notwithstand-
ing its bespattered crowds. The windows of
“jobbing-houses ” are crowded with “ spring
styles,” which have not yet made their ap-
pearance at the counters of the retailers,
who are “ pushing off” the remains of their
winter stocks. We see nothing remarkably
new for ladies, except the dress-trimmings
called “the Ruben’s Dahlia,” in the manu-
facture of which the indie-rubber men seem
to have an interest.

We overheard a silk-importer remarking
that the silk manufacturers were bringing
out no new designs, as the market would not
warrant it. We were puzzled to understand
why the silk market should not be “active,”
for rich and elegant silks were never so

widely worn, by all classes, and surely never-

werc so much required in the making of a
garment. Crinoline continues to expand,
without the least prospect of any present
diminution. Sleeves are following, en suite,
until the rumor that thirty yards will soon
be required for a single robe, is likely to be
verified.

The frightful state of the pavements in
Broadway, has, at least, brought out two or
three indications. of good-sense among fem-
inine pedestrians, which proves that useful
quality is not entirely dead from neglect.
Instead of the immodest and untidy specta-
cle ofa dress held frightfully high, a quantity
of soiled white skirts, and a pair of well-
loaked gaiters, suggestive of influenza and
consumption, we now very frequently be-
hold the outer dress securely looped up by
long pins styled “pages;" the under gar-
ment, one of those brilliant and picturesque
“Balmoral” petticoats, made of a proper
length, and combining comfort, neatness,
and eject,- and upon the feet, calf-skin or
indie-rubber boots, made, in every way, as
serviceable as men’s.

 

-—-We learn, from the gossip of “for-
eign correspondents,” that the Emperor of
France gives a weekly reception to his func-

' tionarics and their families, to which all in?

vited must attend, and must not wear the
same dress twice, and must have their jewels
re-set for each and every occasion! Well!
we ought to be thankful that we live in a re«
publican country; although, to be sure, not
a few of our fair countrywomen are fully as
much the slaves of fashion, as any French
belle ever can be to an emperor’s capricc.
And we are not certain but some of these
same would like as good an excuse for run-
ning up a bill at Tiffany’s or Stewart's.

-—— It certainly is tempting to the feminine
fancy and affect-ions to step into Tiffany’s,
and linger over the lustrous display of pearls
and jewels which flash their magnificence
through the plate-glass of his show-cases.
However, one can tear themselves away,
and forget it, when they think of a home to
be secured, and an education to be given to
the little ones; and if they be not rich, can
find atruer pleasure in self-sacrifice than
any diamonds ever bestowed.

——-In the great world of this metrop-
olis, there is always something craving at-
tention—some work of art, or triumph of
intellect, almost demanding a portion of our
line and time. We have lately had a rare
treat in the eloquent lectures of Professor
Mitchell, upon astronomy; a science so beau-
tiful, so more than sublime, and in which
such rapid and astonishing developments are
being made, that the imagination is bewil-
dered, and the mind excited to the limit ofits
capabilities. These lectures have attracted
immense audiences, showing a great im-
provement in popular taste. The lecml‘efi
are being printed in cheap form for general
perusal, which should be 1300d news for
those not within the possibilitaof hearing
the brilliant lecturer.

—-— anspicuous among the works of art
are—“ The Empress Eugenie, and the Ladies
of her Court,” painted from the life, by WM,
tierhalter, one of the first portrait painternfif

 

 

    

 

 

148

 

THE HOME.

 

the age. Curiosity, as much as a love of art,
takes numbers to gaze upon this picture.
It is exhibited at Goupil’s. Quite recently
another exquisite thing has been placed in
the same gallery. It is Gignoux’s “Falls of
Niagara by Moonlight,” pronounced by crit-

ics to be a success; which is saying much,‘

when we remember the subject treated. It
has been purchased by Mr. Belmont, and
placed on exhibition for the'benefit of the
poor, previously to being removed to his
private gallery.

.._._..We netice that there is a genuine
ambrotype of that lovely woman and noble
poetess, Mrs. Browning, to be seen at
Brady’s, though we have not yet found time
to visit it. Exact copies are furnished at a.
reasonable sum.

— “ Little Ella,” the infant wonder, is
exciting admiration and remark. She is so
lovely in person, so innocent in manner, and
performs her part with such simplicity, and
evident absence of constraint or painful
training, that the most conscientious con-
demner of“ precocious children "—or con-
demner, rather, of those who foster this pre-
oociousness—can not but gaze upon her
with pleasure and love. She wins the hearts
of her audiences; and all her hearers, es-
pecially those who are parents, can not but
pray that she rhay not be like some sweet
flowers whichblossom so early in the spring
only to be. blighted by the snow of an early
decay.

——In “Home Hits and Hints,” a work
just published by our friend, Wm. T. Cog-
geshall, we find many good things for the
children. Here is one pretty little “child’s
saying,” so brief that we can give it place:
“A little girl, whose development is precious
to us, was called out into the yard, just at day-
break, to see the moon, which, nearly full, was
shining in an unclouded sky. What is called
‘ the man in the moon ’ was unusually distinct.

The morning was calm, and the child de-
_.lighted; but she asked 110 questions—made
ho ‘mmrks; The following day; she was
.  herself before the fire, When 811d-
- the motion of her chair was stopped,

 up, with a glance of thoughtful
. ‘  - .
‘39, what was that I saw in the moon

‘

   

 

yesterday morning?’ We explained to her,
as well as we knew how, what astronomers
supposed ‘the man in the moon’ to be.
She was evidently disappointed, Her head
dropped. and in a sad tone she said, as if
talking to herself, ‘Oh! I thought it was
God, sitting under a tree, reading a book.’ ”

......_.We have received two little poems,
of unusual pathos and sweetness, called
“The Lamb” and “ The Cripple,” for which
we thank the author; hoping to be the re.
cipient of others from the same gentle pen.
We give the latter one in this number, and
reserve a nook in our next “Retreat” for
the briefest of the two. Amid the great
multitude of poems offered, we not unfre-
quently have to express disappointment that
so very few should be good.

—-—The illustrated poem, “ Asphodel,”
which graces this number, is one of those
calculated to awaken strong feeling. The
illustrations are of a very beautiful character
—the two landscapes being from Birket
Foster’s designs. We may well spare a
steel-plate for such beauties. “The Home,”
in the course of the year, will give many

' real gems of art in the wly of illustrations.

— With contributions especially pre.
pared for this magazine by Mrs. H. L. Bost-
wick, Mrs. Caroline A. Halbert, Miss Mary

J. Crosman, Clara Augusta, Philo Earle -

Hardy, etc., etc., this March number may be
pronounced most attractive. The leading
paper on “The Literature of Wedded Love ”
is one of the finest essays it ever has been
our privilege to read.

—— The third paper by Dr. Francis is
crowded over to the April number. We
find that this series of papers is attracting
attention. They are prepared with special
reference to their practical and useful hear-
ing, avoiding all technicalities of “the pro-
fession,” or dry dissertation upon sanitary
subjects. Such articles-must do good.

-——-— Among those filed for insertion, are

4“ As a Little Child;” “Female Develop-

ment; ” “Got the Fever; " “To-Morrow; ”
“Summer Insects;” “The Clouds;” “Re-
ward of Merit.” &c., &c. The paper on the
Beauchampe case is under consideration.
Several good poems also await their turn.

. Lamb's,” . ‘

EDITOR’S TABLE.

We can not spare a page to any piece of
rhyme except it is more than “ passable ; ”
hence, we generally lay aside long poems as
“not available.” We hope some of our

correspondents will bear this in mind.

A choice steel-plate engraving will
be given in our next number, viz : “The April
Shower.” The publishers design to altern-
ate with steel and first-class wood engrav-
ings, and will thus be able to present quite
an art gallery during the course of the year.

--— Parties proposing to write stories for
us, are informed that we can not accept any
serial, for the present year at least. Aside
from the story “ The Wrong Righted,” each
number of the magazine will be complete in
itself. No contribution, therefore, should
exceed fifteen ordinary foolscap pages of
manuscript, since we should prefer to confine
leading articles to about six pages of the
magazine. We so state this, in order to
avoid writing letters to those parties who
are constantly proposing to extend contribu-
tions through several numbers of the maga-
zine.

—— Even Queen Victoria must obey the
impulses of her mbtherly and wifer nature.
As sovereign she commands her husband—
as a wife she is but a woman and his equal.
This is happily illustrated in an anecdote re-
cently related by Mr. Frank D. Lay, in a
lecture upon things and persons abroad.
He said: “It is reported that her Majesty
has a sweet little temper of her own, and
that her cam sposa, like a prudent man, gen-
erally retires before the storm, and locks
himself in his private cabinet until the sky
is clear, and sunshine again illumines the
classic shades of St. James or Windsor.
After one of these ebullitions, the Queen
gave a threatening knock at the door where
Prince Albert had taken refuge, and upon
being asked, ‘Who’s there?’ reSponded,
‘The Queen!’ ‘The Queen can not enter
here,” responded the hen-peeked. After
the lapse of half an hour, a gentle tap was
heard upon the door. ‘Who’s there?’
“Shed Prince Albert. ‘ Your mfel’ re-
aPonded Victoria. ‘My wife is always wel-
°°me’, "8,8 the gallant reply.”

' —- A Fifth Avenue lady invited a large
party of friends on occasion of the first ex-

 

149
hibition of a superb painting which her hus-
band had just purchased in Paris.“ “110”
was the subject. She received her. guests
with great artistic airs, talked much of the
fine arts, etc. The door of the gallery being
thrown open, she ushered the expectant
crowd into the room. “There! ” she ex-
claimed, “ behold the beautiful Jo I ” Some
of the guests had to retire to the dressing-
roem to laugh off the effects of that intro-
duction to “Jo.”

Talking of poor Io, recalls the good thing
told by the Hampden Sidney Magazine of a
young graduate of that estimable institu-
tion. He was expatiating largely upon
Heathen Mythology, (and, by the way, had
no great fondness for Latin or Greek), in the
company of some young ladies, when one of
them said, “Mr. N. .. ., what became of "
Io?” “Mercury killed her; I read in my
chemistry the other day, Io died (Iodide) of
Mercury.” .

— We see by announcement that an-
other “Household Bbok of Poetry” is in
course of preparation by Mr. Robert Bonner.
The sins of omission and commission which
attach to the book recently brought out by
the Appletons, edited by Mr. Dana, render
another volume alm0st a necessity. We sin-
cerely hope Mr. Bonner will do the literature
and writers of this country more justice than
they have met at the hands of ‘ the Tribune
editor.

-—- The first volume of Allibone’s new
Critical Dictionary of Authors is soon to
issue. It is a very elaborate and pains-tak-
ing work, containing, as it will, over thirty
thousand biographies and notices of authors!
Among the singular facts which the first
volume develops are those concerning the
number of writers of one name, who have
“ catered for the public” in one province or
another. Mr. Allibone enumerates twenty-
one family names that have an aggregate Of
1,586 authors. The Joneses “0 a” m0“
numerous of 'the list, numbering 189 a“film’s;
next conies the Browne and the Brownes,
with 175 writers; the Clarke, and the Clarkes
come next, numbering 1513'; others succeed
as follows: Davies and DEViS,  

sons, 110; Hall. 92; Hamiltonfl'tcreea 

and Greene, 83; Jackson, 31; mmvgzjam.

 

 

 

 

150

THE HOME.

 

 

gx':%;é,
. ,_ lg,

Ranrmnn. 121110. 404 pages.

We here have a seriea'o‘f stories” and
graphic sketches well calculated to interest
the fireside circle. It is feelingly dedicated

the outset touches the sympathetic chor of

have. had the “run of the papers;” what
better evidence can there be of their merit?
"Weirecognize "“ Easy Warren,” “ Aunt Pa-‘
fiance,” “Little Peleg,” “Widow Clifi’ and
her Son,” etc., etc. Those in search of a
volume for the cdification and profit of their

‘ lent book. It is printed in the usual neat
style of Redficld’s publications.

Nora's FROM PLYMOUTH Punrrr ; A Collection
of Memorable Passages from the Dis-
courses of Henry. Ward Beecher, by
Anensra Moons. New York: Dnanv' -&
JACKSON. l2mo. '

country; He spearhead-acts a peculiar
manner. Pointed in sarcasmfitro‘rng in ar-
gument, unnppreaclihble 'in'wit, full of the
sense of beau‘ly, extremely happy in the
graces of fancy, he appears tons a kind of
Christianized and elaborated John Randolph,
with a commingling of Sidney Smith and
Hampden in his temperament. The labor of
collaborating the thoughts of such a mind is
perfectly endless; the flow of mental riches
is measured only by the months and years of
life. Miss Moore has heard Mr. Beecher in
all his moods, and the impulse to reproduce
some of the. good things which have fallen
from his lips, produced this volume. Every
page, literally, contains “ food for thought.”
The public would thank author and publish.
. era for one such volume POP Ye”-

 Arranxoos or UNMARRIED LIFE- New
 "York: Rum) & CARLETON. 12am.

7  This work, though professedly “uniform

A   Woman's Thoughts about Women,’”
 i ‘  the samejfiuthor, Miss Mulock. It
  ‘d to these in the unmarried es.

       

' female society,

to the author’s trio of children, and thus at,

every parent‘s heart. Many of the stories

children, can not secure a more truly excel-.

Mr; Beecher is, wi‘ihwtidtiubt, lone-of the:
.most , thoroughly original. .thinlaemgin , this.

 

BOOK NOTICES.

"Hosts Hirs AND Hmrs; A Book for the Fire? '
side, by Wu. T. Coeeasmtn. New York:

tote and in the “Afternoon of Life,” which

is supposed to mean, on the shady side of_

thirty-five. There is much in it of a charac-
ter to! create remark by that portion of our
since its revelations of
thoughts and feelings, its advice and rebukes
are characterized by singular plainness. Its
tone is thoroughly Christian, earnest, and
honest, and it seems to us worthy of a good
circulation.

‘ THE Lm on Bums, chieflyrby Tnoams
CARLYLE, is a seasonable volume, marking
the good taste of its editor, 0. W. WIGHT,
Esq. It embraces not only Carlyle’s cele-
brated essay on the Character and Writings of
Burns, but also includes the “Encyclopedia
Britanica’s” life of the poet, and also the

-“ English Cyclopedia’s” article on Carlyle,

introduced. gracefully by the remarks of the
editor. The whole makes up a treasured
volume'for the new “Household Libmy,”

.to which thiais the second contribution.
 -- was  Hahn? for Tehruary will
 bitst ' minds of every

comniuriitj.‘ l‘l’tli's'marked thrOughout by an.

"thorial ability and editorial sagacity. No

magazine yet published in America has at-
tained to a position of such actual intellect.

ual poweras now attaches to the “Atlantic.” '

It bids fair for a long life of usefulness.
Tnn LADIES’ Rsrosrrour, devoted to

.Literature and Religion, Rsv. D. W. Cuax

editor, for February, is a perfect reposi-
tory of the Pure, the Beautiful, and the
Good. It is conducted with eminent ability
by Dr. Clark; and, in its various depart-
ments, is excelled by no monthly ofl’cred to
the Christian family._,A woman who takes,
and reads, and enjoys such a magazine, can
not be otherwise than a good wife, daugh-
ter, or sister. The Repository!!! always ex.
quisitely illustrated and printed.

[Among the many books received from
publishers, we must choose a few only for par.
ticnlar notice, since Our space is limited.
We shall read all carefully, and endeavor to
direct attention to such as we think de-

serving]

i.