T H E H O M E :
3 mummy tar tilt mm, the matter, the Sim, m it: gunfight.

VOL. IV.—OCTOBER, 1857.—NO. IV.

/”_V\
/

 

GRACE DARLING.

RACE DARLING, whose name, by
an act of heroic daring, has re-
minded through the civilized world,
“8 born November 24, 1815, at Bam-
bol‘ough, on the coast of N orthumber-
ind, En land. She was the seventh
c{did of illiam Darling, a steady, ju-
' I, and- sensible man, who held
a“ I’Ooponsihle office of keeper of the
ngatone light-house, situated on one
“10 most distant and exposed ot' the
.“he Islands, a roc group extend-
l Iome seven or eig t miles be ond
gqmgflous coast. In this iso ated
—where weeks sometimes
ohm without communication with
von. IV. 10.

 

the main land, the greater part of
Grace’s existence was assed, with no
other companionship t an that of her
parents and brother, who resided at
the light-house. She benefited by the
advantage of a respectable education
suited to one in her sphere of life, and
her time was principally occupied in
assisting her motherin household affairs.

Grace had reached her twenty-sec-
ond year when the incident occurred
which. has given her so wide-spread
and Just a fame. The Forfarshim
steamer, proceeding from Hull to Dan-
dee, nth sixty-three persons on board.
was wrecked upon one of the fearful

 

 

150

 

GRACE DARLING.

 

crags of the Farne groups, on the
night of the 6th of September, 1838.
The vessel, which, upon subsequent
inquiry proved to be utterly unsea-
worth-y, was broken in two pieces, the
after part, with many souls upon it,
being swept away instantly, while the
fore part remained upon the rock.
The captain and his wife were among
the number of those who perished.
Nine persons survived the horrors of
that night upon the remaining frag-
ment of the wreck, exposed amid rain
and profound darkness, to the fury of
the waves, and expecting momentarily
to be engulfed by the boiling surge.

At daybreak on the morning of the
7th, these poor people were discotepod
from Longstone by the Darlings, at
nearly a mile’s distance, b means,“ a
glass, clinging to the roc s, and. rem-
nants of the vessel. Grace, the mo-
ment she caught sight of them, per-
ceiving their imminent danger—for
the returning tide must wash them
off—immediately determined to save
them; and no remonstrances of her
father, who, in the furiousstate of the
sea, considered it a despth 
hopeless adventure, had anypgggpiig,
dissuading her. There was, up meat,
the time at the light-house but, ,
rents and herself, her brother being
absent on the main land ; and she de-
clared, if her father would not accom-
pany her, she would go alone; that,
live or die, she would attempt to save
the wretched sufferers.

Her father consented to the trial.
The boat was launched with the as
sistance of the mother, and the father
and daughter each taking an oar, pro-
ceeded upon their errand of mercy.
They succeeded; and in,,no instance
has lowly virtue and unobtrusive hero.
ism met with more prompt acknowl-
edgement and just reward. The
highest enthusiasm prevailed through-
out Great Britain, as the adventure
Mamdhomi, and. .distantthnations

oud wi heapty s- mpa y. To
ward the , bravery,.,.smi’. humanity; of

Grace Darling, 8 lgbwiption, was
raised in Englal‘di wah amounted to

 

 

seven hundred pounds, and she re-
ceived besides numberless presents
from individuals, some of them of dis-
tinguished rank. Her portrait was
taken, and multiplied over the king-
dom ; the Humane Society sent her a
flattering vote of thanks, and a piece
of plate; dramatic pieces were per-
formed, representing her exploit; her
sea‘girt home was invaded by steam-
boat loads of wonder-seeking admir-
ers, 0d offers of marriage—not a
few - flowed in upon her.

Amid all this tumult of applause so
calculated to unsettle the mind, Grace

‘ ;Dar,ling never for a moment swerved

from the modest dignity which be-

longed to her character. She contin- ,

unginotwithstanding the improvement
in, her circumstances, to reside at the
light-house with her parents, content to
dwell in the secluded and humble
sphere in which her lot had been cast,
provin by her conduct that the liber-
ality o the public had not been un-
worthin bestowed.

Grace Darling, as is too often the
case,,with the noble and good, was not

defined to long life. She survived

a few years to enjoy her well-

eppned fame. In 1841, symptoms of
declining health exhibited themselves,

and on the 20th of October, 1842, sh?
died of consumption.’

Grace Darling is described as a WO‘
man of the middle size, comely the
not handsome, but with an expression
of mildness and benevolence most win'
ningt Her disposition was always 10!
tiring and reserved, the effect, '1‘
doubt, of her solitary mode of ll“!
which unquestionably fostered
concentrated the quiet enthusiasm-:9;
her character, and made her thee in“?
ine of one of the most beautiful fill?
sodas in the history of.woman.-—M‘
of Distingqu  

,4 a”?

 

A QUIET, exposition. of truth but!
batterefieot this, a violent attack 9*
error- a. Tenth; extirpates. weeds, 8’
working its way into their places “‘
leaving for; them no room .to, grower-v"

 

 

 

 

 

 

a: -m ._..w..~. “mm-t..." ,. I

 

 

 

n .- u _  ,  - .
.. W..-“ .
/ ....._,i..,. H I

THE OLD um; AND m WIFE. . 151

C;

THE OLD MAID, AND THE WIFE

BY ANNIE DANI'OETH.
C H A P T E R I .

“ RACE, darling, I have something
ainful to say to you tonight.”

“I Know it. God help me ! ”

“Yes, God help you, poor girl, and

help me too. Oh, Grace! how
0811 I give you up? ”

“Oh, Robert, spare me! My heart
“"8 me what you would say, and yet,
011! I can not, I will not believe it.

ere is hope sill; something must
be done; ” and Grace Stanley, who, of

te, had grown almost as pale as the con-
Iumptive at her side, shrank prone upon
the ground sobbing and shuddering.

There was no longer room to doubt.

_ bert Demin was dying of consump-
Plon. Gradual y the truth had forced
Itself upon them. Neither could yet
l’l’mg their lips to utter to the other
“I? fact which was uppermost in the
11!1nd of each, but to-day Robert had
been so feeble that he felt that his lips
mlist. no longer be sealed. Putting
‘8 arm around her, he gently' drew
91' to a seat upon the low form
.side him, and supported her upon
.18 breast, and moved his hand caress-
“‘eg over her aching head till she
90w quiet. -
u “I remember,” Robert said at lengh,

3 story of a poor blind child, who

"lndered in a beautiful wood all day

.“ld felt no fear. Often the scent of

0 violet or wild rose would reveal to
9!” its hiding-place, the son of a'bird
would make her heart thril joyfully,
°" the murmurs of a waterfall would
“hum her ear with its melody. But
“metimes when she would pluck a
' er, a bee would sting her, or a
“‘an pierce her hand. When she
to take the bird it would soar far
be30ml her reach ; and when at length
9 slooped to bathe her forehead in
Water, she struck her face against
3""? Mk, and cried out with pain.
“fit their all”. heard a sweet voice‘call
,and she‘knew that it came from

r ‘ other side'of the! water, and she
030 in haste to obey. Then almost

 

instantly her eyes were opened, and
she saw for the first time all the bean-
tiful things around her. But she felt
no desire to stay, for she heard the
voice, and she saw flowers that bloom
forever in the place from whence it
came, and she heard music that made
the singing of the birds sound discord.
ant. There was one rose that looked
to her almost as 'beautiful as any she
saw beyond the stream, and she
thought she must carry it with her if
she went, and while she was thinkin
so, she heard the voice calling louder
than ever to her, and it sounded more
irresistibly sweet than before. But
the rose' detained her, for it clung yet
to the stem, and she heard the voice
once more, and this time it said, ‘ We
do not need the flowers here yet, you
must come alone.’ So she kissed the
rose and hastened away, and the am-
gel came to meet her,.and from that
day she was never blind, and never
wandered alone, for beautiful beings
kept her company, and not long after
the king of the place to which she
went, sent an angel to transplant the
rose to the gardens of the same cone.
try,‘ where it bloomed forever.”

He paused a moment to answer
back the smile that had settled on the
face of the before weeping girl, and
then said: “I too have wandered in
darkness, and now a voice calls me,
and I know the voice. It is not that
of an angel — it is the voice of Jesus,
and cheerfully would I go forward.
You, my Grace, are the flower to
which m heart clings, but you must

not detan me. Wait patiently will ~

you not until God sees that you are
needed there, and sends an angel to
transplant on to the banks of the
River of Li ?”

The story of the blind child was
told so calmly, and toward the last alo
most triumphantly, that Grace had
felt herself lifted far above the selfish.
mas which would have detained‘hol‘
lover from the world of 
beauty, toward which his footsteps
tended so surely. ~

They talked long; both of his

'Wm.wfi_-am-_ ___.s -

i
.
l

  

152 m OLD um), AND ass was.

 

prosper and of hers, and never after
did she sink 'to such depths of wretchw
edness as she had endured for those
few da s. The spirit, soon to be
release , saw so clearly beyond “the
stream,” and talked so freely and
joyfully of the bright future, that her
spirit was led to join, even, sometimes,
in the song of triumph. They spoke
often to one another of the event
which so plainly “cast its shadows be-
fore,” which was to open to one a day
of cloudless light, but which was to be
to the other the ushering in of a long
day of darkness and sorrow. Hope,
as it always will, came sometimes to
Grace, for the disease would array it-
self in the brightest garments of health ;
but, ah! we all know how the heart
rebounds to deeper despair after the
bright hopes are withered. .

Days ofsufi‘ering and watching at last
lengthened to weeks, and weeks to
months, and the angel of Death which
had hovered over themso long, slack-
ened his wing upon the threshold, and
Robert Deming’s mission on earth was
complete. Grace had been with him
the last few weeks of his earthly life.
She lingered to .see the clods laid
above him, and then returned to her
father’s house a widow indeed.

CHAPTER II.

Wrrn a vexed, irresolute expression
upon her countenance, Caroline Reed
had for at least an hour been holding
her pen balanced above the paper be-
fore her, upon which she had made
just this progress, “Dr. Lester— Sir.”

“Heigh ho!” at length she ex-
claimed, “twenty-three; well, I yield
to fate, and really why should I hesi-
tats?”

She dipped her pen again in the
ink, and this time commenced writing:

“Du. Liens—551:, Your letter is be-
fm me, and according to your request I

have considered it well, and now proceed to
answer it. My letter must be longer than
you“, but I will make it as short as I can,
and at the same time perfietly truthful. I

 

 

will not seek to hide from you the fact that,
had I received such a proposal as on make,
at eighteen, I should have returns an imme-
diate and indignant refusal. But the wisdom
of eighteen and of twenty-three is not exactly

- alike. I have searched in vain for any word

or assurance of afl'ection in your letter, but
quote truthfully from you the warmest ex-
pression in which you have indulged. ‘The
past three months of intimate acquaintance,
have not failed to secure for you my sincere
respect and esteem.’ Five years ago I loved
and became engaged to a young man of un-
doubted merit. Why that enga ement was
broken off I have never known. It is enough
that it is buried with the dead things of the
past; the time has no doubt been suflicient
to make him forget his love, if it ever really
existed. As for mine, it was real; but it is
long since the memory of it has been per-
mitted to enter the sacred citadel of secret
thought. It is true that ‘our acquaintance
has been somewhat intimate, but after all
what do either of us know of the most sa-
cred sentiments, hopes, and afi'ections of the
other? Can we walk quietly and patiently
side by side time through life ? When the lit-
tle trials and petty griefs and deeper sorrows
incident to all come upon us, can we each
retire within ourselves and thus prevent jar-
ring and discord, and will time pass peace-
fully over us? I do not say happily, for I
know my own heart too well, and its long-
ings for sympathy and love. I think I un-
derstand you. If you are satisfied with this,
and still extend me the offer of your hand,
it is accepted. Cancun."

Caroline folded herletter, enveloped
and directed it, then settling back In
her chair she burst into tears. 8110
had been some time weeping, when
she heard a sweet voice calling 110‘

name at the door below, and springing ‘

to the toilet she bathed away all tra-
ces of tears, brushed her hair to p6"
fect smoothness, and when the door 10
her room opened, she went forwal

with a bright smile to meet Gm”

Stanley, exclaiming 33ny ; ,v ,

“Ah, Grace! 1 am glad you 81'».
come at last. 7 Do you know I am.“
be married finally i —and of course I
shall need your counsel in a thousall
important particulars,” and she the!
the letter toward her. The pale {899
of Grace grew grave and anxiouw“
she read and re-re'ad,the paper.

“Caroline, cousin Carrie WM
does this mean? Are 7011111.“?
nesti ”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

run 01.1: mm, m rm: WIFE. 153

 

 

“In earnest —-of course! Isn’t
that plain Englishl Is it not fair
writ?”

“But you will never marry James
Lester feeling as this letter makes it
ev‘ident you do feel; but if you send
"’50, I need give myself no anxiety—
6 will never give you a chance.”

.“ Indeed I shall marry him, and he
Will give me a chance. I shall orderl
the dress immediately. What shall I
Wear? Now don’t look so woe-be-
80116. It is a kind of butter-and-
Cheese barter you see. He needs a
Wife, and I, Caroline Reed, am just
the lady for him. Passany good-
looking, pretty well educated, and the
undisputed owner of three thousand
dollars, you must perceive that, withal,
IIthall make a ver respectable house-
keeper. Now if choose to ‘swap’
myself, accomplishments and money,

the name and position he can give
me, and the privilege of keeping the

Ones he will build with the ‘ incum-
brance’ I shall bring' him, why it’s
"on isn’t it?” Grace listened with
“incredulous smile. “ And then you
kl10w it’s such. a horrible thing to be
an old maid, and really James is a
Very good young man, of fair pros-
Pem, and I do not dislike him.”

‘fDo not dislike him! Have you
f“gotten Harry and the past i ”

‘ aroline gave a quick impatient
atart, then her ale cheek flushed, and
the answered armmt angrily ':

L “Grace, it has been three years
“lice that name has passed my lips.

I‘Om this hour, remember that story

a forbidden theme. I must not,
What'is'more, I will not hear of it.

ever call him, or that chapter in the

i'fwry of my past, to my mind. It is
tten on a page which is now torn
°ut and destro ed. But, Grace,” she
“Med, suddeny resuming her gay
anners, “ what shall I wear —- White
"FPS or colored silk? there is a splen-

‘d piece of brocade at Wiltses’.”

Grace knew her cousin well enough

how that after this, remonstrance

'0"! her would be in vain; but She
conld not enter with any spirit into

 

the minutiae of wedding arrangements.
Caroline, as she had declared she
should, proceeded with quiet firmness
to make the necessary purchases,
talked with unceasing gayety to Grace
of her future prospects and plans.

In the course of two or three days she
received a note from Dr. Lester, thank-
ing her for the favorable answer which
she had sent him,‘and containing ex-
pressions of sincere regard. The style
of his first letter had been respectful,
but by no means affectionate, and this
peculiarity had entirely escaped his
notice. To his high sense of honor,
the fact that he had offered her his
hand seemed sufficient evidence that
his heart was interested, and with the
same confidence in her integrity, it
never occurred to him that Caroline
could accept the offer unless prompted
to do so, by love. '

Caroline had been left an orphan at
the age of thirteen, with an only bro-
ther, ten years her senior, who had
married after their parent’s death. To
a disposition naturally impulsive and
ardent, was added an unflinching in-
dependence and firmness in Carolina.
Between her brother and herself there
had never existed any very devoted
attachment. They were too much
alike to agree in childhood, and in
later years his affections had centered
more particularly in his own family.
His sister’s will came in contact so
often with his own, that he had grad-
ually ceased to make much effort to
influence her, and had as a conse-
quence taken less and less interest in
her afl'airs. True, he loved her in a
general sort of a way, and had she
made any effort to gain his confidence
he would not have withheld it. But
although she wept in secret over her
own loneliness, and longed for his sym-
pathy and counsel, it never occurred
to her that her own coldness had been
the cause.

In her eighteenth year she had met,
and with all her heart had loved Harry
Lang. She had given to his keeping
her whole heart, reserving no rtion

with which to do homage to herfiaker.

 

 

4 THE OLD MAID, AND THE WIFE.

 

 

A mut l misunderstandin had oc-
curred between them, whic had re-
sulted in a separation. ThrOugh the
intervening ears Harry had held sa-
cred his eary vows, and hoped, and
occasionally made efl'orts for a recon-
ciliation. He knew she loved him,
and the fear never entered his heart
that she might give her hand to
another while this we so. Their cas-
ual meetings had resulted in nothing
but unhappiness to both, but Harry
patiently waited, and hoped against
ope. As for Caroline, she believed
herself deceived, and had called all
her strength of will and firmness to

her rescue, and had hidden the wild '

anguish of her heart beneath an exte-
rior of unyielding calmness and re-
serve.

Grace, alone of all her friends,
knew the story of the past, and al-
though Caroline had often wept upon
her bosom, she had as often repelled
and defied her sympathy. Mrs. Reed
was by no means the woman to make
her home a happy one for her hus-
band’s sister. She was a busy, bus-
tling, precise little wife, and felt the
utmost contempt for “old maids,”
which she sometimes ex ressed to her
sister-in-law, in the evi ent apprehen-
sion that she bade fair to join the sis-
terhood. Caroline’s independence took
the alarm, and she resolved to accept
the first suitor riot absolutely repulsive
to her, and Dr. Lester, as she suspected
he would be, was the happy man.

The pre arations for the wedding
went brisky forward, and all except
Grace were efl‘ectually blinded. Twice
when she had found her cousin in
tears she had renewed her remon-
strance, but had met a repulse so defi-
ant that she ever after held her peace.

Dr. Lester and his wife were re-
turning from their bridal tour evidently
in high 'rits. One morning, the last
of their Journey, Caroline being unu-
sually weary, slept in her seat-until

long'after light. It'had been neces-

 

sary for them to travel for two nights
in succession, as business was ca ling
them homeward. She opened her
eyes and glanced round her. Her
husband was not to be seen, but with
a smile of recognition and delight,
Harry Lang was coming toward
her.

“I have been waiting ever since
daylight, and I discovered you here,
with all the impatience possible to see

on waken,” he 'said, offering his
and; and then taking the vacant
seat beside her, he added in a lower
tone, “I am on my way to visit you.
Will you bid me welcome i ” '

He saw the pallor of her face, and
interpreted her emotion and silence as
his heart inclined. '

' “Dear Carrie, I come, determined

this miserable estrangement shall
end. It is killing me, I believe.”
He had bent close toward her. He

started as she laid her hand on his—-
it was icy cold, and he looked into
her face. There was certainly a look
there he had never seen before.
Something like the truth flashed upon
his mind. .

“ Caroline, tell me; shall I be wel-
come i ’f

The color ‘flashed hack to her face,
Her husband was coming. Pride, res-
olution, every strong element of her
soul was brought forward to aid in the
effort of self-control.

“God forgive me, Harry—I 8m
married,”’s‘he whispered; and with D
manner and voice as calm and p8?
sionless as ever, she rose and presen
to her husband her old friend, Harry
Lang. ’ 4

He did not notice the look of stem
despair which Harry bent upon him:
but throwing himself into the seat 110
had left, exclaimed :

“How tired and really sick you
look, my poor Carrie. I must 110‘
urge you forward so rapidly. 1Y0”
shall rest in 8. . . . a few days, while
go forward. I have been selfish ' w

tax our stren b so much. ~It we!
only because disliked to lei"
yang).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE omnm, ANDfl‘HE WIFE.

155

 

Caroline suffered herself to be sup-
ported in his arms that she might the
more efi‘ectually hide her face. How
clearly then came before her mind the
error, the sin she had committed.
How clearly she saw that she had
wronged her husband, had wronged
Harry, and had wronged herself.
What a life-time of sorrow and re-
pentance she saw before her. In the
two hours that she lay motionless in
her husband’s arms —and he thought
her sleeping—what a depth of wretch-
edness surged and rolled in her bosom,
and how bright and beautiful looked
the happiness she had ,cast aside.
And Harry too, was sufi'ering. She
knew it, for she knew well the depth
and truth of his nature, and now she
heard his ste . He was coming to-
ward them. he opened her eyes, and
met a glance of firm self-possession, and
understood and ansWered the look of
calm inquiry she saw in Harry’s eyes.

e came forward and seated himself
hear them, as she rose from her reclin-
lng posture, and with a cheerful un-
embarrassed manner, entered into
conversation with Dr. Lester. The
doctor thought him decidedly agreea-

le. Speaking of a mutual friend : ‘

“ I made his acquaintanCe in Actor,”
8aid Mr. Lang; “by the way, you
must have known him there, Mrs. es-
ter; you spent your school—days in
that place.”

Carolina’s reference to her engage-
ment flashed instantly upon the mind
Of Dr. Lester. Her sudden illness
that morning, and now—well, cer-
tainly, now that he thought of it, he
did notice somethin very eculiar
In the appearance 0 both .w en .he
came so suddenly upon‘ them, and
with ready intuition he guessed her
Secret. He had hoped the passion of

81' first love had passed, but he saw
how that he was deceived. In Caro-
llne’s resolutions for the future, she
had omitted the one thing that might
l10w have secured happiness to them
both. She had determined that he'
Ihould never know more of the past
than she had already confided in him.

 

She would go forward firmly in the
performance of her duties as a wife.
and he should never know but that
love prompted every act of kindness.
She did not remember with what
quick eyes love discovered the true re-
turn, and the false.
4: a a e a . a

In due time they were installed in
their new home, and Caroline said to
herself and to others that she was
happy Had she turned with the
strength of Christian purpose, with
perfect truth to her new duties, she
might have been. But although to
all outward appearances their path
was strewn only with. flowers, her feet
were hurt with the thorn and stung
by the insect hidden there. Her hus-
band was almost always gentle and
kind, but she saw plainly that he was
growing impatient and snSpicious, an
her heart rose up in anger and rebel-
lion.

“ Caroline,” said Dr. Lester one day,
as he stepped suddenly into her room.
She raised her eyes to his. “Your
old friend Lang will dine with us to-
day. I met him on the street just
pow, and came home to tell you.”

His first words brought the blood
to her cheek, but the next moment it
was colorless. He had spoken inten-
tionally that he might note the effect
of his words, but it sent an added ar-
row to his heart.

Ever since the meeting on the can
he had sought in every way to lead
his wife to confide in him, but he had
been coldly and sometimes haughtin
repulsed. Every now and then he
heard her murmur the name of Harry
in her sleep, and not unfrequently it
was coupled with some endearing e i.
that; and when,as he saw her thou ts
often wandered, he knew with w m
they were—Dr. Lester was excited

and angry.

“Gardiner” he exclaimed, “ on
have deceived and wronged me. Want
right had you to insult me with the
gift of your hand, while you knew
ygpr heart was van to another?

ause you thought I stood to you

\

 

  

 

156 ms DYING wnm

 

in the ‘interesting position of a last
chance for a husband ? ’ ”

Caroline sprang to her feet. “I
did not deceive you. You never asked
me for m love; you never gave me
yours,” s e said, her eyes flashing de-
fiance.

“So when you uttered the marriage
vows you confess that you stained

our soul with a liel I asked you to

come my wife, and had no idea of
the perjury that would allow you to
consent to occupy that position unless
the relation could be sanctified by
love. I did give you mine; I did love
you, but you are fast teaching me to
hate you now.”

“Hate me—ohl James, my bus-
band, what are you saying?” she
cried, springing before him as he was
rapidly leaving the room. “ Save me,
I pray you ! save me to myself, to the
world, and to you. Bear with me a
little while, and before high Heaven,I
will yet be to you a true and -loving
wife.”

At first he would have pushed her
from him, but he suddenly drew her
to his arms, and looked with eager in-
quiry into her eyes, pressed a kiss
upon her lips, and left the house.
Caroline had caught sight of the prec-
ipice toward which she was hastening,
and with terror in her heart had stag-
gered backward, and cried out for
help. Well had it been for her had
she gathered up with a firm hand the
broken threads of truthfulness, and
with the energy she wasted on less
worthy objects, turned her footsteps to

other paths.
(To be concluded.)

 

Goo made both tears and laughter,
and both for kind purposes; for as
laughter enables mirth and surprise
to breathe freely, so tears enables
sorrow to vent itself patiently. Tears
hinder sorrow from becoming de-
spair and madness; and laughter is
one of the prmleges of reason, being
confined to the human speciea—Leigh
Hunt. . I

 

THE DYING WIFE.

Lu the gem upon my bosom,
Let me feel her sweet warm breath;

For a strange chill o’er me passes,
And I know that it is death.

I would gaze upon the treasure—
Scarcely given ere I go —-

Feel her rosy, dimpled fingers
Wander o’er my cheek of snow.

I am passing through the waters,
But a blessed shore appears;

Kneel beside me, husband, dearest,
Let me kiss away thy tears.

Wrestle with thy grief, my husband,
Strive from midnight until day;

It may leave an angel’s blessing
When it vanisheth away.

Lay the gem upon my bosom,
. ’Tis not long she can be there;

See! how to my heart she nestles—
’T is the pearl I love to wear.

It‘, in after years, beside thee .
Sits another in my chair,

Though her voice be sweeter music,
And her face than mine, more fair:

If a cherub call thee “father! ”
Far more beautiful than this,

Love thy first-born! oh, my husband!
Turn not from the motherless.

Tell her sometimes of her mother—
Yon will call her by my name?

Shield her from the winds of sorrow,
If she errs, oh! gently blame!

Lead her sometimes where I’m sleeping;
I will answer if she calls,

And my breath will stir her ringlets,
When my voice in blessing falls.

Her soft, dark eyes will brighten
With a wonder whence it came;

In her heart, when years pass o’er her,
She will find her mother’s name.

It is said that every martal
Walks between two air els here;
One records the ill, but b ots it,
If before'the midnight drear
Man repenteth; if uncanceled,
Then he seals it for the skies,
And, the ri ht-hand angel weepeth,
Bowing ow with vailed eyes.

I will be her right-hand angel,
Sealing up the good for Heaven;
Striving that the midnight watches
Find no misdeedunforgiven.
You will not forget me, husband,
When I’m sleeping ’neath the sod ?
Oh love the Mel given 115,
Ml love the, next toGod.'

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lam non summon. 157

g

LETTERS FROM QUIETSIDE.
IV. ‘

G. . . . ., June 15, 1857.
Y dear M. . . .:—‘I have been so
closely employed for several days
Past, that fatigue and lassitude have al-
ll.lost prostrated me, and I hail the glo-
rious day of rest as among Heaven’s

Choicest gifts.

“ Day of all the week the best,
Emblem of eternal rest."

Did you ever think, dear M. . . ., what
this world would be, were it one con-
tlllued working-day ? N 0 day of uiet
rest in prospect — no Sabbath bel ,re—
vel‘berating among the hills and val-
.eys its call to prayer and praise; its
Invitation to sweet repose and religious

°0ntemplation on that “rest which re- '

maineth for the people of God.”

It has been raid, and by Him, too,
Who is Lord of all, that “ the Sabbath
was made for man.” It is undoubt-
°dly true, that all things were intended
3? subserve man’s interest and his

lghest enjoyment; to do this, there
xllust have been an adaptation in all
Filings to man’s idiosyncracies. “ Order
18 Heaven’s first law;” hence it is
Presumable that the great Artist, in
Planning his work, so constituted man
Phat the institution of the Sabbath be-
came a necessity of his nature. Labor
was also a divine institution, designed

{man’s recreation and independence,
‘f It was the appointed way in which

‘8 sustenance was to be obtained; his
enOrgies, both mental and physical,
“0 largely indebted to labor for their

ealthy 'action; these all require the
recuperative influence of rest, according
3'0 a certain appointment. Man hav-
mg been thus constituted, “ the Sab-
bfith was made ” for him, in consider-
‘tlon of his great want. After the
fint seventh day, when God rested
'0!!! all his works, there is no special
melltion of the Sabbath until the rec-
°"d of the Law. It is not then intro-

nced as somethin new, but recognized

l “ something wel known, and its

“actions strongly in and enforced,

'3 Something that had fallen into neg-

 

lect. Circumstances and references
warrant the belief, that the seventh
part of time was appropriated to re-
ligious services, from the first day of
rest, to the time when Noah entered
the ark; and by him while he was
floating on‘the world of water, in his
transition state from the old world to
the new; and from that to the Exo-
dus, and the assembling at Sinai’s
base. The first two men that were
born, brought their offerings“ in process
of time.” This phase is very indefi-
nite, but would seem to indicate some
set period; as the end of the year, month,
or week. They had, most probably,
been taught the modes of worship pre-
scribed by their Maker, and brought
to some accustomed place their offer-
ing for a religious expression of their
obligation to God.

In various parts of Scripture, the
term “seven ” is used to express com-
pleteness, or fully made up; and is
therefore called a perfect number. No
number occurs so often in the Bible as
this; and as it can not, abstractly,
have any innate virtues or peculiar
significance, it is highly probable that
it has some important allusion. May
it not refer to the rest, after the great
work of creation was completed?
The shadowing forth a seven-fold di-
vision of time, to continue to the end
of the world? ~

More than sixteen hundred and
fifty years after the first Sabbath,
Noah was commanded to enter the
ark with his family, and pairs of every
species of animal life; of clean beasts,
or those used in religious offerings,
there was a seventh, and he was al-
lowed seven days to complete his ar.
rangements; and there are satisfactory
reasons for the belief that the seventh
day was observed during the time they
were shut into the ark, from the fact
that the interval of seven days elapsed
in two instances between the sending
forth of the doves. From the use of
the physio, “ he stayed yet other seven
days,” it may reasonably be inferred
that the same interval ela between
the sending forth of the raven and the

 

  

158

 

mammal! UUIITSIDE.

 

first dove; though this. is not specified
as in the. other instances. (See Gen.
viii. : 7—1.2.) From these and other data,
it issupposed that the Sabbath was
sanctified by the holy patriarchs of an-
tdiluvian da 3; although the great
mass of mankind disregarded it, as
they discarded all knowledge of God
and his institutions. '

It has been supposed by some theo-
logians, that the population of the
earth was much star at that time
than it has been since; and that gross
wickedness stalked forth with unblusb-
ing front, and was dominant in the
world, as it never has been since the
deluge. Many reasons are in favor of
this hypothesis, for, after all, it is little
more.

Man, unquestionably, as he came
from the hands of his Maker, ap-
proached more nearly to inteliectual
perfection, than man in his lapsed
state-can 'well conceive. Although
when he sinned, all his powers were
paralyzed by the shock, yet, robably,
the deterioration was gradua thrOugh
the many centuries of his allotted life;
emboldened by the impunity, he was
encouraged to excesses in wickedness,
until sin stalked forth, the “horrid
monster, misshapen and blind,” it be-
came before the world’s destruction by
the deluge. All the mental powers
were in full strength and activity; dis-
coveries in science, and acquisitions in
arts-ere the ready offspring of his
thought; and his life extending to
nearly one thousand years, gave ample

'portunity for the same man to

ange, improve, and perfect the work
which had originated in his own brain.
Results of opposite character w0uld
naturally follow; on the one hand,
great attainments, great improvements
would accrue; on the other, wicked-
ness would increase in an increased
ratio, in a progressive proportion; this
is its nature, and in confirmation of
this View of- the sub'sct, the inspired
historian assures ns t “ the wicked-
nm of man wasgreat; that every

agination “Who-:Mghh of his
heart was only evil continually.” “The

earth was corrupt before God, and
filled with violence.” “ All flesh had
corru ted his way upon the earth."
That is, wickednem was rampant, and
the little piety that remained, was lie
a little leaven hidden in a measure of
meal, which, for the time, made no es-
hibition of its presence, though it was
destined by-and-by to show its work-
ings by unmistakable signs.
course, the institutions of God were
laughed to scorn. His promises and
threatenings scouted from their minds.

As they increased in knowledge,
wealth, and improvements, their heart's
language was, “ Who is the Lord that
we should serve him! Why does he
delay his coming? ” The odor of lost
blessing falls upon the heart with in»
creased sweetness, like the gentle dews
of eve, after the fierce heat of the day.
Such, we may suppose, was the seat
with which the faithful few inet each
other to speak of Him who was ig-
nored by the heartless multitude
around them ; to commemorate at re-
turning seasons their relationship to
God, and their obligation to Him,of
which, each Sabbath was a renewed
memorial. .

With how much greater joy should
we greet that glorious day, in while
holy memories we celebrate another.
a promised completion of that grant
work—the 11) story into which ‘1‘
gels desired to {00k —- when “ the
of the woman should bruise the set“
pent’s head,”—- when the Lord Jeeul
Christ “ led captivity captive.” Should
we not then, with our best energlfly
hail 'rna sanaarn l

“ Bless'd mornln l whose first opening rarl

Behold our dug God;

That saw him trlum h o'er a dust,
And leave his dug shade.“I

In our moments of sanitation, when
the heart~e is, “ What can I rend“

pws include that of the blessed 
bath? Do we realize the great 1
legs afforded us, to lay aside/fl

secular concerns, and hold coramunxon
sweet aadz-high with the great Jeho-

 

vah, the-author of all things! :

 

to my God or .11 His benefits? "~60 .

 

 

u. ......—...__........_. )

 

 

 

 

 

ml mus wens. 159

_

In all the special indulgenoesgranted
it? man, there is perhaps no one so en<
Wely adapted to the infirmity of his
unture, as the appropriation of one-
.Ieventh rt of time for rest and med-
!tation. “ Remember the Sabbath day
tQ’keep it holy; six days shalt thou

bor, but on the seventh thou shalt
Test.” By this command we are not

'to suppose that a little less inactivity

is allowed on the seventh day; neither
that the great work of Religion is to
be confined to that day, and excluded
from the week-day labors. We are
commanded to labor six days not only,
but to “do all our work;” no ra-
tional being can suppose that all his
work consists in providing for the frail,
dying body. The soul—the soul that
dies not, that returns to God from
'hom it is an emanation, being Our
priceless gem, requires special provis-
On, not' only by the meditation and
thanksgiving of the Sabbath, but by

preparation for that sacred day on ev- -

cry day of the week beside. The
great work of repentance, which leads
to prayer and watchfulness, is not the
peculiar work of the Sabbath ; no! the
Sabbath is the day for which all the
other days are made; and all the days
Of the week should subserve a prepa-

ration for that holy day, which is a

bright emblem, a blessed type of that
glorious rest,
“ Which for the church of God remains,
The end of urea, the end of pains."

. Oh, my soul! let this saci'ed mom-
}ng carry to the recording angel good
lptelligence of thy heavenward inclina-
tions. Strive so to divest thyself of
corporeal affections, that, with calm
delight and humble adorations, thou
lflayest prostrate thyself before the

ajesty of heaven and earth, and min-
8‘9 thy aspirations of prayer and praise
‘mh an els, and archangels, and glori-

ed spirits, which surround the throne
01’ the Eternal, and cry unintermit-

~tingly, «Holy, boxy, holy Lord God

Almighty, Which was, and is, and is
to come." “ Worthy is the lamb that
‘7“ “3m, '50 Noeive wer, and riches,
and Wildam; “d strength, and honor,

 

and glor , and blessing.” Blessed
Jesus! t on didst sanctify this day
when thou shook ofi‘ the bonds
of death, ascended on high, and
gave gifts to men, the greatest of
which Is symbolized by this sacred
day. More than eighteen hundred
years ago, on the morning of the first '
day, “while it was yet dark,” did’st
thou spoil the spoilers, and bring life
and immortality to light. Therefore
we celebrate the first day of the week.
Sometimes thy children go to the
sanctuary while it is “yet darks”
wilt thou, benignant Saviour, dispel
those shades, and so illuminate their de- '
sponding spirits, that they shall, with
exultant joy, cry out, “My Lord and
my God.” Enable thy worshipers to
say to each other, and all around them:

“ Come, bless the Lord, whose love assign
So sweet a rest for weary minds ;
Provides an antepast of heaven.

And gives this day the food of seven."

L’Aitm.

 

THE TRUE WOMAN.

HE true woman, for whose ambition

a husband’s love and her children’s
adoration are suficient, whoa li‘es her
militaryinstincts to the discip iue of he:
household, and whose legislative abili-
ties exercise themselves in making laws
for her house; whose intellect has field
enough for herin communion with her
husband, and whose heart asks no other
honors than his love and admiration;
a woman who does not think it a weak-
ness to attend to her toilet, and who
does not disdain to be beautiful; who
believes in the virtue of glossy hair and
well-fitting gowns, and who eschews
rents and reveled edges, slip-shod shoas,
and audacious make-ups; a woman who
speaks low, and does not speak much;
who is patient and gentle, intellectual,
and industrious; who loves more than
she reasons, and yet she does not, love
blindly; who never soolds and rarely ar-
gnu, if: adjusts with a smile — such a
woman is the wife we have all dreamed
of once in our lives, and is the mother
we still worshi in the backward dis-

tance of the pasta-«Dishes.

 

180

 

GROWING OLD.

BY_MISB MARY J. CROSIAH.

BEVY of girls sat around Mrs.

- Wilton’s tea-table. Mirth, hope,

and happiness were inmates of every

hurt, sorrow was but a name; and

the future’s vista, so far as youthful

fancy could discern, was joyous and
unclouded. .

“There comes old aunty Grey,”
said Agnes Wilton, looking out of the
open window; “do see how wrinkled
and crooked. Girls, I wonder what
will bow us down, and furrow our
faces, and whiten our heads.”

“Oh, let’s tell fortunes, exlaimed
Sue Lawson, eagerly ; “ Sarah Somers
can tell them ; come, Minnie, turn up
your cup, and Ella, and all the girls.”

“I don’t believe they have much
confidence in your fortune-teller, Sue,”
said Sarah, with a manner which
Would‘fully sanction their unbelief.

“Oh, yes!” interposed Minnie;-

“we ’d as soon trust you as any of the
profession.”

“Come, Hattie, and Jennie, hand
over your cups. I’ve shaken the
teapot thoroughly,” said Agnes, af-
fecting a little impatience at their de~
ay.

80 with mock gravity, and a dialect
suited to the occasion, they told each
other of letters and presents to be re-
ceived, circles waiting to be closed,
journeys to be taken, and all the et-
ceteras of happiness, whose omens could
be crowded within the circumference
of a teacup.

‘—

Time, like a ruthless revealer walk-
ingsover the earth, had measured ofi‘
many years since the tea-party at Mrs.
Wilton’s, telling with unerring cer-
tainty fortunes then clad in the bril-
liant foldings of a mysterious future.
Aye, that future had worn chameleon
hu'ee, distance had lentenchantment to
the view, and every thorn was hidden
beneath some fragrant rose. ‘

Sarah Somere matured into a s len~
did woman; her moral and into lect-

GROWING‘ OLD.

 

 

ual attainments were of ii high order,
and a degree of the feminine graces
and accomplishments gave to her
character a softened, fascinating beauty.
In acknowledgement of her genial
heart, love and friendship came hand
in hand offering their choicest gifts
upon its shrine. In early womanhood
her affections were lavished upon one
worthy of the gift, but it was hers to
realize the truth of what Meredith
wrote: “Whom first we love, you
know, we seldom wed.” A cruel fate
separated herself and lover; the fibres
of the soul torn and uprooted, wound
themselves about one who had desired
her hand hitherto, and now pressed
his suit so earnestly, that in the deep
twilight of Sorrow she assented. But
the yielding lover became a jealous,
exacting husband, and Sarah Somers
drank at times from a bitter cup. The
noble impulses of her nature could be

‘but partially followed, for her spirit,

like a bird with clipped wings, could
describe only a narrow circle in its

‘flight.

Thus united to one of vulgar tastes
and unrefined mind —though of pre«
possessing exterior—in the fulfillment
of her marriage vow, to “honor and
obey,” she had need adopt her hus-
band’s motto, “Let us eat, drink, and
be merry ; ” so they ate of the bread
that begetteth hunger, and drank from
broken cisterns to satisfy an immortal
thirst. The soul fitted to soar aloft
and banquet with the gods, according
to the ancient myth, groveled on with
the earth-worm at its side, but dark
eyes told of restless yearnings, and
raven-like hair was early besprinkled
with silver threads.

Agnes Wilton had wedded gold.
When Abraham’s servant: went forth
to seek a wife for his master Isaac, the'
angel of the Lord went before to
make ready the heart of the beautiful
Hebrew damsel ; but the emissary of a
darker sovereign was commissioned,
when, in the heart of Agnes an altar
was reared, which claimed for its of"
ferings gold instead of love. Splendor
and steganee surrounded herdhut they

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"lume- .

 _'l f  

 

 

 

 

GROWINGOM). 181

¥

only mocked the poverty within.

rom strange and untold circum-
stances, her life wore on with but little
cheer, illumined now and then by the
flashings of an unsteady sun. Too late
She felt the fetters that were imposed
upon her, which, though gilded, bleut
their clanking with the spirit’s sadness.

'Another dwelt under a cottage roof, ’

mlaffing from life's chalice nectar of
e brightest hue. “ Give me neither
poverty nor riches,” was Agur’s
Prayer, and the blessings of this golden
mean were fully realized in the home
0f Hattie Jennings. Roses blossomed
Without, birds warbled among the lan-
le, and the creamy oddrs of the bean
Vine were exhaled by glowing suns.
When the gorgeous but chilly twilights
0f autumn came on, the shutters were
closed, the slippers were placed by the
glowing grate, and glad hearts throbbed
with the happiness of home. Music
flowed forth in happy numbers, but
"meter than the tones of harp or
lute were the voices of childhood, and
the pattering of little feet that came
around the evening hearthstone. Then
at the good-night hour, an earnest
VOice commended them to our Father’s
care, and sweet forgetfulness descended
on silent win 3 to every couch, “for
“He giveth his beloved sleep.” Aye,

e wealth of love beneath that roof,
was a richer argosy than ever left the
Eldorado of the West.

Alas! that among thatlittle party one
81lOuld have proved a Magdalen, a wan-
derer from the fold. Heavy waves of
aOrrow drifted over that soul, and its

orizori was hung with weepin clouds.
he grave offered a gratefu refuge,
but its shelter was denied her. At
ength she heard amid the darkness a
pavenly voice saying, “Sister, go and
"n no more.” Then, a faint light
glimmered, but the lost radiance‘that
went out with virtue came not again.
innie Berton, the sweet childish
maiden, whose blue eyes spake do the
of love, and whose soft, wavy air
tried over a thoughtful brow, gave
.l'selt' to one-who labored with im-
Pnsioned srdorin his Master’s service.

 

Gentleness and firmness were happily
blended in her character,» and the gar-
ments of her soul, so beautiful and
pure, bespoke to every eye the tracer-
1es of angel workmanship. She, the
truly noble, grew old upon a foreign
soil. A cycle of years went by fraught
with labors and hopes, and then, in the
land of her ad0ption they made her
grave. The crested hoopoo bird, in its
flight for the golden orange and lus-
cious banana of the south, passes her
resting-place, and the perfumes of that
sunny land that to and fro above her
form, but never a bird or breeze from
her childhood’s home hath wandered
so far. The marble at her head re-
peats the Saviour’s promise, “ Whose
looseth his life for my sake shall find
it;” and who shall say that in the land
of the glorified she hath not found an
undimmed counterpart of her toil below.

Susie Lawson trod a toilsome path
in the rugged vale of poverty, though

.her cheerful spirit gathered up many

leasures by the wayside, in spite of
itsstern surroundings. But the dreams
of early life were never realized, and at
times, their memory came floating in
like an interlude of magical sweetness
amid the deep, rough bass of life.

“ Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls,
Stretched away into stately halls;
The weary wheel to a spinnet turned,
The taliow candle an astral burned,
And for him who sat by the chimne Jug
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe an mug,
A manly form at her side she saw, .
And jo was duty, and love was law ;
Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, ‘ it might have been.’ "

There was but one among that num-
ber who never grew old. Sweet Nellie
Ray l Other lips pressed the cup of
sorrow, while hers were never parted
with one low wail of woe; other hands
wrought with weannessand sometimes
pain, but here, of marble whiteness, were
olded over a' snowy robe. Her spirit
clad in immortality was among the
dwellers of the heaven-land. Short

had been its earthly sojourn, but the
“better part” was early chosen. BM

tiful were those footprints leading t0-
ward the mark for the prize, but more
beauteous, as they entered the gate of
pear] to receive an eternal crown.

 

LOW 

 

   

' 0, love thy wikl ihr thee she prays
LOVE 'THY' WIF E. A“At morning, and at eve, d
. , d when she sees thee turn aai e
n m m P' " email" The path of truth to leave,

 

\ 0, nova thy wife, who ve her heart, ' She ’11 turn away from light and mirth, “3

nor girlish heart to t ee, And in her closet grieve.

as trusted that her ofi’ering ’
A valued one would be; . - 0, love thy wife, tho’ she have faults,

0, treasure well the noble gift, For thou must surely know
And guard its purity! ' That faultless ones are not among . '

0 , _ , The dwellers here below;
01 1079 “U “f0 Who“ hf° 8W" b"th Reprove her kindly, gently, then,
.Who, with her dreams of future bliss, ’
. Th7 mml)’ New?“ WOW? 0, love thy wife! thou knowest not

0, ever to the trusting one, That she may tarry 10D , '

A [Wing husband PW“! To cheer thy care-o’erbur ened heart
With sunlight and with song;

0, love thy wife who left her home, 0, do the gentle, passing one

He? Pleasant home for Ehee, N 0 little, careless wrong. . l

Consentin for thy sake to tread
The pat of poverty;
Prove thou but kind, and true, and good,

 

l
l
l
l
l
l
i ' When thou didst wake her love; For thou Inst errors, too.
l
l
l
l
l
l
l
l

 

 

 

, The pBIhWfll flowery he. » A 
0, love thy wife! perchance when thou on, mountain high 1 with evergreens , I
For weary days hast llin‘ Adorniug thy fair form, ' . ‘;
And tossed upon a with! MOP, I gaze upon thy beauty I
And gunned mth racking P8“, In the-fresh and lovely morn,
g She has been 11W W Cheer my gloom: When sitting in thy grandeur,
; And gently nurse thee then; With dqw-besprinkled face,
7 , Sol covers thee with s lendor
z 0", When “'9 h8m 0‘ mm”! fled, Ere he travels on his race.
,1 And. death seemed hovering near, And the“ 68m, 1 gaze on thee
; She sat and watched beside thy bed In the son md “my night,
' WI"! mmgled hope and fear; When o’er the heaven’s curtain
{ And often on thy unconscious head Fair Luna sheds be,- fight,
; Let fall affection" “381'- When brilliant are the wreathlng stars,
, . . That shines above thy‘brow, ’
, or 10“ th! '9‘", We“ "f" Around the moon, their mother,
‘ Who hath 50 m“! 0”“. Who leads them ently now. N
, Upon whose brow “old father Time ” The pebbly broo em a; thy hue ,
j Recon? the Pawns 39'1va Dimplcs and laughs at thee, '- ‘
l FOI' nothing but I hu'lbmd 5 10" And thou in answer wave’st thy wreath; l
9 In: my the swung m"- Thus giving glee for'glee. '
‘ Sweet budding spring and summer fair,
0. 10"9 thy Wife! the World W00” be Still autumn with her showy dress, «
T0 he? ‘ desert Place, And winter with his silvery hair, .,. 
The weeks would seem like weary months, To th'ee their lips they press. I
The hours likeglirgsenng days. Yet, as they each in turn go by 4
Shoald 90‘ “79°30” ' h“PW Emu“ ' And leave their impress there, >
Irradiate thy face- Naught of thy beauty do they met,
But make thee still more fair. ;
0, love thy wife! she ‘ll tum to thee . . a:
when others prove untrue, And thus, my song must leaverthee, I 
And finding thine a faithful heart, For I should try in vain ' 1
HuJove will gush anew; To paint thy plasma» bow?"- ,
At such an hour as this, do than Through each brief season s reign. I
Thy edrly vows renew. - 2 Dnm‘f ,
0, love‘thy wife who gave to the M
Thelaughing-girls and boys, - ' "
Thatwaken in thy 1p Av breast “ T tremble!" dwufl'not With “MW
Parental hopes amigo s ;‘ “1301; fawehno' “1 noble bmi 1‘
n," mm, the falthfhl-H‘w I ‘wm i you where I have found 3"“,
Boawest the h-bali’nlshw . t ' “lim'hmble; qua haw" '

 

   

. . .‘4 __.__,V-~ -‘_

 

 

 

 

THE MISTAKE

“I’LL never do it -— never so lon as
Ilivel” And the boy olenc ed
his hands together, and strode up and
down'the room, his fine features flushed,
“Id his forehead darkened with'anger
md shame. “I’d ask the minister’s
pardon in father’s presence, of course I
would; but to go before the whole
academy, boys and girls, and do this !”
Hiswhole frame writhed at the thought.
“ Ellsworth Grant, you ’11 brand your-
le as a coward and a fool al the
days of your life. But father never
retracts, and he said I must do this or
leave the school, and go out on the
tlirt'm to work; and the whole village
Will know the reason, and I shall be
ashamed to look anybody in the face.
I’ve a good will to run away.” The
firs voice grew lower, and a troub-
l ' , bewildered expression gathered on
his flushed features. “It would be
Very hard to leave all the old places;
.md then, never to see ‘Nellie again;
it would break her heart, I know it
v'Ould.” And his face worked con-
yulsively a moment, but it settled down
"Ito a look of dogged resolution the
next. “ I mus n’t think of that now ;
though it’s only ten miles to the sea-
P°rt, and I could walk that in an hour,
“1d get a place on some ship about to
nail, before father was an wiser.
me time I’d come back, 0 course,
but not until I was old enough to be
my own master."
The boy sat down and buried his
e in. his hands, and the sunset of
e summer’s day poured its currents
crimson and amber into thecham-
r, and overthe bowed figureof the
y. At last he lifted his head;
1‘8 was a look of quiet resolve in
the dark hazel eyes and about the
Finally smiling mouth, which in youth
l‘10 painful, because it always indi-
“les mental suffering.
.' Ellsworth Grant was at this time
Just fifteen. He was his father’s only
‘00, and he was motherless. Therdea.
°°n was a stern, severe man, while
Worth inherited his mother’s warm,

 

1188

sunny temperament. His father was
a man of unswervihg integrity and
rectitudewa man who would have
parted with his right hand sooner than

ave committed a dishonest act; but
one who had.fem sympathies for faults
indigenous to peculiar temperaments
and characters; a man whose heart
had never learned the hight and depth,
and the all-embracing beauty of that
mightiest text, which is the diamond
among all the pearls and precious
stones of the Bible: “Be ye ch“.
itable.”

He was a hard, exacting parent,
and Ellsworth was a fun-loving, nit.
chief-brewing bo , that everybody
loved, despite his aults,and the scrapes
he was always getting his neck into.
There is no doubt that Deacon Grant
loved his son, but he was not a dem-
onstrative man; and then — it is the
sad, sad story that may be written of
many a parent—J he did n’t under-
stand his child,” and there was no mo-
ther, with her soft voice and soothing
words, to come between them.

Ellsworth’s last ofl‘ense can be told
in a few words. The ape vine
which, heavy with urpe clusters,

trailed over the kite on windows of

the school-teacher’s residence,~ had
been robbed of more than half its
fruit, one Saturday afternoon, when
the inmates were absent. The per-
pretators of this deed were, however,
discovered to be a. party of the school-
boys, amon whom was Ellsworth.
The rest of t e boys privately solicited
and obtained the school-teacher’s »
don, but the deacon, who was terribl
shocked at this evidence of his son’s
want of rinciple, insisted that he
should make a public confession of hi.
fault before the assembled school. In
vain Ellsworth explained and entreatad.
His father was mvulnerable, and the
boy’s haughty spirit entirely mutinied.

* . ‘F * * ‘

“ Ellsworth! Ellsworth! when are
you going i ” ' .

There came. down the garden-walk
an eager, quivering. voioevthat made
the boy Slutyandimewed eagerly

 

  

164

as he stood at- the garden gate, while
the li ht of the rising day was Iflush-
ing t gray mountains in the east
with rose-colored hues. A moment
later, a small, light figure, crowned
with golden hair, and a large shawl
thrown over its night-dress, stood by
the boy’s side.

“Why, Nelliel how could you!
you’ll take cold in your bare feet
among these dews.”

“I can’t help it, Ellsworth.” It
was a tear-swollen face that looked up
wistfully to the boy’s. “You see, I
hav n’t slept any a“ night thinking
about you, and so I was up, looking
out of the window, and saw you go~
ing down the walk.”

“Well, Nellie,” said he, pushing
back the ellow, tangled hair, rind
looking at her fondly,“ you see I can ’t
dowhat father says I must, to-day, and
soI’mgoingofl‘.’ ‘ '.

“Oh, Ellsworth Inwhat. Wlll- uncle
sa 3” cried the child, betwixt her
shivering and weeping, “ what will un-
cle say? How long shall you be

nel”

“I don’t know,” replied he, “I
sha n’t be back to-day, thou h. But
you mustn’t stand here, tal ing any
onger. Father ’ll be up soon, you
know. Now, goodoby, Nellie.”

There was a sob in his throat, as
he leaned forward and kissed the sweet
face, that had only seen a dozen sum-
mers, and then he was gone.

a e s , e e a

“Go and call Ellsworth to break-
fast, will you, Ellen?” said the den-
con, two hours later.

“ He is n’t up stairs, uncle.”

And then, as they two sat down to
theirs, Ellen briefly related what had
transpired. The deacon’s face grew
dark as she roceeded.

“ He thin to elude the confession
' and frighten me, by running off for a
day or two,” he~said ; “he will find he
is mistaken;

So It and the next passed,
and the deacon said nothing more,
but Ellen, who “Us-adopted child,
and the orphan daughter ot‘his wife’s

 

, Tasman

most intimate friend, noticed that he
began to look restless, and to start
anxiously at the sound of a foot-fall;
but still Ellsworth came not.

At last a strict search was instituted,
and it was discovered that Ellsworth
had gone to sea, in a ship bound for
some part of the western coast of
Asia, on a three years’ voyage.

“ I hope he will come back a better
boy than he left,” was the deacon’e
solitary commentary; but in the long
nights Ellen used to hear him walking
restlesst up and down in his room,
and his black hair began to be thickly
scattered with gray.

But the worst was not yet come.
One November night, when the wind!
clamered and stormed fiercely among
the old applotnees in the garden,
Deacon Grant and Ellen sat by the (in
in the old kitchen, when the format
removed the wrapper from his weekly
newspaper, and the first passage that
met his eye was one that told him how
the ship . . . . ., the one in 'which Ellsv
worth had sailed, had been wrecked
off the coast, and every soul on
bad perished.

Then the voice of the father woke
up in the heart of Deacon Grant. He
staggered toward Ellen with a white.
haggard face, and a wild, fearful cry.
“ My boy! my boy I” It was more
than his proud spirit could bear. “0"
Ellsworthl Ellsworthl” and he sank
down senseless, and. his head fell into
the lap of the frightened child.

After this, Deacon Grant was 3
changed man. I did not know which
was the most to blame in the sight of
God, who judgeth righteously. Bn‘
equally to the heart of many a pare!“
and many a child, the story has 1’
message and its warning.

Eight years had passed. .It w.
summer time again, and the hills 
green, and the fields were yellow '1“
her glory. It was in the morning,
Deacon.(hnt  under-the permit!“
the r'sesold, uneoclad cottage; In

 

 

 

-—‘a _,_AJ .24

 

 

 

 

THE MISTAKE. 165

 

 

ithe day was very warm, and the top
V7.88 wrapped round thickly with a hop
Vine.

These eight years had greatly
chfinged the deacon. He seemed to
hue stepped very suddenly into old
age, and the light wind that stirred
the green leaves shook the gray hairs
Over his wrinkled forehead, as he sat
were reading the village newspaper,
With eyes that had begun to grow

"11. And every little while fragments
0f some old-fashioned tune floated out
‘0 the old man, soft, sweet, stray frag-
ments; and flitting back and forth
1'0!!! the pantry to the breakfast table
“98 a young girl, not handsome, but
Wlth a sweet, frank, rosy countenance,
Whose smiles seemed to hover over the

Ousehold as naturally as sunshine
OVOI‘ June skies. She wore a pink
cNico dress, the sleeves tucked above
61' elbows, and a “checked apron.”
Altogether she was a fair, plump,
llealthfuI-looking country girl.

And while the old man read the
Paper under the hop vine, and the
young girl hummed and fluttered be-
tlNeen the pantry and the kitchen ta-

9. a young man opened the small
“"113 gate, and went upthe narrow
Path to the house. He went up very
“IOle, staring all about him with an
e"861', wistful look, and sometimes the
ullfscles of his mouth worked and
quivered, as one’s will when strong
enlotions are shaking the heart. He

31d a firm, sinewy frame, of middling

lght; he was not handsome, but

ere was something in his face you
Would have liked; perhaps it was the
‘ght away down in the dark eyes;
Perhaps it was the strength and char-
a“or foreshadowed in the lines about
.t 9 month. I can not tell; it was as
Int'allgible as it was certain you would
have liked that face.

8 door was open, and the young
man walked into the wide hall. He
' still a moment, staring around
“‘0 low wall, and on the palm-leaved
pallet that covered the side. Then a
‘11le mist broke into his eyes, and he
“lied on like one in a dream, appa-

von. IV. 11.

 

rently quite forgetful that this was not
his own home.

I think those low sweet fragments
of song unconsciously drew his steps
to the itchen, for a few moments later
he stood in the doorway, watching
the fair girl as she removed the small
rolls of yellow butter from a wooden
box to an earthen plate. I can hardly
transcribe the expression of the man’s
face. It was one of mingled doubt,
surprise, eagerness, that at last all
converged into one joyful certainty.

“ Merciful man ! ”

The words broke from the girl’s
lips, and the last roll of butter fell
from her little hands, as, looking up,
she saw the stranger standing in the
doorway; and her rosy cheeks actu-
ally turned pale with the start of sur-
prise. The exclamation seemed to
recall the young man to himself. He
removed his hat.

“Excuse me,” he said, with a bow
of instinctive grace; “ but can you tell
me, ma’am, if Deacon Grant resides
here?”

“Oh, yes, sir! will you walk into
the parlor and take a seat? Uncle,
here is a gentleman who wishes to see
you.” And in a flutter of embarrass-
ment she hurried toward the door.

The gentleman did not stir; and,
removing his silver spectacles, the dea-
con came in; and the two men looked
at each other, the older with some
surprise and a good deal of curiosity
in his face; the younger with a strange
longing earnestness in his dark eyes
that seemed wholly unaccountable. '

“ Do you know me, sir i "he asked,
after a moment’s silence, and .there
was a shaking in his voice.

“ I do not know that I ever had the
pleasure of meeting you before, sir,”
said the deacon.

But here a change came over the
features of the girl, who had' been
watching the stranger intent] all the
time. A light, the light of a long
buried recollection seemed to break up
from her heart into her: face. Her
breath came gaspingly. between her
parted lips, he: dilated. eyes were

Mating.“ , ‘

 

  

166

fastened on the stranger; then, with a
quick cry she sprang forward.

“ Uncle, it is Ellsworth ! it is surely
Ellsworth!”

Oh! if you had seen that old man
then l His cheeks turned ashen pale,
his frame shivered, he tottered a few
steps forward, and then the great,wild
cry of his heart broke out.

“Is it you, my boy, Ellsworth?”

“It is I, father; are you glad to see
me?” .

And that strong man asked the
uestion with a sob, and a timid voice,
llke that of a child.

“Come to me! come to me, my
boy, that I thought was dead —that
I have seen every night for the last
eight years, lying with the dark eyes
of his mother under the white waves.
Oh, Ellsworth! God has sent you
from the dead! Come to me, my
boy I ” . .

And the old man drew his arms
around his son’s neck, and leaned his

ay head on his strong breast, and
girl- a while there was no word spoken
between them.

“ You have forgiven me, father?”
asked the young man at last.

“Do not ask me that, my boy.
How many times would I have given
every thing I possessed on earth
to ask, ‘Forgive me, Ellsworth?’
and to hear you answer, ‘Yes, fa-
ther.”’

So there was peace between those
two, such peace as the angels, who
walk up and down the hills, crowned
with the royal purple of eternity, tune
their harps over.

“ And this— this is Nellie? How
she has altered! But I know the
voice,” said Ellsworth at last, as he
took the girl’s hand in his own, and
kissed her wet cheeks, adding very
tenderly, “My darling sister Nel-
lie.”

And at last they all went out under
the cool shade of the vine, and there
Ellsworth told his story. The mer-
chant vessel in which he had sailed
from home was wrecked, and many
on board perished; but some of the

 

 

T0 ALLY.

sailors constructed a raft, on which
the boy was saved, with several oth-
ers. They were afterward rescued by
a vessel bound for South America.
Here Ellsworth had obtained a situa-
tion in a large mercantile establish-
ment, first as a clerk, afterward as a
junior partner.

He had written home twice, but the
letters had been lost or miscarried.
As he received no answer, be supposed
his father had never forgiven him for
“running away,” and tried to reconcile
himself to the estrangement. But he
had, of late, found it very difficult to
do this, and, at last, he had resolved
to return to his home, have an inter-
view with his parent, and try whether
the sight of his long-absent son w0uld
not soften his heart.

Oh! it was a happy trio that sat
under the green leaves of the hop-
vine that summer morning! It was a
happy trio that sat down in that 101,.
old-fashioned kitchen, to the delicious
dinner of chicken and fresh peas,
that Nellie had been so long in pre—
paring!

And that night three very happy
people knelt in the old sitting-room,
while the trembling voice of the dell'
con thanked God for him that W“
dead and “alive again.”

TO ALLY.

BY WILLIE WARE.

I THINK of thee by night, .
’Mid scenes of wildest bliss,
I feel upon my cheek
Warm, friendship’s truest kiss:
I twine my arms around thee,
And whisper words of love,
While brightly shine the moonbeamfi,
And twinkling stars above.

I think of thee by day,
When in a wild commotion,
I am rudely tossed
0n life’s tempestuous ocean;
And cares and sonows gather,
And 1i ht and gladsome flee,—
Yes, in t t trying hour,
I think, dear friend! of thee.

Bacon", 1857.

 

 

 

“I . . nan.“

.._..._..,.....

 

.3‘

 

.w... ‘ i I

 

 

 

CHARLOTTE enemas WORKS. 167

x;

CHARLOTTE BRONTE’S WORKS:
“ CURRER BELL. ”

BY IRS. C. A. “ALBERT.
(Concluded.)

E have purposely separated the
literary from the life history of
Charlotte Bronte, because neither the
eXeellencies nor defects of her genius
can be properly estimated without an
:guaintance with the peculiar and
dening circumstances of her lot.
Placed in ease and content, stirred by
more frequent contact with fresh and
healthful minds, with a wider scope of
collgenial sympathies, and a happier
eXperience of life, she would have

"own softer and pleasanter pictures
of life. The Currer Bell of prosperity
wOuld have been a fairer and more
00mer personage; but we scarcely
feel that she would have taken so deep
3 hold on our imaginations, or won so
al'gely upon our hearts. But we for-
get that in prosperity there would

ave been no Currer Bell; that it was
My after the failure of all her cher-
‘Shed projects of life—after all the
er00ked by-ways and hedges in which
“he so industriously sought to hide,
“Wire closed against her, that she was

five!) and goaded into that victorious

.lshway which her genius changed
"1 8 few brief years into a green arch
0 triumph.

Miss Bronte was not a voluminous
wl'lter, nor would she have been had
her career extended over twenty in-
8“lid of five, years. She had not
that rare faculty which can make sub-
8t"nice out of “airy nothing,” nor did
“0.11 unpalpable, unlife-like creations
aIltlsfy her fine perceptions of truth.
. 91‘ genius in its limits and its strength
13 “en in the very conception and
l'tl'ucture of her stories. Take “Vil-

. me,”~ her last and ripest work; a

rend) boarding-school - this scanty
°°0r|ess material is the warp and
'°0f from which that extraordinary tale
:94 woven. The interest of the story
°°$ not depend in the slightest de-
gree on that “pom and circum-
tanee " of tank which is diffused like

 

a golden haze over all the pages of
Scott—there are no knights errant,
distressed damsels, disguised ‘barons,
nor castle meats; not even a morsel
of a military hero does this hard serv-
iter offer us by way of appetizer to
our repast. She sets before us a par-
cel of school-girls and their teachers;
a dish which, in her own words, “a
Catholic, ay, even an Anglo-Catholic
might eat on Good Friday in Passion
week — cold hitters, and vinegar with-
out oil; unleavened bread with b‘itter
herbs, and no roast lamb.” _

With what despair would Sir Wal-
ter have sat down before Currer-Bell’s
poor pile of stones to select material
for his splendid gothic piles? Even
Dickens, that great wizzard who de-
lights to rear palaces from rubbish,
and lift his heroes from the gutter,
could have done nothing with that un-
sightly mass till his genius had played
upon it and transmuted it into a glit
tering wealth of rubies and emeralds.
But Currer would take home her de-
spised and rejected stones, cut and
polish them with minute labor, bring-
ing out here a concealed uystal or
rose-tinted quartz, and there the comely
strength of the rude granite, and
building with them — not a palace for
the genii or a temple for the Pythen-
ess, but a gallery of art, wherein hang
the portraits of living men and we-
men.

Currer Bell is a great moral painter.
Her pictures are human, palpable,
flesh-like resemblances. Her men are
neither gods nor demons; her women
are neither sylphs nor bags; her he-
roes are not altogether wise, noble,
nor heroic; her heroines are neither
ravishingly fair nor angelically good;
her foils and marplots are not incarnate
essences of malignity, but every-day
characters with perverse and mischiev.
ous ropensities. Even the Pauline’s,
Shir ey’s, and Graham’s, the “curled
darlings ” of her heart whom she
elaborates so carefully, are very faulty
as well as love-worthy bein

Very few of Currer Bell’s characters
were purely ideal. She was a close

.m.«‘h- ~

  

168

 

CHARLOTTE BRONTE’S WORKS.

 

copyist from experience and nature.
Even the “ Yorke’s,” apparently the
most exaggerated group in “Shirley,”
were drawn purely from life, and sent
to the originals for identification. A
member of the family returned the
manuscript with the criticism that
Miss Bronte “had not drawn them
strong enough.” Her observant and
analytic faculties had been cultured to
acuteness by the very isolation which
had limited their range. She studied
mind as an artist would study a land-
scape, or, as she herself studied, all the
phases of the sky and moon, noting
all the delicate gradations and shad-
ings of character, and copying them
with the minute faithfulness and labo-
rious care which in early life she be-
stowed upon a line engraving. -When
a person came within her sphere whom
she found interesting and worth ob-
serving, she silently watched him un-
der various circumstances till she had,
so to speak, idolized him, and formed
a judgment what he would do and how
act under new conditions. She was
then ready to set in the frame-work of
her narrative; not a piece of statuary,
coldly beautiful, but a breathing hu-
man creature, with, all his imperfec-
tions on his head. So well has she
dissected the heart, and so intimater
studied its vital mechanism, that we
are forced to cry out in the midst of
our reading, with a sudden fear, “ Who
is this that searches behind all conven-
tionalisms, down into the very soul,
and brings before us thoughts and
feelings that we have often felt, but
never shaped into words I ”

Currer Bell made conscience of ac-
curacy. Etfect was always secondary
to truth. She would neither deepen
the colors on her pallet to gratify a
diseased taste, nor soften them below
her conceptions of fact and nature.
To that highly exciting passage in
“Jane Eyre,” in which the heroine
hears the Voice of Rochester, then far
distant, calling out in the silence of
the night, “Jam! Jane! Jane!” ob-
jection was raised by a friend from the
physical impossibility of the occur-

 

rence. Miss Bronte replied in a low
voice, drawing in her breath, “ But it
is a true thing; it really happened.”
Doubtless she had transferred to her
fiction some morbid impression which,
to her nervously excitable mind had,
at some time, all the force of fact.»

A lady who had read her descrip-
tion of the sensation produced by
Opium, and wondered at its strict cor-
respondence with her own impressions
under its influence, asked her whether
she had ever taken the drug. She re
plied '“ that she had never to W

uowledge taken a grain of it in any
shape, but that she had followed the
process she always adopted when she
had to describe any thing which had
not fallen within her own experience;
she had thought intently on it for
many and many a night before falling
to sleep, wondering what it was like,
or how it would be, till, at len tbs
some time after the progress of 0‘
story had been arrested at this or”
point for weeks, she wakened up In
the morning with all clear’ before hOI‘,
as if she had in reality gone thro
the experience, and then could de‘
scribe it word for word as it had hap'
pened.”

We, as non-spiritualists, do 110‘
pretend to understand by what RW‘
cess she was brought into commumfl'
tion with scenes and sensations W
removed from her experience; perhaps
some narrative, read or heard in yef”
past, reproduced after long slumberlng
in the memory, was made the gI‘O“n
work upon which the imagination
wrought intently, and reared a f
creation. _

It was Miss Bronte’s vivid r8311}?
tion of her conceptions as facts wh , .
made her so immovable under any
cism. Seldom could she prevail :3)”
herself to change even the form ‘0

expression. She had felt that divin‘ '

afliatus which the gods breathe 11'”
those whom they elect, and she obey
its behests with a religious submlfls'on’
Her enius mastered her, and ti)?“
aside er will, and desires, and who
with an imperious vehemenee.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHARLOTTE BRONTE’S worms.

 

169

 

“When authors write best,” says
Currer to one of her reviewers, “ or at
least when they write most fluently, an
lnfluence seems to waken in them,
which becomes their master —— which
will have its own way, putting out of
View all behests but its own, dictating
certain words, and insisting on their

"1g used, whether vehement or
Pleasured in their nature; now mold-
10g characters, giving unthought-of
terms to incidents, rejecting carefully
elaborated old ideas, and suddenly
creating and adopting new ones.”

SO powerful was this hand,—-call it
8476, genius, or what you will,—- laid
Ppon her, that she could scarcely be
9% to hold the threads of her tales
“1 her own keeping. To a friend who

8d imparted the plot of a work in
Progress, wherein a mournful fate was
decreed the heroine, she wrote: “ Yet

Par my protest! Why should she
die? Why are we to shut up the
book weeping? My heart fails me
already at the thought of the pang it
wIll have to undergo. And yet you
{Dust follow the impulse of your own
‘nspiration. If tkat commands the
slaying of the victim, no bystander has
a l’ight to put out his hand to stay the
sacrificial knife.”

It was thus that her own father
Pleaded with her to accord a more be-
mg‘nant destiny to Lucy in “ Villette,”

“13 she could not resist the decree
that had gone forth further than to
leave her fate doubtful, to be inter-
Pfeted by each reader in accordance
With his preferences. Whether praised
0!: blamed, she would write no other-
wlse than as her powers tended.

The charge of coarseness which has

’1 preferred against Currer Bell is
0 serious and unwomanly, that we
W0uld give much to deny, rather than
:xtenuate it. It lies mainly against

ano Eyre,” a work in which the an-
t 01' did not, probably, follow the bent
0f her taste so entirely as in any of
. 9" other works. “ The Professor”
1? tolied to the quiet side of her genius,
1i {me Eyre ” approaches to the other

"Ht ; and in consequence, this brilliant

 

and'exciting book will draw ten read-
ers to the one who will take down the
tamer, more wholesome volume from
the shelf. We protest against the
character of Rochester, while we con-
fess its extraordinary power, its fas-
cination, and its partial nobleness.
We feel the full potency of that
haughty, generous, knightly nature,
and we wonder not when we see the
friendless orphan coming under its
spell. But we can not forget that he
who holds that simple maiden with
“his glittering eye,” is a selfish vo-
luptuary and a professed .libertine, who
would apprOpriate without scruple a
fresh young life to regenerate his own.
We are displeased with the coarseness
of his wooing, and indignant to find
her accepting indignities from her lover
without wince or recoil. Even re-
newed as he is supposed to be at last
by the serene influence of love, we can
not but feel that there are many deli-
cate fibres of a gentle female heart
with which such a man as Rochester
would come in perpetual jar. This is
the only character in the works of Miss
Bronte, which, to use her own forcible
expression, leaves a bad taste in the
mouth. She herself would never have
been able to love her own hero clothed
in the flesh, and, left to her pure native
instincts, she would never have created
such an ideal.

We accept the explanation of her
biographer. She had the misfortune
to study false models. Rigoroust ad-
hering to her own canon —to follow
nature rather than zesthetical rules —-
she looked around her little circle for
the rudiments of a hero. At home she
saw her brother Branwell, not the“
sunk to his depths in infamy, but in-
dulging in a wholly unpardonable li-
cense of speech in the resence of his
sisters. Others too 0 her few male
friends, men of worth otherwise, were
noticeable for their want of proper ret‘
icence before women. Miss Bronte

was wholly unconscious of this defect
in her compositions, and nothing
pained her so much as to be accused
of any lack of modesty and proper

 

  

170

decorum. An author said to her 'est-
ingly, “You know, you and I, iss
Bronte, have both written naughty
books.” The remark sank deep into
her heart, and she took occasion after-
ward to aska judicious friend“whether,
indeed, there was any thing so very
wrong in ‘Jane Eyre.’ ” Her own
emphatic disclaimer of any intention
of a coarse and indelicate use of her
faculties ought to settle the purity of
her intentions. “I trust God will
take from me whatever power of in-
vention or expression I may have, be-
fore He lets me become blind to the
sense of what is fitting or unfitting to
be said.”

Miss Bronte was acutely, and, we
think, unnecessarily sensitive to the
question of sex in authorship. She
asked no clemency of her critics be-
cause she was a woman, but wished to
be judged by the intrinsic merits of
her works. t was for this that she
vailed herself under the ambiguous
nom de plume of “Currer Bell.” A
reviewer could not wound hermore
acutely than by grounding a discussion
of the equality of the sexes on her
writings, however adroitly and gal-
lantly he might compliment her per-
sonally. She came near breaking
friendship with one of her ablest and

mest appreciative critics, because he’

persisted in remembering that she was
a woman. “Come what will,” she
says, “I can not when Iwrite think
always of myself, and of what is ele-
gant and charming in feminity; it is
not on these terms, or with such ideas,
Iever took pen in hand; and if it is
only on such terms my writings will
be tolerated, I shall pass away from
the public, and trouble it no more.
Out of obscurity I came, to obscurity
I can easily return.”

However masculine the genius of
Miss Bronte, both as to its strength
and freedom, we are sure nothing ad-
hered to her nature which was not
wholly true, feminine, and lovely.
Fame did not elate—it onl tuned
her heart to more hopefulness and
courage. She received the acclama-

 

 

 

CHAIiLom BRONTE’S wonxs.

tions of the ublic quietly and with a
sort of ostrich lon 'ng to hide herself
frOm notoriety. gccasional visits to
London where all her outgoings and
incomings were chronicled, and every
public appearance was made under
storm from a battery of admiring
eyes, was enough to disorganize and
disable her for a month, and her only
restorative was to bury herself speedily
in her solitary native moors. Miss
Bronte was above the poor afi'ectation
of disparaging criticism—a genuine,
honest, appreciative review, though
not unmixed with blame, cheered her
like the wine of the gods. “My own
conscience I satisfy first; and having
done that, if I further content and
delight a Forsarde, a Fonblanque, and
a Thackeray, my ambition has had its
ration; it is' fed; it lies down for the
present satisfied; my faculties have
wrought a day’s task, and secured a
day’s wages.”

Currer Bell has been called a great
“word artist.” The phrase is happily
descriptive, for there is in all her writ-
ings a nice adjustment of words“?

‘thoughts, a judicious fitting of the

right term into the right place, and a
chiseled finish of tone which may be
called in the best sense artistic. She
was so careful and even fastidious In
the dress of her thoughts, that the
work of composition always proceede
slowly, and yet it was not ear-harmon‘
ies, music, or rythm which she mainly
sought; it was for the higher end 0
expressing the exact shade of thought.
which lay in her own mind, that Elle
selected her words as carefully as 9
maiden asserts the worsteds for ll“
embroidery. N o pruner’s knife can
laid to her compositions. We do not

believe a sloveniy, overgrown, trail!“ >

sentence can be found; consequeu y
we read her with more pleasure thin
many other authors equally great but
less pains-takin .

The one word which best character
izes Currer Bell is power. When she
puts forth her strength she master!
and exhausts. .Her delineations
startling in their intense and fl"

 

 

 

 

 

 

ALWAYS FINDING FAULT.

¥

reality. No living novelist can wield
lfinguage with a more incredible and
terrific force. Take the following de-
scription of the world’s greatest tra-
gedtehne:

“I went to see and hear Rachel; a
Wonderful sight ; terrible as if the earth
had cracked deep at your feet and re-
vealed a glimpse of hell. .I shall never
fOl‘get it. She made me shudder to
the marrow of my bones; in her some
fiend has certainly taken up an in-
carnate home. She is not a woman;

6 is a snake; she is the . . . . . The
tremendous force with which she ex-
presses the very worst passions in
their strongest essence, forms an exhi-

ltion as exciting as the bull-fights of

Sfiain, and the gladiatorial combats of
0 Rome; and, it seemed to me, not
one whit more moral than these poisoned
“lmulants to popular ferocity.” We
can not help thinking that Currer
Bell would, had she willed it, have

an herself a great tragic writer and
Won trophies for her sex in a field
Where few women have safely veu-
tured.

Miss Bronte’s descriptive powers
al'elnot the least of her wonderful en-

waments. Her mountains, moors,
mists, horizons, “ beck’s,” and torrents
are not dazzling catalogues of epithets,
,ut are made to stand out before us
"1 clear vision. We select almost at
mOdom a spring landscape: “April
advanced to May. A bright serene

ay it was; days of blue sky, placid
Sunshine, and soft western and south-
ern gales filled up its duration. And
“0W vegetation matured with vigor.

Wood shook loose its tresses; it be-
°Mne all green, all flowery; its great

elm, oak, and ash skeletons were re-,

“Wed to majestic life; woodland plants
'P'ullg up profusely in its recesses; un-
munbered varieties of moss filled its

10W8; and it made a strange ground-
"lPShine out of the wealth of its wild
anrose plants; I have seen their
"9 ld gleam, in overshadowed
:90“ ike scatterings of the sweetest
“Item.”

I‘10 one knew better than Currer

 

171

Bell the measure, bearings and limits
of her capacities; no one had less of
the arrogance of universal genius. “ I
can not,” she says, “write books hand-
ling the great topics of the day; it is
of no use trying. Nor can I write a
book for its moral. Nor can I take
up a philanthropic scheme, though I
honor philanthropy ; and voluntarily
and sincerely vail my face before such
a mighty theme as that handled in
Mrs. Beecher Stowe’s work, “ Uncle
Tom’s Cabin.” To manage these great
matters rightly, they must be long and
practically studied ; their bearings
'nown intimately, and their evils felt
genuinely; they must not be taken up
as a business matter and a trading
speculation.”

Let us hope that in the great reck-
oning to which this gifted woman was
so suddenly called, she was enabled to
account to the Master for the wonder-
ful talents with which he had entrusted
her, and to enter upon that inherit-
ance which, in the sorrowful days of
her pilgrimage, she had loved to style
“the Great Hope.”

 

ALWAYS FINDING FAULT.

SOME pe0ple can not live without
finding fault. No matter what
subject, or person, comes up in the
course of conversation, they start some
frivolous objection, or make some cen-
sorious remark. Instead of trying to
be in charity with their neighbors,
they take malicious pleasure in speak-
ing evil about them. They obstinater
shut their eyes to good qualities, while
they employ microscopes to discover
and magnify evil ones; and afterward
they torture language to exaggerate
what they have seen, so as to depreci.
ate as much as possible. They do not,
however, always speak out boldly;
but they deal in innuendoes, in hints,
and in ominous shakes of the head.
Instead of frankly “sailing in front,
they assassinate behind the back.
Practically, they persuade others that
all men are so evil, that there is not

 

  

172

 

A FAIR SPIRIT AND A FAIR COMPLEXION.

 

even a chance of reform. Even in acts
incontestibly good, they pretend to find
latent selfishness. They spend their
lives in defiling human nature, like
the foul Yahoos whom the satirist has
depicted. To believe them, there are
none virtuous but themselves; all the
rest of mankind being knaves, brutes,
or devils.

The proverbial fault-finder little
thinks that, in censuring so maliciously
and indiscriminately, he is only paint-
ing his own portrait. It is a secret
consciousness of his demerits, a gnaw-
ing rage at the superiority of others,
which is the real cause of his want of
charity, the principal inducement to
his abuse. His own heart is the mir-
ror from which he describes mankind.
The best men have been those invari-
bly who spoke the most kindly of their
race. The great Type of all manhood,
whose perfect humanity is the admi-
ration even of Pagans and Atheists,
ever spoke in benignant terms, having
charity even for“ publicans and sinners.”
It is to His precepts that we owe the
great doctrine of human brotherhood.

n the ideal of the fallen Lucifer, we
have, on the contrary, the incarnation
of malice, hate, slander, ill-will, and
all evil speaking. As the One is said
to have came to bring “peace and
good-will to men,” so the other first
defiled the fair creation with strife,
and sowed “war among the hosts of
heaven.” We never hear a professed
fault-finder, but our thoughts recur to
his type. We never listen to the be-
neficent language of one who is in char-
ity with his race, withoutfeeling that he
is advancing more and more to “the
perfect man.”

 

“A MAN discovered America, but a
womm equipped the voyage.” So ev-
erywhere: man executes the perform-
ance, but woman trains the man.
Every effectual person, leaving his mark
on the world, is but another Columbus,
for whose furnishing some Isabella, in
the form of his mother, lays down her
jewelry, her vanities, her comfort.

 

 

A FAIR SPIRIT AND A FAIR
COMPLEXION.

BY HRS. I. M. GUTHBIE.

“ LIZZIE, let me never again see you

’ out without your bonnet. Your
complexion will be ruined before Fall
at this rate, and you must learn to be
more careful.” _

“But, mother, the bird would have
been lost had I waited for my bonnet.
In a moment more he would have
flown over Mr. Hazleton’s yard to the
river, and likely as not been drowned
as was poor little Lillie the other
day.”

“I should have been sorry if the
bird had been lost, but I should regret
much more to see my Lizzie with sun-
burned shoulders, and face brown as
a gipsy. Girls of your age are 80
thoughtless! They can not realize
the lasting effects of seemingly mfling
causes. I know one Fannie Mason
whose complexion was fair as youf
own, but from one summer’s impru-
dence, always forgetting her bonnet
when she ran out of doors, her skin
became so darkened that she never
outgrew that summer’s sun-burn.”

Had Lizzie’s mother been better
versed in physiology she might have
seen other causes for the c ange In
Fannie Mason’s complexion, for there
are other habits beside being out-Of"
doors without a bonnet that will spOll
the skin; such as eating unwholesomO
food, breathing bad air, and other
things of the kind.

Lizzie Lamphere was a very pretty
miss of fourteen years, with bright
hazel eyes, flowing brown hair, and.‘
complexion unusually pure and bfll‘

.liant. She had also a sweet and 10"

ing disposition, but her vanit , are
by the unsuppressed admire on of 1)“
friends, was nourishing a degree 0
selfishness that sometimes made he;
forgetful of the comfort of those aroufl
her. I
As she stood near the door, his:
rett singer, Fairy panting from ,
Eight): perched upon, her wrist, and 11“
handsome prison-house swinging {Wm

 

 

rm..." ._V.n,_~»mw.._-m<m.... m, 

 

wuss—.mu-«mm.

. W.—w»a~'-«Mm

 

 

 

 

A FAIR SPIRIT AND A PAIR 'OOMPLEXION. 173

g

the fingers of her other hand, Lizzie’s
father entered.

“Lizzie, my child, you have just
now committed a very rude action, and
I am deeply grieved to see you so
thoughtless.”

Lizzie, in her extreme concern for
the pet-bird, had hastened across the
street, then through a neighboring
yard and garden to secure him. In
the eagerness of her pursuit, fearing
that his fate might repeat that of the
luckless Lillie, she had become so ab-
sorbed in the one thought of rescuing
Fairy, that when he was once secure,
She bounded gaily back to report her
good fortune. A little girl was pass-
ing at the time with a basket of
strawberries, but Lizzie in her heed-
lessness brushing past the child, the
berries were all emptied on the walk.
This Miss Lamphere was too much ab-
sorbed to notice, and for this her fa-
ther reproved her. She was annoyed
at the mingled reproof of both pa-
rents. Herself so happy that. the bird
was safe, she did not wish to think of
any thing else, and to receive in place
of the sympathy she had anticipated,
blame, for what she regarded as trifling
misdemeanors, was too much, and she
passionately burst into tears.

“ Lizzie was so much rejoiced at the
rescue of her bird that she brushed
{igainst the child without knowing it,”
Interposed the mother.

“I should have been very sorry to
1089 the bird, but nothing I think

i Could more sorely grieve me than this

thoughtless act toward one less favored
than yourself, my Lizzie,” said Mr.
Lamphere, taking his daughter’s hand
within his own.

Lizzie thought many rebellious
thoughts which she would like to have
uttered, but she only strove to disen-
gage her hand which her father re-
tained with gentle firmness.

.“ Come with me to the window,
Lizzie,” said her father; “ see the poor
child gathering the fruit from the
dusty pavement. Could you be thus

eroic under misfortune? ’

Then Mr..Lamphere told his daugh-

 

ter of the death of this child’s father,
of the illness of her mother, and that
he had been told that she took care of
her poor mother with the fortitude of
a woman.

“These berries,” said he, “she was
doubtless taking home as a rare treat
to her darling parent.”

Lizzie, half pettishly, yet half yield-
ing to a better mood, had gone to the
window, and there she saw the patient,
care-worn face of the little girl, bend-
ing over her scattered treasure, her
thin fingers brushing the dirt from
each berry as she gathered them from
off the ground. This touched the
tenderness of her nature. Throwing
her arms around her father’s neck, the
tears rendered now brilliant the smile
on her face as she whispered:

“Father, I am sorry for my rude-
ness.”

With a step quite as eager, and an
expression of countenance far more
lovely than while returning in triumph
with the bird, she hastened to the side
of the child.

“Forgive me, little girl, for upset-
ting your basket. I was so glad that
I had caught my birdie, that I saw or
thought of nothing else. Don’t stop
to pick these berries from the dirty
walk. Come with me to my own lit-
tle strawberry-bed, and I will fill your
basket with fresh ones.”

The child looked up with a wonder-
ing glance, hardly prepared to believe
the elegant young miss sincere‘in ad-
dressing one so humble as herself in a
manner at once so free and kind.

Little Carrie Norton, for this was
the cor little girl’s name, had suffered
the ibss of ‘ her berries without a mur-
mur, only a softer shade of sadness
passed over her pale brow. One who
observed closely, however, could see
that it was hard for her to keep the
team down, for the day was exceed-
ingly warm, and she was very weary;
and the thought of her sick mother
haunted her unceasingly. Any affec-
tionate evidence of kindly feeling from
any save her mother, was, alas! so
rare a thing, that Lizzie’s words were

 

    

174

like the sun’s heat to a tender plant
long shut away from light. The
strained energies of the child yielded
to intense emotion. Her agitation
was so great that Lizzie almost car-
ried her, sobbing into the yard.

Oh! what a thrill of pleasure swept
like a strain of music through Lizzie’s
soul as she supported Carrie’s little
figure ! The beautiful intuition which
ever springs up with a strongly gener-
ous impulse, made Lizzie’s voice elo-
quent to the little stranger as she led
her into the house and gave her “a
cup of cold water,” and then took her
into the garden to gather berries from
her own vines.

Lizzie’s father watched all that
passed with intense interest, and he
felt that the pain he had experienced
from the thoughtlessness of his daugh-
ter was more than atoned for, for he
now beheld an earnest beauty of heart
that he had feared she might not pos-
sess.

That afternoon Lizzie and her father
were led by the little girl to her home
that they might learn of her mother’s
wants, but they were soon convinced
that Carrie would ere long be without
a mother; but a young and gentle
hand was entrusted with a new minis-
tration above that humble couch. The
cooling draught to the parched lips,
the soft hand to the death-cold brow,
the warm words of sympathy fresh
from the newly-opened fountain of
love in that young breast served to
brighten “the valley of the shadow of
death.”

When sitting beside the sick-bed,
Lizzie would recall the flight of little
Fairy, and she felt that angels must
have ided his frail wings, so beautiful
was tfi mission he had opened in her
pathway; for if she had not in her
eagerness upset the basket of berries,
this rock of disinterested devotion from
whence flowed such sweet water in the
wilderness of her self-love had not
been struck.

Often in after years, as with arms
entwineri about each other Lizzie and
Carrie alked together, ,this event

 

 

TH] WIFE’S REPLY.

would recur to them. Lizzie would
think of her two misdemeanors—her
running out without her bonnet, and
her upsetting the strawberries. As
the words of her mother echoed in her
ears, “Girls of your age are so thought-
less —- they know not the lasting {feet
of trifling causes,” she would exclaim :
“Oh, how much darker, how much
more really inefl'aceable would have
been the shade upon my spirits, dear
Carrie, had I treated my rudeness to
you as a trifling matter, than could
have been the sun-burn that defaced
the beauty of Fannie Mason. Oh, let
me possess a true and gentle heart,
rather than the external beauty of a
Cleopatra ! ”

Rocxrou, ILL.

 

THE VVIFE'S REPLY.
BY arm BUCK.

THOU askest me what offerings bright
From climes beyond the sea,

Thou mayest collect with loving pride,
To lavish upon me?

I seek not costly gems to grace
My brow : thou say’st ’t is fair;

And if it be, why, love, should I
Thy glance with jewels share?

Why speakest thou of Orient pearls
To lay upon my breast?

I have a treasure dearer far,
And fitter there to rest:

Thy child and mine my bosom claims,
Thereon repose to seek,

And all the pearls the ocean hides
Are worthless near his cheek.

And when upon his face I gaze,
With rapture there I see,

What pearls or diamonds could not yield -'
A likeness, love, of thee.

Speak then no more of things like these;
When thou com’st home again,

The ‘oy of seeing thee  make
All other treasures vain.

But if thou would’st thatjoy increase,
I 'll gladly tell thee how —_

Bring, bring me back thy heart .83“!
As much my own as new!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

COHHON-PLACE PEOPLE.

g

COMMON—PLACE PEOPLE.

THE very good and the very bad
among mankind, albeit they form
the ordinary humanity of most novels,
are rare in actual life. If we descend
from the hights of rose-colored ro-
mance to the sober gray valley of this
Work-aday world, we shall find that
there is generally some saving-clause
0f good in the wicked, some fault or
failing in the virtuous, to redeem the
one from absolute atrocity, and the
9ther from complete perfection. There
18 happily a medium between all ex-
tremes, and human beings are not half
Of them guileless lambs, and the other
half exultant wolves ready to pounce
upon them, as romancists would have
us believe. Moreover, even the modi-
ed heroes and villians of real life form
at a very small portion of the world’s
ramatis personaz. The vast body of
Mankind consist of those who are
n(Either detestably bad nor admirably
800d ; overwhelming clever, or pitiably
stupid — of the common-place, in a word.
It is they who leaven sOciety, as it
were, and render it of a due consist-
“Icy; it is they who act as the chorus
if? the drama, the background to the
Picture, and who, though not heroic
t emselves, are necessary adjuncts to

e heroism of others.

It is wisely ordered thus, and the
"Rom so that all these supernumera-
"93 in the great drama of life have lit-
” dramatic episodes of their own,
W1lereof they individually are the heroes
and heroines. No one is insignificant

hmlself; and the most common-
Place beingjn the world 'would as-
ull‘edly be the last person to suspect

‘3 Small degree of his own value in
.0 social scale. On the contrary,
{:1}? Ordinary sort of man generally

‘eVeS himself to be a Napoleon, a

. al‘fipel‘e, or 3 Newton, according as
18 tastes and pursuits are military, lit-
"ry, or scientific. Often, too, the
V'Ol'ld is partially deluded into the

9'36 belief; for it, is a credulous world
u some respects; and when it sees a
11 holding implicit faith in himself,

ma

 

175

it is very apt to appraise him by his
own standard. It is astonishing to
think of the number of people who are
held to be wonderfully clever, not to
say geniuses, simply on the strength
of their personal conviction that they
are so. They have never done any
thing to prove it—never will proba-
bly; but they have the benefit of the
prestige now, and will carry it with
them even to the grave. Did any one
ever know a doctor who was not
termed “ a remarkably skillful man i”
or a lawyer, who was not accounted a
shrewd, talented fellow? or a clergy-
man, who was not pronounced to be
either most eloquent or most excellent
by a sufficient number of individuals
to constitute a public? In fact, if we
might believe in all the opinions we
hear, talent is the rule, and want of it
the exception, in this present age.
Men and women of intellect are the
common-place; the only moderately
intelligent and the stupid are the few
—— the rare aves.

But we — you and I,lreader —- do n’t
believe all we hear, and we know bet-
ter of what calibre of humanity the
various classes of the common-place
are actually composed. We know,
too, how often “ the world ” —- princi-
pally made up of those very classes,
we remember—is mistaken in its
judgments, as to who are, and who
are not common-place people. We
have marked numerous instances when
it has done honor to the daw in pea-
cock’s feathers, and when, to carry out
the ornithological comparison, it has
neglected or depsised the nightingale,
because it was so brown and home]
a bird to look at. Was it not only
the other evenin , at Mrs. Ormolu’s
dinner-party, that r. Jones, after con-
versing through one course and a
half with his left-hand neighbor, pro-
nounced him in an aside to the lady on
his right, one of the dullest, most inane,
and most common-place individuals?
And was not Mr. Jones put to the blush
when he was informed that his dun
and inane acquaintance was the world-
renowned artist, whose pictures are

 

    

176

 

COMMON—PLACE PEOPLE.

 

known, admired, and prized by all Eu-
rope ? Be more cautious another time,
Mr. Jones, in forming your opinion of
strangers, and, for your reputation’s
sake, be less preci itate in expressing
it when formed. 0 not again judge
a man’s intellect after half an hour’s
conversation with him, particularly at
a dinner-party. Perhaps it requires
not a large intellect, but a little one,
to constitute the stock in trade of the
sayer in smart things and agreeable
nothings, who is so valuable an adjunct
to assemblies, and who is pronounced
“a most clever, pleasant person "by Mr.
Jones and others.

“Appearances are deceitful,” says
the school-copies. It is to be feared
that the round-text moralities of the
writing-master make but a small im-

ression on the minds of youth, or that
it soon wears off; for when boys grow
to man’s estate, they are apt to run
exactly counter to the excellent advice
contained in those pithy little senten-
ces. How many people of our acquaint-
ance do not judge from appearances?
Let a man quote from one or two ab-
struse books, interlard his conversa-
tion with Latin and Greek, comb his
hair but seldom, and shave less fre-
quently, and he will find a sufficient
number of persons uite ready to ad-
mire him as the Wisest, most erudite
of men. In the same way, a man who
dresses well, speaks with respectful re-
gard for Lindley Murray, and does
not outarge the bicnseames, is consid-
ered and denominated a gentleman.
Well, perhaps after all, it is a wise
world to be so credulousl If the out-
side is fair, let us be content with that,
without seeking to look deeper. Let
us believe in the talent of one person,
the amiability of another, just as we
do in the solidity of our rose-wood ta-
bles. Let us banish the consciousness
that they are only veneered, and that
if we cut into the wood, we shall find
that the polish does not extend beyond
the surface. At any rate, I, who am
an unappreciated, and therefore a cyn-
ical being, have resolved to do so for
the future. , '

 

 

But revenons (1 nos moutons — that
is to say to our common-place people.
As I have indicated, I hope, by the fore-

oing anecdote of Jones, the balance it
gept tolerably even._ If one set of peo-
ple are over-rated, the really talented,
the unquestionably superior, are often
treated very shabbily by that great
autocrat, public opinion. I myself am
thought little of by ordinary minds.
AsI have said, the world is principally
made up of common-place people, and
it naturally seeks its heroes from
among its peers, Parmi les avaugles ls:
borgnes sont rots. Peeple with two
eyes have no chance.

However, I will add, for I‘like to
be impartial -— that my wife, who is of
a more genial temperament than I am,
takes altogether another view of the
subject. She thinks (I put itinto elegant
language for her, as she is not literary)
that common-placeism per se does not
exist. Everybody is interesting to
one or two.others in the world; for
instance, every man who has a mother
has some one to admire and love him
—to think him a hero or a sage --
most handsome, most clever, or most
excellent in some way. He is never
common-place to her. Moreover, my
wife declares her belief, confirmed by
observation, that if we could thor~
oughly understand the idiosyncrasynof
be made intimately acquainted With
the lives of even those people we our'
selves are apt to decry as common-
place, we should he sure to find spe“
cial individualities, both of thought.
and feeling, and action, to redeem them
from the character. Therefore, she ti?—
nmphantly concludes, since the worlds
common-place peeple are my heroes;
and my common-place people are very
often God’s heroes and heromes -*
where are we to find absolutely com-
mom-place.

I am to remember, she says, my old’
bachelor cousin Harte, whom I alwayfl
used to wonder at, as the most perfect
specimen of human cloclr-worlr, won!
up to go to the bank daily, write the"
for six hours, and return to his 10"}?
ings --and who couldn’t do any thw‘

 

 

 

 

 

COMION-PLAOI PIOPLE. 177

 

else, I verily believed, except potter
about the back garden of his lodgings,
read the newspaper, and out out a man
with a cocked hat, in card-board to
amuse the children, when he came to
us to tea. Well, how was I to know
that all the time he might have been
put‘ into a book as an example of
constancy, courage, and all that sort
of thing? I hardly knew that such a
person as Anna Lyle existed, much
ess that they had loved each other
ever since they were boy and girl to-
gether. But they were both poor,
and Anna had a he pless father depend-
ent on her for support; so they both
worked on, loved one another, and
had patience. They were middle aged
before they married. Yes,I remem-
ber I was astonished when Harte qui-
etly introduced his wife to us, and for
the first time I noticed something in
his face. In fact, I’ve not thought him
at all common-place since.

I. confess, also, that I never thought
much about little Charlotte Selby—
one of Selby the merchant’s three
daughters. IIer elder sister was the
more accomplished, and the younger
was far handsomer. She appeared
to me a very ordinary kind of medium,
m age, looks, and abilities. I never
Ohould have suspected her of tie quiet
energy, the sense and courage she dis-
played when her father failed and the
family were reduced to poverty and
privation. She was the mainstay and
Support of all the rest through the
Whole trying time that the broken-
down merchant was struggling with
dilficulties. The clever sister made
money by her pen; the handsome one,
Who had married brilliantly, helped
the fallen family, as she should;
but I admit at once that I admire and
Mpect little Charlotte far beyond
either the authoress or the beauty,
th(High they are ‘both good women in
t eir w‘ay.

Further, I am reminded—but my
Wife’s examples would be endless. I
lhall name no more. I submit to her
'0 far as to her own, that there may

plenty more Harte: and Charlottes

among my common-place acquaint-
ances, even amon those that I grumble
at when they are invited to tea, and call
“ limpets ” and “ pumpany.” Yes, yes,
any thing and every thing she' says is
true, no doubt.

I deny nothing —— and I shall not
go over my own case again. Jud
between us, oh reader, and decide for
thyself upon this knotty question.

 

COLD FEET.

NOTHING is more inducive of pul.
monary disease than cold feet,
Cold feet can not possibly occur if the
circulation is properly kept up. A
sense of coldness in them is an indica-
tion that they are not sufficiently pro.
tected by clothing. Our bodies are
often overburdened with overcoat;
and wrapping-shawls, while our limbs
are but imperfectly covered. Now
there is nothing more dangerous than
allowing the feet to become damp and
cold. ealth requires that they should
always be kept warm and dry. It is
better to pay the tailor and shoemaker,
and hosier, for preventing your health,
than to pay the doctor for curing you
after you are ill.

Recall some of your past experi-
ence, and you will soon discover that
two-thirds of the colds you have suf-
fered from were produced by getting
cold and wet feet. The'Indians un.
derstood this fully. In their wi .
-wams they alwa s laid down witgh
their feet towar the fire. When
they were traveling in cold weather,
and are compelled to open air, they
dig a hole in the earth, m the center
of which they build a fire, and than
lie down in a circle, each one hanging
his legs into the hole. In this cue.
tom they have the simple guidance
of experience.

 

WE must walk through life as through
the Swiss mountains, where a hasty

 

word may bring down an avalanche.

 

 

WALTER GORDON.

 

 

WALTER GORDON.

BY us. 0. PERCIVAL.
I

T was a wild, wild night. Out of
1 doors a fierce winter wind howled
around the housetops, ever and anon
giving some ill-confined gate or shutter
a sullen slam, and now making tall
trees to bend as it whistled its dismal
songs thrOugh their leafless branches.
Truly it was a wild, wild night, and the
very elements seemed in their wild
hoarse howling to be chanting a dis-
cordant requiem to the dying year.

Far down in a dark and lonely valley,
away from the brightly lighted homes
and shops,where nofriendly lamp stood
to guide the feet into the truest path,
stood an old dilapidated house. Time
had evidently done its work upon it,
for but few of the windows were per-
fect, and the loose clapboards kept up
a noisy clatter in the stormy night-
wind. Outside, the building was a
ruinous object to behold, and inside
the prospect was no more inviting.
The room was small, and scantily,
very scantily furnished. In one cor-
ner lay a rude pallet of straw, hon-
ored with the title of “ bed,” while an
old cracked stove, a rough pine table,
a chest, and a few old chairs consti-
tuted the remaining furniture of the
room. Two persons only seemed in
the room. Both were females— one
seemingly in the prime of her life;
the other hardly out of her teens, yet
both showing plainly the marks of
want and poverty.

“ Jane,” spoke the eldest, breaking
the silence, in a weak, feeble voice,
“don’t work any longer to-night.
Hear!” she said, “ it ’s eight now ;”
and as she spoke, the deep, ringing
tones of some city clock told loudly
the hour.

“ Yes. yes!” answered the one ad-
dressed as Jane, “I will in a minute or
two when I’ve finished this piece,”
and again a silence prevailed, broken
only by the rapld flying of the needle.

.“ Jane,” said the vouce again, when
at last the girl’s task had been laid

 

 

aside, “it’s just a twelvemonth to-
night since the news came, the bad
news, Jane, that was our New Year’s
gift; ” and as the woman spoke, she
turned her eyes mournfully toward a
portrait hanging upon the wall. It was
a picture of one seemingly in the
very pride of his manhood. The fea-
tures were open and frank, the hair
glossily black and curly, while the
wide open collar and blue-spotted neck
handkerchief showed evidences of a
seaman’s hand. Long gazed the we-
man at the picture, until tear after
tear chased each other down her pale
wan cheek, and sigh after sigh escaped
her bosom.

“Oh, Mary! Mary!” said the other
compassionately, “ do n’t mourn. The
bad news may be untrue, although if
it is not, we should bear in mind that
it is God’s will, and not complain. So,
Mary, do n’t weep, for the New Year’s
gift may at last be feund to be a-false
one.” She stopped suddenly, but im-
mediately added in a lower tone, and
fervently, “God grant that it may
be.”

“ N o, no, Jane,” answered the older
one, “you’re wrong; something tells
me so. He’ll never come back—no,
never.”

“It may be so, Mary, but I hope
and pray not. Don’t you remember
what he himself used to tell us —‘ It ’8
ever the darkest just before dayi’
We’ve been in the dark long, Mary,
and it does look gloomy ahead, but I
feel that the morning for.us will
break soon — very soon.”

Walter Gordon, whose portraity
hanging upon the wall of the wretched
home into which we have just looked,
was the only sign of “better times "
the room contained, was a sailor, who,
years before, had left home and farn'
ily to buffet gale and tempest in
search of wealth. The voyage was 3
long and dangerous one, but the hope
of accruing by it an easy competence
which might enable him to pass the
remainder of his days in the midst
a happy and loved family circle, can '
him to forget all its dangers. Hts

 

 

 

._.’ A

«5.!

 

 

WALTER-GORDON. 179

 

ship sailed, and for a time his anxious
family often heard from him, but at
length all tidings suddenly ceased for
a time, and then the “bad news”
came, which said that the proud ship
had sank in mid ocean, and all of the
noble crew found a watery grave. It
was a terrible blow to Mary Gordon,
but for a time she bore it bravely,
hoping and praying that the news
might prove untrue, but no contra-
dicting tale came back, and at length
her last hope faded and was gone.
Misfortunes, they say, seldom come
single, and so it proved in her case,
for hardly had the “ bad news” been
received, before all her little property
was taken from her by the designing
lawyer, in whose hands Walter Gor-
don had left it. Bowing under these
misfortunes, Mary Gordon seemed al-
most heart-broken. Such was the

, State of things when our little story

opened.

—-

II.

LAWYER Budd sat in his little office.
A confirmed old bachelor, he usually
Slept in a small room adjoining it, get-
ting his meals at some down-town res-
taurant. It was the last night of the
Year, and he held in his hand a sort
of schedule of his year’s affairs, the
“footing up” of which he frequently
Viewed with great complacency.

_ “ Ten thousand,” he muttered to
hlmself; “ that is n’t des’put had for a
Pretty tight sort of a year ; ” and Mr.

udd having thus delivered himself,
settled his chin in his collar, crossed

is legs, and began whistling a nonde-
script sort of an air with great appa-
rent satisfaction. “Let’s see,” he
“id again after a pause; “ that Gor-
don estate settled up pretty richly for
me. yes, and the Hitchcock and Jones
“tine wound up tol‘bly, not bad by any
mearls.” The lawyer suddenly stopped,
“1d a troubled expression passed over
I face. “What if that Gordon

should turn up after all,” he muttered,
‘3 he rose and nervously paced up and

 

down the room; “ would n’t I be
in a —” ’

A loud knock upon his office door
interrupted his soliloquy, and his face
turned red, then pale as he threw Open
the door. A stranger, or one who
seemed a stranger, entered. He was
of medium size, rather thick set, with
dark curling hair, and a rich and luso
trons eye black as jet, which he fas-
tened full upon the trembling lawyer.

“ Mr. Budd, I believe i ” he said, as
he helped himself to a seat near the
fire.

“The same, and at your service,
sir,” returned the questioned one.

“So far so good,” said the stranger;
“I thought this was the place, though
I hadn’t seen it before in several
years. It’s proper cold out, ain’t it?”

“Yes! ’t is quite coolish that ’s_ a
fact,” answered the lawyer uneas-
ily. “ Do you reside in the place 3 ”

“I did once, but have not been in it
for several years before to-night.”

“Traveling, eh i ” suggested the
lawyer. '

“ Traveling— yes, or wandering
rather all over the globe, with no
chance to see home or friends until
now. Traveling— yes, indeed, I have
been traveling, on a long, long jour-I
nev.”

Lawyer Budd moved nervously in
his chair, for the thought of who the
stranger might be seemed to make
him uncomfortable.

“Then you have lived here before i”
he continued, the color leaving his
face as he spoke.

“ Oh, yes! certainly I have. I
only went away to follow my chosen
vocation, leaving behind me dear ones
in the care of one who, taking advan-
tage of the rumor that I was lost at
sea, showed himself a hollow-hearted
rascal by robbing, yes, robbing coolly
and deliberately those unprotected
ones of their earthly all.” The stran-
ger seemed to grow excited as he
spoke, gazing at the same time fiercely
into the lawyer’s face.

Lawyer Budd was violently agitated,
and paced rapidly up and down the

 

  

 

180 WALTER GORDON.

 

office, st0pping at length suddenly be-
fore the ‘seeming stranger, be de-
manded his name.

“ My name, sir,”_ he answered,
promptly yet politely, “is WALTER
GORDON, and let me tell you now,
that if you do not before to-morrow
night make full and complete repara-
tion for your infamy to those whom
you have'wronged, I will make you
feel the strong arm of the law if there
is any such in the land.”

He rose as he spoke preparatory to
leaving, and when he had finished,
left the office, leaving the united and
discomfited lawyer to the quiet of his
own reflections.

“ This is a very interesting state of
things I should think,” he muttered to
himself, as the door closed upon his
unwelcome visitor. “Just got it all
fixed and settled square, and who
should pop up but him, the dog. Well,
I ’m headed this time anyway, and I
do n’t s’pose there ’s any use growling
’bout it now. I ’11 play the honest
game now, and make reparation, as he
calls it; but never mind, I’ll be up
with him yet—I will if I live; ” and
comforting himself with these words,
he sat down by a little table to fill out
. the papers requisite in placing Walter
Gordon’s property in their hands.

All this, kind reader, was years ago,
for experience in the ways of the world
has taught the scheming lawyer the
truth of the school-boy’s plain motto,
“ Cheating never prospers,” and today

on might go far before finding a more
honest man than Reuben Budd. But
let us return to the wretched home in
the alley.

* i i «It 'I: ’It

Wearily the night wore on. Out-
side, the'wind had increased to a tem-
pest, and howled more wildly than
ever. In the house the thin di can-
dle had burnt itself down, flicliered,

and gone out. The few red and dying
embers in the old cracked stove had
faded slowly and turned to ashes, and
there they sat, sister and wife, waiting
for something, they knew net what.

 

“There’s a knock at the door,
Jane.”

Wearin the girl rose up, and flung
open the door. The night was dark,
fearfully dark, but an uncertain gleam
of moonlight showed a strange form
standing upon the threshold.

“Will you come in?” said Mar
Gordon, who, unperceived, had foz
lowed to the door. Could she have
seen the stranger’s face as she spoke,
his flushed cheek, and upturned eve,
she might have wondered as to his
mission, but the thick murky darkness
shut it from her View.

Walter Gordon—for the stranger
was no other than be —for a moment
did not answer, but stepping near to
his questioner, folded her to his bosom
in one long, loving embrace; and as
the winds blew wildly, and the bells
told loudly the departure of the old,
and the incoming of the New Year,
could be heard the woman’s voice:

“Oh Walter! Walter! thank God
you’ve come at last.”

III.

“ So they told ydu that the Dolly 'd
gone down with all on board, did
they ? ” said Walter Gordon.

They were seated, not in the deso-
late and ruinous home where we last
left them, but in a warm comfortable
apartment. There was no lamp 1“
the room, but a grate full of glowing
coals, diffused through the apartment
a genial warmth, shedding at the sam0
time a subdued light upon the brightl)‘
polished furniture, and gleaming ch60”
il y upon the contented and joyous fat?“
of the little household group.

“ Yes, Walter,” answered Mafy
Gordon, “that is what they told 09?
but thank God, it was not so. W‘
were in the dark as Janie said a lo"!
time, but out of the gloomiest. ho“?
came the brightest morning. As 5'0u
used to say, so we found ‘it, ‘ It is 6V“
the darkest just before day.’ ”

Bun-mm, 1857.

 

 

 

 

 

 

WALTHAM BOND. 131

‘

 

WALTHAM BOND; OR, THE COP-
IED DAGUERREOTYPE.

BY HRS. H. E. G. AREY.
CHAPTER I.
IT was the twenty-second of February.
The flags from many a roof and
cornice flung out their musty folds to
the cool breeze with a flouting sound,
like a sudden shout of triumph. The
Sleigh-bells mingled their near or far-
03 ching-a-ring through the streets,
and the gay crowds dashed past, With
bright ribbons fluttering on the air,
and merry tones echoing on every side.
A very young man clothed in plain
but well-kept garments, had paused
or a moment at the corner of the
street to watch the gay panorama that
Was sweeping past him. And as he
1Ooked, his eye and his nostril dilated,
flnd there came upon his lip a curve
"I which the trace of bitterness was
just perceptible. But it was only for
8 moment that this expression was
allowed to linger, and he turned hast-
fly down a side street expostulating
With himself.
. “It is not right,” he said ; “I know
It is not right, this restive murmuring
at our fate. But how comfortable I
could make my mother with a tithe of
What they are spending on these fol-
1168 to-day. She says God orders it
wis:er for us all. I know; but how
3rd it is to feel it so sometimes. Lit-
tle by little I must gain, patiently as
0 ant does. It will be very long be-
01'6 I can relieve her from wearing
milsor furnish any thin more than
9 bars necessaries of 1i e for her and
0“? sweet Kitty. Ifear I lack courage
Struggle with my fate. How shall
6 stron when I am away from
1“” And my father, how much he
moVeto teach me to have courage in
9 midst of adversity. How strong
° Was throu 11 all his trials, and how
“"6 always that the day would. dawn
uPoll the darkest night. I Will ask

her for his portrait to take with me,
and Iwill keep it by me always to
8t"fiangthen and encourage me when
3 heart-sickness comes.’
VOL. IV. 12.

 

And the young man mounted two
at a time the stairs that led to the neat
but narrow apartment where his mo-
ther had made her home. She was
stooping over a trunk as he entered,
and a glance showed its small compass
nearly filled with nicely-packed cloth-
ing and books.

“Oh, mother 1 ” exclaimed Wal-
tham; “I did not wish you to spend
your precious time in doing this, dear
mother; I could do it very well my-
self after my out-of-door matters were
arranged. You have had so much to
do for me already.”

“I was happy to do it for you, m
son,” she said, rising, with a smi e
on her pale thin face; and smoothin
back his bright hair from his foreheatf,
she pressed upon it such a kiss as only
a mother’s lips can give. “It is pleas-
ant to know that every thing that I
could furnish for your outfit was here,
and it will make you think of me the
more when you are far from me. We
have finished every thing but this,”
she added, pointing to the lounge
where “ sweet Kitty ” was lying, striv-
ing to finish the button-holes of a linen
coat which was to furnish him for his
traveling and summer dress.

“ Do n’t do it, Kitty,” said her bro-
ther, taking it out of her hand. “ You
are not well enough to work. I can
make a button—hole.”

“ I can taie it now,” said his mo-
ther, seatin erself in her accustomed
chair. “I ave finished the packing,
and poor Kitty is hardly as well as
usual today.”

“I have one favor more to ask, dear
mother,” said Waltham, seating him-
self beside her, and detaining her hand
a moment to fondleit in his own. “I
would like my dear father’s daguene-
otype, to take with me; I feel so dis-
couraged sometimes, and it will
strengthen me to look at his calm res-
olute face- Can you s are it for me!
But, no, mother,I wil not take it,”
he added hastily; for, accustomed as
he was to read the changes on her
features, he could not but see the ex-
pression of pain which his request had

 

 

182

WALTHAM BOND.

 

caused. “I was very wrong not to
know that you would need it more
than I.”

“I think we could have it copied,
my son,” said Mrs. Bond, after a few
moments of sad thought.

“ Oh no, mother, we can not afford
that,” said Waltham hastily. I shall
come back to you after a few years; ”
but his voice sunk as the weary length
of those years was suggested to his
mind; “and then we can all possess
it.”

“I think I can see a way that I can
manage it,” said the mother, still mus-
ingly; “you do not go out till to-mor—
row evening's train, and it will leave
time to have it taken in the morning.
Two dollars will probably pay for it.”-

“It is too much,” said Waltbam;
“ you have spent much more than I
was willing on should spend for me
already. T e memory of the dear
home I have left will make me always
strong.” And he rose up to .hide the
emotion that had almost mastered
him, and occupied himself among the
many little tasks that were to be ac-
complished before his departure.

There was a dimness in the mother’s
eye that multiplied many times the
thread she was stitching into the but-
ton-hole. She was thinking of the
little pearl pin—almost the only
thing that remained from the trinkets
of her girlhood. Yes, she could part
with that for the sake of gratifying
her son in his wish to have the features
of his father always near. It was a
bridal gift from an uncle she had
loved, but she had parted with many
little valuables that were just as dear,
and she would part with this.

She had nursedlher husband through
weary years of sickness, and now it
was something more than a year since
she had seen the dear form laid away
from her sight beneath the drifts of
winter. Since then she had struggled
along with the scant strength and

scantier means that were left her, un- .

til the increasing prices for the com-
monest necessaries of life, and the frail
health of her daughter, had warned

 

her that something must be done more
than they had yet been able to do. A
former friend of his father’s, had of-
fered to Waltham in one of the thriv-
ing towns of the far west, a more
promising situation than he could pro-
cure at home, and with many misgiv-
ings she had given her consent that he
should go -— misgivings, because of
the temptations which would beset him
among the loose customs of the re-
gion to which he was going. True
she had strong confidence in his integ-
rity, but those most hoped and prayed
for had often fallen, and there were
many fears mingled with the sad
thoughts of the widow in this first
parting with her only son.

_

CHAPTER II.

“ Affliction is the wholesome soil of virtue,
Where patience, honor, sweet humanity,
Calm fortitude, take root and strongly flourish."

“ Who has not known ill fortune, never knew
Himself on his own virtue."
Annun-

MY cousins were going east, having
delayed their visit a few days that they
might join in the festivities of the
twenty-second of February. Alfd
though none of our family joined “1
these festivities, we had been waiting
for the same day to pass; for my
mother, who had spent the last y?“
with me, was to take this opportunity
of returning to her own home in 003'
necticut. Their departure was fix
for the twenty-fourth, and on Eh“
morning of the twenty-third, whl
was a bright, clear wintry morning’
an excellent one for our purpose -—-
accompanied me to a daguerrean g8 ‘
lery that I might obtain a good p0"
trait of her before she left. I had 30
good picture of her, and she had DOV“
looked more beautiful to me than 31“
did now at the age of fifty, with f“
mellow sunshine of autumn ripening
her features.

Three or four sitters were already .

d we
’1 on
the

in the room when we entered, an
sat looking over the “ bijoutene
the table, until in a short tune

 

. . _ ,. s‘.~.....«.._..‘.. .)

 

 

-.. m. w.~m_u~‘__h,s_ ,1“

ti

’)

 

-gu—I‘...‘__ . ...

 

ti

9

 

 

WALTHAM BOND. 183

room was emptied of all the waiting
company, with the exception of a sin-
gle individual and ourselves. The ar-
tist now came forward blandly from
the curtains, where he had dismissed
the last sitter, and bowing and rubbing
his hands, asked me if I would sit for
my portrait. But the other occupant
0f the room, who had evidently been
waiting with some impatience for her
furn to come, approached us and said
In a clear, lady-like voice:

“I believe it is my turn now, and
my time is very precious.”

The artist took no notice of the re-
mark, but with a continuance of his
bland smile, indicated that we with
our velvet cloaks and furs were to
have the preference. But when he
Saw that we waited for him to reply
to the last speaker, he turned and said
very blufiiy :

“ Yours is only a copy -— it can be
done at any time.”

“ It is, as I told you, for my son, who
leaves me to-night, and I must wait
for it,” she persisted.

She had thrown up the vail that
finished her scant mourning, and ex-

lhited in worn features what had
Certainly been a most noble specimen
0f womanhood. She had probably
never been beautiful, but she was very
attractive, and the gray tinge of the
(“Tape with which her mantilla‘ was

rdered could take away nothing
r0m the look of refinement there was
Ilbout her.

“If this lady was here first,” said

“we have no right to take her
Place. We will wait till our turn
“mes.”

The artist was evidently discon-

eel'ted, but with a bow and an attempt

“t the same smile, he took the picture
.°m Which he was to copy, and re-
t"T’d behind the curtain. In a mar-

Velously short, space of time he re-ap-
Feared, and presented to her the W0
“868, at the same time naming two
ollars and a half as his price-
_“I think you told me two dollars,”
,“ld she firmly, at the same time open-
"lg the new daguerreotype.

 

“Well, perhaps I did; two dollars
then," said be roughly.

“This is not a good picture, sir,”
said the woman.

“ What fault have y0u to find with
it i " asked he.

“A great deal, sir,” said she, not at
all awed by his sharp way of speak-
ing. “ In the first place it is very ob-
scure. Some parts can scarcely be
seen.”

“ I think you are mistaken, ma’am,”
said be, taking it from her; “I can
see it well enough.”

“Perhaps so,” she replied, with a
slight quiver on her lip at the implied
sarcasm, “but I can not. It must be
distinct in order to be satisfactory,”
and she was rising up to go.

“ No one can find any fault with
that picture,” said he returning it to
her.

“I will leave it to the judgment of
these'ladies,” said she, handing us both
the orifi'nal picture and its copy.

“Per aps theirtime is precious as well
as yours,” said he, evidently ill-pleased
to have our judgment in the matter.

But his remonstrance was of no
avail ; we already had the pictures in
our hands and were examining them.
The copy, as she had declared, was a
miserable apology for adaguerreotype,
but the original was a fine picture of a
fine-looking man. My mother’s atten-
tion was immediately attracted by it,
and she took it from my hand and held
it out in a new light.

“ Very fine,” she exclaimed in answer
to my assertion that it was a fine
face; “I should think it was the per-
trait of Waltham Bond.”

“It is the portrait of Waltham Bond,”
said the widow, looking at her in sur.
prise.

“Is it possible!’ said my mother
scanning her with a surprise quite
equal toher own; “you know him
then. I thought all trace of him was
lost. Where is he i ”

“He is dead,” replied she, her al-
ready pale face shading away to the
whiteness of the grave.

“Excuse my thoughtlessness,” said

’

 

  

184:

 

WALTHAM BOND.

 

my mother, touched with her look
of sorrow. “Perhaps you are. his
widow?”

“I am,” said the clear, sad voice.

“And did they find him? Did he
receive his fortune before he died ?
For a long time there was no clue to his
whereabouts. They searched for him
everywhere before his father’s death.”

“Is his father dead then?” asked the
widow sinking back into her seat.

“ Certainly; were you not aware of
it? You have not received his inheri-
tance then ? ”

At this moment the door opened
and a young man made his ap ear-
ance, whose face was an excellent,
youthful c0py of the portrait we had
just been examining.

“Here is strange news for us, Wal-
tham,” said his mother in a trembling
voice, as he approached her. “This
lady tells me that your grandfather is
dead, and—but perhaps there is some
mistake about the rest.’

“No mistake about the property,”
said my mother. “ If you have not re-
ceived it, there is one of the finest
properties in Connecticut waiting for
your acceptance.”

“Is it possible!” exclaimed the
young man grasping my mother’s hand,
“ can this be so? Was my father at
last forgiven? ”

“Fully forgiven,” said my mother,
“and the last six months before your
grandfather’s death, the most anxious
search was made for him. It was the
old gentleman’s last wish to. see his
son once more. His roperty was left
to your father or his heirs, and search
was to be made for them for fifteen
years. If they were not then found,
the estate was to go to various charities.”

“ Mother l mother! ” cried the y0ung
man, springing toward her and sup—

rting her as she fell half fainting.

“If he could but have known it,”
she sobbed, “‘ it would have saved his
life. It may save my poor Kitty now.
Let us go home my son.”

“ My carriage is at the door,” I sug-
gested, “ you are hardly able to walk
there now.”

 

“ I shall be very happy to give you
another cOpy, if this does not please
you,” said the smiling and bowing ar-
tist, as Mrs. Bond took up her hus-
band’s picture from the table.

“ It is no matter now,” was the reply.

Leaving my mother to have her
portrait taken during my absence, I
took the widow and her son in my
carriage to their own home, and learned
as I went, some further particulars of
their story. The father of Waltham
Bond —-a stern old man it seemed —-
had been so much displeased with his
son’s marriage into the family of a
small mechanic,'that he had disinher-
ited him, and declared that he w0uld
never see or hear from him again. So
firmly had he kept this resolution, that
the letters his son addressed to him,
when he found himself in embarrassed
circumstances, were invariably returned
unopened. And the son at last dis-
couraged at any attempts at reconcilv
iation, had removed West, and made
no further effort to communicate with
his family. His only brother had died
subsequently, and his father’s last days
were embittered by the thought that
the only heir of his large property
could not be found, and it might have
to go to strangers. This last fact I
obtained afterward from my mother.
Herf umey cast was delayed yet an‘
othergflay, and then there was an ac-
cession-to their party in the family 0‘
Mrs. Bond. This is my story of tho
copied daguerreotype.

v: e a a 4: I

“But, Auntie,” said one of the litth
group of listeners in aunt Rachel"
parlor, “is n’t Waltham Bond the saw}
S uire Bond that lives in that beauty
fdl place on the hill in C. . . .?” -

“ Yes, the same,” said aunt RachOL

“And that pale woman who is 50
much beloved by every one, and 
useful among the poor—that is b1.
mother I suppose. I have seen
and knew that she lived there.”

“Yes, that is his mother, and “3“,
hale and handsome Mrs. Townsend 0,

the same place. is ‘ poor sweet Kit?”
who might long since have M

eds

 

 

 

 

 

 

.s.Ww._.—.m._ .“ V

 

€
9
l
g‘.
i

 

 

MY SUSQUEHAN'NA HOME. 185

consumptive’s grave, if the unfortunate
circumstances in which she was reared,
had continued. They are excellent
People, and seem never in their wealth
to have forgotten ‘the sweet uses of
adversity] ”

¥

MY SUSQUEHANNA HOME.

IS there aspot in all the circle of our
recollection upon which the mind
delights to dwell, as much as the home
Of our childhood? Does any one re-
member of ever seeing hills as green,
01' flowers as lovely as those that
adorned the play-grounds of his youth?
be aged, with brow furrowed by time
and care, ever revert with pleasure to
e scenes and sports of youth, that
man checkered years and scenes of
thril ing interest have not effaced.
It was my fortune, in childhood’s
merry days, to have a home in Penn-
'ylvania, on the banks of the Sus-
quehanna. ’Twas a quiet country
Place, and an old stone house, brown
find queer, standing near the river’s
lMink, constituted that long remem-
bered institution—ourchildhood home.
lovely spot was that, lonely and se-
questered as it was. The broad, blue
Water lay in front, and on the opposite
ahOre, far as the eye could reach, an
01d gray mountain stood up boldly
against the sky. An inexhaustible
tfld of amusement. was that river. In
.V’lnter, its broad sheet of ice so tempt-
"lg; and in summer, we could study
8 art of navigation, by paddling a
canoe along the shore, or sit upon the
Ill! and watch the noble steamers,
‘5 they came plunging down the river,
“1d passed our home like a comet,
“Wing only a train of smoke, and a
dark track in the waters behind. But
“3° glory of that spot, was in the In-
‘3'1 summer days. Nothing could ex-
°.°°d the beauty of those hills, when
‘ut‘lmn had just deepened the green
, their mossy carpet, and thrown a
“char shade on the crimson crest of
0 lofty trees.
M Then, as the sun sank through the
“0 mist, and disappeared behind the

 

mountains, its golden rays would come
beaming through their shaggy tops,
and across the water, like wandering
rays from some brighter sphere. The
companion of all those happy days
was a gentle brother, and together we
explored the bills for miles around.
We took the latitude of all the bird‘s-
nests that our territory afforded, and
counted all the rabbits that resided
within a square mile.

Ten years passed awa thus. Ten
years we played along 1. at river, or
sailed over its bosom; and then he
passed away. The little hands that
rowed our boat were folded in ever-
lasting rest, and a little willow on the
river bank, shows where he sleeps.
Thus it is with childhood’s friends and
associations. They pass, and give
place to others, but are never forgotten.

I have seen New England’s beauty,
her little villages nestled among the
hills, her splendid rivers and wild
mountain scenery, and the summer
landscapes of the South where flowers
always bloom; but I never beheld a
spot so lovely, where the air was so
pure, and the sky so bright, as that
home on the Susquehanna. SIGMA.

 

HAPPINESS 0F WORKING Mam—The
situation or social position of the poor
—— and by that word we mean the la.
boring po ulation —- is by no means so
deficient in comfort as mapg believe.
“The mechanics,” says Lo Byron,
“ and working classes who can mantain
their families, are, in my 0 inion, the
happiest body of men. overty is
wretchedness; but it is, perhaps, to be
preferred to the heartless, unmeanin
dissipation of the higher orders.” A
popular author says, “I have no ro-
pensity to envy any one, least 0 all
the rich and great; but ‘if I were dis-
posed to this weakness, the subject of
my envy would be a healthy oung
man, in full possession of his health
and faculties, going forth in the morn-
ing to work for his wife and children,
or bringing them home his wages at
night.”

 

186 GEORGE moanrou's MARRIAGE.

 

GEORGE MORETON’S MARRIAGE.

BY MISS M. A. RIPLEY.

“ EORGE Moreton married l I am
as much surprised as if it were
myself i ” ‘

I had taken up the evening paper,
and was sitting by the open window,
sheltered from the prying eyes of pass-
ers-by by the fragrant roses which
clung to the lattice, and, as was my
wont, had turned to the column where-
in I had for the last dozen years, found
recorded the obituary and marriage
notices—the last, in my opinion, but
a variation of the former. I saw
the list headed, “Moreton—Howe,”
and I read the paragraph over and
over again, for I was not credulous
enough to believe its story at the first
reading; and thenI dropped the pa-
per, and leaned my head back against
the chair, and fell to musing as to
what the charm might be, which had
compelled my friend Moreton to re-
nounce his old plans of perpetual bach-
elorship, and fetter himself with the
care 0 a family. I remembered his
fastidious notions as to what consti-
tuted an agreeable lady and attractive
wife, and concluded Miss Emma Howe
must have descended from an angelic
sphere, very recently. I also called to
mind his ideas of t e necessity of an
uncounted number of circular bits of
yellow metal, ycleped dollars, to the
continuation of connubial bliss, and
felt certain the lady must be an heiress.
I knew also his aversion to “ marrying
a whole family,” in other words, to
having brothers, sisters, aunts, and un-
cles; cousins first, second, and third,
interesting themselves in the affairs of
Mr. George Moreton, and exclaimed,
“ She must be an orphan! "—in which
last conclusion I was correct.

In a day or two, a very neat envel-
op addressed to m self, was left at
the door, and when {saw the enclosed
wedding-card, I learned that the happy
pair—I use a stereoty ed phrase—
were established at “ o. 77 Lin-

ton Avenue.” And then I bethought
me that it must be at the cottage

 

 

left to Moreton by an old uncle, who
had eschewed marriage, and who, even
in his last illness, would have no
woman about his house, but stead-
fastly required all services to be per-
formed by an old gray-headed negro,
who had followed him through all
trial for more than thirty years. And
the old man seemed really to love the
ebony domestic, who presided over his
kitchen arrangements, and humored
his childish whims; and left him a
comfortable house and a little garden,
in which the old negro raised a few
vegetables, and quite a variety of gaudy
flowers—exercising his uncultivated
African taste with no restraint whatever.
But the cottage was vacant af-
ter the uncle’s death, and the rooms
seemed desolate enough. It was far
more pleasant in the garden, which
owed its nicely-kept walks, and trim
arbors, and clustering white and pur-
ple grapes, to the faithful care of the
above mentioned African, who would
insist that Mr. George Moreton would
sometime bring a wife there; which
proposition Mr. George Moreton would
treat with dignified silence, or with a
command for no more nonsense of that
sort. At that time he really thought
it was 'nonsense for him to think of
marriage. He had too much regard
for any one he might prefer for a wife,
to say nothing of his love for himself:
to venture his bark on the sea of mad
ded life, unless it were properly bal'
lasted with gold. He could not think
of happiness, unless it were accom'
panied by a degree of ease and luxury-
“ How then has George Moreton been
induced to marr ’l” was a question
which was continually in my min 1
and which I was determined to solve-
I found myself one sweet Sabbal’rll
evening leisurely taking my way 
Linton Avenue. Evidently I was In
search of No. 77. I had that morning
been very early in my seat at chuw
—Moreton and myself occupied 0no
pew—and had very kindly, ,as
thought, allowed my friend to passin an
sit next his wife. I had never shown
him such attention before, rather

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

GEORGE MORETON‘S MARRIAGE.

_

preferring the corner seat, which was
very comfortable for a person with my
somnolent habits. And Moreton beg-
ged me to call soon—that night—
and become acquainted with his wife.
“And,” said he, just as the minister
commenced his invocation, “I’ll tell
you all about it.” I did not wait for
an introduction when the service was
closed, but hastened to my rooms,
there to feel my bachelorship very
lonely. Heretofore I had frequently
taken Moreton home with me to din-
ner, and then we had spent the after-
noon together. I managed to get
through the day, and soon after tea, I
started to pay my respects to the bride.
I observed, as I passed through the
garden, that the walks were carefully
swept, and, as I glanced at the house,
that the parlor windows were thrown
9pen. The whole place had a more
Inviting, home-like aspect than for-
merly.

Moreton saw me and met me at the
door. He grasped my hand with his
‘Old-fashioned heartiness, and taking
my hat, led me to the parlor. After
a formal introduction, which I wished
Were a great deal less ceremonious, for

Is wife was really beautiful — not the
doll-like beauty which some fancy,
but that of health, and intelligence,
and cultivation combined—we com-
m'enced a very pleasant chat. I soon
fllscovered that the lady was reared
In the country, but having early in life
lOst her parents, had 5 eat a large
Portion of her time in t e neighbor-
mg city, where her taste in literature
and art, had been abundantly gratified.

to was entertaining to listen to her
criticisms upon the works which had
l'ecently been on exhibition there.
She had evidently read and thoaght
much. Her national pride was a
fitl'ong principle within her. Said she,

wonder Americans do not sup ort
a“d encourage their own artists! I we
. nd a painting is American, its value
"1 Our eyes is instantly lessened. Eu-
r0peans do not thus undervalue home
tSent. If the discover a choice pic-
t'ln‘e in our gal eries, the first question

 

187

is, ‘ When did the artist come over?”
Well, the evening was flying rapidly
away. I was aware of that, charmed
asI was; soI glanced at my watch,
and rising, begged the privilege of
calling frequently, which was readily
accorded.

“ Wait for me, Vane,” said Moreton.

So Istopped at the foot of the steps
until he came, and taking my arm,
we walked SlOle down town.

“I told you I would tell you all
about my marriage,” he beo'an. “So
I shall keep my word with you to-
night. You remember my visiting
the city a year ago, to attend the com-
mencement at . . . . . college? Well,
that was the most fortunate, or the
most unfortunate period of my life—
time will show. The roblem is
stated and must be solved. I think,
however, I was very fortunate to go
up just at that time; though, how I
became so lost to all my former ideas
on the subject, I can never imagine.
I expect to dream that out sometime.
The hall in which the exercises took
place, was crowded to overflowing
when I arrived there, but by dint of
exertion I managed to crowd through
the throng, and was about a third of
the way up the aisle, when I felt a
hand on my arm, and looking round,
saw the face of a friend whomI had
not met for years. By close sitting
he made room for me with his party,
and I was very comfortable, compared
with my former militant state in the
aisle—for I had constantly to put
forth all my strength to prevent some
elbowing spectator usurping my place.
The pale study-worn students went
throu h their parts very honorably,
and w en the assembly rose to leave,
we kept our seats, thinking we would
wait for the hall to be cleared. My
friend introduced me to his wife and
cousin, and would insist on my com-
pany to dinner. I was dressed rather
carelessly, and would have excused
myself, but he w0uld take no excuse.
So I went with him. His wife was
very fascinating, more so I then thought
than his cousin, who, you may guess,

 

  

188

is now my wife. But, at that timeI
made it a rule to devote m self to
married ladies; I did not wis to be
snared, and the least proximity to a
fowler—and in that class I placed all
young, unmarried ladies—frightens
all prudent birds.

“ But the cousin did not trouble me
with her presence after we were seated
in the parlor. Indeed,I did not see
her until dinner, when she made her
appearance, dressed very plainly, yet
tastefully. Well,I need not tell you
whether I sat opposite to her, or by
her side; whether I handed her pie
or pudding—you do not wish me,I
am sure, to elaborate the simple story,
but to give you the leading incidents.
You well remember that my stay in
the city very much exceeded the limit
which I fixed for it, when I left you at
the hotel just before I started; and
you may imagine that I was not a lit-
tle surprised, when I discovered that I
was enchained, and that though each
separate thread which bound me was
as attenuated as those which form the
spider’s web, I could not, with all
my struggles free myself. So after
striving against fate until I was weary,
I gave myself up to the enchantment,
resolving that I would return home,
work harder than ever, and win a
name 111 lady-love might be proud to
wear. made no confession while
there,I merely proposed a correspond-
ence. I imagined my feelings might
be passing fancies, which would vanish
when I again plunged into my old oc-
cupations. I did not dare to propose,
for fear I should afterward repent.

“Month after month passed away.
I found myself every few days looking
anxiously for a letter from C. . . ., or
dreamin over one received; and fre-
quently Imagininrr Moreton a much
hner name than flows, and wondering
what Miss Emma would think. Some-
timesI felt afraid I had gone too far
in the matter~but this was when I
had just heard from her; when the
next letter was due, I was as anxious
as before, and m as much haste to

reply.

 

 

GEORGE MORETON’S MARRIAGE.

“One evening Iwas seated in the
public parlor of the hotel, which was
crowded with strangers, and had es-
conced' myself in a sly corner to take
observation, for I think a crowd in a
hotel, a fine study for those who love
to read human nature. Two young
men were sitting near me, partially
hidden by the shutter which was
thrown carelessly open, and I could
distinctly hear their conversation,
which was carried on in not a very
subdued tone, considering the place.
I heard one ask:

“‘Sumner, who did you say the
young lady was that captivated so
much talent?’ ”

“‘Her name is Howe—Emma
Howe—an orphan, with no fortune
but her own peerless mind and noble
soul. I protest that I myself should
have offered her my poor name, had
not her rejection of Cunningham ut-
terly disheartened me.’

“I had heard enough to rouse my
latent jealousy. I went to my room
and sat down, imploring the presence
of all my guardian angels to help me
to decision. Before sleeping that
night,I wrote to her. Perhaps you
would like to know what I wrote.
made a full confession of my old ideas
regarding marriage—of my former
love of ease and luxury, for which'I
had been willing to give up domestic
bliss— of the sudden upheaval of the
old strata, when I perceived the sent)-
ments I had been cherishing as living
forms, giving grace, and beauty, an
strength to life, were but the fossilized
relics of my barbaric state—of my
comparative poverty and uncertain fu-
ture ——I tried to be truly honest, Vane;
and then I told her I could only
plead my great love for her as the ex-
cuse for offering her my unknown
name; I trusted that she would become
my inspiration, and that for her sake
my path in life might be blessed’
that it could be no otherwise if she
but consented to place her hand In
mine and journey with me.

“I received an answer in a few
days, and then I understood why th°

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE [INSTREL’S HERITAGE. 189

¥

wealthy and talented Cunningham
failed to please the fortuneless orphan.
But I can ’t yet understand, Vane, how
she came to love me.” '

We had long before this reached
my room, and Moreton looked at the
mantel clock, and exclaimed :

“ Goodness ! it’s twelve o’clock, and
She’ll not know what to think—but
call often.”

I promised, and he was gone.

¥

THE MINSTREL’S HERITAGE.
as arts. ii. I. e. an“.

HY fathers from the ocean’s side with all
their herds and flocks,
cut up into the wilderness, amid the north-
ern rocks;
Ithey scared the panther from his den, the
red wolf from the lair,
(1 thus they won a home for those whom
God should give them there.

I'llll swiftly sped their summer's sun, their
land was hard and cold,
(1 loud and fierce the wintry storms amid
the mountains rolled;
And, while the rich on southern plains their
golden harvests stored,
y. by the blazing pine-flre’s light o‘er
quaint old volumes pored.

Amid their flocks, and o’er their fields, in sun
and storm they wrought,

where Nature‘s grandeur trained for Heaven
each ure aspirin thou ht;

hid like the proud olii pines8 that gird those
mountains broad and blue,

4 lturdy race of stalwart men my sire and
grandsires grew.

The! bartered no true right for gold ——they
shunned no manly toil,

hid calmly, with unblinded eyes they looked

T on life’s turmoil;

here. where the old world’s granite heart

in mountains lieiiimed them in,

8‘3"! virtue was the one proud meed, for
thoae strong souls to win.

The Warmth of happy homes they knew, the
Th Wealth of household love,
ey claimed the emerald vales below, the
h azure skies above; '
° {tars on those bold hills did rest—a
A“ kineg diadem —
little of the world could come betwixt
the heavens and them.

gush of summer springs fluid “'9 {0"
Th. eats cool and deep,

Whispering pine-woods were the rhyme“

that lulled my infant sleep;

 

I have but learned my father’s love, and
caught the forest’s tone,

And from the northern mountains gray I
bring my lyre alone.

The clang of golden trumpets fsin would
fright my spirits back

To wood-paths oubly sweeter than the city’s
dusty track;

And few, amid the throng will list the min-
strel’s simple lay,

And bean and harp are yearning for the
mountains cool and gray.

Aye, keep your gold and diamonds— I care
not these to win,

To pander thus my birthright—Heaven
shield me from the sin!

But, if these strings will still ring true, they
sure have call and cause,

mwyawm are theparentsoflter

 

NATURE’S BEAUTIES.

BY IIXA.

Iii pensive, sad‘ning thought, alone
I wandered forth one lovely eve,
Each gentle breeze in Winning tone
Besought me not to sigh or grieve;
Indeed, all Nature seemed to say,
This is the hour to praise and pray.

The beauty of that lovely scene,
My feeble pen can ne’er portray;
The dark, dense forest robed in green,
The plain extending far away;
And Lake Ontario's peaceful breast,
An emblem of the soul's sweet rest.

The verdant mount upreared its head,
As if to t the calm blue sky,
The west with gorgeous hues o'erspread,
The gateway seemed to realms on high.
A magic beauty these possess,
A strange, surpaming loveliness.

Ohl who could gaze with thankless heart,
On scenes so beautiful and fair,
Who feel no tear of gladness start,
And breathe to heaven no earnest prayer?
Not I, thank God! I felt the power
Of that enchanting twilight hour.

My heart o’erflowed with gratitude
To Him who made this world so bright
Hy spirit, softened and subdued, ’
Winged upward its enraptured flight
And how there before the throne, ’
Praised _ the Father, Spirit, son,

'1' is Nature’s province to direct

Ber votaries above this earth,
And by her lovely scenes reflect

The glorious Author of their birth;
And show in mountain. lake. ind m:
The perfect stamp of Deity.

  

190 MAJOR TRUEFITT ON THE TOO FINE.

 

MAJOR TRUEFITT ON THE
TOO FINE.

REFINEMENT is a very good thing
to a certain extent, but it ought
not to be carried too far. Human na-
ture we know to be a mixture; besides
those intellectual and emotional parts
which we cultivate and refine upon,
it includes certain animal elements
adapted for the rude physical circum-
stances in which it exists, and Serving,
indeed, as a needful basis for all the
other constituents. In our refining
process, we run a risk of carrying this
rough and hardy constituent out of its
proper relations; thereby injuring it,
making it sickly and silly, and so un-
dermining the whole fabric. Isay,
then, we should not refine too much.

Let us take a grave, analytic view of
that pleasant creature of the civilized
world —a lady. She lives chiefly in
a well-furnished house. When she
goes abroad, it is in a carriage. She
walks little, she has no sort of work
that gives exercise to the muscles; the
winds of heaven are never allowed to
visit her face too roughly. She is con-
sequently a white, soft, slim creature,
strikingly different from an average
peasant-woman, or a domestic female
servant. This elegant being, more-
over, insists upon imposing various
restraints and obstructions upon her
person, with a view of reducing it to
a certain ideal which has been conven-
tionally approved of ; thus sacrificing
to an arbitrary principle of refinement,
the healthy play of certain organs es-
sential to the general well-being of the
system. The consequence is, that she
is unfitted for some of the most im-
portant functions imposed on her by
destiny, breaks down under them, is
perhaps cut short in her career, but
more probably undergoes a life-long
penance of what is called delicate
health, useless for any good end in life,
and a source of trouble and vexation
to all comected with her. I trace all

this—and every physiologist will hear}
me out in the conclusion—to over-
.refiuement upon the material part of

 

 

our nature. A thing formed reughly
to bear a part in a rough process has
been taken out of its element, and
kept there till its constitutional force
was lost. It sinks, of course, under the
first shock it encounters. One must
ity the unfortunate creature, as she

is in a great measure the victim of ig— ,

norauce and a false system; but I
often feel how much condolence is
also due to those relatives who have
the interesting invalid to take care of,
and how much better it would be for
herself and others if she had kept
nearer the appointed level of human
nature, and so escaped a well-known
class of evils.

When that sweetly engaging crea-

ture, a babe, falls into the keeping of

a happy pair, how well it would be
for both parties if the parents would
rightly consider what it is! Do, my
dear friends, remember that it is only
human. Angel as it seems, it is only
a little animal — an animal with some
fine potentialities dormant within it—-
but in the meantime, simply, frankly,
and honestly, a little animal. Now, as
such, it calls for being kept in harmony
with certain conditions round about
it. It 'has a rough, hardy part to play,
and rough, hardy organs to play It
with. Let it remain rough and hardy
to a fair extent, and so maintain its
natural ability to play its appointe

part. I believe it would be better for
it to be a cottage-child, reared on polo’
tags, and tumbling from mom to 6V6
on a village-green, than a nurse-tended,
pampered denizen of a palace, only
allowed to take the air at stated hours
in a perambulator, or in a brief, dlli
walk. The problem is the simplest
imaginable. Keep the creature in 8

respects on the level of human nature
—the healthful average between the
physical and the mental parts of 011“
being—and all will be well. Mak°
it too fine, and you lay for it the foun’
dations of unnumbered dangers.

The great bulk of the men who are
engaged in the professions and m t}
higher fields of mercantile life, are 1',
tle aware of the dangers of the“

 

 

 

 

 

a. . .m~ng-‘—

“wm- “A
"‘N.( '

 

i
!

 

MAJOR TRUEFITT ON THE 'roo FINE. 191

course. Called on to exercise the in-
tellect chiefly, confined to the study
and the counting-room, the physical
part of their being gets but a restricted
Play. It has often occurred to me in
conversing with a studious friend, or
an assiduous man of business, to ask
Whether he ever fully considered that
there are such things going on in the
World as the digging of ditches, the
felling of trees, and the holding of
plows. If they look abroad, they
will see that such things are done —
that certain men have the strength to
do them, and that certain useful ends
are thus attained. It appears, in short,
that rough labor, vigorous muscular
power, and consequent good to the
Commonwealth, are all of them coher-
ent parts of the scheme of Providence.
Now, there may be individuals better
'idapted for hard work than others, or
it may be convenient to assign the spe-
cially hard work to certain persons,
while others undertake softer and
More refined tasks. But there are no
Specific differences in human beings
to adapt one to one kind of task, and
{mother to another; there are no he-
lfigs wholly muscle or wholly brain.
here is but one constitution for all,
each example of which involves some
Proportion of every feature common
to the rest. The men whose role it is,
then, to use the intellect chiefly, have
3 80 a muscular system of some degree
0f force—not well fitted, perhaps,
for ditch-digging, but still a muscular
8Estem forming an essential part of
‘- eir constitution, and requiring to be
opt in harmony with the parts of the
eXternal world to which it is adapted.
8y must see to make some use of
this clumsy and clogging machine, as
8y sometimes feel the body to be;
otherWise they will have to lay their
account with sundry hurtful conse-
uences. If they have no real labor
0" their arms and their limbs, where-
y 8 useful end ma be served, they
Would do well to take up with some
‘mateur kind, however purposeless.

Ifthe d'l'k - - d It
y la] e dig mg a gar en, e
t em take to bowlingg or cricket. Let

 

them at least take rides or walks‘
Field-sports unfortunately involve an
element of inhumanity; yet even
field-sports are better than no sports
at all. We sometimes wonder at the
eagerness of fine gentlemen to get
away from their dulcet city-life to a
Highland moor or the banks of a Lap-
land river, there to go through a
course of practice attended by most
of the hardships of the peasant’s lot;
but I regard this appetency as in truth
the voice of nature roclaiming that
man has a physical) system which
needs exercise, in order that we may
be wholly well and happy.

It was perhaps an internal voice of
this kind which prompted some of the
philosophers of the eighteenth cen-
tury to propound the startling dogma,
that the life ofa savage was the only nat-
ural and right life. This it certainly is
not; but the idea might nevertheless
point to some obscure form of truth. The
matter as I apprehend is simply this:
The ruder material part of our nature is
not changed or extinguished by civili-
zation. It continues, in civilization,
to exist, and to prefer its claims for a
suitable exercise and ratification;
and these claims must complied
with, if we would maintain the whole
febric in equilibrio and in health.

There is a similar philosophy re-
garding our mental nature. It em-
braces a wonderful variety of powers,
sentiments, and tendencies, applicable
to an equally wonderful variety of cir-
cumstances and necessities, many of
which are horner and inelegant, while
others are the opposite. The mind of
man, in short, has rough work ap—
pointed for it in this world, as well as
fine; and it has been constituted ac-
cordingly, just as the body was formed
for hewing trees as well as the carving
of ivory-boxes. When we go too far
in mental refinement, there arises 8
class of evils analogous to those which
befall the too delicately treated per-
son. Not merely do we become acutely
sensitive to trifling vexations, and unfit
to stand the serious shocks which from
time to time occur to the most happily

 

  

192

 

THE FLANNEL QUESTION.

 

placed people, but we grow in selfish-
ness. Every thing which does not
yield an immediate return of pleasure,
is felt to be a bore—a peculiar word,
the use of which may be considered as
perhaps the best exponent of this sys-
tem of over-refinement in a portion of
society. Ceasing to relish simple pleas-
ures, we get few real ones at all. Dis-
daining simple worth and mediocre
attainments, we narrow the social cir-
cle in which we may be useful. Surely
this. our last estate is worse than the
first. At the same time, it has never
been found that over-refinement sub-
dues any of the irregular passions of
the human breast; it only gives them
new directions, or teaches how they
may be masked. Let us not be too
eager to lay bare the moral interior of
the man of extreme refinement. On
the other hand, is it not universally
found in the ordinary world, that there
ma be a perfect simplicity of life,
ma ing as near an approach to inno-
cence as our nature is susceptible of,
where refinement has not been carried
beyond a medium degree?

I hope, my friends, that these few
imperfect observations will not be con-
sidered as a declaration of war against
refinement. I am a friend, not an en-
emy to refinement, and delight to w
men and women improving their taste
and the style of their manners, when it
is done to really good issues. Only let
us take care not to carry the process
beyond a healthy point, for then we
come in contact with evils worse than
those we seek to avoid.

 

THE FLANNEL QUESTION.

HERE has been a war going on for
some years between the flannel
and antioflannel parties; and the re-
sult has been, that many persons
have abandoned woolen under-gar-
ments altogether. Hall’s Journal

of Health comes to the rescue, and
says:

“In our climate, fickle in its gleams
of sunshine and its balmy airs, as a co-

 

quette in her smiles and favor, con-
sumption bears away every year the
ornaments of many of our social cir-
cles. The fairest and loveliest are its
favorite-victims. An ounce of preven-
tion in this fatal disease is worth many
pounds of cure; for, when once wel
seated, it mocks alike medical skill
and careful nursing. If the fair sex
could be induced to regard the laws
of health, many precious lives might
be saved; but pasteboard soles, low-
necked dresses, and Lilliputian hats,
sow annually the seeds of a fatal har-
vest. The suggestion in the following
article from the Scientific American,
if followed, might save many with con-
sumptive tendencies from an early
rave:

“ ‘ Put it on at once,winter and sum-
mer; nothing better can be worn next
to the skin than aloose, red woolen
shirt; loose, for it has room to move
on the skin, thus causing a titillation
which draws the blood to the surface,
and keeps it there; and, when that is
the case, no one can take cold; red,
for white flannel fulls up, mats to
gether, and becomes tight, stifl‘, hea ,
and impervious. Cotton wool mere y
absorbs the moisture from the surface,
while woolen flannel conveys it from
the skin, and deposits it in drops 0n
the outside of the shirt, from which
the ordinary cotton shirt absorbs It}
and by its nearer exposure to the air. 1‘
is soon dried without injury to the body-
Having these roperties, red wool fian-
nel is worn by sailors even in the
mid—summer of the hottest coup‘
tries. Wear a thinner material In
summer.’ ”

4/

COMMON PArHs.—Itsometimesseem6
to us a poor thing to walk in these com'
mon paths wherein all are walking-
Yet these common paths are the paths
in which blessings travel; the are the
ways in Wt.:Ch God is met. . clog“;
ing and fulfilling the lowest duties whlc
meet us there, we shall often be sur-
prised to find that we have unawares

been entertaining angels.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

EDITOR’S DEPARTMENT.

193

EDITOR’S DEPARTMENT.

AMUSEMENT AND DISSIPATION.

. E all acknowledge the influence which
'a cheerful tone of mind exerts upon
the physical system. The physician orders
an invalid to endure the dust and fatigue of
travel, chiefly in order that his mind may be
diverted from the preying cares of every-
day life, and gain tone while resting from
harassing duties.

New scenes and new amusements act upon
the wom-out mind of the strong man, as a
new toy does upon the mind of a child, call-
ing the attention away from the grim pres-
ence of physical frailty, and enabling the
mind to combat more manfully the ailments
0f the body. We all know that even an in-
fant when suffering actual pain may have his
attention diverted by new and attractive ob-
jgcts, so that for the time the pain seems
Wholly fergotten; the feeble wail will cease,
“Id a cheerful smile takes the place of the
Weary look of suffering. And no one can
doubt the health-giving influence of such
diversion to a feeble child. The mind and
bOdy are very closely connected, and the
Cheerfulness which is produced by a sufiicient
Variety of pleasing and interesting objects,
has a direct tendency to keep back the ex-
hausting overflow of physical misery. It
keeps off that black melancholy which some-
times seems to eat out the marrow of both
30111 and body, and on the other hand pre-
vents human nature, in its demand for amuse-
ments, from rushing into feverish and danger-
ous excitements. Those people who frown
at the promotion of innocent popular amuse-
meats, know very little of human nature, or
°f the demands of mankind in the mass.
If the mass of the people do not have
inDocent amusements, they will be pretty
90min to have those that are not inno-
°°nt- Noah Webster used to teach us in
m“ “A, B, C” days, that

“ All work and no play
Makes Jack a dull boy;

All play and no work
Makes him a mere toy."

we “e We“! much all Jacks in this re.
mew-Sure to be dull without the play un -

 

less we are so unfortunate as to become
something worse.

The matron of the backwoods, who, four-
fifths of the time, is alone in her house from
morning till night, grows weary of the un-
varied tread-mill of her duties, and takes
her knitting and hies away to seek her near-
est neighbor for a little social refreshing.
Her thoughts perhaps have been bounded
for months together by her bread-tray and
cheese-tub. She knows something of the
household management of her neighbors, a
little of the weather and the crops, and very
little else. She gossips. Have you any ob-
jection? We hope she preserves a due
Christian charity in doing so, but with
this borne in mind gossiping is an excellent
institution. With the same education, and
under the same circumstances, you would
gossip yourself, though you are the greatest
statesman or the deepest philosopher in
the country. The matron of whom we spoke
must talk of what she knows. Can you do
better ? With only limited local knowledge,
the chances are that you would gossip—
certainly you would either gossip or growl,
and the last is worse than the first. We
seem to have agreed that the term “ gossip”
shall apply only to such tale-bearing as is
minutely local, and it is only because men
get about the world more, and occupy their
thoughts within a wider circle, that they
leave this work of gossiping so much to the
ladies. We repeat it, gossip is an excellent
institution. It has saved many a woman
from jarring the world with ill-timed lec-
tures or spiritual manifestations.

Even the dullest and simplest minds must
have some diversion—must find vent for
themselves in some new interest or attrac-
tion. And the more attractive he mind,
the greater is this necessity. Those who are
constantly busy with the stir and turmoil of
the world, may find diversion in that quiet
which allows them to retire within them-
selves. All active minds must have this
kind of quiet, and when deprived of it will
hunger for self-communion. We do not think
the better of those persons who can live
in the noisy world without any demand for

 

 

194

 

T0 CORRE SPONDENTS.

 

retirement. But these are only the moments
when we look backward and forward on our
way to gather ourselves up for our work.
We need other relaxation than this.

We must make our homes lovely to our
children, and give them innocent amuse-
ments there, if we would not have them seek
ferbidden ones abroad. Let them gather
about the laden Christmas’ trees when the
winter fires are piled high. Let us superin-
tend with our own hands their holiday
amusements. We shall waste no time in
doing this. It is for this that the added
days are granted us.

All amusement which degenerates into
excitement, so as to produce weariness and
disgust rather than new freshness and vigor,
may well be called dissipation. But its
taint will rarely affect these families that
have been reared with a due regard to those
innocent amusements which retain the afi'ec-
tions about our own hearthstones.

1'0 conaasronnsnrs.

Mary E. W.— We shall be glad to hear
from you, but can not say whether any com-
munication will be accepted before we have
seen it.

L. Y. L.—Your contribution might be
praiseworthy as a school composition, but it
would hardly interest the general readers
of Tn: Hon. The style is heavy—for
such a subject it should be lively and at-
tractive.

A. Y. J.-— We shall be very likely to wel-
come you to the pages of THE Hour. if you
come for admission. Try us and see.

J. D.—Do n’t try to Write poetry any
more. You can take any amount of prose
and measure it 03' into regular feet and
make it rhyme, and write it very neatly,
but it is no more poetry than a pile of
lumber measured off in the same way
would be.

“Lillie.”— Well, you float a little better
on the waters of poesy, but it’s hardly worth
while for the printer to pick up letter by let~
ter, and place in form and print such verses
as yours, that you may read through again
and again in search of something you can
not find, when the world is rich in the
poems of Isaiah and Milton.

 

HEALTH.

We cut the following remarks upon the
atmosphere, from Prof. Youman’s “Hand-
book of Household Science : ”

How Morsr Am armors rm: SYSTEM.—
The skin relieves the system of moisture in two
ways : by insensible perspiration, and by sweat‘
ing. Under common circumstances, the loss
is six times greater by the former than by
the latter process. The skin, as well as the
lungs, is an excreting organ; it contains,
packed away, some twenty-eight miles of
microscopic tubing, arranged to drain the
system of its noxious matters, carbonic acid,
etc., which, if retained in the body, become
quickly injurious. The perspiration given
011' in this climate amounts to twenty ounces
per day, and in hot countries to twice that
quantity. But air which is already saturated
with moisture refuses to receive the perspira-
tion which is offered itfrom the skin and lungs;
the sewerage of the system is dammed up.
Much of- the oppressions and languor that
even the robust sometimes feel in c10se and
sultry days, is due to the obstruction of the
insensible perspiration by an atmosphere sur-
charged with humidity. Not only are waste
matters generated in the system thus un-
duly retained, but malarious poisons intro-
duced through the lungs by respiration are
prevented from escaping; which would lead
us to anticipate a greater prevalence of epi'
demic diseases in damp than in dry districtlo
Such is the fact, as we notice in choleflv
which follows the banks of rivers, and revel!
in damp, low situations. Moisture joined
with warmth is most baneful to the systemv
The American Medical Association repOV‘
that during the remarkable. prevalence 0f
sun-stroke in the city of New York in tho
summer of 1853, which almost amounted W
an epidemic, the heat of the atmosphe”
was accompanied by great humidity, m
dew-point reaching the extraordinary high‘
of eighty-four degrees. In Buffalo, in “1°
summer of 1864, the progress of cholera ‘9
its hight was accompanied by a steady more"
in atmospheric humidity. Air which 1‘
warm and light has a relaxing and weaken'
ing influence upon the body. The draw"
invariny charged with moisture, and its
fects upon the animal economy illustrate W

 


l
l

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HEALTH. 195

¥

in an exaggerated degree the influence of
damp, warm weather. When it blows with
my strength, the dew-point is seldom more
than four or five degrees below the tempera-
ture of the air. The higher its temperature,
the more distressing its effects, owing to the
little evaporation it produces. This con-
nected with its humidity, is the principal
Cause of all its peculiarities—of the oppress-
ive heat—of the perspiration with which
the body is bathed —- of its relaxing and de-
bilitating effects on the system, and its lower-
ing and dispiriting effects upon the mind.—
(Wyman.) Damp air at the same tempera-
ture as dry air has a more powerful cooling
efi‘ect, producing a peculiar penetrating, chill-
i11g feeling, with paleness and shivering, pain-
fully known to New England invalids as
tooompanying the east winds of spring.

Erasers or Dav AIR.— Dry air favors
evaporation. By promoting rapid transpir-
etion from the pores of the skin, it braces
‘he bodily energies and induces exhilaration
of the spirits. Cold, dry air is invigorating,
"Id reddens the skin, with none of the dis
tressing symptoms of cold, moist air. If very
dry, it not only accelerates perspiration, but
desiccates and parches the surface, and de—
Drives the lining membrane of the throat
"Id mouth of its moisture so rapidly as to
Produce an uncomfortable dryness or even
inllammation. Dry climates, which quicken
"aporation, are best adapted for relaxed
"1d languid constitutions with profuse secre-
fi‘m. as those afflicted with humid asthma,
‘Dd chronic catarrh with copious expectora-
“on. The harmattan, a dry wind from the
“Orching sands of Africa, withers, shrivels,
“‘1 warps every thing in its course. The
eyea, lips, and palate become dry and painful.

at it seems to neutralize certain conditions
0f disease. “Its first breath cures intermit-
tent fevers. Epidemic fevers disappear at
‘5 coming, and small-pox infection becomes

communicable.”

Cws: or was annonssonnsss or Niam-
AIR-~ There is ground for the common be-
lief that night air is less healthful than that
W the day. It is known that the deadly
“Pical fevers affect persons almost wholly
during the night. Yet the poisonous miasms

“1 the rotting substances of the ground
“10h cause those fevers, is produced much

 

faster during the intense heat of the day
than in the colder night. But in the day-
time, under the hot tropical sun, the air
heated by contact with the burning ground
expands and rises in an upward current, thus
diluting and carrying away the poisonous
malaria as fast as it is set free. The invisible
seeds of pestilence, as they ripen in the fes-
tering earth, are lified and dispersed in the
daytime by solar heat; but as no such force
is at work at night, they then accumulate
and condense in the lower layer of the at-
mosphere. Now, although fatal fever poi-
son may not be generated, yet decomposition
of vegetable matter yielding products which
are detrimental to health, take place every-
where upon the surface of the ground; and
though dissipated during the day, they are
concentrated and confined so close to the
earth at night as to afi‘ect the breathing
stratum of the air.

Urrsa Rooms Lnss‘r Arrncran BY Nion'r
Ara.— It will hence be seen that the differ-
ent stories of a house are differently related
to this source of injury; the upper ones, be-
ing situated above the unwholesome zone,
are most eligible for sleeping chambers, while
the ground-floor is more directly exposed to
the danger. Dr. Rush states, that during
the prevalence of yellow fever in Philadel-
phia, those who occupied apartments in the
third story were far less liable to attack
than those who resided lower. Low one.
story houses, in which the inhabitants sleep
but three or four feet from the ground, and
are therefore directly exposed to the terres-
trial exhalations, must be considered more
objectionable than loftier sleeping apart.
ments. Sleeping in low rooms is perhaps
worse in the city than in the country.

Am wrrms Dooas.-- When we enter a
dwelling the case is altered. It is as if the
boundless atmosphere had ceased to exist, or
had been contracted within the walls of the
apartment we occupy. Causes of impurity
now become a matter of serious considera-
tion. They are capable of affecting, in the
most injurious manner, the little stock of air
in which we are confined; and it is there-
fore, 0“ every account important that we
have a clear idea of the nature and extent of
the common causes which vitiate the air of
our dwellings.

 

  

196

 

RECIPES.

 

Conraumnxos or Ala men rm: Hmux
BEING.— It is a common belief that the hu-
man system is distinguished by its vital power
of resisting, during life, the physical agents
which would destroy it; but that after death
it is abandoned to these forces, and falls
quickly into putrefaction. This is an error.
Under the influence of physical agency, de-
composition is constantly going on through-
out the body, and is indeed the fundamental
condition of its life. There is the same de-
cay and chemical decomposition taking place
in the animal fabric during life as after death;
the difference being, that in the dead body
the decomposing changes speedily spread
throughout the mass, while in the living sys-
tem they are limited and regulated, and pro-
vision is made for the incessant and swift
expulsion of these efi'ete and poisonous pro-
ducts of change, which if retained within
the organism for but the shortest time
would destroy it. Streams of subtle and
almost intangible putrescent matter are, all
through life, exhaling from each living ani-
mal body into the air. The fluid thrown
from the lungs and skin is not pure water.
It not only holds in solution carbonic acid,
but it contains also animal matter, the
exact nature of which has not been deter-
mined.

From recent inquiries, it appears to be an
albuminous substance in a state of decompo~
sition. If the fluid be kept in a closed ves-
sel, and be exposed to an elevated tempera-
ture, a very evident putrid odor is exhaled by
it. Le Blane states that the odor of the air
at the top of the ventilator of a crowded
room is of so obnoxious a character that it is
dangerous to be exposed to it, even for a
short time. If this air be passed through
pure water, the water soon exhibits all the
phenomena of putrefactive fermentation.
Here is Dr. Faroday’s testimony on this
point: .

“ Air feels upleasant in the breathing cavi-
ties, including the mouth and nostrils, not
merely from the absence of oxygen, the
presence of carbonic acid, or the elevation of
the temperature. but from other causes dc-
pendant on matters communicated to it from
the human being. I think an individual
may find a decided “Hence in his feelings
when making a part of a large company,

 

from what he does when one of asmall num-
ber of persons, and yet the thermometer
give the same indication. When I am one
of a large. number of persons, I feel an op-
pressive sensation of closeness, notwithstand-
ing the temperature may be about sixty or
sixty-five degrees, which I do not feel in a
small company at the same temperature, and
which I can not refer altogether to the ab-
sorption of oxygen, or the inhalation of car-
bonic acid, and probably depends upon the
eifluvia from the many present; but with
me it is much diminished by a lowering of
the temperature, and the sensations become
more like those occurring in a small com.
pany.”

Am or Brnaooxs— The escape of offen-
sive matters from the living person becomes
most obvious when from the pure air we on-
ter an imrentilated bedroom in the morning,
where one or two have slept the night be-
fore. Every one must have experienced the
sickening and disgusting odor upon going
into such a room, though its occupants them-
selves do not recognize it. The nose, al-
though an organ of exquisite sensibility, and
capable of perceiving the presence of offer
sive matters where the most delicate chemi-
cal tests fail, is nevertheless easily blunted.
and what at the first impression feels pro-emi'
neatly disgusting, quickly becomes inofi'ensivO-
Two persons occupying a bed for eight hour's
impart to the sheets by insensible respiration.
and to the air by breathing, a pound of W
tery vapor charged with latent animal poisofl‘
Where the air in other inhabited rooms a
not often changed, the water of exhalation
thus loaded with impurities, condenses up.-
the furniture, windows and walls, dampenin‘
their surfaces and running down in unwbolfl’
some streams.

RECIPES.

Touro Jua— Take ripe tomatoes, p0“
them, and take out all the seeds; put M
into a preserving kettle, withth a po
sugar for each pound of prepared tomatofii
boil one or two lemons soft, then p0
them fine; take out the pips and put did.
to the tomatoes, and boil slowly;
them to a smooth mess; continue tostir
until smooth and thick, then put it in 5“
or tumblers.