T H E H O M E:
El “mummy fur the 3511:»,th {antigen the $15M, ant tip @anghttr.

VOL. v.—. MAY, 1858.—- NO. V.

MY NEIGIIBOR‘S STEP—SON.

BY MRS.

CHAPTER IX.
A nausea.

"Give me good proofs of what you have alleged.
'Tis not enough to say, in such a bush
There lies a thief— in such a cave a beast.
ut you must show him to me ere I shoot,
Else I may kill one of my straggling sheep.
I'm fond of no man's person, but his virtue."
lln'ar VI.

CHANGE had seemed to Come
m‘cr my neighbors on the next
Street, during this visit that Wallace
was making at home. His step-mo—
ther, he told us, had shown much
more interest in his welfare during
the latter part of his stay, than he had
ever before, received than her. As he
egan to talk of returning to school,
she undertook a careful supervision
of his 'ardrobe, taking special pains
that every thing was made comfort-
able l'or his winter apparel. She had
80a previous to this, titted up a room
01' him, apart from that of his step-
l'Other, telling him that perhaps he
w"Uld like better to be by himself;
and had attended personally to the
armnging of his drawers and closets.
ne evening, two or three Weeks
efom the term was to commenee, he
muz‘s'ht in a couple of finely-bound
wilu'm‘s of Travels. which he had re-
ZEIJ’Cfl as a present from Mrs. IIeber,
shoWed them to us. There was

w TIM!“ _<l(-sign on the cover, in
inefit a Pillr ol horses were the prom-
Ubjfl'l. The children were ex-

8 ' - -
wnfimmg and remarking upon them»
9'1 Jamie said thev Were led
Orscs. d
H 3, .
gOOdYPS» said \Vallaec, “they are
“ herscs — draught horses.”

by, "0!” said Ilartson, look-
VoL. v. 16.

 

H. E. G. AREY.

ing over his shoulder. " I should not
-all them draught horses. The\' are
too slight for that. Tth are iuore
like. race horses.” .

“ Strong or slight, they are draught
horses to me,” said Wallace. “ They
draw something.”

Jamie bent over, and looked in-
tently at the picture, to see if any
thing was attached to the horses,
which they might be said to draw;
but llartson looked into \Vallace’s
face for an explanation of his remark.

“What do you mean?” said he;
“ you always have some queer thing
in your head.”

“ I mean that they will draw some-
thing,” replied Wallace. “They come
from a person who never buys horses
'f‘or. nothing—at least not for me.
llns isnt the end of my present of
'l‘ravels, there is something coming
after them.”

“I hope it will be something good,
Wallace,” said Ellen, laughing.

“ I should like to hope so too,” said
\Vallace; “ but we can not expect
every thing good in this world, sol
will enjoy my new books, and take
whatever comes, for the rest.”

The days passed away, and “'31-
laee’s (Irony/it horses were well-nigh
forgotten, when one day, we missed
him from our morning-reading. It
was the first time he had failed to be
with us, and we Wondered at his ab-
sence ; but the hour passed away, and
still he did not come.

After dinner, the children went out
for a ramble in the fresh air, and l
was sitting by myself in the parlor,

 

 

 

 

 

202

THE HOME.

 

when the gate opened, and Mr. Ileber
came up the walk. His face, was
very pale, and he seemed to me, to
falter in his step. My first thought
was that some accident had befallen
Wallace, and I answered his ring in
person; but he entered without any
remark — scareer answering my sal-
utation, and s 'ated himself, hat in
hand, in the parlor. I offered to take
his hat, but he did not notice me, and
after waiting a moment for him to
speak, I said, “ \Vallaee was not with us
at our hour for reading this morning.”

“No, ma’am—no! ” he said ab-
sently.

“ l hope he is not ill.”

“ No, ma’am, no, no.”

“Something has happened,” said I,
alarmed at his manner, and endeaVor-
ing to arouse him. “ Where is Wal-
lace ? ”

“ IIe — he he’s in jail, ma’am—
in jail!” said Mr. IIeber, while his
lips grew of a livid whiteness.

“ In jail, sir ! ” I exclaimed, starting
toward him, for I thought at first that
he would fall. “What has he done '1”

“He has— he —— they think he has
stolen a sum of money—broken open
my desk, and taken a sum of money.
In fact, some of it was found pasted
inside his slipper.”

“And you have arrested him —
your own son, and sent him to jail ? ”

“ No, ma’am, no I l was gone,”
said he, apparently recalled more
fully to himself by the implied accu-
sation. “I have been away, and re-
turned only this morning. Mrs.
Heber had him arrested. The money
was hers —a quarterly payment that
she was to have received the day be-
fore yesterday. When she called for
it at the office yesterday, it was gone.
Wallace tells me he was with you all
day, day before yesterday. That was
the, time the money must have been
taken.”

“ Yes, he was here from our read-
ing-hour, until half-past eight in the
owning. They Were building an ar-
bor at. the foot of the garden, and he
assisted them.”

 

 

“ llalf-past eight!” said Mr. IIeber,
shaking his head sorrowfullv. " It
was done in the evening they iell me.
There was time after that.”

“But you can not think “’allaee
did it,” said I.

“ Oh. no ! ” he groaned out ; " but
a number wore present when the
money was found in his slipper. I
was in hopes he Could show where he
was, up to the time when the office
closes. Mrs. lleber is sure he took
it. She thinks he is an old offender.”

I remembered the aekmiwledgment
he had made of taking smaller sums,
and eould make no reply to this.
“ Wallace denies it ? ” I said.

“ Yes, ma’am, certainly—he seems
very much broken down about it.”

"' \Vhen was he arrested ? ”

“ Last evening.”

“ \Vill you leave him in jail ? ”

“ Not by any means. But the. af-
fair has been made public, and much
mischief has been done. “'1 had been
at home, I Could have saved muchofit.”

“ I must see him,” said I.

“ \Vill you see him 2 — I shall be
very glad. I have to go below here
for fifteen or twenty minutes, and will
take you up in my carriage when Ire‘
turn, if you please. I go directly
back.”

I found Wallace much wounded by
what had happened, but still proudly
defiant. He had neVer before, as he
had told us, made any complaint to
his father of the tr iatment of his step—
mother: but now the long pent 1301"
rent of accusation was broken 10053,
and there was no stint in the oppro‘
brium that he heaped upon her; Cast’
ing upon her the whole. blame in this
matter, as a plot between herself an

{oberh

To all this Mr. Ileber, crushed as he
was, could only answer reproacthHY’
" My son l my son I ”

“ You know nothing of it, sir,” 531d

_ \Vallace vehemently. " l have borne

every thing—every thing, and w0u
not trouble you with it, but this was
too much —she will lind that it was
one blow too mUch.”

MY NEIGHBOR’S STEP—SUN. 003

“ \Vallace! \Vallaee! ” said Mr.
Heber in much distress. “So long
as you can not establish your own in-
DOCenee, such language is very im~
proper.”

“ My own innocenee ! ” ('I‘ied \Val-
1300. “ They have looked to it that l
Should not be able to establish my
QWn innocence. You know that I am
Innocent, don’t you. Mrs. Mills ? ”
and he looked imploringly at me, and
Clasped both my hands in his.

“ I hope so, \Vallaee,” I replied.

“Uh! do n’t tell me you hope so.

am sure you can not believe this.

know I have done :1 gr at many bad
things,” and he hung his head ; “ but

never could have done such a thing
38 this — never. And since you have
tr“St/ed me so much too. It is a
WiCked plot.”

“ Where did you go on leaving us
Wednesday evening? ” I asked.

“I went to the office and wrote a
letter for Charley, and then went di-
1“(any home and to bed.”

“ Who is Charley ? ”

policeman,” said \Vallace,
blushing. “ llis b 'at is on our
atFeet.”
f  One of your ‘ball and alley
“finds? ’ ” I asked.
f \Vt‘ll,” said \Vallaee. “it was
tail: having hall and alley friends
Ch came to know him. But
arley is a pretty good fellow —al-
rags StIOady, and he used'to tell me
he is: bad to be'out late nights when
nd me coming home at improper
Ours.” ‘

“
f Yvhy were you writing a letter
or him i? n *
‘6
He can ’t write. and he has a
I art Somewhere. He had been
0”ng "10 about the letter for a day
‘w‘b and I had promised to write it.”
"u 88’ hi‘ -:  ) ') r
street?” ) s but is (n yiu
“
w. Y S: but he Went up to the ofliee
It was early for him to he
8 beat."

yOu?” he go into the office with

“
N0, he waited outside ; and when

 

.-

I came out, I gave him the letter, and
we went down together as far as
G. . . . street.”

Mr. Heber had listened intently to
the first part of this Conversation, but
before it Closed, :1 sound of voices ap-
proached the apartment where we
were, and lwithdrew with \Vallace
to a dim corner. while Mr. Heber
went toward the door to see who was
eoming. lt was Mrs. lleber, who en-
tered with much exeitement, and ex-
claimed on seeing her husband. “I
told you that I wished to Come down,
and here you have kept me waiting
for an hour, and come at last without
me. You pay no attention to my
wishes. lshall protest against hav-
ing the young man removed from
this place, until the rest of the money
is found. I have endured every thing
that a Woman eould endure from that
child, and it is only spoiling him, and
ruining yourself to shield him from
justiee any longer.” At this moment,
she (liSCth-red my presence in the
room, and with the distant salutation
she gave, her manner underwent an
entire change.

“ It is a very sad affair,” she said,
approaching me, “and I am sure it
is more distressng to me than any
one; but I have long known that he
Would be guilty of small thefts, and
now I think I have done wrong in con-
('ealing it from his father, but lam
sure my motives were good.”

I eould not but think she quailed a
little as she said this. beneath the keen
look with which \Vallaee was search-
ing her through and through: but she
still retained that meek. submissive
look, whit-h her son was accustomed
to wear. only she wore it more grace-
fully than he.

\Ve were no ' again interrupted by
a new addition to our party, for some
oflieers who had been to make an-
other examination of \Vallaee’s room,
together with Robert Ford, and my
own son Hartson, made their appear-
anee.

“Have you found the money?”
asked Mrs. Heber.

l

1;.
3
l
l
l.

mien-r: razzamuwfiv “a < ‘-1_’* "1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

204

THE HOME.

 

The officer shOok his head. “ You
will not tell us where this money is,”
said he to Wallace.

“1 tell you I know nothing about
it,” said Walla0e angrily.

“ You will never find out any thing
from him,” said Mrs. lIeber. “ I am
acquainted with the boy. Did you
take up the carpet ?”

“ No, ma’am. But there -an be no

sum of money under the carpet. we
examined it thoroughly.”
“It must be in that room,” said

“He had no time to
9

Mrs. Heber.

cone :al it anywhere else.’
“ You say the aeeountant would

know the bills,” said the oflieer.

“ He tells me he should know most
ofthem,” said Mr. lleber.

I had, in the meantime, approached
Harmon, and asked of him the r eason
of his appearance there.

“I knew you were here,” he re-
plied, “and thought that I might
come. l have been with them to
search for the money.”

“it was a strange place for you,
my son.”

“ Yes, mamma; but 1 heard all
about it While we were out. and found
what they were going to do, and l
wanted to go. If it had been any
body but VVallaee,l should n’t haVe
cared.” He gave this explanation
with his ears wide open to what was
going on among the rest of the party,
and now seated himself a-tilt on the
corner of a box, and watched every
one in the room with the same air,
that always from his birth had in-
clined me to call him “ my irrepressi-
ble.”

“At all events, he can not leave
here until the money is found,” said
Mrs. lIeber defiantly to her husband.
“I shall protest against it.”

“I believe your protest is subjeet
to mine,” said Mr. lleber politely.

“ Uh l is it E ” said she, with a whole
set, of tiger elaws (lashing out from
under the Soft, purring look about
her eyelids. and instantly withdrawn

ain.

“ I think there is no use of further

 

search in his reom.” said the oflicer;
“ unless some other clue can be given,
We must let the matter rest.”

"‘ If you please, sir, I Would like to
testifv.” said llartson.

“ \Ve are not examining witnesses,
my lad,” said the oflieer,ilooking cu-
riously at him. “But what do you
know about this affair? ”

“l do 1ft know any thing for eer-
tain." said llartson; “ but I guess I
could tell you where the money is.”

“Perhaps you helped in this af-
fair,” said Mrs. Ileber sharply.

" Perhaps I did, and perhaps it was
somebody else,” said llartson, with
a eurl of the lips, that would have
rolled itself into a whistle if it had
dared.

“ \Vell, where do you think it is ? "
said the officer.

"I guess it ’s in \Vallaee’s room-
There ’s a coat there that llobert was
dreadful uneasy about all the while
you were searching. I do n't believe
he would have acted so iidgetty about
it, if there was n’t something in it.”

“ \Vhat do you mean, sir?” said
llobert tiereely, but with a visible
whitening of the lips.

" 1 mean that l am, most as anxious
to have that eoat examined thor-
oughly, as you were half an hour
ago,” said llartson.

“ \Vhat coat was it?” said the Of'
ficer.

“The one Robert handed to you
soon after you went in. He said p01”
haps it was in that, and you examine
it and said there was nothing there:
and laid it down on a ehair, and pretty
soon {obert took it up again, 81}
handed it to the other oilicer and 53‘
perhaps it was in that, and he exam‘
ined it and did n’t find any thing, 3"
laid it down on the chair again, fin
then lsat down on it; but it waSJus
like putting nettles in llobert’s clotheS
to have me. sit there. He tried every
way to make me get up, but the more
he wanted me to get up the n10?“
felt like sitting still. And then, Just
as you were coming away, he p11“e
it out from under me, and said here

MY NEIGHBOR‘S STEP—SON.

205

 

wasa coat that had n’t been examined,
find gaVe it to you again. But you
just looked it over, and said you had
examined that before, and so he came
8Way with us as if he Were very little
Satisfied with the search.”

“ You would make a good officer,”
Said the man, smiling grimly. “ 1 be,-
le‘v'e it’s just as you say about the
Cpat being handed to us two or three
tlmes, and perhaps we had better go
haCk and take another look; but I
do n’t think we shall find the money
there. I am not in the habit of hav-
mg things slip through my fingers in
that way. If we find it,l shall think 1
Ought to give you my place.”

‘ “No, thank you,” said llartson.

AS soon as] heard of the at'fair,I

new you had caught the wrong thief,
a11d So I was on the look-out.”

“ \Vhat coat was it, Hartson '2 ”
asked Wallace, who had listened ea-
gerly to this umversation.

“ It» was an over-coat— a new one
Ishould think.”
so“ Oh, yes, I dare say! A good rea-

n you had to Wish that I should be
Provided with a warm winter over-
fioab” he said, addressing Mrs. Ileber.

The slippers, too, were a suggestion
0 yours.”

_“ Let us leave. this place, Robert,”
Sa‘d Mrs. Heber. casting the tiger’s
PlaWS fearfully at Ilartsoii, and sweep-

‘ Bibroad silks toward the door.

t I ( ,’ Vt - )
Officer . cg tlfiilrdt)ll, madam,h Tildmtihe
retmn, _ 0 young man at e (r

With us.

.“ 0 will all return tom-ther ”
sand Mr. lleber “ llere 'll‘(‘btllt' 31-
 fi ' , ‘ I“ ’7 I p‘

)r \Vallace s release, and he
enter 310"} from the person who had
i g "2 With them, Mrs. lleber mak-

W no further rcmoiistranee.

estsdwe descended the stairs, I sug-

ookmg U_p Charley the policeman, and
an rftammg whether he could throw
gdnurtherlight upon W'allace’s pro-
mgs while at the office on the night
“is: 1th“ theft took place. He re-
gatis anguidly, that it might be more
“ctUry to see him, though he

'60 Mr. lleber, the propriety of

 

should allow no further public inves-
tigation of the matter. It had made
noise enough as it was, and was equally
distressing, whether we took the view
of it which Mrs. IIeber had taken,
or that which Wallace’s accusations
pointed out. Would I accompany
them in their search, he asked, 01‘
should he set me down at my own
door on their way back. Neither, I
would return alone, if he would bring
Hartson back to me when the search
was concluded.

To this he assented, and half an
hour after, they returned with the in-
telligence that the money had been
found stitched into the collar of the
over-coat. The lining of the collar
had been ripped up with a pen-knife,
and sewed neatly back into its place
when the money had been inserted.

“ Can Wallace sew ’2 ” was the first
question for the officer to ask.

“ Not much,” said Hartson; “he
tried to sew some cloth together
for an awning to the arbor-door
Wednesday, but was so awkward
about it, that I had to finish it.”

“Perhaps you did this?” said Mrs.
Heber tauntineg.

“ If I could crawl through key-holes,
or get in at the cracks of windows, it
might not have been impossible,” said
llartson; “ but the book-keeper says
that the money was in the desk
\Vednesday evening, and unless I can
be in two places at a time, I have had
no ehanCe of getting here since then.”

Mr. lleber was about leaving after
bringing llartson home, and inform-
ing me that the money was found,
when \Vallaee came in with the po-
liceman of whom he had been in
Search.

“ If you will only have confidence
in me, Mrs. Mills, 1 do n’t care much
for the rest. I brought Charley here
so that you could ask him about that
night."

I went into the hall where Wallace
had given Charley a seat, and SPOke
to him. “Wallace tells me that he
wrote a letter for you Wednesday
evening,” said I.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

206

THE HOME.

 

" Wednesday evening is it, and so
he did,” said (‘harh-y.

“ I Would like to have you tell me
all you know about what Wrallacc did
at the office that night.”

“Snre,l know all about it,” said
Charley. “ The boy had told me he ’d
be writing my letter for me, so I
watched for him back and forth in
front of his house till nigh on to nine
o’clock, and he did n’t come out, but
just as I was going past G. . . . street,
he give me a slap on the shoulders,
and said he was going to the office to
write it then, and I walked along with
him till we came to the office, and
then told him I’d wait for him out-
side. So he Went down the lighted
office till he came to the desk in the
little box there, then he tossed off his
cap and sat down to write, and sez I
to myself, I ’11 go round to the winder
there and see how the chap looks
while he’s writing me letter, to be
sure that he puts the right things in
it. So I Went round between the
brick walls, and stood looking at him,
and seeing him dip the pen in the ink
and write on fast-like, smiling to him-
self all the time. And at last, when
the letther was done, he took up the
box that has the dust in it, and dashed
it over the paper, and shook it off,
and folded it up as nate as a pin, and
gut on his cap, and I slipped down

etween the walls, and met him 'at the
door.”

“ Did you, Charley rl—did you go
up to the window to watch me write? ”
said Wallace triumphantly.

“ Sure I did,” said Charley.

“Then you could not have had
your eye off me two minutes while I
was there.”

“Not the half of a minute, my
boy.”

“ Well, did I go into the little room
on the other side of the office, or any-
where near it ? ”

“ Not a step out of your track to the
box by the window, and back again.”
“ Are you sure of this ? ” I asked.

“Sure as I’m brathing, ma’am,”
said Charley.

 

“ Had you talked with him about
this before?” said I to \Vallaee.

“ No, ma’am. I waited for you to
question him.”

“You say you were waiting for
Wallace in front of his own house
that night?”

“ Yes, ma’am ; there was a light in
his room, and I thought he ’d be com-
ing out directly.”

“A light in my room, Charley?
there was no light in my room till af-
ter I went home from the office that
night.”

“Sure there was a light in your
room as early as eight o’clock that
evening.”

“ That can’t be,” said Wallace ; “I
was over here, and had the key in
my pocket. Do you know which my
room is, Charley 2 ”

“Sure, don’t I know every room
on the street? Have n’t I seen you
come in there many a night with a
light and draw the curtains? ”

“We will go over, and tell your
mother of this, Wallace,” said Mr-
I Ieber.

“It is no use going to her with it,”
said Wallace

“Perhaps not,” said Mr. Heber,
fidgeting with the head of his cane;
“ but it is useless to make further in'
quiry. We know enough.”

“Yes, enough, unless it’s pleas—
anter for you to know,” said VVallfiCe
softly, and bidding me a sorrowfu
good-bye, he Went with his father.

The next day, I learned that Mr?’
IIeber, on seeing the turn the affalr
had taken, had refused to live in the
same house with \Vallace, and that
his father had been forced to find him
a boarding place at a hotel. 0?
learning this, I wrote a note immedl'
ately to Mr. Heber, requesting that
Wallace. might spend the few remaln‘
iug days of his vacation with us; an
thus it chanced that we had him'for
an inmate of our house, until the time
for his school-term to commence.

(To be concluded.)

 

ova CHARLEY. 207

 

()l'lt CIlARLEY.

RY MRS. HARRIET BEECHER STOVVE.

HEN the blue of the w<‘u)d-fire

flickers up and down in our
Snug evening parlor, there dances
upon the wall a little shadow with a
Pug nose, a domestic shadow—a
busy shadow a restless specimen
0f perpetual motion; and the owner
thereof is “ Our Charley.”
.Now we should not write about
111111 and his ways, if he. \vere strictly

 

a peculiar and individual existence of

,(‘mr own home-circle, but it is not so.
Our Charley ” exists in a thousand,
flay, a million families; he has existed
3n millions in all time back; his name
19 variously rendered in all the
tongues of the earth ; nay, there are. a
. Gusand synonyms for him in Eng-
lsh—for. indisputably, “our Willie,”
or “our Harry,” or “our Georgie,”
elongs to the same snub-nosed, rosy-
cheeked, restless shadow-maker. So in
I'ance, he is “ Leonee,” or “ Pierre,”
5:8 well as “ Charle ; ” in Italy, he is
arlino,” or “ Francisco; ” in Ger-
man, “Max,” or “ Wilhelm;” and
“1. Chinese, he is little “Ling-Fung,”
with along silk tail on the back of his
ead, but the same household sprite
fimong them all; in short, we take
“1‘ Charley” in a generic sense,
and We mean to treat him as a minia-
tu’? epitome of the grown man —en-
“Ftng in a shadowy ballot by the fire-
slde, all that men act in earnest in
after-life He is a lookingglass fi)r
grown people. in which they may see
0w (fertain things become them—
8’; which they may sometimes even
.0 streaks and gleammgs of some-
0  Wiser than all the harsh conflict
“1 teaehes them.
ered 11:? Charley ” IS generally conSId-
0g way t e world, as ,an idle little
Seqlalemose pursuits,bemg very con-
eVer ,glay be put off, or put by for
as “31131111, anybody; but the world,
man i: , ls Very much mistaken: No
and - more pressed With busmess,
needs more prudence, energy,
is and courage, to carry out his

i

i

 

schemes, in face of all opposing eir-
eumstanees that grown people con-
stantly throw in his way. Has he
not ships to build, and to sail? and
has he not vast engineerings to make
ponds and docks in every puddle or
brook where they shall lie at anchor?
Is not his pocket stuffed with materi-
als for sails and cordage? And yet,
like a man of the world as he is, this
does not content him, but he must
own railroad~stock too. If he lives
where. a steam-whistle has vibrated, it
has awakened an unquiet yearning
within him, and some day he harnesses
all the chairs into a train, and makes
a locomotive of your work-table, and
steam-whistle of himself. He inspects
toy—shop windows, gets up flirtatious
with benevolent shopmen; and when
he gets his mouth close to papa’s ear,
rev rals to him how Mr. So-and-so has
a locomotive that will wind up and g0
alone—so cheap too—can ’t papa get
it for him? And so papa (all pa-
pas do) goes soberly down and buys
it, though he knows it will be broken
in a week. Then what raptures!
The dear locomotive! the darling
black chimney sleeps under his pil-
low that he may feel of it in the night,
and be sure when he first wakes, that
the joy is not evaporated. He bores
everybody to death with it, as art-
lessly as grown people do with their
hobbies, but at last the ardor runs
out. His darling is found to have
faults. llc picks it to pieces, to make
it work better; fmds too late that he
can ’t put it together again; and so
he casts it aside, and makes a locomo-
tive out of a broken wheel-barrow
and some barrel staves.

Do you, my brother, or grown up
sister, ever do any thing like this?
Do your friendships and loves ever
go the course of “Our Charley’S”
toy? First, enthusiasm; second, .38'
tiety; third, discontent; then pleklng
to pieces ; then dropping and losmg?
How many idols are in your box of
by-gone playthings’! And may it
not be as well to suggest to you,
when you find flaws in your next one,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

208 THE HOME.

 

to inquire before you pick to pieces,

Whether you can put together again, f

or whether, what you call defect, is
not a part of its nature. A tin loco-
motive wo n’t draw a string of parlor
chairs, by any possible alteration, but
may be very pretty for all it was
made for. Charley and you, might
both learn something from this.
Charley’s business career, as we
have before intimated, has its trials.
It is hard for him to find time for it;
so many impertincnt interruptions.
For instance, there are four hours of
school, taken out of the best part of
the day ; four mortal hours, in which
he might make ships. or build dams,
or run railroad cars, he is obliged to
leave all his affairs, often in very pre—
carious situations, and go through the
useless ceremony of reading and spell-
ing. When he comes home, the house-
maid has swept his foremast into the
fire, and mamma has put his top-sails
into the rag-bag, and all his affairs
are in a desperate situation. Some-
times he gets terribly misanthropic;
all grown people seem conspiring
against him; he is called away from
his serious avocations so often, and
his attention distracted with such ir-
relevant matters, that he is indignant.
He is rushing through the passage in
hot haste, hands full of nails, strings,
and twine, and Mary seizes him and
wants to brush his hair; he is inter-
rupted in a burst of enthusiasm, and
told to wash his hands for dinner l or,
perhaps, a greater horror than all,
company is expected, and he must
put on a new clean suit, just as he has
made the arrangements for a ship-
launching down by the swamp. This
dressing and washing, he regards with
unutterable contempt and disgust ; se-
cretly, too, he is skeptical about the
advantages of going to school and
learning to read; he believes, to be
sure, when papa and mamma tells
him of unknown future advantages to
come when he is a “great man,” but
then, the present he is sure of; his
ships and sleeps; his bits of'string, and
fish-hooks, and old corks, and broken

 

v railroad cars, and, above all. his new

skates; these are realities. And he
knows also, what Toni White and
Bill Smith say; and so he walks by
sight more than by faith.

Ah, the child is father of the man !
\Vhen he gets older, he will have the
great toys of which these are em-
blems; he will believe in what he
sees and touches —in house, land,
railroad stock —he will believe in
these earnestly and really, and in his
eternal manhood, nominally and par-
tially. And when his Father’s mes-
sengers meet him, and face him about,
and take him ofl' his darling pursuits,
and sweep his big ships into the fire,
and crush his full-grown cars, the
grown man will complain and mur-
mur, and wonder as the little man
does now. The Father wants the fu-
ture, the child the present, all through
life, till death makes the child a man-

So, though “ Our Charley” has his
infirmities, he is a little bit of a Chris—
tian after all. Like you, brother, he
has his good hours, when he sits still
and calm, and is told of Jesus; and
his cheeks glow, and tears come to
his eyes; his bosom heaves; and now
he is sure he is going to be always
good ; he is never going to be naughty-
He will stand still to have his hair
combed ; he will come the first time
mother speaks; he will never speak 8
cross word to Katy; he repents of hav-
ingty rannized over grandma, and made
poor mamma’s head ache; and is quite
sure that he has now got the Vic‘
tory over all sin. Like the Israelites
by the Red Sea, he beholds his spiri“
ual enemies dead on the sea-shore-
But to-morrow, in one hour even,
what becomes of his good resolutions?
What becomes of yours on Mon’
day?

With all “ ()ur Charley’s ” back-
slidings, he may teach us one thing
which we have flirgotten. When J 9-
sus would teach His disciples What
faith was, He took a child and Set
him in the midst of them. We do
not presume that this child was one
of those exceptional ones, who have

LIGHT LITERATURE. 209

 

memoirs written, but a common av-
erage child, with its smiles and tears,
its little naughtinesses and goodnesses,
and its aptness as an example, was
not in virtue of an exceptional, but a
universal quality. If you want to study
faith, go to school to “ your Charley.”
See his faith in you. Does he not be-
leve that you have boundless wealth,
bOundless wisdom, infinite strength?
8 he not certain of your love to that
degree, that he can not be repelled
{0m you? Does he hesitate to ques-
t10H you on any thing celestial and
terrestrial? Is not your word enough
to outweigh that of the wisest of the
earth? You might talk him out of
the Sight of his eyes, the hearing of
18 cars, so boundless is his faith in
YOU. Even checks and frowns can
not make him doubt your love; and
.Ough sometimes, when you cross
“'11, the naughty, murmuring spirit
a{'Ises, yet in an hour it dissolves, and
18 little soul flows back, prattling
and happy into your bosom. Be only
t9 God as he is to you, and the fire-
slde Shadow shall not have been by
31:111‘ hearth in vain.—- The Independ-

 

LIGIIT LITERATURE.

BY MRS. A. C. JUDSON.

TRUNG and serious objections are
Urged against the theater, ball-
room, and other sources of amuse-
ment, and among the most prominent of
8i ese objections, is their tendency to dis-
8 lime the mind, rendering it unfit for
0 91‘ reflection, and a preparation for
eivast interestsot'eternity. I Yet, how
ease Sfiem to realize that this 18 very
ousn llfllly true relative to the frivo-
iterature of the present day.
£8318. contrary, it is encouraged and
eIIllnated by those Very individu-
esiswho profess to regard future inter-
Pal‘amount to every other, and
Vai: are loud m their protests against
amusements. While they would
aegis means, allow their families to
any of the resorts of pleasure-

 

seekers, yet this pernicious trash, in
the form of literary entertainment,
is freely granted them.

It takcsa prominent place in the
drawing-room, and elsewhere around
the family hearth-stone, while few, if
any of our genuine Christian works,
are to be seen. And, how rapidly
this source of evil is increasing. The
fictitious works that are scattered
broad-cast over our land, are con-
stantly accumulating. New talent is
springing up, and being drawn into
this channel, inasmuch as that which
meets the popular favor, is more sure
to partake of its bounty.

Periodicals are multiplied almost
adinfinitum, and being presented at a
low price, are made accessible to all.
Adorned with engravings and fashion-
plates, they are rendered peculiarly
attractive to the young; while their
fancy tales do not fail to inspire them
with a taste for the imaginative, to
the detriment of sober thought, and
an interest in the real and truthful of
life.

Novelettes “to be continued.” cre-
ate in the mind a longing for the ar-
rival of each weekly, or monthly,
which is hailed with a welcome worthy
of better things. The duties of life
and health are not unfreqllently for-
gotten, and many a midnight hour is
consumed in winding through the
mazy labyrinths of a highly exciting
romance. ls it not time that Chris-
tians awake to this subject? There is
no dearth of suitable reading-matter
in our land. Gifted and sanctified
minds have been, and are still being
employed in preparing varied works,
that meet the demand of every fac-
ulty, so that one may be in all re-
spects thoroughly furnished.

There are magazines, too, though
comparatively few, we acknowledge,
that are worthy a plaee in the draw-
ing-room of every family. They are
arranged with taste, and well-filled
not only with that which is useful and
instructive, but that also which is
highly interesting to the youthful
mind. Fancy sketches from which

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

210

THE HOME.

 

are adduced morals of an elevating
tendency, as well as sccnes in real
life, are presented in a way that can
not fail to awaken interest, while the
influence left upon the mind is salu-
tary and permanent. IIow impor-
tant then, that such should be encour-
aged and disseminated by those, at
least, who profess to be governed by
gospel principles, while that which
may be denominated fashionable lit-
erature, should be utterly discarded
by them.

 

EMMA \VINTER’S VISIT.

BY MARY J. CROSMAN.

FEW years ago, “Smith’s Cor-

ners ” boasted in addition to its
post-office, store, and wagon-shop, a
select school under the supervision
of Mr. Mercer, an expelled freshman
from a neighboring college. His pa-
trons supposed he taught to obtain
funds, but on longer acquaintance,
they found that his moral character
was suffering quite as much of a
dearth as his purse; but as gossip
was the staple commodity of Smith’s
Corners, the collegiate’s character
proved to be material much appreci-
ated and closely used.

Connected with Mr. Mercer’s school,
were two young misses, Grace Hen-
derson and Emma Winters, who lived
halfa mile from the Corners. Wend-
ing their way to school one summer
morning quite leisurely, Grace, who
always patronized what she called
“fun,” stopped short as they came
opposite an old, wood-colored house,
and exclaimed, “Uh, Em! do see
Granny Hale—what a good subject
for a fiishion-plate—where’s my
sketching-paper? she must be ‘ taken,’ ”
and fumbling through her portfolio,
she brought out the desired paper.

“ Do n’t, Grace,” said Emma; “I
know she thinks you are laughing at
her—poor old woman, how can you
—come, let’s hurry on, for it’s near
school-time.”

“No, not till I take the outlines at

 

least; I shall tell Mr. Mercer I came
across a beautiful figure, and could
not forego the pleasure of sketching
it, and he ’s so merciful. I ’11 risk the
tardy mark—at all events, he ’11
laugh to see. the picture.”

Emma’s haZeI eyes spake her dis-
approval, but warding off their lan-
guage, Grace added sympathetically,
“ You haven’t any excuse, have you,
Em ? but never mind, I’ll get up one
that Mr. Merciful will accept, trust
my wit for that.”

“ What an easel ! ” said Grace, half-
angrily, as her portfolio and drawings
slid down the bank at her side; in at-
tempting to save which, her tempO-
rary seat gave way, and like Gill in
the juvenile story, she “went tum-
bling after.”

Emma who had passed on, hast-
ened back to the rescue, saying, with
ill-concealed mirth, “The way of the
transgressor is hard, is n’t it, Grace? "

“You seem to feel quite grieved
about it,” said Grace, brushing the
gravel from her mouth and hands.

“I was thinking I should like to
‘take a sketch, or the outlines at
least,’” was Emma’s reply, as she
gathered up the scattered drawings:
and otherwise helped to repair the in'
juries received.

The manners of Grace, had never
won very largely upon the old peo'
ple’s affections, and the year before, a
little barrier came up between them:
which Grace with all her audacity?
had not dared overstep.

At one time, she had borrowed
Mrs. Hale’s “best bonnet for her
dear grandmother to try on, as She
wanted one made just like it;” 1‘
was tied up carefully in a spaciOus
pougee handkerchief: the old lady
telling her it could “ be kept as long
as they wanted it, for the damp
weather was bringing on her rheuma'
tiz, and ’t wasn’t like she should go
to meetin’ Sunday.”

The bonnet completed Grace’s 
tiquated toilet, which with a hal'
bent posture, and a blue cotton um'
brella, ignored all identity with Grace

EMMA WINTER’S VISIT. 211

 

Henderstm. Grace made her round
0f calls at the Corners with good suc-
cess; on her way home, she stopped
at a near neighbor of Mrs. llalc’s,
and there found the owner of the hon-
net getting an antidote for the rheu-
matic pains before referred to. Suf-
fice to say, Grace went home quite
erect, with no covering for her head,
but the said umbrella.

Unlike Grace, Emma found great
Pleasure in the conversation of Mr.
avnd Mrs. Hale. True, they belonged
to a generation mostly beyond the
river, their virtues were stern and
uIlyielding, and their manners some-
What reserved and reticent; but un-

el‘neath were warm hearts, and an
§Xperience as rich and varied as the
{mpulses were noble which had given
It birth.

The old people lived quite alone;
they were supported by a yearly pen-
81011 which was well lengthened out

y that economy and simplicity
WhiCh was a necessity of the fathers.
Peaking of the comforts and luxu-
"98 which even the poorest may pos-
sess, the Captain would shake his
efid ominously and say, “It was so
W1th ancient Rome—her sons and
a'ughters grew effeminate just as
they yielded to the seductions of
Wealth, and a train of evils set to
work, which resulted in her overthrow.”
.Captain Hale had reached his eighty-
e‘ghth year; he loved to talk of the
past, for his history was deeply in-

Wrought with the struggles of our be-'

9" country. He remembered a
.tlmt’g When the name of Captain Hale
msPU‘ed a band of minute-men with

e SUPety of success; and as the old
:llan sat in his chair and slept on a

mmer day, brave soldiers would
gather around him, martial music
regale his senses, and grasping his

staff, he would awake to find it “all

ream.”

Emma Winters loved to sit in one
ofthe high~backed chairs in that little
room, and listen to past events from

e iPS Of a historian who witnessed
what he narrated.

 

“Let me see, Emma, I must tell
you about the time they captured
Major Andre,” said Mr. Ilale, on the
afternoon of the day previously men-
tioned, when Emma, who had brought
in some rarity for their supper-table,
and sat down at her favorite window.
Mr. Hale went to the mantle and
filled his pipe; Emma took out her
knitting, Mrs. Hale “tidied up” a
little, hung over the tea-kettle, and
sat down also with her knitting.

“I have been thinking to-day,” said
the Captain, after two or three vigo-
rous whiffs from his pipe, “of the
gloom of that night when the scoun-
drel Arnold betrayed his country. A
little before this, Washington had de-
termined to attack New York where
Sir Henry Clinton and his troops
were established, but the supplies
from England prevented. Our ar-
mies, too, had been defeated at the
south, and disappointment hung over
the north.

“ At this time, Arnold managed to
get command at West Point, the most
important station we had, that he
might betray it into the hands of the
enemy, opening at the time a corre-
spondence with Clinton to that effect.
So Andre, a handsome young general,
came up the North river —what you
call the Hudson now, and held an in-
terview with Arnold near the Ameri-
can lines. ‘ The Vulture,’ that was the
sloop-of-war he came up on, was com-
pelled to move down the river while
he was gone, and Arnold, afraid of
any delay, gave him a fine horse, a
pass, and surtout to hide his regiment-
als, and he started back under the
name of ‘Anderson.’ He. passed by
several guards well enough. but the
last looked straight through his dis-
guise. Threc brave men were on
guard, who, as Andre rode up, 01'-
dered him to dismount.

“‘I am on important business,’ said
he, ‘ and must not be detained.’

“‘How ’s that?’ said one of the
men.

“ ‘ Where are you from ".1 ’ returned
Andre.

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W. a.

. .—~c*m:~.--rr-:—mrw. A n _ . .
"‘“fl' .  "nu, .,  -

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V 5“... he”:

17,: an.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

212

THE HOME.

4—...—

 

“ ‘ From below,’ was the reply.

“ Supposing they meant New York,
he answered, ‘80 am l,’ and would
have rode on, but ‘ \Vait till you are
searched, sir,’ was the ‘straight gate ’
which every redcoat had to walk
through. He didn’t make any resis-
tance till they came to his boots, and
in them was found a description of
the works at the Point, the strong
garrison and so on, by Arnold.

“ He offered them a purse bloated
with British guineas, if they would
let him pass on, but in the noble
spirit of patriotism, they replied,
‘ We are true to our country.’ In vain
he plead, in vain he thought to find
another Arnold, for with the same de-
cided earnestness they repeated, ‘ We
are true to our country”

“ Arnold soon heard of the capture,
and he made a pretense to go across
the river; when about the middle of
the stream, he held up a loaded pis-
tol to the boatmen, and ordered them
to row him to the Vulture, or they
would bedead men. So that was the
way he made his escape.

“ Andre showed a noble mind dur-
ing his imprisonment; he Confessed
all that related to himself, but noth-
ing of those implicated with him. If
Arnold could haVe been caught— for
you see the British now despised him
—Andre might have been released.
Letters of entreaty and threatening
poured in upon Washington, and An-
dre himself prayed for an interview
with his exeellency, for you see they
were both Freemasons, and the poor
prisoner thought if they could meet,
Washington’s heart might be moved
to pardon; his exeellency feared it
might too, and so refused to see him.
He was hung near where they cap.
tured him, and displayed great com-
posure and fortitude in his death.”

Here Mrs. Hale laid down her
knitting, and wiped her eyes, as if
they dwelt on the scene of Andre’s
death; “ For,” said she, “we did
pity him so, if he was a tory.”

“In what year was this?” asked
Emma

 

“ In 1780 —-— that ’s right, Emmy,
remember the dates.”

“()ur blessed gospel teaches char-
ity,” continued Mr. IIale, shaking the
cinders from his pipe; “ and after so
many years have gone by, it is com-
paratively easy to bury the hatchet.
It was chiefl y through Arnold’s agency,
that the victory was gained over Bur-
goyne at Saratoga, while the com-
manding general received the thanks
of Congress and a gold metal, and he
(Arnold) was not even mentioned in
the official dispatches. This, and some
ill-will toward Washington, first
planted the seeds of treason in his
mind. Besides, he had got deeply in
debt at Philadelphia from his extrav-
agant style of living, and wanted,I
suppose, some British gold to pay
the debts.”

Reviewing the past, Captain Hale
felt all the ardor of youth; rising and
filling his pipe, be seated himself
again.

“I tell you, Emmy,” said he, “ it
kindles my wrath to see these blood-
bought privileges treated so lightly, and
I am sick of a good share of the young
men and women of the presont gener-
ation; what do they know of the!r
country’s history '2 two-thirds of them
had rather read some flimsy trash 0f
the day; I should like to know What
they would have been worth in W8!“
time—why, ‘there were giants in thOSe
days;’ I remember when our armies,
thin and weak, held up the cause 0
freedom, and multitudes came fort
to the call — the valiant sons of New
York, the daring Green Mountain
boys, and the hardy yeomanry of other
states. The husband tore himS‘?
away with the cries of wife and chll'
dren sounding in his ear, lovers me?
and parted; ‘ America must be free,
was the language of every lip» ‘fnd to
this end the people pledged their 811-
W'e believed that God was on our
side, and then there was this intent")e
feeling of patriotism which placed “9
above fear of death—which led us ‘90
exclaim with noble Joseph Wane,"
when he fell on Bunker Hi”, ‘It 15

SUNDAY

 

MORNING. 213

 

Sacred and glorious to die for my
country.’

“ There was another time when the
patriot’s zeal was tested. Our troops
Were at winter-quarters in Morris-
town, New Jersey, at the close of the
year ’80. They were in a ragged and
almost starving condition—not on ac-
count of poverty, for the crops had
been abundant, and met the wants of
the people; but Congress was too
lax in its efforts for the support of

81‘ troops. Then Clinton sent out
spies, offering great rewards for any
_Who would join his army; they were
In a poor condition. but such as they
Were, the king of England could not

uy a man of them.

“Ah! independence was a great
Slibject for a few men to grasp in the
face of such fierce Opposition; but
the fervid eloquence of James Otis
electrified the people; the brilliant
appeals of Patrick Henry were
equally powerful, and his words ‘Give
1118 liberty, or give me death,’ were ech-
oed from tongue to tongue. John

dams, prudent and less impulsive,
‘ “13 decided and thoroughly aroused,

gave his heart and hand to the
Work,’

‘f Well, after seven long years,
the" helps Were realized; and then,
What an incense of gratitude went up
t0 Heaven; every heart was an altar
of Praise and a son of thanks ivinrr

. 7 g g m
111“: that which lsrael sung upon the
s pres of the Red Sea, ascended to

“11 who had given the victory. Mo-
t “'8 taught children at the knee, the
SFOF)’ 0f redeemed America, and the
vu‘_tues of her fallen heroes were
wrltft‘n in song, and repeated at every

I'esldc- Washington was now the

flue of eulogy at home and abroad.

I""11 his peculiar policy, being dila-

ry 01‘ hasty, as the occasion dicta-
Fatv’i he was termed the American

US ~— but he was more; the Ro-
mans called Fabius their shield, and
arcellus their sword, but Washing-
iEC‘ZaS both the shield and ,sword Of

i untry ; and then,l don t believe

8 excellency would have been scared

by Hannibal’s oxen, if they were lit
up in the night.”

Other reminiscences followed ; then
Mrs. Hale laid by her knitting, de-
clared her “ tea-kettle was off the
boil,” which was remedied in time for
the subsequent arrangements, which
they all sat down to enjoy.

 

SUNDAY MORNING.

BY MRS. II. E. G. AREY.
(See Steel Plate.)

THE clouds of yester’s stormy night
Have melted down the sky,

And azure tinged, and fleecy white,
In soft repose they lie.

And ’mid the bird-notes of the morn,
And ’mid the lake‘s soft swell,

O’er hill and vale, and water borne,
Peals out the Sabbath bell,

Sweet love,

The Sabbath morning bell.

With saddle bound, my gentle steed,
Whose foot is firm and free,

Whom children’s hands caress and feed,
Waits at the door for thee,

To hear thy weight of priceless worth,
I trust that steed so brave ;

And for the wee ones going forth,
My boat waits on the wave,

Sweet love,

My boat waits on the wave.

While we the water-lilies kiss,
Thy steed shall brush the dew,

As light we'll skim the water's brim,
And thou ’lt the shore pursue,

Till on the church-yard’s shaven green,
Our steps again unite ;

Tojoin within, with chastened mien,
The Sabbath’s sacred rite,

My love,

The Sabbath’s sacred rite.

 

lIUMILlTY.
BY CLARA AL’ G CSTA.

Tin-an was a little river
Down below the meadow land,
Where the ripples beat like music
On the snowy-pebbled sand;
And the foam from tiny rapids
Glistcned like a spirit hand.

There were no savage cataracts
To win a nation’s gaze —

There were no treachemus quicksands,
No wild and devious ways;

But the sweet river watered fields,
And gladdened lonesome braes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

214 THE HOME.

 

There frowned not in its borders
The castle of a king;

But down in sober valleys,
Where bells of cattle ring,

They say the little river
Is a sweet and blessed thing.

No hoary, regal cypress,

Crowned with gorgeous misletoe,
Leaned o’er the quiet waters,

Or was mirrored in their flow;
And yet that river’s power is felt

In Ocean‘s undertow.

So the soul may be as humble
As the little gliding brook,

And possess no storied learning
From Science’s musty book ;

No romance from the eastern lands,
0r pride from sculptured nook.

But a simple word of kindness,
Spoken to a heart that’s cold,
May be priceless as thejewels
Which princes wore of old;
For a little smile of Charity
Is better than fine gold.

 

A LETTER TO FRIEND JOHN.

BY WASHINGTON BALLOU.

MY dear friend, John, your letter has
This hour come to hand,

And is full of charming news, from
Your famous Yankee land.

Then “Sam is still in the land of gold,
And Tom has gone to sea —

Kate,” you say, “ is teaching school —
Jim works for Deacon Lee.

“ Joe with the old folks lives at home,
And May, and rosy Nell
Have gone to tend the Power-loom
In the maiden town of L. . . ."

And you, at last, it seems, have Wed —
Success to you, my friend —

I know your wife is one in whom
Love, worth, and beauty blend.

You wish to lead a farmer's life,
But land is there so high ;

You say you ’ve hardly funds enough
A “ tater patch ” to buy.

“ A farm, a house, a horse, a cow,
A hundred things to get,—

Oh, dear! I knew not what to do,
To keep myself from debt."

You know ’tis seldom I advise;
But now I think it best —

I'll tell you what to do, my friend,
Pack up, and come out west.

‘Tis here majestic rivers flow —
IIere spreads the boundless lea,
Beset with many verdant groves —

A lovely inland sea.

’T is here ten thousand flowers bloom
’Neath an Italian sky ;

The winds bring rose-tints to the cheek,
And lustre to the eye.

By spring and grove, in vale and glen,
By lake, and river clear,

Comes peeping out the lowly cot
0f th’ fearless pioneer.

But humble though these cots may be
On hill-side, and in glen,

Know this — they are the quiet homes
0f independent men.

Come then, and join this noble band,
Come break the virgin soil —

With lavish hand ’t will surely pay
For all your care and toil.

Say not, “ My funds they are so low,
I think I‘ll tarry east ; ”

Your letter says, “I think I have
A hundred pounds at least.”

That is enough to bring you here,
Enough to buy a cow,

Enough to buy a load of grain,
An ox team, and a plow.

Now with your prudence, and your care,
And Granite State “backbone,”

You can not fail to own a farm.
When the first-born runs alone.

Make here your wife a rural home,
Raise here your girls and boys,

And lose your over-anxious heart
In sweet domestic joys.

Then pull your stakes, and set them here.
Look well, then “make your claim,’
And if you ever rue the day,
Your friend will bear the blame.

 

 

LAST SLEEP ()I“ THE BEAU"
TlI“Ul. BABY.
av mas. L. n. smot'nNsY.

Rrsr in thy bed, my darling,
Where the bright fountain plays,
\Vhere flowers of richest fragrance spring!
And birds with carol’d lays.

Thy little life was measured
By months, and not by years;
And sweetly clos‘d before it reach’d
The alphabet of tears.

Clos‘d like a tinted sunbeam,
That knew no shade of gloom,

MY LITTLE HOPE. 215

 

 

Baptismal water on thy brow,
And prayers to bless thy tomb.

Love, o‘er thine infant pillow,
Kept watch with stedfast mind,

And homeward took its flight with thee,
But sorrow staid behind;

It staid behind, and weepeth
Above thy beauteous clay;
Unfold thy snowy, cherub wings,

And fan that grief away.

Or with thy harp of melody
Enforce their glorious gain,
ho scape the battle here below,
Without a wound or stain.

And in their Saviour‘s presence,
Where naught can c’er annoy,
Expand to seraph-size, and taste
The plenitude ofjoy.
HARTFORD, (31., Dec. 23, 1857.

 

MY LITTLE HOPE.

A8 fluctuates the oceans‘ tide,
So does my little hope ;
And with the trembling aspen leaf,
.Its trembling, too, may cope.
e a star in beauty, twinkling,
On which we love to gaze,
my hope, true to its mission,
18 giving forth its rays.
A in earth’s changing seasons, though
Y beauties I may see;
9‘, the greatest joy life giveth, is my little
hope to me.

NM Hope, the maiden, do I mean,
ho lives on yonder hill;
hose father toils so steadily,
And daily, at the mill;
hose sparkling eye, and dimpled cheek,
Attract so many beaux;
0 has so many pretty ways,
N She ’s loved where e‘er she goes.
0‘ Of that maiden do I speak, though she
was born to bless
hearts, and most that true one who
doth her love possess.

Fond

I Week of hope given to me,
_0 light me all my way,
A little spark hid in my heart,
N hat brightens every day.
0 storm my little hope shall cloud,
N0 blight shall it destroy,
ov‘glve shall drown in ocean’s depth,
. sorrow can allo .
Ky little ebbing, trembling hope shall cling
Oh! to me through time,
may it full fruition prove in you celes-
tial clime.

 

Like a word that ’s kindly spoken,
So soothes my little hope:
Like a wave of sorrow broken,
When visions newly ope ;
And when I hear it whispering near,
My heart’s not sad and lone;
Daily it murmurs in my ear,
“ 'T is bright around the throne."
Whate’er my earthly cares may be, my little
hope doth cheer,
Just like a blessed angel, that is always hov-
ering near.

How oft in saddest, darkest hours,
This hope has smiled a cheer,
And then it seemed just like a boon,
Dropt from another sphere ;
Sometimes ’tis but the smallest ray,
I scarce discern its spark ;
Again it turns the night to day,
And all illumes the dark.
My little hope to me, is like a bright simili-
tude
0f the pure and blissful future —-the yet un-
tasted good.

If once my little hope is hid,
I search the outer world,
But know it has no power to say,
Its wings shall be unfurled;
And then I search the inner man,
But all is darkness there,
Sweet peace has fl0wn, while I inquire,
“ Where is my hope? oh, where! "
But it", with faith’s uplifted eye, I see heaven‘s
gate ajar,
Then shines my little hope again, just like
the morning star.
MAY Bran.

 

THE DEATH OF AN AGED

FRIEND.
THY labors on earth, ransomed spirit are
ended,
Thy trials below have been long and se-
vere,
And thanks with our mourning for thee may
be blended.

Thou art freed from the troubles that com
passed thee here, -
No more shall thy spirit endure the stern
anguish
That flows when the heart-strings of love
have been torn;
No longer in pain shall thy feeble frame
languish, .
Or thy soul over crushed hopes despair-
ingly mourn.

No more dost thou grieve for the wayward
one, straying
From paths where his footsteps thou
gladly would'st lead;

43,
a
‘6:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

216 THE HOME.

 

No more for the wanderer hopelessly pray-
ing —
Thou art gone from thy work to enjoy the
glad meed ;
And well hast thou earned it, while wearv —
benighted ‘
Thou soughtst ‘mia earth's brambles, for
duties dark way ;
Mayst thou now weary pilgrim, by glory be
lighted,
And o‘er thy dark path shine the bright-
ness of day.

Without thee, oh, loved one, our household
is dreary,
And sad are the hearts that once called
thee their own ;
But thy day‘s work was finished, thy spirit
was weary,
Andjoyed in the mandate that summoned

it home.
Thy spirit hath triumphed and left us to

sadness;
l-‘or well have we loved thee, thou blest

one of yore,
To wish thou wert with us in sorrow, is
madness,
No! joy that our troubles can reach thee

no more.

Thou hast gone where the angels forever are
singing
Hosannas in praise of the Saviour divine ;
Where the quiver of harp-strings forever is
ringing,
Where the smile of a well-loved Redeemer
is thine ;
Mourn not without hope for the spirit de-

parted,
Grieve not for the lost one, she 's far from
all pain;
And ours be the meed of the fond faithful-

hearted,
When in brightness we meet with the

loved one again.
PHILADELPHIA, Jun. 25, 1.9.36.

“AWFUL TEMl’EliS."
“ ll, dear! i do n’t see how you

rould be. so careless. We. Slla n’t
have a plate left in the house, at this
mte, it does seem as though there
was nit any kind ofneed of your drop.
ping that; you make more waste than
your work will ever be worth.”

“i do n‘t eare, l ’m glad of it.”

“ (.‘hild aliVel l‘m ashamed of you,
and frightened too, what do you sup.
pose is going to become oi you with
such an awful temper? ”

 

You did n’t hear the answer, it
did n't eoine till the, child’s flushed
face was buried in her hands, and she
threw herself on the floor of the room,
fur/hex! from you then, it was— “1
do n't know nor care, i wish 1 Could
die.”

No, you didn’t say any thing to
make her give such an answer, Voll
did u’t I/u'eulen. but you fret/ml at her,
and if you could see the reflection of
your face just then, you would n’t
have blamed any one’s temper for
rising at sight of the wrinkles round
your nose—just remember that when
fretting takes root in the mouth, it
shoots up and blossoms round the
nose— the decidedly floss-rut glances
of your eyes, and the scowl settled on
your forehead.

Her remark was an extremely
saucy one, but it was the flash of 9:
quick temper, not an awful one—-—if
it had been, she Would n’t be crying
her eyes out now, as you knew she is,
under the lashings of her conscience-
rod, trying —you have a right  to
show temper, neVer know how hard,
to quell her wicked thoughts, and
resolving ever So tirmly that She
"never, never will speak so to im-
ther again.”

Now. if you would only help hora
when her hands make mischief wit
your table-ware, remembering that
they are a child’s hands, you rwoul
“ lay an injunction ” on your tongue,
nose, and eyes, and give her 8. mil
dose. of caution, instead of the bitter‘
ness of petulance, she would care a lit’
tle, thinking that her mother was “ 30
good when she did n’t seold,” and
maybe ll/e angels Would think so too;
at any rate, We give the Word of Our
belief, that it would n‘t be written 0n
the (lelill-side of your life-ledger"
JIoore's Rural 1Vew Yorker.

ELLEN (.‘. LAKE-

_/
To enjoy to-day, stop WUI‘rymg
about to.morrow. Next Week “'5
be just as capable of taking care Oflt'
self as this one is.

'I‘lIE BELLE AND THE WIFE. 217

 

THE “ELLE AND THE \VIFE ! ship and housekeepino‘, were 'astly

BY MRS. C. ll. GILDERSLEEVE.

“ Know they,
As women owe duty — so do men.”

“ Of earthly good, the best is a good wife;
A bad, the bitterest curse in human life."

“ HEY are all asleep at last — the
darlings ! and I ’ve a moment of
SBQHCe in which to think. 1 some-
times conclude, I might as well be a
machine, as a woman with a soul crav-
lng communion with its equals; but
Such sleeping faces rebuke me in their
Slumber. What a life I lead ! Day
after day, the same routine of duty,
and not one Word of appreciative e11-
0Ouragcment from their father —- not
one acknowledgment of ‘ well-done,’
PO cheer me in my wifely duties; but
If there is blame deserved, I am sure
t0 get it by looks which are bitterer
15 an words. ‘ \Vould [were a girl
again,’ has (“used to be more poetry
me. No time for books, to change
the dull current. of my thoughts. All
Day old Correspondents dropped, to
gwe place to cares which are not well-
assumed. A few hurried, heartless
Calls make up the sum of friendships.
i 1“ Thatcher says l am fading very
fish, but takes no means to brighten
my Waning color. How he used to
et my curls glide through his fingers,
llt now — well, there is no time for
bl‘llshing curls. nothing but babies to
ress, feed. and care for; then un-
1.9.88» put them in bed, and repair
t ‘31P little garments. This would be
SO light, if my husband would only
901 that l was not idle. He used to
pet me so much, and love to show
me to his friends and now he only
t"’lel‘ates me, though he do n’t say so.
mm“ tO—no I won’t, he’ll only
augh at me, and I‘m so miserable ! ”
if}? all; young head bent down over
t ickl 0,:md the great hot tears fell
‘ y over her folded hands.
t ugie‘hud married wrth all the en-
. astlc love of one, who had
gemled her lessons of wedded life
azomflmoks not too carefully selected,
“llnd, as many another Wife has
one, that lovers and husbands, court-
VOL. v. 17.

 

 

different affairs. Her husband was
her opposite in this respect, for he
was vastly particular in eVery thing,
except in choosing a wife. His woo-
ing had been the only holiday in his
life, the only time of relaxing from
the rigid rules of his early training in
which he had ever indulged.

She was a marvel of loveliness and
innocence, and every body thought
good Fortune held him in her special
keeping, when he won the affections
of Belle Latham. He had never
thought of the possibility of her unfit-
ness for a mother or mistress of a
household. He believed with Mrs.
Ellis, that it is the mission of all wo-
men to be good houSewives; and he
never doubted Belle, if he thought of
her in this connection at all. A late
Sparkling writer says, that some wo-
men can ’t be useful if they would,
any more than May-flies can spin silk.
If men marry them, they must take
their chances. We agree to the last,
but not the first, and as Mr. Thatcher
accepted the latter, we will follow his
chance.

Belle Thatcher was really a gentle,
loving mother, an affectionate, and, of
late, a fearing wife. She had looked
forward to her union with Mr.
Thatcher, with the eyes of her under-
standing blinded by her romantic
ideas of the future. She had no mo-
ther, and her father had cared for her,
as he would for a rare tropical plant,
from which nothing was expected,
save beauty. llis death lost its keen
bitterness in the first and deeper love
his child felt for the newly-made hus-
band. lle soothed her grief with the
deepest tenderness, and won back her
smiles, ere the light of the honey-
moon had paled in the daytime glare
of every-day life. Belle and her
father had always boarded, and led,
as other boarders do, a sort of Arab
life, which adds little to the charm of
cliildhood’s recollection, and, still less,
to woman‘s capacity t0 make a “'08
home charming to husband and chil-
dren. Personal beauty, though a

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

218 THE

HOME.

 

 

glorious gift to Woman, has no power
to exorcise the spirit of wretchedness,
conjured up by a miserably ordered
house. Mr. Thatcher was too proud,
too independent to think of spending
his days in this rambling way; he
must have an establishment of his
own, to accord with the dignity of his
position; and that his beautiful wife
would grace. it well. he never for a
moment doubted. llow Belle trem-
bled at the stupendous idea of being
mistress of any one but herself. lf,
hOWever, the duties looked too great,
hers was not a spirit to remonstrate
in the last. ller will had been anni-
hilated with her love, and the stronger
will of her husband — at least. so it
seemed. \Ve shall see. She tbund
herself transplanted in a short time,
or rather, transtigured from the plant
to the pruner. (lare tblloWed closely
upon care, till her little head had no
one idea, save how to change the cur-
rent of her husband’s thoughts, when
he should return, from her own
illy-arranged atfairs, which she had
the will, but not the ability to better.
From the worshiped lover, to the
critic husband, there seems a natural
inclined plane, and a few faults of in-
experience or girlish thoughtlessness
will serve as sutlicient impetus to
drive downward, but a life-time of ex-
ertion will hardly elevate him again.
Perhaps it is that pride. inherent in
masculine dispieisitions, which for-
bids a change in opinion when it is
once formed, especially in cases like
this.

It is easier to go down than up,
and so poor Belle tbund. Three
babes had been home to her husband,
and though he still loved her and his
children, an involuntary sigh escaped
him, at the darker prospect for a
proper internal arrangement. He
did not remonstrate in harsh words,

but what was worse, the eloquence of

disapproving looks. She loved her
little ones too well, to giVe them oVer
to another’s care; and as she had
ceased to expect admiration from her
husband, of course, became careless

of personal appearance, while she
spent her days in the nursery. The
world. and Mr. Thatcher blamed her
for not looking as beautiful, as it is
every woman’s duty to appear; and
yet, he had long since failed to en-
courage those little nameless atten-
tions to external adornments, which
give such a charm to a lady.

()n the evening in question, Mr.
Thatcher had been startled at her sad
fare-worn face by the tea-urn, and
though too proud to notice it in
words, it followed him and returned
with him to his home at an unusual
hour. Belle, not expecting him, sup-
posed a domestic had entered, and,
not wishing to haVe her tears seen
and reported, she kept her head
bowed as if asleep. Her husband
was startled at her stillness, and g0-
ing suddenly up to her side, she
raised her head only to let the hushed
sobs burst forth, where of all other
places she least desired — in her hus-
band’s presence.

“ W'hat, Belle?” he asked hm”
ricdly.

“ Nothing,” she sobbed out, “only
— only — you married a child, and I
wish the babies and l were dead, and
you had a better wife.”

“ Belle —— Mrs. 'l‘hatcher!” he CX'
claimed sternly ; " you are a woman,
and a mother! l am surprised at
this, as I am at your want of capacity
to till the position you accepted as my
wife.”

Every woman has her attendant
angels, good and bad, and Belleis
wicked spirit broke forth in her flaSh‘
ing face, as she, gazed at her unrea-
sonable husband a moment, with an
almost transtixing look, during WhiCh
the very current of her existence “'35
turned into a new channel, and She
replied, “So it was a housekeeper
and name you wooed, instead of the
petted child of Thomas Latham?
You could have [fired one cheapcr’
Mr. Thatcher, and better suited to
your Purpose,” and the new \vomav'1
strode from the presence of the 35‘
tonished man to her own place by the

 

THE BELLE AND THE WIFE.

219

 

children. To say that her resolution
to fulllil the duties she that night took
Upon herself, was carried out, would
hardly convey the idea of perfection
to which this hitherto gentle creature
attained.

She smothered her longing to go
to her husband and take back her
Words, for she well knew the tender-
ness he might have once felt, was
eaten from his 11 ‘art by business, and
his love crushed by a want of home
con'iibrt—no, not crushed, but hid-
den even from himself. He found
n0 weary head upon the pillow when

8 Went to his room, and a dull pain
took possession of his heart, in spite
of the resentment he tried to summon
up. His wife had been t0o much the
eCho of his will as far as she knew,
or could give back compliance to his
WiShes.

in the morning, instead of the
t8:I'dy breakfast, as the cook’s mood

lctated, it was in readiness and per-
fect at the very moment he had so
Often desired, and almost as often
fai19d to have. Belle had found time
to brush her beautiful hair into the
glossy ringlets she used to wear, but
Which had long since been smoothed
back to suit the hurry of late break-
‘fstfi, late dinners, etc. One of her
glrlish white wrappers, with its blue
tli'Ssels, had been neatly arranged, and
scarcely contrasted in the least from
‘91; pale cheeks and snowy throat.

food-iiiorning, Mr. Thatcher,” she
Said coldly, with no movement of her
usually expressive face. Iler hus-
band was astonished, bewildered at

.9” appearance. Stately and chill——
1t_scemed as if he had changed places
Wlth his gentle wife. but he replied as
0°1d1y as she had spoken. He tried
to affect indifference, but it was use-
858- He could eat little while his
eyes wandeer stealthin to the ligure
OPPOSite, and wondered all the more,
at the change, which was more appar-
ent from her old (:oquettish style of

“388. How polite she was! Every
attentinn which a stranger Would have
expected, was bestowed upon him,

 

and when he refused every offered
delicacy, she coldly asked to be ex-
cused, as her daily duty to the nurs-
ery demanded immediate attention.
His voice trembled between grief and
a determination to remain unbending,
as he replied, “Certainly, Mrs.
Thatcher.” Little business engrossed
him that morning, and his constant
thought was of the pretty, gentle
wife he brought to his home, and the
tr:tnsfi)ri'11ati011 to a stately woman,
cold and calm, when he had expected
only a life-long childishness. He
liked the dignity, but the chill was
too much. Although, he had ceased
to give warmth, he did not desire to
be frozen himself.

The dinner was prompt, and in
prime order and excellence, when he
arrived at his residence. Belle an—
nounCed its readiness with a haughty
“Dinner is waiting, Mr. Thatcher.”
Her hair was even more glossy than
at breakfast, and the daintiest of mus-
lins fell softly about her little figure.
Her olden look had come back again,
save in her eyes, which flashed out a
defiance to circumstance and educa-
tion; but to Mr. Thatcher they
drooped with a meekness well disem-
bled, as she took her seat at the ta-
ble. The two eldest children were
placed in their chairs by a domestic,
and the serving began. The little
ones had seemed to get the spirit of
their mother, and were as unlike their
usual noisy and untidy appearance,
as the lady at the table beside
them. The head of the house mar-
veled. He did not know that Belle
had been giving. for the first time, a
hasty glance, with a promise of a
long look. into a housekeeper’s direc-
tory, and also that a woman has an
endless resourCe when roused by
strong emotions. Sickness, reverses
of fortune, or any other cause,
might have developed the woman in
Belle; but fate had decreed that it
should come through her husband’s
harshness and want of sympathetic
encouragement. It was bitter for
both before the end came.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

290

A

THE HOME.

 

“Shall I help the children to a
piece of the duck, Mrs. Thatcher? ”

“A piece of the steak, sir; the
duck is unhealthy for the children,
and I wish to perform my duty to
my Charge, therefore, oblige me. I
hup0 your dinner pleases you, sir.”
The carving-knife was poised a mo-
ment, and his eyes were fixed s ’arch-
ineg on a pair that drooped not a
whit. “Just as it should be, Mrs.
Thatcher. Have you a new cook ? ”

“No, not exactly; but having
found my true position in the house,
I have learned suflicient cookery for
this dinner, and I hope to add to my
information for to-morrow’s. So
you need give yourselfno uneasiness,
your appetite shall be properly at-
tended to hereafter; l was at my
post by the range during its pre-
paration, sir.”

Again Mr. Thatcher looked up to
see if his eyes were not serving him
falsely. That tone—that language
was not Belle Latham’s. Had his
severe, but just reproach, made her
as cold and hard as many another
Wife he had known. and whose hus-
bands he commisseratcdl “ \Vould
such a strong creature ever return to
gentle womanhood Z ” were questions
quickly suggested, but there ~amc no
answer back to his heart.

“ And the children !” he added. af-
ter a long pause.

“Were with me, or in the court.
Although, I am but nurse in their
father’s estimation, l am their mo-
ther in my own. I shall not fail
to them, depend upon that, Mr.
Thatcher.”

“ Madame ! ”

“ Sir! ”

“ Are you sane? ”

“I am now; though I think I never
was entirely, before last evening.
You know severe. shocks sometimes
develop senses. supposed to he want-
ing entirely. You should congratu-
late yourSelf. Mr. Thatcher.”

Again the knife and fork fell. and
the startled, earnest look was liXed
upon his wife; and, although their

 

hearts were almost bursting, neither
would say the first conciliatng word.
She had said, “Forgive me,” too
often, and without a change. in her
constant offending, but he, never!
He thought himself perfection person-
ilied in a husband, because he fur—
nished a supply to every need. and
never reproached her for a careless
use of his bounty, save by the very
blackest of looks. and an utter neglect
of her mental wants. Between their
honey-moon and the present, there
was a lixed gulf that he would not
pass, though his poor little wife ven-
tured over alone, many and many a
time. to be driven back by a cold dig-
nity and apparent inditlercnce.

He rose from his unfinished dinner,
and left the house without a word.
He thought to startle her back to her
former submissive self, but he was
mistaken. He had roused the imp
that sleeps in every woman’s heart,
and it would not rest again till a tit.
ting antidote should allay its restless-
ness. The tears did not come as they
always had done, at every little vex-
ation, but she grew stronger, and de-
termined to conquer her husband, by
becoming a good wife in every sense
of the word, and forcing him to ac-
knowledge her his equal. She pI‘O‘
cured a nurse for the children, to
whom she gave the charge only 0
their appearance; but their food,
bathing, and recreations were under
her own eye, and she lay beside
the darlings in their little bed, to
strengthen her heart to its new duties,
by a sight of their sweet. innoccnt
faces, by the dim light of the night
lamp. ‘

Mr. Thatcher thought he WOUld
not return at tea-time, and see if She
Would be anxious on his account. He
found it no easy thing, so great was
his desire to see the old smile he ha
seemed to care so little about. He
was a punctual man, and whateVer
were his other neglects, he never p8!"
mitted her to remain in suspense, by
his non-appearance at expected _t'mes’
and informed her of any detention by

 

THE BELLE AND THE WIFE.

\-_, ‘

2'21

 

messenger. This evening none eame.
It stung her, but she erushed down
the pain, and after seeing the ehildren
aSh‘ep, she found time to read; an
unusual thing,r for her, and one eould
glless at the eontents of the Work, by
3- White dust resembling flour on the
cover.

At eight o’eloek, she closed the
110W interesting volume, and opened
her piano, and tried to reeall her old
f2M‘m'ites, and sueeeeded wonderfully.
If there was any one thing, of whieh
Mr. Thateher was partieularly proud
during the first year of their marriage,

esides his wife’s beauty, it was her
exfiuisite performance on this, his fav-
OI‘lte instrument. It had long since
Sfll‘Ved no purpose, save to amuse the
Mb: ones oeeasionally. ller hus-
band had eeased to praise her, or
turn the le:wes after his lover-like
W3)", and she had, of eourse, as any
Wife does, eeased to gratifv, when
there, ‘ "
Phi-usure. Mr. Thatt'her entered «pli-
ctl)’: and heard the same old sweet
t(’,"‘-'-“a “nly a “deeper sw'eet,” singing
With what to him, seemed almost a
Prayer, “ \Vould l were a girl again.”

1 was a strong etfort for him to
mnll'td his desire to go in after the.
"(I fashion, and put his arms about

“'3 and beg her to go baek again to
“‘1, times, and live it all (Wel‘, and
“WM the breakers of domestic life;
)"i' the desire vanished as he entered
the I"Hum, and she rose with the same.
Cl’l‘ls Stately manner. and bade h'n'n
g“‘"‘l-t‘vening, and added, "' After eom-
pl"t“1g my dav’s duties.l thought I
WWW amuse fag/stjf a few moments
\lmlte l’ve not disturbed you '3”
Not in the least, madame,” he re—

Plled,

llt‘lle;

 

.3

1th the ehandelier, and. opened
“3 Uyening paper ~— but not to read.
11S wife :ame in with the tray in a
“W minutes, and drawing a tiny
table by his side, left his iehestnut-
41.9w” toast and fragrant tea by his
(Chow; {Hid retired saying, “Good-
night '3 at the door,

.Ie looked 'up again, and saw by

was no aekn<)wledgment of

as eoldlv, and seated himself

 

l

 

the [lush upon her faee, that his late
,ezand toast had been prepared by
his wife. This hurt his dignity; for
he was as unreasonable in his opinions
of his with peculiar duties, as ever
she had been herself, and thought a
wife culpable for eVery thing imper-
feet in the establishment—but she
must do nothing herself if there was
a domestie in the house.

She was growing the wiser of the
two. He would have gladly listened
to the old tale of weariness, ('om-
plaints of unfaithful servants any-
thing. eVen the present-e of her usual
untidily arranged dress, rather than
this terrible loneliness. But .9116 had
tllt night herself alone, even by his side.
too many times, and now it was his
turn. She felt it all bitterly enough,
but her plans for perfi'etion in house-
hold details, oeeupied her mind to the
partial exelusion of her husband.
She, did not. pity him, for she thought
he would he pleased. ller children
were better disposed, sinee she had
dropped her fretful tone, and the cook
said no more in remoustranee, when
her orders were giVen. The house
was assuming an unusual look of tidi-
ness and eheerfulm-ss. Thus passed
day after day, and week after week,
and the tension on each heart grew
more and more painful, and the as-
peet‘. of affairs mor s and more igl‘ee-
able to the few‘ visitors at the house.

Mrs. 'l‘hateher went out, shopped.
dressed, nodded to her husband in
the street, with the old air of her girl~
hood, and erowned the whole, by ac-
eepting an invitation to a fiishitmable
party, whieh she had not done since
she beeame a mother. She showed
her note of aeeeptanee to her husband,
and in her half-defiant, half-humble
tone, asked if she should send it. He
was not pleased after all, though he had
thought it among his gritwauees,_that
his wife kept him from SOClet)’.
“' Now—well no matter,” he Said, “by
all means,” though his lip quivered a
little, as he thought perhaps the last
state of his wife, might be worse
than the first.

 

 

.4
gt.
l}

[t

222 THE HOME.

 

 

 

 

 

She consulted him coldly about her
dress, which, ofeourse. he pretended to
leave to her taste, while he had grown
to consider the lsast new phase in
her affairs of great importance.
White tatfata and pearls—a mar-
riage gift from him, and a white japon-
ica in her curls, made her look the
bride again, save the absence of the
vail; and his heart throbbed almost,
audibly, as she took his arm to go
down to the hostess. She startled
every one by her mature beauty and
St:l£possession, so unlike her former
self, and yet so like. No one re.-
eeived the homage given to Mrs.
Thatcher. Iler husband followed her
after his old fashion, and his eyes
were held to hers. and his ‘ars were
startled at the quick repartee he had
once considered so bewitehing, but
which he had ceased to notice. be-
cause no one else heard it. save him-
self. How much another’s admira-
tion enhances the value of any thing
we possess, and particularly, intellect-
ual gifts.

She was asked to sing, and her old
notes had grown richer and deeper
than when she used to charm every
one with her exquisite intonation.
As she finished her only song, she
heard some one remark to her hus-
band, “Your splendid wife has been
hiding her light so long. that she quite
dazzles us by her rmlianee.”

Belle looked up, and there a great
tear trembled in his eye, whieh he
would not close, lest it should fall
and be seen. ller cheek flushed like
a girl’s, and she could hardly rise
from her position, so nmch had her
husband’s one tear atl'eeted her, while
hers had ceased long ago to move one
heart-throb of his.

She sought the hostess, and bidding
her good-night, with an apology in
which her children served her pur-
pose, she escaped to the dressing-
room, and hid her face for a moment
in her hands. A few seconds served
to calm herself, and sending a mes-
sage to her husband that, he need not

 

riage. as she could return alone. She
threw on her cloak and waited his
summons. He appeared, but was
Coated and gloved. at which she re-
monstrated; but he replied not a
word. as he deseended by her side,
and lifted her after the old style
into the carriage, as if there had been
no years passed since he always lifted
her thus. She trembled; but the
time had not yet eome for a recon-
ciliation.

The light of their own hall lamp
rev ‘aled his face to her. pale. and still,
as it had been for many weeks. and
his eyes bright. glassy. She bade
him good—night. and hurrying to the
nursery, knelt down in her beauty,
over her dear babes. and her long
silky curls hid her face. but her sobs
shook their little erih. They had
been pent up so long, and would have
smothered themselves forever, but
for the tear in her husband’s eyes. It
don’t take much to make women
good. any more than it takes little t0
make them evil.

Mr. 'l‘hateller had strode the par-
lor. till be resolved to go up and ask
her once more to be his wife, instead
of housekeeper. He pushed the
nurseryalmir slightly. and saw her by
the dim lamp in her kneeling posi-
tion. and knelt beside her, elasping
her willowy figure in his strong arms,
said. “Belle. dear Belle—” but the
words stopped, and he shook with
the. strong sobs ofa man subdued.

She flung back her curls. and look-
ing up through her t-ars, said
first. as women always do, “ Forgive
me. my husband.” and he kissed her
passionater again and again, but
said not the same \vords. Cven noW,
he eonld not. but only whispered,
“ \Ve understand each other better,
darling: imd this coldness must “Gt
last. 0r l shall die.”

\Ve will not write all they said to
each other. but after she nestled down
her eurls beside the little ones W“
whom she always slept, that usually
eold. stern man would come bac
softly. and lifting the dim lamp, 100k

1

i

i disturb himself, save to order a ear-
I

 

HOW UNCLE JOHN WON THE DAY. 223

 

into her face, and go back stilly. She
knew it, and a great happiness came.
down into her soul; but she opened not
her eyes, lest he should feel ashamed
to have her know his tenderness.

How happy they were; and when
She perched upon his knee again, he
would pinch her diinplcd cheek, and
Say, “ You know you were naughty,
Belle,” and she would reply, “But you

now, too, that you can ’t lind a
Chance to look cross at my house-
eeping now, and it vexes you.”

She did not go out in society much,
for she loved to tell her husband,
While a wicked look slept lazily un-
der her brown eyelashes, that she
f‘eared she should not triumph again
0V8? a conquered spirit. [lad Mr.
Thatcher made a friend of his girlish
Wife, and lent her a part of his practi-
cal advice. and she tried to conquer

91‘ ignorance. this story had not had
{1 foundation ; but between many lov-
"1g hearts, come faults which are not
0Ver‘come either by anger or sorrow.

_0 man, unless he be without spirit,
w111 love a disorderly home; and no
Woman will reform it, without the
eIlcouragement of heart incentives
StrOnger than common friendship.

\

H0W UNCLE .ioiiN won THE
DAY.

BY MARY A. RIPLEY.

T was a Cold day in January. I
Shall not name the year; 1 sup-
pose you care nothing about that.
ere were few persons in the street;
09:31‘ Stlll. at the ‘eounters for pur-
€110,168.b 'lattle red-laced boyshurried
onceg ) tliepolished show-windows;
of? .in a while one would venture iii,
lenng his tasteless-looking fruit for
:25; dlfittle dim-eyed girls, half-clad,
001mdll‘ty baskets on their arms,
wistfully at the bright cash-

mere/,8 Which were displayed in uncle
ashnls store. it was a _day, peculi-
sonl’alfphle to give a predisposed per-
nOt b it of_the blues. Busnicss had
een brisk during the entire win-

 

tei‘. Money had been very scarce;
the banks preferring to hold their
gold, unless the poor harassed mer-
chant could prescnt gilt-edged paper.
And very little of this was abroad.
So uncle John, not being in any
danger, owing to his keen foresight,
had time to look after the welfare of
his only child, a daughter nearly six—
teen years of age, who had been cared
for, principally, by a maiden lady, a
distant relative of the family, who
had too little resolution to deny the
child the gratification of numberless
whims, or to instruct her on any sub-
ject, which the little lady found at all
disagre itll)lC.

So Miss Emily grew up, thinking
no will superior to her own, no judg-
ment equal to her own, and every
one’s happiness of inferior consequence
to that of Nliss Emily Wood. But
beneath this sterile surface—charac-
ter, there were secret reservoirs,
where fresh drops collected, as the
summer rain of holy influence fell
upon the sandy tract. Unknown to
herSelf, and to those around her, these
sealed waters were waiting but the
appointed stroke of some prophet
hand, that they might flow refresh-
ingly forth. And this business-panic
was, as it were, the herald of that
thronging train of circumstances,
which, like the ancient Hebrew cara-
van, should pause at the rock Horeb,
and compel it to minister purely and
beautifully to their necessities.

l'ncle John loved the small, white
hand, which incessantly reached forth
for his hard-earned money ; which so
fondly caressed him, when pleading
for the indulgence of some foolish
fancy. lle looked deep into the blue
eyes, and thought of the closed white
lids which lay upon those other eyes,
which were like “stars in the east ”
to his young manhood. He kissed
the soft brow, and in his soul another
brow, seemingly circled with a halo
of glory gleamed out. And $0, With
her own sweet persuasion, and those
other silent, and, perchance, more hal-
lowed influcnces, the pet of the

fr
.

wflhev 4-. my. ,.. .n. .--A

mfg-w

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

224

THE HOME.

 

household had Won the day. whenever
any cause of disagreement had ap-

peai'cd.

But as uncle John began to think of

“Milly ” on this particular morning,
there was, as it were, a stronger light
thrown upon the picture. .Thc col-
ors stood out vividly. He seemed,
as he sat there in his counting-room
back of his deserted store, and group
of dull-looking clerks, to lay by for a
time, his doting low, and to see her
as she was—~a spoiled, willful child.
And a. voice —a d ‘Etl'ly-I‘ull](‘llll)(‘l‘0(l
voice -——scemcd to say, " Ah! John,
you have been too careless about the
little one. You must see to it, that
her life is not as a fruitless tree.”
And then, he remembered with what
care he had watched rare trees, as
they seemed to feel the blighting touch
of winter; with what anxious thought
he had waited the coming of his
freighted ships, as they tarried with
their costly treasure.

Uncle John was self-convicted.
His own conscience accused him, and
his own sense of right admitted the
truth of the accusation. I Ie cried out
in his sorrow, “Guilty! guilty!”
and the clerks started, and wondered
what was the matter; and the oldest
one looked in most respectfully. and
asked if he called him. Uncle John
said “ No,” and soon after, he wrap-
ped himself in his great, thick shawl
and hurried home.

He threw off both shawl and over-
Coat in the hall, and stepped into the
parlor. There he found aunt Lucy,
the lady who presided over the estab-
lishment, and Henry Greene, a young
and favorite acquaintance, who had
dropped in, and had accepted aunt
Lucy’s urgent proposal to stay to tea,
as by so doing, he would see both
Mr. and Miss Wood. The latter was
shopping. Aunt Lucy said she had
been out since dinner; she did not
know where she intended going.

“\Ve must look after the ymmg
lady a little more closely, auntie,”
said Mr. Wood.

“ So We ought,” replied she ; " but

7

l 1 can 't deny her, when she eoaxes in
her child-like way.”

"I shall have more leisure in fu-
ture, and will try to relieve you a
little.”

Aunt Lucy looked surprised, but
waited until their guest should have
gone, for further explanation.

The tea-hell was rung, and Mr.
\Vood seemed uneasy. lle thought
aunt Lucy appeared as if it were noth-
ing unusual for Milly to prolong her
excursions in this way. indeed, he
called to mind, that he had him-
self often missed her at the table,
and upon inquiring, had received the
unvarying reply, that she had gone
out shopping. But since his new res-
olution had been formed, he had
grown sharper-sighted, and 'as de-
termined that future vigilance should
atone, so far as it might, for past neg-
ligence.

Milly came in after tea, and was
as playful and entertaining as usual.
The father looked fondly upon her;
the yoinig man admiringly. She said
she had met Nellie Graves in a store,
and had taken tea with her at her
hoarding-house. She wished very
much to join a circle they were gct'
ting up there among the boarders-r
a literary circle she believed they
called it. lt was to meet once a
week, and they were to spend the
evening in conversation, reading, etc-
lt would, she thought. be perfectly
charming. Frank Shallow was to be
president; he was studying law, and
would he just the right one.

" You wish to join this society, do
you 7 ” asked her father.

"Oh, yes! 1 put down my name
among the rest.”

Mr. Wood said no more; 1"“
while llenry (aireene and Milly were
elijoyiiig a lively chat, he reviewc
the previous ten years. He had pl'os'
pered in his business; his name was
Well and favorably known at the
banks ; he had suflicient and available
means to meet all emergencies. Bl”
he had not guided well the young
child, that was amid, tears and, agony

 

HOW UNCLE JOHN WON THE DAY. 925

\-
entrusted to him by his dying wife.
Uncle .loliii looked exceedingly earn-
est when Henry bade him “ Good-
eVening,” and he. urged him to come
Often, as Milly Would be lonely.
Milly seemed slightly surprised;
but joined her father in his request,
and in a few moments they were sit-
ting alone in the large and cheerful
parlor. A
“ Come here. Milly,” said Mr.
_ 00d; and he took his daughter on
‘8 knee, and very tenderly parted
the golden tresses that fell carelessly
Over her white brow. lle determined
to guide her in the future; to induce
61‘ to forsake those companions,
Whom he did not approve as associ-
ates for her, not by open opposition,
“t by leading her to the cultivation
0f tastes that would inevitably br 'ak
. e aequaintaneesliip. He knew Nel-
19_ Graves to be a tashionable. trivial-
111mded girl —-_iust such a one as he
wmild wish his daughter not to be.
8 know Frank Shallow to be pos-
sessed of a head of which his name
was a good description ; he was indo-
ellt, and far from promising to main-
m a'decent position in his profession.
0:; 1111' all her friends were of this
9 e felt that it was time for him
“ 6 up and doing.
UW are you getting along with
yogl‘ music ‘? ” asked hef
Oh! I have n’t taken a lesson in
X“Inonths, papa.”
“Why! I am perfectly astonished.”
Nellie did n’t play as well as l,

wouilil‘?’ threw it aside ; so I thought I

si

‘
it tgtfllg! (lid n’t say any thing about

‘

£1 thought you would n’t care.”
hear do care very much. Let me
you 8- tune now, Milly, and see if
Play as well as you did.”
hertfgillls the first time in a year, that
91‘ had asked for a tune. She
Own with visible reluctance, and
ism; many blunders, succeeded in .fin-
whicg a piece With a showy flourish,
0 I], could not impose upon uncle
S good sense.

 

.1
a

“Well, Milly, to-morrow I will
speak to a teacher. I wish you to
resume your music. and. darling.
would you not like to take French
lessons? ”

“ Will you take me to Europe, ifl
learn to speak well ‘? ”

“Perhaps I will. \Ve will see
first what you can do.”

Uncle John knew that Milly had
been humored so long, that firm, di-
rect opposition would only arouse her
latent obstiiiacy. He blamed him-
self continually for his negligence of
her while she was younger. still he
was sulliciently sensible to see that at
her age, she must be led—not
driven. Ilc consulted with aunt
llucy, and that good lady, with much
foreboding. consented to aid him.

A teacher of music and French
was immediately procured, and Milly.
who had capacity enough, studied
hard. Her mornings were devoted
to her books, and by this means, her
interest in her trivial companions was,
in part. destroyed. The old friends
who had clustered around uncle J ohn’s
fireside when his wife was living. came
to them. and by their society, as well
as the widening distance between her
old mates and herself, Milly was fast
losing her fondness for them. Nel-
lie G ‘avcs and Frank Shallow seemed
to linger the longest. The young
gentleman used every eiideaVor to
render himself agreeable to uncle
John, but success was impossible;
and, although Milly really seemed to
prefer his society, even to that of
Henry Greene. uncle John affected
not to notice it. The literary society
was a failure. Nellie and Frank pro-
tested it was on account of Milly’s
absence. So two years went by.

One bright morning in summer.
uncle John had arrayed himself in
his suit of linen. and was standing in
the hall, waiting for Milly’s “ Good-
bye,” before he should start for his
counting-room. Suddenly he seemed
to recollect himself, and he called 011‘:
“ Milly! Milly l”

She came bounding along the broad

ii, i
i; i
 l
.3

i

adamanfi. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

hall, and stopped lwside him. "There
is a letter on my table which I wish
you to read and answm'.u

“ A letter ! ”

“ Yes, from Ilenry ; but you '1] see
what it is.”

“ Good-bye, papa.”

" A letter from llenry Greene. !
Which I am to answer! Well, I’ll
see l ”

Milly went slowly and thoughtfully
to her father’s room. She was think-
ing of the young man‘s unassuming
kindness, and of a thousand little
acts of eonsideration, wliieh she had
s 'arcely noticed at the time of their
occurrence.

She drew the letter from the en-
velop — her father had already pe-
rused it — indeed, it was addressed to
him, and hurriedly glanced over the
fairly-written lines. It was an appli-
'ation to pay his addresses to Milly,
and there was an enelosed note for
herself.

The little maiden’s cheeks burned
brightly as she read. In her own
note, there was merely the expression
of a wish to keep up the old friend-
ship by a (‘Ol‘l‘t‘SINblltlt‘llU‘, with a few
remarks relating to his new home.

\thn uncle .lolm 'amc home to
dinner, Milly was Very serious. After
aunt Lucy had left the table, he asked
Milly what he should say.

“ You said you wished me to an-
swer the letter '2 ”

"' Uh! your part of it. The note
belonged to you, the letter to me.”

“ I’ll answer his note. I ’ve no ob-
jection to keeping up the eld acquaint,
anee —— certainly not.”

“ \Vell, what shall my reply be? ”

“Tell him I don’t wish any one's
addresses. Tell him] am going to
stay at home with you all my life.”

" llem'y is a line, fellow a Very
excellent young man. I hate to say
any thing which he may construe into
a decided refusal.”

Uncle John Went. to his store. He
sat thinking of Milly, and of Henry‘s
letter all the afternoon.

“I wonder if she has any foolish

 

 

THE HOME.

liking for any one else! ” thought he.
“ I ’11 try and find out.”

He. spent the evening at home.
This did not excite any wonder, as it
surely would haVe done once. Aunt
Lucy was with a friend in another
room.

“ I think I’ll answer Henry’s letter
to-morrow,” said he. “l like him
very much. If you are going to cor-
respond with him, I think I will write
that l have no objection to make to
his proposals; that he must ask
you.”

“ 0h, papal you ’re too had. I
cant ’t hear to have him write to me
on the subject.”

“But why do you not like him. He
is superior in every respect to that
fellow — Frank Shallow—whom you
have been so civil to.”

“I (In like him, papa; hat I pro-
test, that lcan not like his superior-
ity. These superior men who make
you feel afraid to venture a remal‘k
in their hearing—oh! I should die»
were I to receive, the partienlar atten-
tions of Henry Greene, Esq.”

" \Vell. who is agre able to your
ladyship ? ” Uncle John was slightly
vexed.

" No one is agreeable—l mean in
just the manner Mr. Greene wishes
to make himself so."7

" I am sorry that you are “0‘7
pleased with any of the young me"
you meet.”

“ I am pleased with them. l like
Frank Shallow. He always yields
to me; I donot feel afraid of him.
think lean lead him. instead of letting
him lead me.”

" Ah l " thought unele John. “ if I
can manage this ease. you ’ll neithi‘l'
lead him, nor he you.” t

But he said, “I will not urge you
in this matter, darling. I’m sure,
desire your happiness.”

“ Thank you, papa; I ’ll answer
llenry‘s note this very night, and you
shall mail it to-morrow."

After Milly went to her I‘OUmghe
sat gazing earnestly upon the glOng
anthracite. And he decided upon a

 

3-7

lIUW UNCLE JOHN Wth THE DAY. 22?

\

 

 

plan which he would try, in order to
hring ahout this union which he had
19115.: desired. He had a cousin in the
“W where Henry was —- a lady
Whose counsel would henefit Milly.
Ana lle, resolved to invite he!“ to Visit
them, and to interest her in his scheme.
Which was to send Milly home with
hfil‘, and thus. hy withdrawing her en-
tlrely from Frank Shallow’s society,
l30 make it easier for Henry to win
the young lady’s heart.

1‘hf‘. next day he wrote. Mrs.
i {mly was a widow in aflluent (-ir-
Cuinstanccs, with no children. \Vhen
is 9 received Mr. \Vood’s letter press-
mg her to visit them, she felt her

*‘u‘t gladdeii at the thought of pleas.
“ntly renewing the old intercourse
which had existed in days gone hy.
. 1‘3 Wl'ote immediately, accepting the
“Witation, and naming the day on
w 10h she might he expected.

I 101‘ visit was a very pleasant one.
4 my was delighted with her “new
cousui,” who seemed to throw aside
:ikfilgl'avity and .dignity. which espe-
‘ (a: united with superior eultiva-
ion might well give her. and to in—
 herselt' .in the more trifling and

’“l‘ltlly unimportant (‘ai'es whieh
yet PTO-58ml lie:i\'il\‘ upon young shoul-
ders. ' ., '

V

stufig‘nch and nmsie. as well as other
a v_ S. which her father had gradu—
(V “3 m‘llleed herto take up. wei'onow

’l‘lml for a time. and when Mrs.
 hade them adieu. Milly'proin-

ieturn the \‘isit as soot] as pos—

 . .

fri 1l]. 3h.- “ ood httd eoiivei'sed
.N‘ v .'_ - . .

and .‘ “1th his cousin ahout his plan,

‘ S(“m after her return. he, sent,

tl(i;:lr‘l;x(il‘t‘ellli a letter of introdue-
imam-limit}1 lvlm'l' l’“ SW” l”‘“5“”ml
-. )efoi‘e, Ml's.- hltlllly. hltllly
Clletlii‘fiulivolnjl’fi‘yS WM.“ limssud i“ hm.
110mm”! tpailors. and when. she iii-l-
m" 1‘ h o him an approaching \‘I-N‘lll
 {,‘llyashe could hut observe the
I‘()lll:ilill.slg(l hleasure which shone
s eountcnanee.
the \(ifittreets were purely. arrayet'l‘ih
season if] (lmpw'y 0t. “inner. lhe
has an exceedingly gay “’1‘”

 

And to the opera and the let‘llll‘e-
room, Milly was wanted hy llenry
Greene. who was truly moire/ml.
.\lilly had few acquaintances~—she
seemed not anxious to form new ones.
And Mrs. Manly was careful to op-
pose no ohstaele to the aeeon'iplish—
ment of' Mr. \Vood’s wishes. Henry
was a deVoted suitor. Milly often
wondered what her father’s reply had
been to his letter. ()ld ties were in-
seiisihly weakening. \Vl‘ien a thought
of Frank Shallow intruded itself. the
nohility of' Henry Greene quickly
overshadowed it, and drove it from
her. She often wondered how it all
eani Htlmlll. Milly was very thought-
tiil now-a-days. She contrasted her
present aspirations with her old igno-
hle 'eontent, and was fain to con-
t‘ess that her present position was
worthier of' an immortal being. Ah!
Milly, it was all uncle John’s judic-
ious management. it he had loved
you less, or it' that husiness-panie had
not given him time to think of his ob-
ligations, where would you liave
lieeil 

\Vhen Milly returned to her father,
all was as he. wished. And when
llenry wrote, hegging that he might
come for Milly in June, uncle John
kissed his young daughter, and said
if she wished, they would all go to
Europe, and secure the benefit of her
l“reiieh. And Milly left it all with
Henry, and when he wrote, he, said
he. should only he too happy to make
the voyage.

Many years have passed, sii‘iee that
small party stood upon the deck of a
white-winged ship. as she moved out
of' the hay. Mrs. Manly was a them-
her of' it. \Vhite lines are mingled
with the dark masses of' hair which
shade the, hrow of Henry Greene.
His wife has passed thus far on life’s

journey, bestowing blessings upon all

about her pathway. Uncle John lies
in the grave; he blessed his daughter
for her filial love, and she can now
look hack, and see how kindly he led
her into pleasant paths. Mrs. Manly

 

THE HOME.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

228

 

lives with them. 'l‘hey are to her as
affectionate ehildren, and she linds in-
linite delight in the caresses with
which the little ones are so prodigal,
as each strives to “ kiss grandma
first.”

THE GOLD DOLLAR.

E cut the following worthy-to-

be-thought-almut remarks from
a Sermon of the ltev. A. 1). Mayo.
— 11).]

The dollar is a new privilege in
the life of this world, for which every
man should pay his full equivalent in
work. Labor of some description ——
of the hands— of the mind — or sub-
tle toil of noble living, is the God-
ordained condition of the best earthly
opportunities. For labor is not
alone of the hands, and the worker on
matter, is not alone worthy of his hire.
Whoever thinks a shorter way to do
any necessary thing. or a better thing
to do, or a liner grace of manliness to
be obtained, deserves the dollar, that
he may occupy a wider field of ell'ort,
wherein he may bless mankind with
his new discovery. And ther! are
those who live so grandly, that all the
gold and jewels in the world are a
poor tribute to their worth, and we
are honored by giving them money,
that their orbit of love and light may
eVermore expand. Service is mani-
fold ; and the worker in spiritual
stall, is most deserving. \Vork alone
deserVes the dollar ; not that a bit of
gold can pay any mail for honest toil;
but it is the key which unlocks the door
to a new region of advantages, to
which the laborer has gained the
right to ascend. ’

Therefore, let no man or woman,
old or young, dream that laziness (le-
serves any thing but starvation and
disgrace, Whoever will not Work in
some good way while he can—or
when his strength is gone, live so
nobly, that his service increases as
his body declines, shall not obtain
the eonsecrated dollar; if he obtain

 

any. it shall be a curse to his soul,
for the lazy man’s gold is a key that
opens the ward of a lower hell, to
which his sin has doomed him. Nei-
ther shall make —believe work deserve
the true reward. Whoever gets his
living by doing what hinders society,
or is superfluous in its oecupationS,
only disgraces himself, for there is a
valuable. thing for every soul to d0
that is born into the world; and whO-
ever plays at work, does the double
mischief of leaving his task undone,
and perpetrating a new shame. Oh!
what a wreck does this savage old
school-master, l’anic, make with all
this trumpery of unreal labor ! How
do whole. professions disappear, and
whole classes of men shrink to their
native poverty, before his relentless
gaze! Better live with him an

munch your crust, than feast with 8
prosperity built on false pretenccsi
for the world knows what it needs,
and there will be confusion in the
money market a good many centuries
yet, until all men get into their own
place. and do their full measure 0
their own work.

Then do your best work on the
highest plan of your manhood. Mlll'
titudes of men think business meal}s
going into the loWer regions of their
life, to gain a base dollar, and the“
eoming up and putting on 0163”
clothes to enjoy it. But do you
rather array yourselves in the purl) e
robes of your largest manhood, t“ go
about your daily toil. l’ut yf"?
whole soul into your common llle'
Put in truth. l.et eVery blow you
strike, come faithfully down on a 1'3“
spot; and, as you value yourself,
not shrink to a (lislionesty, thong
buried as deep as the bottom of the
sat; for you -an not slight your
work, or cheat your neighbm's,or
dodge your obligation, without taking
it out ofyour own character. lar

Young woman, receive no d01 If
that degrades your womanhood. 1.6
you are living as true daughter: wl 
mother. friend, you are. not In

_ r . . ur
grading (lepelltchICe, but it 18 yo

THE HIGHLANDERS AND THE RELIEF OI" LI'CKNOW.

229

 

I‘ight to reeeivc, as the privilege of
man to giVe, the dollar rightly earned.
But oh! beware the curse of taking
the base dollar; of tempting man to
earn it by the disgrace of his manli-
ness; for, could you see yourself
Walking in tine raiment, bought by
money wrung from your neighbor in
the bitter competitions of dishonest
trade; tilched from the slow-witted;
PlUHdered from the foolish, the unfor-
t“Illate, the despairing, as the angels

ehold you; could every dollar that
goes to buy luxuries for your social
State and pOsition in the world, reveal
the history of its acquisition, would
you be able to face your present suc-
cess 2

Pitch your wants on a key so low,
that they can all be satisfied by the
consecrated dollar, and scorn any ad-
vantage gained by other coin, as you
woukl shrink from pollution. The
Ortune meanly gained, will be meanly
spent; for the plain reason that the
same man who degrades himself to
0 tain his money, unless he becomes
8' etter man, will continue to act
l.Om the'same low level. and scourge
ihe Connmmity Worse in the use than
In the getting of his wealth.

[*1 it strange, that the seamp who
has Sprung a trap in speculation, and
1!th a fortune, should go on specu-
atmg in higher things than railroad
8 ml“, and prostitute his ill-gotten
bristance to pollute the ballot-box. .or
a 80:. tile Community Hi granting him
8 it 1‘3 position he doesnot deserve?
her bUl‘prlsing, that a w1te who shuts

eyes on the questionable tricks of
uShand‘s trade. and tempts him
wilrfeuw meanness lby her_prodigality,
-es an? her gold m spoiling the bod-
. Souls of her children, and put-

t1

hgigzlt the light of heaVen in her

willyshoever gains money like a knave,
0n Pend it like a snob, because the

. ey-makmg sharper, by success,
Etasaturally.deVeloped into the up-
Of socnety. I want no better

a man’s way of using, than a

0
k
DOWIedge of his manner of getting;

 

and when I see ostentation, or avarice,
or hard, eold scltishness in the owner
of large possessions, I can prophesy
that if the whole story were told, his
little of possession Would be stained
by many a damning sin before God,
and outrage done to man. But when
the dollar has been so truly earned,
that it represents the best manhood
of its possessor, I need no assurance
that the same nobility will preside
over its use, and bless the, world as
much in the spending, as in the gain-
mg.

 

TIIE lllGIILANDERS AND THE
tELlEF 0F LUCKNUW.

WCAICCELY out of Scott’s novels,

'an a scene be found more dram-
atic, touching. and picturesque. than
that described by a lady, the wife of
an oflieer at Lucknow, in a letter pub-
lished in the London Til/Les.

To give it its due effect. it should
be remembered that General Have-
loek was not an hour too soon in his
relief, as th! tthflnCe of the enemy’s
batteries and mines had settled the
fate of the garrison; and it should be
known, that in the continual uproar of
the cannonadc, and the obstructions
of military works and buildings. the
beleaguered and devoted garrison did
not hear, nor see any thing of the ad-
vancing relief. until the battle had
been tbnght outside, and the relieving
force was marched up to the gates,

"0n every side death stared us in
the face; no human skill could avert
it any longer. We saw the moment
approach when we must bid farewell
to earth, yet without feeling that un-
utterable horror which must have
been experienced by the unhappy vic-
tims of (fawn pore. \Ve, were resolved
rather to die than to yield, and were
fully persuaded that in twenty-four
hours all would be over. The engin-
eers had said so, and all knew the
worst. We women strove to encour-
age each other, and to perform the
light duties which had been assigned

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

230

THE HUME.

 

to us, such as conVeying orders to the
batteries, and supplying the men with
provisions, especially cups of eotlee,
which We prepared day and night.

“I had gone out to try and make
n'iyself useful, in company with Jessie
Brown, the wife of a corporal in my
husband’s regiment. l’oor
Brown had been in a state of restless
enfitement all through the siege, and
had fallen away visibly within the
last, few days. A constant fever con~
sumed her, and her mind wandered
occasionally, especially that day,
when the recollections of home seemed
present to her. At last, overcmne
with fatigue, she lay down on the
ground wrapped up in her plaid. I
sat beside her when, as she said, I
should awake her when ‘her father
should return from the plowing.7 She
full at, length into a protound slumber,
motionless, and apparently breathless,
her head resting in my lap. I my-
self, could no longer resist the ineli-
nation to sleep, in spite of the contiu-
ual roar of the cannon. Suddenly I
was aroused by a wild, unearthly
scream close to my ear; my com-
panion stood upright beside me, her
arms raised, and her head bent for-
ward in the attitude of listening. A
look of intense delight broke over her
countenancc, she grasped my hand,
drew me toward her, and exclaimed,
‘ Dinna ye hear it '? dinna ye hear it?
Ay, l ’m no dreaming, it ’s the slogan
o’ the Ilighlandersl \Ve’re saved!
We ’re saved! ’ Then flinging herself
on her knees, she thanked (iod with
passionate fervor.

“I felt utterly bewildered; my
English ears heard only the roar of
artillery, and I thought my poor Jes-
sie was still raving; but she darted
to the batteries, and I heard her ery
incessantly to the, men, ‘(Touragel
courage! hark to the slogan —— to the
Llaegregor, the grandest o’ them a”.
Ilere 's help at last !’ To describe the
etl'ect of these Words upon the sol.
diers, would be impossible. For a
moment they ceased tiring, and every
soul listened in intense anxiety.

Jessie

 

(h'wlually. liowe\'er, there arose a
murmur of bitter disappointment,
and the wailing of the women whO
had flocked to the spot, burst out
anew as the (‘olonel shook his head-
()ur dull, lowland ears heard nothing
but the rattle of the musketry.

few moments more of this death-like
suspense, of this agonizing hope, and
Jessie, who had again sunk on the
ground, sprang to her feet, and cried
in a VOlce so clear and piercing, that
it was heard along the whole line,

‘\Vill ye no believe it noo? The
slogan has eeaSed indeed, but the

(‘ampbells are comiif l l)’ ye hear!
d' ye hear l ’

“At that moment we seemed ill‘
deed to hear the voice of God in the
distance, when the pibroch of the
Highlanders brought us tidings of de'
liVerance, for now there was no longer
“"3’ doubt of the fact. That shrill,
penetrating, ceaseless sound, whic
rose above all other sounds, 00“
come neither from the advance of the
enemy, nor from the sappers. N0, It
was indeed the blast of the Scottish
bagpipes, now shrill and llfll'Shs as
thr *atening Vengeance on the foe, the"
in softer tones, seeming to pronuSe
suceor to their friends in need. NW8r
surely was there such a scene as that
which tollowed. Not a heart in the
residency of Lucknow, but bowed ‘t’
self before God. All by one film“ '
taneous impulse fell upon their knees?
and nothing was heard but burstmg.
sobs, and the murmured voice5 0
I”'“.Y“1'- “1011 all arose, and the?6
rang out from a thousand lips a Shf’u
ot'joy, which resounded far and Wlde’
and lent new vigor to that bless"
pibroeh. To our cheer of ‘ God Silva
the Queen,’ they replied by the “Le 
known strain that moves eVeI‘y C
t” tt'ill‘s', ‘Should auld acquaintance
be tbrgot,’ etc.

After that moment, nothln
made any impression on me, I SCtlrce.e
remembered what followed. Jess]

g 0156

. is

was presented to the General 0112’
entrance into the fort, and at the

drun

ticers‘ banquet, her health was

e FACT AND FANCY." 931

 

by all present. while the pipers
marched round the table, playing
once more the familiar air of ' Auld
Lang Syne.’ ”

THE I’IBROCH 0F MACGREGUR.

Beleaguered by a fiendish crew,
he remnant ofa gallant few,
y battle wasted smaller grew.
Yet still, with belt of flame
A11d sturdy steel, they held at bay
he hell-hounds, longing for their prey —
1“, closer and closer, day by day,
The monster myriads came.

ThEre was no time for rest or food
that wild festival of blood ;
en while the gun its shot made good,
The cannoneer took breath ;
The. gallant woman, maid or wife,
firing the danger of the strife,
1‘11 food sustain'd the soldier's life —
While he was dealing death.

They held, for days, their feeble towers,
gfinst the swarm of traitor powers ——
“t now — they fight for numbered hours,
Unless relief were near;
Yet still, with spirit undepressed,
ey keep the bloody battle-crest,
‘1 forth from every manly breast
Still bursts the ringing cheer!

The

Th fort was mined from flank to face —
T. 6 match was lighted — short the space
eath, in fiery wings' embrace,
wh Should snatch them all from shame;
, 911 through the roar of battle, clear—
0. music faint to dreamer’s ear—
lghland maiden’s heart to cheer,
The sound of pibroch came.

fihfiemsh‘d amid the battling men,
I ficue! ” she cried —“ again, again
ear the slogan down the glen,
YemA I{'Ighland hive is humming;
“8 believe me, for your ear
Inc 088,61 Wi’ battle ; dinna ye hear
cE‘regor’s pibroch ringing clear
he Uampbells are a-comingl "’

They Pulsed a while — they could not hear
B at Peach'd the maiden‘s finer ear ;

800!! outrang a warrior-cheer,

. nd_ pray’r from woman‘s lip broke,
Thkflercmg through the war-cloud grim,
L, e crowned the battle‘s fiery rim —

a redeeming angel's hymn,

Peal’d forth Macgregor’s pibroch-

K____~

IT is not
generous to blame youth
for the follies of young men.

 

"FACT AND FANCY."
BY MRS. J. (i. KINDER.
“ ACT and fancy l Fact and
fancy l ” slowly repeated aunt

Hannah, raising her head, and look-
ing over the top of her specs. " \Vhy!
do n’t people know there is a great
deal of fact, and also, a great deal of
fancy in this world ofours? But it is
a mystery to me, why theSe writers
do not go farther with stories — why
they don’t tell us somethng of the
married life of their heroes and hero-
ines. I wish we could han- reading-
matter, such as stir up, and bring to
light slumbering,,r thoughts, scatter prej-
udiee to the wind, give new energy to
fainting spirits on the great traveled
path of life. \Ve do n’t have enough
such reading, while we are overstocked
with trash, like this in my hand.
There are intelligent women in this
world—Women who tread weary and
footsore the road of domestic joys and
sorrows, yet leave behind them, a
path luminous with patience and for-
titude. I wish they would tell us
more of such women; tell us of their
domestic triumphs -—triumphs over
temper and habits — of their eVer-in-
viting homes, where charity, love, and
truth sit enthroned, with peace for a
crown, more precious than the purest,
brightest gems. No matter where
they are. in the log-cabin of the west,
or the mansions of the east, the chance
of both are about the same, and l pre-
sume there are some good and noble
women in both; yet it is sometimes
hard to discover them, hidden as they
are, in the heterogeneous mass of hu-
man beings, with which the world is
filled. I am an old woman, and haVe
seen a great deal of this world,
and —”

“()ld in years you mean, aunt, not
old at heart,” interrupted I.

“Bless you, child! what made you
think of that ’l ”

“ ()h, because! you do n’t seem
any older than when I first saw you.”

“ Well, I do n’t know as I am any
older at heart, as you say, than I was

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

232

THE HOME.

at twenty ,but when I look baek over I piness at public plaees. because he
my, lung Int-,l know I am old, and ; tonnd purer and sweeter eniovment

old-tashionwl too,”

“()ld-tashiom-d people are some-‘

times the best,” said I.

“Thank you for the eompliment,”
answered she. with a nod and a smile,
at the same time raising her specs
from her nose to her forehead. Look-
ing at me for a moment, then seeing
l was not going to answer. She neatly
folded the paper, and threw it into
my work-basket, sayin". “ lland me,
"I‘m: lloME,’ and let me see what
Mrs. Anav has given us. 1 am think-
ing ‘an: lloME’ is just about the
best, and most, sensible book a wo-
man can read now-a-days.” and here
she opened “Tin-2 “mm.” and com-
meneed looking over its pages, mut-
tering almost inaudiny ' Faet and
Fancy.” At length, she re-adjnsted
her spees. and settled herself in her
(-apaeions arm-ehair for a long pe-
rusal, whieh lam partial enough to
believe, proved satistaetory.

(it's LAKE, Nor. 1857.

 

SHE ALWAYS MADE HUME
llAl’I’Y.

PLAIN marble stone in a ehureh-
yard. bears this brief inscription:

“ She always made home happy.”
This epitaph was penned by a be-
reaVed husband. after sixty years of
wedded life. lle might have said of
his departed wife, she, was beautiful
and aeeomplished, and an ornament
te society, and yet not have said she
made him happy. He might have
added, she was a Christian, and not
been able to say, “ She always made
home happy.” \Vhat a rare eombin~
ation of virtues and graees this wife
and mother must have possessed!
llow wisely she must. have ordered
her house! In what patienee she
must have possessed her soul ! llow
selfldmning she must liave been!
[low tender and loving! llow
thoughtful for eomfort. for all about
her! i Her husband did not seek hap-

 

at home. llerehildren when awav,
did not dread to return, for there was
no place so d -ar to them as home.
There was their mother thinking of
them,and praying for them,and long-
ing for their eoming. When tempted,
they thought of her. \Vhen in trou-
ble, they remembered her kind voice,
and her ready sympathv. When
siek, they must go home; lthev eould
not, die away from their dear inother.
This wife and mother, was not ex-
empt from the cares eommon to her
plaee. She toiled; she suffered (lis-
appointments; she was atllieted ill
her person, but yet she was submis-
sire and cheerful. The Lord's will
eoneerning her, \'as her will. and SO
she passed away, leaving this sweet
reim-mbranee behind her: "She al-
ways made home happy.”— 1V. Y-
Emnyelixl. w

 

EYE (iLASSEt .— Sir David Brews-
ter. ill the [VON/I Ifl'i/is/I Review, says
that no opinion is more eommon. 2|"
certainly none is more eorreet, thfin
that it, is prlnlent to amid the use 0
artilieial helps to the eyes so long as
they are not absolutely indispensable'
The human eye is too delicate a strUO'
tnre to bear eontinued strain witllout
injury; and the true rule is to COm'
menee the use of glasses, as soon 95
we can see better with them, than
without them; and always to employ
sueh, as will render vision most CUm'
fortable and pleasant. The spectacles
habitually used for ordinarv purpOSeS’
may not be adequate to ei-rtain 0009'
sional demands, sueh as reading very
tine print, examining maps, ete-
meet these eases. a hand-readng glass’
two and a half inehes in diameter,
be used in eoniunetion with the Spe.
taeles. and neyer without thcm’. ls
stronglv reeommeinled. A Sin” ’1
Use of the t'eatlillfl'flluss 1's alSU “Tom,
mended to short-sight persons, in “on.
junetion with the eoneaVe spectacles’
when examining minute objeCtS-

 

 

SAINTIIOOD IX C.ESAR‘S HOUSEHOLD. 233

 

SAINTIIUOD lN CXESAR’S
HOUSEHOLD.
BY PROF. HUNTINGTON.

“ The saints that are of Caasar's household."

HIS incidental allusion informs us
that already, in Paul’s day, there

were Christian disciples in the Pagan
I)alace of the World. Jesus was
confessed, it seems, not only “before
men,” but before emperors —men
t at, in irresponsible power and sav-
« "e cruelty, had almost lost the nature
of men.

Faith has won its grandest con-
quests on straiteiied and sorrowful
fleltls. If the strength and joy of be-
1eVing are proportioned to the weight
of the crosses borne for it—and such
a mile as that. does appear to have
Plece in the spiritual economy—then
It is in some such post of perplexity
as 13: Ciesar’s household, some age of
Persecution or close corner of peril,

f“? we must look for the bravest
W{messes to truth. So keenly has
t ‘8 been felt by some adventurous
8011183 that they have positively longed
01' fiercer onsets of trial, than our
fommoh and easy fortunes bring, giv-
"lg their religious constancy a chance

Prove itselfiuvincible. Sir Thomas
.POWne, with his unbounded venera-
19", had an appetite so hungry for
0 ‘8 stimulus to trust, that he says, in

“e 0f the passages of his Treatise on

3 Religion of a Physician, “I bless
Egg”, and am thankful that I lived
nev "1 the days of miracles, and that I
of :Lsaw Christ, nor his disciples;

en my faith would have been
Just upon me, and I could not have
loyed that greater blessing promised

3“ that see not and yet believe.”

8 enWes the old Ilebrews their title
thet (ibiin bold and noblefaith, since
ingymllged before the Sawour’s eom-
of ;n ' gathered their confidence out
deg) Stlcal types and obscure proph-
abog- d 1Modern society does not
aSm “f m instances of such enthusi-
80em 01‘ believing. More persons
imu t0 lie-asking what is the min-

m 0f faith that can be made to
VOL. v. 18. '

e

 

serve for safety,— how much knowl-
edge will release them from here, and
divine indulgence there—than how
affluent a measure they may be priv-
ileged to keep in reserve. “’0 eulo-
gize virtues that flourish only in a
favoring soil and climate. \Ve palli-
ate and excuse the deficiency, when
honesty is missing in the household
of Caesar,—— in seats of power, or
wqalth, or folly, in dfiice or at court,
in Washington, or in Paris. We for-
get that the current piety 0f the
Church, of society, and of the market,
sinks and dwindles inevitably, unless
it is replenished by the energy of
those valiant examples who will dare
to bear testimony, and be true in the
very palaces of power, and fashion,
and mammon.

0f the line of Roman Caesars—
that raee standing apart, of whom it
has been well said, by a scholar com-
petent to speak, that there met in
them “all the hights and depths
which belong to man, all the contrasts
of glory and meanness, the extremi-
ties of what is highest and lowest in
human possibility,”— the personage
whom l’aul speaks of here, as having
saints in his household, was the sixth
from the founder. Nero was a prince
that as far surpassed others in infamy
as Augustus did in royalty; aman,
who, if every soul beside himself in
his household had been a saint, con-
centrated inhumanity and pollution
enough in his person to have dark—
ened all their virtue by the blackness
of his unnatural crimes; a man that
expended more ingenuity in contriv-
ing new modes of dishoiioring human-
ity, than most Christians have in
serving it; and who earned the repu-
tation of introducing into history, as
facts, crimes so enormous, and com-
binations of wickedness so revolting,
that but for him, they would have
been held too fabulous for the wildest
fancy ; a man that hunted up and
down his vast domains, to find some
fresh species of murder, with exquis-
ite and aggravated accompaniments
enough to season it to his monstrous

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

234 THE HOME.

 

appetite, with the same eagerness that
gluttons search out a fresh delicacy
for a sated palate; a man that tried
three different ways of butchering his
own mother, and at last dispatched
her by a vulgar execution, in a petu-
lant rage at being baflled so often ;
and who added the tyraut’s caprice to
the ineendiary’s, by undertaking at
once to throw off the suspicion of his
own agency, in the diabolie conflagra-
tion of his capital, and to comfort his
bloodthirsty temper, by iinputing
the fire to the innocent Christians ;
who tortured his Christian subjects by
unheard-oftorments, dressing them in
the skins of wild animals to provoke
dogs to tear them to pieces, or wrap-
ping their bodies in clothing smeared
with pitch, and then setting them on
fire to light up the Roman night with
their burning; a man, in short, that
wrought so awful an impression of his
attributes of superhuman atrocity on
the minds of the believers of that age,
that a common rumor went abroad
among them, after his horrible death,
that he would return again alive to
vex the world anew, and to be the
Antichrist of prophecy.

In the household of such a man, and
such a Czesar, it was that the Apostle,
himself now a voluntary prisoner at
Rome, awaiting his trial, and probably
his martyrdom, found “ saints,”—
saints that he mentions with special
honor, when he sends their message
in his letter to the friends at Philippi.
There, and then, if nowhere else or
since, we can all feel that it was some-
thing heroic to be a saint. By con-
trast with so dark a depravity, and in
the teeth of so relentless a spite, “ pro-
fessing Christ ” had a meaning; to be
called a Christian, cost sacrifices that
deserved the name. Saintship shone,
then, with a palpable glory; and no
man could fail of seeing whence the
light came. The followers of the
Crucified, and the lovers of the world,
were separate companies of souls; the
sword and the lions pronounced the
distinction between them with em-
phasis. No wonder Paul thanks

 

God that even then the faith of the
Roman Christians was spoken of in
all the world.

Across the chasm of almost eighteen
hundred years, beyond an ocean that
is narrowed now by the Christian civ-
ilization which those saints installed,
we are speaking of it,— thanking God,
too, I hope, for his own wondrous
providenCe in his Church— thanking
l’aul’s pen that has left us this bright
trace of a precious martyrology——
thanking these saints of Caesar’s house-
hold themselves, for the mighty arms
of faith which they reach over to US,
to encourage our confidence, to
quicken our unbelief, to reinspire our
too sluggish zeal.

Possibly it may be found, that
there is just as real and deep a dis-
tinction now, as then, between him
who serveth God, and loveth the
Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity, and
him who serveth and loveth not-
Possibly it may appear, that the
glory of an actual saintship, the ver-
itably faithful spirit is just as p11re
and lustrous now as then. Possibly
we may see that yet there are saints
in Czesar’s households, and that thel‘e
is as good cause to venerate and to
multiply them, as when the gladiators
waited in the ring, and beasts licked
up their blood from the sand.

For, the substance of all sainthOQd
that has vitality enough to surviV0_1n
households of Caesar is this,— that 1‘5
virtue is so built on interior founda'
tions, and its religious faith so mo?8
in the spiritual Source and DiVme
Master of its life, that no outward OP‘
position avails to break it dewngor
even to interrupt its worship. on
see, at once, how this carries the
spirit of it out of the first age?”
beyond Nero’s palaee; how poSSIbl"
it is, and how much wanted “150’
wherever an adverse influence from
on Christian purity, or hinders Chi]:
tian fidelity, and therefore hOW tti_
subject is reduced at once to a Praco.
cal study. For that influenCe may Prs‘
ceed from things not held in much Su .
picion;—from a false social standar ’

SAINTIIUOI) IN C/ESAR’S HOUSEHOLD. 0

from a set of surrounding asSoeia-
tions hostile to holiness; from a
dominant worldliness in a nation, or
a city, or a College, or a literal house-
hOId ; from an inhuman course of leg-
islation; from maxims of pretended
honor really barbarous ; from CllStOll’lS
0f evasion and apology, or of self-in-
dulgence and sensual excess, of pro-
faneness and cruelty, that creep in
among loosened principles, as well as
from courts and tyrants’ thrones.
There are three or four special
traits essential to this saint/mod in
Ocesar’s h()118€/l0](l,—— whoever the Ca3-
33!‘ may be, and wherever his house
may stand. The first of these, we
Shall agree, is Courage. Christianity
as not only room, but favor, for
eVery noble sentiment in human na-
t'Ul‘e; and so she offers, even to the
Yeteran soldier, and to the enthusias-
th youth, a field for all his bravery
grander than any of his battles, in the
PESistanee ofmoral invasion. Aeeord-
IPgly, we find that, very soon, ()hris-
t“anity siezed on some of those rough
Warriors that never quailed them-
8elVes, but had terrified and Conquered
t 9 World. Mention is incidentally
made of one convert who was “a cen-
t“I‘ion of the band talled the Italian
and,” and Some of these believers
& out the person of Nero, must prob-
ably have been guards of his palace.
'1 one of the early Christian monu-
ments at Home, there is an epitaph

E}: a young military oflicer, saying
,at he deemed himself “to have

llVCd long enough, when be shed his
.1904] [by Christ.” But Christ’s I‘e-
lglttn courts no consideration from
a{‘nncs. lts courage is of another
bind f the :ourage that bears \vrmlga
“it, will not commit it, that saws life,
I‘ r than destroys It. It is a com-
age that springs from an unspottt‘d
- cUnscience, and wins the triumphs of
generous good-will ; the courage that
goes into, and (mt of all companies,
Counting-homes, caucuses, and churches
:ifglthan uprightness not to be bent,
er you bring threats, or sneers,

0" golden baits, to tempt it; a eour-

 

...35

age that lifts up an unblenched face
in the most formidable array of diffi-
culties, satisfied to stand on the plat-
form of the New Testament, and on
God’s side, to listen to the encourage-
ment of the beatitudes, and to hold
to the breast-plate of righteousness.
And, as I suppose it really takes
about as much unadulterated forti-
tude, if all things are brought into the
account, for a young girl to-day, to
maintain a truthful and devout con-
versation,— that is, to be a Christian
~as it did for St. Agnes; or for a
student to carry an undefiled soul
through an apprenticeship, or a uni-
versity, as it did for Vigilius to go by
night from his post in the palace, to
hear an epistle read from one Paul of
Tarsus, when it was whispered about
Rome that the Apostle had sent a let-
ter to his brethren there; so wherever
such a Christian Courage in duty is,
there will be saints of Caesar’s house-
hold.

And if ther - are a seCond of their
qualities, always attending the highest
kind of courage, but very difficult to
be united with its eounterfeits, you
will find to be Modesty. It does not
appear that these devout persons in
Rome, set themselves up to revolu-
tionize religion, or to be patterns of
perfection. They did not call them-
selves saints; l’aul called them so.
They did not boast of their religion;
there was too much solemn sincerity
in it. They did not lurk about the
temples of idolatry, to mock its sooth-
sayers, and to snarl self—righteous
slandcrs about its priesthood. They
knew the joy of their own believing,
and the blessedness of their commu—
nion with Jesus; and cared more for
fellowship with the Redeemer, than for
admiration from the citizens. That
was [heir Christian modesty. Dis-
joined from their fortitude, it might
have degenerated into timidity. And
that is often our danger. There are
some persons - we all know such.—
of diflidcnt dispositions, that err 1n
not mixing enough boldness of resis-
tance with their gOod nature or

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

236

THE HOME.

 

amiability. They remain inefficient
disciples, because they shrink from
the public notice of taking up the
cross. This is to turn one of the
most beautiful of Christian graces,
“ the ornament of a meek and quiet
spirit,” into a deformity and an of-
fense; it robs the Master of the testi-
mony that is his due, and it glides
easily into a selfish and sluggish in-
difference. It sometimes happens
that there are individuals among us,
placed in a Very literal resemblanCe
to those that were saints in the house-
hold of ('zesar. In a state of society
like ours, nominally Christian, but
often more careful to render unto
Caesar, the things that are (.‘wsar’s,
than unto God, the things that are
God's, there will occasionally be in-
stances of single believers in large
groups, or communities of practical
unbelievers. While the main cur—
rent of speech, feeling, and habit runs
one way, and that to self-pleasing,
some one living a higher life, having
a spiritual aim, pledged secretly to the
law of Christ, and devoutly desiring
above all things, to take up the cross
and come after him, is sorely per-
plexed with the trial of a petty and
cowardly persecution from those that
ought rather, if not perverse in their
depravity, to revere the better heart
as a heavenly presence amongst them.
And then, this very trait of modesty,
a virtue. in its place, threatens to be-
come a traitor, to intimidate the
trembling purpose, and draw back
the soul from God to folly. This is
the position of all threatened minor-
ities. They will get strength for
the fiery trial, by going back to see
how the inmates of a palaco full of
gluttony, lieentiousuess, and all royal
viees held their allegianCe fast.

But to imitate that successful blemi-
ing of modesty and courage, they will
want a third quality, namely, Inde-
pendence. The question ofduty once
settled, all gates but that which leads
tom-ting it out, must be shut. And be-
yond that point. all arguments from

custom, from the general expeetation. l while thev bent to their slav'ery,

 

from popular applause, from public
or private gratification, are impcrti-
nent; as much so, as for the little
band to hesitate whether they should
lose caste, by going out one day fifty
miles from the capital, as far as Appii
Forum, to meet the despised pris-
oner, who was conducted in from an
Eastern province as an accused in-
surrectionist, after he had made Felix
tremble, and halfpersuadcd Agrippa.
Remember, they are living in the cen-
ter of the great world’s energy and
splendor, as Well as of its corruption,
and in the Very focus of its intelli-
gence, as well as under its hottest
hatred. lndelwndence was a virtue
quite indispensable to them ; but not
a whit more so than to us. For,
every day, Providence, through our
own instincts, pushes us into some
crisis of moral peril, where, if we do
not act simply of ourselves, and take
our direction at first hand from the
Spirit, our integrity itself is gone.
And, superadded to independence,
and modesty, and courage, is Con-
stancy. There must have been a
great many days when it would have
been easy, and very Convenient for
these valiant saints in Caesar’s house-
hold to slip round into the old com—
fortable heathenism again. Induce-
ments were not wanting. For the
ignorant there was personal safoty-
l’or the cultivated, Seneca was alive,
competent to commend the Pagan
philosophy in its purest aSpects, an
its Stoie severity, and professing him-
self, Jerome said, ambitious to b0 to
lleathendom what Paul was to the
('hureh. But they held fast. They
might be hunted out in their obscu!‘e
retreats, and might see their teachers
slaughtered, as good Stephen once
was. the moment‘the benediction ha
passed his lips; but they gatherc
again the next evening, and other
hands, willing to be mangled by the
same martyrdom, broke to the.m_the
bread of life. The Emperor 1mg
send them out tobuild his baths;
thev raised no civil rebellion, but’
‘ knelt

SAINTHOOD IN CzESAR’S HOUSEHOLD.

237

 

and prayed to the Father. Arrows
might pierce their bodies; but, as
you see in the picture of Sebastian,
they believed that angels would draw
all the pain of the weapons out, and
the Lord Jesus receive their spirits.
Extermination itself would not alarm
them; Diocletian afterwards fancied
he had killed the last, and set up a
column to show that the whole Chris-
tian sect was extinct. But faith is
prophetic; and although they could
not foresee what actually happened,
that their sculptured images should
One day crowd the Pantheon, and the
t8mple reared to a heathen goddess,
be dedicated to the mother of their
Christ; they did foresee that they
Should all stand with white robes,
and palms in their hands, and songs
on their lips, before God, in another
mele, to go out no more.
God is asking constancy of us.
on do not need that I should remind
you what ever-besetting and fearful
telIlpters are waylaying your stead-
{lstness If you swerve from Chris-
tian consistency; if you go from
Prayers here, to profanity and passion
3" the paltry annoyances of the week;
5 you purpose, and will not perform;
If YOU talk of heaven, and live only
01‘ Self; if you profess Christianity
at_church, only to dishonor it by your
ally infidelity, then it wants no judg-
.ment Out of yourself to tell you, that
you belong not to the saints of Cwsar’s
0usehold, but among its sinners.
llr Nero is self-love. The senses
in.“ the Caesars of all ages. Fashion
13. 3- Rome that commissions its le-
gl9’13a and spreads its silent empire
w‘del‘ than the I’rzetorian eagles.
0 reigning temptcr of the world, is
m: llnpcrishable persecutor and ty-
a“ t 0f the faithful soul. And so, in
andflur New England, in every home
the street, seminary and dwollmg,
in 1‘0 are .chanccs for the rc-appear-
“ghof saints in Cwsar’s household.
briberever a fearless man deems any
in e  do wrong, whether it come
cunning insinuations or open bids,
and Whether it offer him promotion,

 

better wages, a larger house, more
luxuries or leisure, or easier tasks,—
deems it all an insult to his clean
heart, and so spurns it instantly away,
as a disgrace that would soil his spirit
more than the dirt of any drudgery
would his hand; wherever an incor-
ruptible merchant refuses to conform
to popular deceptions, at the risk of
losing trade, or exercises as unsleep-
ing a vigilance over every stroke of
his pen, and every branch of every
transaction, when no eye but God’s
looks down on his desk, as if the
whole board of the public exchange
were watching him, or seems to take up
subterfuges which commercial customs
may wink at and excuse, and does it be-
cause God‘s eye is the guide of his
life; wherever a righteous mechanic
refuses to let down his performance
to the variable standard of thorough-
ness or shabbiness extant in his class;
wherever an honest statesman stands
above his party, the moment his
party cast their principles into a lot-
tery, and will not put on the robe of
office, so long as it hides in its folds
the hypocrite’s curse; wherever a
Consistent theologian keeps a con-
science as well as a pulpit, and will
not compromise his exhortations and
prayers by the bigotry of a sect, or
the reverence of a salary; wherever
a self-commanding woman is greater
than the extravagant edicts of the
fashion-makers, and dares to be a
rebel against wasteful and ambitious
competitions or a Society speaking po-
lite lies; wherever young and joyous
persons fear God too wisely, and ven-
erate duty too sacredly, to scoff at
religion, or laugh at temperance, or
tolerate impure companions, under
any tempting; wherever a disciple
of Christ is not ashamed to own and
praise that holy Lord, by whom Oply
he has forgiveness, though unbeliev-
ing associates taunt and ridicule .hlS
eonstancy—there you behold “ Saints
of the household of Cazsara” 0f Roman
firmness but of Christian holiness, the
true succession of immortal confess-
ors to the truth, the moral Apostolical

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

238

THE HOME.

 

lineage ot'Christ’s unterrified witnesses
and heirs of llis kingdom.

Most of our knowledge of these old
Roman Christians, comes by the way
of' the Catacombs — that subterra-
nean passage reaching out many miles,
from Home to ()stia, stamped on all
its walls, with the sculptured and
pictured symbols of *arly Christian
ideas, and the funeral inscriptions of
the men that lived in, and died for
them, preserving in the silent burial
of'fburteen hundred years, these t ‘aces
of martyrs and conf'essors, but uncov-
ered at last by the enterprise of' dis-
Covery, and made to rehearse the lost
history of‘ the first struggles of'our l‘c~
ligion in the capital of' the world.
There you may r -ad what it was to he
a saint in the household. or even in
the city of'the Caesars. You may see
how prayers that could not be stifled,
Went up from caverns, with no doubts
that they should find their way to the
ear of' God through the rocky roof,
Sooner than the shrieks and incense
from the shining heathen temples
above. There you will see how Prov-
idence, honoring humble instruments,
as his method is, used the vulgar
sand-diggers that excavated the ('am-
pagna, after they w'ere converted to
the new doctrine, to act as guides to
their brethren ot' the young Church,
providing a hiding-place for it in the
scene of their former labors. You
behold the long tiers, or alcoves of'
the graves of‘ those. who, having died
in faith, inherit the promises. No
symbols of' hatef'ul passion, no tokens
of revenge for the wrongs they
smarted under, no wails of' heathenish
despair, no signs of' bloody altars;
but, instead, the tokens of p -aCe, hope.
and joy ; pictures of‘ love ; legends of'
reconciliation; a monogram of the
Saviour ; a lamb -, a branch of' palm ;
across; some epitaph conuncmm'ating
a “friend of all men,” “an enemy of
none,” “one meek and lowly,” those
that “sleep in Jesus,” or others
“borne away by angels.” Every-
where you see traces and proofs of
that heavenly temper. that pure and

 

prayerful spirit, that disinterested
and self-denying piety, that influence
from on high, which you know, was
never the product of' the Roman na—
ture, never caught from Roman phi-
losophers, never fostered by the
Roman armies, never ordained by
{oman law, never inspired by Re-
man mythology—the gift of God,
the Gospel of Christ, the heritage of
his Church, the new creation, the pal-
i_r/Ir/ene.\-iu, the regenc'ation ()f' the
Holy Spirit.

In the sixteenth century, the Cata-
combs, that f'ormed both the church
and the cemetery of‘ the early Ro-
man (‘hristians, were thrown open to
the light. Notice now the change
that passes on the outward position
of these sacred memorials. The
monumental stones, the coverings Of
graves, the decaying bones even, are
removed from their dark chambers,
and lifted into the day. They are
placed in royal collections of costly
treasures; they are sent all over Eu-
rope as precious gifts to princes ; they
stand in honored niches in great mu-
seums of' art; and, even on the splen-
did walls of'the Vati -an, traVelers find
these plain tablets, with their rude
inscriptions scratched by unletterq
gravers iu the dark—with their
badly—spelt epitznlis, simple as the
Sermon on the Iount,—— they find
these ranged in showy publicity along
vast galleries, besides the pompOus
eulogies and exquisite, sculptures 0
more artificial days—relics of'a trou'
bled, lowly past, venerated, nay, Wor‘
shiped now, by a prosperous 8“
perVertwl present. The (‘hureh that
hid umlergrouml in sackcloth 11“

ashes, scourged bv the (‘a-sars, has
risen out of" dens and -aves, into the

world's homage, conquered its 0119'
mics, and sits on (,‘zcsar’s throne.

ls tllel‘e‘ not a twofold chztiige’
one within exactly the reVerse of t 3
without—an increase of'danger keep'
ing pace with the increase of power '
The change from outward poverty
and inward strength, to material pro:
perity with spiritual starvation, ‘5 n

TO MOTHERS.

239

 

such progress as fi‘hristians can pray
for. \Vhen one reads these simple
and joyous words that Were written
In the Catacombs by the saints of
Caesar’s time, he feels himself borne
back into the fresh morning air of
faith, into the original purity of (Eros
pel life, among brave, upright, and
Stedfast souls, incapable of being
Shaken by imperial, commercial, po-
litical, or social intimidation, very
near to the Divine. Master who was
tempted in all points as We are, yet
Without sin. Ascend from the hum-
ble Roman Church of the second cen-
tury, into the arrogant pretentions
and inConsistencies of our own, from
the Christianity of the damp pit,
Where self-denial would rather face
Crucifixion than take all the bribes of
COmfort, up into the Christianity of
the popular and outside appearance
Which satisfies so many to-day.

Wye haVe nothing to fear from cav-
erns or palaCes— from emperors or
POPOS. Yet there is something to
learn from the noble faith of believ-
91'8 that could lay down their life for

hrist, and something to fear from

the hollow sins of hypocrites who
waste life for worldly welfare. Ilu-
man nature is the same, though the
g" fat seats of power are shifted from
the Tiber westward, and the currents
0f thought and habit flow in altered
ch1}nnels. We have our probation
ally, amidst the conflicts, interests,

exPosures, enterprises ofa New Eng-
and Community, not the wickedest
0" the planet, but wicked enough to
need all our vigilance, purity, exam-
ple, and prayers; and enough like
{BSaP’S household to make us aspire

be Saints, righteous souls within it.

“t Whatever we do, or fail to do,
outSide ourselves, be it our first care

. Save our own hearts from destruc-
t10h- Within us lies an empire to be
0813 _or redeemed. What personal
relation each soul has with God, that
‘9 a question not to stand unsettled
any lUnger. For over every passing
momf’nt impends the whole arch of
eternity. The God who calls us to

 

regeneration, *alls us to judgment.
Caesar may wear the crown, and
saints bear the cross on earth; but
into the household of heaven can
enter nothing that is defiled. or mak-
eth a lie, and “crowns of life” are
only for the “faithful unto death.”—
T/Ic Christian Repository.

 

EDITOR OF “THE HOME : ”

Feeling a deep interest in the ob-
jects of “THE HOME,” I have often
wished myself capable of expressing
some thoughts on paper for publica-
tion in your esteemed periodical. Be-
ing anxious to promote the grand
‘ause to which your paper is devoted,
yet conscious of my inability to do
full justice to any subject with my
own pen, I venture to send you a
Couple of extracts from the writings
ofone of the ablest and most excellent
Divincs, and whose “praise is in all
the churches” on both sides of the
Atlantic. One of these extracts is
designed for wives and mothers; the
other for daughters. I trust they will
not be deemed the less creditable to
“THE HOME” from their not being
original. The first was occasioned
by an anonymous letter addressed to
him, asking for instruction how to
aVoid or overcome the impatience and
irritation frequently engendered by
the perplexities of the nursery; and
the hasty speech and angry action
which must be a hindrance, not only
to maternal influence, but to the effi-
eaey of a mother’s prayers. The
other is from an address to young
women on their deportment in the
family. SIGMA.

TO MOTHERS.

Respecting the writer of the anony-
mous letter, is the following: “She
gives evidence that she is not disquali-
fied for a mother’s functions, so far 88
mental ability is concerned; hilt, Bel“
haps, she and others in her Situatlon,
may have something yet to learn: and
acquire as to temper and manner. It
is evident she is in danger in these re—
spects. The waywardness and freaks

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

240 THE nous.

 

of unamiable disposition in her chil-
dren produce petulance and irritabil-
ity, and lead, perhaps, too often on
her part, to unseemly anger. A scold,
a slap, or a shake, sometimes take
the place of a mild but firm expostu-
lation and calm correction. To her,
and to all in her situation, we say,
what you need, and what you must
put forth all your constant and (le-
termined effort, and wrestling suppli-
cation with God, to obtain, is the
complete subjugation of your temper.
You must bring this under control.
You must acquire forbearance, pa-
tience,and acalm serenity. It will cost
you much trouble, and much prayer to
attain it; but God’s grace will be
sufficient for you. I do not, of course,
counsel you to seek after that apa-
thetic, easy indifference, which lets
the children take their own course,
and for the sake of a little ease, throws
up the reins of discipline. Still a
mother must often have eyes, and not
see; ears and not hear. A fussing
and fidgety notice of every little thing
that goes wrong in the temper of all
the children, will keep her in perpet-
ual misery. To all, then, who are
in the situation of this mother, Iagain
and again, with all possible emphasis
say, subdue your irritability, and ae-
quire a calm, patient, forbearing, lov-
ing, and serene mind. God will help
you if you seek it. You must not
think such a frame of mind unattain-
able, nor allow your provocations and
temptations to be an apology for
your little sallies of bad temper.

‘I' I’ «I 'I' 1' i'

“I again say, let no mother despair
of herself, because she does not pos-
sess high intellectual qualifications;
the more of these there are, of course
the better; but a temper under
Control -—a patient, loving, forbearing
disposition, a mild firmness, a gentle
but constant maintenance of parental
authority, a judicious administration
of rewards and correction, will enable
any woman to lill her place with ef-
ficiency.”

 

To YOUNG “'omsx AT IloME.

“ The first thing —the great thing
to be determined upon by the young
woman at home, is to be a large con-
tributor to the happiness of the do-
mestic circle. You can not be 8
cipher in the house, nor sustain a nega-
tive character. You are a member
of the little community, and the other
members must be atfccted by your
conduct. You are ever in the midst
of them, and your actions, words, and
very looks exert an influence upon
them. Behold, then, your starting
point in the career of home duties.
Take up this resolution intelligently,
deliberately, determinately : ‘ I will,
by God’s grace, do all I ran. to make my
home happy to others, and thus romfm‘l'
able to myself} Look at this resolu-
tion, revolve it, imprint it on your
memory, heart, conscience. ls it not
wise, virtuous, right? Does not rea-
son, conscience, self-love approve it?
Let it be a serious matter of consider-
ation with you, and not merely 3
thought passing through the mind:
and leaving no trace behind, but a
deep, abiding, influential considera'
tion. Have not your parents a rigllt
to expect it? Is it not the most 1133‘
sonable thing in the world, that enj‘-’Y‘
ing the protection and comforts 0
home, you should in return make
home happy '2 ,

“ To diffuse happiness anywhere, ‘5
a blissful employment, but most 0
all, at home. To light up any coun‘
tenances with joy, is, to a benevolent
mind, a desirable thing; but most 0
all, the countenances of parents, 8,"
brothers, and sisters. Set out Wlt
the intense ambition to compel from
the whole family circle, the testimOn)’
that it was a happy era in the domf’S'
tic history when you came to reside
permanently at home. ()h! t0 he”
a mother say, ‘Thy coming, my
daughter, was as the settlement of 3
ministering angel among 118-" f.
amenities of temper, thy constant e
forts to please, thy sweet and gent e
self-sacrificing disposition, have be":
a lamp in our dwelling, in the 1181‘

a-

es

“ MIDNIGHT MUSINGS." 241

of which, we have all rejoiced! What
a large accession, my beloved child,
hast thou brought to our domestic
felicity ! Receive thy mother’s thanks
and blessing ! ’ A harder heart than
yours, my young friends, might be
moved by such a hope as this. Con-
template now the contrast to this,
When the conduct of a daughter is
Such as to extort such a declaration as
the following from sorrowing parents,
‘We looked forward with pleasure
and with hope, not altogether unmixed
With anxiety, to the time when we.
sihould receive her back from school,
to be our companion and comfort.

0w bitter is our disappointment!

er unamiable disposition, her re-
gardlessness of our happiness, her
restlessness in the famin circle, her
Craving for any company but ours,
are painfully obvious. It was, we re—
gret to say it, a sad increase of our
domestic trouble, when she became a
gffl'manent inmate of our house.’
lghs and tears follow this sad con-
fession. Which of these shall be the
case with you, my young friends?

n you hesitate?

.“ Having, then, made up your
"mud to be a comfort at home, you
Fhould, and will, of course, inquire
“"0 the means of accomplishing your
PUPpose. These will, if the purpose

8 fixed, and the desire intense, al-
most without enumeration, suggest
themselves. They who really want

.make others happy, will find out
. 911' Own means of doing so, and be
1ngenious in their devices to effectu-
ate the end. Many things are diffi-
cult, and require deep thought; but
not the study to please. If our heart

8 Set upon it, we can diffuse bliss al—
most without effort or contrivance.

"fm & heart fully possessed with a

eslre to make others happy, kind
acts and offices will flow off like the
ebullltions of a spring, or the streams

afountain, without the labor of
rawmg or purifying the water.”

\

 

“ FIRESIDE MUSINGS.”

BY MAURICE DELANCEY.

HERE is sorrow and suffering all

OVer this wide world of ours, and
I know, and regret it; but neither
are mine to-night. There are drunk-
ard’s homes, where woman mourns
the absence, yet dreads the presence
of one, who sometime vowed to cher-
ish. Let the reformed portray the
depth to which he sunk ; mine is not
the power. There is bloodshed and
villainy, deceit and oppression, but I
choose none of these for a theme.
Nay ! the time to portray with
truthfulness these evils, is when we
have felt their fearful power; so with
the home-roof overhead, the home-
fu‘c burning bright, and the treasured
“ HOME” companion at my elbow, I
will sing of “home,” not the song of
poetry, but the song of the heart—
the love song which needs not meas-
ured words, nor fainfetehed phrases,
but is read in the beaming eye, and
heard in the gentle tone.

Do I envy the president his
power, or the king his pomp? Nay!
there are hard thoughts of them
among their own people; there is
muttered rebellion at their backs;
but the words which greet me, are
those of love, and I fear no rivalry in
the hearts which are bound to mine
by that strong tie, “ affection.” But
I will not be exclusive to-night.
Much as I prize my own happy home,
I will not say that there are none oth-
ers to equal it. I know, and rejoice
in the knowledge, that although at this
hour, club-room, and bar-room, and
store, may all have occupants who are
searching for happiness in the wrong
direction, yet there are many pleas-
ant firesides, where the loved circle
is unbroken; where words of anger
are unheard, and those of admonition
given and received in kindness. .

And here I will say, that an unw111-
ingness to be told any thing, embltters
many a heart, and alienates the mem-
bers of many a home. It is only the
story of the “ egg broken at the wrong

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

242

THE HOME.

 

end ” rep ‘zlted. The youth of twenty
owns how little he knew at fifteen,
but he is sure he knows it all now.
So the married man remembers dis-
crepancies in youth, but he is wiser
now, and knows too much to be
taught by his wife, any way. “ \Vell,
my friend —I care not for your sta-
tion, your wealth, or personal aCeom-
plishments; if you think you are too
old too learn, y a, more, if you have
not a desire to gather knowledge from
all about you, and to make progress
in physical, mental, and moral im-
provement, then you are not in the
road to happiness.” There is a rich
man riding in his coach; his horses
are gay and graceful, and the trap-
pings on his carriage are of shining
silw-r. He thinks he is happy! I
think he is proud! and if he should
meet a richer neighbor with horses
six, and trappings of gold, his happi-
ness would be envy and misery.
Then again, there are a class who
are afraid of stepping out of their
sphere. l)eluded souls! they would
help a friend in trouble, and labor
hard for a neighbor, but they would
feel insulted, ifa wife should ask them
to place the plates on the briakfast
table, while she dressed the children.
I do n’t know but I shall be censured
for indulging in anger, but lalways
feel like pinching a man who is aft.
[are in a lionse; whose interests are
all outside, and who feels that he has
no part in the pleasant duty of mak-
ing home bright and happy. He just
reverses the trUe aim of life, for, next
in importance to the securing an eter-
nal home of happiness, is that of se-
curing happy homes here; not by
seeking Wealth or fame, but by the
cultivatitm of the understanding, the
afiections, and the graces; and, by
grace, I mean not that which lifts the
hat on the sidewalk, and hows the
head to a partner in the dance, but
that which does a kindness with ease,
and receives inlbrmation with pleas-
ure. ,
\Vt-ll, I have departed from my
subject; 1 promised to write of happy

 

homes, and have written more of the
opposite class. But I could not well
give the reeeipt for the first, until
some sources of our happiness were
mentioned; now i will speak briefly
of the happy home : The happy home
of my liking, is that where love and
philosophy are blended; that is,
wher * affection binds the members to-
gether, while at the same time, the
duties and responsibilities of life, are
‘arefully weighed in their proper bal-
ance, and the fair sisters Mentality
and Morality, receive their proper de-
velopment, as Well as their more phy-
sical brother.

I remember well, how in youthful
days, I questioan in my own mind the
utility (for the working class at least)
of poring over the dead languages, 01‘
the higher mathematics. They told
me it 'as to discipline the mind, but
I did not understand it. Now lean
see plainly that hardly one in a hilly
dred, have had their minds so discr
plined, that they can think clearly
and connectedly for any length 0
time on a given subject. Their views,
instead of aiming direct at the poth
like a rifle ball, go hitting around it,
like the snow ball of schoolboys. The
man who spends his leisure hourS
with his family, and, moreover, im‘
proVes those hours to his own, and
their profit and pleasure, is layng
the tbundation for like happy ones 1"
the future; while he who seeks the
public room to listen to idle stories,
is wasting time, which is only lent
him.

“When! when will the multitudc
liarn what the few now know; tlmt’
although the body may wear away,
until it returns to dust, the mind ‘5
immortal, and was given us to expan
and improve by every honest "leans;
so long as reason holds sway -
Some persons think happiness is mt '
ing more nor less than a froeflom
from discomfort. A man who thinks
thus, will, mayhap, come hOme {is
evening, eat a h *arty meal, light l,”
pipe, and befog his brain with 1‘95
fumes for an hour, while at the Same

MY BIBLE.

\

time, he is distributing upon the stove

that fluid which (minus the poison)
was originally intended to assist in
Is own preservation.

I care not whether he calls himself
flppy or no, he is abusing himself,
his wife, and still more, his Maker,
_y squandering time, by beclouding
18_ brain and nervous system, and by
elng selfish in his enjoyment. But
8‘8“ should become personal, I will
%}'V0 a receipt for happiness, and close.
lI‘st, be honest; and this I hold to
8 one of the most comprehensive
Words in our language. Be frank,
generous, trustful, and charitable.

emember that angry words are a
ad investment; that fretting is un-
Worthy of you; that slander is a two-
edged SWord which cuts alike the
Wielder and defender. temember,
11180, that but few who take a retro-
spective view of their lives, are con-
tent with the prospect, and seeing

911‘ error take higher ground. And
a§tly, (though whole pages of advice
might be added,) when you have
Ounti by experience, that “ the ways
of Wlsdom are the ways of pleasant-
ness) and all her paths are peace,”

8“ call with trumpet tone on pa-
rent's,‘ brothers, companions, friends,
Jom you in that song, which has

 

for its chorus, “onward and up-
Ward.”
\

MY BIBLE.

HE Bible is a book of facts, as well
authenticated as any heathen his-
a W; a book of miracles incontestably
VOUChed; a book of prophecies con-
 by past, as well as present ful-
natuflllt; a book of poetry, pure, and
ion .3 , and elevated, even to inspira-
man: 1'1. book of morals, such as hu-
pe f W_ISdom never framed for the
1‘ ectlon of human happiness.
Wlll abide by the precepts, admire
e beauty, revere the mystery, and
at: an in me lies, practice the man
sho l 0 this I sacred volume, and
U d the ridicule of earth, and the

 

243

blasphemy of hell assail me,I shall
Console myself by the contemplation
of those blessed spirits, who in the
same holy cause have toiled, and
shone, and suffered. In the goodly
fellowship of the saints, in the noble
army of the martyrs, in the society
of the great, and good, and wise of
every nation, if my darkness is illu-
minated, at least my pretensionlcss
submission may be excused.

If I err with the luminaries I have
chosen for my guides, I confess my-
self captivated by the lovel'mess of
their aberration. If they crr, it is in
fields of light; if they aspire, it is
at all events, a glorious daring, and
rather than sink with infidelity into
the dust, I am content to cheat my-
self with their visions of eternity. If
it be nothing but a delusion, then I
err with the disciples of philosophy
and of virtue, with men who havedrank
deep at the fountain of human knowl-
edge, but who dissolved not the pearl
of their salvation in the draught. I
err with Bacon, the great confident of
nature, fraught with all the learning
of the past, and almost prescient of
the future, yet too wise not to know
his weakness, and too philosophic not
to feel his ignorance. I err with Mil-
ton, rising on an angel’s wing to
heaven, and like the bird of the morn
soaring out of sight amid the music
of his grateful piety. I err with
Locke, whose pure philosophy only
taught him to adore its source, whose
warm love of genuine liberty was
never chilled into rebellion with its
author. I err with Newton, whose
star-like spirit shot athwart the dark-
ness of the sphere too soon, to re-as-
ccnd to the home of his nativity.

With men like these, I shall re-
main in error, nor shall I desert those
errors, even for the drunken death-
bed of a Paine, or the delirious war-
whoop of the surviving fiends, who
would erect his altar on the “HHS 0f
Society. They will not believe in
the prophets, in Moses, in the Apes-
tles, in Christ; but they believe in
Tom Paine, with no government but

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

244 THE
confusion, and no creed but skepti-
cism. I believe they would abjure the
one if it became legitimate, and rebel
against the other, if it were once es-
tablished.

 

THE SCHOOL OF LIFE.

LIFE is a permanent school. Each
day gives us a new lesson, which,
if learned rightly, will delight the
fancy or charm the soul. There is no
clouds, so dark but they may be
pierced with the rays of ulltirillg dili-
gence; no grounds so hard but will
give way when touched by the magic
fingers of science. Into what dark,
mysterious, and seemingly unexplored
chasm, has thought wcnded her way,
through the instrumentality of life’s
opportunities, to unfold these myster-
ies, and by the light of reason pre-
sented them for the world to gaze
with admiration on their solution.
Life is a great ocean in which to
pjlunge, and drink, and be forever dry.

very drop glistens with a new
thought, and ever draught is sweeter
than the first. he surging billows
are ever telling lls new tales of the
treasures beneath their bosom. Lan-
guage is not the only means of knowl-
edge. Many are the lessons learned,
when Dame Nature is our only
teacher, and life the school. She of-
fers us the cup, and bids us drink,
telling us with a smile, that the fount-
ain is infinite. The Ephemera that
floats in the sunbeam but a single
day, yet rejoices in its short life; the
tiny flower that looks heavenward,
grateful for one drop of refreshing
dew; the beautiful birds that carol
their praises in early morn, all bear
to us lessons most valuable.

As we gaze into the starry heavens,
where each twinkling star, ever shin-
ing, yet never losing its brilliancy,
and learn that these are mighty suns.
around which reVolve systems of
Worlds ;—then does the little thought
come — all is mystery, knowledge is
exhaustless, mind can labor and life

HOME.

is the opportunity,— that we have
only to arm ourselves with patience
and industry, and the deepest hidden
can be made plain.

He who gave man a mind capable
of high intellectual development, sig—
nifies by its very existence, that it
should be brought out to perfection-
Let us then apply the acid of perse-
verance, and the iron bars of ignor—
ance and superstition will separate
before us, unfolding broad fields
where new beauties will continually
burst upon our vision.

 

BE CIIEERFUL.

F people generally knew what an

advantage it was to be cheerful,
says the Albany Journal, there would
be fewer sour faces in the world, and
less ill-temper. A man never gain9
any thing by exhibiting his annoyance
in his face, much less by bursting int?0
a passion. As it is neither manly
nor wise to yield, like a child, pet“
tishly to every cross, so it is alike
foolish and absurd to allow feelings
of anger to deprive us of self-control-

IIappiness is much better distribu'
ted than money. It is'one of thOSe
valuable productions which money
can’t buy. One of these morning:1
in walking to your place of business:
you see one of the rich men of the
day, who dwells in marble halls, 811
wears expensive clothing, and a go
watch, hurrying across the street to
his place of business, with his b1“)W
puckered up like a bed quilt, lest he
may accidentally lose the sale Of hls
wares, or, perhaps, fail to see SOmG‘
body whom he ex ccted would Pay
up an old score. ' ‘hen you meet t e
hod-carrier hurrying to his work, Q"
singing Yankee Doodle, or whistling
Dandy Jim, his head untroubled blé
a thought, and his pocket undisturl.)e
by a dollar. Money will neverobl'mg.
happiness without a clear conscience ’
but a comfortable home, and we”
able society, will bring with it al the
happiness that can be found on Cart '

 

 

EDITOR’S DEPARTMENT. 245
EDITOR’S DEPARTMENT.
will never be able to discharge. Of what

“'HAT WE OWE THE FUTURE.

T is evident that we owe a constant and
unavoidable debt to the future,— the
“mine of our country, and of the world ; and
we PFOpose to say a very few words upon
0“? manner of acknowledging and discharg-
ing this debt. Perhaps the whole matter
may be comprised in saying, that we owe to
the future a wise and just use of the present;
but We have very different, and, perhaps,
very Vague ideas of that which would be a
wise and just use of the present. If we
Perform diligently and well our daily tasks,
“'6 are apt to think that we are making a
right use of the present. But who has set us
the” daily tasks? Are they appointed to us
by that Providence, which lays our work
before us, by the clearest indications, if we
“ill only accept it at His hands ; or, have we
°h°3€n them ourselves from our own narrow
“‘1 groveling views of life?
henever we spend our time in doing
any t1ling which will render us, or our house-
holds: less fit for future duty, we are heaping
“pv i“Stead of discharging our debt to the
“mm. Whenever we fail to do any thing
that it is in our power to do, to fit ourselves
“Dd our families for the more full and ear-
nest accomplishment of the duties before us,
we are failing to discharge our debt to the
“ture- We think that the mother who
spends time and labor in making mince-pies
“1d dOugh-nuts for dyspeptic children, is
mnf‘ing up an account with the future,
wbl‘ih She will one of these days, find it im-
fg’emble to discharge. We think, too, that
mother who allows her child’s temper to
5“ the better of her, until neither she nor
ninPossessor has power to control it, is run-
witg “Pf! debt with the future, compared
trifle wl11(3l1,the debt of England is a mere
fathe- And, moreover, we think that the
thou” “7.110 spends his time, and care, and
, gm In laying up wealth for his children,
in“: he pays no personal attention to their
8treadectual, moral, and religious culture, in-
eom. 0f amassing something of value for the
"‘8 tlme, is laying up a debt against the
“tum: which all the wealth of the Indies

 

use will that wealth which the father is so
wearily amassing, be to the child who knows
neither how to get, nor how to use it?

Are not the gifts with which God has en.
dowed the child, far more worthy of being
coined into gold, than the dirty ore of the
mine? “ Poor,” does the father say, and
shudder at the thought of entailing upon his
child the evils of poverty? Why, all the
wealth in the world can entail no happiness
on a barren spirit. Poverty is an evil, to be
sure, and we believe in doing what one is
able to provide against its approach, though
both the Bible and the world’s history teach
us that it is a less evil than great wealth. But
to bestow wealth upon those who have been
suffered to grow up in such poverty of the
mind and heart, as turns all earthly gold to
dross, is the extreme of folly.

The father who does this, gives to his
child that poorest of gifts of which Lu-
ther said: “ To whom God can afford
nothing else, to him he grants wealth.”
The great reformer said well. If he did
not appreciate wealth, he did appreci-
ate something better. But even if we can
not appreciate this something better, it is a
safer pecuniary investment—a surer dis-
charge in money of the debt-which we owe to
the future of a child, to teach him to provide
for himself— to cultivate in him those pow-
ers which will enable him to secure to him-
self the greatest amount of usefulness and
happiness— than to give him that which his
want of power to use wisely, will render like
an open blade in a child‘s hands. A pecu-
niary view of this subject, though a far
narrower one than the wise will take, is cer~
tainly not an unreasonable one, and is, in
fact, the only one at which some people will
look. A correspondent who interests him-
self in the well-being of humanity, sends us
some remarks on this subject, which we will
transcribe as they are given. He says:

“ Show to parents the value of their chil-
dren’s time in dollars and cents, when de-
voted to study. The young man who has
been robbed of the advantages for cultivating
his mind in childhood and youth, and who is

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

246 THE HOME.

 

now able to command with his trade from before her children, is a business that has
one to three dollars per day, finds it greatly been too long followed by an arbitrary
to his advantage to exchange his tools for power; and we pray that editors of our
books, and master the common branches, own sex may be more true and just to wo'
even if he is in the full strength of middle man's rights. Man vaunts and is vaunted
life, for the uneducated are in constant dan- for his chivalry, and for his protection of wo-
gcr of falling a prey to sharpers, who prowl man. And no one can reverence too much
about their paths like wolves, and subsist on that feeling in every noble soul that would
ignorance and vice. The individual then, in shield from danger the defenseless. This
mature manhood, whose sands of life are heavenly nature is also woman‘s birthright,
more than half-spent, and whose brain has and we believe one of vital depth in her
already ceased to be very impressible, had character. But we have often seen men,
better forego his three dollars per day, and guests at a hospitable board, waited upon
learn his alphabet if heis ignorant of it. And with the utmost courtesy by the hostess, a
yet, he can not accomplish nearly as much woman of sense, culture, and refinement,
as his little child; and, besides, the child will throw back upon her whole sex the most
enjoy the benefit of what he learns, for more contemptuous sneers; hold up her capabili-
than half a life longer than his parent, it ties for criticism, and then demolish the wo-
may be presumed; and will be saved the man of straw their own mistaken fancy has
mortification and losses inseparable from created, with a zest that a barbarian might
ignorance, and gain the gratification a cul- envy. And this is received with that much
tivated mind always affords, as well as avoid vaunted submission by the hostess— the
the wrecks attendant upon ignorance. This protected, and with bland admiration by the
shows that the child’s time, if properly im- host—the protector. How much worse is
proved, is worth to him some six dollars per a blow on the head, than one on the heart?
diem in cash, does it not? E. M. L." “Let us suppose all the chapters about
submission were omitted, and their p18ce
filled with illustrations of that golden rule,

"-rn 1-: no M r: . ” ‘ Do unto others, as ye would that they in

We cut the following from one of our ex- like manner ShOUld do unto YOU,’ 0“ Pres-
changes: entations of that ‘charity that sufi‘ereth ‘11

“In some respects, amid a host of Maga- thingsv, 0“ cPlSOd'Z‘s “P0” moral conduct'
zines, this one has not its superior, or even that WOUld tOUCh every Consolence» and “fine
equ The honorable pen of Mm Sig- home to the daily life of every human bean'
Gurney, in a privatelettm- to the admonpays Would not man be more just and woman
the following deserved compliment: more Home ? ”

“‘Indeed, you have made an excellent Very well: MFS- 3- - - n We believe i" the
book. I speak advisedly. Rejecting the utterance of One’s honest sentiments wh‘ft'
trash, the aimless stories, and mawkish fash- ever they are: and ["0 "CV0? afraid 0" d15-
ion-platcs, which disgrace and degrade so cussion. There is a great deal of comm"l1
many serials, you have steadily kept in sense yet in the world, although it is a (1031’
view the duties and happiness of woman in ity that keeps Quiet, while cmpticr things
her true sphere. For this I honor and praise make a noise; and a candid discussion 9
you. It is Pure patriotism.‘ those points on which we differ, will aid this

 

_ . - . . . ' c
“ One class of articles, however, admitted quxet common sense In making its alum“
‘ decision upon a much vexed question, an
we believe that the vacillating pendulum °

 

into its columns, such as “Ruling Wives," and l
the like, are so plainly unjust to woman, that  u t
we can not forhcar giving our belief that ? opinion, will settle at last, just at the p0m
their tendenCy Where they have influence» i where we stand. Not where the Worl.
i5 ‘0 render "01113" base aMd iguoblc, and I stands, for we are not satisfied with the W“
ma" “Hebrimm' To call woman sovereign ent state of things, but we difl'er 85 .w
or home' and the" "CM he" as a mindlCS-‘b ' the p0int where a change should hcgm’

- v '  .. ‘ 1 x 'chery
rzghtlesx, soulless slave, m tlmt home, and However, there an. pioneersneededl

T0 CORRESPON DEN TS.

247

 

advance, and if their axes hew away some of
the branches that we can not do without,
they may serve to let in some light upon the
tiIlle-sodden soil of opinion ; and the branches
“11 grow again readily enough. We believe
that some of the changes to which you look,
Will yet be brought about, and if we do not
“'8 to see it, perhaps our children may.
But! because we believe these things will
come. shall we labor to bring them about?

0; that ’s not our mission. But we will la-
bor to prepare the highway for them, that
they may be a good, and not an evil, when
they do come.

In the meanwhile, we shall not quarrel
'lth those who are pulling away at the temple
of error, though they pull at it ever so madly.
The] will probably get the crazy old thing
d°Wn in some fashion, and then, when they
a“erupt to build a new one, this quiet, com-
"‘0" sense of which we spoke, will step in as
the architect. Those who hew the path

l'Ough the wilderness, are not the builders.

0 human nature combines all qualifications.

ith regard to the article entitled “Ruling
_ iVes" in our February number, the author
18 fully responsible in the expression of any
0Pinion. We believe that a Ruling Wife is
‘ disgrace to her sex, and that when a wo-
fn‘n has told her husband when he is talk-
“‘8. “Be still," she has done that which she
should blush for. No woman has a right to

'y a man in whom she considers it a vir-
tue tflkeep silence, and if she has chosen
one whom she does not consider capable of
lpeaking just enough, and to the point, it is
er 0WD fault, and she should bear the evil
Encefully. It may be said that women do
tot Choose their husbands, but we think

.e? dO- At least they ought—always pre-
mmng that they choose to go without, unless

ey a:re enabled to choose a proper one.
u“ there is another side to this subject of
mRull’lg Wives,“ and it is the one that is
. 0“ name to be kept out of sight. We be-

eve that the man who commands his wife to
“if: Bilfmcewvhen she is speaking, has done
WhOI'Vhlch la a disgrace to himself and his
c ‘3 hhusehold. With a better chance to
0°39) 1f he has chosen for his wife a woman,
We]? can not, in his opinion, speak wisely and
lhou‘ldlt ls hls own fault, and he certainly,
bear the evil gracefully.

 

If cxpostulation, on either hand, is needed,
it should be done in private. It is a far less
evil to bear with unwise speaking, than to
degrade her, whom he has chosen to be
mistress of his household, in the presence of
those over whom she has authority. No
man will do this. All mm respect and
honor both the name and work of woman.
No one who has had a mother worthy of the
name of mother, can fail to do this, unless
possibly it might be one who has a father so
unworthy of the name of father, as to crush
the mother-life out. And even in such a
case, we believe that the sympathies and
convictions of the son would go with the
mother, if she took the right ground. But
we have said far more on this subject than
we intended, and we have done.

To CORRESPONDENTS.

We wish our correspondents who send us
weighty communications, would see that the
postage-stamps they put on, are enough to
pay for the whole weight— at least, in cases
where they are not sure their articles will be
accepted. We do not like to pay postage for
kindling-paper, as we are obliged to do some-
times. One correspondent complains that
“Tlla Hour: ” and “ CASKET ” have been
stopped, and says it can not be because he
has not written, for we have a great deal of
his manuscript on hand, that we have not
published. That’s true enough. We some-
times have articles that we value, crowded
out for a longer space than we would like;
but where articles lie over a year or two, it
is apt to be the case that we do not intend to
publish them. One of these communications
referred to, tells repeatedly about a child who
wished to be all “ angle in heaven.“ We
wonder which of the angles in heaven it
was, that excited the child's especial admira-
tion. Was it the Southern Triangle, or was
it the great angle in the two dogs and Orion?
We can not butsay to all who ever wish to Write
—even a common letter — do learn to spell.
What rigllt have you to use the Engll-‘lh
language for the amusement or benefit of
others, when you are not acquainted With it
yourselves ?

From those correspondents who are

 

 

 

t it

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

,,, we '

248

THE HOME.

 

 

awaiting a reply from us, we ask pa-
tience. \Ve have not forgotten them.
Many of their communications we have not
yet found time to examine.

HEALTH DEPARTMENT.

L'lllLLR.
To keep the skin in a healthy state, in
cold and variable climates, we must pre-
vent sudden chills, by warm and dry cloth-
ing at all times, but especially, at that age
which is particularly obnoxious to the at-
tacks of consumption and scrofula—that
period in the female's life, which comprises
the development of womanhood. During
the earlier years of life—childhood and
girlhood—care has probably been taken
that the clothing was sufficiently dry and
warm, and with respect to the feet, goodv
warm stockings have, or ought to have,
maintained a proper temperature, while the
neck and chest were protected from the
viciyitudes of the weather by high clothing;
thus preventing outward chillness, and in-
ward congestion. But when the fair girl is
entering into polished society, or coming
out, as it is called, the father— sin — pride,
causes an alteration in these matters— sub-
stitutes thin stockings for the substantial
wollen ones hitherto worn, and, to add to the
mischief, a tight dress and low corsage are
adopted, as changeful fashion may order.
The delicate being is further exposed to
mischief, from great and sudden changes of
temperature, passing, as she often must do,
from the air of the heated ball-room, at once
to the cold wind of hall or street. If parents
thus sow the seeds of disease in their off-
spring, can we wonder that they reap the
only fitting return, danger and death?
DR. Jam-rs.
FLOWER Sizsns.— Geo. F. Needham, florist
and seedsman, Buffalo, puts up packages of
flower and garden seeds for transmission, to
all parts of the country. His seeds are. neatly
packed, and we know them to be alive and
full of ptmnise of beauty and comfort to those
who n-momber the seed-time. No one can

afford to be without flowers. Twenty va-

 

rieties of selected flOWer seeds, and sixteen
of garden seeds for one dollar.

PROFESSOR HUDSON.

There are few of our readers, who have
not been shocked by the account of the death
of this excellent man, who was crushed be-
neath the cars near Cleveland, on the night
of the first of April. He called upon us but
a short titne since, in all the strength of
healthful, active manhood. Who could have
thought that so terrible a doom was before
him? But, however terrible may be the
engine of destruction, it can never blot out
the life of such a man. It may remove him
from among us, but his life is with us still,
and we acknowledge its presence. We copy
some of the remarks made by the Rev. J. A.
Thome at his funeral He said:

“ A living man has died. 0f many who
leave this world, this can not be said — they
are dead while they live, and when they dc‘
part, they are but ‘twice dead, and plucked
up by the roots.’ But Prof. Hudson was!
living man. He was surcharged with ani-
mal vitality; he had a living, acquisitives
and glowing intellect; he had a living, 81"
dent, sympathetic heart; and he had a liV'
ing, earnest, devoted soul. lie had various
end0wments, and manifold resources. There
were remarkable contrasts in his nature,
which none but intimate and discerning
friends knew how to reconcile. He W35
stern as a Roman, but gentle as a woman'
He had the conversatism of the Scholar.
with the radicalism of the Reformer. He
was the deep Thinker, and he was the 03"
nest Doer.

“Mr. Theme firmly believed that the dls‘
pensation which had hurried this 3”“
champion of Righteousness away from the
sphere of his labors, was wise and good, “Id
not to be challenged; but aside from “"5
confidence, he could not sufficiently deplore
the termination of such a bright career 0
usefulness. Could another score 0f years
have been allotted to the departed, Whats
sltleudid luminary he would have hot?" in the
moral world."