I THE HOME: FJIRESIDE MONTHLY. .‘ '. AUGUST, 1859. ‘ No; the Task must finish‘d be; Play is not, poor child, for thee. Herd thy master, Poverty! “ And it is so long a piece I must knit, e’er I can cease. Let me go, a minute, please 1” No; the infant form must bend O’er the task that hath no end; See! the tears and stitches blend! Ll'I'I‘LE SOPHIE. "he s. wailing, broken tonel Prison‘d Childhood's feeble moan ; While the had its needle plies. Bird-notes, but the music gone :— See the fsce, the dark sad eyes, Where that crushing shadow lies, ‘ Oh ! “on to t awe See the deer young head so low ‘ only for sgwhilgio plsyy. Mmgstflon the bosor’n now, . - I hue wark’d the whole. sad day! Do" d, In childhood s strongest woe. : ' ‘ Oh! i 10ng to see the sky, Scarce seven summem’ suns hsve shone W‘wh the children passing by, That dark silken heir, upon, ’ Her," their silvery songs of joy! Yet, poor “be, thou rt sorrow s on: ‘ Let me go 1 little while— Little heat! how wild its dreams “‘1 "my lest-n from them to smile, 0f green trees and cooling streams; ' And my wen-y work beguile.” spot; where sweetest sunlight glean. VOL. vm. 4 0 THE HOME. Place for tiny feet to run ; ‘ ' Air for laughs to dance upon; Moss to rest when play is done ; Birds, and flowers, and children dear; Voices glad to greet the ear; Things she only dream: of here! On th ace, in each tear-stain, Worn oung heart! Dear God, how plain Pictuii are its yearnings vain l Spoken loud in each low sigh, Ah! the baby’s smother‘d cry— ' Can'st thou hear it, in the sky? is ‘ e a I m e I Was’t a dream, or did I see, Sad one, bending over thee, Him who hung on Calv’ry’s tree? And the voice, whose dread command Bids whole worlds obedient stand To the scepter in His hand. Did I hear It whisper low In thy ear, poor Sophie? Ohl Soothetlt not thy childish woe ? “ Up above the blue sky’s dome Angels fill My golden Home; . There, with me, my dear cP'de, cOme l” D 0 fl l . I Do you see the vacant seat—— Miss the steps of tiny feet? Task undone—oh! do you see it? Do you see the darken’d room Shadow’d round with a new gloom, Where the silent mourners come ? Do you see that quiet face With its pale and gentle grace, Sending light upon the place? Do you see the little form Clasp’d by its white robe ? No harm That it is not soft nor warm! ‘ 0 Do you see the tiny hand On the breast, lie quiet and Heedless of the Task’s command? Do you see the child at rest, All her sorrow from her chased, Is this Death—to be so blest? Hush’d her little pleading now, Gone the shadow from her brow. Is this Death—that left her so? No, dear God. Thou heard’st the mean! To Thy “Golden Home” she’s gone— And poor Sophie is Thine ownl 4‘ f“ \ ".da' .' .-- PURE WOMANIIOOD. WHAT is pure womanhood? It is difficult to write clearly on the subject, a subject so mHCh dreamt of, and so little thought out; and the difficulties which meet us at the outset, arise from both the sexes. Womanhood has been so idealized by men, and so unrealized by women, that, on both sides, a fair judgment is almost impossible. Some men scarce- ly allow her any faults; others, who have passed this stage, have stopt short in the reaction from it, and blame as much as they praised before. For exam le, the y0ung man sees before him, ar away, seated on a dis- tant height, his ideal woman. Men, WhO have lived apart from real life, embody all the hidden tenderness of their nature in her who visits them in the evening dream. But when the youth meets and lives with real women, when the student comes in contact with the substance of his vision, then the reaction commences, and the actual, falling far short of the goddess he has worshiped, his world of phantom beauty is rudely shattered. Happy is he who, trusting in human- ity, springs away from this, and finds «in the actual, the real womanhood, whose human infirmitics he has to support, whose weaknesses draw out his own nature, whose failings are but the shadows thrown by great quali- ties, and whose faults prove woman to be of the same dear, crring humanity, Which he himself possesses. But many there are, who, disappointed in their early ideal, remain forever lonely, and grow sour in heart, and smile a bitter smile, when womanhood ls named and praised. Now, this contrast between the ideal and the experience of these men will make them hard to convince of the loveli- ness of the feminine nature. Again, on the side of women there 31:6. arising from their very nature, difficulties which will prevent many of them from agreeing to the truth of a real picture of their womanhood. PURE WOMAN HOOD. 57 For example, it is one of the deep- est peculiarities of their nature that they love the concrete, while man de- sires the abstract. Therefore, by their very nature, they long to embody their ideal in persons. Now, either from the keen knowledge of the weak- nesses of their sex, which their subtle perception of character produces, or from a jealousy of one another, which is a perversion of their noble quality of individuality in attachment, they are not disposed to see pure woman- hood in women; and they can never find it in men. Thus they form no clear idea of womanhood. Again, loving the concrete more than the abstract, they do not possess much power of generalization. Subtly percipient of things, in forming a con- ception of their own sex, they dwell on the minute details of feminine character, and do not consider it as a whole. Again, loving the concrete more than the abstract, they desire to em- body their influences in the seen and the present. Now this, by the nature of womanhood can rarely be, and therefore, women resent any repre- sentation of their nature, which tends to establish the contrary, and prevent them from realizing their wishes. Nevertheless it is true. For the powers by which a woman works are spiritual. Who has ever seen love or tenderness, meekness or submis- sion? Who has ever even translated into words of human speech what we mean by these? When have their effects become rapidly visible in an acknowledged and open form? POW. 81‘, strength, and force of mind 01‘ body, these are manifest to all the world. A great speech, a scientific discovery, a giant aqueductr a land traced with railroads, a "Mum Silh- dued, a revolution in thalliiht""these are the 'work of man, and they “1'0 visible in themselves or their effects, because they act on the material and intellectual worlds. But she who work, on the secret spirit must be content to suspect and hope that W 58 f results she feels are hers, but never dream that she will view them with the eye of sense. Things seen—these are not the sphere of woman’s labor. And the powers of womanhood, as they are spiritual, so their influences are slowly developed. Rooted in the present, they bear fruit only in the future. No woman planting her tree in the world can expect to see it blossoming in her lifetime. She sows, but another reaps; and sad would be her existence had not God bestowed on her a wondrous power of faith. She blesses and assists without knowing what she does. She stands like the world’s light-house, seeing naught herself but the cold rocks she rests on; but far away on the tossing waters of life’s tempestuous sea, the ' stormy light she carries falls in long lines of radiating comfort to warn, and cheer, and save those whom she has never known. For never in the seen or, resent can women hope to realize t eir lives. Still, this is the very thing they wish for; and there is no greater trial belonging to her sex than this, that the nature of her powers is in direct antagonism to the desires of her nature. And further, there are no greater obstacles than these desires, to her forming a true conception of her womanhood. Who is the true woman? It is she who, essentially human, finds all the jo of her life in humanity. Sepa- rated from her fellows, she dies; un- required by others, the subtle vitality of her existencra pcrishes. If she can not live as wife or mother, as sister or daughter—4f she has been robbed of these relationships by death, she becomes these to all who need. Take from her the law of her creation, force her to cease as “helpmeet” to man, or as “mother of all living.” and her life becomes a living death. Unable to live herself in others, she can 'not bear the weight of her own feelings, nor the burden of her being. She can not‘ . “in herself possess her own desire,” and thus her life is the witness to the truth ,and the redeeming power of THE HOME. self-sacrifice. She exists not to be happy, but to bless; not to gain, but to give. She only finds her rest, when she has lost her being in the ob- ject of her love, and found a new self in them. In her, indeed— “ Love takes up the H: of Life, And unites on all its c ords with might;" and in music, the chord of self, not trembling with an effort, but softly, as in a vision, passes out of sight. Pain and sorrow, even death, are crowned with light, like the glory round the head of a saint, when they are borne, that she may give life, and rest, and redemption. The meanest lot becomes divine, when she can hallow it with the sacrifice of herself. The commonest offices are touched with a strange delight, when they are done for others. The base things of nature, seen as things which she can restore and help, are clad no longer in loathsomeness, but shine as clothed with “a seraph robe of fire.” All things are interesting—all things are ennobled, when she can thus project her spiritual power upon them, and “view them in the light of that God- given knowledge, that her mission is to help and save by the sacrifice of herself. And she is highest when she does this voluntarily, and yet without self- consciousness. She is truest woman, when she lives without a self-approval of her love, when she surrenders her- self, and yet is not conscious of being noble; when she dies for others, not because it is her duty, but because she so delights to die; when she is beautiful with this spiritual beauty, and yet walks her way without a wish to muse upon her loveliness. But though her love is thus uncon- scious of her goodness, yet it is volun- tary. Iler will—her whole nature goes with it. It is a free self-deter- mination of her whole powers, in which she finds the only solution of the enigma of her existence. And because she thus loves, there‘ fore is she enduring. Enduring, 130' cause, loving on in spite of trial, a!) ‘i‘,’ i ‘9 PURE WOMAN HOOD. 59 contempt, and difficulty, the power of loving is strengthened; enduring, be. cause her joys do not rest in the ab- sence of pain or sorrow, but in the in. ward and deeper realization of that affection by which she lives. A“ the agony of the mother is as naught be- fore the thought of the life to come, in which she will lose herself anew, and of the joy, which she will give her husband. All the long years Of i11- usage, which the wife of a cruel man endures, are borne and lightened by the dream, that he, perchance, will think that she was true and tender, when she has died for him. Again, because her nature is neces- sarily possessed of this power of self- sacrificing l8ve in so much deeper a manner than that of man, therefore is she gifted with a subtler insight, and a more discriminating sympathy. For the capacity of insight is in exact pro- portion to the capacity of loving, and the power of insight is measured by the strength of love in any character, and by the amount of affection brought to bear upon the object of investiga- tion. To him wholoves the universe,‘ the “open secret” is clear. To him who loves a book, the inner compre- hension of it is granted. To him, or her, who loves a person, an intimate knowledge of that‘soul is given. And the highest woman, who pours the truest love humanity can know on those fbr whom she spends herself, has a delicate insight, which penetrates like light into the hidden springs of being and of action, and lays bare the Innermost recesses of the spirit. She sees into men and women, as the poet Shes into the world, because she loves. She is dowered with— “ The hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love ;" and for this reason also she possesses 3 discriminating sympathy. There are two kinds of sympathy. There is 9’ sympathy, which feels for humanity as a {3898, and produces philanthropy, and 18 the parent of high-sounding minim“ and socialistic systems. Of- tentlmes this is worse than useless, for not expending itself on individuals, and too slothful and dainty to carry out in action its feelings, it forgets its objects, and only suns its silken com- placency in the warmth of its self-ap- proval. This evil belongs to men and women alike; but when this large sympathy for the mass is true, and finds its complement in real work, it produces men and women like Miss Dix, Florence Nightingale, Wilberforce, or Francis Xavier; and to such men, whose object is the re- demption of masses, we give the name of benefactors of the race. Rarely do women possess this kind of sympathy, for they can not generalize sufficiently, and even should it be theirs, the prac- tical power to act on it is often want- ing, and their position shuts them out from opportunity. Their true prov- ince, when such occasion does not exist, is to arouse action by appeal to the heart. But the general sphere of woman’s sympathy is different, and the sy mpa- thy itself is different. There is a sympathy, which, not lavishing itself on the mass, discriminates individuals, and is able to apply peculiar comfort to peculiar circumstances and peculiar characters. This is especially in the power of womanhood. Itis more hidden in its action than the former, but infini- tively more practical; and the highest woman‘ possesses deep and wondrousl y effectual sympathy, because she has gained an insight through love into human character, and is able to mold herself in other forms, suitable to the various cases which she meets. , For another reason also is she thus gifted. The power of practical symd pathy, which is comfort, depends on suffering; a knowledge . of what 18 needed, in order to console, is only gained through sorrow and_ final- NOW, it, is another characteristic of womanhood, which arises from her deeper spiritual, and therefore, more delicate nature, that She Sllfl'el‘s more than men, Things, words, looks, which seem trifles to us, touch her to the. core. Trials, bereavements, and so THE HOME. sadness, which are deadened in us by our life of action and intellect, descend into and dwell in her heart. “Sor- row’s memory” to her is “sorrow still.” Her capacities of feeling are more subtle than ours, and therefore her suffering is more subtle too; and because she has thus more keenly borne the cross, therefore can she heal with a more delicate and softer touch than we; therefore is her sympathy more discriminating; therefore is it more useful, because less expended in yisions of universal improvement; and lastly, more personal, because the tendency of her nature is to individ- ualize rather than generalize. But further still, the power of applying sympathy practically, depends not altogether on suffering, but on the right conquest of suffering. A human soul may break beneath its sorrow; it may forget it in action, or crush it out by the resolution of strong will. In these cases, which are more pecu- liar, especially the two last, to men, the power of giving sympathy in a useful way is lost. But suffering, when conquered by a calm and Chris- tian endurance, when felt keenly, and yet felt as the blow of love, is changed into the power of consolation. And so the true woman, to whom this is natural, has overcome her sorrow without forgetting it in the manner most conducive to the practical power of consoling others, and that in a way to which men more rarely can attain. Surely this View opens to womanhood a, wondrous mission. We have said that women are more keenly susceptible of suffering than men. The principle on which this is founded is, that the spiritual“ is "lore delicate than the physical and intel- lectual. Now, in a woman, the spirit- ual is predominant, and therefore she is more receptive of, and sensitive to, impressions of every class. In ac- cordance with this, her physical organ- ization is more delicate than man’s, as it is to be the channel of liner intima- ‘By "spiritual" we mean all that Paul“, not only to the spirit, but also to the heart. tions, and the medium of tenderer shades of sensation. Now, from this inward and corresponding outward fineness of organization arises—so far as relates to ideas transmitted through the senses—much of the thought, and joy, and sorrow of a true woman’s life. Hence her feelings are more .subtle and more easily excited than ours; hence her feelings are keener and deeper, though not so strong as ours; hence it is that she collects delight from a smile, and happy thoughts from a word; hence it is that she en- tails sorrow on her heart from causes which were not meant to create it; hence it is that the slightest looks en- courage hope when she loves, and that she will grasp at a passingexpression, and gather it like a flower; hence it is that when her love has been cast away, and she feels the object un- worthy, she will yet cherish the mem- ory of what has been, and find a sad delight in ignoring the present, and living in the past. Hence it is that women are earlier in life more thoughtful than men, for their delicate inward being receives things which, with another tendency of womanhood, they lay up with a conservative instinct in their hearts— things, and looks, and words, which the sharp, objective vivacity of boy- hood passes over. And this extends itself through all existence. And women have a wondrous intertwined symphony of inner and most delicate thought which forms a second life, whose mystic music men have never heard—have not even, we believe, conceived. It will afterward be seen how this peculiarity fits them for discharging a peculiar office in literature. It is true that this thoughtfulness does not produce great works, and is not manifest to the world. But for this there are obvious reasons. The things of the inner heart are ever unutter- able in language. Speech fades be fore the power of feeling. " For words are weak. and most to seek, When wanted fifty-fold." PURE WOMANHOOD. 61 And not only unutterable, but also unspeakable.‘ There broods ‘ above them a hallowed air, to break whose waves with speech were sacrilege. To vulgarize her inmost self, no idea can be to woman more full of shud- dering than that. It is hers by right of possession, and no kaiser or king may touch with despotic hand that mystic woof and warp of thought which shares her loneliness with God. Men see it only in the undefiled and fleeting changes of the face—in all the cloudlike shiftings of expreSSion—in the individuality of manner, but never as it is. ' True is this also of men. In our inmost nature we are all alone— “ Each in his hidden sphere of joy and woe, Our hermit spirits dwell and range apart." But it is naturally and more especially true of women. And again, arising from this deli- cacy ofinward organization, joined to its outward and fitting vehicle, women are more receptive of natural beauty than men. In a peculiar way, how- ever. Thc man admires the landscape as a whole, with all its parts bound together by one law into a glorious unity; his eye dwells with pleasure on the sunset sky, and or! the ever- lasting downfall of the cataract; but he pierces beyond the pleasure of sensation, .and marks the various waving of the cloud march in its obe- dience to law, and the majestic sub- mission of the water atoms to the force of gravitation; he sees the bar- mony of the evening vapors with the land and sea they hover over; he, combines the sound of the cataract with the silence of the' pines, and its White and leaping radiance with the rainbow which arches there, and with the darkness of the swift eddies which, in the hollowed pool beneath, contrast with the foam above. For man’s idea of beauty is not complete, till he has added to the pleasure of the eye and ear, the sense of harmony and law—mud in him the latter often pre- dominates over the former. But women rarely generalize thus, and never possess in the same fullness this power of reference to law, which is the parent in the artist of his greatest gift——harmonious composition. Her pleasure is more the result of fine sensational impressions, and she is entranced by the minutenesses of na- ture, and by the portions of a land- scape. The violet which nestles in the moss beneath the oak is dearer to her than the thought of the law of its growth. The fern which shakes its penciled shadow in the still pool of the mountain-stream is the object of tenderer love to her than the law of its reflection. The delicacy of color in the light and breezy cirrus which lengthens forth its golden fibers to follow the sun it loves, is sweeter to her than the knowledge of its harmony of tone with every tint in sea and land beneath it. “I feel, I feel,” she cries, “ do not destroy my keen and silvery delight by reasons and by law. The loveliness of all and each enters my heart, and fills it to the brim—l have no room for thought; and when the beauty I have seen returns on me at night, ‘ And strikes upon that inward eye ' Which is the’ bliss of solitude,‘ it is mine not to reason on, but to mingle with my inner life, to add deli- cacy to my associations and my past, to exalt my spirit more and more to the high region where all beauty shall be perfect, and all purity be stain- less.” Thus, in womanhood’s gaze at nature the emotional predominates over the intellectual, and the sense of the delicacy of the parts overcomes her appreciation of the whole. And from these grounds, and from a con- ‘ sequence naturally following, we aha hereafter deduce the position and mis- sion of women in artistic life. The same principles up U to the reception by women of a1 beauty, whether in art or 1110830, 01' m the higher beauty, which appeals to their intellect and spirit in Poetry 01' 1‘8- ligion, in noble words or noble action. Such are some of the effects of deli- ' cacy of inward organization in eonueo. rues... A ~ 62 THE HOME. tion with ideas received through the senses. And resulting from all these there is another characteristic which belongs to womanhood: deep unsatisfaction. We do not say dissatisfaction, but un- satisfaction. A woman is not satisfied with approximation to her ideal, but desires ever to be the very thing she wishes to be. Now her spiritual na- ture, which delicatizes the minute, aspires to be equal in the smallest point to her ideal, and the conse- quence is that she becomes not only confused in the multitude of thoughts, _but also the more she advances the higher does her ideal become. Hence results deep unsatisfaction, a deep sense of her own weakness, which, had she not as deep a trust, would end in des air. hese two, high ideals and deep un- satisfaction, follow her through life; and, whether she be artist or writer, musician or religionist,—that is, whether she strive to realize the intui- tive beauty, or the intuitive love of oodness within her, she will either ose the power of expression from the overwhelming emotions which over- come her, or she will 'want that sense of self-confidence, which, above all, must belong to him or her who greatly creates in art or literature, or greatly invents in science. Hence it is that woman does not invent or create at first hand. She does create, truly create at second hand; but this we shall more fully enter into afterward. And now, what is the quality of pure womanhood which binds all these into a whole? What is the bond of her perfectness? It is purity. With- out that her life is a ship which has lost its rudder. . There it lies, sleeping on a calm sea, with its shrouds penc'lled against the golden sky. and its sails opening their snowy folds in loveliness, with its tapering masts and fair-built hull re- flected in mass and wavering lines ydd'wn into the summer sea—beautiful ‘and fair vision, dreaming on the ocean of existence. But the winds of trial begin to blow, and the temptations of life arise in waves, and the sharp hail of sorrow, and the scathing lightniugs beat and dazzle on her fairness; and when the tempest has past, where is that phantom of delight? She lies on the cold rocks, and shattered, and des- pised, and lost, for the rudder of purity was not there. - But where purity is, where a wom- an has kept that palladium safe from hostile hand, and defiling touch or thought, there every quality and power is sanctified and ennobled, ex- alted and refined ; and if trial or temptation, sorrow or dismay, should wake in wrath or woe upon her, the woman who is pure within keeps her ,life unstained and perfect, like Alpine snow which is beaten by the rain and hail into the more crystal clearness of the glacier ice, and swept by the tem- pest into the more dazzling spotless- ness which glitters on the aiguille. Such is something of the glory of pure womanhood. To be true to that which we have but imperfectly de- scribed, how 'noble a mission! N0 vaster field of work is given to man, no greater resulting possibilities of action lie before manhood in this world. If remains for us to say to man, in whatever position God has placed you, work there with truth to pure manhood, and you .will fulfill your mission ; to woman, in whatever position God has placed you, work there with truth to pure womanhood, and you will fulfill your mission; to both, never repine, never seek to step beyond yourselves, never violate your natural character or tempera- ment voluntarily, never bind your- selves to any particular mode of ao- tion—be free, faithful, unfearing, wise. Be content, and know that where you are, there is the best place, and there your noblest mission. Lastly, these powers of pure womanhood, which we have been de- scribing, are spiritual powers. We have used the word spiritual as em- bracing under it all in us that is not physical or intellectual, all that be- .‘g .fl/ , i," 1' , i} 1 ;7 El. ., ’ 3’3. ~ --;.} . i372 . g. ’ THE Kiss mm THE DOOR. 63 longs to the heart and spirit. We do not say that women have not intel- lectual or physical powers, nor that men have not spiritual; but this we do say, that in man the two former predominate, in woman the latter. Every action and thought of woman- hood is penetrated by, and draws its life from, and has its foundation on, her spiritual powers. We can call to mind no purely intellectual or physi- cal work done by a woman. Her heart and spirit give the motives of her life. She arrives at truth, she is an artist, thinker, worker, by her spiritual powers. She must be edu- cated, redeemed, exalted by appeals to these. She is all she is by them; she lives, and dies, and loves, arid suf- fers through these, by these she is trained for heaven. Now, from a false perversion, or rather from an ignorant persuasion of this truth, the common proverb, which we hear from menh, as arisen: “A woman’s strength is her weakness.” The real origin of the saying is this: most men think that only strong which openly appears strong, or is manifested in forcible results. But they can not also help seeing that woman prevails where they have failed, that she does a mighty work in the world, and possesses enormous influence, and then they leap to the conclusion that she wins because she is weak, and that they give way to her because it is manly to give way to that which has no power of resist- ance; as if it were manly to surrender to weakness at all times. No; men give way, women have strength and influence because they work by pow- ers which, to the coarse and ignorant, appear weak, but which in reality are the strongest. _ If we look, then, largely on human- lty as a whole, made up of woman- hood and manhood, we arrive at this final reshlt: Womanhood is the spirit ofhumanity; manhood, the body and mind. She bears the same relation to Ifumanity 2. the contentplative and 931mg Powers in an individual do to k the reasoning and active. Without either, humanity would be no more; separated, humanity is useless, the world is at a dead lock ; together, hand in hand, and heart in heart, our fallen but divine humanity advances nobly, freely, usefully to do its work, eliminatin’g slowly and unconsciously out of unknown quantities the great equation which shall be, when the race, emerging from many an /Eonian storm, shall at last progress into that golden year which all high hearts, and all fair song, and all true philosophy, has prophesied for man. THE KISS AHINT THE DOOR. There’s meikle bliss in ac fond kiss, Whyles mair than in a score; But wae betak’ the stonin smack I took shint the door. “ O laddie whisht; for sic a fricht I ne‘er was in afore, Fu’ brawly did my mither hear The kiss ahint the door.” The wa’s are thick, ye needna fear, But gin they jeer an’ mock, I’ll swear it was a startit cork, Or wytc the rusty lock. There‘s meikle bliss, etc. We stappit ben, while Maggie’s face Was like s. lowin’ coal; And as for me I could ha’e crept Into a rabbit’s hole. The mither lookt, save’s how she lookt! Thae mithers are a here, An’ gleg as ony cat to hear A kiss ahint the door. There’s meikle bliss, etc. The douce gudeman, though he was there, _ As weel micht been in Rome, For by the fire he fuff’d his pipe, And never fash’d his thoom ; But titterin’ in a corner stood The gawky sisters four, A winter's nicht for me they mic.ht Hae stood ahint the door. There’s meikle'bliss, etc- “ How daur ye tak’ sic freedoms here ?” The bauld gudewife began. at Wi‘ that a foursome yell got up, I to my heels sn’ rsn ; A besom whiskit by my lug, Au' dishclouts half s score : Ouch me again, though fidgin’ fain, At kissin’ 'hint the door. There’s meikle bliss, etc, _ s L2,}. . w! the streng common-sense, for which {on have been so much commended, Permit me'i . , Lm/ . n' , A . L . . 64 THE Indus. TIIE UN WILLING WIFE. BY CLARA AUGUSTA. “ ISTER Henrietta, please do not urge this matter further. Mr. Hazlehurst is positively disagreeable to me!” “Nonsense! Isabel! only’ a girl’s foolish fancy! Pray, what more could you desire in a husband than ypu wOuld find in Mr. Hazlehurst? e._is rich, influential, respected in so- ciety above all others; and every one confesses that his claims to manly beauty are not small. You are fas- tidious to require more i” ' “Perhaps so! but I do, neverthe- less. I require what Mr. Hazlehurst can never give me; it is his right to receive that which I can never bestow on him ! Henrietta, it is an old-fash- ioned belief that only mutual love offers a secure foundation for the ren- dering up of vows important as those of marriage, and I have always been a convert to that doctrine!” “Very true, my sister—but your heart is now smarting under a be- reavement—a bereavement which bears a hidden blessing in its sting! You have been a long time affianced to George Sydney, and now, a light Kenniary misfortune has shown you c strength of his affection, and driven him from your side. You are not now prepared to think calmly and dispas- sionately. of a future union with any man; and for some reason, it seems ou have taken an unwarrantable dis- ike to Mr..Hazlehurst. I will not urge the subject further, but allow me to ask you to think well before you give your final decision.” “I have thought of it, Henrietta, and I have only to repeat that should I marry Mr. IIazlehurst, I should do him a. reat wrong—a wrong for which I am unwilling to take the re- sponsibility upon my soul! Is there no other way to aid poor Charles?" “Again—that question? Isabel, as evidently left you. i to review, briefly, the occurrences of the last six months. Charles Gran- ville, our brother, is left by his father without a fortune—dependent upon his own exertions for a livelihood. Kindly and generously he is admitted into the establishment of Hazlehurst & Co. as accountant. Unknown to his friends, he falls into bad company —temptation assails him—he is una- ble to resist,—-—he loses large sums at the gaming-table—his honor becomes involved, and in an evil moment, for- saken by his good angel, he commits a forgery upon the name of his em- ployers, intending to pay back the amount. His crime is discovered; his act of false dishonesty is known! You nfay be aware of the punishment which the law inflicts on the forger? They could give him up to justice— to disgrace—to a prison !——to eternal death! Mark the difference of inten- tion. Instead of this, the senior part- ner of the firm our brother has in- jured, a man of fine personal appear- ance, superior education, and immense wealth, offers you his hand in mar- riage; thus making the sin of our brother his own family secret, and covering his disgrace beneath the shield of ' his own spotless honor! Consider this proposal magnanimous in another light. One year ago, you were betrothed to a young man of proud family—one whom you loved— one who, you thonght,,loved you in return. Two months after your be- trothal—when the marriage day was appointed, and the Wedding garments bespoken—our father died. An in- vestigation of his business affairs proved his estate insolvent; his great wealth has been swept away in com- mercial speculations—his children find themselves reduced to penury. Your devoted lover becomes, as it were, a new being; his professed regard is changed—reduced—obliterated! He pleads a prior attachment, and leaves you to decide his fate. Your decision, Isabel, was that of a true woman! Had you done otherwisgl should have scorned you—I should have regretted THE UNWILLING WIFE. that ever a sister was born to me! You dismissed him calmly, coldly, uietly, as unworthy further thought. %‘or this I honor you. Prove your- self, then, not undeserving my ex- tended respect. You may be Charles’ salvation, or condemnation, as you choose. Think well before you con- sign your only brother to everlasting reproach l” The door closed behind the retreat- ing form of Henrietta Raymond, and Isabel was alone. For a WhOIG hour, measured the Gothic time-piece upon the mantel, the poor girl re- mained with her head bowed upon her folded arms, and her eyes closed in meditation. Then she arose, pushed back the heavy bands ofhair from her forehead, advanced to the bell-cerd, and rang. Shortly a servant appeared. “James, ask Mrs. Raymond to come down.” But a little time elapSed crc Ilen- rietta made her appearance. “ Well, Isabel?” “Sister, 1 have decided. marry Mr. Hazlehurstl” Isabel’s face was ashy pale, but her voice was steady and composed. A flash of joyful satisfaction lit up the countena'ncc of Mrs. Raymond, and she would have embraced her sister, but Isabel drew back with an impa- tient gesture. “-God bless you, Isabel! You have saved the honor of our family.——per- haps the everlasting destruction of our brother, for the terrible ordeal of- courts and prisons would have been too much for him ! And now, shall I Send the accepted lover, to your pres- ence?” “Henrietta, did you mark well my form of expression? I said I would marry Mr. Hazlehurst; but, if I rightly recollechpno allusion was made to loving him i Spare me that mock- ery, at least. I do not love the man; _.8hall make no treacherous profes- sions of the tender feeling toward I will him; hutif my life is spared,l will he‘ ornament to his parlors, and the ma- chine which is to keep his domestic affairs in ‘running order.’ Now, leave me, Henrietta, I Wish to be alone.” The conversation of the sisters has revealed enough of the family history," without extended explanation. For the rest, Henrietta was the wife of a distinguished lawyer in the city of Portland; and Isabel Granville, since the death of her father, had found a home with Mrs. Raymond. Both the sisters were beautiful, al- though scarcely a resemblance existed between them. Henrietta was a light- haired, blue-eyed, rosy-lipped blonde, with a warm heart, an impulsive na- ture, and a broad stratum of common- sense underlying her whole charac- ter. She rarely advised, and then, never without a sure conviction of her correctness; and the reader has seen how much her influence was able to work upon the sterner nature of her sister. Isabel Granville was a woman whom you would have singled out from a crowd; not so much for,her beauty, as for the steady light of truth and earnestness which beamed from her eyes, and stamped every feature of her face. .You felt, instinctively, ’ that she could be trusted with the most secret thoughts of your heart without fear of betrayal; she would never deceive you, and all her action; were open to the eye of the world. For all this, her nature was strongly reticent; she made no confidant“, 31' though she won many to confide in her- Her education was solid, rat-he" than ornamental; but her 1111181081 powers were highly superior» 3nd had been careful] y cultivated. Her V0108 had a peculiar thrill of “wetness, and when once heard, was never for- ~ gotten. William Hazlehurst had met Isabel often in the refined CirCIeS in which he“ moved, and for the first time in his ‘ to him the thing which he wishekan .life, his heart was interested. He had i 3. h ! 66 THE HOME. . for some time been the peculiar target for match-making mothers, and by them he had begun to be considered as invulnerable. He was twenty—nine years of age,-—five years established in his profession, the law; and as Mrs. Raymond had said, he was wealthy and influential, both in the legal and mercantile world, for he was the head of a large commercial firm. Nothing daunted by the invariable coldness of Isabel, he had offered her his hand, and she had asked three days to consider the proposal. When the time had expired, Mr. Hazlehurst came for her reply, and Isabel went down to the parlor with a calm brow, but with a struggle in her heart. The thought of her brother saved from public disgrace nerved her in her resolution, and she gave him her decision with cold composure. To his passionate acknowledgments of pleasure, she vouchsafed no re- joinder, but when he had ceased speaking, she said,— “Mr. Hazlehurst,l shall make no effort to deceive you. I am unaccus- tomed to dissimulation, and moreover, I‘despise it. Therefore, I prefer to tell you the truth. You know of my former engagement—you are, also, advised of the rude manner in which that tie was sundered. 'I loved Mr. Sydney once; now I can regard him only with contemptuous indifference. But while ceasing to love him, it changes not my feeling toward others. Mr. Hallehurst, I do not love you; I WiSh you to distinctly understand that I make no professions of this kind in the connection. I say this to you freely and frankly——[ would deceive no peI‘SOI}; for I have felt the shar sting of misplaced confi- dence. f, knowing all, you still wish to make me your wife,-—my consent ' is given.” « A flush of involuntary pain crossed the forehead of Mr. Hazlehurst; but directly, he replied,— “Miss Granville, I thank you for thought that it is the truth wounds me deeply. Loving, or unloving, I will take you, trusting to time, and‘ the fidelity of a heart which has never owned other allegiance, to win at least your favor, if not your love.” “You will oblige me, sir, by not al- luding to love. Our compact is to be marriage, if I rightly understand,— and now, for the present, adieu. You will exercise your right of calling, whenever inclination prompts you, Good morning, Mr. Hazlehurst.” She bowed, and passed from the room. v: s v: a: * «1: Time passed on; and the wedding- day was fixed. Mr. Hazlchurst’s house in Leroy Square was in readi- ness,—he had long kept his own estab- lishment,—and he was anxious that its proper mistress should take pos- session. lsabel offered no objection to a speedy union; so long as it was inevitable, she cared not how soon it was over. . The ceremony was performed in church; and from the perfume of orange flowers, and the soft, fluttering breaths of the bridal vail, Isabel awoke to find herself a wife,—installed in a home of her own, the sole pro- prietress of 'a multitude of graceful apartments, fitted up in a style 6f almost oriental splendor. There were well-trained servants to obey her slightest bidding; a carriage and horses ever at her command; but her heart found no content amid all the elegancies of this princely establish- ment. Fully, now, she realized the extent of the sacrifice she had made to pre- serve her brother’s honor. Mr. Hazlehurst was all that the most exacting woman could require. Polite, attentive, even tender; but his wife sighed softly fb herself when she thought how utterly impossible it was for her to love him, in return for his kindness. She, scorning deception, received all his lover-like dcmonstra’ Pens with uniform coldness, and after speaking the “nth, even though the a time, her indifference had its legiti- s O .7 St vs I; i ?‘ 3 I THE UNWILLING WIFE. mate effect, and he ceased all passion- ate rofessions of attachment. T ey entertained much company, and were much abroad in society; but nothing could exceed the calm courtesy with which Mrs. Hazlehurst received the congratulations of her friends, and the gratified ex ressions of satisfaction with which rs. Ray- mond often annoyed her. Every one was loud in their praise of the extreme beauty and grace of Mrs. Hazlehurst, and admirers clus. tered thickly about her, only to be repelled and astonished by the cool contempt with which she rebuked their silly flatteries. By degrees, the quiet care which her husband took for every thing per- taining to her happiness, so wrought upon the noble nature of lsabel, that she began to feel a new and strange interest in the man she had wedded without love. This change came slowly, and almost imperceptibly, but it was a most delightful one; and often she caught herself wondering over the lightness of her heart, and the unusual buoyancy of her spirits. She began to wait impatiently, at night, for her husband’s return home; to feel inquietude if he failed to arrive punctually; to blush like a girl at the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. Still, her manner toward him remained unchanged, for as yet, she was unable to interpret aright the Eew feelings which she entertained for 1m. Returning home, at dusk, from a visit to one of the many poor families which she was in the habit of visiting to dispense her charities, her husband passed her in a carriage. She glanced “P, and saw that by his side was a. young and beautiful girl, dressed with exquisite taste and elegance. Her $06 was fresh, fair, and lovely,r—the blue eyes were raised to those of Mr. Hazlehurst, while his head was bent , so low toward her, that the raven blackness of his hair mingled with the golden locks upon her forehead. A sharp pang shot through Isabel’s heart as she gazed. A year ago, she could not have believed that any cir- cumstance could have led her to feel such an' agony for William Hazle- hurst. Pale and trembling, she hast- ened home, and flung herself upon a sofa, to think—she said to herself— calmly over the matter. But her brain was in a whirl, she was power- less to control her thoughts, and she experienced a temporary sensation of relief when she was summoned to the parlor to entertain a gay company of visitors. Their lively small talk helped her, for the time, to drive away the dull, dead conviction of what she had seen. The following morning, after the breakfast things had been taken away, Mr. Hazlehurst said,—holding the door in his hand,— “ Urgent business calls me to New York for a few days, and as I shall on by the noon 'train, I shall not, probably, have the pleasure of seeing you again before my departare. You will not be lonely during my absence —y0ur friends will give you much of their society, and my loss will not be felt i” He spoke as though he hoped that her answer might be a disclaimer of the sentiment he had uttered. But no; though she longed to say some- thing different, her pride iiirbade her. She scorned to question him on the occurrence of yesterday—the honor of her husband should be above suspicion. She replied,— “ Whenever business calls Mr. Han zlehnrst away, it is the duty of his wife to submit.” , Her strong emphasis on the word business gave the gentleman a Si?th he turned, and looked searchineg Into her face, but evidently failing to read its expression, he touched her hand lightly to his lips, boweq, and left the apartment. The moment he had gone, Isabel was seized 'with a desire to follow him to the depot, and scarcely stopping to, wrap herself in a large shawl, she went out. She was just in time to THE HOME. see a clOse carriage driven to the plat- form; her husband issued hurriedly from the gentlemen’s room, and open- ing the carriage door, assisted the lady of the golden hair to alight. He held her in his arms a moment, and as he put her down he kissed her pure forehead. Isabel was so very near that she distinctly heard the words he addressed to the strange lady. “Helen, dearestl'l so feared you would be too late! All is well—l would risk every thing for your sake ! You are all, the only one that is left to love me!” Then, he drew her into the waiting car,—-seated himself beside her,-—the bell rang,——there was a rumble, as of distant thunder, and the cars vanished from Isabel’s sight. She went home, slowly and deliber- ately, as one in a somnambulic sleep. Her senses were benumbed—her strong love of virtue and honor out- raged; the man whom she had re- garded as faultless in integrity had been unmasked—a picture of shame ‘ and sin! And this was her husband. The one whose name she bore, whose horhgv‘she shared —ay, the one to whbm‘ her heart was beginning to j ‘ cling with all the firm tenacity of her - Hfi’wfl‘mau’s nature. Now she knew that s53?" latterly she had loved William Ha- }, zlehurst—that for weeks his presence had been dearer to her than the adu- lation o .«the crowd, and the specious voice of soft-toned flattery. The realization came too late. She felt herself disgraced by harboring one tender feeling toward one so do. graded—41nd summoning all her reso- lution, she penned the following brief note: 'Ma. Runaway—Sir: Duty bids me to leave your house, and I Obey her command implicitly, feeling how utterly impossible it would be for me to render respect to the man who deceitfully pleads business as an excuSe for his absence with a paramour. Yours, etc. ISABEL GRANVILLE. ‘ The wronged wife sealed this letter, and laid it upon the dressing-table in her husband’s chamber. Then, She returned to her own room, and select- ' ing the plainest dress her wardrobe contained, she put it on, and making a small bundle of some simple articles which she needed, she wrapped a shawl around her, and set out for the residence of her sister. Henrietta and Mr. Raymond were out riding, the servant said, and Isabel went in to await their return. Alas! woe and desolation were in store for that once happy home, and the grim feet of Death were drawing nigh to its threshold l -' They came home—both of them—- the husband and wife,——but how? Mr. Raymond was beyond all earthly solicitude, and Henrietta bruised, bleeding, and dying! V It was all briefly explained to the horrified Isabel in a few words. The horse which Mr. Raymond had driven, was a spirited animal, and just beyond the limits of the city he had been frightened by a kite—he had become unmanageable, upset the car. riage, and flung its occugants Violently against a curb stone. r. Raymond was killed instantly, but Henrietta still lived; and thus they came home. The physician who was called pro- nounced Henrictta’s injuries fatal, but she lingered in great pain until sunrise the next n‘iorning, Her last words were addressed to Isabel, as the latter sat, speechless with grief, at her bed- side. “ My sister,l am dyingfigoing to join llarry,—and for this I am thank- ful. I could not live apart from him! And sister, now, with the sharpened Vision of one nearing the confines of eternity,l see for you much happiness in this world l You have enjoyed but little—I know it well,——but the future will atone for all! Remem- ber, lsabcl, your dying sister tells you that you will be happy l” "‘3' And holding the hands of her brother and sister—~her spirit passed away. ‘ s- a s- 4: a at Charles Granville, redeemed, per- haps, from a life of infamy by his sis- THE UNWILLING WIFE. 69 ter’s marriage with Mr. Hazlehurst, was inexpressibly shocked and indig- nant when informed of the suspicious conduct of that sister’s husband. He cursed himself as the wretched cause of all her unhappiness—43nd over the coffin of Henrietta he made a solemn vow never to bring a pang of grief to the heart of Isabelby his 0.wn volii tion, so long as God should spare his life. After what had passed, he would remain no longer in the service of Mr. Hazlehurst—-he could not tolerate the presence of the man who had so. fonlly disgraced his sister. Immediately after the funeral of. Mr. and Mrs. Raymond, young Gran- ville accompanied lsabel to the distant village of Beechdell, where a sister of their mother resided, who would gladly give her niece a home so long as she might require it. Having seen. his sister safely arrived there, Charles Granville went back to Portland to attend to the settlement of the atl'airs of his late brother-in-law, and after- ward, to get employment in Some dry-goods establishment as clerk. When he had gone, Isabel, after the first few days, grew restless and un- easy; her mind dwelt continually On her husband, and other emotions than that of indignation stirred her nature toward him. She was angry with herself, when she realized that she felt grief at his conduct—she was vexed that, away from him, she lost the sweet sense of content which she had recently enjoyed. Much to the scandal of her good Aunt Mary, Isabel proposed engaging in some active employment, which would not only occupy her mind, but assist in her support; and as she was admirably qualified for a music-teach- er, she, ere long, decided to Offer her- 8“ to the people of Beechdell in that Gaggcity. - . y a stroke of good fortune, she ob- tained the patronage of Mrs. Clieswill, of Cheswill Hall, the most aristocratic lady in the place, and directly, seVeral Other families, aping their leader, en. gaged Isabel as instructress for their children. So in a very short space. of time she had a large class of pupils; and her method giving excellent satis-‘ faction, she found herself able to earn sufficient for her comfortable subsist- ence without depending upon her aunt. Cheswill Hall, whither Miss Gran- ville (lsabel had dropped the name of Hazlehurst) went every day, was a miracle of taste and elegance. Old, gray, and massive was the main body of the building, but additions that had been made from time to time ina modern style of architecture, gave the place an air of lightness and comfort which gratified inexpressibly the eye of the beholder. Creeping vines climbed luxuriantly over the windows, and twined the white pillars of the wide piazzas, while the magnificent beeches, which grew spontaneously, threw a shade like twilight into all the apartments. , Glimpses of the blue, gliding Mer- rimack could be had at intervals, be- tween breaks in the line of foliage; and afar oil‘ the peaks of the dark mountains lifted up'their heads to drink in the red light ofsunset. There were great rocks, and green dells, and Quiet “ingles,” all around the broad domain of Cheswill, and the love of natu e in Isabel’s bosom was daily and ourly gratified by the loveliness ofCheswlll. At the Hall, Miss Granville was received not as an inferior, but as an equal, and her [connection with this pleasant family seemed to bid fair to bring her content, if not happiness. Eugenie Cheswill, a young lady about seventeen years of age, W88 Per pupil, and to a younger sister, Alice, she gave lessons in penciling. Thus, she was much at the H8“, and Often in the company of St. .JOh“ Clwswm, the only son, and heir of (,heswill Hall. St. J.,hn was about twentyfive, tall, finely formed, and handsome almost, to'a fault. He was impetu. ous, warm-hearted, and generous; and W“ flhw'Afi-éffiém‘“, ,_ mug”... . , V ._ . -:, I I“ My . . ’ ' “ "J" l" 3 . r “ ; . a. :«rx RU \ .W a...» a... ,L a)“ . a:;..- a “' *2 u-e‘~;»~3~+<€«~'es h" g ‘r i" fit?» a 70 I a THE HOME. bestowed an admiration of the in- tensest kind upon Miss Granville. He, of course, knew nothing of her previous history—nor did he care; he loved her, and was unaccustomed to look for any obstacle in the path of his wishes. The world might say just what it pleased, he had a right to choose whom he willed, and if he could win Isabel Granville for a wife, he would do it in the face of the Eng- lish blood and nobility from which the Cheswills were descended ! His lover-like attentions were most distressing to Isabel, and she strove by every means in her power to show him how very disagreeable his untir- ing perseverance had become to her. But her coldness only increased his ardor, and at last, he resolved to bring matters to a crisis. They were left alone for a little while, and im- groving the favorable opportunity, t. John flung himself at her feet, and besought her favor. , Isabel, shocked and distressed be. yond measure, threw off the hand with which he clasped hers, and would {have rushed from the room without a word, but be grasped her arm, and detained her. “ No, Miss Granville, you shall not go until my fate is decided! Speak, and tell me ifI have loved in vain l” ' “You have—~you have, indeed l” she cried passionately. “St. ohn Cheswill, let me go! I am the wife of another!” She hurried from him, leaving him petrified by her words; and throwing on her hennet and shawl, she quitted the house. Down the broad sloping avenue she flew rather than walked- out of the grunt gate into the green, quiet lane, which led down to the vil- lage. Half way down the lane, breathless with her flight, she paused a moment to collect herself, and sit. ting down on the green bank of the alder-hung brook, she hurled her face in her hands. The quick tread of an a preaching horse disturbed her, and rising, she found herself fabe to face with her husband! IIe sprang from his horse, and laid his hand firmly, though gently, upon her shoulder, for she was hastening away. “Nay, Isabel, Providence has cast you in my Way, and you shall not go until we fully understand each other l” “I understand enough, sir! me to‘ pass on l” The old haughtiness came back to her face—she made an effort to escape, but his strong arm held her fast. “ Not until I clear my character of the black shadow which you see upon it; not until 1 prove to you that though I may never possess your love, I am yet worthy of your respect! Isabel, the woman with whom you have associated me in crime, is my sister! You start, and look sur. prised,-—you were unaware that such a relationship was mine,——allow me to relate to you a brief story ?” Isabel bowed her head, with a strange feeling of wonder and curiosi- ty, and he continued,—— “Years ago, a young and fair woman saw the earth clOSe over the coffin of her husband, and found her- self and her little son alone in the world to fight the fierce battle of life. Her fortune was small, but with care- ful management it yielded her a com- fortable maintenance; and for nine years she remained a widow. At the expiration of that time, she met and loved Grant Welburn, the only child of a proud and aristocratic family in Boston. Welburn was a noble-hearted ' fellow, and the young widow became Very dear to him, first from her re- semblance to a dear sister who had been dead for some years—afterward for herself. He felt that he could en- joy no happiness unshared by her; and very urgently he besonght her to consent to a private union. His father was aged and feeble; a man 29f immense Wealth and indomitable pride; he had set his heart on having his son become the hesband of some woman of a family equal in social worth to his own, and his sanctiOn could not be obtained to the marriage Permit ‘rft're THE UNW'I‘LLING WIFE. ,f' 71 of Grant with the comparatively ob- cnre widow. The eloquence of her lover won her over, for with true womanly unselfishness, she placed Grant’s interest before her own—and the two were wedded privately at the residence of the aged clergyman of the village. The only witness to the ceremony was Col. Wright, a naval ofiicer, and a strong friend.0f the bridegroom. The fact of this max:- riage was to be kept.secret,untll Grant had firmly established himself in business, for until then he could not afford to brave the anger of his father. Eighteen months flitted by in a dream of bliss to the two thus clan- destinely mated; and then Mrs. Wel- burn became the mother of a daugh- ter! Such an event could not be hidden from the eyes of the curious villagers, and the fair fame. of the un- acknowledged wife was blackened, and her name bandied about the streets. Grant \Velburn could not bear this: and from New York, where he was located in business, he Set forth for Boston—resolved to disclose all, and throw himself upon the mercy of his father. ln this purpose, Death de- feated him. In the great railroad col- lision which at that time sent mourn- ing to many a home, Grant Welburn met his end! The first terrible shock of his sudden death over, Mrs. \Vel- burn thought of her child. lts iuno. cence must be substantiated—its birth CleanSCd from stain! Alas! how was it to be. done? Weak and feeble she arose from her bed of sickness, and Set on foot measures to prove her marriage with the late Mr. Welhurn. It was in vain. The minister who had married them, had lain for Some Months in the tomb, and the marriage Certificate had been given into the keeping of C0], Wright, for safety. 8 i -luck would have it, the ship to which Wright, belonged had been or- ' dered to India; and not a week before the birth of Mrs. Welburn‘s child, the foreign newspapers had contained no- tices of the death of Col. \Vright. Thus was she cut off from all chance VOL. VIII. 5 of proving the legitimacy of her child. I will not weary you by relating the many fruitless pilgrimages which she made to her husband’s family—.1 will not tell you of the bitter scorn with which they sent her away from their door ;—and at last, broken-hearted, and despairing, she yielded up her life i” Mr. IIazelhnrst paused, and for several moments remained with his face buried in his hands. Presently, he continued,— “ IIer boy, then fifteen years of age, was kindly adopted by a gentle- man of benevolence, as well as wealth, residing in a neighboring city, and through his patron’s kindness, he was educated for the bar. The girl, Helen, then five years old, was placed by the same good man, with a respectable family in a western village, to board. Her birth, and its attendant cirCumr stances, were a secret to her protect- ors, and untaunted by her playmates, Helen Welburn grew up to woman- hood, lovely in mind and person. Her brother regarded her with pride and afi'eetion,—ay, with love—tender and true as that which a lover gives to his mistress. His sister was a part of himself, and he only prayed to live until he could see her acknowledged by her father’s kindred, and placed in that sphere of life to which she right- fully belonged. IIe brooded much upon this subject, and people called him cold and self-absorbed, when he was only grieving because of his mother’s wrongs. At the age of twenty-Him», he loved, for the fir“ time. This new passion intensified his whole life, and changed him in.“ a new being. But the girl upon whom he lavished all this heart-wealth, was simply indifferent to him—She loved no other—but she loved not him. ller friends urged her to marry" him i she frankly told him her sentiments, leaving him at liberty t0 1‘1le all, and take her, or enduretlw deeper Wreteh. cdness of going away lrom her pres. ence forever! He grasped at this frail hope of happiness, and made her 72 his wife! Immediately after his mar- riage, he wrote to his sister and told , her the story of his love. His wife, he - said, was proud, but she had a noble na- " ture, and she would not cast Helen out from her heart because the false World deemed her the offspring of shame. But‘ Helen said differently. If the bride loved not the brother, she would despise the sister,——and with her arms about her brother’s neck, and her tears on his cheek, She made him promise, never to reveal the fact of her existence to his wife, until it Could be made clear to the eyes of all men that her mother was lawfully married to Grant Welburn. She felt that some time, in some manner, this would be; and until then she could wait for a. sister’s love ! Subsequent events proved Ilelen correct in her preSentiim-nt. Col. Wright had not died, as the papers had stated—he had only been very ill. and immedi- ately after his recovery, his rtgirnent having been ordered to a distant fron- tier, he had found no time to contra- dict the rumor. Accidentally, Ilelen’s brother met this Col. Wright in New York,fsoo'n after the return of the latter to the United States, and by a strange interposition of I’rovidenCe, they became mutually acquainted. Of course, the wrong was righted,—-— the marriage certificate of Mr. .and Mrs. Welburn was produced—and the name of Juliette Welburn was as fair in the eyes of the world as the light; of heaven! Isabel,—the lady who accompanied me to New York was llelen Welburn; and \Villiam Ilazlehursf, the Sun of the widow, stands before you! It was to bring my sister to her father’s relatives that I “visited New York, iiil' she would mo; consult, to see you until she, was duly acknowledged as Grant Wel- biirn’s daughter. That has taken place. Her aged grandmother, long repentant tor the. part she had played toward her Son's wife, r('('('th‘(l Ilelen with open arms, and to day my sister THE HOME. of much inquiry, learned that you had come to Beechdell, I had thought, perhaps, to learn of him, something concerning your whereabouts. Iwished to clear mySelf in your eyes, Isabel; for ifI am nothing to you, I could not bear that you should think me guilty of such a crime against you! If I have sinned in keeping all this a se- cret, forgive me!” Isabel laid both her hands in his. A strange, sweet happiness filled her soul. . “God be thanked—VVilliam!” she said fervently. “God be thanked !” Mr. IIazelhurst started, and a deep flush of crimson swept up to his brow. He looked searchineg into her face as he spoke,— “What means it, Isabel? Why did you call nie, William ! Why did you thank God that I am not what I Seemed '2” The tones of her reply were low and broken, but he. heard her. “Because, at last, I have loved you !” Still he seemed to doubt, and again his dark,earncst eyes searched her face, “ Isabel, you would not deceive me? Tell me, if at last, my love so long wasted, has met with a response ?” He opened his arms, and she went to them, gladly and trustfully as a child goes to the breast of its mother. In that hour all was understood, and the prophecy of Henrietta was fulfilled. But little more remains to be told. Resting their happiness upon the secure basis of mutual love, William Ilazelhurst and his wife pass through life secure in their sweet home-nest —-little caring for the days of dark- ness throuin which they arrived at their great joy. St. John Cheswill, cured ofhis mal apropos passion for Mrs. Hazclhurst, married the beautiful sister of that lady’s husband—~Helen Milburn ; and Charles Granville has been for some years the liege lord of fair Eugenie Chcswill. is _e lawful heiress of a great for- . j ‘! Mr. Cheswill is a distant rela- w ti o of our family, and having, by dint So, dear reader, our story ends happily after all. “v . r" '.,,l \ a" mas. GREENFIELD‘S SHOPPING. 73 MRS. GREEN FIELD’S SHOP- PING. BY run AUTHOR or “MISS suuusxs‘ wrsno w.” INCE we last had the pleasure‘ of a chat with our readers, we have been honored by a call from our re- spected friend, Mrs. Greenfield, from the country. It was late in the after- noon of a hot July day, that she came into the boudoir, and. we immediately ensconced her in the arm-chair, gave her our palm-leaf fan (for, as she said, ' she had forgotten her turkey-feather one that she ‘made last summer), and did all we could to make her comfort- able. For we like Mrs. Greenfield and a visit from her is as refreshing as a bouquet of buttercups and wild “Nets, or a drink from the spring that lies under the heechtree down by the milk house of her own home. “ I come to town to do some tradin’ for the girls,” said she. “I’ve been promisin’ them somethin’ nice this great while. They’re good girls, and they’re worked hard, and arnt it. Mary Jane has made all the butter and the heft of the cheese since last fall; and Belinda has helped me about the kitchen—she’s got so now, she can make better pies than I kin-— and has quilted three quilts, all feather pattern, besides. Their pa was so pleased with their takin’ hold so, after their being to that seminary two quar- ters, that he said they should have what money they’d fairly arnt, the same as the boys. Belinda wanted dreadfully to come to town to-day, with me, but she couldn’t be spared. HoWsomever, they’re coming in some day with their pa, to see things, and buy some. of the gimeracks which they think ma is too old-fashioned to pick outfir ’em. “It’s awful hard work, this trotlln’ around town, tradin’,” said she, after a pause, during which she wiped her motherly countenance with a Silk handkerchief. “ I’d sooner be cookin’ dinner for harvest hands, almost. Still, it’s a change—and we country folks don’t have so much variety as not to make almost anythin’, that’s new, welcome. I had so much to do, too, all in one day. I had to leave that silk of Mary Jane’s to be colored, and go to see about Jake’s boots that he got measured for the last time he was in; then I had to go to the market-man that we send our butter to, and get the money he owed the girls; and then the amount of buyin’ I’ve done isn’t small. For see,” in a lower tone, “Belinda’s going to be married so soon as the summer work’s mostly over ! and I’ve been to Tiffany’s and bought her a set of silver spoons —-and that’s goin’ to be a surprise present from me—l’ve been laying up the money for a long time, by Iittles, so that nobody’d be ony the wiser for it. I’ve bought the wedding-dress, too, a real fine piece of India mull, six and sixpence a yard, nine yards, and thread lace for the neck and sleeves.. I got Mary Jane one almost as fine, to stand up with her sister in. I Wish I could show you the silk I icked out:- it’s such a genteel thing— got it for a dollar a yard, full as good as I’ve been in the habit of payin’ ten shil- lings for. But me! oh, my f‘ the ex- travagance and waste of these city ladies"! I declare it made my heart. ache to think of their husbands and fathers! Every store I went into was full of 'em, and they was a buyin,’ and buyin’——just ft he fun of it, [do believe. Nothin’ 9- than twenty yards will do ’em—enough to make two good dresses. ()ne lady stood aside of me when I was bargainin’ for- Belinda’s silk, with two or three clerks bobbin’ and scrapin’ around in am most exeruciatiug manner. She had enough dry goods hung about her to last her a year. ‘II'ow much do you say this pattern is ?’ She said, looking at a delicate layloc that would sile the first time it was wore.. ‘Only forty dollars,’ said the clerk, ‘full forty yards in the pattern—, double skirt, robe at keel—latest importation, reduced from sixty dol- lars—cost fifty-two and a lmlgngSl: tivelyl—cheapest dress we, -“I myself was THE HOME. this season, and the most stylish. We lose on it, madam, positively! --—but must be sold at any sacrifice, the season is so dull.’ ‘Ah, yes,’ said the lady, ‘times are hard and money is scarce! My husband says I must economize as much as possible, at present, till affairs rally. But I do not see how I can economize any better than to buy this silk. To be sure, I do not exactly need it; but, as you say, there’s a clear gain of tWenty dollars on the pattern, and that, certainly, is worth having.’ ‘ Yes, ’m, responded the clerk, quickly, ‘very true, madam—precisely so! You make just twenty dollars, and we lose. That’s the true economy—buy a thing when it’s cheap. It’s really the greatest bargain in the store l—a magnificent silk—just suits your style. Shall we send it home, madam?’ So the fool said, yes, and I suppose when her husband comes home to dinner, he’ll have his appetite spiled by having that bill for forty dollars stuck under his nose. ' “I’m mighty glat ,” continued Mrs. Greenfield, “that my girls was brought up in the-country, away from the vanity and vexation of these city temptations, where a woman can’t set her feet out of doors without in. dueements to folly being held up be- fore her eyes. To tell the truth,” said the good so ' coloring slightly, bamtbozled into .buying one more. silk dress than I in- tended, by them pertinaeious clerks. But it was a good, plain piece, really a bargain, and I guess Mary Jane won’t be SUl‘l‘y my sthill’, though, but a calico, war- ranted not to fade, nine yards fora ‘ dollar. 1 got some lmndkcrchicfs for the boys, and a hull piece of shirtin’, besides halfa piece of linen for Belinda. The girls wanted me in buy ’em each a patent hoop skirt; I saw the things danglin’ about over my head in the most indeli‘ate manner, but I was ppsitivcly ashamed to ask for ’em. ,0! .if the girls will go and make geese l .1 themselves, putting them- 861“! i em cages, they must ask I didn't get myself for ’em themselves — their mother hasn’t lest all sense of modesty yet, if she is an old woman l" ‘ “ Oh, dear, aunty,” said we, “ you’ll never do to live in the city.” “ I hope not,” said she, emphatically. “Give me my farm, with its meadows and woods, and the cows in the pastures, and the cool milk-house, and the little chickens chirruping in the yard, and my old man sitting in the porch in his arm-chair, and my girls and boys sing- ing out in the orchard, Jenny sticking her nose over the gate, and the bless- ing of God, and I guess I’ll do, with- out none ot' your city nonsense l” A GOOD NAME. “ DON’T care what people think,” said a young lady not long since, on being told that a certain act would be viewed with disfavor by her friends. I was sorry to hear the remark, and especially from one whom I esteemed. Iler character was at once depre- ciated in my estimation. 1 hold it as a general rule, that persons who are regardless of the good opinion of their fellow-men, are not likely to attain a very high position in society. But in saying that we should desire the good opinion of others, I would not intimate that we should do any thing wrong to gain it. Nor do I consider it necessary. lbelieve the object may be most effectually sc- eurcd by making it an invariable rule to do right, whatever some people may think; for, although we should not be indifferent with respect to our standing in the public estimation, 9. higher object is the faithful discharge of duty. It is gratifying, however, to know, that the more strictly we prac- tice the right, the more certain are we to secure the public esteem. A vir- tuous deportment commands respect even from the bad, however disin- clined they may be to follow our ex- ample or court our association. A good name is something to be proud of. It is a just cause of gratitude as well as satisfaction, that we have been restrained from those habits and prac- I" " ‘Lu ’4' 3.x .A ., a m. -'.'.. v», ........_;‘ ‘. . ,i - - xmgfinlfl'a; ',f' Am. , A GOOD NAME. " 75 tices which debase and ruin so many characters. A good name increases our capacity for usefulness. One Who does not enjoy the respect of the com- munity has little influence for good. Usefulness is a source of happiness. There is much satisfaction in kDOWing that we have done good; and this Sat- isfaction is consistent with 51 humble estimate of our own worth. The most conspicuous examples 0f useful. ness —the greatest benefactors the world has known—have been found among the most “lowly in heart.” A good name will not infallibly shield us against detraction and cal- umny. The best perSons are some times traduced. But it should afford us consolation to know, that these oc- casional injuries to the character of the virtuous, if undeserved, are gen- erally temporary. Good men outlive the effects of the most ingenious slan- ders. But if there should be some exceptions to this rule, and we should be among them, we may be assured that the grave will not have been long closed over us, before our good names will experience a happy resur- rection, and be held in “everlasting remembrance.” If by a course of well-doing we have gained a good name, let us be careful to preserve it. The wise man has said, “A good name is better than precious ointment”—and again, “ bet- ter than great riches.” It is not only better for ourselves; it will be to our children a far richer inheritance, than would he the millions bequeathed by a Girard or an Astor. With such evidence of the value of 8 good name, it is to be regretted that there are so many who, like the young lady referred to, “don’t care What people think of them.” To Whom is such a name more valuable than to a young Woman? What is she withoutit’; It, is painful to think 0W many there are of this class of persons, who seem to place a higher estimate upon the “precious oint- ment” with which they perfume the all‘ In which they move, than upon the odor of a good name. 0. B. A. FLOTILLA, THE BALLET GIRL. Wm! feet that were weary and worn, With heart that was heavy as lead, Flotilla appear’d on the stage And danced away life for her broad. 0ft the croivd cheeriiy Called to her, wearily Dancing away :— “ Flotilla—so smiling, Our heart is beguiling— Flotilla must stay.” ’Mid lights that were glaring and bright, ’Mid hearts that were blithesome and gay, . ‘Mid scenes that were brilliant and fair The lone-bird, Flotilla, must stay. 4 She said, “Oh! wearily Dance I, and drearily, Since he has fled! Oh I why so blindly Loved I, and kindly 2 Would I were dead l” With heart that beat wildly and sad, And pain that was racking her head, Flotilla, the graceful, moved on, And danced away life for her bread. “ Why is poverty Link‘d with depravity ?” Flotilla cried. “Live, I must, drearily; Dance. I must, wearily,” Flotilla sigh‘d. ’Mid cheers that were breaking the air, And heat that was scorching her brain, Flotilla pass’d olf from the stage Half dizzy with sickness and pain. Then, sighing sadly, 0ft weeping madly, Flotilla said: “ Oh! why so wearin Loved I, and dearly? Would I were dead 1" 0 heart, full of deep love betrayed! 0 brain, from lave’s bitterness wild! In the heaven afar there beams love‘s tr!!!- star— The All~Father will pity his child. Dear earth, keeping Rest for the weeping, Pillow her head ; And stream in the flowing, Where flowers are moving tag.“ Shrine the young dead! ‘ Alas! that trusts are betray:d,_ That poison lurks in love. flowers; Only One truly guards tilt-poor maid And leads her to impenslmble bowers. Love not too trustfnlly, Taste not the lustfully, Fearing each breath ; Let the tongue falter or as Faith at God‘s altar, , Welcome swee’t death l 1;; ‘ ' l . 4 . ‘ .y. I l ._ . v, ,. ~ . ‘ ‘2 v V I ~_ , .I‘ ~._ , ‘1 .,',,, . ., V A h: .. ' E, —' .,“‘ . _'_ ,3 ,_ __ t. 0“ ,,. x ~Wm mm».