-

_ . ..,_. w..,w.w«-,.. .M, 4 ,4 we

T H E H O M E:
3 mantlglg fur the Stain, 111: with”, 1112 Sister, m the @auglglsr.

VOL. III.—-JUNE, 1857.—NO. VI.

 

MRS. SARAH PETER.

THIS lady, foundress of the School
of Design, in Philadel hia, deserves
honorable mention in t e annals of
useful women. By directing the at-
tention of her sex to an appropriate
find beautiful pursuit, and thus widen-
mg the sphere of their industrial oc-
cppations, she has earned the highest
title to which the ambition of 3 W0-
man should aspire—~that of bene-
factress.
. SARAH PETER, born Worthington,
xllherited some of the best blood of
America. Her father, Hon. Thomas
orthington, belonged to one of the
wealthiest families of the Old Domin-
VOL. III. 16.

 

ion, and early signalized his manhood
by emancipating his slaves, and join.
ing the pioneers who were then en-
gaged in taming the Wilderness of
Ohio. He was one of the patriarchs
of civilization in the West, and a
leader in every advancing movement.
He held the highestpfiices within the
gift of the people, being for some time
Governor of Ohio, and also United
States Senator. Mrs. Worthington
was a woman of sterling qualities of
mind and heart, and the fit companion
of her noble husband.

From such parents Sarah not only
inherited a sound mental constitution,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

246, MRS. SARAH PETER.

 

but received such a domestic training
as tended to its healthy development.
Her education was substantial rather
than showy. She made excellent
progress in her studies, until they were
abruptly broken off at the age of six-
teen by her marriage with Edward
King, son of Hon. Rufus King, of
New York. Although so young, she
was probably as well fitted by matur-
ity of character, to assume the re-
sponsibilities of married life as many
ladies much her senior; nor did she
allow her new duties to bar all subse-
quent improvement.

The death of her husband in 1836
devolved upon Mrs. King the sole
charge of her two sons, at an age
when boys are most apt to chafe un-
der maternal control. She had the
happiness of securing the entire'cori-
fidence, respect, and love of her chil-
dren. Unwilling to expose them to a
moment’s temptation from which her
watchful presence could shield them,
she removed with them to Cambridge,
Mass, that they might pursue their
college studies under her maternal
guardianship. Her solicitude was re-
warded in the most gratifying manner
by the manhood of her sons. She
embraced the occasion of her Cam-
bridge residence to pursue her. own
education, that she might still be their
intelligent companion as she had been
their beloved guide. _

In 1844, her sons being happily
settled in life, Mrs. King contracted a
second marriage with William Peter,
Esq, British Consul at Philadel hia.
Encouraged by the sympathy 0 her
generous and appreciative usband,
she soon began to devote her leisure to
the consideration of the wants of her
sex. She had no taste for that loud-
mouthed philanthropy which exhausts
itself in angry declamation. She felt
that any plan for female elevation
which did not take into account her

hysical well-being, was worse than
Idle. But we Will let her sneak for
herself. In a letter to'the president of
an Institute, for the promotion of the
mechanic arts amongyoung men, Mrs.

 

Peter says: “Having for a series of
years observed with deep concern the
deprivation and sufl'ering to which a
large and increasing number of de-
serving women are exposed in this city
and elsewhere, for want of a wider
scope in which to exercise their abili-
ties for the maintenance of themselves
and children; and, after bestowing
much thought and inquiry with refer-
ence to the best means of alleviating
the miseries incident to their condi-
tion, I resolved about two years since,
to attempt the instruction of a class of
young girls in the practice of such of
the arts of design as were within m
reach. I selected this department of
industry, not only because it presents
a wide field, as yet unoccupied by our
countrymen, but also because these
arts can be practiced at home, without
materially interfering with the routine
of domestic duty, which is the peculiar
province of woman.

“In the month of November, 1848,
I gathered a drawing class of some
twenty young women, under the in-
structions of an accomplished teacher.
A few months later he was assisted by
the gratuitous lectures in perspective,
of a gentleman who kindly offered his
services. About the same time a class
was formed from among the pupils to
draw and engrave maps; but after a
time, in consequence of the impossi-
bility of procuring a permanent teacher,
this part of my plan was relinquished.
At the expiration of a year, several of
the pupils commenced the art of wood
engraving, which they still practice
with every prospect of success Mean-
time the drawing class has steadily
pursued its way, exhibiting a degree
of perseverance, which assures to its
members sooner or later, the remuner-
ation which they deserve.

“It is believed that such a School
of Design wisely managed, and on a
scale worthy of its locality, would be
conducive of great benefit, by adding
to the productive industry of Philadel-
phia in a department where the do.
mand greatly exceeds the supply; and
that it would also prove a valuable

 

THE ONLY GRANDSON. 247

 

adjunct to many arts and trades which
require the invention or reproduction
of forms and patterns of use or orna-
ment, as, for instance, household goods
and utensils of every description, mold;
ings and carvings, paper hangings, car-
pets, calico printing, etc., etc., for
which patterns must now be procured
from abroad, at much expense and
uncertainty.”

“ The School of Design for Women,”
projected so wisely, and labored for
with such disinterested perseverance,
was opened in Philadelphia on the
second of December, 1850. On that
‘ day its friends and benefactors assem-
bled to invoke Divine blessing on their
work, and to listen to addresses from
Bishop Potter, and Hon. R. J. Inger-
soll. It was an occasion of just grat-
ulation to its benevolent foundress.

The success of the “School of De-
sign” has justified her brightest hopes,
and it has become the parent of simi-
ilar institutions in other cities.

 

THE ONLY GRANDSON.
BY 1:. A. am“.

,VERY many, indeed, nearly all pa-
rents have lost by death one or
more children. They have seen them
reach an age when they began to ex-
hibit a degree of intelligence pleasing
to all observers—peculiarly gratify-
ing to themselves— and then, perhaps
without a warning, has the fair bud of

romise been blighted, the little form
been laid in its last resting-place.
The sweet smile no longer plays over
the rigid features —— the brow is mar-
ble. And in after years, if the regret-
ful parent finds their children’s chil-
dren growing up around them, how
Often they seek to fasten the trembling
tendrils of affection, which have so
long clung to~the shadow of a mem-
ory, around their new hopes.

Very loving to her little grandson,
was Willie’s grandmother. For Wil-
he’s father was an only son; nor that
“one, he. was an only child. And the
"mug mfe that he brought to cheer

 

 

the old homestead, was warmly wel-
comed by father and mother. She
endeavored to fill, so far as she might,
the place of the daughter, whom they
had given up in all her beauty, at the
call of the angel, Death. And the old
lady, as she sat in her arm-chair by
the wide fireplace, watching her bright,
cheerful countenance—and the grav-
haired father, whose eye loved to rest
upon her, who looked to her for joy,
even as the flowers turn .to the sun
for light, blessed the choice of their
son.

And the little Willie! He was the
crowning gift of all. They might
watch for his first look of joy, his first
word of love. Here was a comfort
for hours that otherwise would have
been lonely. And the grandmother
taught him to walk, and amused him
with pictures; and the grandfather al-
lowed him to pull off his spectacles,
and do many other things he would
not have permitted his own children
to do. The reddest apples must be
given to Willie to roll about the floor,
and in the winter if he wanted a ball
of snow, the old man would make one
for him, only it must be laid upon the
hmrth to warm, for fear Willie’s fin-
gers would be cold. And poor Willie
found, as alas! do older children, that
while we are waiting and watching
for our pleasures, they melt away.

One day Willie‘s father bought
some new horses. They were fine red
ones, very nicely matched, but rather
frisky. Willie loved horses, and his
mother asked her husband to lead
them to the window. She stroked
their foreheads, and patted them, and
talked to them very much as if they

could understand what she said.

“They are well matched,” said 8116
it Are they steady 3”

“Rather scarish,” answered the
grandfather.. “They’ve always been
used to being drove together, and

iwhen they’re separated, one don't

know where the other is, and. Is’pose
the rather is in pretty much the some
case

“Well hurry father .and get them

 

 

drew . u...» 3......—

 

 

 

 

 

 

248

well trained so that Willie can take a
ride.”

And then the grandmother took the
little boy out of the chair in which he
was standing, and closed the window
for fear he would take cold, and Wil-
lie’s eyes grew very bright as he talked
about the ponies in his own infantile
language. So were the hearts ‘of the
whole household twined around that
one little being, whose presence shed a
light about the old farm-house, more
holy than that which gilds many more
gorgeous homes, for it was a radiance
supplied by love.

At the close of a warm day in sum-
mer, as the sun was sinking behind
the dark maple-trees back of the
meadow, Willie’s father drove to. the
door with the ponies.

“Come, Willie,” said he, “come and

' 3’

And Willie's mother put on his thin
nankeen cloak, and tied his hat on his
head, and lifted him into the carriage
beside his father. And then she
stepped in herself, and they drove
away, leaving the grandfather at the
gate, the sunlight tinging his silvery
looks with a golden hue, and the
grandmother in the doorway, looking
very anxiously after the fleet horses, as
they s rang away. They drove up
the hi1 which rose to the south, and
then turned aside by a less frequented
road, but one which was far more pic-
turesque, passing through a ravme, by
a foaming cascade, and beneath forest
trees, whose wealth of foliage scarcely
permitted a ray of sunshine to reac
the ground. It was a rare path for
those who loved the wilderness of na-
ture. .
But when about half of the distance
through this gorge, a part of the bar-
ness gave way, and the spirited ani-
mals dashed along unmindful of the
danger. Willie’s mother was thrown

out of the carriage, clasping him still
in her arms, and his father sprang af-
ter them. Fortunately he received no
serious injury, and ‘raising his wife, he
bathed her head Wlth Water, and soon
restored her to consciousness. But

 

THE ONLY GRANDSON.

Willie had been thrown upon a rock,
and his forehead was crushed, and the
blood was stiffening on his golden
hair. His father took him in his arms,
and bore him home. And the aged
grandparents bowed over him in their
last grief. If tears could have saved
his life, little Willie would not have
been carried out of the old house in
that tiny coffin, and laid in the village
churchyard. As they stood beside
him and sought to catch one gleam of
remembranCe in those dull eyes, his ‘
spirit found its wings, and noiselessly
beating the air about it, flew away——
far away, to the angel’s home.

And now the weary grandmother
sat lonely by the rough hearth. There
was no more music in the house, and
her trembling form tottered over its
grave. The grandfather ceased his
light labor, and sat mournfully in the
house. And ere autumn reddened
the maple leaves, there were two more
newly-made graves in the burial place,
one on each side of VVillie’s.

Yes! the old grandfather and
grandmother could not live after he
had gone, and the little grandson sleeps
amid those who surrounded him in
life, and who would protect him even
in death.

BUFFALO, March, 1857.

 

OTHER FOLK’s EYES.-—- We spend our
income for paint and paper,'for a bun-
dred trifles, I know not what, and not
for the things of man. Our expenses
are almost all for conformity. It is for
cake we run in debt; ’tis not the intel-
lect nor the heart, nor beauty, nor wor-
ship that costs so much. We dare not
trust our wit for making our houses
pleasant to our friends, and so we buy
ice creams. He is accustomed to car-
pets, and we have not suflicient charac-
ter to put floor-cloths'out of his mind,
so we pile the floor With carpets. Let
the house rather be the temple of the
fairies of Lacedemon, formidable to all,
which none but a Spartan may enter,
or so much as behold.—- EMMERSON.

 

 

UNHAPPY FAMILIES. 249

 

UN HAPPY FAMILIES -— THEIR
CAUSE AND REMEDY.

BY AUNT DOROTHY.

THE number of unhappy families is
greater than is generally imagined.
My peculiar condition in life has long
been such as to enable me to speak on

this subject from personal knowledge._

In every neighborhood scenes occur
daily, which, if the curtain were raised
which hides them from common ob-
servation, would strike us with pain-
ful surprise. Such scenes I have
witnessed where their occurrence had
been least expected. 'Many house-
holds, supposed to be united in the
bonds of love and fraternal affection,
I have found divided and torn by dis-
cord and strife.

The domestic relation has been or-
dained by Providence, and made a
source of the highest enjoyment.
How sad the thought, that any “ root
of bitterness” should be permitted to
spring up within the sacred precincts
of this earthly paradise to poison its
joys! And how strange, as well as
sad, that this should so often happen
in families bearing the Christian namel
So far as my observation extends, most
of the unhappiness of families proceeds
from the mistakes of parents. Proper
conduct on their part seldom fails to
render them happy in each other, and
happy in their children. If such is
not their condition, they will probably
learn from an impartial examination,
that they have themselves had no
flight agency in their domestic infe-
lcity.

Some parents are naturally discon-
tfluted, and predisposed to complaining
a11d repining.‘ They seem determined
to be unhappy; at least they will not
“'3’ t0 be happy. Nothing can satisfy
them. They look on the dark side of
every thing, and allow the most trivial
unto“:an circumstance to give them
“Peasmess- Though possessing the or-
d‘nary °°mforts of life in superabund-
“19°, they 1mfig‘ine their lot to be a pe-
w “my unfortunate one, and attribute

 

their unhappiness to the faults of oth-
ers. They never look for the cause
within their own breasts, although
they see thousands in less favored cir-
cumstances — many in absolute want,
comparatively contented and happy.
In general they are governed by Chris-
tian principle; but “in whatsoever
state they are,” to be therewith con-
tent, is a lesson which they have never
practically learned. I have sometimes
doubted whether such persons were
not more deserving of pity than of
blame. Endeavor to convince them
that their repining is without suflicient
cause, and you incur their displeasure,
and are charged with cruel insensi-
bilityto their misfortunes. N 0 family
in which either parent is thus disposed,
can be a happy one. The unhappi-
ness of a single member of a house-
hold, like leaven, pervades the whole
mass.

Others are of an excitable, irritable
temperament. They are strangers to
that capital grace which “sufi'ereth
long and is kind—is not easily pro-
voked.” Taking fire at the least of-
fense or indignity, real or imaginary,
not only are they destitute of peace
and enjoyment themselves, but they
keep the whole family in perpetual
disquiet. Mrs. M. . . . is a lady of high
‘ respectability, esteemed. for many good
qualities. Her prevailing fault is to
be “hasty in her spirit to be angry.”
The slightest mista 'e of achlld or ser-
vant throws her into a violent passion,
which vents itself in harsh and censo-
rious language. Nor are children and
servants the only victims of her wrath.
He whose rank and authority entitles
him to “ reverence,” does not always
escape the infliction of her censure.
The inflammability of temper is a
fruitful source of those dOmestic broils
which afflict and disgrace so many
families.

( Many parents are rendered unhappy
by disrespectful and undutiful children.
But this evil, too, may be generally
traced to the errors of the parents-
The want of filial respect is the natural

 

consequence of the unkind and disre-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

250 UNHAPPY FAMIIms.

 

s ectful manner in which the children
themselves are treated. In general,
kindness and respect will be recipro-
cated; hence we find that, in most
cases, unkind children have been trained
by fretful, fault-finding, scolding pa.-
rents. Mrs. G. . . . is habitually chid-
ing her children, and telling them how
bad theyare; and, as in the case of
Mrs. M. . . ., the severest reproofs are
administered for trifling faults, or un-
intentional errors — sometimes on mere
surmise, or wrong accusation. To
this wrong on her part, is not unfre-
quently added the cruelty of suppress-
ing the very natural attempt of the
child to defend itself against the unjust
charge. I have known the mere ex-
pression of opinion, in respectful tones,
treated as a serious offense. Mrs. P. . .
was engaged at a piece of work. A
daughter, almost attained to woman-
hood, suggested a difi'erent, and as she
thought, -a better way of doing it.
Whereupon the mother, conceiving
this an impeachment of her judgment,
flew into a rage, and administered a
bitter rebuke to the “saucy, impudent
girl,” for assuming to know more than
her mother 1 A copious flow of tears
indicated the intensity of the girl’s

'ef. -

The unkindness of others appears in
excessive rigor. Their children are
denied the means of innocent enjoy-
ment. A reasonable favor or gratifi-
cation is either bluntly refused, or is
granted with such reluctance, or with
so many obnoxious conditions, as to
render it scarcely worth the taking.
There may indeed be excessive indul-
gence in things in themselves right
afld proper; and it may sometimes be
difficult todetermine whether the wish
of the child should be gratified. A
prudent parent, however, will seldom
fail to jud e correctly; and the chil-
dren of 8110 parents will generally ac-

uiesce in their decision,

The spirit-crushing treatment which
I have here exposed, alienates that fil-
ial regard which is indis usable todo.
mestic felicity, and whic gives parents
such moral power in the government

 

of their children. It begets an inimi-
cal, malevolent feeling toward parents,
which often finds utterance in disre-
spectful language, and becomes the oc-
casion of a “spat,” which is perhaps
followed by a lecture from the parent
on the sin to which the child had been
so cruelly provoked. Such treatment
also induces in children the habit of
lying. To avoid the dreaded “ scold-
ing” which the commission of a fault
usually incurs, they attempt conceal-
ment by prevarication or equivocation;
or, if that is not deemed sufficient, by
positive denial, or direct falsehood.
Disobedience, too, is produced by the
same cause. A child may be compelled
to do the bidding of a parent whom it
does not reverence or respect. But
true obedience regards the wishes and
feelings of the parent, and springs from
love and affection, which every wise
parent will endeavor to secure.

Nor the least of the bad effects of
the error upon which I am anixnad-
verting is, that it blunts the moral sen-
sibilities, and renders them insusceptible
of religious impression. Or, if a salu-
tary impression happens to be made, it
is speedily eradicated. An angry word,
or an undeserved censure, banishes the
subject, and inflicts a sting which ran-
kles in the mind for days, and unfits it
for calm and profitable contemplation
of religious truth. How often do pa-
rents thus counteract the force of pious
counsels, and wonder why they are
not more effectual l Low ideas of re-
ligion must children entertain who are
told that “ her ways are ways of pleas-
antness, and all her paths are peace,”
when, from morning till night, a smile
is not seen upon the countenance of
their instructors, nor a pleasant word
heard, nor a peaceful hour enjoyed.
Surely, either religion must be under-
rated, or the piety of the parents;ques—
tioned, by their children.

Another consequence of these pa—
rental errors is their transmission.
Children thus trained, imbibing the
s irit and following the example of
their parents, in their turn inflict upon
their own families the same evil, which

' UNHAPPY FAMILIES.

251

 

in its progress of descent, will scarcely
stop with the “ third and fourth gener-
ations.”

Equally fatal to domestic happiness
are conjugal delinquencies, properly so
called. None of the relative duties
are more plainly prescribed in the
Scriptures, than those pertaining to
the marriage relation. Yet, either
from a misapprehension of the import
of the Divine precepts, or from other
causes, none are more;frequently vio-
lated. No duties of the wife are more
clearly enjoined, or are more consonant
to the conjugal relation, than reverence
and submission. The case of Sarah is
cited as an example. Of her it is
written that she “obeyed Abraham,
calling him lord.” But there are
many who claim at least equal author-
ity, and in practice actually reverse
the Divine arrangement. The wife
becomes the head of the husband, and
“usurps authority over the man.” I
could give many specimens of this
kind of female dictatorship. I have
known husbands dicated in their mi-
nutest afi‘airs. Their in-coming and
out-going, their down-sitting and up-
rising must be according to directions.
Even their speaking was subject to the
same dictation. I have heard from
the lips of a wife the command ,of
“silence!” uttered with an'air of au-
thority, and in language which would
ill become a master in his conduct
toward the most abject menial. Her
.Wishes must be gratified at whatever
sacrifice or inconvenience to others, or
the domestic peace was interrupted.
Cases fully answering this description,
are,I admit, comparatively rare; but
those bearing a strong resemblance to
them are not uncommon.

Many worthy females err in regard
to their conjugal rights and duties.
T0 such I commend the brief and
filthy comments of Dr. Adam Clark on

h- 5: 22: “As the Lord, viz.
C fish is the head or governor of the
Church and the head of the man, so is
man the head and governor of the W0-
man. This is God’s ordinance, and
“11°11” not be transgressed. The bus-

 

 

band should not be a tyrant,» and the
wife should not be the governor. Old
Francis Quarles, in his homely rhymes,
alluding to the su erstitious notion
that the crowing o a hen bodes ill-
luck to the family, has said: '

‘ I11 thrives the hapless family that shows

A cock that’s silent, and a hen that croWs:

I know not which live most unnatural lives,
Obeymg husbands, or commanding wives.’ "

But no human exposition can add
either clearness or force to the text.
In some things the parties are equal;
as in their authority over children and
servants, and in certain other respects.
But in cases of disagreement in opin-
ion or judgment, and in the general
regulation of affairs, it is in accord-
ance with the nature of the marriage
relation as well as with Scripture, that
“wives submit themselves to their hus-
bands.” Iwould not in the least de-
gree abridge the just rights and
authority of my own sex. I sympa-
thize deeply with those—and the
number is large—who are subjected
to the rule of selfish, domineering hus-
bands. Yet I must commend to them
a strict observance of this injunction
of Infinite Wisdom, as best adapted to
give grace, dignity, and influence to
female character, and happiness to the
domestic circle. ‘

Now all the families to which I
have alluded, were regarded as among
the most respectable in their several
neighborhoods. Is it not therefore to
be presumed, that happy homes are
less numerous than is generally sup-
posed? and that unalloyed domestic
bliss is rarely attained? Alas! how
many enter the. matrimonial state, who
are made miserable during the rest of
their'lives! If they could but be
made sensible of the cause of their up-
happiness, there would be hope of im-
provement in theircondition. A desire
to be instrumental in effecting this ob-

ject has induced this attempt to call

attention to the subject; and I ear-
nestly entreat all whose cases answer
to those which I have described, to
make a determined, persevering 63-0“
at reform. Surely the bringing of

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

252

peace and happiness to a household
Is an object worthy of such an effort.
To those who are thus disposed, the
following suggestions are offered.
Cultivate a cheerful and contented
spirit. Why should we allow our
minds to be continually harassed with
gloomy forebodings? Troubles come
fast enough without anticipating them.
By proper effort we may greatly re-
strain, if not entirely subdue this pro-
pensity. Be patient and forbearing.
Disappointments, crosses, and provoca-
tions are the lot of all in this life : let
us not expect exemption from them,
but rather be prepared to meet them.
Patience enables us to bear the ills of
life, by taking from them more than
half their burden. Also as much as
possible let us conceal our troubles.
Occasionally it may be preper to un-
bosom our griefs; but the habitual
disclosure of them only mars the en-
joyment of our friends, without afford-
ing essential relief to ourselves.
Cherish a charitable and forgiving
spirit. Put the most favorable con-
struction upon the conduct of others;
and be not too ready to ascribe even
wrong acts to bad motives. By many,
every instance of inattention or seem-
ing neglect is construed into disre-
spect, or tortured into insult or abuse.
This habit often leads to an estrange-
ment of friendly feeling; but its most
unhappy effect is the alienation of the
affections between members of the
same family. Great allowance should
therefore be made for the imperfec-
tions of others. We should be slow
to suspect them of intentional wrong;
and in. cases of real injury, we should
be ready to forgive them. The-exer-
'0156 of this spirit will best promote our
own happiness and theirs.
scrupulOlJSly avoid ill-tempered lan-
age. To do this, the temper itself
must be contrOlled. The first motions
of anger must be repressed, or angry
words will be almost sure to find utter-
ance. T00 11111611 importance can not
, be attached to this rule. The lower-

ing cloud which rests upon the brow,
and daily discharges-itself in storms of

 

UNHAPPY FAMILIES.

bitter words, makes home intolerable,
and drives the husband and children
to seek enjoyment abroad. The former
finds a retreat at the village tavern or
store at which to spend his evenings
and “rainy day-8;” the elder children,
for temporary relief, escape to a neigh-
bor’s, or mingle with the convivial
night-party, leaving the “ old woman ”
to pass the tedious hours in ruminating
over her unfortunate condition, uncon- .
scious of the cause. The daughters, in
the hope of bettering their situation,
following the counsels of an immature
judgment, accept the first offer of mar-
riage, and soon find themselves “taken
in ” for life. The adage is true : “A
scold can not govern.” Displeased at
every thing, and with every body about
her, she is perpetually fault-finding and
chiding. Her children are kept, from
morning till night, in a state of irrita-
tion. Finding it impossible to please
her, and being so often “provoked to
wrath they are discouraged.” Under
these repeated provocations, their minds
become callous and stupefied ; filial af-
fection declines; and at length all de-
sire to please her is lost. The spirit
of obedience having been “crushed
out,” her commands are reluctantly
obeyed or entirely disregarded; and
she finds herself without power to en-
force them. She may threaten; but
her threats having been so seldom ful-
filled, cease to intimidate. She re—
proves; but, being administered only
under high excitement, or in anger, her
reproofs are equally powerless for good.
The evil spirit of rebellion has taken
full possession of the mind, and all her
efforts to “ cast it Out ” are worse than
in vain. “This kind goeth not out”
but by means which we shall presently
notice.

Avoid altercations with your chil.
dren. Some houses are kept in a per.
petual din by petty quarrels between
parents and children, in which the bad
passions of both partles are aroused.
If such children become permanent]
ill-natured, obstinate, and disrespectfu ,
the responsibility belongs to the pa-
rents. The practice admits of no

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

UNHAPPY FAMILIES. 253

 

justification or palliation. Does any
mother reply, that her children are
provoked to anger by deserved reproof
or admonition? Then the presump-
tion is that her own feelings are such
as to unfit her for the duty. But what-
ever they may be, there can be no ex~
cuse for being drawn into an angry
and protracted dispute. Thespark 1s
extracted from the flint, only by a col-
lision of the latter with the steel. So
no child can quarrel alone. And if
children are not in a proper mood to
bear kind reproof, then it is better to
defer the duty until time and reflection
shall have cooled their temper, and
restored them to their “ right mind.”
What a contrast to all this does the
family present, in which kind words
and a gentle demeanor characterize the
ruling power within. To a young gen-
tleman wishing to change his single
condition, a friend recommended a cer-
tain young lady with whom he was not
familiarly acquainted. He asked, “Is
she amiable?” Often have the ill-
humor and cross words of wives and
mothers reminded me of this question,
so indicatative of the good sense of this
young man. But I am happy in say-
ing, that I have witnessed, in not a few
families, a beautiful exemplification of
this amiability of temper. So far from
making the wife a more easy victim to
the tyrannic rule of the husband, or
weakening her authority over the chil-
dren, it has won the affection and rev-
erence of the whole family, and thus
enabled her, unconsciously to herself
01' them, to lead both husband and
Children “captive at her will.” She
reproves, or corrects a fault, without
giVing offense; and her reproofs are
the more effective, because kindly ad-
ministered. Ohl the magic power
.there is in a placid countenance and
Plegsant words ! Not only do they
enliven and cheer the family circle,
and strengthen the attachment of its
members; they will also be found an
effecmal means of regaining lost afl'ec-
nons' Amid I advise every female
made? who is sensible of a declension
0f aflection in a once loving compan-

 

ion and her children, to try the rem-
edy here suggested, assuring \her that
the effort will be rewarded by a return
of their “ first love; ” and the deserted
fireside will again become the chief
point of attraction, and the abode of
peace and gladness.

But you, dear reader, may yourself
be the party whose early love is on
the decline — caused, perhaps, by the
broken vows of him who is pledged to
protect and cherish you. Your case
is one in which correct counsel is more
difficult. I advise, however, that,
whatever change may be wrought in
your affections, you conceal from him
the unhappy fact, and that you sufl'er
no dereliction of duty on his part to
affect your conduct toward him: I
believe his knowledge of the aliena-
tion of you affections, would, instead
of winning him back to duty, rather
have its opposite effect. , If, as is said,
“love begets love,” it would be unwrse
to tell him that you no longer love
him. While he believes that he still
shares your early affections, his recla-
mation by your undimiuished kindness
or increased attentions, is not alto-
gether hopeless. By no means in-
dulge a spirit of retaliation. I have
been pained to hear wives assign as a
reason for unkind acts, or for refusing
favors, that they had been thereto
provoked by similar treatment from
their husbands. That is to say, “Be
kind to me, and I will be so to you ; ”
whereas the Bible rule is to do good
even to those who hate and injure us.
Not less wrong and impolite is it to
indulge a spirit of crimination. I have
heard wives almost daily go through
a long catalogue of past offenses, and
cast them into the teeth of their bus.
bands. Kindly to remind them of
their delinquencies, may be highly
proper, and gives no just occasion of
offense; but this habit of “railing ac-
cusation” can not fail to widen the es-
trangement of the parties.

But to conclude. Endeavor to
make religion the controlling power
in your family. t‘ The fear of the Lord
is the beginning of wisdom.” Nothing

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

254 . THE WIDOW’S SONG.

 

tends so much to insure the discharge
of the several relative duties, and, conse-
quently, to sweeten the-enjoyments of
domestic life, as a sense of religious
obligation. Where it prevails, each
member of the family will aim to pro-
mote the happiness of every other.
Parents will use every prOper means
to please their children, and will be
requited by their children’s love and
cheerful obedience. Anger, malice,
and evil speaking, will find no indul-
gence; peace, and concord, and pleas-
ant words, will be the order of the
house. In short, nothing will be
wanted to make 3. HAPPY noun.

April, 1857.

 

THE LADY OF FASHION.

HERE she is promenading Broad-

way, “in all her glory.” How
showy her appearance! how costly
her dress. And its proportions are
immense! We may safely say that
one thousand dollars would not cover
its outlay. With what an. air she
moves along —so vain, so lofty ! Her
head is elevated, indicating a feeling
of great superiority over the crowd
around her. Should one of her sis-
ters— how she would spam the name -—
dressed in an humble garb, happen to
accost her, she would treat her with
the utmost contempt.

Poor soul ! I pity her —- from my
very heart’s core I pity her, and would
not take her place for all the wealth
of that great city. She is a slave——
held in bondage by one of the weak-
est and most miserable tyrants that
ever swayed mankind. She is an
idolator also, worshiping a god far
inferior.to the fabled deities of old.
And thus, instead of filling the true
and DOble position designed by' her
Creator, she squanders her God-given

owers and means of enjoyment, and
employs herself more foolishly than in

icking up pebbles upon the sea-shore.
ore than all, how meagre her ros-

pect for the future. When this rief,

 

shadowy life shall have passed away,
how can she expect favor of Him who
hath expressly enjoined that “women
adorn themselves with modest appa-
rel—not with gold or pearls, or
costly array.” Poor woman! I pity
her. A. c. J.
VICTOR, N. Y.

 

THE WIDOW’S SONG.

BY r. K. HARVEY.
0H ! this world is a wide one — for sorrow or

.107 '—

And where in this world is my own sailor
boy?

With his loud ringing laugh, and his long
shining hair, '

Do they swell on the breeze yet, and float
through the air?

Is there any bright land ’mid the lands of the

earth,

That holds the lost child of my heart and
my hearth?

I have sat by the fire when the old men have
said

“ There be,eyes of the living that look on the
dead.”

Oh! tell me ye seers, in your search of the
tomb,

Do you find my fair son in its valley of

gloom?
Is there any’ pale boy with a look of the

sea,
’Mid that people of shades, who is watching
for me ?

Oh! that morn when he led us -—-mine eyes
are grown dim,

And see little that’s bright since they looked
upon him;

And my heart, in its dullness, hath learnt to
fo et —

But the light of that morning shines clearto
it yet:

No record is lost of that fair sunny day,

When passed my fair boy like a spirit
away.

We waited -— how long! - but we waited in

vain

And we lobked over land, and we looked
over mam;

And ships—oh, how many—came home
from the sea,

That brought comfort to others, but sorrow
to me:

In all thoae gay ships—oh! their answer
was none,

To the mother who asks if she yet has 8

son.

 

 

 

nasrn NOT! REST NOT! 255

 

And we 'fed upon hope, until hope was de-
nied
Till ouréhocsldlth of the spirit it sickened and
1e :
And his father sat down in his old broken
chair, -
And I watched the white sorrow steal over his

37';
And I saw his clear eye waxed feeble and
wild
And the frzime of the childless grew weak as
a child!

And the angel of grief that o'ershadowed
his brain,

Now wrote on his forehead in letters of
pain-

And I read’the hand-writing, and knew that
the breast

0f the weary with waiting, was going to
rest!

So he left afond word for the lost one—
and I,

I linger behind him, to tell it my boy!

Shall he come to his home — perhaps sickly
and poor -—
And meet with no smile at his own cottage

door?
Shall be seek his fair land from the ends of
the earth,
And find the fire quenched on his once
‘ happy hearth?
None to love himin sorrow, who loved him in

JOY—
Oh! Ican not depart, till I speak with my
boy!

I have promised to wait—I have promised
to say

What grief was his father’s at going away.

Will he come -—-wz'll he come? oh! my heart
has grown old,

And the blood in my veins, it runs languid
and cold; .

And my spirit is faint, and my vision is

dim
But there’h that in mine eye will be light
yet, for him!

They tell me of countries beyond the broad
sea, .
Where stars look on others that look not on

me-

Where the flowers are more sweet, and the
waters more bright,

And they hint he may dwell in those valleys
of light—

That he rests in some home with a far-for-
ei bride—

011! thisgvxvlorld is a wide one — why is it 80
wide ?

But they surely forget—Which my sailor
does not _

That I’m sittting whole years in my lone lit-
e co -

'I

 

He knows, oh! he knows if I may, I shall
wait

Till I hear his clear shout at the low garden
gate '

He is sure his sad niother will strive not to

die
Till the latch has been raised by her lost
sailor-boy!

I believe that he lives -- were he laid in the
mold,

There’s a pulse in my heart would be silent
and cold

That awoke at his birth; and thro’ good and
thro’ ill

Has playtifl in its depths, and is playing there
sti ;

When its star shall have set, then that tide
shall be dry,

And the widow be sure where to look for her

boy!

Oh! will he come never? lost son of the
sea!

I hear a low voice that is calling for
me:

It comes from that spot the dark yew-trees
among,

Where the grave of the sire has been lonely
too long;

A voice of love chiding—I come! oh, I
come! —

Hath he met my lost boy in the land of the
tomb?

April, 1857.

 

HASTE NOT! REST NOT! '
mom was GERMAN or course.

Wrrnou-r haste! without rest!

Bind the motto to thy breast:

Bear it with thee as a spell;

Storm or sunshine guard it well!

Heed not flowers that round thee bloom,
Bear it onward to the tomb!

Haste not! let no thoughtless deed
Mar for aye the spirit’s speed;
Ponder well and know the right,
Onward then with all thy might;
Haste not! years can ne’er atone
For one reckless action done.

Rest not! life is sweeping by,
Go and dare before you die:
Something mighty and sublime

, Leave behind to conquer time!
Glorious ’t is to live for aye
When these forms have passed away!

Haste not! rest not! calmly wait:
Meekly bear the storm of fate!
Duty be thy polar guide —

Do the right whate er betid‘e!

Haste not! rest not! conflicts past,
God shall crown thy work at last!

 

 

 

 

 

256

OUR MOONLIGHT WALK.

 

OUR MOONLIGHT WALK.
BY ANNIE DANFORTK.

HE broad waters of Lake Michigan
roll to the horizon before me, and
wash the shore close beneath my win-
dow. The unclouded moonlight makes
a shining path upon the waters, and
weaves into fantastic drapery the shad-
ows'of the rocks and hills that over-
hang the dancing waves. Beautiful
and heart-rejoicing as is the scene be-
fore me, it wooes my heart only to sad-
dened memories, and sets it throbbing
in mournful cadence to the sorrowful
music which memory sings of the past.
I was an orphan, and the tale of the
early years of my life “is a tear.”
Later, when my uncle and aunt took
me to their home and hearts, the sun-
light broke so brilliantly upon my
pathway that I wondered I had ever
wept. My happiness was made more
complete by the presence of Arthur,
their only child, a brave, happy, noble
boy, four years my senior, who became
to me as an idolized brother. Lucy
Gray, a fairy beauty, whose home was
but a few rods from my uncle’s door,
was my chosen friend and companion.
Time free from care and sorrow fled
so swiftly and silently, that we took no
note of its passing until we were eight-
een, and in the fall Lucy was to be
wedded. So good and gentle, and yet
frail was she, that we sometimes fan-
cied that an angel had folded its wings
among us, to brighten earth and make
it more lovely and desirable. She had
always held life by so slender a thread,
that her friends had felt that any mo-
ment it might be sundered; but for a
year past she had seemed so much
stronger, that we were all looking with
hope to the future. She herself had
ceased to speak so often of death.
“My heart clings so fondly to earth,”
she said to me, “and Arthur seems
almost to have stepped between me
and Heaven.”

Lucy had learned long lessons of
atience and love from the meek and
owly Jesus, to Whom. she early gave

her heart, and her Simple piety had

 

made her so much more dear to us
that we daily thanked God for this
new promise of a lengthened life.
Arthur was truly worthy of the love
that had long been his. He had early
given himself heart and soul to the
gospel ministry, a work which was
alone worthy‘the exalted talent—the
glowing zeal and fervid piety of Ar-
thur Mason.

It was just such a night as this three
years ago that I heard the sweet voice
of Lucy calling me from the yard un-
der my window, to join herself and
Arthur for a ramble upon the shore of
Lake Erie, on the borders of which
was then our home. The moon, as to-
night, had almost cheated the night of
its darkness, and we were so happy
thinking and talking of the past and
future, that we did not notice that the
increasing wind was bringing the waves
nearer and nearer to our feet. We
were sitting upon a rock where we
had often sat together, and were
speaking of the time when I first
came among them.

“ Let’s bathe our faces in the water
as we used to then,” said Lucy to me;
and with a gay laugh she fell upon
her knees in the sand, and dipped her
forehead in the shining waters. I fol-
lowed her example, but sprang to my
feet at the loud cry of Arthur that a
coming wave would reach us, in time
to see Lucy fall forward, and her slight
form carried by the receding wave
some distance out into the lake.
Quick almost as a thought Arthur was
at her side, and the next instant he
sprang to the shore with Lucy in his
arms. As he rushed past me I saw
that her face was perfectly colorless,
and a bright red stream was flowing
from her mouth. The moment I com.
prehended the truth I knew that Lucy
must die. As it proved, in the fright
of the fall, caused by the concussion of
the wave, a blood vessel had been rup-
tured. '

As rapidly as possible I followed to
the house of the nearest physician;
When I entered the room she was
lying upon the sofa. Her wet clothes

 

A MOTHER’S HAND. 257

 

were already removed, and they were
wrapping her in warm flannels, but
the blood still oozed from her mouth,
and her feet and hands were icy cold.
Friends gathered around her. Arthur
knelt at her side, and with a voice
tremulous yet patient, drowned though
it was by sobs around him, he com-
mended her soul to Heaven. A sweet
smile of peace and trust was on Lucy’s
face, and her lips often moved. We
bent low to listen. “ Hope and rest,”
was all we heard.

A few hours more freighted with
sighs and tears went by, and the sun
ushered in a day of cloudless splendor,
but Lucy’s merning was above. There
was a shroud, a coffin, a grave, and a
burial, and the waves of life in our lit-
tle village surged and bubbled on as
before, but some hearts were left deso-
late. The hearthstone of her parents
wanted its brightest light, and they
both tottered to a speedy grave. Ar-
thur at the funeral bent over the cof-
fined face, and with a deep groan he

kissed the marble brow, then turned~

from the grave to go patiently and
cheerfully on with the duties of life.
None save those who knew him best
saw that from that day his voice grew
more tremulous and tender, and that
although he met those to whom he
ministered with the same gentle smile,
that he often spent his nights in weep-
ing, and that his face grew daily thin
and pale.

But at last when the time came that
Should have witnessed the bridal, his
parishioners joined their entreaties to
Ours that he would rest and travel. I

ave never seen him since, for when
lie returned to his father’s house it was
indeed “left unto him desolate.” The
cholera wasted our little village by
n00nday, and walked abroad in our
Streets by night, and my loved uncle
and aunt were among xits victims, and
fI‘Om that hour I have been again a
wanderer. Arthur is back again break-
mg the “bread of life ” to the same
110.0ka Which his parents and “ Spirit
bud? were 01106 members, and before
me Is a letter I have just received from

 

him. “I am no longer a mourner,
my sister,” he writes, “for the beauti-
ful presence which so suddenly left us
seems to me now to be ever at my
side. I have long since ceased to
think of her as dead and thus lost to
me. Sometimes I realize that she is
in Heaven, really enjoying ‘the rest
and delights of the redeemed; but I
most often think of her as still with
me. This sometimes seems so real
that I seem to hear her voice chiding
my impatience, and urging me to
greater efi‘orts for the good of my fel-
lows, and more earnest devotion to my
calling and my God.

“I realize now what I wonder that
Ishould for a moment have failed to
see, that my Lucy was coming between
myself and Heaven, and that I was
giving to her that singleness of devo-
tion of which One only is worthy, and
my heart chides me sternly that I
should have so wilfully rebelled against
the loving kindness that removed my
idol from me. At first I felt that I
could not live, and almost prayed for
death. Now I ask God only for
strength, for patient continuance in
well-doing, and am only thankful if He
count me worthy of ‘something still to
do or bear’ in his service. ‘Not dead
but gone to Heaven,’ and ‘Are they
not all ministering spirits?’ ”

 

A MOTHER’S HAND.

“ HEN I was a little child,” said

a good old man, “my mother
used to bid me kneel down beside her,
and place her hand upon my head,
while she prayed. Ere I was old
enough to know her worth, she died,
and I was left too much to my own
guidance. When a young man,I trav-
eled in foreign lands, and was exposed
to many tem tations; but, when I
would have yie dad, that same hand was
“P0” "‘31 head, and I was saved. I
seemed to feel its pressure as in infancy,
and sometimes there came with it a
voice in my heart—‘Oh, do not this
wickedness, my son.’ ”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

’25s

 

LETTERS FROM QUIETSIDE.

 

LETTERS FROM QUIETSIDE.
II.
G. . . . ., April 4th, 1857.

“ OMMAND me when you think I
can serve you.” These encour.

'ng words cost you no effort, dearest
g]. . ., because they flowed spontane-
ously from your kind heart; therefore,

on can not know with what sweetness
they fell upon mine — like the fall of
the gentle noiseless dew upon the arid
desert. Our life journey has been
aptly compared to a (pilgrimage over
sterile wastes, scattered all along the
way, though at distant points are found
those invigorating fountains, socheer-
ing, so precious, as to entitle them to
the epithet, “ Diamond of the Desert.”
Such, dear M. . . ., are sympathetic
words, flowing from a cordial nature,
upon a stricken heart. Besides these
life-preserving “diamonds,” the trav-
eler when almost exhausted by fatigue
and thirst, is often encouraged to ef-
fort, by the beautiful mirage in the
- far distance. Although he finds it an
illusion, upon the principle that every
counterfeit has its prototype, he de-
rives from it a degree of energy, which
inspires the wish to advance, “faint
yet pursuing.”

Such, dear M. . . ., are the pleasures
and pains of social life. The trials
and sorrows which are scattered along
our pathway, call out our true friends,
and teach us that some lovel things
have survived the Fall; whi e those
who cluster around our prosperity,
teach us, as they fly before the blasts
of adversity, that “there is nothing
true but Heaven.” In our social re-
lations, how very dependant are we,
each upon the other, for those enjoy-
ments that enliven the shadowy path
0f life, and modify the varied anxieties
which are thickly strewn in our way.
Gentle words and kind offices make
even the dark home of poverty bright.
Wheredwells afi'eetion, sympathy, and
congenial “3‘99, lthere ma be found
contentment; Whatever minor things
are lacking, these are the represents.

tives of true wealth. It is a. quad“

' larly.

 

worthyof our humanity. Are we as
thoughtful of the comforts of others——
to scatter gleams of sunlight among
the shadows of their pathway as we
may be, without any inconvenience to
ourselves? To make this easy, it were
well to hang the walls of memory’s
cells with the inscription, “Whatso-
ever ye would that men should do to
you, do ye even so to them; ” and then
to contemplate it “with the mind’s
eye,” until it is transferred to the
heart, and constitutes a law of life;
then we shall delight to “do good as
we have opportunity ; ” feeling toward
every man, woman and child, thou art
my friend — my brother—my sister.

To cultivate this state of feeling is
not always easy. Our judgment ap-
proves, but our passions mar the fair
proportions of good resolutions, al-
though based upon the kindly affec-
tions, when graciously exercised. By
and-by the machinery grates; a screw
is loose here, a cog broken there, and
the wheels turn heavily and irregu-
What is the difliculty? We
have met with unkind treatment from
those we have tried to befriend; bit-
ter' words, expressive of unfounded
suspicions have been spoken, and we
know that we are aggrieved and
wronged. Angry antagonism arises,
and a feeling of “ I don’t care” inde-
pendence predominates; the haughty
spirit writ es under a sense of injury
unmerited, and resolves to show “a
proper spirit ”— to return as good as
has been received, and to assume hos-
tile attitudes. This is the dictate of
the proud, natural heart; but it is
wrong, altogether wrong; in direct
contravention of the precepts. Resiht
not evil: Love your enemies: Do
good to them that persecute you. He
who spake the rommands, enforced
them by His own example, and made
them forever obligatory on us. N oth-
ing can becomesoul-sickening than the
convict)... that our high regards have
been misplaced ; that we must wrench
every fibre of our heart from the sup-
port to which they have so fondly
clung, and charge our opinion entirely

 

LETTERS FROM QUIETSIDE.

259

 

of those whom we have long loved,
and trusted in implicitly. .

The heart is formed to love in-
tensely; it yearns for sympathy, and
readily reciprocates every advance of
tenderness and love. When this be-
comes excessive, it engrosses the whole
being, to the exclusion of Him who is
our Creator, our Preserver, and our
bountiful Benefactor. The Lord our
God jealously guards His own prerog-
atives. His right in us is supreme,
and He will allow no rival afi'ection in
the hearts of his children, but will root
them out with a strong band, if our
persistence makes it necessary. Some-
times the work crushes the heart, and
paralyzes it to all gentle impressions;
but often it subdues the pride which is
engendered by a consciousness of our
own importance, restores us to a sense
of duty and dependence upon that
Friend, who sticketh closer than a
brother; and bows the penitent at the
footstool of Mercy, craving forgiveness
for the past, and restoration to his
“ first love.”

I knew a lovely child whose mother
was poor, and a “widow indeed.”
M. . . . was beautiful in person, and
possessed great natural endowments
and sweetness of character. While a
child at school she attracted the affec-
tionate notice of One a little older than
herself, and her young heart learned to
lean trustfully upon him. He became
her world; called forth a woman’s na-
ture, and “ taught her love, ere she had
learned its name.” She knew of no
sweeter tie than brother, and she
wished—oh! how fervently, that he
were her brother. College life suc-
ceeded to school days, and a suspen-
iion of their intercourse followed. She
grew in loveliness, and having always
Possessed a religious cast of character,
fit an early age she consecrated her
life to the service of her Creator, by
connecting herself with His visible
church. In her life she exemplified
that change of heart which entitled
her to the high distinction of being
ranked a 0mg“.
mg the vacations‘which E. . . .

 

spent at home, their interviews were
frequent, and nothing occurred to mar
the friendly relations that had so long
existed between them. He was uni-
formly kind, and even affectionate ;
while her whole soul was absorbed by
his image, without an idea of the true
nature of her emotions. After he had
graduated and returned, his attentions
became decided, and resulted in a mar-
riage engagement. Then he was en-
shrined in her heart of hearts. She
worshiped him as her earthly idol,
and his apparent devotions seemed to
justify in some measure her heart’s
idolatry. .

After many months, passed in this
delirium of happiness, her quick sensi-
tiveness perceived a change -— a chill;
so slight, indeed, that she dared not
think it real, much less speak of it.,
Externally he was the same; but the
spiritual communion and intelligence,
in which none others shared, was
wanting. Truth comes to us with a
slow and doubtful step, measuring the
ground she treads on; and M. . . .’s
heart was not open to suspicion, by its
natural constitution. At length the
cloud, which had long cast its shadow
over her young spirit, burst with crush-
ing force upon her loving heart. E. . .
told'her, that his widowed mother was
strongly opposed to their marriage;
that he had striven to overcome her
objections, but hitherto without suc-
cess.

E. . . . had the advantage of wealth;
but M. . . . had greatly the superiority
of respectability in family connections,
and otherwise; but the early death of
her father left his widow and orphans
almost entirely dependant upon their
own exertions. His mother, who w“
also a widow, was a proud, meanspir-
ited, worldly-minded woman, although
she was a member of the same church
with M. . - . She insisted upon wealth

with the wife of her favorite child; and
refused to listen to love’s arguments.
Along season of uncertainty and mm
tracted misery ensued. M. . . . tried to
school her heart to acquiescence,-and to
meet this trving crisis like a Christian

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

260 LETTERS FROM QUIETSIDE.

 

Resolutions to resign and forget, with-
out the strength of purpose to carry
them into effect, were rendered nuga-
tory, by the constant struggle between
her heart and intellect. While one
dilated to her the propriety, yea, the
necessity that she should preserve her
self-respect by an entire relinquishment
of an acquaintance so fraught with
misery for her; the other clung with a
tenacity, strengthened by a life-long
sympathy, to the object who had for
so long a time constituted her all of

joy —- her whole world!

_ At length came the denouement.
E. . . . married a young girl of .a low,
but rich family; very inadequately ed-
ucated for any station in society; of a
most unhappy temper, and unamiable
disposition. E. . . . brought his bride
home, and a large party was given in
honor of the occasion. M. . . . accepted
an invitation, and congratulated the
newly-married pair with such emo-
tions, as must be experienced to be
understood. He looked the very type
of misery, and soon removed to a dis-
tant place. E. . . . and M. . . . met for
the last time at that party; his subse-
quent course fell far short of fulfilling
the bright promise of his early life.
Some time after he attempted suicide,

but did not accomplish his purposes

Whether he still lives, is not known to
the writer; but for many years his ex-
istence was a weariness, as be “dragged
at each remove, a lengthening chain.”
M. . . . never opened her heart to
another love; she had suffered too
dreadfully, and her confidence in the
sincerity of man’s professions was so
rostrated, that she doubted if love with
im is a principle of truth and disin-
terestedness. Although the attach-
menthad existed many years previously,
the thought that she had acted incom-
patiny with her Christian profession,
in encouraging, or allowing at all the
idea of marriage relationship with an
alien to the household of Faith. At
the time she had quieted her scruples
with the fact, that he had always been
a respectel‘ 0f religion —-a strict mor-

 

alist, and had, for years, conducted

family worship with extcmpore prayer:
and she beguiled her hesitancies, with
the hope that her influence might
strengthen and assist him in his quest
of Truth. Her heart nourished hopes,
that, like the “baseless fabric of a vis-
ion,” “melted into thin air,” faded,
but left its track upon all her after life.

Did she harbor vindictive feelings
and enmity against him who had
wrecked her young life’s hopes —had
drawn a dark pall over “ love’s young
dream,”—had crushed the first bud-
dings of her woman’s nature—had
rudely arrested the first goings out of
her gentle affections, to find rest and
dependence upon a kindred spirit ?
Nol she was never heard to utter an
upraiding word: and if she vindicated
when others blamed him, it was not
because her moral sense was blunted,
or her fine perceptions of integrity
dimmed; but from the lingering prin-
ciple of undying love, which could not
relinquish as entirely worthless, an ob-
ject, once so dear, so cherished, so
almost worshiped. She said the great-
est pang she‘sufl'ered, was the neces-
sity that compelled her to change the
high esteem, in which she had once
held him, to disapprobation.

Long years passed, with their at-
tendant vicissitudes; but the effects of
that early explosion of youthful antici-
pations were occasionally traced upon
her naturally cheerful character. She
was well fitted for domestic enjoyment,
and to embellish the family circle.
In relinquishing this fond ideal of her
early life, she said it was “sweet to
stammer one letter of the Eternal’s lan-
guage; on earth it is called forgive-
ness.”

In giving you this little narrative of
an early friend, I have, my dear M. . .,
wandered far back on the track of life,
and perhaps made myself a tedious
trespasser upon your time and patience.
If so, forgive me, and remember that
in the solitariness of my present life,
it is pleasant to chat, even in fancy,
with loved friends. That rank you
hold in the estimation of

L’Aurn.

 

 

M

 

HOW SHALL WE TREAT OUR GUESTS? 261

 

HOW SHALL WE TREAT OUR
GUESTS?

EAR HOME: Will you not in

your good “Editor’s Department,”
among the “Hints for Home Com-
forts,” give us some hints on this im-
portant question? What is the proper
treatment of welcome but unexpected
guests? In the city, we usually re-
ceive a notice in the morning, that
“Mother and Mrs. So and So, will
take tea with you this afternoon if it’s
convenient,” and we can make our ar-
rangements accordingly; but in the
country no such notice can be sent,
and now, whatI wish you to tell us, is
simply this: In case of receiving
such a visit, if we find ourselves minus
the customary three kinds of cake—
and who does not so find herself some-
times—if they should happen to
come to dinner when we have nothing
“kinder better” cooking, is it neces-
sary, in order that our guests may
think themselves welcome, that we
spend the time of their stay in the
preparation of cakes, pies, and ex-
cuses? I think not; but would like
to know what THE HOME thinks be-
fore I dare express myself. Let me
relate a case in point.

On a pleasant October morning, not
many years since, a lady-friend invited
me to visit with her a mutual ac-
quaintance in the country, not a thou-
sand miles from Buffalo. We had
eight miles to drive, and, as the roads
were good, we expected to spend a
Very happy day. I hurried through
my morning work, prepared my good
husband’s dinner, dressed myself and
little one, and was ready at half-past
nine, when my friend called for me in
her neat little rockaway. The ride
Was delightful, and the two little prat-
tlet's at our feet kept up a perfect buzz
°,f Pleasure. The fresh air and exer-
c‘” “791‘s good appetizers, and when
we arrived in sight of the house, Mrs.
L. . . . touched up the horse, with the
remark that “she hoped they had n’t
had dmnef' yet: ” we had not driven
fast, and “5 was almost noon. Then

VOL. m. 17,

 

we hoped we shouldn’t put them to
any extra trouble, and thus make our
visit the less acceptable;-—-we had
been expected on a previous day and
could not go—and thus discoursing
we arrived.

We found the lady of the house very
glad to see us—at least so she ex-
pressed herself; “but,” said she, “I
am only making a pork stew for din-
ner, and I never can make any nice
gravy with pork. If you had only
come last week!” We assured her
that we were fond of a pork stew, and
begged she would n’t make the slight-
est alteration in her arrangements on
our account; so she seated us in the
parlor and returned to the kitchen.

We had gossiped over all the last
bits of news on the way, and would
have preferred following her to the
kitchen, but were not intimate enough
to venture such a liberty ; so we waited
and waited, and kept the children from
saying very loud how “hundry ” they
were, until half-past two, when we
were summoned to the table. A mag-
nificent shanghai was spread before us,
with all the accompaniments of hot
apple pudding, coffee, etc., etc., etc.
You may be certain that we, as well
as.the children, did ample justice to
that dinner. When it was over she
returned to the kitchen —“ her baking
wasn’t quite finished,” and at four
o’clock, when we were obliged to ask
for our horse, as we had promised to
be home at sundown, we had not vis-
ited half an hour with the friend we
came so far to see. She protested
loudly against our leaving before tea;
“she had expected us to stay;” but
that was “impossible ;” so we tasted
of her various cakes, which were in-
deed excellent, and started for home,
feeling that we had subjected our friend
to a very hard day’s work, and had had
no visit with her. How much rather
we would have eaten of the plain din—
ner which 8116 was preparing, and
spent the day in conversation with her,
for she is a very intelligent woman.

This case is no exaggeration, and is,
I fear, too frequently encountered.

wwww_fl _-._ _. _..

 

 

 

 

/

262 HOW SHALL WE TREAT OUR GUESTS?

 

Will not THE HOME suggest a rem-
edy? Let us welcome, and be wel-
comed by our friends, but do not let
us exalt mere eating to such an impor-
tant place, that it spoils all our enjoy-
ment if we have company when we are
not quite prepared for them.
KEZIA.

 

We are glad that “Kezia ” has in-
troduced this subject to us, for there
are quite too many housekeepers in
the country who think more of treat-
ing their guests to a good dinner than
to a good visit. And all through the
country the predominance which is
given, in our social intercourse, to
the good things that feed the body
rather than the good things that feed
the mind, is simply ridiculous. No
matter how vapid may have'been
the conversation, or how listless and
weary the mind of every one present,
if the food brought upon the table has
been well prepared, and every thing
connected with a meal has gone of
well, the mistress of the house con-
siders the entertainment she has given
a success, and not a failure. If she
were entertaining a hospital of invalids,
or had called in the starved and fam-
ine-stricken from the lanes and alleys,

' this view of the matter would do very

well, for the physical entertainment
would be all they sought or could ap-
preciate. _
But where our guests are in our
own circumstances in life, and are
supposed to perform the duty of feed-
ing, (excuse the expression —it really
seems the only appropriate one in this
connection,) liberally at home, why
should we insult them, when they
chance to visit us, with the supposi-
tion that they come to enjoy our skill
in cookery, rather than our society?
Every good housekeeper should have
the manner of treating such chance-
gueste settled in her own mind as a
part of her theory of housekeeping——
not upOILthe ground upon which her
neighbors appear to have settled it, but
according to the mode which her own

 

reason dictates as right. And though
such guests may sometimes come upon
her at a time when her affairs are in
such a state as will make her manner
of housekeeping appear below its real
average, still she will much sooner
make her guests see that this is the
case if she puts a cheerful face on the
matter, and enjoys their visit with a
will to make the best of it, than if she
bustles about and tries to remedy the
evil in a way that shows her to have
been made thoroughly uncomfortable

-and wretched by their appearance.

For the really good and systematic
housekeeper will have few of the evils
of maladministratioh to‘ encounter,
and can afford to be habitually cheer-
ful, and accept an accident when it
comes in good grace, while an appear-
ance of anxiety and worry will always
appear to result—whether it really
does or not—from mismanagement
and want of , forethought.

Suppose the year’s soap or candle-
making of a country housekeeper falls
upon a day when she has no other re-
sort but to send the children to “keep
house ” in the parlor, while she attends
to the not over-nice work in the
kitchen. Every such housekeeper
knows that she is as liable to chance-
guests on such days as any othér; and
if they come, she will add nothing to
their happiness or their respect for her,
if she falls into a flurry of excuses,
and overheats and worries herself in a
vain attempt to remedy the evil.
There should be something in the lar-
der provided against such chances, and
a cheerful bringing of it forward, as if
she had done her best to provide
against such emergencies, will do
more to preserve her credit as a
housekeeper than any apologies or af-
ter-preparations she can make. A bit
of cold ham, or potted meat, or dried
beef with the good bread and butter,
and other little accessories, that are
always in a comfortable, well-managed
house, ought to satisfy any chance-
guest upon such an occasion. And if
her guests are in circumstances in life
which lead her to suppose that they

 

a

 

LITTLE THINGS.

263

 

are never subjected to such plain fare
at home, she will nevertheless gain
more respect from them if she lets her
conduct acknowledge her real position
than if she tries by flimsy pretences to
raise herself to their own level. There
is no such dignity as comes from a full
understanding and acceptance of one’s
real position in life. If it were sifted
to the bottom it would appear that a
large share of this anxiety of our
housekeepers to spread their tables
laboriously and luxuriously in the pres-
ence of strangers, comes from a wish to
make their style of living appear bet-
ter than it is, and this effort is not a
particularly honest or useful one. If
a friend comes to visit you, and your
society is worth any thing at all, it is
worth more to them than the delica-
cies with which you can overload your
table, by depriving your guests and
yourselves of the enjoyment of each
other’s society.

We remember once rising up to ex-
cuse ourself for a few moments to a
friend who had managed to secure a
half day to spend under our roof in
the midst of a journey, and being met
with a request that we would let the
family dinner, (with whose pro-arrange-
ments we had not thus far interfered
on account of our unexpected guest,)
take care of itselfl -

“ But,” said we, “there’s a new girl
in the kitchen, and the forks will lie
awry upon the table, and the bread-
plate be tilted against the gravy-dish if
I do not go.”

“Never mind,” replied our friend.
“I must leave directly after dinner,
and it will be much more pleasure to
me to enjoy another half-hour of your
society, than to see the forks and
bread-plate just in their place. You
can attend to these things when I am
gone, but just now I would rather feel
that I am more worthy of monopoliz-
lng your attention, than the forks and
plates.”

. .And there are but few guests who
Visit us because they wish to see us,
Who would not decide in the same
way.

 

LITTLE THINGS.
BY r. s. ARTHUR.

ATY CLEVELAND had been married

only a single month. What ails
the sweet young bride? Her eyes
look as if she had been weeping.
That curve upon her lips is not the
arching beauty of a smile. Has Ed-
ward spoken unkindly? or refused
some darling request? Has he left
her to be gone a week? or failed to
return at the appointed time after a
few days’ absence? No; none of
these. Then why has grief visited her
gentle bosom '9‘ — for grieving she is, as
she sits there by the window, still as
an effigy.

Do not smile at the answer we give
you: “Edward has only forgotten
the expected kiss at parting. and gone
forth to his daily business, leaving
a shadow upon the spirit of his young
wife.”

You smile in the face of our cau-
tion 1 It is such a little thing! And
you say, if Katy Cleveland is going to
make a bracket to hang troubles upon ‘
out of every trifle like this, she will
soon have her whole house tapestried
with gloom.

But, it was no trifle to Katy. The
young husband’s kiss may be nothing
to you —- not even held to the value of
a pepper-corn — but it was of priceless
value to the bride. She had even
come to look forward to the daily
partings and meetings with a pleas-
ant anticipation of the unfailing kiss—
that sweet token of love. '

But, the token had been withheld at
last; and on the closing day of their
“honey-moon.” How ominous! Was
the husband’s shadow already thrown
across the threshold of their home?

Acts we all instinctively regard as
the representatives of thoughts or feel-
ings. The kiss, with Katy, was an ex-
pression of love ; its denial an evidence
of failing warmth on the art of her
idolized young husband. he had no
other interpretation. N o wonder, there-
fore, that tears dimmed her. eyes;
no wonder that a vail was on her

 

 

 

 

264 LITTLE THINGS.

 

countenance. It was the bride’s first
sorrow. ‘

Away to his store Edward Cleve-
land had gone, wholly unconscious of
the shadow he had left behind him.
He did not even remember that, in

arting, he had withheld the usual
kiss. Thoughts of business had in-
truded themselves even into his home,
and claimed to share the hours sacred
to domestic tranquillity. The mer-
chant had risen for the time superior
to the husband.

When Edward met his wife at the
falling of twilight, it was with a lover’s
ardor. Not only one kiss was be-
stowed, but many. In the warm sun-
shine of his presence, the clouds which
had vailed her spirit for hours, were
scattered into nothingness.

And yé't, the memory of that forgot-
ten kiss remained as an unwelcome

guest. On the next day, and the next,-

and every day for a week, the expected
kiss was given; yet, ever and ever, in
her hours of loneliness, would thought

0 wandering back to the hour when
her husband left her without this token
of his love, and trouble the crystal
waters of her soul.

At the end of a week the kiss was
forgotten again ; nor was this all :
Edward had shown, on one occasion,
a spirit of impatience, and spoken
words that smote upon her feelings
with a sharp pain. He had not meant
to speak unkindly —— had not even felt
so; but Katy had seemed unusually
obtuse in some matters about which
Edward sought to interest her, and her
dullness provoked him.

“You are a little simpletonl” he
spoke, half in sport, half in earnest,his
brows slightly contracting. “ Why, "a
girl fourteen years of age could see
through it all l”

He observed that the color on her
cheeks deepened, that the expression
of her eyes changed, and that she
turned her face partly away from him ;
but he never Imagined the degree of
pain his lightly spoken censure had oc-
casioned. It never entered his heart to
conceive of the darkness of the vail

 

which suddenly came between her
spirit and the sunlight.

And so Edward felt a degree of con-
tempt for the quality of her under-
standing ! “ A little simpleton l ”
Ah! if the words were half-playfully
spoken, they had a meaning. He
would not have said. them, if he had
not discovered a feebleness of compre-
hension below what he had believed
to exist. Could the young wife’s
thoughts reach to any other conclu-
sion? No!

These were little things—trifles
compared with the great troubles of
life that come to all, and that were in
store for Katy Cleveland as surely as
for the rest. But they need not have
been, and would not have been, if
Edward had thought as much out of
himself, and had felt toward Katy as
tenderly as in the beginning. How
very guarded was the lover in all his
words and actions. He never forgot
the parting kiss; never was betrayed
into a lightly spoken word, that car-
ried with it a sting for the heart of his
betrothed. Oh, no! Had he deceived
Katy as to his real character and feel-
ings? We can not give a freely spo-
ken yea or nay to this. He had ~ not
meant to deceive her. And yet, cer-
tain semblances were put on, and the
lover appeared to have more perfec~
tions than really existed in the man.

“Ah, well, is not this ever so?”
Perhaps it is. With certain qualifica-
tions to the sentiment, the lover is al-
ways adissembler. If not, when he
assumes the husband he thinks it no
longer needful to give voice to the
tender sentiments that pervade his
bosom. It is enough for his wife to
know that he loves her. But she
looks for signs and tokens as of old,
and these failing, she sits, often, athirst
by the dried up fountains, from which
once gushed out refreshing waters.

Almost timidly did Katy look into
her husband’s face when he returned
home. Every hour during his ab-
sence, and almost every minute of
every hour, had she thought of his
depreciating words; and she felt that

 

, I»

 

LITTLE THINGS. 265

 

he, too, must be thinking of them all
the time, and with something of dis-
appointment, if not alienation. But,
she was in error, here. Edward had
forgotten them almost as soon as ut-
tered; and nothing would have sur-
prised him more than the fact that
Katy was grieving over them. He
met her with the most ardent of kisses,
the sweetest of smiles, and the tender-
est of words; and she was happy
again.

But, the evening did not pass wholly
free from shadows. Edward was com-
ing more and more in the true exter-
nal of his character, which had many
aspects not yet seen by his wife. He
had selfish qualities, as all men have,
and peculiarities, that, to some, would
show themselves as offenses. One
fault was impatience. This he had
repressed, though often under strong
temptation to let his feelings leap into
unseemly words. He was, moreover,
a man disposed to musing in silence.
His business fully occupied his thoughts
during business hours, and intruded it-
self even into the times and seasons;
that should have been sacred to do-
mestic peace. A thorough mercantile
education had given him habits of
order and punctuality. He was one
of your minute men. Orderly, punc-
tual, a little sarcastic, and impatient!
Ah, Katy Cleveland I you have a trial
before you with this husband of yours,
who is far from being the perfect man
your girlish imagination pictured.
A_nd yet, he loves you as the apple of

Is eye, and would, on no account, give
you pain.

“There it is again ! ” Edward had
gone to the bookcase which stood in
their sitting-room, to get a volume.

exatiou was apparent in his tones.

“What’s the .matter?” inquired
K‘fty, whose heart began to beat
quicker.

“.Who is it that disarranges these
b00139 s0 Shockineg ? ”

“NO One, dear. N 0 body touches
them but myself,” replied Katy.

. hen it is time you had learned a
little order. Just look here! Do you

 

see this volume of 'Byron upside down,
and out of its place in the series?
And here are two books laid on the
tops of others, instead of being set in
upon the shelf, and here is another
with the front, instead of the back
turned outward. Such disorder an-
noys me terribly! Of all things, I
like to see order; and most of all in a
woman. I hardly expected to find it
so seriously lacking in my wife l”

Edward was annoyed, and did not
very carefully modulate his tones.
They ’struck very harshly, and with an
angry intonation, upon the ears of Katy,
whose heart was too full to permit her
to make an answer. ,

“ The fact is,” continued Edward, “I
am a little disappointed in you.”

Ah 1 This was too bad ! The blow
given, with not a thought of‘its force,
reached instantly the fountain of tears,
and they gushed in a flood over the
cheeks of Katy.

Now, what had Edward said to oc-
casion such a burst of grief ? He was
not conscious of cruel words. Only
lightly had he laid his hand upon
her—lightly if not lovingly—and
this was the effect! Must he never
speak out when he saw afl'airs go
wrong? Must he.let all things fall
into disorder, and yet hold his peace?
This was asking too much. It was
unreasonable.

“Katy l” he spoke rather sternly,
“I thought you a reasonable woman.
But, all this is very unreasonable l ”

Now, Katy, for all her sensitiveness,
had some spirit; and there was suffi-
cient pride in .her heart to cause it,
even in pain, to lift itself indignantly
against the one who thrust at her too
sharply—even If that one were her
husband. Her tears ceased to flow,
and she made answer.

“And I thought you a kind and
reasonable man I ”

.v People who utter harsh words .usu-
ally evince surprise—often indigna-
tion—when coin of like quality is
returned to them in exchange. Ed-
ward Cleveland was for the moment
or two half confounded at thls

 

 

 

266 LITT\LE THINGS.

 

unlooked-for response. He had, in as
mild a way as possible,  pointed out
a disorderly habit that was exceedingly
annoying, and, lo! his wife assumed
an air of injured innocence!

“And pray, madam, in what re-
spect have I shown myself lacking in
kindness and reason? ”

Edward turned full upon his wife, as
he made this interrogation, and looked
with knit brows into her face.

“In making the position of two or
three books on a library shelf of more
importance than a kind and gentle
demeanor toward your wife, who has
no thought or wish but to please

4 you.”

Well and timely spoken,Katy Cleve-
land ! There are always two sides to
every questio’n — two aspects in which
to view all misunderstandings between
individuals, husband and wife not ex-
cepted. Far better it was to give Ed-

' ward this revelation of your thoughts,
than to hide them away from his per-
ceptions, and leave him under the
wayward influence of his own partial
views. It was a statement of the case
altogether unexpected ; yet so forcibly
put that the young husband found
himself shamed by an irresistible .con-
viction of wrong.

“ Right, Katy, dear! ”

It took a few moments for common
sense and kind feelings to overcome
the young man’s ride. But the clos-
ing sentence of his wife had dispelled
his trifling anger, and left but small
resistance. He spoke cheerfully, even
tenderly — shutting the bookcase door
at the same moment—and drawing
an arm around her waist, pressed her
closely to his side.

“Yes; you are right, darling I ” he
said. “The position of a book is a
small matter compared to words and
tones that make the heart bound with
pleasure, or flutter in pain. These
little things annoy me, sometimes.
It is a weakness. But I' will over-
come it, and never speak to you in
unkindess again, though every book
in the house be scattered on the
floors.”

 

Katy smiled lovingly into his face,
through eyes that swam in tears.

“I did not dream that such things
annoyed you, Edward,” she made an-
swer. “Father never seemed to notice
them; though mother has scolded a
great deal about my want of order.”

_ “Men are different in this respect. ‘

Any thing in disorder is sure to dis-
turb me. I have many times wished
it were otherwise. But, habits are

stron .”

“Bgear with me a little while,” Katy
made answer, “ and I will endeavor to
reform my bad habits. Want of or-
der is, I believe, one of my most seri-

ous failings; but it shall not stand‘

between me and my good husband, as
an originator of strife. Only Ed-
ward ' ”

The young wife paused. A slight
unsteadiness of voice betrayed itself on
the last word.

“Say on, love. Only what?”

“Have patience with me. New
lessons are not learned in a day. I
shall often forget—often act but im-
perfectly.”

, “And will you have patience with
me also, Katy ? ”

“With you! In what? ”

“Patience with my impatience.
One of my besetting sins lies" here. I
feel quickly and speak quickly. When
things are not just to my mind, anger
stirs in my heart.”

“It will be very hard for me to
bear with your displeasure,” said
Katy, growing more serious. “If you
speak to me harshly or unkindly, I
shall not be able to keep back the
tears. Will you have patience with
them, dear ’l ”

“ Yes, yes; and kiss them away, or
smile them into rainbows,” replied the
husband with love-like ardor.

Here was a good beginning. Ka-

 

ty’s reaction upon Edward—a reac-'

tion that surprised herself almost as
much as it surprised him—had
brought him back to reason. She
had held up a mirror before his eyes,
and rather startled him with his own
distorted image.

 

LN

 

LITTLE THINGS. 267

 

But, the world was not made in a
day, as the old adage has it, and hab-
its of mind are too real things to be
overcome, and set aside on the first
earnest effort. ‘Katy’s want of order
and punctuality, and Edward’s impa-
tience, came into rather strong conflict
ere a week had passed; and there
were frowns and anger on one side,
and tears upon the other. After a
brief estrangement, good sense and
right feeling brought back the discord-
ant strings of their life into harmony
again.

One of the, little things that an-
noyed Edward Cleveland, was his
wife’s habit of lingering in conversa-
tion with friends, when she knew that
he was waiting for her. As for in-
stance: They were at a social party,
and the hour for returning home had
come. They left the parlors together,
he going to the gentleman’s dressing-
room for his hat and overcoat, and she
to one of the chambers for her bonnet
and furs. Of course, he was ready
first. It did not take him two min-
utes to draw on his coat, and take up
his hat. At the end of the fourth
minute, he began to think it time for
Kate to make her appearance. But,
Katy and an old friend were in ear-
nest conversation about some matter
in which both had an interest, and she

had not at the end of five minutes

even taken her bonnet from the bed.
At the end of ten minutes, she said,
- “I must be going. Edward is waiting
for me.”

And she drew on her bonnet and
tied the strings.

“ How becoming!" said the friend,
referring to the bonnet. “I never saw
you look so well in any thing.”

This turned theirtalk into a new
channel, and five minutes more were
consumed; at the end of which pe-
I‘iOd, Katy said, as she took up hastily
her furs: .

. “I’m forgetting myself! Edward
13 Waiting.”

, But, the friend started a new sub-
3°C!» and five minutes more were con-
sumed. When Katy came, at last,

 

with slow steps, talking still to her
friend, and her husband met ,her on
the stairs— she saw that his face was
clouded. To him, the time he had
been walking impatiently the dressing-
room floor seemed full an hour; to
her, the time she had been chat-
ting with a friend, not over five min-
utes.

Edward was able to keep back from
his tongue an indignant rebuke only
long enough to get fairly out of the
house. Then he said:

“Katy ! This is insufferable! And
if you treat me so again, I’ll leave
you to get home as best you can! ”

Upon the pleasant state of feeling
left by the evening’s social recreations,
what a chilling pall was this to fling!
Katy had drawn her hand within his
arm, and was leaning toward him; but,
the pressure of her hand relaxed in~
stantly.

“ More than half an hour have
you kept me waiting, with my heavy
coat on, momently expecting you to
appear!”

“ N 0, Edward ! it was not ten min-
utes,” replied Katy, in a husky voice.

“Beg your pardon! It was three
times ten minutes! But, one ten
w0uld have been more than twice too

long. I never saw such a thoughtless I

creature! ”

Katy had done wrong, and she saw
itg but, not to an extent that war.
ranted such an angry state of feeling
in her husband. The time she had
talked with her friend passed so
quickly, that she could not believe
more than ten minutes had flown
away— but even to keep her husband
waiting, underthe circumstances, for
ten minutes, she felt to be wrong; and
had he not spoken so angrily, she
would have acknowledged her error,
and promised never again to offend in
a similar way. As it was, she simply
remained Silent, while he, in the ex-
citement of his unhappy state, added
other Words of rebuke no more care-
fully chosen.

. It was very, very hard, under the
Circumstances, for Katy, sufl'ermg as

 

 

268 LITTLE THINGS.

 

she was from the indignant rebuke of
her husband, to think clearly, and feel
rightly. The punishment was, in
her view, altogether beyond the of-
fense. He talked on; but she remained
silent.

At last, he began to feel that he was
saying too much. Katy had not
meant to offend him. Hers was only
a thoughtless act, which his impatience
had magnified into a crime, and which
he had punished as if it had been a
crime. Had his y0ung wife given way
to her feelings, she would have wept
herself to sleep that night, refusing to
be comforted. But, there was common
sense, right feeling, and a great deal
of true perception in that thoughtless
little brain of hers. She knew that
her husband loved her; and she knew
that she had done wrong in trespass-
ing on his naturally impatient disposi-
tion. So, as soon as they were home,
and she could say what was in her
thought in a manner to give it the
right effect, she spoke to him these
words, in a low voice, that slightly
trembled:

“ Edward, forgive my thoughtlessness.
I will try and not offend you again in
this particular. And forgive, also, the
frankness that accuses you of a far
greater wrong than mine. I do not
remember any thing in the marriage
contract, to which we both assented,
that gave either of us the right to'be
angry with, or to speak harshly to the
other. We pledged mutual loves, for-
bearance and kind oflices; and little
things, no matter how annoying, should
not make us forgetful of our pledges.
I was wronge—very wrong—but
wrong from thoughtlessness. Oh, Ed-
ward! if you had only spoken of it
in kind remonstrance, I would have
seen my error uite as clearly, and
reSOIVOd '60 d0 etter quite as ear-
nestly; and loving instead of painful
emotions would have trembled in my
heart. It is not good for us to be
angry with one another. The trim 01d
precept of bear and forbear, must
never be forgotten, if we would be
happy together. I am not perfect,

 

and can not attain perfection in a
day. Bear, then, with my infirmi-
ties, for the sake of the love in my
heart—a love that, to save you, dear
husband! would smile even in the
face of death! Such love should
cover a multitude of small offenses!”

Edward Cleveland caught his young
wife to his heart, and while he held
her there tightly, covered her lips
with kisses. '

“ Oh, these little things! These lit-
tle things!” he said. “How like
foxes do they spoil our tender grapes !
But, dear Katy ! it must no longer be.
Do not try my faulty patience over—
much, and I will hold my hand hard
against the weaknesses of cha‘racter
which have, already, troubled our

eace.”

“Speak freely and frankly, Edward,”
was the reply; “only speak kindly.
I will 'never of set purpose give pain
or annoyance. The dearest wish of
my heart is to make you happy ; the
light of my life is in your loving
smiles.”

It was far better thus to understand
each other. A world of unhappiness
in the future Katy saved herself and
husband. A true word, firmly spo-
ken, will bring a man to reason
quicker than a gallon of tears. Calm,
firm remonstrance, is always better
in a wife, than weeping or moody
silence. The first a husband can un-
derstand ; to the latter he has no key
of interpretation.

Many trials had Katy, with her
order-loving, impatient husband; but
she knew his heart to be full of love
for her, and the little things that
some wives would have magnified into
barriers of separation, she swept aside
with a gentle hand, and set herself
to the work of preventing their fu-
ture interpositions. She had her
reward.— Arthur’s Home Magazine.

 

“FAITH is the Samsonian lock of
the Christian. Cut that off, and you
may put out his eyes— and he can do
nothing.”——Spurgeon.

\

 

r

 

it

 

~.--—.

5t

rr0 MY SISTER. 269

TO MY SISTER.

I am thinking now, my Sister dear,
0f the days when we were young,

When all the friends we loved were near,
And our home with music rung.

Around our hearthstone warm and bright,
A family group we gathered there,

And though Time swiftly winged his flight,
To our happy hearts he ne’er brought a

care.

And that dear home was a farm-house old,
Guarded by the locust trees,

Whose perfume in the bright month of

June,

Loaded down the balmy breeze.

And dost thou remember the little brook
Where we often went to play,

Gathering the flowers along its bank,
Which we found in early May?

In that happy home were merry hearts,
And the days swiftly passed away,
And we took no thought of the busy parts
In Life’s drama, acted each day.
And we ne’er thought in those childhood
hours .
That Time would ever mark with change,
Blasting the hopes, and early flowers
Which Fancy cherished in its range.

But how those scenes have sadly changed:
That Mother who always welcomed us
there
With loving words and gentle smiles,
Ever ready our childhood griefs to share,
Was also loved by the angels in Heaven,
And they who mourned her lengthened

stay,
Besought the “ Great I am,” who rules our
destinies,
To call her from this earth away.

And. that Father, then in his manhood
strong,
Has passed to the old man gray;
Am’l though it may our heart-strings wring,
e know he is passing away.
brother loved and a sister dear,
. Have gone to the spirit land
06 the time when we were gathered
there, -
A loving and happy band.

And l'ahose who are left are scattered afar —
0‘3 One remains in the dear old home;
POthers and sisters have wandered away —
It'is sgave left it deserted and lone.
But b to think of our broken band,
t e thy Prayers as is my own,
. , weL:Illld may meet in that happy
Where pm“ and parting never is known.
LOUIS.

 

HOME.

BY KATE CAROL. .
OH ! tell me not that the theme is worn,
And of home we may not write,
For thither oft the spirit is borne,
And there it will roam to-night!

To home of our childhood, dearer now,
Than when at our mother’s side

We were taught in lowliness to bow,
And pray that no ill betide.

The cherished ones, who were nurtured there
By parents passed to the sky ;

That all at last might be garnered where
No tear ever dims the eye.

Oh! tell us not that “ old' is the theme,”
For memory lingers oft,

Where later near by a rippling stream
We dwelt in our own loved cot:

Where hand in hand we were borne adown
Life’s ever varying tide;

With a fondly loved and gentle one,
In our home the brook beside.

That spot endeared by a fragile flower,
Which we proudly called‘our own,

Till, soon it lay in a shady bower,
Near by our own cottage home.

0h! tell us not that we may not write
0f the theme we love the best;

While steadily points yon beacon light
To a. home among the blest.

That home, where after life’s fitful dream
The weary and worn repose,

And joyfully chant the exulting theme —
Redemption from all earth’s woes.

February, 1857.

 

THE DEPARTED.

WHERE ’s the snow — the summer snow _.
On the lovely lily flower?

Where the hues of sunset shed
O’er the rose’s crimson hour?

Where ’s the gold —the bright pure gold—
O’er the young laburnum flung?

And the fragrant sighs that breathed
Whence the hyacinth drooping hung?

Gone, gone —they are all gone!

Maiden, lovelier than the spring,
13 thy bloom departed too?
Has thy cheek forgot its rose,
Or thine eye its April blue?
Where are thy sweet bursts of song?
Where the wreaths that bound thy hair?
Where the thousand prisoner curls?
And the sunny smiles are - where?
Gone, gone—they are all 803°!

 

 

 

270 . MADAM GUYON.

 

MADAM GUYON.
BY MRS. C. A. HALBERT.
(Concluded)

HEN Madam Guyon was twenty-
two years old she had the small-
pox. This fearful disease was not then
robbed of its terrors by vaccination.
She had it in its most malignant form,
so that her whole body became a fear-
ful and loathsome spectacle. Her
friends came around her bedside,
loudly condoling with her in the loss
of her beauty. They imagined that
she would be inconsolable, and were
astonished to hear only expressions of
thankfulness and praise from her lips.
Her piety was now severely tested.
Could she cheerfully relinquish charms
so prized in society, and wear with
equanimity and cheerfulness a face dis-
figured and rendered almost repulsive
by her terrible malady.

We learn that she was able to re-
joice even at the loss of that which
had so often proved a snare and tempt-
ation to her. Lying on her couch of
pain, her soul was filled with inefl‘able
peace. “I praised God,” she says, “in
profound silence. * *‘ * WhenI
had so far recovered as to be able to
sit up in my bed, I ordered a mirror to
_ be brought, and indulged my curiosity
so far as to view myself in it. I was
‘ no longer what I once was. It was
then that I saw that my Heavenly
Father had not been unfaithful in his
work, but had ordered it in all its re-
ality.” .

An affliction heavier than the loss of
beauty awaited her recovery. Her
youngest son, the consolation of her
domestic life, and a boy of great prom-
139, Was seized with the same disorder,
and she soon followed him to the
t0mb~ Ten years had not elapsed
when her father died so suddenly, that
she was unable to reach him to receive
his blessmg. She felt this blow the
more keenly. because he was the only
member of her family who fully gym-
pathized with her feelings, or appreci-
ated the elevated motives which had
induced her withdrawal from the

 

 

werld. Thus one idol after another
was demolished, that, torn from all
human props, she might cling wholly
to Him whom she had chosen as her
portion. One by one the lights of
home were put out, and life looked
cold and dim before hei‘, but the lamp
of Divine Love burned unconsumed in
her inmost soul. ‘

God next tried her by the with-
drawal of that Heavenly light which
had consoled her hitherto. This ex-
perience was more bitter than the loss
of friends, and it was long before she
was able to understand it—long be-
fore she learned to walk by faith in-
stead of sight, and to resign God’s
gifts that she might receive the Giver.
This season of darkness lasted more
than six years. She emerged from
the long eclipse with a purified bright-
ness. From this time her soul entered
into peace. The heartiness of her con-
secration had been established by many
infallible proofs, and we do not learn
that the discipline was ever repeated.
Outward trials multiplied about her,
persecutions and imprisonmentawaited
her, calamities cruel as death followed
her everywhere, but far within its own
purified sanctuary her soul abode in
serene and joyful peace.

She now began to lay aside those
austerities with which she had bur-
dened herself in the earlier stages of
her experience. She attached to these
a significance very different from that
commonly received by Catholics, and
was as far as Luther from holding the
doctrine of justification by works.
Upon this point she guarded her lan-
guage with great care, making an im-
portantdistinction between meritorious
and disciplinary penance. She re-
garded acts of mutification as useful
only for a time, and to subdue inordi-
nate propensities.

“It is impossible,” she says, “to
subdue the inordinate action of this
part of our.nature, (the appetitesz)
perverted as it is by long habits of v1-
cious indulgence, unless we deny it for
a time the smallest relaxation. Deny
it firmly that which gives it pleasure;

 

 

)l

-)l

MADAM GUYON. . 271

 

and, if it be necessary, give to it that
which disgusts, and persevere in this
course, until, in a certain sense it has
no choice in any thing which is pre-
sented to it. * * * From this
time, when the senses have ceased
from their inordinate action, we should
permit them to accept, with indiffer-
ence and equanimity of mind, what-
ever the Lord sees fit in his Providence
to give them—the pleasant and the
unpleasant, the sweet and the bitter.”

About this time an incident oc-
curred, which showed Madam Guyon’s
readiness to turn herself to worldly
affairs when the occasion demanded.
A suit was brought against her hus-
band for the recovery of two hundred
thousand limes, which, it was unjustly
pretended, were due to certain parties
from Madam Guyon and her younger
brother. The Duke of Orleans, bro-
ther to the king, was induced to es-
pouse the cause of the claimants, and
M. Guyon thought it hopeless to con-
tend against an influence so powerful,
and revenged himself by venting his
ill-humor on his uncomplainihg wife.
She resolved to apply herself person-
ally to the judges for relief.

On the day of trial she nerved her-
self for her trying task. “I was won-
derfully assisted,” she tells us, “to
understand and explain the windings
Of this business. The judge whom I
first visited, was so surprised to see
the affair so different from what he
thought it before, that he himself ex-
horted me to see the other judges, and
9specially the Intendant, or presiding
Judge, who was just then going to the
court, and was quite misinformed
about the matter. God enabled me to
manifest the truth in so clear a light,
and gave such power to my words,
that the Intendant thanked me for

avmg so seasonably come to unde-
celve and set him to rights in the af-

-fair. He assured 'me that if I had not

taken this course, the cause would

233's been lost.” Ear husband, she
s, was '

she had dzizeedingly pleased at What

The year 1 67 6 brought great Changes

 

to Madam Guyon. Her husband had
long been feeble, and death was evi-
dently approaching. In this solemn
crisis she could no longer bear an es-
trangement, and resolved to make one
more effort toward a reconciliation.
Approaching his bedside just as he
awoke from a refreshing sleep, she
knelt down and asked his pardon for
her faults toward him. She assured
him that, however much she might
have erred, she had never intention-
ally displeased him. He received her
confession with the greatest emotion,
and exclaimed, “It is I who have done
wrong rather than yourself. It is I
who beg your pardon. I did not de-
serve you.”

Most auspicious was this reconcilia-
tion to the dying man. With it the
softening influences of the Spirit seem-
ed to drop upon his heart, and he
turned eagerly for religious instruction
to her whom he had ‘reviled. Seated
by that bedside, whence no harsh com-
mand of jealous mother-in-law' could
new drive her, she became both nurse
and spiritual guide to her husband.
For nearly a month preceding his death
she seldom' left his side, seizing such
intervals of ease as his disorder left
him. She unfolded the plan of salva-
tion with an earnestness and. unction
which carried conviction to his soul.
As the shadows of earth gathered
around him, the peace of God de-
scended into his heart. He died July,
1676.

Madam Guyon, whose varied ex-
perience of life would seem to cover
many more years, was but twenty-
eight when her husband died. A new
class of duties now rested upon her,
calculated still further to test her piety
which, fortified against pleasure, mio'ht
still fall before the eutanglementsaof
business. The settlement of her hus-
band’s large estate devolved mainly
upon her, and was rendered difficult
by the negligence into which his af-
fairs had fallen during his long sick-
ness. Madam Guyon was very little
acquainted with business, and wholly
ignorant of the forms of legal procedure.

 

   

272 mum GUYON.

 

She entered upon her duties with char-
acteristic ardor, and, from hef great
clearness of intellect, was soon able to
understand all its intricacies. She ar-
ranged her husband’s papers with ac-
curacy, paid the legacies, provided for
the claims, and administered the estate
in a manner highly satisfactory to all
concerned. Her success procured her
much commendation from her friends,
and a reputation for great abilities.
Another affair, growing out of the
settlement of the estate, still further
illustrates her character. A large
amount of property was in dispute be-
tween various individuals in her neigh-
borhood. The parties, over twenty in
number, had submitted their claims to
M. Guyon for adjudication. The pa-
pers were still in his hands, and partly
examined when increasing infirmities
obliged him to lay aside the onerous
task. After his death, his widow
wished to return these papers, but was
unanimously urged to step into the
place 'of her deceased husband, and

decide the matter. A proposal so-

novel would have been at once rejected
had she not foreseen that great em-
barrassment would follow her refusal,
and perhaps the ruin of some of her
friends. For thirty days she devoted

herself to the investigation of the case,

stopping for nothing but meals and
worship. Having drawn up her de-
cision in writing, she placed it in the
hands of the parties. They accepted
without reading it. When it was read
all parties were satisfied with it, and
landed Madam Guyon as a second
Solomon.

. She continued to reside at the man-
sron of her late husband. Her mother
retained her implacable enmity. Even
the dread presence of death had not
80ftened that stem cold heart, but
rather fixed it in its sullen and relent-
less hatred. Gladly would Madam
Guyon have taken her little ones and
left that house of bondage, but she felt
it her duty to make one more attempt
toward a reconciliation. On the first
Christmas morning after her husband’s
death, she approached her with every

 

 

mark of affection and said, “My mo-
ther, on this day was the King of
Peace born. He came into the world
to bring peace to us. In his name I
beg peace of you.” The mother re-
mained immovable, and soon after
gave her daughter formal notice “ that
they could no longer live together.”.
Gladly did she accept the intimation.
Silently and quietly she withdrew from
the house where, for twelve years, she
had borne the most trying humilia-
tions. She had suffered in silence—
she left without reproach. Gathering
her little flock about her she went out
in the depths of winter to seek such
accommodations as she could at that
season find.

For the first time since her child-
hood she now found herself in a position
to followherinclinations. Emancipated
from the surveillance of jealous eyes,
she began a life of quiet enjoyment,
living in great retirement, and seldom
going out except on some mission of
charity. Even such labors, her health,
enfeebled by long suffering and con-
stant attendance on her sick husband,
did not permit her to seek to much
extent, but personal appeals she never
rejected. On one occasion she learned
that a disabled soldier was lying sick
by the roadside near her house. She
had him brought in, and although he
was a debased and loathsome creature,
she did not hesitate to nurse him her-
self, and to watch over him with the
tenderness of a sister for the few weeks
that he survived.

Freed from all interference, Madam
Guyon addressed herself to the educa-
tion of her children. Here, as every—
where, she manifested the energy of
her character, and her fruitful mind
suggested'many new ways of arousing
their enthusiasm. She found her own
education deficient, especially in Latin,
then so material to the scholar. In-
stantly she commenced repairing the
defect, and placed herself under the
instructions of her eldest son’s tutor.
She was soon able to read understand-
ingly in the mother tongue of the
church, and thus to avail herself of

 

 

a)!

)l

MADAM GUYON. 273

 

the rich stores of devotional literatureof
which the Latin was the sole depository.
The first four years of her widow-
hood require no special mention. Out-
wardly they were the most peaceful of
her whole life. Inwardly she was still
suffering that dearth of spiritual life
which she calls her season of privation.
Of her joyful deliverance from this
state we have already spoken. Enter-
ing upon this higher stage of Christian
experience, her first impulse was to re-
tire into a convent, where she might
devote herself wholly to meditation and
charity. Inviting as such a course
seemed to her in her present elevated
frame of mind, the welfare of her chil-
dren forbade its immediate indulgence.
It was at this time, in. consequence
of the numerous offers of marriage
which were made her, that she came
to a final decision of a subject so ma-
terially affecting the interests of her
family. She says, “ There was one
person, in particular, whose high birth
and amiable exterior qualities, might,
under other circumstances, have had an
influence on my inclinations. But I
was resolved to be God’s alone.”
Madam Guyon was delightfully lo-
cated in the suburbs of Paris, with all
the refineed luxuries of wealth at her
command, surrounded by her children,
and courted by the most cultivated
moiety in the world. But she could
not rest in this pleasant land. Thoughts
0f a foreign mission, perhaps to Siam,
Where her cousin had labored, seem to
have suggestedthemselves. She care-
flllly watched the developments of
Providence, and was led by some strik-
"lg indications to decide upon Savoy
“3 the field of her labors. There,
among the inhospitable fastnesses of
.the Alps, she determined to toil, shar-

mg the privations of its humble peas-,

“try and ministering to their spiritual
wants- During the winter previous to

her departure, remarkable as a season'

9 great scarcity in France, she was
Instrumental in relieving much distress.
9:; Sfiveral weeks she distributed sev-
OW undred loaves of bread from her

n d°°13besides other more private

 

contributions. Yet she tells us that
God so blessed her alms that her own
family lost nothing by them. Her
preparations for leaving Paris were
made with careful reference to the wel-
fare of her children. The two boys
were committed to the care of persons
well qualified to superintend their edu-

cation. Wise precautions were taken

for the security of their property, for
their mother had no intention of en-
croaching on their part of their father’s
estate in the furtherance of her benev-
olent aims. She even assigned to them
a part of her own share. She did not
part from her sons without deep sad-
ness. She had many doubts as to the
propriety of leaving them even to the
most judicious guardianship, but on
the whole the will of God seemed to
her plainly expressed. Her little daugh-
ter accompanied her. They left Paris
July, 1681. As they floated down the
Seine an affecting incident occurred.
The little girl busied herself in cutting
the leaves and twigs which she snatched
from the river bank into crosses. Af-
ter awhile she came to her mother,
and silently attached them to her dress.
A female attendant who watched her
said, “My pretty child, give me some
crosses too.” “ N o l ” replied the prat-

tler, “they are all for my dear mother.” ‘

Madam Guyon, who sat lost in thought,
did not at first observe her, but seeing
herself covered with crosses, was struck
with the ominous portent. Soon the
little girl was again at work weaving
a crown of river blossoms. When it
was finished,-she placed it softly on her
mother’s head, saying, “After the cross
you shall be crowned.”

After a fatiguing journey the wan-
derers arrived at Gex, a small city
twelve miles from Geneva, and took
lodgings at the House of the Sisters
of Charity. Madam Guyon had met
D, Aranthon,  of Geneva, in
Paris, and gained his hearty approval
of her plans. In settling at Gex she
had marked out no definite course, but
left herself free to follow Providential

loadings. She made no noisy demon-'

strations, but waited quietly to see

 

 

 

274 MADAM GUYON.

 

what the Lord would have her do.
Very soon the noiseless presence of the
gentle stranger began to be felt in the
town. Her bounty diffused smiles in
many an humble dwelling. Her costly
ointments, which she compounded with
peculiar skill, were freely dispensed to
the wounded and disabled poor. At
one time she contemplated devoting
her whole time to the lowly offices of
a nurse Her influence on the Commu-
nity with whom she dwelt was great,
and many of the Sisters attributed
their first impulse toward a higher sanc-
tification to her conversations. Grad-
ually her sphere opened before her.
The mysterious voice which had been
whispering in her heart for so many
years began to utter itself. What the
Spirit had been fourteen years in un-
folding to her she was now to proclaim
to others. Christian Sanctefication,
wrought in the soul by faith, to be
sought after and expected in the pres-
ent life, was the doctrine which Madam
Guyon taught, and for which she was
about to suffer. Little did she dream
as she sat in her quiet room, conversing
with those who sought her on the
union of saints with their Head, and
the blessedness of losing the will,
that her teachings were wholly at va-
riance with the spirit of that church of
which she was an, humble daughter.
Little did she suspect that she was pro-
pounding heresies of which the Holy
See was less tolerant than of the great-
est crimes,-— heresies which had piled
faggots and crimsoned stakes. .

N o sooner were these sentiments
repeated to the worthy but narrow-
minded D’Aranthon than he took alarm.
As a good son of the church he could
not rest. He called to his aid Father
La Comb, the religious director of
Madam Guyon, and desired him to in-
terpose his spiritual authority to close
her mouth. La Comb, who had be-
come himself deeply imbued with the
same sentiments. respectfully but firmly
declined to interfere. The bishop him-
self was wholly unable to resist the
eloquence of her words when in her

presence, but his favorable feelings were

 

soon dispelled by the insinuations of
those about him. Still he was unwil-
ling to lose the benefit of her munifi-
cent charities to his diocese, and formed
a plan to meet the exigencies of the
case, most sagaciOus in his own eyes.
Could she be persuaded to endow a
religious House at Gex, and to become
herself its prioress, her wealth might
be secured to the church, while her
vast energies would be directed into
such channels. as should stifle all incli-
nations to dogmatic teachings. She
perceived the snare, and, although she
would have found no difficultyin relin-
quishing that property of which she
considered herself only stewardess, she
was unwilling to do any thing which
should embarass her in the free expres-
sion of her convictions. This decision

alienated the bishop still more, and '

determined him to effect her removal.
Her situation became every day more
unpleasant. An active hostility sprang
up in the Community, which was fos-
tered by the foulest aspersions of her

character and designs. Some of the.

Sisters who had once been loud in her
praise became jealous of her growing
influence, and readily seconded the
wishes of their bishop. It was’in their
power to cause her many annoyances.
Frightful apparitions were made to ap-
pear at her windows in the night, and
the sashes were broken in. Her two
waiting-maids, whom she had brought
from Paris, and whose services she had
relinquished in part to the Community,
were not allowed to render her any
aid, so that she was compelled to per-
form herself those menial labors for
which her health and former habits
unfitted her. Her letters were inter-
cepted,o ened and used for mischievous
ends. hus all prospect of present use-
fulness being destroyed, Madam Guyon
resolved to leave Gex.

In the early spring of 1682, a little
boat bore herself, daughter and maids,
across the placid Leman, to the pleas-
ant town of Thenon, on the opposite
shore. There La Comb resided, the
only person who fully sympathized
with her views, and understood her

 

~—

 

 

 

 

- '

MADAM GUYON. 275

 

character. She looked to him for
counsel respecting her future move-
ments. She found him just leaving on
a long journey, and quite uncertain
whether he might not be detained at
Rome, Where he was carefully watched,
expressing his regret in leaving at this
trying conjuncture. She replied, “My
father, your departure gives me no
pain. When God aids me through
his creatures, I am thankful for it.
But I value their instrumentality and
aid only as they are subordinate to
God’s glory, and come in God’s order.
When God sees fit to withdraw the
consolations and aids of his peopleI
am satisfied to do without them. But
much as I should value your presence
in this season of trial, I am very well
content never to see you again if such
be God’s will.” Such dispositions were
the fruit of those sentiments for which
she was denounced!

Some rumor of Madam Guyon’s re-
markable character had probably pre-
ceded her, for her rooms at the convent
were soon filled with eager inquiries
after this new doctrine of the interior
life. She turned no one empty from
her door. Many who had long felt
the deadness of mere ceremonies, and
were darkly groping toward the liberty
of the gospel, heard,from her eloquent
llps, the Word that giveth life. A few
came to cavil, but most of her visitors
were honest inquirers. A great work
CQmmenced in Thenon. The new doc-
tIzlne was everywhere spoken of. Young
gll‘ls formed themselves into little cir-
0198 for religious improvement, one
reading while the rest pursued their

umble tasks. Madam Guyon saw the
Seed springing up with a quiet glad-
“638) but her heart was not lifted up.

aid a friend: “The whole town- comr

Tends you.” “Observe,” she replied,
what I now tell you, that you will
351‘ curses out of .the same mouths,
“71310 at present pronounce blessings.”
After a residence of two years in
lhe Convent, she was obliged, by the
"13"!) state of her health, to seek a
Welling at a greater distance from the
water. She thus describes her next

 

home, it being the only one she could
procure in the desired locality. “It
had a look of the greatest poverty.
It had no chimney except in the
kitchen, through which one was obliged
to pass to go the chamber. I took
my daughter with me and gave up
the largest chamber to her, and the
maid ~Wh0 took care of her. The
chamber which I reserved to myself
was a very small one, and I ascended
to it by means of a ladder. Having
no furniture of my own except some
beds, which were quite plain and
homely, I bought a few cheap chairs,
and such articles of earthen and
wooden ware as were necessary. I
fancied every thing better on wood
than on plate. Never did I enjoy
greater content than in this hovel.
It seemed to me entirely conformable to
the littleness and simplicity which
characterize the true life in Christ.”

The Bishop, within whose diocese
she still resided, continued his perse-
cutions. He complained that she won
every body to her side. Although
leading a perfectly retired life, she did
not long remain unmolested. The
rabble were set upon her steps, so that
her personal safety was endangered.
Her little garden was ravaged in the
night, and her windows were broken
with stones which fell at her feet.
Threats of violence were heard in the
darkness, but a Divine Hand restrained
the rufiians from breaking into the lit-
tle asylum of unprotected females.
During these disturbances, Madam
Guyon rested in perfect peace. She
accepted the evil and the good with
the same calmness of spirit. It is thus
that she records her emotions: “The
love of God, and of God alone was
my soul’s great business. I seemed so
entirely lost in God, as to have no
sight of myself at all. It seemed as if
my heart never came out, of that
Divine ocean. Oh 1 loss, which is the
consummation of happiness, though
operating through crosses and deaths.”

Driven from Savoy, Madam Guyon
turned toward Piedmont, accompanied
by her little family and one or two

 

.. .. ....A.. .. -....< .,...a..._»_..

MADAM GUYON.

 

ecclesiasties. She ascended the Alps by
a route both tedious and perilous, and
reached Turin. in safety. She had
been invited hither by the Marchioness
of Prunai, a lady of very high rank,
whose early history, trials and religious
views corresponded remarkably with
her own. This eminent person had
long watched the course of her French
sister with admiration, and welcomed
her warmly to her mansion.

In this refined Christian home
Madam Guyon rested a few months.
With returning health she found her-
self longing for France, and strength-
ened to enter upon those labors and
sufferings which yet 'remained unac-
complished. The following autumn
we find her at Grenoble, a city of con-
siderable size. There the early scenes
of Thenon were repeated with even
greater power. Her rooms were
so crowded daily with persons desiring
religious conversation, that she scarcely
found time to eat. Persons of every
rank in church and state, as well as
the lowly and obscure, testified to the
wonderful unction with which the
truth flowed from her lips. “Marvel-
ous indeed,” she tells us, “was the
work of the Lord.”

Although Madam Guyon’s proceed-
ings were attended with some public-
ity, we do not discover that she
departed from the spirit'of female de-
corum. Her interviews were private
and informal, and she conversed with
those present separately or unitedly as
her judgment dictated.

While at Grenoble she composed a
little Manual of Prayer which embod-
ied her peculiar views, and was af-
terward honored with ecclesiastical
censure. Another work, entitled “ Spir-
itual Torrents,” was composed still
earlier. In it she traces the growth of
grace "1 the soul under the figure of
streams: which rise from some obscure
stream In the mountains, and move
on with ever increasing volume and
momentum to the sea. She was an.

r thor of more than forty volumes, some

of which passed through many edi-

'tions. Her commentarieslon the Bible

 

were written at night, in time stolen
from sleep. In their composition she
believed herself under the special illu-
mination of the Spirit, and wrote only
while the supposed Divine impulse
lasted. Her writings exhibit great
eloquence, force of conception, and
power of illustration.

Madam Guyon was not long suffered
to labor unmolested. The former per-
secutions were renewed, and it was
thought best for her to leave the city
for a time. Unwilling that her daugh-
ter should share her hardships, she
left her in the care of her faithful
maid, while she turned her fugitive
steps toward Marseilles. She landed.
in that ancient town one spring morn-
ing in 1685, and before night “all was
in uproar against her.” A legion of
enemies could scarcely have produced
greater consternation, than this soli-
tary, defenseless woman. We can not
stop to trace all the causes of this op-
position. It originated in the jeal-
ousy of the clergy, who had begun to
snuff heresy in the very air around
her. In eight days she was again a
wanderer, seeking an asylum with her
beloved Marchioness at Turin.

By a strange series of disasters she
was driven hither and thither, till she
began to feel that earth had no resting
place for her weary foot. Her heart
was very sad. Affectingly does she
describe her emotions: “ Alone as it
were in the world, forsaken of all hu-
man help, and not knowing what God
required of me, I saw myself without
refuge or retreat, wandering like a
vagabond on the face of the earth. I
walked in the streets; I saw the
tradesmen busy in the sh0ps; all
seemed to me to be happy in having a
home—a dwelling place to which
they could retire. I felt sadly that
there was none for me.”

Passing over some eventful months.
in which she experienced marvelous
interpgsitions of. Providence, we find
her again in Paris, after an absence of
five years. Gladly she gathered her
divided family about her, and resumed

'herquiet domestic life. The history

 

it

 

S
i

ll

i,

 

MADAM GUYON. 277

 

of her missionary labors had preceded
her, and opened to her many Chris-
tian hearts. These new friends were
many of them of the highest rank, and
led her into a sphere still above that
in which she had formerly m'oved.
About a year after her return, La
Comb, who had accompanied her to
Paris, and was greatly distinguished
for his eloquence and sanctity, was
thrown into the Bastile. Heresy was
the ground of his cruel imprisonment.
Madam Guyon felt keen sorrow on his
account, more especially because she
had led him to entertain those views
for which he suffered. He was never
released, but, after twenty-seven years
of patient suffering joined the glorious
company of martyrs above. -
Madam Guyon well knew that the
blow which had fallen on La Comb,
hung suspended over her own head.
Several who sympathized with her
had been banished; and the king,
grown bigot in his old age, was be-
coming uneasy at the prospect of a
new heresy springing up under his
eye, and in his own capital. He or-
dered that the person of Madam
Guyon should be secured. She was
carried to the Convent of St. Marie,
and shut up in a small room, with a
stern and morose nun for her jailor.
. The only thing that really affected her
In this imprisonment was the separa-
tion from her family. She earnestly
begged that her young daughter might
remain with her, but her enemies bore
the child away with malicious satis-
faction. Her apartment was so situ-
ated as to admit the full glare of the
8ummer’s sun, and her health soon

,83‘70 way under the distressing heat

‘Pd confinement, so that she nearly
dled for want of care. A servant and
physician were at length granted, and
“he recovered. She relieved the mo-
notony Of her existence by composing
ymnS, writing her autobiography, and
conqsponding with her friends. She
smiled several judicial examina-
uons’ Which: 30 far from eliciting
any “1mg figainst her, rather im-
pressed her judges in her favor.
v0L. III. 13.

She was long kept in ignorance of
her daughter’s abode, and discovered
it at last only to learn that attempts
were being made to force her into
a marriage with a man of profligate
and ‘irreligious life. ‘ The king ap-
proved the project, but required the
consent of her mother. Madam Guyon
was promised her liberty if she would
grant her sanction. She rejected the
tempting offer with indignation, al-
though with the prospect that her
captivity would be rendered perpet-
ua.

At length, through the powerful
intercession of Madam De Maintenon,
she was released in the autumn of
1688. She was received with open
arms by her former friends. The
powerful lady to whom she owed her
deliverance sought her acquaintance,
and honored her with much attention.

In the.year 1690, Mademoiselle
Guyon, then fifteen years old, was
married to the Count de Vaux, a man
whose principles and character met
the cordial approbation of her mother.
The happy settlement of this clear
child afforded her great satisfaction.
She had bestowed unwearied care on
ther training, and, as she opened into
womanhood, was comforted in findin

fulfilled. For some time mother and
daughter resided together at the coun-
try house of the Count.

It is at this point that the life of
Madam Guyon became connected with
that of Fenalon. It is unnecessary for
us to describe this eminent man, whose
name is diffused like a fragrant oil
through the church universal. He
had long watched the course of this
heroic woman, and been drawn toward
her by a secret Christian sympathy.
Coming to Paris soon after her release,
he sought her acquaintance. They
met at the house of a mutual friend,
the Duchess of Charost, and held a
long conversation on the subject of the
interior life. The intercourse thus
commenced extended over many years,
and exerted a marked influence over

 

'Fenalon. Although a sincere Christian,

the sweet promise of her childhood -

 

 

 

 

  

278 MADAM GUYON.

 

he had not yet reached that elevated
state of consecration which he be-
lieved attainable in this life, and he
had many difficulties to prOpose to the
larger experience of his friend. She
on her part labored for his more com-
plete sanctification almost with an
agony of spirit. She perceived the
great designs God had for him, and
believed herself the agent thrOugh
whom greater grace should be im-
parted. Her conversations and letters
had a marked. influence upon him.
His mind was too clear and his heart
too simple in its aims to be led into
any mystical illusions. .While he sub-
jected her views to a most searching
analysis, he was ready with the docil-
ity of a child to receive them so far as
they seemed to express the mind of
the Spirit. It would be instructive to
pause longer over this remarkable cor-
respondence, for it was one of' the most
interesting passages in the lives of
both these eminent persons.

From year to year Madam Guyon
was constantly witnessing the spring-
ing of the seed she had sown with
tears. The leaven of her doctrines
was spreading in France. Many per-
sons of distinction in the Catholic
church were becoming imbued with its
spirit. It was at work in the provin-
ces; in Paris, at the Institution of St.
Cyr, that foster child of De Maintenon,

- and in the very palace of the king.

Sermons, preached years before by La
Comb, were now bearing fruit, and the
works of Madam Guyon, armed with
the same power as her living words,
were becoming widely circulated.

In this state of things Bossuet, the
first orator and theologian of his age,
and one of the highest ornaments of
the church, felt it his duty to lift his

onderous arm against the growing
heresy. He had passed it by with
contempt so long as a woman stood at
its base; but when he saw Fenalon
supporting It .116 became alarmed.
He solicited an Interview with Madam
Guyon, read her works, and after
some months held a second protracted
conversation. Bossuet raised objec-

 

tions to her views, and criticised the
looseness of her language. He showed
her that in many instances she had
indulged in vagueness of expression,
calculated to mislead unstable minds.
She had never been subjected to so
searching an examination, and trem-
bled under the dictatorial roughness of
her censor. Often she nearly lost her
self-possession, but in a moment “rec-
ollecting herself in God,” her serenity
returned. Bossuet was, in the main,
satisfied with her opinions, as explained
by herself, but the public was not
quieted.

A commission was next appointed
by the king to examine her, of which
Bossuet was the chief member. The
whole subject was again renewed with
great minuteness, without eliciting
any thing to warrant a condemnation.
Bossuet did not however seem quite
satisfied. Madam Guyon offered to
place herself under his special instruc-
tion, that she might be enlightened in
respect to her errors. He willingly
acceded, remarking to a friend that it
would be as good as the Archbish-
opric of Paris or a cardinal’s hat—
thus confident was he of a speedy vic-
tory. But he was mistaken. After a
residence of six months in his dio-
cese, she returned to Paris with un-
shaken belief in the Scriptural nature
of her doctrines. The BishOp was
unable to withhold his testimony to the
Christian simplicity of her life while
under his observation.

No sooner was her return known,
than her enemies renewed their out-
cry, and she was obliged to hide herself

"from their violence. For five months

her abode remained a profound secret,
unknown even to her daughter. She
was then discovered by the police, and
borne by royal mandate to the prison
at Vincennes. The faithful maid who
shared her concealment, was confined
with her, and was a great consolation
to her mistress. We learn how little
outward circumstances were able to
disturb the calm current of her happi-
ness, from the following entry in her
Autobiography :

 

\ l
l
r

 

MADAM GUYON. I 279

 

“I passed my time in great peace,
content to spend the remainder of my
life there if such should be the will of
God. I employed part of my time in

writing religious songs ; I and my maid,

La Gautiere, who was with me in
prison, committed them to heart as
fast as I made them. Together we
sang praises to Thee, Oh our God!
It sometimes seemed to me as if I
were a little bird, whom the Lord had
placed in a cage, and that I had noth-
ing to do now but to sing. The joy of
my heart gave a brightness to the
objects around me. The stones of
my prison looked in my eyes like
rubies.”

After a captivity of nine months,
Madam Guyon was transferred to
Vaugirard, and allowed more free-
dom. The controversy respecting her
doctrine had been transferred to Fen-
alon and Bossuet. These mighty
champions fixed the eyes of the Chris-
tian world, while she who was its first
expounder was nearly forgotten. But
as soon as she was suffered to comm u-
nicate with the world, her power he-
gan to revive. Louis regarded her
with an almost superstitious dread,
and determined to crush her effectu-
all .

She was transferred to the Bastile
in 1698. Of the secrets of that terri-
ble abode we know little. Madam
Guyon kept the oath of secrecy which

.was extorted from all prisoners at their

entrance, with religious fidelity. Sev-
eral commissioners were appointed to
examine her from time to time, and it
18 recorded that she defended herself
“ with great ability and firmness.”
The rumor of her death was circu-
lated, and reached Fenalon, then suf-
fering banishment for his adherence
‘30 her doctrines. He believed her
1Wyond the need of all human vindica-
“031, 01‘ the offices of personal friend-
Shlp- It was thought that he might
“(3w make his peace with his king, but
“1311 a noble disinterestedness he de-
‘f‘eilded her memory in these words:
t would be infamous weakness in
me to speak doubtfully in relation to

 

her character, in order to free myself
from oppression.”

After four years spent in one of the
towers of the Bastile, Madam Guy-
on’s imprisonment was exchanged for
exile. So great was her influence
still, that the king would not hazard
her residence in Paris, and banished
her to Blois, a city in the south of
France.

Here terminates the historical ca-
reer of Madam Guyon. For more
than twenty yearsshe had been fol-
lowed by a persecution as relentless as
it was unjust. She had endured all
with a fortitude worthy of the martyr
age. The greatest theologian of his
times had met her in debate without
being able to vanquish her. The first
monarch in Christendom had feared
her more than legions of fees. Even
the Pope could be brought to give
only a. qualified and nugatory cou-
demnation of her doctrines. Truth,
courage, and faith had conquered.

We have little more to relate con-
cerning Madam Guyon. She retired
to Blois in the year 1703, and passed
the remainder of her days in honored
tranquillity. She had the satisfaction
of 'being near her eldest son, who was
married and settled in her neighbor-
hood, and also received many visits
from distinguished foreigners. Old
age, hastened by want and sorrow,
came prematurely upon her, and she _
suffered much bodily weakness. But
the serenity of her soul remained un-
changed. She entered into rest in the
month of June, 1717.

 

THE race of mankind would perish
did they cease to aid each other. From
the time that the mother binds the
child’s head, till the moment that some
kind assistant wipes the death-damp
from the brow of the dying, we can
not exist Without mutual help. All,
therefore, that need aid have a right
to ask it from their fellow-mortals.
No one who holds the power of grant-
ing can refuse without guilt.— Sir
Walter Scott.

 

 

    

MW W*”._-_-m

 

 

 

 

 

 

280

THE LITTLE J ONESES.

 

THE LITTLE J ONESES.

HAVE often wondered why so

many of the dear little children I
meet have such big sorry-looking eyes
with brown circles under them, and
not a bit of fresh rosiness about their
complexions. I have wondered most
at the little‘Joneses, with their dry yel-
low faces and skinny hands, that in-
stead of all the Winsome, fat, no-shaped
chubby hands that healthy happy young
ones have, are so like bony, miserly
claws, made just for grabbing money ;
but I guess I won’t wonder any more.

A sultry morning last fall, I ran in
to Polly Jones’ bright and early, to get
her little sack pattern for Tab, and
there she was was busy as a bee mak-
ing up the many great puffy feather
beds, and fussing around in a wood-
chuck’s hole of a dark room, that they
call their bed-room, with the two win-
dows closed, and her long brown hair
wadded up under a winter hood, sweep-

ing and Scolding and suffocating, almost, '

among the dust and feathers and heat.
I flung up both windows,slammed open
the door, and turned in to help her
scold, and in a few minutes the good-
hearted impatient woman was laughing
gloriously.

I told her to look up the pattern,
and I would do whatever she had to
do while she got it for me. She was
just fixing the children off to school,
and told meI might put up the dinner
for them. She said she had plenty of
mince pies baked, but it took one
apiece for their dinners, and so they
did n’t last very long.

Lute began to mutter that bread
and butter wasn’t good enough, and
that he ’d starve on it, etc. ; but Polly
was overhauling sacks, and baskets,
and wallets for the mislaid pattern,
and did not hear him,

I set out a nice plate of hard yellow
butter, With the cool drops like dew all
over it, and took up nearly a whole
loaf of moist yeast bread, and as I cut
the knife into it, I said, “How many

. slices shall I put up for your dinner,

Luty ? ”

 

He was standing by the window
filling his pockets with parched corn
and nuts, and looked up carelessly
with his wan face and great stony
eyes, saying: ,9

“Oh, I gueth ’bout theven thli-
ceth.”

“Only seven, Luty?” said I, brim:
full of surprise and laughter, but pre-

serving the gravity of a deacon.

“Yethl cauth I don’t like bread
and butter very well.”

“Mary,” said I to the little girl two
years younger, who sat on the broad
door-stone eating dried apples with the
voracity of an ostrich, and feeding lit-
tle bits to the baby on the floor, “how
many slices will Rosa put up for your
dinner to-day ? ” '

“ How many did Lute take?” said
she, without raising her eyes.

“ Only seven,” I replied.’

“‘Well, then, put in eight for me.”

I drOpped the knife, and away went
all gravity, as I burst into a long and
loud laugh.

Polly was surprised that I should '

laugh so heartily at such a little thing.
She said that was nothing for the little
Joneses, that they were wonderful
hearty eaters, and yet they were so

oor and yellow, and did n’t seem to
have any life or animation in them.
She said she tried to be a good mother
to them, and kept them warm and com-
fortable, and out of cold water,and they
had excellent soft feather beds to sleep
in, and two pillows apiece, and she
didn’t allow them to run and weary
themselves, or swim or climb, or go
hungry, or wake up in the night and
suffer for want of something to eat.
They were naturally delicate, and she
gave them blue mass, or calomel, and
lots of good medicines, for she wanted
them to grow well and strong, and be
useful men and women. Why, she
started her children to school at four
years of age, and they didn’t learn as
fast as some of her neighbor’s children
who had never been inside of a school-
house at seven years. She thou ht
perhaps though the reason was t at
teachers now-a—days did n’t teach hours

 

\

s
5.

CHANGES OF TIME. 281

 

enough in a day, and then allowed
them a whole hour for noon.

Alas for the poor Polly Jonesesl
and the poor little Joneses!— Ohio
Cultivator.

 

CHANGES OF TIME.
A srasv Lmr rnon run roan-01.10 or
erLrn wean.

NE of the most striking features of
life, is change. To-day, we enjoy
the blessings of health; to-morrow,
the hand of sickness is heavily laid
upon us. To-day, friends gather
around us; to-morrow, they are num-
bered with the dead. The flowers
that bloom in their beauty to-day, fade
and die beneath to-morrow’s scorch-
ing sun.

I saw a young girl beautiful and
lovely, as she gaily entered the bril-
liantly-lighted saloons of a princely
edifice, proudly leaning on the arm of
her handsome cavalier. I saw her as
she was whirled past me in the giddy
waltz — I saw her graceful form as it
swayed to and fro in keeping with the
rich music that was wafted on the
midnight air. I heard a merry laugh
break from those ruby lips, and a look
of satisfied pride rested on her sunny
countenance. She was happy then —
no thought of the future entered her
mind. Sickness had never visited her
couch. Care had never troubled her,

' and she knew not what anxiety was—

her only thought was how she might
best while away the weary hours that,
unem loyed by gayety hung heavily
upon er hands.

Again I saw her, but it was not at
the midnight hour, and surrounded by
scenes of mirth and pleasure, but it
Was at the early dawn of day. The
glorious sun was shining brightly, but
Its bright rays were closely shut out
Of the sick chamber by the heavy
drapery that hung the windows— not
the fflmtest ray found its way to the
befis‘de 0f the sick and dying. The
Emce 0f music and gladness was

“bed; the heart that so lately beat

 

with gratified pride, now lay in the
agonies of death; the countenance so
lately lit with radiant smiles, now dis-
torted by pain. Silence, deep silence,
reigns, unbroken save by the cries of
anguish that rise from those lips that
were wont to send forth such merry.
peals of laughter. The gay and rich
must die—alas! how true these
words. Friends gather round 'the bed-
side of the dying, to take a last look
of the one they love. No voice of
prayer is raised in behalf of the dying,
for the minister has not arrived in
time, and not one among that number
knows how to pray. What! not know
how to pray! And can that be said
of any who live in this enlightened
age, with the Bible at their right hand
and left? Even so, there are many-
alasl that it should be so.

Shriek after shriek of agony fills
the air, and with the cry of “Save —
oh! — save me l” the dying girl sinks
back upon her pillow lifeless. No
smile of joy rests upon that counte-
nance, but the look of pain and misery
that rests upon the countenance of all
who are not at peace with God.

I saw a bright and lovely babe, full
of joy and innocence as he fondly and
trustingly rested upon -his_ mother’s
breast. He grew to manhood, and a
change was wrought—a bitter change.
The name of his Creator was often
lightly and carelessly used; the lips
that once lisped infant praises, now
cursed the God who made him. He
was often to be seen in the haunts of
vice and wickedness.

Again I saw‘him—another change :
he was stretched upon his dying bed;
a smile of heavenly joy lit his pallid
countenance. Wife and children had
gathered around to receive his last
blessing. Raising his feeble voice he
said: “Mourn not for me. I am
going home, to dwell with my Saviour
Who dlfid for me. Mourn not, I say,
but jorn me in the land of love and
peace l ”——- and with a heaven] smile

e bade adieu to earth. Time, indeed,
effects a change.

BROOKLYN, 1857.

 

 

 

282 MONTHLY DIGEST or NEWS.

 

EAVY rains were remarkably prevalent
during the first few days of May and
the last of April. Melting the snows which
had only preceded them a short time, and
which still lay deep in many places, they
caused numerous freshets, some of quite
serious importance. The Hudson at Albany
once more swelled above its banks, and for
several days lay at a depth Of from one to
three feet in the stores on the dock, and
much damage was done in the lower part of
the city.

IMPORTANT information is received at Wash-
ington to the efi’ect that the Dallas-Clarendon
Treaty, as amended by the Senate, has been
rejected by the British government. This
announcement has taken the Administration
by surprise, the tenor of Lord N apier’s recent
communication having rendered such a result
wholly unexpected. It is understood that
the principal difficulty arises from the deter-
mination of Great Britain to retain possession
of the Bay Islands, which, by the terms of
this treaty, are surrendered to Honduras.

Hora. ROBERT J. WALKER has taken the
oath of office as Governor of Kansas, and
immediately left Washington for the Terri-
tory to assumethe duties of his oflice. At a
dinner-party given to him by his friends in
New York, he declared his fixed determina-
tion to do every thing in his power to secure
for the people of the Territory 9. full, free, and
unbiased vote upon the Constitution which
might be ofl'ered for their adoption. He
believed this to be their right— a right
guaranteed to them by the fundamental law
of the Territory, and by the Constitution of
the United States, and he should consider it
not only apoint of law and Official duty, but a
point of honor as a man and a gentleman, to
do every thing in his power to secure them
such a vote. The Governor’s remarks were
received with great favor.

AN extensive conspiracy to escape from
the N. Y. State Prison at Sing Sing has just“
been defeated. At breakfast time on Sunday
morning, May 10th, about sixty prisoners,
having knocked down the guard, formed in
"V0 Parties, one of which made for the river
and the other for the village. They were
pursued, and after a short chase every one of
them was captured. No one was seriously
hurt in the melee.

THE wagon roads to the Pacific which
were ordered to be constructed at the last
36853031 Of Congress) Will, it is supposed, be
completed before the close of the present
year. The different corps for the execution
of the work are already Organized and in
motion. This is the way to get arailroad’

 

or railroads, to the Pacific in due time.

MONTHLY DIGEST ,OF NEWS.

QUARANTINE.— The Legislature last winter
passed a bill removing quarantine from the
old locality, and the commissioners subse-
quently appointed to select a new location
have had much difficulty in doing so. The
New York people would not let it stay at
Tompkinsville. The New Jersians would not
let it come to Sandy Hook. The owners of
Coney Island would not let it come there,
because it would spoil the bathing. The
people of Princess’ Bay declared they would
not let it come there, because it would spoil
the oyster trade. Finally grounds were
purchased near the latter point, and the oys-
termen commenced active hostilities by set-
ting fire to the mansion and farm-houses at
midnight. The buildings were completely
destroyed; they were occupied at the time
by nine persons, who hadan almost miracu-
lous escape. Governor King Ofi‘ers areward
of twenty-five thousand dollars for the arrest
of the offenders.

INFORMATION has been received at the
State Department at Washington from St.
Paul De Loanda, that the slave trade on that
coast is now- flourishing. It is said that five
vessels have lately left with slaves. The
Congo river and its neighborhood have been
the headquarters, and American gold is now
quite plenty there, having been brought in
vessels which clear from New York —some
for Cape de Verde, and some for Loanda,
but which seldom arrive at those places.

FROM THE MORMONS.— Advices have been
received at St. Louis, from Salt Lake to the
25th of February. The Legislature has
passed an act for the organization of militia
in the territory, and a school has been opened
to teach infantry and calvary tactics. The
Deseret News has an article intending to prove
that the Federal Government has no power
to appoint territorial officers.

THE trial of Mrs. Cunningham, charged
with the murder of Dr. Burdell of New York,

has closed, and she has been acquitted. '

Eckel, her supposed accomplice, will also,
undoubtedly, be cleared. This whole Bur-
dell afl’air is a mystery of iniquity, crime, li-
centiousness, and murder, the particulars of
which should never have been published.

CANADIAN SEAT or GOVERNMENT.— An
exchange states that the British Government
transmitted dispatches this week to the
Canadian Parliament, signifying Her Majes-
ty’s assent to fix the seat of Government in
one of the Canadian Cities- The Montreal
Herald states that the Queen and a majority
of the peOple in England are in favor of
conferring the honor on Montreal, with the
understanding that Its name is to be changed
to that of the “ City of Victoria.”

 

 

 

 

MONTHLY DIGEST or NEWS. 283

 

NICARAUGUA.— There can be little doubt
that Walker is done for. The Costa Ricans,
after sending home the entire army of fili-
busters, have taken possession of Punta Ar-
enas, the sandy cape which commands the
only Atlantic port of N icaraugua. They are
thus able to control the transit across N ica-
raugua, and a territory which Costa Rica has
coveted for years, and will have no difficulty
in future in stopping all similar invasions of
the country.

LADY FRANKLIN proposes to send out
another Arctic expedition in search of her
long lost husband. It is perfect madness,
but “hope springs immortal in the human
breast,” and there may be another motive.
We have heard from parties that we have
reason to believe acquainted with the facts,
that Lady Franklin and her husband parted
on bad terms, and that it was this that in
duced him to engage in his unfortunate
expedition. Repentance on the part of the
lady, in addition to her natural love, now
induces her to feel that it is her chief duty in
life to make what reparation she can for her
unwitting but fatal offense. If this be so, it
W111 account for what, otherwise, would seem
almost fmonomania. The world is full of
tragedies, and not the fewest are found in
domestic life.

A WRITER in the London Lancet, after a
full discussion of the consequences of the
immoderate use of tobacco, recapitulates by
saying that to smoke early in the day; to
smoke, as people are generally constituted,
more than one or two pipes of tobacco, or
one or two cigars daily; or to smoke in youth,
is an injurious excess in the use of tobacco.
he article concludes with this sentence:

e most earnestly desire to see the habit
of smoking diminish, and we eutreat the
Youth of this country to abandon it altogether.”

9thers, see to it your sons do not fall into
this most detestable habit -— using tobacco.

, THE Vicksburg Whig states that ninety-
lfx thousand dollars were subscribed in that
my toward purchasing a plantation for Ex-

resident Pierce. The sum asked for the
property is one hundred thousand dollars —
eaying four thousand dollars yet to be sub-
Sc“de to complete the purchase.

INFoauaron has reached England that
upWard of ten thousand Norwegians will pro-
ceed from Norway to Quebec during the
prefienfi summer. Several of these will re-
mam In Canada, but the larger portion-will
E2538 on to the north-western States of Amer-

H

areTiu bHudwn,s Bay Company, it is stated,

to rec; '8 alloyed by the English government

conditzinn their vast landed possessions, on

tions agnfithat .they shall give up such por-

for th ’ om “me '50 time, may be requxred
e purpose 01‘ colonization.

 

 

THE Executive Committee of the N. Y.
State Agricultural Society, have selected the
Fort grounds of Bufl‘alo as asuitable place
for holding the State Fair.

THE piano forte Was invented by J. C.
Schroder, of Dresden, in 1717, and the first
instrument was made in London, in 17 7 6, by
a German named Zumble.

FOREIGN NEWS.

THE Grand Duke Constantine had been
received with royal honors in every part of
France which he had visited.

AN armistice, by last accounts, was just
formed between the English and Persian
troops, in prospect of peace, now probably
ratified.

RUSSIA.—Letters from St. Petersburg say
operations for raising the sunken vessels at
Sebastopol have commenced. Sixteen have
already been recovered.

Imus—The Austrian ambassador at Naples
repeats the statement that Naples is more and
more disposed to make advance toward the
re-establishment of diplomatic relations with
the western powers.

AUSTRIA.—The diplomatic rupture between
Austria and Sardinia is now complete. As
Austria will consider it beneath her dignity to
recede, and Sardinia will not make the first
advance, the rupture will doubtless continue.

ENGLAND.— The chief items of English news
are the birth of another princess— the ninth
child of Victoria—and the ceremonies of lay-
ing the foundatian of the Free Library and
Museum, presented to the citizens of Liverpool
by William Brown, M. P.

THE Federal Council of Switzerland, by a
unanimous vote, has agreed to accept the
proposition of the four powers for the settle-
ment of the Neufchatel question. The King
of Prussia is to get his million francs, but the
Swiss will not recognize his title as Prince
of Neufchatel.

FRANCE.-— A Paris letter represents Louis
Napoleon as a successful 'mediator between
Spain and Mexico, and between Turkey and
Persia, and as endeavoring, in conjunction with
the United States, to prevent the English con.
test at Canton from obstructing the comerce
of other nations. Between Austria and Sar.
dinia, too, French negotiation is at work in a
friendly spirit to both.

THE latest accounts from Finland continue
to give a most distressing picture of the famine
raging in that unhappy country. Great sym-
Path! is excited in Stockholm and throughout
Sweden. Subscriptions are made, and balls,
concerts, and theatrical representations are
given for the charitable purpose of raising
funds for the relief of the starving Finns. Sev-
eral vessels have been chartered and laden
with corn, but can not move till the ice breaks.

 

284 EDITOR’S DEPARTMENT.

 

   

WEALTH AND CHARITY.

' HERE are many persons in moderate cir-
cumstances, who pass the whole duty of
charity benevolently over into the hands of
their more (wealthy neighbors, exonerating
themselves from its burdens and privileges on
the grOund of their narrow means. It is true
that persons of very limited means are obliged
to deny themselves almost wholly the pleas-
ures of benevolence: For we must be just
before we are charitable; and where the ut-
most care and vigilance is necessary to make
the income of a family supply its real wants,
there is little room for the exercise of benev-
olence, whatever the dictates of the heart
, may be.

But there is a much larger class than this,
who are always reckoned as people of mod-
erate circumstances, because their means,
although not limited to the necessities of life,
never get so far ahead of their daily wants
and expenditures, that they can be consid-
ered otherwise than narrow; and it is to
these that we refer. This class is larger
than the one last mentioned, because where
real poverty drives people to the exercise of
constant care and economy in order to make

 

they will either possess this care and econ-
omy or they will not. If they possess these
qualities, their constant exercise thus sharp-
ened by necessity, is apt to enable them
eventually to get ahead of their circumstan-
ces, and become the possessors of property
which may at last be raised to the dignity of
wealth. Or, failing to possess them, they
must necessarily fall behind, and drop into
the class of those who are the probable re-
cipients of charity, rather than the possible
givers of it. Thus the class of those whose
i "311‘s, real or imaginary, have always kept a
I ‘ Pretty even pace with their means, and al-
ways will whatever those means may be, is

1

g : ' more numerous than the one above or im-
 mediame below it. '

é Now we think that these people often look
with mistaken views upon their own non-pos-
session 0f property. am! the possession of it
by their more wealthy neighbors. In the
first place, their present relative position in

g:
t
is
1

both ends meet at the close of the year,j

 

EDITOR’S DEPARTMENT.

regard to the good things of this world, does
not by any means render it certain that
those in moderate circumstances have not, if
their whole lives were taken into the ac-
count, been the stewards and disposers of
more of these good things than their neigh-
bors who now possess them in a much larger
proportion. This certainly is not always the
case, yet it is often true; and those of whom
it is true are probably the very persons who
are most liberal, not only in throwing off
the duty of charity upon their wealthy
neighbors, but in making a grumbling men-
tal demand upon the uses of that neighbor’s
wealth for their own benefit. ‘

Probably the great burden of charitable
giving always has rested, and must continue
to rest most freely upon the real possessor-s
of wealth. But the question whether some
people do not make this, division of duty alo
together'too much at random, is surely a le-
gitimate ground of inquiry. At least it will
be worth while for the man who lays no
claim to the possession of a fortune, in set-
tling his own relation to the subject, to in-
quire what .has caused the difl‘erence in
wealth between himself and his neighbor.
Was it the result of a native difi‘erence of
capacity which enabled him to gather of the
things of this world, while they flowed
through your hands, you scarce knew how:
even when you would fain, with wise fore-
thought, have suffered them to accumulate
for your own or other’s wants? Or has mis-
fortune attended you in your efforts to pro-
vide for future and unforeseen wants, so that
your plans have been upset by things which
no foresight could have prevented? Or has
no train of circumstances ever been opened
to you, by a wise use of which you could
have done more than to supply for yourself
the daily necessariesfi of life? Each and all
of these may be a good and suflicient reason
why you should be exonerated from the duty
which humanity assumes, with regard to
those who are perhaps only a little less fortu-
nate than yourself.

I N 0 account will be required from us, of a
stewardship which was not placed in our
hands. Such people must adhere to the

 

 

EDITOR’S DEPARTMENT. 285

 

homely old adage, and let their charity begin

and end at home. But there are many with ‘

whom the duty of charity has never begun,
even at home —-— with whom immediate per-
sonal self-gratification is the only law of ex-
penditure or of liberality. And this is true,
too, not only among the openly selfish and
abandoned, but among professedly moral
people -— those who suppose they understand
their own duties very thoroughly, and who
speculate freely upon those of their neigh-
bors. When this is true of a man, no other
reason need be sought for the difi‘erence be-
tween his present possessions and those of
his wealthy neighbors. Whatever may be
said of such a man’s relation to the work of
benevolence abroad, the duty of charity at
home rests very heavily upon him. It is as
much his duty to secure the young and help-
less of his household as far as possible against
the chances of suffering poverty, which may
be caused by death or change, as it is the
duty of the husbandman to secure the har-
vest which the summer’s sun has ripened
against the winter that will surely come.
But suppose such a man has none of the

helpless ones of a household dependant upon,

him for present support or contingency
against future sufi‘ering. Is it for him to‘say
that it is any more the duty of his wealthy
neighbor to give from the abundance which
he has accumulated by the constant exercise
0f toil and self-denial, than it is his own duty
to exercise present self-denial for the sake of
SiVing? If the man of wealth has been the
cil-I'Ver of his own fortune, he has only accu-
mulated it by the constant giving up of pres-
ent ease and gratification, and he has done
this because the possession of wealth seemed
to him a greater good than these. But if
Present ease and self-gratification has been
to you the chief good through life, is it
any easier for him to give up for the pur-
POSes of benevolence a portion of that which
he has made his chief good, than for 3'0“ to
give 11P a portion of yours? We do not
speak 0f the ultimate duty of charity, but
only of its relative bearings upon different
people: and the manner in which Werdge

. our duties and those of others. For, not-
‘mhst’mding the injunction of St. Paul, we
d0 Still “ measure ourselves among our-
selves.” If every one looked properly upon

 

these difi'erences in the possession of prop-
erty, there would be far less envy and un-
charitableness in the world than there is.

It may never have occurred to some peo-
ple, that it was worth their while to exercise
charity toward those above, as well as those
below them in life. Not that those above us
are likely to stand specially in need of our
charity, but our own hearts may be very
sadly in want of the exercise of this feeling.
The man who finds himself rasped and an-
noyed continually by the display of his
neighbor’s wealth, is much in need of the
exercise of this kind of charityf Does the
pride he shows in the fine horses and car-
riage with which he passed you cause you to
curl your lips in bitter scorn? It would be
well to search to the bottom of this feeling
and see whether the bitterness is not more
than the scorn. If he really feels an absurd
pride in his fine establishment, the possession
of this pride will be a sufficient torture to
him — why need it torture you? Very likely
you might have possessed an equal share of
wealth with him, if you had been willing to
pay for it the price which he has paid. If
you chose wisely then, it is wise to be con-
tented with it now. Why should you envy
him the purchase which you could, but
would not make ? If it seemed chaff to you,
while it was grain to him‘, you need not growl,
like the dog in the manger, over his possess.
ion of it. And if the difference between you
has not depended at all upon your own choice,
your manner of looking upon it should be
still the same.

The possession of an over-abundance of
this world’s goods is but a questionable bless-
ing. The duties and cares of wealth increase
in ten-fold proportion as the wealth and the
reputation of wealth increase. However it
may look to those that see only the surface,
we obtain no good without first paying its
price. If we obtain an object without this
payment it will be no good to us.

It is far easier to'judge charitably of those
in our station of life, whose trials and tempt-
ations are similar to our own, than of those
either above or below us. We can not tell
how far habit and education have rendered
those things that seem luxuries to 115, 36"
cessities toothers. Our requirements may be
just as much the result of education as theirs-

 

 

 

286

T0 CORRESPONDENTS.

 

Z. . . . looks up from the hard problem he
has been trying to solve, of making his in-
come meet the wants of a trying year, and
see through the humble window the splen-
did mirror which is being carried into Y. . .’s
house.

“What useless expenditure is that! ” he
exclaims, as he looks at its ornaments. “ He
might have spared me half the price of his
mirror. It would have supplied my family
with fuel for the whole year.”

Try again, neighbor Z. . . . When you
find that you really can not solve your prob-
lem, it will be quite time enough for Y. . . -
to inquire whether he can spare some of the
ornaments from his mirror for the sake of
supplying you with fuel. But until that
time comes you will find yourself much more
warm and comfortable if warmed with your
own fuel, than with the ornaments of your
neighbor’s furniture.

Mrs. Middleton sits between her lace cur-
tains, and sighs that Mrs. Croesus does not
call upon her — even with her new lace cur-
tains does not think it worth her while to call
upon her. Really, Mrs. Middleton, there are
very likely two thousand people in your
town who are nettled in the same way with
yourself, because they have failed to attract
the attention of Mrs. Croesus. Suppose
Mrs. Croesus should take her carriage and
call upon and try to keep up an acquaintance
with each of these two thousand. Would
she not be assuming a very arduous task,
and making a very improper and unnecessary
use of her time? Besides, what have you
done to recommend yourself to Mrs. Croesus?
You may be a very worthy person, but in
what way has she been made acquainted
with your worth, and of the amount she
Would gain by placing you upon her already
numerous list of acquaintances? Have you
shown it in the laborious purchase of those
curtains upon which you pride yourself?
And is it the curtains you wish her to recog-
nize, 01‘ Yourself? Moreover, what do you
know of Mrs. Croesus‘ worth as a valuable
and agreeable acquaintance? Is it your
knowledge on this point that makes you de-
sire to know her so much? Or is it your
knowledge of her husband’s worth, as rep.
resented by the large“ Property in town?

  
 
  
   
  
   
 
   
 
 
   
   
 
   
  
 
   
 
   
  
 
   
   
   
  
 
  
   
   
  
  
   
  

 

Is it by the Wealth, or the individual that you
wish to be recognized? Possibly you are in
want of a new acquaintance, but probably
Mrs. Croesus is not—for with the wealthy the
list of professed friends may increase so
rapidly as to make them an annoyance
rather than an enjoyment.

If this is so, inasmuch as Mrs. Croesus
does not call, Suppose you spend the time in
making a call upon Mrs. Middleton. We
have no doubt that a thorough and intimate
acquaintance with her, would be of more
value to you than any other you could form.
Or, suppose you apply to yourself the rule
by which you wish Mrs. Croesus to be guided,
and step round the corner to call upon your
new neighbor in the little brown house. To
be sure you thought her furniture very hum-
ble when it passed, and you know nothing of
her, but she may be a very worthy person.
You saw that she tore a sheet in two to
make curtains for her chamber windows, and
this may have been the best thing she could
have done under the circumstances. If so, it
is an index of her worth. You will not ob-
ject to call upon her because she is your
inferior in position, for you certainly will not
allow pride to rankle in your heart while you
complain of it in others.

A thorough acquaintance with ourselves
will aid materially in the charity we exercise
toward others, whether rich or poor. And if
our means are such that our charities must
be confined wholly to the charitableness of
our judgments, we have done a very good
thing when we have dispensed this charity
equitably and truly.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

We sometimes receive letters from those
who have been at work for THE Home, with
the names of the list so written that we can
not tell who is the getter-up of the club, or
to whom the desired premium shall be sent.
We are obliged t our friends when they
work for us, and send the proper premiums
in all cases, where the directions a-e suffi-
ciently explicit. But a slight failure in such
matters on the part 'of those who write to us
may put us to a great deal of inconvenience,
or subject them to a loss of the premiums
due. Will you bear this in mind?

 

 

 

,‘_“<

HINTS FOR THE NURSERY. 287

 

L. L. K. N .-— Your articles are accepted.
Let us hear from you again.

A. K.-— Thank you for your kind words
and offers. The ripe fruits of a life-experi-
ence never come amiss to our columns.

Mrs. D. W. C. S.—We shall be glad to
obtain the result of your observations. The
sunbeams bring gold to the eyes of the
clear-sighted.

“MINNIE.”—- Your songs would be worth
singing if they were not out of tune.
There’s something the matter with their
feet. They stumble where they should give
us only the undulations of beauty.

G. R. R.— Thank you for your efforts, and
your wife and daughter for their kind re-
membrances. x

D. 0.—Thanks. We rejoice that you
have been so fortunate in the country of
your adoption. ,

Several valuable communications have
been received, that are crowded out of the
present number.

HINTS FOR THE NURSERY.
ACCIDENTS.

When a child meets with an accident, and
it is suspected that a bone is broken from
the nature of the complaint he makes, and
the deformity of the limb, such as being
bent, shortened, or twisted, much immediate
additional suffering to the patient, and in-
creased mischief to the injured part, may
Often be saved by a little care and manage-
ment. In lifting the child from the place
Where the accident happens, and carrying
him to a couch or bed, let it be one person’s
business to take charge of the broken limb,
aJId instead of allowing it to dangle loosely,
carefully support it in a natural position, and,
as much as p0ssible, steady it from jar or
“Pelt Then do not attempt to undress
.h‘m; but place the limb upon a soft pillow,
“1 the most easy position, and thus let

t . 88 remain ,until the arrival of the sur-
ge°n- BULL.

SCALDS 'oR BURNS-
The danger to be apprehended from a
scald or burn must always be mainly in pro'
portion to the extent of surface scalded, or

the. lelfgth of time that the burning b°dy re'
mains in contact with the skin.

 

Scams— Immediately remove the child
from the source of the injury. Undress
him, but in doing this be very careful that
the blistered part is in no way rubbed, so as
to endanger the breaking of the blister or the
tearing of the cuticle; this would increase
the danger of the accident. The outer gar-
ments may generally be taken off without
fear, but the body-linen requires great cau-
tion, lest any portion of it adhere to the
wounded parts; if this is found to be the
case, the linen or flannel shirt must be cut
away by piecemeal, leaving that portion un-
touched which adheres to and covers the
sore. Having put the child to bed, cover
the injured parts with three or four thick.
nesses of cotton wedding, and so apply it as
completely to exclude the external air; a.
bandage or something of the kind will best
accomplish this object by keeping the cotton
in contact with the part.

If the scald has been severe, or if not, and
the extremities are disposed to be cold, or-
the child to shiver — and delicate children
are very prone to be thus affected, even
when but very slightly scalded, from the
shock which is given to the system— apply
warm-water bottles to the feet, and give a
small quantity of wine and water. And
now wait till the medical man arrives.

BURNS.—- Should the clothing of a child
take fire, let it be remembered that an up-
right posture is obviously not only favorable
to the spreading of the flames, but to their
reaching the more important parts of the
body, the neck and head. Any motion of
the body to and fro gives great advantage
to the flames by bringing fresh currents of
air in contact with the burning materials,
and it is therefore utterly absurd to allow the
child to run screaming about. Throw him
down upon the floor; keep him rolling over
and over upon the carpet; if possible, seize
the hearth-rug or table-cover, or strip your-
self of your shawl, and envelop the child in
it as closely and completely as possible. In
this way you will most readily put out the
fire. With regard to treatment, the same
Plan mu“ be Pursued as in scalds. It might
8° happen that cotton wedding is not at
hand, in which case you may use in its stead
linen well soaked either in spirits of turpen-
tine, brandy, or even milk. IBID-

 

 

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288 HOUSEKEEPER’S DEPARTMENT.

 

nousmxnnrnn’s nngaarlnxnf. .
aroma. ' , 
CREAM TA RTAB Cum—4 Half a cup of but:
ter, two of sugar, three of flour, three eggs,
two teaspoonfuls of cream tartar, one do. of
soda dissolved in one teacup of milk, one
tablespoonful of flavoring. Stir together
quickly and bake in a quick oven.

GINGER COOKIES.-—“ One cup and a half of

sugar, one cup of new milk, half a cup of .

butter, and two eggs; oneteaspoonful' of
saleratus, one tablespoonful of ginger, flour
to make it stifl‘ enough to roll out well; roll
thin, and bake quick.”

To PaEsEavn SMALL Farms Wrrnonr

COOKING.— Strawberries, raspberries, black-I

berries, cherries, and peaches can be pre-
served in this manner: Lay the ripe fruit
in broad dishes, and sprinkle over, itthe
same quantity of sugar used in cooking it.
Set it in the sun or in a moderately heated
oven, until the juice forms a thick syrup with
the sugar. Pack the fruit in tumblers,
and pour the syrup over it. Paste writing
paper over the glasses, and set them in a
cool, dry place. Peaches must be pared and
split, and cherries pitted. Preserve in this
manner, and the fruit retains much more of
its natural flavor and healthfulness than when
cooked. .

CHEAP AND EXCELLENT CANDLEs.—-“ I kept
both tallow and lard candles through last
summer, the lard candles standing the heat
best, and burning quite as well, and giving

1‘ 33‘! j ' 5 ‘-

 

as good lightjas tallow ones. Directions for
making good candles from lard : For twelve
pounds-oflard, take one pound of saltpetre,
and one pound of alum; mix them and pul-
verize them; dissolve the saltpetre and alum
in a gill of boiling water; pour the compound
into the lard before it is quite all melted;
stir the whole until it boils; skim off what
rises; let it simmer until the water is all
boiled out, or till it ceases to throw off
steam; pour ofi‘ the lard as'soon as it is done,
and clean the boiler while it is hot. If the
candles are to be run, you may commence
immediately; if to be dipped, let the lard
cool first to a cake, and then treat as you
would tallow.”

CREAM CHEESE—Take one quart of rich
cream, a little soured, put it in a linen cloth,
and tie it as close to the cream as you can.

- Then hang it up to drain for two days; take

it down and carefully turn it into a clean
cloth, and hang it up for two more days;
then take it down, and having put a piece of
linen on a deep soup-plate, turn your cheese
upon it. Cover it over with your linen; keep
turning it every day on to a clean plate and
clean cloth till it is ripe, which will be in
about ten days or a fortnight, or perhaps
longer, as it depends on the heat of the
weather. Sprinkle a little salt on the out-
side when you turn them. If it is wanted
to ripen quick, keep it covered with mint or
nettle leaves. The size made from a quart
of cream is the most convenient, but if wished
larger, they can be made so.