 

 

T H E H O M E:
3 @nnthth far the Wife, the ﬁtnther, the Sister, emit the @anghter.

VOL. V.—JU.\'E, 1858.— NO. VI.

MY NEIGHBOR’S STEP—SON.

BY MRS. II. E. G. AREY.

CHAPTER X.
RIVILA‘HOSS.

A “—-- She will tell thee.
T ﬁle, which, wouldst thou be both dupe and traitor,
hon wilt believe against thy friend."

THE evening before Wallace left,
Mr. IIeber came in to assist him
about some ﬁnal preparations, and sat
“1th us a part of the evening. Jamie
‘ brought out a portfolio of engrav-

‘Rﬁs to ﬁnd something he wanted, and
' allace sat down on the sofa to ex-
amine them.

“That ’s a good face,” said Hart»
80“, as they were remarking upon
one picture after another.

“So it is,” said Wallace, holding

a female face; “ It is like dear
My Wallingford.”

cast an involuntary glance at Mr.
‘3 er as this name was uttered. He
“38 examining a landscape, but he
ra‘sefl his head short and quick, on
earll'lg what \Vallace said.

t. V cry much like her,” Wallacecon-
“Wed half to himself. “ Don’t you

"1k it is, Mrs. Mills ‘2 ” and he.
fﬁssﬁd the‘engraving to me. “I
linnf tin: lace is like Mary \Val-
i gord, he repeated, as it think-
“3 that I had not noticed what he
:23ka I took it without any re-

ll

“1 should think there was a re-

mlﬂance,” I replied, passing it back
lm.

Mr. Ilcber extended his hand si-

nlly for the picture, and sat looking

“ It 8 moment before he returned it.

ask ho is Mary Wallingford’!” he
ed 0f Wallace.

le

 

“ My teacher at Fair Meadow.”

There was a ﬂush on his face, and a
rapid glance at me, as he heard this ;
but he said nothing, and busied him-
self somewhat nervously, as I thought,
with another engraving.

It was only a moment, however,
before he recurred to the subject again.
“ \Vhat is the name of the proprietor
of your school, Wallace?” he said.

“ His name is Eggleston — C. \V.
Eggleston,” replied Wallace.

“ Eggleston,” repeated Mr. Ileber
doubtfully. “ Uh! the husband of
Julia Wallingford, I dare. say.”

“ Yes, his wife’s name is Julia, and
she is sister to Miss \Vallingford.
But do you know them, father? ”

“ I know nothing of this name,
Eggleston.” said Mr. Ileber evasive-1y;
and \Vallace looked as if he wished,
but dared not ask farther questions.

Mr. IIeber soon rose to take his
leave, and as the hall lamp was out, I
took up a light to show him through
the hall. lIe laid his hand on the
street door and hesitated. " It was
some knowledge of past (-Vents. doubt-
leSs,” said he, " that caused you to
suggest the school you did for \Val-
lace. I find no fault now with your
choice, but I should prefer that you
would obserVe toward Mrs. IIeber,
the same. silence regarding the persnn
in whose care \Vallacc is placed, that
You have thus far observed toward
myself.”

“I beg your pardon, sin”! haSt‘
ened to say, for I thought there was
a trace of annoyance in hlS tmw.
“You are probably attributing to me

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

252 THE

HOME.

 

intbrmation that I do not possess. l
know no reason tor, or against the
choice of sehool i made for \Vallaee,
other than the excellent ({llttllllt‘iltimis
as teacher which i knew Miss \Val-
lingtbrd to possess.”

" But you know Miss \Valling-
ford L? ” he said, with a puzzled air.

“ l knew her at school, as I did also
\Vallaee’s mother.”

“ Ah ! did you, indeed?
is all ? ”

“This is all.”

" (ﬁnal-evening, madam.”

There was a sigh that might have
been of relief, or of regret, as he went
down the steps; and l returned to the
parlor to wonder what signification

And this

there could be to him in the name of

Mary \Vallingtbrd.

From this time, \Vallaee *ame
home no more during his school-days.
He remained at l’air Meadow, until
he was able to enter the junior class
at Yale ; spending his vacations either
with Mr. Eggleston, or in Vermont
with Mary. The year before he left
for Yale, Mary wrote me an inter-
esting account of her pupil having
united with the church of which she
was herself a member; and his let-
ters to my family, breathed the spirit
ofan enlightened (.‘hristian.

Previous to his tirst college vaca-
tion, he wrote to us, that he was go-
ing north once more, to spend the

'arm months in Mary \Vallingtbrd’s
old home, and begged us to join him
there; for he was sure we Could lind
no more delightful spot in all the hill
country, toward which he understood
our summer intentions were pointing.
And so it was arranged.

It was in the cleanest of country
taverns that we found ourselves located
for the summer; with its broad, un-
rarpeted halls, guileless of dust, and
maintaining a snowy whiteness, for
which we found it difﬁcult to account;
for the maid with her scrubbing
brush, so common in more noisy ho-
tels, were never to be seen; 110, never—
she scrubbed before folks got up.

What blue summits toWered in the

distance, what tree-erowned slopes,
spread before our eyes a feast of ever-
varying beauty nearer at hand; and
what witehing nooks, what wondrous
springs, and sparkling water-courses
were Continually setting us athirst for
new voyages of discovery among the
hills. \Vhat acres of blueberries, and
blackberries, and raspberries sent (“It
their invitations to bright tin pails,
and ruddy children’s lips.

Mary VVallingtbrd was with US
constantly. There was rarely a line
day, when the light curriele she was
aeeustmned to drive, did not make itS
approach to our door, drawn rapidly
forward by the round, smooth limbS
of “Bonny Brown,” as she was 30-
customed to *all her horse. There
always seemed to b r a magnetic friend-
liness between that horse and his
driver, when Mary’s independent fig-
ure sat upright in the open cal"
riage, with the reins in her plump
and well-gloved hand. [fancied the
charm was broken in a measure,
when our party were added to his load;
but the “Bonny Brown” never evince
displeasure at any thing which Mary
chose to pack into the. currielc’
watching her as he did with his so“,
good eyes, and accepting lovingly t_he
ti'agrant clover that she otl‘ered him
in her dimpled hand. Mary was 9'
capital horsewoman. I always 0011‘
sidered ita loss when the last 1‘0?”
was not repaired in the childrens
garments, so that I could «sit down
with nothing else to do, but watch her
approach, from the window. ,

Those were days of rents in Chll'
dren’s clothing, for the aforesaid 301' ‘f’5
of berries laid a heavy tax on thls
kind of personal property. But
“ mamma” had grown up i1} the
country, and knew not only poetical”:
that “ every rose conceals its thorn,
but practically that there are few ber‘
ries without brambles; and the Cloth-
ing provided for such sojourmngso’
was always strong, if not elegant, s
thattheinevitableaceidentsthatWeme
in our rambles, were never allowet
for a moment to cloud our enjoymen '

 

 

MY NEIGHBOR’S STEP—SON. 253 1

¥

“ Why do n’t you come over with
Miss Wallingthrd? ” I asked Wallace
one morning, for our dwellings were
two or three miles apart, and l consid-
ered it quite a tax upon his walking
powers, in addition to the very long
rambles we were accustomed to take.

“ Because,” he replied, “ it is a
great pity to let all these wild Ilow-
61‘s ‘blush unseen’ under the mullen
Stalks, or in the corners of the ﬂax
ﬁelds. Besides, my boots like to
kick the dew off the grass; and then,
if I ride with Miss Wallingford, it is
8 shame to offer to drive, when she
can do it so much better than any
One else I know, and I don’t quite
like to be driven —”

“ By a woman,” added Mary.

“ No, Miss \Vallingford! I doubt
if there are many people either ladies
01‘ gentlemen, by whom I would like
to be driven.”

“ No doubt of that,” said Hart-
SOYI, sturdily.

“ You would not object to a coach-
man then,” said Mary.

. “ No,” said Wallace. “ A servant
18 different.”

“Take care of that dominant spirit
0f yours, \Vallace,” said she, turning
away.

“I am taking care of it —at least I
try,” he added in a lower tone.

e were going to Holly Hills on
t is mornilig,,and, as there was a long
Walk, after the carriage road ceased
0“ the ascent, we were making an
f’al‘ly start. \Vallace had paused d ur-
Eng the brief Conversation just given,
In arranging his wild flowers in I'll-
enis vase ; but he now added the feW
he held in his hand, and held it to-
ward her for approval. Ellen’s clear
eyes looked up from under her jutting
0I‘ehead, and a delighted smile broke
over her face; but a. slight nod was
er only acknowledgment of this al-
"10$ daily civility. \Vell might she
f’mllc. for \Vallace showed an exquis-
‘te taste in such matters, and this
morning his snowy lilies and some
rare grasses he had brought, formed
9' beautiful boquet.

 

\Ve were soon climbing among the,
dewy morning shadows, and the grace-
ful tangled brush-wood, up the broken
rocks toward the summit of Holly
Hill.

“Let me. :arry you up this steep
place, Ellen,” said Wallace. “ If you
would only let me,I could carry you,
without the least trouble, to the green
yonder, and it would save you a great
deal of fatigue.”

“ What an idea, Wallace ! ” faltered
Ellen, “as if I were not able to help
myself.”

But the child was getting white
about the lips, and her hand trembled.
1 had been watching her with a mo-
ther’s anxiety, for I had doubted how
she would hear the long walk before
us, and had, indeed, been half inclined
to persuade her to remain behind.
But she said, “ ()h, mammal I have
never seen any thing like it. I have
So wished to be at the top ofa moun-
tain. How can you think I could stay
behind? I will be very careful; ”
and Idid not urge the matter, forl
do not know but I was nearly as anx-
ious as the child herself, that she
should behold the prospect that was
promised us from the summit of
Holly Hill,

“ Wo n’t you tell her to let me
carry her, Mrs. Mills ’2 ” urged \Val-
lace. “ It won’t tire me in the least.
She ’s no heavier than my doves, and
it tires her to reach the twigs and pull
herself along as we do.”

Ellen shook her head timidly at
me.
“ If she is uneasy at being assisted.
it will be no help to her,” I replied to
\Vallace, knowng well that to Ellen,
a disturbanee of her mental equili-
brium, would be far worSe than fatigue.
IIartson, who, less watchful of his sis-
ter than some others, was quite a dis-
tance above us when this conversatiml
commenced, turned back on hearing it,
and springing down the rocks, 03m“
behind his sister, and lifting her sud-
denly in his arms, said, “I shall carry
you, Ellen, you are no Weight ' ” but
he was mistaken, and the sudden lift

. l
I

h- A;  . ..__ .
“‘rw. ‘ , , A , " r - ~ Av. ,.

,.r-~‘it‘w"“*. f '  ‘""'

 

 

 

 

 

254

caused him to stagger backward.
Wallace smiled, and took her out of
his arms before she was aware what
he intended. It was true that she was
no weiylzt to him. It was wonderful
what a fine athletic young man he had
grown. One was never weary with
admiring him.

“Put me down, Wallace,” said El-
len, ﬁxing upon his eyes the gaze that
never yet had been known to ﬂinch,
when it was once ﬁxed. And Wal-
lace did as he was bidden.

“ Courage, Ellen,” said Mary \Val-
lingford. “There is a cottage jost
above here where we will all rest.”

“ It is the rest that have lacked
courage, not I,” said Ellen, in that low
tone which no one ever fails to hear.

We were soon at the cottage—a
little miniature of a house—brown,
and somewhat dilapidated, but clean
within, as all New England dwellings
are. The spot was the abode of a
lone woman, who kept her cow upon
the hill-side, and tilled, with her own
hands, the little garden behind the
house, and by occasionally doing “a
turn ” for the villagers on the south
side of the. llills—as Mary after-
ward told inc—managed to obtain
enough to make herself comfortable
from year to year. The old lady
hustled about, and supplied us all
with seats, and brought as cool water
from the well in a nmg with no
handle.

“ l)ear me, Miss \Vallingibrd,” she
said; “ it does a body good to see
you again. l hain’t seen you but
once—bless me—no, I guess it 's
twice—yes. not more in twice, certain,
since my Bill went away. \Vlio’s
this nice young man ye got with ye,
Miss \Vallinglord ‘! "l‘ain't your sis-
ter's boy. is it? “fell. now to my
mind, he 's just, about as big as my
Bill Would grow to be. A mighty
mu._1,,,,king young man my Billy
grow up to be —— perhaps ye did nit
know, Miss \Vallinglbrd. But he
sent me his pieter a'ter he got to New
York— bless his heart. You new-1-
see a nicer picter in yer life. Now

THE HOME.

 

to my mind, something about that
young man ’minds me o’ Bill. Do u"?
look like him either,” she continued,
looking after Wallace, who, annoyed
perhaps, by her close observation,
had stepped outside the door, and
stood looking at the prospect from
the hill. “Dark eyes, too, but nOt
so keen and sharp-like, as Bill had.
Bill always had a high look. But
then, he was put together the way
this one is, just as if, when he W85
done, he couldn’t have been done
any better nohow. He wasn’t such
shape, though—a sight limherer Bill
was. But that’s jist about the kind
of young manl always thought Bill
would make. Always do any thing
he liked— Bill could. Caught more
fish than any other boy, and, got his
pail full of berries sooner ’n any on
’em. He ’11 come back and make me
a lady yet. He said so himself lastl
time he wrote from New York.
hai n‘t heard from him since, and it’s
ten year come Thanksgiving. Bat
it’ll all come round right. He wanted
some money then, jist to git a staft
with, and he wanted I should send It
to him, and he’d see I was n’t sorry
for it. lle’d make me a lady yet "
them,’s his very words. So I Sold
the old field down by the WoodS, to
Squire Holley. Always thought he
cheated me, too, ’eause he kneW I
wanted the money mighty bad. B!“
it won’t be any matter when Bil
comes back. Every winter I Say?
‘ He ’11 come baek this winter,’—-— but
’taint no use getting impatient. Folks
used to say l let him run too mug‘ha
but he ’ll pay me for all I done 19“
him some time. No matter if 1 (11
Work a little harder ’11 some. folk-‘3, ‘30
make him haVe a niee time; lH‘ was
all l had." The garrulous old lady
had found the pieture at last. 3“
handed it to Mary, saying, "There"
did you ever think my Bill WOUld
grow so handsome ?" .
Mary examined the pieture Wlillout
1 an)‘ eomment. and returned it t0” 0
y mother; but she. disappointed at
l limling no one to share her admiration,

 

 

 

_-.-h

MY NEIGHBOR‘S STEP—SON. 255

 

tion, passed it over to me. To be l
sure it was rather ahandsome picture.
Where had I seen some one that re-
sembled it ?—-— Uh!

I must have started. for Wallace,
who was stepping in at the door, no-
ticed my expression, and after I had
laid it down on the pine table, he
Walked up quickly, and opened it. 1
had gone toward the door, but I saw
that he laid it down quietly, with a
Start and a shiver, and joining the
rest of us, who were mostly gathered
Outside the door, he seemed inclined
to hurry us away.

Wallace took very little notice of
the rest of the party as we went on,
and I noticed that he was still grave
and excited. At last he came to me,
ostensibly to aid me in releasing my
Shawl-fringe from a twig which it had
Caught.

“ You knew the face, Mrs. Mills? ”
he said.

“ lIer son's face ‘Z ”

66 Yes.”

“ I knew it.”

“ Was her name James?” he asked,
Calling to Miss Wallingford.

“ What. the woman at the cottage
\yes, Mrs. James. Her son Bill

ames, was one of the worst boysl
eVer knew. I think, as she said, he
cOllld do any thing he liked. I have
3.6911 his way of ﬁlling his pail of her-
l'les sooner than the rest. IIe Would
g0 round slily, and empty the other
askets into his own, and then slip
Out of the ﬁeld. He was one of those
catFlike, deceptive natures, that I ab-
01‘ more than any other. I think he
was thoroughly wicked. What is the
Inﬁtter, \Vallace ! ”

_“ \Vhat it'l had grown up like him,
MISS \Vallingtbrd .’ ”

“Impossible! you might have been
llad» but you never could have been
{kc \Villiam James. \Vhy, with
"n eVery motion was a talsehood.”
“ Miss Wallingtord reads out a
falsehood sooner than most people.”

Saul \Vallaee.

" W'illiam James," I repeated. halt

to myself.

 

“ Yes,” said \Nallace, who was still
beside me,“ that ’s the name; he used
to write it William James Fleury.”

“ Do not let it excite you, \Val-
lace,” I said ; for the others were now
out of hearing. “ It is hardly best to
say any thing of this here. There is
no doubt of the identity, but it can
only bring sorrow to speak of what
We know.”

“But, Mrs. Mills, if you had ever
known him, and been inﬂuenced by
him as l was —I used to spend days
with him. But for you, I might have
met just such a fate as his.”

“I trust not, Wallace. But I know
that this will be a warning to you,
not only as regards yourself, but your
inﬂuence, over others. If evil natures
have so much power in the inﬂuence
of others, how much more ought vir-
tue to claim.”

* * at- a- a: s

We were at the summit at last. and
the midday sun hung over half a
dozen villages that lay nestled lov-
ineg among the hills. Ellen was in
raptures. “ Not yet, not yet,” she said,
shading her eyes to recover from the
dizziness of climbing the last ascent;
and shrinking from the arm that
Mary had thrown about her, in order
to point out to her the beautiful pros-
pect that should reward her toil.
And sitting down behind the low su-
macs, she waited until she was readv,
with no shiver ot' Weariness, to eniov
the glories of the mountain land.
The others wandered off at their will.
seeking new points for admiration,
and so indeed, did I. for I knew that
in her deepest feelings, the child
shunned observation. But there were
many years of" my life—and they
Were its best years— that no thought
or feeling of hers eseaped me. 01‘
failed to be mingled with my own.
It might be, that these thoughts and
ﬂ-elings tound no human uttt‘l‘imctﬁ
but. we had a language of 0111' 0W".
that no other voiee could “mills”.
and that no space could deaden. My
sons I might tin-get for a moment.
but my Ellen never. And when.

-_.___ -12.... .

. . ﬁx-..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

256 THE

HOME.

 

rcCoVered from the temporary wear- ,

iness, she rose up and went apart
from the rest, to drink in, point by
point, the Wonders before her. 1 was
loth to disturb her. How her face
glowed as she traced the shining
streams in among their mountain hid~
lug-places; or watched the mists curl—
ing among the blue hills in the dis-
tance.

“ ()h, mannnal ” she said, when I
approached her, twining her arm
about 111e, and pressing her cheek
lovingly to mine; “you would not
haVe refused me this.”

“ lt repays you '! l’

“ Uh! a thousand times,” she said,
pressing a happy kiss upon my lips.
There was a greedy eye turned
quickly away from us as l rose from
the embrace l stOoped to receive, but
no others mm to interrupt our si-
lent converse.

We brought water for our lunch, from
the coolest of mountain springs, a lit-
tle way below the summit; and the
midday sun was going west with a
warning, before we tore ourselves
away; and then, we rambled every-
where, seeking new beauties under
the gnarled trees and broken rocks.

We were taking a new path down
the hill, which Mary told us was
steeper but shorter, and Would bring
us upon the carriage road only a lit-
tle below the place where We had left
our horses. When 11 :arly down, we
stopped to rest on a green slope cov-
ered with bh1eberries and fragrant
Cedar; one side of which, ran down
precipitoUsly to a small strea111, which
bordered a bit of meadow land.

" Don’t go so 11 ‘ar the edge,” I
called to Ellen, for she had dropped
on one knee, and was leaning far chI‘
looking into the water, with only a
slender shrub which she had caught
for a slllllwrt-

~- ( )h! but do look at those water.
lilies,” she replied; “they are the
handsomest l eVer saw.”

“ But, my dear, this narth is loose,
You are not in a safe place,"7 and I
started to go toward her.

 

" There 's a little mot-path," she
continued, still looking at the lilies;
" we could reach them if we could
find—Uh!” the earth had brokelb
and she was gone.

\Vith a sudden bound, \Vallaec
sprang forward, and disappeared
down the bank as well as Ellen. But
it was a far more serious matter with
him than with her, for she had slid
down a few feet, and been caught by
the roots of a tree that grew out from
the bank. while Wallaec, in his eager-
ness, had sprung far over into the
water. lt Was not very deep, and ht’
came up dripping, and caught hold of
the opposite bank.

Mary VVallingtord burst into a
merry laugh when she saw the extent
of the accident. "That’s a better
punishment for youri111petuosity than
you eVer got at school, she called out-
" You must haVe needed a cold bath
to care you. There, hold on,” she
continued, as he reached higher up,
and laid hold of the strong roots 0f“
tree that jutted from the steep bank-
“ George is coming to help you.”

There were a couple of men ﬂit
work near by, who had seen the aCCI'
dent, and throwing down their scythesv
ran to his assistance. ,

“ llandle him carefully, George:
she laughed out again. “ He has got
those water-lilies in his hair. You,
are a crowned hero to-day, Wallace-l

“ llushl do 11’t laugh,” said I, for
\Vallace, as they drew him up the
bank. had taken one step lbrwal‘ 1
and sank down with an exclamatlUn
of pain. But her eyes were as quick
as mine, and the next 111o1nent “'9
\ver- all following her rapidly dowl1
the footpath lillen had «lisechI‘t’ 1
and with which, it seemed, Mary Was
familiar. and over a log bridge to the
spot where he was. He had spl‘ai110
his ankle in falling, but, though t a
men end ‘ilVHI‘t'tl to persuade him to
accept assistance, he insisted thilt'lw
could walk,and we went forward, W a '
lace leaning on the arm of the man
whom Mary had called George-

lt was only a few rods throng

h the

MY NEIGHBOR’S STEP-Qt ).\'.

5257

 

meadow, before we stepped oVer a
low fence into the road; but \Vallaee,
Who had walked with more difficulty
than he was willing to allow, in at-
tempting to lift the lame ankle, hit
the rail, and fainted quite away.

"There is a spring on the. other
side of the road just above,” said one
Of the men. and they lifted him in their
arms to carry him toward it. “is
Clothes \vere torn, and stained with
the soil from the bottom of the stream,
and with the wet hair falling away
from his pale face, he was a figure
that might wake a tremor in stronger
nerves than Ellen possessed.

Just at this moment, a carriage
turned a corner in the road, and
brought its «,iccupant face to face with
the men who were carrying \Vallace.
The gentleman leaned out of the car-
riage, on meeting our party, and then,
With a quick eXclamation, sprang to
the ground.

“Hamilton IIeber!” exclaimed
Mary \Vallingford, with a convulsiVe
graSp of my arm, for she was at my
Side.

I looked toward her, but whatever
excitement she might have felt on
meeting the father of \Vallace, had
died out -—at least, so far as the eye
could discern, with this single utter-
ant-e.

It was not until Wallace recovered
from the fainting-tit, that the sudden
pain had caused, and the whole mat-
ter had been explained to Mr. lleber,
that he recogniZed her, and then there
was no disturbance in the usual quiet,
dignity of her manner. But I thought

Ir. lleber‘s emlntrrassment seemed
Emportioned to her self-possession.

Ven \Vallace noticed it, and I thought,
al’l’mred surprised and pained at the
(51am and confused manner in which

is father "reeted his much belov'ed
teacher: a

Mr. lleber. it seemed, while on
J“Siness in New York. had come to a
sudden determination to visit his son
up in his summer home among the,
mountains. and we had the result of
this determination, in his unexpected

joyed this visit very much.

 

 

 

appearance among us. He had not
seen \Vallace since his unhappy visit
at home some years before, and now
he took him to the village hotel. and
kept him with a sort of craving pater-
nal atl'ection, wholly to himself. for
the three or four days that lie re-
mained in the place. \thllttee en-
lt was
the first time, as he told me afterward.
that he had had his father In lu'mxdf
since his second marriage.

()u the morning after Mr. Heher's
arrival. I received a note from Marv
\Vallingford, saying that she was go.
ing to visit a friend in a neighboring
village, and should be gone for several
days.

Two days after Mr. Heber left,
\Vallace told me one evening, that
she had returned; and l rode over
the next morning to her father’s
house. Leaving the children to ram-
ble about the garden and orchards, I
went up to Mary’s room.

“ I wish you to tell me,” said I af-
ter we had sat together a few ino-
inents, “ what old time memory there
is between yourself and \Vallace‘s fa-
ther.”

Mary leaned forward, and looked
out of the window, with that far-oil
gaZe in which the physical vision sees
nothing. “ N3 iinporte,” she said
dreamily. “Let the dead past burv
its dead.” ‘

“ Of course, I do not urge you to
tell me,” I continued. " ifthere is anv
thing that. you would prefer to with-
hold. But it was through my agency
that \Vallace was placed in yourreare.
and l have since had my curiosity ex-
cited as to the reasons there might,
have been for. or against this dispo-
sition of :‘Il‘. llebel‘hs son."

" It was a l’rovidenCe." said Mary.
“I lielieVe firmly that \Villlzu‘l? was
placed under my Control by a higher
power than yours or mine."

“(‘ertaiuly." said I ; " we both be.
lieve that all things are Ordert’d l’)’ a
higher power than ours, but whatever
Providence there was in the relation
you have sustained to \Vallace, Mr.

 

 

"‘ “:4!th

we,”

.. _..R

 

 

 

 

 

258 THE

HOME.

__’_—

 

Heber suggested that his wife should
not be informed of it.”

“Did he! did he ask that?” said
Mary eagerly.

“ He did. You know her '? ”

“ Melissa Ford —— yes.”

“ I mean Mrs. Ileber.”

“She is Melissa Ford to me. My
father has the misfortune to be her
cousin,” she added, after a few min-
utes.

“I see no reason in this why she
should object to your becoming Wal-
lace’s teacher.”

“Perhaps not. I was engaged to
Hamilton lleber at nineteen, and
again at twenty-five.”

“ You — Mary \Vallingford 2”

" l — Mary VVallingford.”

“ And why were these engagements
broken ? ”

“The ﬁrst I broke for the sake of
Helen Warland, whom I loved as my
own life—and she was worthy of
my love.”

“But the seeond? ”

“That was—Oh! that was broken
for the sake of Melissa Ford.”

“ Did you break it?”

" No —- yes — l do n’t know —- x/H'
broke it.”

“ That was strange.”

" Yes, it was strange. You know
as much about it as l. lie was never
the same person after she discovered
that he was worthy of her blandish-
ments.”

“ But there must haVe been some
reason."

“ Doubtless such reason as polished
falsehood can produee. She made
our home her home from the time of
her ﬁrst husband’s death. I never
knew how she managed it. It was
eneugh for me that he was capable of
being influenced by one, for whose
character I felt sueh contempt. It
was a fortunate thing for iue. lf he
had cared for me, he eould new-r
haw. 1H...“ 5H blinded. lut when he
once distrusted me. I Would not stoop
to release myself from her impel“
sinus."

" You Were wrong there.”

 

“ W'e wo n't talk about this, if you
pl *ase,” said Mary, walking nerv-
ously about the room.

“Does \Vallaee know any thing of
this :3 ”

“ No lllt we than that we were acquain-
tances. He was here with his mo-
ther when he was three years old;
and on his first visit here with me, he
remembered the place.”

CHAPTER XI.

(IONI-
“ How beautiful it is for man to die,
Upon the walls of Zion! to be called
Like a watch-worn and weary sentinel,
To put his armor oil, and rest in heaven.
His heart was with Jerusalem, and strong
As was a mother's love, and the sweet tiel
Religion makes so beautiful at home,
He flung them from him in his eager race,
And sought the broken people of his God,
To preach to them of Jesus."
WiLLis.

“ A MISSIONARY ! Wallace Heber, 3
missionary ! ”

We knew before that he had chosen
the ministry for his earth-work, but
we had never thought that he woul
choose that toilsome portion of his
Master’s vineyard, in which to labor-

“I do not question the decision
have made,” he wrote. “God hath
called me. What would our land be
without the gospel?” .

I could not familiarize myself With
the thought at first, but little by lit-
tle l accustomed myself to it, and 80‘
knowledged that it was fit. He had
no home-ties to break, l said to m)“
self, and he was strong and active-
llis destination was India, and the
time that was to elapse before he le
his own country, was spent in eloSe
study.

" (.‘ome home,” We urged him,“ for
the short time that is left you. You
can study as well here as there.”

" Not yet,‘7 he replied; “I am 11013
strong enough. lut there is grf‘w
for me. When I can meet you With-
out a struggle. I shall eome.” '

" Not strong enough —— he l by“
little We know the human heart,
thought.

The year passed away, and there

MY NEIGHBOR’S STEP-SON.

259

 

were but' fexv weeks left before the,
party he 'as to join would sail, when
he came to us at last. And own
then, he was so much devoted to his
books, that we saw less of him than
We wished. Mr. Mills, who, of late,
had been withdrawing himself some-
What from the business which had ab-
sorbed So much of his life, and spend-
ing more of his time with us at home,
grew anxious about him, fearing lest
he should wear himselfout, before he
entered upon the stern duties of his
missionary life. Even when with us,
his cheerfulness was fltful, and we
Sometimes felt that there was a slight
reserve in his manner.

At length the day of his departure
came. He was to leave us at night,
and in two days more, was to bid a
ﬁnal farewell to the country of his
birth. During this day, Ellen, who
had for some time past, been falling
lnto one of those nervous states that l
80 much dreaded, was siezed with a
Violent attack of brain fever, 
m  sthleﬁhﬁ ﬁlm and in
my anxiety for her, forgot every
thing else. Just at night, word was
brought me that Wallace 'as below,
and l hurried down to give him my
Parting blessing. I found him rest-
eSS and uneasy with regard to Ellen,

“t he was too much one of us, not
sympathize with our alllietion, and
after a few moments I bade him adieu,
and excused myself to return to her
(Kl-side.

The next day, Mr. Mills told me
Phat \Vallaee had not gone, but I sat-
leied myself with saying that there

ad probably been Some delay, and
asked no explanation. for during many
ays, my precious ehild lmng on the
, “I‘ders ofthe graVe. and I knew that
It Was only by the most unremitting
care that she eould be saved. Days
and nights passed away, before l Ven-
t'm‘d to leave her for a moment.
but hand but mine should eool her
""Hing brow E To what other ftlf'
Should be committed the ravings of
0.? delirium! Uh! my ehild! my
Qhild! There is no love like a mo-

 

ther’s low. At length the fever
passed away, and her eye gave back
to mine once more the clear light of
reason. The spring airs came in,
laden with the odor of fruit blossoms,
and fanned her cheek that had grown
so pal -, and wan.

“I am so weary, mother,” she said,
on the morning after she had been
pronounced convalescent. And we
wrapped her in a morning dress, and
placing her upon a sofa, wheeled her
into an adjoining room, where she
might lie and look upon the tulips
and daffodils that were blooming so
gayl y in the yard below. Fatigued with
the exertion of change, and calmed by
the beauties of the sweet spring morn-
ing, she fell presently into a quiet
sleep— the sweetest she had yet
known. And while I sat there watch-
ing beside her, 1 saw Wallace ap-
proach. I knew that he was still in
town, but until this moment,l had
been too much occupied with my sick
child, to ask any explanation of his
detention. Now, however, it occurred
to me that it was strange if the com-
pany he was to have joined, had been
delayed so long, and I went down to
meet him, anxious to know the cause
of his delay.

“They tell me she is better,” he
said, when I met him in the hall.

“ Much better this morning. Well
enough to be brought out of her room.
I hardly hoped to see you again.
\Vhat was it that detained you ? ”

" ()h, Mrs. Mills! Did you think
I could go, when she was so ill 2 ” he
asked. and I noticed now that he
looked very haggard. Of course
he belonged to us, so much. that it
would hardly be right for him to
leave, when our dear one lay almost
at the point of death. I thought.

"Then the others have gone with-
out you 2" I said.

“ Yes,l have, been transferred to
another point, and we do not lt'aVe
until the early autumn. But l am
going east. l thinkl must leave to-
moi-row.”

" But if you remain in the country

 

 

 

 

 

 

260 THE HOME.

 

till autumn, why should you be in
such haste to leave us? All the
friends you have are here.”

“That is the reason,” said \Vallace,
walking restlesst about the room.
“ May I see her once more, Mrs.
Mills? Only for a moment. I must
look at her once more befbre I go.”

“ Ellen?—certainly. I left her
asleep; l should dread any excite-
ment for her, but she is probably still
sleeping.”

We went up the stairs, and when I
had entered the chamber, and found
that her slumber was still unbroken, l
beckoned to him at the door, and he
came to my side at the back of the
sofa on which we had drawn her to
the window. IIer cheek, poor child,
was as white as the pillow on which
she lay, and in the shadow of the
blinds which I had drawn carefully,
she lay like one dead.
roused by some magnetic influence,
she opened her eyes while we looked
at her.

“Wallace! Wallace ! ” she exclaimed.
“ You are not gone then, not gone to
die with none that cared for you — to
die,” and she went off at once into a
delirious talk of the horrors of heathen
life that had haunted her so much dur-
ing her illness.

“ ()h, Ellen!” cried Wallace, throw-
ing himself upon his knees and press-
ing his head against the arm of the
sofa; “ I can not bear this. I thought
I had conquered, but this is too much,
I can not bear it,” and he groaned
aloud.

I pressed my hand upon his arm in
token that he should go, for she was
growing momentarily more excited;
and he rose up.

“ Forgive me, Mrs. Mills,” he said.
“ I thought this grief would die with
me. But [can not see her thus. I
Could not ask her from you; after all
your kindness to me in my evil days,
I knew it would be a crime for me to
soak to tear your child from you, to
share my hard life. I struggled with
my love till l thought lcould meet
her and be strong, but now —”

But, as if

 

Ellen’s murmuring voicehad ceased,
and looking toward her, I saw her
eye, calm and rational, fixed upon us.

“ \Vallace ! ”

“ Ellen I.”

It was too late; all my care, all
my watchf'ulness, all my selfishness I
may say, had been in vain. I saw at
once that the sacrifice must be made
—the sacrifice—that 1 had shrunk
from — dimly before — openly now-
(‘ould l? (‘ould I yield my child?
I had thought that] loved \Vallace,
but it was with no such pang as this
that I thought of his doing his Mas-
ter’s Work among the heathen. But
deep as was the pang, l uttered neither
remonstrance or regret. They knew
[would not add to the burden they
were called to bear. Was it not hap-
piness to me to see the rose of liealtll
come fluttering back to her pale
cheek ?

\Vhen the autumn came, I robed
my child in her bridal apparel, and
knew that I should behold her no
more.

She is sleeping now, the sleep that
eomcth to us all, beneath the ﬂowefs
in Syria. But there lieth on that 8.011
a seed her hand hath planted, whiCh
shall yet aid to make the wilderneﬁls
blossom as the rose. And with 11.15
loins girded, her husband toils On. In
the home where she has left him?
awaiting his reward. ‘

For the rest—we have gone far
down the vale of life, my husban
and myself—and now, with 9‘“
hands folded from life’s busier tolls?
we sit in the evening, waiting for t 8
light that eometh.

My neighbor on the next street’
my good friend Mrs. lleber, the SWP'
mother of \Vallaee, is she Whom
once knew as Mary \Valliugfbrd. The
second wife of. Hamilton lIebeI‘ .
many years ago. How this Inarl‘lag‘?
came about, I can not tell ~13" It}?
a tale of influcm-cs, good and ew-
that I write, and not of the recom
pense of affection.

()fmysons,.lamieisamuchrf'
member ofour own community"

spCCWd

THE OLD BOOK—CASE.

261

 

earnest, Christian man. And IIart-
SOD—you all know Ilartson. Do
you not crowd to hear him lecture
night after night when the winter sea-
son comes '2 And are not his good
Sayings growing to be l‘iousehold
Words on almost every lip? You all
know llartson.

Robert Ford also dwells among us,
but of him We know little. He meets
uS every Sabbath morning on our
Way to church ——t‘or our paths to our
different places of worship, pass each
Other. And when he glances at the
fair maiden at my side, so like the
one I once called my Ellen, I smile-
timcs think from his look, that he
fOl‘gets that the Ellen IIeber who
dWells with me, is my grandchild,
and not my daughter.

 

TH E ()LD BOOK—CASE.

BY MARY A. RIPLEY.

IIIS is a cold day. Autumn has
breathed, upon the flowers, and
they are withered, even as are bright
EILPS which have felt the kiss of death.
6 trees are moaning a plaintive
strain for buried Summer; they
stretch their bare, brown arms toward
eaven, as if pleading for the stainless
ea-llty of the snow, as a recompense
0" the east‘otl‘ garments of green.
ark clouds are floating through the
a(il'ial ocean, like dismantled ships
\ clmless, masterlcss, bound no-
Wllither, seemingly; and yet, these
WIldly drifting Clouds shall reach an
aPpointed haw-n; untouched by sun-
.lght, as they seem, they bear bless-
"lgs to some distant region; our
a1th must see in them, even as it
0ught in the clouds of life, the hidden
I'1ghtness, the golden splendor, which,
ere long, Shall ﬂing its banner of love
over our souls.

It was on such a day, that my mother
was laid in her grave. I wept to see
’10 Sunbeam warming the damp walls
0f the tomb, or shedding radiance
uP011 the white brow. There rested
“P011 the lips, a sweet smile; upon

 

the countenance, an expression of
love; and l almost expected to see
the folded arms reach out of the cofﬁn,
to clasp me to that heart which had
ever felt all my sorrows, and had
shielded me from the heavier ones as
much as might be. Int the Collin-
lid was fastened, and she was loWered
into the grave, and my uncle, my
mother’s only brother, took my hand,
and led me away. He took me to
his own house, and there I missed the
gentleness, the impulsive love which
1 had experienced in my mother’s
humbler home.

My aunt was a tall, muscular wo-
man, who had been reared upon a
farm; she had been taught that any
pursuit that did not have wealth for
its object, was useless. She believed
this; and her life was a consistent
one. IIer children a son eighteen,
and a daughter sixteen y 'ars of age,
were thoroughly acquainted with the
farm-Work; they were as intelligent,
upon the most ordinary topiCs, as
blocks of stone. My uncle was
money-loving also. But I always
gave him credit for originally possess-
ing a liner nature than was found in
his hclpmate; or than he himself
seemed to haVe at fifty years ofage.

Oh! how the love of money hard-
ens the heart. It is like a deadly
wind, which, passing over valleys of
ﬂowers, blights them; which dries
water-springs, while white lips are
bending over the brink. It is like a
damp, trailing vine, which draws the
life from the strong oak of the for-
est. Even sodoes it drink the life from
the soul. I have sometimes imagined
that the rxason why my uncle sat
upon the door-step, and watched the
sun set, was that it reminded him of
the yellow gold in his coffer. But I
dare say, I am uncharitable.

I was fourteen years of age when I
went to live with my uncle. My birth-
place was a distantvillage, where we had
resided until my father’s death; my
mother had often told me of its associa-
tions, and her heart seemed gladdened
by letters from her friends there, more

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

262

THE HOME.

 

than it could be by any kindness
shown by my uncle’s family. I sup-
pose the real difference was in the
manner of showing.

My aunt had not known her hus-
band’s only sister, till upon the death
of my father. My uncle had offered
her the occupancy of a little cottage,
standing in a corner of his orchard.
We had thankfully accepted it; and
upon a scanty income, had lived
plainly, yet very happily. My father
,had held the oﬂice of clergyman of the
church in the village where hedied; and
this was enough to excite the dislike
of my aunt, for she tirmly believed
there was no salvation without the
pale of the Presbyterian communion,
and she did not feel called upon to
love any but the elect. So my me-
ther and myself were looked upon as
reprobate.

But we enjoyed our solitude very
much. My father’s library, which
we brought with us, was adorned
with the choicest gems of literature;
and my mother directed my studies,
and arranged my reading. We had
few acquaintance; the minister called
occasionally, but invariably shook his
head reprovingly, as he glanced at the
long row of \Vaverly, which occupied
a prominent place in the library ; but
he brightened a little, as he espied in
one corner, evidently in a good state
of preservation, a huge volume en-
titled “ Lives of the Martyrs.”

“ My dear,” said he, “I hope you
do not neglect this work, on account
of the ﬁction and poetry which I find
so plentiful upon these shelves.”

“ No, sir,” I answered ; “but 1
save it, as I would a small supply of
nice cake, for rare occasions.”

I saw a shadow of a smile leaving
my mother’s lips as I turned toward
her.

At another time, I took out a Greek
testament, and asked some question
about a word,‘ upon which I had been
studying a long time. The parson
blushed, and after vainly endeavoring
to enlighten me, took his leave.

The next Sabbath, his morning text

 

was, “ If I come unto you, speaking
with tongues, what shall I profit you?”
Evidently his discourse attempted to
prove that the less a minister knew,
the better it was, provided he was
“called.” Young as l was, I de-
spised with all my heart, his ignorance
and cant.

I was, as you must now be con-
vinced, in a very uncultivated com-
munity. Certainly, there was wealth,
but it was wealth sought for its own
sake. The villagers loved to count
their gold, although for eight months
of the year, the village school-house
was shut; they enjoyed looking over
their broad acres, although the only
books in the house, were Daboll’s
arithmetic, Murray’s grammar, and
a spelling-book.

So, my uncle, soon informed me
that my father’s library must be
sent to the city for sale. I begged
him to bring it to his own house. I
promised to work, and to read only
at such times as he and my aunt
thought proper. I hardly remem-
ber all the promises I did make, 50
vividly did the future loneliness stand
out before me. But my uncle Was
steadfast. In a few days, the old, dark
mahogany book-case was lifted into 8
huge lumber-wagon; the boxes 0
books were also packed in, and
was Weeping violently at my 1053:
although striving to glean some com‘
fort from the thought of Mrs. He'
mans, whose poems my uncle, CO_“'
sidering they were a (’hristmaS’ g1
from my father, had permitted me to
keep.

{- * 1: av * *

It was a dismal morning in late 31"
tmnn. The trees in the orchard, lately
overladen with bright fruit, cluster.
among green leaves, were now stF'P‘
ped of their changing foliage, 811d the
swaying boughs moaned dismally
over the buried glories of summer:
The lowing cattle sought shelter be
neath the sheds, or by the side 0f th:
high fences. The old gray 08‘ {38h
shivering upon the huge logs wh'c
constituted the wood-pile, 01‘ 91"“

THE OLD BOOK—CASE.

263

 

away into some hiding-place known
Only to herself. The house-dog
crouched in the little entry, and occa-
Slonally when the door was opened,
he ventured to approach the ample
hearth; but he was soon compelled
1’0 ﬂee to his old place, for my aunt
Was a notable housekeeper, and no
0g or cat was allowed to remain in
the kitchen. I did sometimes, very
seldom, however, take pussy in my
8p, and I seemed to ﬁnd more sympa-
thy and love in her good-natured pur-
nng, than I received from my cold-
earted relatives.
The stiff-limbed dog would lap my
(I when I lay it on his head, and if
I left the house, he was certain to fol-
IPW me. Poor old dog! many a
tlme have I sat on the single step that
1ed'to the door of the cottage, and
I'estmg my head upon his neck, have
Wet it with my tears. Many a time
I he lain by my mother’s grave, while
t[gasped my arms about it, praying
t1 too might sleep there. But my
aunt declared that it was foolish to pet
t 888 animals; that my time would be
spent more proﬁtably, if, considering
31y penniless situation, I would learn
ine arts and mysteries of bread-mak-
I g, Spmning, and weaving. But, when
endeavored to acquire this truly valua.
9 knowledge, I invariably, spite ofall
fly pains, made her more work than
thmysdf: accomplished; or else spoiled
a 9 fabric [was trying toweave. My
un{became wholly despairing, and,
Elleve, more to get me out of sight,
'1 for my own good, she begged
nude John to send me to school.
mild this was the ﬁrst day of the
l m- I had never attended the vil-
aarge School, and had no acquaintance,
tmgng the scholars. But away I
do 88d, happy in the sense of free-
wg’l’l: fPom reproving eyes during my
mi 7_8-nd, stlll more so, in my deter-
seligation to study, and qualify my-
. for the duties of a teacher. To
‘8 positionl had lookedforward for
eafsl and now, deprived of my mo-
el‘ 8 counsel, I felt more than ever,
9 great necessity there was, that I

 

should ﬁnd a home where my intel-
lectual tastes might be cultivated, ap-
preciated, and sympathized with. 1
had an intention, almost indeﬁnite to
be sure, of going back to the pleasant
town where my father had labored
and died; and to which, my mother
had ever looked with affectionate re-
membrance. And my tones were
quite ﬁrm, as I told the teacher what
studies I wished to pursue, and the
motive which urged me forward.

He was a young man, a student
who was striving to make a way for
himself, that he might enter the inner
temple of science. The common rites
which might be witnessed and shared
by the unthinking crowds, satisﬁed not
his quenchless thirst; he would be-
hold the vailed mysteries; he would
partake of that inspiration which
seems to be given to the high-priests
of science. Many years of toil were
before him, but in the race he won
the victor wreath; his name is circled
with a halo of glory.

The winter wore away—I should
have said it ﬂew, for surely its months
and weeks seemed winged. But the
closing-day came. Theteachergrasped
my hand and said, “ Clara, you have
accomplished as much this winter as
all the other pupils. (Janl do any
thing to aid you in procuring a situa-
tion as teacher? ”

I had not thought of entering upon
my vocation for t\vo or three years
yet; I had not deemed myself quali-
ﬁed. But I saw that my teacher
thought differently. So I replied, “If
you think I deserve it,I will thank
you for a recmmnendation.” He
wrote one, and gave it to me.

“Clara,l am to leave the village
this evening. I shall go directly to

. college, and I would like to
watch your progress. You may sue-
eeed if you will. This will of ours,
can do a great deal. And I wiSh you
to write to me. 1 shall write to you
as soon as I am established in my
new quarters; and as I intend .to be
very punctual,l expect you Wlll be
so too.”

 

 

 

 

264

THE HOME.

 

My teaeher had heen Very kind to

me. Ile had spent hours in instruet-
ing me, after his daily (In/im- were
pertirrmed. It was no wonder that I
had accomplished so Inllell. I owed
it all to my untiring guide, that I had
passed safely and triumphantly, where
others had stumhled. And in grati-
tude, I almost Ii‘lt lli Ullt'tllt‘llt'c “'lllt'll
I had no right to ret'use.l promised
that he should not eomplain of want
ot'pimetuality on my part.

My unele was eertainly pleased
when he saw the eertilieate, vouehing
for my titness to he a teaehel‘. He
sat. by the tire holding the preeious
Note in his hands. It seemed to Illl‘
that, he looked into the tire an age;
I did so want to get my treasure
again into my own hands. In my
own mind. I had already appropriated
a Very seeure plaee tor its reeeption.
namely, the volume of
whieh I have het'ore spoken. It Would
have heen as sati' there as in an iron
ehest. nay, more so, for no member
of the hollsehold e.\'Cept myself:
thought of looking at the hook. Ilut
it was destined never to lind the hon-
ored liltlt'e HI. repose. My llnele
seemed to eolu'lude his meditations:
liil‘ he (Ielilwl‘ately‘ folded the paper,
and plaeed it eai‘etiilly in his poeket-
hook. That old poeket-hook seemed
to have innuna-rahle eompartim-nts.
I did not helieve I eould ever Iind it
again; I very mueh douhted my un-
ele’s ahility to distinguish it from
hosts of other papers looking just
like it.

Beside interesting the seholars in
their studies, the young teaeher had
awakened the attention of the august
eommittee to the fat-t that four months
ofsehool during the year, was not
mmugh for the welfare of the dormant
minds, whieh \vere just beginning to
arouse as the winter term closed.
My uncle. was one of that intelligent
company, and feeling that I was good
for nothing else, ha arose, and saying
no Word of eneouragement to me, I“-
sought the. other memhers. Ile ex-
hibited the remunmendation, and with

poems of

 

little ditlieulty obtained a promise,

that, it'sehool wereopened during the

summer. I should he the teaeher.
“hell he came home. he told 1110

i of his attempt, and of its probable

sueeess. I helieve, in my joy. I for-
got, my usual reserve, and elaspt‘d
my arms about his neek. while I eoV-
ered his imhrowned Iilee with kisses.

My um-Ie wiped his eyes. “That
is the way your mother used to do.”

My aunt was skimming milk in the
milk-room whieh opened out of the
kitehen. and hearng my somewhat
tulnultuous kisses, she looked out
upon lls,

" Why, John! what is the mat-
ter I 'l

" Nothing.”

l'nele John had a soft side to his
heart. I now Ii'lL this; and the fl“
ture, my future looked hrighter. But
he seemed studioust to eoneeal any
and every sign ol'emotion in the pl‘t‘s’
enee of his wife. She. was a Medusa,
turning him to stone; petrit'ying the
bright ﬂowers, the green—leaved shrubs.
that sprang up IN‘SItIt‘ the stream 0
his life. I’ar away among the hills
of Childhood, up where that stl’wm
had its souree, it was not so. L‘Wc’
was eherished, and it' tears {Vere
wept, they were not stealthin Wlpc
away. hit when the hurrying stream
had wandered far from the soul'gc’ a
trihutary had thrown its dark-swine
waters into the river of his lit‘t', 3"
theneetin‘th the eharaeter ot' the with?"
and ot' the vegetation upon the bat-1hS
was ehangedr Instead of hasteng
rejoieingly toward the. sea, and thcw
delivering a shining gift, the 1’00"
was to I)(' soiled, earth—stained.

My lirst day in school! I_ 1'91”
you may ever he guiltless ot' sunll3r
eXPt‘l‘Ith't'. I entered the schooé
room, aml with a dilly head, “Tut ts
thet'aeherls tit-5k. 1 felt the (ﬂame,
that were. east upon me; I ('Uul‘l no,
see them. I knew that some We?“
sitting there who were envious (1.3311,,
implied superiority ; I heard one 1.
whisper, “ How nice she £0“ ° ‘
“ Richard was hin'selt'agum I

THE OLD BOOK—CASE.

265

 

My indignation had entirely coil-
quered my embarrass!nent. I could
See the pupils: I could read their
Countenances; l fancied l discerned
some, contempt. and l determined
that by the force of my own better
disciplined mind. I would achieve a
Victory. As I look back to that rude
S(‘llt‘ml-room. and picture the faces
Which greeted me that morning. there
is one toward which I turn in grati—
tllde. It is that ofthe littlewhisperer.
I know the words cut me then; but,
my life has taught me the inestima-
blt‘ value of such wounds. I have
cen stronger since that moment.

I opened the Bible, and read the
gIOWing description of the new Je-
I‘llsalem, which is found in Revelation.
I believe I wished mySelf there, yet 1
had not passed through “ much tribu-
lation.” I doubted not that I should
before winter should be over.

Then I arranged the classes, accor-
ding to the instructions I had received
ﬁ‘Om my teacher; for I had written
I? him of my prospects. I knew he
Pltied me, for he had experienced
sOme ungentle treatment there. And
When the memorable “first day”
clOsed, I felt that I had made an im-
Pression upon the untamed spirits
3. Out me; and though I went home,
‘tlred in body and in mind, my soul
was strong.

y aunt 'as in very high spirits
.‘Vllen I reached home. She was re-
lolced that, at last, a way was open in
which I might earn my daily bread.

’ “’0, was (glad; so I very readily

Passed over the grudging spirit which

9.? smiles betokened. My uncle
81d his hand kindly upon my head,
and told me I mustiiot Work too hard.

.Y Cousins bantered me about being
30 ooLma’am, in pleasant voices; and
when I lay my head upon my pillow
that night, I felt that the “brightness
w'thlll the cloud,’ had gleamed
through upon my heart.

. ummer passed away on light
wmgs- I had gained the love of the
smilllt‘r children, and the confidence
0 the older scholars. My teacher,

VOL. v. 20.

 

who was intending soon to graduate,
wrote frequently, giving me many
useful suggestions, and tendering his
warm sympathy. He also advised
me at the close. of the term. to en-
deavor to obtain the situation of as
sistant in the academy of B. . . ., the
village where, he was'to spend the
winter. He would use all his influ-
ence, and had no doubts of the success
of the application.

Here was an opportunity of return-
ing to my birth-place. B. . .. was
the village where my father had died
—where my own infancy had been
spent. l kncwl should ﬁnd friends
there, and I wrote to Mr. Wheaten,
thanking him for his kind offer, and
begging him to hasten the application.
My uncle raised no objection ; I think
they were glad to have me go.

The journey was exceedingly pleas-
ant. Autumn, that glorious artist,
had taken all nature for his canvas,
and had touched with his crimson
brush, the leaves of the forest. The
air was bracing and healthful, and the
brown hill-tops, the shaven grain-
fields, the musical valley-streams,
made a scene which lcould but en~
enjoy.

Mr. Wheaton met me a few miles
from B. . . ., and taking me into his
own carriage, we were at full liberty
to enjoy the beauties of the landscape,
secure from the eyes of staring stage-
passengers. We were on a hill over
looking a deep valley. 0n the stream
winding through it, stood a, dingy
mill. Dingy, except where a mag-
uificent woodbine draped it in crim-
son; or the sinking sun threw a ﬂood
oflight upon the windows, which was
reﬂected back, giving the huge build-
ing the appearance of an illuminated
castle.

“ \Ve are a mile from B. . . ..” said
Mr. \Vheaton. “I saw the Profes-
sor at the academy this morning. He
remembers your father with a great
deal of friendship, and insisted upon
your coming to his house for the pres-
ent. I think you will find ita per-
mancnt home, and a pleasant one. I

 

 

 

 

266

THE HOME.

 

shall take a brotherly interest in you,
of course; and you must feel per-
fectly free to call upon your old
teacher for any favor he can grant.”

I assured himl should; thoughl
silently decided I should need few fa-
vors. I was very timid with Mr.
Wheaton — my brotherly teacher.

One wide avenue ran the entire
length of the village. On either side,
there were spacious yards fronting fine
old houses. The thick foliage, almost
hid the parlor windows, yet, allowed
a glimmer to shine through occasion-
ally. Iwas very quiet. There was
the modest church where I had been re-
ceived into the Christian communion;
behind it, was the burial ground, and
a white marble shaft gleamed in the
moonlight, telling me of my father‘s
grave. Near the church stood the
secluded parsonage. I could remem-
ber many a sly nook in that great
yard; I was afraid I was getting sad,
when my teacher spoke out:

“Clara, there is the house.”

We were at the wide gate, which
was standing open. Mr. Wheaton
lifted me from the carriage, and very
noiselessly we walked up the gravel
walk, and stepped upon the piazza.
His hand was on the bell-knob.

“ Wait a moment.” He looked
not at all surprised, but presently
asked, “Shall I ring? ”

“Yes.”

The Professor opened the door.
My teacher bowed, and said, “ Miss
Cleveland.”

The good man took my hand, and
led me into the parlor.

“I must kiss you for your mother’s
sake,” said he, and then he led me to
his wife; and I felt as if I were trans-
lated. I had not expected so warm a
welcome, the atmosphere seemed sun-
lit; rainbows multiplied about me.
Isought to hide my tears, but they
would gather.

That was a happy household into
which I was that night introduced. I
seemed to be in heaven. I half ex-
pected, when I lay down at night,
with a heart throbbing with quiet joy,

 

to wake in the morning, and ﬁnd my-
self back in the old farm-house. But
my life ﬂowed on evenly. I heard
at long intervals from my uncle's
family, and with a forgiving heart, I
wrote them of my prosperity. My
teacher was studying with a leading
member of the bar, and often, after
his study-hours were over, he would
call at the Professor’s, to while away
an evening.

I was becoming a better teacher;
indeed, the summit of my ambition,
seemed to be to qualify myself for
the greatest usefulness in my chosen
vocation. Mr. Wheaton’s directions
regarding my reading, were carefully
obeyed, and my “life was set aﬂush ”
by the brightness of the rising sun:
which looked in upon the darkness,
and scattered the mists which hﬁd
overspread my sky.

Time ﬂew forward. We had beﬁn
enjoying a long vacation, and in a few
da s, we should resume our duties.

t was Saturday evening, and We
were sitting around the parlor table,
chatting gayly, when the halLdoOl'
opened, and steps were heard 8!"
preaching us. Soon Mr. Wheawn
entered, and pleasantly bidding “5
“ Good-evening,” seated himself. He
handed the Professor a letter. W111
had been sent in his care. It W“8
from a Mr. Marsden, who lived in 9‘
neighboring city, and its object W35
to secure tuition in the academy for.“
young sister, who was under 11"
guidance and protection. Mr. M“?
den himself was to enter the Ofﬁce 1”
which Mr. Wheaton was still pursu'
ing his studies. He was very urgent
that his sister should be received lnw
our family as a boarder. The Pro'
fessor’s wife expressed a great deal 0
sympathy for the young orphafl, 3”
asl joined earnestly in her WlSh
accommodate the writer of the letw”
he consented to receive her. ‘

“But mind,” said he to me: ‘ we
are to have no rivalry between M035”
Wheaton and Marsden.” . .

My old teacher silently bit 1118 hp”
and turned to a book which lay Open

0

.‘

THE OLD BOOK—CASE.

0-\

upon the table. The poem which at-
tracted his attention, was the “Culprit
Fay.” He read for a few moments,
and then said :

“It was well for the poor little
Ollphe, that be exercised taste and
jUdgment in selecting a ‘mortal
maiden’ as the object ofhis devotion.
It saved him a long list of exquisite
tortures. Still, he really earned his
elfin purity and freedom back again,
by his achievements. No matter how
Well-bestowed is affection, it has its
attendant heart-aches.”

My teacher was talking to himself,
eVidently ; so I said nothing. He
finished the beautiful poem, and ab-
ruptly took his leave.

Mr. Marsden and his young fair-
l“aired sister came, and she was in-
stalled into the room next mine. She
was somewhat lonely at first, but she
Soon became familiar with us all, and
her countenance almost entirely lost
The trace of sadness which rested upon
11? When we ﬁrst saw her. Her bro-
ther came often to see her. He was
‘1 generous-hearted man, and his whole
_80u1 seemed given to the delicate be-
ing who looked for care to him. '

Mr. Wheaton came with him fre-
quently. When we were introduced,

8 observed me very intently, and

“ I believe we have met before.”

I was ositive we had not.

_ Mr. bfarsden directed his conversa-
tlon mostly to the Professor. Mr.

heaton made himself very agreeable
to Lizzie Marsden. And I watched
t e grotesque images, constantly as-
sInning shape beneath the fanciful

Dd of the ﬁre-spirit. I do not know
how long I had sat thus, gazing at the
red Goals, when Mr. Marsden spoke.

_“ Miss Cleveland, I am strongly in-
chned to adopt the oriental theory
of transmigration of souls. I know I

3V8 seen you before now, or, rather,

efore we came to the village.”

.“I don’t at all believe that doc-
t""18. Neither do I believe we have
ever met before, either in spirit-land,
0" dream-land, or fairy-land.”

 

267

“ Were you a guest in fairy-land,
there would be an army of culprit
fays.”

I scorned his ﬂattery, and Mr.
Wheaton understood the expression
which ﬂashed from my eyes.

He laughed, and said, “Be cau-
tious, Marsden, or you may see
sparks of fire without following the
shooting star.”

Mr. Marsden blushed. He was
sufﬁciently rebuked, and by his pleas-
ant flow of ideas, enlivened the rest
of the evening.

“I trust you will excuse my
thoughtlessness,” said he, on leaving;
“certainly there was no intentional
rudeness.”

I freely pardoned him; assuring
him that the next offense would not
be so lightly passed over.

Month after month was added to
the past, Lizzie’s health improved;
she was very much interested in her
studies. Mr. Marsden was very in-
timate in the Professor’s family. Mr.
\Vheaton absented himself a great
deal more than formerly, and still I
did not miss him. lwas decidedly
ungrateful.

One delicious afternoon, Mr. Mars-
den called to take his sister to ride.
He invited me to go, and I, being fond
of the exercise, gladly availed myself
of the opportunity. We rode to the
summit of a high hill, whose steep
sides were covered with evergreens.
There, at the house of a friend, Mr.
Marsden stopped and lifted his sister
from the carriage.

“ We ’ll call for you as we return,
Lizzie,” said he.

She made no reply, but I saw by
the expression of her countenance,
that she had not expected to make
this call.

We drove down the other side of
the hill. The sun was still high show
the horizon. Mr. Marsden oom-
menced a story.

“When I was a boy, I always
loved to attend auctions. If I was
going on an errand, the glimpse of a
diminutive red ﬂag, always sent the

 

 

 

 

268 THE
errand out of my head, and my hands
into my pockets, to ascortain the state
of my ﬁnances. My father did not
wholly discourage this propensity, al-
though upon oneortwo occasions, when
I made some, heavier purchases than
usual, and directed the bill to be sent
to his counting-room, he frowned very
severely. But as this queer propen-
sity was my greatest fault in his
eyes, he usually paid the hills, after
ascertaining that l had not been im-
posed upon.

“()ne bright autumnal morning, I
was bound down-town. I had no par-
ticular errand or destination. It was
a holiday. and I went along whistling,
eontentedly enjoying my freedom, un.
til the loud cry of ‘Going! going!
gone!’ and a tremendous blow with
the hammer, made me aware of my
vieinage to an auction-room. There
were few purchasers, and as I entered,
the auctioneer nodded, and carelessly
directed my atttenion to the farther
end of the room. I passed on, exam-
ining what I found that interested me,
and ﬁnally my attention and affec-
tions were ﬁxed upon an ancient book-
case.”

My thoughts went back to the cot
tage in my uncle’s orchard; to the
old book-case which I had so clung to.
Oh! that I could ﬁnd it! thought I.
It should not wait for a purchaser.

Mr. Marsden went on. The sun
was just above the horizon. We
were going to have a gorgeous sun-
set.

“The books were well selected; it
seemed to have belonged to persons
of culture and taste. I, for various
reasons, immediately decided which
space of wall in my own room, that
book-case should cover; it was just
what I wanted ; the styles of binding
perfectly suited me.

“ The auctioneer seen offered it for
sale, and it was ‘ knocked down ’ to
me at a very low price.

“ ‘Send the bill to my father,’ said
I to him. And I muttered to myself,
‘lnevcr ’ll do so again. This shall
be the last time.’

 

HOME.

“I procured a dray, and soon the
book-case and myself were landed in
fro/ll of the buck entranee. The dray-
man, with my assistance, got it into
my room, and the household, with
the exception of one of the servantS,
knew nothing of it.

“ My father paid the bill, and I
believe he was more interested in my
collection than in his own.

"One evening, I was rummaging
the drawers, when I accidently dis-
covered a secret spring. I touched
this, and a tiny drawer ﬁew open. In
it was nothing but a small gold
locket. This contained a miniature
likeness of a face, over which
dreamed and wondered all through
the romantic years of my youth.
gave my heart to the faint resemblance,
to be held in trust until the original
should brighten my pathway with the
holy radiance which looked from
those eyes.

“ N 0! there is no metempsychOSiS!
It was your face I there saw. And
long since, I discovered the origin 0f
the impression which so puzzled me,
upon meeting you.”

The sun had melted into a golden
sea; each speck of cloud in the arc}?
ing sky, was transﬁgured and glor"
ﬁed; we rode very quietly beneath
the rustling branches.

Before we took up Lizzie on Our
return, I had promised to become part
owner of my old book-case, whic.
had so regretted and desired durlng
my wearisome life at my uncle’s.

In a few months, Mr. Wheatona
having reCeived a liberal offer if he
would undertake some intricate 1983
business, sailed or Europe. He bade
me a kind adieu, but spoke no WOrd 0
the fuure. Shortly after this, I left my
happy home at the Professor’s for
this one; I have. seen many changes
here. But the old place is very dear
to me.

=1- * a: v:

The sunlight had showered its rays
upon the silken hair which lay “IPOD
my grandmother’s forehead. Ier
face was peaceful, and as l clasped my

* 41'

TIIE CHILDREN‘S GIFT.

 

arms about her neck, she kissed me,
and said, “Clara, I never could tell a
Very good story, but if it pleases you,
I am contented.”

 

THE CHILDREN’S GIFT.

T was a fine moonlight evening in
_ November; the frost was destroy-
lng the beauty of the landscape, but
the sky looked so clear and bright,
that little Nelly Hammond paused at
the hall window, which she passed 0n
91‘ way to her chamber, to admire it.
ere was sadness on her fair brow,
as she looked up as if seeking sympa-
thy beyond the stars, which met her
gale with so much dazzlingbrightness.
.She had just received a sad good-
nlght from her parents. Her father
ad lately met with serious losses,
0Wing to bank failures; and giving
Way to despondency, had cast a
Shadow over the whole household.
AS she turned from the window,
She felt thankful that she had been
taught to pray when in trouble. On
Coming to the door of her little bro-
I er’s room, she stepped in, to see if
e was nicely covered for a cool night.
ShE was surprised to find him awake,
and quickly inquired if he was sick.
“N0, Nelly; but I kept thinking
about father and mother, they looked
so Sad, and mother had tears in her
Wes, When she gave me a good-night
‘33- Do you know what makes
them feel bad :1 ”
b “I do not quite understznid, Henry;
I“ father says the times are. hard,
and a great many have no money
ROW, WhO, a little while ago, had
Plenty. I think it is about getting
{illoney to pay others that troubles fa-
0 er- Now, brother dear, let us ask
u“ heavenly Father to bless our dear
Earents, and teach us how we can
elfzhand comfort them.”
th I 83' went to sleep, praying in
9}? childlike way, for that wisdom
as ‘ch is granted as readily to a child,
an Older person.

 

They met in the morning, feeling
happy, as all children do when trying
to do good. Nelly was two years
older than Henry, and a very thought-
ful, kind little girl. Henry was a
very good child, but talked more than
his sister. \Vhen they met in the
morning, Henry told his sister he had
thought of something, but should not
tell her till they got to aunt Mary’s,
as they had permission to spend the
day with her.

The breakfast hour was passed al-
most in silence, and the sadly affec-
tionate glances of the parents to their
children, and at each other, showed
plainly that trouble, if it rightly af-
fects us, tends to increase good affec-
tions; each striving to alleviate the
sufferings of the other, often forgot
their own sorrows. Nelly asked her
mother if they could spend the day
with their aunt. Her mother made
no objections.

After breakfast they hastened to
get ready for their intended visit.
They were soon on the way, and as
they walked along the shady avenue
that led to the road, and heard the
birds sing their morning songs of
praise, their hearts rose with gratitude
to Him who had kindly cared for them
through the night, and had given
them another beautiful morning to
enjoy.

“ Nelly,” said Henry, “ do n’t you
think aunt Mary will help us plan to-
day ’2 You know how kind and good
She is, and then she knows so much
more than we do.”

“Yes, brother, but we must not
talk to her too much, and make her
tired ofus.”

“ No, Nelly, 1 shall not say much,
but have aunty talk to us.”

They soon arrived at the home Of
Mrs. IIillton, where they were met by
their truly affectionate aunt. She
conducted them into her sitting:r00m,
seated them near a pleasant wmdow,
inquiring kindly after their parents.
She then seated herself with her sew-
ing, saying, “How do you intend

 

 

 

270

THE HOME.

 

amusing yourselves to-day, my little
friends ’2 ”

“ 0h! ” said Henry, “we did not
come for amusement, but to talk with

on.”

“ Well, that is easily done; but
what shall we talk about? Perhaps
you have some pleasant thuoght you
would like to chat about.”

“ Oh ! ” said Henry, “ sister and I
can think of but one thing to-day, and
we would like to talk about that, if
you please.”

“What is it, dear, that has ﬁlled
your mind so completely? ”

“ It is about father and mother.
They look so sad, and Nelly thinks it
is about money that they need. Now,
aunty, please help me plan how to
help father; for I am nine years old,
and not such a little boy as cousin
Willy; I’m sure I can do something.”

This was said so earnestly, that
Mrs. Hillton could not help smiling;
but the smile disappeared when she
saw Nelly’s eyes filled with tears.
She told them their father was in
much better circumstances than many
at the present time.

“But,” said Nelly, “I heard father
tell mother, that he feared we should
have to leave that pleasant house for
a poorer one; and to-day, he had a
debt to pay that would take all the
money he had now ; and others were
troubled that owed him, and he did
not know where the necessary sup-
plies for his family were coming
from. Mother said we must trust in
the Lord, and do good, and such
things, to make fatherfeel better; but
she looked sad too,” and Nelly wept,
as she thought of her parents.

“Henry, my boy,” said his aunt,
“ have you thought of any thing your-
self, that you ean do '2 ”

“ Yes, aunty, one thing, if I can do it.”

“ What is that, dear? ”

“ As I am too large a boy to play
with my rocking-horse, if I could but
sell it, that would help some.”

“ Bravo, Henry! What will you
take for it?”

 

“I should like to get ten dollars
for it if I could,” replied Henry, in a
very business-like way.

“I will buy it it of you,” said Mrs.
Hillton, “as I wish to make your cousin
Willy a nice present on his third
birthday, and that will be just the
‘tihing. I will give you the money to-

a)y.”

Henry forgot his business airs, and
clapped his hands with joy, saying,
“Oh! aunty, how good you are, and
how glad cousin Willy will be too.”

“And has my quiet Nelly thought
of any thing she can do?” inquired
Mrs. Hillton.

“ Could Inot help mother do our
work, and not have to keep a girl ’9 ”

“I think you might, dear, and g0
on with your studies; for I would not
have you give up improving your
mind.”

“Aunt Mary,” said Nelly, “ did
not grandfather get poor once, whet1
you and mother, aunt Ellen and Kate
were little girls ? ”

“ Please tell us about it,” Said
Henry; “ for once mother said some-
thing about grandpa’s breaking down,
and I asked her who mended him 50
nice, for I was sure he was straight
and Spry, as if he had never been
broke. Mother laughed, and said She
would tell me about it whenI was
older; but I understand better now-

Mrs. Hillton told him he kne_W
about as much as his aunt Kate d1
when we were poor.

“She was playing with her doll, and
hearing us speak of being pOOI‘, She
said, ‘ We are not poor.’ ‘YeS,, we
told her we were. She said 110t so
poor as Mr. Briggs’ family. We “’1
her we were. Then with a look ofcon'
tempt she said, ‘I know we never
looked so dirty as that.’ Then we
all laughed to think she thought to be
poor, was to be filthy.” , .d

“ What did you do, aunty 'l ’ 59“
Nelly. . h

“ We helped our mother, as you W‘sr
to help yours, between schools. You
grandmother found she could do many

THE CHILDREN‘S GIFT.

 

271

 

things she had not thought she could
before; and we all tried to help. Your
uncle Charles wore a cap made at home,
and we had some warm hoods made
of the best part of a cast-off silk
Shaw], and your mother and I picked
strawberries one day, and sold enough
to buy something nice for tea. I
do not think we ever enjoyed a happier
meal ; our parents looked so gratiﬁed
to see their children trying to help.”

Henry inquired how long they had
Such trouble ’2

She told him they were soon com-
fOrtably situated again. “But, dear
Children,” said Mrs. Hillton, “ we
learned many useful lessons of self-
denial and industry, sympathy for
t 0 poor; and we were taught to look
lépon idleness as a very great sin.

our grandparents now have all they
need, and rejoice very much that their
children are 'happily married, and
We near enough for them to visit all,
eXcept your aunt Kate, who is yet too
young to leave her parents.”

“ Dear, good aunt Kate! ” said
Ndly; “do you think she will ever

8 married, and leave grandfather
and grandmother alone ’2 ”

“I hope not, Nelly, unless some
Very good man takes her away; for

er warm, unselﬁsh heart, is a treas-
ure fit for one of the best.”

They were now called to tea, and

6my assured his aunt that she had
told him so many things, he had for-
gotten his own trouble.

After tea, Mrs. Hillton paid Henry
tel! dollars, which he put in his pocket
Wlth great pleasure. She then told

em she was going home with them,
for a walk, which pleased them very
much.

After a short, but pleasant walk,
they entered the pleasant, and usually
0 eerful home of Mr. Hammond ;

“‘3 they found him in a very sad
mOOd, his wife striving in vain to
encourage him. They Were happy

to see t 6 ever cheerful face of their

sister.
After the usual greetings were over,
enry went to his father, and gave

 

him the ten dollars, saying, “I sold
my rocking-horse for that, and I hope
soon to be large enough to buy with
my own earnings, a real horse.”

Before he replied, Nelly com-
menced telling her plan of assisting
her mother, and saving something
that way.

A change came over the counte-
nance of Mr. Hammond, as he em-
braced and kissed his children, and he
exclaimed, “ N 0 man is poor with
such treasures as these. But, Henry,
dear, what made you think of selling
your rocking-horse ’2 ”

“ Why, father, Nelly and I felt bad
when we left you last night, and
wished to think of something we
could do for you. Sister said we
must ask our heavenly Father to
teach us what to do. I went to sleep
praying to Him, and when I was
awakened this morning, the ﬁrst thing
I thought of, was to sell my rocking-
horse; so Isuppose it was God put
it in my mind, dear father.”

Mr. Hammond felt reproved for his
despondency. “ From this,” said he,
“I will look up for help, and be thank~
ful. These dear children have helped
me more than a large sum of money
would have done sometimes; besides,
the happiness arising from seeing
my children do right.”

Mrs. Hillton told him she thought,
her sister would make a good econ-
omist, if necessary, for they had many
practical lessons in early life how
to make things do, and save expense.

Mrs. Hammond assured them, she
did not feel that she was disgracing
herself at all to labor, or enter upon
any plan of economy to assist her
husband.

“ My circumstances are not so bad
as many,” said Mr. Hammond; “ but
my sudden losses, and consequent 
barrassment, almost overcame me-

Mrs. Hillton told them she thought
with their present plans of economy,
they would succeed; if they were in
trouble again, to let her know it, as
she would gladly assist them all In
her power.

 

 

 

 

272

The children accompanied their
aunt to the gate, thanking her for her
kindness to them, and begging her to
come again soon.

Dear children that read this
story, I am acquainted with some of
you, and love you very dearly. I
hope you will each of you try the
same way that Nelly and Henry did,
to see what you can do.
your associates are poor, try and do
them good some way. If your pa-
rents are in trouble, it will do them
good to see you kind to each other,
and trying to be good and obedient
children. II.

 

ECONOMY.

BY ELLEN C. LAKE.

“THERE, aunty! you can’t say

that I haven’t any genius for the
economical art now! Just look at
my winter bonnet. I’ve made it all
myself, and haven’t the least objec-
tion to your ﬂattering my vanity, by
saying that it looks as well as
Madame Arnaud’s ‘ miracles of flow-
ers, fuss and feathers,’ as Charlie calls
them.”

“Ah! that is what has kept you
so closely in your chamber for tWo
days past, is it? I shall have to
praise your development of secret-
iveness, as well as your taste and
economy, I guess; but it is pretty;
where did you get your material?”

“ You know that crimson velvet
sack that I had two years ago?
well, it went out of fashion by the
time. I had worn it once or twice, and
has been folded up in my trunk ever
since, just as good as new; so I took
part of that for covering the frame,
which I bought of Madame Arnaud ;
and with the plume, ﬂowers, and a lit-
tle blonde, it has cost me only three
dollars. I thought [could afford to
get the best of what I did buy. Now
are n’t I going to be ‘tit for a poor
man’s wife,’ after all? Do say ‘ yes,’
and I’ll just run and tell Charlie
there ’s one more scruple gone from

If any of

THE HOME.

aunty‘s conscience as to letting him
liave her fly-away neice for ‘ better 01‘
worse.’ "

“l’ut it on, dear, I want to see if
it is becoming.”

The little figure sprang up before
the mirror, raised the bonnet, and
dropped it jlist half way over the rest-
less head, knotted the crimson rib-
bons under the chin, and with a quick
motion, stood making a low courtesy
before Mrs. Maylield.

The old lady pulled down her specs,
and looked at her smilineg — no
one could look otherwise at the eager,
slightly flushed face; but her smile
did n’t satisfy Ada, and throwing off
the. bonnet with a slight pout, she
said, “ l ’m not going to get my ‘ cer-
tificate’ after all. [see that plainly
enough, for there ’s a sober streak in
your smiIe; but tell me why; I did
think I ’d earned it this time.”

“ Your bonnet is pretty, very
pretty, and you have probably saved
some two or three dollars by making
it yourself; but if your crimson vel-
vet had n’t been just as good as new,
and your skill sufﬁcient to make it
look well, that is, becoming, rich,
tasteful, you would n’t have thoughtyou
could be ecmiomical about it, would
you ? ”

" No; I do n’t want to wear an old
fass of a thing on my head more than
most other girls, I expect.”

“ Well, but you need n’t pOUt
about it, child,I do n’t like to See
that, and didn’t intend to cause the
fit; but do n‘t you see, it was n’t the
real economical spirit that govern6
you, not the spirit which can bear
self-denial in the matter of pride, as
well as pleasure? ”

“ I suppose it was n’t,” said Adds
lips, a little quiver crossing them, as
their owner looked intently from the
window.

“ Come and sit down by me, Ad“,
dear, I’m an old meddling woman,
know, and it was too bad to throw
Cold water on your high spirits; bUt
if my life’s years have taught me 185‘

 

sons, I am wrong in keeping them

ECONOMY. 27 3

 

from you, when I see that you need
them. I have never told you the
Story of my girlish romance and after-
life; perhaps it will not come out of
place now, that you are learning the
‘ Old new lesson,’ and looking forward
to the reality which will follow it—
the reality, Ada, and not in all things
bright it may be.

“I was the eldest of a family of
four, a sister and two brothers beside
myself. My father was termed ‘Well
Off” by the country people among
Whom we lived, that is, he owned a
farm and other property to the value
0f some ﬁve or six thousand dollars ;
lived in a good house, and was not
Obliged to work. At eighteen, I had
ﬁnished my education, having had a
much better chance than most girls in
those times. By some means, how, I
hardly know, unless it might have
been through the ﬂattery of a phreno-
Ogical tourist, who had ‘examined
my head,’ I had gained a pretty good
Opinion of myself; not, perhaps, such
an opinion as conceited young misses
are generally supposed to entertain,
of good looks, gracefulness, etc., for 1

ad the sense to know that I was only
tOlerably pretty ; but it was this very
sense— something over-common, l
thOught —of which I was vain ; and I
Phink now, that such vanity as that,
13 more disagreeable than any other.

y head had been pronounced very
Well-developed, ﬁnely-balanced, etc.,
and I had an idea that a good head
was far enough better as a profession,
than a pretty face; so I was more
t an satisfied with my lot, and thought
all my hopes, aspirations and plans
‘Yel‘e perfect; was quite apt to eon-
gldel‘ my judgment better than fa-

eP’S or mother’s, and though my
reverence, which had been pronounced
very large, forbade my expressing
Such an opinion,l thought it, never-
theless.

“One of my strongest ideas as to
my perfection, was in regard to my
‘economy. I thought I possessed a

natural talent ’ for that, though my
InOther pronounced my idea on the

 

subject entirely original. It, in mak-
ing a garment, I could avoid the ex-
pense of new material, by spending a
half hour in piecing a lining, I main—
tained that it would be cheaper to
buy new than to spend that time in
doing so; and as to mending garments,
I thought the time and material used,
worth more than the article; so when
any rents came under my supervis-
i0n, they were either thrown aside,
or mended so slightly, as to be guilt-
less of all appearance of staying so.
Not a few have the same opinion as
to the use of time in these days; but
when it is not, in all senses, money,
it may be made to serve in place of
that article by exercising a little pa-
tience in piecing or mending.

“At twenty, I was married, and
looking back to the time now, I won-
der that I did not see that in all
things I was blessed as a few may be,
in a husband’s love, a pleasant home,
and peaceful life; but then, even in
the ﬁrst days of my marriage, pride
said through my blind heart, that I
had married, because circumstances
required it — because my parents
wished it; not that deep fountains
had been stirred, or womanly love
awakened, for I thought my husband’s
intellect beneath mine, his nature in-
capable of appreciating me.

“ My judgment was the ruling one
in our household ——-not through the
weakness of my husband, further than
as his love swayed him; but if in any
way my will was crossed, I had but to
put on the pride of arrogant and as-
sumed superiority to break his opposi-
tion; for with his love for me, he loved
a quiet, domestic life, and I held the
key to that.

“ IIis income was not large, but
sufﬁcient to have supported us com-
fortably, had his been the hand 01‘ the
head to govern. My management 0f
household affairs, was on the same
principle as my other economy ; and
in dress, I wanted, and would haVe
the richest, or nothing, arguing that
it would remain fashionable longer,
and in the end prove cheaper. This

 

 

 

 

274

THE HOME.

 

course might have answered in some
case, but my husband’s business was
not ﬁrmly established, and the many
dollars taken from it then at once,
did more toward the end, which event-
ually came, than small sum-s oftener,
would have done.

“I cannot tell you now of all that,
I have since seen, was done by my
false pride and strange economy to-
ward the failure which came at last;
enough, that in ﬁve years from our
marriage, my husband was a bank-
rupt.

“The day that the crisis came, our
only child Alice, was very ill with
fever; the next day she died, and my
husband, broken down by his double
loss — for it seemed that his life was
centered in that of our child—was
prostrated by the same disease.

“I learned then, in the days when
every hour led him nearer to Death’s
gates, and farther from me, how little
I had known him, how far above me
he was in true nobleness of heart, and
mind; and more bitter than all, my
lack oflove had so wounded him to the
soul, that he had prayed for the break-
ing of the ties which bound me to
him, as the only way to secure my
happiness. They were breaking then,
and knowing it, it seemed to me, that
reason, if not life, would leave me;
but he died -— died without Word
or sign of sanity, and they buried
him.

“I could not bear the sight of a
human face, and Isent them all away ;
sitting down in the darkness with my
sorrow, going back with a remorse-
less pain in my heart, to the past,
whose deeds could make no plea of
mercy for me, and thus receiving my
punishment. Bpt God was merciful,
and l rose up at last, with a new pur-
Pose, praying as only those who have
come up from the depths of some
great despair, can pray, and the an-
swer was peace.

“For a long time my life was a
desolate one, but I tried to atone for
the worse than vain living of my ﬁrst
years, and now, old, almost ready to

 

go hence,l believe that on my last
years, rests the seal of true fulﬁllment
of duty.

“ You have not needed all that l
have told you; Ada, your heart has
no such stain as rested on mine ; but
for the happiness of your future, you
need to train yourself in self-denial as
to pride, for no woman is ﬁtted for a
‘ poor man’s wife,’ till she is willing
to see, and seeing, willing to assist by
such denial, as well as all other, one
who works for their joint comfort,
and needs her approval, her advice,
but not her dictation, as to the ways
and means which it is gained.”

TIIE BABE OF BETHLEHEM.

won, 25 AND 26 vrnsxs.

FAULTLESS before that pure and glorious
throne,
Can we amid the blessed throng appear?
Can sinners, by their deep-dyed guilt undone,
E’er hope to ﬁnd a sure acceptance there-

There ‘3 One alone, whose power and match‘
less grace,
Can the lost sinner’s blessed ransom bei
And now, before his heavenly Father’s face,
Presents them cleansed and spotless, pure
and free.

Redeemed from stains of earth, their souls
arise,
Where spirits of the just adoring bend:
And sound His praise, who from the "PP"r
skies, ,
To earth descended, Christ the sinner'
friend.

The brightness of His glory comes to earth,
The sinner’s ransom, and salvation proves,
While an angelic chorus at His birth,
Good-will proclaimed to men, and Peace’
and love.

While thus the heavenly hosts adoring Sing'
Lowly the Babe of Bethlehem is laid»,
And eastern sages their rich offerings bﬂng".
And worship pure is to the Sum“

paid.

All glory, power, and praise to Him be
given, h re_
By all the ransomed souls from cl."
leased; , heat
Their strains be echoed from the his
heaven, hm
By angel’s harps, that neverulOl‘e 5
cease.

, 4"

BLACK AND WHITE.

“To God, the only wise, our Saviour" still
Dominion, glory yield, and love and joy
he heavenly mansions with delight will ﬁll,
When faultless, earth’s redeemed appear
without alloy. D. M. 8.
Atom, Nov. 28, 1857.

 

THE FIRST—BORN.

BY IRS. I. P. A. CROZIEB.

Two sweet pink lips were laid one eve,
Upon a snowy breast,

And closely to a mother’s heart,
A breathing babe was pressed;

Oh, tearful joy! the ﬁrst-born child!
Her soul was full of prayer,

For blessings on the tiny thing
That softly nestled there.

Two sweet pink lips were closed one eve,
And never opened more ;

And in a rosewood casket lay
A pale and withered ﬂower;

0h! mother, agony is thine —
Deep agony, and wild —

God knoweth how thy heart will pine,
For that dear, perished child.

GRANDVILLI, MICH,

 

BLACK AND WHITE.

BY HRS. C. II. GILDERSLEEVE.
(See Engraving.)

Ctoss by the gushing waters,
Close by the singing rill,
To laugh with its silv’ry laughter,
And sing when the birds were still;
There dwelt a brown-cheeked maiden,
Once in the olden time,
here drooping boughs leaf-laden,
With th’ winds, and her song kept time.

The tawny, wooing Chieftains,
Grew sullen by her side,
While shook her raven tresses
With scorn, as her girlish pride
out back the love of red men,
Who sued by th‘ tented door,
And turned her from their earnest tones,
To list to th’ wavelet’s roar.

For o’er its rushing waters,
trapper lover went,
nd nevermore his shadow fell
Beside the white, bark tent.
He 'd won her heart so lightly,
hearts are sometimes sold,
For dark-skinned maidens love for beads,
And white ones love for gold.

And so the years sped onward,
And sped the laughing rill;

 

275

But silent grew th’ maiden’s song —
Her laughing voice was still.
Her raven tresses silvered,
Her wooers came no more,-—-
She sits for love of tinsel,
Alone beside her door.
BUFFALO, 1858.

 

THREE SHIPS.

BY CLARA AUGUSTA.

Tnus ships came in one night —
Came in from the windy sea;
Their broad sails gleaming white,
’Gainst the sky's gold canopy —
Came in ofer the groaning harbor bar,
When out of the east rose the evening star.

Three ships with rich-piled freight,
Gold, silver, silks, and gems;
Jewels that kings of high estate,
Might prize in diadems;
And spices that gorged the air with sweets,
And perfumed the far-oﬂ' city’s streets.

Men ran to their safe-hived wealth,

From their counting-rooms so dim;
Sallow cheeks took the hue of health,

As the noble ships sailed in ;
Ha! ha! ha! how old-glazed eyes shine,
As bony hands touch the baubles ﬁne.

A woman went down the shore,
Down over the white sea-sand —
She ’ll smile in this life nevermore,
That wife on the rock-girt strand!
He comes not to taste her long-kept kiss —
But the black waves rise, and the tide-winds
hiss.

Away, ’mid the tropic isles,
Where the south wind never sleeps,
They made him a shroud of tears,
A grave in the Ocean keeps!
She thinks of the fathoms that o‘er him roll,
And the “ninth wave ” of sorrow snbmerges
her soul.
Fuuua'oron, N. H.

 

l DEEMED I WAS FORGOTTEN.
BY Hatss L. BOSTWICK.

I nsnsn I was forgotten!
I thought those happy times, .
When your voice thrilled o’er my bun-3mg.
Like music over rhymes,
Had made but transient tracings
On the tablet of your Past;
Had left but faint impressions,
Too fugitive to last.

I deemed I was forgotten ;
Till on one golden day,

 

 

 

276

THE HOME.

 

There came a white-winged birdie,
A ﬂuttering on its way;

I staid its snowy pinion,
And the song it sang to me,

Was a song of sweet remembrance—
Of tenderest constancy.

I deemed I was forgotten;
But I did not know the heart,
Whence memories pure and holy,
Once cherished, ne’er depart.
And though the form that shrines them,
I nevermore may see,
To know I’m not forgotten,
Is ajoy of joys to me.
Russ“, Oaio.

 

ARISTOCRACY or AMERICAN
WOMEN.

“ The world is too much with us: late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers."

“0b! where is the slave no lowly,
Condemned to chains unholy,
Who, could he burst
His bonds at ﬁrst,
Would pine beneath them slowly,
What soul whose wrongs degrade it,
Would wait 'til time decayed it,
When thus its wing,
At once may sprln
To the throne of Him who made it."

T would hardly be expected that in
our professedly democratic coun-
try, there should be a class in society,
who claim to be our aristocracy.
Whatever we' may boast, or, what-
ever our pretentious may he to the
contrary, such a class are an estab—
lished institution oftheSe United States.
zli-jt’ ruison ou fort. lt is based on
very unstable tbundations; change-
ful as the wind, presenting no features
worthy the effort made in attainment,
or to call forth the envy of those who
despair of reaching to the upper ten-
dom. Pride and fashion backed by
wealth, compose it. This aristocracy
is not attained by any superior ac-
quirements, or, by great and notable
deeds, such as mnst ever call forth
the gratitud ‘ and respect of mankind,
always procuring a name, and throw-
ing a halo of superiority over the
actor; placing him in reality on a
pinnacle of time. A name [has at,
tained, never admits of a deterioration
from others who possess the mere ad-
ventitious circumstances of wealth.
we have among us those who are

 

really great, because right action and
good deeds, springing from sound
principle, have made them so; but
these are not our people, who con-
sider themselves the aristocracy, nor,
upon whom we bestow the sobriquet.
Those estimating themselves such, can
lay very little claim in general to the
last named distinctions; nor, to those
of intellect as connected with litera-
ture and art. No, the paltry objects
on which are based the fancied right
to exact the deference they aim at,
are wealth and fashion. These are
the idols to which they bow, and
when available, they imagine that
those wanting in these tangible goods,
should make obeisancc in an humble
admiration of their superiority. All
the efforts of body and mind are
called forth, to secure wealth and its
concommitants, and expensive style
of dress, houses and equipage; and
every thing else must be sacrificed,
that comes in competition with their
false estimation of the supreme good.
Fashion, that arbiter, opposed as it is
to Comfort, sways all. and none may
assume to be recognized in a fashion-
able clique, who can not, or who are
wise enough to choose not, to conform
to its extravagant and unreasonable
demands. They suppose themselves
on the pinnacle of fortune, and think
others should look up to them, while
endeavoring to climb the same hightS-
The goddesses of w :alth and fashion 3
they have attained the desired cogno-
men, and believe they have reacth
the acme of happiness — and it might
be so, to a vision encumbered by the
fog of a worldly estimation—still»
often, as in the disc of llaman, thel‘e
is some Mordecai too wise, and to”
good to pay them homage; and thus
they tind the path they have chosens
when lighted by reflection, infested
by thorns and briers, like every Other
that leads astray from the sraight 8“

narrow one. \Vhat intatuatiou that
accountable beings should primarily
live for wealth and fashion? Wlmt
is fashion? lt conveys to our mmd
no other idea, but that of change from

.‘

ARISTOCRACY OF AMERICAN WOMEN.

277

 

one folly to another—its glare as
evanescmt as the down on the painted
wing of the butterﬂy, ﬂashing with
gay colors—but touch it,and its glory
departs, and it flutters no longer, the
beautiful thing to be galed upon with
admiration. So when riches take
wing, and ﬂy away, fashion can vaunt
no more. .

Are Women of wealth and fashion
irresponsible for their influence and
control over the majority of their
sex, who are led along by them in the
Same follies? extravaganCe in expen-
fiiture of time and money ; squander-
lng upon triﬂes, that which might bless
the orphan, and make the widow’s
heart sing for joy. “Cease to do
eVil, and learn to do well,” is an
apostolic injunction, and should be
Wrought into a motive for action, un-
til the whole proclivity of the will
Whispers ever onward, upward to per-
fection. \Vhere the will is thus bi-
ased, and the judgment coinciding
With it free from misguiding fogs, its
conclusions clear, just, and pure, and
Where habits of unselfishness become
8tI‘engthened, it is there, that virtue’s
sweet voice allures, until there is a
distinct, moral picture formed in the
mind of its loveliness, and we ﬁnd it
more easy and delightful to follow in

81‘ paths, than to wander away from
em.

We believe one hindrance in the
Way of some women who possess na-
t‘Ve good sense, enough to break away
fl'Om the shackles of fashion, is a
Want of decision, without which, very
httle is achieved in character, either
ennobling or praise-worthy ; and with-
9‘“ which, no one ever made a mark
‘P _the world, or ever exreted while
"'lllg an effective inﬂuence, or left

ehlnd, those who had been made
W‘s” and happier by their example.

nother hindrance is self-love, which
p {‘008 our own little self, as the ﬁrst
“'"t in importance in the line of fig-
ure“, composing the sum of social in-
t""‘ﬁmrse; and thus we lose sight of
t 0 Interest ofothers; forget that the
We, of which the Scriptures gives us

 

such a glowing, beautiful, and perfect
model, is the first thing when copied, to
bestow the most comprehensive in-
gredient in our cup of happiness, ex-
panding the capacity for it, and bring-
ing it in unison with the happiness of
Him who is love. [[0 has love for
all, and Would impress the lesson
upon all. “This is my command-
ment, that ye love one another, as l
have loved you.” If we would be
blcst and happy, and rejoice to see
others so, let us practice it. This
would substantiate an inﬂuence in har-
mony with moral excellence, when
compared with that of wealth and
fashion, as far above it, as the light
and warmth of the sun is superior to
the ﬂash of the evanescent meteor.

“Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all

the cords with might;
Smote the cord of self, that trembling puoed in mu-
sic out of sight."

It were well, if in a country ruled
as iso urs, by the sovereign voice of
the people, that the characters who are
truly worthy of the heart’s commen-
dation, and held in estimation by
those who best appreciate real worth,
should inﬂuence the multitude. But,
perhaps, we may not hope it will be
so, while the illitearte and ignoble
willingly believe that wealth, not
“ knowledge is power.”

If truth can be comprehended by
shallowness, this class of which we
speak, might be convinced by a little
reﬂection, that they are not the supe-
riors of our country. We rejoice to
Say, those who are our wise, learned,
and most beloved, and who exert the
most inﬂuence for good upon society,
are as far above them, as the sky is
above the clouds that ﬂit below in
their ever-varied aspects. These, in
the light of scltiknowledge, know what
they are, and what they aim to be,
and consequently live for a purpose,
rigidly guided by correct principle.
That a respectable minority estimate
Wealth, and all the distinctions I! only
can confer in the true lighthigh
not for its acquisition —— place it in a
right scale among the adventltlous

 

 

 

 

 

278

THE HOME.

 

circumstances which enable the pos-
sessor to do good, without giving all
their energies to acquire it—consid-
ering wealth a gift and talent, of
which they are stewards, bestowed
by an all-wise dispenser—being grate-
ful for the power, and possessing a
heart to distribute the blessings it be-
stows, not considering it the best of
their possessions; such there are, and
they realize a double blessing, one all
their own in the satisfaction that the
recipient is blessed by the bountiful
hand that rejoices in the opportunity
to impart any comfort to, or mitigate
one sorrow of a fellow-being.
Women, by their approbation, or
otherwise, establish rules for observ-
ance, which compose the proprieties
and regulations of social intercourse;
why may they not conﬁdently take a
step beyond, and by their perception
of those proprieties, impress the
claim of admiration, to what ulti-
mately produces the largest amount
of real and enduring happiness. They
may, by tact and prudence, regulated
by common sense, do much to inﬂu-
ence man to conform to a correct
taste, and to what in sober thought,
is most appropriate to those conven-
tionalisms of life, which they have
partially regulated, and may assume
in a larger degree to establish. If,
possessing talent and wisdom to regu-
late their own conduct, they may
hope—ifit be their aim—to do much
toward modeling the character of all
who come under their influence and
supervision. The life of fashionable
women having wealth at disposal, and
believing themselves our aristocracy,
is a frivolous one. Time, that most
valuable talent, and wealth in posses-
sion, constitutes us almoners for our
Divine Master. The inﬂuence which
it confers, affording untold opportuni-
ties for doing good, we see worse than
wasted on every side. Was woman
placed here only to aspire to be a
leader of fashion? Such are slaves.
We pity the poor African slave, but
there are slaves all about us, tied
down to the veriest bondage, willing,

 

because they deem it important to
their position in life, to drag galling
chains about them, that they may se-
cure to themselves and families, a
name and place among those, falsely
deemed the aristocracy of our coun-
try.*

How we long sometimes to unfet-
ter them, and by a persuasive elo-
quence, to convince them how they
may be liberated. If they would
only open their eyes, proof would be
presented as unmistakable, as when
‘ranklin convinced the good citizens
of Paris that the sun actually rose in
the east; that there was a nobler
aim for their ambition, than to shine
by being arrayed in baubles concocted
by the fanciful brain of a Parisian.
Many women with superior intellectS,
capable of thinking for themselves,
yet, live from year to year, as if it
were not their province to think, rea'
son, judge, and act independently,
and as accountable beings. If there
had been issued some mandate from
a tribunal of tyranny, the poor slaves
of fashion could hardly be more crip—
pled than they are. Slaves in reality,
though they might be quite free, yet
choosin to wear the shackles of fash-
ion. I‘gow strange that this mania
should go from city to city, from
town to town, even reaching to the
country, where nature should guide
in all things, without the prescription
of foreign rule. It is sad to see thfa
dwellers in the country, whose pI‘iVI‘
lege it is, to be unsophisticated, an
to say “ we are free,” yet striving to
ape the follies of our cities. It is 81‘
lowed that women may, and do “11"
silently, but inﬂuentially in this mat“
ter; and if the power of contI‘O
rests with them to so great a degree, 
is apparent, and they would set the”
faces as ﬂint against the follies Whlc
are Legion, what wonderful rev01u‘
tions might be effected in our 03"“
country, which would be hailed Wit
a hearty welcome by the sensible 1}"
better part of our people. Here 15 a
woman who opines she has a flame
among our aristocracy. How 15 he”

ARISTOCRACY OF AMERICAN WOMEN. 279

 

time and attention occupied? Not
by the united duties which are dele-
gated to her, and which are para-
mount with every true woman ; pur-
suing her own real happiness in the
right path; studying the comfort of her
family, and making her home a bright
Oasis in the world’s desert; doing
gOod to all as she has opportunity -—
110! all these duties, ﬁrst in the cat-
egory, are wholly unthought of, or
performed in a desultory manner,
Without method, and with no settled
principles, so as to constitute a rule
of conscientious practice.

In various matters of taste, woman
holds the umpire; then why should
She not be guided by her own innate
oonceptions of the true and beautiful,
Instead of conforming to foreign dic-
tation, whether consistent or not?

by should not every woman in that
department exclusively her own, ex-
ercise her own judgment, and bring
Out into practice her own ideas of the
ﬁtness of things, and then what a
Pleasing variety should we see in
matters of taste; each one could ex-

ibit her own, and thus the aristocracy
of fashion would be nulliﬁed. In-
8head of conforming as much as possi-
,b18 to the fashionable rule in furnish-
mg a house, in the color and cut of a
dress, it would be the rule, not the
exoeption, for every one to adopt a

hion of her own.

It seems to cast a shade of inferi-
ority on American women, that they
can not, or do not originate their own
fa-8hions, instead of adopting those
§econd hand from Paris; gotten up,
llldeed, by mostithe frivolous, unstable
mass of individuals upon the face of

e earth. Do we not claim to be

greatest nation? and yet, we are
not sufﬁciently independent to create
our Own fashions, even in the one de-
Pal‘tment of dress. How signiﬁcant
Pf folly, that all must adopt the reign-
"18 8$er of dress, whether consonant
0" not with their ideas of taste or ﬁt-
ness- If not conforming, they are
Obliged to face ridicule, and ofttimes
contetnpt. Notwithstanding a com-

 

pliance, more than empties the purse,
it wounds the conscience, which not
unfrcquently makes such compliance
criminal.

Let not woman complain of the
weight of domestic cares; of ﬁnding
no time to devote to intellectual
culture, until she is wise to secure
those hours devoted to, often worse
than idling. Oh! the waste of pre-
cious time upon follies, or, one might
say errors. Time! the important tal-
ent given us to serve our Maker, our
fellows, and to improve ourselves.
What a fearful accountability awaits
those who thus abuse it. We do not
deny that many women in our coun-
try do pursue a different course;
some are obliged to toil incessantly,
and have no spare hours to devote to
follies ; and such are the ones whose
eyes are generally open to see
in its true light, the inconsistancy
of the fashionable world; they are so
far fortunate in being the exceptions,
and are to be congratulated that in
making a choice, it is that of endeav-
oring to make home happy, thus se-
curing for themselves, the greatest
amount of happiness. The choice is
in wide contrast to that of wasting
time in looking up the latest French
fashion, and to following a certain
round of heartless observances called
genteel and indispensable in “ society.”
Let a woman devoted to the follies of
fashionable life, ask herself if she is
fulﬁlling the demands of Him who
placed her here to do His will '9 Of
him who, in great mercy, has conde-
scended to be our guide by precept and
example in our intercourse with oth-
ers.

One day spent by an aristocratic
woman of fashion, is an epitome of
months and years. We speak of
what we know by observation. Mrs.

 

" Read the biographies of our great and
good men and women, not one of them had
a fashionable mother. They nearly all sprung
from plain, strong-minded women, who had
as little to do with fashions, as the changing
of clouds.

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280 THE HOME.

 

Frill rises late, for she attended a
large ball the night previous; she en-
ters the breakfast-room, where the
husband has preceded her a half
hour, and is reading the morning
paper. She hardly appears to have
animation to move; with eyes half-
eloscd, and a dull headache, conse-
quent upon late hours, and partaking
of a rich supper at midnight, she
rings the bell for breakfast. Over
toast dried to a crisp, and coffee with
no flavor from long standing, she
commences the day, fault-finding with
her cook, who was not worthy of blame
in this instance, or was wrong, mostly
for want ofa little supervision by her
mistress. After the cook, they discuss
the particulars of last evenings enter-
tainment, interspersed with edifying
remarks, relating to individuals who
attended—the husband hastily fin-
ishes his unpalatable repast, dons his
hat, and is off for his ofﬁce.

Mrs. Frill yawns awhile, then goes
to her nursery, ﬁnds things, to her
eye, all wrong there; blames the nurse
in the same spirit she had done the
cook, notices her children in a listless,
uninterested manner, takes up the last
novel, and reclines upon the lounge to
drive away a legion of uncomfortable
feelings. This proving ineffectual, she
attires herself in her most showy cos-
tume, for a stroll in the fashionable
promenade of the city. After a walk,
in the course of which she has inter-
changed many unmeaning compli-
ments with some of her “five hun-
dred friends,” she wcnds her way to
the jewelers, where Mrs. Brilliant in-
formed her the night previous, she
had purchased her superb “diamond
sett ”—-— meets Mrs. Flounce, who
tells her of the sweet IIoniton lace at
a certain store, advises her to pur-
chase it, before it is gone—after a
short exeitcd conversation, upon “ tri-
ﬂcs light as air,” the friends bid good-
morning, and away Mrs. Frill goes to
purchase what she does not Need. and
spend that money which would relieve
many an aching heart, upon what can
not add one iota to the beauty ol'per.

 

son, mind, or heart, while she light-
ens her purse of what she may one
day need for the necessaries of
life. ()wing to the rapidity with
which money changes hands in our
country, the family rich this year,
may be reduced to poverty the next.
But these “sober, second thoughts ”
never have reached Mrs. Frill's mind,
and so on she goes in her Course of
folly. Her morning has passed in tri-
iflng. She meets her husband at din-
ner. It is not seasoned by the aid of
intellect or reason, and the subjects dis-
cussed, are no more, worthy of ra-
tional beings, than the coming even-
ing’s fresh entertainment of frivolity-
We ask, in sympathy and sorrow for
those pursuing it, can such a life bring
happiness to a rational being? “No,”
even those following it would reply.

From the earliest use of our intel-
lectual faculties, we all have our ideals
—some good toward which we are
reaching in our “ mind‘s eye” more
or less deﬁnite, as imagination pre-
dominates. We look forward to its
attainment, and see already in the dis-
tance our onward path lighted by the
happiness that shall accrue, when We
shall have reached the summit of our
anticipations. [four ideal is limited
by earthly good, whatever it may be,
it will never be satisfactorily reached,
and in time, it may be wholly diSSl'
pated by repeated disappointment.
How ardently should mothers en'
deavor that the early direction in
which they guide their daughter,S
thoughts and aspirations, should be
that one ideal of perfection, that
truth assures us may be reached in
God’s light. Such aone will amﬂd
satisfaction in pursuit, while the 35’
surance that we shall in another
world attain to the climax of our
hopes. gives firm footing to strong
endeaVor.

Daughters! think no duty iglmble
that has a tendency to perfect Charm"
tcr; many duties” that daily devnlVe
on Woman, might be thoung 50, were
it not that We are all servants of t 9
Great Master, and by Him We are

.a-b

ARISTOCRACY OF AMERICAN WOMEN.

 

281

 

commanded to “do all heartily as
unto the Lord.” Think not that any
0f the sweet charities of life, how-
ever small, that in the aggregate con-
tribute to the happiness of the family
circle, or to that of any individual, a
thankless task ; but if performed from
8 pure principle, and with a view of
pleasing God, they will add lustre to
the crown of glory in reserve for those
Seeking honor and immortality. No
Occupation is trivial, if a part of our
delegated duty, and if it conduces to
the comfort and happiness of others,
especially to that of those we love.
hus employed, we may sing with a
Ppy heart, while passing down the
Yale of life, realizing that the atten-
tion and time thus devoted, will
ring peace not easily ruffled. In
this course, we are cheered by the
s.Ympathy of nature, which, as the
aeii'sons succeed in turn, with all their
utiful phases, fulﬁll their Maker’s
ehast; thus harmonizing with our
own endeavors to do the same; as-
s‘fl‘ed and strengthened, too, by the
lghest of all motives, that our “ la-
01‘ Shall not be in vain in the Lord.”
t is the women in our own land,
and every other, who live with a
motive, and for practical usefulness,
who are the truly aristocratic, and
not the fashionable, not the wealthy,
“0“ the merely intellectual; but
those who improve and employ their
powers and talents, so that they shall
redOllnd to their blessedness, and
that of others, in the greatest amount
0 800d accomplished for time and
eternity. We are not without bright
exa'mples of such excellence. of char-
‘r, in those women who have
Omed life by combining the high-
s“ Order of intellect with increasing
OHS for usefulness; who thought
no action unimportant, that would
cMomrlbute to another‘s welfare. Miss
Urea Whose volumes were sent forth
to the world in rapid succession,
WWW With a desire to induce all, es-
PeCIally her own sex, to seek for dur-
able “Giles and honor; while her pen
“3 ever ready to advocate the
VOL. v. :21.

 

cause, and elevate the character of
the humbler classes of society. Mrs.
Sigourney, in our own country, by
her excellent prose writings and sweet
poesy, has diffused far and near, lofty
and pure sentiment, with incentives
to cultivate all that is lovely and of
good report.

Mothers, wives, and daughters! let
us place such examples before us for
emulation. Although we may not
have the ability, or circumstances
may not be propitious to reach the
same range of intellectual inﬂuence;
still, let us remember it is moral ex-
cellence only, to which the prize is
awarded by our unerring Judge, who
will crown all that, by well-doing,
have sought I'Iis approbation. Such
are the women who deserve the ap-
pellation, and should be looked up to,
as the aristocracy of our favored coun-

try.

 

SPRING.

I’RING! yes, Spring has come.

and with her resurrection inﬂuence,
has called forth from their sleeping, a
glorious host of the buried germs of
life, to welcome her advent. Today
—the tenth of April—l strayed
away into the forest, and, lo! the
bright, young ﬂowers welcomed me
— me, who had been too busy to ob-
serve their silent awakening; and
here to-night,l have a delicate bou-
quet, whose ﬂoral robes are like those
of new-born immortals. Here, among
others, is the Spring beauty, remem-
brancer of my childhood, beautiful
as a fairy’s home; here the pretty liv-
erwort, and the pure-petaled sanguin-
aria. \Velcome, children of the sun-
shine, and the shower! Gladden my
heart with a new faith in immortal-
ity; for He who can call life from
the dust, in the form of the simple
wild-wood blossom, can also call
from earth’s bosom, his own Sleerg
children, and cause them to wear the
garments of light.

M, P. A. Caozma.
GRANDVILLE, MICH.

 

 

 

282

THE HOME.

 

BRAVE AND NOBLE \VOMEN.

.IIERE are three attitudes in which
men generally view women. The
ﬁrst, and most natural one. is, when
such appear as their companions, add-
ing the last touch of gladness to pros-
perity. The second is that indicated
so well by Scott : —
“ Oh, woman ! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, my. and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made:
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou."
The third, is that peculiar one, when
she suffers without a murmur, or
stands, as taller trees crack and
quiver, unalterable and hopeful in the
tempest which threatens to crush all

but herself. This last, the power of

woman to endure mightily— their
passive courage and strength—though
associated necessarily, with much that
is painful, or even terrible, has a pc-
culiar attraction for the thoughtful,
and wins from such, a silent but in-
tense admiration. One sees not the
source whence, when so frail a being
is strong, strength comes, making the
most fragile of her kind, a. very Titan
beside the most vigorous and sturdy
of men. More than this wondrous,
passive strength, we do not, however,
look for from what we suggestiver
call the gentler sex. We do not
look for great physical power; nei-
ther do we expect to see women with

towering crest, wrestling in scenes of

terror and danger. We rather ex-
pect them to shun such. We do not
even smile at their fears, but feel
that these are most natural, and that
to men is reserved the risks and suf-
fering attendant on active courage.
And women themselves, are willing

to admit the justness of this line of

demarcation. They know where they
are strong, and they are strong enough
to know where they are Weak. The
'anitv of men leads them often to
overrate their own capacities, and to
underrate those of their fair compan~
ions; but while a Woman newr can
give up her claim to matchless endur-

 

has

ancc in a season of suffering, she
the

no wish to assert her valor in
battle-field.

To eVery rule, however, there are
exceptions, and this one resembles all
others. The world, in each genera’
tion, has had its heroic woman, who,
drawn out by some peculiar danger,
has taken her place in the tented field,
and shown herself capable of daring
death in its most awful forms.
Among such we scarcer reckon the
Maid of Orleans, for she, poor soul,
was less a woman, than the wild en-
thusiast. But among such, we do
reckon the Maid of Saragossa; for
none can forget how she ﬁred her
countrymen as they battled F'ance
from street to street, and from hearth
to hearth. ()ur own countrywumefl
have, for centuries, had fewer oppof'
tunities for displaying this kind 0
courage than most others; for while
Britain has ever had wars enough, and
to spare, her insular position has long
kept the foe from her soil, and only
her sons have invaded his. Hence,
the sterner virtues of which British
women are capable, have not latterly
been called into play. Time Was
when it was otherwise. Two years
ago, that time seemed so fully pQStv
that we were inclined to ask WIt
Spencer:

“ Where is the antique glory now become
That whilom wont ln woman to appear? .,
Where be the brave achievements done by Home'
Where be the battles, where the shield and lpeu’
And all the conquests which them high did re”!
And matter made for famous poet's verse,
And boastful men so oft abashed to hear? '
Be they all dead, and laid in dolet'ul hearse: ’ v,
Or do they only sleep, and shall again revvrﬂe"

Alas, that occasion has since arisen
for their renewed exercise! Happy
are we that when it came, their V'r’
tues, unsuited to the woman, as the),
may seem. have again shone forth 1"
undiminished vigor! India has be?"
the theater in which those at home 1’
scenes of gentleness and peacl‘, have
stood side by side with red-ha” e
warriors, and Won laurel for 1w"6
with the best. 9

And lirst in orﬂer, comes the news
of Skcnc. Mrs. S lie , her gall”)

BRAVE AND NOBLE wens]. 283

 

husband, and his friend Gordon, pent
1n the little room, long kept at bay
the bloodhounds who swarmed below.
\Vithout this lady, brave as they
Were, these soldiers could have done
nothing. She stood beside them,
calm as they, if calmness can be men-
tioned in such a struggle, and loaded
fast as they fired the deadly rifle.

he issue of the contest could never
have been doubtful. Gordon’s death
accelerated it. When his fellow fell,
Skene saw that resistance was ended.
All that was left him now, was to
disappoint and defy the ﬁends. And
that hand, honestly given to his noble
Wife, ended in one moment, her sor-
I‘OWs and his own. The Sepoys, with
3 yell, burst into the room. He was
t'00 late. Quivering in their warm
b100d, lay three shattered forms, but
the tenants whom they had cabined,
Were already far away.

Again, we have the story of Miss

heeler. Her father slaughtered,
frlends and sisters insulted, she was
19d to the home of the trooper, there
to lead a life of degradation. But
the sleeping Sepoy little dreamed of
the fire which burned beside him.
He could not know the fiereeness
of an English maiden’s heart, nor
When so maddeued, the strength of
that gentle creature’s arm. At the

I'ead hour of midnight she rose, and
SeTitling him by a sudden stroke, to
the bar of an offended God, she sought
death and protection in the pit where

91‘ friends already lay, mangled in-

eed, but sorrowing no more. Can
“’9 Wonder, as our blood curdles at
t 1.8 tragedy, that the plaided soldiers,
grimly swore on their bloody locks
that terrible revenge which this day

ey are so terribly exacting?

Again, we have the glorious tale of
Lucknow. Month after month passed,
find the beleaguered handful, diminish-
ing, famishing, sinking, still held their
Owll- Grimly they stood within
their miserable fortress, and grimly

cy defied their miserable foes. But
why a defense, than which the annals
Of War know nothing grander ? They

 

fought for dear life; but was this all?
They fought for glorious Britain;
but was this all? No! Behind
them eowered sickly children, and be-
side them stood noble women. The
helpless and the good nerwd every
arm, and when the heart failed, a
glance at these was an elixir. And
they were worthy for whom they
dared so much. Again we record the
names of Birch, Polehampton, Bar-
ber and Gall. Names immortal!
Names woven into the bloodiest and
most thrilling page in Britain’s his-
tory. Names which our children‘s
children shall repeat with a thrill!
Names which the world shall record
as classic, and shall venerate forever!
We hope we do not overvalue our
noble countrymen. We know now
that we can not overestimate our
glorious countrywomen. And sure
are we, that could the poet whom we
quoted, look over the scenes we have
recorded, he could again take his pen,
and add to his “Faery Queene” a
stanza, to tell that names renowned
in ancient story had in this day been
matched, and that Britain, the home
of the free, was still the birth-place
of a race of women, worthy a great
Empire, and ﬁtted under God to en-
sure its permanent grandeur.— Globe.

“A CHILD TO ADOPT!”

' ANTED, TO GIVE AWAY FOR
\ ADOPTION.— A beautiful child, six
months old, to some respectable person.
Apply at No. . . . . Street, third ﬂoor, back
room, for three days.

 

There is searCely a day in the Week
when the abUVe adVertisement, or
something near akin to it, does not
strike the eye, in the columns of any
one of our daily papers, and so accus-
tomed are We carelessly to peruse
these singular notices, that We pass
indifferently on to some new toplc,
without once pausing to think 0f the
little bark oflife thus early set adrift
upon the wide sea of humanity, thh
neither helmsman nor pilot to steer
its tiny course.

. .1“W _. W Tag—guy...wa --a'\“-!EFJT._ r}.

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284

The paper fell from my unconscious
hands as I sat thinking at this ('ul'iouS
page in the vast volume of New
York every-day: life. I tried to think
what sort of a person that mother
must be, who could thlis allow the
destiny of her little babe to pass out
of her hands, and pledge herself never
to look upon its face again.

While I pondered on this new as.
pect, whose strange, revolting reality
seemed to stare me in the face, tacitly
reproaehing me that such things were
a matter of every-day oceurrenee
around me, and yet, that I was utterly
ignorant of the world of trial and an-
guish from which they sprung, the
strange impulse entered my heart to
go and look upon these. things with
my own eyes. True, the street men-
tioned in the mlvertisement. was dark,
narrow, and foul —— one of those hot-
beds oferime, whose gloomy purlieus
lie festering in the very shadow of the
marble palaces of Broadway. But
they who dwelt there, Were brothers
and sisters in the human race, and
perhaps a glanc* at the abject misery
in which they live might soften our
hearts toward their sins and weak-
nesses.

In spite of all these philosophic re-
flections, however, I could not help
feeling timid and uneasy, as I passed
along the narrow pavements toward
the dwelling indi -ate.d by the notice.
All the houses in the neighborhood
were ruinous and old, with gaping
rents in the brick-work, hingeless shut-
ters, and broken -asements. Nearly
every corner was a rum-hole, and
narrow shops, surmounted by warped
and granunarless signs, Were filled
with second-hand garments, gaudin-
painted prints, and petty wares, such
as only the miserably poor have need
of. Bruised oranges, wooden toys,
and clay pipes Were paraded in the,
cracked and dasty windows; dirty
tin milk-cans stood in the sun at the
doors, and piles of decaying vegeta-
bles were ranged beside them. 011 a
broken chair, just within the door of
one of the basements, sat a red-eyed,

 

THE HOME.

gray-headed old man, smoking a short,
black pipe, under a festoon of rusted
keys, and among heaps of broken
glass and old rags, which betokened
hisavoeation—whileamise ablechild,
three or four years of age, and cov-
ered from head to foot with inﬂamed
sores, played languidly at his feet.

All seemed completely taken by
surprise, to see a well-dressed lady
among them. Sullen—looking men
started after me as I passed, while an
expression of astonishment varied the
dull ferocity of their faces; bold-
faeed women put back the coarse hair
from their eyes, and leaned from the
windows to follow my course, and
the dirty children playing in the gut-
ters, and sunning themselves on door-
steps, opened their eyes and mouths
simultaneously as the silken rustle of
my dress fluttered by them.

At length 1 reached the house,
whose door stood wide open, and
passed along the dirty and uncarpeted
hall, up the ruinous staircases, until I
arrived at the “third ﬂoor, back
room,” of which I was in search, and
knocked at the back door.

There was a moment’s pause, and
then it was opened by a slender-look-
ing Woman with a profusion of black
hair about her shoulders, and tattere
shawl around her. She had evidently
just left a steaming wash-tub that
stood on a chair at the other end 0
the room, and was still wiping her
hands on her faded dress.

“ Is this the place where there was
a ehild adVertised to adopt '2 ”

“ Yes.” she said, in a weary tone,
and held the door wider open, that
might enter.

There was neither comfort 110’
cleanliness in the narrow and lOW'
eeiled room. The bare boards 0f the
lloiir were all grease and stains: t e
plastering was dropping away from
the walls, and the close, foul 5m"
of the apartment, together Withfhe
bed in one corner, and COOK”)?
stoVe in the other, showed plainly
enough that this was the only r001“, 0“
the family. A little girl washmo

“A CHILD TO ADOPT.” 285

 

dishes in a wooden bowl, and a child,
perhaps three years old, playing with
some broken bits of crockery on the
ﬂoor, looked up as I entered, but
seemed in no way disturbed.

The woman led me toward a wicker
cradle under the window, and put
aside a ragged patch-work cover.

“That’s the child,” she said coldly.

Gracious Heavens! and was the
beautiful little creature before me an
offshot of the miserable ﬁlth and pov-
erty around? It lay among the pil-
lows like a bright, dewy blossom,
with soft, crimson shadows on its
dimpled cheeks, and fresh, scarlet lips,
like sea-coral. Its skin was exquis-
itely white and pure, and its round
little arms were dotted with cunning
dimples. The soft, brown eyes,
fringed with long, dark lashes, were
turned trustfully upward, and as it
lay there, beautiful, and loving, and
helpless, my mind instinctively re-
verted to the babe Moses in his
cradle of bulrushes, by the roar of the
great Egyptian river !

I sat down and took it up in my
arms. The little velvet head nestled
up against my shoulder, with a sort
of childlike confidence that was
strangely aﬂ‘ecting, and I turned to
its mother, who stood by, with a grave
and stern expression of face, almost
painful to behold.

“And are you willing to give up
this child, and never see it more ".1 ”

She nodded.

“ Oh! how is it possible for you to
give it up? How can a mother part
forever from her youngest babe ? ”

She threw back her long hair with
an impatient motion.

“Oh! it is easy for you to ask,”
.She said; “ but you do n’t ask how it
18 possible for me to see it starve to
death before my face. I ’ve nothing
to support it. I’ve scarcely enough
for the others, God help them. Its
father is in Sing-Sing prison for ten
years, and its brother, twelve years
Old, is on the Island.”

“The Island ".3 ”

“ Blackwell’s — for stealing.”

 

I sat in silent horror.

“ Now, do you wonder why I would
rather give it away, and never look on
it again, than to have it grow up in
the likeness of ourselves 2 ”

She took it from me as she spoke,
and held it closely to her bosom. It
smiled up in her face, as she laid it
back in the rude cradle.

She had evidently dressed it with
some care, in a clean, white frock,
coarsely mended in one or two places,
but edged with cheap cotton lace,
where it lay against the round, waxen
shoulders and plump little arms, and
the sleeves were looped up with bits
of narrow pink ribbon.

“ I guess the matter is pretty much
settled already,” she said, still play-
ing with one of the little ﬁngers that
was clasped around her own. “There
was a lady and gentleman here this
morning that had lost their own
baby, and the lady cried and kissed it
a deal, and they said they ’d decide
this afternoon.”

Cried, and kissed it! Then I was
sure that the little one would have a
happy home, and that the sweet babe-
angel in Paradise had wrought out the
salvation of its tiny sister both here
and hereafter.

“ What is its name '2 ”

“ Mary —but the lady said she
should call it Cora, after her that ’s gone.
Perhaps you can ’t understand how it
is, ma’am, but I’m glad to have the
little thing go -— glad from the very
bottom of my heart, although it’s
sore parting at ﬁrst! ”

She knelt down beside the cradle,
and laid her check beside the infant’s
with a burst of tears, and a low, bit-
ter cry, like that of Rachel weeping
for her children.

I came away, deeply impressed
with the morning scene I had Wit-
nessed. Who can tell what the fu-
ture of that little child may he?
Who can describe the weary aching
of that mother’s heart when the nest-
ling, helpless thing has gone from her
to return no more? the thousand
longing, loving aspirations that go

 

 

 

 

 

 

286 THE HOME.

forth from the fullness of her soul,
and, like Noah’s dove, find no rest for
their agonized wings?

()h! daughter of wealth, when you
kneel to-night beside the eouch where
your baby sleeps, pillowed on lace
and satin, thank God that you are not
forced to part from it eternally. to
save it from the cruel world.— Life
Illustrated.

 

THE STAMMERING STUDENT.

PON the slope of a hill — one of

those, which stand like sentries
along the banks of the beautiful Ohio,
and stretch far back into the country
—stood a ct)mfbrtabledoooking log-
house. A set of bars occupied the
place of a gate, in front of the house,
and leaning against them, stood a
pale-faced boy. He had seen some
fourteen summers, but looked as if he
might count no more. than ten. He
was gazing listlesst along the road,
toward the place where he would
catch the ﬁrst sight of his brothers
coming with the loaded wagon from
the hay-field. There was no very defi-
nite expression on his face, but he
looked as if the joyous mischief of
boyhood was almost foreign to his
nature.

Presently his mother came to the
door, and called out, “Henry, where 's
father?”

“He ’s gone to the b-b—barn,” he
would have said, but the effort to ar-
ticulate the word was in vain, and he
could only point despairineg to the
open doors of the barn, which stood
still further down the slope.

“Dear me ! ” said the mother, half
in pity, half in impatience, as she
went back into the house. “I wish
you could talk like other folks.”

Henry turned again, and leaned
against the bars; but if there had
been no expression on his face before,
there certainly was now. “Like
other fol/rs! ” The words smote
heavily on his heart. He had known
from infancy that he was not like

 

other folks. His tongue had always
refused to perform its ofﬁce like the
elan'iorous Voiees of his brothers, and
many an hour he had passed in silence,
because he dreaded the laughter which
his attempt to talk called forth at
school, and still more, the impatient
inattention with which they were re-
ceived at home. His physical frame
was slight, and he never undertook to
join in the sports of his companions,
without being reminded by a twinge
of pain in his side and limbs, or a
throbbing in his head, that he was
not like other folks. His school-
mates sometimes called him stupid,
and he half believed he was — he cer-
tainly was not like them. But they
were mistaken. Unlike them, and
far inferior in physical powers, he had
a mind in that frail casket, that was
as far above the common standard, as
the tall pines around his home tow-
ered above the shrubs at their feet.
This, however, was not yet to be
seen, or only showed itself in the
morbid sensitiveness with which he
shrank from every thing said to him,
and buried himself in a reserve very
naturally mistaken for stupidity. He
had undertaken to assist in the hay-
field the day before, but his father
had said that morning at the breakfast
table, “Henry need not go into the
field to-day. He worked himself sick
yesterday, without doing any thing at
all. He was sure he did not knoW
what the boy was ever going to be
good for. lf it was not for his tongue,
he would try and make a school-mas-
ter of him.”

Oh! how this grated on his ears,
and his mother’s sigh as she stoode
over the kettle, made his heart 30h?-

So he staid at home, and helped 1‘15
mother, and at sunset he leaped
against the bars, and thought of hun-
self as a useless, dependent being, an
almost wished that he might die; 3“
for a few moments, great tears blind'e
his eyes, and rolled without restralnt
down his cheeks.

Five years passed away. Our

poor boy had grown tall, and increased

 

 

TIIE STAMMERING STUDENT. 287

 

his knowledge of books, much faster
than his brothers. But he was still
pale and sickly, shy and a stammerer,
and very few realized how much of a
mind he had. His father sometimes
Said, “Henry ought to know some-
thing by this time, he is always study-
ing; it is a pity he can not turn it to
some account.”

These words, despairineg as they
were littered, gradually became the
star of hope to Henry. He had no
idea, it is true, how it was to be done,
but still he felt sure he might make
something if he could only be cured
of his stammering. He did not know
that he could be cured; he had never
heard of such a thing; but he deter-
mined to go ahead in spite of it, and
sought and obtained his father’s per-
mission to enter the academy at C. . . .

All seemed new and strange to
him,as he entered the somber-looking
room, and looked upon the crowd of
half-grown boys and girls, and the
pale-brewed man who presided over
them. He took his place to read
with his class for the ﬁrst time, with
a heart beating terribly between his
dread of exposing himself and his de-
termination to persevere. He under-
took to read, but, while his ﬂushed
face and swollen veins showed the ef-
fOrt he was making, only one or two
inarticulate, half-choking sounds es-
caped him. His classmates laughed,
find poor Henry felt the old despair-
lng thought coming back with ten-
fbid force, that he should “ never be
llke other folks.”

The teacher saw the difﬁculty. and
Came at once to the. rescue. “Let
me read that for you,” said he, “ and
then you must take a full breulh and
read itjust as I do.”

Henry obeyed, and to his utter as-
t’vonishment, read through the section,
sentence after sentence, after his
Weller, without hesitating on a single
Word. It was something he had
PeVer done before, and it seemed as
lfa miracle had been wrought.

After school, he sought the teacher
to know how it had been done.

 

He explained the matter to him,
and he learned with unspeakable de-
light, that his stammering could be
cured. And many an hour after that,
the teacher, when the wearying labors
of the day were over, in spite of ‘the
cheerful fireside at home, and sermons
waiting to be prepared, (for he was
pastor as well as teacher,) staid in
the school-room, and toiled patiently
with his unfortunate pupil. In this
he was rewarded by his gradual but
sure improvement.

In this manner several months
passed away. Henry went quietly on
with his studies. The young men
laughed at his slow and somewhat
awkward manner, and the girls lis-
tened when he talked, and ran giggling
away whenever he undertook to show
them any little politeness. But
Ilenry minded but little about this.
He was not like other folks, but the
germ of hope had been planted in his
heart, and he was willing to “abide
his time.” At length the two-fold
duties of pastor and teacher destroyed
the health of his patient instructor,
and he was obliged to bid scholars
and people farewell.

Another period of four or ﬁve
years passed away, and we find the
minister, with health partially re-
stored, presiding over a church in one
of our busiest Western cities. He
bore the heat and burden of the day,
and sometimes felt almost discour-
aged with sowing beside all waters,
and seeing little or no good result
from his labors.

One day, however, a bright remi-
niscence of the past shone in'upon his
weariness, and gave joyful promise of
light in the future. A stranger came
to his study—door, made himself
known as a former pupil, and thanked
him with all the fullness of heartfelt
gratitude for his instructions. “ You
are the best earthly friend I ever
had,” said Henry. “YOU made me
all that I am, or ever shall be,”

It appeared, as be related his story,
that he had gone on with the 1m petus
given him in the old academy, taught

 

 

 

 

 

 

298

THE HOME.

 

school for the means, finished his edu-
cation, and became a preacher of the
Gospel.

He was a humble, yet successful
laborer in the vineyard. Not like
other folks to be sure, but fully satis-
ﬁed to be different, he could say, with
the beloved Apostle, “Now are we
the sons of God, and it doth not yet
appear what we shall be; but we
know that when He shall appear, we
shall be like Him; for we shall see
Him as He is.”—- Ohio Journal of
Education. .

 

A PARENT'S CARE.
HOW often is the parent’s heart

oppressed and over-burdened by
thoughts and fears respecting the fu-
ture of his dear children. Will they
be left orphans and friendless in this
cold and selﬁsh world? Or, if pro-
vided for in case of death, will the
money be lost by others, or wasted
by themselves? Will they be pious
or wicked—live useful or useless
lives? \Vill their pilgrimage be a
pleasant and joyous one, or will sor-
row and anguish follow them to the
grave? And how about the vast un-
hending future? W'ill they be, happy
forever in heaven, or miserable be-
yond endurance in perdition?

These are indeed weighty ques-
tions, and neither family, wealth, or
inﬂuence can remove [have parental
cares and anxieties. Riches may only
sink your children deeper in perdi-
tion. Friends only lead them the
farther astray; while their many ac-
complishments may only increase
their misery. Depend upon it, noth-
ing can avail for them but sincere,
heartfelt piety ; nor aught can relieve
you of your fears, but a firm and un-
shaken trust in God. This, then, is
what you need; this is all that you
can desire.

Commit them, then, to the care of
their Heavenly Father, and labor, by
precept and example, to “train them
up in the way they should go,” and

 

success will assuredly crown your ef-
forts. As Christians, they live above
the world, even while they sojourn in
it, for

“ No changes of season or place,
Cau make any change in their mind."

The loss of every cent you or they
may possess, the failure of health,
the death or estrangement of near
and dear friends—neither or all of
these things shall be able to rob them
of one enduring pleasure, or deprive
them of one hour’s real happiness,
but in every situation in life, they can
sing,

" While blest with a sense of his love,
A palace a toy would appear;

And rinous would palaces prove,
If esus would dwell with me there."

If, then, parents, you have real love
for your children, educate them for
eternity. Care more for their never-
dying souls, than for their perishing
bodies; see that they secure the
“pearl of great price,” which will
prove to them an unfailing source of
happiness and wealth, and will be
the “one thing needful,” to obtain an
admittanCe to heaven itself.— Episro-
pal Recorder.

4‘

THE aster has not wasted spring
and summer because it has not
blossomed. It has been all the time
preparing for what is to follow, and
in autumn it is the glory of the field,
and only the frost lays it low. SO
there are many people who must live
forty or fifty years, and have the
crude sap of their natural diSpositionS
changed and sweetened, before the
blossoming time can come; but the“
life has not been wasted.— Beecher.

 

WHOLEBOME EDUCATION.—— Of all
the know-nothing persons in thls
world, commend us to the man Whg
has “never known a day’s illness.
He is a moral dunce: one who has
lost the greatest lesson in life, W ho has
skipped the finest lecture in that great
school of humanity, the sick-chamber-

EDITOR’S DEPARTMENT.

289

 

EDITOR’S D EPARTMEN T.

TIME AND MONEY.

HERE are few in the world who can not
say that their time is money. To those
who use it well, it is far more than this, but
even to these it is also money. It makes no
difference whether you are able to turn it
into immediate gold to ﬁll your own purses.
Where you ﬁnd it impossible to do this, it
it may still be coined into money for others,
or for your own future. Even with chil-
dren, this is true — we would scarcely ex-
cept the infant in its mother’s arms.

From the ﬁrst opening of the infant mind,
ts time is of value for the forming of those
habits, which must be formed in infancy, or
never. The ﬁrst lesson that the child should
learn, is that of obedience. When he has
learned to yield a willing obedience to his
parents, he will next yield cheerfully to in-
evitable circumstances—ﬁrst comprehend-
ing them, and eventually controlling them.
It is only by acknowledging and studying
the force of circumstances, that we can con-
quer them. He who sets himself obstinately
against the current, will gain nothing except
a. habit of railing at Providence. This ﬁrst
lesson of obedience, then, which should be
learned thoroughly in infancy, brings with it,
a multitude of valuable accessories. It is
the ﬁrst point in the important lesson of self-
denial, and also in that of self~control —a
habitual and cheerful obedience to parents,
learned in early life, forming the very foun-
dation of good temper. I

Close alongside this lesson of obedience to
parents, the child should be taught those
hibits ofneatness— of regularity in the tak-
ing of meals—in the hours of sleep and
Other things, which will command not only
money, but health and happiness in future
life. The regular, willing, good-tempered
Worker will always command plenty of em-
PlOyment at the highest prices. It is apt to
be the case, that only ill-temper, irregularity,
Ind want of promptness, are thr0wn out of
employment, even in such a crisis as the
Present. True, this is not always so, but in
four-ﬁfths of the cases, we believe that it
will hold good.

No wise parent can fail to percieve even

 

the pecuniary value of time to his child;
but, although this moneyed value of time is
one that it is quite necessary to call into ac-
count, it is far from being its most noble use.
Still, a right reckoning of its moneyed value
will aid us much in turning time to those
nobler uses which bring contentment and
happiness. He who lacks bread for his
household, can hardly enjoy a ﬁne sunset, or
the blossoming of a rose. Yet these things
were given -us to enjoy. And so in more
important things. He who fails to satisfy
the material— the physical want, will ﬁnd
these wants too clamorous to allow him op-
portunity to cultivate very largely his intel-
lectual and moral nature.

A waste of time is not only a waste
money, but a waste of virtue. A failure to
turn our time to the best account that we
can make of it, is also a waste of virtue. By
this, we do not mean that we commit a
moral wrong when we fail to turn the time
allotted us into the largest amount of money
possible; for, as We have before said, there
are other things far more valuable than
money. Therefore, we should strive to
balance the account, making a rational
proportion betweeen the amount of time
that shall be used for the mere winning of
money—that is, satisfying the material
wants—for this is the sole value of money —
and that Used in promoting an intellectual
and moral growth.

In the household, if the mother spends
her time in making a garment, rather than
employing another person to make it, when
her supervision is needed to prevont con-
fusion and waste in the various departments
of her home, she is probably wasting not
only time and money, but the good temper,
contentment, and happiness of her whole
family. In such a case,— that is when her
supervision is really needed—there Will
probably be more wasted, even in money,
than she will save from her ill-judged toil.
But even if this is not so, the irritation 0f
temper which the confusion resulting from
her want of supervision induces, is a yet
greater loss; for a wife should see, at least,
that she is no more wasteful of her husband’s

 

 

 

 

290

THE HOME.

 

happiness, than of the contents of his
purse.

Those whose use of time results only in
confusion, are wasting time, money, and vir-
tue. Their own virtues, perhaps, are not
very much in the account—though their
possible virtues ought also to be reckoned —
but they have a sad capacity for fretting out
the virtue of other people. Some persons,
in fact, in their Use of time, money, or vir-
tue, work out just about such a tangle as a
kitten will make with a skein of thread.
The surest way to prevent such confusion in
character, and in the consequent uses of life,
is for a parent to appreciate fully the value
of time to his child, and to see that his early
training is cared for according to this
value.

HEALTH DEPARTMENT.
EDUCATION OF THE LiTNGS.

“To educate is to develop. It is, as the
Scripture would express it, to train up.
Merely to instruct, is but a small part of ed-
ucation. The body may be educated, as
well as the mind and heart. The lungs may
be educated, as well as the rest of of the
bodily frame.
and with this large idea of education, that it
consists in rearing or training—~in the for-
mation of character, either of soul or body —
that I shall proceed to speak of certain
things as tending either to educate or mised-
ucate the lungs. These important org'ans
may be educated wrong, as well as right,

It is in this point of view,

and this in ways nearly innumerable.

“ The mother or nurse, during the earliest
days of infantile life, is educating the lungs.
I have seen this infantile education so misap-
plied, as to render the child's breast-bones,
in shape more like the keel of a vessel, than
a suitable cavity for the lungs. Some un-
dertake to tell us that the breast, in these
cases, will come into shape again, but this is
very doubtful. In any event, it is better to
train up a child physically, no less than mor-
ally, in the way he should go, that when he
is old, he may not depart from it-

“ If the young were taught from the ﬁrst,
to breathe freely, and to make it a part of
their duty to expand their lungs; and if,

 

what we believed to be a duty, were en-
forced by a steadily consistent example, we
should have fewer lung diseases than now.
In truth, I have very little doubt that in this
way, principally, the horrors of pulmonary
consumption are to be removed from our oth-
erwise happy and healthy country.

“Children should from the very ﬁrst—
whether in speaking, singing, or reading —
be accustomed to keep their lungs inﬂated.
They should never be suffered to use these
organs while at the bottom of their condition.
It is as hurtful to the respiratory apparatus
as it is to the bony and muscular system, to
be compelled to work when its vitality is
below par; and in either case, the drain
upon the strength of the general system,
the tendency to general exhaustion, are
very considerable. And yet how few chil-
dren are made to feel that, in order to pre-
serve the health of the lungs unimpaired, or
even the general health, they must keep on
hand in the cavity of the lungs, a full sup-
ply of air? How many in reading or speak-
ing, especially the latter, mumble out a
large proportion of their words, particularly
the first or introductory ones; and all this
just because they are too indolent to ﬁll
well the lungs, or to keep them well-ﬁlled
after they have been inﬂated. How many
sing with the same carelessness, not to say
recklessness, about air, as that with which
they read or speak.

“Observe one of our ﬂippant pupils of our
public schools. lie pauses, perhaps, when
he comes to a comma, or at least, when he
reaches a semicolon; but how long? not
while he can count two deliberately—no,
not one. And what pause he makes, is
made by force, as it Were, and seems meas'
ured, and compressed, and stinted. He
hardly stays to take breath, but dashes on-
()r, if he takes breath at all, it is only a lit-
tle, not half enough to ﬁll the space whiCh
ought to be filled and kept so.

“ Perhaps he is naturally short-breathed,
by reason of feeble, delicate, physical lungs-
Instcad of compelling himself to a short 81"
fort only — a single sentence, perhaps”
and taking special care to keep his lungs 11‘
the top of their condition, while he does
read, he reads just as far as he can, till his
breath is all gone ; then catches a little, and

GRAPES. 291

 

a half-spasmodic effort, and drives on to-
ward the goal. You may observe a natural
—I would rather say, unnatural declination,
or slope, all the way from the beginning of
his reading to his stopping-place. He
pitches his tone high enough —- perhaps a little
too high, as if conscious he should not hold
out, and desirous of beginning so high as
not to run quite ashore before he comes to
the end of his paragraph. He goes down,
down with frequent renewals in part, till he
comes to the end; which, if at all distant,
he reaches in a tone scarcely above breath.

“Now, the worst of all this is, not that
it keeps up a most unnatural and wretched
habit of reading, though one would think
this was bad enough, but that it weakens
the muscular power of the lungs, both the
voluntary and involuntary; and at the same
time, gradually predisposes to disease.
Every child who reads thus, will be thereby

rendered more liable to severe colds, lung ,

fever, cold feet, and other extremities, and
to consumption.

“ The whole direction to be given in this
case, is to make all the varied exercise of
singing, reading, and talking, so many means
of well inﬂating the lungs, and keeping them
well-inﬂated. Some tell us, that they who
succeed in doing this, will never have pul-
monary consumption, and hardly ever any
pulmonary diseases. The tubercles which
are so often found lying between the cells
of the lungs, not larger than pin-heads, be-
ing habitually compressed by full lungs, can
not be developed. The German physicians
are even wont to say, that singing will cure
pulmonary consumption, without any other
lid. Certain it is, whatever may be our
theories, that much speaking, and loud read-
ing and singing, requiring as they do and
must, a good deal of inﬂation of the lungs,
Will do much to preserve this part of the hu-
man house in good repair, if not to break
up incipient disease." OLCOTT.

GRAPES.

EARLY Nomi-sz Moscamss.— We have
just receiveda box of healthful, vigorous-
looking roots of this grape, from the Shak-
ers at New Lebanon. This vaiiety is a seed-

 

ling from the native White Grape, and has
been in bearing more than ten years, and
tried under every variety of circumstances;
and has borne this test, so as to be selected
from more than forty kinds, as the choicest
and best, and in fact, the only really ﬁne-
ﬂavored grape which is well adapted to our
northern climate. Prof. J. P. Kirtland said
of it last autumn:

“During the last three weeks, we have
amused ourselves in treating perhaps a hun-
dred individuals to specimens of the Northern
Muscadine, Catawba, Diana, Clinton, Isabella,
and Windslow‘s Seedling. Four out of ﬁve
of those persons, have decided the Northern
Muscadine to be the best grape in that list.
It ripens nearly a month sooner than the
Isabella, and is said to be very hardy and
productive.”

Our grape frames have already won much
favor from the Isabellas and Burgundys that
hang over them. We shall watch the pro-
gress of our Muscadines, and report to our
readers, both from the love we bear to them-
selves, and from the interest we feel in one
of the best of heaven‘s material gifts to man.
It strikes us, that no man who loves his
home and his children, can fail to be inter-
ested in the cultivation of ﬁne fruits. And
there is no fruit which yields so rich a re-
ward for the space it occupies, and the care
it requires, as the grape. Every one who
owns a rod of ground, may plant a vine, and
expect a bountiful harvest.

Our fav0rite Isabella, which, ﬁve years
ago, was a just-rooted slip as long as your
hand, that a lady brought us one morning,
is now in its adult estate, the occupant of a
space of ground half as large as a kitchen
table, (except, perhaps, where its roots run
under the house and under the side-walk,)
and for the last two years, has hung about
the eaves from half a bushel to a bushel of
grapes in a season.

Last fall, we had only to fill a pudding
dish full of clusters from this vine, and pour-
ing over a little water from the teakettle,
let them remain upon the stove ﬁve minutes,
or, until the skins were broken. alld then
adding as little sugar as would be required
for a dish of apple-sauce, we placed them by
the pantry window to cool, and they formed
the most delightful of accompaniments for the

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292

THE HOME.

 

tea-table. This was easier and cheaper, even
than apple-sauce. For deserts, and for jel-
lies, pies, and puddings, there is nothing more
delicious than the grape. Therefore, buy a
grape-vine, and while you are about it, buy
the best that you can ﬁnd, so that its years
of growth may not be wasted. And when
you have bought it, take care of it. See
that the earth about its roots is kept loose
and well fed. Grapes wo n’t grow out of a
stone, any more than corn or potatoes.
Bury the bones from your table where the
roots of the grape can reach them, and those
bones will yield you a far better product
than their last one.

In speaking of our Northern Muscadines—
for which our friends at New Lebanon must
accept our hearty thanks— we did not intend
to write an essay on grape culture, but the
growth of this noble fruit is, even yet, so
much neglected everywhere, that we could
not help saying what we have. And let us
say further, that if the plot of ground you
own is but a span‘s breadth, there is still
room for a grape-vine. Train it up the south
side of your house, where the color of the
walls, will help the sun malt-r sugar for you.
And build an arbor for it on the roof, if need
be. Do not be afraid that it will rot the
roof. If it is pruned enough to let the grapes
grow favorably, it will not do this. And if
you fear it will, paint the roof— a roof al-
ways pays for painting—red, if you like, and
the good ruddy color will also help make
sugar. We have heard of a man who pre-
pared to make sugar from maple trees all
through the summer. The recipe we give,
will make it without the aid of maple trees.
Grapes, or other fruit grown where the sun
is reﬂected from such a wall, will be far
sweeter than those grown elsewhere.

Price of the Early Northern Muscadine
from 31,00 to $3,00 per root.

Our box also contains a new gooseberry,
“ The Mountain Seedling of Lebanon," of
which it is said, that “ while other kinds are
constantly deteriorating, mildewing, and
casting their fruit, the Mountain Seedling
has improved year by year, both in the
quantity and quality of its fruit." It has
never been known to blast or mildew.

We have a small plantation ofgooseberries,
which, for four or five years past, has

 

given the largest crops of the best gooseber-
ries we ever saw. We have placed out
Mountain Seedling side by side with these,
and intend fully to test their worth.

Address Jessie Lewis, New Lebanon
Shaker Village, Columbia County, N. Y.

THE LA‘VTON BLACKBERRY.

WI: acknowledge the receipt of a box of
the Lawton Blackberry plants from WILLIAM
Lawros, No. 54 Wall Street, N. Y. This is
a new and entirely distinct variety of the
blackberry— the ﬁrst improvement, it is
supposed, which has ever been discovered or
obtained in this plant. Its size and quality
do not depend on careful cultivation, but
where the common kinds will thrive, this
may be had in perfection. Downing, the
well-known nurseryman of Newburg, says:

“There is no humbug about it; and the
only wonder is, that it has not been more
generally introduced and propagated before.
The fruit is large and sweet. It is an enor-
mous bearer, indeed, the quantity (consider-
ing the large size of the fruit) surprised me,
and the berries were perfect."

We can only say again, do not waste time
and space upon poor fruits, when such ex-
cellent varieties are to be had.

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and ManureS, the Structure of Plants, and
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By the author of “How to Write," “ HOW
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