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T H E B O O K
OF
AND
NEW = YORK 8
H. D. A. YT O N ,
No. 107 NASSAU STREET.
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‘7-7-53
AY
||
, 1874.
v.
.N. \
THE TRUE MISSION AND SPHERE OF WOMAN.
B. Y. M. R. S. S. T. M. A. R-T Y. N.
“WHATEveR may be the customs and laws of a country,”
says Amie Martin, “women always give the tone to morals.
If we wish to know then, the political and moral condition of
a state, we must ask what rank women hold in it. Their
influence embraces the whole of life.”
A wife—a mother—magical words, comprising the sweetest
and purest sources of earthly felicity. The empire of women
is that of the affections, her reign, the reign of love, of beauty,
of reason. The sternest and most impassive natures yield in
some degree to the gentle influence of the wife, and the son
continues to obey his mother long after she has ceased to
live—while “ the ideas received from her often become prin-
ciples more strong even than his passions.”
If it be then an incontestible fact that the influence of
woman is so powerful, so pervading, if it affect equally public
morals and private happiness, and extend with various modi-
fications through the whole of life, why has it been to so
great an extent neglected 3 How is it, that a power of such
universal operation, has been overlooked by the philanthro-
pist, who, in his plans for the amelioration of the condition
of mankind, has hardly deigned to mention this potent agent?
The “renovation of society,” is the watchword of the moralist
and the sage, but how few among them dream that by this
negligence they are losing the most important and effective
of all human agencies 3
The truth cannot be too frequently repeated, or too strongly
impressed upón the mind, that “the moral destinies of the
world depend far less on institutions or even education, than
on moral influence.” The most important of all moral influ-
ences is the maternal. On the characters of mothers depends,
under God, the regeneration of mankind.
She, who in the nursery, makes laws for her little subjects,
and sees them properly executed, who guides and controls

2 THE TRUE MISSION AND SPHERE OF WOMAN.
their sensibilities, and forms their character, is exerting a
powerful, though silent influence on society, and the destinies
of future generations. “It is her great duty to infuse the
generosity and self-sacrifice which make the patriot warrior,
to form those habits of intellectual investigation that qualify
a man for judicial authority; and she must train the boy to
that love of justice, that strict regard for truth, and that gen-
erous sympathy which will fit him for all his social duties.
What then does it signify if she is shut out from halls of
legislation, and from political tumults, if the wisdom and vir-
tue there manifested, is the result in some good degree, of
woman's work 2 May we not hope there will be less folly
and corruption in the places where men most do congregate,
when women are so educated, that men may hold more com-
munion on their great social duties, with their mothers, wives
and sisters ?”
If such is the sphere of the mother, is it not rendering an
important service to mankind, to impress on the mind of wo-
man, the fact of her influence, and to enlighten her as to its
mature, its extent, and the duties it imposes?
Such is the work to which in part, this volume is devoted.
As its mission is chiefly confined to our own sex, so woman's
character and destiny, her wants, her rights, but above all
her duties, chiefly occupy its pages. On the mind of the
youthful female we have endeavored to impress the thought
that women are not to live for themselves—that their mission
from the cradle to the grave is one of benevolence and love;
and that only in proportion to their reception of this truth, is
their beneficial action on society at large. If the vexed ques-




tion of the comparative equality of the sexes, has not obtained
the prominence in these pages, which some may deem it to
deserve, it is because it has been generally considered, not as
affecting our relations to God, and our duties to each other,
but as a mere matter of personal interest, in which flippant
vanity on the one hand, and proud self-conceit on the other,
have been striving for the palm of victory. Still the subject
is a most important one, and interests are depending upon it,

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THE TRUE MISSION AND SPHERE OF WOMAN. 3
whose value can only be computed in the numbers of eternity.
If it can be proved, as we think it can be, that a majority of
the evils which afflict society, arise from the faulty education
of women, producing a complex action and reaction on the
Springs of human conduct; then whatever tends to elevate
female character, and give it dignity and stability, is a public
benefit. In this point of view, we might complain, and with
reason, of the want of magnanimity in those who as law-
makers, have forgotten to legislate in behalf of the “weaker
sex,” and then have adduced the very disabilities themselves
have imposed, as proof of mental inferiority. Still, notwith-
standing every unfavorable influence, we might have earned
for ourselves the honor and respect of the other sex, if we had
not been traitors to ourselves. We have given up solid advan-
tages, for empty adulation, and unmeaning compliments. We º
have substituted external accomplishments for useful know- º
ledge, and cultivated the imagination and affections at the
expense of the judgment and intellect. Is it any wonder,
that the daughter, who is taught that to dress, display herº º
self, and secure a good settlement, is the great end of life, º
should be mentally inferior to the son who has been prepared
to enter on the duties of life, by a thorough and systematicº
course of training? The effect of the Gospel has been in all -
cases, to elevate woman to her true station as the helper and .
companion of man, and who shall say, that when this divine
influence shall obtain its full power over mankind, the effect º
will not be, to produce entire equality of moral and intellec-
tual power between the sexes 2 We would have women to -
feel that they have an important part to act in the renovation º º º
of the world. We wish them to feel, that wherever there is * ….
ignorance to be instructed, misery to be relieved, innocence
to be protected, or vice to be removed, there is the true pro- *
vince of woman, and that in all that concerns the welfare of
society, they can no more transfer the responsibility justly
resting on them, to their husbands, fathers, or brothers, than
they can relinquish personal identity. They are, or should
be, capable of thinking, judging and acting for themselves on

4. MORAL POWER OF BOOKS.
all questions of duty, and God requires it at their hands. But
in order to wield aright the moral power He has given them,
they must lay aside frivolity, vanity and fashion, and address
themselves to the duties of life, as immortal and responsible
beings, who have “one master even God,” who will hold them
to strict account for the use or abuse of the talents committed
to their charge.
--
MORAL POWER OF BOOKS.
“I DENy not but that it is of the greatest concernment in the church and
commonwealth, to have a vigilant eye how books demean themselves as well
as men. For books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a progeny
of life in them, to be as active as that soul whose progeny they are. I know
they are as lively and as vigorously productive as those fabulous dragon's
teeth; and being sown up...and down, may chance to spring up armed men.”
–Milton's speech for the liberty of unlicensed printing.
“Often,” says Coleridge, “have I reflected with awe, on
the great and disproportionate power which an individual
with no extraordinary attainments or talents may exert, by
merely throwing off all restraints of conscience. He who
has once said, “Evill be thou my good!' has removed a
world of obstacles, by the very decision that he will have
no obstacles but those of force and brute matter.” Let
such an individual have wit, genius, eloquence—let him have
the power to make the worse appear the better reason, and
to move the minds of others, as the leaves of the forest are
moved by the wind, and what may he not accomplish “A
book is the subtle essence, the life-blood of a master spirit,
embalmed and treasured up to a life beyond his life.” In
reading a favorite author, we commune with his mind, we
see with his eyes, we insensibly imbibe his opinions, and
rise from the interview, either strengthened in the love and
practice of virtue, or with diminished moral power to re-
sist the temptations of vice. The mind cannot receive ideas
even transiently, without being in some way affected by
their passage through it. Who can hold converse with
such men as Taylor and Leighton, and Bacon, and Milton,
or nearer to our own times, with Addison and Johnson, and
-

MORAL POWER OF BOOKS. d
Cowper, men who though dead, still speak in their in-
perishable pages, and not become wiser and better by the
intercourse They force us to think, and this is no slight ad-
Vantage at the present day, when there seems such a uni-
Versal tendency to shun reflection, and to take sentiments,
thoughts and feelings, all on trust from others. These
ornaments of literature, bowed before the majesty of virtue,
and their splendid talents were laid as an offering on her
shrine. With child-like docility they sat at the feet of Jesus.
and their inspiration was drawn from— -
“Siloa's brook that flow'd
Fast by the oracle of God.”
“Let me make the songs of a nation,” once said an ac-
curate observer of human nature, “and I care not who
makes its laws.” No one who is not passionately fond of
poetry, can fully realize its power over the human heart.
A poet, such as Byron, can move at will, all the chords of
this complicated instrument, and bring from it discord, or
harmony, as he pleases. How has the gifted but unhappy
Byron exerted this powerful influence—on the side of vice,
or virtue? Let his own character and that of his produc-
tions answer. With all his talents and advantages, he was
himself an irritable misanthropic debauchee, who prided
himself on fearing neither God nor man. In his poems,
love is a mere animal passion—spirit, a mixture of pride,
obstinacy and malevolence; while most of his personages,
though formed after a Pagan model, fall far below the
Pagan standard of morality. What must be the effect on
public morals, of the general circulation of exquisite poetry,
ealeulated only to excite the imagination, pervert the un-
derstanding, and inflame the passions ! We always regret
to hear the young speak of Byron or Moore as their fa-
orite poets, and would gladly make them feel, that while
. boasts such names as Milton, Campbell, Words
worth, Hemans, and Montgomery—while America has a


6 MORAL POWER OF BOOKS.
Bryant, a Longfellow, a Dana and a Sigourney, they need
not resort to such dangerous pages for interest and amuse-
ment. The fact is, we have got so far away from the truth
and simplicity of nature, that any thing which does not
powerfully excite us, is insipid beyond endurance. The
author who shrouds himself in the mantle of mystery and
concealment, is more eagerly welcomed than the simple
interpreter of nature, who mingles freely with us, as a being
of the same wants and capacities with ourselves. The
effect of this depraved taste on the morals of the com-
munity is most injurious, for the step from admiration to
imitation is a short one. When Schiller's tragedy of the
Robbers, was first brought out in Germany, great numbers
of young men from the universities were induced to betake
themselves to robbery en amateur, by the romance of the
description. So universal was the mania, that it became
at last, necessary to prohibit the representation of this play,
upon the stage. Human nature is still the same, and those
who in any way encourage the circulation of immoral
books, may find it to their cost. Many a parent, whose
heart is wrung by the misconduct of his children, might
trace their wanderings from virtue to the books which were
lying on his parlor table, and the perusal of which, he per-
haps thoughtlessly encouraged by his own example. We
deprecate a public censorship of the press, but in the do-
mestic circle it is absolutely necessary, if we would guard
our children from the worst of all influences, that of a
gifted intellect joined to a depraved heart. It is not enough
that they are shielded from evil associates; the companion-
ship of books is more intimate, and therefore more influ-
ential than any other. The annals of crime might furnish
many useful lessons on this subject, but we need not resort
to this source of information, for every one's personal expe-
rience will confirm the truth of what we have asserted.
There are many young females, particularly among the
laboring classes, who, because they have but little leisu
to bestow on books, devote that little to light reading, often
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MORAL POWER OF BOOKS. 7
of a kind decidedly objectionable. The writings of Byron,
Bulwer, Eugene Sue, and other French novelists, of still
more exciting and immoral tendency, are eagerly devoured
by them, and the distorted and unreal pictures of life found
in these pages, form the groundwork of their sleeping and
waking vagaries. Will such reading improve the intellect,
or amend the heart 7 Will it prepare the young for the
duties and realities which lie before them 7 Will it make
them useful, intelligent and happy wives, mothers, and
members of society? No, never. The time thus wasted,
will be in after years, deeply and bitterly regretted. “The
poet's houri is not more seductive, nor the scorpion's sting
more dangerous, than these productions of brains fevered
by a restless ambition, and corrupted by unholy passions.”
That there are many admirable works of fiction which
may be read not only with safety, but profit, by those who
have leisure for an extensive course of reading, we are
well aware. If he who makes truth disagreeable, commits
high treason against virtue, surely the writer who renders
truth attractive, bestows an important benefit on society.
The writings of the good and the true—of those who are
endeavoring to “leave the world better than they found it,”



must partake of the moral character of their authors, and
may safely be taken to our firesides, and our hearts. But
we would impress the thought on our youthful readers, that
no splendor of intellect, no fire of genius, no graces of dic-
tion, can atone for the want of moral principle in an author
or in his productions. The power to move immortal mind,
is one of thrilling interest, and fearful importance—woe
to him who shal, dare to use it for selfish ends, or pervert
it to unholy purposes.
“Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far
ove rubies.
- “She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eat-
th not the bread idleness.”—Bible.
->
8 ISABELLA OF CASTILE.
IS A B E L L A OF CA. STIL E.
BY CORINNE MONTGOMERY.
THERE is one royal name which even Republican America
should “delight to honor,” for it is the symbol of all that is
high and holy in patriotism, of all that is pure, lovely, and
true in domestic faith. Many queens have done virtuously,
but most virtuously thou, Isabella of Castile. A youth of
trial and many stern ordeals had prepared the mind of the
Spanish Princess for the high duties assigned her by Pro-
vidence, and when she gave her hand to Ferdinand of Arra-
gon, he received the richest dowered bride in Europe. The
diadem of Castile, half lost as it was in the grasp of the
Moslem, was of less real worth to the warrior king, than
the wise and devoted love that knew so well how to
harmonize their turbulent nobles, and consolidate their
distracted provinces.
But not as the wife of Ferdinand, or Queen of united
Spain, is Isabella the dearest historie name royalty ever
gave to the children of the new world. It is the heroic
mother of its discovery, that commands our reverence.
When kings heard with cold incredulity, and learned
prelates condemned with bitter sarcasm, the noble plans of
Columbus, Isabella studied them with gentle patience, and
believed. She believed, and resolved to prove that belief,
though she must meet the sneers of rival royalties, and the
urgent remonstrances of her own nobles, at every step of
the enterprise. Worst and hardest of all, she had to meet
the disapproval of her honored husband; but Isabella.
knew well that if she owed deference and loving obedience
to her wedded lord, she had also the duties of a sovereign
to fulfil towards her heritage of Castile. “Columbus shall
go forth to seek in those western waters, on the farthest
verge of the untracked Atlantic, new realms, which wi
receive from us the light of religion, and give back the
rich products to our industry. My Ferdinand will no
-


A NOBLE CHARITY. Q
make the venture in behalf of our united kingdom, and I
therefore take the risk for my own Castile. If war has
drained the treasury, let my jewels be pledged for the funds
needful to speed Columbus on his way.” To this resolution
of the noble Isabella—a resolution to which no cotempo-
rary prince could expand his thoughts—is freedom indebted
for this continent. Here she cradled her family of repub-
lics, and here the liberated descendants of European bond-
age, will learn how to honor and bless the name of the
noblest woman who ever bore a sceptre.
A NOBLE CHARITY.
BY MRS. C. M. KIRRLAND.
CoNSIDERING the immense wealth of this city, our institu-
tions for the relief of poverty and ignorance, afford but
little room for boasting. The time will come when we
shall look back at once with shame and wonder, that we
could have been so callous to the woes which we see every
where around us, and so blind to our own best interests,
even in a pecuniary point of view.
But there are many excellent charities among us, and
in particular, one institution lately come into operation in
this city, whose objects are so truly noble, whose intention
so enlightened, whose scope so comprehensive, that we
may feel an honest pride in holding it up to notice, and
commending its excellent example to other cities. This is
the Association for the Care and Assistance of Prisoners,
from the period of their incarceration, up to the time of
their re-establishment in society. This plan includes care
cf their condition and morals in prison, to be accomplished
by means of suitable persons, provided by law—a labor
which is Herculean in itself, since matters which are to be
Perfected through the action of large bodies are ever slow,
and subject to a thousand obstacles. The introduction of
matrons at the City Prison and at Blackwell's Island, is a


10 A NOBLE CHARITY.
vast step towards the great object of reformation, but
much remains to be done, before our prisoners, male and
female, will receive that measure from us which we should
wish meted to us again, if our conditions were reversed, as
so easily, in God's overruling Providence, they might be.
That department of the Society's plan which is most
obviously interesting, is the help to be afforded to dis-
charged convicts who shall show any willingness to be led
back to the paths of virtue; and of this department, the
portion whose claims we wish to urge at present, is parti.
cularly the female. Of the multitude of females who are
convicted of every variety of crime in the course of the
year, no inconsiderable portion feel at least the desire to
avoid the disgrace and wretchedness into which they have
been brought by former misconduct; and it is to such as
these, that the Prison Association extends the hand of
mercy, acting as the vicegerent of that All-merciful
Father, who desires not the destruction of the sinner,
but rather that he may turn from his wickedness and live.
Most of the women in this situation are foreigners—some,
no doubt, degraded before they left their native shores—
others led into vice by wretches who lie in wait ever for
female imbecility. But others are our own country women
—girls enticed from the country for evil purposes—betrayed
by false managers, or deserted by profligate husbands, and
left a prey to the spoiler. One and all are subjects of the
greatest interest; and none can know without personal
observation, the feelings excited by the attempt to do good
among these desolate but still human creatures, sunk
almost below hope, yet often showing gleams of unex-
tinguished womanhood, which can never fall coldly on the
heart of woman.
For these a home has been provided, where shelter and
employment, instruction and advice, are offered in the
truest spirit of Christian sympathy and love. From this
Home, which is but yet a beginning, affording accommo-
ations for scarcely more than twenty inmates at a time,

A NOBLE CHARITY. I
-
numbers have gone out as domestic servants, into various
families, in city and country, and the return voice has been
such, with but few exceptions, as to encourage the Asso-
ciation in the effort to make their aid applicable to an
increasing number of unfortunates.
We hope to call attention more and more to this new but
most necessary form of beneficence—to persuade our
friends whom fortune has blest in basket and in store, to
Venture a little for the sake of giving the best instruction
possible to these repentant creatures—the discipline of the
private family—the care of sympathizing and judicious
matrons. In particular would we entreat those of our
friends who live in country places, to consider whether they
coura, by any ingenuity, devise a more effectual mode of
doing good, than by taking into their families, as domestic
servants, these women who long to be put in the way of a
better life. They remain long enough at the Home to be
thoroughly known by the matrons, and by the ladies who
give their personal services to the object, and none are
sent to places who have not shown a desire to reform.
Faithful domestics are so much a desideratum in the
country, that those who have had good ones from the Home,
Speak with energy of the docility and industry of the
repentant subjects whom they have tried.
The report lately published by the Association, sets forth
eloquently the objects and claims of the Institution—what
has been accomplished during the present year, and what
is hoped for the future. Slight as is this notice of a most
important subject, we shall refrain from lengthening our
article, hoping to be the more favorably received at another
time
Gospel truths, dwelling in the regenerated soul, have
been compared to the strings of a harp, ready to give forth
Sweet sounds whenever the breath of the Spirit passes over
them.—Mrs. F. L. Smith.
THE DEATH FIRE.
THE DEA. T H F I R. E.
BY MRS. ANN. S. STEPHENS.
BENEATH the ever dense and leafy gloom
Of the hush'd wilderness, a lurid flame
Crept, like a serpent, gorged with kindling bload,
Around the knotted trunk of an old forest oak
A cloud of smoke, fiery and hot with flame,
Surged o'er the tangled roots, and coiling up
With angry hiss and red and fiery tongues,
Devour'd the hoar moss from the bearded bough.
Then upward and abroad it fiercely spread
Through the dusk pine-tops and the clinging views,
Till the dark forest crimsoned with the glare,
Strong winds swept through the hot and crackling wougºn
While scintillating sparks—a fiery rain
Fell from the arrowy flames that darted through
The black and smoky air.
In double ranks, around that flaming tree,
Sat fierce brow’d warriors, like a crowd of fiends
Sent forth to hold their orgies on the earth.
Their shafted arrows and the sinewy bow,
The tomahawk, and club and keen-edged knife,
Flash'd back the fire, and there all hotly gleamed,
In the tall grass; that, coiled all crisply back,
Grew stiff, and died on the scorched earth.
Upon this savage and most fearful scene
The stars looked gently with their quiet eyes;
And the soft moonbeams trembled in the smoke,
Like angels in the grasp of demon hands.
The sighing winds cast back their gathered perfume,
And, lifting the flame-cloud with their sweeping wings
Reveal’d a gleam of green and moon-lit banks,
With waters flowing softly to their home.
There in a cove, amid the lotus flowers,
A bark canoe rock'd on the whispering wave.
The sparkling river, flowing with sweet chime,
So cool and tranquil in its verdant banks,
In gentle contrast with the flaming trees,
And the red demons crouching underneath,
Mock'd the devoted victims.
One was a girl so gently fair




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THE DEATH FIRE. 13
She seemed a being of upper air,
Lured by the sound of the waters swell,
-- To the haunt of demons dark and fell!
But oh, the keen despair,
Breaking from out that large dark eye.
Bent with such chill intensity
On the wild pageant there !
Her livid lips grew cold and white,
And her brow was knit in the dusky light -
Beneath her long black hair.
Shackled by many a galling thong.
But in Christian courage firm and strong,
Stood a brave man, with his eye on fire,
As he bent its glance on the funeral pyre.
Yet his bosom heaved and his heartbeat quick,--
His labored breath came fast and thick;
His cheek grew pale, and drops of pain
Sprang to his brow, like beaded rain,
As he felt the clasp of his pallid bride,
Where she clung in fear to his prisoned side.
A savage shout—a fierce deep yell
Rings up through the forest, cove, and dell;
The wood is alive on either hand
With the rushing feet of that murderous band.
One start from the earth, one feeble cry—
Like the moan of a fawn when the hounds are nigh-
And she sinks to the ground with a shuddering thrill,
And lies at his feet all cold and still.
With the mighty strength of his stern despair,
Like a lion roused in his guarded lair,
The youth has rended his bonds apart—
The bride is snatched to his throbbing heart;
With a bound he clears the savage crew,
And plunges on toward the bark canoe.
He nears the bank- a fiendish scream
From the baffled foes rings o'er the stream :
He springs to the bark—away-away-
It is lost from sight in the flashing spray!
“Christ has taken our nature in heaven, to represent us,”
says Newton; “and has left us on earth, with his nature,
to represent him.”
…
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14 ALICE-A STORY OF OUR WILLAGE.
º
ALICE—A STORY OF OUR WILLAGE.
BY MRS. S. T. MARTYN.
GENTLE reader, imagine yourself in a state of clairvoy-
ance, and come with me to the loveliest spot in all that
lovely valley, through which the Connecticut “hurries his
wave to the wave of the deep,” stealing as he goes, the
last lingering kiss from the willows that bend so gracefully
to the evening breeze. Do you see that little village, nest-
ling in an enclosure formed by a sudden bend of the river
round the foot of yonder mountain, and looking with its
white houses and venetian blinds, its trees and shrubbery,
like a rural paradise 1 That is the village of M , better
known through all the adjacent country by its soubriquet
of “The Happy Valley,” and regarded by its inhabitants as
“a fairer, sweeter spot than all beside,” on the face of the
earth. Let us enter its principal street, through this avenue
of magnificent elms, whose branches-interlace so closely,
forming a verdant canopy far above our heads. Shall I
take you to my own little cottage, half hidden by the honey-
suckle and clematisthat have wound around the trellis, or re.
sisting the temptation to exhibit my floral treasures, shall I
lead you at once to the Hall which stands in conscious
superiority on a gentle eminence overlooking its humbler
neighbors and dependants? It is the abode of wealth, taste
and elegance, and all their appliances have been tasked to
beautify and perfect it. Of the house, one might almost
say, that like Abbotsford, “it is a romance in stone and
lime,” and certes, it was planned by one who had a poet's
eye, and a poet's love of the picturesque and beautiful. In
laying out the grounds, too, how admirably art has followed
the dictation of nature, while inventing new forms and
combinations of loveliness. Here is a wildwood walk,
leading to a sylvan bower, through whose latticed sides
the tube rose, the heliotrope and verbena, send their wealth
of fragrance—there the closely shaven lawn runs down to



ALICE-A STORY OF OUR WILLAGE. 15
the river's brink, studded with majestic trees, “the aristo-
cracy of nature,” and surrounded with a belt of forest trees
of every variety. But yonder, seated in that noble portico
supported by massy columns, and commanding an exten-
sive view of the river, are seated a group to whom I am
impatient to introduce you. Mr. Forrester, the owner o
this delightful abode, is still in the prime of manhood,
though early habits of thought have drawn lines of care on
his lofty brow, and years of travel in other lands have
deepened the flush of health on his manly cheek. He is not
a native of our village, not even a New-Englander by birth,
yet are we justly proud of his character and talents, his pub-
lic spirit, and his private virtues. Some few years since, he
came with a widowed sister, who superintended his bache-
!or establishment, to spend the summer months in a neigh-
boring town, and chancing in one of his rides to discover
this secluded valley, gave it the appellation it still bears,
and took measures at once to become a permanent resident
among us. Though his heart overflows with kindness, he
has yet a dignity and reserve of manner which repels every
attempt at familiarity, and this, together with his reputa-
tion as a scholar and a traveller, kept us all at a distance,
until the severe illness of Mrs. Lawton, rendered it an act
of duty on my part, to visit her and tender such services as
wealth cannot command. I was kindly, nay gratefully re-
ceived by Mr. Forrester and his sister, and from that hour
a friendship commenced, which the intercourse of succeed-
ing years has only served to increase and cement. But the
mistress of this splendid establishment, the lovely and grace-
ful woman who is playfully looking over the shoulder of
her husband as he reads—ah, “thereby hangs a tale,”
which as I am in the gossipping vein, I will relate to you,
while we rest on this bank of violets, over which the south
wind comes so refreshingly, laden with the perfume of in-
numerable flowers. Let me premise, however, that I have
no romantic incidents, no thrilling adventures to relate. It
is a simple story of every day life, and its hero is no Sir

16 ALICE-A STORY OF OUR WILLAGE.
Charles Grandison, or Lord Orville, but an unpretending
gentleman, possessing too much principle to shoot his friend
in obedience to the laws of Honor, and far too fastidious to
marry any young lady who would consent to an elopement.
As for my heroine—but she deserves a more formal intro-
duction.
I was busily engaged in reading one afternoon, in the sum-
mer of 183—, when my attention was arrested by the sweet
tones of a child who was offering berries at the door. The
music of the human voice has at all times strange mastery
over my feelings, and I laid down my book and stepped into
the hall to look upon the speaker. It was a little girl, who
had apparently numbered ten, or it might be twelve sum-
mers, and though the rose on her cheek had acquired a
deeper hue from constant exposure, there was a delicacy
and beauty about her form and features, which won my
admiration in a moment. Her very soul looked out through
the soft dark eyes that were turned on me with a suppli-
cating expression, as she repeated the words I had just
heard.
“Please buy my berries, for my grandfather is old, and so
very sick, that I fear he will die.”
“And who is your grandfather, my little girl,” I asked,
“and where does he live 7"
“He is Capt. Dudley, and he lives in the little cottage on
Mr. Brent's farm,” she answered, “will you come and see
him, ma'am!” and her face was radiant with the excite-
ment of hope, as she looked up for my reply. I gave her
the desired promise, and made her very happy, by purchas-
ing all her berries, and sending her directly home to her
sick grandfather. The next evening found me on my way
to Mr. Brent's farm, wondering who these new-comers
might be, who had made their way into the village so
quietly, that even Miss Candace Flint, our female Paul Pry,
knew nothing of the matter.
As I approached the cottage, I saw through its open door,
my youthful acquaintance of the preceding day, busily em.
-
|
ALICE—A STORY OF OUR WILLAGE. 17.
ployed in making some broth for the invalid, who sat sup-
ported by pillows, in an arm chair, while his wife, hardly
less feeble than himself, was reading from a large Bible,
those blessed words of promise and consolation, which take
from sickness and poverty all their terrors, and rob even
death of his sting. It was a sight on which the eye of
angels might dwell with delight, and I hesitated to intrude
on such a scene, but the quick glance of the child detected
my presence, and she exclaimed, “grandfather, here is the
good lady who bought my berries, and sent me home so
early yesterday.” I was welcomed by the aged pair with
a sincerity and cordiality which made their way directly to
my heart. They were strangers and in ill health, and
though not wretchedly poor, (as few New-Englanders are)
were destitute of many things which in sickness become
necessaries of life. My evident interest, and above all, my
admiration of their darling grand-child, who had improved
this opportunity to visit her ducks and water her flowers,
won the confidence of the worthy couple, whose short his-
tory was quickly told. Capt. Dudley was a soldier of the
Revolution, and had served through the war, having been
in most of the important engagements of that eventful
period. When peace was declared, he exchanged his
bounty of wild lands for a small farm in Vermont, where
for many succeeding years he gained a comfortable subsis-
tence by hard and unremitting toil. He had two children.
a son and daughter, the former of whom was his companion
and assistant, while his beloved Alice had married and set-
tled in the immediate neighborhood. Thus surrounded by
those he loved, Capt. Dudley arrived at old age, almost for-
getting, in the fulness of his content, the uncertain tenure
by which earthly happiness is always held. But a sad re-
verse was at hand. His daughter, whose beauty and virtues
made her the idol of her friends, was left a widow, and in
one short year followed her husband to the grave, leaving
an only daughter to the care of her aged and disconsolate
parents. While the flowers were still fresh, which the hand

1S ALICE—A STORY OF OUR WILLAGE.
of affection strewed over her grave, Capt. Dudley learned
to his surprise and dismay, that the title by which he held
his little farm was defective, and that a mortgage covering
the whole, of which, till then, he knew nothing, was about
to be foreclosed. He had no means of arresting the pro-
ceedings, or obtaining justice of the villain who had rob-
bed him of his hard earnings, so in sadness and silence
he prepared to leave the happy home which was endeared
to him by so many recollections, and to go forth in his old
age—“the world before him where to choose his place of
rest,” for the few years of life that might still remain.
He had formerly known Mr. Brent, and that gentleman,
on hearing of his misfortunes, wrote to him, offering him
the small but pleasant cottage in which they now resided,
rent free, while they chose to occupy it. The offer was
gratefully accepted, and young Dudley, after seeing his pa-
rents comfortably located, left them to push his fortune in
the far west, hoping in this way to assist them more effi-
ciently than by remaining where labor was so valueless and
unproductive. The little Alice, or as they fondly termed
her “our Elsie,” was the darling of their hearts, and her
praises formed a never-failing theme of conversation. “She
has sunshine about her all the time,” said Mrs. Dudley,
“and if there was any truth in the fairy stories I used to
hear in my childhood, I should say our Elsie was blessed at
her birth by a good fairy. But I know,” she added, “that
the blessing and smiles of God are upon her, for though she
is as full of gaiety and frolic as a young kitten, she is so
kind and thoughtful of our comfort, and so anxious to spare
me, I sometimes forget that she is so young, poor thing!”
(To be Continued.)

A PLEA FOR FEMALE OF ERATIVES. I9
A PLEA FOR FEMALE OPERATIVES.
It has been said, we would hope with more severity than
truth, that “man, seldom just to man, is never so to wo-
man.” Whether this sweeping censure is well merited or
not, it is certainly correct in regard to one particular. The
relative rate of compensation for the labor of the two sexes,
is so unequal, as to force from every reflecting mind, the en-
quiry—“Where is the justice or propriety of this inequali-
ty?” Why should the labor of women, if equally produc-
tive with that of men, be so much more cheaply estimated
That there are departments of labor, common to both sexes,
in which female operatives are equally skilful and expert
with the other sex, cannot be denied, yet where is the em-
ployer, who would ever dream of giving equal wages to
both 7 How often have we heard the remark made (never
without indignation) by those calling themselves gentlemen
—“I will have such a piece of work done, or such a gar-
ment made by a woman, because she will do it for half
price, and it will be quite as well done.” This is chivalry
indeed! To calculate to a fraction, how much may be
made or saved, by availing themselves of the weakness and
dependence of a sex they profess to love and cherish so ten-
derly If there is any reason in the “fitness of things,” for
this oppressive difference, we have never been fortunate
enough to discover it. It seems to us on the contrary, that
While there are so many paths of profitable industry open
to man, and comparatively so few to woman, every princi-
Ple of honor and justice demands, that where the labor of
the latter is equally productive, it should be to herself
equally available. Monopolies are always odious, and
always more or less oppressive; and the fact that man has
enjoyed a monopoly of profit so long, does not change the
nature of the case, or furnish a reason for its continuance.

20 MANUAL LABOR HONORABLE.
MANUAL LABOR HONORABLE.
“SHE is only a factory girl, or a seamstress,” says Miss
A. or B., “and therefore not at all a fit companion for me.”
“Thank heaven, my daughters need not work,” says Mrs.
C., “and I do not choose that they should make slaves of
themselves while they are young. Poor things | Care will
come soon enough.” “If my daughters must work for a
living,” says Mrs. D., “I am not obliged to publish it to the
world. It would hinder their advancement in life.”
Each of these ladies is the representative of a class, so
numerous in the community, that it requires a greater de-
gree of independence and dignity of character than many
young ladies possess, to bear the scorn which usually fol-
lows the intimation—“she earns her own living by some
useful occupation.” ".
Now it is emphatically a discovery of modern times, that
there is necessarily any thing degrading in the labor of the
hands. “From the beginning it was not so.” The finest
specimens of female character found in history, both sacred
and profane, were patterns of industry, frugality, and the
domestic virtues. Even princesses spun or wove, or plied
the needle, in the midst of a circle of attendants, who emu-
lated the skill of their mistress; and if a modern fine lady
had found her way into such a group, she would probably
have excited their compassion, if not contempt, by her igno-
rance and helplessness.
We believe, and would fain impress the conviction upon
others, that the sentence pronounced on man at his fall—
“In the sweat of thy face, thou shalt eat bread,” becomes
in his altered circumstances, a real blessing, and that indo-
lence, as the violation of this law, brings with it a certain
penalty, in the weariness, satiety, and ennui, so sensibly felt
by its victims, and which might all be dispelled by the
magic wand of industry. -
“But,” says Miss A., “labor is so excessively vulgar.”

MANUAL LABOR HONORABLE. 21
We beg leave to dissent from this opinion, even at the risk
of losing caste ourselves. We give full credence to the as:
sertion that—“Worth makes the man, and want of it the
fellow;” and that the hard handed laborer of either sex,
who has mental cultivation and moral worth, is in posses.
sion of God's own patent of nobility, and need acknowledge
no earthly superior. From our inmost soul we honor the
woman, whatever may be her age or station, who has suf.
ficient energy and self-respect, if need be, to go into a fac-
tory, or to learn a trade, or to follow any other useful occu-
pation, to earn for herself an independent livelihood. How
infinitely superior is such an one, to the weak and helpless
being, who, when destitute of other resources, throws her-
self on the charity of friends, and becomes a burden, oppres-
sive even to the kindness that will not cast her off.
To our young countrywomen, who belong to the class of
operatives, we would, in conclusion, utter a few words of
counsel and advice. Never suffer any influence to tempt
you for a moment, to conceal your real standing and occu-
pation. Remember that the truly wise and good, will judge
of you, not by external circumstances, but by moral worth.
Dare to appear what you dare to be, for the meanest species
of hyprocrisy is that, which from pride and false shame,
would hide the fact, that from choice or necessity, you earn
you own subsistence. Above all, sedulously seek opportu-
nities for mental improvement, and be more anxious to cul-
tivate the intellect, and improve the heart, than to lay up
gold that perishes. In this respect, the female operatives
at Lowell, Mass., have set a noble example to their sisters
throughout the country. While many of them are amass-
ing comparative wealth by their industry, they are at the
same time devoting their leisure hours to literary and scien-
tific pursuits—and by means of lectures, clubs for mutual
improvement, literary associations, &c., are preparing to
take their place in society, as cultivated, intelligent women.
Were this example universally followed, labor would soon
become honorable, and the reproach would be forever

22 A WORK FOR THE FRIENDS OF HUMANITY.
wiped away, that a refined, or literary woman, must of neces-
sity be ignorant of every useful occupation.
A WORK FOR THE FRIENDS OF HUMANITY.
THE cause of seamstresses and female operatives in gen-
eral, has been brought before the public at intervals, for
some years past, by different agencies, but hitherto nothing
farther has been done in their behalf, while the aggregate
of misery among this class has been constantly increasing.
“The low rate of compensation for female labor,” are words
familiar to the ear of almost every one, but how few can
realize what this short sentence really implies Who can
estimate the weariness, the hopelessness and misery that
oppress the heart, when the conviction settles down upon it,
that the utmost effort of skill and industry will not avail to
procure even the common necessaries of life 7 Who can
guage the amount of physical and mental anguish, endured
by her whose hard and unremitting toil is draining out her
heart's blood by drops, while present privation and suffering
are aggravated by the remembrance of joys departed, never
to return ? Many of these sufferers are widows with small
children about them, who a short time since were blessed
with a kind companion, and surrounded with every comfort,
but the arm on which they leaned is paralyzed by death,
and the heart that felt for them so tenderly, is cold beneath
the clods of the valley. In this wide world they are now
alone, and the scanty pittance they can earn by ceaseless
labor, is utterly insufficient to meet their daily wants.
Come with us, dear reader, to the humble attic, in which
one who a few short years ago, was a happy wife and mo-
ther, hides her poverty and her sorrows from the public
gaze. Four little ones, the eldest of whom is not nine years
of age, are dependent on her for food and clothing, while
she has not one earthly friend to whom she can look for
sympathy or assistance. By keeping her little daughter
A WORK FOR THE FRIENDS OF HUMANITY. 23

constantly at her side to thread her needle for her, she can
earn in fifteen hours hard work at binding shoes, three shil-
lings a day. For her room she must pay one dollar a week,
generally in advance, which leaves ten shillings for the sup-
port of her family during the week. With this, they must
purchase fuel, food and clothing for five, besides providing
for such contingencies as daily arise in every household.
But sickness invades the little circle, and her youngest child,
the cherished image of him who is gone forever, is prostra-
ted by disease. She may procure gratuitous medical ad-
vice, but she cannot follow the prescription of the physi-
cian, for she has not the means to purchase medicine. The
disease makes steady progress, and her darling boy dies;
dies for want of the medicine and the nourishment which
one dollar would have procured for him, and which the fond
mother who would gladly purchase his life with her own,
had not to bestow.
This is no picture of the imagination. We have our-
selves heard the agonized mother tell this tale of suffering,
and know that there are scores of similar cases constantly
occurring in this city. And who are they who are thus
draining the dregs of the cup of sorrow, in the midst of a
wealthy and christian community? Have they been by
a providential visitation rendered incapable of supporting
themselves, and thus thrown on public charity for a subsist-
ence 7 No such thing. They are women who are able
and willing to work, skilful, industrious and honest, and
who ask of their employers not charity, but a fair equi-
valent for services rendered. Reader, they are bone of your
bone, and flesh of your flesh, whose miseries thus appeal
to you with resistless eloquence. You may be happy, and
they miserable—you may be rolling in wealth, and glit-
tering in splendor, while they are feeling “all the sad
variety of woe;” but the relationship is still the same, and
you cannot, if you would, get rid of their claims on your
sympathy, and wherever it is practicable, your assistance.
If he who needs our kind services, of whatever name or
24 A WORK FOR THE FR, ENDS OF HUMANITY.
nation he may be, is our neighbor, then surely those of our
own sex who are suffering under this grinding system of
oppression and injustice, have a right to expect from us
whose lot is differently cast, both feeling and action in
their behalf.
We are aware that this subject is attended with difficul-
ties, and that redress will not be easily obtained, owing to
the selfishness of mankind; but we have great confidence
in the virtues of agitation in such a cause as this, and
would therefore adopt O’Connell's motto, “agitate,” until
the object is accomplished. Where is the man, with a
human heart in his bosom, who would not sooner pay a
few pence more for a garment, than to reflect that the poor
seamstress who made it, is dying by fatigue and actual
starvation over her needle, while she is making shirts at
four and six cents a piece " We cannot but think, that if
this subject were fairly before the American public, justice
would be done, for low as is our estimate of human nature,
we believe there is yet some “flesh in man's obdurate
heart,” and that it must feel a tale of woe like this. These
sufferers have hitherto buried their wrongs in silence, des-
pairing of redress on earth, but the time has come when the
friends of humanity must and will speak out in their behalf.
God grant it may not be in vain.


The Rev. Richard Cecil, when at College, was much
tried by the ridicule and reproaches of profane and pro-
fligate young men. Thus exercised, he was walking one
day in the botanic garden, where he observed a fine
pomegranate tree cut almost through the stem near the
root. On asking the gardener the reason of this, “Sir” said
he, “this tree used to shoot so strong that it bore nothing
but leaves. I was therefore obliged to cut it in this
manner; and when it was ALMost cUT THROUGH, then it
began to bear plenty of fruit.”

woMAN's PATRIOTISM. 25
WOMAN’S PATRIOTISM.
WE are indebted for the following beautiful stanzas, to
the Hemans of America, Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. They
contain an admirable sentiment, sweetly and winningly
expressed, and the gifted authoress is herself a bright ex-
ample of the domestic virtues she describes.

How shall we aid the land we love?
O'er dusty tomes to pore,
And catch the warrior's wrathful mood,
From Amazonian lore ?
To turbulence, or pride incite,
And quench of peace the seraph light?
Relinquish, for a meteor's glare,
The boon of Love's protecting care?
Ambition's wind-swept heights assail,
And shun the sweet domestic vale 1
No, sister—no.

How aid our land 2 The fearless voice
"Mid public haunts to raise 1
Or barter, for an empty fame,
Affection's priceless praise 1
For “woman's rights” to clamour loud,
And dare the throng, and face the crowd
Or, in the wild desire to roam,
Forget those charities of home,
That pain can sooth, and grief control,
And lull to harmony the soul?
No, sister—no.

In our own sphere, the hearth beside,
The patriot's heart to cheer:-
The young, unfolding mind to guide,-
The future sage to rear;
Where sleeps the cradled infant fair,
To watch with love, and kneel in prayer—
Bless each sad soul with pity's smile,
And frown on every latent wile
* That threats the pure, domestic shade,
- Sister—so best our life shall aid


The land we love.
Hartford, March 5th, 1846. L. H. S.
26 THE SOCIAL POSITION OF WOMAN.
THE SOCIAL POSITION OF WOMAN.
“And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine; -
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller 'twixt life and death;
The reason fair, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength and skill,
A perfect woman, nobly planned, --
To warn, to comfort and command:
A household creature, not too good
For human nature's º food,
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light.”—Wordsworth.
Such is the being made by God, and given to man as his
companion and comforter in the trials of life: his assistant
in every good work on earth, and his associate in the re-
wards and blessedness of the Paradise above. She is not
an angel, as her flatterers would fain represent her, but
capable of becoming such, if she is faithful to her high vo-
cation, when mortality shall be swallowed up of life. Still
less is she a plaything—the toy of sensualism, valuable
only for her external attractions, and liable to be
thrown aside, when these have lost their power to please.
Woe to the nation or the age in which she has been thus
regarded ! Fearfully has her degradation been avenged,
by the corrupting influences which have flowed over society
as its direful consequence. It is the law of eternal justice,
that man cannot degrade woman, without himself falling
into degradation; he cannot elevate her in character or
position, without at the same time elevating himself. “Half
the old world remains in a state of inanity under the op-
pression of a rude civilization; the women there are slaves:
the other advances in equalization and intelligence; the
women there are free and honored.”
There can be no doubt that the fantastic institutions of
chivalry, now so unjustly derided, had their origin in one
of the grand principles of the Gospel which it was to be
the work of ages to develope. The impress of Heaven
was upon them—faint and distorted, it is true, but still not
to be mistaken! The self-sacrificing spirit of the true

THE SOCIAL POSITION OF WOMAN. 27

knight; his subjugation of every sensual and selfish feeling,
and his devotion to an ideal good—these principles where-
ever found, and however disguised by false modes of think-
ing or action, are not of the earth–earthly. “Like the
fabled amaranth, they are plants not indigenous here be-
low. The seeds must come from above, from the source of
all that is pure, of all that is good!” The Gospel was the
remote source of these principles, women were their pas-
sive disseminators. -
Shut up in castellated towers, endowed with a thousand
imaginary perfections, and approached only with a rever-
ence bordering on adoration, woman civilized the rough
warriors who drew from her their inspiration, and directing
their passions and their strength to an unselfish aim, added
to courage the virtue of humanity. “Thus chivalry pre-
pared the way for law, and civilization had its source in
gallantry.”
In the age of chivalry, the social position of woman,
though false and unnatural, enabled her to exercise an in-
fluence over society, decidedly beneficial. Ignorant of what
we call knowledge, she certainly was, but so also were
the stern and brave warriors by whom she was surrounded;
here was therefore between the two sexes an intellectual
equality, which secured to woman the respect due by man
to virtue and beauty, without any check from real or
fancied superiority on his part.
To this period, succeeded the age of the revival of letters,
but strange as it may seem, the waking up of mind from
its sleep of ages, was any thing but advantageous to the
cause of woman. Men had found paths to glory, into
which they vainly supposed woman could not follow them,
and they returned from the newly discovered regions of
science, full of contempt for the imbecility of their com-
panions, without having gained enough true wisdom to
discern the policy of their enlightenment.
We cannot dwell on the unhappy revolution which took
place, when women thus lost their equilibrium in the
-

28 THE SOCIAL POSITION OF WOMAN.
social balance. Influence they still possessed, but it had
become debased in its character, and changed in its mode of
operation. They had become playthings of the imagination,
or still worse, mere objects of sensual enjoyment. The
consequences of this state of things were developed fully
in the courts of Louis Fourteenth of France, and Charles
Second of England. Where in these degraded courts, was
public faith or private virtue? Where was man's honor or
woman's purity? Echo answers “where?” The degrada-
tion of woman brought on its inevitable consequence, the
degradation of man, and every thing lovely, virtuous, or
noble, withered in an atmosphere so filled with moral
poison. At the present day, our sex have recovered their
rights, resumed their proper position in the social system,
and give tone to the manners and morals of the community.
It is universally conceded that women have a dignity and
value far greater than themselves or others had previously
imagined, and that their talents and virtues place them on
a footing of perfect equality with the other sex. But here
our danger is two-fold. The vain and unthinking err in
devoting their attention exclusively to accomplishments, as
the means of securing influence—while the serious and re-
flecting may fall into the equally grave error of supposing
that because so much is granted, more still must be their
due ! That their sphere of action is too contracted, and
that distinction of duties must imply inferiority Our arti-
cle is already too long; we must, therefore, defer the con-
sideration of these errors to a future number, with the one
remark, that in a practical point of view, they are equally
pernicious, and equally opposed to the lessons of experience,
and the teachings of inspiration. -
It was once said to the excellent Hooker, “Sir, I like
many things about your preaching, but you are so strict "
“Yes,” replied he, “and I serve a strict Master.”
º
A VOICE FROM THE PRISONER. 29
A VOICE FROM THE PRISONER.
BY MISS E. ROBBINS.
The proper duties of the female sex, in the present state
of society, beyond their own families, their nurseries, and
their firesides, are indeed indicated by the sin and misery that
exist in the world. It was said of the late Elizabeth Fry,
“the cause she knew not she searched out.” She was the
mother of a family, and had as many domestic relations
and as many duties connected with them as others of her
sex; but her own house was not her entire world. She
felt that she belonged to society, to the young, the destitute,
the prisoner, the sinner, the sufferer, every where within
the sphere of her influence. Her fortune and her position
in the world made this a large sphere. Now our sphere—
the sphere of women in this country, like-minded with her,
is to do all the good for which they have opportunity, to
those less favored than themselves.
If any should be disposed to refrain from public services,
—or from services to others, only called public when they
extend beyond our own hearths and houses, because they
presume that, after all, any exertions of that sort are of
very doubtful use, and may be misapplied or entirely lost, it
may be very well to give such persons instances to the
contrary. Less than two years ago we were disposed to
supply the convicts at Sing Sing with interesting and enter-
taining books, because we know that the best seed-sowing
in the world is that of books, read intelligently, in the love
of them. We hoped that good fruits might grow out of
this sort of culture. Therein the reader could “minister to
himself” could take counsel of those silent monitors that



give the same lessons to all. Friends aided the enterprise,
but with all their liberality the supply was too small for
the need. Still, what could be done was done. Some of
the benefits resulting from such very limited means as
have been employed will appear in the following letter
addressed to the writer by a convict:
30 A VOICE FROM THE PRISONER.
“MADAM,
“Your years, your kindred, your countenance are all strange to me;
of you I know nothing but your name and your humanity. Here upon
the blank leaf of the book now lying before me is that name—perhaps
traced by your own hand, and the book is your gift to the most afflicted
of mankind. “I was in prison and ye visited me,’ is, in the gospel, the
anticipated acknowledgment of the blessed Jesus to those who shall
have penetrated the dungeon gloom of the lone captive—be he inno-
cent or guilty. Surely you are of the school of this great Master; a fol-
lower of this example, and in nature and in love like the untiring How-
ard, who felt in his heart the chain of bondage that galled other men,
and wiped so many tears from weeping eyes; who poured out such
generous sympathy and gracious counsel into famishing and perverted
hearts.
“Because we have hated instruction and despised reproof, or more
often, because we have never known either, we are what we are. You
in your measure, have applied the best remedy that can reach us here,
in our banishment from all that endears existence.
“I know that your ser is alive to the tenderest pity, an enlightened
and virtuous woman never looks upon a moral waste in society without
extending to it the kind hand of reforming culture. It has been said
that the grandest movement of modern mercy took its first impulse from
a woman's earnest representation. I cannot but believe that to the
female sex is allotted the high commission of the true reformer. Where
they pity, where they teach, where they relieve: the curse of sin and
ignorance withdraws its blight... Under their influence new emotions,
new courage, new purposes, new endeavors spring up amidst iniquity
and desolation.
“I take the liberty thus to address myself to you, that possibly I may
encourage your service of love. Perhaps you know not the fruit
of your doing. You may have scattered the seed and beheld no
germination; and though I am but one yet probably of many, I can
declare with sincerity; that through your agency the most miserable pe
riod of a miserable life has been assuaged more than by any other
bounty. You, honored lady, in the form of sending knowledge into a
dark place, have applied balm to many a wounded spirit—which, with
out some Christian lenitive, who can bear !
“Shall I refrain then from expressions of gratitude to one who has
brought the aliment of reason, truth and religion to the hungry soul?
How I wish I had a voice that could penetrate every ear of those to
whom pity and power belong; how would I set your practice before
them; how earnestly would I petition them to fill up º great gulf of
out moral need from the ample reservoir of those means now too often
lavished to the pampering of appetites that have brought us, wretched
convicts, to crime and misery.
“One of your gifts now lying before me is the Penny Magazine, a
miscellany fitted alike to the child and the man. Its prose, poetry, and
its facts and fables, its descriptions and its prints, afford instruction in
different ways. I open the pictured page—a stranger in a strange land,
and in that country an outcast from all the forms of beauty, all the
communications of living intelligence; but on these leaves are imprinted
objects once familiar to my eyes when crime was only to me the name




A VOICE FROM THE PRISONER. 31
of evil to be abhorred and shunned. Here I behold the imaged ruins,
the columnar piles, among which, in their majestic reality ‘my careless
childhood strayed.’ Here too, are the ancient oaks, beneath whose
shadow my school-boy footsteps lingered while the birds sang in their
branches. All these speak to my heart and conscience. These ruins
are an emblem of my sad fall. What once stood erect in honor now
lies in disrepair and abandonment, and there is no re-edifying of the
broken pillar and the prostrate wall.
“But here comparison fails, or would deceive me; there is filling or
the breach, and raising of the column in the fallen man. This place of
wrecks contains elements of character, which, aided in reformation, are
capable of restoration and good service in the field of the world, accord-
ing to the gracious design of the Creator. H. S
- H. S.”

The preceding extract from the letter of an unfortunate
young man, now discharged from confinement, and re
turned to England, his native country, shows the good
effects that may result from a small supply of instructive
books to persons destitute of them. The gratitude of the
prisoner, as well as the mitigation of his sufferings, may
well incite the female sex to send the influences of their
sympathy, and the aids of their charity into the cell of the
convict, and into every abode of misery. In another por-
tion of this letter, too long for insertion, the writer sets
forth vividly the horrors of his state, unrelieved by hu-
munity from without, and destitute of the solace of books,
and then he pours forth blessings upon those who have
remembered the forgotten, and brought unasked aid to the
impoverished, hungry soul.
The contrast between the neglected condition of the
prisoner, and that assuaged by a little care and cost, is a
most affecting admonition. The fact ought to satisfy any
rational being that similar services to similar need will not
be thrown away; and that these services are demanded
and must be available, will surely induce many Christian
women to follow up a work but just begun.
“We have broken the ice of the puble heart,” said a
friend of the poor and the prisoner, “by what has been
done: let us take courage, and look for abundant helps
from the benevolence of the community.” We do hore
for such helps, and we shall not be disappointed.

32 LITERARY NOTICES.
Our correspondent says “the grandest movement of
modern mercy originated in a woman:” the woman al-
luded to was Lady Middleton, the wife of Sir Charles
Middleton. This lady having been in Jamaica, set forth
so vividly to Mr. Wilberforce and other humane persons,
the horrors of slavery, that from her representation, they
commenced their attack upon it.
STANZ A S.
BY MR. S. M. L. G. A R D IN E R.
“EARTH hath No son Rows HEAven cannot heal.”
-
WoRDs often like the lightnings scathe
The heart that once was light;
Send it to Marah's wave to bathe
From early morn till night.
The bitter water ebbs and flows
Over the spirit riven;
The anguished soul no respite knows,
*Till sought and soothed by heaven.
Why do the Saviour's beaming eyes
Thus fill all heaven with light?
Why, as the swift archangel flies,
Tremble his plumes so bright?
He seeks amid the world’s rude scorn
The soul so sorely prest;
And on his softest pinions borne,
Lays it on Jesus’ breast.
There, tho’ the lightnings they may reno,
There, tho’ the thunders roar;
It asks not of the earth one friend,
One gift from all its store.





WHAT CONSTITUTES A LADY 7
SINCE this word lady has forced its way into all our vo.
cabularies, and even claims the right of precedence over
every other, we must consent to use it occasionally, though
for ourselves we greatly prefer the good old Saxon term—
woman. There is in its very sound, a world of tender and
endearing meanings, each one of which strikes a chord that
will continue to vibrate until the heart is cold in death.
With woman we associate the idea of home, with all its fond
recollections and innocent enjoyments, and of love with its
:housand gentle ministries, strewing life's pathway with
flowers from the cradle to the grave. Woman is the guar-
dian angel of man from infancy to old age; his nurse, his
cherisher, his companion, his assistant in every stage of
being. The mother, whose changeless affection made the
sunshine of our early days, and who is to us the prototype
of every thing excellent and lovely, was a woman, and the
heart could be satisfied with no other word, in dwelling on
her virtues and her worth. No such hallowed associations
cluster around the term lady. The image presented by it
to the mind, may command our respect and admiration, but
it never has been, and never will be enshrined in the heart's
inner sanctuary, and like its rival, worshipped there in soli-
tude and silence.
We have still another reason to assign for our prefer-
ence. We learned to love the word woman, when in early

34 what constitutes A LADY 7
childhood, we read with ever fresh delight, the inspired ac-
count of the heroic Deborah, the meek and devout Hannah,
the high-spirited Abigail, and the tender and disinterested
Ruth. These were all women, and so too was Mary the fa-
vored mother of the incarnate Mediator; so were Martha
and Mary of Bethany, so were all that constellation of female
worthies which shines so brightly on the page of inspiration
as the friends and attendants of our blessed Lord. Woman
Was—


“Last at the cross and earliest at the grave,”

shunning no danger, and fearing no reproach, where her
faith and her affections were concerned; while Herodias,
Salome, Bernice and their associates, who were the ladies
of that day, perished in their proud rejection of the glad
news of salvation.
But let us not be misunderstood. It is not the thing re-
presented, but the term chosen to express it, to which we
have reference. The ideas which the word lady are inten-
ded to convey, we would gladly help to impress on the mind
of every female in the land. They embody all that is high
and holy in strength of intellect, purity of heart, uprightness
of principle, and that winning grace which makes every
word and action seem “wisest, virtuousest, discreetest,
best,” to the beholder. But while we freely make this ad-
mission to the lady, we claim on behalf of our favorite wo-
man, an equal share of excellence and loveliness. We can-
not subscribe to the vulgar opinion, that wealth, station, or
fine dress make the lady, and want of them, the woman.
On the contrary, we believe that wherever mental cultiva-
tion and moral worth are found, whether in the cottage or
on the throne, they constitute the lady, in the truest sense
of the word—and that the best and noblest of our sex can
be known by no appellation more honorable than that of
woman.
But we have been betrayed into writing a homily, where
we intended to make only a casual remark. We beg the


what constitutes A Lady ? 35
pardon of our readers for this long prologue, and repeat the
enquiry with which we began—“What constitutes a lady”
—such a lady as Martha Washington, and Hannah More,
and Elizabeth Fry? It certainly could have been nothing
extrinsic which gave them a claim to the title, for in that
case they would hardly have obtained the unanimous ver-
dict of society in their favor. It was moralworth and sym-
metry of character, commanding the admiration, respect,
and affection of all around them, which made these illus-
trious women and others of their class, what they are—
models of excellence for all coming generations.
There is no one subject on which the youthful female is
so apt to imbibe false impressions, as this of which we are
º She wishes to be considered a lady, but if she is
destitute of wealth—if she have no splendid equipage, no
retinue of servants at her command, how can she aspire to
such a distinction? Still worse—if from necessity or incli-
nation, she supports herself by the labor of her hands, or is
practically acquainted with the details of domestic economy
—she considers herself and is considered by many others,
as out of the pale of ladydom, and belonging to the plebeian
domain of woman. We protest against this idea, and its
practical results, as involving two radical errors. In the
first place it separates intelligence and refinement from use-
ful industry, and regards them as incompatible with each
other; a most serious and mischievous mistake, as every
day’s experience fully proves. Secondly, it assumes the
important fact, that something besides character constitutes
the qualification for good society, and that the virtuous, in-
telligent, and useful woman who happens to be destitute of
certain external advantages, may not venture to style her-
self a lady. The invidious distinction thus recognized, is
not less at war with reason and philosophy, than with the
spirit of our democratic institutions. Personal merit alone,
should be the test by which to try the pretensions of every
one, and water will not more certainly find its own level,







36 AN ADVENTURE AT SEA.
than will the various classes of society, when subjected to
an ordeal like this.
We are not pleading for a leveling system, which shall,
break down all distinctions in society, and reduce them º
one common mass of insipidity and vulgarity. Far fromi
The Bible recognizes these distinctions, and they areases
sential to the order and harmony of the body politic, as are
the various members of the human frame to form one per-
fect whole. But we do insist upon the truth of the position,
that wealth, or rank, or fashion, or anything external, ought
not to constitute the only “open sesame” which gains admit-
tance into the charmed circle of what is termed par excel-
lence, good society. We plead for the essential dignity and
mobility of intellect and goodness, even when found in* -
with poverty and toil, and must continue to believe that she
who possesses a cultivated mind, pure principles, a benevo-
lent heart and refinement of manners, is in every respect a
lady, even though, by the labor of her hands in some useful
employment, she may earn her own subsistence
-
-
AN ADVENTURE AT SEA.
By REV. C. SMITH.
It was early in the spring of 182—, that I bade farewell
to the “sunny south,” where for some years I had been re-
siding, and embarked at Petersburgh, on board the brig
Emulous, Captain V., bound for New York. My heart was
sad, as I remembered the friends I had left behind, and the
scenes of exquisite enjoyment we had known together, nor
could the thought that I was returning to the home of my
childhood, and the beloved ones who were dearer than life
itself, at once dispel the gathering gloom. In truth, there
is much in southern habits and manners, calculated to charm
and fix the affections of one, who like myself, was young,
ardent and inexperienced, and to whom everything seemed
º * ADVENTURE AT SEA. 37
-*
couleur de rose. Even now, my heart warms as I look
back on the captivating picture of the “Old Dominion”—its
romantic scenery, and objects to excite romantic reminis-
cence—the haunts of the high-souled and generous Poca-
hontas—the land that reared a Henry, and trembled as the
thundering eloquence of her own son rolled like a resistless
torrent over the hearts of his enchanted hearers—the cra-
dle of a Jefferson, a Pendleton, a Wythe, and more than all,
a Washington—a bright throng of worthies, forming a
galaxy, under whose brilliancy a nation may well be proud
to shine.
It is the land of boundless, joyous hospitality, reckless
gaiety, and unrestrained sports and amusement—where with
all the enthusiasm of England in the “olden time,” the
stranger listens to the notes of careless glee that burst from
horn and dog, at the opening of the lovely day, and feels
as the polished domestic circle gather at its peaceful close,
around the social fireside, to partake of enjoyments in which
he is earnestly invited to share, that such a heritage is in-
deed worth all the sacrifices made by our forefathers to
secure it.
But to return from my long digression. I had torn my-
self away from all this, and left the harbor of Petersburgh
on Saturday, the 15th of March, with the prospect of a
favorable wind and a short voyage. Our passage down
the James' River was delightful, and R. and myself, who
were the only cabin passengers, congratulated each other
on our choice of this mode of travelling, in preference to a
trip over land. We were detained at Norfolk and Old
Point Comfort, until Thursday, the 20th, when with a fine
breeze from the south, the captain put out to sea. We had
retired to rest, with Old Point lying within a few yards of
our vessel—and waked in the morning, while it was bound-
ing over the waves of the ocean, with nothing in sight but
the sky, and a trackless waste of waters. For a few hours
the breeze continued fair, but about 10 A.M., it slackened,
grew fainter and fainter, until towards noon it was almost








38 AN ADVENTURE AT SEA. -
a perfect calm. The brig hardly seemed º move, except
from the sluggish rolling of the sea—the sails hung listlessly
by the mast, the sailors were lolling on cotton bags, and
nothing interrupted the dull monotony, but an occasional
expression of impatience from the captain, or the creaking
of the heavy yards, as the vessel rolled slowly from side to
side. But this did not last long. A slight breeze soon blew
off the land, and I observed symptoms of anxiety among the
sailors, who were constantly watching the ever varying ap-
pearance of the sky, as though suspicious of coming danger.
The captain too, came frequently into the cabin, remarking
each time, with evident anxiety, that the wind was “haul-
ing north.” It continued veering, though gently, until night
on Friday, when it came directly from the N. E., or as the
sailors expressed it, “dead ahead.” Still I saw no cause of
alarm, and R. and myself got into our berths with no uneasi-
ness, but that occasioned by the anticipated protraction of
our voyage, as the vessel was thrown somewhat out of her
course in lying to. I was awakened from sleep before mid-
night, by a strange mixture of sounds which I could not at
first comprehend. A north-east storm was commencing in
earnest. Its roaring, mingled with the shrieking and whist-
ling of the wind through the rigging; the loud, harsh creak-
ing of the masts and yards, as the vessel lurched heavily into
the yawning abyss made by each receding wave—and the
heavy tread of the sailors on deck, altogether formed a
stunning jargon of dismal sounds, not very agreeably cal.
culated to wake one from sleep. Still I was not alarmed,
for I was in reality ignorant of the extent of the danger, and
was besides, wholly engrossed by the distressing sickness
occasioned by the rolling of the vessel. But physical suſ-
fering began to lose its engrossing influence over my feel-
ings, as the captain or some of the men came at times into
the cabin to warm themselves, (for it rained, hailed and
snowed alternately, with unceasing violence) and talked of
the fury of the storm, and the difficulty they encountered in
managing the vessel. But they endured the merciless pelt-
AN ADVENTURE AT SEA. 39
ing of the storm right manfully. Two at a time, they stood
their watch of half an hour at the helm, literally clinging
to it by means of ropes, promptly, and without a murmur.
Blessings on the generous sailor! Thinking apparently
less of themselves than of us, they endeavored to comfort
us with the assurance that the storm must soon abate; and
that at all events, all that man could do to save the vessel,
should be done. I saw from the agitation of the captain,
which in spite of his attempts at composure, was distinctly
visible, that our danger was imminent, but still I spoke not,
and the whole of that fearful night I spent in perfect silence.
At six A. M., on Saturday, the storm had increased to such
a frightful pitch of violence, that lying to became imprac-
ticable, except at the imminent risk of capsizing. The sails
were therefore all taken down, and we were soon scudding
under bare poles, driving before the storm perfectly loose
and helpless; and this too, in the direction of a most
dangerous coast, abounding with quicksands, shoals, and
breakers. The horrors of such a situation are beyond the
power of language to express. A poor impotent worm of
the dust, tossed about on the raging ocean like a feather,
with nothing but a few planks between him and the foam-
ing, roaring waters—and sunk into despair by the certainty
that all exertion is useless, and that his fate, whatever it
may be, is sealed beyond the possibility of being altered by
his agency—this is a prostration of all energy which none
but those who have felt it can understand. Frequently did
I rouse myself from the torpor that would steal over me
from excess of mental agony, gaze out earnestly into the
cabin from my berth, and try to persuade myself that I was
just waking from a horrible dream. But the howling of
the storm soon convinced me of the reality of the scene.
Little was said by any one, and no preparations for eating
or drinking were made on board after Friday night. Cap-


tain V. was much occupied in consulting his chart, and
finally came to the conclusion, that the vessel would strike,
if she outlived the storm, somewhere on Currituck; a name.

40 AN ADVENTURE AT SEA.
that next to Hatteras, falls upon a sailor's ear with incon-
ceivable dread and horror.
Once during the day, I went on deck, to see a topsail
schooner, which was descried at a short distance from us,
bearing up gallantly against the storm, lying to, and strug-
gling to get far enough out to sea to clear Cape Hatteras.
Though not more than a quarter of a mile distant from us,
she became totally invisible as she plunged into the gaping
chasms between the waves; not even her tall, graceful
spars could be seen at such moments: then would she sud-
denly rise to the top of a mighty mountain of water, and
hang trembling, as though suspended by an unseen hand
among the clouds. The terrific sublimity of the scene on
which I gazed, bids defiance to all description. To me, the
doomed and helpless play-thing of the giant waves that
seemed exulting in their might, the prospect was insuppor-
tably dreadful, and I went below, and did not leave the
cabin again. The schooner was wrecked on Cape Hatteras,
and every soul on board perished.
Through the whole day, the captain had taken his turn
with the men, in attending to the helm, a duty which was
no trifling one in a storm of such severity, with the vessel
rolling, so as to render it almost impossible to stand, and
the sea breaking constantly over the devoted ship. But
this excessive exertion added to the effect of mental suffer-
ing, wore him down first, and some hours before sunset, he
came into the cabin, pale, haggard, and dejected, and seat-
ing himself, remained perfectly motionless, without even a
change of muscle, for nearly an hour. This desperate inert-
ness of the captain, gave a new shade of horror to our
situation. My friend R. came to n\, berth, and taking my
hands in his, said in a tone of thrilling emphasis: “We will
die together.” At that moment, our hearts were lifted to
God in mute, but agonizing supplication, for well we knew,
that none but He, who holds the waters in his hand, and
who says to the waves, “thus far shal, ye come and no far-
ther,’ had power to save us.
AN ADVENTURE AT SEA. 41
The night closed in upon us—a night as intensely dark
as any one of us had ever known. We had waited for sun-
set with feverish anxiety, in the faint hope that the hurri-
cane might then abate. That period had arrived, but not
with it came the fulfilment of the hope to which we clung,
as almost the only possible redemption for dying men. The
wind, as it roared and thundered over our devoted vessel,
seemed to have acquired fresh fury, and death stared us in
the face with horrible distinctness. A little past nine, P.
M., we heard from the deck the heart chilling cry—
“breakers ahead.” But there was for us no possibility of
shunning them, no turning to the right hand or the left—we
could only wait the terrible result in an agony of helpless
ness which seemed to turn our very hearts to stone. In a
few moments we were among them, making the fearful ex-
periment. The vessel dashed and bounded, as though ani-
mated by a spirit of frenzied desperation, until one of the
breakers, with a blow that made her tremble in every part
like an aspen leaf, threw her on her beam ends. The door
of the companion-way was partly open, and a mass of
water came rushing into the cabin, and directly into my
birth, that threatened to overwhelm us in an instant. I
sprang from the birth with the hand of despair upon me,
and in that awful moment, went through the agonies of
death. I now firmly believe, that the confirmation of my
idea, that the vessel had filled, and was sinking, could have
added nothing to the intensity of my emotions. The ves-
sel righted almost instantly, and was again ready to buffet
succeeding breakers.
The presence of mind displayed by the two sailors at the
helm, is worthy of notice. The immense mass of water
which had struck the vessel with such fury, swept from the
deck almost everything but the two helmsmen. They were
dashed from the helm with great violence, and were saved
from being washed overboard only by some heavy article of
the deck load falling upon them, and pressing them down to
the gunwale. In an instant, recollecting their situation.



42 AN Adventure. At sea.
they freed themselves from the load upon them, and re-
gained the helm before the vessel had fairly righted, so as
to continue her straight before the storm, and prevent her
from getting into the trough of the sea. The captain after-
wards remarked, that their heroism undoubtedly saved us
rom instant destruction.
For nearly a quarter of an hour were we among the
breakers, tossed about as though our vessel were a feather,
steadying ourselves as well as we could, by graspfing
whatever afforded a sure support, and waiting the doubtful
result. Not one word was spoken during that time. The
brig, as the wave retreated from under her, struck upon the
sand with a violence, that made every timber in her, groan
and crack from stem to stern. She struck in this way, rais-
ing us from our feet every time, for twenty or thirty times,
when at 10 o'clock on Saturday night, she ran ashore. Oh!
what a thrill of tumultuous joy ran through every heart, as
the sailors on deck uttered the cry—“she's high ashore "
It was like a reprieve from instant death, and R. and my-
self congratulated each other with almost frantic extrava-
gance of delight. But we soon perceived that our enthu-
siasm was not shared by our experienced commander. It
was so perfectly dark, that the fact of our being on shore
was doubted by some, and the vessel might be on a sand-
bar, waiting only the crashing of her timbers to hurl us to
destruction in an instant. Even if we were on shore, we
might not leave the ship until morning, except at the hazard
of being swept away by the surf before we could reach the
high land, if it were not wholly covered by the tide, which
was usually the case in storms like this. In addition to
these dangers, drenched and weakened as we were by
anxiety and the want of food, we must have perished in so
severe a tempest, on a level, unprotected sea-beach. We
had, therefore, only to wait for day-break, while our vessel
was dashing upon the sand, with a violence that threatened
to shatter her, with every returning wave. It was a long
—long night. The words--" more than they that watch for

AN ADVENTURE AT SEA. 43
the morning,” have acquired to my mind a vividness and
reality, which nothing but such an experience could give
them.
Day dawned at last, when hope deferred was making
our hearts sick, and gave us the joyful certainty that our
vessel was high on shore. Watching for the retreat of a
wave, with each a small quantity of bread, we jumped from
the sides, and reached dry land. The tumult of emotions
that rushed thronging through my heart, as I found myself
once more on firm ground, can never be described; my joy
was almost madness. But it was soon cooled down, under
the influence of the tempest that swept across the level,
barren sand-beach, with the keenness of a blast from Nova
Zembla. We wandered in every direction in search of
some signs of life, either animal or vegetable, but found
none, and came at last to the conclusion, that we were on
one of those sand-islands scattered along the coast, that
have no inhabitants. We were returning to the vessel to
take out the provisions, strike a tent, and live as we best
might, until we could get off, when we saw a negro run-
ning towards us, who soon came up, and told us he was
sent by his master, who lived two miles back from the
shore, to seek for shipwrecked persons, and bring them to
his house. He was to us, an angel of mercy on a mission
of grace. After giving him a large sum to get our baggage
from the wreck, we followed him to the house of his mas-
ter, who received us with true southern hospitality. The
storm, which was the most terrific ever known on the coast,
raged until Monday night, and during that time, three ves-
sels were wrecked within a few miles of us, the crews of
which were lost to a man.
This was my first and last experience at sea. I have
never again tempted the faithless ocean; but with ſervent
gratitude to that God who spared my life, when yet I knew
him not, I remember those “that go down to the sea in
ships, that do business on the great waters,” and my fervent
prayer ascends, that they too, may learn to know and love
44 to ADELAIDE IN HEAVEN.
the gracious hand that saves them in the hour of peril,
when human sympathy and human aid are alike impotent
and vain.
TO ADELAIDE IN HEAVEN.
AIR.—Twilight Dews.
BY MISS ANNA. E. Rod MAN.
When evening dews are falling fast,
When stars are shining clear,
We'll think of hours so sweet tho’ past,
When thou wert with us here.
And thou too, wilt thou hover near,
If thus to thee 'tis given,
To meet with those on earth so dear,
While thou art blest in Heaven?
There's not in all that beaming sky,
One little orb we see,
But brings thy cherish’d image nigh,
And turns our hearts to thee.
And oft we wish thee here again,
Oh! be that wish forgiv'n'
And hush'd the thought so wild, so vain;
Be thou still ours in Heaven
“THE MOURNER.”
“Faint not! though sorrow's sharpest thorns
Should pierce thy bleeding side;
No pangs of thine can equal his,
Who for thee freely died tº


ALICE,-A STORY OF OUR WILLAGE. 45
ALICE.--A STORY OF OUR WILLAGE.
BY MRS. S. T. MARTYN
WHAT troubles me most,” said the old man, while a tear
stole down his furrowed cheek, “is, that with my small
pension, I cannot send the dear child to school, and give
her the advantages she deserves. When we speak of it
to her, she says she can read to us, and write our letters
for us, and be our little maiden, and what need she care
for more? But you know, ma'am, better than the child
does, that more than this is necessary to secure for a young
girl who is left alone in the world, a situation of respecta-
bility and usefulness.” I confess that as “our Elsie,” just
then entered the room, her fine face flushed with exercise
and her dark ringlets falling about her graceful neck, I al
most felt as she did, that she need care for nothing more
than she already possessed. But the truant thought was
recalled, and I very sagely remarked to Alice that her
grandfather was right, and that schools were essential
things in the training of young ladies. “But I am very
happy at home, and very useful too,” she replied timidly,
though rather proudly, “and I could not enjoy myself at
school, to think my grand-parents were alone all day.”
I saw her mind was quite made up on the subject, and not
thinking it wise to discuss it then, I took my leave, promis-
ing to repeat my visit very soon. It was repeated again
and again, until I learned to love the little path that wound
through Mr. Brent's meadow to the cottage, better than any
other in the village, one alone excepted. Perhaps some-
thing of the pride of discovery mingled with my regard for
its inmates, for such was the seclusion in which they lived,
that their very existence seemed unknown to most of the
inhabitants of the village.
Meantime, Alice was rapidly growing up, an uncom-
monly beautiful and fascinating girl, spite of her undis-
guised aversion to schools and all their attendant advanta-
ges. Frank and high-spirited almost to a fault, with “a
46 ALICE,-A STORY OF OUR WILLAGE.
glance like the sunshine that flashes from steel,” when her
indignation was roused, she possessed a disposition so af.
fectionate and disinterested, that she seemed literally to
forget herself, and live only for those she loved. Yet,
dearly as I loved my young protege, I was compelled to
acknowledge that she was in a fair way fully to share Die
Vernon's ignorance of every feminine accomplishment, and
though I longed to show her to my friends at the Hall, I
shrank from exposing her rusticity and want of education
in such society. But chance brought about what I had not
courage to accomplish.
It was the close of a lovely day in June, and Mr. For-
rester, who had been out with his dog and gun, was re-
turning through the meadows, when he met Capt. Dudley,
who had walked out, supported by Alice, to enjoy at a little
distance from the cottage, the freshness of the evening
breeze. His venerable appearance, contrasted with the
youth and beauty of the fair being on whose arm he leaned,
attracted the attention of Mr. Forrester, who accosted him
respectfully, making some slight remark about the charm-
ing scenery by which they were surrounded. With the
garrulity of age, the old man entered at once into conver-
sation, and delighted with the courtesy of his unknown
companion, went back to the past, and “fought all his bat-
tles o'er again,” while describing the interesting scenes of
the great struggle for independence. Deeply interested in
the rencontre, my friend came directly to me with enquiries
about this venerable relic of the revolution, which I readily
answered, and apparently to his satisfaction, as from that
day he became a constant visitor at the cottage. With a
tact and delicacy peculiarly his own, he contributed to the
comfort of the declining veteran, without awaking that jeal-
ous spirit of independence, which had rendered it so diffi-
cult for me to do anything for his pecuniary relief. Alice,
who was at first exceedingly shy of making her appear-
ance before the “grand gentleman who was so proud and
so stately,” soon learned to love him for her grandfather's

ALICE,-A STORY OF OUR WILLAGE. 47
sake, though she could hardly forgive him for his proposi-
tion to her grand-parents, that she should be sent to a neigh-
boring town to enjoy the benefits of an excellent school re-
cently established there. The plan was defeated by the
refusal of Alice to leave her beloved grandfather, whose
increasing illness made her society more than ever neces-
sary to his comfort. In little more than three years from
my first visit to the cottage, Capt. Dudley closed his eyes
in death, and the faithful wife whose existence had seemed
identified with his, survived him but a few weeks, and at
her own request was buried with him in the same grave.
When the last sad offices of love were rendered, I took
the weeping Alice to my own home, where she soon became
a universal favorite, with every member of the household,
from my little French poodle, up to the staid housekeeper
who had never before been known to tolerate a juvenile
member of the establishment. Indeed, she was in a fair
way of being spoiled by indulgence, for so truly loveable
was her nature, and so joyous her temperament, that misan-
thropy itself must have yielded to their influence.
Some six months after the death of Capt. Dudley, as I
was busy in my little garden tying up a passion flower,
which by some accident had been torn down, Mr. Forrester
made his appearance, looking not quite as self-possessed as
usual. After some common-place remarks, he rather ab-
ruptly said, “My good friend, permit me to enquire, what
you propose to do in reference to the education of your
youthful charge? You are undoubtedly aware, that how-
ever lovely and amiable and gifted by nature, her total
want of cultivation must prove an effectual bar to her re-
ception in good society; even were it otherwise, her proud
and sensitive nature would feel most acutely the mortify-
ing contrast between herself and others in point of mental
culture. She is a child, and a petted child, and not to be
expected to see this matter in its true light, but my deal
madam, will not you think and act for her, where her fu-
ture welfare is at stake 7"


48 ALICE,-A STORY OF OUR WILLAGE.
“And what,” I asked, “are your plans for my poor
Alice 7”
“I wish,” he replied, “to spare her feelings the pain she
might experience from entering a large school, where all
her companions would be in advance of herself. I have
therefore written to an estimable friend at the South, who,
having been left a widow in early life, has devoted herself
to the education of her own daughters, and who, if I can
obtain your consent to the plan, will receive Alice at my
request, and bestow on her all the care her neglected edu-
cation requires. And now, what think you of my project”
It is on my part, only paying a small part of what I, in com-
mon with every American, owe to the descendants of those
who purchased our liberties with their blood.”
I was delighted with the plan, and immediately, on
the departure of Mr. Forrester, went to seek Alice, whom
I found in her own room weeping bitterly, while the
rose leaves she had been gathering for me, lay strewed
about the floor. “What is the matter, Alice,” I enquired,
“and why do you weep?” She was at first unwilling to
reply, but on my repeating the question, she answered—
“Susan Gray has been here, ma'am, and she says I
am a charity girl, and eating the bread of idleness, and
her mother says I ought to be bound out like other poor
girls, and earn my own support; I am sure I am will-
ing to work, or to support myself in any way that is
honest, but not even for you, ma'am, though I love you
better than any thing else in the world, will I be called
a beggar or a charity girl, living on the bounty of
others.”
I saw her spirit was roused, and felt that the moment
was a favorable one for my errand. Seating myself by her
side, I said gently,
“Dear Alice, you are a mere child yet, and have nothing
to do with such thoughts and words as these. You are too
young and inexperienced to take care of yourself, and as
the friend of your dear grand-parents, I claim the right to
ALICE,-A STORY OF UUR WILLAGE. 49
provide for your welfare. But if I can point out to you a
way by which you may be qualified to support yourself
honorably, will you avail yourself of the opportunity?”
“Must I leave you?” she asked, looking up eagerly in
my face for a reply.
“You must indeed leave me for a season,” I answered,
“but it is only to ensure greater happiness both for you
and myself when you return.”
I then detailed the plan of Mr. Forrester, and dwelt on
its advantages, urging as an inducement for her to accept
it, my own wishes, and those of her grandfather in refer-
ence to the subject.
“If you and Mr. Forrester think it best,” said she at last,
“I ought certainly to go, and I thank you both for your
kindness, but indeed, ma'am, I would rather stay with you
as I am, than to learn all they can teach me.”
Rejoiced to gain even a reluctant consent, I commended
her determination, and spoke of her departure as a thing
already arranged.
Mrs. Carlton, the lady of whom Mr. Forrester spoke, was
daily expected on a visit at the Hall, and on her return
home it was decided that Alice should accompany her.
When I saw this admirable woman, I felt that Mr. Forres-
ter had indeed chosen well for my sweet Alice. She pos-
sessed in an uncommon degree, the opposite qualities of
gentleness and energy, dignified firmness and strength of
purpose, with feminine delicacy and refinement. In short,
hers was just the character to command the respect, and
win the love of one constituted like Alice, and I inwardly
blessed the kind Providence that had provided such a friend
and teacher for the destitute orphan. Yet when the car-
riage which bore her away, drove from my door, I felt as
though the sunshine had departed from my dwelling and
wept for very loneliness.



(To be Continued.)

50 THE SPIRIT AND TENDENCIES OF WAR.

-
THE SPIRIT AND TENDENCIES OF WAR.
-
WE have witnessed with deep regret, the exhibition of
the war spirit so rife in our national councils, at the present
time, and we have thanked God, too, for the stern rebuke
with which it has been met by the public press generally.
The advocates of peace have cause to thank God and take
courage, at this evidence of the hold which their principles
have obtained on the minds of the community. But there
are still many, particularly among the youth of our coun-
try, who see in war nothing but its pomp and “glorious
circumstance,” utterly forgetful of the fact that it is a trade
of wholesale robbery and murder, and that there is an utter
and irreconcileable opposition between “the battle field
and the altar of Christ.” To such, we wish to make a few
remarks on the spirit and tendencies of war, as contrasted
with the spirit of the blessed gospel.
The time, we trust, has gone by, when the pious general
or soldier could kneel on the field of combat, and ask the
blessing of God on the work of death in which he was
about to engage, with the expectation that his prayer would
be heard and answered. The “trade of war,” seems now,
by universal consent, given up to such as are not restrained
by the fear of God, from carrying out its principles to
their legitimate results. Some honorable exceptions there
doubtless are, but when we speak of the war spirit, we
have reference to the rule, not to the exception. Is it not
understood by all, that where intelligence and industry, and
temperance and morality prevail, the materials for filling
up the ranks of the recruiting officer, are proportionably
scanty? Who does not know that it is the idle dissolute
loungers about the bar-rooms and the streets, among whom
his recruits are found? And into what a school do they
enter One of its fundamental principles is, that “the
worse the man, the better the soldier,” and a master of the

-
Tel E SPIRIT AND TENDENCIES OF WAR. 51.
art of war has said, “men with nice notions of religion
have no business to be soldiers.” Verily he was right; for
the despotism, the slavish subservience, the recklessness of
life, and the licentiousness of camps, could not exist in the
same atmosphere with the religion of Jesus. The Saviour
teaches us to love our enemies, but in military life this
would be a violation of the law of honor. He bids us bear
injuries with meekness, and forgive the assailant, but this
is branded as cowardice in the military code, and would
forever disgrace him who should dare to obey the precept.
He enjoins purity of heart, and life, and pronounces woes
unnumbered on the licentious and impure, but the most
unbridled profligacy is considered a necessary accompa-
ment of camps. Indeed, there is not a principle of the
Bible which is not so entirely opposed to the spirit of war,
that the prevalence of one must of necessity destroy the
other. - -
Now what are the tendencies of this system, about which
statesmen can talk so coldly, as if it were a trifle to take up
arms for the occupation of Oregon, or any other question of
national cupidity or ambition 1 First, on individual cha-
racter and happiness. We knew a young man of brilliant
intellect and high promise, the child of many prayers, and
the idol of all who knew him. He was very young, ardent
and inexperienced, and full of romantic plans and expecta-
tions. In an evil hour, he met with a recruiting officer,
who had found his way into a secluded village, and ere
one friend was aware of his design, had enlisted as a
private soldier. His father, almost broken hearted, tried
in vain to purchase his discharge, and was compelled to
bid farewell to this, his first born son, with forebodings
that were too fully realized. Three years after, he visited
his peaceful home, in the pride and bloom of early manhood,
but the fair exterior covered a heart that had been cor-
rupted to its yery centre. During that short visit, he be-
trayed and ruined one who loved and trusted him, and
departed before his guilt was known. In three years more




52 THE SPIRIT AND TENDENCIES OF WAR.

the prodigal came back to his father's house, so changed
by profligacy and disease, that his fond mother could not
have recognized her own son had she met him elsewhere.
He lingered a few months in a state of despondency and
suffering, which none who saw him can ever forget, and then
sunk into the grave at the age of twenty-five, a victim to
the corruption and licentiousness of camps. This is only one
of thousands of cases which might be cited, to show the
tendency of war to destroy character and happiness.
And are its effects on society at large, less destructive 1
Witness commerce at a stand, the sources of wealth dried
up, industry paralyzed, and taxation so excessive as to
deprive the poor almost of the necessaries of life. Witness
the demoralization that flows in like a torrent over the
theatre of war, blasting everything pure and lovely, and
leaving moral ruin and desolation in its track.
When jo all this, we add the horrible sacrifice of human
life attendant on war; when the mind dwells for a moment
on the blood and carnage, the physical agony and the
mental sufferings of a battle-field, shall we hesitate to
pronounce war an unmitigated evil, against which every
Christian and every philanthropist should raise his voice
That ardent friend of peace, the late Wm. Ladd, once
remarked to us, when asked what influence ladies could
exert in favor of the cause—“young ladies can do some-
thing by refraining from singing or playing martial airs,
songs, &c., and by bearing a testimony in favor of peace,
on every proper occasion. Mothers can do more, by teach-
ing lisping infancy to love such names as Clarkson and
Wilberforce, the friends of peace, and by abstaining from
the purchase of toys for their children which foster the
martial spirit. When the pomp and glitter of military
parade meet their eye, let the mother tell them of the
horrºrs of war, and the blessings of peace, and in every
way endeavor to strip this system of wholesale murde,
of its false charms.” Were this mode of instruction
thoroughly pursued, we should see a generation so imbued
PURITY. 53

with peace principles, that an appeal to arms would not be
once thought of in cases of international difference. Shall
we not, as wives, mothers and daughters, by right principles
and the exertion of a right influence on this subject, secure
the blessing promised by our divine Redeemer to the peace-
maker : Our sex and our position prevent us from feeling
the power of motives which so often lead our sons
and brothers, astray in this thing. We naturally love
peace, and shrink from the accompaniments of strife, but
shall we not, from a higher, holier principle than mere
temperament, cultivate the spirit of peace in our respective
spheres of action? Thus shall we best exemplify the
principles of the holy religion we profess—thus best train
up a generation who shall be the genuine disciples of the
Prince of Peace—and thus best aid in saving the land
we love from the horrors of a war in the nineteenth
centitt".


PURITY.
“So dear to heaven is saintly chastity,
That when a soul is found sincerely so,
A thousand liveried angels lackey her,
Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt,
And in clear dream and solemn vision
Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear;
Till oftconverse with heavenly habitants,
Begins to cast a beam on th’ outward shape,
The unpolluted temple of the mind,
And turns it by degrees to the soul's essence,


Till all be made immortal.” -
Mask of Comus. -

54 DREAM LAND.
- D R E A M L A N D.
I saw a rosy child lying in the graceful unconstraint of
infancy, on his mother's bosom, wrapped in the quiet
slumber which after years can never know. His radiant
eyes were indeed closed, and the long lashes lay like a
silken fringe on the dimpled cheek, but his cherry lips were
wreathed in smiles so sweet, that they seemed like a reflec-
tion from a brighter, happier world than this. What had
that fair boy with his guileless innocence and unbroken
happiness, whose short life had been one cloudless summer
day, in common with the care-worn, anxious, and erring
beings to whom he was so closely allied? What to him,
were the strifes, pursuits and pleasures of those “children
of a larger growth,” by whom he was surrounded? He was
still a dweller in Dream Land; he inhaled the fragrance of
its flowers, was fanned by its breezes, and heard its en-
chanting melodies, while angels visited his slumbers, and
whispered words of blessing, to which no mortal ear may
listen. Alas, for the rude waking that must follow this
short, but blissful period of repose
When next I saw him, traces of care were on his manly
brow, and the fair, round cheek was marked with many a
furrow. Sorrow had done the work of years, and the
world had stamped its visible impress on the features from
which heaven’s own light had once been reflected. His
dream was over, the soul's bright wings were folded, and
its angel visitants had departed to seek a more congenial
sphere.
I saw a lovely maiden, in the first bloom of youth and
beauty, standing at the altar, by the side of one to whom
she had given her young heart's wealth of affection, and
who was about to receive her plighted vows. The timid
glance of those full, dark eyes, half veiled by the drooping

DREAM LAND. 55
eyelids, spoke love unutterable, and in the play of the per-
fect features, and the tones of the rich voice, there was a
“fulness of content,” which the heart can never know but
once. How weary and insipid seemed to her now, all the
pleasures she had ever known, ere the beloved one had
come to invest every object with love's own golden hue !
Cupid had awakened Psyche, and amid the bewildering
delight of her new born emotions, all remembrance of the
past, and all thoughts of the future were lost in the absorbing
sense of present happiness.



That young girl dwelt in Dream Land—she was walking
in a garden of thornless roses, where no rude footsteps may
ever intrude: where the sorrows of earth find no entrance,
and even—
“Hope lies asleep on the bosom of bliss.”
Once again I saw her, as clad in the sable weeds of the
mourner, she bent over the lowly bier of him, who, in
sickness and sorrow, in folly,mdaness and crime, had still
been all the world to her. Faithfully had her early vows
been kept, and fondly did that stricken heart cling to the
bright memory of the past, when even the semblance of
happiness had vanished from the present. The being on
whom she had lavished her rich store of affection, was
unworthy the precious boon, and had recklessly bartered
domestic felicity for the lowest pleasures of sense.
Her dream of bliss had passed away forever—the
illusions of life were dispelled by its cold, stern realities,
and henceforth, her pathway to the better land lay through
a vale of tears. -
I saw a philosopher, on whose broad and lofty brow
intellect sat enthroned, and whose lightning glance seemed
almost to read the secrets of the soul, yet, though he had
penetrated into the arcana of nature, and was profoundly

versed in the learning of the schools in his guileless simpli-
-
-

56 DREAM LAND.
city of heart he was still a very child. The beautiful
sentiment of the ancient sage,_*I am a man, and nothing
that concerns humanity, is foreign to me,” was the perva-
ding, animating principle which actuated his heart and
life. He loved human nature in all its various phases, and
no ingratitude or unworthiness on the part of the objects of
his kindness, could weaken his belief in its ultimate per-
fectibility. All the evils which existed around him, and
which he so much deplored, were attributed to the force of
circumstances, and if these were changed, order would be
evolved from confusion, and the chaotic earth restored to
more than its primeval harmony and beauty.
The philosopher too, was a dweller in Dream Land. The
social system on which his thoughts were fixed by night
and day, existed only in the Utopia of his imagination, but
the illusion made him happy, and preserved his heart from
the withering, blighting mildew of suspicion and misan-
thropy. Happy in his ignorance of the darker features of
humanity, he knew how to bring out in strong relief, all its
redeeming qualities, and like the bee, was gifted with the
power of extracting sweetness even from the most poison-
ous flower.
I saw him again, when time had quenched the ardor of
youthful enterprise, and age had chilled the vital current at
its fountain-head. His cherished schemes had all been
disappointed, his kindness had been repaid with ingratitude,
and his love with insult. He had been awakened from his
early dream, by the harsh hand of experience, and no
alchymy could again turn to gold the base alloy which had
mocked his expectations.
In a darkened chamber, on an humble pallet, I saw an
aged saint, who was calmly waiting the summons,—“child
come home.” For three-score years and ten, she had
endured every variety of privation and suffering, but her
hope was anchored in heaven, and it sustained her triumph-
antly amidst all the trials and discomforts of her lot, for
- -
DREAM LAND. 57
was it not a Father's hand which had appointed it! The
gay worldling who swept proudly by her, as she went forth
on some errand of mercy, regarded her with pity as a
crazed enthusiast, but “she loved the world that hated her.”
and the tear that fell on her Bible in hours of solitary com-
munion with God, was less for herself than for the dream-
ers who looked on her with scorn. But her work was done,
her conflicts over, and the weary bark, so long tossed on
life's tumultuous billows, was about to enter the haven of
everlasting rest. Joy to the prisoner, when he emerges
from his cheerless dungeon into the blessed sunshine, and
breathes the pure air of freedom once more; joy to the
exile, when he sees from afar the blue hills and smiling
valleys for which his heart has vainly pined so long ; but
greater joy to the christian when her pilgrimage is ended,
and the untold glories of the celestial city, burst with daz-
zling splendor on the sight ! A ray of unearthly joy lighted
up the pallid countenance of the expiring saint, as her
last words broke the solemn stillness of the apartment,
“Can this be death? Is this smiling friend, the king of
terrors, whom I have dreaded as a mortal enemy? Wel-
come death, to me, the gate of life I have walked in a
vain show, and my soul was often disquieted within me—I
have dwelt in a land of dreams and shadows, but the
morning is breaking, the shadows flee away, and soon
all will be cloudless, perfect, eternal day.”




“Haste, ere the gathered shades
Fall on thee from the tomb where none may work,
And throw a shelter o'er the orphan head,
Cheer the sad mourner, light the heathen soul,
And justify thy Maker's husbandry;
So that His angels who go forth to reap,
Earth's ripened harvest for the judgment day—
Put not the sickle in with tears, to find
The tares for burning overtop the wheat.”
—Mrs. Sigourney.

GENTILITY.
BY JUNIUS BENEDICT-A MARRIED MAN.
I do not know that my wife is extravagant, she says she
is not, and of course she ought to know, and as the boys
say, “perhaps she is, and perhaps she is n't.” But we have
been married fifteen years, we have no children, and we live
in the same house we did, when happy bride and groom we
first tasted the sweets of wedded life in a home of our own ;
but some how our yearly accounts present a sad appearance;
we spend much more than double the amount of money that
we did when we first kept house. I remember well with
what heartfelt delight and satisfaction I ushered my new
wife into the pretty home I had prepared for her; it is a
beautiful place, a neat house, a pretty garden, and grounds,
in one of the loveliest of the many lovely villages in our
great State. I had saved up a few thousand dollars, all
earned by diligent application to my law business; I bought
the house, and furnished it as I thought well enough for a
country lawyer's home ; had thought of my dear Agnes as I
purchased this and that article, and had things arranged
just as they were in her own New England home; everything
was new, every thing was fresh and pretty. And what
delight the dear girl manifested as I opened the parlor win-
dows that lovely evening in June, while she looked around
on all my simple arrangements. “What a pleasant home,
dear Junius,” she exclaimed, “shall we not be very, very
happy tº She admired every thing in her simple, earnest
way ; the ingrain carpets were so pretty, and then the chairs,
plain cane-seated chairs, were just like those in her mother's
parlor, and were good enough for anybody; the book-case
was filled with choice and well selected books, and fine en-
gravings in neat pretty frames graced the walls; everything
had a share of admiration expressed, and more than satis-
faction was manifested by my young bride.



-
GENTILITY. 59
But we are very genteel now, and I suppose it is all right; .
we don’t have book-cases in the parlor now—that is vulgar;
our nice china closet has been turned into a library, it is ten
feet by twelve, and has a small desk and one slippery-seated
leather bottom chair; has book shelves all round the room,
and pictures everywhere else—but it is very genteel. Our
parlors which we lived in once, now are kept for company;
(they are drawing rooms now)—we have a kind of best
kitchen fixed up for a dining room, while an old wash-room
glories in the name of kitchen, and entertains our Margaret
and the cooking stove. Our parlors are elegant now in their
tapestry Brussels carpets, (and which I dare not tread on for
fear of crushing the flowers,) our simple gothic shades are
replaced by delicate lace curtains which I dare not raise lest
I should leave a finger mark upon their spotless surface, the
cane-bottomed chairs are entirely obsolete—and I don’t know
what kind of chairs and seats we have not got in our draw-
ing rooms; all is I know I dare not sit on one of them, even
when they are shrouded in brown linen, as they generally are,
but they are very genteel; but fool that I am I think of the
cane-seated chairs.with a sigh, for the worst of it is, I have
nowhere to sit ; we cannot both sit in the library, there is no
room for two, the parlors are only for company, and when I
want to be a little lazy and smoke a cigar, and set with my
feet as high as I please, why there is no place in our house
for such privileges, and if I wish to invite in a friend, or to
play a quiet game of whist, I can’t do it, we are too gen-
teel. I have to go to a hotel now for all these comforts and
enjoyments—my wife don’t know how I feel about it, the
dear little creature, she wants to be very nice, and genteel—
and so she is, but I sit here in my small library and cannot
help thinking how much comfort is sacrificed to gentility;
I think of our once comfortable and pleasant parlors, which
were not too good to eat in, to take a nap in, to read in,
write in, or to invite a friend in ; I feel very genteel I sup-
pose, now, but I am sure I don’t want to.
Yet my wife is not extravagant, this gentility has all
come on gradually; she thought it would save the parlors to





60 GENTILITY. -

eat in the kitchen in summer, and we might just as well cook
in the wash room; why, of course we could, and so we did; as
the cold weather came on she could not bear to have the
great cooking stove back again—why not make the wash-
room tight and comfortable, and use it altogether for a
kitchen P why, of course we could, and so we did; by and
bye some of the neighbors had new tapestry carpets, all of
a sudden our neat ingrains were found to be getting very
shabby, (I thought they were as bright and pretty as the day
they were bought,) it would be such excellent covering to
carpet our dining room, (the kitchen had been promoted in
name, as well as nature,) of course as it was to be a dining-
room, why not have it look like one P of course we must, and
so we did; the small windows must be removed, and larger
ones put in which opened to the floor, a little piazza had to
be put up, the floor of which is too nice for me to walk on
unless I take off my shoes—paper and paint was needed as
a matter of course: it was thought best to get nice satin
paper, it was better economy—of course it was, and so we
had it ; new pantries had to be made, new doors cut and old
ones filled in, then those rose-wood framed engravings in the
parlors were so much more appropriate for a drawing-room,
and they were all transferred to grace the cidevant kitchen.
Then comes “dear husband, is not this nice P” why of course
it is: I put my hands in my pockets, and fancy there is a
great hole in them.
Then came the parlors, dear comfortable places—we must
have a new carpet, and would it not be better economy to
have them both alike, and so have two new ones? the in-"
grain was really needed up stairs, it would be a great saving,
we must have tapestry of course, they cost but little more,
and are very durable; and then the window-shades are just
right for the dining-room, it would be such a saving to put
them there; I think we shall of course need new curtains
in our drawing-rooms, dear; Mrs. Graves has new lace cur-
tains, very pretty, and she thinks they will be very durable;
well, so we'll have them too—they are very genteel no doubt
—gilt cornices across the top, and large gilt hands with a
|


GENTILITY. 61
gilt bouquet on them to hold them back—oh, we are very
genteel. We have very genteel parties now, no social gather-
ings around the tea-table, no chance now for a poor lawyer
to invite a poorer client or other friends in to dinner acciden-
tally ; we have evening companies, with ice-cream and cakes,
and kisses and nonsense of that sort, and not one decent
thing to eat or drink, but we are very genteel; we have the
“supper table” set in the drawing-room, and “ the things”
are laid off up stairs : The entry is called a hall now, and
we have gas, and a furnace—oh, we are very genteel.
Well, perhaps you will say, dear reader, that a husband
ought to have a mind of his own, and put in an objection
now and then—well, this husband did; but my wife had al-
ways thought of it all before, and studied all the pros and
cons, and was ready to meet any objection—the chief argu-
ment was the great economy, the saving it would be in the
end, it was for our mutual good, and when I held out a lit.
tle pugnaciously, she would kiss me, and set on my lap, and
say it would be so genteel; we have no children, let us enjoy
life while we can ; (I hope she does enjoy it, for I don't for
all the gentility,) so she gets the new fixings, and I creep
down to my office and see some of my best clients to raise
money to pay for them, then I go to the hotel, and smoke a
cigar in the bar-room, and once in a while in a state of des-
pair take a quiet game of high-low-jack in some comfortable
little room in the same house, and have to borrow money to
meet my demands and pay out my dues before they are paid
in, and work hard to coin enough to keep up interest on
notes and pay when due—gentility is not very cheap, what
shall we want next 2
The simple Agnes I wooed and won, with her pretty
plain dress, and her beautiful hair put up in simple braids,
with all the child-like and trusting love for me, is no more
like my present Agnes, than our tapestry-carpeted, lace-cur-
tained, gas-lighted, furnace-heated drawing-rooms, to the
cosy, quiet, plainly furnished parlors of our earlier years. In
fact I can scarcely recognise in that woman, that elegantly
dressed matron who has just passed my library door, rustling

62 LITTLE COURTESIES.
by in a superb moire antique dress and hoops, watch, chain,
and charms, and bracelets, soft laces, velvet cloak, and scarce-
ly any bonnet at all, I say I can scarcely recognise my pretty,
sweet Agnes—she is not the gentle child-like Agnes now —
I did not think to keep her always young, for fifteen years
have left traces upon my cheek, and silvered my once jetty
locks—but though I am a man I put my hands before my eyes
—and think—think. I have lost much ; the dear old home
has no homeliness about it now—my dear Agnes (I love her
still very much in spite of the moire antique dress,) is no
more the sweet lily that I brought to my bower fifteen years
ago—it never can come back again. But we are very gen-
teel, and I am often tempted to exclaim with one of the im-
mortal Dicken's heroines—“Let us be genteel or die.”

_ - _
---

LITTLE COURTESIES.
How much of meaning, of refinement, aye, of Christian-
ity itself, there is in those little incidental attentions and po-
liteness, which go a great way in making up the beauty of life
We have known very many people—good, warm-hearted,
and generous—who were capable of almost any act of self-
sacrifice and abnegation, who would never have condescended
to raise their hat to a lady, or offer her a glass of water be-
fore drinking themselves. This is frequently the fault of
coarse-grained nature, but perhaps oftenest the result of
early education. Indeed, we always think a man’s manners
are the “living epistle, known and read of all men,” of his
mother's training. Habitual politeness can only make a man
a thorough gentleman—a woman a true lady. And this is
easiest acquired in childhood, and in one's own household.
If a boy be respectful and courteous to his sisters, he will be
so to all women, so long as he lives; but if his intercourse
with them be coarse, careless, abrupt, not softened and re-
fined by a thousand nameless little attentions and graces, he
will be rough, awkward—not fulfilling always the beautiful
injunction of the apostle, “Be ye courteous to all men.”

A WISEI. 63
A WIS H.
BY WAN BUREN DENsi, OW.
Let others build, and delve, and spin,
And whirl amid the strife and din
Of traffic, toil and trade;
Let others plan, employ and horde,
Till palace rears and groans their board,
And all that lands and seas afford,
Shall at their feet be laid.
Nor would I fain be but a drone,
Pilfering the world’s industrial zone
Of food, and warmth, and mind.
I want to labor, make and mend,
I want to hoard and never spend;
I want to toil on without end,
But be my wealth mankind'

I’d lay the axe at errors strong,
And list to the fall of ancient wrong,
And then their roots unmold ;
And while heaven lent its dews and rain,
I’d plow, and weed, and strew the grain,
Till truth made green the moral plain,
And shed its seed tenfold.
I'd make a warehouse of my mind—
Fill it with facts of every kind;
And if I found somewhere -
A cellar, attic, cranny space—
Without a fact from any place, -
That might do good to any race,
I’d store a fancy there.


At sufferance till the fact should come,
Then cast it forth the winds to roam;
“There's room for me and thee,”
Then wide my gates and doors I’d fling,
And bid the peasant and the king
Their empty, famished minds to bring
And share my board with me.
Nor long the world could be my guest,
Ere o'er the earth new heavens should rest,
And storms should pass away.
The poor should laugh—the vile amend—
The oppressed look up—the haughty bend—
Bondage find freedom—wrong an end—
And darkness turn to day.


W H Y DO I W E E P }
By MRs. s. M. cI.ARKE.
“It is not that my lot is low,
That bids this silent tear to flow;
It is not grief that bids me moan,
It is that I am all alone.” H. K. WHITE.
I weep—not that my friends, the transient flowers,
That bloomed in beauty through the sunny hours
Of early youth, pass'd from my path away ;
As some gay plumaged birds, whose joyous lay
Falls sweet upon the ear at rising dawn,
But leaves us with the glittºring gems of morn—
I weep not that these early ties are riven;
For they have found a happier home in heaven.
And dearer friends than these, have, one by one,
Since I my short career of life begun,
Been torn from my once joyous home away—
They with “the sleepers of the valley” lay.
Oh! I no more their welcome smile shall meet-
Their words of kindness never, now, shall greet
My stricken heart—never in accents mild,
Again shall hear—“God keep and bless my child.”
I mourn not for the dead—their task is done;
I would not call one back whose sands have run—
Not even they, the guardians of my youth,
Who taught my infant mind the way of truth—
“O I should ill requite them to constrain
Their unbound spirits into bonds again.”
I weep not for the dead—I joy that they
Dwell in the sunlight of eternal day—
It is that I am left to tread alone
Life's toilsome path—for this I daily mourn.



--
MORNING CAL L S.
BY MRS. C. E. R. PARKER.
“OH, dear me ! I have been counting up the different
strangers in town, that I shall be obliged to call upon—it is
fairly discouraging, the weather is so warm l’exclaimed
Mary Vincent to her Aunt Polly, as they sat in the break-
fast room one fine July morning.
“Why not go in the evening 2" said Aunt Polly in a
quiet way. -
“Oh, because one has to stay longer in the evening, and
not one person is here that I care to see, excepting George
Davis' sister, Mrs. Doane, but I shall have to call upon them
for the civility of the thing. Now just let me tell you, Aunt
Polly, who is here, and then you will not wonder at my ex-
clamation. Now there is Miss Luce, that Dutch old maid,
who has come up to pass a few weeks with Mrs. Beers, you
know no one in the town can endure her, she was here last
summer, and though she is said to be quite wealthy, she looks
more like a shop woman from the city (one of those in the
lace stores,) than any body decent. Well I shall have to call
there, because she is Mrs. Beers' friend, and Mrs. Beers made
me promise—there's one of them. Well, then there is Mrs.
John White—a bride—just from the East; the Whites you
know are all awful common, and any body who would marry
John, must be more common than they, for John is not only
very vulgar, but he is only half witted ; well, there is the
second—then Mrs. Miles has about a dozen relatives here,
sisters and sisters-in-law, and a mother, and nobody knows
who, all clever enough I have no doubt, but very dowdy—
and there are so many of them—just think, two pews full
last Sunday—is it not fearful? Now don't look so solemn
please, Aunt Polly, for I am not half through—then there is
Mrs. Simms' sister come to stay awhile with her until she
gets better, and there I shall have to sit and hear Mrs. Par-
sons talk over all poor Catharine's diseases, her nervous turns,
66 MORNING CALLS.
and her spasms; I declare, I have no patience with spasms :
and I shall be expected to sympathize and advise, and all
sorts of things when I don't know a thing, and always
thought nerves were a great humbug. Now stop, Aunt
Polly!—it is impolite to interrupt—I am not half through
—then there is that love-lorn widow at Mrs. St. John’s that
looks as if she came out of the ark a widow, and had been
inconsolable for the loss of some antediluvian husband; well,
she can’t say six words without crying, and it always makes
me feel ashamed to know, that I am young and happy, and ,
good looking, and not acquainted with Noah and his family
—there is that silly thing, Jenny Lane, who has no less than
three very silly cousins staying with her—they went by this
morning with some young gentlemen giggling in such a fool-
ish manner: well, I shall have to call there; then to crown
all, Aunt Susan is expecting all the Bell tribe here to-mor-
row, and I shall have to be so agreeable to Annie, and Mary,
and Jane Bell, and they are so pedantic—and flat-oh,
dear !—then there is Mrs. Doane, she is the only one I de-
sire to see; George asked me to call, so I shall call; she is
very lovely, and George wants me to get acquainted with his
sister;” here Miss Mary Vincent paused a moment, and the
bright blood mounted in her delicate cheek, and overspread
her whole face, so Aunt Polly had a chance to put in a word.
“Mary, Mary, my dear girl, do not talk so ; you really
would give any one the impression that you were very ill-
natured—you rattle on in a most merciless manner; is there
no redeeming traits in any of these ladies that you are going
to see P’’ -
“Oh, yes, Aunt Polly! I suppose so, but redeeming traits
are so tiresome—but now really, Aunt Polly, please don’t
look so sober—now if you had to make all these calls, and
were going to tell me about them what should you say—will
you tell me? I'll be very patient, and see if I can’t improve
under your admonitions,”—and Mary drew up her pretty
mouth, and taking her sewing, began with great zeal to hem
a ruffle which lay beside her.
“Well,” said Polly, smiling, “I will tell you what I


MORNING CALLS. 67
-
should say, and I really think a stranger would hardly re-
cognize your's and my friends as the same persons—First,
there is Miss Luce, the German lady visiting Mrs. Beers, a
most companionable person, though not young; she is a great
favorite I think, she has been in the country only two years,
and of course has not learned all our peculiarities. Mrs. Beers
became acquainted with her in Europe, and she says her
father lives in a most princely style; she hada great desire
to pass a few years in this country, but I understand will
shorten her visit; will return to Germany next month, and
is to be married to a very elegant count, who has been off on
some East India duty, and is to meet her on her return—so
much for Miss Luce, your would-be shop girl. Then there
is Mrs. John White, who seems to be a very sweet little
creature; she is young and timid, but a girl of fine education,
and great refinement, and I do not blame her for her choice
of John for a husband; he is a noble fellow, not as brilliant
as some, but has one of the largest hearts, and that is a great
deal. The White family are perhaps not as aristocratic as
some by birth, but certainly they occupy a very desirable posi-
tion in our society. Then there is Mrs. Miles, your mother's
most valued friend, who is unwearied in her kindness to ris
all, is enjoying a visit from her old mother, and her two sis-
ters, with two of their daughters, really most delightful
people all of them, people that are surely most desirable
acquaintance for you, Mary, and to whom you have always
been under great obligations. Then there is Mrs. Parsons,
who has left her own delightful family at West Point, to
come and nurse her only sister in what in all probability is
her last sickness; poor Mrs. Simms has suffered more than
tongue can tell, and her disease has arrived at such a stage
now, that the physicians say she can live but a few weeks :
perhaps had you undergone the suffering she has, you would
not find it quite so easy to convince yourself that nerves are
a humbug. But worst of all, dear Mary, it grieved me sadly
to hear you speak so unfeelingly of my dear friend, Mrs.
James, the saddest creature I ever saw ; oh, has she had no
trouble 2 not one relation living—the noblest and most gen-
88 MORNING CALLS.
erous of husbands, and two sweet children, drowned before
her eyes, in the wreck of that ill-starred ship—father and
mother dying on the passage home, and her only brother—
the noble Frederick whom we all loved, but lately died on
duty in a frontier garrison—do not speak lightly of real sor-
row, Mary, lest it should be visited upon you all too soon.
Then there is Jenny Lane, pretty creature, full of youth,
and hope, and life, with those three sweet cousins, certainly
four as beautiful cousins as you often see; I shall fancy that
you are a little jealous, if you cannot appreciate such pretty
girls as Jenny Lane's cousins. Then there is your Aunt
Susan, how she would laugh to hear you call her grand
daughters pedantic and flat; I wonder what they say of you
when you go to New Haven to visit them. I wish all young
ladies were pedantic and flat if they could be like my dear
sister Susan’s children.”
Mary Vincent remained silent for a few moments when her
Aunt ceased speaking, then looking up with a bright smile,
she said—
“Aunt Polly, I really said more than I meant—do you
think me very unamiable 2"
“I think you are very heedless,” said Aunt Polly, “and
if you go on at this rate until you become an old maid like
me, you will be what is called a gossiping old maid, which
you know is a very detestable character; but, dear Mary, it
is really a sin to allow yourself to talk in this way—whether
it is all said in ill will, or good will, it is very, very wrong.
You learn to look upon a person's peculiarities and faults to
such an extent that you do not look for virtues, and perhaps
do not wish to find them. Idetest that civility, as you call it,
that obliges you to sit for a half an hour and really abuse a
dozen respectable families, and then dress up the next day in
your beautiful attire, and all smiles and good humor go and
make morning calls. I agree with you in regard to Mrs.
Doane, but perhaps if she was not the sister of George Davis
you would not think her any more lovely than Mrs. Parsons
—Mrs. James, or your cousins the Bells, as she certainly is
not ; do you suppose George Davis would love you any bet-
*

MORNING CALLS. 69
ter if he heard you talk as you have this morning about your
friends P’’
“I don't know as George loves me at all, Aunt Polly,”
said Mary, the tears coming to her eyes, “but I am sure I
will not talk so again, will you please just say ‘morning
calls’ to me whenever you hear me running on in my heart-
less way, and I will call to mind this conversation and not
indulge in this foolish, or as you would say, wicked habit
any more.”
“You must not only give up the habit of speaking in this
way, but you must pray that God will endow you with that
most excellent gift which ‘thinketh no evil,” look out for your
neighbor's virtues—not his faults—the excellencies not the
eccentricities of his character and deportment.”
“Thank you—thank you many times, dear Aunt Polly—I
hope if I ever live to be an old maid I shall be just like you
—I wish there were many very like you in the world 2*
The next morning Miss Mary Vincent might be seen with
her bright, happy face wreathed in smiles, as she stood be-
fore the mirror adjusting a little coquettish bud in her French
hat; she was exquisitely dressed in a delicate lavender silk,
rich lace visite, buff French crape hat with delicate blue
roses, lavender gloves, and faultless garters. “Now, good-
bye, Aunt Polly, I am going—I’ll tell you all about my
morning calls when I return”—and she closed the door be-
hind her, and ran down the steps, and proceeded on the shady
side of the street of our pretty village until she reached the
house in which George Davis' sister (Mrs. Doane) was visit-
ing. Mrs. Doane seemed glad to see her, she was a truly
lovely woman, and had learned from George his preference
for Miss Vincent. Mary was in a very amiable mood, and
talked on in her usually voluble manner of all the pleasant
things she could think, and left with the promise of a drive
with Mrs. Doane and George in the afternoon. She then
proceeded on her way, and found after all, that when one
looks upon things in the right light, morning calls, even
upon formidable strangers, is not such very awful work.
At the dinner table she again met Aunt Polly, and then


70 MORNING CALLS.
began to tell her about her visits. “I may thank you, Aunt
Polly, for the delightful morning I have had,” commenced
Miss Mary. “If I had gone out in the state of mind I was
in yesterday, I am sure I should have had an awful time,
but I tried to think of every thing pleasant about every one,
and say what I had to say in the most agreeable manner;
and what do you think, Aunt Polly, poor little Mrs. James
has invited me to come and pass the day with her sociably
to-morrow ; she says it does her good to see some one bright
and happy, and I felt so sorry for her I shed tears as she
kissed me kindly, and said, ‘God bless you, my dear, and
make you His own child, and shield you from the trials which
He has sent upon me.” Really, Aunt Polly, I do not know
but what it was the idea of Miss Luce marrying a count that
made me look more kindly upon her; she was really very
funny this morning, she is quite a fine looking woman—and
had on a superb set of Florentines to-day, and she told me
if I would let her know when I was to be married, she would.
send me just such a set, bracelets, ear-rings and pin ; so I
half promised her that if ever I do commit such an atrocity
that she shall be brides-maid—if she is not countess before
that—she laughed, and said, ‘I should have to hurry as she
hoped to be a countess before winter. Then I went to Mrs.
Miles; what a fine old lady her mother is, why I really loved
her, and there are really only five there besides her, and all
such nice people, they intend to get up a boating party, this
week, to visit the cavern on Lone Island, and I am to be
one of the party. And there is poor Mrs. Simms, I did feel
so sorry for her—after expressing much interest in her suffer-
ings, which I should not have felt but for you, Aunt Polly.
Mrs. Parsons would have me goin and see her, she is strange-
ly altered, and spoke of death so beautifully, and said that
her body was almost worn out with pain; then she spoke of
her children as if her great grief was to leave them ; I sat
quite awhile with her, and am to watch with her to-morrow
night; she said the sight of my bright, happy face would do
her good, and I shall go and see her every day if I can, and
read to her when she is able to bear it. Then I ran in to

MORNING CALLS. 71
see Jenny Lane and her cousins, they were all very busy, but
aklowed me to come in the morning room and see them as
they were ; they were all making calico dresses, and home-
spun petticoats for the little Jones' children; you know they
lost all they had in the fire last week, and the mother, though
an excellent woman, has little or nothing to invest in new
clothing for them, so these four very silly cousins got up a
contribution among themselves, and have really made quite
a fine investment, so I begged to add a little to their store,
and gave them the two dollars I had taken to buy that little
edging for my collar with ; I shall wear the collar without
any edging now, and like it all the better; you do not know
how very silly these four giggling cousins looked in their
meat morning dresses, and hair tucked behind their ears,
their busy fingers plying, and their voices ringing out mer-
rily, as they compared notes about the fit of the dresses and
the breadth of the petticoats, so I engaged a dress and pet-
ticoat to make, and Betsey is to run over for them after din-
ner. Oh, Aunt Polly, you have done me a great deal of
good, I feel so happy—so happy "
“Yes, dear Mary, I am very glad that you feel so happy,
act out your own noble self and you will always do what is
right, I know with God’s grace to help you ; just think how
much pleasure you would have deprived yourself, as well as
others, and how much good would have remained undone,
had you continued to indulge in the truly unchristian spirit
you encouraged yesterday morning. But, dear me, there is
George Davis, and we have not yet had the desert upon the
table.”
“No matter about the desert, it is something about the
ride, I suppose;” said Mary, quickly, and she laughed at
herself, as she stepped to the glass to arrange a truant curl,
the rich blush overspreading her cheek, while the dimples
played round her smiling mouth—“really, what can he want
though, so early P*
We can only guess what he did want—nobody has told -
us, but we have an inkling some way, that Mrs. Doane was
peculiarly pleased with Miss Vincent's call, and said many
72 MORNING CALLS.
pleasant things to George about her, a few moments after,
and George became impatient, for he was already tremeh-
dously in love, and when the ride was spoken of as to take
place at four o’clock, he thought now or never, and two
o'clock, found him at the door of his inamorata, and four
o'clock struck, and he was still there, and when Mrs. Doane
with her carriage and two grey ponies drove up to the door,
George was seen coming out of the door without any hat, in
a case of mental hallucination, and Mary was no where to
be found, but very soon she appeared very quietly in her
meat cottage bonnet and plain dress, and simply said she had
been making her toilet; Mrs. Doane said nothing, but a
merry twinkle was in her eye, and she begged Aunt Polly to
come with them upon the drive ; and Aunt Polly very de-
murely consented. Mary was very quiet, and George looked
happy, and rattled away to his sister and Aunt Polly, occa-
sionally appealing to Miss Vincent. They had a delightful
drive, and some one says that George passed the evening
there, and walked round with Miss Mary to see Jenny Lane
and the silly cousins, to ask some instructions in regard to
the calico dress for Mrs. Jones' little girl. After George had
left Miss Vincent she walked into Aunt Polly's room, and
seating herself on the bed was very confidential for some
time, and kept thanking Aunt Polly, and told herit was all
owing to her advice about morning calls. What could it all
mean P
And I heard but yesterday, that Miss Luce leaves for
- Europe to-morrow, and the Florentines, and some other very
handsome articles are to be sent out early in December, for
some grand event must be coming off. Who knows, perhaps
Miss Mary herself, before spring, may have many odious
morning calls to return—bridal calls, some whisper. I hope
she will feel in as pleasant a humor as she did the day she
called upon all those formidable strangers, that lovely morn-
ing last July.


THE CHRISTIAN's HOME. 73
THE CHRISTIAN’S HOME.
BY WAN BUREN DENSLOW.
THis graceful elm, slow waving with the wind
Above this humble plot of stainless green—
This modest cottage crouching sweet behind,
And through its gown of lilacs hardly seen
Might draw a sigh from sated luxury's breast,
Or royal yearnings for this humble home—
Where weary souls in peaceful shades might rest,
Or musing with their teacher, Nature, roam.
But not in graceful elm, or lilac sweet,
Or eave of thatch, or lawn of virgin green,
Nestles the charm that broods o'er this retreat,
From which 'tis hard my clinging soul to wean.
Into this bower the bird of heaven hath flown,
Which rested on our Saviour's brow—a dove;
And where it flutters, there is joy alone,
Affection, peace, and love inspiring love.
TO-MORROW.
WHo can tell how much is embraced in this expression ?
Though a few hours intervene between it and us—though it
will soon commence its course—who is there that can read
its single page and pronounce the character of its events 2
To-morrow ! Those who are now gay may be sad. Those
who are now walking the avenues to Pleasure, led by the
hand of Hope, may be subjects of intense sorrow. Prosper-
ity may be changed into adversity. Those who are now on
the mountain summit may be in the valley. The rosy cheek
may be overspread with paleness, the strong step-may falter
—Death may have overtaken us. To-morrow ! It may en-
tirely change the course of our lives. It may form a new
era in our existence. What we fear may not happen.
THE CONSUMPTIVE.
BY MRS. C. E. R. PARKER.
“Death -
Came calmly o'er him, like a thin mist
Upon a lake at evening, or the melting
Of distant music on the silent sea.”
ALAs I know that he must die,
Consumptive’s fatal hand
Hath touched those much-loved lineaments
With her mysterious wand;
The light that kindles in that eye
So gentle and so bright
Is but the flash of fading hope’s
Pale metoric light.
Daily I watch his sinking frame,
And mark the daily change,
So slight, and yet so sadly sure,
So beautiful, so strange.
Sometimes his eye is strangely bright
And flushed his sunken cheek,
Yet every day he seems to me
As more worn out and weak.
His voice grows fainter, and oft times
I listen all in vain,
Though kindly still he answers me,
I know it is with pain.
I sit with him, and wonder how
My future life will be
Without this blessed friend to cheer
Whom God has given to me.
But God forgive me, if one thought
That's selfish enters here,
God wills to make him happy—shall
I weakly interfere?
At first the thought that he must die,
Seemed more than I could bear,
But God hath given me strength to yield
Entirely to His care.
I love him—for in early youth
My heart to him was given;


THE CONSUMPTIVE. 75
I love him—but I would not stand
* Between him and his heaven /
And though my life be lone and sad,
Yet short at best 't will be,
And all the while he’ll be at rest,
My blessed Lord, with Thee.

But oh! his home ! his heaven!—for him
Doth promise perfect rest ;
He longs to go and seek repose
On his Redeemer's breast.
God give me grace to be with him,
When he shall breathe his last, .
Beside his bed, to watch and pray
Till the sad conflict’s past-
To close those rayless eyes in peace
In their last slumber deep,
And joy that God at last has given
To his beloved sleep.

God give me strength to follow him
And see where he is laid,
And o'er the open grave to stand
While holy prayers are said.
My treasure then in heaven, oh God!
My heart in heaven shall be,
Oh God, my Father —even so,
If it seem good to Thee.

Though very sad and desolate,
My wanderings here below,
Still God will be my comforter,
My guide where’er I go.
So take him, Lord, 'tis well with him ;
Oh, Lord, 'tis well with me,
That Thou in mercy turned my heart,
From such idolatry.
So take him, Lord—my best beloved,
No longer mine, but Thine—
And keep him, Lord, and in his stead,
Be Thou forever mine.
Grant this my prayer—no mortal love
Again may fill this heart,
Then, Lord, alone—in life—in death,
Thou never wilt depart.
THE CHURCH IN MY NATIVE PLACE.
ON THE RE-MODELING OF
THE CHURCH IN MY NATIVE PLACE.
BY M.R.S. L. H. SIGOURNEY.
Gone —dome, and arch, and column, all
From their old trust displac'd 1
What! even the fair, time-honor'd wall,
Dismantled, and defac’d 1

I deem'd yon fane, in earliest years,
Most wonderful and grand:—
Like some cathedral's honor'd pile,_
Or boast of fairy-land.
-
That gallery gone –whence first I heard

Accordant anthems glide;—.
And dar'd at length my voice to blend
With trembling awe, and pride;
That pulpit too!—where year by year,
The white-hair'd pastor went,
The father of his trusting flock,-
By fourscore years umbent,<
The message of his Lord to bear,<-
The bread of life to break,-
Ah! could ye not that pulpit spare
E’en for his precious sake?


Those pews, where sat the good and wise
Who loved the Sacred Law;
To whom our thoughtless childhood raised
The glance of reverent awe-
"1"HE CII URCH IN MY NAT1 we l’I, ACE. ºl
Those pews, yet if they were not gone,
And I again was there;
How many would be missed and mourned,
The stately and the fair!
The sharers in my youthful glee,
Their locks are flecked with grey,
The Chiefs, who for their country stood,
The Fathers, where are they !
And those, the dearest to my soul,
Their names I will not speak,-
The lone heart hides a bitterer tear
Than that which floods the cheek.
I fain had hoped, remembered dome !
Once more to be thy guest,-
And tread the old, familiar aisles
My infant footsteps pressed.
But what avails, since all are fled,
Who loved my dawning prime;
And I am like a withered leaf,
Borne down the stream of time.
Yet, is it well in selfish grief,
Thy heightened charms to lose?
Or for the dead and dreamy past,
The present good refuse !
No! for their sake, whose ransomed souls
Imbibed thy heavenly lore,
And upward winged a glorious flight,
When earth's short dream was o'er.
And for their sake—the race unborn,
Who to thy courts shall come,
And learn a lowly Saviour's word-
I bless thee,_sacred dome.


78 THE SPINNING WIHEEL.
THE SPINNING WHEEL.
IN this age of sonatas, cavatinas and operas—of pianos,
harps and guitars; of bad French and worse Italian, in
short, of tiresome “externities,” as a friend of ours who
should have been a lexicographer, would say, it is really
refreshing to go back a few years, and visit even in imagi-
nation, one of those quiet, secluded farm houses which
abound in New England, the humble but happy homestead
of generation after generation, to whom every tree and
shrub about the old place is dear and sacred. We have
one now in the mind's eye, where so many delightful hours
were spent in early youth, that we cannot resist the temp-
tation of describing it, for the benefit of such of our readers
as know little of “real country” life. The house was an
old-fashioned, unpainted, steep-roofed building, standing far
back from the road, surrounded by fruit trees of various
kinds, and looking, as you approached it, almost like a bird's
nest concealed among the branches. The large yard in
front, at the earnest entreaty of the “girls,” had been sown
with timothy and clover, instead of corn and potatoes,
which the father insisted would have been much the better
crop, and two small beds under the front windows were
given up to them for flowers. They had never even heard
of camellias or dahlias, or even of heliotropes or verbenas,
but they had abundance of bright marigolds, sweet-wil-
liams, chinasters, pinks, and lady's delights, and to our
childish imagination nothing could be more beautiful than
those flower-beds, or more delightful than the task of assist
ing to weed, and water, and keep them in such nice order, tha
Titania herself might have taken her mid-summer night's
dream there, undisturbed. Even the flaunting sun-flowers,
ranged along the garden wall, came in for a share of our
admiration. At the kitchen entrance, stood long benches,
on which were ranged rows of bright tin pans, ready

THE SPINNING WHEEL. 79
for the use of the “neat handed Phillis,” who managed the
dairy. About the kitchen walls, were festooned strings of
dried apples and pumpkin, while here and there, long crook-
necked squashes were suspended, their rich golden rind
forming an agreeable contrast with the dark beams and
rafters of the apartment. But the capacious “fire-place”—
how can we properly describe that centre of attraction in
an old-fashioned farm house " The “chimney corner”
would almost have contained one of our modern apologies
for a kitchen, and when the winter evening fire was made,
the immense log properly placed, and a quantity of wood
which might last a citizen for a month, heaped up in front
of it, how snugly were the juveniles of the family enscons-
ed within it, as we listened to the fireside chat of our elders,
and waited for the nuts and apples which were sure to make
their appearance before our departure for the night. We
see them now—those kind and pleasant faces, some of
which have long since settled into the stillness of death,
while others are so changed by time and sorrow, that hard-
ly a vestige of the former self remains. The prudent wife
and mother, busy with her needle, “making auld claithes
look amaist as weel's the new ;” the husband and father
conning the weekly paper, ever and anon laying aside his
spectacles, to join in the household chat, while the indus-
trious and active, but really pretty daughters, their daily
task accomplished, were preparing some article of feminine
adornment for the coming Sabbath, or the next quilting or
sleigh-ride. Nor were we without our musician and our
music. In a sheltered corner, seated in a high-backed arm
chair, sat the beloved and venerated grandmother, on
whose placid countenance not a trace of human passions
was visible, and before her stood an instrument of music,
which, even yet, is sweeter to our rebellious ears than one
of Erard's finest harps. Its measured and monotonous ca-
dence made an appropriate accompaniment to the conver-
sation of the domestic circle, of which the dear musician
was the very life and soul, with her wise and cheerful com-

80 The SPINNING WIHEEL.
ments on passing events, and her varied reminiscences of
the past. Do our youthful readers wish to know the name
of the musical instrument to which we listened? Start not,
gentle reader, it was not a harpsichord or lute, but a simple,
unpretending, linen spin NING wheel. “Dear Granny,” as the
children all called her, had been in her day a famous spin-
ner, and even now, her aged fingers plied their busy task
with a dexterity that we could never sufficiently admire.
How we loved to watch the mysterious process by which
the flax was pulled from the distaff, caught by the flyers, and
wound on the spindle, a smooth and even thread, with so
little apparent exertion. -
It seemed the easiest thing in the world to manage that
little spinning wheel, and we were in danger of undervalu-
ing the skill of the performer, until repeated trials had con-
vinced us that it was not a thing to be learned by intuition.
The snows of a hundred winters had settled on the head of
that ancient dame, yet still she was stately and erect in
person, courteous and dignified in manner, and in temper,
buoyant and hopeful as a child. When urged by her affec-
tionate children to lay aside her spinning wheel, and rest
the remainder of her life, she would reply, “’No, no—you
must not ask me to do that. Since I was a little child, I
have for six days in the week, been constantly employed in
doing something for myself or others, and now, idleness
would kill me. I love to work, and the low buzzing of my
little wheel seems just to suit the pleasant thoughts that fill
my mind about the scenes of the past, and that happy world
to which I am hastening.” There was nothing more to be
said on the subject, so “dear Granny” continued the em
ployment she loved so well, until the last week of her long
and useful life. Her spinning wheel is treasured as a sa
cred relic by her descendants, who value it not only as a
memento of one so beloved, but as a silent teacher of im
portant and often neglected truths. Lessons of practical
wisdom are associated with it, to which we would fain give
The SPINNING WIHEEL. Sl

voice, that they might reach the ear of every youthful
female in the land.
Our venerable grandmother loved to talk of the “good
old times,” and it was to us a never failing source of enjoy-
ment to sit at her feet, and listen to stories of the past,
which, though often repeated, were never wearisome.
“When I was young,” she used to say, “girls were not
brought up to be good for nothing in the wide world, as too
many are now-a-days. No matter whether they were rich
or poor, all were taught to work, and to feel that home was
the place where they must find their happiness, whether as
maids, wives, or mothers. As soon as we were tall enough
to reach the large wheel, we learned to spin wool, and
never dreamed of any amusement for ourselves, till our "
daily task was completed. We assisted too, in household
matters, knew how to make butter and cheese, and should
have scorned the idea of getting married until we had a
pillow case full of stockings of our own knitting, and a press
filled with linen spun and woven by our own hands.”
“Dear Granny—what spiritless mopes you must have
been, and how-little pleasure you must have had Only
think of having to work all the time, without any recrea-
tion ''
“Poor child!” was the reply, “you know nothing at all
about it. We were as busy as bees, to be sure, but then
we were as blithe as a lark, and as merry as a cricket all the
day long. We never even heard of the thousand ailments
common now among young folks, and as to recreation, why
we had more heart-gaiety and frolic at a quilting bee, a
sleigh-ride, or a paring match, than one of your fashionable
belles enjoys in a whole year. But, dear children,” she
would add, while her placid features assumed an unwonted
seriousness, “we were taught in those days, that we must
not live only or mainly to enjoy ourselves that our first
earthly duties were to make ourselves useful in our father's
family, and to prepare to manage properly one of our own.
We did not think or talk more about marriage than you do

82 The spinning. Whe EL.
now, but we talked about it very differently. We knew it
was a contract for better or worse, to last through life, and
that it was a serious matter. We thought less of a splen-
did wedding and fine furniture, and more of the substantial
comforts of a family, than young people seem to now. This
little wheel was given me by my father on my marriage
day, and I prized it more, and trust I have made a better use
of it in my long life, than if it had been the most splendid
piano that ever graced a fashionable parlor. Not that I
have any objection to music—I love it, for all nature is full
of it, not always written, to be sure, but it is all the sweeter
for that to my old ears. But life is something else besides
a holyday, and fine clothes and fine music, though very well
in their proper place, will not always make a husband
happy, nor his home comfortable. Let the foundation
be well laid, by a knowledge of everything a woman ought
to know as the mistress of a family, and then no matter how
full of ornament the superstructure may be. But it is the
misery of society, that a showy edifice is so often built
on sand and rubbish, and then when the cold wind of
adversity blows, and the storms of life beat upon it—
when strength and shelter are most needed, then the gild-
ed but hollow structure falls to the ground, and worldly
credit, hope and happiness are buried beneath its ruins.”
Frequently, in passing through the world, are we re-
minded of this apt comparison, and as we mark the
shoals and quicksands on which so many bright hopes
and brilliant prospects are wrecked, we thank God for
the early lessons of industry, and relative duty imbibed
at the side of the spin NING wheel.
FORGIVENESS.
* * * * * * “How sweetly falls
From lips divine the blessed word.ſºgiº
Forgiveness! 'Tis the attribute of God, .
The sound that opens Heaven, renews again
On earth, lost Eden's faded bloom, and flings
Hope's balcyon halo o'er the waste of life.”

THE PILGRIM MOTHERS. 83
THE PILGRIM MOTHERS.
WE have been accustomed almost from the cradle, to asso-
ciate with the old world every idea of historic interest, and
to look on our own country rather with hope and expecta-
tion for the future than with pride in the remembrances of
the past. All this may be very proper, and yet there is one
subject on which every American boy and girl, ought even
in infancy to be taught to think with reverence, and to speak
with grateful exultation. If to possess an illustrious ances-
try, be a thing of which one may justly boast, then may the
sons of New England point to the graves of the pilgrim
fathers as the proudest and most enduring monuments of
national glory. In a state of society so different, and in full
possession of the blessings they purchased for us at such an
expense, we can hardly appreciate or understand all the
elements of the noble puritan character. The band who
left the deck of the May Flower for the bleak shores of
Plymouth Bay, on the 22d of December, 1620, were no ordi-
nary men. Their courage had been proved in battle—their
wisdom and patriotism in council, and their adherence to
principle at any sacrifice, in the midst of privations such as
we can never know. But the voyagers of the May Flower,
on their holy errand of freedom came not alone. Standing
by their side on the trackless ocean, or in the howling wil-
derness, were lovely and delicate women, who had freely
given up all the elegancies and comforts of home, and all
the endearments of kindred, to share their perils, their pri-
vations and their sufferings. The Pilgrim Mothers—“saint-
ed name " surrounded in the eyes of their descendants, with
a halo which eclipses the splendor of coronets or crowns,
while yet we know not half their heroism, half their devo-
tion, or half their worth.
We have stood by the rock on which the Pilgrims land
ed, on the day so appropriately known as “Forefather's




-
84 THE PILGRIM MoTHERs.
Day,” and tried to imagine the feelings of that little com-
pany of females, who, more than two hundred years before,
knelt there in grateful acknowledgment of the mercy which
had preserved them from an ocean grave, and brought them
to this home in the wilderness. The face of nature was
still the same— -
“The waves of the bay still threw their spray"—
as they did when the May Flower moored in the offing. The
sea was still black with storms, and the shore white with
snow—but how changed was every other thing on which we
gazed. Instead of the thrivingtown withitstastefuldwellings,
its splendidchurches and crowded streets,the pilgrim mothers
saw before them as they turned away from the foaming wa-
ters, a trackless forest, filled with beasts of prey, and sava-
ges still more fierce and treacherous. No comfortable home
was prepared for them; no cheerful circle awaited their
arrival with words of welcome, and ministries of kind hos-
pitality. Some among them had been reared in courtly
halls, and so tenderly cherished that the breath of heaven
was not allowed to visit the fair cheek too roughly ; they
were now wearied and ill, but what could love itself do to
obviate the hardships and discomforts of their lot? Well
might the stoutest hearts have quailed under a sense of
present suffering and of impending danger, but if in that
small company, one desponding tone was heard, the voice
assuredly was not that of woman. The pilgrim wife spoke
of hope and comfort to her husband, while her own heart
was slowly but surely sinking under its load; she bade him
remember the glorious cause for which he had borne so
much, and the high destinies that awaited them, if the found-
ers of the infant colony were but true to themselves and
their God. The pilgrim mother impressed on her children
while yet in lisping infancy, lessons of civil and religious
liberty, which in after years formed the character of a Brad-
ford, a Winthrop, a Warren, a Hancock, and an Adams.
But the present, with its stirring events, its duties and

The PILGRIM. MCTIIERS. S5
responsibilities, is not the time for us to sit as ide worship-
pers—
“Of a legendary virtue carved on ancestral graves.”
“The tracks” that “made Plymouth Rock sublime,” were
toward the Future, not the Past, and it is only as lofty
models of excellence, intended for their imitation, that we
present the Pilgrim mothers to our youthful readers. They
may not, like these tender but heroic women, have occa-
sion to give up all the comforts and enjoyments of life in
their adherence to the truth—but the unselfish affection—
the strong faith and generous devotion which made the
heart's perpetual summer amid the snows of the wilder-
ness, are all needed in the every day duties of life, and their
exercise will render the humblest home an earthly paradise.
There is too much in the prevailing modes of educating
girls, and in the social habits of our sex, which has a ten-
dency to make them feel that idleness is a feminine accom-
plishment, and that to be essentially helpless is in itself a
patent of nobility. A practical, energetic, useful woman,
who thinks and acts for herself, and pleads guilty to a
thorough knowledge of domestic affairs, is looked upon by
these fine ladies with suspicion and almost disgust, and un-
less from circumstances she occupy an assured station in
society, her title to the common courtesies of life is consid-
ered questionable. Would that all who take this false view
of life and its duties, could look back through the vista of
time into the lowly dwellings of those filgrim fathers, of
whose deathless fame they are justly proud. There they
might see a graceful and delicate woman, the daughter o.
a belted Earl, whose pathway, ere she left her father's prince-
ly halls, had been strewed only with roses, cheerfully per-
forming the most menial offices for her husband and chil-
dren, and lighting up that humble but happy home with the
cloudless sunshine of conjugal and maternal affection.
They might see her, in the midst of privations and dangers,
the recital of which blanches the cheek, and sends a thrill
* - -

86 TO E.- C.— S.–.
of horror through every nerve, performing her daily duties
calmly and fearlessly as though she bore a charmed life,
and while the frail body was wasting beneath the pressure
of the heroic spirit, still loving, hoping and trusting to the
last. Such was the pilgrim wife—such the pilgrim mother
whose instructions and bright example formed the charac
ter of the signers of the Declaration of Independence—the
framers of our Constitution, and the heroes of the Revolu-
tionary war. Shall we look upon their like again? Never
—until the first lesson impressed on the minds of our daugh-
ters shall be, forgetfulness of self, and the love and practise
of living to do good to others. Never—until woman shall
cease to be the butterfly of fashion, the votary of pleasure,
and rise to the high dignity of her nature and destiny, as
the guardian of the domestic circle, the depositary of the
hallowed influences that are to bless and regenerate the
world. -
AIR.—“Go, Forget Me.”
While from forms beloved thou rovest,
Which thou ne'er again may'st see,
And art leaving scenes thou lovest,
Leave, still leave one tho’t with me!
E’en when others hover round thee,
Think of ties that here have bound thee,
Think of hours when thou werthere,
Past.—yet still to mem'ry dear.
And if eer to mind thou bringest,
Songs that I have form'd for thee,
Breathe my name—and as thou singest,
Leave, still leave one thought with me
Think how oft our voices blended,
While some anthem lov'd ascended,
Think 'tis sweet that we have met,
Think—thou never wilt forget !
THE GARDEN ENCLOSED. S7
THE GARDEN ENCLOSED
TO A YOUNG WOMAN ON HER INTENDED MARRIAGE.
I have heard, my friend, that thou art about to enter
a garden enclosed, and knowing that thou art at present a
stranger to it, beg permission to give thee an account of
some of its productions. I have traveled through all its
paths, and am acquainted with them perfectly, and my ad-
vice can do thee no harm, but may on the contrary, be of
some service to thee.
Thou knowest there is but one way of entrance into this
enclosure. This way, I need hardly tell thee, is commonly
flowery and inviting, strewed with sweets, and adorned
with all that imagination can suggest, or artinvent. Thou
wilt fondly imagine that this scene of delight will never
change, and certainly thou wilt not see the end of this path
when thou enterest it. To some it proves a very short one,
and even to thee it will appear greatly changed in the
retrospect. -
Then let me caution thee, my friend, not to dream of per-
fect and perpetual bliss: if thou dost, experience will teach
thee that it never exists on earth. Thou wilt find many of
the productions of this garden, charming to the eye, and
pleasant to the taste, but they are not all so. Let me just
remind thee that thou must carry with thee into it, one of
the most delicate and fragrant flowers in nature, I mean
good HUMoR. Do not drop or forget it as too many do, soon
after they enter, and seldom or never find it again. It is a
treasure, the loss of which can never be made up to thee.
When thou hast reached the end of the first walk, which
extends about thirty steps, usually called honey moon path,
thou wilt find the garden opening into a great variety of
views. Beware here of some productions that are noxious
and even fatal in their tendency.
There is a small low plant to be seen in almost every
direction, called INDIFFERENCE. It does not often grow near
the entrance, but thou wilt always know it by a certain chill-

-
-
- º

8S Trie GARDEN ENCI,0SED.
ness in the air which surrounds it. Contrary to other plants,
this thrives by cold, and dies from warmth; whenever thou
perceivest this coolness in the air, change thy situation as
soon as possible. -
Near this plant is often found that vile yellow flower,
called JEALousy, on which thou must never even look, but
turn from it instantly, for it possesses the property of impart-
ing a tinge to the eye which gazes upon it, that can never
be removed.
As thou passest along, thou wilt find many little crooked
paths, into which I advise thée never to enter, for though at
the entrance is written in large letters—“Rigiit"—yet when
thou art at the end, thou wilt find the true name of nine out
of ten, to be PERVERSENEss—and that thou hast been wrong
in going into them. Thou wilt not care to acknowledge
this, and so, many disputes will arise, producing much suf-
fering and sometimes final separation. -
Near this spot, thou wilt meet with a sturdy, knotty plant
called obstiNAcy, which bears a hard, bitter fruit, wholly in-
digestible, and which becomes, when taken in large quanti-
ties, fatal to the constitution. Avoid it as thou wouldst the
plague. Just opposite to this plant, grows the lowly but
fragrant shrub, compliance, which, though not always
pleasant to the taste, is salutary and sweet when digested,
and produces the most beneficial effects. Always carry
about thee a large stock of this; thou wilt often find occa-
sion for its use as thou passest along, and wilt surely repent
the want of it. -
All over the garden may be found an humble but useful
plant, called Economy. Gather it as soon as thou dost enter;
it is of a thriving nature, and amply repays all the culture
bestowed upon it. Many overlook, and some despise it—
others think they shall have no use for it, and indeed it is
generally forgotten in the hurry and gaiety with which peo-
ple enter the garden, but the want of it often occasions bit-
- ter suffering and repentance. Provide for thyself and thy
husband a sufficient quantity as speedily as thou canst.
The GARDEN ENCLOSED. Sº
Thou wilt observe in passing along, two or three paths
that run into each other, and which, though smoothly grav-
elled, and very straight, may not seem to merit the attention
they really deserve. They are, REGULARITY, order, and NEAT-
Ness, and are always to be found in this enclosure. -Do not
think as many do, that because thou art a dweller in the gar-
den thou mayest neglect these paths, for remember, thy
companion will see some who are walking in them, and the
difference will strike his eye if it does not offend it. Enter
those paths at once, for be assured if thou dost not find them
soon, thou never wilt.
In the immediate vicinity of these paths you will find that
precious and rare exotic, HUMILITY. Cultivate it with the
utmost care, for it is easily blighted, and when once it droops
thou wilt with difficulty restore it. This sweet flower is
universally admired, and is the only antidote for that poison-
ous weed, PRIDE, which springs up every where, and would
soon overrun and destroy every valuable plant in the garden.
Shouldst thou, my dear friend, be entrusted with the rear-
ing of a flower, remember that though frail in its nature,
and liable to fade at every blast, yet it is a sacred charge
committed to thee, for which thou wilt be held accountable
by the great Owner of the garden, to whom it belongs. It
will demand thy tenderest care, and constant attention, and
shouldst thou witness a blight on its dawning beauties, oh,
how thy fond heart would bleed! The young shoot will
twine about every fibre of thy heart—water it, prune it,
train it diligently; it will need all thy care. Without this,
many baneful weeds will check its growth, and wither its
opening charms. - -
That thou mayest be blessed with these sweet flowers of
the garden—that they may be the delight of thine eyes, and
the joy of thine heart—that they may be ornaments in life,
and comforts in death, and that thou and they, when the
summer of life is over, may be transplanted into a happier
soil hereafter, there to flourish in immortal bloom, in perfect
and perpetual felicity, is, and ever will be my ardent prayer.

-

0 ALICE,-A STORY OF OUR WILLAGE.
ALICE.-A STORY OF OUR WILLAGE.
BY MRS. S. T. MARTYN.
(Continued from page 49.)
For some months after the departure of Alice, though
Mrs. Carlton wrote regularly, and in every letter pore the
most gratifying testimony to the progress of her pupil, I
received not one line from the dear girl herself. At length
a letter arrived, which more than made amends for the de-
lay. If I had been gratified with the commendations be-
stowed on her by her truly maternal friend, I was enchant-
ed with the development of heart and mind, visible in
every line of this precious communication. From that time
Out correspondence Was uninterrupted, and it was to me a
source of ever fresh enjoyment. A new world had opened
on Alice, and in the excitement of awakened and kindling
intellect, she seemed hardly to recognize her own identity.
The originality and beauty of her thoughts surprised and
charmed me, yet I sometimes trembled for the happiness of
my young protegee, as the depth and intensity of her emo-
tions were unconsciously displayed in these sparkling effu-
sions. How I longed for her return, which, in compliance
with the wishes of Mr. Forrester, who had just returned
from a long visit to Europe, had been delayed from month
to month, until nearly three years and a half had elapsed
since our separation.
The day came at last, when I was to welcome home, the
long expected Alice, who had accompanied Mrs. Carlton
to New York, and there had been placed under the care of
a gentleman coming directly to our village. My impa-
tience could hardly be restrained, and after looking in for
the twentieth time, to see if every thing was in its place in
the little room appropriated to Alice, I seated myself at a
window commanding a distant view of the road, to watch
for her arrival. The sound of wheels was heard at length
—it came nearer—ceased—the carriage had stopped at my
gate, and I ran to meet the traveler. But could it be that
ALICE,--A STORY OF OUR WILLAGE. 91
the beautiful and graceful girl, who in her eagerness to
alight, could hardly wait the movements of the driver, was
the little hoyden from whom I parted on that spot three
years before ? So entire was the transformation, that I
gazed on her with actual incredulity, even while her warm
tears were falling on my cheek. She was indeed most
beautiful, yet it was the impress of mind so stamped on
every eloquent feature, that constituted her chief attraction.
The statue had been touched with fire from heaven, and
the soul that shone out through the dark depths of those
eyes, so brilliant and yet so tender, was one of no ordinary
cast. I found her highly educated, and accomplished be-
yond what I had even dared to hope, for the motive that
urged her forward was sufficiently powerful to task every
energy of mind and body. Before leaving Mrs. Carlton,
she had been offered a situation as governess in a family of
the highest respectability in one of the Middle States, and
only waited for my consent, to give her answer in the
affirmative.
But where was Mr. Forrester all this time ! Had he no
desire to witness the effects of that mental cultivation, on
the necessity of which he so earnestly insisted? That he
came to the cottage very soon after the arrival of Alice, is
certain, but his manner, though kind and polite, was state-
ly and reserved, and I was unable to decide whether or not,
he shared my admiration of our sweet Alice. Of her pecu-
niary obligations to him she knew nothing, for he had in-
sisted on having the matter so arranged, that my protegee
should suppose the expenses of her education to be defrayed
by myself. In vain. I remonstrated against the deception,
and refused to sustain the part allotted me. I found I must
either yield to his terms, at least so far as to be silent on
the subject, or forego the advantages thus offered to Alice,
and I was well aware that she would accept the obligation
much more readily from me than from Mr. Forrester. In
his presence, therefore, though she looked up to him, as to
a superior being, and felt for him an almost filial reverence,


92 ALice.—A story of ºn vita, AGE.
she was free from the embarrassment which a knowledge
of the truth would have occasioned.
For months after the return of Alice, we were almost
constantly in the society of our friends at the Hall. We
read, and walked, and rode together, and though neither
word nor action of Mr. Forrester, betrayed more than a
brother's interest in the fair being who was the life and soul
of our re-unions, I knew he was studying her character
closely, even when he seemed scarcely conscious of her
presence. He was continually forming new plans of inter-
est, instruction or amusement, which were warmly second-
ed by Mrs. Lawton, whose attachment to Alice was ardent
and openly expressed. The bird-like voice which had
charmed me in Capt. Dudley's cottage, years before, had
been cultivated with great care by Mrs. Carlton; and she
had likewise become a proficient in instrumental music, of
which she was passionately fond. How often have we lis
tened by moonlight to those notes of thrilling sweetness that
came gushing up from the very heart of the performer,
until pleasure became pain from its very excess. Surely,
thought I, “if music be the food of love,” no one who has a
heart, can listen to such strains unmoved. --
I had ardently hoped, as some new charm was every day
developed in Alice, that her loveliness and her virtues might
win the heart of my friend at the Hall, for well I knew him
to be just fitted to mould and direct a temperament like
hers, ardent, disinterested and enthusiastic. True, he might
choose, both from his personal character and his standing
in society, among the fairest and noblest of the land, yet
the fact was undoubted, that he was still “fancy free,” and
I could not persuade myself that one so alive to the good
and the beautiful, could associate with my protegee : could
witness the outpourings of her guileless heart, her unselfish
nature, and her fine intellect, without confessing her pow-
ers. But Mr. Forrester exercised at all times perfect con-
trol over his looks, words and actions, and in the strict im-
partiality of his attentions to our little circle, I gradually

ALICE–A STORY OF OUR viii.46E. 93
gave up all hope of a denouement which would have been
so gratifying. -
Winter passed away, and with the early spring a letter
came from Mrs. Bingley, the lady to whom I have referred
previously, urging Alice to come on immediately, and offer-
ing carte-blanche as to terms. She decided at once to ac-
cept the offer, which was in every respect a most eligible
one, and I was reluctantly compelled to assent to her wish-
es, since in a state of dependence she could no longer have
been happy. While we were still conversing over the let-
ter, and laying plans for the future, Mr. Forrester entered
by the garden-gate. Alice, who had been weeping, made
her escape, while I communicated to him the contents of
the letter, and the decision we had formed, as an apology
for the emotions he had witnessed. Proud and impassive
as he had always seemed, I was not prepared for the agi
tation visible in every feature, as he instantly and strongly
objected to the plan. Alice was too young, too lovely, too
every way admirable, to bury herself in such a situation;
in short, he seemed indignant that I should entertain for a
moment the idea of her return to the south in this capacity.
I was astonished, for I had supposed him to be far above
the petty pride which scorns any useful employment, and
expected him to appreciate the motives which had actuated
the high-minded girl in her determination. -
“And what reasons am I to give to Alice,” I asked rather
pettishly, “for your opposition to her plan, for though it is
the first wish of my heart to keep her with me, I am sure
under present circumstances she will refuse to remain.”
“I will myself give her my reasons,” he answered, with
an expression of countenance I had never before seen,
“and if they are satisfactory to Miss Tracy, the happiness
of my life is secured.” So saying, with a smile and bow he
hastened after Alice, who was in the garden, leaving me in
a state of bewildered surprise that absorbed all my facul-
ties. Could it be possible, that this man, so fastidious, so
reserved. so difficult to please, as I had always considered

94 ALICE,-A STORY OF OUR VILLAGE.

him, loved the young and artless orphan, well enough to
lay aside all his prejudices about birth and family, and to
offer her the hand and heart eagerly coveted by some of the
proudest of the land? How could I have been so blind to
this attachment so long, when by it, the dearest wish of my
heart was likely to be accomplished 7
I was still engrossed in delightful day dreams of the
future, unconscious of the lapse of time, when Alice, pal
and agitated, entered the room, and throwing herself on a
low seat at my side, hid her face in my lap, and gave full
vent to her tears.
“Alice,” I exclaimed, “what has disturbed you thus?
Surely there can be nothing so very terrible in what Mr.
Forrester has been saying to you.”
It was sometime before she could command her voice
sufficiently to reply, but at length she said—
“I am very unhappy, my dear friend, for I have been
obliged to appear ungrateful, and I fear, to alienate one of
the most valuable of my friends, but I am sure if Mr. For-
rester could see my heart, he would believe that I had not
been actuated by vanity or caprice.”
“How is this, Alice,” I enquired, “you cannot have been
so unwise, so infatuated, as to refuse an offer like this from
such a man, so admirable, so unexceptionable. What can
you mean"
She answered sadly, “I know I am a strange and way-
ward being, and am astonished that one so much above me
in every respect should stoop to think of me for a moment,
but grateful as I am for the preference, Ishould sin against
God, if I accepted the heart thus offered, when I cannot
give him one in return. I respect, esteem, and admire the
character and talents of Mr. Forrester, but I do not love
him.”
“How is this,” I exclaimed, “are your affections then en-
gaged Why have I not known this sooner?”
“No, indeed,” said she eagerly, “I have no other attach-
ment, and do not wish to change my situation, at present,



ALICE,-A STORY OF OUR WILLAGE. 95
unless,” she added, with a faint smile, “some Adonis as
poor as myself steals my heart before I am aware of dan-
ger. Mr. Forrester is too high, too noble, too fastidious to
be long satisfied with me. I should fear continually lest
some inadvertence might give him pain, and cause him to
regret the choice he had made.”
I endeavored, but in vain, to convince Alice how much
she had mistaken the character of my friend, who with all
his reserve and hauteur of manner, was in reality one of
the most generous and forbearing of human beings. Her
mind was fully made up, though in rejecting his suit, she
had evinced so much delicacy and consideration for his
feelings, that he left her, as I afterwards learned, more than
ever impressed with her admirable qualities of heart and
mind. Her departure was of course hastened by this cir-
cumstance, and as business of importance required my pre-
sence in a distant State, we left M. together, for our dif.
ferent places of destination. Severe family affliction, de-
tained me for many months from my village home, during
which time I heard frequently from Alice. She was well,
and devoted to the duties of her station, though I could per-
ceive that many things in it were trying to one of her proud
and sensitive nature. She was about to leave home for a
season, to travel with the eldest of her pupils, whose health
was declining, and whose attachment to Alice was so
strong, that she refused to be separated from her.

(To be concluded.)
“Greatness and goodness are not means but ends.”
Hath he not always treasures, always friends,
The good great man Three treasures Love and Light,
And cALM Thoughts regular as infant's breath;
And three firm friends, more sure than day and night,
Himself, his MAKER, and the angel DEATH.”
—Coleridge.

ADv ENT OF CHARITY.
PURE from the chrystal gates of Heaven,
Fair Charity, in robes of light,
Flew on seraphic wings to earth
To scatter Rancor's gloomy night.
Her sisters, steadfast Faith and Hope,
Attended her o'er land and sea,
And glorious was that angel band,
Yet she was greatest of the three.
She came—and from her radiant face
Beamed peace serene and heavenly love :
Forgiveness shone upon her brow,
And beauty like to that above.
She came—and from her presence fled
Censure, distrust, and carping hate;
Stern War let fall his lifted spear—
Pride bowed the head—no more elate.
She came—and “green-eyed Jealousy.”
Flew back to regions of despair;
But meekness caught that heavenly glance,
And met an answering spirit there.
Fierce men in jarring discord met,
Looked up as her bright form pass'd by,
And angry scowls of boding hate
Were turn'd to smiles in every eye.
And doubt and falsehood fled from hearts
Taken, as by a glad surprise;
For mutual trust was planted there,
And truth met truth in answering eyes
And as her radiant visage shone
Around our waked and happy shore,
Men wondering at her beauty said,
How strange she seemed not thus before.


“THE BEST WOMAN IN THE WORLI).”
So all her dear five hundred friends united in calling Miss
Serena Mildway. Did she merit the distinction ? Let us see.
I will begin, as in duty bound, by recounting some of the various
excellencies of her character, and then just hint at one shadow
that obscures its brightness, one spot in this sun of female per-
fection.
Miss Serena has safely passed the debateable ground lying be-
tween youth and middle age, in which so many spinsters take up
their permanent residence, and is the most delightful specimen of
the genus, “old maid,” that it has been my fortune to discover.
She has all the vivacity and hopefulness of youth, with the ma-
ture wisdom of old age; all the trusting tenderness of woman’s
nature, with the energy and firmness usually attributed to man.
Her fine intellect has been carefully and thoroughly cultivated,
and though the extent and variety of her acquirements are be-
trayed by the sparkling richness of her conversational powers,
she is the farthest possible from a femme savant, or even an or-
dinary blue stocking. It was a singular, but heartfelt compli-
ment once paid her by an aged servant in a family where she
was for a time domesticated. Charmed with the affability and
kindness of the distinguished stranger, she exclaimed to her mis-
tress, “I do love Miss Serena, she isn’t the least bit of a lady
at all.”
Possessing ample resources, and presiding over her widowed
father's elegant establishment, Miss Serena has the means of
gratifying to the utmost her benevolence of disposition, and is
WOL. I.-NO. 4

102 THE BEST WOMAN IN THE WORLD.
in fact, the Lady Bountiful of the whole parish. Her clear head
and warm heart are in constant requisition to forward new plans
of doing good; and she presides over some half dozen associa-
tions, juvenile and adult, among her own sex, as the penalty of
her universal popularity. Let it not, however, be supposed that
in her care for others, those household duties which belong so
peculiarly to “woman's sphere,” are neglected by her. No devo-
tee of housewifery, whose whole soul lies in her pickles and pre-
serves, can boast a menagé more admirably arranged, or per-
fectly kept. She is an affectionate daughter, a kind and consi-
derate mistress, and a truly generous and hospitable woman.
And now must I reverse the picture, and introduce that un-
welcome “but yet”—which
“Is always as a jailor to bring forth
Some monstrous malefactor 7°
Were I to omit this, my sketch would not only beincomplete, but
its moral would be lost, for the single defect in Miss Serena's
character, is a very serious one in its effect on all around her.
It is the want of punctuality. With all her excellencies, she is
habitually and notoriously tardy, and she seems so unconscious of
the failing, that there is very little hope of its amendment. To
the young, this may appear a trivial fault, when weighed in the
balance against the virtues I have described; but those who know
how to value time, will regard far otherwise a habit which frit-
ters away so large a portion of this precious treasure. Two or
three facts will illustrate my meaning.
A few days since, the Dorcas Society of Centreville held its
monthly meeting, and by special invitation I was present on the
occasion. There was a goodly gathering of maids and matrons,
young and old, all armed and equipped with the usual implements
of female industry, and divided into small groups according to some
law of affinity with which I have not yet been made acquainted.
An abundance of work was scattered over the centre table, but
in a state of confusion which seemed to my inexperienced eyes
absolutely hopeless. Our kind and courteous hostess made a few
faint attempts to select from the chaos of silks, ribbons, chintzes,
THE BEST WOMAN IN THE WORLD. 103
and all the etceteras of “society work,” some employment for
the waiting members, but in vain. Miss Serena was the Direc-
tress, and preferred taking charge of the work herself, so there
was nothing to be done but to wait patiently or impatiently for
her arrival. One or two of the juveniles, as the hours rolled on
without bringing the lady, ventured an exclamation of surprise
and vexation; but they were speedily checked by their elders, who
seemed well trained to the waiting process. At last, just ten
minutes past four, Miss Serena arrived, with the calm and self-
possessed air always worn by the “best women in the world,”
and after a slight apology for her late appearance, proceeded to
arrange and distribute the work. Her magic touch soon brought
order out of confusion, and as she glided through the circle of
industry, with a bright smile and kind word for each, the charm
of her manner dispelled all remembrance of the tardiness which
had robbed them of one half the time allotted to their pleasant
employment. I could not forbear, however, making a mental
calculation, which almost excited my indignation against this un-
conscious pilferer of time. “Here,” thought I, “are twenty la-
dies who have actually wasted two hours each in waiting for one
individual, since they could do nothing to advantage without her
superintendence. Forty hours have thus been thrown away, and
for what? Simply from the want of feeling that punctuality
was of the slightest importance, for there is nothing in the rea-
son assigned by the lady Directress which should have prevented
her for a moment from keeping a previous engagement.” This
species of robbery is the more inexcusable, since no restitution
can be made by the offender, and no equivalent rendered for the
loss sustained by those who waited for her coming.
Not long since, a poor woman called on me early in the morn-
ing, with a message from Miss Serena, stating that she would
meet her there at nine o'clock, to make some arrangements for
the benefit of her protegee, who had once been in comfortable
circumstances, but was now reduced to actual want. Every
moment of my time was fully occupied, for I was to leave home
at midday for a week, and had various engagements to fulfil be-
fore my departure.



-
104 The BEST WOMAN IN THE WORLD,
Had the intruder been a friend, or even a familiar acquaint-
ance, I should have excused myself at once ; but I feared lest
my motive might be misconstrued, and hoping that for once Miss
Serena might be true to her word, I made the agreeable to my
guest, who, to do her justice, was quite as uneasy as myself.
“She will certainly be here,” she remarked, “for she promised
it, and she knows how difficult it is for me to be long away from
my children.” “Poor woman?' I mentally exclaimed—“you
are happy in your ignorance. The victims of tardiness know no-
thing of the sacredness of a promise, and literally “take no note
of time,” not even “by its loss.” Nine, ten, eleven o’clock
struck, and still Miss Serena came not. I had been compelled
to excuse myself, and make my hurried preparations for depar-
ture, but my morning was gone, and half my work undone.
When at last, more than three hours after her appointment, the
lady was ushered in, all smiles and sweetness, I am afraid my
face presented a sad contrast with hers, for my patience had van-
ished some time previous, and I was fully inclined to denounce
the want of punctuality as a vice which ought neither to be ex-
cused nor tolerated in society. But I was not in this instance
the principal sufferer. There was no time for consultation in
reference to the poor woman; and her dejected countenance, as
she left, was a practical comment on the inspired direction,
“Trust not in man, neither put your confidence in princes.”
When I expressed my regret at her disappointment, Miss Serena
answered with perfect self-complacency—“Oh, never mind, an-
other time will do as well for her; and you really ought not to be
troubled with it to-day.” She did not recollect that I had already
been cheated (that is not too harsh a word) out of double the
amount of time requisite to have sent away a fellow creaturesa-
tisfied and happy.
Miss Serena is one of the most hospitable of women, but woe
to the guest whose leave-taking for the cars or the boat, must
depend on her domestic arrangements. She “welcomes the
coming,” but truth obliges me to say, she does not “speed the





parting guest.” It is impossible to make her realize that there
are but sixty minutes in an hour, or that when thirty of these
HOME Phili,ANTHROPY. 105
are gone, ony a half hour remains. She is certain there is time
enough for every thing, and wonders people will fret themselves
for no possible reason only to make others unhappy.
I once heard a friend of her father, a gentleman whose ideas
of punctuality were acquired in the school of Franklin and
Washington, exclaim after a visit to Miss Serena—“amiable,
and talented, and excellent as that woman undoubtedly is, I would
sooner follow a daughter to the grave in her infancy, than to see
her grow up with such habits of procrastination and want of
punctuality.”
I have done. Should any of my readers detect in this slight
sketch a resemblance to themselves, I shall consider it a compli-
ment to my powers as a limner, while at the same time I must
regret that there should be more than one original of such a por-
trait.

-
HOME PHIL ANT H R O PY.”
B Y MIR. S. A. N. N. S. S. T. E. P. H. E. N. S.

We are well aware, that if there were sufficient employment
for female operatives, the miseries of their condition would be al-
leviated. If any new methods of employment can be found for
them hitherto unoccupied by woman, there are hundreds ready
to adopt them. But if they are to enter upon any of the trades
now pursued by men, let it not be to reduce the wages of me-
chanics, which are already sufficiently low. If they can in any
case perform the duties which are now rendered by men, let
their wages be in proportion to the work they accomplish, and
not reduced, in order to drive mechanics from their means of Sup-
port, and enrich the capitalist. We are told that in the cities of
the west there exists a state of things exactly opposite to that which
falls so heavily on our sex here; that there the demand for fe-
* Continued from page 73

106 HOME PHILANTHROPY.
male labor exceeds the supply—thus opening a market for the
surplus labor of the Atlantic cities; many of our young females
would gladly embrace this prospect of an alleviation of their
condition; but few among them can find the means of transpor-
tation when all that they can earn is consumed in the purchase
of daily bread. There are colonization societies for the blacks;
but where is there any society, benevolent or social, from which
a free-born American sewing woman can claim the means of
transportation to the place where industry will command the
comforts of life? Where is there any body of men or women
who have taken an active interest in her behalf
Hundreds there are who stand ready to devote wealth and en-
ergy to the emancipation of southern slaves, who seem to have
forgotten the multitudes of educated, sensitive, and suffering wo-
men of their own class, to whom incessant toil scarcely brings
the comforts enjoyed by the slave; who never appear to think
that hundreds and hundreds of their own sisters, are ſettered to
their cold hearth-stones by a bond of eternal toil more oppressive
and quite as unjust as that which binds the slave, but which no
popular impulse gives them a hope of throwing off.
True, they are not slaves—they are free to work for a scanty
subsistence to pay the tax of luxuries enjoyed by society at large;
or free to refuse and perish. How many are there exporting
missionaries and money for the conversion of distant heathen,
who overlook the souls that are led into temptation every day
before their own door, through the neglect which is every day
exhibited towards their just and honest claims.
Heaven forbid that we should speak lightly of the benevolent
spirit of the age; but if justice should go before charity, ought
not the class for whom we plead, to be considered in this general
overflow of kindly feeling; have they no right to expect that
their claims as wives and sisters of American citizens, as human
beings entitled to human treatment, should make some impression
on the public mind? Their appeal may be answered with the
same discouraging reply, which has met such complaints at
all times in other countries. The means of redressing their suf-
ferings is a difficult problem, we are told, and one which no po-
HOME PHILANTHROPY. 107
litical economist can solve. And are the women of America to
be answered thus? Are they to be left to starvation, under the
assurance that it is the natural consequence of trade; and while
political economists are solving this difficult problem, society
may go on taxing them for its luxuries; capitalists may double
their gains from their overwrought strength; and as they sit
starving on their hearth-stones, surrounded by children whose
misery wrings their hearts, they are told to be patient, “it is but
the natural course of trade.” They are compelled to keep their
children from school for want of decent clothing, or to accept that
which they should earn independently as an act of charity, and
for their consolation are told, that it is “the natural course of
trade;” therefore it is in vain for them to seek redress. Must they
be pacified into starvation, and reasoned into the grave by such
arguments as these ? are their lives to be yielded up, that the
mathematical calculations of political economists may be demon-
strated 3
The working classes of Great Britain may be pointed out as
an example. Their fruitless efforts to ſling off the wrongs that
are crushing them to the dust, may be used as an argument why
our own industrious poor should be patient and almost thankful
under a secondary degree of misery. For more than half a cen-
tury the social evils of the old world have been no precedent for
American men, and should they be used as a discouragement to
American women 3. It is no reason why a few thousand females
in the new world should sit down with clasped hands, and per-
ish philosophically, because the entire working classes of En-
gland suffer deeper wrongs than theirs.
It is no reason why they should despair because others more
wretched still, are struggling in vain to heave off the mountain
of wrongs heaped upon them during the growth of institutions
which Americans renounced the moment they began to press
heavily on this side the Atlantic. In Great Britain the suffering
is general to both sexes. The chain of social wrong girds in
alike the helpless infant, the delicate woman, and the strong man.
It starts in many a slender thread from the golden net-work which
hedges in a proud nobility, and has rusted in coils of iron around




108 hoMe Phil ANTHROPY.
the people. Is the same fearful woof to be woven in this coun-
try? And are the cold links to be tangled first and irrevocably
around the women of the land; those who are most sensitive and
helpless 2 When they feel the chilling touch npon them, is the
voice of their complaint to be silenced by a plea of deeper suffering
beyond the ocean for which no mode of redress has been found?
Will the “upper ten thousand” point to the nobility of
England as a precedent, when we protest against purchasing
luxuries for them with the broken strength and tortured minds of
their own countrywomen? Let thempause before the appeal is
thus haughtily disposed of. In this country, wealth is the only
ground-work on which the “upper ten thousand” can rest their
claims to the title. Under our laws, wealth is but an embank-
ment of glittering sand, which every generation sweeps level
with the common earth; no line of kings has hedged in the up-
per class from the million by titles of nobility or feudal grants.
They are removed but a single step above the operatives who ad-
dress them. Every commercial crisis sweeps across the frail
barriers which separate them from the multitude, and forces hun-
dreds from their eminence, to toil and suffer as others now toil
and suffer.
Let the “upper ten thousand” then pause and give their hearts
time to feel, before they turn carelessly away from a consideration
of the claims we urge. A single turn in the wheel of fortune,
like that which lately prostrated a national bank, and dashed
hundreds of highly bred and helpless women from the pinnacles
of fashion into poverty, may hurl them also from the position
they enjoy, and with the japonicas withering on their temples,
they may be compelled, like their sisters, to join the ranks of the
oppressed operatives, and learn by experience all the bitterness
of their lot.
The class for whom we plead, have no harsh or envious feel-
ings against the rich, they know that in their wealth lies much
of the prosperity of the land. But they help to create that
wealth. They who produce property, which thousands of
their sex only live to consume, should be allowed the necessa-
ties of life, while others revel in its luxuries.
Our hope for our suffering sisters, lies principally in the wealth

-
LINES WRITTEN ON A DECEASED DAUGHTER, 109
of the land, and in the kind feelings of the intelligent. They
are females, little skilled in the studies of political economy—
working girls, whose minds and hands are forever employed in
efforts to procure daily bread; they cannot therefore be expect-
ed to point out all the means by which their prosperity is to be
secured.—Let man, our natural counsellor, to whom we willingly
award that superior strength and intellect necessary to the ac-
complishment of all our wishes, come forward in their behalf;
the learned and the wise are invoked to find some plan for their
relief. In this wealthy country, there must be capital enough to
carry out any project which may receive the public sanction,
with benevolence and energy sufficient to ensure success. All
that we ask in their behalf, is, such wages for their labour as
will give them an honorable and independent support.
To be continued.
LINES WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF A DECEASED DAUGHTER,
By THE AUTHOR of “A MoTHER's TRIBUTE.”
My child:
Art thou still mine 7 As thou dost wing thy way
“High in salvation and the realms of bliss,”
Amidst archangel choirs and seraphim,
Prophets, apostles and the martyr band,
And holy men whose names were dear to thee
On earth: DoDDRIDGE, whose crown of glory thou
Didst seek to gen; and he, thy patriarch sire,
Upon whose feet thou didst select thy grave
That ye might rise together; they on whose
Maternal breast reposed thy parents' head;
And other names beloved on earth, more dear
By far in heaven. Say, from that height of joy,
Dost thou look down and call me mother still 2
Thou who wast wont at twilight or at eve
To sit beside me, to review the day,
Or trace th’ instructive and poetic page,
Or sweep the chords of thy sweet instrument,
With which the richer strains of that loved voice
Bore happy concert. Say, dost thou still come
At twilight or at eve; or when the stars
I 10
LINES WRITTEN IN THE ALBuM,
On which thou didst so love to gaze shine forth,
And she, the silvery queen, whose placid smile
Is sweet as though she shone not on thy grave?

Is it my angel child
Who bears commission from that world of love
To soothe my spirit, and to pour the oil
Into my bleeding heart, and turn my eye
From earth, the grave, to immortality
And heaven? Does thine eye beam on me still,
As when it moistened at thy mother's griefs?
Or smilest thou on me from that brilliant star,
Which seems to speak of thee? Yes, cherished child.
Thy love, unchanging, is still, still mine own.
I will not say farewell! since thou dost come
To visit me, and we may yet enjoy
Communion sweet together, and with Him
Who ransomed both. I on the footstool, thou
Before the throne.

That which thou didst request
Is done; though when a piece original
I pledged, to fill thine Album page, we thought
Not that, when tracing it, I should be here
Mourning thy loss, and thou, my child, in heaven.
Well, be it so I would not call thee back
To earth's imperfect service. He with whom
Thou art, received thee at my hands, a gift,
On that blessed day that bound my willing heart
In solemn covenant. And shall I now
Take back the vows so early made, so oft
Repeated, when in after years I kneeled
On thy behalf, and asked that thou might'st serve
Him wholly Shall I wish the robe that now
Is stainless, washed by a Redeemer's blood,
To be again with touch of sin defiled?
Or that freed spirit, 'scaped from every snare,
Forever safe within those sacred walls
Stamped with SALVATION and whose gates are PRAIsk,
Call back to earth again? Stay there, blessed child.
Thy mother bids thee stay. Dear as thou wast,
And ever wilt be, to this bleeding heart,
My love rebukes the wish that thou wert here,
Though I am left alone.

AL10E.-A STORY OF OUR WILLAGE. 111
ALICE.-A STORY OF OUR VII LAGE.”
B Y. M. R. S. S. T. M. A R T Y Nº, N. Y.
I Found on my return to M. that Mrs. Lawton had been at-
tacked during my absence with a pulmonary disease, and had
been ordered by her physicians to take a long voyage as the
only probable means of prolonging life. She was accompanied
by her brother, and the Hall was unoccupied, except by the domes-
tics in whose care it had been left. Several months had passed
since I last heard from Alice, who was still travelling with her
young charge; and in the absence and silence of those I loved best,
sadness seemed written on every object around me. I had been
one day at the Hall, gathering the last roses of summer from
among the wilderness of sweets in which they were dying un-
heeded, when on my way home, I took from the office a letter in
the well known hand of Mr. Forrester, and from its black seal,
my heart too truly foreboded its contents. It was written from
Havana, and contained intelligence of the death of Mrs. Lawton,
which had occurred there some weeks previous. She slept
among strangers, far from the graves of her family and friends,
but angels watched that hallowed dust, which was laid to rest in
sure and certain hope of a glorious resurrection at the last day.
The writer spoke with grateful emotion of the attentions of a
young American lady, who had visited the island with a sick
friend, and whose care and kindness to the beloved invalid, had
beguiled the weary hours of sickness and smoothed her passage
to the grave. Another letter soon followed, from Mr. Forrester,
in which he announced his intention of returning immediately
to M. with a young bride, for whose reception he requested me
to prepare the servants at the Hall.
Here then was an end of all the air-castles, which, in spite of
the rejection of his suit by Alice, I had still persisted in building
I knew that woman had, ere this changed her mind on such sub-
jects, and Mr. Forrester was not of a nature lightly to transfer
his affections, where, as in this, instance, they were strongly and





* Concluded from p. 95.
112 ALICE.-A STORY OF OUR WILLAGE.
worthily placed. On this slight foundation I had erected a ro-
mantic superstructure, and never walked through the grounds at
the Hall without seeing in imagination the slight form of Alice
flitting through the shrubbery. Now this was all over, and with
a feeling almost of dislike toward the innocent cause of my dis-
appointment, I prepared to comply with the request of my friend,
who was daily expected at the Hall. There was affection and
deep sorrow for the loss of Mrs. Lawton, whose truly christian
kindness to her inferiors had endeared her to them all, mingled
with a natural shrinking from a new administration among the
domestics there; but love for Mr. Forrester made every one desir-
ous to meet his wishes, and to render his beloved home as at-
tractive as possible. And attractive indeed it was, in its quiet
and unpretending beauty. As I stood at sunset on the steps of
the noble portico, fronting the west, and looked around me on
the river, whose waters sparkled with the last rays of the setting
sun; on the blue hills that stood in the back ground, like senti-
nels about the happy valley, whose green fields and neat farm-
houses were smiling at my feet, my heart swelled with gratitude
to that God who had made earth so beautiful.
While I was still gazing on the loveliness of nature, I saw a
travelling carriage approaching rapidly, on the river road, which
I knew at once must be that of Mr. Forrester. I was not mista-
ken; the great gate was thrown open, and the carriage came up
more slowly through the magnificent avenue of elms, until it
stopped at the foot of the lower terrace.
Mr. Forrester hastily alighted, and after assisting a lady who
was closely veiled, to do the same, gave her his arm as they as-
cended the steps of the terrace. There was something in the
form and manner of the stranger that made my heartbeat quick-
ly, but I had little time to make observations, for as they reached
the portico, the lady withdrew her arm from that of Mr. Forrester,
and springing up the steps, threw aside her veil and disclosed to
my astonished sight the features of my own dear Alice. Was it
not all a dream 2 Could it be that this dreaded Mrs. Forrester,
who was now formally presented to me amidst smiles and blush-
es, by her happy husband, was the beloved one from whom I haſ




ALICE.-A-STORY OF OUR WILLAGE. 113
been so long separated ? I was faint and dizzy with excitement,
and for some minutes could do nothing but gaze through blinding
tears of joy, on the radiant face that was pressed closely to mine
in the warmth of childlike affection.
“And now for an explanation of this strange mystery,” I ex-
claimed, when after the first agitation of our meeting had subsid.
ed, and Alice had been presented to the delighted servants as
their new mistress, we were quietly seated in the drawing room;
“how comes my Alice here, and under such circumstances 7 I
have no clue to guide me through this labyrinth of conjecture.”
“Permit me to answer that question,” said Mr. Forrester, whose
manner in the happiness of the moment had lost all its hauteur
and reserve, “as I fear our Alice will hardly do justice to the
story. Briefly then, during the illness of Mrs. Lawton, and while
she was pining for home and friends and familiar faces, an angel
of mercy was sent to her bedside, in the person of one whom,
next to her brother, she loved best on earth. From that time,
there was happiness and sunshine in the sick-room of the sufferer.
My beloved sister well knew the state of my affections, and though
from the moment of my rejection I had abandoned all hope, she
plead my cause with all the eloquence of a sister's love. I was of
course silent, for worlds would not have tempted me to give one
moment’s pain to one so tenderly, so truly beloved. Together, and
as brother and sister might have done, we shared the sad duties
of that sick and dying bed, together we closed the eyes of the dear
departed, and followed her to her resting place in a strangeland.
But the task of Alice was not yet accomplished. Her youthful
charge had been wasting ever since their arrival at Havana, and
it soon became evident that she too must meet the dread summons
away from the home of her birth, and the companions of her
hildhood. Her father had indeed accompanied them to the
island, but he was a man of the world, wholly unskilled in the deli-
cate attentions which her situation rendered necessary. It was
my happiness to be of some service to our Alice in that trying
scene, and richly has she rewarded me, by giving me what I
Host coveted of all earthly blessings, her hand and heart.”

114 ALICE.-A STORY OF OUR WILLAGE.
“And so, Alice,” I said a few days afterward, as with het
soul in her eyes, she was looking after the retreating form of her
husband, “you have learned that it is quite possible to love Mr.
Forrester 7”
I was answered by the quick blush and the starting tear, be-
fore her emotion found utterance in words. “Oh, my dear friend,”
she exclaimed, “how foolish, how unjust I have been . But in
deed I never knew Mr. Forrester till I saw him, with all the hu
mility and gentleness of a child, accommodate himself to the ca-
prices of a suffering invalid, and ministering so tenderly to her
comfort. Many times every day I asked myself the question, can
this be the man I thought so imperious, so exacting, and so cold?
But you may be sure,” she added with an arch smile, “that in
the re-action of my feelings I have done him ample justice.”
That Mr. and Mrs. Forrester are very happy in each other, no
one who looks upon the face of either need be told, and that they
are blessings to society, the united voices of all the villagers will
assure you. But, gentle reader, I fear I have wearied your pa-
tience with my long story about “nothing,” and will take my
leave, by assuring you that if you will condescend to visit us in
propria persona, you shall confess that there is not in the wide
world a sweeter valley than that, in which “our village” is embo-
somed, nor a more attractive and admirable wife andmother, than
our own dear Alice.
-
THE WORDS OF WIS DO M.
“Few and precious are the words which the lips of wisdom utter.
To what shall their rarity be likened? What price shall count their worth 7
They be chance pears, flung among the rocks by the sullen waters of Ob.
livion,
Which Diligence loveth to gather, and hang round the neck of Memory,
They be white-winged seeds of happiness, waſted from the islands of th
b'essed,
Which Thought carefully tendeth, in the kindly garden of the heart;
They be drops of the crystal dew, which the wings of seraphs scatter
When on some brighter Sabbath, their plumes quiver most with delight,
Such, and so precious are the words which the lips of wisdom utter.”
[Tupper’s “Proverbial Philosophy.’
-
woman's MINISTRATION. 115

W O M A N ? S M IN IS T R A TION.
B Y E L I Z.A. W. F. A R N H A M .
THE WIFE.

* Seek a good wife of thy God, for she is the best gift of his providence.”
Prover BIAL Philosophy.
Next to her duties as the Mother of her race, the most impor-
tant and responsible relation sustained by woman, is that of Wife.
As a help-meet to her husband, she is to share, not his labors and
pursuits, for in these she would be but an inferior assistant, of less
value than one of his own sex; but his affections, his destinies,
his joys and his sorrows. She is to be to him what no other can
be. Her feelings and pursuits contrast widely with his own, and
this contrast it is which gives the relation of the sexes its bright-
est charm. One of the most delightful emotions of joy which
ever thrills the heart of man, when he is toiling in the harvest
field, or crowding along the blistering pavement, is awakened at
the thought of the cool, neat home which is prepared to make his
hours of repose comfortable—the curtains drawn to exclude the
sun, the little vase of flowers selected by loving hands, and spark-
ling with bright water gems in some shady corner; the cleanly-
swept floor, or carpet; the neatly arranged furniture and the
savory meal prepared or superintended by the hand of love; or
in winter, the bright fire and the social room which wait his
coming when the storm beats, or the piercing blast makes his
frame shiver. The thought of these pleasures rising before his
mind will hush the voice of ambition, rob his coveted gold of
half its glitter, and make the applause for which he has lingered
away from them, fall harshly on his ear.
These are a part of the true duties of the wife—but poorly in-
deed would they be performed if she were continually at man's
side, sharing his rough pursuits, and his intense passions. If she
only retired from them with him, and carried to their home a per-

-

116 woman's MINISTRATION.
son soiled and wearied in the very steps himself had trodden, and
a mind sated with the same emotions and passions that had dwelt
in his bosom during the day, what charm could the society of
each have for the other ? Where would be the home that now
dwells in his memory, through all the turbulence and tumult of
his busy hours, as the polar star in the mind of the mariner,
though storm and tempest obscure it for a season? Under such
an order of things there would be no home, as in many parts of
Europe, where this sacred word signifies merely a place to which
the husband, wife, and children resort twice or thrice a day, to
eat what they may chance to find, and sleep away a few hours
of the night. The names of wife and home, are inseparable and
equally sacred. Home is not home, in its richest sense, without
the former, and woman is not wife, if she be not the presiding
Deity of the latter. -
The wife is the guardian of her husband's affection and moral
worth, if she have ever possessed the one, and he the other. If
he have ever loved her, (and if not, the true relation has never
subsisted between them,) she is the depositary of a priceless gift.
Wo to her if she squander or suffer it to be wrested from her.
She is to minister to his happiness by the faithfulness of her af.
fection, and strengthen his integrity by the purity of her ºwn
For this she is well prepared by the character of her mind. She
has no engrossing love of wealth or fame. She cares little to
overawe the world, or leave her name upon the records of the
future. Her schemes of ambition, if she have any, are small,
and home is the center around which they revolve. While man
is trembling with eagerness for the applause of the outer world,
her wishes are mainly narrowed to the little circle at her fireside.
Though she may, and should desire the respect of others, she
feels, if she be a true woman, that the only legitimate way to se.
cure it, is to make herself the beloved deity of home. This is
the proper theatre for the display of all that she has to charm or
give happiness; and, being so limited, the emotions which she
expends within it, are proportionably concentrated.
As a wife, the unselfishness of her love is proverbial. When
once kindled into being, how entirely it colors her whole exist-
THE MISSIONARY DF TRUTH. 117

ence! How gladly she sacrifices personal independence and in-
terest, when they are opposed to those of him she loves! Years
of vice, neglect, and cruelty, of secret suffering, and heart-break-
ing sorrow will she endure, and yet the lamp of her affection will
continue to cast its holy light upon the darkened path of life, and
pour its brightest rays over the death-bed and tomb. Firm, gen-
erous, devoted, confiding—denied to a great extent those sterner
and grosser qualities by which man inscribes the record of his
existence on creation, happy to leave hers only in the hearts of
those she loves, trusting every thing to him, and nothing to
herself, woman's love is the most perfect example of human
faith, and hope, which the world furnishes.
THE MISSIONARY OF TRUTH
BY CORINNE MONTGOMERY.

The press is the great missionary of genuine reform, and
without the aid of its cheering voice, the pioneers of truth would
move slowly through the dark and miry places of wrong-doing.
Of all its servants, those who minister to our daily intellectual
wants, almost without price, are, after the teachings of Divine
love, the most precious to humanity. Books make ripe scholars,
but the cheap periodical press makes large-hearted and ready-
handed citizens. It teaches them the need of mutual forbear-
ance—the wisdom of mutual help—the beauty of mutual love,
and compels even worldliness itself, from the fear of censure, or
the love of praise, to emulate the benevolence it is unable to
appreciate. The loftiest despot learns from its voice that a
mightier and more enduring judge than himself occupies the
judgment seat—that a power superior to his own, will pronounce
sentence on his character and his acts. The condemnation of
the world is a terrible seal which the most hardened villain.

118 The MISSIONARY OF TRUTH

trembles to have branded on his forehead, yet while the press
scatters its leaves by thousands through the community—the evil-
doer, whatever his station may be, must abide the verdict of his
fellow men, and the echo of his infamy will be commensurate
with his pride of place.
The press is the great preventive police of iniquity in high
places, for it overawes and rebukes the most arrogant, and can
no more be silenced or controlled than its deep, far-reaching
symbol—the Ocean. Its immense aggregate is as boundless, as
powerful, as purifying, as unceasing as the restless waters of the
deep sea. Dead bodies and foul things are cast in, but they dis-
appear in the vast health-giving abyss; and its immortal voice—
its undying energy—knows no pause or change.
Not one of the myriad streams that swell its heaving omnipo-
tence, but has some touch or taste of imperfection; but all is un-
felt—lost in the united cadence. All that is good and durable
it preserves in its depths; but the vile and worthless break in its
restless waves, and are gone. Thus by its own attrition does a
gracious Providence compel this latter miracle of his goodness
to finally reject so much of its own work as is injurious, and by
this continual purification, prove that it is indeed a worthy and
chosen missionary of truth.

---
WRITING.

“Thou hast not lost an hour whereof there is a record;
A written thought at midnight, shall redeem the live long day;
Idea is a shadow that departeth-speech is fleeting as the wind;
Reading is an unremembered pastime; but a writing is eternal;
For therein the dead heart liveth, and the clay-cold tongue is eloquent,
As a fossil in the rock, and a coin in the mortar of a ruin,
So the symbolled thoughts tell of a departed soul.
The plastic hand hath its witness in a statue, and exactness of vision
in a picture!
And so the mind that was among us, in its writings is embalmed.
COUSIN SYEIL, 119
COUSIN SYB11,–OR, WHO IS THE LADY 1

“WHEN will that tiresome cab make its appearance 7" ex-
c.aimed Laura Danforth, as for the twentieth time she turned
away from the window, “it is growing dark, and I am sure I
have watched long enough to have them come, if they are ever
coming. Now, Evelina, own the truth, don't you very much
wish to see what sort of a person this Cousin Sybil will prove to
be º
The young lady thus addressed, looked up from the book
which lay before her, and languidly answered: “I beg of you,
Laura, to be less rude and noisy, and to attend to your own busi-
ness. You know I care nothing at all about Cousin Sybil or
her looks—she is not likely to be a suitable companion for me,
brought up as she has been in a retired country place on a
farm.”
“Oh, ho! Lina is on her stilts again,” exclaimed her brother
Arthur, a bright boy of twelve, who was studying his Latin
lesson; “for my part I think country girls are quite as good as
town ones. I am sure I ought to know, for I have seen Cousin
Sybil at her own house, and she is a thousand times prettier and
more graceful than any one here that I ever saw.”
“Upon my word, Arthur, you are complimentary' But it is
hardly probable others will agree with you in your admiration
of rustic simplicity, so it is not worth while to waste words
about it.”
“We shall see, my wise sister,” was the reply, and Arthur
returned to his occupation, with a smile which annoyed the
young lady even more than his previous remarks had done
Was it then possible that this country cousin, whom in imagina-
tion she had already installed as the Cinderella of the household,
might be a dangerous rival, instead of a useful dependent? The

120 COUSIN SYBIL.
idea was too ridiculous to be indulged, nevertheless it would not
depart at her bidding, and she was unconsciously prepared by it,
to treat the young orphan with chilling hauteur and reserve
But before Cousin Sybil makes her appearance, we will intro-
duce the reader to the family circle of which she was hence.
forth to be a member.
Mr. Danforth, the father, had been for many years a merchant
in the city of B. He was an honorable and upright man, devot-
ed to his profession and family, and believed that the day book
and ledger were the only volumes (the Bible excepted) worth
the perusal of a man of business. What he read there was un-
doubtedly gratifying to the enterprising merchant, for his gains
had steadily increased from year to year, until public fame
pronounced him one of the richest men on Exchange. The
discovery had been made some time before, by his wife and
daughter, and Mr. Danforth was compelled to give up the plea-
sant and commodious house in which he had lived for fifteen
years, for a new and splendid residence in the “court end" of the
town, where alone “a genteel family could be expected to live.”
This was fitted up in a style of elegance befitting the station
Mrs. Danforth supposed herself to occupy, and between the
French furniture, bijouterie, and statuary with which the stately
mansion was filled, her husband protested there was not one
room which did not resemble a Chinese museum far more than
an apartment in a comfortable dwelling. Mrs. Danforth was a
walking automaton, animated but by one single idea—that of
entire subservience to the customs, habits, and opinions of the
world. “What will the world say?” was the question which
constantly occupied her vapid intellect, and the answer formed
her only standard of right in all things. Utterly heartlessherself,
she regarded all appearance of feeling on the part of others as
affectation or absurdity, and often boasted that no one ever saw
her sensibilities get the better of her judgment.
Evelina, the eldest daughter of the family, was precisely the
character such a mother might be expected to form. Possessing
a large share of personal beauty, an ordinary amount of in-
tellect, and a disposition naturally amiable, she might under other
--
-
-
- -
- -
-
-- -
COUSIN SYBIL. 121
circumstances, and with judicious training, have made a valuable
character. But from her very cradle, she had been tutored and
lectured, and guided into the belief that there was but one thing
worth the ambition of a lady—and that was gentility. With
Mrs. Danforth, to be genteel was to be right on all occasions—to
be common (as she rather indefinitely expressed it) always wrong
—so that the ideas of Miss Evelina on the subject of moral obli-
gation were very naturally confused and contradictory. She had
always attended the best schools, but there is unfortunately no
royal road to learning, and the drudgery of study was not at all
to her taste; she devoted her attention to a few showy accom-
plishments, and left school almost as ignorant of every kind of
useful knowledge as when she entered it. Alas for the daughter,
whose vain and worldly mother, dead to all the high and holy
impulses of maternal affection, regards her only as a marketable
commodity, to be disposed of at the earliest moment, to the highest
bidder. Mrs. Danforth, in all her plans for the education of her eld-
estdatghter, had never once thought of making her useful either in
her own family, or in society—her only aim had been to make her a
fashionable, admired belle, who should as soon as possible secure
a splendid establishment in life. Verily she had her reward.
Evelina Danforth regarded her parents with the most perfect in-
difference, except as they might minister to her gratification—her
younger sister and brother were voted “bores whom she could
hot tolerate”—and when not engaged in reading the last French
novel, going out, or dressing for company, she was languid,
dissatisfied, and out of humor with herself and every one about
her. The favored few among her admirers on whom she
thought it worth while to bestow her smiles, would never have
recognized the listless ennuyee of a morning, her hair en pupil-
lote, and her whole person in dishabille, in the bright, animated.
elegantly attired being who shone upon them abroad, and formed
the principal attraction of her mother's brilliant soirees at home.
Poor Evelina | Though still almost a child, her heart had lost
its warm sensibilities—all the joyous freshness and simplicity of
youth was gone, and nothing left but the soulless and hack-
neyed conventional forms which alone marked her identity. It


ºx-
122 COUSIN SYei L.
was as if the beautiful spring-time, with its showers and sun-
shine, its graceful coquetry with January and July, its buds, and
blossoms and perfume, were blotted from the year. What has
the world to offer in return for so costly a sacrifice? Mr. Dan-
forth had a widowed sister who had recently died, leav-
ing an only daughter to his care. He left home, for the
residence of his niece, immediately on hearing of her bereave-
ment, and was, at the commencement of our story, expected every
moment to arrive with his youthful companion.
Sybil Fleming was six months younger than Evelina Dan-
forth, and in early childhood the cousins had been thought great-
ly to resemble each other in personal appearance. As they
grew older, the likeness became less visible, and the elder
was pronounced decidedly the most beautiful by almost every
observer. The father of Sybil Fleming was a farmer, and culti-
wated his own land, but he was a high-minded, intelligent, up-
right man, universally respected by the community in which he
resided. Of his wife it might, perhaps, be too much to say “she
adorned every virtue with every grace;” but we can say with
truth, that she possessed in rare perfection those domestic vir-
tues which make the happiness of home. Her only daughter
was early taught to feel herself an immortal, accountable being,
whose existence, if it were not a blessing to others, could never
be so to herself. She saw her beloved mother living for the
comfort and happiness of those around her, and she loved to
share the duties and employments which were so skilfully va-
ried, and so imbued with the spirit of cheerfulness, that they
never became irksome or monotonous.
The young Sybil lived in an atmosphere of love and kindness,
and her character took a deeper coloring, and her whole nature
expanded into freshness and beauty in the genial sunshine. Her
pleasures were all simple, and so linked with her duties, that the
idea of the one was never separated from that of the other
Though “brought up on a farm,” and accustomed to early ha-
bits of industry, she had every advantage of books and instruc-
tors which it was in the power of her indulgent parents to pro-
cure. Six months “finish” at a boarding school was considered
COUSIN SYBll. 123

es ential to the education of a young lady by all her friends, so
Sybil was sent to N. H., greatly against her own wishes, for she
persisted in believing that she could learn every thing she need-
ed at her own dear home. She found, however, so many
sources of exquisite enjoyment in the delightful scenery of N.
the literary and scientific lectures, which, in common with her
fellow students she attended; and, above all, in cultivating her
really fine taste for drawing, that the months fled even more ra-
pidly than she could have expected or desired. Some natural
tears were shed on parting with her instructors and associates,
but when she reached the dear, familiar home of her childhood—
when she saw the care-worn but placid features of her beloved
mother brighten into rapture at the presence of her child, and
listened to the deep thanksgiving of her father, that the Giver of
all good had brought back again the absent one to the fold, she
felt in her inmost heart, that her voluntary exile had only drawn
more closely the ties that bound her to a spot so sacred and en-
deared. From that moment it was the study of Sybil's life to
make her parents happy. And when the decree went forth—
when the crushing blow fell upon them which deprived them of
a husband and father so justly beloved and venerated, she stifled
the anguish with which her own heart was bursting, to support
and comfort her widowed mother. Mrs. Fleming strove, for Sy-
bil’s sake, to resist the sorrow which was slowly but surely
wasting the energies of life, but in vain. For one short year,
the mother and daughter wept together over the grave of the
departed, and then Sybil Fleming was left in the home of her
father—desolate. At first, she seemed almost ready to follow
those she had loved so well, and the kind neighbors feared for
her life or her reason; but youth is naturally buoyant, and when
Mr. Danforth arrived at the farm, she was calm, and prepared to
listen to his plans for the future.
“You must become one of my family, Sybil,” said the kind-
hearted man; “we have room enough in our house and hearts
for you, and you shall be to me as a daughter, and to my chil-
dren as a sister. So dry your tears, and remmber that grief will
never restore the lost to us again.” Sybil smiled mournfully in




124 COUSIN SYBIL.
her uncle's face, but when alone, wept again at the thought that
his trite aphorism was to her a sad reality.
Sybil Fleming was received by Mrs. Danforth with a forinal
politeness which chilled the sensitive orphan to the heart, and
unbidden tears were in her eyes as she turned from her aunt to
meet the cold welcome of her unknown cousin. From Laura,
and Arthur, she met a warm and affectionate reception, for they
had not forgotten her unwearied endeavors to amuse and interest
them during a visit to the farm a year previous, and were deter-
mined to love Cousin Sybil dearly, if it were only to tease the
sister who had never made any attempt to win their affection
Evelina watched her cousin with unwonted interest, during the
process of uncloaking – and when at last the numerous envelopes
were removed, and the young lady herself fairly visible, she
drew a deep breath as though relieved of a heavy burden.
There could be no rivalry in the case, that was certain, for no-
body but silly Arthur would ever dream of calling Cousin Sybil
even pretty. True, her figure was exquisitely graceful and
commanding, but then many would think it too full for one sc
young. Her mouth too was a world too wide, even though it
disclosed two “rows of orient pearls” when she spoke or smiled,
and there was too much character “for a lady,” in the full, firm
lips which poor Sybil's admirers had so often compared to rose-
buds, twin cherries, rubies, and other beautiful things in nature.
Evel'na was a blonde, and Cousin Sybil was a brunette deci-
dedly—there was no denying that fact, and though to other ob-
Set Vers-
“all that's best of dark and bright”
Met “in her aspect and her eyes,”
-
so brilliant and yet so tender, half veiled by the long lashes, Miss
Danforth “never yet saw any beauty in a brunette.” The un
conscious subject of this scrutiny was patiently answering the
thousand questions of her young relatives, but though grateful
for their well-meant attempts to entertain her, she could not he'p
mentally contrasting the scene around her with the fondly re
membered past; and longed for the kind voices, the cher tº un-

COUSIN SYBIL. 125
reserve, and the intelligent intercourse of her own beloved home.
Repelled by the manner of those in whom she had confidently
expected to find a mother and sister—wearied and oppressed by
the pomp and glitter of every thing she saw, and her heart filled
to overflowing with bright memories of other days—she would
gadly have escaped to the solitude of her own apartment, that
she might enjoy the uninterrupted luxury of tears. But Sybil
Fleming was not one to yield herself up to the selfish indulgence
of sorrow. She possessed a nature essentially hopeful and joy-
ous; and full of warm affections and kindly impulses herself, was
slow to suspect unkindness or treachery in others. She saw
at a glance, that the household gods of her uncle's family were
wealth and fashion, and the beautiful girl who fancied herself so
immeasurably superior to her country cousin, was the object of
her sympathy and commiseration.
“Poor Evelina tº thought Sybil, when she left the drawing
room for the night; “she has never had any one to think of or
care for but herself, and I do not wonder she looks listless and
unhappy. I am afraid my country habits will not please her,
she is so reserved and fastidious; but there is an avenue to every
heart they say, and I shall certainly try to find the way to hers, it
is so dreadful to live without being beloved.” She sank to sleep
with the shadow of the last thought thrown across her fair young
brow, but it was soon dispelled by the rosy dreams of health and
Innocence.
“Poor Sybil P’ said Evelina to herself—“ what a fright she
makes of herself, with those short curls clustering about her face
and neck. I am sure I shall never like her, and I wish papa had
never brought her here, to be paraded about everywhere as “Miss
Danforth’s country cousin.” I wonder what Frank Meredith
will say to her—only think of a young lady not playing the harp,
or guitar, or even the piano | But she will perhaps serve as a
convenient foil for me, when I must bring her forward in compa-
ny.” Did good angels visit and bless the pillow on which Ev-
elina Danforth laid her head that night? -
“Pray tell me, dear Coz.,” said Laura Danforth, as they were
all quely seatel in the breakfast room a few days after the arº-

126 COUSIN SYBiL.
val of Miss Fleming, “how you contrived to spend your time in
such a lonesome place as that in which you lived ? what did you
do to amuse yourself?”
“Should you really like to know, Laura ! I am afraid the re-
cital would seem to you insipid and fatiguing, for it would be a
very simple story.”
“Oh no, let us have it by all means,” answered the young girl,
“I want to hear about a farm life, if it is only to see how Evelina
will curl her lip, and toss her head as though the very word of.
fended her dignity. I used to think before I went to stay at the
farm, that you must have afreckled skin, and coarse red hands, and
look like Biddy the chambermaid, because you was my country
cousin. But I am sure the sun has never spoiled your complex-
ion, and your hands are as small and delicate as Evelina’s; and as
for this dear little slipper, Idoubt whether even she could wearit.”
“Really, Laura,” said Sybil, with a bright blush and smile—
“you are wandering sadly from the matter in hand. What has
all this to do with the question you wished me to answer '"
“It was only the “association of ideas, about which Profes-
sor Allen talks so much; but now for the history of a day, by
Miss Sybil Fleming. Would not that be a grand title for a book,
Evelina 7”
The young lady thus addressed, answered only by raising her
large blue eyes from the embroidery frame over which she was
bending, with a polite stare of astonishment, and then resumed
her occupation. In the meantime, Laura had quietly seated her-
self on an ottoman at her cousin's feet, and Arthur too had laid
aside his book, to hear Sybil's reply to her question.
“I see there is no escape,” she said gayly, “from confessing in
this august presence all my country tastes and habits. If you are
too much shocked, however, remember it was not a voluntary in-
fliction on my part. In the first place, then, I used to rise very
early, for I had the sole charge of the poultry and the flower gar-
den; and to feed my little family, and weed my beds, required all
the time I could command before breakfast. During the forenoon,
beside putting the sitting room in order, I assisted my dear mo-
ther in the dairy room, or in any other household duties where I
-
COUSIN SYBIL. 127
was most needed; and as we always dined precisely at twelve,
the morning hours never hung heavy on my hands, I assure you.”
“Oh, what Goths and Vandals, to dine at twelve º’’ exclaimed
Arthur; “we should never be able to bring our appetites to that,
should we, Evelina 2 But go on dear coz, let us know the worst
of your case.”
“The worst is already told,” replied Sybil, with a smile which
lighted up every feature of her expressive face—“for when din-
ner was fairly over, I had all the long afternoon to myself, and
might devote it to reading, or writing, or thinking, or any other
employment I liked best. And then the winter evenings—you
cannot even imagine here in a city, in your splendid drawing
rooms, where every thing is so coldly polite and ceremonious,
how delightful they are in the country—when all the members
of the household, scattered at other times, come together round
the cheerful fire, and the duties of the day all over, yield them-
selves without reserve to the enjoyment of social intercourse. Nee-
dlework, conversation, music, or an entertaining book, fill up the
evening, and just at the hour when the city fashionables are leav-
ing home for the opera, or assembly, we separate and retire to
rest, and the sleep of industry is sweet.”
Poor Sybill The picture she had drawn from memory con-
trasted too strongly with the present, and the tears that in spite
of her efforts to crush them back, fell upon her work, showed
how deeply she felt the contrast. Neither Mrs. Danforth nor
Evelina could at all understand her feelings. They considered
her the most favored of human beings in having been transplanted
from her country home, to share the pleasures and advantages of
a city life, and were indignant that she seemed so unconscious of
her improved condition. Had Mrs. Danforth been, like some of
her coterie, a “first-rate manager,” she would probably have con-
triver to turn the industrious habits of her niece to a profitable
account for her family—but though nothing was farther from he
wishes than to introduce Sybil into society as the equal of her own
daughter, there was a native dignity about the orphanºwhich
foiled every attempt to degrade her from her true position in the
household of her uncle and guardian. Bitterly, however, was she-
º


12S COUSIN SYBIL.
made to feel, in a thousand ways, her fancied dependence; and
but for her uncle, who had learned to look to her for those count
less offices of love, which neither his wife nor daughter thought
of rendering, she would have found her situation too painful to be
endured. But—
“Sweet are the uses of adversity,”
and she who had hitherto been so tenderly cherished, that she was
in danger of becoming a mere sensitive plant, was learning in this
school of trial, to think less of the regard and good opinions of
others, if she might secure the approbation of her own conscience
and that of her Father in heaven.
To be concluded.
-
THE STORM ON THE BEACH.
It was a fearful night, the elements seemed at war with
each other, the rain poured in torrents, which was driven
backwards and forwards upon the beach and against the
lonely tenements, by the wild roaring wind; the sky was of
that thick, impenetrable blackness in which lurks no hope
of a ray of light, and stars seemed blotted from the map of
the heavens.
A solitary light, like a glow-worm in the darkness, gleamed
from the window of the lonely cottage of young Jenny Leeds.
Poor Jenny had been sitting at her casement watching the
gathering storm, she sat there through the dull afternoon,
with her needle for her only companion, but often the sew-
ing dropped from her hand, and the earnest eyes looked out
over the sandy shore, and watched the angry waves as they
dashed and broke over the rocks which formed a rampart
against the inroads of the mighty ocean. If she saw any
sign of motion on the beach, or a single figure waiting at the
little cove in whose shelter was anchored a few frail fishing
vessels, she strained her eyes until they ached with the in-
-

THE STORM ON THE BEACH. 129
tensity of the gaze, and a deep sigh coming from her over-
charged heart, she sunk listlessly back in her chair, and with
a shudder for a moment closed her eyes, and then resumed
her vigils. Daylight faded from the sky, and the twilight
glimmered and passed away, and thick darkness set in—with
a heavy sigh poor Jenny arose and added fresh fuel to her
little fire on the hearth, and, lighting a candle, placed it in
the window, that its cheerful beam might tell of the anxious
heart that watched within.
Poor Jenny Leeds ! well might she watch and wait upon
that fearful night; often and often did she rise and stand in
the open door, eagerly gazing up and down into the darkness
and dreariness all around; occasionally a light would glim-
mer in the hut of some poor fisherman on the beach, or
twinkle in the quiet windows of the pretty cottages on the
hillside, but then all would pass away, and darkness and
gloom reigned unbroken, save by the steady light of her lit-
tle taper.
Six months ago Jenny Leeds had come a happy bride to
the little cottage where we now find her, a sailor's bride, to
be sure, and she knew that hers was to be a lot in which
would be mixed up many trials with few joys, many nights
of watching and weeping, and few mornings of true happi-
ness. The honeymoon was passed together in the little cot-
tage on the beach—very simple were the joys of those quiet
hours, happy in each other's love, no more was asked ; the
little garden was tended, the red cow cared for, the pigeons
and the poultry with homes of their own, the evening's fire-
side and the morning sun found them always together, always
busy, and Jenny would often say she tried not to think that
the time must come when they must be separated, and he
become a wanderer on the mighty deep. But the time did
come, and the honest Tom Leeds bade good-bye to his pretty
bride, and stepping on board the little schooner “Wild Bird,”
was soon far—far away. But now the time had arrived for
his return ; for ten days Jenny had watched every sail that
fluttered over the white-crested waves, but no “Wild Bird”
as yet was seen, like a thing of life, panting with anticipa-
º -
---

130 THE STORM ON THE BEACH.
ted hope towards the pleasant shore—but night had come
in, storm and darkness, and poor Jenny was watching—
watching—waiting, poor Jenny
Her little time-piece showed the hours were passing rap-
idly—ten o’clock, eleven, Jenny threw herself on the floor,
and burying her head in her folded arms, she wept abun-
dantly. Suddenly it seemed to her that she was transported
to the open beach; the storm was raging wilder and wilder,
and far out on the angry waves a little craft seemed tossed
to and fro like a plaything, one mast was gone, and now and
then voices in a death agony came over the mighty waters;
a light was in the stern of the ship, and within its glare was
reflected a form most dear to the heart of Jenny Leeds—her
noble sailor husband stood there, his arms stretched towards
the shore in agony, his head thrown back, and a look of
utter despair upon his countenance. “Is there no help-no
hope l’ cried the grief-stricken wife, “will no one save my
husband P” but the angry billows answered in mighty voices,
and tossed themselves on high ; rough seamen stood about
and trembled at the sight—“Oh, all I have shall be given,”
shrieked poor Jenny, as she went from one to another with
imploring look, “anything—everything—if you will save my
husband " but the angry billows answered in mighty voices,
and tossed themselves on high. “Let me go get a boat—
let me take two sturdy men and go-oh, will you not go
will you not go P’’ she appealed to one and another, who,
unable to answer her supplications, stood dumb-stricken be-
side her, but the angry billows answered in mighty voices
and tossed themselves on high.
Finally all seemed lost in darkness and gloom, the light
in the stern had disappeared, and presently a fearful crash
echoed like a death knell against the rock-bound shore. A
shriek rent the air—the shriek of dying men, men strong in
youth, and hope, and bodily vigor—men who felt that their
hour had corne, and they were all unprepared to meet it.
Such a shriek God grant that neither you or I, gentle
reader, shall ever hear such a heart-rending sound; but it
seemed an if new vigor was added to the delicate frame of



THE STORM ON THE BEACH. 131
that young wife as she rushed backwards and forwards in her
frenzy, and supplicating, entreating, praying, she urged that
one and another might go out and dare the awful elements
in a tiny boat. At last a boat was manned, but it was tossed
about like a bird, and thrown back upon the beach a hope-
less wreck—nothing could stand the fury of those awful
waves; soon a hush seemed to come upon the air, and a voice
sounded, “Save me—save me—let me see my Jenny, my
bride—oh, save me !” “Where ! where !” answered the
voice of Jenny, but a hollow murmur answered, and the voice
seemed swallowed up in the mighty deep. After a little the
fury of the storm seemed abated, and as the morning dawned
fragments of a wreck were thrown upon the broad shore, a
sailor's chest, a broken spar, some empty casks, at last a
human figure, a young lad, all fresh and noble ; in his blue
shirt torn and dripping. Jenny ran and thought to see her
own beloved one—but it was not he ; another and another
were yielded up by the relentless waves, and laid at her feet
—“my own—my Thomas—my noble sailor; alas ! he is not
here.” At last anotherform was tossed up by the sobbing bil-
lows: “noble fellow ! noble Tom Leeds—it is he, it is he ſ”
shouted Jenny, as she ran in wild despair and threw herself
within reach of a cold, clammy hand which seemed out-
stretched to clasp hers—“Oh, my noble one—my husband tº
and with supernatural strength she seemed to draw him upon
the dry sand, and to part back the hair that, damp and
heavy, overhung his face; she shrieked for help, and it was
about her, around her, what little help that man can give
to the living, not to the dead, he was past human help. As
the certainty of this awful truth was forced upon Jenny’s
mind, she fell lifeless on the sands, rough arms seemed raising
her, and a kind voice, oh how kind a voice spoke, “What,
sleeping, my Jenny, and on the floor too ! Is this the way
you watch for the return of your sailor husband P’’ It was,
indeed, none other than he, the noble Tom Leeds, dripping
with the brine, but whole and sound—and, oh, how hand-
some he looked, as Jenny, sobbing, threw herself in his arms.


“Oh, which is the dream,” she cried, “that or this—is this -

132 THE STORM ON THE BEACH.
my own Tom—my husband—or is it he whose body I have
just broken my heart over, on the beach tº She sat down
and cried like a very silly girl, which she was not. “ Why,
Jenny, you were dreaming, your candle had burned very low,
and I came and looked in but could not see you, and as I
opened the door I found you sitting on the floor with you
head resting upon a chair, and you seemed strangely troubled
in your sleep, and put my arms around you, and called
to you, before you seemed conscious of my approach.” Jenny
laughed and cried by turns, and asked about the storm and
the wreck all in one breath. Tom answered in a solemn voice
as he raised the tarpaulin from his sunburnt brow, “He who
holdeth the waters in the hollow of His hand has cared for
us, He bore us over the billows as a bird upon the air, and
He permitted us to enter the haven where we would be ; but
a few moments since we landed safely in the cove, and now
I am with my own bride—my own Jenny—and we will be
happy while we can.” “I shall not forget this night very
soon,” said the smiling wife quite reassured, “it has been a
fearful night to me;” and when she recounted her wild
dream as she sat with her husband’s hand in hers she shud-
dered and wept, and said, “I thank the Lord for all His
mercies, my dear husband, but I cannot very soon forget
this fearful night and the Storm on the Beach.
C. E. R. PARKER.
~ __
THAT politeness which we put on, in order to keep the
assuming and the presumptuous at a proper distance, will
generally succeed. But it sometimes happens, that these
obtrusive characters are on such excellent terms with them-
selves, that they put down this very politeness to the score
of their own great merits and high pretensions, meeting the
coldness of our reserve, with a ridiculous condescension of
familiarity, in order to set us at ease with ourselves. To a
bystander, few things are more amusing, than the cross play,
inderplot, and final eclaircissements, which this mistake
- * occasions.
--
ºr -º
§º


MY FIRST A F FLICTION
BY M. G. M.
1 was, at seventeen years of age, a gay, light-hearted girl,
ignorant of sorrow, and looking forward to the world I was
about to enter, with expectations of felicity which have proved
as delusive as they were brilliant. Kind friends were about me,
who loved to minister to my enjoyment, and whose attention to
my lightest wish, contributed to the growth of that unhallowed
self-will which was my characteristic and my bane. But the
best and kindest of them all was my gentle mother: and how
was she requited 2 I see her now, with her dark hair still un-
touched by time, drawn away from the high calm brow, under a
close cap, a kerchief of spotless lawn folded across the bosom in
which a true woman's heart was beating, and her soft dark eyes
fixed earnestly on me, when some ebullition of youthful temper
or caprice awoke anxious solicitude for her wayward child.
Her voice was soft and low, and it was ever more in sorrow than
in anger that she chided me; but though I dearly loved my
mother, so great was the natural impetuosity and obstinacy of
my disposition, that my will was never yielded, even to hers
without a severé, and often, a protracted struggle. Oh, how
bitter is the remembrance of that sad tone and pitying look,
which spoke so eloquently of a mother's sorrow, and a mother's
love Could tears of penitence recal the past, or restore those
who have gone forever from the sight, I should not now be suf-
fering the pangs of unavailing remorse.
I had a passion for books, which my fond mother loved to
indulge, but she wished me likewise to cultivate a taste for those
WOL. I.-NO. 5.


138 MY FIRST AFFLICTION.
domestic pursuits which belong particularly to the sphere of
woman. To a well-regulated mind, this variety of employment
would have been productive only of pleasure, but I did not love
the cares and duties of domestic life; and as they were always
irksome in the extreme to me, I either avoided them entirely, or
when this was impossible, my allotted task was accompanied too
frequently not only by sullen looks, but by selfish repinings and
unjust reproaches. It seems now impossible that I could thus
nave wounded the ear that was ever open to all my complaints
from infancy to maturity; but the heart that has yielded itself up
to the dominion of selfishness, becomes dead to every noble and
generous emotion. There were, indeed, seasons when my better
nature would assert its power, and then how earnestly I sought
to atone for my filial ingratitude, by every fond attention I could
bestow! How I strove to efface from the heart of my mother,
those records of wrong-doing which conscience told me were
written there as with a pen of iron, or the point of a diamond'
But that indomitable pride which formed a marked feature of my
character, prevented me from giving utterance to the confession
that often trembled on my lips, and I turned away in seeming
carelessness from the gentle reproof, which in reality made my
heart thrill to its very centre. -
But why do I dwell on such sad remembrances? Alas, I would
fain linger among these earlier records of the past, stained though
they may be, ere I turn to that dark page in the history of my life,
upon which I can never look without remorse and horror, even
though blotted out from the archives of heaven by the tears of the
recording angel. If at any time the question had been put to
me, “are you prepared deliberately to disregard the commands
or wishes of this tender mother ?” I should at once have indig-
nantly answered, “No-I am not such a monster of ingratitude;”
and yet I allowed myself to question the propriety of her deci-
sions, and to murmur at them openly, until I was prepared to
fall before the first strong temptation that assailed me. It came
only too soon.
My beloved mother was particularly guarded in the choice of
my associates; still, though there was among them one of whom

MY FIRST AFFLICTION. 139
she strongly disapproved, circumstances rendered it impossible to
prevent the Intimacy which existed between us. She could
therefore only warn me against the evil effects to be apprehended
from our friendship, for Emma had been differently educated
from myself, by a careless, worldly mother, who had entirely
neglected the cultivation of her moral nature. Emma had never
dreamed of yielding her own wishes to those of her mother, and
in the frequent contests between them, the daughter always
came off conqueror, until her will became the acknowledged law
of the whole household. Such a companion would have been a
dangerous one under any circumstances, but to me she was pecu-
liarly so. My haughty and self-willed spirit chaſed under the
gentle restraint of maternal love, as though it had been a yoke
of iron; and I gradually learned that it was possible to deceive,
where I dared not openly to brave parental authority.
There was to be a masked ball given in the town near which
we resided, on the evening preceding my seventeenth birth-day,
and as Emma had determined on going, I was extremely anxious
to accompany her. It was a species of amusement which my
mother disapproved so strongly, that I knew it would be utterly
in vain to seek her consent; and besides, the ball was given by a
lady whom I never had been allowed to visit, for very sufficient
reasons. Nevertheless, I urged my suit with tears and entrea-
ties—to all which the mild but firm reply was still the same—
“It is impossible, my daughter—you will yourself thank me for
this decision when you know more of the world. I have a plan
of amusement for your birth-day, which will make ample
amends for this disappointment.” When I next met Emma, she
described in such glowing colors the pleasure to be expected at
the ball, and the splendid dresses prepared for us both by order
of her indulgent mother, that I exclaimed—“oh, how happy
should I be, if I were like you, and could do as I pleased in every
thing! But it is in vain to expect to gain my mother's consent.”
“And could you not contrive to go without it?” was the almost
whispered reply. I started and changed color, for the wicked-
ness of such a step shocked me, but the idea had taken possession
of my mind, and would not depart at my bidding. It is suffi-

140 MY FIRST AFFLICTION.
cient to say, that before the close of the day, my scruples had
vanished, my objections were all overruled, and a plan arranged
by which my confiding parent was to be deceived, and my
wishes accomplished. Under the pretence of a slight headache,
I retired early to my own room, left the house secretly, and as
the carriage of my friend was waiting for me, soon found myself
at her side, preparing for my entrance on the gay world which
fancy had painted in such brilliant colors. Guilty as I was, I
was not yet hardened in crime, and I had many misgivings, as
the sweet, pale countenance of my mother came up before me,
and her tender “good night” thrilled on my ear. But when I
entered the brilliantly lighted ball room, doubt, apprehension, and
remorse, all were forgotten. The rooms were arranged to re-
semble the gardens of Armida, and had the 'enchantress herself
been present, the spell cast over my senses could not have been
more complete. I was dazzled, bewildered, intoxicated; the
painful thoughts which had haunted me were lost amid the
bustle and gayety of the scene, and it was not until the carriage
drew up to the door, which was to convey me to the house of
my friend, that reason resumed the throne. In laying our plans
for the evening's amusement, we had forgotten to arrange the
method of my return home, and I feared that whatever course I
might adopt, discovery would be inevitable. How could I meet
the searching glance of my mother, after such an act of filial
disobedience 2 Alas! the roses I had plucked so heedlessly
were armed with thorns, which remained to pierce me, long after
the fragrance of the flowers had departed.
I had just alighted at the door of my companion, when a ser-
vant came up hastily, and without one word of preparation
exclaimed—“Miss M., your mother is dead.” It was indeed
so, she had died suddenly of a disease to which she had long
been subject; but whether the discovery of my delinquency had
any agency in the dreadful catastrophe, I shall in this world
never know. But the fact was the same—she had died without
the presence of her child, and with the agonizing conviction that I
had wilfully and deliberately deceived and disobeyed her. She
had died without granting me her forgiveness, or giving me her

MY FIRST AFFLICTION. 14, 1
blessing, and no repentance on my part could recal the irrevo-
cable past. I shall not attempt to describe the intense suffering
which prostrated me for weeks on a bed of sickness, lest I
might seem to offer some palliation for my want of filial duty to
the departed. It is enough to say, that the stroke which laid
me low, tore from me the disguises in which I had been wrapping
myself, and I saw my past character and conduct in their true
light. As I looked for the last time on the lifeless face of her
who was my earthly all, the deep fountains of feeling were un-
sealed, and my heart melted like wax within me. I knew that
she who was lying there so cold and still, was now happy; but
I knew, too, that her last moments had been embittered by my
sin, and it was too late to confess my fault, or seek to make
amends. Dreadful thought! Were centuries of existence mine,
I could never forget the agony of that moment, nor the horror
with which I turned from my tempter and partner in crime, to
those true friends who had tried to save me from myself, and
who now probed the deep wound of my heart, in order to effect
a Cure.
Many years have passed since that night of horror—the name
of my mother is a sound forgotten by those who loved her best, and
the home of my childhood has passed into the hands of strangers,
but never, until my heart is still in death, shall I lose the memory
of this, my first affliction | Let the young remember, that the
bonds which unite parent and child are golden links wrought
by God himself, and they cannot be severed with impunity.
When cast aside or torn asunder, they become a chain of iron,
pressing upon the bleeding heart, and no hand but that of Omni-
potence can remove the burden. But the consciousness of filial
duty faithfully performed, will gild the evening of life with a
mild radiance, while the shadows of the past rise before the soul,
not as spectres to alarm the guilty conscience, but as approving
angels smiling through the mists of time.

142 WOMAN S MINISTRATION.
W O M A N S M IN IS T R AT I O N.
By MRS. E. W. FARNHAM.
THE MOTHER, SISTER, AND DAUGHTER.
As the Mother of her race, woman has certain physical func-
tions to discharge, in which she is necessarily exclusive. No
other can be her agent, or act to the smallest extent in her stead.
These functions engross most of her energies—they occupy a
considerable portion of her life, and are of vital importance to
the whole family of man. She is expressly designed for their
discharge, and her adaptation to them in structure, is as perfect
as Omnipotent power and wisdom could make it. Her mater-
nal duties, too, are of a peculiar and very arduous character.
They do not require the strength of man, but the quickness, tact,
sensibility, tenderness, and patience, which exist only in the
sacred relation of mother. These qualities, her physical struc-
ture prepares her to exhibit; and her strong maternal love, like
a radiant atmosphere, surrounds them all, and gives life and
beauty to each. Let the mind dwell for a moment on the love
of a mother toward her child, and we shall see that such an one
subsists between no other beings. Earth hath nothing more
beautiful, nor can mortal imagination attribute to Heaven any
thing more holy. It is kindled into being amid mortal agony
and peril. Its object is the most feeble of animated beings, with
no qualities to interest the mind, no capacity to appreciate and
return the affection lavished upon it, and only a far-off prospect
of arriving at such a state, with years of care, toil, and anxiety
between. Yet how tenderly does the mother's heart yearn over
this little being ! How its first feeble wail thrills upon her weary
ear! How earnestly she scans its fragile form, beautiful, only to
her loving eyes!—How gladly she now renounces the liberty
which has hitherto been her happiness, and sits down for many
months at the sºle of the unconscious little being, while her heart

woMAN's MINIsTRATION. 143
thrills with a strange joy during all these days and nights of
vigil, mingled with pain only when suffering sits upon her
infant’s brow, or death hovers over its couch
How gentle are all her movements with her nursling, how well
her flexible muscles and abundance of adipose tissue adapt her to
bear it about or change its position without giving pain or shock!
Her light soft clothing is pleasant in contact with the tender sur-
face, her motions are quick in obedience to its wants, her
patience inexhaustible, her vigilance untiring. She will watch
by night and day for weeks over its sick couch, and still bear
fresh energies to the task. She will perform the most offensive
duties and feel no annoyance or disgust at them. For such offices,
her organization is infinitely superior to that of man, and her
mind bears a corresponding adaptation in her greater patience,
her keener perception, her superior capacity to apprehend and
remember details, and in the infinitely stronger and more exalted
character of her parental love. She knows no selfish interests
which conflict with the happiness of her offspring.
A father schemes for his own aggrandizement. True, he
looks to transmitting his wealth and honors to his children when
he shall have enjoyed them. But with him this is a secondary
object. With the true woman it is the Alpha and Omega.
Through life, if need be, she will toil for her child, and spend her
last farthing to promote its comfort, though famine sit upon her
own lips. She will pray Heaven in his behalf, though she in-
voke only blasphemous curses on every other being. There is
no crime she will not forgive in him, no disgrace she will not
share. If all the world proclaim him a dishonored wretch, she
remembers only that she bore him, and opens her arms to receive
him. Her most ardent hopes and wishes follow him through
life, and hover over his pathway like a smile from a better world.
Death alone can quench a mother's love.
The SistER is another of the beautiful offices which it is given
to woman to fill. If her affection in this capacity is less ardent
and exclusive than that of the mother, it is equally wide spread.
She is the guardian spirit of her brothers, the teacher and friend
of her sisters, second in both these relations to the mother alone.

144 womfAN’s MIN is TRAT ion.
She must be affectionate, obliging, persuasive. She must ac-
quire knowledge, accomplish herself, refine her sentiments, dis-
cipline her feelings, and enrich the paternal home with every
charm that may bind the wavering brother there, before his
character is ripened, and his principles fixed so as to resist
temptation. She is the companion of the brother abroad. Her
youth enables her to sympathize with him, while her strong
affection and purity should, in the absence of the mother, make
the daughter her representative to strengthen his integrity, to
exalt his sense of truth and honor, and by a lively but unosten-
tatious care preserve him against temptation. She may aid the
mother likewise, in cultivating a love of knowledge. By means
of her own intelligence, she may do much during the early years
of the boy, to prepare him for intercourse with the world. She
may enrich his mind by her industry, and at the same time pre-
serve him in his weakest hours from the evil to which the world
invites him. What a noble being is a pure-minded, high-souled,
generous and affectionate sister! Whose heart does not warm
under her influence 2 What a beautiful opportunity does her
station present, to plant with her own hand, flowers that shall
bud and blossom on her tomb -
As the DAUGHTER, Woman's duty is unfailing kindness and
reverence. It is not by great deeds of sacrifice or heroism, that
she will best prove her filial love and fidelity, but by the
thousand little attentions which in a daughter so much minister
to the sober happiness of the meridian and evening of life. No
voice so gentle as hers, in the sick chamber of the mother. No
ear so keenly open to the wants of the aged father, no step so
light in his service. She is the link between his bright morning
and his fading twilight. While the son on whom his pride
reposes, is abroad, breasting the surges of a selfish world, the
daughter whom he loves, remains by his side, to bless and
beautify his quiet home. She stays his tottering steps, she
smooths his blanched and wasted locks, she adjusts his cushioned
chair, and in her leisure hours amuses his wandering mind with
books or papers, or her own version of some interesting topic.


woMAN’s MINISTRATION. 14.5
She bears his little humors without parading her pity for his
weakness, and is untiring in her thousand offices of love.
O what were age without woman—woman in her true
sphere—the Home? Not woman abroad, engaged in labor or
business—not woman engrossed in public affairs, canvassing
elections, holding courts, making laws, or buying and selling
goods on 'change or elsewhere; but woman, shut away from the
clamor of the world, at the clean and social fireside—presiding
over the well-ordered household—cherishing with pious care the
chilled and aged frame with the solicitude of true affection, sup-
plying the unuttered wants of her revered charge, and by her
presence and gentle voice pouring light and melody into the
dull sense of age and decrepitude! These are holy privileges,
and their very necessity is one of the most exalted schools of
virtue, well adapted and designed to prepare the daughter for
her vocation and duties as mother. The ancient tale which the
Poet Artist has embodied in the inimitable stanzas that describe
the fair, fresh daughter, returning to her sire from her own
breast, the life he gave, is one of the loveliest pictures on which
the heart can dwell. Even if a fable, it illustrates with touching
strength and beauty a daughter's love.
INFANC Y.
“Ababe in a house is a well-spring of pleasure, a messenger of peace and
love;
A resting place for innocence on earth; a link between angels and men:
Yet is it a talent of trust, a loan to be rendered back with interest;
A delight, but redolent of care; honey sweet, but lacking not the bitter;
For character groweth day by day, and all things aid it in unfolding.
Disposition is builded up by the fashioning of first impressions:
Wherefore, though the voice of Instruction waiteth for the ear of Reason
Yet with his mother's milk, the young child drinketh Education.”
[Tupper's “Proverbial Philosophy.’

POETRY.
THE B LIGHTED ROSE - BU in
And this is Death !
Yet not as when he comes in terror clad,
To tear the trembling soul from all it loves;
But cloth’d in robes of light, one gentle touch
Has broke the chain, and set the captive free.
What more than mortal beauty decks thee now,
Thou lovely and beloved, but early lost:
One golden curl lies on thy marble brow,
In mimicry of life; and on thy cheek
Of snow, thine eye's dark fringe reposing,
Seems but to veil the radiant orbs beneath
In quiet slumber. But thou wilt not wake:
The shadow of a deeper sleep is o'er thee
Than that in which thou oft hast sunk to rest
Within thy mother's arms. Her aching breast
Shall pillow thee no longer; nor her ear
Delighted listen to thy whispered tones
Of fond endearment; for henceforth, thy bed
Is in the quiet earth, and o'er thy grave
The earliest treasures of the balmy spring,
The snow-drop pure, and violet, shall bloom—
Fit emblems of the broken flower beneath.
Thou wert the sunbeam, lighting up our path,
When all beside was shadow; in thy smiles,
The burden'd heart forgot its load of care
Awhile, and gaz'd upon thy beaming face,
As on a vision of a brighter world.
Gone to thy rest;
In life's young dawn, before one threatºning cloud
Had gather'd o'er thy way, or earth's dark stain
Had fall'n upon thy soul, a hand divine
Hath crown'd thee victor; and an angel voice
Soft as the hymnings of the seraph choir,
Comes to us from above: “Weep not for her
Who early laid life's toisome burden down,

H.QUESTRIANISM. 147
And sweetly slept. But not within the grave
Rests what ye fondly lov'd : ’twas but the robe
Which the freed spirit wore, that there awaits
The resurrection morn; while near the throne
The ransom'd soul rejoices; and, amid
The throng of worshippers, her choral song
Ascends to Him whose love hath fill'd those plains
With myriads of the blest. The lov’d and lost—
Those whom ye call, mistakingly, the dead—
Clothed in immortal youth, await ye here,
And when life's fitful dream is over, ye shall meet
To part no more.”
*
-
A CHAPTER ON EQUESTRIANISM.
We have recently received a letter from an unknown corres-
pondent in Maryland, from which we shall take the liberty of
making a few extracts, for the benefit of our youthful readers
who are, or ought to be equestrians. The exercise of riding on
horseback, is so healthful, so invigorating, and affords so admir-
able an opportunity for the exhibition of skill and grace, that
we have always been surprised at the small number of fair eques-
trians, compared with the multitudes who prefer to it the luxu-
rious but indolent motion of a carriage. One thing is certain—
a young lady who sits well, and manages her horse skilfully,
never looks better than on horseback; even with the present
style of dress, and if, as our correspondent avers, a great im-
provement can be made in this respect, the subject is undoubt-
edly worthy of attention. We are not prepared to give an opin-
ion in reference to it, having never seen the style of habit here
recommended, but we confess our first impressions of the gilt
button are unfavorable, as being too showy, and therefore less
genteel than the style at present worn. The situation is itself so
conspicuous, that perfect plainness and simplicity of costume
would seem most becoming, but we are very willing to suffer
our correspondent to speak for herself, on the other side of the

148 EQUESTRIANISM.
question. Whatever may be the general decision of our fair
countrywomen in respect to costume, we should rejoice to see
the passion for equestrian exercise universal among them, as the
best tonic and cosmetic in the world.
BALTIMoRE County, Md. July 3d.
“As an humble individual, who is desirous of seeing an im-
provement in the physical as well as the mental condition of our
countrywomen, I take the liberty of addressing you on a subject
which in my opinion, hardly receives the attention it deserves.
My observation has satisfied me that the superior health of the
English women is owing among other causes, greatly to their
custom of frequently riding on horseback; and I am confident
that it would be a blessing to the young ladies of our country,
if a general taste for equestrianism were prevalent among them.
But I greatly fear that riding will never become a general re-
creation with the young and fashionable, until the riding dress is
first made a gayer garment than it is now in our country. The
riding habits in use among us, are generally solemn looking ar-
ticles, and one can hardly suppose a young lady would take any
special pleasure in wearing them. In England they are much
gayer, and there is such a piquancy or smartness, in the appear-
ance of the riding habit that young people are always anxious
to adopt it. This feeling is natural, and it will always exist.
If the English style of habit can be introduced fairly, I feel cer-
tain that it will induce thousands to ride who never think of it
now. This is a habit of dark blue cloth or cashmere, the body
tight, opening low down the bust, with a velvet collar, and the
body ornamented with two or three rows of plain flat gilt but-
tons. There is a description of it in the Ladies National Mag-
azine, for April. I have frequently been in England during the
last fifteen years, and have always found that the English ladies
ornamented their habits with gilt buttons. I would by no means
advocate the use of such buttons on dresses generally, but on
riding habits, I am certain they are appropriate. They do not
make the habit military in its appearance, because the buttons
are always plain, and serve for a finish without braiding the

EQUESTRIANISM. 149
corsage. The gilt buttons give the habit just a sufficient air of
smartness to make it popular with those who require the benefit
of riding; and after the novelty of seeing them on a lady's ha-
bit passes away, very few will think them too showy. Blue is
worn in England, because it contrasts better than any other co-
lor with such buttons, and for the same reason it would probably
be the most fashionable color here. I have one idea to suggest,
in addition to what I have already said. It is a common prac-
tice with ladies who ride, to leave home after tea, and continue
their exercise long after dark, to enjoy the delicious coolness of
the evening. This practice, however pleasant, is pernicious to
health. A ride ought not to continue beyond twilight, because
the dew is prejudicial, and frequently occasions a cold which is
the precursor of consumption. Morning is the best time for rid-
ing, but it would be folly to expect fashionable young ladies to
rise early enough to take a morning ride in summer.
I would also suggest, that no covering for the head is so con-
venient as a cloth or velvet cap. The flats are very trouble-
some, and do not keep off the sun better than the veil which ac-
companies the cap. The calash conceals too much of the head
to be recommended.
The habit ought to roll open in front as much as a gentleman's
summer vest, to be comfortable; this admits of showing much
taste in the chemisette, which ought to have a narrow collar
turned down—over a small cravat in the manner of gentlemen.
Pardon me for troubling you with this long letter on a subject
which some may regard as one of minor importance; though, I
think, your intelligent readers will agree with me in thinking
nothing a trifle which concerns the health of the youthful daugh-
ters of our land.
Yours, &c.
-
Regular daily exercise in the open air is as indispensably ne-
cessary for the preservation of health as our daily food; and
whether walking or riding, it is important to have some motive
which will induce pleasurable and lively thoughts, as the mental
and physical nature must both be aroused into life and activity
thereby.

COUSIN SYBIL
-
COUSIN SYBIL, OR, WHO IS THE LADY 1*
AMONG the numerous male visitors at the house of Mr. Dan.
forth, there were two, whose attentions had become so particular,
that Miss Danforth was already balancing probabilities, and en-
deavoring to settle the claims of the rival candidates for her fa-
vor and—her fortune. One of them was rich, but a fool—the
other a well educated, intelligent young lawyer, with very little
on which to depend, but his intellect and his profession. He
would have scorned the idea of “marrying for money,” had it
been presented to him in the abstract; and yet when a very
pretty and apparently amiable girl seemed inclined to look favor-
bly upon him, it certainly did not lessen her attractions, when he
learned that her father was considered one of the wealthiest men
on 'change. So, Frank Meredith continued to sun himself in the
smiles of the fair Evelina, regardless alike of his wealthy rival,
who looked daggers when they chanced to meet, and of Mrs.
Danforth, whose tongue occasionally resembled the same sharp
instrument. In her estimation, every young man who was desti-
tute of wealth, whatever talents or worth he might possess, was
a fortune-hunter; and her maternal sagacity was ever on the
alert to discover symptoms of a flirtation when such an one was
introduced to her daughter. But in the case of Frank Meredith,
her sagacity was at fault. True, he came very frequently to her
house, quite too much so, she thought; but it was difficult to pre-
vent this, as her husband liked his society, and he had never yet
spoken of love to Miss Danforth, though the wily mother had
made several attempts to discover the state of his affections. She
was obliged therefore to content herself with watching him so
closely that not a movement could escape her, while, like a skil-
* Continued from page 128.

COUSIN SYbIL. :51
- |-
ful angler, she was throwing out the line for the young million-
aire, Fred Somers, who seemed in a fair way to be caught.
“Mamma,” said Evelina to her mother, when the gentlemen in
question had just left them one evening, “why do you treat
that odious Somers with such marked attention ? If you flatte
yourself that I shall ever think of him, with his cockney tones,
red whiskers, and vulgar manners, you are greatly mistaken.
blush for him every time he opens his mouth, for I am sure some
thing very silly or very impertinent is coming. If he did not
sport such a perfect love of a carriage, and such splendid horses,
I would never tolerate him for a moment.”
“My dear, you have a great deal yet to learn,” replied the
selfish and worldly mother; “you do not seem to know that when
one possesses immense wealth, very little else is required to give
them popularity and friends. The wife of Mr. Somers will be at
the head of a princely establishment—she will be the queen of
fashion, and the leader of ton, and her equipage and diamonds
will be the envy of all her acquaintance. What more could any
reasonable woman desire 7°
“You seem to forget the incumbrance, Mamma—all these
things are very fine, but to be tied for life to such an insufferable
bore, would be horrible. Why I could never get through an
evening here at home with him, were it not for Frank Meredith
Oh, how delightful if Frank Meredith had his fortune, or he had
Frank Meredith's person and manners. Then, indeed—”
“Evelina,” interrupted Mrs. Danforth, “you are talking very
foolishly, and improperly. Frank Meredith, as you choose to
call him, can never be to you any thing more than a common
acquaintance, whose society helps to pass away a pleasant hour
so I warn you to beware how you think or talk of him. He is
a very good young man, but he is poor, and even with the best
prospects, must be content to live very plainly for many years yet
to come. Imagine yourself, brought up as you have been, the
mistress of a small house in —street, with one servant—obliged
yourself to go to market, dust your one parlor, superintend the
dinner, and perhaps lay the cloth; and then when your husband
--

152 COUSIN SYBIL.
º
came in, you might perhaps indulge in the relaxation of mend-
ing his stockings, while he was prepating his briefs by your
side.”
“But, dear aunt,” Sybil Fleming ventured to say, “if my
cousin loved her husband, would not these services be pleasant,
when performed for his sake? I can see nothing degrading, nor
even tiresome, in any of the employments you have mentioned,
and surely affection would sweeten them all.”
“You are quite a romantic young lady,” replied Mrs. Danforth,
but I beg you to remember that what might be very proper for
you, educated as you have been, and accustomed to work of va-
rious kinds, would be humiliating and trying in the extreme to
my daughter. Young persons of a certain rank in life, are entitled
to make demands, and to form expectations in reference to mar-
riage, which would be absurd in others differently situated; and
though Mr. Meredith may be a very suitable companion for
Miss Fleming, he is by no means on an equality with Miss Dan-
forth.” So saying, Mrs. Danforth bade the young ladies a for-
mal good night, and sailed majestically out of the room, leaving
Sybil Fleming more disposed to laugh at her absurd pride, than
to be angry at the rude remarks addressed to herself.
Evelina rose as her mother retired, threw herself into a fau.
teuil near the fire, and drawing out the comb which confined her
luxuriant hair, suffered it to fall about her until the silken tresses
almost concealed her slender form. “Now, cousin Sybil,” she
said, as she carelessly wound one sunny ringlet round her fail
hand, “tell me truly, do you think Fred Somers even tolerable 7
And is not Frank Meredith, with all his disadvantages, a prince
compared to him 7”
“You know, Evelina, I cannot pretend to judge for one so dif-
ferently situated, my aunt says; but really I cannot understand
what the disadvantages are of which you speak. Mr. Meredith
has talents, education, moral worth, and a good profession: what
does he want of wealth to make him more respectable or
happy Žº
“Excellent!” exclaimed Evelina with a scornful smile, “I
could imagine it my good grandmother favoring me with one of


COUSIN SYBIL. 153
her homilies. Respectable—indeed! Why I can see him now
in my mind's eye, your respectable man, seated by the fire in his
morning gown and slippers, rocking the cradle as he reads the
evening paper, while his equally respectable wife plies the
needle, as though her life depended on finishing the garment in
hand. This is not precisely the kind of establishment suited to
my taste, I confess; and yet, though I must have splendor, I can-
not quite fancy Fred Somers to share it with me.”
The dark and lustrous eyes of Sybil Fleming were raised earn-
estly to her cousin's face as she answered, “Evelina, why are
you so false to yourself, so false to all the generous impulses of
woman's nature ? You prefer the society of Frank Meredith, I
am sure you do—you admire his talents, his fine person, his at-
tractive manners, and you are proud of his exclusive attentions.
If you are conscious of a stronger feeling, why not nobly deter-
mine to share with him the fortune which would indeed be valua-
ble if it might confer additional happiness on a beloved one, or
remove one obstacle from his path to fortune and to fame. My
uncle, I am certain, would not refuse his consent—and as to Fred
Somers, the intangible something which he calls heart, does not
weigh enough to be taken into the account.”
For a moment, the enthusiasm of the young girl communicated
itself to her companion; but in that selfish and worldly heart, there
was no answering chord of sympathy to vibrate permanently—so
after a moment’s pause she exclaimed: “All this is very ridicu-
lous, when the poor man has never yet uttered the fatal words
of committal, though to be sure, his eyes have spoken plainly
enough. But I think, on the whole, you are better suited to

him than myself, so I will turn him over to my country coz.”.
And, lightly humming an air from the last opera, she retired to
dream of new conquests—while poor Sybil, as she sought her
chamber, felt more keenly than ever the wide gulf which sepa-
rated her in feeling, opinion, and affection, from her fashionable
relations. She had heard of the heartlessness of the world, but
she had never before seen a young female who could coolly talk
of bartering herself for wealth and a splendid equipage, to a man
for whom she professed neither love nor esteem, and the spectacle
**

154 COUSIN SYBIL.
---
pained and disgusted her. “I can do nothing, I fear, for my poor
cousin,” she said mentally ; “but how fervent should be my
thanksgiving to God, for the different lessons taught me by my
own precious mother l’’ That name was ever a talisman to shield
her from care and sorrow, and with it upon her lips, the affection-
ate daughter resigned herself to the quiet slumber of youth and
Innocence.
“Do you play, Miss Fleming 7" inquired Mr. Meredith a few
evenings after the conversation we have been repeating, “I think
ſ have not yet had the pleasure of hearing you.”
“Probably not,” was the quiet reply, “as I do not perform on
any instrument, and am always contented to be a listener when
music is in question.” -
“Well, it is delightful,” said Mr. Meredith, “to find one young
lady who dares to confess that she is ignorant of instrumental
music. From my soul I pity the pianos I meet, thumped and
belabored as they are, from morning to night, by fingers as
guiltless of melody as they are of useful industry. If the doc-
trine of transmigration of souls be true, I am certain that some
heinous transgressor must be expiating the sins of a long life,
among the shrieking and agonized strings of the instrument.”
“Very flattering, upon my word,” lisped Fred Somers to Eve-
lina Danforth, who had just been executing a brilliant bravura,
“you owe Mr. Meredith many thanks, Miss Danforth.”
“Mr. Meredith's opinion is a matter of perfect indifference
to me,” she haughtily replied. “Probably he would be better
able to appreciate Miss Fleming's performance on the spinning
wheel, than mine on the harp or piano. I wish him joy of his
refined tastes.”
There was something in the tone of voice with which this was
uttered that caused Frank Meredith to turn round and look at the
fair speaker, and as he did so, he saw in her eye an expression
he had never before witnessed there. It was the work of a
moment, that revelation of character, but the impression it made
was one not easily to be effaced, for in the glance thrown by
Evelina at her unoffending cousin, anger, hatred, and jealousy,
were distinctly visible. Bowing very gravely to Miss Danforth.

* M. Moro, lith evolai mad

COUSIN SYBIL. 155
“I do indeed admire Miss Fleming's choice of an instrument
of music, and am flattered that you think me capable of appre-
ciating her performance upon it. I can only regret that such is
the delicacy of the fair musician, it would be difficult to give ex-
pression to my feelings without offending her ear.”
Evelina saw from his altered manner, that she had gone too
far, and bit her lip until the blood came, in the vain attempt to
repress her angry emotions—while Fred Somers, who never saw
beneath the surface of things, smoothed his whiskers complacently
as he replied—
“Well, really you have a most extraordinary taste. I suppose
spinning and all that sort of thing is very well in its place, though
I never saw any of it done—but the idea of seeing a young lady
engaged in such vulgar employments is too absurd. What could
put it into your head, my dear Meredith ? For my part, I think
ladies never ought to do any kind of work, for it spoils their
white hands, and there are plenty of servants in the world to do
all the work. Industrious people are always stupid.”
“Do you hear that, cousin Sybil,” said Laura Danforth; “ you
are always employed about something from morning to night,
how very stupid you must be ſ”
Cousin Sybil was busied just then with a difficult stitch in her
worsted work, so she did not immediately reply. But Frank
Meredith thought that the lovely face which was raised for a
moment at this sally of Laura's, expressed any thing but stu-
pidity. “Will you not defend yourself, Miss Fleming,” he said
with a smile, “ or must I couch a lance in your behalf No
champion could do battle in a fairer cause.”
“I fear I am hardly worth defending,” she answered gaily;
“for I am not only guilty of the sin of industry in the parlor,
but have actually entered a kitchen, and shared in its appropriate
employments. After such a confession, what hope is there for
me?” -
How very tiresome all this is P’ interrupted Evelina, “I on-
ly hope I shall never be obliged to darn a stocking, or make a
pudding, or wash the china, for I can find much more agreeable


156 COUSIN SYBIL.
employments—is it not so, Fan” she asked, caressing at the
same time the French poodle which lay nestled on the sofa at her
side.
“How is it that I have been blind so long " thought Frank
Meredith as he left the house that night; “this girl has no heart,
and worse still, she is something of a vixen too. She will never
do for me, that is certain; but is there any one else who will ?
Ah, that is another question.” We shall not betray the young
gentleman's secrets, as we have only obtained possession of them
in our capacity of listener, but leave our readers to imagine the
rest of the soliloquy.
It was now summer, and at her uncle's beautiful country seat
on the Hudson, to which the family had removed for the season,
Sybil found a thousand new sources of interest and amusement.
An ardent lover of Nature in all her forms, she was never weary
of admiring the enchanting scenery of this noble river, or of ex-
ploring the wildwood paths which had been opened by the hand
of taste in every direction. With her pencil and sketch book,
she spent many delightful hours among the hills, accompanied
only by Arthur, who carried her camp stool, while Evelina, who
was far too fine a lady to encourage such rambles, was still in
bed, or lounging on a sofa looking over the last French novel.
“Well really, Sybil, you are quite a wood nymph,” said her
uncle one day, as she entered the breakfast parlor with her cheeks
glowing, and her hair dressed with roses on whose delicate petals
the morning dew was still glistening; “I wish you could entice
this indolent young lady to join your walks. At present, the lily
predominates quite too much over the rose in her complexion.
But by the way, young ladies, I have some important news to
communicate. Who do you think has purchased Locust Grove,
and is about to fit it up again in more splendid style than ever ?”
“Indeed, papa, it is impossible to guess, unless it is Fred Som-
ers,” answered Evelina; “he has so often heard me admire the
place, that he may have taken it.”
“Fred Somers, indeed! He seems to be always in your silly
head, judging from appearances—no, no—the man of whom I
speak, is worth a thousand Fred Somers’ in his best estate. It

COUSIN SYBIL. 157
-
is young Atherton, the heir of the English nabob, whom we once
met at Saratoga, while the son was at a German university. He
has now succeeded to his father's estate, and if report speaks
truth, is not only immensely rich, but possessed of every possible
perfection.”
“And when does he come, papa 7” eagerly inquired Evelina,
whose languor had vanished at this announcement.
“Very soon, I am told—accompanied by a college friend who
is studying for the law, and who is to spend some weeks at the
Grove, before he returns to the venerable shades of Harvard.
And now for a trial of skill—which will secure the prize?” he
added laughing, as he glanced archly at Sybil, who was making
tea very quietly, taking no part in the conversation. -
“That is a question easily answered,” said Evelina haughtily;
“there will be little competition in the case, I fancy. A gentle-
man of Mr. Atherton's rank and pretensions, would hardly look
for a wife out of his own station in society.”
Mr. Danforth had left the room at the commencement of this
rude speech, or his daughter would have received a merited re-
buke; and to her aunt, Sybil had long ceased to look for sympa-
thy or kindness; so she only answered, “Mr. Atherton is certainly
safe, so far as I am concerned,” and left the young lady to her
own reflections.
The estate of Mr. Danforth joined that of Mr. Atherton, which
was one of the most romantic and beautiful on the river. It had
been for some years untenanted, owing to a vexatious lawsuit in
which the property was involved, and Sybil had dearly loved to
wander about the romantic grounds, to visit the fairy lake, on
whose verdant shore a gaily painted pleasure boat was lying in
ruins—or to stand on the portico of the deserted mansion, to watch
the last rays of the setting sun, gilding the light clouds with
those radiant hues which make a sunset on the water so inde-
scribably glorious, and lovely. Now this was all over, and she
sighed at the thought that her walks must henceforth be restricted
to the domain of her uncle. Evelina, on the contrary, was all
animation, and for the first time in her life, professed an extrav-
agant fondness for rural walks, excursions on the water, riding

158 COUSIN SYBIL.
on horseback, and all the charming varieties of country amuse-
ment and exercise. -
“Evelina almost lives in the woods now,” said Arthur to his
cousin, as the young ladies were preparing to go out, one day;
“l wonder what it can be that interests her so much. Have
you met with any new varieties of the genus homo in your walks,
my dear cozº”
“Arthur, you are very tiresome,” was the pettish remark of
his sister; “I wish you would attend to your books, and not
trouble yourself about my concerns.”
“Oh, ho-I have touched you, it seems, in asking a simple
question of cousin Sybil. Well, if I was a young man instead
of a boy, I know which of these damsels I should choose: cousin
Sybil looks so simple, and sweet, and lady-like in her white dress
and straw bonnet, just like one of those snow drops or wax-
berries I admire in the garden; while you Lina, are nothing but
a city artificial, quite out of your element here among the green
trees and fields.”
“Really, Arthur, you are learning the art of flattery at my ex-
pense,” said his cousin, smiling, for she saw that Evelina was
greatly incensed at her brother's thoughtless badinage, and
wished to change the subject; “your comparison is a bad one,
for though I am indeed “brown as a berry,” it is not exactly a
wax-berry which my complexion can be said to resemble. But
if we stay here talking with you, we shall be too late for old
Enos and his trout fishing.” As the young ladies left the house
together, the contrast spoken of by Arthur, was indeed visible to
any observer. Sybil Fleming was the child of nature, and her
movements had the careless grace of infancy, restrained only by
the truly feminine dignity which formed her striking characteris-
tic. Her sweet and ingenuous countenance was the soul’s
mirror, and when lighted up by the enthusiasm of her nature, or
flushed with some passing emotion—
“So eloquent in her cheeks the pure blood wrought,”
“That one would almost say, her body thought.”
But it was not the beauty of form or features that constituted
Sybil Fleming's greatest charm. It was the inward harmony
COTS IN sy. BIL. 159
diffusing over her whole being an air of repose better felt than
described—that, together with the mind, the music breathing
through every expressive lineament, caused those capable of ap-
preciating her character to feel with one of her early admirers:
“if Sybil Fleming is not the most beautiful, she is the most love.
able woman in the world.” The very reverse was true of Eve-
lina Danforth. She was strikingly beautiful, if perfect regularity
of form and feature—a dazzling complexion–eyes the color of
the violet steeped in dew—sunny ringlets, and lips like twin rose-
buds—constitute beauty. But poor Evelina had early learned to
believe, that, possessed of so rich a dowry as wealth and beauty,
she might dispense with many other agreeable qualities. She
was haughty, self-willed, and indolent; and though, like the
cat in the fable, she could on occasion play the amiable, disin-
terested woman to perfection, like her, too, she sometimes exhib-
ited the claws, when it was most for her interest to conceal them.
She had been much vexed with the remarks of Arthur, and a
cloud of displeasure had settled on her brow, which not all the
efforts of her cousin could dissipate. They had proceeded half
way up the deep ravine, at the head of which they expected to
find old Enos at his accustomed haunt, when a magnificent
specimen of the orchis, attracted Sybil's attention and arrested
her steps. “I must have those lovely flowers,” she exclaimed,
“but they are so provokingly high—how shall I reach them tº
“Suffer me to procure them for you,” said a deep rich voice
at her side, and turning hastily round, she saw a young man, in
the garb of a sportsman, who had laid aside his rifle, and was al-
ready climbing the rock to obtain possession of the flowers. He
soon returned with his prize, which he presented to the ladies
with a bow and smile, at the same time expressing his admira-
tion of the beauty of the flowers. Evelina was certain, from the
distinguished air of the stranger, that Mr. Atherton stood before
her, and, hesitating and embarrassed, was endeavoring to collect
her thoughts, when Sybil, with her usual self possession, accepted
the flowers with a polite expression of regret at the trouble she
had occasioned, and taking the arm of her cousin, rapidly pur-
sued her walk.
To be concluded.


A FRIEND IN THE HOUR OF AFFLICTION.
A FRIEND IN THE HOU R OF AFFLICTION.
BY C A R O L IN E LOW E G R O W E .
There is a Friend, more tender, true,
Than brother e'er can be;
Who, when all others bid adieu,
Remains—the last to flee;
Who, be their path-way light or dim,
Deserts not those who turn to Him.
The heart by Him sustained, though deep
Its anguish, still can bear;
The soul he condescends to keep
Shall never know despair;
In nature's weakness, sorrow's night,
God is its strength, its joy, its light.
He is the Friend who changeth not,
In sickness, or in health;
Whether on earth our transient lot
Be poverty or wealth;
In joy or grief, contempt or fame,
To all who seek Him, still the same :
Of human hearts he holds the key;
Is friendship meet for ours?
Oh, be assured that none but he
Unlocks its noblest powers!
He can recall the lost, the dead,
Or give us dearer in their stead.
Of earthly friends, who finds them true
May boast a happy lot;
But happier still, life's journey through,
And earthly joys forgot,
To feel a heavenly Friend is nigh
Whose love and care can never die!

THE SEWING MACHINE. 161
THE SEWING MACHINE.
[A recent number of our Magazine contained an article on the “Spinning
Wheel,” and as an accompaniment we will now introduce the “Sewing Ma-
chine.”]
WHILE merchants and statesmen have been debating ques-
tions of trade and political economy, and orators expatiating
upon the revolutions that the steam engine, railroad, tele-
graph, and printing-press, etc., are effecting in the commer-
cial and the political world, an agent of domestic and social
economy has “stitched” its way upwards, and ranks with
the proudest achievements of the day. The orator's eloquent
enumeration of mechanical triumphs is incomplete without
the sewing machine. In the language of Mr. Banks, in his
recent address at the Crystal Palace—“The sewing machine
is destined to work as great a revolution in the family as
railroads and telegraphs have in States and communities.”
The lively click of this instrument is now heard along all
the avenues of labor. It has already elevated the sphere of
female industry, and extended it into a thousand new chan-
nels. The uses of the needle have been multiplied, and
avenues of employment have been opened to women, hereto-
fore occupied by men. It has changed the soul and body-
destroying drudgery of hand sewing into a graceful, health-
ful, and cheerful employment. Its introduction, however,
into the family circle, interests us most in this connection.
The burthens of the wardrobe, woman's peculiar care,
having been increased manifold, have become exceedingly
onerous. The few plain suits of former days have been su-
perseded by a wardrobe vieing in beauty and variety with the
floral kingdom. The housekeeper is no longer equal to the
tasks imposed upon her by necessity, fashion and taste. We
suppose that a comfortably provided wardrobe for a family

162 THE SEWING MACHINE.
consisting of husband, wife, and five children, would be
about as follows :
For the husband—One dozen shirts, with bosoms and col-
lars; four night-shirts; two pair of under-shirts and draw-
ers; one dozen pocket and neck-handkerchiefs; one dozen
pairs of stockings; one morning-gown ; one overcoat and
two dress coats; three pairs of thick pantaloons, and three
thick vests, for winter; two coats, three pair of pantaloons,
three vests and one overcoat, for spring and fall; and for
summer, three coats, six pair of pantaloons and five vests.
The wife would require one dozen dresses, of different mate-
rials; an equal number of skirts, and as many changes of
under-garments; one winter cloak, and various other outer-
garments, according to fashion ; one dozen pairs of hose and
gloves, besides numerous cuffs, collars, under-sleeves, aprons,
handkerchiefs, &c. Each of the five children would require
more changes than either of the parents, because they soil
them more readily, wear them more rapidly, and also out-
grow some.
Bed-linen for five beds might consist of ten pairs of sheets
and blankets, ten pairs of pillow-cases and bolster-covers,
besides coverlets, comfortables, quilts, ticks, &c. Table and
toilet linens might be set down at half a dozen table-cloths,
four dozen napkins, and four dozen towels. In addition to
the above, there are bonnets, hoods, caps, curtains, carpets,
covers, &c., that require the use of the needle in preparing
them. Crochet, embroidery, and other fancy work demand
attention. Some of the articles above specified do not re-
quire renewing annually, but they all need more or less re-
pair. The scantiness of the purse must be eked out by
careful stitching and darning, which renders the amount of
work about equal to making the garments anew.
Many articles of clothing are purchased ready-made ; but,
in many cases, they are so poorly made, and, in all cases, so
bad a fit, that the purchase is a choice of evils, and not of
taste.

THE SEWING . MACHINE. 163
It is evident, however, from the above inventory of the
family wardrobe, that no one pair of hands is, unaided, com-
petent to the task it imposes. The faithful wife and mother
struggles hard daily under this accumulation of labor, in
connection with her other household duties—children, cook-
ing, cleaning, washing, &c.; but, when the voices of the
family are hushed in slumber, she plies her busy needle un-
til the clock has chimed the midnight hour. “With fingers
weary and worn, with eyelids heavy and red,” she toils at her
endless task, until her brain grows dizzy, and her eyes swim.
Her frequent long-drawn breath, her palpitating heart, ach-
ing back and uneasy sensations, speak plainly of respiration,
digestion and circulation impeded, and of muscles and nerves
deranged. Who wonders that American women break down
young, with such burdens imposed upon them P Why
should not the robust, healthful, blooming and buoyant
maiden become the pale, care-worn, listless, nervous and de-
jected wife, when she is doomed to a round of drudgery: the
slave to the household, at the sacrifice of health, the accom-
plishments of youth, and of most of the charities and amen-
ities of life P. It is indeed barbarous, and the husband is
worse than niggard who is careless of the wreck his wife is
making of her health and happiness while there is a mode
of relief. The expense would not be weighed by a man of
• proper spirit against the health and happiness of her whom
he is bound to love and protect. He would scorn to have
his family wearing garments into which is wrought the life
of his bosom partner.
What to her is rich furniture, that cannot take a stitch
for her relief; a piano, which, if tuned in unison with her
heart-strings, would utter only notes of woe ; a jewelled
watch that tells how fast her miserable life is ebbing, and
glittering gems that mock her pallid features P Silken robes
may hide her shrunken form, but not the skeleton in her
house, the duties of the wardrobe, ever doing, but never
done.

164 THE SEWING MACHINE.
-
That the sewing machine is calculated to furnish full and
permanent relief from these evils we most firmly believe, but
into its history space will not allow us to enter. Since its
invention thirty thousand have been sold. A machine sew-
ing with one thread, and making a raveling, chain stitch,
was invented long since, and is used now with advantage in
stitching figures and marks into cloth, to be taken out again.
This species of machine is revived now and then under vari-
ous disguises, in a cheap form, like those of the present day.
Its low price is a fault of scarcely less magnitude than its
worthless work, as many are lured by its cheapness to an ex-
periment involving great vexation and loss of time. Every
generation, however, must furnish a certain number of dupes,
but these attempts upon public credulity are short-lived, and
soon forgotten.
The desideratum is a stitch that will not ravel. Had the
chain stitch been satisfactory, no further attempts would
have been made to furnish any other. Elias Howe, Jr., suc-
ceeded in perfecting the only stitch that answers precisely
the conditions required. It cannot be ravelled, nor ripped,
and forms a seam more firm, durable and beautiful than hand
sewing.
The machine making this stitch is the Wheeler & Wilson,
the excellence and pre-eminent superiority of which for fam-
tly use, and for sewing generally, are now well established.
It is elegant in model and finish, and fitted to adorn the
parlor; simple and thorough in construction, and hence du-
rable, easily managed, and little liable to derangement and
need of repairs The stitch is far more beautiful than any
hand sewing: and a firm seam is made, alike on both sides
of the fabric, with great economy of thread, and will not rip
or ravel. It is equal in efficiency to twelve seamstresses,
making 1,200 or more stitches per minute. It is applicable
to all purposes and materials, working equally well upon
silk, linen, woolen and cotton goods—seaming, quilting,
gathering, hemming, &c. The attitude of the operator is

THE SEWING MACHINE. 165
erect, graceful, and healthful. The movement of the lower
limbs, in operating it, strengthens them, and the week-long
work of the wardrobe is reduced to a few hours.
The talented authoress, Mrs. Stephens, thus beautifully
describes its operations:—
“During the last six months we have had in our parlor,
and among its most elegant adornments, too, a very beauti-
ful sewing machine, from the establishment of Messrs.
Wheeler & Wilson, on which it has been our ambition to
become a proficient, when this well-used pen has given us a
moment's time for the needle. But, for the life of us, we
cannot get over the idea that there is some fairy-work grow-
ing under our fingers whenever we get a moment of this most
delightful occupation. To see neatly stitched seams gliding
through your fingers at the rate of a yard a minute, to see
a shirt made in less time than is necessary to cut it out—
and a shirt bosom covered with tiny plaits, exquisitely
stitched, completed almost while a lady could sew out a
needleful of thread, partakes absolutely of the marvellous.
One feels as if performing some beautiful magic while sitting
so quietly before that dainty machine, with the pedals just
touched into motion by the feet, as our old-fashioned flax-
wheels were set in motion—and the pretty array of spools,
and silver wheels, and sharp needles performing their regular
music under your fingers. Then the swiftness of it—the sat-
isfaction and glory of having all your sewing done up in a
few hours—of seeing your pretty rosewood case shut up, cov-
ered with bijouterie, and turned into the most charming bit
of ornamental furniture—all this is making play of work,
and making usefulness an elegant accomplishment. Our
machine now will make three dresses—no matter how heavy
or how fine—in far less time than the dressmaker requires to
fit one. It will hem handkerchiefs, do all sorts of fancy
stitching, and rival the daintiest work of the whitest fingers
with magical neatness. What the steam engine proves com-
pared to horse-power, this beautiful machine is when set in

166 LINES.
opposition to the slow, patient progress of the ordinary nee-
dle. It only requires a little care, a drop of olive oil now
and then touched to the delicate mechanism, and you have
the motive power of fifty seamstresses doing ornamental duty
in your parlor: while out of active use, eating nothing, ask-
ing nothing, and never singing the mournful ‘Song of the
Shirt, stitch, stitch, stitch.”
----->
LINES
ADDREssed To A FRIEND AT PARTING.
My friend, do not forget me—when thy heart
Turns as it often will to home, sweet home;
Then let my image, with the loved ones, come
To thy mind's eye, as if I were a part
Of thy home joys—and like them can impart
The sunshine of my love, thy heart to cheer—
And I am often with thee, though unseen,
I sit beside thee—and my hand’s in thine ;
I listen to thy voice—dost thou heed mine?
Though all around is silent, yet I ween
The heart can hear those voices which accord
Most sweetly, though is uttered not a word.
Oh, yes, wherever thou art roving
Thou'lt always find a friend in me.
Who often erring—ever loving,
Is true to thine—and true to thee.
Thine image too, will cheer my heart,
When life to me seems dark and dreary;
Thy soothing smile shall peace impart,
When I am lone, and sad, and weary.
And now farewell, a bitter word to say,
Yet life is short, and partings are but brief;
God comfort thee when sad, and sweet relief
Send to thy aid in sorrow’s darksome day.
And may the Holy Dove of peace descend,
And overshadow thee with His blest wings,
And be with thee, in all thy wanderings,
- Thine everlasting Comforter and Friend.
C. E. R. P. . . . .
THE MERCY SEAT.
Words by Mrs. Sigourmey. Music by G. W. C.
ºf IºTTTºT. I- s—ſ:F
#H#H#EEEEEE
9-4-e-E2. J–º J-Fºſ.-----
1. From eve - ry stor - my wind that
††
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—cº-
2. There is a. place where Je - sus
| |
** – ºh. T |→T tº T –
|***H*E=E.E.H.E.H.
THE - --- T-&-
swell - ing
glad - ness









THE MERCY SEAT.
- - treat— Our
- side more sweet— We
place than
- bought Mer - cy
III.
There is a spot where spirits blend,
Where friend holds fellowship with friend;
Though sundered far, by faith we meet,
Around one common Mercy-Seat.
I W.
Ah! whither could we flee for aid,
When tried, afflicted and dismayed;
Or how our cares and conflicts meet,
Had suffering saints no Mercy-Seat!
V.
Oh! let these hands forget their skill,
These tongues be silent, cold and still,
These throbbing hearts forget to beat,
If we forget the Mercy-Seat.

W O M A N A S SHE SHO U L D BE
By M. R. S. S. T. M. A. R. T.Y. N.
“THERE woman reigns—the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow path of life
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye
An angel guard of loves and graces lie—
Around her train, domestic virtues meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.”
Campbell.

“O name for comfort, refuge, hope, and peace,
O spot by gratitude and memory blest!
Where as in brighter worlds, “the wicked cease
From troubling, and the weary are at rest;”
Where sweet affections every heart entwine,
And differing tastes and talents all unite,
In charity to man, and love divine—
Thou little kingdom of serene delight,
Heaven's nursery and foretaste O what bliss, .
When earth to wearied man can give a home like this.”
C. Martin Farquhar Tupper.

If there is on earth one spot in which a remnant of the bliss
of Paradise still lingers, in which some flowerets of Eden still
bloom, unsullied by “the trail of the serpent,” it is the happy
home, where conjugal, parental, and filial love guard, hand in
hand, the dearest interests of society and the world. Here, as in
a sanctuary, all gentle hopes and fond affections seek a refuge,
and peace, the wanderer, who since the fall has found on earth
no resting place, flies to this ark, and folds her wearied wings
in safety. Here, as in a sacred enclosure, plants of immortality

are trained up for the garden of the Lord, by the watchful hand
WoL. 1. No. 7. -

174 WOMAN AS SHE SHOULD BE.
of parental affection, while the influences of Divine grace distil
upon them, soft and reviving as the dews of Hermon.
It is of such a home as this, that woman is the warden, and
in her hand is the key that unlocks its rich and varied treasures.
As the centre of the domestic circle, it is hers to diffuse a genial
sunshine all around her, and by the steady light of a pure and
consistent example, and the warmth of her own benevolence, to
promote the growth of every thing that is lovely, amiable and
of good report. But if she is ignorant of her high duties, or un-
faithful in the discharge of them—if amid the snares and tempta-
tions of life, she forgets the trust committed to her, and becomes
the votary of pleasure, or the slave of folly—what misery and
desolation must ensue! Let those answer, who have seen that
abode of disunion and strife, an unhappy home—where “cold
self-interest forms the strongest tie;” where “dull indifference
takes the icy hand of constrained fellowship,” and what
should be harmony, is all jarring discord and confusion. What
hand has wrought this evil? What omitted good, or commit-
ted wrong, has thus laid waste earth’s fairest paradise." Alas—
woman, the warden, has forsaken her post, and “dropped the
key,” and no other can supply the place she has vacated.
Improperly and superficially educated—the victim of false sensi-
bility and morbid excitement, she is seeking among the broken
cisterns of worldly pleasure, for the happiness which can only
be found in the performance of her appropriate and holy duties,
But it is not simply by “magnifying” her “office,” that we
can hope to succeed in impressing on the mind of woman her
absolute need of a thorough preparation for her responsible vo-
cation. Our sex must be made to feel the importance of an ele-
vated standard of intellectual and moral cultivation, and to labor
earnestly for their own advancement; for never, until the neces-
sity for such a standard is deeply felt by ourselves, will the de-
mand be fully met. The importance of woman's appropriate
sphere is certainly undervalued, both by those who would do
away all distinction between the sexes, in order to prove their
equality, and by the opposite class, who would limit her range
of knowledge to the right understanding of household economy.
WOMAN AS SHE SHOULD BE. 175
Every one who understands thenature of the domestic constitution,
and can trace effects back to their causes, must feel that the du-
ties of the wife and mother are of paramount interest and value.
The latter is treading, at every step, among the hidden and in-
tricate springs of feeling and action; she holds in her hand cha-
racter in its forming stage, and stamps an impress on coming ge-
nerations. Can there be a station of greater dignity and respon-
sibility than this? It is because we believe our own province so
peculiarly important, and not because we wish to arrogate rights
never bestowed upon us by God, that we would have women
educated, aye, and highly educated, with a degree of care and
attention equal to that bestowed on the other sex. Why the
invidious distinction between the advantages possessed by boys
and girls in acquiring an education? Why should a few months
of superficial instruction in the one case, be considered an equi-
valent for years of patient study, under the most favorable cir-
cumstances, in the other ? Our sons are systematically trained
for the profession or the trade they are intended to pursue, while
our daughters are too frequently thrust forth into the station they
are designed by God to occupy, in utter ignorance of the ele-
mentary principles pertaining to their duty. Shame on the pseudo
philosophers who, in the face of all the facts on this subject,
gravely moralize on the natural inferiority of woman, and make
the consequences of their own injustice, a reason for its longer
continuance.
Do any fear that the high cultivation of female intellect, would
lead us to overstep the boundaries assigned us by nature, and
usurp the proud prerogativesof man? Let such remember that
education is the acquisition of knowledge, and knowledge con-
sists in the right understanding of truth. Will truth, properly
understood, lead to error in practice? It is only a superficial
patchwork of acquirements—a smattering of accomplishments,
that is a dangerous thing. Those who drink deeply of the “Pie-
rian spring,” have learned modesty and humility, from the vast
disproportion that must ever exist between the amount of revealed
knowledge, and man's capacity to acquire it. Happily we are
not left to blind theory on this subject. We might point to living


176 WOMAN AS SHE SHOULD BE.
examples among our own sex, and in our own country, who,
while they shine as “bright particular stars” in the various
walks of literature, are even more beloved and prized for their
admirable qualities as women, than admired for their intellectual
superiority. Let our sex be thoroughly and systematically edu-
cated, and when we understand our own duties, and are qualified
for their right discharge, we shall not be likely to wander into
forbidden fields in search of employment. We are not to be un-
derstood then, as urging woman to leave her proper sphere, when
we call upon her to seek earnestly her own moral and intellect-
ual elevation. Those who belong to the class of “nature's worst
anomalies,” “masculine women,” throw away their armor, in-
stead of buckling it on for the conflict of life. They come down
from the vantage ground on which, God has placed them, to
mingle in the gladiatorial strife on very unequal terms; for where
“might makes right,” the weaker will of course have the worst
of the argument. But we do desire our sex to understand and
pursue that course which will tend to the perfection of character
—physical, mental and moral. Let woman be all she may, as
an intelligent creature—all that God intended her to be when
he mingled the elements of her character, and she would stand
at an almost infinite remove from the contaminating touch of
profligacy and crime. Nothing but purity could live for a mo-
ment in the atmosphere she should ever breathe-could even gaze
upward to the height she is intended to occupy. It is only when
her responsibilities are forgotten, when worldliness and vanity
are leading her captive at their will, that she is exposed to the
snares which have proved fatal in so many instances.
Our sex are peculiarly prone to the indulgence of a sickly
sensibility, which, when cherished, forms a most dangerous ele-
ment of character. Its possessor is taught to believe that wo-
man is “strongest in her weakness,” and most amiable when
wholly governed by feeling. This is a fatal error, and cannot
be too carefully guarded against by maternal vigilance. The
truth is, the duties of women require as much concentration of
purpose, promptitude of action, and firmness of principle, as those
of the other sex. A morbid sentimentality, a vacillating weak-
WOMAN AS SHE SHOULD BE. 177
ness of mind, is as fatal to the usefulness of the wife and mother,
as to that of the husband and father. Life is a serious thing—
and its various relations demand strength of intellect, and of
character. The temptations by which we are surrounded—the
difficulties that meet us at every step—the certainty that in an
important sense, our destiny is in our own keeping, and the rela-
tions we sustain to others, all render it of imperative necessity
that strength of character and firmness of principle should be
sedulously inculcated on the youthful female. Rousseau and
others of his class evinced their knowledge of human nature
when they painted the charms of sensibility, falsely so called,
in such glowing colors. They knew that this “amiable weak-
ness” steals away, one by one, all the barriers that guard female
excellence—and leaves it single-handed and defenceless to cope
with its enemies.
But, it may be said that many women of strong minds have
been among the most degraded of the sex, living in open viola-
tion of the most sacred laws. This has always been true, par-
ticularly in infidel France, but it does not affect the justice of
our remarks. We are pleading for strength of character—of prin-
ciple, not simply strength of intellect. The one is the gift of
God, and may be fatally perverted. The other is at once the
cause and consequence of right doing, and obedience to God’s
commands. A woman of strong mind may make the worse ap-
pear the better reason, and say to evil, “be thou my good;”
but the woman of strong principle will meet every emergency
with the one inquiry, “What is right? what would my Father in
heaven have me to do!” Strength of mind alone may become
a powerful instrument of evil—strength of principle, founded on
the word of God, will secure its possessor against temptation
and transgression in all their forms.

THE GOOD AND THE BEAUTIFUL.
“The Good's the flower to earth already given
The Beautiful, on earth sows flowers from heaven.”
Schutler.
178 LAY ME AT HIS FEET.
THE following lines, written by Mrs. L. H. Sigour.NEy, were
addressed to the Author of “A Mother’s Tribute.” They were
elicited by the touching request of the youthful subject of that
memoir, to be buried at the feet of her, beloved and revered
Grandfather.
“LAY ME AT HIS FEET.”
“OH lay me at his feet, that reverend man,
Who as a prince had power, and in the cause
Of his Redeemer wrought so faithfully.
Yes, lay me at his feet; and though the shrubs
And clustering flowers have ta'en a rooting there,
Still find me room, for I have loved him well,
And on his prayers he bore me, ere I learn'd
To lisp his name. Sweet to lie down and sleep,
A young disciple, at his blessed feet,
And when the strong archangel rends the tomb,
To rise with him.”—
And so, they laid her there,
That bird of song, who lingered here awhile,
To teach us, what the pure in heart must be.—
They laid her at his feet, whose warbled strain
So oft had thrilled his aged breast with joy,
While here a pilgrim in this vale of tears.
For she had seen a beckoning in the skies,
From the wing'd choir, and put her hand in theirs,
And, with a childlike trust, went up to join
Their everlasting hymn. L. H. S.
CHILD. H. O. O.D.
“CHILDHoop is the season of true Royalty. Children command us all:
they bid us do this, and do that; come here, and go there, show the pic-
ture, or tell the story, or sing the song, and we do it all with delighted
obedience. It is innocence we serve; nay, we feel them, in so much,
beings of a higher order; we forget not that of “such is the Kingdom of
Heaven,' and that the Angel of every one of them does continually
behald the face of the Most High.”
-


iiOME PHILANTHROPY. 179
H. O.M. E. PHILAN THROPY.
1T is cruel to assure the helpless slaves of the needle that there
is no hope for them; that they must submit to toil on for ever
with the bare privilege of living. While men who have the pow-
er to relieve them reason thus, their case is hopeless indeed! But
there will yet be found a few able and ready to help them.
A hundred public-spirited men, willing to invest a thousand
dollars each, or a thousand willing to advance one hundred each,
toward the establishment of a manufactory for the employ of
females, would go far towards relieving the local evils of which
they now complain. If these capitalists would allow the girls
reasonable wages, with the privilege of investing their little sav-
ings in the purchase of the stock of such manufactories, at its
original cost, the benefit to the working women would be two-
fold. A single manufactory of this kind, in almost any of the
branches of trade, would be sensibly felt throughout the entire
class of sewing females; for one thousand females out of employ
are sufficient to reduce the wages of six thousand others, by the
competition for work, which is forced on by their necessities.
With the press, which has ever been earnest and generous in
behalf of a suffering sisterhood, rests the power to check one
great evil, which has been a perpetual cause of their suffering
It can check that restless spirit of enterprise which is constantly
sending young females from the respectable comforts of a coun-
try home to swell the labor markets of our cities.
Through this friendly channel, then, let us entreat the father
and mother who can find protection and employment for their
daughters at home, to keep them beneath the holy shelter of a
family roof-tree. Their own welfare, and the prosperity of those
who have already experienced the evils of a city home, depend
on it. Parents, brought up in the country, can have no idea of
the peril to which their daughters are exposed when they enter
the broad streets of a strange town, fresh from the purity of a


180 HOME PHILANTHRupy.
country life, with no defence from the temptations which will
assail them, but their own innocence; with no means of support
but their own feeble hands. At best, they can but look for-
ward to a life of unceasing toil; and the worst, would make
a fond parent shudder did he but dream of it. So long as
a single gleam of prosperity dawning upon the industrial classes
here, is certain to swell competition from the country, there can
be hope for but partial redress, and the strangers who help to
create them can only hope to share their sufferings.
To the press these ill-used sempstresses owe an earnest and
grateful appeal. It has already aided their feeble efforts to an
extent that is rapidly bringing their wrongs to public notice.
To its friendship they must and may look for still more efficient
support; for, by its power to plead their cause with the people,
it can redeem them from a state worse than servitude.
By its aid, this humble sentence can be winged, like an arrow
of fire, into every dwelling throughout the length and breadth
of America. As the wind swells over the earth, and penetrates
every nook and corner of creation, its influence will sweep
through the human mind, quietly doing its work, reporting the
sufferings of these helpless American women to multitudes afar
off, calling up sympathies from hearts that beat at the extremes
of the union; telling their wrongs to, thousands, who never
thought of them before; and awaking that spirit of chivalry
among men—that kindly sympathy among women—whom their
feeble voices could never have reached without its aid. Like
the wind, it will carry the voice of their sufferings abroad. It
will teach men that injustice can exist in our free land; that it
is now oppressing the mothers, sisters, children, and widows of
men once as good, as wise, and prosperous as any in our land.
It will make the husband tremble for the fate of his wife and
children when he shall be laid in the grave. It will make the
mother cautious how she wrongs one of a class to which her own
daughter may yet belong. It will redeem them at length, for
human nature is yet full of kindly sympathies, and in those sym-
pathies they must have their trust.


HOME PHILANTHROPY. 181
These women are, some of them, proud in their wrongs;they
have, all along asked for justice, and not for charity. They have
said to the capitalist, “Give us work for our hands, that we may
live honestly, and educate our children to be good citizens in the
land for which their fathers have toiled, and for which some of
them have bled.” They have, again and again, pleaded, in the
low, meek voice of patient suffering, for the honest wages of
toil. Urged on by the stern cry of necessity, they have done
more They have thrown off the natural timidity of the sex;
have gathered in masses, and joined their voices in a petition to
their employers. What else could they do? Could they sit still
for ever and ever, toiling with dim eyes for an insufficient sup-
ply of food and a poor shelter from the weather? Were they
to walk patiently on through those stages that lead honest po-
verty into the atmosphere of crime, struggling back at each step,
rendering up a household god from time to time to the iron
clutches of a pawnbroker, thus wresting from the present stern
wants a moment’s respite from the deepest misery which po-
verty entails upon its victim 7 the misery of sharing the same
roof with intemperance, ignorance and crime !
Most of thesewing classes are Jimericans, the wives and daugh-
ters of American citizens; and they of all others, have a right to be
heard by their countrymen. Yet it is no avail that they crowd to-
gether in multitudes, and hold council over the wrongs that are
crushing them. The very effort creates a prejudice against them.
The spirit of resistance excited by their sympathy, one for ano-
ther openly and publicly expressed, not only seems unfeminine,
but gives them an air of defiance when they are only desperate.
The sewing women of America are not political economists, for
slavery to the needle has given them little time for a kind of rea-
soning that requires leisure and thought. They cannot sit down
and philosophise upon the remote causes of their sufferings, but
fix upon those that are nearest and most palpable. Thus it hap-
pens, that these public meetings have so often resulted in no-
thing but complaints of over denunciations against their employ-
ors—complaints frequently unjust, always unwise ! for the man
who has learned to steel his heart aganist the pleading voice,

IS2 HOME PHILANTHROPY
the tearful eye, and the mildly urged reason, the first and most
effectual weapon a female thinks of using, will hardly yield to fu-
tile threats and reproaches made in public.
It is to be hoped that no state of distress or amount of wrong
will urge the sempstresses of New-York to assemble again in
public conclave. No woman or body of women can ever hope
to redress their own wrongs. They have not within them the
material which makes heroes or orators; and if they had, the
very possession would steel men, their natural protectors, against
them. They cannot band together, and, by association of labor,
secure a market for their work; for within themselves lie ele-
ments of discord that always have and always will render such
associations futile.
If these overtaxed females ever have redress, it must come not
only from the small trader, but from the capitalist. It must be
demanded for them by the strong voice of public opinion. Jus-
tice must go hand in hand with philanthropy. The press must
come up to their aid more earnestly than it has hitherto done.
Men who have money to invest must be brought to devise means
by which a reasonable profit can be secured, and a just remune-
ration allowed to the sewing women. No female mind can be
expected to point out the means by which this is to be done in
all their detail. But it can be done! Injustice is never so fixed
in a free land, that it cannot be removed. While the public
press throughout the length and breadth of our country, is ready
to speak in behalf of these females; while a few public-spirited
and philanthropic persons are always active in their cause; while
there is more than wealth enough in the land for an equal distri-
bution of the comforts of life, these females need not quite despair.
True, our benevolent men are marvellously long-sighted. Jus-
tice may sit neglected upon their door steps, weeping tears of
blood beneath her bandage, while charity draws their attention
afar-off, clothed in fanciful garments, and clouded in the purple
distance. But this will not always last. There will come a
time when plain honest suffering at home will claim the atten-
tion which is now so richly lavished on picturesque objects abroad.
The ideal cannot always triumph over the real in a country like
THE ANCIENT WATCH. 183
ours. In our benevolent enterprises we shall sometime learn
that the satisfaction of restoring the honest and worthy to their
rights at home, will satisfy the heart better than those far off
and doubtful charities that appeals effectually to our poetical fan-
cies in behalf of the distant and unknown. There will come a
time when Americans will “learn to be just before they are ge-
nerous,” or the women for whom our sympathies have been so
deeply enlisted are yet to remain in a state of hopeless slavery.
THE ANCIENT WATCH.
B Y MIR. S. SIG O U R N E Y.
Friend of my sire thy face is dear,
And still thou speak'st to me
The self-same lore that met his ear,
When in old times of joyous cheer,
I fearless climb'd his knee.
For oft, as to his side I clung,
Thy brow was bent to mine,
Though to my simple mind, thy tongue,
Uttering “ tick, tick,” to old and young,
Seem'd mystery divine. -
And still, thy curious movements too,
Perplex'd my wondering eye;
Thy hands, that to their purpose true,
Their everlasting circles drew,
Were magic strange and high.

But thou, from days of toil and care,
That manhood's powers employ,
Didst gently point him home, to share
The garden-walk, the fireside chair,
The feast of social joy.
When there whom most he lov’d were nigh,
And with beguiling flight,
The downy-pinion'd hours swept by,
Thou, with a calm, unswerving eye, *
Didst note their number right.

184 . YoUNG LADIES AT HOMF.
And he, who knew so well to test
Of time, the fleeting prize,
Did on thy meek monitions rest,
And take thy wisdom to his breast,
A passport for the skies.
Though now no more, serenely sweet
He claims thy secret aid,
Yet still, thy bloodless heart doth beat,
While, summon'd to a lone retreat,
His own in dust is laid.
My father's friend! what memories blest
Thy lingering accents wake;
Here, in my richest casket rest,
Or slumber on my filial breast,
Most honor'd for his sake.
-
Y O UN G. L. A DIES A T H O ME
B Y. M. R. S. S. T. M. A R T Y N .
WHO does not see, as they look around on society, scores and
hundreds of young females, “well educated” according to com-
mon parlance, who are floating along on the current of fashion-
able life in our cities, or even in the comparative seclusion of the
country, without one useful end or aim, and whose half dormant
faculties seem never roused to healthful and energetic action.
Trained in the lap of ease and indulgence, they live but for them-
selves, and seem to see nothing beyond this. They have no idea
of benevolent effort, or of active, persevering industry. Indeed,
they regard as pitiful drudgery, the whole routine of domestic
employment, and look down almost with contempt on the mo-
ther or aunt, or acquaintance, whose time is devoted to such pur-
suits. If these young ladies marry, they enter upon the impor-
tant duties of wife and mother, without thought or preparation, and
consequently either entirely neglect these duties, or sink beneath
the pressure of cares and responsibilities, which to one properly
trained, would be comparatively light and pleasant.

- YOUNG LADIES AT HOME. 185
Those who are familiar with the story of the Revolution, who
have become acquainted with the private history and habits of
the principal actors in that event, know that a great change has
taken plaee in the female character since the times of '76. Then,
not only the wives and daughters of the stout yeomanry of our
country were inured to habits of useful industry, but those noble
matrons, whose names will go down to the latest posterity with
honor, were patterns of frugality and domestic economy. Mrs.
Washington and Mrs. Adams, each in her own appropriate
sphere, exemplified Solomon's ideas of a virtuous woman, in
looking “well to the ways of her household,” while in dignity
of manners, mental cultivation, and enlarged philanthropy, few
indeed among the females of the present day can be considered
their superiors. They regarded home as the peculiar sphere of
woman's labors and enjoyments; and never dreamed that any
employment was degrading which added to the comforts of that
home, or of the husband and children who shared it with them.
Now, what has caused the great change in the female character
and habits which has taken place since that period 2 Is it that
the youthful female of the present day is naturally less industri-
ous, less affectionate, or even less energetic 2 Does the fashion-
able lounger, whose time is wasted in idleness and vanity, and
who knows nothing of manual labor only that it is something
very vulgar and very disagreeable, differ naturally, from the
young heroine, who cut the fleece from the back of the sheep,
spun, wove, dressed the cloth, and cut and made the garment
for her brother who was going to Bunker Hill, all inforty-eight
hours from the time she heard of his intended departure ? Nay,
verily. It is education only that makes them to differ, and I
contend that the former is “more sinned against, than sinning,”
in the aimless and useless life she leads.
It is the province of the mother, to train her daughters to
habits of industry and usefulness, and if from false views, or mis-
teken tendencies, she neglects this duty, no one else can do it
half so well. Every healthy young woman ought to be so
trained as to be able to make her own way through the world,
without the necessity of dependence on any other No matter
º
186 YOUNG LADIES AT HOME.
what her rank or station may be, she ought, in the common
language of the community, to be able to support herself through
life. For the want of this, how many do we see, who from the
loss of parents or fortune, or both, are thrown on the world ut-
terly helpless and dependent, without the posssibility of return-
ing any equivalent for the protection that may be afforded them
by friendship or charity. They cannot teach, for though edu-
cated in the most expensive schools, they never learned anything
thoroughly. They cannot earn their living by manual labor,
for they are ignorant of every useful employment. They cannot
even make themselves of any service in the family of a relative
or friend, for however amiable and desirous to oblige, their utter
want of knowledge or skill, renders it improper to trust them in
any capacity. However the fact may be disguised by sympathy
and tenderness, they are felt to be a burden wherever their lot
is cast, and if the poor victim of a false system of education have
keen sensibilities, she must feel it too, and then what is life but
a wearisome burden, which she must drag on, without hope and
without enjoyment to the end? Dark as is the picture, there
are originals all around us, in every walk of life. I have one
now in my “mind's eye” whose short but sad history I will briefly
state as an illustration of these remarks.
Clara R., was a native of one of the loveliest villages which
adorn the rich valley of the Connecticut, and the mansion of her
father, who was the great man of the place, was distinguished
for wealth, refinement and hospitality. It was the stranger's
home, and among the crowds who frequented it, there was not
one who did not regard the youthful Clara, the only child, and
heiress of Mr. R., as one of the most fortunate of human beings.
Every advantage which wealth could procure, had been bestowed
on her education, and lovely, amiable, and accomplished, no de-
fect in her character was visible to the admiring eyes of parents
or friends. She was, to be sure, utterly ignorant of every useful
employment, but she had great wealth, and of course could com-
mand the services of others, and it was not to be expected that a
young lady of her rank and advantages should stoop to servile
labor, degrading as she had been accustomed to consider it. But
YOUNG LADIES AT HOME. 187
- -
while Clara was still young, she was taught by bitter experi-
ence, that riches, however loved and trusted in, often take to
themselves wings and fly away. Her father died suddenly, and
in the settlement of his estate by others, large sums were lost,
or conveyed away by fraud, so that the poor orphan found her-
self with a very moderate fortune, instead of the great posses-
sions to which she had looked forward. With industry and
economy, this would have been amply sufficient for comfort and
independence, but alas, she knew nothing of either. While her
money lasted, it was spent with the thoughtless extravagance to
which she had been accustomed, and when it was gone, she had
no earthly resource but the charity of friends. Some there were
who loved her for her parent’s sake, and these friends took the
desolate Clara home; and kept her until her indolence and va-
cuity of mind made her society a burden too intolerable to be
endured. She came at last, in middle life, to the city, and by
her lady-like appearance and manners, and her profession of ar-
dent piety, awakened an interest in the hearts of the benevolent,
who exerted themselves to procure for her board in a respecta-
ble family. She represented herself as still in the possession of
property sufficient for her support, and made no effort whatevel
to obtain employment of any kind. After boarding several months
in a worthy but poor family, without making payment for her
board, she left, and found another place, where the same story
was repeated and believed. The expected remittances never
came, and Miss R. decamped from a second, a third, and a fourth
boarding house in the same dishonorable way. She became
known at length as a regular female swindler, and when last seer
by the writer, had just been turned into the streets, and came to
beg the privilege of staying through the night with those whose
confidence she had so abused. Her old story was still told with
unblushing assurance, and she scorned the idea of any assistance
which should infringe on her right to be just as idle and useless
as she had hitherto been. With her subsequent fate, I am un-
acquainted, but enough has been told. She was the victim of
wrong parental training, for the natural elements of her charac-
ter would, if rightly directed, have rendered her an ornament,

188 YOUNG LALIES AT HOMIE.
instead of a curse, to society. One who is now before the throne
of God, whose life and character were in every respect the op-
posite of hers, and who knew her in early life, bore testimony
to the natural loveliness and worth of the forlorn being who
drew so largely on her benevolent sympathies and efforts. She
attributed all the destitution of Miss R. to the indolence and ig-
norance of useful employments, in which she had been reared.
Mothers, if you love your daughters, if their temporal and
eternal welfare is an object of concern to you, can you expose
them to a fate like this? Can you from indolence, or fear of
the world, or misjudging tenderness, suffer them to grow up in
ignorance of the important duties which belong to their own
appropriate sphere 7 Why should they not be educated to feel
that home and the domestic concerns of home, are in their proper
place, desirable and agreeable % Why should an idea of mean-
ness and degradation be attached to avocations on which the
comfort and happiness of families so much depend. A well
ordered household is an object of admiration to all; but how
few seem to understand that a thorough course of preparation
on the part of young women, for household duties, is necessary
to secure it? There is no magical process by which the indo-
lent, ignorant young girl is transformed at marriage into an in-
dustrious, skilful manager; one who understands her duties, and
is ready to perform them. Should she ever become such, it will
be by a course of discipline bitter and humiliating in proportion
to the false views previously entertained. Why then should
maternal love, so jealous and watchful in many respects, be so
fatally behind on this point? Why should the mother, who
feels that her own constant care and oversight, (to say no more)
are essential to the comfort of her family, forget that the daugh-
ter who is growing up at her side, in utter ignorance of domestic
duties, is to fill a station similar to her own, and must meet the
same duties and responsibilities? Why should she so cruelly
neglect the preparation in her case which is thought so neces-
sary in that of the son, who is apprenticed for years to the mer-
chant or mechanic There is certainly a great error in judgment
here, and when carried into practice it becomes a fatal one

YoUNG LADIES AT HOME. 189
Fatal to domestic enjoyment, to individual character, and to the
well-being of society at large.
Mothers, let us take this subject home to our hearts and to our
consciences. We owe it to our children, by every consideration
that can affect a mother's heart, to promote their welfare by
every proper means. It is not in our power to mark out their
lot in life, or to secure them against the reverses to which all are
liable; but we can do far better for them, by teaching them
those habits of industry and self-dependence which will prove a
never failing mine of wealth. By giving them a thorough know-
ledge of some useful employment, we shall make an investment
of capital, which will be yielding rich returns to the objects of
our care, long after our heads are low in the dust.
M EXICAN WOMEN.
The streets of Mexico are always swarming with women of
the middling and lower classes. The only article of dress worn
by these are a chemise and a petticoat, satin slippers, but no
stockings, and a reboza, a long shawl, improperly called by our
ladies a mantilla. This they wear over the head and wrap-
ped close around the chin, and thrown over their left should-
er. Whatever they may be in private, no people can be more
observant of propriety in public; one may walk the streets of
Mexico for a year, and he will not see a wanton gesture or look
on the part of a female of any description, with the single ex-
ception, that if you meet a woman with a very fine bust, which
they are apt to have, she finds some occasion to adjust her reboza,
and throws it open for a second. This reboza answers all the
purposes of shawl, bonnet, and frock body.
The women of Mexico, I think, generally smoke; it is getting
to be regarded as not exactly comme il faut, and therefore they
do it privately.—Thompson's JMexico.
190 The MOUNTAIN STREAM.
THE MOUNTAIN S T R EA M
-
M. R. S. M. L. G. A R D IN E R -
Down from the mountain,
Sparkling and bright,
See the clear streamlet,
Wild with delight,
Rushing along
Amid the green bowers,
Fringing its borders,
With spring's early flowers
Nothing impedes it,
Tho' oft turned aside,
Still rolling onward,
- Its silvery tide
Toward the blue sea,
The Ocean's deep breast,
Where, like an infant,
It sinks into rest.
Beautiful emblem
Of time's hasty flight,
Passing away
Like a dream of the night.
Childhood, its gushings;
Youth, its bold leap;
Manhood, its rushings;
Age, the vast deep.
Life, roll thy stream
And bear me away,
Weil every cares
With thy silvery spray;
Soon will thy current,
So restless and dark,
Bear to the haven
The voyager's bark.
TASTE. 191
When the last struggle
With sin shall be o'er,
Let me but find
On Eternity’s shore,
One green quiet spot,
Where, with all whom I love,
My spirit may rest
In the Eden above.
‘I' A STE T H E A L L Y OF CHRISTIANIT Y.
f BY R. E. W. R. F. R A S I E. R.
“Whatsoever things are lovely—think on these things.”—St. PAUL
THE connexion practically subsisting between the taste and
morals of men, is delicately close and intimate. They exert a
reciprocal control, and mutually contribute to perpetuate the pos-
session and dominion of the heart—out of which are the issues
of life. And this fact, as an element in the momentous business
of tutelar education, or of self-culture, derives prodigious impor-
tance from the consideration that whatever aptitude there may be
in mind for certain habits, neither that aptitude, nor these habits,
do form and establish the formative influence of taste, without the
co-operation of the judgment. And while the judgment is thus
employed upon such a subject as man, its entire history must be
regarded in a moral and religious point of view. -
Thus it appears that taste, so far from being an unimportant,
and quiescent quality, actually infuses its operative tincture
• through the whole current of life; and in virtue of a subtle and
instinctive efficiency whereby it warps the will, it presents the
mind with the noblest ends, and purest means, or beguiles to the
most unworthy entertainments, and ruinous results.
Upon this subject a specious and pernicious error has obtained,
and has extensively issued in this twofold evil; men of taste have


192 ‘IASTE.
been more or less disgusted with the forms and practices of re-
ligion; and men of piety have come to disregard, and repudiate
with jealous illiberality, and indiscriminating aversion, the entire
mention and matter of taste.
The error I mean, consists in mistaking the sensitive and pa-
thetic sympathies of a certain taste, for the truthful action of con-
science, and the sanative sentiments of religious principle.
The pleasures of taste are strongly temptative; and, inveigled
by the enchantments of the syren, the soul is often hoodwinked
by its own fancy; and yields itself, in effeminating passiveness,
to its sickly indulgences, lapsing imperceptibly from acquiescence
into softness; from softness to imbecility, until it unwittingly
whimpers at once its lamentation and its doom. “Je vois que
mon temps de repos est finiſ”—still provoking the pleasing
pain, and soothing its prurient heart with the stimulating stuff
of restless romance, and obsolete ballads. This sixpenny taste
excites, by its foolish tears in public, and its flickering inefficien-
cy in private, only disgust, or pity, in persons of an unjaded and
healthy habit. These latter, on the other hand, whose robust-
ness precludes the pallid cast of sentimentality, not distinguish-
ing the uses and abuses of taste, unjustly charge upon it the
monstered nothingness and foibles that really belong to the indi-
vidual character. Launching forth their broad and sweeping
denunciations against all taste as a dispiriting and perverting
weakness, they rudely offend and disgust those whose fluttering
faculties will not, or cannot stay to discriminate between the
rugged religion of those who sternly trample the lily of the
valley, or rudely slight the roses of Sharon, and the amiable reli-
gion of those who meditate and cherish the things that are lovely.
Thus extremes meet; and the neglect, and the abuse, of taste,
the faculty designed to respect and conform to, the lovely in fact,
and the lovely in act, occasions contumely and aversion which
preclude the refined and beautiful amenities of religion, and ren-
der the “Divine Philosophy” seemingly “as harsh and crabbed
as dull fools suppose it.”
We observe that there is an infinite variety of beauty and love.
liness for the eye, and for the mind: and He who “ appointed one
TASTE, - 193
thing over against the other, to the end that nothing might be
found imperfect,” hath endowed us with physical and spiritual
faculties adapted to what He hath ordained in the physical and
spiritual world, for our pleasure and improvement. And these
excellent and charming exponents of the Almighty Spirit having
been set forth before us, we are authoritatively instructed to ad-
dress to them our earnest and studious regards. There is doubt-
less a grand moral purpose in all this.
We are venturing on sensitive ground. How few should we
win, or flatter, by expatiating on the superlative advantages to be
realized from a holy alliance of correct taste, and pure and fer-
vent piety! And how many should we offend by insisting upon
the disparagements which piety suffers when deprived of the
auxiliaries of true taste: and the utter feebleness and futility of
taste undirected and unsustained by piety. True, when em-
ployed upon the miserable ministries of pollution, and to polish
the venomed shafts of mischief, it beautifies the perverted power
of talent, and aids the malice of fallen genius, by bestowing its
blandishments upon vice. But there can lie no exception against
this primordial sense of beauty in all its variety and aspects, nor
against its culture, upon the ground of its having been long fa-
miliarized with the fashionable vanities and vices of the world,
and perverted to embellish the victims and offerings of sensuality;
to vitiate the manners and corrupt the social heart. If it has
not been always pure and virtuous, this is not from any inherent
badness, or intrinsic worthlessness: but the deplorable and irreli-
gious defectiveness of education has debased it; and the human
soil in which it has been cultivated, is sadly uncongenial to the
growth and development of the tender germins of a holy life.
Our obligation, therefore, to meditate and cherish the “things
that are lovely” is imperious and unimpaired.
We believe the Almighty everywhere inhabits His creation:
preserving what He formed, and regulating what He preserves.
We gaze upon the varied amplitude of beauty and grandeur, and
consider the entire order of material forms, from the gems that
sparkle at our feet, to that stupendous architecture that adorns
the boundless abode of Deity, but as the various veil which at
194 TASTE.
once conceals and discovers Him who verily hideth Himself,
yet discoverably, and within symbols that are inscrutable
to none but such as, having eyes, see not. These forms He
has garnished with the pencil of eternal beauty, in order to ar-
rest our attention, and win us to seek after Him, the source and
sole substance of all things. By these types, which He hath
marked with His own finger, He humbleth Himself to instruct
and elevate our souls, by addressing the sympathies of taste, and
attaching us by the interest of admiration and the cords of love.
And can any doubt the paramount moral purpose and aim of
so divine a faculty, whereby we reciprocate with our eternal Fa-
ther the hallowing emotions of loveliness and greatness, until
our fascinated and ravished spirits conform and dilate with the
transcendent beauty and harmony of God’s own instruments
of order and goodness?
And possessing such a constitutional gift for good, can any
doubt the teachings of analogical truth which is afforded ? As
the attributes of light are the natural and apposite objects of our
visual organs; as speculative truth is the natural and apposite
object of our reason; and as there is established a peculiar and
permanent correspondence between our social faculties and the
social objects that comprise our human condition, so are we
clearly instructed in the nature and lofty purpose of the natural
correspondence that subsists between our faculty and sense of
loveliness, and he beautiful and sublime objects of the physical
world of elegance and order, and the moral world of conduct
and character that are developing around and within us.
The analogy of which we have spoken, not only forms a very
considerable source of the most refined and edifying pleasure,
but vastly enhances and multiplies the moral force of taste. He
that by diligence and attention enlarges his mind to the solemn
contemplation of nature in her causes, her operations, and her
designs, forms his own understanding on the model of eternal
reason; and he who happily improves himself to enter with a
grateful zest, into the contemplation of her beautics and her sub-
limities, forms his taste on the actual conceptions of the Deity,
and advances in the intellectual image of his Maker. By virtue



TASTE.. 195
of the same analogy which holds throughout God’s works, he
that meditates and admires the tranquillizing grandeur of na-
ture, will meditate and admire the peaceful grandeur of moral
goodness and moral greatness; and he, also, who loves the sweet
aspects and entertainments of the rich world of eye and ear, will,
at the direction of religion, cultivate with pious care, and enjoy
with grateful rapture, the tender harmonies of private life.
No healthy and candid mind can peruse the sacred deliverances
of the Prophetic Scriptures, without feeling what a thrilling force
is imparted to those sublime oracles, by the pure and exalted taste
of the studious and seraphic Bards of Israel. “Every part of the
Book of Job,” says Pope, “is incomparably superior to any part
of the great Iliad.” And who that has yielded his unprejudiced
mind to the magnificent imagery of the Apocalypse, but has been
deeply moved by the simple and sublime strokes of a sanctified
taste, that enrich the raptures of the inspired exile; and but
feels the soft and delectable motions of the poet-wreaths that
wave from the gates of the New Jerusalem; and mitigate the
aspect of the ponderous and horrid jaws of hell, through which
the overwhelming disclosures of future retribution blazed before
the eye of him whose mortal hand was permitted to draw a por-
tion of the dreadful screen that shrouds the wonders of the eternal
world.
And are these pearls of heavenly beauty scattered before swine !
Are these spangles and refractions of the Eternal Shekinah of Glo-
ry displayed to our spiritual vision without an excellent design and
aim 2 Alas! how many that suffer their eyes to be darkened
and destroyed by the gittering dust of earth, might, by early
and constantly familiarizing their minds with the immortal beauty
of honesty, justice and purity—with the exceeding loveliness of
Heavenly Truth and Heavenly Virtue, feed and satisfy their lim-
itless capacities from that celestial banquet, and worthily enter-
tain the natural operation of the Spirit that transformeth into His
own glorious likeness: sharing the intellectual dainties and re-
finements of angels, and promoting the purification of their sen-
timents, their passions, and their lives, from the defilements of
temper, worldliness, and pride.

196 TASTE
Let a pure and undefiled taste operate its perfect action upon
the energies of the mind, and affections of the heart of man, and
thus discharge her original functions of a bland and beautiful
handmaid to Religion, and along with the sins, would pass away
the acerbities of human temper; selfishness would yield to the
amiable charities; and they in whose bosom, the happy union of
these graces are consummated, would reflect the virtues they ad-
mired; and the natural chivalry of the heart, accomplished with
the meekness of wisdom, and imbued with the true spirit of
chaste and magnanimous manners, would shield manly honor
from the touch and attainder of shame; and redeem from oppres-
sion, neglect, and want, the beautiful soul of woman, and the
delicate capacities of childhood.
Here, then, is a garden of the Lord, and a vine of His own
planting. Alas! how has it lain neglected, and how have the
ungrafted grapes of bitterness encumbered and exhausted its
stinted branches!
But let these suggestions suffice for the present, to vindi-
cate this noble attribute of man; and direct the attention
of the wise and prudent, especially among the youthful disciple-
ship of Jesus, (whose perfect taste and gracious manners, as in-
dicated by his discourses and deportment, rendered Him the Pa-
ragon of humanity,) to the sacred and sanctifying alliance which
God hath founded, between the religion of taste and the religion
of truth: one of the most considerable and efficient elements in
the probationary culture, whereby all who exercise the responsi-
ble functions of humanity are, rightly or otherwise, qualifying for
..other condition of being, endless, unºhangeable, sublime!
The territory of Upper Californa, is estimated to be equal to
twelve such states as Ohio. The estimated population of the
whole territory is as follows: 10,000 Mexicans, 20,000 Indians,
and 1,500 Americans.

COUSIN SYBIL. 197
COUSIN SYBIL, OR, WHO IS THE LADY 7
B Y S. T. M. A. R. T.Y. N.
Concluded from p. 159.
“Why did you hurry me away 4” at last exclaimed Evelina,
“I am certain Mr. Atherton must have thought me very stupid,
for I could not think of one word to say, before you forced me to
leave him in that awkward manner. But what an elegant person-
age he is; I never saw a more noble-looking man.”
“You are certain, then, that this stranger is Mr. Atherton,”
said Sybil ; “why do you speak so confidently?”
“Oh, it can be no other person, I am sure; for this gentleman
has precisely the air and appearance which one would imagine
Mr. Atherton to have. Did you notice his manner-polite, yet
perfectly easy and nonchalant, as if conscious of his own supe-
riority His superb dark eyes, too, and raven hair curling about
that classic head—and what a tall, elegant figure P’
“Why you are quite beside yourself with admiration,” said
Sybil, smiling, “it would not do to meet such an Adonis in the
wood every day, lest you might take leave of your senses alto-
gether. For my part, I think the gentleman who was playing
with that noble greyhound under the tree, has a much more in-
tellectual countenance than your Mr. Atherton.”
“Our tastes differ very widely,” Evelina replied; “that was
undoubtedly the friend of Mr. Atherton, a poor but very clever
young lawyer who is staying at the Grove. A person of com-
mon discernment could see at once which was the plebeian, and
which the patrician. Should we meet again, I shall certainly
address Mr. Atherton, and introduce myself as his nearest neigh-
bor.”
Several days elapsed before Miss Danforth could carry her
resolution into effect. Her father was away from home on bu-

->

siness, or she might have heard from the Grove through him,
198 COUSIN &YBIL.
and she had no brother or male cousin to call and invite
him to Woodlands, so she was obliged to content herself with
looking towards the noble old mansion which was visible from
one part of the grounds, and wondering what its inmate could be
about. At last fortune seemed to favor her wishes. She had
been taking a ride on horseback with her cousin, and was return-
ing by a bridle path through the forest, when the girth of her
saddle gave way, and she was precipitated to the ground. Sybil
Fleming, who was a few yards in advance, heard her cry of ter-
ror, and turning instantly, seized the bridle of the horse and ar-
rested his flight, but she could not assist the terrified girl, whose
long riding habit rendered her almost helpless. At this moment
two gentlemen who were riding leisurely the other way, caught
sight of the fair equestrians, and instantly dismounting, came to
their relief. Evelina was not seriously injured, and when she re-
cognised in her deliverer the stranger of the ravine, she was elo-
quent in her expressions of gratitude. “I have the honor of
speaking to Mr. Atherton, I presume,” she said with one of her
sweetest smiles; “may I, without a breach of etiquette, introduce
the errant damsel you have assisted, as Miss Danforth of Wood-
lands—the next estate to Locust Grove l’”
A look of peculiar meaning passed between the young men,
as the one thus addressed was about to speak, but he answered
only by expressing the hope that she had not sustained any ma-
terial injury from her fall. Her assertion that she was perfectly
well was quite unnecessary, for she was in brilliant spirits, and
during the ride home, appropriated Mr. Atherton entirely to her-
self, leaving Sybil, whom she had not even introduced, to the
care of his friend and companion Mr. Grey.
Sybil Fleming's first impression in favor of this gentleman,
was confirmed during their homeward ride that evening. There
was a charm about his conversation she had never experienced
before—but whether it consisted in the liquid melody of his
tones, or the sparkling vivacity and piquancy of his remarks, she
was unable to determine. One thing she felt—there was a world
of feeling in those deep-set, earnest eyes, which seemed to read
her very squl as they were turned upon her, and intellect sat en

COUSIN SYBIL. 199
throned on that broad and lofty brow, which in her imagination
might have furnished a study for a painter or a sculptor. When
on their arrival at home, Evelina gave her companion an invita-
tion to enter, Sybil hoped he might accept it, for Mr. Grey was
*in the midst of an animated description, which she was unwilling
to lose. It was declined, however, with the promise of an early
call, and the gentlemen departed very differently impressed in
regard to their fair companions. One had been greatly amused
with the evident design upon his person, entertained by the young
lady with whom he had been riding—the other congratulated
himself on having met what he had long since despaired of find-
ing, a young and lovely female in whom art had not entirely tri-
umphed over nature. -
The call was made at Woodlands, and repeated again and
again, for the gentleman we have called Mr. Grey, always found
some good excuse for dragging thither Cecil Atherton, who to
confess the truth, was much annoyed by the attentions of Miss
Danforth, though he endured them with the patience of a martyr;
taking long moonlight walks with her, in order to give his friend
an opportunity of enjoying the society of Sybil Fleming. And
delightful walks they were to Sybil and her companion, who
was every day discovering some new beauty of heart and mind
in the pure and lovely being at his side. He knew that her im-
age was before him wherever he went—that when he opened a
book, those dark spiritual eyes were gazing at him on every
page—that he had taught the very echoes to repeat the musical
name of Sybil—and that the world to him was divided into two
parts—that where she was, and where she was not—but not until
he was obliged to leave her, did he feel how necessary she had
become to his happiness; in short, how truly and passionately he
loved her. And Sybil—did she return his affection? If it were
so, nothing in her manner had ever betrayed the secret, and he
respected too much the maidenly delicacy of her character to seek
for a manifestation of regard before his own had been declared.
The evening before the departure of the two friends, was spent
by them at Mr. Danforth's, who had recently returned from a
long journey, and was impatient to be introduced to the Mr
Atherton, of whom he had heard so much. No sooner had that

--
º
200 COUSIN SYBIL.
º
gentleman made his appearance, than he was politely fastened
upon by both mother and daughter, leaving Mr. Grey as usual
quite at liberty to devote himself to Cousin Sybil, who, like him-
self, was a mere “nobody” in their estimation. The beauty of
the evening tempted them out on the balcony which overhung
the river, and where under cover of the storm of music with ,
which Evelina was assailing Mr. Atherton, they could converse
unheard. Never had Sybil looked more lovely. In a simple
robe of white muslin, without any ornaments but the shining ring-
lets of dark hair which veiled, without concealing her fair brow
and swan-like neck, she looked liked a poet’s embodied dream
of purity and truth.
“This scene is beautiful, beyond description,” said Mr. Grey,
as they stood gazing on the river, which sparkled in the moon-
beams as if studded with myriads of minute stars, “but to-mor-
row I must bid it farewell, and go back to the world, which for
a few weeks past I had almost forgotten.”
“Sybil started, and turned pale as she said in a low tone, “Do
you indeed leave us so soon " I hoped—that is—I thought that
Mr. Atherton remained until autumn in the country.”
I have received letters,” he replied, “which make it necessary
for me to leave for B., and my friend has kindly offered to ac-
company me. But Miss Fleming,” he added, drawing her to a
seat, “need I say what it is which renders it so difficult for me
to tear myself from this spot? Need I tell you what is the charm
that makes it the sweetest spot I ever inhabited You must long
since have seen, what I have never before dared to tell you, how
truly my heart was all your own. Sybil, dear Sybil, tell me by
one word, one look, that I have not loved utterly in vain, and
may hope, in time, to obtain what I most covet on earth—an in-
terest in your affections. Will you not answer me?”
Sybil could not answer, for her heart was full even to bursting;
but the timid glance she gave her lover was more eloquent than
words—and she suffered him to press the small white hand which
he had taken passionately, to his lips; then darting from him with
the speed of a fawn, she sought her own room, and burying her
glowing face in the pillows of the sofa, wept blissful tears of
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Cousi N SYBiL. 201
jratitude and joy. Her bright hopes were all fulfilled—she was
warmly, ardently beloved, by the only being she had ever seen
who realized her youthful dreams of nobleness and excellence,
oh, if her beloved mother could but know and approve her
choice
While this scene was passing on the balcony, Mr. Atherton
was acting his part to admiration in the drawing room. He
made many flattering speeches, sighed once or twice very omi-
nously, but though every facility was generously afforded him, he
did not say the important words which were to make Miss Dan-
forth the mistress of Locust Grove. On the contrary, he pro-
posed leaving, as soon as his friend returned to the parlor, and
with a bland smile, kissed his hand to the fair Evelina, softly
murmuring, “Adieu, au revoir,” and was gone, ere she could
rally her thoughts sufficiently to return his parting salutation.
Hope, however, was busy at her heart. “We shall meet in
town,” she said mentally, “for I know he has a splendid estab-
lishment there, and then I will make one grand effort to secure
the prize.” Of Mr. Grey, she never even thought, for he seemed
to her so unworthy of notice by the side of Cecil Atherton, that
she had scarcely wasted one word or look upon him.
Weeks passed away, and the family of Mr. Danforth had re-
turned to town. Sybil had heard often from her lover, and every
letter filled her young heart to overflowing with pride and ten-
derness; for in the noble nature thus laid open to her view, all
she saw, tended to ennoble and exalt her own character. But
they had never met since that well-remembered evening, and the
family of her uncle were still ignorant of her attachment, for in
truth, it was a matter in which they felt little interest. Mrs.
Danforth and her daughter had but one absorbing idea—the de-
sire to outstrip all competitors in the race of fashion, and to se-
cure Cecil Atherton, who was in point of wealth a more eligible
parti than Fred Somers. -
The fashionable season had commenced, and Evelina Dan-
forth was engaged in a constant succession of balls, assemblies,
soirees, and all the et cetera of city life among the “upper ten
thousand;” but Cecil Atherton, who had been suddenly called to
the South, had not yet made his appearance. One morning,

º
º
º
202 COUSIN SYBUL.
while Evelina was still in the breakfast room, Laura came in,
suddenly exclaiming, “Sister, you will be very sorry that you re-
fused to go to Mrs. Wilmot's party last evening, for who do you
think was there? Mr. Cecil Atherton—and he was the lion of
the evening, for Helen Wilmot told me so this moment; but she
says her mamma told all the young ladies that his affections are
engaged. I wonder who is the happy lady, don’t you, Cousin
Sybill”
Sybil had started and blushed, on hearing the name, for ano-
ther and dearer one was associated with it in her mind; but she
answered truly, and with perfect unconcern, “Indeed, Laura,
I have no curiosity about it.”
Not so with Evelina—she was in a flutter of delight, never
once doubting that if Mr. Atherton’s affections were engaged, it
was to her own fair self. It was still early, but Sybil had hardly
reached her own room after assisting Laura in her drawing les-
son, when a servant came to inform her that a gentleman who
had sent up his card, had inquired for Miss Fleming. The card
bore the name of Cecil Atherton. “He brings me a message
‘rom Allan Grey,” she said to herself, and the thought caused
her cheek to glow, and her heart to throb wildly, as she descended
to the drawing room. When she entered, a gentleman was
standing with his back toward her, looking at a picture, but she
could nºt be mistaken in the figure, and sprang eagerly forward,
exclaiming-
“Allan Grey ! Can it be possible?”
“Sybil, my own dear Sybil,” he replied, “forgive the invo
luntary deception I have practised. Do not turn away from me,
dearest—you will not, I trust, refuse to Cecil Atherton, the love
that made Allan Grey so happy.”
“But how is this?” she inquired, “I do not understand it all
—why take the name of another?”
“I did not take it, dear Sybil,” he said smiling, “you will re-
member it was given me by your cousin, who made the natural
mistake of supposing that my handsome friend must be the fa-
vorite of fortune in every respect. When I discovered the error,
I did not correct it, for I had long been anxious to know if I
could hope to be loved for myself alone, and my first interview


203 COUSIN SYBIL.
with you, dearest, made me desirous to try the experiment in your
case. It has been completely successful, restoring to me the con-
fidence I had nearly lost in the excellence of your sex, and win-
ning for me the truest, and noblest, and best of human hearts.
And now, my own Sybil, will you pardon me, and believe that
though the name is changed, my heart is still the same, loving
you more fondly, more fervently than ever, and ready to atone,
by a life's devotion, for the only deception of which I have ever
been guilty tº
“But my aunt!” murmured Sybil, “my cousin! what will
they say ?” -
“They are your relatives, Sybil, and therefore sacred in my
eyes, but you are well aware of the nature of their attentions to
the supposed Mr. Atherton, and must feel with me that no very
deep wounds are to be apprehended in this case. But, dearest, I
have a suit to urge, will you not promise me to listen patiently,
and answer me favorably?” -
We shall not repeat to our readers the arguments by which
Cecil Atherton obtained the consent of Sybil Fleming to become
his wife almost immediately, or describe the scene which took
place when Evelina was informed by him of the mistake into
which she had fallen, and of his engagement to the country
cousin, whom she considered so greatly her inferior. Her rage
and mortification were excessive, particularly as Fred Somers,
whom she had cut decidedly on her return to town, was the ac-
cepted lover of a dashing bellé, and Frank Meredith had never
called since taking a walk with Sybil Fleming, from which both
had returned silent and embarrassed. Poor Evelina 1 she was
doomed to feel still keener pangs: for her father, who was proud
of what he called the success of his niece, gave her a magnificent
trousseau, and Sybil Fleming was universally pronounced the
most beautiful bride of the season. Yet, lovely as she then was in
the eyes of her devoted husband, he declares that the experience
of every year only proves—
“How much the wife is dearer than the bride,”

and laughingly advises all the single gentlemen of his acquaintance
to obtain, if possible, a Country Cousin, as a companion for life,
THE DYING CHILD.
Do not longer here detain me,
Fondest mother drowned in woe.
Now thy kind caresses pain me,
Morn advances—let me go.
-
See yon orient streak appearing :
Harbinger of endless day;
Hark! a voice, the darkness cheering
Calls my spirit far away.
Now my cries shall cease to grieve the
Now my trembling heart find rest;
Kinder arms than thine receive me,
Softer pillows than thy breast.
Weep not o'er these eyes that languish
Upward turning toward their home:
Raptured they’ll forget all anguish
While they wait to see thee come.
There my mother, pleasures centre,
Weeping, parting, care, or woe,
Ne'er our Father's house shall enter:
Morn advances—let me go.

Through this tranquil holy dawning,
Silent glides my parting breath,
To an everlasting morning,
Gently close my eyes in death.
Mercy's endless, richest blessings,
Pour their streams upon thine hea:
(Though no language yet possessils.}
Breathes my spirit ere we part
Yet to leave thee mourning pains me
Though again His voice I hear;
Rise may every grace attend thee!
Rise and seek to meet me theye
THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
GRADUATE LIBRARY
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