/^A-^ /fj/ MOSAICS OF LIFE. MOSAICS OF HUMAN LIFE. ELIZABETH A. THURSTON. PHILADELPHIA J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 1866. Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the j-ear 1866, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. INTRODUCTORY. There is a pleasant old story, that once upon a time, Trutli went into a library, and burnt all tlie books, save two or three ! The compiler of a book, in his, or her best estate, must be considered one of the humblest servants of her Majesty, Nevertheless if there be "A natural gift, The lettered grain from lettered chaff to sift," such followers and gleaners have their value. The collection is a motley one ; "A thing of shreds and patches;" But such is life — a mingled thread — " An April day ; sunshine and showers alternate; joy follows close upon the heels of sorrow. The funeral procession scarcely passes, ere we are gazing on the wedding pageant." As it is not yet determined by universal consent of natu- ralists, whether the egg preceded the hen, or the hen the egg, could I begin my mosaics better than to follow the order of one of the most authentic beginnings of life extant ? namely, that of the " grand old gardener," and his wife ; and introduce 1» 5 6 TNTRODUCTORY. my characters in Eden ! If an Eden can be to mortals, per- haps the era of wooing and betrothal approaches it most nearly. I would say, in conclusion, to all who read, to all who receive, and to all who give away this compilation, [may their number be Legion,] that if I have collected pictures touching and graphic on many phases of human life; if I have gathered together quaint and valuable sayings ; if I have been a faithful and loving step-mother to a pleasant and suggestive book, I have an abundant reward. ELIZABETH A. THURSTON. CONTENTS. BBTBOTHAL. PAGE BETROTHAL SliaJcspeare. 17 THE LONG PATH 0. W.Holmes. 17 EXTRACT FROM "ARTEVELDE." Henry Taylor. 18 A KING'S WOOING SliaJcspeare. 18 THERESA'S ANSWER TO WILHELM Goelke. 19 HESITATION Alfred Tennyson. 19 PROPOSAL Bayard Taylor. 19 NOBODY COULD HAVE SEEN IT From tlie German. 20 BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK Scotch Song. 21 JUDY McLEARY Irish Ballad. 22 JENNY KISSED ME Leigh Hunt. 23 AN OFFER Bayard Taylor. 23 THE CONFESSION Elizabeth Austin. 24 TAM GLEN Robert Bums. 26 THE IMPROVISATRICE L. E. Landm. 2T GENEVIEVE S. T. Coleridge. 28 THE GROOMSMAN TO HIS MISTRESS T. W. Parsmis. 30 BRINGING WATER FROM THE WELL 32 THE APPEAL S. W. Brooks. 34 SCHULE— LOVE William Motherwell. 35 LOVE Charles Swain. 36 THE BROOKSIDE R. M. Milnes. 37 7 8 CONTENTS. PAGE AN EXPERIENCE Alfred Tennyson. 38 THE PICrrKE AT THE FOUNTAIN Jeremias GoUhelf. 39 TO William R. Spencer. 39 ASSOCIATION J.S.KnowUs. 40 A TALISMAN P. S. Shelley. 40 A WOMAN'S QUESTION Adelaide A. Proctor. 40 CHOICE OF A TTIFE Sir Philip Sydney. 42 MARRIAGE Nathaniel Cotton. 42 LOVE ■RTLL FIND OUT THE WAY Percy's Mdiqws. 44 THE AN'NOTER 2Sr. P. Willis. 45 BRIDAL SONG Henry D. Austin. 46 THE FATHER'S LAMENT n. W. Lcmafdlow. 47 THE BRIDAL. A PICTURE 47 WEDDED LIFE. ■WEDDED LIFE H. W. Lrngfellow. 51 DOST THOU REJLEMBER? 51 A CAUTION Lord George LyUMon. 52 DARKEY'S COUNSEL TO THE NEWLY MARRIED Edmund Kirke. 53 THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE Allan Cunningham. 54 TO MY AATFE Gerald Massey. 56 A QUESTION Matthew Pryor. 57 TEN YEARS AGO Alaric A. Watts. 58 GOOD AND BAD SPIRITS Frederiha Bremer. 61 MUTUAL FORBEARANCE William Cowper. 62 SUCH A ONE AS HE WOULD LOVE Sir Thomas WyaU. 03 FROM "MANUEL DES PECHES." Wadington. 63 AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE Leigh Hunt. 64 ART OF PUTTING THINGS Boyd. 64 TO MY BlUDIE Caroline Souihcy. 65 A WARNING Alfred Tennyson. 65 TRIFLES NOT TRIFLES F. Bremer. 66 THE LENT UMBRELLA Vouglas Jerrold. 66 A TAULE OF ERRATA Thomas Bood. 69 THE UNREASONABLE HUSBAND 73 THE WOMAN-LYE MASTERPIECE Jlcywood. 74 CONTENTS. 9 PAGE THE GOOD WIFE Tlwmas Fuller. 75 MUTUAL FORGIVENESS J.G. Holland. 76 THE RETURN William J. Miclcle. 76 TO MY WIFE Samuel Bishop. 77 ILLUSIONS R. W.Emerson. 78 BREAKFAST TALK. No. 1 Douglas Jerrold. 79 BREAKFAST TALK. No. 2 Douglas Jerrold. 79 THE TRUEST FRIENDSHIP Cotton. 81 A TRUE WIFE George Chapman. 81 "ANGELS UNAWARES." T. PoweU. 82 WOMAN KobeH DodsUy. 82 THE STORY OF KARIN J. G. WhiUier. 83 BABYHOOD. WOMAN'S RIGHTS Pundt. 91 SEASONS OF PRAYER Senri/ Ware. 92 THE BABY 92 MY BIRD Emily Judson. 93 A GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF A BABY Knickerbocker. 94 THE INVALID WIFE Fanny Eem. 96 BABY Knickerbocker. 99 AVERSE FOR THE YOUNG MOTHER TO PARODY Thomas Moore. 100 A NURSERY SONG 100 THOUGHTS WHILE SHE ROCKS THE CRADLE J.G.Holland. 103 PHILIP, BIY KING Miss Muloch. 104 OUR BABY Mrs. Gage. 106 NOT AN EVERY-DAY BABY? Mansjield. 107 CHILDREN Jean Paul. 107 LETTER TO A NEW BORN CHILD Catlmrine Talbot. 108 THE RETURN 110 THE CHILD POET J.R.Lowell. 110 SIJIPLE PLEASURES Jean Paul. Ill A PICTURE James Ballantyne. Ill DOMESTIC BLISS 112 THE MOTHER'S COMPLAINT William Miller. 113 THE CHARGE OF INFANTRY Knickerbocker. 113 10 CONTENTS. FAOE SOME ACCOUNT OF A REMARKABLE BABY C. Diclccns. 116 TWO YEARS OLD 116 A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON TJumas Jffood. 118 FOUR YEARS OLD Leigh Hunt. 120 THE RIDE IN A WIIEEL-BARROW Boyd. 123 AMANTIUM IRSE AMORIS REDINTEGRATIO EST Richard Edwards. 124 FATUER IS COMING! Mary HmoiU. 124 A MOTHER'S MORNING PRAYER 125 THRENODIA J. K. Loivell. 126 CASA WAPPY D. M. Mair. 127 TESPERS 129 CUILDREN'S PRAYERS 130 CHILD-SLEEP Thomas Hood. 130 EMULEMATICAL Byron. 131 THE BIRDWATCHER Laman Blanchard. 131 LITTLE WILLIE WAKING UP E. H. Sears. 132 CHRIST AND THE LITTLE ONES Julia GUI. 134 THE FISHERMEN Charles Kingsley. 136 SO^nNG IN TEARS 137 GOOD LIFE, LONG LIFE BenJonson. 139 LITTLE CHILDREN Mary Homtt. 139 WHAT THE CHRIST-SPIRIT SAID TO CHILDREN 140 THE HALLOWED DRAWER H. B. Stowe. 141 A PICTURE rhamas BurUdge. 141 CinLDREN W.S.Landor. 142 TO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS MOTHER Thomas Hood. 143 MOTHER'S LOVE W. J. Fox. 144 MY SERMON Boyd. 144 IN JIEMORIAM KniclccrbocJcer. 145 A SUNBEAM AND A SHADOW Monthly Religious Maganne. ' li6 A MOTHEH'S joys WHUam Ferguson. 146 THE CHILDREN n. W. Longfellow. 147 ANTIPODES ET.B. Stowe. 148 THE DEAD BOY William Alien Butler. 149 THE PRATTLE OF CHILDREN Jeremy Taylor. 149 ILLUSIONS Emerson. 150 THE CONTRAST Plummer. 151 THE MOTHKK, even IN DEATH John Broum. 162 CONTENTS. 11 PAGE THE CHILDREN'S HOUR H. W. Longfellow. 153 MOTHER'S TRUST Charles Didcens. 155 MOTHER'S TENDERNESS Washington Irving. 155 "I LIVE FOR THEE." Alfred Tennyson. 156 THE SEA R. B. Stoddard. 156 LITTLE CHARLIE F. B. Aldrich. 167 KITTIE IS GONE Williavi B. Bradbury. 158 HOW'S MY BOY? Sydney Dobell. 159 THE BAREFOOT BOY J. G. Whitlier. 161 HARRY'S LETTER Thomas Hood. 164 A QUESTION John Gay. 165 THE BOY'S APPEAL 165 THE FATHER'S ADVICE Richard Hildreth. 166 AGAINST BOYS Chamber^ Journal. 166 WHICH IS THE HAPPIEST? PauldeKock. 167 EXTRACT FROM A LETTER Henry Sydney. 167 THE BOY AT FIFTEEN! H. B. Slowe. 168 WHAT THE FATHER SAID TO THE SCHOOL-BOY Thomas Hughes. 169 WHAT THE FATHER SAID TO HIS DAUGHTER Lard CoUingwood. 169 WHAT THE POET SAID TO THE YOUNG MAIDEN CharUs KingsUy. 169 WHAT THE POET MIGHT SAY TO THE YOUNG MAIDEN'S MOTHER...GoeWie. 170 BOY LOST! 171 YOUTH. YOUTH KL.Bulwer. 177 EMILY IS MARRIED! Cliarles Lamb. 178 TO FANNIE IN A BALL DRESS John Everett. 179 MAIDENHOOD H. W. LongfelUm. 180 LIFE IS BEFORE YE! Ihnny KembU. 180 IDEALS OP WOMAN. No. 1 AUxander Pope. 181 IDEALS OF WOMAN. No. 2 George LyttMon. 182 MY KATE. Ideal No. 3 E.B.Browning. 183 IDEAL. No. 4 ^yiUiam Wordstvorth. 184 FROM "COMUS." A MASK John Milton. 185 EXTRACT ridor Hugo. 187 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS T.Hood. 187 12 CONTENTS. PAGE VIRGINIA T. B. Macaulay. 191 SHE'S GANE TO DWALL IN DEATEX Nithsdale and Gallomay Songs. 192 A MOSAIC FOR FRIENDS 197 A MOSAIC FOR YOUNG MEN 203 A MOSAIC FOR HOUSEWITEP 209 A MOSAIC FOR US ALL 215 SINGLE LIFE. THE OLD MAID'S PRATER TO DIANA Mrs. Tighe. 221 BROTHER AND SISTER atarles Lamb. 223 EPITAPH ON AN OLD MAID Englishwoman's Journal. 224 COUSIN JANE 2-25 FROM AN "EXTRA LEAF ON DAUGHTER-FULL HOUSES." Jean Paul. 227 IF THOU COULDST KNOW 228 SOLITUDE OF SINGLE WOMEN Dinah ilidoch. 228 MIDDLE LIFE S. Osgood. 230 EXl'ECTATION L. E.Landcn. 230 IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN J. G. Wldttier. 231 THE UNLOVED O. W. Holmes. 232 FROM "ENDVanON." Longfellow. 233 REFLECTED HAPPINESS Charles Lamb. 233 FROM "MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING." Sliakspeare. 234 BACHELOR'S FARE ITorace Smith. 235 OUR IDEALS Victor Hugo. 236 EXACTIONS OF MARRIED PEOPLE Willcie CoUins. 236 A BACHELOR'S IGNORANCE Manafidd. 237 A BACHELOR'S QUESTION Euffmi. 237 SONG OF ANTICIPATION ElizabeOi Austin. 237 KIZZY IIRINGLE Fanny Fern. 239 THE FORSAKEN Auld Sang. 240 THE WOUNDED HEART E.B.Browning. 241 A PICTURE Eclectic Review. 243 NOT A MISTAKE G. W. Curtis. 244 JEAN PAUL'S QUESTIONS 244 OLD MAIDS Unilfd States Gazette. 245 BONG OF CASSANDRA From the Spanish. 246 CONTENTS. 13 PAOB SOLILOQUY OF A BACIIELOR Shakspeare. 247 A REMONSTRANCE Alat-ic A. WdUs. 248 OLD AGE. AULD AGE. A Treaty Elizabdh Hamilton. 253 GOLDEN WORDS 0. W. Holmes. 256 THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH Richard M. MUnes. 256 THE LAST LEAF 0. W. Holm^. 259 SONG John SUrling. 261 EXTRACT FROM "DIVINE POEMS." Edmund WaUer. 261 JOYS OF OLD AGE FraUrica Bremer. 262 BOYS AND GIRLS FOREVER J.G.Holland. 263 ONE GOOD OLD MAN G. W.Curtis. 263 BEAUTY OF AGE H. B. Stowe. 263 THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW Louisa 0. Moidtm. 265 COmNG HOME Alice Gary. 268 THE PLEASURE VOYAGE O. P. R.James. 270 A PETITION TO TIME B. W. Proctor. 272 THE GOOD OLD FRIEND Mary Hcnixitt. 272 THE ONE GRAY HAIR WaUer S. Landor. 273 TEMPERANCE Richard Orashaw. 277 USE OF EXPERIENCE 277 THE SAFE SIDE John Denham. 278 SIR MARMADUKE George Caiman. 279 TO A GRANDMOTHER Bernard Barton. 280 BEHIND THE MASK Atlantic Monthly. 282 THE SPARK DIVINE Johann C. Lavater. 283 A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW Thomas Hood. 283 OLD AGE R. W. Emerson. 287 ANOTHER CHANCE E. S. Turner. 288 THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL W.C.Bryant. 288 MY FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY F.D.Gage. 290 IT NEVER COJIES AGAIN R.H.Stoddard. 294 FROM "HALL OF FANTASY."' Hawthorne. 295 THE GRANDMOTHER'S APOLOGY Alfred Tennyson. 295 ACROSS THE RIVER Lucy Larcom. 800 2 14 CONTENTS. PAGE FLIGHT OF TIJIE 302 TRAVELING IN FOREIGN LANDS 302 PRAYER OF ALEXANDER PEDEN 303 A SUMMARY SUMMING UP OF DIFFICULT SUMS 303 LIFE Antia Lelitia Barbauld. 303 NIGHT AND DEATH Blanco White. 304 OUR BIRTH IS YET TO COME F. H. Hedge. 305 BETROTHAL. 15 Mosaics of Life. BETROTHAL. Miranda. Do you love me ? Perdinand. I, Beyond all limit of what else i' the world, Do love, prize, honor you. Miranda. I am a fool. To weep at what I am glad of. Ferdinand. Here's my hand, Miranda. And mine, with my heart in't. Tempest — Act III., Scene I. THE LONG PATH. T FELT very weak, indeed, (tliougli of a tolerably robust habit,) as we came opposite the head of this path on that morning. I think I tried to speak twice without making myself distinctly audible. At last I got out the question : " Will you take the long path with me ?" " Certainly," said the school-mistress, " with much pleasure." " Think," I said, " be- fore you answer ; if you take the long path with me now, I shall interpret it that we are to part no more I" The school-mistress stepped back with a sudden movement, as if an arrow had struck her. * 2* 17 18 MOSAICS OF LIFE. One of the long granite blocks, used as seats, was hard by. " Pray, sit down," I said. " No — no," she answered, softly; " I will walk the long j^atlt- with you !" The old gentleman who sits opposite, met us walking, arm in arm, about the middle of the long path, and said, very charmingly, " Good morning, my dears !" 0. W. Holmes. Extract from " ARTEVELDE." Adriaxa. Nay, said I not — And if I said it not, I say it now; I'll follow thee through sunshine, and through storm ; I will be with thee in thy weal and woe, In thy afflictions, should they fall upon thee ; In thy temptations, when bad men beset thee ; In all the perils which must now press round thee, And should they crush thee, in the hour of death. Let but thy love be with me to the last. Artevelde. My love is with thee ever ; that thou knowest. Henry Taylor. A KING'S WOOING. /^ AXRT thou love me, Kate ? A good leg will fall ; a straight ^ back will stoop; a black beard will turn white; a curled pate will griiw bald; a fair liico will witlicr; a I'ull eye will wax lioUow; but a (jood hairf, Kate, is the sun and moon, or rather the sun and not the moon ; for it shines ])right and never changes, but keeps its course truly. If thou wouldst liave such an one, have me. If thou canst love me for this, take me ; if not, to say to thee, that I shall die, is true ; but, fur tliy love, liy the Lord, no; yet I love thee too. King IFknuv V. — Act V., Scene II. BETROTHAL. 19 TKE]RESA'S ANSWER TO WILHELM. T AM yours, as I am, and as you know me ; I call you mine, -*- as you are, and as I know you. What in ourselves, wed- lock changes, we shall study to adjust by reason, cheerfulness, and mutual good-will. Goethe. ly/TARRIAGES are best of dissimilar material, as iron runs ^^ not so well upon iron as upon brass ; only the dissimilarity must not be too great, else it is all wear and tear. Theodore Parker. HESITATION. "OUT when at last I dared to speak, -*-^ The lanes, you know, were white with May, Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek Flushed like the coming of the day ; And so it was, half shy, half sly, You would, and would not, little one ! Although I pleaded tenderly, And you and I were all alone ! Alfred Tennyson. PROPOSAL. rpHE violet loves a sunny bank, -*- The cowslip loves the lea, The scarlet-creeper loves the elm ; But I love — thee. 20 MOSAICS OF LIFE. The sunshine kisses mount and vale, The stars they kiss the sea, The west winds kiss the clover bloom, But I kiss — thee. The oriole weds his mottled mate, The lily's bride o' the bee ; Heaven's marriage-ring is round the earth ; Shall I wed thee? Bayard Taylor. 'N buying horses, and taking a wife, shut your eyes and - commend yourself to God ! Italian. NOBODY COULD HAVE SEEN IT. "f7AST down the staircase swinging, -*- With flying feet I passed ; Quick up the staircase springing, lie came and held me fast; And the stairs are dark and dim — Many a kiss I had from him, And nobody could have seen it. Down into the hall demurely, The guests were assembled there ; My cheeks flushed hot, and surely My lips did their tale declare. I thought they looked at me every one. And saw what we together had done. Yet nobody could have seen it. BETROTHAL. 21 The garden its sweets displaying, Beckoned me out of doors ; The welcome call obeying, I hastened to look at the flowers j There blushed the roses all around. There sang the birds with merry sound. As if they all had seen it. From the German. BEHAVE YOURSEL' BErOKE TOLX. T)EHAVE yoursel' before folk, -^ And dinna be sae rude to me, As kiss me sae before folk. It's no through hatred o' a kiss, That I sae plainly tell you this ; But ah ! I tak' it sair amiss. To be sae teazed before folk. Behave yourself before folk. When we're alane, ye may tak' ane. But nent a ane before folk. Ye tell me that my face is fair ; It may be sae — I dinna care — But ne'er again gar't blush sae sair As ye hae dune before folk. Ye tell me that my lips are sweet ; Sic tales, I doubt are a deceit ; At ony rate, it's hardly meet To prie their sweets before folk. But, gin you really do insist That I should suffer to be kissed, Gae, get a license frae the priest, MOSAICS OF LIFE. And inak' mc yours before folk; Behave yoursel' before folk, And when we're ane, baith flesh and bane, Ye may tak' ten — before folk ! Scotch Song. JUDY MLEARY. n~^WAS Judy McLeary so fresh and so merry, Was milking the cow at her own cabin door, And thinking of nothing at all in the world. But the flowers that were blooming the cabin roof o'er. The steps that she heard at her side the same minute. The Toice that so musical broke on her ear, The sigh that came warm on her rosy red cheek, All spoke to her heart then of Terry McLeare. " Oh, Judy McLeary, you beautiful soul, It's yourself I am thinking of three days and more. But I crooshed down my heart till I felt it was breaking. And then, you persave, I could bear it no more. Then tell me, dear Judy, at once if you're willing To lave your own cabin so lovely and dear, To gladden my life with your smile and your singing, The Guardian Angel of Terry INIcLearc." The tear-drop in Judy's bright eye was fast gathering. And deep was the sorrow that sjwke in her tone; " Oh, Terry, me darlint, how can I go wid you, 'I'll l.ivo mo poor mother, an (irdii, alone? AVduld yim lave your own fatlier, and sisters, and brothers i Thty're dozens and dozens, they'd never miss you, And welcome yc'd be to our own little cabin. It's plenty convanieiit fur us and you too." BETROTHAL. 23 Then Judy stopped quickly, and looked on tlie ground, For she feared she was speaking of more than was right; But Terry, he blessed her with warm Irish feeling, And gained the consent of her mother that night. The bells they were ringing, and glad voices singing, A welcome to Judy's own cabin so dear, And never the cow was suspecting the change From Judy McLeary to Judy McLeare. JENNY KISSED ME! TENNY kissed me when we met. Jumping from the chair she sat in ; Twice, you thief, who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in ! Say I'm weary, say I'm sad : Say that health and wealth have missed me : Say I'm growing old, but add Jenny kissed me ! Leigh Hunt. AN orrEK T WANT you, Carrie, for my wife. You may hunt far and wide, but you'll find nobody that'll keer for you as I will. Every man, Carrie, that's wuth his salt must find a woman to work for, and when he's nigh on to thirty as I am, he wants to see a youngster growing up to take his place when he gits old : otherwise, no matter how lucky he is, there's not much comfort in livin'. Perhaps I don't talk quite as fine as some, but talking's like the froth on the creek, maybe it's shallow, and 24 3I0SAICS OF LIFE. maybe it's deep — you can't tell. The heart's the main thing, and thank God, I'm right there. Carrie, don't trifle with me. Bayard Taylor. THE CONrESSION. [What the Maiden said to her Lover.] Vcrsiclcs for Lovers only. I. A ND must I tell thee, dearest, that I trembled, when thy name -^^ Was uttered in our household, in honor, or in blame ; And when thy manliness and worth all voices echoed loud, I coined some trifling error, my secret to enshroud ; Some dust upon the blossom, on the peerless gem a stain, A cloud in the cerulean, a shadow on the main. II. Though gallant youths full many might throng the festive hall, One noble form my partial eye could see amidst them all ; Though suitors clustered round me, and worshiped at my shrine, A cold abstracted notice, and changeless cheek were mine ; A mist, a cloud, o'ershadowed the view of all save thee — Oh, if the wise ones listened, what would they think of me ? III. A (lull, dull weight was at my heart, how sad the eve flew by, If vainly, midst the motley crew, I sought thy speaking eye ; But mine the merry, merry heart, and thrill of maiden glee. If haply, in a far-off" group, I caught one glimpse of thee. Did I mark thy hastening footstep, oh, how I strove to hide 'J'lic 1cl]-l;i](! blushes on my cheek, fretting my maiden pride. BETROTHAL. 25 IV. I dare not own, Confessor, tliougli I remember well. When, from a distant city, arrived a brilliant belle; Her manners so bewitching, so exquisite her brow, Her eyes, the winning hazel hue, I think I see them now. How much I feared those eyes would come between my love and me ! I felt that she was fair and good, and almost worthy thee ! V. And must I own. Confessor, how oft I strolled alone. And mused upon thy flattering speech, and most persuasive tone. And marveled that thou didst not say the words I wished yet feared. Full many a castle, fiiir and grand, my frolic fancy reared. And spite of bitter, rankling words, good-natured friends might say. My trusting heart forever found some cause for thy delay? VI. And yet full oft would I resolve, that never, never more One thought of thee should haunt my mind, and conned it o'er and o'er, A hopeless task indeed it was, such mandate to obey, I counsel each young maiden such trial to essay ; But when thy deep devotion no longer was concealed, And jealous doubts and earnest hopes thy changeless heart revealed j VII. The depth of joy which thrilled my soul, forbade my lips to speak. But could a lover's searching glance distrust my mantling cheek ; 3 B 2n MOSAICS OF LIFE. I hoped my life might prove for thee one long self-sacrifice, And prayed that I thy fondest dreams might ever realize ; And now are told, Confessor, my whims and follies, all. And censure from the wise, I think, most powerless will fall ! Elizabeth Austin. TAM GLEN. "jl/TY heart is a' breaking, dear Tittie, Some counsel unto me come len' ; To anger them a' is a pity, But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen ? I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow, In poortith I might mak' a fen ; What care I in riches to wallow. If I mauna marry Tarn Glen ? There's Lowry, the laird of Dumeller, Gude day to you, brute, he comes ben ; He brags and he blaws o' his siller, But when will he dance like Tam Glen ? My Minnie does constantly deave me. And bids me beware o' young men ; They flatter, she says, to deceive me. But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen ? My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him. He'll gie me gude hunder marks ten; But if it's ordained I maun take him, wha will I get but Tam Clen? BETROTHAL. Yestreen at the valentine's dealing, My heart to my mou gied a sten; For thrice I drew ane without failing, And thrice it was written Tarn Glen ! The last Halloween I was wanking, My droukit sark-sleeve as ye ken ; His likeness cam up the house staukin, And the very grey breeks o' Tarn Glen ! Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry, I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, Gif ye will advise me to marry ' The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen ! Robert Burns, Women see through Claude Lorraines. R. W. Emerson. THE IMPKOVISATKICE. T LOVED him as young Genius loves, When its own wild and radiant heaven Of starry thought burns with the light, The love, the life, by Genius given. I loved him, too, as woman loves — Reckless of sorrow, blame, or scorn : Life had no evil destiny That, with him, I would not have borne ! I would have rather been a slave. In tears, in bondage, by his side. Than shared in all, that, wanting him. The world had power to give beside ! L. E. Landon. MOSAICS OF LIFE. NE Clairvoyance on cartli is certain, and that is the Clair- voyance of true love. GENEVIEVE. A LL thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame; All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I, Live o'er again that happy hour. When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower. The moonshine stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve ! Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope, my joy, my Genevieve 1 She loves me best when'er I sing, The songs that make her grieve. I played a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story; An old rude song, that fitted well The ruin wild and hoary. She listened with a flitting blush. With down-cast eyes and modest grace. For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face. BETROTHAL. 29 All impulses of soul and sense. Had tlirilled my guileless Genevieve; The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve. And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An unextinguishable throng; And gentle wishes, long subdued, Subdued and cherished long. She Tvept with pity and delight; She blushed with love and maiden shame; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. Her bosom heaved — she stepped aside. As conscious of my look she stepped; Then suddenly, with timorous eye, She fled to me and wept. She half enclosed me with her arms. She pressed me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head looked up, And gazed upon my face. 'Twas partly love, and partly fear. And partly 'twas a bashful art. That I might rather feel than see. The beating of her heart. I calmed her fears, and she was calm. And told her love with virgin pride. And so I won my Genevieve — My bright and beauteous Bride ! S. T. Coleridge. 3 * 30 MOSAICS OF LIFE. THE GROOMSMAN TO HIS MISTRESS. TT^VERY wedding, says the proverb, Makes another, soon or late ; Never yet was any marriage Entered in the book of Fate, But the names were also written Of the patient pair that wait. Blessings then upon the morning. When my friend with fondest look. By the solemn rites' persuasion. By himself a mistress took. And the Destinies recorded Another two, within their book. While the priest fulfilled his ofiice, Still the ground the lovers eyed. And the parents and the kinsmen Aimed their glances at the bride. But the groomsmen eyed the virgins, Who were waiting at her side. Three there were that stood beside her. One was dark, and one was fair. But nor fair, nor dark, the other. Save her Arab eyes and hair; Neither dark nor fair I call her. Yet she was the fairest there. AVhile her groomsman — shall I own it? Yes, to thee, and only thee — BETROTHAL. 81 Gazed upon the dark-eyed maiden, Who was fairest of the three, Then he thought. "How blest the bridal Were the bride but such as she!" Then I mused upon the adage, Till my wisdom was perplexed, And I wondered as the churchman Dwelt upon the holy text; Which of all who heard the lesson, Should require his service next. Whose will be the next occasion. For the flowers, the feast, the wine ? Thine, perchance, my dearest lady. Or, who knows, it may be mine ; What if 'twere — forgive the fancy — What if 'twere — both mine and thine? T. W. Parsons. Life outweighs all things, if Love lies within it. r\ LADY, trust the generous boy, ^ His smiles are full of light and joy, And e'en his most envenomed dart. Is better than a vacant heart. L. M. Child 32 MOSAICS OF LIFE. BRINGING WATER TKOM THE WELL. TT'AIILY oil a summer's morn, AVliile the lark was singing sweet, Came, beyond the ancient farm-house, Sounds of lightly tripping feet. 'Twas a lowly cottage maiden, Going, why, let young hearts tell. With her homely pitcher laden. Fetching^ water from the well. Shadows lay athwart the pathway, All along the quiet lane. And the breezes of the morning Moved them to and fro again. O'er the sunshine, o'er the shadow. Passed the maiden of the farm. With a charmed heart within her, Thinking of no ill nor harm. Pleasant, surely, were her musings, For the nodding leaves in vain, Sought to press their bright'ning image On her ever busy brain. Leaves and joyous birds went by her. Like a dim, half-waking dream, And her soul was only conscious Of life's gladdest summer gleam. At the old lane's shady turning. Lay a well of water bright, Singing soft its hallelujahs To the gi-acious morning light; BETROTHAL. 33 Fern leaves, broad, and green, bent o'er it, Where its silver droplets fell, And the fairies dwelt beside it, In the spotted fox-glove bell. Back she bent the shading fern-leaves. Dipped the pitcher in the tide — Drew it, with the dripping waters Flowing o'er its glazed side. But before her arm could place it On her shiny, wavy hair, By her side a youth was standing ! Love rejoiced to see the pair. Tones of tremulous emotion Trailed upon the morning breeze, Gentle words of heart devotion Whispered 'neath the ancient trees. But the holy, bless' d secrets, It becomes me not to tell : Life had met another meaning — Fetching water from the well ! Down the rural lane they sauntered, He the burdened pitcher bore ; She with dewy eyes down looking. Grew more beauteous than before ! When they neared the silent homestead, Up he raised the pitcher light. Like a fitting crown he placed it On her head of wavelets bright. Emblem of the coming burdens That for love of him she'd bear, Calling every burden blessed, If his love but lighten there ! B* 34 MOSAICS OF LIFE. Then, still wavinj^ benedictions, Further — further ofl' he drew, While the shadow seemed a glory That across the pathway grew. Now about the household duties Silently the maiden went, And an ever radiant halo With her daily life was blent. Little knew the ancient matron, As her feet like music fell, What abimdant treasure found she, Fetchiuo: water from the well. I N the meanest hut is a romance, if you knew the hearts there. Varnhagen von Ense. THE APPEAL. AH ! mother, cease to break my heart, I vow it now, I vowed it then — The kiss he left upon my lips. His lips shall one day take again ! Ah, well I mind the summer eve, A low scud swept the waning moon. And o'er the ripened clover-lea Floated the balmy breath of June. Among the dreamy woodland glooms. Alone, we breathed our parting sighs ; Only the silent watching stars Looked on tis, with their holy eyes. BETROTHAL. 35 No golden circlet bound our love, No vow at saci'cd altar given; Yet, in that hour, our married souls Were registered as one, in heaven. I will not live, a guilty thing, Pillowed upon another's breast, While every thought I send to him. Shall scare God's angels from my rest ! Perjured — before a new-born soul ! [If such in holy trust were given,] Mother, / need a clean white hand To lead a little child to Heaven! Oh, turn away your cruel eyes ! The gold you'd sell me for is dim; What need I bargain for the world? I have my full round world in him. Then, mother, cease to break my heart, I vow it now, I vowed it then — The kiss he left upon my lips. His lips shall one day take again ! Sarah Warner Brooks, SCHULE — LOVE. 'T^WAS then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time ! sad time ! twa bairns at schule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! When baith bent doun owre ae braid page, Wi' ae bulk on our knee. Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee ! 36 MOSAICS OF LIFE. mind ye how we liuug our lieads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the seluile-weaus, laughiu', said, We decked thegither hame ? I've wandered east, I've wandered west, Through many a weary way; But never, never can forget The time of life's young day! William Motherwell. LOVE. T OVE ? I will tell thee what it is to love ! -^ It is to build with human thoughts a shrine Where hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove; Where Time seems young and life a thing divine, All tastes, all pleasures, all desires combine. To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss. Above, the stars in shroudless beauty shine ; Around, the streams their flowery margins kiss, And if there's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely this. Yes ! this is Love, the steadfost and the true, The immortal glory wdiich hath never set; The best, the brightest gift the heart e'er knew ; Of all life's sweets, the very sweetest yet ! Oh I who but can recall the eve they met To breathe, in some gi-een walk, their first young vow, While summer flowers with moonlight dews were wet. And winds sighed soft around the mountain's brow, And all was rapture then, which is but mcmori/ now. Charles Swain. BETROTHAL. 37 E COSA si dolce, 1' esscre amato ! GrLUCHLiCH allein ist die seele die liebt. Gothe's Egmont. THE BKOOKSIDE. T WANDERED by the brookside, I wandered by tbe mill, I could not beai" tbe brook flow, Tbe noisy wheel was still. There was no bnrr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird — But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. I sat beneath the elm tree ; I watched the long, long shade, And as it grew still longer, I did not feel afraid; For I listened for a foot-fall, I listened for a word — But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. He came not — no, he came not. The night came on alone. The little stars sat one by one. Each on his golden throne ; The evening air past by my cheek, The leaves above were stirred; But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. 38 3I0SAICS OF LIFE. Fast silent tears were flowing, When something stood behind, A hand was on my shoulder, I knew its touch was kind ! It drew me nearer — nearer, We did not sjieak a word; But the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard. R. M. Milnes. AN EXPEDIENCE. A HAPPY lover who has come, To look on her that loves him well, Who lights and rings the gateway bell. And learns her gone, and far from home. He saddens, all the magic light Dies off at once from bower and hall. And all the place is dark, and all The chambers emptied of delight. Alfred Tennyson. rpiIE hydden traynes I know, and secret snares of Love, How soone a luke will prynte a thoughte that never may remove. Howard — Earl of Surry. /^NE of the most wonderful things in nature, is a glance; it ^ transcends speecli ; it is the bodily symbol of identity. R. W. Emerson. BETROTHAL. 39 THE PICTURE AT THE EOUNTAIN. TnENELI leaned her head upon the breast of him whom she accepted thus as her husband. As the waves of the fountain succeeded each other, pure and limpid, so the certainty of his happiness floated into the heart of XJlrie. He pressed the young girl gently in his arms. What he said first was lost in the murmuring of the water; then the fountain heard, "Will you be mine ?" " Yes, forever." It heard other things besides, but it has never repeated them. Jeremias GoUhelf. n^HE supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved; loved for ourselves — say rather, loved in spite of ourselves. Victor Hugo. • E loyal to thy luver trew, And nevir change hir for a new ; If gude and fayre, of hir have care, A woman's banning's wondrous sair. Anne Boswell. Love sought, is good; but given unsought, is better. Twelfth Night — Act III., Scene I. TO n^OO late I staid — forgive the crime The minutes flew like hours : How noiseless falls the foot of Time ! That only treads on flowers ! 40 MOSAICS OF LIFE. •Oh ! who to sober measurement Time's happy swiftness brings, When birds of Paradise have lent Their plumage for his wings ! William R. Spencer. ASSOCIATION. Lorenzo. You came to Mantua? Mariana. What could I do? Cot, garden, vineyard, rivulet, and wood. Lake, sky, and mountain, went alo)ig with him ! Could I remain behind ? I followed him To Mantua ! to breathe the air he breathed, To walk upon the ground he walked upon, To look upon the things he looked upon. To look, perchance, on him ! J. S. Knowles. A TALISMAN. [I love thee, and I feel That on the fountain of my heart a seal Is set, to keep its waters pure and bright For thee.] p. B. Shelley. A WOMAN'S QUESTION. T)EFOKR I trust my fate to thee, Or place my hand in thine, Before I let thy future give Color and form to mine. Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to-night for me. BETROTHAL. 41 I break all sligliter bonds, nor feel A shadow of regret; Is there cue link within the Past That holds thy spirit yet? Or is thy Faith as clear and free as that which I can pledge to thee ? Does there within thy dimmest dreams A possible future shine, Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, Untouched, unshared by mine? If so, at any pain or cost, oh, tell me before all is lost. Look deeper still. If thou canst feel Within thy inmost soul, That thou hast kept a portion back. While I have staked the whole; Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell me so. Is there within thy heart a need That mine cannot fulfil ? One chord that any other hand Could better break or still ? Speak now — lest at some future day my whole life wither and decay. Lives there within thy nature hid The demon-spirit Change, Shedding a passing glory still, On all things new and strange? It may not be thy fault alone — ^but shield my heart against thy own. 4 » 42 MOSAICS OF LIFE. Couldst thou witlidraw tliy hand one day, And answer to my claim, That Fate, and that to-day's mistake — Not thou — had been to bhime ? Some soothe their conscience thus ; but thou wilt surely warn and save me now. Nay, answer not — I dare not hear, The words would come too late; Yet I would spare thee all remorse, So comfort thee, my Fate; Whatever on my heart may fall, remember, I ivonJd risk it all. Adelaide A. Proctor, CHOICE or A wirE. "\T7HEN it shall please God to bring thee to man's estate, use great providence and circumspection in choosing thy wife. For from thence will spring all thy future good or evil ; and it is an action of life, like unto a stratagem of war; wherein a man can err but once ! Sir Philip Sydney. MAKKIAGE. rPHOSE awful words, " Till death do part,' INIay well alarm the youthful heart : No after-thought when once a wife; The die is cast, and cast for life; Yet thousands venture every day, As some base passion leads the way. I BETROTHAL. 43 Pert kSylvia talks of wedlock-scenes, Thougli scarcely entered on lier teens; Smiles on her whining spark, and hears His sugared siieech with raptured ears; Impatient of a parent's rule, She quits her sire, and weds a fool. Want enters at the guardless door, And love is fled, to come no more. Some few there are of sordid mould. Who barter youth and bloom for gold; Careless with what, or whom they mate, Their ruling passion's all for state. But Hymen, generous, just, and kind, Abhors the mercenary mind; Such rebels groan beneath his rod, For Hymen's a vindictive god. 'Tis an important point to know. There's no perfection here below, Man's an odd compound, after all. And ever has been since the fall. Say, that he loves you from his soul. Still man is proud, nor brooks control; And though a slave in Love's soft school. In wedlock claims his right to rule. The best, in short, has faults about him, If few those faults, you must not flout him ; With some, indeed, you can't dispense, As want of temper^ ivant of sense. Vision VII. on Marriage — Nathaniel Cotton. CHOSE my wife as she did her wedding gown, for qualities that would wear well. Oliver Goldsmith. 44 MOSAICS OF LIFE. T7R03I my experience, not one in twenty marries the first love ; we build statues of snow, and weep to see tliem melt. Walter Scott. T know, to esteem, to love, and then to part, Makes uji life's tale to many a feeling heart. LOVE WILL riND OUT XML WAY. / \VER the mountains,. And over the waves; Under the fountains, And under the graves; Under floods that are deepest, Which Neptune obey; Over rocks that are steepest, Love will find out the way. Where there is no place For the glow-worm to lie; Where there is no place For receipt of a fly; Where the midge dare not venture, Lest herself fast she lay ; If love come, he will enter. And soon find out his way. You may esteem him A child for his might; Or you may deem him A coward from his flight; BETROTHAL. But if slie, whom Love doth honor, Be concealed from the day, Set a thousand guards upon her. Love will find out the way. Some think to lose him By having him confined, And some do suppose him, Poor thing, to be blind; But if ne'er so close ye wall him, Do the best that you may, Blind love, if so ye call him, Will find out his way. You may train the eagle To stoop to your fist; Or you may inveigle The phenix of the east; The lioness, ye may move her To give o'er her prey ; But you'll ne'er stop a lover : He will find out his way. 45 Percy's Reliques. THE ANNOYEK. TTE blurs the print of the scholar's book, -^ And intrudes in the maiden's prayer. And profanes the cell of the holy man, In the shape of a lady fair. In the darkest night, and the bright daylight, In earth, and sea, and sky. In every home of human thought, Will Love be lurking nigh. N. P. Willis. 46 MOSAICS OF LIFE. BKIBAL SONG, To my Sister on the Morning of her Marriage. G "1 OLDEN in thy youtli, Lizzie, Golden in tliy prime, Golden wilt thou be, Lizzie, In the olden time. Linger on the stile, Lizzie, Back and forth glance free ; Listen while I sing, Lizzie, Bridal song for thee. Wildly music swept, Lizzie, O'er thy dewy dawn; Mellowed now, but yet, Lizzie, Sweet as in its morn. Gently, bravely borne, Lizzie, Life's past scenes of woe; With the lesson fraught, Lizzie, Safely onward go. Wisdom calmly wends, Lizzie, Sadly, nor in glee ; Be not all too wise, Lizzie, Laughter loveth thee. Sandals shod with lead, Lizzie, Lengthen out the way; But the light heart lives, Lizzie, Lend thee to its sway. BETROTHAL. 47 Merry make the Manse, Lizzie, Sinners save by smiles ; Saints may not withstand, Lizzie, Woman's winning wiles. Tell it not in Gath, Lizzie, Nor in Askalon, That I dream and rhyme, Lizzie, For my lay is done. Mistress coy is Law, Lizzie, Brooketh rival none; Laughs to scorn the Muse, Lizzie, So my lay is done. Henry D. Austin. THE TATHEK'S LAMENT. nPHUS it is our daughters leave us. Those we love, and those who love us; Just when they have learned to help us, When we are old and lean upon them, Comes a youth with flaunting feathers. With his flute of reeds, a stranger. Wanders piping through the village, Beckons to the fairest maiden. And she follows where he leads her. Leaving all things for the stranger. H. W. Longfellow, THE BIRIDAL — A PICTURE. A LIVE with eyes, the village sees The Bridal dawning from the trees, And housewives swarm i' the sun like bees 48 MOSAICS OF LIFE. Love's lovely to tlie passer-by, But tliey who love are regioued high On hills of bliss with heaven nigh. The Blessing given, the ring is on And at God's altar radiant run The currents of two lives in one ! T?ROM the sky the sun, benignant. Looked upon them through the branches. Saying to them, " Oh, my children, Love is sunshine, hate is shallow, Life is checkered shade and sunshine; Rule by love, Hiawatha !" From the sky the moon looked at them, Filled the lodge with mystic splendor. Whispered to them, " Oh, my children, Day is restless, night is quiet, Man imperious, woman feeble : Half is mine, although I follow; Rule by patience, Laughing "Water." H. W. Longfellow. WEDDED LIFE. 49 WEDDED LIFE. Sail forth into the sea of life, Oh gentle, loving, trusting wife, And safe from all adversity, Upon the bosom of that sea Thy comings and thy goings be ! For gentleness, and love, and trust. Prevail o'er angry wave and gust ; And in the wreck of noble lives, Something immortal still survives ! H. W. Longfellow. To be man's tender mate was woman born, And, in obeying nature, she best serves The purposes of Heaven. SCHILLEE. DOST THOU KEMEMBEK? "VT7HEN shall we come to that deliglitful day When each can say to each, "Dost thou remember?" Let us fill urns with rose leaves in our May, And hive the thrifty sweetness for December ? For who may deem the reign of love secure, Till in a mighty past is built his throne ; Hope is a star each vapor can obscure. Memory the only empire all her own. 51 52 MOSAICS OF LIFE. "Tis the heart's home to have a world, in time Of hai)2jy thoughts that we have known before, Hearing, in common words, the holy chime Of those sweet Sabbath-bells — the dreams of yore. Oft dost thoii ask me, with that bashful eye, " If I shall love thee evermore as now t" Feasting as fondly on the sure reply, As if my lips were virgin of the vow ! Sweet does that question, " Wilt thou love me ?" fall Upon the heart that has forsworn its will ; But when the words hereafter we recall, " Dost thou remember ?" — shall be sweeter still ! A CAUTION. "I7V'N in the happiest choice, where favoring Heaven Has equal love and easy fortune given, Think not, the husband gained, that all is done : The prize of happiness must still be won : And oft the careless find it to their cost, The lover in the huahand may be lost; The graces might alone his heart allure; Tliey^ and the virtues meeting must secure. Let ev'n your prudence wear the pleasing dress Of care for liim^ and anxious tenderness. From kind concern about his weal or woe, Let each domestic duty seem to flow. Endearing still the common acts of life. The mistress still shall charm him in the wife; And wrinkled face shall unobserved come on, Before his eye perceives one beauty gone. Lord George Lyttleton. WEDDED LIFE. 53 '\T7'ER sicli niclit achtet, ehrt jdie Fravien niclit, Wer niclit die Frauen ehrt, kennt er die Liebe ? Wor niclit die Liebe kennt, kennt er die Ebre ? Wer nicbt die Ehre kennt, was bat er nocli ? Leopold Schefer. T SHOULD not love tbee, dear, so mucb, Loved I not lienor more. Percy's Reliques. BAKKEY'S COUNSEL TO THE NEWLY MAKKIED. "ly /TY cbil'rcn, lub one anoder ; bar wid one anoder ; be faith- ful ter one anoder. You hab started on a long journey ; many rougb places am in de road ; many trubbles will spring up by de wayside ; but gwo on band an' band togedder ; lub one anoder, an' no matter wbat come enter you, you will be bappy — fur lub will sweeten ebery sorrer, lighten ebery load, make de sun shine in eben de bery cloudiest wedder. I knows it will, my chil'ren, 'case I'se been ober de groun'. Ole Aggy an' I bab trabbled de road. Hand in hand we hab gone ober de rocks ; fru de mud ; in de hot burning sand ; been out togedder in de cole, an' de rain, an' de storm, fur nigh enter forty yar, but we hab clung ter one anoder ; an' fru ebery ting in de bery darkest days, de sun ob joy an' peace hab broke fru de clouds, an' sent him bressed rays inter our hearts. We started jess like two young saplin's you's seed a growin side by side in de woods. At fust we seemed 'way part fur de brambles, an' de tick bushes, an' de ugly forns — [dem war our bad ways] — war atween us; but lub, like de sun, shone down on us, 'an we grow'd. We grow'd till our heads got above de bushes; till dis little branch, an' dat little branch — dem war 5 » 54 MOSAICS OF LIFE. our holy feelin's — jnit out toward one anoder, an' we come closer an' closer togedder. An' dough we 'm ole trees now, an' sometime de wind blow, an' de storm rage fru de tops, an' freaten ter tear off de limbs, an' tcr pull up de bery roots, we'm growin closer an' closer, an' nearer an' nearer togedder ebery day — an' soon de ole tops will meet ; soon de ole branches, all cubered ober wid de gray moss, will twine roun' one anoder ; soon de two ole trees will come togedder, an' grow inter one foreber — grow inter one up dar in de sky, whar de wind neber '11 blow, whar de storm neber '11 beat; whar we shill blossom an' bar fruit ter de glory ob de Lord, an' in His heabenly kingdom foreber ! Amen. Edmund Kirke. THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE. k \ I MY love's like the steadfast sun, • Or streams that deepen as they run ; Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, Nor moments between sighs and tears; Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain. Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain; Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows To sober joys and soften woes. Can make my heart or fancy flee One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. Even while I muse, I see thee sit In maiden bloom, and matron wit; Fair, gentle, as when first I sued Ye seem, but of sedater mood ; Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee As when, beneath Arbi"land tree WEDDED LIFE. 55 We staid and wooed, and thought the moon Set on the sea an hour too soon ; Or lingered 'mid the falling dew, When looks were fond, and words wei'e few. Though I see smiling at thy feet Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet; And time and care and birth-time woes Have dimmed thine eye, and touched thy rose ; To thee, and thoughts of thee belong- All that charms me of tale or song; When words come down like dews unsought With gleams of deep enthusiast thought; And fancy in her heaven flies free^ — They come, my love, they come from thee. 0, when more thought we gave of old To silver than some give to gold, 'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er What things should deck our humble bower ! 'Twas sweet to pull in hope, with thee, The golden fruit from fortune's tree; And sweeter still to choose and twine A garland for these locks of thine; A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, While rivers flow, and woods are green. At times there come, as come there ought, Grave moments of sedater thought; When fortune frowns, nor lends our night One gleam of her inconstant light; And hope, that decks the peasant's bower, Shines like the rainbow through the shower; 0, then, I see, while seated nigh, A mother's heart shine in thy eye; 66 MOSAICS OF LIFE. And proud resolve, and purpose meek, Speak of thee more than words can speak — I think the wedded wife of mine The best of all that's not divine ! Allan Cunningham. TO MY WIPE, On the Ninth Anniversary of her Marriage. "VriNE years ago you came to me, And nestled on my breast, A soft and winged mystery That settled here to rest; And my heart rocked its Babe of bliss, And soothed its Child of air, With something 'twixt a song and kiss, To keep it nestling there. At first I thought the fairy form Too spirit-soft and good To fill my poor, low nest with warm And wifely womanhood. But such a cozy peep of home Did your dear eyes unfold; And in their deep and dewy gloom. What tales of love were told ! In dreamy curves your beauty drooped. As tendrils lean to twine, And very graciously they stooped To bear tlieir fruit, my Vine ! WEDDED LIFE. bl To bear sucli blessed fruit of love As tenderly increased Among the ripe vine-bunclies of Your balmy-breathing breast. "We cannot boast to have bickered not, Since you and I were wed; We have not lived the smoothest lot, Nor found the downiest bed 1 Time hath not passed o'er head in stars. And under foot in flowers. With wings that slept on fragrant airs Thro' all the happy hours. It is our way, more fate than fault. Love's cloudy fire to clear; To find some virtue in the salt That sparkles in a tear ! Pray Grod it all come right at last. Pray Grod it so befall. That when our day of life is past. The end may crown it all. Gerald Wlassey. A QUESTION. T\ID I but purpose to embark with thee On the smooth surface of a summer's sea. While gentle zephyrs blow with prosperous gales, And fortune's favors fill the swelling sails. But would forsake the ship and make the shore When the winds whistle and the tempests roar ? Matthew Pryor. C » 58 MOSAICS OF LIFE. TEN YEAKS AGO. 'I'^EN years ago, ten years ago, Life was to us a fairy scene; And the keen blasts of worldly woe Had scared not then its pathway green. Youth and its thousand dreams were ours, Feelings we ne'er can know again ; Uuwithered hopes, unwasted powers, And frames unworn by mortal pain : Such was the bright and genial flow Of life with us — ten years ago ! Time has not blanched a single hair That clusters round thy forehead nowj Nor hath the cankering touch of care Left even one furrow on thy brow. Thine eyes are blue as when we met, In love's deep truth, in earlier years; Thy cheek of rose is blooming yet. Though sometimes stained by secret tears; But where, oh ! where's the spirit's glow, That shone through all — ten years ago? I, too, am changed — I scarce know why — Can feel each flagging pulse decay; And youth and health, and visions high. Melt like a wreath of snow away; Time cannot sure have wrought the ill; Though worn in this world's sickening strife, In soul and form, I linger still In the first summer month of life; Yet journey on my path below. Oh ! how unlike — ten years ago ! WEDDED LIFE. But look not thus : I would not give The wreck of hojies that thou must share, To bid those joyous hours revive When all around me seemed so fair. We've wandered on in sunny weather, When winds wei'e low, and flowers in bloom, And hand in hand have kept together, And still will keep, 'mid storm and gloom; Endeared by ties we could not know When life was young — ten years ago ! Has fortune frowned ? Her frowns were vain. For hearts like ours she could not chill ; Have friends proved false ? Their love might wane, But ours grew fonder, firmer still. Twin barks on this world's changing wave, Steadfast in calms, in tempests tried; In concert still our fate we'll brave, Together cleave life's fitful tide ; Nor mourn, whatever winds may blow. Youth's first wild dreams — ten years ago ! Have we not knelt beside his bed, And watched our first-born blossom die ? Hoped, till the shade of hope had fled. Then wept till feeling's fount was dry ? Was it not sweet, in that dark hour. To think, 'mid mutual tears and sighs. Our bud had left its earthly bower, And burst to bloom in Paradise ? What to the thought that soothed that woe W^ere heartless joys — ten years ago ? Yes, it is sweet, when heaven is bright. To share its sunny beams with thee ; GO MOSAICS OF LIFE. But sweeter fai*, 'mid clouds and blight, To have thee near to weep with me. Then dry those tears — though something changed From what we were in earlier youth, Time, that hath hopes and friends estranged, Hath left us love in all its truth ; Sweet feelings we could not forego For life's best joys — ten years ifgo. Alaric A. Watts. "VrOTHINGr flatters a man so much as the happiness of his wife; he is always proud of himself as the soui'ce of it. The tear of a loving girl, says an old book, is like a dew-drop on the rose ; but that on the cheek of a ivife is a drop of poison to her husband. Moser. TTAPPY, happier far than thou, With the laurel on thy brow. She that makes the humblest hearth Lovely but to one on earth ! Mrs. Hemans. Love knows no measure, has no grave. Love makes all things possible. Italian, Lamerals. WEDDED LIFE. 61 TF wc really love a persou, let him be thousands of miles away, he is at the end of our eyes ! Hindoo Saying. n^IIOU art not goue being gone, where'er thou art, Thou leav'st in him thy watchful eyes, in him thy loviiij heart. GOOD AND BAD SPIRITS. Bad Spirits — Think on what thou hast given up ! think on thy own merits ! Thou canst annoy ; thou canst punish. Take refuge in thy nerves, in unkindness; make use of thy power, and enjoy the pleasure of revenge ! GrooD Spirits — Think on thy wants, on thy faults. Recollect all the patience, all the kindness, all the tenderness, which has been shown thee ! Think on thy husband's worth, on his beautiful, noble qualities. Think also on life, how short it is; how much unavoidable bitterness it possesses ; how much which it is easy either to bear or chase away; and think how the power of affection can make all things right. Frederika Brenner. ^TTHO are they., that in one path have journeyed, needing not forgiveness at its close ? rpWO consorts must be very two, before they can be very one. R. W. Emerson. 6 62 mosaiujS of life. Two consorts in heaven are not two, but one augel. Swedenborg. "ly/pARRIAGE is not like the hill Olympus, wholly clear, Thomas Fuller. VI without clouds, MUTUAL rOKBEAKANCE. 'T^HE kindest and the happiest pair, Will have occasion to forbear, And something, every day they live To pity, and perhaps, forgive. The love that cheers life's latest stage, Proof against sickness and old age, Is gentle, delicate, and kind, To faults compassionate or blind; And will with sympathy endure Those evils it would gladly cure. William Cowper. ri IVE me next good, an understanding wife, ]5y nature wise, not learned by much art, Some knowledge on her part, will, all her life, More scope of conversation impart; Besides her inborn virtue fortify. They are most firmly good, who best know why. " The Wife." — Sir Thomas Overbury. WEDDED LIFE. 63 SUCK A ONE AS HE WOULD LOVE. A FACE that should content me wondrous well, Should not be fair, but lovely to behold ; With gladsome chere, all grief for to expel, With sober looks so would I that it should Speak without words, such words as none can tell; The trees, also, should be of crisped gold. With wit, and these, might chance I might be tied, And knit again the knot that should not slide. Sir Thomas Wyatt From "MANUEL DES PECHES." ■VrOTHING is to man so dear. As woman's love in good manner. A good woman is man's bliss, Where her love right and steadfast is. There is no solace under heaven, Of all that a man may neven ; That should a man so much glew. As a good woman that loveth true ; No dearer is none in God's hurd, Than a chaste woman with lovely word. William de Wadington, translated by Robert Manning. rpHERE'S nae place sae sweet as one's ain fireside, With kind friends to cheer me, and gay ones to glad ; I can laugh when I'm merry and sing when I'm sad, ■ Oh, there's nae place sae sweet as one's ain fireside ! Old Song. 64 MOSAICS OF LIFE. AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. TTOW sweet it were, if without feeble fright, Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, Au angel came to us, and we could bear To see him issue from the silent air At evening in our room, and bend on ours His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers News of dear friends, and children who have never Been dead, indeed, as we shall know for ever. Alas ! We think not what we daily see About our hearts — angels that are to be, Or may be if they will, and we prepare Their souls and ours to meet in happy air — A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings In unison with ours, breeding its future wings. Leigh Hunt. TTUMAN life is a constant want, and ought to be a constant prayer. S. Osgood. NLY so far as a man is happily married to himself, is he fit for married life and family life, generally. AIRT or PUTTING THINGS. rpiIEllE is no more sunshiny inmate of any home than the -^ genial happy-tempered one who has the art of putting all things in a pleasant light, from the great misfortunes of life, down to a broken carriage spring, a servant's failings, a child's salts and senna. Boyd. WEDDED LIFE. 65 A LL persons are not discreet enougli to know liow to take things by the right handle. Cervantes. TO MY BIKDIE. TTE ken when folks are paired, Birdie ! ye ken when folks are paired, Life's fair and foul, and freakish weather, An' light an' lumbering loads, thegither Maun a' be shared; An' shared with lovin' hearts, Birdie ! wi' levin' hearts and free, Fu' fashious loads may weel be borne ; An' roughest roads to velvet turn, Trod cheerfully. Caroline Southey. A WARNING. A S the husband is, the wife is; if mated with a clown, The grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force. Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. Alfred Tennyson. 06 MOSAICS OF LIFE. TKirLES, NOT TKirLES. " XfOTHTNGr is a trifie which is displeasing to my friend." Ah ! If everybody thought so, there would not so often arise that dull had weather, those clouded feelings, those little bitter disagreeables, by which not only married people, but brothers and sisters, parents and children, by degrees, embitter one another's lives, and which create altogether that gi-eat grey heavy oppressive cXoudi— ^discomfort. A fly is a very light burden ; but if it were perpetually to return and settle on one's nose, it might weary us of our very lives ; and by the side of this we would inscribe upon the tablets of Home. " Nothing is insignificant which gives pleasure to our friend !" Because, from this arises that bright summer-mild atmosphere in the home, which is called comfort. Frederika Bremer. THE LENT UMBRELLA. " "TvO you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear the rain ? and you've lent that man our only umbrella ! Take rold^ indeed ! He doesn't look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he'd better have taken cold than taken our umbrella. He return the umbrella ? As if anybody ever did return an umbrella. I should like to know how the chil- dren are to go to school to-morrow. They shan't go through such weather, I'm determined. No ; they shall stay at home, and never learn anything — the blessed creatures — sooner than go and get wet; and when they grow up, I wonder who they'll have to thank for knowing nothing — who, indeed, but their own fjithi-r. People wIki can't feel fur their own children WEDDED LIFE. 67 ought never to be fathers. But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh, yes; I know very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow ; you know that, and you did it on purpose. Don't tell me ; you hate me to go there, and take every mean advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle. No, sir ; if it comes down in buckets-ful, I'll go all the same. No; and I won't have a cab. "Where do you think the money's to come from? A cab, indeed ! Cost me sixteen pence at least — sixteen pence — two and eight pence, for there's back again ! Cabs, indeed ! I should like to know who's to pay for 'em. I can't pay for 'em ; and I'm sure you can't, if you go on as you do; throwing away your property, and beggaring your children — buying umbrellas ! " Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle ? I say, do you hear it ? But I don't care; I'll go to mother's to-morrow; I will, and, what's more, I'll walk every step of the way, and you know that will give me my death. Don't call me Vi foolish woman; it's you that's the foolish man. You know I can't wear clogs ; and with no umbrella, the wet's sure to give me a cold — it always does. But what do you care for that ? Nothing at all. I may be laid up, for what you care, as I dare say I shall ; and a pretty doctor's bill there'll be. I hope there will ! It will teach you to lend your umbrella again. I shouldn't wonder if I caught my death. Yes; and that's what you lent the umbrella for. Of course ! Nice clothes I shall get, too, trape- sing through weather like this. My gown and bon*net will be spoilt quite. Needn't I wear 'em then ? Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I shall wear 'em. No, sir, I'm not going out a dowdy to please you, or anybody else. Gracious knows 'tisn't often that I step over the threshold ; indeed I might as well be a slave at once ; better, I should say. But when I go out, Mr. Caudle, I choose to go out as a lady. Oh ! that rain, if it isn't enough to break in the windows. 68 MOSAICS OF LIFE. " Ugli I T do look forward with dread for to-morrow ! IIow I am to go to mother's, I'm sure I can't tell. But if I die, I'll do it. No, sir, I won't borrow an umbrella. No, and you shan't buy one. (With great emphasis) — Mr. Caudle, if you bring home another umbrella, I'll throw it in the street. I'll have my own umbrella, or none at all. Ha ! and it was only last week I had a new nozzle put to that umbrella. I'm sure if I had known as much as I do now, it might have gone without one for me. Paying for new nozzles for other people to laugh at you. Oh, it's all very well for you — ^you can go to sleep. You've no thought of your poor, patient wife and your dear children. You think of nothing but lending um- brellas ! " Men, indeed ! Call themselves lords of the creation ! Pretty lords, when they can't even take care of an umbrella ! I know that walk to-morrow will be the death of me. But that's what you want ; then you may go to your club, and do as you like ; and then nicely my poor dear children will be used : but then, sir, you'll be happy. Oh, don't tell me ! I know you will; else you'd never have lent the umbrella. * * * I should like to know how I'm to go to mother's without the umbrella ? Don't tell me that I said I loould go j that's nothing to do with it — nothing at all. She'll think I'm neglecting her ; and the little money we were to have, we shan't have at all, because we've no umbrella. The children too, dear things ! They'll be sopping wet ; for they shan't stop at home ; they shan't lose" their learning; it's all their father will leave 'em, I'm sure. But they shall go to school. Don't tell me I said they shouldn't ; you are so aggravating, Caudle ; you'd spoil the temper of an angel. They shall go to school ; mark that. And if they get their death of cold, it's not my fault. I did not lend the umbrella !" " Uere," says Caudle, "I fell asleep; and dreamt that WEDDED LIFE. G9 the sky was turned into gTcen calico, with whalebone ribs; that, in fact, the whole world revolved under a tremendous um- brella." Douglas Jerrold. TTIM that has a good wife, no evil in life that may not be borne can befall ; Him that has a bad wife, no good thing in life can chance to that good you can call. Spanish Saying. n^HERE'S but a gude wife in the country, and ilka man thinks he's got her. Scotch. A H ! gentle dames, it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthened, sage advices. The husband frae the wife despises! Robert Burns. A TABLE or ERKATA. Hostess Loquitur. ^TTELL ! thanks be to Heaven, The summons is given ; It's only gone seven And should have been six ; There's fine overdoing In roasting and stewing. And victuals past chewing,. To rags and to sticks ! MOSAICS OF LIFE. How dreadfully eliilly ! I shake, willy-nilly; That John is so silly, And never will learn ; This plate is a cold one; That cloth is an old one ; I wish they had told one The lamp wouldn't burn. Now, then, for some blunder, For nerves to sink under; I never shall wonder Whatever goes ill. That fish is a riddle; It's broke in the middle; A Turbot? a fiddle! It's only a Brill! It's quite overboiled too; The butter is oiled too; The soup is all spoiled too — It's nothing but slop. The smelts looking flabby. The soles are so dabby; It is so shabby, That cook shall not stop ! As sure as the morning- She gets a month's warning. My orders for scorning — There's nothing to eat! I hear such a rushing; I feel such a flushing; I know I am blushing As red as a beet I WEDDED LIFE. 71 Friends flatter and flatter; I wish they would chatter; What can be the matter That nothing comes next? How very unpleasant ! Lord ! there is the pheasant ! Not wanted at present — I'm born to be vext ! The pudding brought on, too. And aiming at ton, too, And where is that John, too. The plague that he is ! He's off on some ramble, And there is 3Iiss Campbell Enjoying the scramble — Detestable quiz ! The veal they all eye it, But no one will try it; An ogre would shy it. So ruddy as that ! And as for the mutton. The cold dish it's put on Converts to a button Each drop of the fat. The beef without mustard ! My fate's to be flustered; And there comes the custard To eat with the hare ! Such flesh, fowl, and fishing, Such waiting and dishing 1 I cannot help wishing A woman mig-ht swear ! 72 MOSAICS OF LIFE. O. dear ! did I ever ? liiit no, I did never — Well, come, that is clever, To send up the brawn ! That cook, I could scold her, Gets worse as she's older; I wonder who told her That woodcocks are drawn ! It's really audacious ! I cannot look gracious. Lord help the voracious That came for a cram ! There's Alderman Fuller Grets duller and duller. Those fowls, by the color, Were boiled with the ham! Well, where is the curry? I'm all in a flurry. No, cook's in no hurry — A stoppage again ! And John makes it wider — A pretty provider ! By bringing up cider Instead of champagne ! My troubles come faster! There's my lord and master Detects each disaster. And hardly can sit. He cannot help seeing All thincrs disairreeinsr; If he begins d ing I'll) ofl' ill a fit! WEDDED LIFE. 73 This cooking ! it's messing ! The spinach wants pressing, And salads in dressing Are best with good eggs. And John — yes, already — Has had something heady, That makes him unsteady In keeping his legs. How shall I get through \i'( I never can do it; I'm quite looking to it, To sink by and by. ! would I were dead now. Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now. And have a good cry ! ! ! Thomas Hood. nPHE happiness of life is made up of minute fractions, the little soon forgotten charities of a kiss or a smile, a kind look, a heartfelt compliment, and the countless infinitesimals of pleasurable thought and genial feeling. Coleridge. THE UNKEASONABLE HUSBAND. A WIFE, domestic, good, and pure, Like snail should keep within her door ; But not like snail, in silver track. Place all her wardrobe on hr hwJc ! 7 1) 74 JIGSAWS OF LIFE. A wife should be like echo, true, Not speak but when she's spoken to; Yet not like echo, still be heard Contending for the final word ! Like a totvn clock a wife should be, Keep time and rccjxdarity ; But not like clock harangue so clear, That all the town her voice may hear ! THE WOMAN-LYE MASTEK-PIECE. Palmer — A ND this I would ye should understand, I have seen women, five hundred thousand; Yet in all places where I have been, Of all the women that I have seen, I never saw nor knew in my conscience Any one xooman out of 'patience 1 1 1 POTICART By the mass, there's a great lye ! Pardoner — I never heard a greater, by our Ladie ! Pedler — A greater! nay, know you any one so great? Metry John Heywood. WEBBED LIFE. 75 THE GOOD WirE. QHE never crossetli licr Imsband in the spring-tide of liis anger, but stays till it be ebbing water. Surely men, con- trary to iron, are worse to be wrought upon when they are hot. Her clothes are rather comely than costly, and she makes plain cloth to be velvet by her handsome wearing it. Her husband's secrets she will not divulge ; especially she is careful to conceal his infirmities. In her husband's absence, she is wife and deputy-husband, which makes her double the files of her dili- gence. At his return, he finds all things so well, that he wonders to see himself at home when he was abroad. Her children, though many in number, are none in noise, steering them with a look whither she listeth. Thomas Fuller. T ET no man value at a little price A virtuous woman's counsel. George Chapman. A WOMAN in a single state may be happy, and may be miserable; but most happy, most miserable — these are epithets, which, with rare exceptions, belong exclusively to a wife, S. T. Coleridge. 76 MOSAICS OF LIFE. MUTUAL rOKGIVENESS. T SUPPOSE the brides are few who have not wept once over -^ the hasty words of a husband, not six mouths married; and I suppose there are few husbands wlio, in the early part of their married life, have not felt that perhaps their choice was not a wise one. Breaches of harmony will occur between im- perfect men and women ; but all evil results may be avoided by a resolution, well kept on both sides, to ask forgiveness for the hasty word, the peevish complaint, the unshared pleasure ; and if there is a frank and wortluj nature, a quarrel is im- possible. Dr. J. G. Holland. 'T^HE very difference in their characters produced a har- monious combination. He was of a romantic and some- what serious cast : she was all life and gladness. Washington Irving. THE KETUKN. A ND will I see his face again ? And will I hear him speak ? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought; In troth I'm like to greet. Sac sweet his voice, sac smooth his tongue; His breath's like caller air; His very foot has music in't, As he comes up the stair. WEDDED LIFE. 11 For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae hick at a', There's Httle pleasure iu the house When our gude man's awa. William J. Mickle TO MY WirE, On the Anniversary of her Wedding-day, which was also her Birth-day. "rpilEE, Mary, with this ring I wed;" So, fourteen years ago, I said. Behold another ring ! For what ? To wed thee o'er again. Why not? With that first ring I married youth, Grrace, beauty, innocence, and truth. Taste long admired, sense long revered, And all my Mary then appeared. If she, by merit since disclosed. Prove twice the woman I supposed, -I plead that double merit now To justify a double vow. Here, then, to-day (with faith as sure. With ardor as intense, as pure, As when amidst the rites divine, I took thy troth and plighted mine), To thee, sweet girl, my second ring, A token and a pledge I bring; With this I wed, till death us part, The riper virtues- of thy heart; Those virtues which, before untried, The wife has added to the bride; Those virtues, whose progressive claim. Endearing wedlock's very name, 7« MOSAICS OF LIFE. My soul enjoys, my song approves, For conscience' sake, as well as love's. And why? They show me every hour Honor's high thought, aflfection's power. Discretion's deed, sound judgment's sentence, And teach me all things but repentance. Samuel Bishop. nnHE treasures of the deep are not so precious As are the concealed comforts of a man Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air Of blessing when I come but near the house. What a delicious breath marriage sends forth. The violet bed's not sweeter ! O TROXGr indeed is the man who has a good wife ; a sensible, affectionate, refined, practical woman, who makes a man's nature all the stronger, by making it more tender. S. Osgood. ILLUSIONS. TX7E are not very much to blame for our bad marriages. We live amid hallucinations, and this especial trap is laid to trip up our feet with, and all are tripped up first or last. But the uiighty IMother, who had been so sly with us, as if she felt she owed us some indemnity, insinuates into the Pandora box of marriage some deep and serious benefits, and some great joys. We find a delight in the beauty and happi- WEBBED LIFE. 79 ness of children, that makes the heart too big for the body. In the worst assorted connections there is ever some mixture of true marriage. Teague and his jade get some just relations of mutual respect, kindly observation, and fostering of each other, learn something, and would carry themselves wiselier, if they were now to begin. R. W. Emerson. BKEAKrAST TALK. No. 1. TT'S rather extraordinary, IMrs. Smith, that you can't make me a proper cup of tea. Here's the eggs boiled to a stone again ! Do you think I'm a canary bird, to be fed upon hard eggs ? I think I've put up with your neglect long enough ; therefore, Mrs. Smith, if my tea is not made a little more to my liking to-morrow, and if you insult me with a herring like that, and boil my eggs that you might fire 'em out of guns ; why, perhaps, Mrs. Smith, you may see a man in a passion. It takes a good deal to rouse me, but when I'm up — I say, when I'm up — that's all. Where did I put my gloves ? You dovbt know ? Of course, not ; you know nothing. Douglas Jerrold. BKEAXrAST TALK. No. 2. T) Y the bye, Sarah, just put half a dozen shirts, and all that sort of thing, in my portmanteau, I'm going — There you are with your black looks again ! I can never go anywhere, just a little to enjoy myself, but you look like thunder. What ! I might sometimes take you out? Nonsense; women — that is, 80 MOSAICS OF LIFE. women when they're married — arc best at home. Half a dozen shirts, I say, and my sliaviug-tackle. Do you hear me, Mrs. Smith ? l*erhaps when you've done counting the legs of that fly on the ceiling, you'll attend to me. Eh ? / think you never xoant to go out? Quite the contrary; it's my belief you'd always be out. I've no opinion of any woman who wants to go out at all. Women were never intended to go out. They manage these matters much better in the East. I should have told you where I was going, but, as you've shown your temper, I won't tell you a syllable. No ; nor I shan't tell you who I'm going with, or when I shall be back. When you see me, then you may expect me, and not before. And mind that all the buttons are on my shirts — that's all. It's miserable always being left by yourself? Yourself, indeed ! Ain't there books in the house ? I'm sure you'd be none the worse for 'em. Besides, there's the Cookery book ; read that. A wife can't study anything better. All I say to you is, stay at home ; you've a needle and thread, haven't you ? and I'll be sworn for it, plenty of things to make and mend. And if you haven't, cut holes, and sew 'em up again. Now, see when I come home that my portmanteau's ready. What's o'clock? You want five minutes to ? No doubt; the old story; you're always wanting something. Douglas Jerrold. " TTEAVEN will be no heaven to mc, if I do not meet my wife there." Andrew Jackson. " T CAN wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, " than to have a wife and children. If you are prosper- ous, there they arc to share your prosperity; if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." Washington Irving. WEDDED LIFE. 81 rpiS sweet to licar tlie watch-dog's honest bark, Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home; 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come. Lord Byron, Women act their parts, When they do make their ordered houses know them. J. S. Knowles. THE TRUEST rKIENDSKIP. TN wedlock when the sexes meet, Friendship is only then complete. " Blest state ! where souls each other draw, Where love is liberty and law!" The choicest blessing found below, That man can wish, or Heaven bestow ! Nathaniel Cotton. A TRUE WIPE. r\ WHAT a treasure is a virtuous wife, ^^ Discreet and loving! Not one gift on earth Makes a man's life so nighly bound to heaven. She gives him double forces to endure And to enjoy, by being one with him, Feeling his joys and griefs with equal sense; And, like the twins Hippocrates reports, If he fetch sighs, she draws her breath as short; If he lament, she melts herself in tears; If he be glad, she triumphs; if he stir, 82 MOSAICS OF LTFE. She moves his way; * * * All store witliout her leaves a man but poor; And with her poverty is exceeding store; No time is tedious with her ; her true worth flakes a true husband think his arms enfold (With her alone) a complete world of gold. George Chapman. ANGELS UNAWAKES." T ITTLE can we tell who share, Our household hearth of love and care ! Therefore with grave tenderness Should we strive to cheer and bless, All who live this little life — Husband, children, sire, or wife, Lest we wrong some sei-aph here, Who has left some starry spherc. Exiled from the heavens above. To fulfill a mortal love. T. Powell. WOMAN. QHE presideth in the house, and there is peace. She com- mandcth with judgment, and is obeyed. She ariseth in the morning; she considers her affairs; and appointcth to every one their proper business. The care of her family is her whole delight; to that alone she applieth her study; and elegance with frugality is seen in her mansions. She informeth WEDDED LIFE. 83 the minds of her children witli wisdom; she I'ashioneth their manners from the example of lier own goodness. The word of her mouth is the law of their youth; the motion of her eye commandeth their obedience. In prosperity she is not puffed up; in adversity she healeth the wounds of Fortune with patience. The troubles of her husband are alleviated by her counsels, and sweetened by her endearments ; he putteth his heart in her bosom, and receiveth comfort. Happy is the man that hath made her his wife; happy the child that calleth her mother. Robert Dodsley. TT is a delightful thought, that during the familiarity of con- stant proximity, the heart gathers up in silence the nutri- ment of love, as the diamond, even beneath water, imbibes the light it emits. Time, which deadens hatred, secretly strengthens love. THE STORY gr KARIN. IT' AKIN the fair, Karin the gay. She came on the morn of her bridal day ; She came to the mill-pond clear and bright, And viewed hersel' in the morning light. " And, oh," she cried, that my bonny brow May ever be white and smooth as now ! " And, oh, my hair, that I love to braid, Be yellow in sunshine, and brown in shade ! " And, oh, my waist, sae slender and fine. May it never need girdle longer than mine !" 84 MOSAICS OF LIFE. 8hc lingered and laughed o'er tlic waters clear, Wheu sudden she starts and shrieks with tear : " Oh, what is this face, sae laidly old. That looks at my side in the waters cold?" She turns around to view the bank. And the osier willows dark and dank ; And from the fern she sees arise An aged crone wi' a.wsome eyes. " Ha ! ha !" she laughed, " ye're a bonny bride ! See how ye'U fare gin the New Year tide ! " Ye'll wear a robe sae blithely gran', An ell-long girdle canna span. " When twal-months three shall pass away, Your berry-brown hair shall be streaked with gray, " And gin ye be mither of bairnies nine. Your brow shall be winkled and dark as mine." Karin she sprang to her feet wi' speed. And clapped her hands abune her head : '■' I pray to the saints and spirits all, 1'hat never a child may me mither call !" The crone drew near, and the crone she spake : " Nine times flesh and banes shall ache. " Laidly and awsome ye shall wane Wi' toil, and care and travail-pain." "Better," said Karin, "lay me low, And sink for aye in the waters' flow !" WEBBED LIFE. 85 The croue niisod licr withered hand on high, And showed her a tree that stood hard by. " And take of the bonny fruit," she said, " And eat till the seeds are dark and red. " Count them less, or count them more, Nine times you shall number o'er; '• And when each number you shall speak, Cast seed by seed into the lake." Karin she ate of the fruit sae fine; 'Twas mellow as sand, and sweet as brine. Seed by seed she let them fall ; The waters rippled over all. But ilka seed as Karin threw, Up rose a bubble to her view, Up rose a sigh from out the lake, As though a baby's heart did break. * * * * Twice nine years are come and gone ; Karin the fair, she walks her lone. She sees around on ilka side Maiden and mither, wife and bride; Wan and pale her bonny brow, Sunken and sad her eyelids now. Slow her step, and heavy her breast, And never an arm whereon to rest. The old kirk-porch when Karin spied, The postern door was open wide. 8 86 MOSAICS OF LIFE. "Wae's me!" slie said, "I'll enter in, And .slirive me from my every sin." "Twas silence all within the kirk ; The aisle was empty, chill and mirk. The chancel rails were black and bare ; Nae priest, nae penitent was there. Karin knelt, and her prayer she said; But her heart within her was heavy and dead. Her prayer fell back on the cold gray stone; It would not rise to heaven alone. Darker grew the darksome aisle, Colder felt her heart the while. " Wae's me !" she cried, " what is my sin ?" Never I wronged kith nor kin. " But why do I start and quake with fear. Lest I a dreadful doom should hear ? "And what is this light that seems to fall On the sixth command upon the wall ? "And who are these I see arise And look on me wi' stony eyes ? "A shadowy troop they flock sae fast, The kirk-yard may not hold the last. "Young and old of ilk degree, Bairns, and bairnies' bairns, I see. " All I look on either way, ' Mother, mother !' seem to say. WEDDED LIFE. 87 "'We are souls that miglit have been, But for your fcaiitj/ and sin. " ' We, in numbers multiplied, Might have lived, and loved, and died ; " ' Might have served the Lord in this ; Might have met thy soul in bliss. " •' Mourn for us, then, while you pray. Who might have been, but never may !' " Then the voices died away — " Might have been, but never may !" Karin she left the kirk no more ; Never she passed the postern-door. They found her dead at the vesper toll ; May Heaven in mercy rest her soul ! J. G. Whittier. BABYHOOD 8* BABYHOOD. Of all the joys that brighten sufifering earth, What joy is welcomed like a new-born child ? Mrs. Norton. A babe is a Mother's anchor. H. W. Beecher. A babe in a house is a well-spring of pleasure. Proverbial Philosophy. WOMAN'S RIGHTS. T? VERY woman has a right to think her child the " prettiest little haby in the world," and it would be the greatest folly to deny her this right, for she would be sure to take it. Punch. fT^HE clue of our destiny, wander where we will, lies at the cradle-foot. My Early Days. Where children are, there is the Golden age. Nevalis. I LOVE God, and every little child. Jean Paul 91 92 MOSAICS OF LIFE. TTOW infinite tlie "wealtli of love and hope, G arnered in these same tiny treasure-houses ! H E that hath a wife and children hath giveij hostages to Fortune. T^HEEE is even a happiness That makes the heart afraid. T. Hood. T SEASONS or PHAYEK. n^HERE are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes, For her new-born infant before her lies. Oh, hour of bliss ! when the heart o'erflows With rapture a mother only knows; Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer; Let it swell up to heaven for her precious care. Henry Ware. HE heart that we have lain near before our birth is the only one that cannot forget that it has loved us. THE BABY. A NOTITER little wave upon the sea of life ; Another soul to save amid its toil and strife. BABYHOOD. 93 Two more little feet to walk tlie dusty road; To choose where two paths meet, the narrow and the hroad. Two more little hands to work for good or ill ; Two more little eyes, another little will. Another heart to love, receiving love again; And so the haby came, a thing of joy and pain. MY BIRD. TT^RE last year's moon had left the sky, A birdling sought my Indian nest, And folded, 0, so lovingly ! Her tiny wings upon my breast. From morn till evening's purple tinge. In winsome helplessness she lies; Two rose leaves with a silken fringe, Shut softly on her starry eyes. There's not in Ind a lovelier bird. Broad earth owns not a happier nest; Grod, thou hast a fountain stirred. Whose waters never more may rest. This beautiful, mysterious thing, This seeming visitant from Heaven, This bird with the immortal wing. To me, to me thy hand hath given. The pulse first caught its tiny stroke. The blood its crimson hue, from mine; This life which I have dared invoke. Henceforth is parallel with thine. 94 MOSAICS OF LIFE. A silent awe is in my room, I tremble with delicious fear; The future, with its light and gloom, Time and Eternity are here. Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise; Hear, 0, my God ! one earnest prayer : Room for my bird in Paradise, And give her angel plumage there ! Emily Judson, TTE is sleeping — brown and silken Lie the lashes long and meek, Like caressing clinging shadows On his plump and peachy cheek ; And I bend above him weeping- Thankful tears — oh, undefiled ! For a woman's crown of glory, For the blessiu"- of a child ! A GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OP A BABY. TTURRAH ! Light upon the world again ! It's a glorious world ! magnificent ! quite too beautiful to leave ; and, besides, I would rather stay, if only to thank God a little longer for this glorious light, this pure air that can echo back my loudest hurrah. And then, my boy — but haven't I told you ? Why, sir, I've got a boy. A BOY ! ha, ha ! I shout it out to you — A BOY : fourteen pounds, and the mother a great deal better than could be expected ! And, I say, sir, it's mine! Hurrah, and hallelujah forever! O, sir, such legs, BABYHOOD. 95 such arms, and such a head! and 0, good heavens ! lui has Jiis mother's lips! I can kiss them forever ! and then, sir, look at his feet, his hands, his chin, his eyes, his everything in fact, so, " so perfecthj 0. K !" Give me joy, sir ; no you needn't, either ! I am full now ; I run over ; and they say that I ran over a number of old women, half killed the mother, pulled the doctor by the nose, and upset a 'pothecary shop in the corner ; and then, didn't I ring the tea-bell ? Didn't I blow the horn ? Didn't I dance, shout, laugh, and cry, altogether ? The women they had to tie me up. I don't believe that; but who is going to shut his mouth when he has a live baby ? You should have heard his lungs, sir, at the first mouthful of fresh air ; such a burst ! A little tone in his voice, but not pain ; excess of joy, sir, from too great sensation. The air-bath was so sudden, you know. Think of all this beautiful machinery starting off at once in full motion ; all his thousand outside feelers answering to the touch of cool air ; the flutter and crash at the ear, and that curious contrivance, the eye, looking out wonderingly and bewildered on the great world, so glorious to his unworn per- ceptions. His network of nerves, his wheels and pulleys, his air pumps and valves, his engines and reservoirs ) and within all, that beautiful fountain, with its jets and running streams, dashing and coursing through the whole length and breadth, without stint or pause; making altogether, sir, exactly four- teen. Did I ever talk brown to you, sir, or blue, or any other of the Devil's colors ? You say I have. Beg your pardon, sir, but you are mistaken in the individual. I am this day, sir, multiplied by two; I am duplicate; I am number one of an indefinite series, and there's my continuation. And you observe, sir, it is not a block, nor a blockhead, nor a painting, nor a bust, nor a fragment of anything, however beautiful ; but a combination of all the arts and sciences in one ; painting, sculpture, music, (hear him cry !) mineralogy, chemistry, me- 96 MOSAICS OF LIFE. clianics, (see him kick !) geography, and the use of" the globes, (see liim nurse !) and with all, he is a perpetual motion, a time- piece that will never run down. And who wound it up ? But words are but a mouthing and a mockery. * * * * When a man is nearly crushed under obligations, it is pre- sumed he is unable to speak ; but he may bend over very care- fully, for fear of falling, nod in a small way, and say nothing; and then if he have sufficient presence of mind to lay a hand upon his heart, and look down at an angle of forty-five degrees, with a motion of the lips, muttered poetry, showing the wish and the inability, it will be (well done) very gracefully ex- pressive. With my boy in his first integuments, I assume that position, make the small nod aforesaid, and leave you the poetry uumuttered. THE INVALID WirE. " T? VERY wife needs a good stock of love to begin with." Don't she ? You arc upon a sick bed ; a little feeble thing lies on your arm, that you might crush with your hand. You take those little velvet fingers in yours, close your eyes, and turn your head languidly to the pillow. Little brothers and sisters, Henry and Willie, and Agnes and Bessie, and Mary and Kitty — half a score — come tip-toeing into the room to " see the new baby." It is quite an old story to " nurse," who sits like an automaton, while they give vent to their enthusiastic admiration of its wee toes and fingers, and make profound inquiries, which nobody thinks best to hear. You look on with a languid smile, and they pass out, asking, " why they can't stay with dear mamma, and why they mustn't play ' puss in the corner' as usual ?" You wonder if your little croupy boy tied his tippet on when he wont to school, and BADYHOOD. 97 whether Betty will sec that your husband's flannel is aired, and if Peggy has cleaned tlie silver, and washed off the front door steps, and what your blessed husband is about, that lie don't come home to dinner. There sits old nurse, kee^Ding up that dreadful treadmill trotting " to quiet the baby," till you could fly through the key-hole in desperation. The odor of dinner begins to creep up-stairs. You wonder if your hus- band's pudding will be made right, and if Betty will remember to put wine in the sauce, as he likes it : and then the per- spiration starts out on your forehead as you hear a thumping on the stairs, and a child's suppressed scream; and nurse snatches the baby up in flannel to the tip of its nose, dumps it down in the easy-chair, and tells you to leave th.e family to her and go to sleep. By and by she comes in — after staying down long enough to get a refreshing cup of coffee — and walks up to the bed with, a bowl of gruel, tasting it. and then putting the spoon back into the bowl. In the first place, you hate gruel ; in the next, you couldn't eat it if she held a pistol to your head, after that spoon had been in her mouth; so you meekly suggest that it be set on the table to cool — hoping by some providential interposition it may get tipped over. Well, she moves round your room with a pair of creaking shoes, and a bran-new gingham gown that rattles like a i:)aper window- curtain at every step ; and smooths her hair with your nice little head-brush, and opens a drawer by mistake (?), " think- ing it was the baby's drawer." Then you hear little nails scratching on the door ; and Charlie whispers through the key-hole, " Mamma, Charlie's tired, please let Charlie come in." Nurse scowls and says no ; but you intercede — poor Charlie, he's only a baby himself. Well, he leans his head against the pillow, and looks suspiciously at that little, moving bundle of flannel in nurse's lap. It's clear he's had a hard time of it, what with tears and molasses ! The little shining curls, that you have so often rolled over your finger are a tangled mass ; 9 E 98 MOSAICS OF LIFE. and you lonp; to take him and make liim comfortable, and cosset him a little; and then, baby cries again, and you turn your head to the pillow with a smothered sigh. Nurse hears it, and Charlie is taken struggling from the room. You take your watch from under your pillow, to see if husband won't be home soon, and then look at nurse, who takes a pinch of snuff over your gruel, and sits down, nodding drowsily, with the baby in an alarming proximity to the fire. Now you hear a dear step on the stairs. It's your Charlie ! How bright he looks ! and what nice fresh air he brings with him from out of doors ! He parts the bed-curtains, looks in, and pats you on the cheek. You just want to lay your head on his shoulder and have such a splendid cry ! but there sits that old Gorgon of a nurse — she don't believe in husbands, she don't ! You make Charlie a Free Mason sign to send her down-stairs for something. He says, right out loud — men are so stupid ! — '* What did you say, dear ?" Of course you protest you didn't say a word — never tho't of such a thing ! and cuddle your head down to your ruffled pillows, and cry because you are weak and weary, and full of care for your family, and don't want to see anybody but " Charlie." Nurse says " she shall have you sick," and tells your husband "^he'd better go down, and let you go to sleep." Off he goes, wondering what on earth ails you to cry ! wishes he had nothing to do but lie still, and be waited upon ! After dinner he comes in to bid you good-bye before he goes to his office ; whistles " Nelly Bly" loud enough to wake up the baby, whom he calls a " comical little concern," and then puts his dear, thoughtless head down to your pillow, at a signal from you, to hear what you have to say. Well, there's no help for it, you cry again, and only say, " Dear Charlie ;" and he laughs and settles his dickey, and says you are a " nervous little puss," gives you a kiss, lights his cigar at the fire, half strangles the new baby with the first whiff, and dikes vniir heart off with him down the sti'eet. BABYHOOr). 99 And you lie there and eat that gruel I and pick the fuzz all off the blanket, and make faces at the nurse, under the sheet, and wish Eve had never ate that apple — Genesis iii. 16; or that you were " Abel to Cain" for doing it ! Fanny Fern. BABY. /^N tip-toe I entered the bed-room of baby; And trembling I parted the gossamer curtains Where baby lay, fair as a fresh morning glory. Like petals of purest and pinkest petunias, Four delicate fingers crept out of their nestling. Transparent and chubby, they rest on the crib's edge. And draping the fingers, a fringe of crochet-work, As flossy and light as a net-web of snow lace, Lay, kissing them daintily — ever so daintily ! Nidls soft and so tiny, and tinted like pink-buds. Looked up to me temptingly — "ever so cunning;" And asked me to kiss them, and oh ! how I longed to, But dare not, for baby was smiling so sweetly I knew he beheld then an angel-face near him. Loose ringed, on his temples of pure alabaster. Lay curls of the softest and lightest of texture, As sketched by a crayon of delicate gold-tint; Such curls as the gods gave to Cupid and Psyche ! Those kissable curls, with their live, springing tendrils. Came up to my lips, and went down to my heart-strings. Those eyelids so filmy, translucent as amber, Were colored and toned by the blue eyes beneath them. To softest of purple. 0, marvellous eyelids ! 100 MOSAICS OF LIFE. Ah ! what is this clinging so close to my heart-string, 'Tis fear — that I know by the thrill in my bosom ? 'Tis born of these ringlets and fingers and eyelids : Born of this beauty too precious for mortals ; It tells me I look on the face of an angel That lies there deceiving my soul by concealing Its pinions beneath the blue waves of the velvet. I'll wake him ! the darling ! with kisses I'll wake him. There ! there ! I have reddened the white brow of baby, Between those two limnings of delicate lace work — The rarest of eyebrows ; his laugh reassures me ! I'll crush him down hard, wings and all, on my bosom ! Knickerbocker. A VEKSE rOK THE YOUNG MOTHER TO PAKOBY. nPHEIlE'S not a sabre meets her eye, But with his life-blood seems to swim ; There's not an arrow wings the sky, But fancy turns its point to him ! T, Moore. A NURSERY SONG. T HAD a little baby once, J- I called him " AVakeful Willie;" He would not go to sleep one night. He was so very silly. I went and asked the moolly cow. If in her arms she'd lock him, And if she could but spare the time, Would just sit down and rock him ? BABYHOOD. 101 She said she had no rocking-chair, pjlse would she he quite willing j But she'd give him supper of new milk, And neyer ask a shilling. I asked the horse to leave his oats, The old horse in the stable, And come and rock my boy to sleep. And sing if he were able. But he had been a journey long. He said, and felt quite weary; Else would he find his prettiest song, And sing it to my deary. I asked the cat, upon the mat, To rock my babe to slumber; Says Puss, " I never rocked a babe. Though I've had quite a number. " Besides, the rat is in his hole, And I have got to watch him, And there's a mouse, about the house, And I have got to catch him !" The croaking frog, down in the bog. Among the reeds was sprawling, " Come up," said I, " and hush my boy, For music is thy calling." He shook his head, and sadly said, " Though music my delight is. Yet once I wet my feet, and since, I'm troubled with bronchitis." 102 MOSAICS OF LIFE. I went and asked the speckled hen, Beneath her wings to fold him, To sing him all the songs she knew, And if he stirred, to scold him ! She said, " Her babies slept so well, She never sang a quaver. Nor could she even sing a song, If from the cook 'twould save her. The white owl in the cypress tree, Looked gentle as a lily, I asked her to come in, and sing A song to " Wakeful Willie." She stared at me with two great eyes, And said, " She could not now sing. For wise folks were but just awake. And 'twas her time for mousing." I knew the song-birds were asleep. And sleep they would till morning; For Robin nodded as he sang. And Whippoorwill was yawning. I looked about in hope to see, The nightingale and mavis. When up stairs hopped a pretty bird, 'Twas Willie's sister Avis. And Avis sang till Willie slept, As well as she was able, Wliilc mother went to pour out tea For Father at the talile. BABYHOOD. 103 THOUGHTS WHILE SHE KOCKS THE CKABLE. "TTTH AT is tlie little one tliiuking about ? Very wonderful things, no doubt. Unwritten history ! Unfathomable mystery ! But he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks. As if his head were as full of kinks And curious riddles as any sphynx ! Warped by colic and wet by tears, Punctured by pins and tortured by fears, Our little nephew will lose two years; And he'll never know Where the summers go ! He need not laugh, for he'll find it so ! Who can tell what the baby thinks ? Who can follow the gossamer links By which the manikin feels his way, Out from the shores of the great unknown. Blind, and wailing, and alone, Into the light of day ? Out from the shores of the unknown sea. Tossing in pitiful agony ! Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls. Specked with the barks of little souls — Barks that launched on the other side. And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide ! And what does he think of his mother's eyes ? What does he think of his mother's hair? What of the cradle roof that flies Forward and backward through the air ? 10-i MOSAICS OF LIFE. What does he think of his mother's breast, Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, Seeking it ever with fresh delight, Cup of his joy, and couch of his rest? What does he think when her quick embrace Presses his hand, and buries his face Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell With a tenderness she can never tell ? Though she murmur the words of all the birds — Words she has learned to murmur so well ! Now he thinks he'll go to sleep I I can see the shadows creep Over his eyes in soft eclipse, Out in his little finger tips. Softly sinking down he goes, Down he goes, down he goes. See ! he is hushed in sweet repose ! PHILIP, MY KING. "Who bears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignt}'." T OOK at me with thy large brown eyes, Philip, my King. Round where the enshadowing purple lies Of babyhood's royal dignities ; Lay on my neck thy tiny hand With love's invisible sceptre laden; I am thine Esther to command. Till thou shalt find a quooH-liandmaiden, Philip, my King. BABYHOOD. 105 Oh, the day when thou goest a -wooing, Philip, my King ! When tliose beautiful lips 'gin suing, And some gentle heart's bars undoing, Thou dost enter love-crowned, and there Sittcst love glorified. Rule kindly, Tenderly over thy kingdom fair ; For we that love, ah ! vpe love so blindly, Philip, my King. Up from thy sweet mouth, up to thy brow, Philip, my King ! The spirit that there lies sleeping now May ride like a giant, and make men bow, As to one heaven-chosen amongst his peers — My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer. Let me behold thee in future years ; Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, Philip, my King. A wreath not of gold, but palm — one day, Philip, my King ! Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way Thorny and cruel, and cold and gray; Rebels within thee, and foes without. Will snatch at thy crown. But march on glorious. Martyr, yet monarch, till angels shout. As thou sit'st at the feet of God, victorious, Philip, my King ! Miss Muloch, H E sings to the wide world, and she to her nest ; In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best ? J. R. Lowell. E » 106 MOSAICS OF LIFE. OUK BABY. T\ID you ever see our baby? ^ Little Tot; With ber eyes so sparkling bright, And her skin so lily white, Lips and cheeks of rosy light — Tell you what. She is just the sweetest baby In the lot. Ah ! she is our only darling, And to me All her little ways are witty; And when she sings her little ditty, Every word is just as pretty As can be — Not another in the city Sweet as she. You don't think so — never saw her. Wish you could See her with her playthings clattering, Hear her little tongue a chattering; Little dancing feet come pattering — Think you would Love her just as well I do. If you could ! Every grandma's only darling, I suppose. Is as sweet and bright a blossom, Is a treasure to her bosom, UABYIWOI). 107 Is us cheering and endearing, As my rose. Heavenly Father, spare them to us. Till life's close. Mrs. Gage. NOT AN EYEKY-DAY BABY. "U'OU know how apt babies are to be remarkable ; but, sir, perhaps you never saw a baby like this ; I presume to say, you never did. That it is fair and round-faced ; that it never cries; that it is always "jolly," so to speak. These things are something, but what I have to add, is the penetrating sagacity with which it selects out one particular person, and wherever that person may go — up, down, or sideways, there follow the baby's eyes with the pertinacity of a magnet ! And who do you suppose is that individual ? The father ? the mother ? or grandfather ? No, sir ! I am that individual ! You will ask, perhaps, if I am all the time dandling it. Never had the baby in my arms but once in my life, and then — but, as I was saying, there is no doubt it will be an extraordinary child. CHILDREN. T^HE smallest are near to God, as the smallest planets are nearest the sun. Were I only for a time almighty and powerful, I would create a little world especially for myself, and suspend it under the mildest sun, a world where I would have nothing but lovely little children, and these little things I would never suffer to grow up, but only to play eternally 108 Jl OS A JUS OF LIFE. If a seraph were worthy of heaven, or his golden pinions drooped, I would send him to dwell for awhile in my happy infant world, and no angel, so long as he saw their innocence, could lose his own. Jean Paul. LETTEK TO A NEW BOKN CHILD. "VrOU are heartily welcome, my dear little cousin, into this unquiet world ; long may you continue in it in all the happiness it can give, and bestow enough on all your friends, to answer fully the impatience with which you have been expected. May you grow up to have every accomplishment that your good friend, the Bishop of Derry, can already imagine in you; and in the meantime, may you have a nurse with a tuneable voice, who may not talk an immoderate deal of nonsense to you. You are at present, my dear, in a very philosophic disposition ; the gaieties and follies of life have no attraction for you ; its sorrows you kindly commiserate ! but, however, do not suffer them to disturb your slumbers, and find charms in nothing but harmony and repose. You have as yet contracted no partialities, are entirely ignorant of party distinctions, and look with a perfect indifference on all human splendor. You have an absolute dislike to the vanities of dress; and are likely for many months, to observe the Bishop of Bristol's* first rule of conversation. Silence, though tempted to transgress it by the novelty and strangeness of all objects around you. As you advance further in life this philosophic temper will, by degrees, wear off; the first object of your admiration will probably be the candle, and thence (as we all of us do) you will contract a taste for the gaudy and the * Seeker, aftcrwnrils Aroliliisljop of Canterbury. BAnyuooi). 109 glaring, without making one moral reflection upon the danger of such false admiration as leads people many a time to burn their fingers. You will then begin to show great partiality for some very good'aunts, who will contribute all they can towards spoiling you- but you will be equally fond of an excellent mamma, who will teach you, by her example, all sorts of good qualities ; only let me warn you of one thing, my dear, that is not to learn of her to have such an immoderate love of home as is cjuite contrary to all the 2)rivileges of this polite age, and to give up so entirely all those pretty graces of whim, flutter, and aftection, which so many charitable poets have declared to be the prerogative of our sex. Oh ! my poor cousin, to what purpose will you boast this prerogative, when your nurse tells you, (with a pious care to sow the seeds of jealousy and emula- tion as early as possible,) that you have a fine little brother " come to put your nose out of joint ?" There will be nothing to be done then but to be mighty good; and prove what, believe me, admits of very little dispute (though it has occa- sioned abundance) that we girls, however people give them- selves airs of being disappointed, are by no means to be despised. The men unenvied shine in public ; but it is we must make their homes delightful to them ; and, if they pro- voke us, no less uncomfortable. I do not expect you to answer this letter yet awhile ; but, as I dare say, you have the greatest interest with your papa, will beg yon to prevail upon him that we may know by a line (before his time is engrossed by another secret committee) that yon and your mamma are well. In the meantime, I will only assure you that all here rejoice in your existence extremely; and that I am, my very young corre- spondent, most affectionately yours, &c. Catherine Talbot. 10 110 MOSAICS OF LIFE. THE KETUKN. / \NE climbs into his arms, another • Clings smiling reund his knee ; A third is lifted by its mother Its father's face to see 3 The cradled innocent, his youngest treasure, Holds out his dimpled arms, and crows for pleasure. " TF he isn't fast asleep. Lord ! Lord !" cried Jem, gazing at the child, " who, to look upon a sleeping baby, and to know what things are every day done in the world, would ever think that all men were sleejnng habes once ! Put it to bed, Sue !" St. Giles and St. James. THE CKILD-POET. "VrOU have watched a child playing, in those wondrous years when belief is not bound to the eyes and the ears, and the vision divine is so clear and unmarred, that each baker of pies in the dirt is a bard ! Give a knife and a shingle, he fits out a fleet, and, on that little mud-puddle over the street, his invention, in purest good faith, will make sail round the globe with a puff of his breath for a gale, will visit, in barely ten minutes, all climes, and find North-western passages hundreds of times. Or, suppose the young poet fresh stored with delights from that Bible of childhood, the Arabian Nights, he will turn to a crony, and cry, " Jack, let's play that I am a Genius !" Jacky straightway makes Aladdin's lamp out of a stone, and for hours they enjoy each his own supernatural powers. James Russel Lowell. BABYHOOD. Ill SIMPLE PLEASUKES. ■you need not surround your children with a little world of -*- turner's toys. Let their eggs be white, not figured and painted; they can dress them out of their own imaginations. Jean Paul. T\0 you think that a child who will spend an hour delightedly -*-^ in galloping round the garden on his horse, which horse is a stick, regards that stick as a mere bit of wood ? No ; that stick is to him instinct, with imaginings of a pony's pattering feet, and shaggy mane, and erect little ears, ^ Boyd. A ND children are more busy at their play Than those that wiseliest pass their time away. Samuel Butler. npRULY, there is nothing in the world so blessed or so sweet as the heritage of bairns. Mrs. Oliphant. A PICTUKE. rFHE bonnie, bonnie bairn, who sits with careless grace, Griowing in the fire, with his wee, round face, For all so sage he looks, what can the laddie ken? He's thinking of nothing ; like many mighty men. James Ballantyne. 112 MOSAICS OF LIFE. DOMESTIC BLISS. [A Fragment.] I am " A married lady of thirty odd." Every evening I see in their beds A " baker's, dozen" of curly heads ; Every morning' my slumbers greet The patter, patter, of twenty-six feet. Thirteen little hearts are always in a flutter, Till thirteen little mouths are filled with bread and butter. Thirteen little tongues are busy all day long, And thirteen little hands with doing something wrong. Till I fain am to do With an energy too. As did the old woman who lived in a shoe. And when my poor husband comes home from his work, Tired and hungry, and fierce as a Turk, What do you think is the picture he sees ? A legion of babies, all in a breeze. Johnny a crying, And Lucy a sighing, And worn-out mamma, with her hair all a flying. Strong and angry Stephen Beating little Nelly ; Willie in the pantry Eating currant jelly; Charlie strutting round in papa's Sunday coat; Harry at the glass, with a razor at his throat; Robert gets his fingers crushed when Susy shuts the door. Mitigates their aching with a forty pounder roar; Baby at the coal-hod hurries to begin Throwin"; in his mite to the universal din. BABYHOOD. 113 Alas ! my lord and master, being rather weak of nerve, lie Begins to lose his patience in the stunning topsy-turvy, And then the frightened little ones all fly to me for shelter, And so the drama closes 'mid a general helter-skelter. I'll give you my name, Lest you think me a myth ; Yours, very respectfully, Mrs. John Smith. THE MOTHER'S COMPLAINT. TT7EARIED is the mother * That has a restless wean, A wee, stumpy bairnie. Heard whene'er he's seen ; That has a battle, aye, with sleep Before he'll close an e'e ; But a kiss from off his rosy lips Grives strength anew to me. William Miller. THE CHARGE OE INEANTKY. "DETSEY'S got another baby! Charming precious little type ! Grrandma says — and she knows, surely- That you never saw its like. Isn't it a beaming beauty. Lying there so sweet and snug? Mrs. Jones, pray stop your scandal; Darling's nose is not a pug ! 10* 114 MOSAICS OF LIFE. Some one says 'tis Pa all over, Whereat I'a turns rather red, And, to scan his features, quickly To the looking-glass has fled; But recovers his composure. When he hears the nurse's story, Who admits that of all babies This indeed's the crowning glory ! Aunt Liicretia says she guesses — Says, indeed, she knows it, pos, That 't will prove to be a greater Man than e'er its father was; Proving thus the modern thesis Held by reverend doctors sage, That in babies, as in wisdom. This is a " progressive" age. Uncle Henry looks and wonders At so great a prodigy; Close and closer still he presses, Thinking something brave to see. Up they hold the babe before him, While they gather in a ring, But, alas ! the staggered uncle Vainly tries his praise to sing. As he stares, the lovely infant. Nestling by its mother's side, Opes its little mouth, and singing, Gurgles forth a milky tide. Uncle tries to hide his blushes, Looks about to find his hat, Stumbles blindly o'er the cradle, And upsets the startled cat. BABYHOOD. 115 Why, 0, why such awkward blunders ? Better far have stayed away, Nor have thrust yourself where woman Holds an undisputed sway ; Do you think that now they'll name it. As they mean to, after you ? Wretched mortal ! let me answer, You're deluded if you do ! Round about the noisy women Pass the helpless stranger now, Raptured with each nascent feature. Chin and mouth and eyes and brow; And for this young bud of promise All neglect the rose in bloom, Eldest born, who, quite forgotten, Pouts within her lonely room. Sound the stage-horn ! ring the cow-bell ! That the waiting world may know ; Publish it throiigh all our borders, Even unto Mexico. Seize your pen, 0, dreaming poet ! And in numbers smooth as may be. Spread afar the joyful tidings, Betsey's got another baby ! Knickerbocker. SOME ACCOUNT Or A KEMAKKABLE BABY. TT was 2^ 'peculiarity of this baby to be always cutting teeth. Whether they never came, or whether they came and went away again, is not in evidence ; but it had certainly cut enough, on the showing of its mother, to make a handsome dental pro- 11(3 iMOSAICS OF LIFE. vision for the sign of the Bull and Month. All sorts of ohjects were impressed for the rubbing of its gums, notwithstanding that it always carried, dangling at its waist, (which was imme- diately under its chin,) a bone ring, large enough to have represented the rosary of a young nun. Knife-handles, um- brella-tops, the heads of walking-sticks selected from the stock, the fingers of the family, nutmog-graters, crusts, the handles of doors, and the cool knobs on the tops of pokers, were among the commonest instruments indiscriminately applied for the baby's relief The amount of electricity that must have been rubbed out of it in a week, is not to be calculated. Still its mother always said, " It was coming through, and then the child would he herself" and still it never did come thi-ough, and the child continued to be somebody else. Charles Dickens. BANISH the tears of children ! continual rains upon the blossoms are hurtful. Jean Paul. TWO YEAIRS OLD. "PLAYINGr on the carpet near me, -^ Is a little cherub girl; And her presence, much I fear me, Sets my senses in a whirl; For a book is near me lying. Full of grave philosophizing, And I own I'm vainly trying, There my thoughts to liold; But, in spite of my essaying. They will evermore be straying To that cherub near me playing, Only two years old. n Anvil ODD. 11' With her hair so long and flaxen, And her sunny eyes of bhie, And her cheek so plump and waxen, She is charming to the view. Then her voice, to all who hear it. Breathes a sweet entrancing spirit. Oh, to be forever near it. Is a joy untold; For 'tis ever sweetly telling To my heart, with rapture swelling, Of affection inly dwelling — Only two years old. With a new delight I'm hearing All her sweet attempts at words In their melody endearing. Sweeter far than any bird's; And the musical mistaking Which her baby lips are making. For my heart a charm is waking Firmer in its hold Than the charm so rich and glowing, From the Roman's lip o'erflowing; Then she gives a look so knowing, Only two years old. Now her ripe and honeyed kisses, (Honeyed, ripe, for me alone,) Thrill my soul with varied blisses Venus never yet hath known. When her twining arms are round me, All domestic joy hath crowned me, And a fervent spell hath bound me, Never to grow old. 118 MOSAICS OF LIFE. 0, there's not, this side of Aidcn, Aught with loveliness so laden, As my little cheruh maiden Only two years old. A PAKICNTAL ODE TO MY SON, Aged Three Years and Five Months. Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop — first let me kiss away that tear) Thou tiny image of my.self ! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear !) Thou merry, laughing sprite ! With spirits feather light. Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin, (Good heavens ! the child is swallowing a pin !) Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air, (The door, the door ! he'll tumble down the stair !) Thou darling of thy sire ! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy ! In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents (Drat the boy ! There goes my ink !) Thou cherub — but of earth ; Fit playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale, In harmless spf)rt and mirth, (Tbat dog will bite him if lie ])ulls its tail!) BABY 110 on. 110 Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble — that's his precious nose !) Thy father's pride and hope ! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope !) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint !) Thou young domestic dove ! (He'll have that jug oif with another shove !) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man ! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan !) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, (He's got a knife !) Thou enviable being ! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing. Play on, play on, My elfin John! Toss the light ball — bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down. Prompting the face grotesque and antic brisk With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown !) Thou pretty opening rose ! (Gro to your mother, child, and wipe your nose !) Balmy, and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth !) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar !) Fklgoni. 120 MOSATOS OF LIFE. Bold as tlie hawk, yet gentle as the dove, (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he's sent above !) Thomas Hood. rOUK YEAKS OLD. A Nursery Song. Picn d'iiinor, Pien di cauto, c picn di fiori. A H, little ranting Johnny, For ever blithe and bonny, And singing uonny, nonny, AVith hat just thrown upon ye; Or whistling like the thrushes, AYith voice in silver gushes; Or twisting random posies With daisies, weeds, and roses; And strutting in and out so. Or dancing all about so; With cock-up nose so lightsome, And sidelong eyes so brightsomc And cheeks as ripe as apples, And head as rough as Dapple's, And army as sunny shining As if their veins they'd wine in. And mouth that smiles so truly. Heaven seems to have made it newly; It breaks into such sweetness With merry-lipped completeness; Ah, Jack, ah, Giovanni mio. As blithe as Lan'ahinL; Trii)'. BABYHOOD. 121 Sir Richard, too, your rattler. So christened from the Tatlcr, My Bacchus in his glory, My little cor di fiori, My tricksome Puck, my Robin, Who in and out come bobbing. As full of feints and frolics as That fibbing rogue, Antolycus, And play the graceless robber on Your grave-eyed brother, Oberon ; Ah, Dick, ah, che dolce riso. How can you, can you be so ? One cannot turn a minute, But mischief — there you're in it; A getting at my books, John, With mighty bustling looks, John; Or poking at the roses. In midst of which your nose is; Or climbing on a table, No matter how unstable. And turning up your quaint eye And half-shut teeth with, "Mayn't I?" Or else you're oif at play, John, Just as you'd be all day, John, With hat or not as happens; And there you dance, and clap hands, Or on the grass go rolling. Or plucking flowers, or bowling. And getting me expenses With losing balls o'er fences; Or, as the constant trade is, Are fondled by the ladies 11 F 122 MOSAICS OF LIFE. With, " What a young rogue this is !" Eeforming him with kisses; Till suddenly you cry out, As if you had an eye out, So desperately fearful. The sound is really fearful; When, lo ! directly after. It bubbles into laughter. Ah, rogue! and do you know, John, Why, 'tis we love you so, John? And how it is they let ye Do what you like, and pet ye, Though all who look upon ye. Exclaim, "Ah, Johnny, Johnny!" It is because you please 'em Still more, John, than you teaze 'em ; Because, too, when not present, The thought of you is pleasant; Because, though such an elf, John, They think that if yourself, John, Had something to condemn, too, You'd be as kind to them, too; In short, because you're very Good-tempered, Jack, and merry ; And are as quick at giving As easy at receiving; And in the midst of pleasure Are certain to find leisure To think, my boy, of ours, And bring us heaps of flowers. But see, the sun shines brightly; (Vimo, put your hat on rightly, BATiYIIOOD. 123 And we'll among the bushes, And hear yonr friends, the thrushes; And see what flowers the weather Has rendered fit to gather; And, when we home must jog, you Shall ride my back, you rogue you — Your hat adorned with fine leaves, Horse-chestnut, oak, and vine-leaves; And so, with green o'erhead, John, Shall whistle home to bed, John. Leigh Hunt. THE VJJ)-Z IN A WHEEL-BAKKOW. ~\T7H0 does not remember the keen relish of the rapid run in the wheel-barrow of early youth, bumping and rolling about, and finally turning a corner at full speed and upsetting ? Who does not remember the delight of the little springless carriage that threatened to dislocate and grind down the bones ? Luxury destroys real enjoyment. There is more real enjoy- ment in riding in a wheel-barrow than in driving in a carriage- and-four. Boyd. AMANTIUM IK^ AMOKIS KEDINTEGRATIO EST. TN going to my naked bed, as one that would have slept, I heard a wife sing to her child, that long before had wept. She sighed sore, and sang full sweet, to bring the babe to rest, That would not cease, but cried still in sucking at her breast. 124 MOSAICS OF LIFE. She was full weary of lier watcli, and grieved with her child; She rocked it, and rated it, until on her it smiled ; Then did she say, " Now have I found the proverb true to prove, The falling out of faithful friends renewing is of love." Richard Edwards — 1523. The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world. nnHERE is a very general notion, that if you once suffer woman to eat of the tree of knowledge, the rest of the family will soon be reduced to the same kind of aerial and unsatisfactory diet ! * ^- * * * * Q.^^ anything be more absurd than to suppose that the care and perpetual solicitude which a mother feels for her childi'en, depends upon her ignorance of Greek and mathematics, and that she would desert an infant for a quadratic equation ? Sydney Smith. TATKEK IS COMING! ~M'AY, do not close the shutters, child; For, far along the lane, The little window looks, and he Can see it shining plain; I've heard him say he loves to mark The cheerful fire-light in the dark. BABYHOOD. 125 I know lie's coming by this sign, That baby's almost wild; See how he laughs, and crows, and stares — Heaven bless the merry child; He's father's self in face and limb, And father's heart is strong in him. Hark ! hark ! I hear his footsteps now ; He's through the garden-gate; Run, little Bess, and ope the door, And do not let him wait; Shout, baby, shout! and clap thy hands, For father on the threshold stands. Mary HowiU. One's hearth is a fair assize. Old Proverb. A MOTHER'S MORNING PRAYER. TTP to me sweet childhood looketh, Heart and mind and soul awake; Teach me of thy ways, oh Father ! For sweet childhood's sake. In their young hearts, soft and tender, Gruide my hand good seed to sow, That its blossoming may praise thee Wheresoe'er they go. Give to me a cheerful spirit, That my little flock may see It is good and pleasant service To be taught of Thee. 11 » 126; MOSAICS OF life. Father, order all my footsteps; So direct my daily way That, in following me, the children May not go astray. Let thy holy counsel lead me — Let thy light before me shine, That they may not stumble over Word or deed of mine. Draw us hand in hand to Jesus, For his word's sake — unforgot, " Let the little ones come to me, And forbid them not." TKKICNOBIA. TTOW peacefully they rest, -^-^ Crossfolded there Upon his little breast. Those small white hands that ne'er were still before, But ever sported with his mother's hair, Or the plain cross that on her breast she wore ; Her heart no more will beat To feel the touch of that soft palm, That ever seemed a new surprise, Sending glad thoughts up to her eyes To bless him with their holy calm. Full short his journey was; no dust Of earth unto his sandals clave ; The weary weight that old men must. He bore not to the jrravc. BABYHOOD. 127 He seemed a clierub who had lost his way And wandered hither; so his stay With us was short; and 'twas most meet That he should be no delver in earth's clod, "' Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet To stand before his God, blest word — evermore ! J. R. Lowell. CASA WAPPY. [CasaWappy was the self-conferred pet name of an infant son of the poet, snatched away after a very brief illness.] A ND hast thou sought thy heavenly home. Our fond, dear boy — The realms where sorrow dare not come, Where life is joy ? Pure at thy death as at thy birth, Thy spirit caught no taint from earth ; Even by its bliss we mete our death, Casa Wappy! Despair was in our last farewell, As closed thine eye ; Tears of our anguish may not tell When thou didst die; Words may not paint our grief for thee, Sighs are but bubbles on the sea Of our unfathomed agony, Casa Wappy ! Do what I may, go where I will. Thou meet'st my sight; There dost thou glide before me still — A form of light ! ] 28 MOSAICS OF LIFE. I feel thy breath upon my cheek — I see thee smile, I hear thee speak — Till oh ! my heart is like to break, Casa Wappy ! Methinks thou smil'st before me now, With glance of stealth; The hair thrown back from thy full brow In buoyant health ; I see thine eyes' deep violet light, Thy dimpled cheek caruationed bright. Thy clasping arms so round and white, Casa Wappy ! The nursery shows thy pictured wall, Thy bat, thy bow. Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball; But where art thou ? A corner holds thine empty chair, Thy playthings idly scattered there, But speak to us of our despair, Casa Wappy! Then be to us, dear, lost child ! With beam of love, A star, death's uncongenial wild Smiling above ; Soon, soon thy little feet have trod The skyward path, the seraph's road, That led thee back from man to God, Casa Wappy ! Yet 'tis sweet balm to our despair, Fond, fairest boy. That heaven is Grod's, and thou art there, With him in joy; BABYHOOD. 129 There past are death and all its woes, There beauty's stream forever flows, And pleasure's day no sunset knows, Casa Wappy! Farewell, then — for awhile, farewell — Pride of my heart ! It cannot be that long we dwell, Thus torn apart; Time's shadows like the shuttle flee : And, dark howe'er life's night may be. Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee, Casa Wappy! D. M. Moir. H each of these young human flowers God's own high message bears; And we are walking all our hours With "Angels unawares." R. Edmonstone. VESPERS. A ROW of little faces in the bed A row of little hands upon the spread; A row of little roguish eyes all closed; A row of little naked feet exposed; A gentle mother leads them in their praise, Teaching their feet to tread in heavenly ways. And takes this lull in childhood's tiny tide. The little errors of the day to chide. 180 MOSAICS OF LIFE. No lovelier siglit this side of heaven is seen, And angels hover o'er the group serene, Instead of odor in a censer swung, There floats the fragrance of an infant's tongue. All dressed like angels in their gowns of white, They'i'e wafted to the skies in dreams of night; And Heaven will sparkle in their eyes at morn. And stolen graces all their ways adorn. CKILBKEN'S PKAYEKS. r>NE night my little girl was wearied with a long walk. As I bade her good-night, I reminded her of one thing to be remembered before she slept. " Mamma !" said she, " I am so tired to-night ! wouldn't it do if I said, ' Thank you, God !' " Still more interesting were those words of the little boy, who, though nearly overcome with weariness, began his usual prayer, but closing his eyes, and nestling his beautiful head on the pillow, murmured half audibly, " He knows the rest." CHILD-SLEEP. "DUT a child that bids the world good-night In sober earnest, and cuts it quite. Is a cherub no art can copy; 'Tis a perfect picture to sec him lie. As if he had supped on dormouse pie, With a sauce of the syrup of poppy. T. Hood. BABYHOOD. 181 EMBLEMATICAL. n^IIE morn is up again ; the dewy morn, Witli lips all incense, and with cheek all bloom ; Laughing the clouds away as if in scorn, And living as if earth contained no tomb. Byron. THE BIKB-CATCHE^R. I remember well, sitting on the door-step of my father's house, a pinch of salt in my hand, watching with patient faith the blue and white pigeons coming so near, that ever and anon I could almost touch them! C\ ENTLY, gently yet, young stranger, Light of heart and light of heel ! Ere the bird perceives its danger, On it slyly steal. Silence ! — ah ! your scheme is failing — No; pursue your pretty prey; See, your shadow on the paling Startles it away. Caution ! now you're nearer creeping ; Neai'er yet — how still it seems ! Sure, the winged creature's sleeping. Wrapt in forest-dreams ! Golden sights that bird is seeing. Nest of green, or mossy bough; Not a thought it hath of fleeing; Yes, you'll catch it now. How your eyes begin to twinkle ! Silence, and you'll scarcely fail. Now stoop down, and softly sprinkle Salt upon its tail. 132 MOSAICS OF LIFE. Yes, you have it in your tether. Never more to skim the skies; Lodge the salt on that long feather — Ha! it flies! it flies! Hear it — hark ! among the bushes, Laughing at your idle lures ! Boy, the self-same feeling gushes Through my heart and yours. Baffled sportsman, childish Mentor, How have I been — hapless fault ! — Led, like you, my hopes to centre On a grain of salt ! On what captures I've been counting. Stooping here, and creeping there. All to see my bright hope mounting High into the air ! Thus have children of all ages. Seeing bliss before them fly, Found their hearts but empty cages. And their hopes on high ! Laman Blanchard. LITTLE WILLIL WAKING UP. QOME have thought that in the dawning, ^ In our being's freshest glow, God is nearer little children Than their parents ever know; And that, if you listen sharply, Better things than you can teach. And a sort of mystic wisdom 'I'ricklos tlivniiLih their careless speech. BABYHOOD. 133 How it is I cannot answer, But I knew a little child, Who, among the thyme and clover, And the bees was running wild. And he came one summer evening. With his ringlets o'er his eyes, And his hat was torn in pieces Chasing bees and butterflies. 'Now I'll go to bed, dear mother, For I'm very tired of play !" And he said his, " Now I lay me," In a kind of careless way. And he drank the cooling water, From his little silver cup. And said, gayly, " When it's mormni/, Will the Angels take me up ?" Down he sank with roguish laughter In his little trundle bed, And the kindly god of slumber Showered the poppies o'er his head. " What could mean his speaking strangely '{" Asked his musing mother then — " Oh 'twas nothing but his prattle ; What can he of Angels ken?" There he lies, how sweet and placid, And his breathing comes and goes Like a zephyr moving softly, And his cheek is like a rose; But she leaned her ear to listen If his breathing could be heard : " Oh," she murmured, " if the Angels Took my darling at his word !" 12 134 MOSAICS OF LIFE. Night witliiii its folding mantle Hath the sleepers both beguiled, And within its soft embracing Rest the mother and the child; Up she starteth from her dreaming, For a sound hath struck her ear — And it comes from little Willie, Lyings' on iijg trundle near. Up she springeth, for it strikes upon Her troubled ear again, And his breath, in louder fetches, Travels from his lungs in pain. And his eyes are fixing upward On some face beyond the room ; And the blackness of the spoiler. From his cheek hath chased the bloom. Never more his, " Now I lay me," Shall be said from mother's knee. Never more among the clover Will he chase the humble-bee. Through the night she watched her darling, Now despairing, now in hope ; And about the break of morning- Did the Angels take him up. E. H. Sears, CHRIST AND THE LITXLE ONES. " ^HE Master has come over Jordan," Said Hannah, the mother, one day; " He is healing the people who throng him With a touch of liis finger, they say. BABYHOOD. 1 '>5 " And now I shall carry the children — Little Rachel, and Samuel, and John, " I shall carry the baby, Esther, For the Lord to look upon." The father looked at her kindly. But he shook his head and smiled : " Now, who but a doting mother Would think of a thing so wild? " If the children were tortured by demons, Or dying of fever, 'twere well. Or had they the taint of the leper. Like many in Israel." " Nay, do not hinder me, Nathan — I feel such a burden of care; If I carry it to the Master, Perhaps I shall leave it there. " If he lay his hand on the children, My heart will be lighter, I know, For a blessing forever and ever Will follow them as they go." So over the hills of Judah, Along by the vine-rows green. With Esther asleep on her bosom. And Rachel her brothers between, 'Mong the people who hung on his teaching, Or waited his touch and his word, Through the row of proud Pharisees listening. She pressed to the feet of the Lord. 136 MOSAICS OF LIFE. " Now, why shouldst tliou hinder the Master," Said Peter, '• with children like these ? Seest not how, from morning till evening, He teacheth, and healeth disease ?" • Then Christ said, "Forbid not the children- - Permit them to come unto me." And he took in his arms little Esther, And Rachel he set on his knee; And the heavy heart of the mother Was lifted all earth-care above, As he laid his hands on the brothers, And blest them with tenderest love; As he said of the babes in his bosom, " Of such is the kingdom of heaven ;" And strength for all duty and trial That hour to her spirit was given. Julia Gill. "XT'OUTH fades ; love droops • the leaves of friendship fall ; A mother's secret hope outlives them all ! O. W. Holmes. THE nSKEKMEN. n^HREE fishers went sailing out into the West — -^ Out into the West as the sun went down; Each thought of the woman who loved him best. And the children stood watching them out of the town ; For men must work, and women must weep; And there's little to earn and many to keep. Though the harbor bar bo moaning. BABYHOOD. 137 Three wives sat up in the light-house towei* And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down ; And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the rack it came rolling up ragged and brown ; But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbor bar be moaning. Three corpses lay out on the shining sands. In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are watching and wringing their hands. For those who will never come back to the town ; For men must work, and women must weep. And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep, And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. Charles Kingsley. SOWING IN TKAKS. OTRAIGHT and still the baby lies, No more smiling in his eyes, Neither tears nor wailing cries. Smiles and tears alike are done; He has need of neither one — Only, I must weep alone. Tiny fingers, all too slight, Hold within their grasping tight, Waxen berries scarce more white. Nights and days of weary pain, I have held them close — in vain; Now I never shall again. 12 » 138 MOSAICS OF LIFE. Crossed upon a silent breast, By no suffering distressed, Here they lie in marble rest; They shall ne'er unfolded be, Never more in agony Cling so pleadingly to me. Never ! Oh, the hopeless sound To my heart so closely wound All his little being round! I forget the shining crown. Glad exchange for cross laid down, Now his baby brows upon. Yearning sore, I only know I am very full of woe — And I want my baby so! Selfish heart, that thou shouldst prove So unworthy of the love Which thine idol doth remove ! Blinded eyes, that cannot see Past the present misery, Joy and comfort full and free ! ! my Father, loving Lord ! I am ashamed at my own word; Strength and patience me afford. I will yield me to thy will; Now thy purposes fulfil ; Only help mc to be still. BABYHOOD. 189 TlioiTgli my mother-heart shall ache, I believe that, for thy sake, It shall not entirely break. And I know I yet shall own. For my seeds of sorrow sown, Sheaves of joy around thy throne ! GOOD LirK, LONG LirE. TN small proportion we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be. Ben Jonson. LITTLE CHILD]REN. OPORTINa through the forest wide, Playing by the water side, Wandering o'er the heather fells, Down within the woodland dells. All among the mountains wild, Dwelleth many a little child. In the rich man's house so wide, By the poor man's snug fireside, 'Mid the mighty, 'mid the mean. Little children may be seen; Like the flowers which spring up fair, Bright and countless everywhere ! In the fair isles of the main. In the desert's lone domain. 140 MOSAICS OF LIFE. In the savage mountain glen, 'Mong the tribes of swarthy men, Wheresoe'er a foot hath gone, Wheresoe'er the sun hath shone On a league of peopled ground. Little children may be found ! Blessings on them ! they, in me. Move a kindly sympathy. With their wishes, hopes, and fears, With their laughter and their tears, With their wonders, so intense, And their small experience. Little children not alone On the spacious earth are known, 'Mid its labors and its cares, 'Mid its sufferings and its snares j Free from sorrow, free from strife, In the world of love and life, Where no sinful thing hath trod — In the presence of our God, Spotless, blameless, glorified, Little children there abide ! Mary Howitt, WHAT THE CHMST-SPIKIT SAID TO CHILDKEN. T ITTLE children, love each other, -^ Never give another pain; If your brother speak in anger, Answer not in wrath again. BABYHOOD. 141 Be not selfisli to each other, Never mar another's rest, Strive to make each other happy, And you will yourselves be blest. THE HALLOWED B^RAWEK. ly/TRS. BIRD slowly opened the drawer. There were little ^■^ coats of many a form and pattern, piles of aprons, and rows of small stockings ; and even a pair of little shoes, worn and rubbed at the toes, were peeping from the folds of a paper. There was a toy, horse and wagon, a top, a ball — memorials gathered with many a tear, and many a heart-break ! She sat down by the drawer, and leaning her head on her hands over it, wept till the tears fell through her fingers into the drawer. And oh, mother that reads this, has there never been in your house a drawer, or a closet, the opening of which has been to you like the opening again of a little grave ? Mrs. H. B. Stowe. A PICTUKE. (\3. what a loveliness her eyes ^ Gather in that one moment's space. While peeping round the post she spies Her darling's laughing face ! Oh Mother's love is glorifying. On the cheek like sunset lying. Thomas Burbidge. We can have many wives, but only one mother. Turkish Saying. 142 MOSAICS OF LIFE. CKILDKEN. riHILDREN are what tlie motliers are, No fondest father's fondest care Can fashion so the infant heart, As tliose creative beams that dart, With all their hopes and fears upon The cradle of a sleeping son. His startled eyes with wonder see A father near him on his knee, Who wishes all the while to trace The mother in his future face ; But 'tis to her alone uprise His wakening arms; to her those eyes, Open with joy and not surprise. W. S. Landor. ■\T7H0 should it be ? Where shouldst thou look for kindness ? When we are sick, where can we turn for succour ? When we are wretched where can we complain ? And when the world looks cold and surly on us, Where can we go to meet a warmer eye With such sure confidence as to a mother's? Joanna Baillie. " A KISS from my mother made me a painter." Benjamin West. " TF the whole world were put into one scale, and my mother -*- into the other, the world would kick the beam." Lord Langdale. BABYHOOD. 14ij TO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS MOTHER. T OVE thy mother, little one ! Kiss and clasp her neck again — Hereafter she may have a son Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain; Love thy mother, little one ! Gaze upon her living eyes, And mirror back her love for thee — Hereafter thou mayst shudder sighs To meet them when they cannot see, Gaze upon her living eyes ! Press her lips awhile they glow With love that they have often told — Hereafter thou mayst press in woe, And kiss them till thine own are cold. Press her lips the while they glow ! Oh, revere her raven hair ! Although it be not silver-gray — Too early Death, led on by Care, May snatch save one dear lock away, ! revere her raven hair ! Pray for her at eve and morn. That Heaven may long the stroke defer — For thou mayst live the hour forlorn When thou wilt ask to die with her, Pray for her at eve and morn ! Thomas Hood. 144 MOSAICS OF LIFE. MOTKEK'S LOVE. EWS were wrought to cruel madness, Christians fled in fear and sadness, Mary stood the cross beside. At its foot her foot she phmted, By the dreadful scene undaunted, Till the gentle sufferer died. Poets oft have sung her story; Painters decked her brow with glory; Priests her name have deified; But no worship, song, or glory, Touches like that simple story — " Mary stood the cross beside." And when under fierce oppression Goodness suffers like transgression, Christ again is crucified. But if love be there, true-hearted, By no grief or terror parted, Mary stands the cross beside. W. J. Fox. MY SEKMON. T HAVE been sitting here for an hour, noting down some -*- thoughts for the sermon which I hope to write during this •week, and to preach next Sunday. I have not been able to think very connectedly, indeed ; for two little feet have been patteving round in(\ two little hands ])n]ling at me occasionally, LAB Y HOOD. 145 and a little voice entreating that I should come and have a race upon the green. Of course I went ; for like most men who are not very great or very bad, I have learned, for the sake of the little owner of the hands and the voice, to love every little child. My sermon will be the better for these interruptions. I do not mean to say it will be absolutely good, though it will be as good as I can make it ; but it will be better for these races with my little girl. Boyd. IN MEMOKIAM. A NOTHER little form asleep, And a little spirit gone ; Another little voice is hushed, And a little angel born. Two little feet are on the way To the home beyond the skies. And our hearts are like the void that comes When a strain of music dies ! II. A pair of little baby shoes. And a lock of golden hair; The toys our little darling loved, And the dress she used to wear; The little grave in the shady nook. Where the flowers love to grow; And these are all of the little hope That came three years ago ! 13 G 1-iG MOSAICS OF LIFE. III. The birds will sit on the branch above, And sing a requiem To the beautiful little sleeping form That used to sing to them; But never again -will the little lips To their songs of love reply, For that silvery voice is blended with The minstrelsy on high ! Knickerbocker. A SUNBEAM AND A SHADOW. T HEAR a shout of merriment, a laughing boy I see ; Two little feet the carpet press, and bring the child to me; Two little arms are round my neck, two feet upon my knee ; How fall the kisses on my cheek ! how sweet they are to me I That merry shout no more I hear, no laughing child I see ; No little arms are round my neck, nor feet upon my knee ! No kisses drop upon my cheek ; those lips are sealed to me. Dear Lord ! how could I give him up to any but to thee ! Monthly Religious Magazine. A MOTHER'S JOYS. T'VE gear enough, I've gear enough, I've bonuie bairnies three; Their welfare is a mine of wealth, Their love a crown to me. The joys, the dear deliglits they bring. I'm sure I'd not agree To change for every worldly good That could be mvcn to me. nABYlWOD. 147 Let others flaunt in fashion's ring, Seek rank and high degree ; I wish them joy with all my heart, They're envied not by me. I would not give those loving looks, The heaven of those smiles, To bear the proudest name — to be The Queen of Britain's isles. My sons are like their father dear, And all the neighbors tell That my young blue-eyed daughter's just The picture of mysel'. Oh, blessings on my darlings all ! They're dear as summer's shine. My heart runs o'er with happiness To think that they are mine. At evening, morning, every hour I've an unchanging prayer. That Heaven would my bairnies bless, My hope, my joy, my care. I've gear enough, I've gear enough, I've bonnie bairnies three; Their welfare is a mine of wealth. Their love a crown to me. William Ferguson. TH£ CHILDREN. A H ! what would the world be to us If the children were no more ? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before. 148 MOSAICS OF LIFE. What the leaves are to the forest, With Ught and air for food, Ere their sweet and tender juices Have heeu hardened into wood — That to the workl are children ; Through them it feels the glow Of a hrighter and sunnier climate Than reaches the trunks helow. H. W. Longfellow. The fate of the child is always the work of his mother. Napoleon. ANTIPODES. 17 V A stood looking at Topsy. There stood the two children, representatives of the two extremes of society. The fair, high-hred child, with her golden head, her deep eyes, her spiritual, nohle brow, and prince-like movements; and her black, keen, subtle, cringing, yet acute neighbor. They stood the representatives of their races. The Saxon, born of ages of cultivation, command, education, physical and moral emi- nence; the Afric, born of ages of oppression, submission, ignorance, toil, and vice ! H. B. Stowe. BABYHOOD. 149 THE DEAD BOY. TTE crossed the sill; she pointed to the bed; There lay her boy, his innocent curly head, Nestled upon the pillow, and his face Lit with the solemn and unearthly grace That crowns but once the children of our race ; God gives it when he takes them — he was dead ! A broken toy, a bunch of withered flowers, In his thin hands were clasped, his breast above. The last frail ties that to this world of ours Had linked the sufferer — save a mother's love. William Allen Butler. THE PKATTLE OF CHILDREN. "VrO man knows, but he that loves his children, how many delicious accents make a man's heart dance in the pretty conversation of these dear pledges ; their childishness, their stammering, their little angers, their innocences, their imper- fections, their necessities, are so many little emanations of joy and comfort to him that delights in their persons and society. Jeremy Taylor — Sermon xviii. ^TTHEEE like we to see presumption shown? ' In children : for the world's their own ! 13 150 MOSAICS OF LIFE. AH, blessed indeed are little children ! Mortals do not un- dcrstand half they owe them ; for the good they do us is a spiritual gift, and few perceive how it intertwines the mystery of life. They form a ladder of garlands on which the angels descend to our souls ; and without them, such communications would be utterly lost. L. M. Child. TN this dim world of clouding cares We rarely know till wildered eyes See white wings lessening up the skies The angels with us unawares ! Gerald Massey. ILLUSIONS. "TTTHEN the boys come into my yard for leave to gather horse-chestnuts, I own I enter into Nature's game, and affect to grant the permission reluctantly, fearing that any moment they will find out the imposture of that showy chaff. But this tenderness is quite unnecessary ; the enchantments are laid on very thick. Their young life is thatched with them. Bare and grim to tears is the lot of the children in the hovel I saw yesterday ; yet not the less they hang it round with frippery romance, like the children of the happiest fortune. A TORN jacket is soon mended ; but hard words bruise the heart of a child. Longfellow BABYHOOD. 151 THE CONTRAST. TN tlie parlor, singing-, playing, Round me like a sunbeam straying, All her life with joy o'erladen, Is a radiant little maiden. Constant love, her cares beguiling. Shields her from sin's dread defiling j Sheltered safe from worldly rudeness, Grows she in her native goodness. Every morn brings fond caressing, Every night brings earnest blessing j So her heart gets sweeter, purer, And her steps in virtue surer. In the street, where storms are sighing. Is a child deserted, crying; Poor lost lamb ! with plaintive bleating All my sympathy entreating. No home's holy loves enfold her, No protecting arms uphold her; And the voices that should guide her Utter only tones that chide her. O'er her spirit's waste and blindness Falls no ray of saving kindness; Wandering thus in earth's dark places, Sin her tender soul embraces. Then I know that radiant maiden All whose life with love is laden, Only love saves from the danger And the fate of this lost stranger ! 152 MOSAICS OF LIFE. THE MOTHER, EVEN IN DEATH. rpHE end was drawing ou; the golden bowl was breaking; the silver cord was fast being loosed — that animula blan- dula, vagula, hospes, comesque, was about to flee. The body and soul, companions for sixty years, were being sundered, and taking leave. She was walking alone through the valley of that shadow into which one day we must all enter ; and yet she was not alone, for we all know whose rod and stafi" were comforting her. One night she had fallen quiet, and as we hoped, asleep; her eyes were shut. We put down the gas, and sat watching her. Suddenly she sat up in bed, and taking a bed-gown which was lying on it rolled up, she held it eagerly to her breast, to the right side. We could see her eyes, bright with surprising tenderness and joy, bending over this bundle of clothes. She held it as a woman holds her sucking child ; opening out her night-gown impatiently, and holding it close, and brooding over it, and murmuring foolish little words, as over one whom his mother comforteth, and who sucks and is satisfied. It was pitiful and strange to see her wasted, dying look, keen and yet vague ; her immense love : and then she rocked back and forward, as if to make it sleep, hushing it, and wasting on it her infinite fondness. " Preserve me !" groaned her husband, giving way. "Wae's me, doctor; I declare she's thinking it's that bairn." " What bairn ?" " The only bairn we ever had; our wee Mysie, and she's in the Kingdom forty years and mair." It was plainly true; the pain in the breast telling its urgent story to a bewildered, ruined brain, was misread and mistaken ; it suggested to her the uneasiness of a breast full of milk, and then the . child ; and so again once more they were together, and she had her ain wee Mysie on her bosom. This was the close — she sank rapidly ; the delirium left her. After having for some time BABYHOOD. 153 laia still, her eyes shut, she said, " James." He came close to her, and lifting up her calm, clear, beautiful eyes, she gave him a long look, turned to me kindly but shortly, then to her husband again, as if she would never leave off looking, shut her eyes, composed herself, and passed gently away. John Brown. THE CHILDiaEN'S HOUR. "DETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the children's hour. I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet; The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. From my study I see in the lamp-light, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair. A whisper, and then a silence; Yet I know by their merry eyes, They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall ! By three doors left unguarded. They enter my castle wall ! 154 MOSAICS OF LIFE. They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me — They seem to be everywhere ! They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse Tower on the Khine ! Do you think, oh ! blue-eyed banditti. Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old moustache as I am Is not a match for you all ? I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeons In the round-tower of my heart ! And there will I keep you forever. Yes, forever and a day. Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away ! H. W. Longfellow. nPAKE heed ye offend not one of these little ones; for I say -^ unto you, their angels do always behold the face of my Father. BABYHOOD. • lo5 MOTHER'S TRUST. " 'U'OU don't believe I did what they accuse me of, mother •^ dear ?" cried Kit in a choking voice. " I believe it !" exclaimed the poor woman. '• I, that never knew you tell a lie, or do a bad action from your cradle; that have never had a moment's sorrow on your account. I believe it of the son that's been a comfort to me from the hour of his birth to this time, and that I never laid down one night in anger with ! I believe it of you, Kit !" " Why then, thank God !" said Kit, clutching the bars with an earnestness that shook them, " and I can bear it, mother. Come what may, I shall always have one drop of happiness in my heart when I think that you said that." At this, the poor woman fell a crying again. As to the baby, it was crowing and laughing with all its might, under the idea, apparently, that the whole scene had been invented and got up for its particular satisfaction ! Charles Dickens. MOTHER'S TENDERNESS. A f THERE is an enduring tenderness in the love of a • mother to her son, which transcends all other aflfections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessuess, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his conve- nience ; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will glory in his fame, and exu.lt in his prosperity; and, if misfortune overtake him, he will be the dearer to her for mis- fortune ; and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace ; and if all the world beside cast him oif, she will be all the world to him. Washington Irving, 156 ' MOSAICS OF LIFE. I LIVE rOK TKEE." TTOME they brought her warrior dead ; She nor swooned, nor uttered cry; All her maidens, watching, said, " She must weep, or she will die." Then they praised him soft and low, Called him worthy to be loved. Truest friend, and noblest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stept, Took the face-cloth from the face ; Yet she neither moved nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years. Set his child upon her knee, Like summer tempest came her tears, " Sweet, my child, I live for thee." Alfred Tennyson THE SEA. nnHROUGrH the night, through the night, -^ In the saddest unrest. Wrapt in white, all in white, With her babe on her breast, Walks the mother so pale, Staring out on the gale Throuuh the iiitiht 1 BABYHOOD. 157 Through the night, through the night, Where the sea lifts the wreck, Land in sight, close in sight. On the surf-flooded deck Stands the father so brave. Driving on to his grave Through the night ! R. H. Stoddard. " T^FFENDI," said the poor old creature, her voice trembling, and the tears streaming from her eyes, " My children are all dead ! There is no one now between me and Allah !" Pencillings by the Way. QHE is the barren woman whose son is not remembered in the assemblies of the good and just. Hindoo Saying. LITTLE CKAKLIE. LITTLE presence ! everywhere We find some touching trace of thee — A pencil mai'k upon the wall That "naughty hands" made thoughtlessly; And broken toys around the house. Where he has left them they have lain. Waiting for little busy hands That will not come again — Will never come again ! 14 158 MOSAICS OF LIFE. Within the shrouded room below He lies a-cold — and yet we know It is not Charlie there ! It is not Charlie, cold and white, It is the robe, that in his flight, He gently cast aside ! Our darlino- hath not died ! T. B. Aldrich. A CHILD is a man in a small letter; the older he grows, he ■^ is a stair lower from Grod ; and, like his first Father, much worse in his breeches. John Earle, 1601 — 1665. Tutor to Prince Charles. KITTIE IS GONE. TT'ITTIE is gone. Where? To heaven. An angel came, and took her away. She was a lovely child, gentle as a lamb ; the pet of the whole family ; the youngest of them all. But she oould not stay with us any longer. * * * * Jf a little voice sweeter and more musical than others were heard, I knew Kittle was near. If my study door opened so gently and slily that no sound could be heard, I knew Kittie was coming. If after an hour's quiet play, a little shadow passed me, and the door opened and shut as no one else could open and shut it, "so as not to disturb papa," I knew Kittie was going. When, in the midst of my composing, I heard a gentle voice saying, " Papa, may I stay with you a little while ? I will be very still ;" I did not need to look ofi" my work to assure me that it was my little lamb. You staid with me too long, Kittie dear, to leave me so suddenly, and you arc too still now. BABYHOOD. 159 You became my little assistant, my home angel, my youngest and sweetest singing bird, and I miss the little voice that I have heard in an adjoining room, catching up and echoing little snatches of melody as they were being composed. I miss those soft and sweet kisses. I miss the little hand that was always first to be placed on my forehead to " drive away the pain." I miss the sound of those little feet upon the stairs. * * * * I miss you in the garden. I miss you everywhere, but I will try not to miss you in heaven. " Papa, if we are good, will an angel truly come and take us to heaven when we die ?" When the question was asked, how little did I think the angel was so near ! But he did truly come, and the sweet flower was translated to a more genial clime. " I lo wish papa would come." Wait a little while, Kittie, and papa will come. The journey is not long. He will soon be Home. William B. Bradbury. HOW'S MY BOY? " TTO ! sailor of the sea ! ^^ How's my boy — my boy?" "What's your boy's name, good wife, And in what good ship sailed he?" "My boy John — He that went to sea; What care I for the ship, sailor ? My boy's my boy to me. "You come back from sea. And not know my John ? I might as well have asked some landsmai Yonder down in the town. There's not an ass in all the parish But knows my John. 160 MOSAICS OF LIFE. " How's my boy — my boy ? And unless you let me know, I'll swear you are no sailor, Blue jacket or no, Brass buttons or no, sailor, Anchor and crown or no — Sure bis sbip was the ' Jolly Briton.' " " Speak low, woman, speak low !" "And why should I speak low, sailor, About my own boy John ? If I was loud as I am proud, I'd sing him over the town ! Why should I speak low, sailor ?" " That good ship went down." " How's my boy — my boy ? What care I for the ship, sailor; I was never aboard her. Be she afloat or be she aground. Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound Her owners can aftbrd her ! I say, how's my John ?" "Every man on board went down. Every man aboard her." "How's my boy — my boy? What care I for the men, sailor? I'm not their mother. How's my boy — my boy? Tell me of liim, and no other ! How's my boy — my boy?" Sydney Dobel BABYHOOD. 1(31 'pHE boy carried in liis face tlie " open sesame" to every door and heart. THE BAKErOOT BOY. ■OLESSINGS on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! With thy turned up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lips, redder still, Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; With the sunshine on thy face. Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace ; From my heart I give thee joy — I was once a barefoot boy. Prince thou art — the grown up man Only is republican ; Let the million-dollared ride ! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy, In the reach of ear and eye; Outward sunshine, inward joy : Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 0, for boyhood's painless play. Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools. Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, 14 « 162 MOSAICS OF LIFE. And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the groundnut trails its vine, Where the wood grape's clusters shine; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans ! For, eschewing books and tasks. Nature answers all he asks ; Hand in hand with her he walks. Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy. Blessings on the barefoot boy ! 0, for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw. Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played. Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall. Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rinimed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, BABYHOOD. 1G3 Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides ! Still, as my horizon grew, Larger grew mj riches too; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 0, for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread, Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone gray and rude; O'er me, like a regal tent. Cloudy-ribbed the sunset bent. Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; While for music came the play Of the pied frog's orchestra; And, to light the noisy choir. Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch ; pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy ! Cheerily, then, my little man. Live and laugh, as boyhood can ! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat; All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Loose the freedom of the sod. Like a colt's for work be shod. 1G4 MOSAICS OF LIFE. Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil; Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin. Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! J. G. Whittier. KAKKY'S LETTER. Dear Bill : TTERE I am in Lincolnshire. Now I'll tell you what I want. I want you to come down here for the holidays. Don't be afraid. Ask your sister to ask your mother to ask your flxther to let you come. It's only ninety miles. If you're out of pocket-money, you can walk, and beg a lift now and then, or swing by the dickeys. Put on corduroys, and don't care for cut behind. The two prentices, George and Nick, are here to be made farmers of, and brother Frank is took home from school to help in agriculture. We like farming very much ; it's capital fun. Us four have got a gun, and go out shooting; it's a famous good one, and sure to go oflf if you don't full cock it. Tiger is to be our shooting dog as soon as he has left off' killing the sheep. He's a real savage, and worries cats beautiful. Before father comes down, we mean to bait our bull with him. There's plenty of new rivers about, and we're going a fish- ing as soon as we have mended our top joint. "We've killed one of our sheep on the sly to get gentles. We've a pony, too, to ride upon when we can catch him, but he's loose in the paddock, and has neither niaiio nor tail to signify to lay hold BABYJIOOJ). 165 of. Isn't it prime. Bill ? You miiat come. If your mother ■won't give your father leave to allow you, run away. There's a pond full of frogs, but we won't pelt them till you come ; but let it be before Sunday, as there's our own orchard to rob, and the fruits to be gathered on Monday. If you like sucking raw eggs, we know where the hens lay, and mother don't ; and I'm bound there's lots of birds' nests. Do come. Bill, and I'll show you the wasp's nest, and everything to make you comfortable. I dare say you could borrow your father's volunteer musket of him without his knowing it; but be sure any how to bring the ramrod, as we've mislaid ours by firing- it off. Don't forget some bird-lime, Bill, and some fish-hooks, and some difierent sorts of shot, and some gunpowder, and a gentle-box, and some flints, some May-flies, and a powder-horn, and a landing-net, and a dog-whistle, and some porcupine- quills, and a bullet-mould, and a trolling-winch, and a shot- belt, and a tin-can. You pay for ^em. Bill, and I'll owe it you. Your old friend and school-fellow, Harry. Thomas Hood. A QUESTION. TT7HEN yet was ever found a mother VV Who'd give her booby for another? John Gay. THE BOY'S APPEAL. AH, why must my face be washed so clean. And rubbed and scrubbed for Sunday? When you very well know, as you often have seen, 'Twill be dirty again on Monday. 166 MOSAICS OF LIFE. You rub as hard as ever you can, And your hands are rough, to my sorrow; No woman shall wash me when I'm a man; And I wish I was one to-morrow ! THE rATHEK'S ADVICE To his Son going to Seek his Fortune. N OW, my boy, remember three things: '-Fear God; be kind to your horse ; and keep your bowels open." Hildreth. AGAINST BOYS. /CERTAIN feeble poetasters are always mourning that they are no longer in the Classical or Commercial Seminary of their younger days, but I believe that there are few honest men who do not look back upon their school-days with a shudder. I was not a very bad boy myself, I believe, but the comparison of my Now with my Then is certainly not odious. I can now meet a cat without wishing to kill it ; I can behold two dogs without yearning to set them by the ears; I can listen to the twitter of a hedge-sparrow without longing for a horse- pistol; I can pass in the street an individual smaller than myself without experiencing an uncontrollable desire to snatch off his cap, and throw it over the wall. When I go to church, I take a church-service in my hand, and not a novel of similar external appearance ; I do not distend my pockets with filberts purloined irom my host's dinner-table ; I do not smoke bits of cane until I am sick ; I do not think it ungentlemanly to ride in a 'bus; T am no lunger irresistibly attracted to any barrow BABY noon. 167 full of strange delicacies, sucli as Albert rock or Alicam-pane, and if I were, the fruit of all others I should leave untouched would be exposed slices of cocoa-nut. Upon the whole, in short, I flatter myself that my relations with society are improved since I was that dreadful being — a boy. If all the grown-up people in the world should suddenly fail, what a frightful thing would society become reconstructed by boys ! Chambers' Journal. WHICH IS THE HAPPIEST. "^TTHICH is the happiest ; a king, a lover repairing to his first interview, a successful author, an actor who has heard his rival hissed, an old coquette who has just received a compliment, a servant who is alone in a house, or a school-hoi/ coinmcncing Ms holidays ? Paul de Kock. Extract from a Letter to Philip Sydney, at ten years of age, from his Father. T)E curteese of gesture, and affable to all men, with diversity of reverence, according to the dignity of the person. There is nothing which wynneth so much with so lytell cost. Use moderate dyet, so as after yowr meate, you may find yowr wytte fresher, and not duller, and yowr bodie more lyvely, and not more hea\'ye. Delight to be cleanly, as well in all parts of yowr bodie, as in yowr garments. Grive yowrselfe to be merrye, but let yowr myrthe be ever void of all scurrility, and biting woordes to any man, for an wounde given by a woorde is oftentimes harder to be cured, than that which is given by the sword. Above all things, tell no untruthe, no, not in 168 MOSAICS OF LIFE. trifels. Be virtuously occupied, so shall you make such an habits of well doing, that you shall not know how to do evell. Well, my lytell Phillipe, this is ynough for me, and too muche, I fear, for you. H. Sydney. "\T7E should gain our object better in the discipline of chil- dren, if, instead of finding fault with an action, we set ourselves to produce a better state of feeling, without noticing the action. Mary P. Ware. THE BOY AT riFTEEN. ANE of the most common signs of this period, in some ^ natures, is the love of contradiction and opposition — a blind desire to go contrary to everything that is commonly received among older people. The boy disparages the minister, quizzes the deacon, thinks the school-master an ass, and seems to be rather pleased, than otherwise, with the shock and flutter that all these announcements create among peaceably disposed grown people. Is he a boy ; an immortal soul ? a reasonable human being ? or a goblin sent to torment ? " What shall we do with him ?" says his mother. " He can't be governed like a child, and he won't govern himself like a man." " We must cast out anchor and wait for day," says his father. " Prayer is a long rope with a strong hold." H. B. Stowe. T?01l what we learn in youth, to that alone In age we are by second nature prone. BABYHOOD. 169 n^HERE is good metal in the boy; the best ore cannot look like gold till it is fused. It is so difficult for us women, who have to watch from our quiet homes afar, to distinguish the glow of the smelting furnace from the glare of a confla- gration. Chronicles of the Schonberg Cotta Family. What the Father said to the School-boy. " A ND now, Tom, my boy," said the Squire, " remember you are going, at your own earnest request, to be chucked into this great school, like a young bear, with all your troubles before you. If schools are what they were in my time, you'll see a great many cruel blackguard things done, and hear a deal of foul bad talk. But never fear. You tell the truth, keep a brave and kind heart, and never listen to, or say anything you would not have your mother or sister hear, and you'll never feel ashamed to come home, or we to see you." Tom Brown at Rugby. What the Father said to his Daughter. "VfEVER for one moment forget that you are a gentlewoman ; let all your words and actions mark you gentle. Lord Collingwood. What the Poet said to the Young Maiden. "OE good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever ; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long. And so make life, death, and that vast Forever One grand, sweet song. Charles Kingsley 15 H 170 MOSAICS OF LIFE. What the Poet might say to the Young Maiden's Mother, T IS all iu vain to hurry so, They're roses and they'll surely blow. Goethe. n^HE boy whose love you cannot feed by daily nourishment, will find pride, self-indulgence, and an iron purpose coming ,n to fui-nish other supply for the soul that is in him. If he cannot shoot his branches into the sunshine, he will become acclimated to the shadow. D. G. Mitchell. rpiIAT domestic discipline of children may not end in disap- pointment, three things, with God's help, are needed; firmness of purpose, gentleness of manner, and consistency of example. E. S. Gannett. TN the man whose childhood has known caresses, there is always a fibre of memory which can be touched to gentle issues. Marian Evans. Happy is he whose friends were born before him. Old Proverb. Happy he With such a mother ! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him, and though he trip and fall. He shall not blind bis soul with clay. Alfred Tennyson. BABYHOOD. 171 BOY LOST. TTE had black eyes with long lashes, red cheeks, and hair -*-^ almost black and almost curly. He wore a crimson plaid jacket, with full trowsers, buttoned on; had a habit of whistling, and liked to ask questions ; was accompanied by a small, black dog. It is a long while now since he disappeared. I have a very pleasant house and much company. My guests say, " Ah ! it is pleasant here ! Everything has such an orderly, put-away look — nothing about under foot, no dirt !" But my eyes are aching for the sight of whittlings and cut paper upon the floor, of tumble-down card-houses, of wooden sheep and cattle, of pop-guns, bows and arrows, whips, tops, go-carts, blocks, and trumpery. I want to see boats a rigging, and kites a making, crumbles on the carpet, and paste spilt on the kitchen table. I want to see the chairs and tables turned the wrong way about. I want to see candy-making and corn- popping, and to find jack-knives and fish-hooks among my muslins. Yet these things used to fret me once. They say, " How quiet you are here ! Ah ! one here may settle his brains, and be at peace." But my ears are aching for the pattering of little feet, for a hearty shout, a shrill whistle, a gay tra la la, for the crack of little whips, for the noise of drums, fifes, and tin trumpets; yet these things made me nervous once. They say, " Ah ! you have leisure — nothing to disturb you ; what heaps of sewing you have time for !" But I long to be asked for a bit of string or an old newspaper, for a cent to buy a slate pencil or pea-nuts. I want to be coaxed for a piece of new cloth for jibs or main-sails, and then to hem the same. I want to make little flags, and bags to hold marbles. I want to be followed by little feet all over the house, teasing for a bit 172 MOSAICS OF LIFE. of dough for a little cake, or to bake a pie in a saucer. Yet these things used to fidget lue once. They say, " Ah ! you are not tied at home. How delightful to be always at liberty to go to concerts, lectures, and parties ! No confinement for you." But I want confinement. I want to listen for the school- bell mornings, to give the last hasty wash and brush, and then to watch from the window nimble feet bounding to school. I want frequent rents to mend, and to replace lost buttons. I want to obliterate mud-stains, fruit-stains, molasses-stains, and paints of all colors. I want to be sitting by a little crib of evenings, when weary feet are at rest, and prattling voices are hushed that mothers may sing their lullabies, and tell over the oft-repeated stories. They don't know their happiness then — those mothers. I didn't. All these things I called confine- ment once. A manly figure stands before me now. He is taller than I ; has thick, black whiskers, and wears a frock-coat, bosomed shirt, and cravat. He has just come from college. He brings Latin and Greek in his countenance, and busts of the old philosophers for the sitting-room. He calls me mother, but I am rather unwilling to own him. He stoutly declares that he is my boy, and says that he will prove it. He brings me a small pair of white trowsers, with gay stripes at the sides, and asks if I didn't make them for him when he joined the boys' militia. He says he is the very boy, too, that made the bonfire near the barn, so that we came very near having a fire in earnest. He brings his little boat, to show the red stripe on the sail (it was the end of the piece,) and the name on the stern — " Lucy Low" — a little girl of our neighborhood, who, because of her long curls and pretty round face, was the chosen favorite of my little boy. Her curls were long since cut off, and she has grown to be a tall, handsome girl. How the red comes to his face when he shows me the BABYHOOD. 173 name on the boat ! Oh ! I see it all, as plain as if it were ■written in a book. My little boy is lost, and my big boy will soon be. Oh ! I wish he were a little tired boy in a long white night-gown, lying in his crib, with me sitting by, hold- ing his hand in mine, pushing the curls back from his fore- head, watching his eyelids droop, and listening to his deep breathing. If I only had my little boy again, how patient I would be ! How much I would bear, and how little I would fret and scold ! I can never have him back again ; but there are still many mothers who haven't yet lost their little boys. I wonder if they know they are living their very best days — that now is the time to really enjoy their children, I think if I had been more to my little boy, I might now be more to my grown- up one. 15 » YOUTH. 175 YOUTH. Oh beautiful, all golden, gentle youth ! Making thy palace in the careless front And hopeful eye of man — ere yet the soul Hath lost the memories which (so Plato dreamed) Breathed glory from the earlier star it dwelt in. 0, for one gale from thine exulting morning Stirring amidst the roses, where of old Love shook the dew-drops from his glancing hair! E. L. BULWER. But then her face, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth. The overflowings of an innocent heart. It haunts me still, though many a year has fled Like some wild melody ! Samuel Rogers. A lovely being scarcely formed, or moulded, A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded. Lord Byron. When a girl ceases to blush, she has lost the most powerful charm of her beauty. Gregory. The beauty of this beautiful woman is Heaven's stamp upon virtue. She will be equal to every chance that shall bcfal her, and she is so radiant and charming in the circle of prosperity, only because she lias that irresisti- ble simplicity and fidelity of character, which can also pluck the sting from adversity. G. W. Curtis. H » 177 178 MOSAICS OF LIFE. She was a form of life and light That seen became a part of sight; And rose, where'er I turned mine eye The morning star of memory ! Lord Byron. Youth pastures in a valley of its own : The glare of noon, the rains and winds of heaven, Mar not the calm yet virgin of all care ; But ever with sweet joys it buildeth up The airy halls of life. •Sophocles. Look upon every day, youth, as the whole of life, not merely as a section, and enjoy the present without wishing through haste, to sjiring on to another lying — before — the section. RlCHTER. EMILY IS MAKKIED! TT is wonderful how one young maiden freshens up and keeps green, tlie paternal roof. Old and young seem to have an interest in her, so long as she is not absolutely disposed of Emily is married. The Admiral still enjoys his pipe, but he has no Miss Emily to fill it for him. The instrument stands where it stood, but she is gone, whose delicate touch could sometimes for a short minute appease the warring elements. He has learnt, as Marvel expresses it, to " make his destiny his choice." He bears bravely up, but he does not come out with his flashes of wild wit so thick as formerly. His sea- songs seldom escape him. His wife, too, looks as if she wanted some younger body to scold and set to rights. We all miss a junior presence. The youthfulness of the house is flown ! Charles Lamb. A WOMAN may one day hope to be an angel, but she can never ajrain be a girl ! YOUTH. 179 TO TANNIE IN A BALL DKESS. 'pHOU hast braided thy dark flowing hair, And wreathed it with rosebuds and pearls, But, dearer, neglected thy sweet tresses are, Soft fixllino; in natural curls ! Thou delightest the cold world's gaze. When crowned with the flower and the gem. But thy lover's smile should be dearer praise, Than the incense thou prizest from them. And gay is the playful tone, As to flattery's voice thou respondest. But what is the praise of the cold and unknown, To the tender blame of the fondest ? John Everett. TS there anything in life so lovely and poetical as the laugh and merriment of a young girl, who still in harmony with all her powers, sports with you in luxuriant freedom, and in her mirthfulness neither despises nor dislikes ? Her gravity is seldom as innocent as her playfulness ; still less that haughty discontent which converts the youthful Psyche into a dull, thick, buzzing, wing-drooping night-moth. Never fear that feminine playfulness will exclude depth of character and sensi- bility. Let then the laughter-loving creatures giggle on at one another, and especially at the first clumsy make-game wight who comes among them, even should he be the writer of this paragraph ! Jean Paul. IbO MOSAICS OF LIFE. I was glad that day — The June was in mcj I felt so young, so strong, so sure of God! E. B. Browning. MAIDENHOOD IVTAIDENI with the meek, brown eyes. In whose oi-bs a shadow lies Like the dusk in evening skies ! Bear a lily in thy hand; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand. Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth; In thy heart the dew of youth, On thy lips the smile of truth. Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal Into wounds that cannot heal, Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; And that smile, like sunshine, dart Into many a sunless heart, For a smile of God thou art. H. W. Longfellov LirE IS BEFOKE YE. r IFE is before ye ! from the fated road Ye cannot turn; then take ye up the load. Not yours to tread, or leave the unknown way. Ye must go o'er it, meet ye what ye may; YOUTH. 181 Gird up your souls within you to the deed I Angels and fellow-spirits bid ye speed. What tho' the brightness wane, the pleasure fade, The glory dim ! Oh, not of those is made The awful life that to your trust is given. Children of God ! inheritors of heaven ! Mourn not the perishing of each fair toy ; Ye were ordained to do, not to enjoy — To suffer, which is nobler than to dare; A holy burden is the life ye bear. Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly. Stand up, and walk beneath it steadfastly; Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin. But onward, upward, till the goal ye win ! God guide ye, and God guard ye on your way, Young warrior-pilgrims who set forth to-day. Fanny Kemble. The childhood shows the man, as morning shows the day. Paradise Regained — Book iv. IDEALS or WOMAN. No. 1. AH, blest with temper, whose unclouded ray ^ Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day. She who can love a sister's charms, and hear Sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear; She who ne'er answers till a husband cools.. Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules; 16 I8l! MOSAICS OF LIFE. Cliuniis by accepting, by submitting sways, Yet has lier humor most when she obeys; Spleen, vai)ors, or small-pox, above them all, And mistress of herself, tlioiujli China fall I Alexander Pope. IDEALS or WOMAN. No. 2. "VrOT only good and kind, ]5ut strong and elevated was her mind; A spirit that with noble pride Could look superior down On fortune's smile or frown ; That could without regret or pain To virtue's lowest duty sacrifice. Or interest or ambition's highest prize ; That injured, or oflFended, never tried Its dignity by vengeance to maintain But by magnanimous disdain. A wit, that, temperately bright. With inoffensive light All pleasing shone; nor ever past The decent bounds that wisdom's sober hand, And sweet benevolence's mild command, And bashful modesty before it cast. A prudence undeceiving, undeceived, That nor too little, nor too much believed ; That scorned unjust suspicion's coward fear, And without weakness knew to be sincere. Made to engage all hearts, and charm all eyes. Though meek, magnanimous; though witty, wise; Polite, as all her life in courts had been, Yet good, as she the world had never seen. George Lyttletor. YOUTH. 183 MY KATE. Ideal No. 3. OHE was not as pretty as women I know, ^ And yet all your best, made of sunshine and snow, Deep to shade, melt to nought, in the long-trodden ways, While she's still remembered on warm and cold days : My Kate. Her air had a meaning, her movement a grace, You turned from the fairest to gaze in her face; And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth, You saw as distinctly her soul and her truth : My Kate. Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke, You looked at her silence and fancied she spoke ; When she did, so peculiar, yet soft was the tone. Though the loudest spoke also, you heard her alone : My Kate. I doubt if she said to you much that could act As a thought or suggestion ; she did not attract In the sense of the brilliant and wise, I infer; 'Twas lier thinking of others made you think of her : My Kate. She never found fault with you; never implied Your wrong by her right; and yet men at her side. Grew nobler, girls purer, as through the whole town The children were gladder that pulled at her gown: My Kate. None knelt at her feet as adorers in thrall; They knelt more to Grod than they used, that was all ; 184 MOSAICS OF LIFE. If 3'ou praised lier as charming, some asked what you meant, But the charm of her presence was felt when she went : My Kate. The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude. She took as she found them and did them all good ; It always was so with hei* — see wliat you have ! She has made the grass greener e'en here with her grave : My Kate. My dear one ! when thou wert alive with the rest, I held thee the sweetest, and loved thee the best; And now thou art dead, shall I not take thy part, As thy smile used to do thyself my sweet-heart? My Kate. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. POET'S IDEAL. No. 4. QHE was a Phantom of delight, ^ When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn ; From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; A dancing shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle and waylay. I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! YOUTH. 18/ Her liouseliold motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human Nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveler between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; A perfect Woman, nobly planned To warn, to comfort and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of an Angel light. William Wordsworth. rKOM COMUS." A MASK. Scene — A Wildwood. First Brother — But oh, that hapless virgin, our lost Sister ; Where may she wander now, whither betake her From the chill dew, among rude burs and thistles? What, if in wild amazement, and affright. Or, while we speak, within the direful grasp Of savage hunger, or of savage heat? 16 * ISG MOSAICS OF LIFE. Second Brother — My sister is not so defenceless left, As you imagine; she has a hidden strength "Whieli you remember not. First Brother — What hidden strength, Unless the strength of Heaven, if you mean that? Second Brother — I mean that too, but yet a hidden strength, Which, if Heaven gave it, may be termed her own ; 'Tis chastity, my Brother, chastity : She that has that, is clad in complete steel, Some say no evil thing that walks by night. In fog, or fire, by lake, or moorish fen. No goblin, or swart faery of the mine Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity — 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 oft converse with heavenly habitants Begin 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. First Brother — Heaven keep my Sister. John Milton, YOUTH. 187 All ! n'insultcz jamais une ferame qui toiiibe ! ^ Qui sait sous quel llu-deau la pauvcr amc succombe. ****** Comme au bout d'unc branclic on voit I'tinceler Unc goutte de pluie oii le ciel vicnt briller, Qu'on secoue avec I'arbre, et qui tremble, et qui lutte. Perle avant de tomber, et fange ajpres sa chute ! Cette fange, d'ailleurs, contient I'eau pure encor, Pour que lagoutte d'eau sorte de la poussi^re Et redevienne perle en sa splendour premiere, II suffit, e'est ainsi que tout remonte un jour, D'un rayon de soliel ou d'un rayon d' amour ! Victor Hugo. THE BRIDGE Or SIGHS. " Drowned ! drowned !" — Hamlet. ANE more Unfortunate, ^ Weary of breath, Rasbly importunate, Gone to ber deatb ! Take ber up tenderly. Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly. Young, and so fair ! Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing. 188 MOSAICS OF LIFE. Touch licr not scornfully; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly, Not of the stains of her; All that remains of her Now is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny; E-ash and undutiful ! l^ast all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's family — Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily. Loop up her tresses. Escaped from the comb — Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses ^Vhcre was her home ? Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet than all other? Alas ! for the rarity Of Christian charity YOUTH. 189 Under the sun ! Oil ! it was pitiful ! Near a whole city full Home she had none. Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly, Feelings had changed : Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged. Where the lamps quiver So far in the river. With many a light From window and casement. From garret to basement. She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night. The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch. Or the black flowing river: Mad from life's history, Grlad to death's mystery Swift to be hurl'd — Anywhere, anywhere. Out of the world! In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly The rough river ran — VjO mosaics of life. Over the brink of it, Picture it — think of it, Dissolute Man ! Lave in it, drink of it Then, if you can ! Take her wp tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair ! Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, Decently, kindly, Smooth, and compose them ; And her eyes, close them. Staring so blindly! Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity. Perishing gloomily, Spurred by contumely. Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest. Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly. Over her breast! Owning her weakness. Tier evil behaviour, And leaving, with meekness. Tier sins to her Saviour! Thomas Hood. YOUTH. \\)\ VIRGINIA. OTRAIGHTWAY Virginius led the maid a little space aside To wliere tlie reeking sliambles stood, piled up with hum and hide, Hard by, a flesher on a block had laid his whittle down : Yirginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown. And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell, And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, " Farewell, sweet child, farewell ! Oh ! how I loved my darling ! Though stern I sometimes be, To thee thou know'st I was not so. Who could be so to thee? And how my darling loved me ! How glad she was to hear My footstep on the threshold when I came back last year ! And how she danced with pleasure to see my civic crown, And took my sword and hung it up, and brought me forth my gown ! Now all those things are over — yes, all thy pretty ways, Thy needle-work, thy prattle, thy snatches of old lays ; And none will grieve when I go forth, or smile when I return, Or watch beside the old man's bed, or weep upon his urn. The house that was the happiest within the Koman walls, The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's marble halls, Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom, And for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb. The time is come. See how he points his eager hand this way ! See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey! 102 MOSAICS OF LIFE. With all Lis wit, lie little deems, that, spurned, betrayed, bereft. Thy father hath in his despair one fearful refuge left. He little deems that in this hand I clutch what still can save Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave ; Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow. Foul outrage which thou knowcst not, which thou shalt never know. Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more kiss; And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this." With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side. And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died. Then, for a little moment, all people held their breath ; And through the crowded Forum was stillness as of death ; And in another moment brake forth from one and all A cry as if the Volscians were coming o'er the wall. A.nd as Virginius through the press his way in silence cleft. Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left. T. B, Macaulay. SHE'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN. QHE'S gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie, She's gane to dwall in heaven; Ye're owre pure, quo' the voice of God, For dwalling out o' heaven ! what '1 she do in heaven, my lassie? what '1 she do in heaven ? She '11 mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' sangs, And make theiu mair meet for heaven ! YOUTH. 1U3 She was beloved by a', my lassie, She was beloved by a' ; But an angel fell in luve wi' her, An' took her frae us a'. Nithsdale and Galloway Songs. 17 I A MOSAIC FOR FRIENDS 195 A MOSAIC FOR FRIENDS. Happy is lie whose friends were born before him. SusTiNE et abstine. We exchanged our experiences, and all learned something. Emerson. CONCE]KNING rKIENDS. "DE to their faults a little blind, -*-^ Be to their virtues very kind. Matthew Pryor. There are many carks in life that a little truth would end, E. L. Bulwer. Kindness gives birth to kindness. ° Sophocles, 17 197 198 MOSAICS OF LIFE. T)ELTKVE not each accusing tongue As most weak people do; But still believe that story wrong, Which ouirht not to be true. H E who has a thousand friends, has not one friend to spare, And he who has one enemy, shall meet him everywhere ! 'pnERE is no better test of friendship than the ready turn- ing of the mind to the little concerns of a friend when preoccupied with important concerns of our own. QORROW is a stone that crushes a single bearer to the ground, whilst two are able to carry it with ease. "VTTHEN a man is no longer his own friend, then goes he to his brother, who is so still, i him, and may again give him life. VV • his brother, who is so still, that he may talk gently with Jean Paul. ^OUR things come not back ; the sjJoJccn word, the sped arrow, the past life, and the neglected opportunity. Prophet Omar. A MOSAIC FOR FRIENDS. 199 QINCE trifles make the sum of human things, •^ And half our misery from our foibles springs, Since life's best joys consist in peace and ease, And few can serve or save, but all can please. Oh let the ungentle spirit learn from hence A small unkindness is a great ofiencej Large bounties to bestow we strive in vain, But all may shun the guilt of giving pain. Hannah More. T?OE. two enemies, the world is too small ; for two friends, a -^ needle's eye is big enough. TTOW common it is for one's friends to drop a heavy weight -^ upon one's heart, and then desire one not to let it dwell there ! H. Martineau. TJ^ORSE voi amereste meglio un amico piu ideale : non so che -*- dire : fabbricativelo — Quelle era cosi. NO PKKrECTION. TT7HEN a man glances critically through the circle of his ^^ intimate friends, he is obliged to confess that they are far from being perfect. They profess neither the beauty of Apollo, nor the wisdom of Solon, nor the wit of Mercutio, nor 200 MOSAICS OF LIFE. the reticence of Napoleon III. Yet forced to make sucli uncomfortable confessions, our supposed man does not like his friends one whit the less. * * * Perfection is not essential to friendship. * * * If a man be an entire and perfect chryso- lite, you slide off him, and fall back into ignorance. From " Dreamthorp," by Alexander Smith. A MOSAIC FOR YOUNG MEN 201 A MOSAIC FOR YOUNG MEN. Be bolde, Be bolde, and everywhere Be bolde — Be not too bolde ; Faery Queene. — Book III., Canto XI. The World is his wlio has Patience. The borrower is servant to the lender. Hebrew. Fidelity is seven-tenths of business — success. Parton. There is no royal road to Geometry! ViAM aut inveniam aut faciam. Sydney's Motto. l/TAKE the best of everything; Think the best of everybody; Hope the best for yourself 203 204 MOSAICS OF LIFE. Do as I have clone — persevere. George Stephenson. Whex the cup is full, carry it even. Scotch Proverb. A man's best wealth ought to be himself. William Austin. A Succeeds, and even a stranger recommends DECENT boldness ever meets with friends, ends. Pope's Honner. 'F he had promised an acorn, and the acorn season failed in - England, he would have sent to Norway for one ! r^ OODS gone — something gone, Must bend to the oar, And earn thee some more. Honor gone — much gone, Must go and gain glory, Then the idling gossips will alter their story. Courage gone — all's gone, JJetter never have been born ! Goethe. A MOSAIC FOR YOUNG MEN. 205 "\T7H AT you learn by experience you learn pretty thoroughly ; but at the same time, occasionally, much to your cost. Thus by choppiug off a couple of fingers, you learn, by expe- inence, not to meddle with edge tools ! Edward Everett, TF any one speak ill of thee, consider whether he has truth ^ on his side ; and if so, reform thyself Epictetus. Laziness is the Devil's cushion. Old Proverb. pOUNT that day lost whose low, descending sun ^ Sees at thy hand no worthy action done. Allez en avant, et la foi vous viendrea. D'Alembert. Never take trouble on interest. T)E nolle; and the nobleness that lies -^ In other men sleeping, but never dead^ Will rise in majesty to meet thine own. 18 206 MOSAICS OF LIFE. "DEGIN nothing of ■\vliicli thou hast not ^ycll considered the -^ end. He that despiseth small things shall fall by little and little. Hebrew. Providence does not run on broken wheels. A MAN'S true wealth hereafter is the good he does in this world to his fellow-man. When he dies, people will say, " What property has he left behind him." But the angels who examine him will ask, " What good deeds hast thou sent before thee ?" ^HE man that never breaks a rule Is little better than a fool. Obsta priucipiis. The one prudence in life is concentration. R. W. Emerson. TF thou art anything, keep still. In silence all will work out well; For one may place him where he will, The real man will always tell. Goethe. A MOSAIC FOR HOUSE-WIVES 207 A MOSAIC FOR HOUSE-WIVES. A PLACE for everything, and everything in its place. A time for everything, and everything in time. Speech is silver; silence is golden. A WOMAN habitually gentle, sympathizing, forbearing, and cheerful, carries a soothing and sustaining influence ever with her. C. E. Beecher. An anxious mind is never a holy mind. Do the duty that lies nearest. Goethe. TXTHAT we need most is not' so much to realize the Ideal as to idealize the Real. F. H. Hedge. 18 » 2n9 210 MOSAICS OF LIFE. T?OE, every evil under the sun -*- There's a remedy, or there's none; If there is one, try and find it; If there isn't, never mind it. '•■ TF my foresight were as good as my hindsight, I should not make so many mistakes." Though I am always in haste, I am never in a hurry. John Wesley. One keep-clean is worth two make-cleans. XX7HEIIE there is room in the heart, there is always room in the house. TX7HAT I don't see Don't trouble me ; And what I see Might trouble me. Did I not know That it must be so. Goethe. 'Yuv. morninL'' hour has gold in its mouth. A MOSAIC FOR HOUSE-WIVES. 211 T OSE au hour in the morning, you may search for it all day, and never find it. Old Saying, One small candle may light a thousand. Dirt is not dirt, but only something in the wrong place ! Lord Palmerston. Temper is nine-tenths of Christianity. r\RDER was made for the family, and not the family for order. H. B. Stowe. No sensible person ever made an apology. R, W. Emerson. GKANDMOTKEK'S TMPLKT. A FTER breakfast, work and tile; (toil) •^^ After dinner, sit awhile; After supper, walk a mile. HE three family physicians — Dr. Diet, Dr. Quiet, and Dr. Old Proverb. T Merry-man A MOSAIC FOR US ALL 213 A MOSAIC FOR US ALL. D TOGt on, jog on, the foot-path road, ^ And merrily trip the stile-a ; Your merry heart goes all the day, Your sad one tires in a mile-a. Old Song. ON'T cross the bridge till you come to it, Is a proverb old, and of excellent wit. H. W. Longfellow. A ND when the road forks ary side, And you're in doubt which one it is; Stand still, and let your conscience guide. Thank God, it can't lead much amiss. J. p. Hebe! — Gernnan Burns. OEEK not to know What pleaseth Heaven to hide; Dark is the abyss of time, 215 216 MOSAICS OF LIFE. But light enough to guide our souls is given; Whatever weal or woe betide, Turn never from the path of truth aside, And leave the event, in holy hope, to Heaven. A SOFT answer turneth away wrath. In difficult cases, do nothing. Edgeworth. TF every one's internal thought Were written on his brow. How many would our pity move. Who wake our envy now! Metastasio. T ET this thought quicken thee, Minds that are great and free Should not on fortune pause; "Tis crowne enough to virtue still, her owne applause. Ben Jonson's Ode to Himself. VoLETE aver molti in aiiito? flite di non averne bisoiino ! A MOSAIC FOR US ALL. 217 TTTE see so darkly into futurity, wo never know when \vc have real cause to rejoice or himent. The worst appear- ances have often happy consequences, as the hest lead many times into the greatest misfortunes. M. W. Montague. 'T^WO things there are, indicative of a weak mind; to be silent when it is proper to speak, and to speak when it is proper to be silent. Persian Sage. A RE head and heart confused and sore, What better wouldst thou have? Who loves no more, and hopes no more. As well were in his grave 1 Goethe. Douceur plus fait que violence. TTE who has health, has hope ; and he who has hope, has everything. Arabian Proverb. "DE still, sad heart, and cease repining, -^ Behind the clouds is the sun still shining. H. W. Longfellow. 19 K 218 MOSAICS OF LIFE. TTE prayctli best, wlio lovetli best, -^ All thiugs both great aud small, For tbe dear God who loveth us, He loveth one and all. S. T. Colerii 13e of tiood cheer. SINGLE LIFE 219 SINGLE LIFE. THE OLD MAID'S PHAYEK TO DIANA. QINCE thou and the stars, my dear Goddess, decree, That old maid as I am, and old maid I must be, Oh ! hear the petition I render to thee, For to bear it, must be my endeavor, From the grief of my friendships all dropping around. Till not one that I loved in my youth can be found, From the legacy hunters which near us abound, Diana, thy servant deliver ! From the scorn of the young, and the flouts of the gay, From all the trite ridicule rattled away. By the pert ones who know nothing wiser to say, Or a spirit to laugh at them, give her, From repining at fancied neglected desert. Or, vain of a civil speech, bridling alert From finical niceness, or slatternly dirt, Diana, thy servant deliver ! From over-solicitous guarding of pelf, From humor unchecked, that most obstinate elf. From every unsocial attention to self, Or ridiculous whim whatsoever, 19 * 221 222 MOSAICS OF LIFE. From the vaporish freaks, or methodical airs, Apt to sprout in a brain that's exempted from cares, From impertinent meddling in other's aflfairs, Diana, thy servant deliver ! From spleen at beholding the young more caressed, From pettish asperity tartly expressed, From scandal, detraction, and every such pest. From all thy true servant deliver ! Nor let satisfaction depart from her lot. Let her sing, if at ease, and be patient if not, Be pleased when remembered, content, if forgot. Till the Fates her slight thread shall dissever. Mrs. Tighe. " QO that I would not say but it takes the like of me, a single gentlewoman, unacquaint with the real fash and trouble of the estate of marriage, to carry pure to the end of mortal days, the first grand thoughts of youth." Oliphant. T KNOW, therefore, of no reason why a woman should marry, except because she cannot help it; because, ''the spirit of life which dwelleth in the secret chambers of the soul, all trembling, speaks these words : Behold a God more powerful than I." Gail Hamilton. SINGLE LIFE. 223 BKOTKEK AND SISTEK. "DRIDGET ELIA has been my house-keepci* for many a long year. I have obligations to Bridget extending beyond the period of memory. We house together, old bachelor and maid, in a sort of double singleness; with such tolerable comfort, upon the whole, that I, for one, find in myself no sort of dis- position to go out upon the mountains, with the rash king's offspring, to bewail my celibacy. We agree pretty well in our tastes and habits — yet so, as " with a difference." We are generally in harmony, with occasional bickerings — as it should be among near relations. We are both of us inclined to be a little too positive ; and I have observed the result of our dis- putes to be almost uniformly this : that in matters of fact, dates, and circumstances, it turns out, that I was in the right, and Bridget in the wrong. But where we have differed upon moral points, upon something proper to be done, or let alone ; whatever heat of opposition, or steadiness of conviction, I set out with, I am sure always, in the long-run, to be brought over to her way of thinking ! Her education in youth was not much attended to; and she happily missed all that train of female garniture, which passeth by the name of accomplish- ments. She was tumbled early, by accident or design, into a spacious closet of good old English reading, without much selection or prohibition, and browsed at will upon that fair and wholesome pasturage. Had I twenty girls, they should be brought up exactly in this fashion. I know not whether their chance in wedlock might not be diminished by it ; but I can answer for it, that it makes (if the icorst comes to the worst) incomparable old maids ! Charles Lamb. 224 3I0SAICS OF LIFE. KPITAPK ON AN OLD MAID. T)EST, gentle traveler, on life's toilsome way; Pause here awhile; yet o'er this lifeless clay No weeping, but a joyful tribute pay. For this green nook, by sun and showers made warm, Gives welcome rest to an o'erwearied form, Whose mortal life knew many a wintry storm. Yet, ere the spirit gained a full release. From earth, she had attained that land of peace. Where seldom clouds obscure, where tempests cease. No chosen spot of ground she called her own; She reaped no harvest in her si^ring-time sown, Yet always in her path some flowers were strown. No dear ones were her own peculiar care, So was her bounty free as heaven's air; For every claim she had enough to spare. And loving more the heart to give than lend, Though oft deceived in many a trusty friend, She hoped, believed, and trusted to the end. She had her joys; 'twas joy to live, to love, To labor in the world with God above, And tender hearts that ever near did move. She had her griefs ; but why recount them here — The heart-sick loneness, the onlooking fear. The days of desnlation. dark and drear. SINGLE LIFE. 22 Since every agony left peace beliind, And healing came on every stormy wind, And with pure brightness every cloud was lined. And every loss sublimed some low desire, And every sorrow helped her to aspire, Till waiting angels bade her go up higher! Englishwoman's Journal. COUSIN JANE. TTTHAT do people think of her? * Old Cousin Jane, With a sallow, sunken check. Hair with many a silver streak, Features never made for show, Eyes that faded long ago, Brows no longer smooth and fiiir, Form bent o'er with pain and care; Sad to be so old and plain, Slighted Cousin Jane ! What do we all think of her? Our Cousin Jane? Quieting the children's noise, Mending all the broken toys, Doing deftly, one by one. Duties others left undone. Gliding round the sick one's bed With a noiseless foot and tread; Who like her to soothe in pain? Useful Cousin Jane ! K * 226 MOSAICS OF LIFE. What do angels think of her? Our Cousin Jane? Bearing calmly every cross, Finding gain, though seeking loss, And a beauty ever bright In the rigid line of right. Self-forgetting, free from art, With, a loving, cheerful heart. Living, aye, for others gain, Saintly Cousin Jane ! Would that thinking oft of her — Our Cousin Jane — Might our inward vision clear, To behold the unseen near. And in forms of dullest hue, Heaven's own beauty shining through ! Reached — that land of purest day, Passed — misjudging earth away. What radiance will she then attain ! Star-crowned Cousin Jane ! T7ULL many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. And waste (?) its sweetness on the desert air Thomas Gray. T)ATIENCE and abnegation of self, and devotion to others. Tins was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. SINGLE LIFE. 227 So was her love diffused, but, like some odorous spices. Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma. Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. From Evangeline — Part ii. A ND thou, when thou seest the sparrow fall, and many a goodly ship suffer wreck, do not forget that we see merely a portion of the history; that its last chapter rests in the bosom of Eternal Love ! Let us meekly wait. Chronicles of the Schonberg Cotta Family, From an " Extra Leaf on Daughter-full Houses." ~|70E,SAKEN, but patient one ! misknown and mistreated ! Think not of the times when thou hadst hope of better than the present are, and repent the noble pride of thy heart never ! It is not always our duty to marry, but it is always our duty to abide by right, not to purchase happiness by loss of honor, not to avoid unweddedness by untruthfulness. Lonely, unadmired heroine ! in thy last hour, when all life and the by-gone possessions and scaffoldings of life shall crumble in pieces, ready to fall down, in that hour thou wilt look back on thy untenanted life ; no children, no husband, no wet eyes will be there; but in the empty dusk, one high, pure, angelic, smiling, beaming figure, godlike and mounting to the godlike, will hover, and beckon thee to mount with her. Mount thou with her ; the figure is thy virtue. Jean Paul Friedrich Hichter. 228 MOSAICS OF LIFE. 1 ir THOU COULBST KNOW, think if thou couldst know, soul that will complain What lies concealed below Our burden and our pain ; How just our anguish brings Nearer those longed for things We seek for now in vain, I think thou wouldst rejoice and not complain. I think if thou couldst see With thy dim mortal sight, How meanings dai'k to thee, Are shadows hiding ligbt; Truth's efforts crossed and vexed, Life's purpose all perplexed — If thou couldst see them right, I think that they would seem all clear, and wise and bright. And yet thou canst not know. And yet thou canst not see ; Wisdom and sight are slow In poor humanity. If thou couldst trust, poor soul, 111 llim who rules the whole, Thou wouldst find peace and rest; Wisdom and sight are well, but Trust is best. SOLITUDE or SINGLE WOMEN TT is a condition to which a single woman must make up her mind, that the close of her days Avill be more or less soli- tary. Vet there is a solitude which old age feels to be as SINGLE LIFE. 229 uatural and satisfying as that rest which seems such an irk- someness to youth, but which gradually grows into the best blessings of our lives; and there is another solitude, so full of peace and hope, that it is like Jacob's sleep in the wilder- ness, at the foot of the ladder of angels. "All things are less dreadful than they seem." And it may be that the extreme loneliness which, viewed afar oflF, appears to an unmarried woman as one of the saddest, of the inevitable results of her lot, shall by that time have lost all its pain, and be regarded but as the quiet dreamy hour "between the lights;" when the day's work is done, and we lean back, closing our eyes, to think it all over before we finally go to rest, or to look forward, in faith and hope, unto the comino" mornins;. o o A finished life — a life which has made the best of all the materials granted to it, and through which, be its web dark or bright, its pattern clear or clouded, can now be traced plainly the hand of the Great Designer ; surely this is worth living for. And though at its end it may be somewhat lonely ; though a servant's and not a daughter's arm may guide the failing step; though most likely it will be strangers only who come about the dying bed. close the eyes that no husband ever kissed, and draw the shroud kindly over the poor withered breast where no child's head has ever lain ; still, such a life is not to be pitied, for it is a completed life. It has fulfilled its appointed course, and returns to the Griver of all breath, as pure as He gave it." Dinah Muloch. T HAVE lived to know that the secret of happiness is never -*- to allow your energies to stagnate. Adam Clarke. 20 230 MOSAICS OF LIFE. MIDDLE LIFE. QUCH is tlie burden of our tliought concerning tlie middle ^ age : Experience without worklliness j equanimity without indifference ; progress without instability. S. Osgood, EXPECTATION. QHE looked from out the window With long and asking gaze, From the gold-clear light of morning To the twilight's purple haze. Cold and pale the planets shone, Still the girl kept gazing on. From her white and weary forehead Droopeth the dark hair, Heavy with the dews of evening, Heavier with her care; Falling as the shadows fall Till flung round her like a pall. When from the carv6d lattice First she leant to look, Her bright face was written Like some pleasant book. Her warm cheek the red air quaffed. And her eyes looked out and laughed. She is leaning back now languid. And her cheek is white; Only on the drooping eyelash Glistens tearful light; SINGLE LIFE. 231 Color, sunshine Lours are gone, Yet the maideu watches on. Human heart, this history Is thy faded lot; Even such thy watching For what cometh not. Till with anxious waiting dull, Round thee fades the beautiful. Still thou seekest on, though weary. Seeking still in vain ; Daylight deepens into twilight. What has been thy gain ? Death and night are closing round All that thou hast sought, unfound. L. E. Landon. TT\ die for what we love ! Oh ! there is power In the true heart, and strength and joy for this. It is to live without the vanished light That strength is needed ! IT MIGHT KAVi: BEKN. Grod pity us all Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. For of all sad words of tongue or pen. The saddest are these : " It might have been !" Ah well ! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes. 232 MOSAICS OF LIFE. And, ill tlie hereafter, angels may Roll the stoue from its grave away J. G. Whittier. THE UNLOVED. 'ynE great mystery of God's providence is the permitted crushing out of flowering instincts. Life is maintained by the respiration of oxygen and of sentiments. In the long catalogue of scientific cruelties, there is hardly anything quite so painful to think of as that experiment of putting an animal under the bell of an air-pump, and exhausting the air from it. [I never saw the accursed trick performed. Laus Deo !] There comes a time when the souls of human beings, women more even than men, begin to faint for the atmosj^here of the affections they were made to breathe. Then it is that society places its transparent bell-glass over the young woman who is to be the subject of one of its fatal experiments. The element by which only the heart lives is sucked out of her crystalline prison. Watch her through its transparent walls ; her bosom is heaving, but it is in a vacuum. Death is no riddle, com- pared to this. I remember a poor girl's story in the " Book of Martyrs." The " dry pan and the gradual fire" were the images that frightened her most. How many have withered and wasted under as slow a torment in the walls of that larger inquisition which we call civilization ! For that great procession of the unloved, who not only wear the crown of thorns, but must hide it under the locks of brown or gray, under the snowy cap, under the chilling turban ; hide it even from themselves ; perhaps never know they wear it, though it kills them; there is no depth of tenderness in my nature that pity has not sounded. Somewhere, somewhere love is in store for them ; the universe must not be allowed to SINGLE LIFE. 233 fool them so cruelly. What infinite pathos in the small, half- unconscious artifices by which unattractive young persons seek to recommend themselves to the favor of those towards whom our dear sisters, the unloved, like the rest, are impelled by God-given instincts ! O. W. Holmes. TKOM ENDYMION. 'VrO one is so accursed by ftite. No one so utterly desolate. But some heart, though unknown, Responds u.nto his own. Responds, as if with unseen wings, A breath from heaven had touched its string's; And whispers, in its song. "Where hast thou stayed so long?" H. W. Longfellow. RErLECTEB HAPPINESS. T DO not know when I have been better pleased than at being invited last week to be present at the wedding of a friend's daughter. I like to make one at these ceremonies, and am sure to be in good humor for a week or two after, and enjoy a reflected honey-moon. Being without a family, I am flattered with these temporary adoptions into a friend's fomily; I feel a sort of cousinship or uncleship for the season ; I am inducted into degrees of afiinity; and, in the participated socialities of the little community, I lay down for a brief while my solitory bachelorship. I carry this humor so far, that I take it unkindly to be left out, even when a funeral is going on in the house of a dear friend. Charles Lamb. 20 23-1 MOSAICS OF LIFE. From " Much Ado About Nothing" — Act ii., Scene i. Leoxato. — Well, niece, I liope to see you one day fitted with a liusband. Beatrice. — Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to he overmastered with a piece of valiant diist ? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl ? No, uncle, I'll none. Lord, I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face. Leonato. — You may light upon a husband that hath no beard. Beatrice. — What should I do with him ? He that hath a beard is more than a youth ; and he that hath no beard is less than a man ; and he that is more than a youth is not for me ; and he that is less than a man, I am yot for him. There- fore, I will even take sixpence in earnest of the beard-herd, and lead his apes into hell. Leonato. — Well, then, go you into hell ? Beatrice. — No; but to the gate; and there will the devil meet me, and say, Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to heaven; here^s no place for you mauls; so deliver I up my apes, and away to Saint Peter for the heavens ; he shows me where the bachelors sit, and there live we as merry as the day is long. Shakespeare. " A S grandmamma says, be in no hurry, deary; if you get a gofid liusband at last, ye'll not have waited too long; and if ye get a bad one, ye'll wish you'd waited longer." SINGLE LIFE. 235 BACHELOR'S TAKK. T7UNNY and free are a bachelor's reveries, Cheerily, merrily passes his life, Nothing knows he of connubial devilries. Troublesome children and clamorous wife. Free from satiety, care and anxiety. Charms in variety foil to his share; Bacchus's blisses, and Venus's kisses. This, boys, this is the Bachelor's Fare. A wife, like a canistci", chattering, clattering, Tied to a dog, for his torment and dread. All bespattering, bumping and battering, Hurries and worries him till he is dead. Old ones are two devils, haunted with blue devils, Young ones are new devils raising despair: Doctors and nurses combining their curses, Adieu to full purses and Bachelor's Fare. Through such folly, days, once sweet holidays, Soon are embittered by wrangling and strife ; Wives turn jolly days to melancholy days. All perplexing and vexing one's life; Children are riotous, maid-servants fly at us, Mammy to quiet us growls like a bear; Polly is squalling, and Molly is bawling. While dad is recalling his Bachelor's Fare. When they are older grown, then they are bolder grown, Turning your temper, and spurning your rule; G-irls through foolishness, passion or mulishness, Parry your wishes, and marry a fool. 236 MOSAICS OF LIFE. Boys will anticipate, lavish and dissipate, All that your busy pate hoarded with care; Then tell uie what jollity, fun or frivolity, Equals in quality Bachelor's Fare ! Horace Smith. OUR IDEALS. TT had been the ambition of Mademoiselle Baptistine to be able to buy a parlor lounge, with cushion of Uti-echt velvet roses, on a yellow ground, while the mahogany should be in the form of swan's necks. But this would have cost at least five hundred francs ; and, as she had been able to save only forty-two francs and two sous, for the purpose, in five years, she had finally given it up. But wlio ever does attain to his Ideal? Victor Hugo. EXACTIONS OT. MAKKIED PEOPLE. '\T7HEN you have once shown yourself too considerate and self-denying to add a fomily of your own to an already crowded population, you are vindictively marked out by your married friends, who have no similar consideration, and no simih'.r self-denial, as the recipient of half their conjugal troubles, and the born friend of all their children. TTusbands and wives t