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THE 
 
 GIRL’S 
 
 EADING-BOOK 
 
 IN 
 
 PROSE AND POETRY. 
 
 FOR SCHOOLS. 
 
 BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 Neto-Yorfe : 
 
 PUBLISHED BY J. ORVILLE TAYLOR, 
 
 AT THE “ AMERICAN COMMON SCHOOL UNION,” 
 No. 128 Fulton-strect. 
 
 1838 . 
 
Entered, 
 
 according to Act of Congress, in the year 1837, by 
 L. H. SIGOURNEY, 
 
 in the Clerk’s OflBce of the District Court of the Southern 
 District of New-York. 
 
 S. W. Benedict, Printer. 
 

 20E.S 
 Sj. <3. 
 
 /^3g" 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PROSE. 
 
 Education 7 
 
 Memory 12 
 
 Order 19 
 
 Children’s First Walk together 23 
 
 The Boy and his Garden 26 
 
 The Summer Sun 2S 
 
 The Elider-Duck and Bird of Paradise 32 
 
 Lessons in the Fields 36 
 
 Easy Studies 40 
 
 Obedience 44 
 
 The Good Daughter 48 
 
 The Sick 55 
 
 The Poor 59 
 
 Early Recollections 65 
 
 The Good Sister 71 
 
 The True Friend 77 
 
 The Happy Family 81 
 
 Letter to the Females of Greece 87 
 
 4 Hope and Memory 92 
 
 The Sleepless Labourers 95 
 
 - Sunday-Salt 99 
 
 ^ Dreams lO-i 
 
 Perseverance 103 
 
 ^ Female Energy 117 
 
 ' Wife of the Intemperate 124 
 
 *■' “ I have seen an End of all Perfection” 132 
 
 ^Mrs. Elizabeth Rowe 137 
 
 ^Mrs. Jerusha Lathrop 143 
 
 Miss Hannah More 152 
 
 Mrs. Martha Laurens Ramsay 161 
 
 402751 
 
4 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 Teacher’s Excuse 173 
 
 Lady-Bug and Ant 175 
 
 Ark and Dove 177 
 
 To a Dying Infant 180 
 
 Procrastination 181 
 
 The Sabbath 183 
 
 Morning Thoughts 184 
 
 Birth-Day Requests 187 
 
 Exliibition of a School of Young Ladies 189 
 
 Child at the Mother’s Grave 191 
 
 On Meeting Pupils at the Communion Table 193 
 
 Death of a Sunday School Scholar 195 
 
 Sailor’s Hymn 197 
 
 Father and his Motherless Children 199 
 
 Scholar’s Tribute to an Instructor 201 
 
 Remember me 203 
 
 Recollections of an Aged Pastor 205 
 
 Gratitude 208 
 
 To an Absent Child 211 
 
 The Sixth Birth- day 212 
 
 The Fire-Side 214 
 
 Alice 216 
 
 Louisa 219 
 
 The Old Man 221 
 
 Burial of the Indian Girl 224 
 
 The Creator ever Present !S7 
 
 The Village 229 
 
 The Emigrant’s Daughter 233 
 
 The Mourner 236 
 
 Farewell of the Soul to the Body 241 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 To read well is a high accomplishment. It 
 is not only graceful in a female, but its results 
 rank among the virtues. It enables her to im- 
 part both instruction and pleasure. She may 
 thus make the evening fireside delightful, or 
 the wintry storm pass unheard. She may com- 
 fort the sick, and cheer the darkness of the 
 friend whose eye age has dimmed, and instil 
 into the unfolding mind lessons of wisdom. 
 But if she reads ill, she does injustice to the 
 author, to her hearers, and to herself. 
 
 Great attention should be devoted to the art 
 of reading, during the elementary part of edu- 
 cation. Wrong habits, then formed, are ex- 
 ceedingly difficult to correct. Rapid, confused 
 elocution, false emphasis, monotony at the close 
 of sentences, or in the cadence of poetry, if 
 early indulged, will often be found adhesive 
 through life. 
 
 Teachers can scarcely impress too deeply 
 upon their scholars, that the first step towards 
 good reading, is to be understood. This pro- 
 bably requires more time and care than to read 
 gracefully. It is like the pedestal to the co- 
 lumn, and must be safe and solid, or the super- 
 structure suffers. An audible tone, a clear ar- 
 ticulation, a correct pronunciation of every 
 word, and a strict regard to eetablislied pauses, 
 
6 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 must be enforced, ere the pupil ascends to a 
 higher gradation. 
 
 Would that I could arouse both teacher and 
 scholar to greater zeal and thoroughness in this 
 branch of education. I wish every young fe- 
 male m our land, who enjoys the benefit of 
 scholastic training, might persevere in the art 
 of reading, until she is able to convey the de- 
 licate shades of thought, of the most refined 
 writer, clearly and agreeably to the mind of an- 
 other. 
 
 I have myself been a teacher. Some of the 
 happiest years of my life were thus spent. 
 Henceforth, all teachers and all scholars are to 
 me as friends. Especially am I interested in 
 the young of my own sex. For them this vo- 
 lume has been framed, on the principle of com- 
 bining with the accomplishment of reading, 
 sentiments that are feminine in their character, 
 and knowledge that enters into the elements of 
 woman’s duty. May it be to them as the voice 
 of a friend, and continue to speak words of in- 
 struction and love, long after the hand that pre- 
 pared it shall moulder in the grave. 
 
 L. H. S. 
 
 Hartford, Comu, Dec. 1 , 1837 . 
 
/ 
 
 THE GIRL’S 
 
 READING-BOOK. 
 
 E5DUCATION. 
 
 What is a good education 1 We hear much about 
 it. Who will tell us what it is? Every child in 
 school expects to obtain it. But it is necessary that 
 they should first know what it means. 
 
 Is it to get lessons well, and to excel in every 
 study ? This is a part, but not all. Some make 
 great progress for a time, and then become indolent. 
 Others are distinguished while they go to school, — 
 but when they leave it, cease to improve. 
 
 Is it a knowledge of books ? Yes, and something 
 more. It is possible to possess learning, and be 
 ignorant of necessary things. There was a lady 
 who read many books, yet did not know if her dress 
 was in a proper condition, and could not always find 
 her way home, when she went abroad. 
 
 Is it to cultivate the intellect ? This is not enough. 
 It must also strengthen the moral principles, and 
 regulate the affections. It must fit for the peculiar 
 duties that devolve upon us. It must keep in just 
 balance, and bring forth to healthful action, all the 
 i>owers that the Creator has given us. 
 
8 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 A good education, is that which prepares us for 
 our future sphere of action. A warrior or a states- 
 man, require a different kind of training from a 
 mother, or the instructress of a school. A lady who 
 has many accomplishments, yet is deficient in the 
 science of housekeeping, has not been well educated. 
 
 A good education makes us contented with our 
 lot. This, was what an ancient philosopher said, 
 made him happy in an obscure abode, and when he 
 was alone, talked with him. A restless, and com- 
 plaining temper, proves a bad education. 
 
 A good education is a fortune in itself. I do not 
 mean that it will always secure wealth. But it brings 
 something better than the gold that perishes. For 
 this may be suddenly lost. Fire may consume it. 
 Water may overwhelm it. The tempest may destroy 
 it. The thief may take it away. 
 
 But that knowledge which enriches the mind, 
 which moderates its desires, which teaches to make 
 a right use of time, and to promote the happiness of 
 others, is superior to the elements. Fire, air, earth, 
 and water, have no power over it. It can rule them 
 as servants. It fears neither rust nor robber. It 
 walks with us into the vale of years, and does not 
 leave us till we die. 
 
 What a great evil is ignorance ! We can see this 
 by the state of those countries where it prevails. 
 The history of past times will show us how misera- 
 ble were their inhabitants, — how unfit to judge for 
 themselves, — how stubborn in wickedness, — how 
 low in their pleasures,— how ready to be the prey of 
 the designing. 
 
TBE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 9 
 
 Look at the man who can neither read nor write. 
 How confused are his ideas ! How narrow his con- 
 ceptions! How fixed his prejudices! How depend- 
 ent is he on others to convey his sentiments, and to 
 interpret their own ! How liable to mistakes ! How 
 incapable of forming just and liberal opinions ! 
 
 Ignorance has been truly called the mother of 
 error. When Galileo first taught the true motion of 
 the earth round the sun, he was treated as a criminal, 
 and thrown into a dungeon. When Columbus revealed 
 his plan of searching for another continent, he was 
 threatened with imprisonment. 
 
 When Captain Smith was taken by the North 
 American Indians, and sent a letter to his distant 
 friends, the chiefs met to consult about the mystery 
 of this “ speaking leaf,” and thought that the man 
 who wrote it was a magician, and must be punished. 
 
 If defects in intellectual education lead to such 
 evils, — defects in the education of the heart are still 
 more deplorable. Look at the child whose moral 
 principles have been neglected. Has he a regard 
 for truth? Does he shrink at dishonesty ? Is his 
 conscience quick to warn him of a wrong motive ? 
 Does he obey his parents? Does he love his teach- 
 ers? Is he anxious to understand and keep the law 
 of God ? 
 
 A good education is another name for happiness. 
 We all desire to be happy, and should be willing to 
 take pains to learn how. He who wishes to acquire 
 a trade or a profession, — to build a house, or to culti- 
 vate a farm, or to guide a vessel over the sea, must ex- 
 pect to work as an apprentice, or to study as a scholar. 
 
10 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 Shall we not devote time and toil to learn how to 
 be happy ? It is a science which the youngest child 
 may begin, and the wisest man is never weary of. 
 If we attain the knowledge of many languages, and 
 the fame of great learning, yet fail in that which 
 makes the heart happy and the life good,- -our 
 knowledge is but “sounding brass, and a tinkling 
 cymbal.” 
 
 The objects to be kept in view by all who seek a 
 good education, are to discharge every duty, — to 
 make others happy, and to love good things. May 
 they not be compared to three steps leading to a 
 beautiful house where you wish to go? Each one 
 that you ascend, brings you nearer to the threshold. 
 
 The temple of happiness in this world, is the 
 temple of goodness. And the temple of happiness 
 in the world to come, is heaven. There, all the good 
 of every nation meet and dwell together forever. 
 These temples communicate with each other, and a 
 right education is the way of entrance to both. 
 
 The different parts of a good education may be 
 called the alphabet of happiness. And from this 
 alphabet is formed a language for angels. That is 
 but a lame education, which stops short of a higher 
 world. 
 
 I seem to hear some little voice asking, “when 
 will a good education be finished? — Will it be finish- 
 ed when we have done going to school, or are grown 
 up women ?” I tell you it will never be finished, 
 until you die. He alone, who bids the pulse stop, 
 and the cold heart lie still in the bosom, is able to 
 say “ it is Jinished.^^ 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. H 
 
 This whole life is but one great school. From the 
 cradle to the grave, we are all scholars. The voices 
 of those we love, and the wisdom of past ages, and 
 our own experience, are our teachers. Afflictions 
 give us discipline. The spirits of departed saints 
 whisper to us,— “ Come up hither.” 
 
 God’s holy Word is our code of laws. He com- 
 mands us there to “ give him our heart,— to remem- 
 ber him in the days of our youth.” May we go to 
 his heaven, as to our father’s home, when school is 
 done, and the little hour-glass of our days and nights 
 shall be turned no more. 
 
12 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 “ I forgot to get my lesson this morning,” said a 
 pupil to her teacher. “Did you forget to come to 
 breakfast ?” “ No, Ma’am, I did not.” “ Then your 
 
 body has a better appetite for food, than your mind 
 for knowledge. 
 
 “ If you were sick you would not wish for break- 
 fast. You would avoid the sight of food. Perhaps 
 your parents wmuld send for a physician. He would 
 give you medicine. He wmuld seek to remove the 
 causes that had destroyed your appetite. What 
 medicine will you take to restore the health of your 
 mind ? 
 
 “ Did you not take some pains to prepare yourself 
 for breakfast ? You arose, and washed, and dressed, 
 and said your prayers, and were ready to take your 
 seat at the table. Did you bestow equal care on the 
 lessons ot the day ? For it seems you can remem- 
 ber to take pains when you choose.” 
 
 “ I cannot remember the sermon,” said a boy to 
 his father, “ and my Sunday-school lesson is too 
 long.” “ How came you to remember the story that 
 was told you the other evening, and the adventures 
 of Robinson Crusoe, which I heard you relate ? It 
 seems you can recollect what you like, even if it is 
 long. Am I to conclude that you prefer amusement 
 to religious instruction?” 
 
 “ Why did you not rise and place a chair for your 
 grandfather when he came in ?” said a lady to a little 
 girl. “I forgot it, mother.” “How came you to 
 remember to ask me for a new dress yesterday ?” 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 13 
 
 ‘Because you told me last summer, that I should 
 have it this spring.” 
 
 “ Have I not also told you to pay this mark of 
 respect to your aged grandfather whenever he en- 
 tered the room ? Yet you forget it, though it has 
 been often repeated. But you remembered the 
 promise of a new dress which was made six months 
 ago. Is the love of dress stronger than the love of 
 duty-?” 
 
 Memory furnishes a key to unlock the secret cabi- 
 net of feeling and principle. It reveals the hidden 
 springs of character. If you forget moral duties, 
 the memory of the heart is to blame. For the 
 heart has a memory as well as the mind. Is the 
 memory of your heart diseased ? Seek to that great 
 Physician who made the heart. 
 
 Memory is a criterion of moral taste. For if we 
 naturally cherish those trains of thought which 
 best please us, and if those which are most frequent- 
 ly cherished leave the deepest impressions, then 
 what we remember best, will shew the capacity and 
 temper of our mind. 
 
 We see one possessing an accurate knowledge of 
 historical facts, with their dates and eras, and we say 
 he has a taste for history. Another remembers nar- 
 rative or poetry, and we say he has a taste for works 
 of imagination. Another remembers fashions, 
 amusements, pieces of scandal. Do they not each 
 know, that to an attentive observer, they are hold- 
 ing up a mirror of their mind ? 
 
 But if it is true, that we can remember what we 
 please, and when we please, can we also remember 
 2 
 
14 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 as much as we please ? Not without labour. The 
 quantity of what we remember, depends as much 
 on industry, as the quality does on the taste and 
 turn of mind. 
 
 Do you find it difficult to remember what you 
 study ? Quicken the motive. If a horse is dull, the 
 rider touches him with the spur. Believe that your 
 memory may be equally under your own control 
 But you must take pains to acquire that control. 
 
 Think of the loss that you sustain in devoting 
 time to the acquisition of knowledge, yet suffering 
 that knowledge to escape. Suppose a farmer, after 
 labouring through the season, should neglect to mow^ 
 his grass, or to reap his wheat after it had ripened, 
 or to gather Jiis corn into the granary. Suppose a 
 merchant should neglect to balance the accounts of 
 .the year, or to call in what was due, or to invest his 
 surplus money where it would be safe and profitable ? 
 Would you not say that both the farmer and the mer- 
 chant were exceedingly unwise ? Yet you are more 
 so, if you go to school and neglect to store the trea- 
 sures of knowledge. For to you, there can be no se- 
 cond season of youth, in which to glean the sheaves 
 you have neglected to gather, or the gold which 
 should have been locked in memory’s store-house 
 for the winter of age. 
 
 Sometimes you say that you cannot remember. 
 Is it true ? If it is, you will always be inferior to 
 those who can. You will be ruled by them, as a 
 blind person is subject to those who see. Are you 
 willing it should be so ? If not, open the eyes of 
 your mind, and take good heed of what is written 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 15 
 
 in useful books, and of all that passes in the temple 
 of science. 
 
 It is not to scholars alone, that the retentive pow- 
 er is important. Think of a housekeeper without a 
 memory, — running hither and thither, — forgetting 
 her own directions, and not able to find the articles 
 which she daily needs. Would not her servants 
 take advantage of her, and even her neighbours des- 
 pise her ? 
 
 Is it indeed true that you have no memory? 
 Then your mind is a cripple. Put it on crutches, 
 and do with it as well as you can. But do not pro- 
 claim its infirmities. Do not say I have forgotten^ 
 and feel no shame. You do not like to have your 
 faults published. At least you are not bound to pro- 
 claim them yourself. 
 
 Let us rather believe that you have a good memo- 
 ry, or at least that you will take pains to make it so. 
 If you desired a boy to be active and healthy, would 
 you confine him to the house and to walk always on 
 a carpet? Would you not say to him, “go, and 
 climb the rocks, and work in the open air.” So, give 
 your memory daily exercise, and do not shrink from 
 that which is severe. 
 
 When you read or hear what you wish to remem- 
 ber, think of nothing else. Fix your attention, till 
 you have done studying or listening. Think it over, 
 and repeat it to yourself, till it is well committed. 
 If it is a lesson, be prepared to recite it without 
 mistake. If it is a lecture, or a sermon, or any thing 
 addressed to the ear, speak of it to others, till it is 
 rendered familiar to yourself. 
 
16 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 Every night, before you sleep, review what you 
 have learned through the day. At the close of every 
 week, call memory to account for what you have 
 entrusted to her. Make brief hints in a note-book 
 of the most important subjects, for future use. At 
 the close of each month compare its gatherings 
 with those of its predecessor. 
 
 At the close of the year, or on your birth-day, 
 read attentively in your note-book, what you have 
 treasured through that year. Summon memory to 
 draw the hints out at large, and embody them in 
 language. Make a new note-book for the coming 
 year, and write it neatly and legibly, that you may 
 read it easily if you live to be old, and your eyes 
 are dim. 
 
 You need not confine this habit of writing brief 
 notes, or texts for memory, to the time that you at- 
 tend school. It would be well to continue it through 
 life. For as long as we live, we have the privilege 
 of being learners, and this life is a school in which 
 we fit for a higher state of being. 
 
 The hints which you will thus accumulate, will 
 furnish good subjects of conversation with your 
 family when you have one, and aid you in teaching 
 your children. They will be as the book of recipes 
 to a housekeeper, to which she refers for the comfort 
 of those she loves. They will supply memory with 
 texts from which she may preach many a profitable 
 sermon when her pulpit is the arm-chair by the 
 fire-side, and her audience a group of listening 
 grandchildren. 
 
 When you find in your lessons, or in books that 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 17 
 
 you read, trains of thought that are difficult to re- 
 member, class them with some recollections that are 
 similar, or even in contrast. Associate them with 
 some numerical statement. Cluster them like grapes, 
 when you give them into the hand of memory. 
 Like pearls on a string, they will be less liable to be 
 lost, than when scattered abroad. 
 
 I once heard a little girl say, “ I have just learned 
 that Jupiter has four moons. Now I will remember 
 it by joining it with other things that have in them 
 the number four. There are four seasons, four 
 middle states, four asteroids, or little planets, and 
 the other thing of four, shall be the moons of Jupi- 
 ter,” The child had discovered the principle of 
 numerical association, which is a great help to 
 memory. 
 
 “ Romulus slew his brother Remus,” said a little 
 boy, “ and Cain slew his brother Abel. The first- 
 born of Eden and the first king of Rome, were fra- 
 tricides. One will make me remember the other.” 
 Here was resemblance or similitude in fact, assisting 
 the memory. Contrasted images may also be so 
 associated, as to adhere strongly to recollection. 
 
 Count no toil too great, that will give vigour to 
 memory. She is to walk with you as a companion 
 through life. It is important that she be healthful 
 and fit for her work. She is the keeper of know- 
 ledge. The wealth of the mind is in her casket. 
 She has power over the fountains of pleasure, and 
 of pain. 
 
 But she has still an higher office. Her smile can 
 give confidence to goodness, and enter as sunshine 
 2 * 
 
18 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 into the soul. Yet dread her frown, if you persist 
 in wrong deeds or feelings. She is a fearful repro- 
 ver. She is in league with conscience, and has 
 power to lift its scourge. 
 
 Memory is the inofrmer at the bar of judgment, 
 if she slumbers here, she will awake there. She 
 will stand forth and bear witness of you when the 
 dead, small and great, stand before God, and the 
 books are opened, and all shall be judged from the 
 things that are written in the books, according to 
 their works.” 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 19 
 
 ORDER. 
 
 “ Mother, will you please to tell me if you have 
 seen my thimble?” — “Martha, I thought you had a 
 place for your thimble.” — “ So I have, dear mother, 
 but it does not happen to be in the place.” 
 
 To have a place for things, and not keep them in 
 it, is like having wise laws, and paying no regard to 
 them. A nation will not be the better for its laws, 
 unless it enforces them ; nor a child for being told its 
 duty, unless it trys to obey. 
 
 Martha’s fault, was a want of order. Her work- 
 ing-materials were scattered about the house. She 
 was obliged to spend much time in searching for 
 them. When the school-bell rang, some of her 
 books could not be found. Perhaps, her bonnet, or 
 shawl, or gloves, were mislaid. 
 
 She felt ashamed to be so often inquiring for what 
 she ought to have kept in their own place. So, she 
 sometimes went without necessary articles, and was 
 unprepared at school, or looked slovenly in the 
 street. 
 
 She was a little girl of a good disposition. But 
 this fault occasioned her to be much blamed. And 
 instead of being cheerful with a consciousness of 
 right conduct, she was often disgraced and unhappy. 
 
 When she grew up, she carried these careless 
 habits into her housekeeping. Though she had a 
 kind heart, there was disorder and discomfort in her 
 family. Nothing was in its right place. Her work 
 was done by the hardest, for want of the proper 
 materials, 
 
20 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 She was always in a hurry. This is an evil which 
 comes upon those, who have not the spirit of order. 
 Her countenance, which used to be pleasant, soon 
 wore a troubled and bewildered expression. Wrin- 
 kles came over her forehead, before it was time to 
 be old. 
 
 Though she was naturally amiable, this sad fault 
 spoiled her temper. Her children imitated her, and 
 kept none of their things in the right place. One 
 would be heard complaining that a hat or cloak 
 could not be found, and another bewailing a lost 
 doll, or broken play-things. 
 
 The mother fretted loudly at her little ones, for 
 faults that grew out of her own want of order. She 
 had a cousin, whose name was Mary. They lived 
 near each other, and were of the same age. When 
 they were young, they often played together, and 
 sat on the same bench at school. 
 
 Mary took good care of all that -was entrusted 
 to her. W'hen she had done sewing, her needle 
 was returned to the needle-case, and her thimble 
 and scissors to the work-basket. Her knitting was 
 neatly rolled, and replaced in its bag. 
 
 Her garments were folded, and laid in the draw- 
 ers and trunks where they belonged. Her bonnet 
 was hung in the spot allotted to it, as soon as she 
 entered the house, and her school-books laid on that 
 part of the shelf, which she was permitted to call 
 her own. 
 
 At school, her pens and ink were in good order, 
 and she never blotted her paper, or her desk. She 
 had no need to borrow, and if it had been dark, she 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 21 
 
 could have laid her hand upon all her things, — for 
 she remembered their places, and knew that they 
 were there. 
 
 She had fewer things than her cousin Martha, be- 
 cause her parents were not so rich. But she had 
 more, that were ready for use. Her clothes lasted 
 longer, and looked more neatly. For she had been 
 taught to mend them, the moment that they needed 
 it, and to fold each garment when she took it otf at 
 night. 
 
 When she had a house of her own, every article 
 in it had a place, and all who used it, were required 
 to put it there. One of her first rules to her child- 
 ren when very young — was, “a place for every 
 thing ; and every thing in its place.” And she 
 obliged them to obey this rule. So her family were 
 in order, and its daily labour went on like clock- 
 work. 
 
 Her countenance was pleasant and peaceful, like 
 one who does right. And though she was not as 
 handsome as Martha, it was more agreeable to look 
 at her, because she was never in a hurry. 
 
 Her quietness of mind seemed to proceed from a 
 sense of justice, or of doing her duty even to inani- 
 mate things: for we owe a duty to every article in 
 our possession, and to every utensil with which we 
 work, the duty of keeping them in order, and a good 
 condition. 
 
 Sometimes, when I have called on these cousins, 
 and found one fretting and bustling about, and the 
 other placid and happy in her industry, it has re- 
 
22 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 minded me of a picture, that I once saw when 1 
 was a child. 
 
 It was called the picture of the sisters of Bethany. 
 You will remember that their names were the same 
 as those of the two cousins, Martha and Mary. One, 
 with a complaining, care-worn face, seemed indeed 
 “cumbered with much serving;” the other wore 
 that sweet, peaceful smile, which said plainer than 
 words, that she had chosen the “ good part.” 
 
 And in visiting many families, both in the city 
 and country, I have observed that order and indus- 
 try, were the two hands by which a housekeeper 
 takes hold of her work, and makes the members of 
 her household comfortable. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 23 
 
 THE CHIIiI>REN>S FIRST WALK TOGETHER. 
 
 They passed together, out of their father’s gate, a 
 little girl and boy. Their quick steps were short 
 and unequal, as if they had trodden only on the 
 nursery-carpet, or the smooth gravel walk of the 
 garden. 
 
 They took their way along the village street. It 
 was bordered with fresh grass. They were pleased 
 that it swelled into little mounds and again descend- 
 ed, — and they thought every hillock was a mountain. 
 
 They admired the daisies, and king-cups, — and 
 when a robin flew by, they said, — “ Bird, are these 
 your flowers ? — may we pick some of them ?” Then 
 they discovered a small brook, that went gurgling 
 along, and stood wondering upon its pleasant banks. 
 
 The sister’s arm was over the neck of her brother. 
 She was the eldest one. And tenderly she watched 
 over him. If the swift wheel rushed by, or the 
 wide-horn’d ox seemed to press too near, or the dog 
 with open mouth paused as if regarding him, the 
 same motherly care sat upon her sweet brow, as 
 will hereafter take root there, when she rocks the 
 -cradle of her own babe. 
 
 The bold beautiful boy was glad to be free. He 
 often looked back, till he saw that neither nurse or 
 .servant followed. Then he tossed his white arms 
 high over his head, and shouted out his first joy of 
 iiberty- 
 
 But there was an eye that followed them. It 
 never lost sight of them a moment, until they seem- 
 ed but as specks, far away, among the green trees. 
 
24 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 It was the eye of a mother, and in her heart she 
 said, “ can any evil come to those so fair and inno- 
 cent ? Will not their very purity be their protec- 
 tion ? Surely, angels will ‘bear them up in their 
 hands, lest they dash their foot against a stone.’ ” 
 
 Then she mused further, and continued speaking, 
 though none were near to answer. “Not long, not 
 long, can ye travel thus together, — so lovely, so 
 unharmed. There are snares and thorns for every 
 pilgrim, in the path of life. 
 
 “ Neither may ye walk thus, side by side, — loving 
 as with one heart. Ye must be divided. Who can 
 tell your different paths? None, save He to whom 
 the mother ever lifteth her heart. 
 
 “ But at one point ye will arrive. At the lonely 
 tomb. There will ye lie down, and rise up no more. 
 Whether on the wide waters, or the far western 
 prairies, where the bear, and the hunter, and the fur- 
 trader dwell; or beneath Indian skies, where the 
 gold ripens ; or amid the rude northern seas, where 
 the harpooner pierces the whale, — to one place ye 
 must come — to the grave, your last bed. 
 
 Little daughter, what shall be thy lot? To love, 
 and to bear life’s burdens, with a troubled, yet faith- 
 ful spirit? Methinks I see thee nursing thine own 
 infant, as I have nursed thee, stooping down to catch 
 its fervent breath, as I have watched sleepless by thy 
 side, when sickness came. 
 
 “ Wilt thou sit at last, with thy thin, white locks, 
 teaching lessons of wisdom to thy children’s chil- 
 dren? Wilt thou lift thy dim eye to heaven, and 
 charge them to seek Him early, who giveth strength 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 26 
 
 when flesh and heart fail, and when the tottering 
 feet enter the dark valley of the shadow of death ? 
 
 “ Or art thou to be cut down in thy blossom, in the 
 faint green of thine unfolding leaves? Shall thy 
 mother lay thee in thy last cold bed, and come night 
 ly to weep there ? Shall the hands that cherished 
 thee in the cradle, plant a young white rose on thy 
 turf pillow, an emblem of thy simple innocence ? 
 Who can tell ?” 
 
 The mother looked upward and said, “ Thou, God, 
 knowest.” And when she had prayed, there came a 
 trusting smile over her countenance, which seemed 
 to say that her dear ones were his, and that he loved 
 them, and would do no wrong to them, or to her. 
 
 Then she heard the sweet voices of her children 
 returning, like the chirping of young birds, who have 
 newly ventured from their nest. And she went forth 
 to welcome them, and kissed their bright, ruddy 
 cheeks, rejoicing in them, and in Him who gave 
 them. 
 
 3 
 
26 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 THE BOY AND HIS GARDEN. 
 
 A child held in his hand a slight, leafless shoot. 
 It was like a supple green wand. Yet it had been 
 newly cut from the parent tree, and life was secretly 
 stirring in its little heart. 
 
 He sought out a sheltered spot in the piece of 
 ground that he called his own. He planted it there 
 in the moist earth. He came often to visit it, and 
 when the rains of summer were withheld, he watered 
 it at the cool hour of sunset. 
 
 The sap, which is the blood of plants, began to 
 circulate through its tender vessels. A tiny root, 
 like a thread, crept downwards. Soon, around the 
 head, there burst forth a garland of pale green 
 leaves. 
 
 Seasons passed over it, and it became a small tree. 
 As fast as its branches came forth, they drooped 
 downwards to the earth. The cheering sun smiled 
 on them, — the happy birds sang to them : but they 
 drooped still. 
 
 “ Tree, why art thou always sad and drooping? — 
 Am I not kind unto thee ? Do not the showers visit 
 thee, and sink deep to refresh thy root ? Hast thou 
 a sorrow at thy heart?” But it answered not. And 
 as it grew on, it drooped lower and lower. For it 
 was a weeping willow. 
 
 The boy cast a seed into his soft garden mould. 
 When the time of flowers came, a Strong budding 
 stalk stood there^ with coarse, serrated leaves. Soon 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 27 
 
 there came forth a full, red poppy, glorying in its 
 gaudy dress. 
 
 At its feet grew a purple violet, which no hand 
 had planted or cherished. It lived lovingly with the 
 wild mosses, and the frail flowers of the grass, not 
 counting itself more excellent than they. 
 
 “Large poppy, why dost thou spread out thy 
 scarlet robe so widely, and drink up the sunbeams 
 from my lonely violet?” But the flaunting flower 
 replied not to him who planted it. 
 
 It unfolded its rich silk mantle still more broadly, 
 as though it would fain have stifled its humbler 
 neighbour. Yet nothing hindered the fragrance of 
 the meek violet, nursing its infant buds. 
 
 The little child was troubled, and at the hour of 
 sleep he told his mother of the tree that continually 
 wept, and of the plant that overshadowed its neigh- 
 bour. She took him on her knee, and spoke so ten- 
 derly in his ear, that he remembered her words 
 when he became a man. 
 
 “ There are some who, like thy willow, are weepers 
 all their lives long, though they dwell in pleasant 
 places, and the fair skies shine upon them. And 
 there are others, who, like the poppy that thou didst 
 reprove, are haughty in heart, and despise the hum- 
 ble, whom God regardeth. 
 
 “Be thou not like them, my gentle child. But 
 keep rather in thy heart the sweet spirit of the low- 
 ly violet, that thou mayest come at last to that bless- 
 ed place which pride cannot enter, and where weep- 
 ing is never known.” 
 
28 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 THE SUMMER SUN. 
 
 The eastern sky is rich with prevailing light. 
 What a beautiful saffron colour marks the horizon. 
 Now, it spreads more widely around. In one spot 
 there is peculiar brightness. A few rays shoot up, 
 a& heralds of some distinguished guest. Then the 
 glorious sun appears, the eye of the world. 
 
 It is not to our earth alone that he dispenses light 
 and heat. Other planets rejoice in his brightness. 
 Moving around these are still smaller bodies, like 
 children with their parents. The sun has a large 
 and beautiful family. Is he not like a patriarch with 
 his eleven children, and his eighteen grandchil- 
 dren? 
 
 He sits on the chief seat among them, cheering 
 them with his gifts. Do you know some bountiful 
 person making the hearts of otherfe glad? Have 
 you a benevolent friend whose warm smile makes 
 you happy? They may be compared to the sun 
 “ rejoicing in the east.” Let them also remind you 
 of Him who made the sun, in “ whom the outgoings 
 of the morning and of the evening rejoice ?” 
 
 Hark, the birds sing. Some soar high with a 
 graceful movement into the clear, blue sky. The 
 flowers, sparkling with dew, lift their bright eyes to 
 their Benefactor. A fresh and grateful odour goes 
 up from the green forests. Every plant and leaf 
 seems to partake of a new joy. 
 
 There was a statue in ancient Egypt called the 
 statue of Memnon, which was said at sunrise to utter 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 29 
 
 an articulate sound. So ought the most silent and 
 cold heart to speak forth praise for the gift of every 
 pleasant morning. 
 
 Turn to your protector in heaven, who has given 
 you the repose of sleep. Kneel and thank him for 
 his care. Many through this day w'ill suffer pain 
 and sickness. Ask him to keep you in health and 
 usefulness. Many will weep over dying friends. 
 Ask him to hold in life those whom you love. 
 
 Some, ere the setting of this sun, will fall into 
 temptation. Ask him to preserve you in the path 
 of duty and of peace. Some will be taken out of 
 the world. Should you be of that number, ask him 
 to make you fit to enter heaven. He alone is able 
 to do these things for you. His blessing is like the 
 sun to the plants of virtue in your soul. 
 
 Be sure to rise with the sun. Do not let him sur- 
 prise you in bed. Pay him the respect to get up 
 and meet him. Let your morning hours be indus- 
 triously spent. Dr. Franklin said, ‘‘ if you lose an 
 hour in the morning, you may run all day and not 
 overtake it.” How true it is ! “ Hours have wings,” 
 said another wise man. 
 
 See, it is noon. The sun has reached the meri- 
 dian. The groups of children returning from school 
 feel the heat. The labouring ox is permitted to rest 
 awhile, as well as his master. The horses in the 
 stage-coach pant, and are glad to draw near the ta- 
 vern. The cows like to stand in the quiet stream. 
 How refreshing are the shady trees. What a com- 
 fort is the pure, cool water. 
 
 Now, the little Chinese child sleeps on the breast 
 3 * 
 
30 
 
 THE GIRL^S READING-BOOK. 
 
 of its mother. There are no men working in the 
 rice plantations. The boats which are used instead 
 of houses, lie motionless on the rivers, with their 
 many twinkling lights. The little nests utter no 
 chirping sound. All is still. For it is midnight in 
 China when it is noon-day here. 
 
 The sun’s journey is half completed. Is your 
 own work for the day half finished, and well done? 
 Look up to your Father in Heaven, for continued aid. 
 Good works must be “ begun, continued, and ended 
 in him.” It is not enough to ask his favour in the 
 morning, and then forget him through the day. 
 
 Evening, and morning, and at noon will I pray,” 
 said David, the king of Israel. 
 
 But the sun is at the west. He is about to for- 
 sake us. What a glorious show of clouds, purple 
 and crimson and gold colour. They are his parting 
 tokens, to remember him by, till he comes again. 
 How they change, and mingle, and kindle, and fade. 
 Not the proudest monarch goes to rest under such 
 a brilliant canopy. 
 
 Twilight is a lovely season. It is a little stopping 
 place, between day and night. It is a shady cell 
 for thought to enter. It is the cleft of a rock, where 
 we may hide from the company of cares. A Scotch 
 writer says, it is the “ quiet time, W'hen the shuttle 
 stands still, before the lamp is lighted.” 
 
 Now the last ray of light has faded. Sleep begins 
 to unfold her curtain. The birds go to their cham- 
 bers among the green boughs. They close the 
 wearied wing, and their little ones slumber beneath 
 it. The domestic fowls prepare for the coming 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 31 
 
 night. The hen goes to its porch in the barn, and 
 the turkey mounts the branches of the trees, rocking 
 with every wind. 
 
 Soon it will be time for us to retire. The active 
 limb, and the thinking brain, need repose. But we 
 will not go to rest, till we have examined our own 
 conduct. We will talk with ourselves, seriously 
 and alone. 
 
 Where have we been this day ? What have we 
 learned, that in the morning we knew not ? Who 
 have shown us kindness ? To whose comfort have 
 we added ? W’^hat have we spoken that we ought 
 not to have said ? What have we left undone, that 
 we ought to have done ? 
 
 We will not rest in our bed, till we have answer- 
 ed these questions. We will not lie down, like the 
 burdened camel, with any wrong thing for which 
 we have not asked forgiveness of God, or with the 
 memory of any mercy for which we have neglected 
 to thank him, lest our sleep should not be sweet, 
 nor our hearts healthful, nor the next rising sun 
 our friend. 
 
32 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 THE EIDER-DUCK AND THE BIRD OF 
 PARADISE. 
 
 The Eider-Duck is a fine bird. It is brown or 
 white, and sometimes of other colours. It has a 
 black crest on its head, like a little crown. If it 
 lives to be old, its bright plumage turns gray. 
 
 It is found in countries near the poles. It does 
 not fear the cold, for it is covered with a soft, warm 
 down. He who gave fur to the bear, and a coat of 
 wool to the sheep, clothed this bird with a downy 
 robe, that it might resist the winter. 
 
 It is fond of its young, and takes kind care of them. 
 The mother-bird builds a good nest, and lines it with 
 the down from her own breast. She plucks it off, 
 and willingly bears the pain, that her little ones may 
 be warm and sheltered. 
 
 The eider-down is much valued. It is an article 
 of commerce. It is used for the covering of beds, 
 and to stuff cloaks and hoods, and to trim other arti- 
 cles of clothing. 
 
 People are so desirous to get it, that they some- 
 times tear in pieces the nest which the poor bird bas 
 lined for her young. This they call the lice doicn, 
 and prefer it to what they pluck from the birds after 
 their death. They also climb high rocks, to obtain 
 their eggs for eating. 
 
 The eider-duck is found in great numbers, amid 
 the perpetual snow and ice of Greenland, Iceland, 
 and Norway. Sometimes they are seen in the neigh- 
 bourhood of our great lakes, and in the northern 
 parts of the United Statess 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 33 
 
 A father was once walking with his little son. He 
 carried a gun upon his shoulder. Suddenly he point- 
 ed it at something upon a rock above his head. It 
 was a large bird who seemed hard at work, spread- 
 ing out her wings, and bowing down her head, and 
 leaping up. 
 
 “ Dear feather ; what is she doing ?” “ Tearing the 
 down from her breast, to make a soft bed for her 
 little ones.” ‘’Does it not give her pain “Yes, 
 but she loves them better than herself.” 
 
 The boy gazed earnestly at the eider-duck. “ Fa- 
 ther, how long is it since we moved into this new, 
 cold country ?” “Two years, my son.” 
 
 “ I remember the first winter that we came here. 
 My mother took us children to see the only neigh- 
 bour that we had. It was a long way to walk, and 
 soon after we left to return home, it began to 
 snow. 
 
 “ The feet of the youngest girl tottered with weak- 
 ness. So, my mother took her in her arms. She 
 toiled on with her through the storm, and against the 
 wind. She took the only shawl from her shoulders 
 and wrapped it around the child, pressing her close 
 to her bosom. 
 
 “ Ah ! how glad were we to see, at last, the lonely 
 light streaming from our own window. It seemed 
 like a star of heaven. When we got home, the little 
 one was warm, but our poor mother was cold and 
 faint and sick. 
 
 “ She had deprived herself of her own covering, 
 that the child might be sheltered. And she did not 
 
34 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 complain, because she loved the child. Was she not 
 a good mother ?” 
 
 The father did not answer. And when the son 
 looked up, he saw that there was a tear in his eye. 
 “ Is not the eider-duck a good mother ? See, she 
 bares her own breast for her little ones. Dear fa- 
 ther, let her live.” So the father had compassion on 
 the mother-bird, and spared her that she might take 
 care of her young. 
 
 The Bird of Paradise differs from the eider-duck, 
 by living only in warm climates. It is never found 
 many degrees from the equator. Its plumage is ex- 
 ceedingly beautiful. The side feathers of the wing 
 float out to a great length, and are of various bril- 
 liant colours. 
 
 They principally inhabit New Guinea, and the 
 Spice Islands. They pass and repass in flocks of 
 thirty or forty, conducted by a leader. They are 
 very careful to consult the state of the wind, and 
 always move against it, in order to preserve their 
 voluminous train of feathers in good order. 
 
 Sometimes the wind suddenly changes. Then 
 their sweeping plumage becomes entangled, and the 
 pride of their glorious beauty is their overthrow. 
 They fall to the ground and are taken by the na- 
 tives, or into the water and are lost. 
 
 They are all distinguished by their splendid at- 
 ,ire. They differ from the eider-duck, as the fash- 
 ionable lady does from the domestic and devoted 
 mother. It is only for ornament that they are prized 
 by the inhabitants of the east. The nobles of Per- 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 35 
 
 sia, Surat, and the East Indies, are anxious to obtain 
 them to wear upon their turbans. 
 
 There are twelve or fifteen different species. 
 The most elegant of these is called the Great Bird 
 of Paradise. It is of a cinnamon colour, with a 
 throat of golden yellow, and the body is small. It 
 measures two feet from the bill to the extremity of 
 its floating train. 
 
 The natives had a tradition that they dwelt in the 
 sky, andinever touched the earth till their last hour. 
 Some travellers mention, that to prevent the detec- 
 tion of this error, they are so cruel as to cut off their 
 feet ere they sell them. It is this species of the 
 bird of paradise which has sometimes been called 
 “ the footless fowl of Indian fable.” 
 
36 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 liESSONS IN THE FIELDS. 
 
 When I was a child, I knew an old, gray haired 
 man. Years had brought him wisdom, and he was 
 kind as well as wise. So, I loved him, and rejoiced 
 when I saw him coming towards me, leaning upon 
 his staff. 
 
 Once, as he talked with me, he said, “ I know a 
 way to be happy. I learned it in the fields.” Then 
 I entreated him to teach it also to me. l^lit he an- 
 swered, “Go forth into the fields, among living 
 things, and learn it there for thyself.” 
 
 I went forth, and looked attentively upon all that 
 moved around. But no voice spake, and no eye re- 
 garded me. So, I returned to the aged man, and 
 when he asked what I saw in the fields, I replied : 
 
 “ I saw the brook flowing on among sweet flowers. 
 It seemed to be singing a merry song. I listened, 
 but there were no words to the music. The spar- 
 row flew by me with down in her beak, wherewith 
 to line her nest, and the red-breast with a crumb she 
 had gathered at the door, to feed her chirping 
 young. 
 
 “ The ducklings swam beside their mother in the 
 clear stream. The hen drew her chickens beneath 
 her wings, and screamed to the soaring hawk. The 
 spider threw out threads like lines of silver. She 
 fastened them from spray to spray, and ran lightly 
 on the bridge made from her own body. 
 
 “ The snail put his horned head through the door 
 of his house of shell, and drew it suddenly back. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 37 
 
 The ant carried in her pincers a grain of corn, and 
 the loaded bee hastened to her hive, like a labourer 
 to his cottage. 
 
 •• The dog came forth and guarded the young 
 lambs. They frisked fearlessly by the side of their 
 mothers, who with serious faces were cropping the 
 tender grass. All seemed full of happiness. 
 
 1 asked of them the way to happiness. But they 
 made no reply. Again and again I exclaimed, 
 ‘ which of you will teach me the way to be happy?’ 
 And only echo answered, repeating ^ happy ^ happy 
 but not telling me how to become so.” 
 
 “ Hast thou looked upon all these,” said the aged 
 man, “and yet received no instruction? Did not 
 the brook tell thee, it might not stay to be idle, but 
 must haste to meet the river, and go with that to the 
 ocean, to do the bidding of ocean’s king ? 
 
 “ Did it not say to thee, that it found pleasure by 
 the way, in refreshing the trees that stretched their 
 roots to meet it, and in giving drink to the flowers 
 that bowed themselves down to its face, with a kiss 
 of gratitude? 
 
 “ Thou didst see the birds building their nests 
 among the cool, green branches, or flying with food 
 to nouri.sh their unfledged young. And couldst thou 
 not perceive, that to make others happy is hap- 
 piness ? 
 
 “ Tlie young duck gave diligence to learn of its 
 mother the true use of its oary feet, and how to 
 balance its body in the deep waters. The chicken 
 obeyed the warning to hide itself under the shelter- 
 4 
 
38 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 ing wing, though it was ignorant of the cruelty of 
 the foe from which it fled. 
 
 “ And did they not bid thee seek with the same 
 obedience the lessons of thy mother, who every day 
 teacheth thee, and every night lifteth up a prayer 
 that thy soul may escape the destroyer and live for- 
 ever ? 
 
 “ The spider’s silken bower was swept away, and 
 she began another without murmuring or despond- 
 ence. The snail willingly put forth all her strength 
 to bear her house upon her back ; and the ant cheer- 
 fully toiled on with a load of corn to her winter 
 store-house. 
 
 “ Thou sawest that the bee wasted not the small- 
 est drop of sweetness that lingered in the honey- 
 cups, or among the bells of the flowers. And came 
 there no voice to thee from all these examples of 
 patience and prudence and wisdom ? 
 
 “ Thou didst admire the shepherd’s dog protecting 
 the helpless, and zealously doing the bidding of his 
 master. How couldst thou fail to understand that 
 faithful continuance in duty is happiness ? 
 
 ‘‘ From all these busy teachers came there no pre- 
 cept unto thee? When each gave thee lessons, wert 
 thou deaf to their instruction? Did not the fields 
 lift up their hands and tell thee that industry was 
 happiness, that idleness was an offence both to Na- 
 ture and to her God ?” 
 
 Then I bowed down my head upon my bosom, 
 and my cheek was crimson with shame. Because I 
 had not understood the lessons of the fields, and was 
 ignorant of what even birds and insects taught. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 39 
 
 But the man with hoary hairs comforted me. So, 
 I thanked him for his tenderness and wisdom. And 
 I took his precepts into my heart, that I might weigh 
 them and find if they were true. And though I 
 was then young, and now am old, I have never had 
 reason to doubt that these lessons of the fields 
 were good, and that to do the will of the Creator is 
 happiness. 
 
40 
 
 THL GIKL S READlNG'BuuK. 
 
 EASY STUDIES. 
 
 1 Heard two girls, as they conversed. One said, 
 “ I am sure I should not like to attend your school. 
 You have longer lessons than I choose to learn. Be- 
 sides, I think they give you too hard studies. I 
 always prefer easy studies, and short lessons.” 
 
 Afterwards, as I reflected, I could not help saying 
 to myself, — “ Now, I am afraid, that this lover of 
 short lessons, and easy studies ,— she loves to grow 
 up, and have the care of a family, 'will choose only 
 easy things, and become indolent, and negligent in 
 her duties. 
 
 “ I am afraid that when she is a woman, and any 
 difficult thing presses on her, as it surely must, she 
 will be discouraged, or perhaps unamiable. For a 
 love of ease leads to selfishness, and selfishness to 
 an unhappy disposition and wrong conduct.” 
 
 I once heard an excellent old lady say to her 
 grand children, “ If you will do nothing but what is 
 easy, you will be neither a good mother, or a good 
 housekeeper. Your children will be neglected, and 
 your house out of order. You will complain of had 
 help, and no help, for the care that is necessary to 
 make domestics faithful at their post, and contented 
 to remain there, you certainly will not be willing to 
 take. 
 
 “ The little girl,” said she, “ who will not learn to 
 do this, or that, because it is hard, W’ill be apt to be- 
 long to that class, who do not like to keep house, 
 and must go to board to live easy. But in trying to 
 
THE girl’s KEADIKG-BOOK. 
 
 41 
 
 escape wliat they call troubles, they lose all those 
 pleasures of home, which make parents respectable, 
 and children happy.” 
 
 Tlie scholar, who loves only easy studies, and 
 short lessons, if she carries those habits of mind into 
 future life, will be in danger of becoming either a 
 vixen, or a drone. When cares and crosses meet 
 her, she will murmur under their burden, or decline 
 the labour that they impose. 
 
 It is a loss to know how to do nothing but what 
 is ea.'^y. Strength of intellect is acquired by con- 
 quering hard studies, and strength of character by 
 overcoming obstacles. She who is not willing to 
 contend with difliculties, is not fitted for this world. 
 The being who best knows for what end we were 
 placed here, has scattered in our path something 
 besides roses. 
 
 Especially is it a fault in our sex, to like only 
 easy things. Our business is to seek the happiness 
 of others rather than our own. Selfishness, in us, is 
 sin ; for it w’ars with the design of our Creator. 
 And none can oppose his will, and be happy. 
 
 Avoid, therefore, the determination to choose short 
 lessons, and easy studies, lest the habits thus che- 
 rished, should make you a self-indulgent and helpless 
 woman. Gird yourself up to the race of life. Re- 
 solve that whatever your duty to God and man 
 requires, you will perform diligently and faithfully. 
 
 The females of ancient Rome had a power of 
 endurance, and a contempt of hardships, which 
 caused them to be respected, even in a rude age. 
 The daughters of our republic, ennobled as they 
 4 -" 
 
42 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 are by higher knowledge, and a purer faith, ought 
 surely not to be less energetic, or less disinterested. 
 
 The increased advantages of education, no\v en- 
 joyed by the young, heighten the expectations of 
 their friends, and their responsibilities to God. 
 Their minds are no longer fettered, or held in dark- 
 ness. Every talent finds fitting employment in the 
 broad field of Christian duty and benevolence. 
 
 Time was, when the temple of Science was 
 barred against the foot of w'oman. Heathen tyran- 
 ny held her in vassalage, and Mahometan prejudice 
 pronounced her without a soul. Now, from the 
 sanctuary which knowledge and wisdom have con- 
 secrated, and from w-hence she was so long exclu- 
 ded, the interdict is taken away. 
 
 How will she receive the permission 7 How wdll 
 she prize the gift? Will she loiter at the threshold 
 of this magnificent temple? Will she amuse herself 
 in the outer courts, with those brief and gaudy flow- 
 ers, which spring up where is “no deepness of 
 earth?” Will she advance a few steps, and boast of 
 her own attainments, and twine the garland of vanity 
 around her brow, and be satisfied with ignorance ? 
 
 Or will she press to the inmost shrine of the tem- 
 ple of knowledge, among those patient and zealous 
 worshippers, whose “candle goeth not out by night?” 
 Dear young friends, w^ho are favoured v/ith the privi- 
 leges of education, these questions are for you. 
 
 On those of mature age, habit has fastened her 
 chains, and set a seal on character. With you, 
 it is the forming period, the time of hope. Allure- 
 ments to indolence and vanity surround you. Rise 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 43 
 
 above them. Fix your standard high. Take for 
 your models the wisest and best of your sex. 
 
 Be active, Avhile the dews of the morning are fresh 
 around you. Soon, the sun will oppress you with 
 its noon-day heat. It will find you toiling in steeper 
 paths, and Avearied beneath heavier burdens. Then 
 you will wish to be refreshed with the rich fruits of 
 a refined intellect. May you not have to take up 
 the lamentation, “ mine oAvn vineyard have I not 
 kept.” 
 
 The time must soon come, should your days be 
 prolonged, Avhen you will be young no more. Life 
 will then be like a “ twice-told tale.” The present 
 will be disrobed of novelty, and the future of its 
 charm, and the mind will turn for solace to the gath- 
 erings of the past. Furnish noAV your intellectual 
 store-house for that day of need. 
 
 Be Avilling to labour for knowledge, to learn long 
 lessons, and to encounter difficult studies. Seek it 
 with a tireless spirit, and so use it, that all within 
 the sphere of your influence may rejoice in your 
 mental and moral excellence, and be quickened by 
 you example to seek for “ glory, honour, immor- 
 tality, eternal life.” 
 
44 
 
 THE GIRL^S READING- BOOK, 
 
 OBEDIENCE. 
 
 Next to your duty to God, is your duty to your 
 parents. He has made them \"Our guides, because 
 they are wiser than you, and love you better than 
 any other earthly friends. You cannot always un- 
 derstand the reason of their commands. It is not 
 necessary that jmu should. If you live to be as old 
 as they are, you will perceive that their restraints 
 were for your good. 
 
 Think of the miseries of orphanage. 7’he great- 
 est loss that can befal a child, is to be deprived of 
 pious and affectionate parents. While such bless- 
 ings are continued to )^ou, never be so ungrateful as 
 to distress them by disobedience. It is but a slight 
 payment for all their watchings over your infancy, 
 their care for your comfort, and patience with your 
 errors, to do faithfully and cheerfully the things 
 that they desire. 
 
 When your parents are absent, observe their com- 
 mands with the same fidelity as if they were present. 
 The child who obeys only when under the eye of 
 a superior, has not learned obedience. He, who 
 seeth at all times, and in every place, is dis- 
 pleased with those who deceive their parents. He 
 hath promised to reward those who “honour their 
 father and their mother.” 
 
 The principle of obedience, is the principle of 
 order and happiness. If there were no subordina- 
 tion in families, what comfort would be found there? 
 If pupils refused to obey the directions of their 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 45 
 
 teachers, what benefit could they receive from their 
 instructions? If in nations, the laws were disre- 
 garded, what safety would there be for the people? 
 
 Let the principle of obedience be rooted in love. 
 Take pleasure in obeying the commands of your 
 superiors. Even if you should have an opposing 
 wish, let there be no reluctance of manner or coun- 
 tenance. I doubted the obedience of a child, whom 
 I once heard say to his mother, “ I will go, when I 
 have done one or two little things.” 
 
 But when I heard afterward, the mother asking 
 earnestly, “cZ/cZ you do as I bade youV^ I knew that 
 he was not an obedient cl.ild, though I did not hear 
 his answer. For if obedience had been habitual, his 
 mother would not have felt it necessary to inquire 
 if he had regarded her commands. She would not 
 have feared that he had neglected them, if his heart 
 had been in his duty. 
 
 It is ill-treatment of our dearest friends, to yield 
 to their wishes with a frowning brow, or a disagree- 
 able deportment. Convince your parents and in- 
 structors by your attentions and alacrity, that you 
 are thankful for the trouble they take, in advising 
 and directing you. 
 
 No greater evil could happen to the young, than 
 for their older and wiser friends to withdraw their 
 control, and abandon them to their own inexperi- 
 ence. If your superiors gave you a piece of gold, 
 you would doubtless express your gratitude. But 
 when they impart to you of th‘ ir wisdom, they 
 give you that which is of more value than gold. 
 
 When you are in school, feel it a privilege to be 
 
46 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 there, and give your time and thought to the em- 
 ployments which your teachers mark out for you. 
 Keep all their rules. Consider it dishonourable to 
 break them. Make the wishes of your instructors 
 your own, and then you will acquire knowledge, 
 with pleasure to yourself and to them. 
 
 Treat old persons with respect. This is too apt to 
 be forgotten by the young, though the Bible com- 
 mands, “to rise up before the face of the old man, 
 and honour the hoary head.” We should fear to be 
 irreverent to those, whom the Almighty has en- 
 joined us to honour. 
 
 The natives of this country, were observed by 
 our ancestors to be exemplary in their treatment of 
 the aged. The young rose up and gave place to 
 them. They bowed down reverently before them. 
 They solicited their opinion, and listened attentively 
 till they had done speaking. 
 
 The young men of the forest stood silent in their 
 councils, when the gray-haired chieftains opened 
 their lips. We should not be willing to have the 
 untutored Indian surpass us in a duty so graceful. 
 You remember that when a hoary-headed man once 
 entered a thronged assembly in Athens, and there 
 was no seat, the young people were so rude as to 
 laugh at his embarrassment. But when he was in 
 a similar situation at Sparta, the young arose and 
 made room. The Athenians know what is right,” 
 said he, “ but the Spartans practise it.” 
 
 May it never be said of us, that we understand 
 our duties, but disregard the obligations they im- 
 pose. Whenever you meet an old person, remem- 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 47 
 
 ber the command of God, and treat him with res- 
 pect. Years have given him experience, and expe- 
 rience is worthy of honour. Withhold not the rev- 
 erence that is his due. “ The hoary head is a crown 
 of glory, if it be found in the way of righteousness.” 
 
 Shew respect to magistrates, and to all who are 
 in places of authority. There would be fewer muti- 
 nies and revolutions, if children were trained up in 
 obedience. Distinguish yourselves by submission 
 and deference towards all whose station or virtues 
 claim them as their due. It was said of Washing- 
 ton, by his mother, that “his first lesson was to 
 obey.” Those best know how to direct others, w^ho 
 have themselves been taught subordination. 
 
 By faithfully discharging your first and earliest 
 obligations, you will be prepared to act well your 
 part in future life. You will maintain good order 
 in your own familie.s, and honour just government 
 in the land. And if you live to be old, and have 
 only a few gray hairs where your bright locks now 
 grow, you will deserve from the young the same 
 cheerful obedience and grateful respect which you 
 have yourself showm to your superior.s. 
 
48 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 THE OOOH DAUGHTER. 
 
 Ellen’s mother died, when she was scarcely thir- 
 teen years old. Her only brother had died the win- 
 ter before. Her two sisters were married, and had 
 removed to so great a distance, that she seldom 
 heard from them. She was quite alone with her 
 father. 
 
 When her mother first died, she felt as if she 
 never could be happy again. But when she saw her 
 father looking so sad, she thought it was her duty to 
 try to comfort him; and when he came in tired 
 from his work, she would set a chair for him, and 
 get him whatever he wanted, and speak pleasantly 
 to him, as her mother used to do. 
 
 She remembered how her mother made bread, 
 and was ambitious to make it in the same M^ay. She 
 proportioned the articles just as she had seen her 
 do. When she kneaded the dough, she used all the 
 strength in her little arms. She took great pains to 
 have it light, and to bake it well, and when she 
 placed on the table the first loaf that she had ever 
 made, she could not help weeping for joy, to hear 
 her father say, “ Child, this tastes like your mother’s 
 bread.” 
 
 She had often assisted in churning, but had never 
 taken the whole charge of making butter. But she 
 was anxious to try. She was careful to keep her 
 milk-pail and pans very clean and sweet. In work- 
 ing over the new butter, she patiently removed every 
 drop of butter-milk, because she had heard her 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 49 
 
 mother say that this was necessary in order to have 
 it good. 
 
 The neighbours were pleased with the industry 
 of the little girl, and encouraged her in her house- 
 keeping. She could not but miss her mother sadly, 
 and many times a day grieved for her loss. But she 
 went by herself to weep, for she said, “ I will not 
 make my poor father more sad by my sorrow. He 
 has enough of his own to bear.” 
 
 When winter evenings came, she swept the hearth 
 neatly, and placed the light on the little stand, and 
 sat down by his side with her needle. Her mother 
 had thoroughly instructed her in plain sewing, and 
 while she mended or made garments, her father 
 read aloud to her. He began to be comforted by the 
 goodness of his daughter, and she perceived that the 
 tones of his voice grew more cheerful in the evening 
 prayer, and when he bade her good-night. 
 
 Her father worked hard every day. She had often 
 heard her mother say that they were poor, and 
 must economize. So as she grew older, she studied 
 how to save expense. She knew that her mother 
 made several very comfortable dishes with but a little 
 meat. So she learned to prepare soup in the same 
 way. Also, by putting thin layers of meat, with a 
 little pepper and salt, and some broken pieces of 
 bread, in a small pot, with a plenty of vegetables 
 from their own garden, and covering them close 
 until all was thoroughly stewed, a very nourishing 
 dish was ready, when her father came home to 
 dinner. 
 
 They had near the door, a tree of nice sweet ap- 
 5 
 
50 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 pies. Some of these she pared and laid in a deep 
 pan, mingling them with a few sour apples to pro- 
 duce a pleasant flavour, and covered the whole with 
 a thick crust, which she broke after it w'as baked, 
 and plunged into the warm apple-sauce. This made 
 a kind of pie of which her father was fond. 
 
 He also liked puddings, and she learned to make 
 several cheap and good ones. Among them was 
 one, she sometimes called the “ Saturday pud- 
 ding,” because she baked it on Saturdays, that they 
 might have it for a Sunday dinner, cold in the sum- 
 mer, and in the winter \varmed on the coals, for they 
 were not accustomed to cook on that day, as they 
 both felt it a privilege to go to church. 
 
 She made this simple pudding by picking over 
 and washing a gill of rice, to which she added a 
 spoonful or two of browm sugar, and after letting it 
 soak a while in three pints of milk, baked it. She 
 felt it a pleasure to learn every thing, however small, 
 that would make her father comfortable, and a duty 
 to do it prudently. 
 
 Her mother had been accustomed to sell what 
 butter they could spare to a lady in the neighbour- 
 hood. Ellen continued to do so, and the lady ex- 
 pressed herself much surprised that so young a girl 
 should make so flne butter, and send it in such neat 
 order. If she ever felt fatigued with her labours, 
 she would recollect her mother’s example, and 
 alvvays be pleasant and cheerful when her father 
 came home. 
 
 She had been early taught to knit and to spin, 
 and remembered to have heard her mother say, that 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 51 
 
 stockings made from wool which was carded in the 
 house, lasted much longer than that which was pre- 
 pared at the factories, because the machine cut the 
 wool so fine, as to impair its strength. She wished 
 to avail herself of this knowledge, but found she 
 could not succeed in preparing such smooth rolls as 
 she had seen her mother spin. 
 
 So she took the wool to a neighbour, who was 
 experienced in such work, and offered if she Avould 
 teach her how to prepare it, to sew for her 
 until she was satisfied^ with the payment. “ That I 
 will, my good girl,” said she, “ or any thing else you 
 wish me to help you about, for wc all love you for 
 taking such care of your father. Your wrists are 
 not strong enough yet to break and card this long 
 wool, and I shall be glad to have you make an apron 
 for my baby.” 
 
 After the rolls were made, she spun them into 
 very even yarn, and having heard her father say 
 that he thought stockings were warmer and set 
 closer for being seamed, she finished him two pair 
 of long ones for winter, by knitting two stitches 
 plain, and seaming the third, and was delighted to 
 see how entirely they pleased him. 
 
 Having an active mind, she began to think of 
 some improvement in economy, and proposed that 
 he should purchase from a man for whom he worked, 
 a lamb ora sheep; “for it can get its living with 
 the cow,” said she, “ and we can use its wool for 
 stockings, and then you will not be obliged to buy.” 
 
 But, with all her prudence, she was not covetous, 
 and many a little pair of. thick stockings did she knit 
 
 u, Of lu. LIB. 
 
62 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 for poor children, and many a neatly mended gar- 
 ment which she thought they could spare, did she 
 carry to the sick ; for economy and generosity are 
 often found together. 
 
 When Ellen grew to be a young woman, she was 
 a favourite with all. The old and thoughtful re- 
 spected her for her obedience and affection to her 
 only parent, who no longer felt lonely, so comfort- 
 able and cheerful had she made his home. She was 
 also quite admired, for she had a good person, a 
 healthful complexion, and the open smile of one 
 who is in the habit of doing right, and feels happy 
 at heart, which is the truest beauty. 
 
 When her young friends visited her, though she 
 was fond of society, she did not forget that her first 
 duty was to her father. However agreeable they 
 were, as soon as the appointed time for his family 
 devotions came, she would say in the gentlest man- 
 ner, “my father has been long used to retire at 
 nine.” And those who were the most unwilling to 
 leave her, could not but respect her for attention 
 to his wishes. 
 
 She was addressed by a deserving young man, 
 who had known her merits from childhood. To his 
 proposal she replied, “ My father is growing infirm, 
 and is able to work but little. I feel it my duty to 
 take care of him as long as he lives. It might be a 
 burden to others. It is a pleasure to me.” 
 
 “ Ellen, it will be no burden to me. Let me help 
 you in supporting him. Most gladly will I work for 
 all.” She saw that he was sincere, and they were 
 married. Her husband had a small house and a 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 53 
 
 piece of ground on which he laboured. She kept 
 every thing neat and in order, and was always plea- 
 sant and cheerful. “I have now two motives,” she 
 said, “to be as good as I can, — a husband and a 
 father.” 
 
 Ellen’s little children loved their hoary grand- 
 father. She taught them by her own example how 
 to treat him with respect. The w'armest corner 
 was always for him. When they saw' her listening 
 to all he said with reverence, they never thought of 
 interrupting him, or disregarding his remarks. As 
 he was deaf, she raised her voice when she spoke to 
 him, in a steady, affectionate tone, and they learned 
 to do the same. 
 
 As they grew older, they read the Bible to him 
 daily, for his eyesight failed. His explanations 
 were a treasure to them. Especially was he pleased 
 when any of them learned to repeat by heart some 
 of the Psalms of David. “ For these,” he said, 
 “ have been my songs in the house of my pil- 
 grimage.” 
 
 Teachers, and others, who saw the children of 
 Ellen, observed that they had belter manners than 
 others of the same age. They acquired them, in a 
 great measure, from their constant propriety of de- 
 portment to their venerable grandfather. To pay 
 Respect to age is a benefit both to the manners and 
 character of children. It is an advantage to them 
 to live under the same roof with a pious old person, 
 provided they show them that reverence which the 
 Bible commands. 
 
 Ellen reaped a part of the reward of her filial duty, 
 5 * 
 
54 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 in seeing her children made better, and her father 
 happy. In his last sickness all waited upon him. 
 When he was no longer able to raise his head from 
 the clean pillow where it was laid, he thanked God 
 who had put it into the heart of his daughter to 
 nourish him with a never-failing kindness, and he 
 blessed her and her husband, and their little ones. 
 
 Death came for him, and his eyes grew dim, and 
 they were no longer able to warm his feet and 
 hands. Ellen raised him up in his bed, and sat 
 behind him, and wrapped her arms tenderly around 
 him, for she saw that he shivered. And most touch- 
 ing was it to hear him say, as he leaned his head 
 upon her shoulder for the last time, “ The Lord bless 
 thee and keep thee ; the Lord make his face to shine 
 upon thee ; the Lord lift up the light of his counte- 
 nance upon thee, and give thee peace.” 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 55 
 
 THE SICK. 
 
 As sickness is at some time or other the lot of all, 
 it is well to learn, while young, how to treat those 
 who are sick, and how to conduct when we are our- 
 selves so. The care of the sick is peculiarly the bu- 
 siness of our sex. Therefore, even little girls should 
 be trained to wait upon them, and to sympathize in 
 their sufferings. 
 
 Sickness is an evil, not only because it brings pain, 
 but because it prevents us from being useful. We 
 should consider good health as a precious gift from 
 our Heavenly Father, and avoid any imprudence by 
 which it is endangered. If we are necessarily ex- 
 posed to cold, we should guard ourselves with thick 
 clothing, especially about the feet. Shun the folly 
 of wearing thin stockings in winter, or thin shoes 
 when the streets are wet. 
 
 Sickness, that comes through imprudence, is at- 
 tended with self-reproach. We have no right to 
 sport with our health. This wonderful frame, fa- 
 shioned by an Almighty Hand, this temple of the 
 immortal spirit, was not intended for us to mar and 
 deface, as fashion or folly dictate. We should im- 
 part the earliest indications of ill-health to those 
 who have the care of us, as a slight remedy taken 
 in season often prevents a* formidable complaint. 
 
 When you are seriously sick, give yourself up 
 entirely to those who have the care of you. Take 
 without objection whatever they bring you, how- 
 ever unpleasant to the taste. Sickness is not a time 
 
56 
 
 THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. 
 
 to gratify the palate, but to learn patience. Thank 
 those who perform any service for you, however 
 small. Do not add to their fatigue any more than 
 you can help. If you see them standing long by 
 your bed, request them to take a seat. 
 
 If you have watchers, urge them to take refresh- 
 ment in the course of the night, and, if possible, to 
 get some repose. These attentions are pleasant to 
 those who nurse you, and help to turn your thoughts 
 from self, for selfishness is too prone to intrude into 
 the chamber of sickness. Consider your physician 
 as your friend. Tell him frankly all he asks, and 
 submit to his remedies without opposition. 
 
 Open your mind to cheering thoughts, and keep 
 your heart full of hope, for they promote recovery. 
 Spread your case before the Great Physician, and 
 ask his blessing on every remedy. When you are 
 well again, remember that you are under a renewed 
 weight of gratitude to Him, and to those who have 
 watched over you, and shown you kindness, and 
 from your own suiferings learn to pity others who 
 suffer. 
 
 The first thing to be considered in your treatment 
 of the sick, is to avoid whatever might disturb them. 
 This seems a slight attainment, and yet is not al- 
 ways understood even by professed nurses. A child 
 should be taught to avoid loud noises and laughter, 
 heavy footsteps, and careless shutting of doors, 
 when any one is sick in the house. And the more 
 delicate attentions of shading the light from the 
 face, or the lamp from the eye, and avoiding in the 
 warming of drinks, or the arrangement of the fire, 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 57 
 
 every sudden and shrill sound, should be familiar to 
 all in attendance. 
 
 Move with the greatest quietness around the cham- 
 ber of the sick, and when you speak to them, do so 
 with a pleasant smile, and a soft, low tone. When 
 you carry any little delicacy to an invalid, arrange 
 it with perfect neatness, and if you can, with taste. 
 These little circumstances are observed by them, 
 and have a cheering effect. If you send them fruit, or 
 sweetmeats, dispose them so as to make an agreeable 
 appearance. If you lay a nosegay upon their pil- 
 low, let it be fresh and beautiful; and so place every 
 flower, that its form and colouring may be most 
 easily discerned. 
 
 Remember the sick poor. Learn to make proper 
 drinks or nourishing broths for them with your own 
 hands. Visit them, and ascertain if their clothing 
 and beds are comfortably provided, and converse 
 with your parents and older friends respecting their 
 situation. Such habits are valuable in the young, 
 and should be cherished by those who have the 
 charge of their education, as far as circumstances 
 will admit. 
 
 I once knew a little girl, who, when her mother 
 had a headache, would glid^around the house like 
 a shadow, with her finger on her lip, to remind the 
 other children to be silent. I have seen her, when 
 her aged grandmother could not sleep for nervous- 
 ness, pass within the curtains, and press for a long 
 time her temples with a soft, gentle hand, and then 
 breathe low in her ear the simple tones of lulling mu- 
 sic, till she was composed to .slumber. And I joyed to 
 
58 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 see in her thus early, the elements of woman’s purer 
 and better nature. 
 
 It is well that kind sympathies should take deep 
 root in the heart of young females. For our sex should 
 ever bear about with them a nursing tenderness for 
 all who suffer. In ancient times, ladies of high 
 rank and wealth used to go to hospitals and alms- 
 houses to visit the sick. Bending over their wretch- 
 ed beds, they did not shrink to perform kind offices 
 for the most miserable. The “ blessing of him who 
 was ready to perish came upon them.” Let none 
 of us feel that we are too young to do something 
 for the comfort of the sick. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 59 
 
 THE POOR. 
 
 The sacred Scriptures say, “the poor we have al- 
 ways with us.” It is the duty of the young, as well 
 as those who are grown up, to study the best means 
 of relieving them. The kind feelings, the benevo- 
 lent sympathies, that are thus called forth, bless the 
 giver as well as the receiver. 
 
 If you see a child in the winter shivering and 
 thinly clad, make some inquiry into his situation. 
 Perhaps you will find that his parents are burdened 
 with too large a family to make all comfortable, or 
 that his mother is a widow, or that he is an orphan. 
 Then, if you can do any thing for his relief, or ex- 
 cite others to do so, it will be the means of increasing 
 your own happiness. 
 
 It is a good plan to repair neatly your cast-ofF gar- 
 ments, and now and then to knit a pair of coarse 
 stockings, and to lay aside a part of any money that 
 may be given you, to be in readiness for the claims 
 of the poor. Never feel unwilling to give whatever 
 you can spare, but consider the favour on your side, 
 so great is the pleasure of befievolence. 
 
 The young should always solicit the advice of 
 their parents, or older friends, in their charities. 
 The judicious relief of the poor requires more 
 knowledge of mankind, than those whose years are 
 few can be expected to possess. Above all, never 
 boast of any thing you give. It is an offence against 
 the nature of true charity, which “ vaunteth not it- 
 self, is not puffed up.” 
 
60 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 Let me tell you of the girls of a school who pitied 
 the poor, and formed themselves into a society for 
 their relief. They had only Saturday afternoon for 
 recreation during the week, and they resolved to 
 meet at that time, and devise means how they might 
 best be assisted. Their parents gave permission, 
 and their teacher allowed them to meet in the school- 
 room. 
 
 There, I have often seen them busy with their 
 needles, their bright eyes sparkling with happiness, 
 and their sweet voices consulting about their plans 
 of charity, like a band of sisters. And I blessed 
 them in my heart, and besought that the spirit of 
 grace and consolation might ever dwell among them. 
 For they were my own scholars, and I loved them 
 as children. 
 
 They were not soon weary in well-doing. Many 
 garments were repaired and made, many pair of 
 stockings knit, many books distributed among the 
 ignorant. They established a monthly contribution, 
 and decided, that the money which they devoted to 
 it should be the fruit of their own industry. 
 
 They employed tl^emselves with their needles, 
 and received from the friends for whom they worked, 
 a regular price, which was sufficient for their chari- 
 ties. That this new labour need not interfere with 
 their appointed lessons, or their necessary recrea- 
 tions, they rose an hour earlier in the morning, and 
 thus secured time for all. 
 
 Their Society was regularly organized, and among 
 its officers were four almoners, who, in distributing 
 their bounty, visited the houses of the poor, and 
 
THE girl’s READLNG-BOOK. 
 
 61 
 
 made report respecting them. An interesting child, 
 who was deaf and dumb, once accompanied these 
 almoners. In her strong language of signs and ges- 
 I tures, she related what she had seen in an abode of 
 poverty. 
 
 “ It was a small, low room,” said she. “ The stairs 
 were dark and broken. The snow through which 
 we had walked was deep, and my feet felt very cold. 
 But there was not fire enough to warm them. No. 
 I could have held in one of my hands those very 
 few, faint coals. And there was no wood. 
 
 “ The sick woman lay in a low bed. If she sat 
 up, she shivered, and she was covered with scant 
 1 and thin clothing. Her pale baby threw up its arms 
 I and cried. But there was no physician there. Then 
 the father came in, having in his hand some pieces 
 of pine, which he had picked up. He laid them on 
 the fire. But how soon were they burned up and 
 I gone. 
 
 1 “ His wife spoke to him, and when he answered, 
 
 I she looked sorry. Because I was deaf and dumb, I 
 knew not what they were saying. So, I asked my 
 friend. And she told me the poor woman said to 
 her husband, ‘ have you not bought a piece of can- 
 I die V When he answered ‘ no, I have no money,’ 
 ' she said, with sadness, ‘ must we be in the dark an- 
 other long, cold night, with our sick baby?’ ” 
 
 As the tender-hearted child went on to describe, 
 in her own peculiar dialect, the smiles that came 
 * suddenly over the faces of the sorrowing poor, at 
 I the unexpected bounty which she aided in bearing, 
 ) tears of exquisite feeling glistened in her eyes; for 
 G 
 
62 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 her heart was awake to every generous sensibility, 
 though her sealed lips were precluded from their 
 utterance. 
 
 One of the best inodes of assisting the poor, is 
 through their own industry. To give them work, 
 and pay them promptly and liberally, is far better 
 than to distribute alms, which may sometimes en- 
 courage idleness, or be perverted to vice. It also 
 saves that self-abasement which minds of sensibility 
 suffer, at receiving charity. 
 
 To remove ignorance, is an important branch of 
 benevolence. Study the art of explaining, in simple 
 and kind words, their duty to those who fall into 
 error for want of instruction. To distribute useful 
 and pious books among those who are able to read, 
 is an excellent form of bounty. They should be 
 plainly written. A part of your money for the poor 
 will be well devoted to their purchase. 
 
 Read the books that you intend to distribute, at- 
 tentively, before you buy them. Be sure that there 
 is nothing in their contents, but what is intended to 
 benefit the reader. Make a list of such books, with 
 your opinion respecting them. Mention why you 
 think they will be useful, and then you can give a 
 reason for recommending them to others, who may 
 desire to instruct the ignorant. 
 
 The biographies of those who have been distin- 
 guished for usefulness or piety, are excellent to awa- 
 ken the spirit of imitation. If you are not able to 
 purchase many, get one, and let it be easy of com- 
 prehension. If you are not able to give it away, 
 lend it, and w’hen it is returned, converse wnth the 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 63 
 
 persons who have read it, and try to impress on their 
 hearts the examples most worthy of being imi- 
 tated. 
 
 Thus by the gift, or the loan of books, you may 
 be scattering around you the seeds of usefulness 
 and piety. You may do more lasting good than by 
 the gift of clothing or money, which soon pass 
 away, and may be misused. When you relieve the 
 wants of the body, always remember the soul. For 
 how greatly will it add to your happiness, when you 
 grow up, to know that you have enlightened the 
 mind of but one child, and assisted in making him 
 wiser and better. 
 
 Do nothing charitable, from vanity, or a desire of 
 having your good deeds known and applauded. 
 Let your motives be, obedience to your Creator, and 
 love for those whom he has created. They are all 
 his family. He has breathed life into their bosoms. 
 He watches over them. He has given them immor- 
 tal souls. 
 
 Some have black or olive complexions, some are 
 red like the roving tribes of our forests, and others 
 white. But “ he hath made of one blood, all who 
 dwell upon the face of the whole earth.” They in- 
 habit different climes, but the same sun gives them 
 warmth, the same clouds send down rain to refresh 
 them. 
 
 Some wrap themselves in furs, or dig subterranean 
 cells, to shelter themselves from the cold of winter. 
 Others, in slight garments of cotton or silk, can 
 scarcely endure the parching heat of their long 
 summers. Some feed upon the rich fruits that a 
 
64 
 
 THE girl’s reading-boor. 
 
 tropical sun ripens. Others hunt the flying animals 
 through the forest for their sustenance. 
 
 Some drink the juice of the palm-tree, some press 
 the liquor from the grape, some refresh themselves 
 at the fountains of pure water. Some slumber in 
 their quiet homes, and others upon the tossing 
 treacherous sea. Yet the same fatherly hand pro- 
 vides for all. 
 
 He who called all mankind forth from the dust of 
 the earth, views them as one large family, seated at 
 one common table, and soon to lie down in one wide 
 bed, the grave. We see, perhaps, but one little cor- 
 ner of the table. We see varieties of dress, com- 
 plexion, and rank, and suffer our feelings to be affect- 
 ed by these changeful circumstances. 
 
 We behold one exalted upon a high seat, and we 
 say^, “he is more excellent than his neighbour.” 
 From those who hold the lowest places, or “ gather 
 up the crumbs under the table,” perhaps, we turn 
 away. Do we forget the great Father of all, who 
 appointed their stations ? who looketh only on the 
 heart ? 
 
 It must be pleasing to him who hath called him- 
 self in his Holy Scriptures a God of love, that all 
 his large family should regard each other as brethren 
 and sisters. Let us think of our fellow creatures, as 
 under the care of that Merciful Parent from whom 
 all our blessings proceed, and let our good deeds to 
 those who are less fortunate than ourselves, have 
 root in love. 
 
THE girl’s heading-book. 
 
 65 
 
 EARIiY RRCOliLRCTIONS. 
 
 The years of my childhood past away in content- 
 ment and peace. My lot was in humble and simple 
 industry. Yet my heart was full of gladness, though 
 I scarcely knew why. I loved to sit under the 
 shadow of the rugged rocks, and to hear the mur- 
 mured song of the falling brook. 
 
 I made to myself a companionship among the 
 things of nature, and was happy all the day. But 
 when evening darkened the landscape, I sat down 
 pensively. For I was alone, and had neither brother 
 or sister. 
 
 I was ever wishing for a brother who should be 
 older than myself, into whose hand I might put my 
 own, and say, ‘‘ Lead me forth to look at the solemn 
 stars, and tell me of their names.” Sometimes, too, 
 I wept in my bed, because there was no sister to 
 lay her head upon the same pillow. 
 
 At twilight, before the lamps were lighted, there 
 came up out of my bosom, what seemed to be a 
 friend. I did not then understand that its name was 
 Thought. But I talked with it, and it comforted me. 
 I waited for its coming, and whatsoever it asked of 
 me, I answered. 
 
 When it questioned me of my knowledge, I said, 
 “I know where the first fresh violets of spring 
 grow, and where the lily of the vale hides in its 
 broad green sheath, and where the vine climbs to 
 hang its purple clusters, and where the forest nuts 
 6 * 
 
66 
 
 THE GIRL'S reading-book. 
 
 ripen, when Autumn comes with its sparkling 
 frost. 
 
 “I have seen how the bee nourishes itself in 
 winter, with the essence of flowers, which its own 
 industry embalmed; and I have learned to draw 
 forth the kindness of domestic animals, and to tell 
 the names of the birds which build dwellings in 
 my father’s trees.” 
 
 Then thought inquired, “ what knowest thou of 
 those who reason, and to w^hom God has given do- 
 minion over the beasts of the field, and over the 
 fowls of the air ?” I confessed, that of my own race 
 I knew nothing, save of the parents who nurtured 
 me, and the few children with whom I had played 
 on the summer turf. 
 
 I w^as ashamed, for I felt that I was ignorant. So 
 I determined to turn away from the wild herbs of 
 the field, and the old trees where I had helped the 
 gray squirrel to gather acorns, and to look atten- 
 tively upon what passed among men. 
 
 I walked abroad w'hen the morning dews w^ere 
 lingering upon the grass, and the white lilies droop- 
 ing their beautiful heads to shed tears of joy, and 
 the young rose blushing, as if it listened to its own 
 praise. Nature smiled upon those sweet children, 
 that were so soon to fade. 
 
 But I turned toward those whose souls have the 
 gift of reason, and are not born to die. I said, “ if 
 there is joy in the plant that flourishes for a day, 
 and in the bird bearing to its nest but a broken 
 cherry, and in the lamb that has no friend but its 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 67 
 
 mother, how much happier must they be, who are 
 surrounded with good things, as by a flowing river, 
 and who know that, though they seem to die, it is 
 but to live forever.” 
 
 I looked upon a group of children. They were 
 untaught and unfed, and clamoured loudly with 
 wayward tongues. I asked them why they walk- 
 ed not in the pleasant paths of knowledge. And 
 they mocked at me. I heard two who were called 
 friends, speak harsh words to each other, and was 
 affrighted at the blows they dealt. 
 
 I saw a man with a fiery and a bloated face. He 
 was built strongly, like the oak among trees. Yet 
 his steps were weak and unsteady as those of the 
 tottering babe. He fell heavily, and lay as one 
 dead. I marvelled that no hand was stretched out 
 to raise him up. 
 
 I saw an open grave. A widow stood near it, 
 with her little ones. They looked downcast, and 
 sad at heart. Yet methought, it was famine and 
 misery, more than sorrow for the dead, which had 
 set on them such a yellow and shrivelled seal. 
 
 I said, “ what can have made the parents not pity 
 their children when they hungered, nor call them 
 home when they were in wickedness ? What made 
 the friends forget their early love ? and the strong 
 man fall down senseless? and the young die before 
 his time ?” I heard a voice say “ Intemperance ! 
 And there is mourning in the land, because of 
 this.” 
 
 So I returned to my home, sorrowing. And had 
 
68 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 God given me a brother or a sister, I would have 
 thrown my arms around their neck, and entreated, 
 “ touch not your lips to the poison cup, and let us 
 drink the pure water, which God hath blessed, all 
 the days of our lives.” 
 
 Again I went forth. I met a beautiful boy weep- 
 ing, and I asked him why he wept. He answered, 
 “ because my father went to the wars and is slain, 
 he will return no more.” I saw a mournful woman. 
 The sun shone upon her dwelling. The honey- 
 suckle climbed to its windows, and sent in its sweet 
 blossoms to do their loving message. But she was 
 a widow. Her husband had fallen in battle. There 
 was joy for her no more. 
 
 I saw a hoary man, sitting by the wayside. Grief 
 had made furrows upon his forehead, and his gar- 
 ments were thin and tattered. Yet he asked not for 
 charity. And when I besought him to tell me w’^hy 
 his heart was heavy, he replied faintly, I had a 
 son, an only one. From his cradle, I toiled, that 
 he might have food and clothing, and be taught 
 wisdom. 
 
 “ He grew up to bless me. So all my labour and 
 weariness were forgotten. When he became a man, 
 I knew no want ; for he cherished me, as I had 
 cherished him. Yet he left me to be a soldier. 
 He was slaughtered in the field of battle. There- 
 fore, mine eye runneth down with water, because 
 the comforter that should relieve my soul, returns 
 no more ” 
 
 I said, “ .shew me, I pray thee, a field of battle, that 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 69 
 
 I may know what war means.” But he answered, 
 “ Thou art not able to bear the sight.” “ Tell me, 
 then,” I entreated, “ what thou hast seen, when the 
 battle was done.” 
 
 “ I came,” he said, “ at the close of day, when the 
 cannon ceased their thunder, and the victor and van- 
 quished had withdrawn. The rising moon looked 
 down on the pale faces of the dead. Scattered over 
 the broad plain were many who still struggled with 
 the pangs of death. 
 
 “ They stretched out the shattered limb, yet there 
 was no healing hand. They strove to raise their 
 heads, but sank deeper in the blood which flowed 
 from their own bosoms. They begged in God’s 
 name that we would put them out of their misery, 
 and their piercing shrieks entered into my soul. 
 
 “ Here and there, horses mad with pain, rolled and 
 plunged, mangling with their hoofs the dying, or 
 defacing the dead. And I remembered the mourn- 
 ing for those who lay there — of the parents who had 
 reared them, or of the young children who used to 
 sit at home upon their knee.” 
 
 Then I said, “tell me no more of battle or of war, 
 for my heart is sad.” The silver haired man raised 
 his eyes upward, and I kneeled down by his side. 
 
 And he prayed, “Lord, keep this child from 
 anger and hatred and ambition, which are the seeds 
 of war. Grant to all that own the name of Jesus, 
 hearts of peace, that they may shun every deed of 
 strife, and dwell at last in the country of peace, 
 even in heaven.” 
 
70 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 Hastening home, I besought my mother, “ shelter 
 me, as I have been sheltered, in solitude, and in 
 love. Bid me turn the wheel of industry, or bring 
 water from the fountain, or tend the plants of the 
 garden, or feed a young bird and listen to its song, 
 but let me go no more forth among the vices and 
 miseries of man.” 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 71 
 
 THE GOOD SISTER. 
 
 The village-bell tolled. Groups of people were 
 seen slowly assembling at the funeral call. The 
 hearse stood before the door of a small house, with 
 a vine-wreathed porch. There the minister lifted 
 up his solemn voice in supplication, that the living 
 might be supported in their bitter parting with the 
 dead. A feeble wail from the chamber mingled 
 with his prayer. It was the moan of the young in- 
 fant, from whom its mother had been suddenly taken. 
 
 When the mournful family returned from the 
 grave, the oldest daughter folded the babe in her 
 arms, and pressed its little face long to hers. Tears 
 flowed fast down her cheeks, as she said, “ I will be 
 a mother to you, my poor little one.” And the 
 upward glance of her eye told, that her heart was 
 asking of her Father in heaven, wisdom to supply 
 to it the place of that good parent whom he had 
 taken to himself. 
 
 “What will poor Mr. Allen do, now he has lost 
 his wife ?” said one of the neighbours. “ He is not 
 able to hire a nurse, and to hear the poor baby cry- 
 ing all the time the minister was at prayer, was 
 quite heart-rending.” “ Do you not know,” said her 
 friend, “ that Lucy, the eldest girl, has undertaken 
 the care of it? It is truly wonderful to see one so 
 young preparing its food so well, and waking pa- 
 tiently in the night to feed it, and so anxious to learn 
 how to nurse it when it is sick. We must go in and 
 encourage her.” 
 
72 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 Lucy Allen was very careful to mingle the milk 
 for the babe in just proportion, and to give it at regu- 
 lar intervals. She washed and dressed it early in 
 the morning, with the greatest tenderness, and lulled 
 it to rest at the proper hours. She sat by her sad 
 father through the long winter evenings. The babe 
 lay sleeping in its cradle by their side. If it awaked, 
 she rocked and lulled it with a tender voice, and her 
 father blessed her. 
 
 It was a beautiful sight, to see that fair young girl, 
 week after week, nourishing the feeble infant. 
 Sometimes, when her gay companions urged her to 
 go with them and spend the evening, she would say, 
 “ the baby is not quite well, and I am afraid to leave 
 it so long.” “ O, you will make a mope of yourself 
 for that baby. I dare say it can do well enough 
 awhile without you.” But Lucy would excuse her- 
 self by saying, that her father looked lonely, and 
 since her dear mother’s death, she took more plea- 
 sure in being at home with him, than in going out as 
 formerly. 
 
 The babe inclined to cry and be fretful. Lucy 
 said it was irritable, because it was unwell, and as 
 it grew stronger, it would grow more quiet. And 
 so it proved. She attended to its health, and after a 
 few months its fits of crying abated. It grew lively, 
 and began to have a ruddy cheek. She always spoke 
 to it in a cheerful voice, and looked at it with a 
 smile, for she saw that this seemed to make it hap- 
 pier : and said, ‘‘ poor, dear child, it has no mother to 
 comfort it, and all I can do is so much less than she 
 would have done, that I feel sorry for it.” 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 73 
 
 Lucy had not been accustomed to be disturbed in 
 her rest. When she was kept waking a great part 
 of the night, as she sometimes was, when the babe 
 was getting teeth, she could not help feeling tired 
 and weak in the morning. But she never complain- 
 ed. She remembered how patiently her mother had 
 nursed the others in their sicknesses, and tried to 
 imitate her. And when the little one began to walk, 
 and when the first word it lisped was her name, and 
 when it stretched forth its arms to her, as to a mo- 
 ther, she felt more than repaid for all her toil. 
 
 But it was not the care of the infant alone that 
 exercised Lucy’s affection and patience. She had 
 two other sisters and brothers, to whom she tried to 
 fill a mother’s place. The sister next to herself in 
 age, was about thirteen, and assisted much in the 
 work of the family. She was not, however, always 
 amiable, and was sometimes jealous that Lucy in- 
 tended to rule her. But by mildness and kindness, 
 she succeeded in convincing her that she had only 
 her good in view, and induced her to try to regulate 
 her temper and improve her character. 
 
 The two brothers were eleven and nine years old. 
 Lucy took great care that they should have their 
 lessons ready for school, and that they should be 
 there in season, and neatly dressed, with clean hands 
 and faces She charged them not to keep company 
 with bad boys, and gave them the same advice about 
 truth and honesty, and respect for age, and reve- 
 rence for the sabbath, which her pious mother had 
 given to her. 
 
 One morning, the youngest boy came running in — 
 
74 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 “ Sister Lucy, I have cut my finger dreadfully. I 
 did it in cutting a thick board with father’s sharp 
 knife.” She instantly produced the basket, in which 
 she kept lint, and soft pieces of old linen, and salve, 
 and cotton bats for burns, and proceeded to do it up 
 skilfully. But the tears flowed afresh. “ Does it pain 
 you much, little brother?” “Yes. But the worst 
 of it is, father told me not to touch that knife, and I 
 am afraid to tell him.” 
 
 “ You have done very wrong to disobey your fa- 
 ther. But you must own to him exactly how it was. 
 Faults are made worse by concealment. I remem- 
 ber an old school-mistress, who used to tell us, 
 
 ‘ speak truth, and let the sky fall.’ And it was 
 right advice, because God is a God of truth, and re- 
 quires truth of all who hope to live in heaven at 
 last.” 
 
 Her little brother promised her that he would con- 
 fess his fault. But she saw that he was very much 
 afraid, and remembered that her father was some- 
 times inclined to be severe, and her heart yearned 
 towards the child. So, she went out to meet him, 
 when she saw him coming home, and told him that 
 her little brother had done wrong, but had suffered 
 in consequence, and seemed penitent. The boy con- 
 fessed his fault, and the father forgave his disobedi- 
 ence, for the sake of Lucy’s intercession. 
 
 The youngest girl was scarcely six. Between 
 herself and the babe there had been another, who 
 died, and she, in consequence of this, had been 
 much indulged. Lucy felt the great importance that 
 her moral training should have vigilant attention. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 75 
 
 She used towards her great gentleness and firmness, 
 and was always consistent, so that her word was re- 
 lied on and respected. Soon the child became obe- 
 dient, and being very affectionate, grew happy, and 
 every day more attached to her sister. 
 
 The principal fault of the little sister was thought- 
 lessness. Lucy took great pains to teach her to at- 
 tend and to remember. She was very apt to meet 
 with accidents, to tear her clothes, or to lose her 
 little possessions. Lucy never upbraided her, for 
 she said this was the way to make children bad- 
 tempered or deceitful. But she steadily exerted her- 
 self to make her think what she was about, and to 
 put things in the right place. 
 
 The second sister would often speak harshly to 
 the little one, when any accident befel her, through 
 what seemed to be her own carelessness. But Lucy 
 begged her not to do so, and said, “ to scold at a 
 child, makes them learn to scold also, if they dare ; 
 and if they dare not, frightens them into falsehood.” 
 So, the child, when she tore her frock or her apron, 
 brought it trustingly to Lucy’s needle, and heeded, 
 out of gratitude, the advice that she gave her. 
 
 The father was greatly comforted by Lucy’s good- 
 ness. When he told her so, she felt that it was an 
 over-payment for all her toil. Her brothers and sis- 
 ters, as they grew up, blessed their good sister. 
 When ever she was in doubt respecting her duty to 
 them, she asked herself, what would my dear mo- 
 ther have done? If the duty was difficult, she re- 
 tired to her chamber, and prayed to Him, from 
 
76 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 whom is all our sufficiency, and He gave her the 
 strength that she needed. 
 
 All who knew Lucy Allen admired her conduct. 
 The mothers wished for such a daughter, and the 
 young for such a friend. She was considered more 
 beautiful than those who flaunted in fine dress, 
 or sought for fashionable amusement ; for the warm- 
 est, purest affections beamed in her face, and they 
 are the true beauty of the heart. But happy as she 
 was, in the love of all the good, she felt the highest 
 thrill of pleasure, when the babe that she had reared 
 to a healthful and fair child, came to her with all its 
 little joys and sorrows, saying, that better than all 
 the world beside, it loved its dear sister-mother.''^ 
 
THE girl’s heading-book. 
 
 77 
 
 THE TRUE FRIEND. 
 
 Young persons are fond of agreeable society. A 
 lonely room, or a solitary evening, does not suit their 
 cheerful temperament. They are willing to bear fa- 
 tigue, the heat of the summer’s sun, or the storm of 
 winter, to meet a pleasant companion. 
 
 They naturally wish to obtain a friend in whom 
 they can confide. They read much of the pleasures 
 of friendship, and are anxious to possess a treasure 
 which the wise and good extol. 
 
 Shall I tell you of a pleasant companion, and a 
 true friend, who is always near, and whose acquaint- 
 ance may be readily secured? Should you ever live 
 far from neighbours, or be divided from your parents 
 and relatives, such an acquisition would be highly 
 valuable. 
 
 First, let me describe this friend to you. She is 
 exceedingly like yourself. Her eyes and the tones 
 of her voice are the same. When you are good and 
 happy, she smiles also. In your sorrows she sym- 
 pathizes. She makes your joys her own. 
 
 You perceive that she has the qualities of a good 
 friend. In one respect, she will be better to you 
 than any other. The dearest friends die and leave 
 us. We mourn in desolation over their graves. But 
 the friend of whom I speak, has the assurance of 
 living as long as you do, and at your own death-bed 
 will be nearer to you than the nearest relation. 
 
 She might say to you in the beautiful language of 
 Ruth, “ whither thou goest, I will go ; where thou 
 7 * 
 
78 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 lodgest, I will lodge ; thy people shall be my people, 
 and thy God my God ; where thou diest, I will die, 
 and there will I be buried ; the Lord do so to me, 
 and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.” 
 
 Will you be introduced to this friend ? She has 
 some peculiarities, of which it is but right to inform 
 you. When you try daily to improve, and are in- 
 dustrious, and affectionate, and pious, she is in good 
 health. But when you fail in your duties, she is 
 sick and sad, and no common physician can under- 
 stand her case, or give her medicine. 
 
 If you persist in doing wrong, she has a way 
 of hanging a heavy weight in your breast, which 
 those who have felt it say is a severe punishment. 
 She is said also to have some tendency to jealousy, 
 and not to like the presence of a third person, at her 
 particular interviews. 
 
 But though she wishes exclusive attention during 
 the period devoted to her, she is not unreasonable 
 in her claims upon your time. Half an hour out of 
 the twenty-four will content her. And she chooses 
 this half hour should be the last before retiring, 
 when the business of the day is done. 
 
 She requires that you should be punctual to meet 
 her at the appointed time, and frank in replying to 
 all the questions she may see fit to propose. And 
 now, will you cultivate an intercourse with this per- 
 sonage ? It will certainly do you no harm. Can 
 this be said of all with whom you associate ? 
 
 Those who have made the greatest progress in her 
 intimacy, acknowledge that the beginning was rather 
 awkward, for she is averse to flattery, and apt to 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 79 
 
 blame what is wrong. But as they persevere, it be- 
 comes delightful, and her smile is a rich reward for 
 every toil. 
 
 If you wish to enlarge the circle of your acquaint- 
 ance by such a friend, tell her so. Promise to con- 
 form to her modes of conversation. Sit down alone, 
 and wait for her, when the cares and employments 
 of the day, like shut roses, are drinking the dews 
 of slumber. 
 
 While you meditate, she is near. When you hear 
 a still voice, like a soft breath passing over your 
 cheek, be ready to answer with truth, such questions 
 as the following: “ Did you rise early this morning? 
 and were your first thoughts turned to Him who 
 protected you through the night, and is alone able 
 to sustain you through the day ? 
 
 “ Have you realized the value of time, and labour- 
 ed to improve it ? Have you been obedient to your 
 parents and teachers, and respectful to the aged ? 
 
 Have you been affectionate to your brothers, 
 sisters, and companions, and tried to promote the 
 comfort of all with whom you dwell ? Have you 
 instructed the ignorant? or relieved the poor? or 
 shown kindness to the sick and sorrowful ? 
 
 “ Have you been patient when you were disap- 
 pointed, and restrained your temper when you were 
 provoked? Did you repress vanity, and in ‘ all low- 
 liness of mind, esteem others better than yourself?’ 
 
 “ Have you preserved a cheerful countenance and 
 manners, and tried to make all around you happy ? 
 Shall your last act, before you retire to rest, be, to 
 thank the Almighty Father for all his mercies, and 
 
80 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 implore his aid to advance daily in wisdom and 
 piety?” 
 
 Happy are they who can answer these ques- 
 tions in the affirmative. The True Friend who pro- 
 poses them, is your own heart. Make it your night- 
 ly monitor. It will strengthen you in the race of 
 virtue, and its payment is the approval of conscience, 
 that pure gold, which rust cannot corrupt, nor rob- 
 ber take away. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 81 
 
 THE HAPPY FAMILY. 
 
 I ONCE passed several months under the roof of a 
 farmer. It was to me one of the pleasantest and 
 most profitable visits I had ever made. For I saw 
 continually around me, that industry, economy, and 
 contentment, which make every rational household 
 happy. 
 
 The whole family rose before the sun. After an 
 early breakfast, every one proceeded to the business 
 of the day. The farmer and his sons went with 
 their workmen to the fit id. The swift strokes of 
 the churn were heard, changing the rich cr^m to 
 the golden-coloured butter. I was never weary of 
 watching the progress of the cheese, from its first 
 consolidation, to its reception in the press, and its 
 daily attentions in the dairy. 
 
 Above stairs, the sound of the loom, and the 
 flight of the shuttle, allured me. There, various 
 fabricks for the comfort of the family were wrought 
 out, from the carpet on which they trod, to the 
 snowy linen that covered their beds, and the firm 
 garments from the fleece of tlieir sheep, in which 
 they fearlessly braved the cold of winter. 
 
 But my delight was especially in the spinning- 
 room. There the wheels turned swiftly with merry 
 music. The step of the spinner was light, and her 
 face cheerful, as she drew even threads from the 
 fair white roll, or the blue one that was to furnish 
 stockings for the father and brothers. 
 
 Masses of yarn, assorted according to its various 
 
82 
 
 THK girl’s reading-book. 
 
 texture and destination, hung upon the wall. Each 
 one was pleased to add to the store her new skeins. 
 The flying reel told audibly the amount of every 
 spindle, and pronounced when the useful task of the 
 day was done. This seemed to me the kind of in- 
 dustry which more than any other promoted cheer- 
 fulness and health. 
 
 The daughters of the family had blooming and 
 happy countenances. They used their strength 
 freely in domestic toils, and when they went out 
 to any distance, rode well and fearlessly on horse- 
 back. They seemed never to have any nervous 
 complaints, or to need a physician. Exercise, and 
 the healthful food on which they fed, and their own 
 happy spirits, were their medicines. 
 
 The mother superintended all that concerned 
 them, with a serious dignity. She taught them 
 every necessary employment, by first taking part in 
 it herself, and then deputing it to them. She in- 
 duced them to consider the interests of their father 
 as their own, and instructed them by her own ex- 
 ample how to lessen his expenses. 
 
 She sent to market, in the best order, the surplus 
 of her dairy, and poultry-yard, and loom. It was 
 her ambition, that the finer parts of the wardrobe of 
 herself and family, should be thus procured. It 
 pleased her better, than to make demands upon the 
 purse of her husband. 
 
 Her eldest daughters desired to have some money 
 of their own, to purchase such books as they liked, 
 and to assist the poor. She encouraged their design, 
 and gave them a room in which to rear the silk- 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 worm. There they were seen busily tending that 
 curious insect, whose changes from the little egg 
 like a mustard-seed, to the cell of silken tapestry 
 where it gathers up its feet to die, shew the won- 
 derful hand of that being, who is “excellent in 
 working.” 
 
 Their small skeins of silk, tastefully arranged for 
 sale, imitated the colours of the rainbow, and they 
 were delighted to find, how soon the wand of indus- 
 try could convert the mulberry leaf to silk, and the 
 silk to gold. They also aided their younger broth- 
 ers in a pursuit which interested them — the care of 
 bees. 
 
 Rows of hives were ranged in a sunny and genial 
 spot. Beds of flowers and fragrant herbs were 
 planted to accommodate the winged chymists. The 
 purest honey gave variety to their table, and the 
 superflux, with the wax that was made from the 
 comb, were among the most saleable articles of 
 their domestic manufacture. 
 
 The long winter evenings in the farmer’s house 
 were delightful. More healthy and happy faces I 
 have never seen. Yet there was perfect order. For 
 the parents, who commanded respect, were always 
 seated among the children. And in the corner, in 
 the warmest place, was the silver-haired grand- 
 mother, with her clean cap, who was counted as an 
 oracle. 
 
 The father, or his sons, read aloud such works as 
 mingle entertainment with instruction. The females 
 listened with interest, or made remarks wdth anima- 
 tion, though their busy hands directed the flight of 
 
84 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 the needle, or made the stocking grow. The quiet 
 hum of the flax-wheel, was held no interruption to 
 the scene, or to the voice of the reader. 
 
 The neighbour coming in, was greeted with a 
 cordial welcome, and a simple hospitality. Rows 
 of ruddy apples, roasted before the fire, and various 
 nuts from their own forest-trees, were an appropri- 
 ate treat for the social winter-evening, where heart 
 opened to heart. 
 
 Sometimes, the smaller children clustered around 
 the grandmother’s chair, begging her for a story. 
 She told them of the days when she was young like 
 them, and of the changes that her life had known. 
 Especially, she loved to tell of the lessons of her 
 parents, and of the obedience with which she re- 
 garded them. 
 
 “ They taught me,” said she, “ to work, and not to 
 be ashamed of industry. I had a companion, about 
 my own age, who once spent a few months at a city 
 boarding-school. When she came home, it was ob- 
 served that she was ashamed to be seen doing the 
 same useful things, by which the family were sup- 
 ported. 
 
 “ Her mother directed her to go and milk the 
 favourite cow, which she had so long been accus- 
 tomed to do before she went to school, that it was 
 called her own. While she was doing it, a neigh- 
 bour came into the barn yard, and she was so much 
 afraid of being seen, that she hid her head under 
 the cow. till she was almost smothered. 
 
 “Whenever my mother thought I was not pleased 
 with humble occupations, or plain clothing, she 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 86 
 
 would say, ‘ child, don’t hide your head under the 
 cow.’ And this made me so much ashamed, that I 
 willingly did whatever she thought best. And now, 
 children, never be ashamed of honest industry, for 
 it is more foolish than to hide your heads under a 
 cow, in a warm day.” 
 
 Thus, by simple stories would she instruct them 
 in the various duties of life. Especially would she 
 warn them to fear God, and keep his command- 
 ments. At the stated hour of retiring, a sweet and 
 solemn hymn, in which every voice joined, gave 
 praise to the Almighty Preserver. 
 
 Then the great Bible, taken from the place where 
 it was carefully kept, was laid before the father of 
 the family. He reverently read a portion from its 
 sacred pages, and then in prayer committed his be- 
 loved household to the care of him who never slum- 
 bers. 
 
 During my visit to this well regulated family, I 
 was often led to reflect on the peculiar advantages 
 of a farmer’s lot. He is the possessor of true inde- 
 pendence. Sheltered from those risks and reverses, 
 which in crowded cities await those who make haste 
 to be rich, he feels that patient industry will ensure 
 a competent support for himself and family. 
 
 His children are a part of his wealth. They are 
 a capital, whose value increases every year that 
 they remain with him. If he incurs misfortune, 
 they join and help him out, instead of hanging round 
 his neck like millstones, to sink him into deeper 
 waters. 
 
 The habits which prevail in his family, the do- 
 8 
 
86 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 mestic industry^ the love of home, the order and 
 simplicity cherished there from ancient times, pro- 
 mote the true excellence of the female character. 
 Many of our most illustrious men have been the 
 sons of farmers, and traced the elements of their 
 distinction, to the hardihood and discipline of agri- 
 cultural nurture. 
 
 During my visit to this happy family, when I 
 looked round upon the healthful faces of its growing 
 members, their patient diligence, their moderated 
 desires, their cheerful subordination to their parents, 
 and saw those parents, not wasting their strength 
 in the idle ceremonies of fashionable life, but true 
 hearted and hospitable, independent and pious — I 
 said, this is the true order of nobility for a republic, 
 and if the virtue that upholds it should fly from the 
 pomp of cities, she will be found sheltered in safety 
 and honour, amid the farm-houses of our land. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 87 
 
 liETTER TO THE FEMALES OF GREECE. 
 
 When Greece was passing through the revolu- 
 tion, by which it gained freedom from the Turkish 
 yoke, great pity was felt in the United States, for 
 the sufferings of its inhabitants. Especially was the 
 sympathy of our females excited, for the miseries 
 that the war brought upon their own sex. 
 
 They were represented in continual terror of 
 their Turkish oppressors, often forced from their 
 own homes, scarcely clothed, and wretchedly feed- 
 ing, with their children, upon the snails and meagre 
 herbage of the barren mountains whither they were 
 driven. 
 
 The letters of Dr. Howe, now the Principal of the 
 Institution for the Blind, in Boston, powerfully de- 
 scribed their sorrows and their patience. His resi- 
 dence in Greece had rendered him familiar with 
 the evils which he related, and his appeal to the 
 bounty of his native land was not in vain. 
 
 Vessels were freighted with provisions and cloth- 
 ing, and trusty agents sent out to distribute them. 
 Not only in the larger cities, but in the villages of 
 our country, the spirit of benevolence was awake 
 and active. The cry of Greece seemed to enter into 
 every ear. 
 
 Donations were given. Contributions were gath- 
 ered. Ladies formed societies, and consulted how 
 the money thus collected might be best disposed of 
 for the benefit of Greece. Even the poor believed 
 
88 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book, 
 
 that they had a garment to spare, and brought it 
 with tears, for the poorer women of Greece. 
 
 Cloth was purchased, and garments cut out, for 
 those of every age, from the infant, to the hoary- 
 headed. The little girls from the schools forgot to 
 play on their holidays, and sat down to work for 
 the children of Greece. 
 
 Ladies of the greatest wealth plied their needles 
 industriously, that the unfortunate Greeks might be 
 clothed. Their servants also came, offering a part 
 of their wages. They sat down by their side, work- 
 ing for the same charity. 
 
 It was like one great sisterhood, in which narrow 
 distinctions were forgotten. Such was the spirit of 
 harmony breathed into every heart, it would seem 
 that we were debtors to the Greeks, and not they to 
 us. It was the happiness of benevolence. There 
 is no other like it. 
 
 The little ones partook of it, and their smile was 
 brighter, while they learned the luxury of doing 
 good. Their voices were tender and sweet, as they 
 said to each other, “ Greece hungered, and we gave 
 her food j she was naked, and we clothed her.” 
 
 In one of the cities of New England, when the 
 boxes of apparel, and the barrels of provisions, 
 were ready to be sent, it was suggested that a letter 
 should accompany them. One was accordingly 
 written, and translated into modern Greek. 
 
 It was received and read by those desolate wo- 
 men with the weeping of joy. And it -affords a 
 lesson to those who have nothing else to give, that 
 the kind words of affectionate sympathy are balm 
 
THE GIRL^S READING-BOOK. 
 
 89 
 
 to the afflicted heart. Here is a copy of the letter 
 to the females of Greece. 
 
 “ Hartford, Conn., March \2th, 1828. 
 
 Sisters and Friends, 
 
 From our years of childhood, the land of 
 your birth has been the theme of our admiration. 
 With our brothers and husbands, we early learned 
 to love the country of Homer and of Solon, of Aris- 
 tides and Herodotus, of Socrates and of Plato. 
 
 That enthusiasm which the glory of ancient 
 Greece enkindled in our bosoms, has kept alive a 
 fervent friendship for her children. We have seen 
 with deep sympathy the horrors of Turkish domi- 
 nation, and the struggle so long and nobly sustain- 
 ed, for existence and for liberty. 
 
 The communications of Dr. Howe, since his re- 
 turn from your afflicted clime, have made us more 
 intimately acquainted with your personal sufferings. 
 His vivid descriptions have presented you to us, 
 seeking refuge in caves, and dens of the earth, 
 listening in terror for the footsteps of the des- 
 troyer, or mourning over your dearest ones slain 
 in battle. 
 
 Sisters and friends, our hearts bleed for you. De- 
 prived of parents and protectors by the fortune of 
 war, and continually in fear of evils worse than 
 death, our prayers are with you, in all your wand- 
 erings, your wants, and your woes. 
 
 In this vessel, (which may God send in safety to 
 your shores,) you will receive a portion of that 
 bounty with which he hath blessed us. The poor 
 8 * 
 
90 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 among us have contributed, according to their 
 abilities. Our children have added their gifts and 
 their industry, that your children might have bread 
 to eat, and raiment to put on. 
 
 Could you but have seen the faces of our little 
 ones brighten, and their eyes sparkle with joy, as 
 they gave up their holiday sports, that they might 
 work with their needles for Greece, — could you 
 have beheld those females who earn a subsistence 
 by labour, gladly casting a mite into your treasury, 
 or taking hours from their repose, that you might 
 have an additional garment, — could you have wit- 
 nessed the active benevolence inspiring every class 
 of our community, — it would cheer for a moment 
 the darkness and misery of your lot. 
 
 Inhabitants, as we are, of a part of one of the 
 smallest of the United States, our donations must of 
 necessity be more limited than those from the 
 larger and more wealthy cities. But such as we 
 have, we give in the name of the dear Saviour, with 
 our blessings and our prayers. 
 
 We know the value of sympathy, how it girds the 
 heart to bear, how it plucks the sting from sorrow. 
 Therefore we have written these few lines to assure 
 you, that in the remote parts of our country, as well 
 as in her high places, you are remembered with pity 
 and with love. 
 
 Sisters and friends, — we extend across the ocean, 
 our hands to you, in the fellowship of Christ. We 
 pray that his cross, and the banner of your land, 
 may together rise above the crescent and the 
 minaret, — that your sons may hail the freedom of 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 91 
 
 ancient Greece restored, and build again the waste 
 places, which the oppressor hath trodden down, — 
 and that you, admitted once more to the felicities 
 of home, may gather from past perils and adver- 
 sities, a brighter wreath for the kingdom of 
 heaven.” 
 
92 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 HOPE AND MEMORY. 
 
 A BABE lay in its cradle. A being with bright 
 hair, and a clear eye, came and kissed it. Her name 
 was Hope. Its nurse denied it a cake, for which it 
 cried ; but Hope told it of one in store for it to-mor- 
 row. Its little sister gave it a flower, at which it 
 clapped its hands joyfully, and Hope promised it 
 fairer ones, which it should gather for itself. 
 
 The babe grew to a boy. He was musing at the 
 summer twilight. Another being, with a sweet, se- 
 rious face, came and sat by him. Her name was 
 Memory. And she said, “ Look behind thee, and 
 tell me what thou seest.” 
 
 The boy answered, “ I see a short path, bordered 
 with flowers. Butterflies spread out gay wings 
 there, and birds sing among the shrubs. It seems 
 to be the path where my feet have walked, for at 
 the beginning of it is my own cradle.” 
 
 “What art thou holding in thy hand?” asked Me- 
 mory. And he answered, “ a book which my mo- 
 ther gave me.” “ Come hither,” said Memory, with 
 a gentle voice, “ and I will teach thee how to get ho- 
 ney out of it, that shall be sweet, when thy hair is 
 gray.” 
 
 The boy became a youth. Once, as he lay in his 
 bed, Hope and Memory came to the pillow. Hope 
 sang a merry song, like the lark when she rises from 
 the nest to the skies. Afterwards, she said, “ Fol- 
 low me, and thou shalt have music in thy heart, as 
 sweet as the lay I sung thee.” 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 93 
 
 But Memory said, “ He shall be mine also. Hope, 
 why need we contend ? For as long as he keepeth 
 Virtue in his heart, we will be to him as sisters, all 
 his life long.” So, he embraced Hope and Memory, 
 and was beloved of them both. 
 
 When he awoke, they blessed him, and he gave a 
 hand to each. He became a man, and Hope girded 
 him every morning for his labour, and every night 
 he supped at the table of Memory, with Knowledge 
 for their guest. 
 
 At length, age found the man, and turned his tem- 
 ples white. To his dim eye, it seemed that the 
 world was an altered place. But it was he him- 
 self who had changed, and the warm blood had 
 grown cold in his veins. 
 
 Memory looked on him with grave and tender 
 eyes, like a loving and long-tried friend. She sat 
 down by his elbow-chair, and he said to her, “ Thou 
 hast not kept faithfully some jewels that I entrust- 
 ed to thee. I fear that they are lost.” 
 
 She answered mournfully and meekly, “ It may 
 be so. The lock of my casket is worn. Sometimes 
 I am weary, and fall asleep. Then Time purloins 
 my key. But the gems that thou gavest me when 
 life was new, see ! I have lost none of them. They 
 are as brilliant as when they first came into my 
 hands.” 
 
 Memory looked pitifully on him, as she ceased to 
 speak, wishing to be forgiven. But Hope began to 
 unfold a radiant wing which she had long worn con- 
 cealed beneath her robe, and daily tried its strength 
 in a heavenward flight. 
 
94 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 The old man lay down to die. And as the soul 
 went forth from the body, the angels took it. Me- 
 mory ascended by its side, and went through the 
 open gate of heaven. But Hope paused at the 
 threshold. There she expired, like a rose faintly 
 giving forth its last odours. 
 
 A glorious form bent over her. Her name was 
 Immortal Happiness. Hope commended to her the 
 soul, which she had followed through the world. 
 “Religion,” she said, “planted in it such seeds as 
 bear the fruit of heaven. It is thine forever.” 
 
 Her dying words were like the music of some 
 breaking harp, mournful but sweet. And I heard 
 the voices of angels saying, “ Hope that is born of 
 the earth must die, but Memory is eternal as the 
 books from which men are judged.” 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 96 
 
 THE SliEEPIiESSXABOURERS. 
 
 Those who conduct important trades, or laborious 
 manufactories, prefer such assistants as possess bo- 
 dily vigour, and can endure fatigue. Some occupa- 
 tions, it is necessary to continue during a part of the 
 night. Yet even the strongest labourers cannot long 
 bear this system, unless they take additional sleep 
 during the day. Did you ever hear of labourers 
 who never slept? And yet there are two such. 
 They labour for you. 
 
 Say you, that you have never seen such labour- 
 ers? Yet they propel the most curious machinery 
 for your benefit. Listen ! can you not hear them at 
 their work? Their workshop is within you. Look, 
 and see what there is about you, that does not need 
 repose. The hands are obliged to rest from their toil. 
 The limbs stretch themselves out, and relax their 
 wearied muscles. The strained eye closes upon its 
 tasks. The ear shuts up its labyrinth. 
 
 The thinking brain retires within its curtained 
 cells. The tongue ceases to do the bidding of the 
 soul. The head seeks its pillow, and the strong man 
 lies as powerless as the nursing-babe. But these 
 two sleepless labourers remit not their toil. They 
 complain of no weariness. They accept of no re- 
 laxation. They stand upon the wall of life, senti- 
 nels who never put off their armour, watchmen who 
 are never relieved. 
 
 Other labourers require supervision. The mer- 
 chant holds his clerk accountable, and the master 
 
96 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 his servant. The head manufacturer has an eye to 
 his machinery, the farmer goes to the field with his 
 men, the teacher is watchful that his rules may be 
 brought to bear upon his scholars. The hand de- 
 pends for its dictates upon the ruling mind j the foot, 
 like an errand-boy, waits its orders where to go ; the 
 eye and the ear gather into its garners. 
 
 The sleepless labourers trouble the mind for no 
 directions. They require not to be told what their 
 work is, or to be questioned whether they have done 
 it. It is the custom to reward with increased wages, 
 those servants who perform severe labour, and to 
 give high salaries to such agents as fill difficult and 
 responsible stations. What payment is accorded to 
 these labourers, who wake and work while we sleep, 
 without whose aid we are not able to draw a single 
 breath ? 
 
 I grieve to say, that the fashion of our sex has dealt 
 hardly by them. She seems not to have appreciated 
 their services. She impedes them in their myste- 
 rious toil. She binds them with tight ligatures, so 
 that they do their work in pain. Sometimes they 
 even faint and sicken at her cruelty. You will, ere 
 this, have discovered that the indefatigable servants 
 of whom we have spoken, are the Heart and Lungs. 
 
 I think I hear you say, with an honest warmth, 
 that these sleepless labourers shall be better treated ; 
 that the lungs, which blow the bellows of life, and 
 the heart, which feeds it with fuel, till the ice of 
 death comes, shall not be painfully compressed by 
 the busk, or fettered by the corset. It is undoubt- 
 edly possible to hold yourselves erect, without bring- 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 97 
 
 ing hurtful engines to bear upon the seat of vitality. 
 Would it not be a noble resolution to undertake to 
 do so? 
 
 We shudder, when we think how frequently the 
 slightest injury to the lungs proves fatal ; how soon 
 death enters, when their most delicate air- valves are 
 broken. W e think with wonder of the force with 
 which the heart operates, sending continually the 
 whole mass of blood to the smallest veins, and the 
 most remote arteries, working at the rate of one 
 hundred thousand strokes every twenty-four hours, 
 and continuing this sleepless labour, sometimes for 
 eighty or ninety years, without wearing out. Shall 
 we dare to embarrass these agents of Almighty 
 power ? 
 
 The slightest ligatures are capable of troubling 
 these faithful labourers. How dangerous then must 
 be the tight-lacing which is sometimes so rashly ha- 
 zarded. Not the lungs and heart alone are thus in- 
 jured. The stomach is oppressed in its important 
 task of digestion, the brain clouded by obstructed 
 circulation, and irregular transmission of blood, and 
 the spine perverted from its great purpose of giving 
 stability to the frame. 
 
 We counted the Turks as barbarians, when they 
 broke down the sculptured columns of the Greeks, 
 and destroyed those works of art, which for ages 
 had been admired. What shall they be called, who 
 deface the architecture of their Maker? If he has 
 placed in the recesses of this clay-temple, servants 
 to whom he has committed a wonderful work for 
 our benefit, if he has commanded them to labour 
 9 
 
98 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 without sleep, without wages, without troublifag 
 us for orders, and to be as symbols of his owm un- 
 tiring care, — shall we arrest their progress ? tie them 
 up at their posts? compel them to toil in pain? do 
 all in our power to frustrate their fidelity and his be- 
 nevolence ? 
 
 We will not do this, though it be the fashion. 
 These sleepless labourers shall not be incommoded 
 by us. The Giver of our breath shall not thus be 
 mocked. The blood which he has poured into our 
 veins, shall flow freely in the channels which he 
 hath ordained. It shall not be forced by our rash- 
 ness, to burst its flood-gates, or to be imprisoned in 
 its citadel, or to stir up the brain to mutiny and 
 madness. 
 
 W^e will not, though others do it, obstruct the free 
 action of the lungs, or press upon the heart, in its 
 mysterious laboratory. We dare not interrupt the 
 intricate and exquisite machinery of God. We are 
 afraid to do so, lest he who is the former of our bo- 
 dies, the father of our spirits, should make his abused 
 goodness the instrument of our punishment, and bid 
 the ill-treated organs take vengeance on us, and 
 the Sleepless Labourers become our foes, and short- 
 en the life they were at first appointed to guard. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 99 
 
 SUNDAY-SAT.T. 
 
 The uses of salt are various. You all know that 
 it improves the taste of food, that it helps to preserve 
 meat from putrefaction, and is favourable to health. 
 It is also used in the fusion of metals, in the manu- 
 facture of glass, and sometimes to quicken the fer- 
 tility of cold an-d barren soils. 
 
 It is agreeable to domestic animals. It is especial- 
 ly salutary to those that feed on grass. The care- 
 ful farmer gives it statedly to his flocks and herds. 
 It is pleasing to see the sheep and the cows, the 
 oxen and horses, each eagerly receiving their portion 
 of what seems the dessert to their simple meal. 
 
 Wild animals discover where the earth is impreg- 
 nated with salt. There they gather in throngs, to 
 taste the luxury. In our Western States, there are 
 multitudes of such spots, which are called licks. 
 Thither also the hunters repair, and lie in wait for 
 their prey. 
 
 In eastern countries, lions imitate this cunning of 
 the hunters. Fountains are there scarce, and they 
 make their dens in marshy places, to seize the ani- 
 mals who resort thither to drink. This was so often 
 the case in Palestine, that some of the Hebrew poets 
 called the lion, the “ wild beast of the reeds.” 
 There, like the hunter at the salt-licks, he lay 
 crouched in his lair, and when the “hart came pant- 
 ing for the water-brooks,” or other feeble animals 
 hasted to quench their thirst, he was ready to devour 
 them. 
 
100 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 Since salt is so necessary to man, the Creator has 
 distributed it with a liberal hand. It mingles with 
 seas and oceans — it rises in the form of rocks — it is 
 found in mines — it covers, for miles, the surface of 
 some regions — it breaks forth in briny fountains 
 from the bosom of the earth. 
 
 Rock salt is sometimes of a pure white, and 
 sometimes variously coloured. In Africa, are 
 many mountains of entire salt. In the kingdom 
 of Tunis, is one composed of red and violet colour. 
 Great masses of solid salt cover the summit of 
 mountains which bound the desert on the west of 
 Cairo. 
 
 There is a village in Spain situiited at the base of 
 a rock of salt, five hundred feet in heighth, and a 
 league in circumference. Most of this is white, 
 though some is of a fine blue. At Halle, in the 
 Tyrol, are ranges of salt-rocks, worked by means of 
 galleries cut into them. 
 
 Historians have said that dwellings were anciently 
 built of rock-salt in Lybia. They are still found in 
 Arabia, and other parts of the globe. In the vast 
 salt-mines of Poland, houses and chapels exist, and 
 when illuminated by torches have a magnificent ap - 
 pearance. You remember the palace of ice built 
 by an Empress of Russia, which was so brilliant 
 when the lamps were lighted in the evening. 
 
 The salt-mines, near Cracow in Poland, have been 
 wrought for six hundred years, and still produce 
 six thousand tons annually. The excavations ex- 
 tend for miles, and near two thousand labourers are 
 employed there. Different parts of the Carpathian 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 101 
 
 mountains, and of Siberia, are also rich in veins of 
 salt. 
 
 The mines of Salzburg, in Austria, are more than 
 a thousand feet in depth. Their subterranean ex- 
 panse is dazzling with crystals of the most brilliant 
 hues, and, now and then, the waters of a lake, where 
 boats conveying visitants glide, sparkle in the torch- 
 light, as if overhung by a fret-work of diamonds. 
 
 Salt is scattered in masses, over America and 
 Asia, as well as over Africa and Europe. Innu- 
 merable fountains of brine spring up throughout 
 the globe, whence salt is manufactured for the inha- 
 bitants, and for commerce. Many parts of the 
 United States are rich in these. You have doubt- 
 less heard of the very productive ones at Salina, in 
 the State of New- York. 
 
 Salt is a source of revenue in various regions. 
 The Emperor of Austria is said to derive £100,000 
 annually from his mines of salt. There are various 
 ways of preparing it, from sea-water, from salt-lakes, 
 and springs. It is sometimes boiled, and sometimes 
 made in the open air, by solar evaporation. 
 
 Bay-salt is what is made by the heat of the sun. 
 It is of two kinds ; the first drawn from sea-water, 
 the second from springs or lakes. Marine-salt is 
 extracted from the water of the sea by boiling. 
 Fishery-salt is made by slow evaporation, and is 
 known by its large and coarse crystals. 
 
 The white salt of Normandy has been quite a 
 source of gain to France. It is prepared by suffering 
 the rising tide to flow into reservoirs, where, after 
 partial evaporation, it filters through straw into ves- 
 9* 
 
102 
 
 THE GIRL’d REAUING-BOOK. 
 
 sels placed for it. It is then boiled, with continual 
 stirring, and purified by draining through large 
 osier baskets. 
 
 But, my dear young friends, I think I hear you 
 sa}’’, “ Was not the title of this essay Sunday-sdli ? 
 We have been told of rock-salt, and bay-salt, and 
 marine-salt, and fishery-salt, and the white-salt of 
 Normandy, but not a word about what we expected 
 to hear described. Now what can Sunday-salt 
 mean?” I am just going to tell you. 
 
 I was once attending the lectures of a professor, 
 who, among other means of acquiring information, 
 had travelled in Europe. He said, that when he 
 was in Scotland, he observed what might often be 
 seen in his own country, that the salt obtained by 
 the action of fire, instead of the heat of the sun, was 
 sometimes injured by haste in the process. 
 
 By a too rapid evaporation, many foreign and 
 earthy substances are apt to be left behind. In 
 Scotland, the manufacturers of salt continue their 
 labours until twelve on Saturday night. They then 
 kindle a large fire under it, and retire to their 
 homes. 
 
 The crystallization going on more slowly than 
 usual during the sabbath, those impurities which 
 cause bitterness are separated and exhaled. The 
 material thus elaborated is of superior excellence. 
 It commands a higher price in the market, and is 
 sold by the name of Sunday-salt. 
 
 After I had heard the learned professor’s descrip- 
 tion of Sunday-salt, it occurred to me that we might 
 make it ourselves, though in a different way. The 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 103 
 
 cares and pursuits of the week sometimes, like 
 fierce fires, overheat the soul, and render it turbid. 
 Might we not so avoid them, one day in seven, and 
 so cultivate different trains of thought, as to have 
 Sunday-salt of our own ? 
 
 If we take the time which God reserves to him- 
 self for our own employments — if, like the unbeliev- 
 ing Israelites, we go forth to gather our daily food 
 on the sabbath, — what we consider gain will prove a 
 mixture of trouble. It will be like what our blessed 
 Saviour calls, “salt that has lost its savour; where- 
 with shall it be salted ?” 
 
 The Almighty hath said, “ remember the sabbath- 
 day to keep it holy.” We cannot disobey him and 
 be happy. We cannot sweep manna from the earth 
 on this consecrated season, and prosper. But we 
 may make Sunday-salt in the laboratory of a meek 
 and prayerful spirit. 
 
 May we not carry with us throughout the week, 
 this Sunday-salt, to purify our lives and conversa- 
 tion ? It may sometimes be in danger of dissolving 
 in the humid atmosphere of the planet that we in- 
 habit. But may we not preserve it in the casket of 
 a watchful soul ? Let us try. 
 
 Can we sell our Sunday-salt? Yes; at the gate 
 of heaven. The saints v^ho have entered there, 
 “through much tribulation,” will tell you that it 
 was the purifying principle in the rough sea of life. 
 Angels know its value— it will bring the gold of 
 eternity. 
 
104 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 What flights does the imagination take during the 
 hours of sleep ! While the body slumbers, she 
 climbs the cliff, or hangs over the abyss, or poises 
 her pinion on the storm-cloud, or robes herself ^vith 
 the rainbow, and listens at the gate of heaven. 
 Sometimes she takes memory with her, dragging 
 her along, like a half-wakened companion. 
 
 Then distant friends are brought near. The lost 
 return from the dead. The scenes of early days are* 
 retouched, and buried feelings kindle anew in the 
 heart. Still, memory performs her ofRce imper- 
 fectly, and reluctant to be withdrawn from sleep, 
 relapses into it again. Then, unbridled fancy revels 
 alone, and so bold and bright are her visions, that 
 the waking eye would fain prolong them, and 
 wishes to turn from the tame reality of life. 
 
 Some hold it trifling and visionary to speak of 
 dreams. But, because they have been abused by 
 superstition and ignorance, are they never to be ap- 
 proached with clear and rational thought? They 
 occupy a formidable portion of our little span o^ 
 life. They are sources of pleasure or of pain. 
 
 Dreams sometimes cast their shadows over our 
 waking hours. Our feelings through the day may 
 partake of their colouring. We rise from frightful 
 visions exhausted as by positive labour or suffering. 
 If there is any regimen which will modify their 
 character, and give them the aspect of happiness, it 
 would be desirable to know it. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 105 
 
 Is it of no consequence whether we are to spend 
 a third part of our lives in the midst of fancied ter- 
 rors, or of delightful imagery ? Whether we are to 
 be borne on airy wings over varied regions, rejoicing 
 in their beauty, and holding converse with the 
 lovely and beloved ? or, whether we are to shiver 
 among nameless dangers, harassed by frightful spec- 
 tres, and startled by fiery clouds above, and an im- 
 passable gulf below ? 
 
 Do not consider dreams altogether as idle vaga- 
 ries of the brain. Respect them, and they will be 
 your friends. But I hear you ask, is there really 
 any way of procuring pleasant dreams? I have 
 heard those who were wiser than myself, say there 
 was ; and I should like to give you some ancient 
 rules, which have been recommended as means of 
 insuring them. 
 
 1st. Preserve equanimity of temper. Indulge, 
 during the day, in no angry, envious, or vengeful 
 feeling. Do not disturb or quicken the current of 
 blood through the heart, by any violent motion. A 
 regular pulse, and a calm, even circulation of blood 
 and spirits, are favourable both to pleasant dreams 
 and to longevity. 
 
 2d. Avoid compression in dress. Let the lungs 
 and heart, the stomach and spine, be unfettered to 
 perform the functions appointed by their Creator. 
 To tie up labourers, and then exact their services, 
 resembles the unjust and cruel policy of ancient 
 Egypt, in demanding brick without straw. 
 
 3d. Be temperate in all things. Permit nothing 
 to pass into your stomach which is calculated to 
 
106 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 disorder it. Avoid high-seasoned meats, rich sauces, 
 unripe fruits, and stimulating drinks. Even of 
 plain and proper food do not take an undue quan- 
 tity, but desist before the appetite is fully satiated. 
 Some judicious physicians direct that nothing 
 should be eaten between meals, or after the regular 
 supper. Remember that the stomach is the key- 
 stone of the frame, and do not abuse it, for this can- 
 not be long done with impunity. 
 
 4th. Have your sleeping-room pure and well- 
 ventilated. Air it every morning after rising, and 
 strip the clothes from your bed for some time before 
 it is made. Perform, when possible, a general ab- 
 lution, before retiring, that the pores of the skin 
 may be unchecked in their important office during 
 sleep. If you can do nothing more, wash your 
 face, hands, and neck, and comb your hair. Let 
 your position be unconstrained when you resign 
 yourself to sleep, and your face entirely uncover- 
 ed, and a free circulation of air secured in the 
 apartment. 
 
 5th. Be kind, affectionate, and benevolent, to those 
 with whom you associate. Do all the good in your 
 power. Preserve cheerfulness of spirits, voice, and 
 manner. Keep a conscience void of offence to- 
 wards God and towards man.” The happiness of 
 dreams will repay your efforts. 
 
 6th. If aught evil has been harboured in your bo- 
 som, throughout the day, cast it forth ere you 
 sleep, by penitence and prayer. Lay your head on 
 your pillow at peace with all the world. Close 
 your eyes with a smile on your countenance, and 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 107 
 
 resign yourself to the spirit of sweet dreams, and 
 to the ministry of angels. 
 
 Do not lightly condemn these rules, my dear 
 young friends, though they may seem antiquated. 
 Test them for one year, before you decide against 
 them. Then, if you should find that they fail in 
 producing such dreams as you desire, you will be 
 convinced that they help to confer the more durable 
 treasure of a good life. 
 
 One more thought about dreams. Do they not 
 help to prove the soul’s immortality. Its clay com- 
 panion is weary, and lies down to rest. But with a 
 tireless strength it wakes, it wanders, it expatiates, 
 it soars. Thus sleep, which has been called the 
 “ brother of death,” brings us proof that we are to 
 live for ever. 
 
 Glorious truth ! breathed to us in dreams, as well 
 as written upon the pages of inspiration. We are 
 to live for ever. Though we seem to be swallowed 
 up in the grave, we shall rise again. May we so 
 keep God’s commandments, that our eternal abode 
 shall be in those mansions where there is no more 
 sleep, because there can be no weariness or wo, 
 and where the brightest dream of earth’s prompting 
 fades in darkness before the full and fearless cer- 
 tainty of bliss. 
 
108 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 Two little girls, whose names weje Emma and 
 Ann, lived near each other, and attended the same 
 school. They were frequently together, and their 
 parents -encouraged the intimacy. In winter, they 
 might often be seen leading each other through the 
 snow, and in summer cultivating the little spot of 
 ground that was allowed them. As the gardens of 
 their fathers were divided only by a slight fence, 
 they could easily converse, or exchange the flowers 
 that they reared. 
 
 Their parents wished to give them a good educa- 
 tion, and sent them to the best schools that the place 
 afforded. Both were anxious to excel in their stu- 
 dies, but Emma acquired knowledge with far great- 
 er ease than her companion. She quickly compre- 
 hended a new subject, and readily committed long 
 lessons to memory. Confidence in her own powers, 
 gave her promptness of manner, and she was inva- 
 riably distinguished at all public examinations. 
 
 Ann learned slowly, and was diffident. She was 
 sometimes silent, through fear of being wrong, and 
 made her friends ashamed of her appearance of ig- 
 norance. She would plod for hours over her ap- 
 pointed tasks, and often return home her eyes swol- 
 len with weeping, at having missed in the recitations. 
 Her mother once said to her. “ I am distressed at 
 seeing you so unhappy. You have not the capacity 
 of Emma, and must be willing to see her take a 
 higher rank than yourself. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 109 
 
 “ But I will give you a recipe, which, if it cannot 
 procure for you brilliant talents, will aid you to 
 make the best use of such as are entrusted to you. 
 When you attempt any thing difficult, say, ‘ / \cill 
 persevere^ and ask assistance of your Father in 
 heaven. Thank him for the gifts of reason and un- 
 derstanding, and entreat him for a heart to love your 
 friend as sincerely Avhen she excels you, as at acny 
 other time : for you cannot expect to make progress 
 in a good cause, if your spirits are agitated, or en- 
 vious at another’s success.” 
 
 The little girl kissed her mother, and promised to 
 obey her directions. That night, after she was in 
 bed, she reflected so much upon them, that although 
 she had as usual said her prayers, she arose, and 
 again kneeling, implored strength to persevere. 
 Now, when her tasks were difficult, she no longer 
 wept, but by patient study and laborious repetition, 
 endeavoured to conquer them. It was not long, be- 
 fore her improvement was obvious, both to her in 
 structor and associates. 
 
 Strict mental discipline gave her an interesting 
 deportment, while the consciousness that she pos- 
 sessed no genius of which to boast, guarded her 
 humility. At length, a difficult Latin lesson was as- 
 signed to her class. It contained many words to be 
 sought out in the dictionary, and much idiom and 
 transposition. The recitation was to be immediately 
 on entering the school in the morning, and those who 
 sustained it without mistake, were to be rewarded 
 by commencing the study of Virgil. The others 
 were to review an elementary book. 
 
 10 
 
110 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 Ann’s heart died within her. as she heard Emma 
 exclaim, “ Pray, appoint us a longer lesson. This 
 will be no trial at all. It will not occupy me half an 
 hour.” But Emma had begun to feel the pride of 
 talents. She had been praised by her friends, more 
 than was prudent. She had begun to remit her ef- 
 forts, and to fancy that her reputation as a scholar 
 was established. 
 
 The evening in which the lesson was to be learn- 
 ed, her mother had company. She found it pleasant 
 to sit with them, as they applauded her remarks, 
 and said she had a great deal of wit. Her mother 
 thought she detected some pertness in her conver- 
 sation, and advised her to go to her book. But she 
 excused herself till the morning. When morning 
 came, having retired later than usual, she did not 
 feel like rising early, and then in a great hurry, and 
 half dressed, hastened to her lesson. 
 
 Now, though Emma was blessed with a very quick 
 perception, she had but little patience. W'hen any 
 thing really difficult occurred in her lessons, she 
 was very apt to throw them by, or to prevail on her 
 father to assist her. But he was now absent. With 
 dismay, she now heard the clock strike for school, 
 while she was yet unprepared. Hasting along, v»nth 
 her hat and shawl half on, dropping first one glove, 
 then the other, and studying all the way down the 
 street, she frequently stumbled, and once fell entirely 
 down. 
 
 She took her seat in the class, with a beating 
 heart, but determined to put the best face on the 
 matter. One or two hesitations, she managed to 
 
THE girl’s READING-DOOK. 
 
 ill 
 
 pass off with her usual address, but just as her spirits 
 were beginning to rise with the hope of victory, she 
 made several absolute and prominent mistakes. The 
 truth was, that notwithstanding her fine talents, she 
 was not a thorough scholar. She valued herself 
 upon her rapid translations, but in grammatical ac- 
 curacy, was inferior to many whose want of genius 
 she ridiculed. 
 
 Covering her face with her hands, she burst into 
 tears. All hope of being raised to a higher class, 
 was for that time swept away. But what irritated 
 her feelings, even more than her own defeat, was to 
 hear Ann giving her answers with entire correctness 
 and precision, and finally to see her included in the 
 honorary band. Complaining of a headache, she 
 hastened home, and when Ann, in her kindness and 
 simplicity of heart, called to ask after her health, 
 she could scarcely bring her mind to speak to her, 
 so bitter was her disappointment. 
 
 Now, when Ann, the preceding evening, had gone 
 from school with her dreaded lesson, she at first felt 
 disposed to weep. But recollecting her promise to 
 her mother, she said, “ I will persevere.'*'^ She scarce- 
 ly staid for supper, so much did she fear that the al- 
 lotted time would be insufficient for her slow mind. 
 Her mother, perceiving how intensely she laboured, 
 said, “ I should wish to assist you, dear Ann, were I 
 acquainted with the language in which you stud}^ 
 Yet this would only be doing you an injury. Strength 
 of mind comes from vanquishing obstacles, and 
 knowledge painfully gained, is not easily lost.” 
 
 The little girl, looking meei 
 
112 
 
 THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. 
 
 think God will help me to persevere.’* She wished 
 to sit lip very late, but her mother forbade it, on ac- 
 count of her eyes. So, she laid her books under her 
 pillow, and with the day-light resumed her studies. 
 Many difficulties occurred in the lesson, but she re- 
 flected as she went to school, that she had done all 
 in her power to overcome them, and that this would 
 comfort her, if she lost the desired honour. 
 
 When she found herself among the fortunate 
 band, she felt surprised, as well as delighted, and 
 thanked in her heart him who had helped her to 
 persevere. But Emma’s pride was so much hurt, 
 that it affected her friendship, and sometimes when 
 she saw Ann coming to meet her, would turn away, 
 and whisper to some of her companions, that “ the 
 dull expression of that girl’s face, made her shock- 
 ingly nervous.” 
 
 The appointed time now approached for a recita- 
 tion of poetry and dialogue, to which their teacher 
 had given them permission to invite their parents 
 and a few friends. Here Emma consoled herself 
 with the hope of a complete triumph over Ann. 
 Pursuits that required little labour, she was very 
 willing to undertake. For this exhibition, she anx- 
 iously prepared, and her fine elocution and confi- 
 dent manners, attracted admiring attention, w'hile 
 her diffident friend was wholly undistinguished. 
 
 Ann joined with so much good-humour and sin- 
 cerity in the praises of her friend, that Emma for- 
 got her coldness, and harmony was again restored. 
 During the whole of her continuance at school, she 
 continued to excel in those accomplishments which 
 
THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. 113 
 
 tend to display, and to avoid the studies which re- 
 quired application. The advances which she made, 
 though sometimes great, were irregular, and the 
 promise which she had prematurely given, was but 
 imperfectly fulfilled. 
 
 Ann, who early acquired the name of a dull 
 scholar, carefully treasured her laborious gains, and 
 through perseverance, surpassed all expectation. A 
 premium was offered for the greatest proficiency in 
 arithmetic and geometry. “ I am sure of it,” thought 
 Emma, “ for I have been so long in algebra, that 
 such simple studies are but A B C to me.” So, by 
 a few occasional efforts, she would distance all com- 
 petitors, and then suffer her mind to be amused with 
 trifles, or to relapse into indolence. 
 
 But the prize was to be obtained by the strictly- 
 computed improvement of several months, and not 
 by a few desultory performances. So, she was ap- 
 pointed to see it won by the indefatigable Ann, wnth 
 the high approbation of her instructor. She con- 
 soled herself under the disappointment, by saying, 
 that “the premium was no criterion of talent, but 
 merely given to encourage the plodders of the school, 
 among whom she had not the least ambition to ap- 
 pear.” 
 
 Ann, by following the judicious directions of her 
 mother, at length attained a highly respectable rank 
 in all her studies. When she left school, she car- 
 ried with her the same perseverance which had been 
 there so serviceable. She had been taught that edu- 
 cation was valuable, not merely for the knowledge it 
 imparts, but for the habits of mind it creates, and 
 10 * 
 
114 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 the principles of action it confirms, and she endea- 
 voured to prove in domestic life, that hers had not 
 been in vain. 
 
 It was her pleasure to sit with her work-basket 
 or book, by the side of her widowed mother, cheer- 
 ing her solitary hours. But Emma soon became so 
 absorbed in gay and fashionable amusements, that 
 useful employment was irksome. She said, “ she 
 thanked her stars, she was blessed with sufficient 
 sense not to be a mope, while she was young.” 
 
 When she married, it was her ambition to make 
 a showy appearance. Rational economy, she had 
 neither patience to study, nor self-control to prac- 
 tise. It involved such petty details, that it seemed 
 to her beneath the notice of a liberal and refined in- 
 tellect, The regulation of her children’s temper 
 and character was sadly neglected, from that dispo- 
 sition to avoid trouble which she had long indulged. 
 
 When faults were disclosed that required imme- 
 diate attention, she was too prone to put them aside, 
 as she did her difficult lessons at school. She com- 
 plained of them as too troublesome for her to con- 
 tend with, or comforted herself with the indolent 
 hope, that “ all would come right at last.” But it 
 was not long ere she was constrained to say, that 
 “ if she was to bring up another family, her first 
 course would be to teach them that order, industry, 
 and perseverance, which she had herself never 
 learned.” 
 
 In a few years after their marriage, the affairs of 
 her husband became seriously embarrassed. Then 
 she was greatly astonished and distressed. She was 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 115 
 
 too helpless to do any thing for his relief. With 
 the science that prevents the wasteful expenditure 
 of servants, provides for the comfort, but not pro- 
 fusion of a table, or prolongs the existence of a 
 ■wardrobe, she was wholly unacquainted. 
 
 Of these habits of persevering industry, which 
 she had ridiculed in her friend Ann, she now felt the 
 need. How often did she lament her early neglect 
 of that application and self-control, which in wo- 
 man’s sphere of duty, are more valuable than those 
 talents which dazzle, and demand admiration as 
 their daily food. 
 
 But Ann found the discipline to which she had 
 been subjected in childhood, an excellent prepara- 
 tion for domestic duty. When she encountered dif- 
 ficulties, she was not dismayed. She knew in whom 
 she had trusted, and that he would aid her to perse- 
 vere. The fortune of her husband was not large. 
 But by a consistent economy, she was able to secure 
 every comfort, and to remember the poor. 
 
 It was now a matter of less consequence, than 
 when at school, which of the two ladies could boast 
 of the quickest perception, or the most brilliant in- 
 tellect. But it was clear to every observer, whose 
 house was the seat of the greatest order, comfort, 
 and happiness. Ann still felt a sincere interest in 
 the welfare of her early friend, Emma, and visited 
 her as often as was in her power, seeking to extend 
 encouragement, or to impart sympathy. 
 
 Ann’s widowed mother had become infirm, and 
 given up her own house, to reside with her. This 
 excellent daughter had no higher pleasure than to 
 
116 
 
 THE girl’s reading-rook. 
 
 study her wishes, and try to repay a small part of 
 the debt of gratitude, incurred in infancy and child- 
 hood. Often would she say, with an affectionate 
 smile, “ if there is any good thing in me, I owe it to 
 your counsel, and to His grace who enabled me to 
 persevere.” 
 
 And when the old lady, with her silver locks 
 shading her venerable temples, bending from her 
 easy-chair, would tell her listening grandchildren, 
 by what means their dear mother became all that 
 was excellent, the little creatures, gathering closer to 
 her side, would say, with affecting earnestness, “ We, 
 too, will learn to persevere?"' 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 117 
 
 fsmale: energy. 
 
 It is a pity that females should ever be brought 
 up in a helpless manner. It is a still greater pity, 
 when they think it not respectable to be industrious : 
 for then principles, as well as habit, have become 
 perverted. They ought to feel that their endow- 
 ments qualify them for activity, and their duty de- 
 mands it. 
 
 Our sex should begin, while young, to take an in- 
 terest in the concerns of the family, and daily to 
 do something for its comfort. They should come 
 promptly and cheerfully to the aid of the mother in 
 her cares. They should inform themselves of the 
 amount of the yearly expenses of the household, 
 and keep an accurate account of their own. 
 
 Why should young girls be willing to be drones 
 in the domestic hive? In several families of the 
 highest respectability, the daughters supply by their 
 own industry, the resources of their charity. This 
 they do, not from necessity, but because it is pleas- 
 ant to them, that their gifts to the poor should be 
 the fruit of their own earnings. 
 
 No female should consider herself educated, until 
 she is mistress of some employment or accomplish- 
 ment, by which she might gain a livelihood, should 
 she be reduced to the necessity of supporting her- 
 self. The ancient Jews had a proverb, that who- 
 ever brought a child up without a trade, bound it 
 apprentice to vice. 
 
 Who can tell how .soon they may be compelled 
 
118 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 to do something for their own maintenance. How 
 many families, by unexpected reverses, are reduced 
 from affluence to poverty. How pitiful and con- 
 temptible, on such occasions, to see females helpless, 
 desponding, and embarrassing those whom it is 
 their duty to cheer and aid. 
 
 “ I have lost my whole fortune,” said a merchant, 
 as he returned one evening to his home. “We can 
 no longer ride in our carriage ; we must leave this 
 large house. The children can no longer go to ex- 
 pensive schools. 'What w e are to do for a living I 
 know not. Yesterday, I was a rich man. To-day, 
 there is nothing left that I can call my own.” 
 
 “ Dear husband,” said the wife, “ we are still rich 
 in each other, and our children. Money may pass 
 away, but God has given us a better treasure in 
 these active hands, and loving hearts.” “Dear 
 father,” said the little children, “ do not look so 
 sober. We will help you to get a living.” 
 
 “What can you do, poor things ?” said he. “ You 
 shall see, you shall see,” answered several cheerful 
 voices. “ It is a pity, if w’^e have been to school for 
 nothing. How can the father of eight healthy 
 children be poor? We shall work and make you 
 rich again.” 
 
 “ I shall help,” said the youngest girl, hardly 
 four years old. “I will not have any new frock 
 bought, and I shall sell my great wax doll.” The 
 heart of the husband and father, which had sunk in 
 his bosom like a stone, was lifted up. The sweet 
 enthusiasm of the scene cheered him, and his 
 nightly prayer w^as like a song of praise. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 119 
 
 He left his stately house. The servants were dis- 
 missed. Pictures, and plate, and rich carpets and 
 furniture, were sold, and she who had been so long 
 the mistress of the mansion, shed no tear. “ Pay 
 every debt,” said she, ‘‘ let no one suffer through 
 us, and we may yet be happy.” 
 
 He took a neat cottage, and a small piece of 
 ground, a few miles from the city. With the aid of 
 his sons, he cultivated vegetables for the market. 
 He viewed with delight and astonishment, the 
 economy of his wife, nurtured as she had been in 
 wealth, and the efficiency which his daughters soon 
 acquired under her training. 
 
 The eldest ones assisted her in the work of the 
 household, and instructed the younger children. 
 Besides, they executed various work, which they 
 had learned as accomplishments, but which they 
 found could now be disposed of to advantage. 
 They embroidered with taste, some of the orna- 
 mental parts of female apparel, which were readily 
 sold to merchants in the city. 
 
 They cultivated flowers, and sent bouquets to 
 market, in the cart that conveyed their vegetables. 
 They platted straw, they painted maps, they exe- 
 cuted plain needle-work. Every one was at their 
 post, busy and cheerful. The cottage was like a 
 bee-hive. 
 
 “I never enjoyed such health before,” said the 
 father. “ And I was never as happy before,” said 
 the mother. “We never knew how many things 
 we could do, when we lived in the great house,” 
 said the children, “ and we love each other a great 
 
120 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 deal better here. You call us your little bees, and 
 I think we make such honey as the heart feeds on.” 
 Economy, as well as industry, was strictly ob- 
 served. Nothing was wasted. Nothing unneces- 
 sary was purchased. After a while the eldest daugh- 
 ter became assistant teacher in a distinguished 
 female seminary, and the second took her place, as 
 instructress to the family. 
 
 The little dwelling, which had always been kept 
 neai, they were soon able to beautify. Its con- 
 struction was improved, and vines and flowering- 
 trees were planted around it. The merchant was 
 happier under its woodbine-covered porch in a sum- 
 mer’s evening, than he had been in his showy draw- 
 ing-room. 
 
 “We are now thriving and prosperous,” said he, 
 “ shall we return to the city ?” “ Ah ! no, no !” 
 was the unanimous reply. “ Let us remain,” said 
 the wife, “where we have found health and con- 
 tentment.” “ Father,” said the youngest, “ all we 
 children hope you are not going to be rich again. 
 
 “ For then,” she added, “ we little ones were shut 
 up in the nursery, and did not see much of you, or 
 mother. Now, we all live together; and sister, who 
 loves us, teaches us, and we learn to be industrious 
 and useful. We were none of us as happy when we 
 were rich, and did not work. So, father, please not 
 to be a rich man any more.” 
 
 The females of other countries, sometimes make 
 far greater exertions than they are accustomed to 
 do in our own. It would seem that they were more 
 athletic, and able to endure fatigue. This may pro- 
 
THE GIRL^S READING-BOOK. 121 
 
 bably arise from their being inured to more severe 
 exercise, especially those of the poorer classes. 
 
 Joanna Martin, the wife of a day-labourer in Eng- 
 land, was left a widow with six small children, and 
 not a shilling for their support. The parish officers, 
 perceiving it to be a cas« of great distress, offered to 
 take charge of them. But the good mother resolved 
 to depend only upon the divine blessing, and her 
 own industry. 
 
 The life on which she entered, was one of ex- 
 treme hardship. She rose at two in the morning, 
 and after doing what she could to make her little 
 ones comfortable, walked eight, and sometimes ten 
 miles, to the market-town, with a basket of pottery- 
 ware on her head, which she sold, and returned 
 with the profits before noon. 
 
 By this hard labour, and the greatest economy, 
 she not only gained food and clothing for her child- 
 ren, but in the course of a year, saved the sum of 
 about seven dollars. Then, finding herself under 
 the necessity of quitting the cottage where she had 
 lived, she formed the resolution of building one for 
 herself. 
 
 Every little interval of time, which she could 
 spare from her stated toils, she devoted to working 
 upon the tenement which was to shelter her little 
 ones, and “ with the assistance of a good God,” said 
 she, “ I was able at last to finish my cottage.” It 
 was small, but comfortable, and might remind those 
 who saw it, of what Cowper calls, “ the peasant’s 
 nest.” 
 
 After several years, Joanna, by persevering in 
 11 
 
122 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 her industry and prudence, acquired enough to pur- 
 chase a cart, and a small pony. “Now,” said she 
 with delight, “ I can carry pottery-ware to the dif- 
 ferent towns round about, and drive a pretty brisk 
 trade, for I begin to feel that I cannot walk thirty 
 miles a day, quite so well as when I was younger.” 
 
 She lived to advanced age, respected for her hon- 
 esty, patient diligence, and maternal virtues. It 
 was pleasant to observe the self-approbation and 
 simplicity with which she would say, when quite 
 old, “ to be sure I am not very rich, but what I have 
 is all of my own getting. I never begged a half- 
 penny of any soul. I brought up my six children 
 without help from the overseers of the parish, and 
 can still maintain myself without troubling them for 
 assistance.” 
 
 Many instances of the most laudable efforts to 
 obtain a support, might be mentioned among the 
 females of our own country. The disposition to be 
 active in various departments of usefulness, ought 
 to be encouraged in the young, by those who have 
 charge of their education. The office of a teacher, 
 is one of the most respectable and delightful to 
 which they can aspire. 
 
 To instruct others is beneficial to the mind. It 
 deepens the knowledge which it already possesses, 
 and quickens it to acquire more. It is beneficial to 
 the moral habits. It teaches self-control. It moves 
 to set a good example. It improves the affections. 
 For we love those, whom we make wiser and better, 
 and their gratitude is a sweet reward. 
 
 The work of education, opens a broad field for 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 123 
 
 female labourers. There they may both reap and 
 confer benefits. If they do not wish to enter upon 
 it as the business of life, it will be found a good pre- 
 paration for the duties of any sphere to which future 
 life may call them. 
 
 Let the young females of the present generation, 
 distinguish themselves by energy in some useful 
 employment. Indolence and effeminacy are pecu- 
 liarly unfit for the daughters of a republic. Let 
 them not shrink at reverses of fortune, but view 
 them as incitements to greater activity, and higher 
 virtue. 
 
 It was a wise man who said, “ Virtue, like a pre- 
 cious odour, is most fragrant when crushed : for 
 prosperity doth best discover vice, but adversity 
 doth best discover virtue.” When those we love 
 are in trouble, let us feel that we have a two-fold 
 ofllce, to cheer^ and to help them. 
 
 When man was first placed upon the earth, 
 woman was pronounced by the Almighty maker, a 
 “ help-meet for him.” If at any period of her life, 
 whether as daughter or sister, as wife or mother, 
 she draws back from being a helper, and through 
 indolence becomes a burden, — she forgets her duty 
 to him, and violates the command of her Creator. 
 
m 
 
 THE girl’s REATMNG-BOOK. 
 
 THE WIFE OF THE INTEMPERATE. 
 
 Jane Harwood, with her husband and children, 
 made one among the many families who remove 
 to the unplanted western wild. The change from 
 the manner of life in w^hich she had been brought 
 up in her native New England was great. But she 
 never complained, and busied herself with those 
 duties which befit the wife of a lowly emigrant 
 
 One of her principal cares was an invalid boy. 
 The charge of his health, and of his mind, occupied 
 her most anxious thoughts. She supplicated that 
 the pencil which was to write upon his soul, and 
 which seemed to be placed in her hand, might be 
 guided from above. She spoke to him in the ten- 
 derest manner of his Father in heaven, and of his 
 will respecting little children. 
 
 She pointed out almighty goodness in the daily 
 gifts that sustain life ; in the glorious sun rejoicing 
 in the east; in the gently-falling rain; the fi*ail 
 plants, and the dews that nourish them. She rea- 
 soned with him of the changes of nature, till he 
 loved even the storm and the lofty thunder, because 
 they came from God. 
 
 She repeated to him passages of Scripture, with 
 which her memory was stored, and sang hymns, 
 until she perceived that if he was in pain he com- 
 plained not, if he might but hear her voice. She 
 made him acquainted with the life of the compas- 
 sionate Redeemer, how he took young children in 
 his arms, though the disciples forbade them. And 
 
THE GIRL^S READING-BOOK. 
 
 125 
 
 a voice from within, urged her never to desist from 
 cherishing that tender and deep-rooted piety, be- 
 cause, like the flower of grass, he must soon pass 
 away. 
 
 Jane Harwood had a different, and a still deeper 
 trial, in the intemperance of her husband. In his 
 fits of intoxication, there was no form of persecution 
 which distressed her so much as unkindness to the 
 feeble and suffering boy. On such occasions, it was 
 in vain that she attempted to protect him. She 
 might neither shelter him in her bosom, nor control 
 the frantic violence of the father. 
 
 The timid boy, in terror of his natural protector, 
 withered like a crushed flower. It was of no avail 
 that neighbours remonstrated with the unfeeling 
 parent, or that hoary-headed men warned him so- 
 lemnly of his sins. Intemperance had destroyed 
 his respect for man, and his fear of God. 
 
 The wasted and wild-eyed invalid shrank from 
 the glance and footstep of his father, as from the 
 approach of a foe. Harshness, and the agitation of 
 fear, deepened a disease that might else have yield- 
 ed. Returning spring brought no gladness to the 
 declining child. Consumption laid its hand upon 
 his vitals, and his nights were restless and full of 
 pain. 
 
 “ Mother, I wish I could once more smell the vio- 
 lets that grew upon the green bank, by our old, dear 
 home.” “ It is too early for violets, my child ; but 
 the grass is growing bright and beautiful around us, 
 and the birds sing sweetly, as if their little hearts 
 were full of praise.” The mother knew that his 
 11 * 
 
120 
 
 THE girl’s REAHlNG-BOOKv 
 
 hectic fever had been recently increasing, and saw 
 that there was a strange brightness in his eye. 
 
 • Seating herself on his low bed, she bowed her 
 face to his to soothe and compose him. “ Mother, 
 do you think my father will come ?” Dreading the 
 alarm w^hich, in his paroxysms of coughing, he 
 evinced at his father’s approach, she answered, “ I 
 think not, love ; you had better try to sleep.” 
 
 “ Mother, I w ish he would come. I am not afraid 
 now. Perhaps he w^ould let me lay my cheek to 
 his, once more, as he used to do, when I was a babe 
 in my grandmother’s arms. I should be glad to say 
 a kind good bye to him, before I go to my Saviour.” 
 Gazing earnestly in his face, she saw the work of 
 the destroyer. “ My son ! my dear son ! say, Lord 
 Jesus receive my spirit.” “ Mother,” he replied, 
 with a smile upon his ghastly features, “he is ready 
 for me. I am willing to go to him. Hold the baby 
 to me, that I may kiss her once more. That is all. 
 Now sing to me; and oh! wrap me closer in your 
 arms, for I shiver with cold.” 
 
 He clung, with the death-grasp, to that bosom 
 which had long been his sole earthly refuge. “ Sing 
 louder, a little louder, dearest mother, I cannot hear 
 you.” Tremulous tones, like those of a broken 
 harp, rose above her grief, to comfort the dying 
 child. One sigh of icy breath was upon her cheek, 
 as she joined it to his, one shudder, and all was 
 over. 
 
 She stretched the body on the bed, and kneeling 
 beside it, hid her face in that grief which none but 
 mothers feel. It was a deep and sacred solitude — 
 
THE OIKL^S READING-BOOK. 
 
 127 
 
 alone with the dead. Only the soft breathings of 
 the sleeping babe were heard. Then the silence 
 was broken by a piercing voice of supplication for 
 strength to endure. The petition, which began in 
 w^eakness, closed in faith. It became a prayer of 
 thanksgiving to him who had released the dove-like 
 spirit from its prison house of pain, to share the bliss 
 of angels. 
 
 She arose from her knees, and bent calmly over 
 the dead. The placid features wore the same smile 
 as when he had spoken of Jesus. She smoothed 
 the shining locks around the pure forehead, and 
 gazed long on what was to her so beautiful. Amid 
 her tears was an expression, chastened and sublime, 
 as of one who gives a cherub back to God. 
 
 The father entered carelessly. She pointed to 
 the pale, immoveable brow. “ See, he no longer 
 suffers.” He drew near, and looked with surprise 
 on the dead. A few natural tears forced their way, 
 and fell upon the face of the first-born, who was 
 once his pride. He even spoke tenderly to the 
 emaciated mother, and she, who a few moments 
 before felt raised above the sway of grief, wept like 
 an infant, as those few affectionate tones touched 
 the sealed fountains of other years. 
 
 James Harwood returned from the funeral of the 
 child in much mental distress. His sins were brought 
 to remembrance, and reflection was misery. Sleep 
 was disturbed by visions of his neglected boy. In 
 broken dreams, he fancied that he heard him cough- 
 ing from his low bed, as he was wont to do. With 
 a strange disposition of kindness he felt constrained 
 
128 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 to go to him, but his limbs refused their office. Then 
 a little thin dead hand would be thrust from the 
 dark grave, and beckon him to follow to the unseen 
 world. 
 
 While conscience thus haunted him with terrors, 
 many prayers arose from pitying and pious hearts, 
 that he might now be led to repentance. There 
 was, indeed, a change in his habits : and she, who 
 was above all others interested in his reformation, 
 spared no effort to win him back to the path of 
 virtue, and to sooth his accusing spirit into peace 
 with itself, and obedience to its God. 
 
 Yet was she doomed to witness the full force of 
 the conflict of grief and remorse against intemper- 
 ance, only to see them suddenly overthrown. The 
 reviving goodness, with whose promise she had so 
 solaced herself, as even to give thanks that her be- 
 loved son had not died in vain, was transient as the 
 morning-dew. Habits of industry, which seemed to 
 have been springing up, proved themselves to be 
 without root. 
 
 The dead, and his cruelty to the dead, were alike 
 forgotten. Disaffection to that tender and trusting 
 wife, who “against hope, had believed in hope,” 
 resumed its habitual sway. The friends who had 
 alternately reproved and encouraged him, felt that 
 their efforts were of no avail. Intemperance, like 
 the “ strong man armed,” took final possession of a 
 soul, that lifted no prayer for aid to the Holy Spirit, 
 and ceased to stir itself up to struggle with the 
 destroyer. 
 
 To lay waste the comfort of his wife, seemed now 
 
THE GIRL'S RL'ADING-BUOK. 129 
 
 the principal object of this miserable man. Day- 
 after day, did she witness for herself and for her 
 household, the fearful changes of his causeless anger 
 and brutal tyranny. She felt the utter necessity of 
 deriving consolation, and the power of endurance, 
 wholly from above. 
 
 She was faithful in the discharge of the diflicult 
 duties that devolved upon her, and especially care- 
 ful not to irritate him by reproaches or a gloomy 
 countenance. Yet she could not sometimes prevent 
 from rising mournfully to her view, her sweet native 
 village, — the peaceful home and fond friends of her 
 childhood so far away, — and the constant, endear- 
 ing attentions, which won her early love for one 
 whose ill-treatment now strewed her path with 
 thorns. 
 
 In this new and solitary settlement, she had no 
 relative to protect her from his insolence ; she felt 
 that she was entirely in his power, — that it w^as a 
 power without generosity, — and that there is no 
 tyranny so entire and terrible, as that of an alienated 
 and intemperate husband. 
 
 Still, looking to her Father in Heaven, she found 
 her courage revive, and deepen into a childlike con- 
 fidence. After putting her children to bed, as she 
 sat alone, evening after evening, — while the joys of 
 early days, and the sorrows of maturity, passed in 
 review before her, she questioned her heart what 
 had been its gain from Heaven’s discipline, and 
 whether she was to sustain that greatest of all 
 losses, the loss of the spiritual benefit intended by 
 affliction. 
 
130 
 
 ni£ girl’s READ1NG-BOOK> 
 
 The absences of her husband grew more fre- 
 qiient and protracted. Once, during the third night 
 of his departure, she knew not where, she lay sleep- 
 less, listening for his footsteps. Sometimes she fan- 
 cied she heard his shouts of wild laughter, but it 
 was only the shriek of the tempest Then, she 
 thought the sounds of his frenzied anger rang in her 
 ears. It was the roar of the hoarse wind through 
 the forest. 
 
 All night long she listened to these tumults, and 
 hushed and sang to her affrighted babe. Early in 
 the morning, her eye was attracted by a group com- 
 ing up slowly from the river which ran near her 
 dwelling. A terrible foreboding came upon her. 
 She thought they bore a corpse. It was, indeed, the 
 corpse of her husband. He had been drowned, as it 
 was supposed, during the darkness of the preceding 
 night, while attempting to cross a bridge of logs, 
 which had been broken by the swollen waters. 
 
 Utter prostration of spirit came over the desolate 
 mourner. Her energies were broken, and her heart 
 withered. She had sustained the hardships of emi- 
 gration and the privations of poverty, the burdens 
 of unceasing toil and unrequited care, without mur- 
 muring. She had laid her first-born in the grave, 
 with resignation, for faith had heard her Redeemer 
 saying, “ Suffer the little one to come rinto me.” 
 
 She had seen him, in whom her heart’s young af- 
 fections were garnered up, become a prey to vice 
 the most disgusting and destructive. Yet she had 
 borne up under all. One hope had lingered with 
 her, as an “ anchor of the soul,” the hope that he 
 
THE GlRL^S READING-BOOK. 
 
 131 
 
 might yet repent and be reclaimed. But now he 
 had died in his sin. The deadly leprosy which had 
 stolen over his heart, could no more be “ purged 
 with sacrifice, or offering, forever.” 
 
 She knew not that a single prayer for mercy had 
 preceded the soul on its passage to the judge’s bar. 
 There were bitter dregs in this cup of wo, which 
 she had never before tasted. With heaviness of an 
 unspoken and peculiar nature, was the victim of 
 intemperance borne from the house that he had 
 troubled, and buried by the side of his son, to whose 
 tender years he had been an unnatural enemy. 
 And among those who surrounded his open grave, 
 there was sorrow, bearing the features of that fear- 
 ful “ sorrow which is without hope.” 
 
132 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 <‘i have: se:e:n an end of all perfec- 
 tion.^— P sa/»w. 
 
 I HAVE seen a man in the glory of his days, in the 
 pride of his strength. He was built like the strong 
 oak, that strikes its root deep in the earth — like the 
 tall cedar, that lifts its head above the trees of the 
 forest. 
 
 He feared no danger, — he felt no sickness, — he 
 wondered why any should groan or sigh at pain. 
 His mind was vigorous like his body. He was per- 
 plexed at no intricacy, he was daunted at no obsta- 
 cle. Into hidden things he searched, and what was 
 crooked he made plain. 
 
 He went forth boldly upon the face of the mighty 
 deep. He surveyed the nations of the earth. He 
 measured the distances of the stars, and called them 
 by their names. He gloried in the extent of his 
 knowledge, in the vigour of his understanding, and 
 strove to search even into what the Almighty had 
 concealed. 
 
 And when I looked upon him, I said with the 
 poet, “ what a piece of work is man ! how noble in 
 reason ! how infinite in faculties ! in form and 
 moving, how express and admirable ! in action, 
 how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a 
 god I” 
 
 I returned— but his look was no more lofty, nor 
 his step proud. His broken frame was like some 
 ruined tower. His hairs were white and scattered, 
 and his eye gazed vacantly upon the passers by. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 133 
 
 The vigour of his intellect was wasted, and of all 
 that he had gained by study, nothing remained. 
 
 He feared when there was no danger, and when 
 there was no sorrow, he wept. His decaying 
 memory had become treacherous. It showed him 
 only broken images of the glory that was de- 
 parted. 
 
 His house was to him like a strange land, and his 
 friends were counted as enemies. He thought him- 
 self strong and healthful, while his feet tottered on 
 the verge of the grave. 
 
 He said of his son, “ he is my brother of his 
 daughter, “ I know her not.” He even inquired 
 what was his own name. And as I gazed mournful- 
 ly upon him, one who supported his feeble frame 
 and ministered to his many wants, said to me, “ Let 
 thine heart receive instruction, for thou hast seen 
 an end of all perfection.” 
 
 I have seen a beautiful female, treading the first 
 stages of youth, and entering joyfully into the plea- 
 sures of life. The glance of her eye was variable 
 and sweet, and on her cheek trembled something 
 like the first blush of morning ; her lips moved, and 
 there was melody; and when she floated in the 
 dance, her light form, like the aspen, seemed to 
 move with every breeze. 
 
 I returned — she was not in the dance. I sought 
 her among her gay companions, but I found her 
 not. Her eye sparkled not there, the music of her 
 voice was silent. She rejoiced on earth no more. 
 
 I saw a train, sable, and slow-paced. Sadly they 
 bore toward an open grave, what once was animated 
 12 
 
134 
 
 THE GlRL^S READING-BOOK. 
 
 and beautiful. As they drew near, they paused, and 
 a voice broke the solemn silence. 
 
 “ Man, that is born of a woman, is of few days, 
 and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, 
 and is cut down j he fleeth also as a shadow, and 
 never continueth in one stay.” 
 
 Then they let down into the deep, dark pit, that 
 maiden whose lips, but a few days since, were like 
 the half blown rosebud. I shuddered at the sound 
 of clods falling upon the hollow coffin. 
 
 Then I heard a voice saying, “earth to earth, 
 ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” They covered her 
 with the damp soil, and the uprooted turf of the 
 valley, and turned again to their own homes. 
 
 But one mourner lingered to cast himself upon 
 the tomb. And as he wept, he said, “ there is no 
 beauty, nor grace, nor loveliness, but what vanish- 
 eth like the morning dew. I have seen an end of 
 ail perfection.” 
 
 I saw a fair white dwelling, behind shady trees. 
 Flowers were cultivated around it. The clustering 
 vine wreathed above its door, and the woodbine 
 looked in at its windows. A mother was there fond- 
 ling her young babe. Another, who had just learn- 
 ed to lisp its first wishes, sat on the father’s knee. 
 He looked on them all, with a loving smile, and a 
 heart full of happiness. 
 
 I returned — the flowers had perished, the vine was 
 dead at the root. Weeds towered where the wood- 
 bine blossomed, and tangled grass sprung up by the 
 threshold where many feet used to tread. There 
 
TilE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 135 
 
 was no sound of sporting children, or of the mother 
 singing to her babe. 
 
 I turned my steps to the church-yard. Three 
 new mounds were added there. That mother slept 
 between her sons. A lonely man was bowing down 
 there, whose face I did not see. But I knew his 
 voice, when he said in his low prayer of sorrow, 
 “ Thou hast made desolate all my company.” The 
 tall grass rustled and sighed in the cold east wind. 
 Methought it said, “ See, an end of all perfection.” 
 
 I saw' an infant with a ruddy brow, and a form 
 like polished ivory. Its motions were graceful, and 
 its merry laughter made other hearts glad. Some- 
 times it wept, and again it rejoiced, when none knew 
 why. But whether its cheek dimpled with smiles, 
 or its blue eye shone more brilliant through tears, 
 it was beautiful. 
 
 It was beautiful, because it was innocent. And 
 care-worn and sinful men, admired, when they be- 
 held it. It was like the first blossom which some 
 cherished plant has put forth, whose cup sparkles 
 with a dew-drop, and whose head reclines upon the 
 parent-stem. 
 
 Again I looked. It had become a child. The 
 lamp of reason had beamed into its mind. It was 
 simple, and single-hearted, and a follower of the 
 truth. It loved every little bird that sang in the 
 trees, and every fresh blossom. Its heart danced 
 w'ith joy, as it looked around on this good and plea- 
 sant world. 
 
 It stood like a lamb before its teachers, it bowed 
 its ear to instruction, it walked in the way of know- 
 
136 
 
 THE girl’s READING-EOOK. 
 
 ledge. It was not proud or stubborn or envious; 
 and it had never heard of the vices and vanities of 
 the world. And when I looked upon it, I remem- 
 bered our Saviour’s words, “ Except ye become as 
 little children, ye cannot enter into the kingdom of 
 heaven.” 
 
 I saw a man whom the world calls honourable. 
 Many waited for his smile. They pointed to the 
 fields that were his, and talked of the silver and gold 
 which he had gathered. They praised the stateli- 
 ness of his domes, and extolled the honour of his 
 family. 
 
 But the secret language of his heart was, “by my 
 wisdom have I gotten all this.” So he returned no 
 thanks to God, neither did he fear or serve him. 
 As I passed along, I heard the complaints of the 
 labourers who had reaped his fields, and the cries 
 of the poor, whose covering he had taken away. 
 
 The sound of feasting and revelry was in his 
 mansion, and the unfed beggar came tottering from 
 his door. But he considered not that the cries of 
 the oppressed were continually entering into the 
 ears of the Most High. 
 
 And when I knew that this man was the docile 
 child whom I had loved, the beautiful infant on 
 whom I had gazed with delight, I said in my bitter- 
 ness, “ / have seen an end of all perfection.'''* So I 
 laid my mouth in the dust. 
 
THE girl’s REAUIMG-ROUK. 
 
 137 
 
 MRS. KlilZABRTH ROWE. 
 
 Mrs. Elizabeth Rowe was born at Ilchester, in 
 England, September 11th, 1674. Her parents were 
 distinguished for integrity, benevolence, andjiiety. 
 In early childhood, she displayed a desire to profit 
 by their precepts and follow their example. 
 
 She had an only sister, whom she tenderly loved. 
 They always wished to be together. Side by side, 
 they studied, worked, w'arbled the same hymn, and 
 had no idea of a separate enjoyment. But the eldest, 
 was smitten in her youth and loveliness, and the 
 lonely survivor walked on, wuth the burden of a 
 deep sorrow. 
 
 This affliction seemed to deepen the religious im- 
 pressions which from early life she had cherished. 
 It brought the thoughts of the eternal world more 
 near, and humbled her in the most solemn acts of 
 devotion. In the pursuit of knowledge, she was 
 also persevering and successful. 
 
 AVith the French and Italian languages, she be- 
 came familiar. Painting, music, and poetry she had 
 practised from a child. Her love of the latter pre- 
 dominated, and she found it both a solace in grief, 
 and a heightener of every pleasure. At the age of 
 twenty-two, a volume of her poems was published, 
 which attracted attention and praise. 
 
 But her uncommon accomplishments, and the ad- 
 miration they received, created no vanity. She 
 was remarked for her unaffected manners, sweet- 
 ness of disposition, and active benevolence. She 
 12 ’ 
 
138 
 
 THE GIRL'S PiLAUING-BOoK. 
 
 even made herself acquainted with the study of 
 medicine, that she might relieve the indigent sick, 
 who were unable to pay a physician, and they view- 
 ed her as a guardian angel. 
 
 She married Mr. Thomas Rowe, a man of distin- 
 guished talents and attainments, who warmly recip- 
 rocated the attachment of her refined and affec- 
 tionate spirit. But only five years of conjugal hap- 
 piness was allotted them; and after his lamented 
 death, she retired to a solitary estate in Frome, 
 where she sought to comfort her widowhood by in- 
 tellectual pursuits, and works of charity. 
 
 She meditated so much on the happiness of de- 
 parted friends, and made herself so familiar in 
 thought with the world of spirits, that she was in- 
 duced to compose a volume of “ Letters from the 
 Dead to the Living.” These were followed by 
 “ Letters, Moral and Entertaining,” where she 
 endeavours by fictitious examples, to expose the 
 deformity of vice, and allure to the practice of 
 virtue. 
 
 She wrote other books, among which were the 
 
 History of Joseph,” and “ Devout Exercises of the 
 Heart.” So great was her fondness for study and 
 fvriting, that though her society was courted by 
 families of rank and opulence, she quitted her be- 
 loved retirement with reluctance, and returned to it 
 with increased delight. 
 
 Still, she had the kindest social feelings, and her 
 manners were a model of unaffected politeness. 
 She excelled in conversation, as well as with her 
 pen. The most elegant language flowed from her 
 
THE girl’s reading-rook. 139 
 
 lips, she spoke gracefully, and her tone of voice 
 was singularly sweet and harmonious. 
 
 Though she was agreeable, and even beautiful in 
 her person, she did not sacrifice her time to the 
 decorations of dress. She was always neat in her 
 apparel, but did not allow the toilet to interfere 
 with nobler pursuits. For empty ceremony and 
 ostentatious fashion, she had neither time nor taste. 
 
 She discountenanced every kind of luxury. She 
 preferred to have her table simply spread, and devote 
 to the poor the money which would have loaded it 
 with dainties. She felt that the pampering of the 
 appetite was unworthy of beings fitted for higher 
 pleasures, and formed for immortality. 
 
 She was affable and courteous to persons in hum- 
 ble stations. Her domestics she treated with the 
 utmost kindness. She saw that they had every 
 needful attention in sickness, and often set by their 
 bedside, reading them books of useful instruction 
 and pious counsel. 
 
 Her heart was eminently formed for friendship. 
 vShe rendered every service in her power to those 
 whom she loved. By a warm and generous sympa- 
 thy, she made their sorrows her own. She was 
 candid and tender, in pointing out their faults, and 
 above all, strove to win their hearts to the love of 
 that true piety which had rendered her life so 
 happy. 
 
 Her charities were extensive. The greatest part 
 of her income was devoted to them. She took 
 pleasure in denying herself superfluities, that she 
 might have more to bestow on those who were des- 
 
140 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 titute of comforts. She \vorked with her own hands 
 to relieve their necessities. Tears flowed down her 
 cheeks at a tale of distress, and not content with 
 sending bounty, she visited in person the hovels of 
 poverty and contagion. 
 
 She gave books to the ignorant. She educated 
 poor children, supplied them with clothing, and in- 
 structed them herself in the principles of the Christ- 
 ian religion. Such was her reputation for benevo- 
 lence, that the indigent from neighbouring villages 
 resorted to her, and shared in her alms and her sym- 
 pathies. 
 
 One of her great excellencies, was a most sweet 
 and amiable disposition. She was unruffled by the 
 common crossing incidents of life, those petty ob- 
 structions, which throw the temper off its guard 
 more than real afflictions. Neither infirmities, or 
 advancing age, disturbed this serenity. 
 
 Servants, who had lived with her for nearly 
 twent}’^ years, never saw her out of temper. Indeed, 
 it has been said, that she was not known through- 
 out her whole life to utter an unkind or an ill-natur- 
 ed expression. To scandal and calumny she had a 
 most rooted aversion, and defended the reputation 
 of others, as far as was in her power. 
 
 Her talent for conversation, she made use of as a 
 means, not merely of imparting pleasure, but of 
 doing good. When she wished to excite a person 
 to the practice of any particular virtue, she some- 
 times delicately praised those who had been emi- 
 nent for it, hoping they might thus, by the beauty 
 of example, be quickened to imitation. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 141 
 
 A.11 her deportment was marked by true humility. 
 And though her excellence could not shield her 
 from enmity, and from the slanders of that envy 
 which follows eminent goodness, and “like the 
 shadow proves the substance true,” she avoided re- 
 sentment, and considered herself thus called upon 
 to exercise the Christian virtue of forgiveness. 
 
 She was strict in the observances of religion. 
 She adopted the rule of the Psalmist, “ evening and 
 morning and noon, will I pray,” and retired three 
 times a day for stated private devotion. In the 
 duties of the Sabbath she was exemplary, caused 
 the Scriptures to be daily read in her family, and 
 attended the sacrament of the Lord’s supper, with 
 great veneration and love. 
 
 A life so blameless, a trust so firm in God, a mind 
 so conversant with a future and better world, seem- 
 ed to have divested death of terror. He came as a 
 messenger to conduct her to that state of purity and 
 bliss, for which she had been so long preparing. 
 
 A short time before the event, though in perfect 
 health, she mentioned to a religious friend a convic- 
 tion that she should soon depart, wrote several 
 solemn and affectionate letters, not to be communi- 
 cated till after her decease, and a paper, giving direc- 
 tions for a plain and private funeral, and a grave 
 without monument or inscription. 
 
 On the day of her death, she was in perfect health, 
 spent the evening cheerfully with a friend, and re- 
 tired at the usual hour to her chamber. There, she 
 was soon after found by her servant, prostrate on 
 the floor, and at the last gasp. 
 
142 
 
 THE girl’s heading-book. 
 
 She died on Sunday, February 28th, 1737. A re- 
 ligious book was found open by her, and a paper on 
 which she had written a few devout thoughts. It 
 was her stated hour for prayer. Probably, her soul 
 while in sublimated communion with her God, pass- 
 ed to “his presence, where is fulness of joy; to his 
 right hand, where are pleasures forevermore.” 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 143 
 
 MRS. JERUSHA liATHROP. 
 
 Mrs. Jerusha Lathrop was born at Hartford, 
 Conn., May 10th, 1717. She was the daughter of 
 Governor Talcott, and enjoyed the benefit of the 
 example of pious parents. She early displayed an 
 amiable disposition, a mind of quick and strong 
 powers, and an affectionate heart. 
 
 In those days, the advantages of school-education 
 could not be obtained, as they now are, by all. The 
 colony had been settled but little more than eighty 
 years. The hardships of those, who had found it a 
 wilderness, were freshly remembered. Simplicity 
 of living, and industrious habits, still prevailed 
 among the most wealthy families. 
 
 The subject of this sketch used often to remark, 
 that she was never in a school-house in her life. 
 Still she received a good education. The family of 
 her parents was a school for her, and their precept 
 and example were her teachers. There she learned 
 what fitted her for this life and the next. 
 
 Obedience and diligence were the first letters in 
 her alphabet. Lessons of piety began at her cradle, 
 and domestic industry with her early childhood. 
 She soon acquired the use of the needle and knit- 
 ting-needles in all their varieties. The foundation of 
 good housekeeping, in which she excelled through- 
 out her life, was laid by her mother, who permitted 
 her to be an assistant in her own employments, 
 while she was yet a child. 
 
 Her intellectual culture was not neglected. She 
 
144 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 had a great fondness for reading and writing. Her 
 acquaintance with the standard authors of the Eng- 
 lish language was thorough, and in poetry she took 
 high and deep delight. There were then but few 
 books. Yet from this scarcity she derived the bene- 
 fit of reading with such careful attention, as to im- 
 press their contents deeply on her memory, and 
 carry what she learned in youth, to the close of a 
 long life. 
 
 She possessed herself of the accomplishments 
 which entered into the education of the daughters 
 of the wealthy. They were required by her station. 
 Instrumental music was not then numbered among 
 them. But she became an adept in vocal music, and 
 had the gift of a voice of great compass and melody. 
 Embroidery was much prized, and she excelled in 
 it. Chairs, curtains, toilets, and other useful and 
 ornamental articles, attested her skill and perseve- 
 ring industry. To her many other attainments, she 
 added gentle, graceful, and dignified manners, that 
 accomplishment which is admired by all, and which 
 never goes out of fashion. She was taught the pre- 
 cept, that the richest dress might become antiqua- 
 ted, and the most beautiful face grow old, but good 
 manners were a garb fitting for every occasion, and 
 a language understood in all lands. 
 
 At the age of eighteen, she was married to Dr. 
 Daniel Lathrop, of Norwich, Conn. He was a man 
 of excellent talents and principles, and to the best 
 education which this country afforded, had added 
 the advantage of several years residence in Europe. 
 His mind was enlarged by literary and scientific re- 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 145 
 
 search, and it was his pleasure to employ his fortune 
 in encouraging industrious enterprise, and drawing 
 merit from obscurity. 
 
 The young wife entered upon her new duties 
 wdth affectionate energy, and trust in Divine aid. 
 She made home a delightful spot to her husband, 
 and reciprocated his affection and confidence. She 
 cheered by respect and attention the last days of 
 his aged father. She looked well to the ways of 
 her household, guided her servants with discretion, 
 and convinced them that she felt a sincere interest 
 in their welfare and improvement. 
 
 Moving in an elevated sphere, considered the or- 
 nament and pride of the society in which she ming- 
 led, and surrounded by all the elements of conjugal 
 felicity, the piety which early struck deep root in 
 her soul, gave her wisdom beyond her years, and 
 preserved her from the pride of prosperity. In the 
 important responsibilities of a mother, she was faith- 
 ful and exemplary. 
 
 She was blessed with three sons, beautiful in per- 
 son, and in mind. The eldest displayed great ma- 
 turity of intellect and character. He delighted to 
 sit as a solitary student, and store his memory with 
 sacred and sublime passages from the best authors. 
 The religious instructions of his mother were his 
 delight, and often, at his hour of retiring, he would 
 ask with an interesting solemnity, “ Do you think I 
 have done any thing to-day to offend my Father in 
 Heaven 7” 
 
 The second had a form of grace, and a complex- 
 ion of feminine delicacy. The tones of his voice 
 13 
 
146 
 
 THE girl’s READING-ROCK. 
 
 promised to attain the melting richness of his mo- 
 ther’s, as a bud opens into the perfect flower. The 
 youngest, when he completed his third year, was 
 the picture of health, vigour, and joy. Golden curls 
 clustered around his broad, lofty forehead, and his 
 beautiful features were radiant with the glow of 
 intelligence, or the gladness of mirth. 
 
 The eldest, the little student as he was called, 
 had attained the age of seven years. Suddenly he 
 was smitten, while at his books, with a fatal disease. 
 One night he suffered ; the next, he was not among 
 the living. Ere he was laid in the tomb, the second 
 drooped. Tears quivered in his soft blue eyes, like 
 dew in the bell of the hyacinth. Yet. if he might 
 lay. his head upon his mother’s bosom, he would 
 endure without repining. 
 
 The dying boy pressed his mother to sing the 
 hymn that he loved. She controlled her grief to 
 cheer him once more with its trembling harmony. 
 It was then that he breathed away his soul, whis- 
 pering of the angels and their celestial melodies. 
 The youngest was next taken. So strongly did he 
 struggle with the destroyer, and so fearful were 
 his agonies and convulsions, that those who best 
 loved him, could not but give thanks when the 
 beautiful clay was at peace. 
 
 These three lovely children were laid in one 
 grave, in one week. The bereaved parents ever 
 continued childless. The mother was in her twenty- 
 sixth year when this aflfliction came upon her. She 
 looked to him who had ordained it. She strove to 
 remember that her dear ones were his. She exerted 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 147 
 
 herself to sustain and cheer her sorrowing husband, 
 and laid open the burden of her griefs only to the 
 Father of her spirit. 
 
 She seriously examined her heart, to know what 
 evil or error it cherished, to render such severe dis- 
 cipline necessary. This solemn inquiry is revealed 
 in a poem which she composed during the earlier 
 stages of her mourning, from which we extract the 
 following lines, as a specimen of the earnestness 
 with which she desired to be made better by the 
 sorrow that had pierced her heart. 
 
 “ Oh, teach me why thou dost contend, and say 
 Thy comforts blasted, hasten to decay ; 
 
 Teach me the paths wherein I go astray ; 
 
 Reveal the secret errors of my way ; 
 
 Reform, correct, subdue the offending mind, 
 
 Too often stubborn, impotent, or blind.” 
 
 A visible blessing descended upon her prayers 
 that this bereavement might be sanctified to her 
 improvement in piety. Her wounded sensibilities 
 subsided into that resignation which brings peace, 
 and into an untiring benevolence. Her sympathies 
 were quickened for all who mourned, and .she re- 
 lieved the children of sorrow and poverty with the 
 benignity of an angel. 
 
 It was late in life when the affliction of widow- 
 hood came upon her. She was appointed to watch 
 over her husband during the pains of a protracted 
 sickness, and to mark with still keener anguish the 
 mental decay of him, who had been her dearest 
 friend and counsellor. “ I have seen an end of all 
 perfection,-’ said she, when his strong and brilliant 
 
148 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 mind yielded to the pressure of sickness, and when 
 he was laid in the grave she put her whole trust in 
 the widow’s God. 
 
 From that hour she derived her chief solace from 
 doing good. She seemed to love the poor as if they 
 were unfortunate memhers of her own family. 
 They came to her and received food and clothing, 
 kind words, and religious counsel. Her care for 
 those in distress knew no pause while life lasted. 
 Indeed, it extended beyond it, as she left in her will 
 a considerable sum for the payment of the taxes of 
 the poor. 
 
 A few miles from the city where she resided, was 
 the remnant of a once powerful tribe of Indians. 
 They had been invariably friendly to our ancestors. 
 They had supplied them with corn, during the 
 famine that sometimes oppressed the infant colony, 
 and had shed their blood in the defence of their 
 white friends. Now they had become poor and 
 despised. Their royal family was extinct, and they 
 were as strangers in the land of their fathers. 
 
 For them her sympathies were enlisted. She 
 proportioned her bounties to their needs. Her 
 friendly words, and courteous deportment, were a 
 cordial to their withered hearts. Particularly at 
 the stated festivals of Christmas, and thanksgiving, 
 they were remembered. And when they thronged 
 io receive the bounty which she had provided for 
 them, she was often seen to regard their meek and 
 abject countenances with a tearful, tender glance, 
 remembering that they were once the lords of the 
 soil. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 149 
 
 The poor red people of the forest, and the sable 
 African, she regarded with pitying kindness. She 
 strove to elevate their condition, and to cheer them 
 with hope, and to impress on them the importance 
 of right conduct, assuring them that their souls were 
 precious in the eye of a Redeemer. She inform- 
 ed herself of the state of the sick poor, and sent 
 them portions according to their necessities. Her 
 benefactions often came so secretly, that the relieved 
 party knew not from whence they flowed, for she 
 desired not the praise of man. 
 
 There was nothing in which she more delighted 
 than to do good to children. She assisted in the 
 education of those, whose parents were in restricted 
 circumstances, and distributed useful books to those 
 who were unable to purchase them. She formed 
 an acquaintance with the teachers of schools, and 
 rewarded such of their pupils as distinguished them- 
 selves by good scholarship, and correct deportment. 
 
 She loved to surround herself on Saturday after- 
 noons, with the children of the neighbourhood. She 
 interested them with delineations of birds, plants, 
 and animals, which, with her scissors or pencil, she 
 rapidly and skilfully executed. She charmed them 
 with the melody and high sentiment of her ancient 
 songs, or touched their hearts with the devout hymns 
 with which her memory was stored. She drew 
 them around her table, and dismissed them at sun- 
 set, with some simple present, made happier and 
 better by the sacred instructions which she mingled 
 with her deeds of kindness. 
 
 She ever maintained the excellent custom of 
 13 ’^ 
 
150 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 bringing up some poor or orphan child as a domes- 
 tic. Many of these repaid her in their future lives, 
 by their respectability and piety, and felt that it was 
 a privilege to have grown up under the shadow of 
 her wisdom. In the arrangement of her household, 
 she united prudence with a liberal hospitality. She 
 economized in her personal expenditure, that she 
 might have the more to give to those who needed. 
 
 She prized the intercourse of friendship. She 
 received friends at her house in a simple, unosten- 
 tatious manner, and delighted them with her intel- 
 ligent and instructive conversation. Especially she 
 showed attention and respect to the ministers of 
 religion, and required all under her care to treat 
 them with reverence. Fondness for reading, filled 
 the little vacancies of life, and the strong and kind 
 interest she took in those around, particularly in all 
 the young, served to keep her mind unimpaired, 
 and her feelings vivid. 
 
 When more than fourscore years of age, her light 
 step, and animated aspect, surprised beholders. A 
 fine forehead, scarcely furrowed, a clear, expressive 
 eye, a tall and graceful person, whose symmetry 
 age had respected, and the most affable and dignified 
 manners, rendered her an object of interest to all 
 who approached her. To the last, her voice retained 
 that musical and exquisite tone which seemed an 
 echo of the soul’s harmony. 
 
 Thus she lived, venerated, and imparting happi- 
 ness. The virtues which made her beloved con- 
 tinued to flourish, and put forth new, fresh blossoms, 
 until her life’s end. They could not wither, even 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 15J 
 
 amid the frosts of age, for their root was an ever- 
 living piety. There is no doubt that her afflictions 
 contributed to her excellence. For when they fell 
 upon her, with what seemed a crushing weight, she 
 cast away the selfishness of grief, and took hold of 
 the anchor of faith, and the crown of charity. 
 
 The close of her life was like the fading of a se- 
 rene sabbath into the holy quiet of its evening. As 
 she entered her eighty-ninth year, a gentle sickness 
 was the herald of the last messenger. On the morn- 
 ing of September 14th, 1805, her spirit departed. 
 So peaceful was the transition, that the precise mo- 
 ment when she ceased to breathe, could not be told 
 by those who watched over her pillow with ardent 
 and grateful love. “ But I heard a voice from hea- 
 ven, saying. Write, blessed are the dead that die in 
 the Lord.” 
 
152 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 MRS. HANNAH MORR. 
 
 Mrs. Hannah More was born in the year 1745, at 
 Stapleton, in the county of Gloucester, England. 
 She was the youngest but one, of five sisters. Her 
 father received a learned education, and was in- 
 tended for the ministry. But a reverse of fortune 
 changed his destination, and he became the teacher 
 of a school, which, with close economy, afforded 
 him a support. 
 
 Mrs. More’s mother was the daughter of a farmer. 
 She had received only a plain education ; but her 
 strong mind, good sense, and sound judgment, and 
 the active part she took in the formation of her 
 children’s early habits, contributed essentially to 
 their future success and distinction. 
 
 The subject of this memoir, when very young, 
 exhibited great quickness of perception, and thirst 
 for knowledge. By listening to the lessons given 
 to her elder sisters, she made considerable progress 
 in reading, at three years old, and learned to repeat 
 the Catechism in such a manner as to call forth 
 the wondering admiration of the minister of the 
 parish. 
 
 At eight, she was continually asking her father 
 about ancient history and the classics. As his library 
 was not furnished with the authors which he had 
 himself studied, he used to gratify her by opening 
 the stores of his own retentive memory. Seated on 
 his knee, the little girl listened with eager attention 
 to the revolutions of Greece and Rome, and to the 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 153 
 
 most striking events that diversify the page of 
 history. 
 
 He recited to her the speeches of heroes, first in 
 their original languages, to gratify her ear with the 
 sound. Then he translated them into English. The 
 parallel characters and precepts of Plutarch, were a 
 favourite part of these fireside discourses. Perhaps 
 thus was unconsciously laid, the foundation forth at 
 high morality which pervaded her future writings. 
 
 He began also to instruct her in Latin and mathe- 
 matics. So astonishing was her progress, that he 
 began to be alarmed lest her mind should be turned 
 entirely from the duties of her sex. He ceased his 
 instruction in these sciences. But she pursued by 
 herself the Latin classics, and so thoroughly were 
 the rudiments, imparted by her father, engraved 
 upon her docile mind, that she used ever to say, 
 that conversation with an enlightened parent, or 
 preceptor, was one of the best modes of education. 
 
 At a still earlier age, whenever she could possess 
 herself of a scrap of paper, it was her delight to 
 cover it entirely with some little essay or poem. 
 One of her highest anticipations was, that she might 
 one day be rich enough to have a whole quire of 
 paper. So striking were some of the thoughts and 
 expressions that she communicated nightly to the 
 sister with whom she slept, that she would some- 
 times rise, and endeavour to procure a light, and 
 the cover of some old letter, on which to write 
 Hannah’s effusions, lest they should escape from 
 memory. 
 
 The eldest of her sisters was sent to school at 
 
154 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 Bristol, that she might qualify herself for a teacher. 
 At the close of every week she returned home, and 
 diligently taught her sisters what she had herself 
 gained. This was the foundation of the education 
 of the distinguished Hannah More ; the knowledge 
 gathered from the lips of parents and sisters, during 
 the usual occupations of the family. 
 
 She thus acquired the French language, and by 
 improving every opportunity of conversing in it, 
 when she met with natives of that country, of culti- 
 vated minds, became distinguished for its free and 
 elegant use. In every study which she attempted, 
 her diligence and perseverance knew no interrup- 
 tion. She felt the full importance of acquiring 
 knowledge, and made vigorous efforts to that end. 
 Her love of goodness was equal to her love of 
 knowledge, and God crowned both with success. 
 
 When she was twelve years old, her three elder 
 sisters commenced a boarding-school at Bristol, and 
 took her under their care. The eldest was then 
 but twenty years of age, yet, with such ability and 
 discretion was the establishment conducted, that it 
 immediately gained and preserved a very high re- 
 putation. 
 
 The young teachers laboured to instil into the 
 minds of their pupils, the same exalted sense of mo- 
 rality, and deep religious principle, which had formed 
 the basis of their own domestic education. They 
 never ceased to acknowledge the value of the in- 
 struction of their pious parents, and the pains they 
 had taken to impress on their hearts the sanctity of 
 the sabbath, and of the ordinances of religion. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 155 
 
 Their talented sister was careful to obey all their 
 rules. She testified her gratitude for the heightened 
 advantages of education which she enjoyed through 
 their exertions. It was to aid them in furnishing 
 their scholars with some interesting and moral com- 
 position to commit to memory, and recite, that she 
 wrote the pastoral drama of the “ Search after Hap- 
 piness.” 
 
 Thus it seems that her sweet sisterly feeling 
 prompted her, w’hen scarcely seventeen years old, 
 to take the first step in that career of autfiorship, 
 where, for the long period of seventy years, she 
 was to walk, improving and enlightening the world. 
 Before she arrived at the age of thirty, she became 
 generally known as a writer of great ability, and 
 the praises of her learning and genius reached her 
 from the lips of the most illustrious in the realm. 
 
 True piety preserved her from the vanity which 
 must else have destroyed her. She mingled in the 
 circles of rank and fashion, only to return with a 
 wider experience, and a warmer zeal, to the labours 
 of love that she had marked out for herself. She 
 tasted of the world, that she might overcome it. 
 She was raised above its temptations, by the grace 
 of Him whom she had sought in her youth, whose 
 eye is ever upon “ them that fear him, that hope in 
 his mercy.” 
 
 We have not room here to mention the various 
 character of her numerous and excellent works. 
 But her intellectual labours did not turn her atten- 
 tion from the duties of religion and charity. After 
 the retirement of her sisters from the school for 
 
156 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 young ladies, which they many years conducted, 
 she co-operated with them in establishing and 
 teaching Sunday-schools in various parishes. 
 
 She persevered in all that she attempted, notwith- 
 standing feeble health, and many attacks of danger- 
 ous disease. Misconstruction and calumny were 
 sometimes her portion. But she rose above them, 
 and kept on her way rejoicing. The friendship of 
 the good and virtuous was her shield, in all the 
 attacks of enmity. 
 
 In 1802 she erected a beautiful thatched cottage, 
 in an elevated and picturesque situation, to which 
 she gave the name of Bailey Wood. There she re- 
 tired with her sisters, and the grounds were arranged 
 and ornamented by their united taste. She was 
 herself exceedingly fond of cultivating the beauties 
 of nature ; and a cabinet-table, from whence issued 
 many a sheet for the edification of mankind, was 
 inlaid with small diamond shaped pieces of wood, 
 from trees which her own hand had planted. 
 
 In this hallowed retreat, her three elder sisters 
 paid the debt of nature, according to the order of 
 their birth. Each had attained the age of seventy- 
 five years. In the autumn of 1819, the youngest 
 was taken, and the solitary survivor bore these be- 
 reavements with that faith which looks beyond the 
 world, for a re-union with the beloved. The affec- 
 tion of this family of sisters had been ardent and 
 without a cloud. The supports of piety were neces- 
 sary to console the one who was left to finish her 
 journey alone. 
 
 In 1828 she removed to Clifton. Though more 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 157 
 
 than fourscore years old, she still continued to meet 
 the claims of her correspondents, though she de- 
 sisted from the composition of large volumes. She 
 excelled in the epistolary style, and in speaking of 
 it, says, What I wish for in a letter, is the picture 
 of my friend’s mind, and the common sense of his 
 life. I want to know what he is saying and doing ; 
 to have him show me the inside of his heart without 
 disguise. I have this feeling when I write letters. 
 If I seek wisdom and lofty sentiment, I can find 
 them in books.” 
 
 The last letter which she wrote was in her eighty- 
 eighth year. To the close of her long life her eye 
 was not dim. She could easily read the smallest 
 print without spectacles. Her hearing was but 
 slightly impaired, and her features were neither 
 wrinkled nor uncomely. No impatient expression 
 was heard to escape her lips, even in moments of 
 the deepest suffering, and her beneficence and cha- 
 ritable feelings increased to the last. 
 
 As she approached the verge of life, her vigour 
 of mind yielded to declining health ; but the fer- 
 vour of her religious trust gained new strength. 
 Almost every thought was prayer. In the energy 
 of her expiring petitions, her friends, and those 
 who ministered around her bed, were earnestly 
 commended to the care of the Almighty. 
 
 She was continually blessing those around her, as 
 death approached. “May we meet in an eternal, a 
 glorious world.” A friend mentioned her good 
 deeds, — her labours of benevolence. “ Talk not so 
 vainly,” she replied. “ I utterly cast them from me. 
 
158 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 I fall low at the foot of the cross.” So full of hu- 
 mility was one, who had been the instrument of so 
 great good in her day and generation. 
 
 The night before her death, there was an unusual 
 brightness in her countenance. Striving to rise a 
 little from her pillow, she stretched out her arms, 
 and uttered the name of her favourite sister, the 
 last who had died, and exclaimed, in a clear voice, 
 “joy!” as if she indeed welcomed her. Then her 
 pulse grew fainter, and she lay for hours, as if in 
 the gentle breathing of infant sleep, broken occa- 
 sionally by a sigh or groan. It was early in the af- 
 ternoon of September 7th, 1833, that she ceased to 
 breathe. 
 
 In reading the works of this illustrious lady, we 
 are surprised both at their variety of subject and 
 compass of thought. With equal ease, she marked 
 out the map of virtue for a princess, or held the 
 lamp of truth to the miserable colliers, amid the 
 darkness of the mines. She could touch the tender- 
 est chords of the heart in her poem on “ Sensibility,” 
 or set forth the rudiments of a peasant’s faith, in the 
 ballad of “ Dan and Jane.” 
 
 She could descend to the simplest alphabet of mo- 
 rality, in her tales of “ the Postilion,” the “ Poach- 
 er,” and the “ Orange-Girl or soar to the highest 
 regions of sublimity, to portray the lineaments of 
 St. Paul, that “ very chiefest of the apostles.” A 
 mind, fitted like hers to range through the regions 
 of fancy, and catch the richness of classic imagery, 
 must be eminent in self-control, thus to humble it- 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 159 
 
 self to the petty and painful details of human wretch- 
 edness and vice. 
 
 Though the writings of Mrs. Hannah More display 
 such diversity, both in plan and style, they always 
 clearly keep in view the improvement and benefit 
 of mankind. She never makes Vice beautiful, that 
 it may captivate the unguarded heart ; or forms as- 
 sociations of thought, which make work for repent- 
 ance. 
 
 Some of her best works, have been devoted to the 
 good of her own sex. They have discouraged tri- 
 fling pursuits and frivolous pleasures, and warned 
 them of the power which they might exercise to 
 elevate and purify society, without departing from 
 the sphere which Heaven had enjoined. 
 
 The effect, as well as the tendency of her writings, 
 has been salutary. It has been acknowledged by 
 politicians, that her native country has profited by 
 their spirit of patriotism, and masculine force of ar- 
 gument, which fearlessly admonishing the highest 
 ranks of their obligations, and inciting indigence to 
 its duty, laboured to rectify public opinion, to re- 
 move prejudices against just government, and to 
 show, that the safety of a nation is in the early and 
 pious nurture of all its children. 
 
 The diffusion of her works has kept pace with 
 their value. It may truly be said of them, that 
 “ their speech has gone forth to the end of the 
 world.” Besides their wide circulation, wherever 
 her native tongue is spoken, some of them have 
 been translated into the languages of France, of 
 Germany, of Greece, and of Ceylon. 
 
160 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 In our country, they have been warmly welcomed, 
 and highly appreciated. Companions of the bible, 
 they have travelled with the family of the emigrant 
 to our remotest frontiers. Where the axe of the 
 woodman awakens echoes which had slept from 
 creation, the solitary matron is cheered in her toils 
 by “ Practical Piety reads aloud by her evening 
 fireside, the “ Shepherd of Salisbury Plain or 
 marks her little ones weeping tender tears, at the 
 story of the prophet in his bulrush-cradle, upon the 
 devouring Nile. 
 
 From youth, till the decline of a long life, it was 
 her business and her prayer, to sow the seeds of 
 virtue and of piety. Different nations and tongues 
 bring their tribute of gratitude, and honour her me- 
 mory. A blessing, most desirable in this life, most 
 powerful over the destinies of the next, was granted 
 her: the injiuence of mind over mind. This, enter- 
 ing both the palace and the cottage, made their in- 
 mates wiser and better. It will continue to exist, 
 when the distinctions of rank are forgotten, and 
 their proudest monuments have mouldered into 
 dust. 
 
tHE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 161 
 
 MRS. MARTHA L.AURENS RAMSAY. 
 
 Martha Laurens Ramsay was born at Charleston, 
 (South Carolina,) Novembers, 1759. Her father. Co- 
 lonel Henry Laurens, was conspicuous as a man of ta- 
 lents, and a statesman. Their ancestors were French 
 protestants, or Huguenots, who took refuge in this 
 country, “ for righteousness sake,” during the per- 
 secutions in the reign of Louis Fourteenth. 
 
 Her love of knowledge was very early developed. 
 At the age of three years, she could read any Eng- 
 lish book without difficulty. She soon added geo- 
 graphy and arithmetic, a grammatical knowledge 
 of the French language, composition, and mathe- 
 matics. 
 
 She was assiduous in abridging and transcribing 
 the authors that she read, and by her diligence in 
 impressing the substance of their remarks, and 
 sometimes their words, laid the foundation for that 
 wonderful memory by which she was distin- 
 guished through life. Feminine accomplishments, 
 and the ornamental parts of education, she was suc- 
 cessful in acquiring. Indeed, whatever study was 
 recommended to her, she pursued with such docility 
 and fixed attention, as enabled her to excel. 
 
 At the age of eleven, her excellent mother died, 
 and she, with her only sister, was placed under the 
 care of a tender and pious aunt. Her father went 
 to Europe, to superintend the education of his sons, 
 and for the long period of eleven years, she had no 
 intercourse with him, except by the pen. 
 
 14* 
 
162 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 This separation from a beloved father, with the 
 afflicting loss of her mother, had the effect to draw 
 her nearer to her heavenly parent. Her religious 
 impressions became distinctly visible, and her con- 
 duct was evidently guided by hopes that are not of 
 this world. 
 
 Among her devotional papers, one was found, af- 
 ter her decease, written when she was fourteen 
 years old, where, in a strain of fervent and eloquent 
 piety, which would do honour to the most experi- 
 enced Christian, she dedicates herself to the service 
 of the Almighty. It was the language of a heart, 
 surrounded by the gayeties of youth, and the allure- 
 ments of wealth, devoting itself to him, who has 
 promised, that those “ who seek early, shall find.” 
 
 She accompanied her uncle and aunt to England, 
 and there, at the age of sixteen, made a public pro- 
 fession of her Christian faith. In this act, she al- 
 ways rejoiced, as giving strength to the confidence 
 which, from still earlier years, she had placed in her 
 heavenly protector. She now sought the society of 
 the wise and pious, and in a letter to a friend, says, 
 “ my highest ambition is, to have my will, in all 
 things, subject to the Divine will.” 
 
 The war between England and her native coun- 
 try soon commenced, and her father was called 
 home, and appointed to an important station in that 
 arduous struggle. It was one of her most painful 
 trials, to hear him censured as an ambitious, unprin- 
 cipled man, and a fomenter of discord betv.7een 
 Great Britain and the colonies. But armed with 
 the meekness which cometh from above, she replied 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 163 
 
 not to these revilings, but poured out her sorrows 
 in secret prayer. 
 
 While her father filled the office of President of 
 Congress, foreseeing that peril must long oversha- 
 dow the land, he wrote his daughter to prepare for 
 a reverse, and even, if it were necessary, to obtain 
 a subsistence by her own labour. “ If instead of af- 
 fluence,” said he, “to which you have still a just 
 claim, servitude should be your portion, meet it with 
 an honest and pious heart, like one who has been 
 neither affectedly, nor fashionably religious.” 
 
 In 1778, she passed with her uncle, aunt, and sis- 
 ter, to France. Their native country was now the 
 seat of war. To obtain remittances, became more 
 and more difficult. But the evils of poverty in a 
 foreign land, to those who had been always accus- 
 tomed to the indulgences of wealth, were borne 
 without repining, and mutual affection sweetened 
 their frugal repast. 
 
 The health of her uncle became so feeble, that he 
 resigned all hope of recovery. Her father, sent to 
 England on business for his country, was thrown a 
 prisoner into the Tower, on a charge of high trea- 
 son, and in danger of his life. Charleston was in 
 the hands of the enemy ; Carolina overrun by their 
 armies; and, as the climax of her sorrows, news 
 came, that her beloved brother, John Laurens, had 
 fallen in battle. 
 
 Now, the value of that religion, which she had 
 chosen in childhood, was fully revealed. She was 
 enabled to endure, without murmuring, and even 
 cheerfully. In her journal, she writes, “My soul, 
 
164 
 
 THE girl’s READlNG-BOOiC. 
 
 be of good courage. Wait on the Lord. He shah 
 strengthen thee. Thou shalt not have one more 
 trial than is necessary. The cross shall never be 
 heavier than thou canst bear.” 
 
 Ere long, hope began to dawn upon the destinies 
 of her native land. Her father was released from 
 prison, and entrusted with public negotiations to the 
 court of France. She was summoned to join him 
 in Paris, and who can tell the rapture with which, 
 for the first time for almost twelve years, she re- 
 ceived his paternal embrace. 
 
 The change was great, from the privations of po- 
 verty, the toil of the nurse’s chamber, and the soli- 
 tude of a remote country village, to the head of the ta- 
 ble of a minister-plenipotentiary, in the gayest metro- 
 polis of the gayest clime of Europe. This, to many 
 young ladies, would have been dangerous. But the 
 religion which had supported her in adversity, was 
 her protection in prosperity. 
 
 Amid the flatteries that surrounded her, the bible 
 was her daily study. In her journal, she thus writes, 
 when about to join a splendid and fashionable par- 
 ty. “ Enable me so to demean myself, that all may 
 take knowledge of me, that I have been with Jesus. 
 Let the law of kindness dwell upon my tongue, and 
 teach me to discountenance sin, in the spirit of hu- 
 mility.” 
 
 Her father having been long prevented by the ob- 
 structions of war, from making her his usual remit- 
 tances, now gave her at one time, the sum of five 
 hundred guineas. Long compelled to observe the 
 most rigid economy in her wardrobe, did she not 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 165 
 
 now indulge in the purchase of those expensive ar- 
 ticles which she saw continually worn by people 
 with whom she associated ? 
 
 She applied only a small part to her own use, and 
 that for articles of obvious necessity. With the re- 
 mainder, she bought one hundred French testa- 
 ments, and distributed to the poor, established a 
 school in the village where she had resided, engaged 
 a master, and constituted a fund for the permanent 
 support of the institution. 
 
 The uncle, who had so kindly been her pro- 
 tector, during her separation from the paternal 
 roof, died in France, of the disease which had for 
 years marked his life with suffering. Being child- 
 less, it was his intention to leave the principal part 
 of his fortune to the favourite niece, whose cheer- 
 ful services in his sick chamber, during their re- 
 stricted circumstances, had been so constant and 
 invaluable. 
 
 She was apprised of this design, and with her 
 usual disinterestedness, expressed an urgent desire, 
 that her sister and brothers might share in his bounty. 
 The will was altered to gratify her wishes, but the 
 uncle also indulged himself, by leaving her a bequest 
 of five hundred pounds sterling, expressly stating it 
 to be “ an acknowledgment for her many services 
 to him, and to his family, and for her good and gen- 
 tle conduct at all times.” 
 
 Her gratitude, on her return to her native coun- 
 try, was unbounded, to find it, after her ten years 
 exile, in peace, freedom, and maintaining a rank 
 among the nations of the earth. Not long after, sho 
 
166 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 became the wife of Dr. David Ramsay, a man high- 
 ly respected for his eminence in science and lite- 
 rature, and capable of appreciating the worth of the 
 companion whom he had chosen. 
 
 Her conduct in the station of a wife, the mis- 
 tress of a household, and the mother of children, 
 shone forth as an example to all. She lightened 
 the burden of her husband’s cares, and assisted 
 him, as far as possible, in his literary and pro- 
 fessional labours. In times of general sickness, 
 she sought out, in various books, cases of pecu- 
 liar importance, and related to him, or presented, 
 in one view, the opinions of standard medical au- 
 thors. 
 
 In the first sixteen years after her marriage she 
 became the mother of eleven children. In their 
 care and education she was indefatigable. In every 
 season of sickness and pain, she was their most 
 watchful, tender nurse. She sought to procure 
 for each a good constitution, and a well-regulated 
 mind. 
 
 She taught them industry, and as they gained 
 vigour, inured them to fatigue and occasional hard- 
 ship. She required them to restrain their tempers ; 
 to subject their desires to the control of reason and 
 religion ; to practise self-denial ; to bear disappoint- 
 ment ; to resist the importunity of present pleasure 
 or pain, for the sake of what wisdom and experi- 
 ence pronounced necessary to be done, or to be 
 suffered. 
 
 Their duty to God, she impressed on them while 
 their minds were tender. That they might read 
 
THE GlRL^S READING-BOOK. 
 
 16 t 
 
 the Bible with pleasure, she connected with it, when 
 they were quite young; a set of prints ; and, as they 
 advanced in understanding, added such works as 
 unite uninspired to sacred history, and the Old to 
 the New Testament. 
 
 Thus, to the minds of her children, the Bible, 
 though written at widely remote periods, was pre- 
 sented as an uniform, harmonious system of divine 
 truth. The voice of a revered mother was continu- 
 ally heard, enjoining upon them to read daily a 
 portion from its blessed pages, with prayer, and to 
 view it as the rule of their duty, the source of their 
 eternal hope. 
 
 She constantly assisted their progress in useful 
 knowledge, and took the whole superintendence of 
 their education. For the use of her first children 
 she compiled a grammar of the English language, 
 not finding those of Lowth and Ash, which were 
 then the only ones she could obtain, subject to the 
 comprehension of unfolding intellects. 
 
 She prepared questions for them in ancient and 
 modern history, which they were expected to an- 
 swer from their general knowledge, and in their 
 own language. From her accurate acquaintance 
 with French, she excelled in it as a teacher ; and for 
 their sakes she studied the Greek and Latin classics, 
 so as to become a profitable instructor in those lan- 
 guages. 
 
 With the same ardour to advance the education 
 of her children, she studied botany, and refreshed 
 her knowledge of natural and civil history, bi- 
 ography, astronomy, chronology, philosophy, and 
 
168 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 an extensive course of voyages and travels. She 
 gave her instructions with regularity, and thus con- 
 ducted her daughters at home through the studies 
 and accomplishments taught at boarding-schools, 
 and her sons through a course of training which 
 fitted them to enter college. 
 
 She endeavoured to render the sabbath, a season 
 both profitable aiid pleasant to all the young around 
 her. A part of the intervals of divine worship was 
 spent in reading religious books with her children 
 and servants, and in examining them respecting the 
 sermons, of which she frequently wrote an abridg- 
 ment from memory. She also read the New Testa- 
 ment in Greek with her sons, and in French with 
 her daughters. 
 
 She was exceedingly strict in her improvement 
 of time. By rising early, she secured the best 
 part of the day for devotion, for the necessary du- 
 ties of a housekeeper, and for the instruction of 
 her children. A portion of each day was devoted 
 to a course of reading, and also to the practice of 
 needlework, in which useful art she rendered her 
 daughters expert, and insisted, even amidst the 
 heat of a Carolina summer, on their systematic in- 
 dustry. 
 
 The amount of her writing was wonderful. Be- 
 sides her diary, she had an extensive correspond- 
 ence. She excelled in the epistolary style. Some 
 of her letters to her eldest son, while absent at col- 
 lege, are appended to her memoir. She copied for 
 her husband the whole of his *• History of the Ame- 
 rican Revolution,” “ Life of Washington,” “ Re- 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 169 
 
 View of the Progress of Medicine in the Eighteenth 
 Century,” and all the earlier part of his “ Universal 
 History.” 
 
 She wrote rapidly, and also a very legible and 
 beautiful hand. It was a rule with her, that what- 
 ever was done, should be done well. She had been 
 in the habit of transcribing original papers for her 
 father, as well as her husband, and he pronounced 
 her the best clerk he had ever employed, though, in 
 his extensive public business, he had many of su- 
 perior excellence. 
 
 Her memory was remarkably retentive, and she 
 strengthened it by continual exercise. Though she 
 read many books, their substance remained with 
 her. Of some she was able to repeat nearly the 
 whole. Her acquaintance with the Scriptures was 
 so intimate, that she could readily quote, or turn 
 to any passage bearing upon the subject of con- 
 versation. 
 
 For her astonishing amount of industrious per- 
 formance, and her uniform excellence in every rela- 
 tive duty, she derived strength from her spirit of 
 piety. She lived a life of prayer. In every impor- 
 tant transaction, in the midst of her daily cares, she 
 poured her anxieties into the ear of her heavenly 
 Father, solicited his direction, and brought the tri- 
 bute of her grateful praise. 
 
 In her last sickness, she earnestly admonished 
 all around her to seek God by prayer, and to make 
 him their confidence. She asked her husband and 
 children, about four o’clock in the afternoon of June 
 15 
 
170 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 10th, 1811, if they were willing to give her up. 
 Perceiving that they hesitated, she assured them 
 that the reluctance which she had felt to part with 
 them was now removed by the mercy of God, and 
 expired. 
 
POETRY. 
 
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 •K 
 
 4 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 m 
 
 TEACHER’S EXCUSE. 
 
 WRITTEN IN SCHOOL. 
 
 My friend, I gave a glad assent 
 To your request at noon, 
 
 But now I find I cannot leave 
 My little ones so soon. 
 
 I early came, and as my feet 
 First entered at the door, 
 
 “ Remember,” to myself I said, 
 
 “You must dismiss at four.” 
 
 But slates, and books, and maps appear, 
 And many a dear one cries, 
 
 “ Oh, tell us where that river runs. 
 
 And where those mountains rise j 
 
 And where that blind old monarch reign’d. 
 And who was king before, 
 
 And stay a little after five, 
 
 And tell us something more.” 
 
 And then my silent* darling comes. 
 
 And who unmoved can view. 
 
 The glance of that imploring eye, 
 
 “ Oh, teach me something too.” 
 
 ♦ A little deaf and dumb girl. 
 
 15 * 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 Yet who would think, amid the toil, 
 (Tho’ scarce a toil it be,) 
 
 That through the door, the muses coy, 
 Should deign to look at me. 
 
 Their look is somewhat cold and stern. 
 As if it meant to say, 
 
 “We did not know you kept a school. 
 We must have lost our way.” 
 
 Their visit was but short, indeed. 
 
 As these light numbers show ; 
 
 But, oh ! they bade me write with speed 
 “ My friend, I cannot go.” 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 175 
 
 THE liADY BUG AND THE ANT. 
 
 The lady-bug sat in the rose’s heart, 
 
 And smil’d with pride and scorn, 
 
 As she saw a plain -drest ant go by. 
 
 With a heavy grain of corn ; 
 
 So she drew the curtains of damask round. 
 
 And adjusted her silken vest, 
 
 Making her glass of a drop of dew 
 That lay in the rose’s breast. 
 
 Then she laugh’d so loud that the ant looked up, 
 And seeing her haughty face, 
 
 Took no more notice, but travell’d on 
 At the same industrious pace. 
 
 But a sudden blast of autumn came. 
 
 And rudely swept the ground, 
 
 And down the rose with the lady-bug fell. 
 
 And scatter’d its leaves around. 
 
 Then the houseless lady was much amaz’d. 
 
 And knew not where to go, 
 
 For hoarse November’s early blast 
 Had brought both rain and snow. 
 
 Her wings were chill, and her feet were cold, 
 And she wish’d for the ant’s warm cell. 
 
 And what she did when the winter came, 
 
 I’m sure I cannot tell. 
 
176 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 But the careful ant was in her nest, 
 
 With her little ones by her side, 
 
 She taught them all like herself to toil. 
 
 Nor mind the sneer of pride. 
 
 And I thought, as I sat at the close of day. 
 Eating ray bread and milk. 
 
 It was wiser to work and improve my time, 
 Than be idle and dress in silk. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 177 
 
 THE ARK AND DOVE. 
 
 ■' Tell me a story, please^'*'' my little girl 
 Lisp’d from her cradle. So I bent me down, 
 
 And told her how it rain’d, and rain’d, and rain’d, 
 Till all the flowers were cover’d, and the trees 
 Hid their tall heads, and where the houses stood, 
 And people dwelt, a fearful deluge roll’d ; 
 Because the world was wicked, and refus’d 
 To heed the words of God. 
 
 But one good man. 
 
 Who long had warn’d the wicked to repent. 
 Obey, and live, taught by the voice of heaven. 
 Had built an ark ; and thither, with his wife 
 And children, turn’d for safety. Two and two 
 Of birds and beasts, and creeping things, he took. 
 With food for all; and when the tempest roar’d. 
 And the great fountains of the sky pour’d out 
 A ceaseless flood, till all beside were drown’d. 
 They in their quiet vessel dwelt secure-. 
 
 And so the mighty waters bare them up. 
 
 And o’er the bosom of the deep they sail’d 
 For many days. But then a gentle dove 
 ’Scap’d from the casement of the ark, and spread 
 Her lonely pinion o’er the boundless wave. 
 
 All, all was desolation. Chirping nest. 
 
 Nor face of man, nor living thing she saw, 
 
 For all the people of the earth were drown’d. 
 Because of disobedience. 
 
178 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 Nought she spied, 
 
 Save wide, deep waters, and dark, frowning skies, 
 Nor found her weary foot a place of rest. 
 
 So, with a leaf of olive in her mouth, 
 
 Sole fruit of her drear voyage, which, perchance, 
 Upon some wrecking billow floated by. 
 
 With drooping wing the peaceful ark she sought. 
 The righteous man that wandering dove receiv’d, 
 Anu to her mate restor’d, who, with sad moan. 
 
 Had wondered at her absence. 
 
 Then I look’d 
 
 Upon the child, to see if her young thought 
 Wearied with following mine. But her blue eye 
 Was a glad listener, and the eager breath 
 Of pleas’d attention curl’d her parted lip. 
 
 And so I told her how the waters dried. 
 
 And the green branches wav’d, and the sweet buds 
 Came up in loveliness, and that meek dove 
 W’^ent forth to build her nest, and thousand birds 
 Awoke their songs of praise, while the tir’d ark 
 Upon the breezy breast of Ararat 
 Repos’d, and Noah, with glad spirit, rear’d 
 An altar to his God. 
 
 Since, many a time. 
 
 When to her rest, ere evening’s earliest star. 
 
 That little one is laid, with earnest tone, 
 
 And pure cheek press’d to mine, she fondly asks, 
 
 “ The ark and dove.” 
 
 Mothers can tell how oft. 
 
 In the heart’s eloquence, the prayer goes up 
 From a seal’d lip, and tenderly hath blent. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 179 
 
 With the warm touching of the sacred tale, 
 
 A voiceless wish, that when that timid soul, 
 Now in the rosy mesh of infancy. 
 
 Fast bound, shall dare the billows of the world, 
 Like that exploring dove, and find no rest, 
 
 A pierc’d, a pitying, a redeeming hand. 
 
 May gently guide it to the ark of peace. 
 
180 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 TO A DYING INFANT. 
 
 Go to thy rest, my child ! 
 
 Go to thy dreamless bed, 
 
 Gentle and nndefil’d. 
 
 With blessings on thy head. 
 
 Fresh roses in thy hand. 
 
 Buds on thy pillow laid, 
 
 Haste from this fearful land 
 Where flowers so quickly fade, 
 
 Before thy heart might learn 
 In waywardness to stray, 
 
 Before thy feet could turn, 
 
 The dark and downward way; 
 
 Ere sin might wound the breast, 
 Or sorrow wake the tear. 
 
 Rise to thy home of rest. 
 
 In yon celestial sphere. 
 
 Because thy smile was fair, 
 
 Thy lip and eye so bright, 
 
 Because thy cradle-care 
 Was such a fond delight. 
 
 Sliall love with weak embrace 
 Thine upward flight detain? 
 
 No! seek thy blessed place 
 Amid the angel train. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 181 
 
 PROCRASTINATION. 
 
 “ Live well to-day,” a spirit cries, 
 
 “ To-day be good, to-day be wise 
 Why doth the loitering idler tell. 
 
 Another day will do as well ? 
 
 “Now is the time, the accepted time,” 
 Speaks audibly the page sublime j 
 Another creed is heard to say, 
 
 “ Wait till a more convenient day.” 
 
 Inquir’st thou which of these is truth? 
 Which to obey, unwary youth? 
 
 Go, ask of Nature in thy walk, 
 
 The rose-bud, dying on the stalk. 
 
 The scythe-shorn grass, the withering tree, 
 Are emblems of thy fate and thee. 
 
 Ask of the stream, or torrent hoarse. 
 
 To linger on their wonted course, 
 
 Ask of the bird its flight to stay, 
 
 Building its light nest on the spray. 
 
 And listen to their answering tone, 
 
 “ A future day is not our own.” 
 
 And is it thine ? Oh, spurn the cheat. 
 Resist the smooth, the dire deceit. 
 
 Lest while thou dream’st of long delay, 
 Thine hour of action pass away. 
 
 Thy prospects fade, thy joys be o’er. 
 
 Thy time of hope return no more. 
 
 16 
 
182 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 Ask of the Roman, pale with fear, 
 
 While judgment thunder'd in his ear, 
 Who to a mouraing friend could say, 
 
 “ I’ll hear thee on a future day 
 Ask him if time confirm’d his claim. 
 
 Or that good season ever came ? 
 
 Go ! ask yon dying man the price 
 Of one short hour of thoughtless vice j 
 What would he pay — what treasure give, 
 For one brief season more to live. 
 
 One hour to spend in anxious care. 
 
 In duty, penitence, and prayer ? 
 
 Ask of the grave — how hoarse resounds 
 A voice from its sepulchral bounds, 
 
 ‘ With me no hope, or knowledge shine. 
 Nor wisdom, nor device are mine.” 
 
 Delay no longer, lest thy breath 
 Should quiver in the sigh of death. 
 
 But inward turn thy thoughtful view. 
 And what thy duty dictates, do. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 183 
 
 THE SABBATH. 
 
 How dost thou keep the day 
 Which thy Creator blest ? 
 
 Beams it upon thee with the ray 
 Of sweet and holy rest ? 
 
 Dost thou from worldly care 
 And worldly thought refrain ? 
 
 And ask for wisdonj^ in thy prayer, 
 To make thy duty plain? 
 
 Dost thou thy faults lament ? 
 
 Thy countless mercies view ? 
 
 And strengthen every good intent? 
 Each pious hope renew ? 
 
 Dost thou their presence shun, 
 
 Who daily waste their prime ? 
 
 Profaning till God’s day is done, 
 
 Its consecrated time? 
 
 Does musing thought aspire 
 To heaven’s celestial train. 
 
 And hold communion with the choir, 
 W’ho charm the starry plain? 
 
 Then shall the Sabbath prove 
 A golden chain to raise 
 
 Thy spirit to a world of love, 
 
 And purity and praise. 
 
184 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 MORNING THOUGHTS. 
 
 Giver of light ! — who point’st the glorious sun 
 His destin’d way, and callest every star 
 Forth by its name, and causest day and night 
 To know their order, and to speak thy praise. 
 
 All powerful One, to whom creation sings 
 Its early matin, may my humble prayer 
 Blend with that chorus, while the rising dawn 
 Dispels the shadows and the damps of night. 
 
 Go forth my soul, on high devotion’s wing, 
 
 And bear glad praises to thy Maker’s ear, 
 
 Ere day awakes, or the rejoicing sun 
 
 Looks from his chamber on the blushing morn. 
 
 Oh Thou, whose throne is in the circling heavens, 
 Where the veil’d seraphs stand, thou wilt not scorn 
 The license of the heart, though feebly pour’d. 
 
 Or sometimes mix’d with tears, for thou dost know 
 My frame, and thou rememberest I am dust. 
 
 But yet thine hand did mould this mass of clay, 
 And thy breath quicken it, nor should I blush 
 To lift my face to thee, to speak thy name. 
 
 And call thee Father, had not sin so stain’d, 
 
 Marr’d, and defac’d thy work. 
 
 Yet hear my prayers, 
 
 And as a parent guides and guards a child 
 Oft wandering, yet belov’d, so guide thou me 
 This day. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 185 
 
 From snares of youth, from hidden ills, 
 Fruitless resolves, and fancies roving wild. 
 
 From vanity and pride, and dark deceit. 
 
 Or whatsoever else might wake the sting 
 Of conscience, wound another’s peace, or break 
 Thy holy law, save me this day, O God. 
 
 And let a warning voice say to my soul. 
 
 The pure and watchful eye of the high Judge 
 Is on thy ways, and still a viewless pen 
 Moves, never weary, to record thy deeds. 
 
 Thy words, thy secret motives, on a page 
 Not perishable, which the flame that burns 
 The scorch’d and shrivel’d skies, shall so reveal, 
 That every eye may read. 
 
 Father, thou know’st 
 All my temptations, my adversities. 
 
 My weaknesses and errors ; suit thy gifts 
 Unto my needs, and not to my deserts 
 Imperfect. 
 
 Yet so guide me here on earth 
 That when I leave it, I may see thy face. 
 
 Where evil cannot come. So shall my prayer 
 Rise ceaseless to thee, and my soul shall rest 
 Upon thine arm of love, through every scene 
 Of this day’s good or ill, or life or death. 
 
 And let my grateful strain, Giver of Good, 
 
 Rise with acceptance from this house of clay, 
 This brittle tenement, soon crush’d and broke ; 
 
 16 * 
 
186 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 Yea, bid me on the cold, dark flood of death, 
 
 Be joyful in thee, — bid me wake the harp 
 Of seraph rapture, hymning to the praise 
 Of Him who was, and is, and is to come, 
 
 When time shall be no more, and death shall die. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 187 
 
 BIRTH-DAY RRCtURSTS. 
 
 Oh Thou, whose tireless, ever-watchful care. 
 Presents another year and wakes the prayer. 
 Guide thou my steps,— direct my doubtful course, 
 Crush vain resolves, and error’s dangerous force. 
 Impart the meek desire, the hope sublime. 
 
 And thoughts that soar above the scenes of time. 
 
 Grant thou, the zeal that seeks another’s good, 
 And sets the seal to duty understood. 
 
 The humble mindj the sympathy sincere. 
 
 For joy, the smile — for misery, the tear. 
 
 Balm for the wounded — for the drooping, aid, 
 
 A tranquil trust, when ills of life invade. 
 
 The conscience clear that soothes to sweet repose, 
 And the warm thrill that pure devotion knows. 
 
 Let ardent love to those who kindly strew 
 My path with flowers, be every morning new. 
 And lead me onward thro’ each fair degree. 
 
 Of gratitude to them and trust in Thee. 
 
 What shall I ask, or what refrain to say ? 
 
 Where shall I point, or how conclude my lay ? 
 
 So much my weakness needs — so oft thy voice, 
 Assures that weakness, and confirms my choice. 
 
 Oh, grant me active days of peace and truth. 
 Strength to my heart, and wisdom to my youth, 
 
188 
 
 THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. 
 
 A sphere of usefulness — a soul to fill 
 
 That sphere with duty, and perform thy will. 
 
 But when, at last, the heavy shades shall fall 
 Of that dark night that comes but once to all. 
 Whether in youth, maturity, or age, 
 
 Let thy kind voice my rising pains assuage, 
 
 My hopes sustain, my gathering fears remove, 
 
 And fill my spirit with thy pardoning love. 
 
 Then strong in faith, I’d dare the threatening tides 
 Which this dark world from that of bliss divides. 
 Raise the dim eye to drink the smile of heaven, 
 Nerve the faint heart that feels its sins forgiven, 
 Meet with calm brow the billows’ deafening roar. 
 And land victorious on the eternal shore. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 189 
 
 EXHIBITION OP A SCHOOIi OP YOUNG UADIES. 
 
 How fair upon the admiring sight. 
 
 In Learning’s sacred fane, 
 
 With cheek of bloom, and robe of white. 
 
 Glide on you graceful train ! 
 
 Blest creatures ! to whose gentle eye 
 Earth’s gilded gifts are new. 
 
 Ye know not that distrustful sigh 
 Which deems its yows untrue. 
 
 There is a bubble on your cup 
 By buoyant fancy nurst, 
 
 How high its sparkling foam leaps up ! 
 
 Ye do not think ’twill burst : 
 
 And be it far from me to fling 
 On budding joys a blight. 
 
 Or darkly spread a raven’s wing 
 To shade a path so bright. 
 
 There twines a wreath around your brow, 
 Blent with the sunny braid ; 
 
 Love lends its flowers a radiant glow — 
 
 Ye do not think ’twill fade : 
 
 And yet ’twere safer there to bind 
 That plant of changeless dye, 
 
 Whose root is in the lowly mind. 
 
 Whose blossom in the sky. 
 
190 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 But who o’er Beauty’s form can hang. 
 
 Nor think how future years 
 May bring stern Sorrow’s speechless pang, 
 Or Disappointment’s tears. 
 
 Unceasing toil, unpitied care, 
 
 Cold treachery’s serpent-moan — 
 
 Ills that the tender heart must bear, 
 Unanswering and alone. 
 
 But as the frail and fragrant flower, 
 Crush’d by the sweeping blast. 
 
 Doth even in death an essence pour. 
 
 The sweetest and the last, 
 
 So woman’s deep, enduring love. 
 
 Which nothing can appal. 
 
 Her steadfast faith thjit looks above 
 For rest, can conqu r all. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 191 
 
 CHIIiD AT THE MOTHER’S GRAVE. 
 
 My mother’s grave ! ’Tis there beneath the trees. 
 
 I love to go alone, and sit, and think. 
 
 Upon that grassy mound. My cradle hours 
 Come back again so sweetly, when I woke 
 And lifted up my head, to kiss the cheek 
 That bowed to meet me. 
 
 And 1 seem to feel 
 
 Once more the hand that smooth’d my clustering 
 curls, 
 
 And led me to the garden, pointing out 
 Each fragrant flower and bud, or drawing back 
 My foot, lest I should careless crush the worm 
 That crawl’d beside one. 
 
 And that gentle tone, 
 
 Teaching to pat the house-dog, and be kind 
 To the poor cat, and spare the little flies 
 Upon the window, and divide my bread 
 With those that hunger’d, and bow meekly down 
 To the gray-headed man, and look with love 
 On all whom God had made. 
 
 And then her hymn 
 At early evening, when I went to rest. 
 
 And folded closely to her bosom, sat 
 Joining my cheek to her’s, and pouring out 
 My broken music, with her tuneful strain : — 
 
192 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 Comes it not back again that holy hymn, 
 
 Even now upon my ear? 
 
 But when I go 
 
 To my lone bed, and find no mother there, 
 
 And weeping kneel to say the prayer she taught. 
 Or when I read the Bible that she lov’d. 
 
 Or to her vacant seat at church draw near, 
 
 And think of her, a voice is in my heart. 
 
 Bidding me early seek my God, and love 
 My blessed Saviour. — 
 
 Sure that voice is her’s, — 
 
 I know it is, because these were the words 
 She us’d to speak so tenderly, with tears. 
 
 At the still twilight-hour, or when we walk’d 
 Forth in the Spring amid rejoicing birds, 
 
 Or whispering talk’d beside the winter fire. 
 
 — Mother ! I’ll keep these precepts in my heart, 
 And do thy bidding. 
 
 Then, when God shall say. 
 My days are finish’d, will he give me leave 
 To come to thee ? And can I find thy home, 
 
 And see thee with thy glorious garments on. 
 
 And kneel at the Redeemer’s feet, and beg 
 That where the mother is, the child may dwell? 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 193 
 
 OS MEETING PUPIIiS AT THE COMMUNION 
 TABL.E. 
 
 When gathering round a Saviour’s board. 
 
 Fair forms, and brows belov’d, I see, 
 
 Who once the paths of peace explor’d, 
 
 And trac’d the studious page with me. 
 
 Who from my side with pain would part. 
 
 My entering steps with gladness greet, 
 
 And pour complacent, o’er my heart. 
 Affection’s dew-drops, pure and sweet. 
 
 When now, from each remember’d face 
 Beam tranquil hope, and faith benign. 
 
 When in each eye Heaven’s smile I trace, 
 
 The tear of joy suffuses mine. 
 
 Father ! I bless thy ceaseless care. 
 
 Which thus its holiest gifts hath shed. 
 
 Guide thou their steps through every snare, 
 From every danger shield their head. 
 
 From treacherous error’s dire control. 
 
 From pride, from change, from darkness, free j 
 
 Preserve each timorous, trusting soul. 
 
 That like the ark- dove flies to thee. 
 
 And may the wreath that cloudless days 
 Around our hearts so fondly wove, 
 
 17 
 
194 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 Still bind us, till we speak thy praise, 
 
 As sister spirits, one in love, — 
 
 One, where no lingering ill can harm, 
 One, where no stroke of fate can sever. 
 Where nought but holiness doth charm, 
 And all that charms shall live forever. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 195 
 
 llEATH OF A SUNDAY SCHOOIi SCHOLAR. 
 
 “He gathereththe lambs with his arm, and caiTieth them in his 
 bosom.” — Isaiah. 
 
 Lamb ! in a clime of verdure, 
 
 Thy favourite lot was cast, 
 
 No serpent ’mid tliy flow’ry food. 
 
 Upon thy fold no blast. — 
 
 Thine were the crystal fountains, 
 
 And thine a cloudless sky, 
 
 Amid thy sports a star of love. 
 
 Thy play-mate brother’s eye. 
 
 Approving guides caress thee. 
 
 Where’er thy footsteps rov’d ; 
 
 The ear that heard thee bless’d thee. 
 
 The eye that saw thee lov’d. 
 
 Yet life hath snares and sorrows 
 From which no friend can save. 
 
 And evils might have throng’d thy path, 
 Which thou wert weak to brave. 
 
 There is a Heavenly Shepherd, 
 
 And ere thy infant charms 
 
 Had caught the tinge of care or wo, 
 
 He call’d thee to his arms. 
 
196 
 
 THE girl’s READING-BOOK. 
 
 And though the shadowy valley, 
 
 With Death’s dark frown was dim, 
 Light cheer’d the stormy passage, 
 And thou art safe with Him. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 197 
 
 SAILOR’S HYMN. 
 
 When the parting bosom bleeds, 
 
 When our native land recedes, 
 
 While the wild and treacherous main 
 Takes us to her breast again. 
 
 Father! view a sailor’s wo, — 
 
 Guide us wheresoe’er we go. — 
 
 When the lonely watch we keep. 
 Silent, on the mighty deep ; 
 
 While the boisterous surges hoarse. 
 Bear us darkly on our course ; 
 
 Eye, that never slumbers ! shed 
 Holy influence on our head. 
 
 When the sabbath’s peaceful ray 
 O’er the ocean’s breast doth play. 
 Though no throngs assemble there. 
 
 No sweet church-bell warns to prayer ; 
 Spirit 1 let thy presence be. 
 
 Sabbath to the unresting sea. 
 
 When the raging billows dark. 
 Thundering toss our threatened bark : 
 Thou, who on the whelming wave 
 Didst the meek disciple save — 
 
 Thou who hear’st us when we pray, 
 Jesus ! Saviour ! be our stay. 
 
 17 * 
 
198 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 When in foreign lands we roam, 
 
 Far from kindred and from home, 
 Stranger eyes our conduct viewing. 
 Heathen bands our steps pursuing. 
 Let our conversation be 
 Fitting those that follow thee. 
 
 Should pale Death, with arrow dread. 
 Make the ocean-caves our bed. 
 Though no eye of love might see 
 Where that shrouded grave shall be— 
 Thou ! who hear’st the surges roll, 
 Deign to save the Sailor’s soul. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 199 
 
 A FATHER, AND HIS MOTHERLESS CHILDREN. 
 
 Come, gather closer to my side 
 My little smitten flock, 
 
 And I will tell of him who brought 
 Pure water from the rock. 
 
 Who boldly led God’s people forth 
 From Egypt’s wrath and guile. 
 
 And once a cradled babe did float 
 All helpless on the Nile. 
 
 You’re weary, precious ones, your eyes 
 Are wandering far and wide, — 
 
 Think ye of her who knew so well 
 Your tender thoughts to guide ? 
 
 Of her who could to wisdom’s lore 
 Your fixed attention claim ? 
 
 Ah ! never from your hearts erase 
 That blessed mother’s name. 
 
 ’Tis time to sing your evening hymn, 
 
 My youngest infant dove. 
 
 Come press your velvet cheek to mine, 
 
 And learn the lay of love ; 
 
 My sheltering arms shall clasp you all. 
 
 My poor deserted throng. 
 
 Cling as you used to cling to her 
 Who sings the angel’s song. 
 
200 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 Begin, sweet birds, the accustom’d strain, 
 Come, warble loud and clear ; 
 
 Alas ! alas ! you’re weeping all. 
 
 You’re sobbing in my ear j 
 
 Good night — go say the prayer she taught 
 Beside your little bed ; 
 
 The lips that used to bless you there, 
 
 ^ Are silent with the dead. 
 
 A father’s hand your course may guide 
 Amid the thorns of life. 
 
 His care protect those shrinking plants 
 That dread the storms of strife ; 
 
 But who, upon your infant hearts. 
 
 Shall like that mother write ? 
 
 Who touch the strings that rule the soul? 
 Dear, smitten flock, good night ! 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 201 
 
 SCHOLAR’S TRIBUTE TO AN INSTRUCTOR. 
 
 As when an eye, accustomed to survey 
 The changeful aspect of an April day, 
 
 Turns back regretful to the purple dawn, 
 
 Or morning’s rose-tint on the dewy lawn j 
 So I, from life’s delusions, vain and wild, 
 
 Retrace the scenes that charm’d me when a child. 
 
 Yet most I love those softly blending shades, 
 Where youth just glimmers, and where childhood 
 fades ; 
 
 And ’mid that cherish’d imagery I see. 
 
 Revered instructor, many a trace of thee. 
 
 Thy footsteps on the grass, all fresh with dew. 
 
 Thy gentle hands where early snow-drops grew. 
 
 Too oft had critic rigour harshly doom’d 
 My buds of promise, withering ere they bloom’d, 
 Or cold neglect appall’d with freezing eye 
 A lonely mind, that shrank, it knew not why ; 
 
 But thou didst stoop to shield that timid mind. 
 
 Wise as a teacher, as a parent kind. 
 
 With studious care, its wayward course to lead, 
 
 And nurse the music of the whispering reed. 
 
 A plant of feeble stem, thou would’st not mock. 
 Rude as the flowers that clothe the Alpine rock, 
 
 Nor blight its tendrils with a causeless pang. 
 
 Nor scorn it, though from lowly bed it sprang ; 
 
202 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 But watch’d its rooting with a florist’s care, 
 
 Rais’d its wan blossoms to a genial air, 
 
 And o’er its narrow leaves, and bending head. 
 Pure dews of knowledge and of virtue shed. 
 
 Even now of stature frail, and low degree. 
 
 More weak and worthless than it ought to be. 
 
 It turns to him its shrinking buds that blest. 
 
 And pours fresh fragrance from a grateful breast. 
 
 Yet more than what I speak, to thee I owe. 
 
 And richer gifts than strains so weak can show ; 
 Thy warning voice allur’d my listening youth 
 To seek the path of piety and truth. 
 
 And heaven’s first hopes, as vernal sunbeams roll. 
 Dawn’d from thy prayers upon my waiting soul. 
 
 Oh, ever free from pain, and doubt, and strife. 
 Flow on the current of thy tranquil life. 
 
 Pure as the streams that o’er white pebbles glide. 
 And mix reproachless with a mightier tide. 
 
 Bright as the star, whose trembling lamp on high 
 Precedes the morn, and gilds the evening sky. 
 
 Till time’s brief tide the eternal sea shall stay. 
 And earth’s dim lights at glory’s sun decay. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 20a 
 
 REMEMBER ME. 
 
 When morning from the damps of night 
 Beams o’er the eye in rosy light, 
 
 And calls thee forth with smile benign ; 
 
 Ah think ! whose heart responds to thine, 
 And still with sympathy divine, 
 
 Remember me. 
 
 When gentle twilight, pure and calm. 
 Comes leaning on Reflection’s arm ; 
 
 When o’er the throng of cares and woes 
 Her veil of sober tint she throws, 
 
 Wooing the spirit to repose. 
 
 Remember me. 
 
 When the first star, with cresset bright. 
 Gleams lonely o’er the arch of night. 
 
 When through the fleecy clouds that dance, 
 The moon sends forth her timid glance. 
 Then gazing on that pure expanse. 
 
 Remember me. 
 
 When mournful sighs the hollow wind, 
 
 And pensive thought enwraps the mind, 
 
 If e’er thy heart in sorrow’s tone, 
 
 To musing melancholy prone. 
 
 Should sigh, because it feels alone. 
 
 Remember me. 
 
204 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 When stealing to thy secret bower, 
 
 Devotion claims her holy hour, 
 
 When bowing o’er that sacred page 
 Whose spirit curbs affliction’s rage. 
 
 Controls our youth, sustains our age. 
 
 Remember me. 
 
 Oh ! yet indulge the ardent claim. 
 
 While friendship’s heart the wish can frame, 
 For brief and transient is my lay. 
 
 And mingling soon with kindred clay. 
 
 This silent lip no more shall say. 
 
 Remember me. 
 
 And when in deep oblivion’s shade. 
 
 This breathless, mouldering form is laid. 
 
 If near that bed thy step should rove. 
 
 With one short prayer, by feeling wove. 
 
 One glance of faith, one tear of love. 
 
 Remember me. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 205 
 
 RECOLIiECTIONS OP AN AGED PASTOR. 
 
 I DO remember him. His saintly voice, 
 
 So duly lifted in the house of God, 
 
 Comes with the far-off wing of infant years. 
 
 Like solemn music. 
 
 Often have we hush’d 
 The shrillest echo of our holiday. 
 
 Turning our mirth to reverence as he past. 
 
 And eager to record one favouring smile, 
 
 Or word paternal. 
 
 At the bed of death ^ 
 
 I do remember him ; when one who bore 
 For me a tender love, did feel that pang 
 Which makes the features rigid, and the eye 
 Like a fix’d glassy orb. Her head was white 
 With many winters; but her furrow’d brow 
 To me was beautiful ; for she had cheer’d 
 My lonely childhood, with a changeless stream 
 Of pure benevolence. 
 
 His earnest tone 
 Girding her from the armoury of God, 
 
 To foil the terrors of that shadowy vale 
 Through which she walk’d, doth linger round me 
 still ; 
 
 And by that gush of bitter tears, when grief 
 First came into my bosom ; by that thrill 
 Of agony, which from the open’d grave 
 Rose wildly forth — I do remember him. 
 
 The comforter and friend. 
 
 18 
 
206 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 When fancy’s smile, 
 
 Gilding youth’s scenes, and promising to bring 
 The curtain’d morrow fairer than to-day, 
 
 Did kindle wilder gayety than fits 
 Beings so frail — how oft his funeral prayer 
 Over some shrouded sleeper, made a pause 
 In folly’s song, or warn’d her roving eye. 
 
 That all man’s glory was the flower of grass. 
 Beneath the mower’s scythe. 
 
 Thy fourscore years 
 Sat lightly on thee 5 for thy heart was glad, 
 
 Even to the latest pulse, with that fond love, 
 Home-nurtur’d, and reciprocal, which girds 
 And garners up in sorrow or in joy. 
 
 m 
 
 I was not with the weepers, when the hearse 
 Stood all expectant at thy pleasant door. 
 
 And other voices from thy pulpit said. 
 
 That thou wert not; but yet the requiem-sigh 
 Of that sad organ, in its sable robe. 
 
 Made melancholy music for my dreams. 
 
 — And so, farewell, thou who didst shed the dew 
 Baptismal on mine infancy, and lead 
 To the Redeemer’s sacred board a guest, 
 
 Timid and unassured, yet gathering strength 
 From the blest promise of Jehovah’s aid 
 Unto the early seeker. 
 
 When once more 
 
 My native spot unfolds that pictur’d chart 
 Unto mine eye, which in my heart I hold, 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 20T7 
 
 Rocks, woods, and waters, exquisitely blent, 
 
 Thy cordial welcome I no more can hear, 
 
 Father and guide ; nor can I hope to win 
 Thy glance from glory’s mansion, while I lay 
 This wild-flower garland on thine honour’d tomb 
 
208 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 GRATITUDE. 
 
 Lines written on planting slips of Geranium and Constancy at the 
 Grave of a venerated Friend. 
 
 Little plant, of slender form, 
 
 Fair and shrinking from the storm. 
 
 Lift thou here thy fragrant head, 
 
 Bloom in this uncultur’d bed. 
 
 Thou, of firmer spirit, too, 
 
 Stronger texture, deeper hue. 
 
 Dreading not the blasts that sweep, 
 
 Rise, and guard its infant sleep. 
 
 Fear ye not the awful shade 
 Where the bones of men are laid ; 
 
 Short like yours their transient date, 
 
 Keen has been the scythe of fate. 
 
 Forth, as plants in glory drest. 
 
 They came, upon the green earth’s breast. 
 
 Sent forth their roots to reach the stream, 
 
 Their blossoms toward the rising beam. 
 
 They drank the morning’s balmy breath, 
 
 And sank at eve, in withering death. 
 
 Rest here, meek plants, for few intrude 
 To trouble this deep solitude j 
 But should the giddy footstep tread 
 Upon the ashes of the dead. 
 
l-HE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 209 
 
 Still let the hand of rashness spare 
 These tokens of affection’s care, 
 
 Nor pluck the tender leaves that wave 
 In sweetness o’er this sainted grave. 
 
 White were the locks that thinly shed 
 Their snows around her honour’d head, 
 And furrows not to be effac’d, 
 
 Had age amid her features trac’d, 
 
 Before my earliest strength I tried 
 In infant gambols by her side ; 
 
 But yet no grace or beauty rare 
 Were ever to my eye so fair. 
 
 Seven times the sun, with swift career, 
 
 Has mark’d the circle of the year. 
 
 Since first she press’d her lowly bier; 
 
 And seven times, sorrowing, have I come 
 Alone and wandering through the gloom. 
 To pour my lays upon her tomb : 
 
 And I have mourn’d, to see her bed 
 With brambles and with thorns o’erspread. 
 
 Ah, surely, round her place of rest 
 
 I should not let the coarse weed twine. 
 Who so the couch of pain hath blest. 
 
 The path of penury freely drest. 
 
 And scatter’d such perfumes on mine: 
 
 It is not meet, that she should be 
 Forgotten or unblest by me. 
 iS* 
 
210 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 My plants, that in your hallow’d beds 
 Like strangers raise your trembling heads, 
 Drink the pure dew that evening sheds. 
 
 And meet the morning’s earliest ray. 
 
 And catch the sunbeams when they play ; — 
 And if your cups are fill’d with rain, 
 
 Shed back those drops in tears again j 
 Or if the gale that sweeps the heath, 
 
 Too roughly o’er your leaves should breathe. 
 Then sigh for her, — and when you bloom. 
 Scatter your fragrance o’er her tomb. 
 
 But should you, smit with terror, cast 
 Your unblown blossoms on the blast. 
 
 Or faint beneath the vertic heat. 
 
 Or fail when wintry tempests beat. 
 
 There is a plant of changeless bloom. 
 
 And it shall deck this honour’d tomb. 
 
 Not blanch’d with frost, or drown’d with rain, 
 Or by the breath of winter slain, — 
 
 But every morn its buds renew’d 
 Are by the tears of evening dew’d, — 
 
 This is the plant of gratitude. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 311 
 
 TO AN ABSENT CHILD. 
 
 Where art thou, bird of song, 
 Brightest one, and dearest ? 
 
 Other groves among. 
 
 Other nests thou cheerest. 
 
 Sweet thy warbling skill 
 To each ear that heard thee, 
 
 But ’twas sweetest still 
 To the heart that rear’d thee. 
 
 Lamb ! — where dost thou rest 1 
 On stranger bosoms lying ? 
 
 Flowers thy path that drest. 
 
 All uncropped are dying ; 
 
 Streams where thou didst roam 
 Murmur on without thee, — 
 
 Lov’st thou still thy home ? 
 
 Can thy mother doubt thee ? 
 
 Seek thy Saviour’s flock, 
 
 To his blest fold going j 
 
 Seek that smitten rock 
 Whence our peace is flowing : 
 
 Still would Love rejoice, 
 Whatsoe’er betide thee, 
 
 If that Shepherd’s voice 
 Evermore might guide thee. 
 
212 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 THE SIXTH BIRTH-DAY. 
 
 I THINK this morning of a feeble babe. 
 
 To whom the gift of life did seem a toil 
 It shrank to bear. — And I remember well, 
 
 The care that nurtur’d her, both night and day 
 When it would seem as if the fainting breath 
 Must leave her bosom, and her fair blue eye 
 Sank ’neath its lids, like some crushed violet. 
 
 Six winters came, and now that self-same babe 
 Wins with her needle the appointed length 
 Of her light task, and learns with patient zeal 
 The daily lesson, tracing on her map 
 All climes and regions of the peopled earth. 
 
 With tiny liand, she guides the writer’s quill, 
 Graving those lines through which the soul doth 
 speak. 
 
 And pours in timid tones her hymn at eve. 
 
 She, from the pictur’d page, doth scan the tribes 
 That revel in the air, or cleave the flood, 
 
 Or roam the wild, delighting much to know 
 Tlieir various natures, and their habits all, 
 
 From the huge elephant, to the small fly 
 That liveth but a day, yet in that day 
 Is happy, and outspreads a shining wing, 
 
 Exulting in the mighty Maker’s care. 
 
 She weeps that men should barb the monarch whale 
 In his wild ocean-home, and wound the dove, 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 213 
 
 And to the slaughter lead the trusting lamb, 
 
 And snare the pigeon hasting to its nest 
 To feed its young, and hunt the flying deer, 
 
 And find a pleasure in the pain he gives. 
 
 She tells the sweetly modulated tale 
 To her young brother, and devoutly cheers 
 At early morning, seated on his knee. 
 
 Her hoary grandsire from the Book of God, 
 Who meekly happy in his fourscore years. 
 Heeds not the dimness gathering o’er his sight, 
 But with a saintly kindness bows him down 
 To drink from her young lip the lore he loves. 
 
 Fond, gentle child, who like a flower that hastes 
 To burst its sheath, hath come so quickly forth, 
 A sweet companion, walking by my side, — 
 
 In tender love, lift thy young heart to God, — 
 That whatsoe’er doth please him in thy life 
 He may perfect, and by his Spirit’s power 
 Remove each germ of evil, that thy soul, 
 
 When this brief discipline of time is o’er. 
 
 May rise to praise him with an angel’s song. 
 
214 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 ‘‘Say, what have you brought to our own fireside?” 
 ’Twas the mother’s voice that spake, — 
 
 “ Hark ! hear the wiiit’ry tempest chide, — 
 
 But peace and joy shall with us abide, — 
 
 O cherish them for my sake. 
 
 “ A common stock is our happiness here, — 
 
 Each heart must contribute its mite, — 
 
 The bliss to swell, or th& pain to cheer, — 
 
 Son, and daughter, and husband dear, 
 
 What have you brought to-night?” 
 
 Then the studious boy from the storied page 
 Look’d up with a thoughtful eye ; 
 
 That knowledge was there which doth charm the sage, 
 And shine like a flame thro’ the frost of age. 
 
 With radiant majesty. 
 
 A girl was there, like a rose on its stem. 
 
 And her bird-like song she pour’d ; 
 
 Beauty and music a brilliant gem 
 Shook from their sparkling diadem. 
 
 To enrich the evening hoard. 
 
 By a pale, sick child, was a treasure brought, — 
 
 The smile of patient trust, 
 
 For disease had a precious moral wrought, 
 
 And quiet and pure was her chasten’d thought, 
 
 As a pearl by the rude sea nurs’d. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 215 
 
 A fair babe woke on its cradle- bed, 
 
 And clung to the mother’s breast, 
 
 But soon to the knee of its sire it sped. 
 Love was its gift, and the angels said 
 That the baby’s gift was best. 
 
 Then the father spake, with a grateful air. 
 Of the God whom his youth had known. 
 And the mother’s sigh of tender care, 
 
 Went up in the shape of a wdnged prayer, 
 And was heard before the Throne. 
 
216 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 ALICK. 
 
 A very interesting young lady, deprived of the gifts of hearing and 
 speech, cherished a most ardent affection for her father. At his death, 
 she said in her strong language of gesture, that “her heart had so 
 grown to his, that it could not be separated.”— In a few days she was 
 called to follow him. — From those happy mansions where we trust she 
 is received, may we not imagine her thus addressing the objects of her 
 earliest affections I 
 
 Sisters ! there’s music here, 
 
 From countless harps it flows, 
 
 Throughout this bright celestial sphere 
 Nor pause nor discord knows. 
 
 The seal is melted from my ear 
 By love divine, 
 
 And what through life I pined to hear, 
 
 Is mine ! Is mine ! 
 
 The warbling of an ever-tuneful choir, 
 
 And the full, deep response of David’s sacred lyre 
 
 Did kind earth hide from me 
 Her broken harmony, 
 
 That thus the melodies of Heaven might roll 
 And whelm in deeper tides of bliss, my rapt, my 
 wondering soul ? 
 
 Joy ! — I am mute no more. 
 
 My sad and silent years. 
 
 With all their loneliness, are o’er ; 
 
 Sweet sisters, dry your tears. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 217 
 
 Listen at hush of eve, — listen at dawn of day — 
 List at the hour of prayer, can ye not hear my lay ? 
 Untaught, unchecked it came, 
 
 As light from chaos beam’d. 
 
 Praising his everlasting name. 
 
 Whose blood from Calvary stream’d, 
 
 And still it swells that highest strain, the song of 
 the redeem’d. 
 
 Brother ! — my only one, 
 
 Belov’d from childhood’s hours. 
 
 With whom, beneath the vernal sun, 
 
 I wandered when our task was done, 
 
 And gathered early flowers ; 
 
 I cannot come to thee. 
 
 Though ’twas so sweet to rest 
 Upon thy gently-guiding arm — thy sympathizing 
 breast: 
 
 ’Tis better here to be. 
 
 No disappointments shroud 
 The angel-bowers of joy, 
 
 Our knowledge hath no cloud, 
 
 Our pleasures no alloy. 
 
 The fearful word — to part. 
 
 Is never breathed above ; 
 
 Heaven hath no broken heart — 
 
 Call me not hence, my love. 
 
 Oh mother ! He is here 
 To whom my soul so grew, 
 
 19 
 
218 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 That when Death’s fatal spear 
 Stretch’d him upon his bier, 
 
 I fain must follow too. 
 
 His smile my infant grief restrain’d— 
 
 His image in my childish dream 
 And o’er my young affections reign’d 
 With gratitude unuttered, and supreme. 
 
 But yet till these refulgent skies burst forth in 
 radiant glow, 
 
 I know not half the unmeasured debt a daughter’s 
 heart doth owe. 
 
 Ask ye, if still his heart retains its ardent glow ? 
 Ask ye, if filial love 
 Unbodied spirits prove ? 
 
 ’Tis but a little space, and thou shalt rise to know. 
 
 I bend to soothe thy woes, 
 
 How near — thou canst not see ; 
 
 I watch thy lone repose, 
 
 Alice doth comfort thee ; 
 
 To welcome thee, I wait — blest mother ! come to 
 me. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 219 
 
 liOUISA. 
 
 She was my idol. Night and day, to scan 
 The fine expansion of her form, and mark 
 The unfolding mind, like vernal rose-bud, start 
 To sudden beauty, was my chief delight. 
 
 To find her fairy footsteps following mine. 
 
 Her hand upon my garments, or her lip 
 Long seal’d to mine, and in the watch of night 
 The quiet breath of innocence to feel 
 Soft on my cheek, was such a full content 
 Of happiness, as none but mothers know. 
 
 Her voice was like some tiny harp, that yields 
 To the slight-finger’d breeze, and as it held 
 Gay converse with her doll, or gently sooth’d 
 The moaning kitten, or with patient care 
 Conn’d o’er the alphabet — but most of all. 
 
 Its tender cadence in her evening prayer. 
 Thrill’d on the ear like some ethereal tone 
 Heard in sweet dreams. 
 
 But now alone I sit. 
 
 Musing of her, and dew with mournful tears 
 Her little robes, that once with curious pride 
 I wrought, as though there were a need to deck 
 A form that God had made so beautiful. 
 Sometimes I start, fancying her empty crib 
 Gives forth a restless sound, and softly say, 
 
 “ Hush, hush, Louisa, dearest !” — then I weep, 
 
220 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 As if it were a sin to speak to one 
 Whose home is with the angels. 
 
 Gone to God ! 
 
 And yet I wish I had not seen the pang 
 That wrung her features, nor the ghastly white 
 Settling around her lips. I would that Heaven 
 Had taken its own, like some transplanted flower, 
 Blooming in all its freshness. 
 
 Gone to God ! 
 
 Be still, my heart ! what could a mother’s prayer, 
 In all the wildest ecstasy of hope. 
 
 Ask for its darling, like the bliss of heaven? 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 221 
 
 THE OLD MAN. 
 
 Why gaze ye on my hoary hair, 
 
 Ye children, young and gay? 
 
 Your locks, beneath the blast of care, 
 Will bleach as white as they. 
 
 I had a mother once, like you. 
 
 Who o’er my pillow hung. 
 
 Kiss’d from my cheek the briny dew. 
 And taught my faltering tongue. 
 
 She, when the nightly couch was spread. 
 Would bow my infant knee. 
 
 And lay her soft hand on my head. 
 
 And bending, pray for me. 
 
 But then, there came a fearful day, 
 
 I sought my mother’s bed j 
 
 Harsh voices warn’d me thence away. 
 And told me she was dead. 
 
 I pluck’d a fair white rose, and stole 
 To lay it by her side ; 
 
 Yet, ah, strange sleep enchained her soul, 
 For no fond voice replied. 
 
 That eve I knelt me down in wo, 
 
 To say a lonely prayer ; 
 
 And still my temples seem’d to glow. 
 
 As if that hand was there. 
 
 19 * 
 
222 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 Years fled, and left me childhood’s joy, 
 Gay sports, and pastimes dear ; 
 
 I rose a wild and wayward boy, 
 
 Who scorned the curb of fear. 
 
 Fierce passions shook me like a reed ; 
 But ere, at night, I slept, 
 
 That soft hand made my bosom bleed. 
 And down I fell, and wept. 
 
 Youth came — the props of virtue reel’d 
 Yet still, at day’s decline, 
 
 A marble touch my brow congeal’d — 
 Blest mother, was it thine 1 
 
 In foreign lands I travell’d wide, 
 
 My full pulse bounding high : 
 
 Vice spread her meshes at my side. 
 
 And pleasure lured my eye. — 
 
 Even then, that hand, so soft and cold, 
 Maintain’d its mystic sway. 
 
 As when amid my curls of gold 
 With gentle force it lay ; 
 
 And with it sighed a voice of care, 
 
 As from the lowly sod, 
 
 “ My son, my only one, beware ! 
 
 Sin not against thy God.” 
 
 Ye think, perchance, that age hath stole 
 My kindly warmth away, 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 223 
 
 And dimm’d the tablet of the soul ; 
 
 Yet when with lordly sway, 
 
 This brow the plumed helm display’d 
 That awes the warrior throng, 
 
 Or beauty’s thrilling fingers stray’d 
 These manly .locks among, 
 
 That hallow’d touch was ne’er forgot ; 
 
 And now, though time hath set 
 His seal of frost that melteth not, 
 
 My temples feel it yet. 
 
 And if I e’er in heaven appear, 
 
 A mother’s holy prayer — 
 
 A mother’s hand, and tender tear. 
 
 Still pointing to a Saviour dear. 
 
 Have led the wanderer there. 
 
224 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 BURIAL OF THK INDIAN GIRL. 
 
 “ The only daughter of an Indian woman, in Wisconsin territory, 
 died of lingering consumption, at the age of eighteen. A few of her 
 own race, and a few of the whites, were at the grave ; but none wept, 
 save the poor mother.” 
 
 Herald of the Upper Mississippi. 
 
 A WAIL upon the prairies, — 
 
 A cry of woman’s wo, — 
 
 That mingleth with the autumn blast, 
 
 All fitfully and low. 
 
 It is a mother’s wailing ! — 
 
 Hath earth another tone. 
 
 Like that with which a mother mourns, 
 
 Her lost, her only one ? — 
 
 Pale faces gather round her, — 
 
 They mark the storm swell high. 
 
 That rends and wrecks the tossing soul. 
 
 But their cold, blue eyes were dry. 
 
 Pale faces gazed upon her. 
 
 As the wild winds caught her moan, — 
 
 But she was an Indian mother, — 
 
 So, she wept those tears alone. 
 
 Long, o’er that w^asting idol. 
 
 She watch’d and toil’d and pray’d ; 
 
 Though every dreary dawn reveal’d 
 Some ravage Death had made : 
 
 Till the fleshless sinews started, 
 
 And hope no opiate gave. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 226 
 
 And hoarse and hollow grew her voice, 
 
 An echo from the grave. 
 
 She was a gentle creature, 
 
 Of raven eye and tress. 
 
 And dovelike were the tones that breath’d 
 Her bosom’s tenderness ; — 
 
 Save when some quick emotion 
 The warm blood strongly sent 
 To revel in her olive cheek. 
 
 So richly eloquent. 
 
 I said Consumption smote her. 
 
 And the healer’s art was vain ; 
 
 But she was an Indian maiden. 
 
 So none deplor’d her pain ; — 
 
 None, save that widow’d mother. 
 
 Who now, by her open tomb. 
 
 Is writhing like the smitten wretch 
 Whom judgment marks for doom. 
 
 Alas ! that lowly cabin. 
 
 That couch beside the wall. 
 
 That seat beneath the mantling vine. 
 They’re lone and empty all. 
 
 What hand shall pluck the tall, green corn. 
 That ripeneth on the plain. 
 
 Since she, for whom the board was spread. 
 Must ne’er return again? 
 
 Rest, rest, thou Indian maiden ! — 
 
 Nor let thy murmuring shade 
 
226 
 
 THE girl’s reading- book. 
 
 Grieve that those pale-brow’d ones with 
 Thy burial-rite survey’d ; — 
 
 There’s many a king, whose funeral 
 A black-rob’d realm shall see, 
 
 For whom no tear of grief is shed, 
 Like that which falls for thee. 
 
 Yes, rest thee, forest-maiden ! 
 
 Beneath thy native tree ; 
 
 The proud may boast their little day. 
 Then sink to dust like thee ; 
 
 But there’s many a one whose funeral 
 With nodding plumes may be, 
 
 Whom Nature nor affection mourn, 
 
 As now they mourn for thee. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 227 
 
 THE CREATOR EVER PRESENT. 
 
 See, how the year in changeful garb appears, — 
 First, in its cloudy mantle, moist with showers, 
 Most like a timid child, ’mid smiles and tears; 
 
 Next, as a blooming maiden crowned with flowers ; 
 Then like a matron lulling infant hours 
 To gentle sleep, with soft, melodious chime ; 
 
 Then weak and hoary, with enfeebled powers, 
 
 And bent beneath the wintry hand of time ; 
 
 And last, with magic strange, renews her early 
 prime. 
 
 But still, where’er the varying seasons tread, 
 Whether with songs of vernal birds they rove, 
 
 Or freshly deck the hillock’s grassy head. 
 
 Or in the reaper’s dance rejoicing move, 
 
 Or strew with falling leaves the solemn grove ; 
 
 Still to the thoughtful eye their change is fair, 
 And still they claim the grateful lay of love 
 From the meek soul, that feels its Maker’s care, 
 Beholds him in his works, and joys to praise him 
 there. 
 
 Thou art in every place. Being Supreme ! — 
 
 Best seen and worshipp’d in thy court above; 
 
 Yet here, on earth, thy countenance doth beam 
 With rays of terror, majesty, and love. 
 
 And joys unspeakable thy smile doth move; 
 
 Yet none may veil him from thy piercing sight. 
 Escape thy hand, or from thy presence rove, 
 
228 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 Or hide in secret cells, close wrapp’d in night, — 
 For unto thee, the darkness shineth as the light. 
 
 Thou dwellest where the curtain’d whirlwinds hide, 
 Where the arm’d thunder walks its awful round, 
 Thou on the tempest of the night dost ride, 
 
 Flames mark thy path, and clouds thy car sur- 
 round, 
 
 And winds are rais’d, and mighty billows sound. 
 While from thine eye the winged lightnings part; 
 Thou in the highest arch of heaven art found, 
 
 In the dark regions of the earth thou art, 
 
 And in the humble cell of the repentant heart. 
 
 If e’er the storms of life, with fearful rage. 
 
 Upon my lone, unshelter’d head should blow. 
 
 Or trembling down the slippery steep of age, 
 
 My weak and unsupported footsteps go, 
 
 My locks all white with weariness and wo, 
 
 Eternal Father, and Eternal Friend, 
 
 Still let my bosom at thy presence glow, 
 
 Still let my trusting prayer to thee ascend, 
 
 And ever to my wants thy kind compassions lend. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 229 
 
 THE VIIiliAGE. 
 
 The farmer, fill’d with honest pleasure, sees 
 His orchards blushing in the fervid breeze, 
 
 His bleating flocks, the shearer’s care that need. 
 
 His waving woods, the wintry hearth to feed. 
 
 His patient steers, that break the yielding soil, 
 
 His hardy sons, who share their father’s toil, 
 
 The ripening fields, for joyous harvest drest, 
 
 A^nd the white spire that points a world of rest. 
 
 His thrifty mate, solicitous to bear 
 An equal burden in the yoke of care, 
 
 With vigorous arm, the flying shuttle heaves. 
 
 Or from the press the golden cheese receives; 
 
 Her pastime, when the daily task is o’er. 
 
 With apron clean, to seek her neighbour’s door ; 
 Partake the friendly feast, with social glow, 
 Exchange the news, or make the stocking grow,— 
 Then hale and cheerful, to her home repair. 
 
 When Sol’s slant ray renews her evening care, 
 Press the full udder for her children’s meal. 
 
 Rock the tir’d babe, and wake the tuneful wheel. 
 
 See, — toward yon dome where village science dwells. 
 When the church-clock its warning summons swells, 
 What tiny feet the well-known path explore. 
 
 And gayly gather from each rustic door. 
 
 The new-wean’d child, with murmuring tone pro- 
 ceeds. 
 
 Whom her scarce taller baby-brother leads, 
 
 20 
 
230 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 Transferr’d as burdens, that the housewife’s care 
 May tend the dairy, or the fleece prepare. 
 
 Light-hearted group, who carol loud and high, 
 Bright daisies cull, or chase the butterfly. 
 
 Till by some traveller’s wheel arous’d from play, 
 The stiff salute with glance demure they pay. 
 
 Bare the curl’d brow, or stretch the sunburnt hand. 
 The simple homage of an artless land. 
 
 The stranger marks amid their joyous line. 
 
 The little baskets whence they hope to dine. 
 
 And larger books, as if their dexterous art. 
 
 Dealt most nutrition to the noblest part : — 
 
 Long may it be, ere luxury teach the shame 
 To starve the mind, and bloat the unwieldy frame. 
 
 Scorn not this lowly race, ye sons of pride. 
 
 Their joys disparage, nor their hopes deride ; 
 
 From germs like these have mighty statesmen 
 sprung. 
 
 Of prudent counsel and persuasive tongue ; 
 Unblenching souls, who ruled the willing throng. 
 Their well-braced nerves by early labour strong; 
 Inventive minds, a nation’s wealth that wrought. 
 And white-haired sages, sold to studious thought; 
 Chiefs, whose bold step the field of battle trod. 
 
 And holy men, who fed the flock of God. 
 
 Here, ’mid the graves by time so sacred made. 
 
 The poor, lost Indian slumbers in the shade, — 
 
 He, whose canoe with arrowy swiftness clave 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 231 
 
 In ancient days yon pure, cerulean wave ; 
 
 Son of that Spirit, whom in storms he traced. 
 Through darkness followed, and in death embraced ; 
 He sleeps an outlaw ’mid his forfeit land. 
 
 And grasps the ariow in his mouldered hand. 
 
 Here, too, our patriot sires with honour rest. 
 
 In Freedom’s cause who bared the valiant breast 3 — 
 Sprung from their half-drawn furrow, as the cry 
 Of threatened liberty went thrilling by. 
 
 Looked to their God, and reared, in bulwark round, 
 Breasts free from guile, and hands with toil em- 
 brown’d. 
 
 And bade a monarch’s thousand banners yield — 
 Firm at the plough, and glorious in the field; 
 
 Lo ! here they rest, who every danger braved, 
 Unmarked, untrophied, ’mid the soil they saved. 
 
 Round scenes like these dc lh warm remembrance 
 glide. 
 
 Where emigration rolls its ceaseless tide. 
 
 On western wilds, which thronging hordes explore, 
 Or ruder Erie’s serpent-haunted shore. 
 
 Or far Huron, by unshorn forests crowned. 
 
 Or red Missouri’s unfrequented bound. 
 
 The exile there, when midnight shades invade. 
 Couch’d in his hut, or camping on the glade. 
 
 Starts from his dream, to catch, in echoes clear, 
 
 The boatman’s song that charmed his boyish ear; 
 While the sad mother ’mid her children’s mirth. 
 Paints with fond tears a parent’s distant hearth. 
 
232 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 Or cheers her rustic babes with tender tales 
 Of thee, blest village, and thy velvet vales; 
 Her native cot, where luscious berries swell. 
 The simple school, and Sabbath’s tuneful bell 
 And smiles to see the infant soul expand. 
 With proud devotion for that father-land. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 233 
 
 THE EMIGRANT’S DAUGHTER. 
 
 “ The way is long,” — the father said, 
 While through the western wild he sped. 
 With eager searching eye. 
 
 “ Cheer ye, my babes,” — the mother cried. 
 And drew them closer to her side. 
 
 As frown’d the evening sky. 
 
 Just then, within the thicket rude, 
 
 A log rear’d cabin’s roof they view’d, 
 
 And its low shelter blest ; 
 
 On the rough floor their simple bed. 
 
 In haste and weariness, they spread, 
 
 And laid them down to rest. 
 
 On leathern hinge the doors were hung. 
 Undeck’d with glass the casement swung, 
 The smoke- wreath stain’d the wall ; 
 
 Yet here they found their only home. 
 Who once had rul’d the spacious dome. 
 And pac’d the pictur’d hall. 
 
 But hearts with pure affections warm. 
 Unmurmuring at the adverse storm. 
 
 Did in that cell abide ; 
 
 And there the wife her husband cheer’d. 
 And there her little ones she rear’d, 
 
 And there in hope she died. 
 
 The lonely man still plough’d the soil, 
 Tho’ she, who long had sooth’d his toil, 
 20 * 
 
234 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 No more partook his care, 
 
 But in her place a daughter rose, 
 
 As from some broken stem there grows 
 A blossom fresh and fair. 
 
 With tireless hand the board she spread, 
 The Holy Book at evening read. 
 
 And when, with serious air, 
 
 He saw her bend so sweetly mild 
 And lull to sleep the moaning child. 
 
 He blest her in his prayer. 
 
 But stern disease his footstep staid, 
 
 And down the woodman’s axe he laid — 
 The fever-flame was high ; 
 
 No more the forest fear’d his stroke. 
 
 He fell, as falls the smitten oak. 
 
 The emigrant must die. 
 
 His youngest girl, his fondest pride, 
 
 His baby when the mother died. 
 
 How desolate she stands ; 
 
 While gazing on his death-struck eye 
 His kneeling sons with anguish cry, 
 
 And clasp his clenching hands. 
 
 Who hastes his throbbing head to hold ? 
 Who bows to chafe his temples cold 7 
 In beauty’s opening prime ; 
 
 That blessed daughter, meek of heart. 
 Who, for his sake, a matron’s part 
 Had borne before her time. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 235 
 
 That gasp, that groan, — ’tis o’er, ’tis o’er, 
 The manly breast must heave no more. 
 The heart no longer pine ; 
 
 Oh, Thou, who feed’s! the raven’s nest. 
 Confirm once more thy promise blest 
 “ The fatherless are mine.” 
 
236 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 THE MOURNER. 
 
 Wheels o’er the pavement roll’d, and a slight form 
 Just in the bud of blushing womanhood 
 Reached the paternal threshold. Wrathful night 
 Muffled the timid stars, and rain-drops hung 
 On that fair creature’s rich and glossy curls. 
 
 She stood and shiver’d, but no mother’s hand 
 Dry’d those damp tresses, and wuth warm caress 
 Sustain’d the weary spirit. No, that hand 
 W as with the cold, dull earth-worm. 
 
 Gray and sad. 
 
 The tottering nurse rose up ; and that old man, 
 The soldier servant, who had train’d the steeds 
 Of her slain brothers for the battle field, 
 
 Essay’d to lead her to the couch of pain. 
 
 Where her sick father pined. 
 
 Oft had he yearn’d 
 
 For her sweet presence ; oft, in midnight’s watch, 
 Mus’d of his dear one’s smile, till dreams restor’d 
 The dove-like dalliance of her ruby lip 
 Breathing his woes away. 
 
 While distant far, 
 
 She, patient student, bending o’er her tasks. 
 
 Toil’d for the fruits of knowledge, treasuring still 
 In the heart’s casket, a fond father’s smile, 
 
 And the pure music of his welcome home. 
 
 Rich payment of her labours. 
 
 But there came 
 
 A summons of surprise, and on the wings 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 237 
 
 Of filial love she hasted. 
 
 — ’Twas too late : 
 
 The lamp of life still burn’d, yet ’twas too late. 
 
 The mind had passed away, and who could call 
 Its wing from out the sky ? 
 
 For the embrace 
 
 Of strong idolatry, was but the glare 
 Of a fix’d, vacant eye. Disease had dealt 
 A fell assassin’s blow. Oh God ! the blight 
 That fell on those fresh hopes, when all in vain 
 The passive hand was grasp’d, and the wide halls 
 Re-echoed ^'‘father ! father 
 
 Through the shades 
 
 Of that long silent night, she sleepless bent, 
 Bathing with tireless hand the unmoved brow, 
 
 And the death-pillow smoothing. When fair morn 
 Came with its rose-tint up, she shrieking clasp’d 
 Her hands in joy, for its reviving ray 
 Flush’d that worn brow, as if with one brief trace 
 Of waken’d intellect. ’ Twas seeming all : 
 
 And Hope’s fond vision faded as the day 
 Rode on in glory. 
 
 Eve her curtain drew. 
 
 And found that pale and beautiful watcher there. 
 Still unreposing. Restless on his couch 
 Toss’d the sick man. Cold Lethargy had steep’d 
 Its last dead poppy in his heart’s red stream, 
 
 And agony was stirring Nature up 
 To struggle with her foe. 
 
238 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 “ Father in Heaven ! 
 
 Oh, let him sleep !” — sigh’d an imploring voice j 
 And then she ran to hush the measur’d tick 
 Of the dull night-clock, and to scare the owl 
 That clinging to the casement hoarsely pour’d 
 A boding note. But soon from that lone couch 
 Thick-coming groans announce the foe that strikes 
 But once. 
 
 They bare the fainting girl away j 
 And paler than that ashen corse, her face, 
 
 Half by a flood of ebon tresses hid, 
 
 Droop’d o’er her old nurse’s shoulder. It was sad 
 To see a young heart breaking, while the old 
 Sank down to rest. 
 
 There was another change. 
 
 The mournful bell toll’d out thefuneral hour. 
 
 And groups came gathering to the gate where stood 
 The sable hearse. Friends throng’d with heavy 
 heart. 
 
 And curious villagers, intent to scan 
 The lordly mansion, and cold worldly men. 
 
 Even o’er the coffin and the warning shroud 
 Revolving selfish schemes. 
 
 But one was there, 
 
 To whom all earth could render nothing back. 
 
 Like that pale piece of clay. Calmly she stood. 
 
 As marble statue. Not one trickling tear. 
 
 Or quivering of the eye-lid, told she liv’d. 
 
 Or tasted sorrow. The old house-dog came, 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 239 
 
 Pressing his rough head to her snowy palm, 
 All unreprov’d. 
 
 He for his master mourn’d. 
 
 And could she spurn that faithful friend, who oft 
 His shaggy length thro’ many a fireside hour 
 Stretch’d at her father’s feet ? who round his bed 
 Of sickness watch’d with wakeful, wondering eye 
 Of changeless sympathy? No, round his neck 
 Her infant arms had clasp’d, and still he rais’d 
 His noble front beside her, proud to guard 
 The last, lov’d relic of his master’s house. 
 
 The deadly calmness of that mourner’s brow 
 Was a deep riddle to the lawless thought 
 Of whispering gossips. Of her sire they spake, 
 W’ho suffer’d not the winds of heaven to touch 
 The tresses of his darling, and who dream’d 
 In the warm passion of his heart’s sole love 
 She was a mate for angels. Bold they gaz’d 
 Upon her tearless cheek, and murmuring said, 
 
 “ How strange that he should be so lightly mourn’d.” 
 
 Oh woman! oft misconstrued I the pure pearls 
 Lie all too deep in thy heart’s secret well. 
 
 For the unpausing and impatient hand 
 
 To win them forth. In that meek maiden’s breast 
 
 Sorrow and loneliness sank darkly down. 
 
 Though the blanch’d lip breath’d out no boisterous 
 plaint 
 
 Of common grief. 
 
240 
 
 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 Even on to life’s decline, 
 
 Amid the giddy round of prosperous years, 
 
 The birth of new affections, and the joys 
 
 That cluster round earth’s favourites, there walk’d 
 
 Still at her side, the image of her sire. 
 
 As in that hour when his cold glazing eye 
 Met her’s, and knew her not. When her full cup 
 Perchance had foam’d with pride, that icy glance, 
 Checking its effervescence, taught her soul 
 The chasten’d wisdom of attemper’d bliss. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 241 
 
 FAREWEIili OP THE SOXJIi TO THE BODY. 
 
 Companion dear ! the hour draws nigh, 
 
 The sentence speeds — to die, to die ; 
 
 So long in mystic union held. 
 
 So close with strong embrace compell’d, 
 
 How can’st thou bear the dread decree, 
 
 That strikes thy clasping nerves from me ? 
 
 To him who on this mortal shore, 
 
 The same encircling vestment wore, 
 
 To Him I look, to Him I bend, 
 
 To Him thy shuddering frame commend. 
 
 If I have ever caused thee pain, 
 
 The throbbing breast, the burning brain, 
 
 With cares and vigils turn’d thee pale. 
 
 And scorn’d thee when thy strength did fail, 
 Forgive ! Forgive ! thy task doth cease. 
 Friend ! Lover ! let us part in peace. 
 
 That thou didst sometimes check my force. 
 
 Or trifling stay mine upward course. 
 
 Or lure from Heaven my wavering trust, 
 
 Or bow my drooping wing to dust, — 
 
 I blame thee not j the strife is done, 
 
 I knew thou wert the weaker one. 
 
 The vase of earth, the trembling clod. 
 Constrain’d to hold the breath of God. 
 
 21 
 
242 THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 Well hast thou in my service wrought, 
 
 Thy brow hath mirror’d forth my thought j 
 To wear my smile thy lip hath glow’d, 
 
 Thy tear to speak my sorrows flow’d ; 
 
 Thine ear hath borne me rich supplies 
 Of sweetly varied melodies ; 
 
 Thy hands my prompted deeds have done, 
 
 Thy feet upon my errands run ; — 
 
 Yes, thou hast mark’d my bidding well, 
 Faithful and true! farewell, farewell. 
 
 Go to thy rest. A quiet bed 
 Meek mother Earth with flowers shall spread, 
 Where I no more thy sleep can break 
 With fever’d dream, nor rudely wake 
 Thy wearied eye. 
 
 Oh quit thy hold, 
 
 For thou art faint, and chill, and cold, 
 
 And long thy grasp and groan of pain 
 Have bound me pitying in thy chain, 
 
 Tho’ angels urge me hence to soar, 
 
 Where I shall share thine ills no more. 
 
 Yet we shall meet. To soothe thy pain, 
 Remember, we shall meet again ; 
 
 Quell with this hope the victor’s sting. 
 
 And keep it as a signet-ring. 
 
 When the dire worm shall pierce thy breast, 
 And nought but ashes mark thy rest. 
 
 When stars shall fall, and skies grow dark. 
 
 And proud suns quench their glow-worm spark, 
 Keep thou that hope, to light thy gloom, 
 
 Till the last trumpet rends the tomb. 
 
THE girl’s reading-book. 
 
 243 
 
 Then shalt thou glorious rise, and fair, 
 Nor spot, nor stain, nor wrinkle bear, 
 And I with hovering wing elate. 
 
 The bursting of thy bonds shall wait. 
 And breathe the welcome of the sky, 
 
 “ No more to part, no more to die, 
 Co-heir of Immortality.” 
 

 
PUBLICATIONS 
 
 OF THE 
 
 AMERICAN 
 
 COMMON SCHOOL UNION, 
 
 128 FULTON STREET, 
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 TOWN’S ANALYSIS of Derivative Words in the 
 English Language. 
 
 INTRODUCTION to TOWN’S ANALYSIS. 
 
 FARMER’S SCHOOL BOOK— By J. Orville Taylor. 
 
 POLITICAL ECONOMY— By Prof. McVickar. 
 
 BULLIONS’ GRAMMAR— By Prof. Bullions. 
 
 HELP TO YOUNG WRITERS. 
 
 COMBE’S CONSTITUTION OF MAN— abridged 
 for Schools. 
 
 YOUNG CITIZEN’S MANUAL-By Judge Conk-- 
 ling. 
 
 GIRL’S SCHOOL BOOK— No. 1— By Mrs. Jane 
 Taylor. 
 
 GIRL’S READING BOOK-By Mrs. L. H. Sigour- 
 ney. 
 
 CIVIL POLITY AND POLITICAL ECONOMY— 
 By M. Willson. 
 
 MATHER’S GEOLOGY -for Elementary Schools. 
 
2 
 
 WORKS ON EDUCATION. 
 
 COMMON SCHOOL ASSISTANT — bound, and 
 containing all the back numbers of the work. 
 
 This volume now contains invaluable statistics on the 
 subject of education, which can be obtained from no 
 other source : also, an outline of the School Systems of 
 this and Foreign Countries. 
 
 THE FARMER’S SCHOOL BOOK. 
 
 Br J. ORVILLE TAYLOR. 
 
 This work has obtained the highest possible commen* 
 daiion. At the late Agricultural Convention, held in 
 Albany, and composed of the leading agriculturists of 
 this great state, the folio «ving resolution was unani- 
 mously passed. 
 
 Resolved, That we strongly approve of the Farmer’s 
 School Book, by J. Orville Taylor, and that we earnest- 
 ly recommend its use as a reading book in all our 
 common schools.” 
 
 “ THE FARMER’S SCHOOL BOOK,” 
 
 Is the title of a volume in 12mo. of 240 pages, just 
 published by J. Orville Taylor, editor t f the Common 
 School Assistant, and is one of a series of small volumes 
 which he is publishing, designed as reading books in 
 Common Schools. Price 37 12 cents. It is a good book, 
 calculated to instruct the boy, and to implant in his 
 mind the seeds of knowledge and usefulness. If it is 
 proper for boys to learn ” those things which they ex- 
 pect to do when they are men,” and of this no one will 
 express a doubt, nothing can be more proper to be put into 
 the hands of those who are soon to become farmers, 
 than a book which teaches them the properties and laws 
 
WORKS ON EDUCATION. 
 
 3 
 
 of organic and inorganic matter— which not only in- 
 structs them in their future business of life, but tends to 
 qualify them for the higher duties of Society — which will 
 tend to make them intelligent, useful, and good men. 
 SucA is the character of the work of which we are speaking. 
 An effort is now making to “ bend the twig, as it should 
 grow, by providing for our Common Schools, in a cheap 
 form, a selection of books calculated to make our sons 
 wiser, and we trust better, than their fathers. The ef- 
 fort is a noble one, and those engaged in it deserve the 
 commendation, and the co-operation, of every friend to 
 civil liberty. J. BUEL, 
 
 Ed. of the Cultivator. 
 
 J’ Orville Taylor^ Esq. 
 
 Dear Sir, — I have given as much time as my avoca- 
 tions will permit, to the perusal of your “Parmer’s 
 School Book.” The part with which I am most con- 
 versant, (I refer to the ChemLtry,) is lucid, concise and 
 correct. The reading of this book must prove eminently 
 useful. As the first effort to extend the knowledge of 
 Agriculture to the young, it deserves all praise. 
 
 Yours, T. ROMEYN BECK. 
 
 Albany, Dec. 13, 1836. 
 
 The improvement of the Common Schools requires a 
 complete, though plain and cheap Treaties, on the science 
 and practice of Agriculture. Such a work, I am glad 
 to say, has been published by J. Orville Taylor. 
 
 The book has been written by miny of the most dis- 
 tinsuished a liculturists of the age— distinguished for 
 practice as well as science. 
 
 The Schools, I think, should not hesitate to obtain this 
 
4 
 
 WORKS ON EDUCATION. 
 
 work, called the “ Farmer’s School Book.” Children 
 and youth can now read, in their Schools, and while re- 
 ceiving their education, what they will practice when they 
 become men. This work is the very thing the Schools 
 want. CALEB N. BEMENT. 
 
 POLITICAL ECONOMY— FIRST lessons. 
 
 BY JOHN m'vICKAR, 
 
 Professor of Political Economy in Columbia College. 
 
 New York. 
 
 “ This work is one of the happiest efforts for the young 
 mind, that the present age has produced. The princi- 
 ples of this great science are here brought out, clearly, 
 forcibly, and with all the simplicity of childhood. Says 
 the learned author in the preface ; — ‘ The first principles 
 of political economy are truisms, which a child may 
 understand ; and which children should, therefore, be 
 taught.’ How eloquently and satisfactorily has the author 
 proved his assertion in the little work before us ! Here, 
 those great and fixed principles, open simple and beau- 
 tiful in themselves, but which frequently puzzle the un- 
 read legislator, are brought down to the comprehension 
 and the language of the child. Truly, the most learned 
 men are the most simple men ! How much knowledge 
 does it require to be plain, and pure, and simple ! Well 
 did a great philosopher once say : ‘ I need all my learn- 
 ing when I talk to a child.’ Profound remark ! Would 
 that more thought so, who are aiding the operations of 
 the infant mind! 
 
 The work is intended, either as a text book, to be com- 
 mitted to memory by the children in the school, or to be 
 read by them in class, used as a reading class-book. The 
 
WORKS ON EDUCATION. 
 
 5 
 
 school that will introduce this little work will elevate its 
 character at once. What inquiries — what comparisons 
 — what closeness of observation — what reasoning — what 
 enlargement of thought — what vigor and power of mind 
 will this work excite in the youth of this country. It is 
 a work which these times require.” 
 
 TOWN’S ANALYSIS of Derivative Words in the 
 English Language. 
 
 This book has the highest commendations, and will 
 greatly facilitate an accurate knowledge of our native 
 tongue. Every school should have it. 
 
 Extract of a letter from Dr. W ebster. 
 
 New Haverij Dec. 16, 1836. 
 
 After some few critical remarks, the Doctor adds ; — “ I 
 think your plan in general a good one, and the execution, 
 as far as I have examined it, is generally correct. It is a 
 valuable book.” 
 
 “ Town’s Analysis of Derivative Words,” 
 
 Is the title of a book just published, one vol. 12mo. 
 Price 50 cents. This is an original work, and presents 
 unusual claims on the attention of the public. We 
 think this work will do more to facilitate and make ac- 
 curate the English language, than all the other means 
 the schools are now using. Says Dr. Sprague — “ I can- 
 not doubt but what the principle of this new work will be 
 approved wherever it is known, and that the work is des- 
 tined to be of immense utility to our country and to the 
 world.” Says Dr. Campbell to the author — “ I am of the 
 opinion that an acquaintance with the ancient languages 
 
6 
 
 WORKS ON EDUCATION. 
 
 will give the scholar bat liitle advantage, if any. in this 
 relation, over one thoroughly instructed in your work.” 
 Says Judge Nelson— “ Hereafter those pursuing a mere 
 English education, may be said to stand somewhat upon 
 a footing with the classic scholar.” Says Judge Bronson 
 to the author — “ I am of the opinion, that this work will 
 prove highly useful in acquiring an accurate knowledge 
 of the English language.” Many other high authorities 
 might be added, but they are not necessary. The 
 Albany Academy, and the Albany Female Academy 
 have both introduced the work. 
 
 The Female Seminary at Troy has also introduced 
 the work with the highest commendation. 
 
 Indeed it is generally felt that the school or academy 
 that has not this work, is far inferior in the advantages 
 it offers. I believe that the work will do immense good, 
 and that the author can have the delightful reflection of 
 having done much for the cause of education. — C<m- 
 mon School Assistant. 
 
 COMMUNICATED FRfM THE PRtNCIPAL CP THE ALBANY 
 FEMALE ACADEMY. 
 
 Salem Town^ Esq 
 
 Dear Sir, — Our first department has taken one lesson 
 in your Analysis daily, for the last three weeks, without 
 any particular interruption of their ordinary studies, and 
 I am sustained in the opinion by the Trustees, and other 
 literary gentlemen, who have just witnessed an exami- 
 nation, that the class understand more of the philosophy 
 and application of the words in our language, by the aid 
 of your little manual, during this short time, than is 
 ordinarily attained in years, by the study of the Latiu and 
 Greek tongues. 
 
WOKKS ON EDUCATION. 
 
 7 
 
 I am happy to state, that the Trustees are more than 
 satisfied with the experimeDt, and have resolved to intro- 
 duce the work into all the departments of the insiituiion. 
 
 With much respect, yours. &c. 
 
 A. CRITTENTON. 
 
 GIRL’S SCHOOL BOOK.-No. 1. 
 
 BY MRS. JANE TAYLOR. 
 
 Is for the reading of Utile misses who have just com. 
 menced tha: delightful exercise. It is well adapted to 
 the use designed. 
 
 TO TEACHERS AND PARENTS. 
 
 From the Preface to the Girl’s School Book — No. 1. 
 
 The Girl’s School B >ok, No. 1, has been written ex- 
 pressly for little girls, to be used as a reading class book 
 in primary or common schools. The writer knew of no 
 work written purposely for this class of learners, the 
 reading books now in use having been prepared almost 
 entirely for boys. As it has become the practise in com- 
 mon schools, for girls to read in a class by themselves, 
 and not as formerly, with the boys, a small hook, teach- 
 ins the peculiar virtues, proprieties, and duties of little 
 misses, seemed to be very generally wanted. The ap- 
 propriate instruction has been attempted in the most at- 
 tractive way. The poetry in the latter part of the vo. 
 lume is selected principally from English works, and is 
 admirably adapted to that class of readers which we 
 desire to benefit. 
 
8 
 
 WOKKS ON EDUCATION. 
 
 TO THE FRIENDS OF EDUCATION. 
 
 An “ American Common School Union,” conducted 
 by J. Orville Taylor, has been opened in New York 
 Gity, (128 Fulton Street,) for the purpose of furnishing 
 a Central Depository, where can be seen and purchased 
 whatever relates to the improvement of Schools, and the 
 diffusion of useful knowledge. 
 
 A complete Series of School Books, written by Judge 
 CoNKLiNG, Mrs. Sigourney, Professor Mather, Professor 
 M'Vickar, and others of equal eminence, have been 
 published at the above place, and are now offered for 
 sale in a very cheap form. 
 
 These Works have the unqualified recommendation of 
 State Societies, and some of them of the Board of Re- 
 gents of the State of New York. 
 
 Teachers, Merchants, and Parents, can find for sale 
 at the “ Union,” in addition lo the above “ Series,” all 
 the School, Academical, and Collegiate Books now in 
 use. 
 
 A central place like this has been much wanted. It is 
 believed that the American School Union’^ will do much 
 to elevate the cause of Education in this country, and it 
 is hoped that the people will feel that interest in the im- 
 provement of their Schools which will sustain this 
 Institution. 
 
 N. B.— The “ Common School Assistant and Public In- 
 structor,'^ is published, monthly, at the above place, at 
 50 cents a year— Eleven copies for $b. 
 
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