PART I.

Produced by Charles Aldarondo

THE WEDDING GUEST:

A FRIEND OF THE BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM.

EDITED BY T.S. ARTHUR.

CHICAGO, ILL.:

1856.

THERE is no relation in life so important--none involving so much of

happiness or misery, as that of husband and wife. Yet, how rarely is

it, that the parties when contracting this relation, have large

experience, clear insight into character, or truly know themselves!

In each other, they may have the tenderest confidence, and for each

other the warmest love; but, only a brief time can pass ere they

will discover that the harmonious progression of two minds, each of

which has gained an individual and independent movement is not

always a thing of easy attainment. Too soon, alas! is felt a jar of

discord--too soon self-will claims an individual freedom of action

that is not fully accorded; and unless there is wisdom and

forbearance, temporary or permanent unhappiness is sure to follow.

Much has been written on the true relation of married partners, and

we cannot do a better service to the bride and bridegroom, than by

gathering words of wisdom on this subject from all sources within

our reach, and presenting them in as attractive a form as possible.

And this we have done in the present volume, to which, as the

title-page indicates, we bear only the relation of editor. In it

will be found pictures of life, serious counsel, earnest admonition,

and hints and suggestions, which, if wisely followed, will keep the

sky bright with sunshine, or scatter the gathering clouds ere they

break in angry storms. May this "WEDDING GUEST" receive as warm a

welcome as we desire.

CONTENTS.

THE EVENING BEFORE MARRIAGE

THE WIFE

MARRIAGE

THE BRIDE'S SISTER

LOVE vs. HEALTH

THE YOUNG HOUSEKEEPER

TO AN ABSENT WIFE

THE WORD OF PRAISE

LETTERS TO A YOUNG WIFE FROM A MARRIED LADY

THE WIFE

BE GENTLE WITH THY WIFE

A TRUE TALE OF LIFE

MAN AND WOMAN

THE FAIRY WIFE--AN APOLOGUE

A BRIEF HISTORY, IN THREE PARTS, WITH A SEQUEL

ELMA'S MISSION

LIVING LIKE A LADY

LADY LUCY'S SECRET

A WORD FOR WIVES

NO JEWELLED BEAUTY

THE FIRST MARRIAGE IN THE FAMILY

ONLY A FEW WORDS

THE TWO HOMES

LOVE'S FAIRY RING

FANNIE'S BRIDAL

THE LOVER AND THE HUSBAND

NELLIE

A HOME IN THE HEART

A LEAF FROM A FAMILY JOURNAL

TRIFLES

DOMESTIC HAPPINESS

A SYLVAN MORALITY; OR, A WORD TO WIVES

PASSAGES FROM A YOUNG WIFE'S DIARY

HINTS AND HELPS FOR MARRIED PARTNERS

THREE WAYS OF MANAGING A WIFE

THE WEDDING GUEST.

THE EVENING BEFORE MARRIAGE.

"WE shall certainly be very happy together!" said Louise to her aunt

on the evening before her marriage, and her cheeks glowed with a

deeper red, and her eyes shone with delight. When a bride says _we_,

it may easily be guessed whom of all persons in the world she means

thereby.

"I do not doubt it, dear Louise," replied her aunt. "See only that

you _continue_ happy together."

"Oh, who can doubt that we shall continue so! I know myself. I have

faults, indeed, but my love for him will correct them. And so long

as we love each other, we cannot be unhappy. Our love will never

grow old."

"Alas!" sighed her aunt, "thou dost speak like a maiden of nineteen,

on the day before her marriage, in the intoxication of wishes

fulfilled, of fair hopes and happy omens. Dear child, remember

this--_even the heart in time grows cold._ Days will come when the

magic of the senses shall fade. And when this enchantment has fled,

then it first becomes evident whether we are truly worthy of love.

When custom has made familiar the charms that are most attractive,

when youthful freshness has died away, and with the brightness of

domestic life, more and more shadows have mingled, then, Louise, and

not till then, can the wife say of the husband, 'He is worthy of

love;' then, first, the husband say of the wife, 'She blooms in

imperishable beauty.' But, truly, on the day before marriage, such

assertions sound laughable to me."

"I understand you, dear aunt. You would say that our mutual virtues

alone can in later years give us worth for each other. But is not he

to whom I am to belong--for of myself I can boast nothing but the

best intentions--is he not the worthiest, noblest of all the young

men of the city? Blooms not in his soul, every virtue that tends to

make life happy?"

"My child," replied her aunt, "I grant it. Virtues bloom in thee as

well as in him; I can say this to thee without flattery. But, dear

heart, they bloom only, and are not yet ripened beneath the sun's

heat and the shower. No blossoms deceive the expectations more than

these. We can never tell in what soil they have taken root. Who

knows the concealed depths of the heart?"

"Ah, dear aunt, you really frighten me."

"So much the better Louise. Such fear is right; such fear is as it

should be on the evening before marriage. I love thee tenderly, and

will, therefore, declare all my thoughts on this subject without

disguise. I am not as yet an old aunt. At seven-and-twenty years,

one still looks forward into life with pleasure, the world still

presents a bright side to us. I have an excellent husband. I am

happy. Therefore, I have the right to speak thus to thee, and to

call thy attention to a secret which perhaps thou dost not yet know,

one which is not often spoken of to a young and pretty maiden, one,

indeed, which does not greatly occupy the thoughts of a young man,

and still is of the utmost importance in every household: a secret

from which alone spring lasting love and unalterable happiness."

Louise seized the hand of her aunt in both of hers. "Dear aunt! you

know I believe you in everything. You mean, that enduring happiness

and lasting love are not insured to us by accidental qualities, by

fleeting charms, but only by those virtues of the mind which bring

to each other. These are the best dowry which we can possess; these

never become old."

"As it happens, Louise. The virtues also, like the beauties of the

body, can grow old, and become repulsive and hateful with age."

"How, dearest aunt! what is it you say? Name me a virtue which can

become hateful with years."

"When they have become so, we no longer call them virtues, as a

beautiful maiden can no longer be called beautiful, when time has

changed her to an old and wrinkled woman."

"But, aunt, the virtues are nothing earthly."

"Perhaps."

"How can gentleness and mildness ever become hateful?"

"So soon as they degenerate into insipid indolence and

listlessness."

"And manly courage?"

"Becomes imperious rudeness."

"And modest diffidence?"

"Turns to fawning humility."

"And noble pride?"

"To vulgar haughtiness."

"And readiness to oblige?"

"Becomes a habit of too ready friendship and servility."

"Dear aunt, you make me almost angry. My future husband can never

degenerate thus. He has one virtue which will preserve him as he is

for ever. A deep sense, an indestructible feeling for everything

that is great and good and noble, dwells in his bosom. And this

delicate susceptibility to all that is noble dwells in me also, I

hope, as well as in him. This is the innate pledge and security for

our happiness."

"But if it should grow old with you; if it should change to hateful

excitability; and excitability is the worst enemy of matrimony. You

both possess sensibility. That I do not deny; but beware lest this

grace should degenerate into an irritable and quarrelsome mortal."

"Ah, Dearest aunt, if I might never become old! I could then be sure

that my husband would never cease to love me."

"Thou art greatly in error, dear child! Wert thou always as fresh

and beautiful as to-day, still thy husband's eye would by custom of

years become indifferent to these advantages. Custom is the greatest

enchantress in the world, and in the house one of the most

benevolent of fairies. She render's that which is the most

beautiful, as well as the ugliest, familiar. A wife is young, and

becomes old; it is custom which hinders the husband from perceiving

the change. On the contrary, did she remain young, while he became

old, it might bring consequences, and render the man in years

jealous. It is better as kind Providence has ordered it. Imagine

that thou hadst grown to be an old woman, and thy husband were a

blooming youth; how wouldst thou then feel?"

Louise rubbed her chin, and said, "I cannot tell."

Her aunt continued: "But I will call thy attention to at secret

which--"

"That is it," interrupted Louise, hastily, "that is it which I long

so much to hear."

Her aunt said: "Listen to me attentively. What I now tell thee, I

have proved. It consists of _two parts_. The _first part_, of the

means to render a marriage happy, of itself prevents every

possibility of dissension; and would even at last make the spider

and the fly the best of friends with each other. The _second part_

is the best and surest method of preserving feminine attractions."

"Ah!" exclaimed Louise.

"The former half of the means, then: In the first solitary hour

after the ceremony, take thy bridegroom, and demand a solemn vow of

him, and give him a solemn vow in return. Promise one another

sacredly, _never, not even in mere jest, to wrangle with each

other_; never to bandy words or indulge in the least ill-humour.

_Never!_ I say; never. Wrangling, even in jest, and putting on an

air of ill-humour merely to tease, becomes earnest by practice. Mark

that! Next promise each other, sincerely and solemnly, _never to

have a secret from each other_ under whatever pretext, with whatever

excuse it may be. You must, continually and every moment, see

clearly into each other's bosom. Even when one of you has committed

a fault, wait not an instant, but confess it freely--let it cost

tears, but confess it. And as you keep _nothing secret from each

other_, so, on the contrary, preserve the privacies of your house,

marriage state and heart, from _father, mother, sister, brother,

aunt, and all the world._ You two, with God's help, build your own

quiet world. Every third or fourth one whom you draw into it with

you, will form a party, and stand between you two! That should never

be. Promise this to each other. Renew the vow at each temptation.

You will find your account in it. Your souls will grow as it were

together, and at last will become as one. Ah, if many a young pair

had on their wedding day known this simple secret, and straightway

practised it, how many marriages were happier than, alas, they are!"

Louise kissed her aunt's hand with ardour. "I feel that it must be

so. Where this confidence is absent, the married, even after

wedlock, are two strangers who do not know each other. It should be

so; without this, there can be no happiness. And now, aunt, the best

preservative of female beauty?"

Her aunt smiled, and said: "We may not conceal from ourselves that a

handsome man pleases us a hundred times more than an ill-looking

one, and the men are pleased with us when we are pretty. But what we

call beautiful, what in the men pleases us, and in us pleases the

men, is not skin and hair and shape and colour, as in a picture or a

statue; but it is the character, it is the soul that is within

these, which enchants us by looks and words, earnestness, and joy,

and sorrow. The men admire us the more they suppose those virtues of

the mind to exist in us which the outside promises; and we think a

malicious man disagreeable, however graceful and handsome he may be.

Let a young maiden, then, who would preserve her beauty, preserve

but that purity of soul, those sweet qualities of the mind, those

virtues, in short, by which she first drew her lover to her feet.

And the best preservative of virtue, to render it unchanging and

keep it ever young, is _religion_, that inward union with the Deity

and eternity and faith--is piety, that walking with God, so pure, so

peaceful, so beneficent to mortals.

"See, dear heart," continued the aunt, "there are virtues which

arise out of mere experience. These grow old with time, and alter,

because, by change of circumstances and inclination, prudence alters

her means of action, and became her growth does not always keep pace

with that of our years and passions. But religious virtues can never

change; these remain eternally the same, because our good is always

the same, and that eternity the same, which we and those who love us

are hastening to enter. Preserve, then, a mind innocent and pure,

looking for everything from God; thus will that beauty of soul

remain, for which thy bridegroom to-day adores thee. I am no bigot,

no fanatic; I am thy aunt of seven-and-twenty. I love all in

innocent and rational amusements. But for this very reason I say to

thee--be a dear, good Christian, and thou wilt as a mother, yes, as

a grandmother, be still beautiful."

Louise threw her arms about her neck, and wept in silence, and

whispered, "I thank thee, angel!"

THE WIFE.

ROSA LEE was dressed in her bridal garments, and as she knelt in all

the bloom of her maidenly beauty, angels must have rejoiced over

her; for the spirit of the maiden was in a heaven of love, and she

knelt in the fulness of her joy, to pour out her gratitude to the

Heavenly Father, that "seeth in secret." Yes, alone in her chamber,

the young girl bowed herself for the last time, and as the thought

flashed over her mind, that when next she should kneel in that

consecrated place, it would not be alone, but that manly arms would

bear up her drooping form, and two voices would mingle as one in the

holy prayer, a gushing tenderness flooded the heart of the beautiful

bride, and light as from Heaven pervaded her whole being, and she

could only murmur, "Oh, how beautiful it is to love!"

But bustling steps and voices approach; and Rosa hears one step that

sends at thrill to her heart. In the next moment, the maiden, with

the rosy glow of love upon her cheek, and the heaven-light yet

beaming in her eyes, stood face to face with her lover. Her eyes met

his, in that calm, confiding look of an unbounded affection, and, as

her hand rested on his arm, strength seemed to flow into her from

him, and she looked serene and placid as pure water, that reflects

the moonbeams of heaven; and yet, her smiles came and went like

these same waters when the ripples sparkle in the glad sunshine.

The bridal party moved forward to the festive hall, where

sympathizing friends were gathered to greet them, as a married pair,

and the heart of Rosa opened to the holy marriage ceremony with a

sense of heavenly rapture.

To her it was as a new and beautiful revelation, when she heard the

oft-repeated words, "In the beginning created He them male and

female." Ah, yes. It was beautiful to realize that she was created

for her beloved Paul, and that in all the vast peopled universe of

God, there was not another being so adapted to him as she was.

Ah, this was the beautiful marriage joy, that earth so seldom

witnesses. These were of "those whom God hath joined together." And

Paul Cleves felt it in his inmost soul, as he turned towards his

congratulating friends with his delicate and beautiful bride leaning

upon his arm.

Ah, how he watched every vibration of her feelings! suddenly she had

become the pulse of his own soul. As a maiden, he had loved her with

a wondrous tenderness and devotion. But now, as a wife! There was at

once a new and quite different relation established between them.

Paul was so filled with this new perception of blessedness, that he

would fain have left the gay company, that he might pour out the

beautiful thought that possessed him, to gladden the heart of Rosa;

and when he looked his wish to her, she smiled, and whispered to

him, "Eternity is ours, and we are not to live for ourselves alone."

And here was a new mystery to him. She was revealed to him as

another self, with power to read his every thought. And yet it was

it better self, for she prompted him to disinterested acts; and away

went the glad Paul to shower his attentions upon all those to whom

life came not so joyously. And an aged grandmother, and a palsied

aunt, almost feared that the handsome bridegroom had forgotten his

fair bride, in his warm and kindly interest for them.

Happy Paul! he had found an angel clothed in flesh and blood, who

was for ever to stand between him and his old hard, selfish nature.

Something of this thought passed through his mind, as his eye

glanced over the crowd in search of his beloved and beautiful one.

But she, on the other side, was quite near. He felt her soft

presence, and as he turned he caught the light of her loving smile.

Yes, she appreciated his self-sacrifice, and as he gazed upon her,

his delighted mind and satisfied heart felt a delicious sense of the

coming joy of the eternal future.

And the gay bridal passed away, but its light and its joy seemed to

overflow all the coming days. And Paul Cleves at length found

himself in that reality of which he had so often dreamed, and for

which he had so passionately yearned. Yes, he was in his own quiet

home, with Rosa by his side.

Months had passed; he had settled into the routine of his business,

and she in that of her domestic life; and now it was evening. Paul

had come to his home from the labours of the day, with a beautiful

hope in his heart; for to him his _home_ was the open door of

Heaven. He carried into it no hard, selfish thought, but entered it

with the certainty of blessedness, and peace, and love.

Rosa's heart was in her eyes, when it was time for Paul to come. How

carefully she foresaw his every want! And when she had prepared

everything that her active love could suggest to promote his

pleasure and comfort, then she took her place at the window to watch

for his coming. This evening watch was a beautiful time to the young

wife, for she said "Now, will I think of God, who made for me a

being to love." And at this time, it was always as if the great sun

of Heaven shone upon her.

And now, Paul passes the bridge, to which Rosa's eye can but just

reach. And--is it not wonderful?--Paul's figure is distinguished,

even if there be many others, in the dim twilight, crossing that

bridge. Ah! how well she knows his figure; to her it is the very

form of her love. She sees her whole thoughts and desires embodied

in him. And now, he passes the corner of a projecting building,

which for a time partially conceals him from her sight.

And how her delight increases as he approaches; the nearer he comes,

the more her heart opens to the Divine sun of Heaven. She feels as

if she could draw its radiations down upon him. She waits at the

window to catch his first glad look of recognition, then she flies

to the door, and no sooner is it opened and closed again, than Paul

clasps her to his heart, and presses upon her warm lips such kisses

as can join heart to heart.

The evening meal being over, then Paul turns to his peculiar

delight--to listening to Rosa's thoughts and feelings. All day, he

hears of worldly things; but with Rosa he hears of heavenly things.

Her heart feeds upon his thoughts, and assimilates them into new and

graceful forms of feminine beauty, and Paul sits and listens, full

of love and wonder, to his own thoughts, reproduced by the vivid

perceptive powers of his wife. For instance, this morning Paul was

reading in the Bible, as he always does to Rosa, before he leaves

for his business, and he paused on the words, "then Abraham gave up

the ghost, and died in a good old age, and full of years, and was

gathered to his people;" and he remarked that in this verse there

was a most striking affirmation of a future existence; for that

Abraham being gathered to "his people," must imply that these people

yet lived, or why should mention be made of that fact? And now, in

this beautiful evening hour, when Paul asked Rosa what she had been

thinking of all day, behold she had a whole Heaven-world to open

before him. With her arms clasped around his neck, and her clear,

bright eyes looking into his, she answered--

"Oh, Paul, I have been so happy all day. Do you remember what you

told me about Abraham being gathered to 'his people' this morning?

Well, I have been thinking about it, with such a delight in the

thought of those living people, to whom we will be gathered after

death. You left me with a beautiful thought, dear Paul, and it

seemed as if the angels gathered around me, and told me so many more

things, that I have written all my thoughts down."

"Where are they?" said Paul, feeling such a delight in the

possession of these written thoughts. And Rosa, drawing a paper from

her pocket, leans her cheek upon his head, and reads:--

"'Then Abraham gave up the ghost, and died in a good old age, and

full of years, and was gathered to his people.' How beautiful is

this verse of the holy Word of God! It seems to open to us a glimpse

of Heaven.

"After death, we are told, that he was 'gathered to his people.'

What a blessed rest and enjoyment comes over us, even in this world,

when we find ourselves with '_our_ people!'

"When congenial spirits meet, all strife and contention ceases; and

how each hastens to give to the other of the fulness of his thought

and feeling! Such moments in our life are as if Heaven had come down

to us, and fleeting and transient as the moment may be, its memory

lives with us as a heavenly light, fed from above; and when we

realize a continued existence of the harmony of thought and feeling

of an ever-flowing communication of pure sentiments, of kindly

affections, and of that delight in perceiving good and truth in

others, which makes them one with us,--then we have a glimpse of

that Heaven to which Abraham ascended, and in which he was 'gathered

to his people.'

"I love to read this verse, and imagine what the angels would think

if they could hear the words as I read them. And, truly, although

angels do not hear through our gross material atmosphere, can they

not _see_ the image of what we read in our minds? It is beautiful to

think that they can; and it is pleasant to conceive how an angelic,

perfectly spiritual mind would understand these words, 'And Abraham

gave up the ghost.' The angels would see that the spirit of Abraham

had laid off that gross material covering, which was not the real

man--only the appearance of a man. To angels, this body, which

appears to us so tangible, must be but the _ghost_ of a reality, for

to them the spirit is the reality.

"With us, in this outer existence, the laying off of the body is

death, that symbol of annihilation; it is as if our life ceased,

because we no longer grasp coarse material nature. But with the

angels, the laying off of the body is birth; it is the beginning of

a beautiful, new existence. The spirit then moves and acts in a

spiritual world of light and beauty. It no longer moves dimly in

that dark, material world which is as but a lifeless, ghostly

counterpart of the living, eternal spirit-world.

"Thus, it seems to me, the angels would understand the words 'And

Abraham gave up the ghost.' And the words which follow would have

for them a far different signification than to us. For with us 'old

age' presents the idea of the gradual wasting away and deterioration

of the powers of the body it is the shadow from the darkened future,

foretelling the end of life. But angels see the spirit advancing

from one state of wisdom to another, and to grow old in Heaven must

be altogether different from growing old on earth; and we can only

conceive of a spirit as growing for ever more active, intelligent,

and beautiful, from the heavenly wisdom and love in which it

develops. Imagine an angel, who has lived a thousand years in

Heaven; his faculties must have all this time been perfecting and

expanding in new powers and activities; whereas, on earth, the

material body, in 'threescore years and ten,' becomes so cumbrous

and heavy, so disorganized and worn out, that the spiritual body can

no longer act in it; hence 'an old man, full of years,' appears to

the angels as one whose spirit has passed through so many changes of

state; consequently has thought and loved so much that it has

increased in activity, life, and power, and thus spiritual

progression must be onward to an eternal youth.

"Does it not thrill the soul with the joy of a beautiful hope to

imagine Abraham, or any loving spirit, as rising from the material

to the spiritual world, 'full of years,' or states of wisdom and

love, for ever to grow young among his 'own people?'

"What to Abraham, now, were all of those flocks, and herds, and men

servants, and maid servants, that had made his earthly riches? They

were nothing more to him, in his new heavenly life, than that ghost

of a body 'he gave up.' The only riches he could carry with him

were his spiritual riches--his powers of thinking and feeling. All

of his outer life was given to him to develop these powers. All of

his natural surroundings were as a body to his natural thoughts and

feelings, in which they might grow to the full stature of a man,

that he might become 'full of years,' or states.

"And thus to us is given a natural world; and its duties and ties

are all important, for within the natural thought and feeling the

spiritual thought and feeling grows, as does the soul in its

material body. And like as the soul ever feels within itself a

separate existence, higher, and above that of its material

organization, so also does the spiritual thought and feeling realize

itself in its world of natural thoughts and affections; it sighs to

be gathered to its 'own people,' even while it loves its natural

ties. And, now and then, it has beautiful glimpses of the

consociation of spirits according to spiritual affinities.

"The love of the spirit, thus warmed into life, should descend into

its natural ties. Uncongenial brothers and sisters are often thrown

together and bound by the most indissoluble natural ties. We should

cultivate these natural affections and family ties as types of the

beautiful spiritual consociations of Heaven.

"Our spirit must grow in the constant exercise of natural

affections, or we can have no capacity for the spiritual. If in this

world we live morose, ungenial lives, crushing down the budding

affections, and the active thoughts springing from them, can we ever

be angels? No, assuredly not; for the angels are like the Heavenly

Father, in whose light of love they live. They delight to do good to

every created being, whether good or evil. They would not, and could

not recognise an evil person as a congenial spirit, but for the sake

of awakening in him some spark of a beautiful love, a disinterested

thought and affection; they would crown his whole life with loving

kindness and tender compassion. A true, heavenly angel could be

happy in the effort to do good to the most fallen human spirit; and

should not we imitate them, that we may be as one of them, one in

thought and feeling with them?

"To love!--love with our every power of being--is the only eternal

reality. From love springs thought; and thought and affection are

the flesh and blood of the spirit. The spirit grows upon what it

feeds, as does the body upon its material food; and to stint the

spirit of its food is a sad detriment to our after-life.

"A perception of the heavenly life should arouse us to a power of

loving every human being that we come in contact with, and make us

realize that to love and serve is the happiness of angels, and the

principle which conjoins men and angels to God."

When the last word was breathed, as it were, in a soft, holy

brightness, from Rosa's lips, Paul sealed them with a kiss. How much

he had learned from the perception of a mind that was so wholly

gentle and feminine, that its substance seemed all of love; of a

love that received the impression only of heavenly things!--while

he, with all of his brilliant talents and masculine understanding,

felt that his contact was with this hard outer world of material

facts and realities; and that oftentimes the very density of the

atmosphere in which his mind dwelt obscured and clouded the delicate

moral perceptions of his being.

But Rosa saw above him, and revealed to him those beautiful inner

truths that were to give form and character to his outer life. Yes;

Paul had uncongenial brothers and sisters, and his more refined

tastes and pursuits would have led him away from them. But Rosa,

with her womanly tact, and grace, and lovingness, led him out from

the mists of selfishness into the halo of a more genial and

beautiful light, and he felt his heart grow warm with an

inexpressible love.

"Ah, Rosa," he said, "there comes over me a new and more beautiful

perception of the holy marriage relation; and, like another Adam, I

realize that an Eve is created for me from my own breast. My thought

grows so _living_ in you, Rosa,--this morning, so unconsciously, was

taken from me but a dry rib, and now God grants to me this beautiful

Eve! Ah, Rosa, my heart is so full of gratitude for the beautiful

gift of your thoughts to me,--I realize so fully that you are a

'help meet for me.'"

Happy Rosa! She gazed into Paul's eyes, and caressed him with her

soft touches, and said--

"Oh, Paul, Paul! when I look at you, and think that some day you

will be an angel of Heaven, and that I will see your glorious,

spirit-beauty, my heart is so happy; for then I can feel, dear Paul,

that our love stretches far away beyond this world and this life;

and if I love you so much here, what will it be when I see you in

the beautiful heavenly light?"

Paul smiled.

"Your fancy is dreaming of what I will be; and can you not dream for

me of how bright and beautiful my Rosa will be in that heavenly

light?"

"Ah, yes," said Rosa, "that too is pleasant, for I love to be

beautiful, dear Paul, for your sake; and today I was thinking of how

happy I should make you--not I, but the Lord will make you happy,

dear Paul, through me; and is not that a beautiful thought--that it

is God loving us through each other?"

How holy love grew at once to Paul! though at first he did not see

this beautiful truth as clearly as did Rosa. But she went on, in her

loving way, and very soon she raised him into that inner sunshine in

which she dwelt, and then he saw it all clearly, for she said--

"You know, dear Paul, that we read in the Bible that 'God is a sun,

and that He is the fountain of life,' and thus all life flows from

Him into us, just as in the tiny flowers upon the earth comes the

warm living ray of the material sun, developing in them beautiful

colours and odours--so the life-ray from God fills us with warm

affections. We are but dead forms--the power and the life is in Him,

and if we were cut off from Him, how could we love each other?"

Paul was convinced, and did not fail to make Rosa realize the

Heaven-derived life and power that was in him. And as they kneeled

together in their evening devotions, and Paul clasped his wife in

his arms, how clearly he felt the influence of that Divine sun upon

his soul, filling it with a gushing, yearning tenderness for his

beloved and beautiful one; and how fervently he prayed that the

light might grow in her, and through her descend to him! Beautiful

are the prayers of such loving hearts, for the inner door of their

existence then opens, and the great King of Glory enters in, and

they are in the Lord, and the Lord is in them.

Yes, Paul had found a wife--not an external type or shadow of one to

mock and vex his soul with an unsatisfactory pretence, but a most

blessed and eternal reality. He was married not only in the sight of

men, but before God and the angels. And the heart of Rosa responded

to his mind as truly and unfailingly as his heart beat to the breath

of his lungs. She was as his inner life, and he felt himself strong

to guard and protect her as he would his own existence. She had

become one with him, and henceforth there was no separate existence

for these two.

So serenely and lovingly flowed their life in its interior light and

beauty, that cares and anxieties seemed scarce to touch their

states. True, these came to them in the guise of those calamities

and disappointments, that so often sweep as the destructive tornado

over the lower lives of the earth-loving children of men. But as

their affections were spiritual, they were not wounded by the

earth-sorrows. Their treasures were laid up _above_, where "moth and

rust doth not corrupt." Paul realized this when he saw Rosa hold her

dead baby in her arms and smile through her tears. And yet this was

her "little Paul" that she loved with such an intense delight and

devotion; because in him, all the day long, she saw that wonderful

life of God manifested in such a heavenly innocence and purity, as

in a tiny image of her own Paul. Yet, when the spirit of the child

was gone, she adorned the clay form in which it had dwelt, with such

loving care, and laid it in its little coffin, that her hand might

serve it to the very last, and then turned and rested her head in

the bosom of her husband as a wounded bird in its downy nest.

Paul's love seemed to lift her to the Heaven to which her baby had

gone; and when, after a few days, she urged him to leave her and go

to his office where his duties called him, Paul feared that she

would feel lonely, and would fain have stayed beside her. But she

said--

"No, dear Paul; I shall never be alone again; the spirit of the

child will be with me: it is so beautiful to have loved him on

earth, for now I can love him in Heaven." And so Paul left her, not

as one in a dark land of sorrow, but floating in a world of light

and love. And how eagerly he hastened back to his gentle, stricken

dove, and folded her to his heart, as though he would shield her

from all sorrow! But he scarce found a sorrow; she was all light and

joy, and said--

"Oh, Paul, I am so happy, for I have been thinking all day how happy

the angels must be to have my little Paul with them! It seemed to me

that I could see them adorning him with heavenly garments, and I

could see his happy smile; and I was glad that he was no longer

oppressed by his weak, earthly body. Yes, he is now a blessed angel

in Heaven, and is it not beautiful, dear Paul, that we have given an

angel to Heaven?"

Thus was the earth-sorrow turned to a heavenly joy. And though other

children were born to Paul and Rosa, yet their chief delight in them

was, that they were to be angels in Heaven. How often Rosa said,

"Paul, they are the children of the Lord--not ours; only we have the

loving work to teach them for Heaven."

Through Rosa, Paul realized this beautiful truth, and earnestly

strove to impart truth to the tender and impressible minds of his

children; he presented it to them in the most beautiful and

attractive forms. But it was Rosa that made them love it and live in

it; it was the teachings of the father that fell like "golden

grains" in the earth of their minds; but it was the gentle,

never-ceasing culture of the mother, that caused it to spring up

into the sunshine of Heaven, and bear the fruit of kind and loving

actions. When Paul saw this, he felt himself a man in the true sense

of the word; one, who could perform the highest uses in life,

without being clogged and thwarted by the want of concert in action

by his partner in life. Thus it is that a harmony of thought and

feeling produces a harmony in action.

And how elevated and noble became all the ends of Paul's life! It

was Rosa that elevated and refined them, and directed them

Heavenward. It was beautiful to see how she could draw down the

light of Heaven into all the outer life. Everything on earth seemed

to her but the symbol of something in Heaven. And when Paul once

gave her money, she thanked him with such a grateful warmth of

affection, that he laughingly asked her, if she loved money, that

she was so grateful for it. She answered, "Yes, Paul; I love your

money, because you have worked for it; and when you give it to me,

it seems to our outer life what truth is to our inner life. If you

gave me no truth, I could not adorn your inner life with love; and

if you gave me no money, I could not adorn your outer life with

good. I could not alone attain either money or truth. I should be

very poor, dear Paul, both spiritually and naturally, without you.

But you, as a husband, bring me truth and money. With the first I

call the angels around you; with the second I call earthly friends

around you; and thus, both your inner and outer life are made glad

and warm and genial."

And Paul knew this; for his home was beautiful,--a feminine taste

and tact reigned through it, and Rosa's diffusive charity made him

the centre of a circle to whom he dispensed not only earthly goods,

but the noble thoughts of his large understanding. And Paul realized

that while he guided all things by his wisdom, given to him of God,

Rosa was as the motive power to his existence. Her influence

pervaded his every thought and feeling, and while it made his life

upon earth so full and perfect, it allied him to Heaven; and thus he

held her in his house and heart as the Holy of holies.

Happy is the earth if it have one pair of such married ones, for

through such, the Spirit and life of God descend upon the earth, and

bind it to Heaven. But blessed, yea most blessed will be the earth

when it has many such, for then the heavenly sunshine will flood the

whole earth with its light and glory, and the Lord, who is the

centre and source of this glorious Sun, will see His image

reflected, in its mercy and tender beauty, in the lives of the

dwellers upon earth, even as it now is seen by Him in those of the

dwellers in Heaven, and thus will the "kingdom of God" come upon

earth "as it is in Heaven."

MARRIAGE.

IN the truest sense of the word, woman was created to be man's

comforter, a joyous helpmate in hours of sunshine, a soother, when

the clouds darken and the tempests howl around his head; then,

indeed, we perceive the divinely beautiful arrangement which

marriage enforces. Man in his wisdom, his rare mental endowments, is

little fitted to bear adversity. He bows before the blast, like the

sturdy pine which the wintry storm, sweeping past, cracks to its

very centre; while woman, as the frail reed, sways to and fro with

the fierce gust, then rises again triumphant towards the blackening

sky. Her affection, pure and steadfast, her unswerving faith and

devotion, sustain man in the hour of darkness, even as the trailing

weed supports and binds together the mighty walls of some mouldering

ruin.

Would you know why so many unhappy marriages seem to falsify the

truth that they are made in Heaven? Why we see daily diversity of

interests, and terrible contentions, eating the very life away, like

the ghoul in the Arabian tales, that prayed on human flesh? It is

that women are wrongly educated. Instructed, trained, to consider

matrimony the sole aim, the end of their existence, it matters not

to whom the Gordian knot is tied, so that the trousseau, wedding,

and eclat of bridehood follow. Soon the brightness of this false

aurora borealis fades from the conjugal horizon; and the truths of

life, divested of all romance, in bitterness and pain rise before

them. Unfitted for duties which must be fulfilled, physically

incapacitated for the responsibilities of life--mere school-girls in

many instances--the chains they have assumed become cables of iron,

whose heavy weight crushes into the heart, erasing for ever the

footprints of affection, and leaving instead the black marks of

deadly hate. Then comes the struggle for supremacy. Man in his might

and power asserts his will, while woman, unknowing her sin, unguided

by the divine light of love, neglects, abandons her home; then come

ruin, despair, and death. God help those mistaken ones, who have

thus hurried into union, ignorant of each other's prejudices,

opinions, and dispositions, when too late they discover there is

not, nor ever can be, affinity between souls wide as the poles

asunder.

Notwithstanding these miserable unions, we must consider marriage

divine in its origin, and alone calculated to make life blessed. Who

can imagine a more blissful state of existence than two united by

the law of God and love, mutually sustaining each other in the

jostlings of life; together weathering its storms, or basking

beneath its clear skies; hand in hand, lovingly, truthfully, they

pass onward. This is marriage as God instituted it, as it ever

should be, as Moore beautifully says--

"There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,

When two that are linked in one heavenly tie,

With heart never changing and brow never cold,

Love on through all ills, and love on till they die!"

To attain this bliss, this union of the soul, as well as of hands,

it is necessary that much should be changed. Girls must not think,

as soon as emancipated from nursery control, that they are qualified

to become wives and mothers. If woman would become the true

companion of man, she must not only cultivate her intellect, but

strive to control her impulses and subdue her temper, so that while

yielding gently, gracefully, to what appears, at the time, perhaps,

a harsh requirement, she may feel within the "calm which passeth all

understanding." There must be a mutual forbearance, no fierce

wrestling to rule. If there is to be submission, let the wife show

how meekly Omnipotent love suffereth all things. Purity, innocence,

and holy beauty invest such a love with a halo of glory.

Man, mistake not then thy mate, and hereafter, bitterly repenting,

exclaim at the curse of marriage. No, no, with prudent foresight,

avoid the ball-room belle--seek thy twin soul among the

pure-hearted, the meek, the true. Like must mate with like; the

kingly eagle pairs not with the owl, nor the lion with the jackal.

Neither must woman rush blindly, heedlessly, into the noose,

fancying the sunny hues, the lightning glances of her first admirer,

true prismatic colours. She must first chemically analyze them to be

sure they are not reflected light alone, from her own imagination.

That frightsome word to many, "old maid," ought not to exercise any

influence over her firmly balanced mind; better far, however, lead a

single life, than form a sinful alliance, that can only result in

misery and wretchedness. Some of the purest and best women that ever

lived, have belonged to that much decried, contemned sisterhood.

Wed not, merely to fly from an opprobrious epithet; assume not the

holy name of wife, to one who brings trueness of heart, wealth of

affection, whilst you have nought to offer in return but cold

respect. Your first love already lavished on another: believe me,

respect, esteem, are but poor, weak talismans to ward off life's

trials. Rise superior to all puerile fancies; bear nobly the odium

of old maidism, if such be thy fate, and if, like Sir Walter Scott's

lovely creation, Rebecca, you are separated by an impassable gulf

from your heart's chosen, or have met and suffered by the false and

treacherous, take not any chance Waverley who may cross your path.

Like the high-souled Jewess, resolve to live on singly, and strive

with the means God has given you, to benefit, to comfort your

suffering sisters.

Would man and woman give to this all-important subject, so vital to

their life-long happiness, the consideration it requires, we should

not so often meet with men broken in spirit--_memento mori_ legibly

written on their countenances; with women prematurely old--unloving

wives, careless husbands. Meditate long before you assume ties to

endure to your life's end, mayhaps to eternity. Pause even on the

altar-stone, if only there thou seest thy error; for a union of

hands, without hearts, is a sin against high heaven. Remember,

"There are two angels that attend, unseen;

Each one of us; and in great books record

Our good and evil deeds. He who writes down

The good ones, after every action, closes

His volume; and ascends with it to God;

_The other keeps his dreadful day-book open_

_Till sunset, that we may repent; which doing,_

_The record of the action fades away,_

_And leaves a line of white across the page."_

THE BRIDE'S SISTER.

OH, sister, darling, though I smile, the tears are in my heart,

And I will strive to keep them there, or hide them if they start;

I know you've seen our mother's glance ofttimes so full of woe,

The grief-sob rises to the lips that bid her first-born go.

It is not that she doubts his love to whom thou'st given thine,--

The fear that he may coldly look upon his clasping vine;

But, oh, she feels however loved and cherished as his wife,

Though calm her lily may float down upon the stream of life;

Yet, by her own glad married years, she knows that clouds will stray,

And tears will sometimes fill thy cup, though kissed by love away;

And she will not be near her flower to lay it on her breast--

'Tis thus--'tis thus the young birds fly, and leave the lonely nest!

Oh, sister, darling, I shall miss thy footfall on the stair,

Beside my own, when good-words have followed good-night prayer;

And miss thee from our pleasant room, and miss thee when I sleep,

And feel no more thy twining arms and soft breath on my cheek.

And I shall gaze with tearful eyes upon thy vacant chair--

Sweet sister, wherefore, wherefore go, 'tis more than I can bear!

Forgive me, Lizzie, do not weep--I'm strong again, and calm,

"Our Father" for my aching heart will send a spirit-balm.

Now let me bind this snowy veil amid thy silken hair,

The white moss-rose and orange buds upon thy bosom fair;

How beautiful you are to-night! Does love such charms impart?

An angel's wing methinks has stirred the waters of your heart;

So holy seem its outlets blue where sparkle yet the tears,

Like stars that tremble in the sky when not a cloud appears.

Art ready now? The evening wanes; the guests will soon be here,

And the glad bridegroom waits his own. God bless thee, sister dear!

LOVE vs. HEALTH.

ABOUT a mile from one of the Berkshire villages, and separated from

it by the Housatonic, is one of the loveliest sites in all our old

county. It is on an exhausted farm of rocky, irregular, grazing

ground, with a meadow of rich alluvial soil. The river, which so

nearly surrounds it as to make it a peninsula "in little," doubles

around a narrow tongue of land, called the "ox-bow"--a bit of the

meadow so smooth, so fantastic in its shape, so secluded, so adorned

by its fringe of willows, clematises, grape-vines, and all our

water-loving shrubs, that it suggests to every one, who ever read a

fairy tale, a scene for the revels of elves and fairies. Yet no

Oberon--no Titania dwelt there; but long ago, where there are now

some ruinous remains of old houses, and an uncouth new one, stood

the first frame house of the lower valley of the Housatonic. It was

inhabited by the last Indian who maintained the dignity of a Chief,

and from him passed to the first missionary to the tribe. There

Kirkland, the late honoured President of Harvard College, was born,

and there his genial and generous nature received its first and

ineffaceable impressions. Tenants, unknown to fame, succeeded the

missionary.

The Indian dwelling fell to decay; and the property has now passed

into the bands of a poet, who, rumour says, purposes transforming it

to a villa, and whose occupancy will give to it a new consecration.

Just before its final high destiny was revealed, there dwelt there a

rustic pair, who found out, rather late in life, that Heaven had

decreed they should wear together the conjugal yoke. That Heaven had

decreed it no one could doubt who saw how well it fitted, and how

well they drew together.

They had one child--a late blossom, and cherished as such. Little

Mary Marvel would have been spoiled, but there was nothing to spoil

her. Love is the element of life, and in an atmosphere of love she

lived. Her parents were people of good sense--upright and simple in

their habits, with no theories, nor prejudices, ambitions, or

corruptions, to turn the child from the inspirations of Heaven, with

which she began her innocent life.

When little Mary Marvel came to be seven years old, it was a matter

of serious consideration how she was to be got to the district

school on "the plain" (the common designation of the broad village

street), full a mile from the Marvels secluded residence. Mrs.

Marvel was far better qualified than the teachers of the said

school, to direct the literary training of her child. She was a

strong-minded woman, and a reader of all the books she could

compass. But she had the in-door farm-work to do--cheese to make,

butter to churn, &c. and after little Mary had learned to read and

spell, she must be sent to school for the more elaborate processes

of learning--arithmetic, geography, &c.

"Now, Julius Hasen," said Marvel to his only neighbour's son, "don't

you want to call, as you go by, days, with your little sister, and

take our Mary to school? I guess she won't be a trouble. She could

go alone; but, somehow, mother and I shall feel easier--as the river

is to pass, &c.--if you are willing."

A kind boy was Julius; and, without hesitation, he promised to take

Marvel's treasure under his convoy. And, for the two years

following, whenever the district school was in operation, Julius

might be seen conducting the two little girls down the hill that

leads to the bridge. At the bridge they loitered. Its charm was

felt, but indefinable. It was a spell upon their senses; they would

look up and down the sparkling stream till it winded far away from

sight, and at their own pretty faces, that smiled again to them, and

at Julius skittering the stones along the water, (a magical rustic

art!) That old bridge was a point of sight for pictures, lovelier

than Claude painted. For many a year, the old lingered there, to

recall the poetry of their earlier days; lovers, to watch the rising

and setting of many a star, and children to play out their

"noon-times" and twilights. Heaven forgive those who replaced it

with a dark, dirty, covered, barn-like thing of bad odour in every

sense! The worst kind of barbarians, those, who make war--not upon

life, but upon the life of life--its innocent pleasures!

But, we loiter with the children, when we should go on with them

through the narrow lane intersecting broad, rich meadows, and shaded

by pollard willows, which form living and growing posts for the

prettiest of our northern fences, and round the turn by the old

Indian burying-ground. Now, having come to "_the plain_," they pass

the solemn precincts of the village Church, and that burying-ground

where, since the Indian left his dead with us, generations of their

successors are already lain. And now they enter the wide village

street, wide as it is, shaded and embowered by dense maples and

wide-stretching elms; and enlivened with neatly-trimmed court-yards

and flower-gardens, It was a pleasant walk, and its sweet influences

bound these young people's hearts together. We are not telling a

love-story, and do not mean to intimate that this was the beginning

of one--though we have heard of the seeds nature implants

germinating at as early a period as this, and we remember a boy of

six years old who, on being reproved by his mother for having kept

his book open at one place, and his eye fixed on it for half an

hour, replied, with touching frankness--

"Mother, I can see nothing there but Caroline Mitchell! Caroline

Mitchell!"

Little Mary Marvel had no other sentiment for Julius than his sister

had. She thought him the kindest and the best; and much as she

reverenced the village pedagogues, she thought Julius's learning

profounder than theirs, for he told them stories from the Arabian

Nights--taught them the traditions of Monument Mountain--made them

learn by heart the poetry that has immortalized them, and performed

other miracles of learning and teaching, to which the schoolmaster

didn't approach!

Children's judgments are formed on singular premises, but they are

usually just conclusions. Julius was an extraordinary boy, and,

fortunately, he was selected on that account, and not because he was

sickly and could do nothing else (not uncommon grounds for this

election), for a liberal education. Strong of heart and strong in

body, he succeeded in everything, and without being a charge to his

father. He went through college--was graduated with honour--studied

law--and, when Mary Marvel was about nineteen, he came home from his

residence in one of our thriving Western cities, for a vacation in

his full legal business.

His first visit was to the Marvels, where he was received with as

much warmth as in his father's home. As he left the house, he said

to his sister Anne, who was with him--

"How shockingly poor Mary is looking!"

"Shockingly! Why, I expected you would say she was so pretty!"

"Pretty! My dear Anne, the roses on your cheek are worth all the

beauty that is left in her pale face. What have they done to her?

When you were children, she was at robust, round little thing--and

so strong and cheerful--you could hear her voice half a mile,

ringing like a bell; and now it's 'Hark from the tomb a doleful

sound!' When I last saw her--let me see--four years ago--she

was--not perhaps a Hebe--but a wholesome-looking girl."

"Julius!--what an expression!"

"Well, my dear, it conveys my meaning, and, therefore, is a good

expression. What has been the matter? Has she had a fever? Is she

diseased?"

"Julius! No! Is that the way the Western people talk about young

ladies?--Mary is in poor health--rather delicate; but she does not

look so different from the rest of our girls--I, you know, am an

exception."

"Thank Heaven, you are, my dear Anne, and thank our dear, sensible

mother, who understands the agents and means of health."

"But Mary's mother is a sensible woman too."

"Not in her treatment of Mary, I am sure. Tell me how she lives.

What has she been about since I was here?"

"Why, soon after you went away, you know, I wrote to you that she

had gone to the--School. You know her parents are willing to do

everything for her--and Mary was very ambitious. They are hard

students at that school. Mary told me she studied from eight to ten

hours a day. She always got sick before examination, and had to send

home for lots of pills. I remember Mrs. Marvel once sending her four

boxes of Brandreth's at a time. But she took the first honours. At

the end of her first term, she came home, looking, as you say, as if

she had had a fever."

"And they sent her back?"

"Why, yes, certainly--term after term--for two years. You know Mary

was always persevering; and so was her mother. And now they have

their reward. There is not a girl anywhere who surpasses Mary for

scholarship."

"Truly, they have their reward--infatuated people!" murmured Hasen.

"Have they taken any measures to restore her health, Anne?"

"Oh, yes. Mrs. Marvel does not permit her to do any hard work. She

does not even let her sweep her own room; they keep a domestic, you

know; and, last winter, she had an air-tight stove in her room, and

it was kept constantly warm, day and night. The draft was opened

early; and Mrs. Marvel let Mary remain in bed as long as she

pleased; and, feeling weak, she seldom was inclined to rise before

nine or ten."

"Go on, Anne. What other sanitary measures were pursued?"

"Just such as we all take, when we are ill. She doctors, if she is

more unwell than usual; and she rides out almost every pleasant day.

There is nothing they won't do for her. There is no kind of pie or

cake, sweetmeat or custard, that Mrs. Marvel does not make to tempt

her appetite. If she wants to go to 'the plain,' Mr. Marvel

harnesses, and drives over. You know, father would think it

ridiculous to do it for me."

"Worse than ridiculous, Anne!--What does the poor girl do? How does

she amuse herself?"

"I do believe, Julius, you are interested in Mary Marvel!"

"I am. I was always curious as to the different modes of suicide

people adopt. Has she any occupation--any pleasure?"

"Oh, yes; she reads for ever, and studies; she is studying German

now."

"Poor Mary!"

"What in the world makes you pity Mary, Julius?"

"Because, Anne, she hag been deprived of nature's best

gift--defrauded of her inheritance: a sound constitution from

temperate, active parents. One may have all the gifts, graces,

charms, accomplishments, under Heaven, and, if they have not health,

of what use or enjoyment are they? If that little, frail body of

Mary Marvel's contained all that I have enumerated, it would be just

the reverse of Pandora's box--having every good, but one curse that

infected all."

"Dear Julius, I cannot bear to hear you talk so of Mary. I expected

you would like her so much. I--I--hoped--. She is so pretty, so

Lovely--she is fit for Heaven."

"She may be, Anne,--I do not doubt it; but she is very unfit for

earth. What has her good, devoted, sensible, well-informed mother

been about? If Mary had been taught the laws of health, and obeyed

them, it would have been worth infinitely more to her than all she

has got at your famous boarding-school, Ignorance of these laws is

culpable in the mothers--disastrous, fatal to the daughters. It is a

_disgrace_ to our people. The young women now coming on, will be as

nervous, as weak, as wretched, as their unhappy mothers--languishing

embodiments of diseases--mementos of doctors and pill-boxes,

dragging out life in air-tight rooms, religiously struggling to

perform their duties, and dying before they have half finished the

allotted term of life. They have no life--no true enjoyment of

life!"

"What a tirade, Julius! Any one would think you were a cross old

bachelor!"

"On the contrary, my dear Anne, it is because I am a young bachelor

and desire not to be a much older one, that I am so earnest on this

subject. I have been travelling now for two months in rail-cars and

steamers, and I could fill a medical journal with cases of young

women, married and single, whom I have met from town and country,

with every ill that flesh is heir to. I have been an involuntary

auditor of their charming little confidences of 'chronic headaches,'

nervous feelings,' 'weak-backs,' 'neuralgia,' and Heaven knows what

all!"

"Oh, Julius! Julius!"

"It is true, Anne. And their whole care is, gentle and simple, to

avoid the air; never to walk when they can ride; never to use cold

water when they can get warm; never to eat bread when they can get

cake, and so on, and so on, through the chapter. In the matter of

eating and drinking, and such little garnitures as smoking and

chewing, the men are worse. Fortunately, their occupations save most

of them from the invalidism of the women. You think Mary Marvel

beautiful?"

"No--not beautiful, perhaps,--but very, very pretty, and so

loveable!"

"Well," rejoined Julius, coldly, after some hesitation, "Mary is

pretty; her eye is beautiful; her whole face intelligent, but so

pale, so thin--her lips so colourless--her hands so transparent,

that I cannot look at her with any pleasure. I declare to you, Anne,

when I see a woman with a lively eye, a clear, healthy skin, that

shows the air of Heaven visits it daily--it may be, roughly--if it

pleases, Heaven to roughen the day,--an elastic, vigorous step, and

a strong, cheerful voice, I am ready to fall down and do her

homage!"

Julius Hasen was sincere and zealous in his theory, but he is not

the first man whose theories Love has overthrown. "Love laughs at

locksmiths." and mischievously mocks at the stoutest bars and bolts

of resolution.

Hasen passed the summer in his native town. He renewed his intimacy

with his old neighbours. He perceived in Mary graces and qualities

that made him feel the heavenly and forget the earthly; and, in

spite of his wise, well-considered resolution, in three months he

had impressed on her "pale cheek" the kiss of betrothal, and slipt

an the third finger of her "transparent hand," the "engagement

ring!"

But, we must do Julius Hasen justice. When his laughing sister

rallied him on his inconsistency, he said--

"You are right, Anne; but I adhere to my text, though I must now

uphold it as a beacon--not as an example. I must say with the

Turk--'It was written.'"

He was true to himself and true to his wife; and, at the risk of

shocking our young lady readers, we must betray that, after the

wedding-ring, Hasen's first gift to Mary was--"The Principles of

Physiology applied to the Preservation of Health, and the

Improvement of Physical and Mental Education; by Andrew Combe, M.

D." This book (which should be studied by every Mother in the United

States) he accompanied by a solemn adjuration, that she would study

and apply it. He did not stop here. After his marriage, he bought

two riding-horses--mounted his bride on one and himself on the

other, and thus performed the greater part of the journey to

Indiana--only taking a rail-car for convenience, or a steamer for

repose!

And, arrived at his Western home, and with the hearty acquiescence

of his wife, who only needed to know the right, to pursue it, she

began a physical life in obedience to the laws laid down by the said

oracle, Andrew Combe.

Last fall, six years since his marriage, he brought his wife and two

children to visit his Eastern friends. In reply to compliments on

all hands, on his wife's improved health and beauty, he laughingly

proposed to build, on the site of the old Indian dwelling, a

quadrangular Temple, dedicated to the Four Ministers to Health--Air,

Water, Exercise, and Regimen!

THE YOUNG HOUSEKEEPER.

"I HOPE, Emily, that you don't think I expect you to work--to spend

the bright morning hours in the kitchen, when we commence keeping

house," said George Brenton to his young wife.

This remark was made as he left the room, in reply to something

which Emily had been saying relative to their projected plan of

housekeeping. Mrs. Anderson, her mother, entered the parlour at one

door, as her son-in-law left it by another. "And I hope," said she,

"that, for your own sake as well as your husband's, you will not

think of fulfilling his expectations--that is, strictly speaking."

"And why not? George is always pleased to have any suggestion of his

attended to, however indirectly it may be made."

"He would not be pleased, if on trial it should compromise any of

his customary enjoyments. George's income, as yet, is not sufficient

to authorize you to keep more than one girl, who must be the

maid-of-all-work; and even if you should be so fortunate as to

procure one who understands the different kinds of household labour,

there will be times when it will be necessary for you to perform

some part of it yourself--much more to superintend it."

"But, mother, you know how I always hated the kitchen."

"This is a dislike which necessity will, or at least ought to

overcome. You have never felt that there was much responsibility

attached to the performance of such household tasks as I have always

required of you, and in truth there never has been, as I could

always have very well dispensed with them. I required them for your

own good, rather than my own. Before habits of industry are formed,

necessity is the only thing which will overcome our natural

propensity to indulge in indolence."

"I am sure that I am not indolent. I always have my music,

embroidery, or reading to attend to. As to being chained down to

household drudgery, I cannot think of it, and I am certain that it

would be as much against George's wishes as mine."

"It would undoubtedly be gratifying to him, whenever he had an hour

or two, which he could spend at home, to see you tastefully dressed,

and to have you at leisure so as to devote your time wholly to him."

"You make George out to be extremely selfish, which I am sure he is

not."

"No, not more so than we all are."

"Why, mother, I am sure you are not selfish. You are always ready to

sacrifice your own enjoyment for the sake of promoting that of

others."

"I have been subjected to a longer course of discipline, than either

you or George. I have lived long enough to know, that the true

secret of making ourselves happy is to endeavour to make others so.

This is, at least, the case with all those whose finer sensibilities

have not been blunted, or, more properly speaking, have been rightly

cultivated. But it will do no good to enter into a metaphysical

discussion of the subject. The course proper to be pursued by a

woman, whose husband's income is rather limited, appears to me

perfectly plain."

"The course proper for me to pursue, is that which will best please

George."

"Certainly, and that is precisely what I would advise you to do; but

I don't think that literally acting upon this suggestion of his,

respecting domestic duties, will please him for any great length of

time."

Emily made no reply to this. She had decided in her own mind to obey

the wishes of George, more especially as they exactly accorded with

her own.

A few weeks from the time of the foregoing conversation, George and

Emily Brenton commenced housekeeping. Their house was neatly and

handsomely furnished, and through the influence of Emily's mother,

Experience Breck, a girl thirty-five years old, who well understood

domestic, labour, undertook to perform the duties of chambermaid,

laundress, and cook, for what all concerned considered a reasonable

compensation.

Their home, to make use of George's words, the first time he saw

Emily's parents after everything was satisfactorily arranged, "was a

little paradise." Pedy (the diminutive for Experience) was the best

of cooks and clear-starchers, and never had he tasted such savory

soups, and meat roasted so exactly to a turn, or such puddings and

such pastry; and never had it been his fortune to wear shirt-bosoms

and collars, which so completely emulated the drifted snow.

"And Emily too--she was the dearest and most cheerful of wives, and

so bright an atmosphere always surrounded her, that one might almost

imagine that she was a bundle of animated sunbeams. She was always

ready to sing and play to him, or to listen while he read to her

from some favourite author."

This eulogy was succeeded by an invitation to Mr. and Mrs. Anderson

to dine with them the ensuing day, that they might judge for

themselves that he did not colour the picture of their domestic

bliss too highly.

The invitation was accepted; and Emily could not help taking her

mother aside to tell her that since they saw each other, she had

done nothing but read and play on the beautiful harp her uncle gave

her, except that when she grew tired of these, she sewed a little;

"and yet," she added, with a bright smile, "George has never given

me, an unkind look--much more an unkind word."

"And you have been housekeeping four whole days."

"Eight days, mother!"

"It is only four days since everything was arranged, and you

commenced talking your meals regularly at home."

"I know, but then if we can live happily four days, we can four

years."

"Yes, if Pedy could always live with you."

"She appears to be quite well satisfied with her situation," was

Emily's answer.

There was one at work, however, though neither he nor they realized

it, who was sapping their happiness at its very foundation. This was

an honest, intelligent farmer, by the name of Simon Lundley, who one

day, when in the city, happened to overhear the praises bestowed on

Pedy Breck by George Brenton, touching her excellence as a cook and

clear-starcher.

"If," thought he, "she could do these well, the same good judgment

would direct her how to excel in making butter and cheese; and as

his mother, who kept his house, was growing old and infirm, it

appeared to him that it would be convenient for her to have some

person to assist her in the performance of these and other onerous

duties belonging to the in-door work of a farm. He had seen Pedy a

few months previous, when on a visit to a sister who resided in the

neighbourhood of his home, and remembered of having thought it

strange that she had never married as well as her sister, as she was

remarkably good-looking." Simon Lundley, therefore, the next Sunday,

about sunset, arrayed in a suit of substantial blue broadcloth,

boldly presented himself at George Brenton's front door, and

inquired if Miss Breck was at home. It proved to be a fortunate, as

well as a bold step. Pedy recognised him at once, and had a kind of

a vague prescience as to the object of his visit, or such might have

been the inference drawn from the deep crimson which suddenly

suffused her cheeks.

From that time he visited her regularly every Sunday, and it was

soon decided that they should be married in season to enable her to

pack the fall butter. This decision she, for sometime, delayed to

communicate to Emily, from sheer bashfulness. She could not, she

said, when she at last had wrought herself up to what appeared to

her the very pinnacle of boldness, make up her mind to tell her

before, for the life of her, but then, she did suppose that Simon

kind of had her promise that she would be married to him in just

three weeks from the next Sunday.

Emily immediately called on her mother to communicate to her the

melancholy information. Mrs. Anderson saw that these were what might

be termed "minor trials," for her daughter in prospective. She hoped

that she would be discreet enough not to allow them to be magnified

into what might appropriately be called major trials.

"Don't you think, mother," said Emily, "that you can manage to find,

me a girl as good as Pedy?"

"I think it will be impossible. Pedy is a kind of _rara avis_ in all

that appertains to housekeeping. She excels in everything. You will

be obliged now to limit your expectations. If you can obtain a girl

who knows how to cook well, it is the best you can hope to do. Even

that, I am afraid, will prove very difficult."

"It appears to me that if girls who are obliged to work for a living

understood what was for their good, they would be at more pains to

inform themselves relative to what is expected of them."

"A great difficulty lies in the want of competent teachers. Such

things are not known by instinct; and experience, though a good, is

a slow teacher."

"If I have got to stay in the kitchen all the time to teach a girl,

I may as well do the work myself."

"I will do the best I can for you, but you must not expect me to

find you a girl who will fill Pedy's place, and do not, for your own

sake--leaving George out of the question--be too afraid of the

kitchen."

Mrs. Anderson fulfilled the promise she made her daughter. She did

her best, and felt tolerably well satisfied at being able to find a

girl who had done the cooking in a large family in the country for

more than a year.

Pedy Breck left Mrs. Brenton on Saturday after tea, and Deborah

Leach took her place on Monday morning. Emily gave her a few general

directions and as usual, seated herself in the parlour with her

books, her music, and her embroidery, as resources against ennui.

Deborah, also, was abundantly provided with the means to keep her

out of idleness. She said to herself, after receiving the directions

from Emily, that she "guessed there wouldn't be time for much grass

to grow under her feet that day."

Deborah did not possess Pedy's "sleight" at doing housework, and she

felt a little discouraged when she found that, besides washing and

preparing the dinner, she would be obliged to wash the dishes and do

the chamber-work.

"I should think that she might take care of her own chamber," she

said to herself; "and I don't think it would hurt her delicate hands

a great deal, even if she should wash the dishes."

In consideration of its being washing-day, George had sent home

beefsteak for dinner, and Pedy, the same as she always did, had made

some pies on Saturday, and placed them in the refrigerator for

Sunday and Monday. Deborah had not been much accustomed to broiling

steaks, as the family where she had been living considered it more

economical, when butter brought such a high price, to fry them with

slices of pork; but knowing the celebrity of her predecessor in

everything pertaining to the culinary art, she exerted her skill to

the utmost, and succeeded in doing them very well, and in tolerable

season, so that George, after he came home, had to wait for dinner

only ten minutes, which passed away very quickly, as time always did

when he was with Emily.

Deborah's first attempt at pastry was a decided failure. It was

plain that she had never been initiated into the mysteries of making

puff paste, nor did she, when telling over what she called her

grievances to a friend, think it worth while, she said, "to _pomper_

the appetite by making pies sweet as sugar itself, when there were

thousands of poor souls in the world that would jump at a piece of

pie a good deal sourer than what Mr. Brenton and his idle, delicate

wife pretended wasn't fit to eat. She was sure that she put two

heapin' spoonfuls of sugar into the gooseberry pie, and half as much

into the apple pie, and Miss Brenton might make her fruit pies, as

she called 'em, herself the next time, for 'twas a privilege she

didn't covet by no means."

But Mrs. Brenton did not covet the privilege more than she did, and

after a great show of firmness on the subject, declaring to herself

and her intimate friend that she never would give up, and that there

was no use talkin' about it, she concluded she would try again, if

Mrs. Brenton would stand right at her elbow and tell her the exact

quantity of _ingredences_ she must put into each pie.

"I s'pose you calc'late to do the ironing?" she said to Emily, on

Saturday morning.

"No, I am sure I don't," was Emily's reply. "I thought you had done

it."

"Well, I havn't--I expected that you were agoing to do it. Miss

Hodges, the woman I lived with before I came here, always did it,

and she was the richest and genteelest woman in the place. She used

to say there wasn't that girl on the face of the earth, that she

would trust to starch and iron her fine linens and muslins, and

laces."

Emily merely said that she was not in the habit of doing such things

herself, and that she should expect her to do them.

Deborah went about her task very unwillingly. She told Emily that

she knew she should sp'ile the whole lot, and she proved a true

prophetess. The shirt-bosoms and collars bore indisputable evidence

that she was not stinted for fuel, the hot flat-iron having left its

full impress upon some, while "Charcoal Sketches," of a kind never

dreamed of by Neal, were conspicuous on others. As for the muslins

and laces, being of a frailer fabric, they gave way beneath the

vigorous treatment to which they were subjected, and exhibited mere

wrecks of their former selves. Not a single article was wearable

which had passed through the severe ordeal of being starched and

ironed by Deborah, and what was still more lamentable, many of them

could not even, like an antique painting or statue, be restored.

"This is too bad," said George, as he contemplated his soiled and

scorched linen. "It appears to me, Emily, that you might have seen

what the girl was about before she spoiled the whole."

"How could I," said Emily, "when she was in the kitchen and I was in

the parlour--hem-stitching your linen handkerchiefs? Pedy never

needed any overseeing."

Some linen of a coarser texture which had passed through Pedy's

hands, was obliged to be resorted to on the present occasion, while

Emily concealed her chagrin from George on account of the

destruction of some Brussels lace, the gift of the same generous

uncle who gave her the harp. She silently made up her mind that for

the future she would not trust such articles to the unskilful

Deborah.

Hitherto George, who probably had recalled to mind what he had said

to Emily previous to commencing housekeeping, had never, except in a

playful manner, alluded to the ill-dressed food which daily made its

appearance on the table. To-day, however, when they returned from

church and sat down to dinner, probably owing to being a little sore

on the subject of the soiled linen, Emily saw him knit his brows in

rather a portentous manner, while, in no very amiable tone of voice,

he said--

"It appears to me that this girl don't understand how to do anything

as it ought to be done--not even to boil a piece of corned beef.

This is as salt as the ocean, and hard as a flint. If the girl has

common sense, I am sure she could do better if you would give her a

few directions. I confess that I am tired of eating ill-cooked meat,

half-done vegetables, and heavy bread, and of drinking a certain

muddy decoction, dignified by the name of coffee."

"Such food is, of course, no more palatable to me than to you; but I

thought, by what I have heard you stay, that you would not be

pleased when you came home to dinner to see me with a flushed face

and in an unbecoming dress, which must be the case if I undertake to

do the principal part of the cooking myself, and to superintend the

whole."

"We must try and get some one that will do better," said George.

"I don't think that it will be of any use," replied Emily. "We may

as well try her another week."

The truth was, she had had, for several days, a dim perception that

the indolence she had indulged in since released from her mother's

influence, was not half so delightful as she had anticipated. Her

physical and mental energies had remained so entirely quiescent,

that she began to think it would be rather a luxury to be a little

fatigued. She moreover half suspected that Deborah might, and would

do better, if not embarrassed with that feeling of hurry and

perplexity, which so many of what in colloquial phrase are sometimes

termed slow-moulded people, experience when obliged to divide their

attention among a variety of objects.

Monday morning, Emily determined that she would turn over a new

leaf: and a bright leaf it proved to be. She told Deborah, that for

the future she should take care of her own room, prepare the

dessert, and starch and iron all the nicer articles.

"I am glad to hear you say so, ma'am, I am sure," said Deborah, "for

when I have to keep going from one thing to another, my head spins

around like a top, and I can't do a single thing as it ought to be

done. How Pedy Breck got along so smooth and slick with the work, I

don't know, nor never shall. I can make as good light bread as ever

was--I won't give up to anybody--but when I made the last, my mind

was all stirred up with a puddin'-stick as 'twere, and I couldn't

remember whether I put any yeast into it or not."

From this time all went well. Deborah, in her slow way, proved to be

a treasure. She told Emily that, "Give her time, nobody could beat

her at a boiled dish, apple-dumplings, or a loaf of bread," and the

result proved that her words were no vain boast.

"I have concluded to follow your advice," said Emily, the next time

she saw her mother, "and look into the kitchen occasionally."

"I am glad to hear it, and I have no doubt that you will enjoy

yourself much better for it."

"I am certain that I shall--I do already. You can't imagine what

queer, fretful-looking lines were beginning to show themselves on

George's brow. He would have looked old enough for a grandfather in

a few years, if I had gone on trying to realize the hope he

expressed, that I would abstain from the performance of all

household tasks. And I should have looked quite as old as he, I

suspect, for I believe that the consciousness of neglected duties is

one of the heaviest burdens which can be borne."

TO AN ABSENT WIFE.

'TIS Morn:--the sea breeze seems to bring

Joy, health, and freshness on its wing;

Bright flowers, to me all strange and new,

Are glittering in the early dew,

And perfumes rise from every grove,

As incense to the clouds that move

Like spirits o'er yon welkin clear,--

_But I am sad--thou are not here!_

'Tis Noon:--a calm, unbroken sleep

Is on the blue waves of the deep;

A soft haze, like a fairy dream,

Is floating over wood and stream;

And many a broad magnolia flower,

Within its shadowy woodland bower,

Is gleaming like a lovely star,--

But I am sad--_thou art afar!_

'Tis Eve:--on earth the sunset skies

Are painting their own Eden dyes;

The stars come down and trembling glow,

Like blossoms in the waves below;

And like an unseen sprite, the breeze

Seems lingering midst these orange trees,

Breathing its music round the spot,--

But I am sad--_I see thee not!_

'Tis Midnight:--with a soothing spell

The far-off tones of ocean swell--

Soft as a mother's cadence mild,

Low bending o'er her sleeping child;

And on each wandering breeze are heard

The rich notes of the mocking bird,

In many a wild and wondrous lay,--

But I am sad--_thou art away!_

I sink in dreams:--low, sweet, and clear,

Thy own dear voice is in my ear:--

Around my cheek thy tresses twine--

Thy own loved hand is clasped in mine,

Thy own soft lip to mine is pressed--

Thy head is pillowed on my breast;

Oh, I have all my heart holds dear,

_And I am happy--thou art here!_

THE WORD OF PRAISE.

A LITTLE thing is a sunbeam--a very little thing. It streams through

our casement, making the cheerful room still more cheerful; and yet

so accustomed are we to its presence, that we notice it not, and

heed not its exhilarating effect.

But its absence would be quickly seen and felt. The unfortunate

prisoner in his dimly-lighted cell would hail with rapture that

blessed stream of light; and the scarcely less imprisoned inmates of

the more obscure streets of our crowded cities would welcome it as a

messenger from Heaven.

It is even thus with the sunbeams of the human heart. Trifling

things they are in themselves, for the heart is wonderfully

constituted, and it vibrates to the slightest touch; but without

them life is a blank--all seems cold and lifeless as the marble slab

which marks the spot where the departed loved one lies.

A gloomy home was that of Henry Howard, and yet all the elements of

human happiness seemed to be there. Wealth sufficient to secure all

the comforts and many of the luxuries of life, was theirs, and both

husband and wife were regarded by their numerous acquaintances as

exceedingly intelligent and estimable people--and so indeed they

were. The light tread of childhood was not wanting in their home,

although its merry laugh was seldom heard, for the little children

seemed to possess a gravity beyond their years, and that glad

joyousness which it is so delightful to witness in infancy, was with

them seldom or never visible.

Life's sunbeams seemed strangely wanting, yet the why and wherefore

was to the casual observer an unfathomable mystery.

Years before, that wife and mother had left the home of her

childhood a happy and trusting bride. Scarcely seventeen, the love

which she had bestowed upon him who was now her husband, was the

first pure affections of her virgin heart, and in many respects he

was worthy of her love, and, as far as was in his nature, returned

it. Her senior by many years, he was possessed of high moral

principles, good intellectual endowments, and an unblemished

reputation among his fellow men.

But there was a cold, repulsive manner, at variance sometimes with

his more interior feelings, which could ill meet the warm,

affectionate disposition of his young wife, who, cherished and

petted in her father's house, looked for the same fond endearments

from him to whom she had given all.

Proud of her beauty and intelligence, charmed with her sprightliness

and wit, the man was for a time lost in the lover, and enough of

fondness and affection were manifested to satisfy the confiding

Mary, who had invested her earthly idol with every attribute of

perfection. But as months passed on, and he again became immersed in

his business, his true character, or, more properly speaking, his

habitual manners, were again resumed, and the heart of the wife was

often pained by an appearance of coldness and indifference, which

seemed to chill and repulse the best affections of her nature.

Tears and remonstrance were useless, for the husband was himself

unaware of the change. Was not every comfort amply provided, every

request complied with? What more could any reasonable woman desire?

Alas! he knew but little of a woman's heart; of that fountain of

love which is perpetually gushing forth toward him who first caused

its waters to flow: and still less did he know of the fearful effect

of the constant repressing of each warm affection. He dreamed not

that the loving heart could become cold and dead, and that his own

icy nature would soon be rejected in the devoted being who now clung

to him so fondly.

It was but in little things that he was deficient, mere trifles, but

still they constituted the happiness or woe of the wife of his

bosom.

The loving glance was seldom returned, the affectionate pressure of

the hand seemed unfelt, the constant effort to please remained

unnoticed. One word of praise, one kindly look, was all that was

desired, but these were withheld, and the charm of life was gone.

Gradual was the change. Bitter tears were shed, and earnest

endeavours to produce a happier state of things were sometimes made,

but in vain. Oh! could the husband but have known how wistfully that

young creature often gazed upon him as he sat at the evening meal

upon his return from business, and partook of luxuries which her

hand had prepared in the hope of eliciting some token of

approbation--could he have seen the anxious care with which domestic

duties were superintended, the attention paid to the toilette, the

constant regard to his most casually expressed wishes, surely,

surely he would have renounced for ever that cold, repulsive manner,

and clasped to his bosom the gentle being whom he had so lately

vowed to love and cherish.

But he saw it not--felt it not. Still proud of her beauty and

talents, he loved to exhibit her to an admiring world, but the fond

endearments of home were wanting. He knew nothing of the yearnings

of that devoted heart; and while the slightest deviation from his

wishes was noticed and reprimanded, the eager and intense desire to

please was unheeded--the earnestly desired word of praise was never

spoken.

The first year of wedded life passed away, and a new chord was

awakened. Mary had become a mother; and as she pressed the babe to

her bosom, new hopes were aroused. The clouds which had gathered

around her seemed passing away, and the cheering sunbeams again

broke forth. The manifest solicitude of her husband in the hour of

danger, the affection with which he had gazed on the countenance of

his first-born, were promises of happy days to come.

But, alas! these hopes were but illusory. All that a father could do

for the welfare of an infant was scrupulously performed, but its

expanding intellect, its innocent playfulness, soon remained

unmarked--apparently uncared for.

"Is he not lovely?" exclaimed the fond mother, as the babe stretched

his little hands and crowed a welcome as the father entered.

"He seems to be a good, healthy child," was the quiet reply. "I see

nothing, particularly lovely in an infant six months old, and if I

did I would not tell it so. Praise is very injurious to children,

and you should school yourself from the first, Mary, to restrain

your feelings, and utter no expressions which will have a tendency

to foster the self-esteem common to us all. Teach your children to

perform their duties from a higher motive than the hope of praise."

A chill like that of mid-winter came over the heart of the wife as

she listened to the grave rebuke.

There was truth in the words. Our duties should be performed from

higher motives than the approbation of our fellow men; but that

little word of praise from those we love--surely, surely it cannot

be hurtful. It is one of life's brightest sunbeams, encouraging the

weak, soothing the long-suffering, bringing rest to the weary and

hope to the desponding.

Something of this Mary longed to urge, but her husband had already

turned away, and the words died on her lips.

Time passed on. Another and another child had been added to the

number, until four bright little faces were seen around the family

table. The father seemed unchanged. Increasing years had altered

neither the outer nor the inner man, but in the wife and mother few

would have recognized the warm-hearted, impulsive girl, who ten

years before had left her fathers home, with bright visions of the

future floating before her youthful mind.

Whence came that perfect calmness of demeanour, that almost stoical

indifference to all that was passing around her? To husband,

children, and servants she was the same. Their comfort was cared

for, the routine of daily duties strictly performed, but always with

that cold, lifeless manner, strangely at variance with her natural

disposition.

But the change had come gradually, and the husband noticed it not.

To him, Mary had only grown more matronly, and, wisely laying aside

the frivolity of girlhood, had acquired the sedateness of riper

years. True, there were moments when his indifference was somewhat

annoying. Although he never praised, he often blamed, and his

lightest word of rebuke was at first always met with a gush of

tears, but now there was no sign of emotion; the placid countenance

remained unchanged, and quietly he was told that his wishes should

be attended to. Certainly this was all that he could desire, but he

would have liked to feel that his pleasure or displeasure was a

matter of more consequence than it now appeared to be.

And yet the warm affections of the heart were not all dead. They

slumbered--were chilled, paralyzed, starving for want of their

proper and natural nourishment, but there was still life, and there

were times when the spirit again thrilled with rapture, as the

loving arms of childhood were twined around the mother's neck, or

the curly head rested upon her bosom.

But to the little ones, as to others, there was the same cold

uniformity of manner, a want of that endearing tenderness which

forms so close a tie between mother and child. Their health, and the

cultivation of their minds, were never neglected, but the education

of the heart remained uncared for, and the spot which should have

bloomed with good and true affection, was but a wilderness of weeds.

The two eldest children were promising boys of seven and nine years

old. Full of health, and buoyant, although constantly repressed

spirits, they thought not and cared not for aught save the supply of

their bodily wants; but with the third child, the gentle Eva, it was

far otherwise. From infancy her little frame had been so frail and

delicate, that it seemed as if the spirit was constantly struggling

to leave its earthly tenement; but her fifth year was rapidly

approaching, and still she lingered a blessed minister of love in

that cheerless home.

How wistfully she gazed upon the mother's face as she unweariedly

performed the many little offices necessary for her comfort, but

ever with the same frigid, unchanging manner! How earnestly she

longed for that manifestation of tenderness which she had never

felt! Even the stern father spoke to her in gentler and more subdued

tones than was his wont, and would sometimes stroke the silky hair

from her white forehead, and call her his "poor child."

But it was the fondness of a mother's love for which the little one

yearned, and with unerring instinct she felt that beneath that calm

and cold exterior, the waters of the fountain were still gushing.

Once, when after a day of restless pain she had sunk into an uneasy

slumber, she was aroused by the fervent pressure of that mother's

kiss, and through her half-opening eyelids she perceived the tears

which were flowing over her pale face. In an instant the arms of the

affectionate child were clasped about her neck, and the soft voice

whispered,--

"Dearest mother, do you not love your little Eva?"

But all emotion was instantly repressed, and quietly as ever came

the answer--

"Certainly, my child, I love you all. But lie down now, and take

some rest. You have been dreaming."

"'Twas such a happy dream," murmured the patient little sufferer, as

obedient to her mother's words she again closed her eyes, and lay

motionless upon her pillow. Once more she slept, and a sweet smile

beamed upon her countenance, and her lips moved as if about to

speak. The watchful mother bent over her.

"Kiss me again, dear mother," lisped the slumberer. "Call me your

dear little Eva."

None could tell the workings of that stricken heart, as hour after

hour the mother watched by her sleeping child; but the dawn of

morning found her still the same; statue-like as marble, that once

speaking face reflected not the fires within.

Day after day passed on, and it was evident that the spirit of the

innocent child would soon rejoice in its heavenly home.

She could no longer raise her wasted little form from the bed of

pain, but still her deep blue eyes gazed lovingly upon those around

her, and her soft voice spoke of patience and submission.

The last hour drew near, and the little sufferer lay in her mother's

arms. The destroyer claimed but the frail earthly covering, and even

now the immortal soul shone forth in its heavenly brightness.

"Am I not going to my Father in Heaven?" she whispered, as she gazed

earnestly upon her mother's face.

"Yes, dearest, yes," was the almost inaudible reply.

"And will the good angels watch over me, and be to me as a mother?"

again asked the child.

"Far, far better than any earthly parent, my dear one."

A radiant smile illumined the countenance of the dying child. The

fond words of her mother were sweet music to her ear.

The father approached, and bent over her.

"My little Eva," he whispered, "will you not speak to me?"

"I love you, dear father," was the earnest answer, "and when I am in

Heaven I will pray for you, and for my poor mother;" and again those

speaking eyes were riveted upon the mother's face, as if she would

read her inmost griefs.

The physician entered, and, in the vain hope of prolonging life,

judged it necessary to make some external applications to relieve

the difficulty of breathing, which was fast increasing. The pain was

borne without a murmur.

"Do I not try to be patient, mother?" whispered that little voice.

"Yes, darling, you are a dear, patient, good little girl."

An expression of happiness, amounting almost to rapture, beamed in

Eva's face, at these words of unqualified praise.

"Oh, mother! dear, dear mother," she exclaimed, "will you not always

call your little Eva your dear, good little girl? Oh, I will try to

be so very good if you will. My heart is so glad now," and with the

strength produced by the sudden excitement, she clasped her feeble

arms about her mother's neck.

"Her mind begins to wander," whispered the physician to the father;

but there was no reply. A sudden light had broken upon that stern

man, and motionless he stood, and listened to the words of his dying

child.

But she had already sunk back in an apparent slumber, and hour after

hour those calm but agonized parents sat watching by her side, at

times almost believing that the spirit had indeed gone, so deep was

the repose of that last earthly slumber.

At length she aroused, and with the same beautiful smile which had

played upon her features when she sunk to rest, again exclaimed,

"I am so very happy, dear mother; will you call me your good little

Eva once more?"

In a voice almost suffocated with emotion, the desired words were

again breathed forth, and long and fervent kisses imprinted upon the

child's pale cheek.

"My heart is so glad!" she murmured. "Oh, mother, kiss my brothers

when I am gone, and smile upon them and call them good. It is like

the sunlight on a cloudy day.

"Put your face close to mine, dear father, and let me whisper in

your ear. Call poor mother good, sometimes, and kiss her as you do

me, now that I am dying, and she will never look so sad any more."

"I will, my precious child! I will!" And the head of the strong man

bowed upon his breast, and he wept.

A change passed over the countenance of the little one.

"The angels will take me now," she whispered. The eyelids closed,

there was no struggle, but the parents saw that her mission on earth

was ended. Henceforth she would rejoice in the world where all is

light and love.

The mother wept not as she gazed upon that lifeless clay. She wept

not as she laid the little form upon the bed, and straightened the

limbs already stiffening in the embrace of death; but when her

husband clasped her to his bosom, and uttered words of endearing

affection, a wild scream burst from her lips, and she sunk back in

his arms, apparently as unconscious as the child who lay before

them.

A long and alarming state of insensibility was succeeded by weeks of

fever and delirium.

How many bitter but useful lessons did the husband learn as he

watched by her bed-side! Often in the still hours of the night, when

all save himself slumbered, she would gaze upon him with that

earnest, loving, but reproachful look, which he well remembered to

have seen in years gone by, and murmur,

"Just one kind glance, Henry, one little kiss, one word of love and

praise."

And then as he bent fondly over her, that cold, fixed expression,

which she had so long worn, would again steal over her countenance,

and mournfully she added,

"Too late, too late. The heart is seared and dead. See, little Eva

stands and beckons me to the land of love. Yes, dear one, I come."

But the crisis came, and though feeble as an infant, the physicians

declared the danger past. Careful nursing, and freedom from

excitement, would restore the wife and mother to her family.

With unequalled tenderness did her husband watch over her, but with

returning health returned also that unnatural frigidity of manner.

There was no response to his words or looks of love.

Was it, indeed, too late? Had his knowledge of the wants of a

woman's heart come only when the heart, which once beat for him

alone, had become as stone?

It was the anniversary of their marriage. Eleven years before they

had stood at the altar and taken those holy vows. Well did Henry

Howard recollect that bridal morning. And how had he fulfilled the

trust reposed in him? With bitter remorse he gazed upon the wreck

before him, and thought of that gentle being once so full of love

and joy.

An earnest prayer broke from his lips, and his arms were clasped

around her.

"Mary, dear Mary," he whispered, "may not the past be forgotten?

Grievously have I erred, but believe me, it has been partly through

ignorance. An orphan from my earliest childhood, I knew not the

blessing of a mother's love. Cold and stern in my nature, I

comprehended not the wants of your gentle spirit. I see it all now:

your constant self-denial, your untiring efforts to please, until,

wearied and discouraged, your very heart's-blood seemed chilled

within you, and you became the living image of that cold

heartlessness which had caused the fearful change.

"But may we not forget the past? Will you not be once more my

loving, joyous bride, and the remainder of my life shall be devoted

to your happiness?"

Almost fearful was the agitation which shook that feeble frame, and

it was long before there was a reply.

At length, in the words of little Eva, she whispered, "Oh my

husband! My own dear husband! My heart is so glad! I had thought it

cold and dead, but now it again beats responsive to your words of

love. The prayers of my angel-child have been answered, and

happiness will yet be ours. My dear, dear Eva, how often have I wept

as I thought of my coldness toward her, and yet all power to show my

earnest love seemed gone for ever."

"It slumbered, dearest, but it is not gone. The breath of affection

will again revive your warm-hearted, generous nature, and our

remaining little ones will rejoice in the sunshine of a mother's

love. Our Eva, from her heavenly home, will gaze with joy upon those

she held so dear."

Another year, and few would have recognised that once dreary home.

Life's sunbeams shone brightly now. Those little messengers to the

human heart,--the look of love, the gentle touch, the word of

praise,--all, all were there. Trifles in themselves, but ah, how

essential to the spirit's Life!

LETTERS TO A YOUNG WIFE

FROM A MARRIED LADY.

LETTER I.

MY DEAR LIZZIE,

I have just received the pleasing intelligence of your marriage with

one so worthy of your trust and affection. Of course, you are very

happy; for there is no more perfect happiness for a young and loving

woman than to centre her heart's best feelings upon one being--to

feel her destiny bound up in his--to become, as it were, a very part

of his life. Perhaps, at such a time, my dear girl, it may seem

unkind to throw the least shadow over the bright sky of your

happiness; but I cannot refrain from giving you some little advice

now, at the outset of your new life.

You are looking forward--are you not?--with perfect confidence to

the future. You think that the sea upon which you are launched, will

ever remain calm and untroubled as now; that you will go on for ever

thus, joyous and happy--thus, free from care and sorrow; but, Oh,

remember, there is no sunshine that is not clouded over sometimes;

no stream so smooth as to be always undisturbed. Then, make up your

mind to have cares, perplexities, and trials, such as have never

troubled you before; and be prepared to meet them.

As yet, you are to your husband the same perfect being that you were

before marriage, free from all that is wrong--your follies even

regarded as delightful. You are now placed upon a pedestal--a very

goddess; but, believe me, you must soon descend to take your place

among mortals, and well for you if you can do it gracefully. Believe

me, dearest, I have no wish to sadden your spirit--only to prepare

it for the trials which _must_ come to perplex it.

You must learn to have your faults commented upon, one by one, and

yet be meek and patient under reproach. You must learn to have those

sayings which you have heard praised as witticisms, regarded as mere

nonsense, You must learn to yield even when you seem to be in the

right; to give up your will even when your husband seems obstinate

and unreasonable; to be chided when you expected praise, and have

your utmost endeavours to do rightly regarded as mere duties. But,

be not cast down by this dark side of the picture. You will be

happier, spite of all these trials, than you have ever been, if you

only resolve to be firm in the path of duty; to strive to do well

always; to return a kind answer for a harsh word, and, above all, to

control your temper. There may be times when this may seem

impossible; but always remember that one angry word provokes

another, and that thus the beautiful gem of wedded affection is

tarnished, until what seemed to be the purest gold is found only

gilded brass. Amiability is the most necessary of all virtues in a

wife, and perhaps the most difficult of all others to retain.

Pray fervently for a meek forbearing spirit; cherish your kindly

impulses, and leave the rest to your Father in Heaven.

I shall, if you like, write you again upon this subject. You know I

have been wedded long enough to have had some little experience, and

if it can benefit you, you are welcome to it.

Adieu for awhile. Ever your friend.

LETTER II.

MY DEAR LIZZIE,

I hardly know whether pleasure or pain was the uppermost feeling of

my mind, while reading your reply to my last letter. You have some

secret disappointment preying upon your young and thus far happy

heart; and although you speak favourably of your new duties: as a

wife, still there is not that _couleur de rose_ about your

descriptions of the present which used to tinge those of the future.

You have felt already, have you not, that the world has interests

for your husband other than those connected with yourself--that he

can be very happy even when you are not present to share his

happiness? You are not the first, dear Lizzie, who has been thus

awakened from an exquisite dream of love; yet do not repine nor

fret, for that will only increase your sorrow, but reason with

yourself. Think how many claims there are upon your husband's time

and society--claims to which he must bow if he wish to retain the

position he now holds. Before your marriage, you were the all

engrossing object of his thoughts--all that he depended upon for

happiness. There was all the excitement of winning you for his wife,

which caused him for a time to forego every other pleasure which

might interfere with this one great object. But now that is all

over. Like all others, he must proceed onward, and ever look forward

to something yet to be attained.

You say that he has left you alone one whole evening, and that you

punished him for it by appearing very much offended when he

returned. Now, dear Lizzie, was that the way to cure him of not

appreciating your society? By making yourself thus disagreeable upon

his return, would he not rather delay that return another time?

Think over what I have written, and when he is obliged to leave you

again, wear no sullen frowns, nor gloomy looks, but part from him

with smiles and pleasant words; amuse yourself during his absence

with your books, your music, your work; make everything around you

wear a cheerful look to welcome him home; and believe me, he will

appreciate the kindness which is thus free from selfishness.

A man's home must ever be a sunny place to him, and it should be a

wife's most pleasant duty to drive for ever from his hearth-side

those hideous sister spirits, discontent and gloomy peevishness.

This way that young wives have of punishing their husbands, always

comes back upon themselves with double force. Any man, however

unreasonable he appears, may be influenced by kindly words and happy

smiles, and there is not one, however affectionate and domestic,

that will not be driven away by sullen frowns and discontented

looks.

Do not allow, my dear girl, these feelings of gloom and sadness to

grow upon you. Believe me, you can overcome them if you will, and

now is the time for you to exert all your power of self-control.

I know there is much to make a young married woman sad. Ere many

days of wedded life are past she begins to feel the difference

between the lover and the husband. She misses that entire devotion

to her every whim and caprice which is so delightful that all

absorbed attention to her every trifling word; that _impressiveness_

of manner which is flattering and pleasing; and she almost fancies

that she is a most miserable, neglected personage.

This is a trying moment for a young and sensitive woman, but if she

only reason with herself, and resolve to yield no place in her

spirits to feelings of repining, she will be happier--far happier

with her husband as he is, than were he to retain all the devotion

of the lover.

I know this seems difficult to believe: but reflect a moment.

Suppose your husband should remain just the same as he was before

marriage, should give up all other society for you, should be

constantly repeating his protestations of love, constantly hanging

around you, watching your every step, living upon your very breath

as it were; do you not agree with me in thinking that all this would

after awhile become very tiresome? Would you not get weary of such a

perpetual display of affection, and would you feel any pride in a

husband who made no advancement in the world, even though it were

given up for you? No, no! Think this all over, and you will see that

it is just as well for you to relinquish his society sometimes; that

is, if you welcome his return with a happy face.

Try my experiment, dear, when next he leaves you, and write me the

result. Adieu for awhile.

LETTER III.

MY DEAR LIZZIE,

A severe illness has prevented my answering your kind letter for

some weeks, but now I am quite well again, and hope to continue

without further interruption our pleasant correspondence.

Your last letter I have read and re-read, not without, I must

confess, some little secret misgiving as to whether you have not

taken one step to mar the happiness of your married life, now so

perfect in its beauty.

You speak, in your own whole-souled affectionate manner, of a

_friend_ with whom you have met, and whose kindness has so won your

affection and gratitude, that you have opened your whole heart to

her. Now, my dear Lizzie, that same little heart of yours is quite

too precious a volume to be thus shown to every new comer who wins

upon you by a few kindly words. You have given it to your husband;

let it be kept, then, only for his gaze; open every page of it for

his inspection, and let him correct whatever errors he may find

traced thereupon. Believe me, dear, you will find no truer or more

disinterested confidant than him to whom you have pledged your

marriage vows.

Do not think I wish to discourage all friendships with your own sex.

Oh, no; they possess too great a charm to be thus rudely thrown

aside. To me, there is hardly a more lovely sight in the world than

the union of two congenial spirits in the tie of sincere and

unselfish affection. But I do not dignify with the name of

friendship those caprices of the moment, which so often assume its

title and usurp its place. A young girl meets another at an

assembly--she is pleased with her manners; thinks her amiable,

because she smiles frequently; intellectual, because she converses

easily; winning and fascinating, because she receives some kind

attentions from her. Forthwith they become devoted _friends_. In a

few weeks they discover that they are not so congenial as they

imagined, and the _friendship_ is broken off. Away with such

desecration! One might as well compare the scenes of forest, grove,

and field in a theatre, to those painted by nature's own hand, as

this momentary impulse to that noble, unwavering affection which

gives such beauty and dignity to the female character. There are

many imitations of the precious gem, but although they are equally

bright and beautiful at first, they soon tarnish and show themselves

in their true and ungilded state.

There is another part of your letter, dear Lizzie, which gives me

much uneasiness. After your _piquant_ description of the soiree you

attended, you say that you were quite a belle there, and that you

met again Frank H--, your former admirer, who was very devoted to

you. Lizzie, dear Lizzie, do not think thus, do not act thus, do not

write thus a second time. Remember you are a wife. A sacred, solemn

duty is yours, which will require all your powers to perform with

unwavering fidelity. Let me be frank with you, darling, and tell you

that love of admiration has ever been your greatest fault, and is

one of the most dangerous that a young wife can have. Check it,

control it now, before it has led you farther into a snare which may

involve your everlasting happiness. If you find it impossible to

drive it away from you entirely, endeavour to centre it upon your

husband. Think of your personal appearance only so far as it will

please him; your dress, so far as it will gratify his taste; your

intellect, as it will make his home agreeable; your musical powers,

as they will enable you to give him pleasure; learn to view all your

charms and powers of pleasing in this light; improve them with this

view, and all will go well with you and your married life.

I was quite charmed with your description of your sweet little home,

dear Lizzie! What a lovely place it must be, and what a beautiful

prospect of happiness there is before you!

You must be very watchful, dear, of your husband's tastes and

peculiarities. Always continue to have his favourite seat ready when

he comes home wearied with the day's business; his favourite

slippers ready for immediate use; his favourite dishes set before

him. There is much influence to be gained over a man by thus proving

to him that he has been thought of while absent, and his particular

fancies remembered. Always have a cheerful home, a bright fire, a

happy welcoming smile, and, believe me, you will have a domestic

husband.

I was very happy to learn that you tried the experiment I

recommended, and met with so pleasant a result. Cultivate the

cheerfulness you seem to have regained; do not allow a shadow to

rest upon your spirit, and you will be doubly rewarded in the

devoted affection of your husband, and the approval of your own

conscience. Adieu for awhile.

LETTER IV.

My DEAR LIZZIE,

I have thought many, many times of your last beautiful, _wife-like_

letter. It was so full of tenderness--so full of a spirit of

humility--so free from all selfishness, that it called from my heart

a gush of the warmest emotion. I have read it again and again, and

each time with an increased feeling of interest and pleasure.

You are in the right path, now, darling--God grant that you may

never be induced to deviate from it! Go on as you have commenced,

and, believe me, more happiness will be yours than you have ever

dreamed of. There is no richer treasure in this world--no greater

blessing--no more unalloyed happiness to a woman than the perfect

trust and love of a good husband. The tie that binds the wedded is

one that must be guarded well, or it may become partially unloosed,

and it is almost impossible ever to fasten it as at first.

Cherish that all-absorbing love for your husband, which now so fills

your breast; regard nothing as beneath your watchful attention which

adds to his happiness; consult his wishes, his tastes, in all your

actions, your habits, your dress. Above all, _never deceive_ him. Be

able ever to meet him with an unflinching eye, a true and honest

heart.

Ever be guided by the lovely light of principle; let this direct you

in all your paths; keep your eye fixed upon it; lose not sight of it

a moment, for it beams from a beautiful home of peaceful happiness,

whither it would lead you, and where all arrive who follow its

guidance.

Cultivate in your heart a love of _home_ and home duties. Strive to

make that place as attractive as possible, and do everything in your

power to render it an agreeable resting-place for your husband. The

daily routine of home duties, when performed in the right spirit,

diffuse a feeling of cheerfulness over one's heart that can never be

found in the applause of the world, or the gratification of any

favourite desire.

Endeavour to make your husband's evenings at home as pleasant as you

are able; call forth your powers of pleasing; bring up his favourite

topics of conversation; amuse him with music; do all that you can to

convince him that he has a most delightful wife, and trust me, dear

girl, you will never fail to make his own "ingle side" the happiest

spot in the world to him.

I once knew a wife who complained to me, with many tears, that her

husband left her, evening after evening, to pass his time in the

reading-room of a hotel. Rallying the husband upon his desertion of

so pleasant a wife, he replied to me, that he had commenced his

married life with the determination to be a kind, domestic husband,

but that he had actually been driven from his home and for what, do

you imagine, my dear Lizzie? Why, because he had not the simple

privilege of enjoying a cigar! Yes, his wife actually would not

allow him to smoke in the parlour where their evenings were passed,

because, forsooth, she was afraid of spoiling her new curtains!

They, it seems, were of more importance to her than the comfort of

her husband. He had been confirmed in the habit of smoking for

years, and could not pass an evening without it. He did not feel

inclined to sit alone in a cold, cheerless room, so he went to a

neighbouring hotel, which he found so lively and pleasant that he

came to the conclusion, for the future, to enjoy his cigars there.

You may smile, and look upon this as a trifle, and so it was; yet

was it of sufficient importance to drive a man from his own

fireside, and render a woman lonely and unhappy.

Life is made up of trifles, and it is by paying attention to

opportunities of winning love by _little things_ that a wife makes

her husband and herself happy. Are such means, then, to be neglected

when they lead to such results?

I must bid you adieu now for a while, dear Lizzie. I think of you

very, very often, and pray most fervently that you may be enabled so

to perform your duties as a wife as to be a blessing to your husband

and an example to all womankind.

Ever your friend.

THE WIFE.

BEHOLD, how fair of eye, and mild of mien

Walks forth of marriage yonder gentle queen;

What chaste sobriety whene'er she speaks,

What glad content sits smiling on her cheeks,

What plans of goodness in that bosom glow,

What prudent care is throned upon her brow,

What tender truth in all she does or says,

What pleasantness and peace in all her ways!

For ever blooming on that cheerful face,

Home's best affections grow divine in grace;

Her eyes are rayed with love, serene and bright;

Charity wreathes her lips with smiles of light;

Her kindly voice hath music in its notes;

And Heaven's own atmosphere around her floats!

BE GENTLE WITH THY WIFE.

BE gentle! for you little know

How many trials rise;

Although to thee they may be small,

To her, of giant size.

Be gentle! though perchance that lip

May speak a murmuring tone,

The heart may beat with kindness yet,

And joy to be thine own.

Be gentle! weary hours of pain

'Tis woman's lot to bear;

Then yield her what support thou canst,

And all her sorrows share.

Be gentle! for the noblest hearts

At times may have some grief,

And even in a pettish word

May seek to find relief.

Be gentle! none are perfect here--

Thou'rt dearer far than life,

Then husband, bear and still forbear--

Be gentle to thy wife.

A TRUE TALE OF LIFE.

IN one of the New England States, the little church-bell in Chester

village rung merrily in the clear morning air of a bright summer's

day. It was to call the people together, and they all obeyed its

summons--for who among the aged, middle-aged, or the young, did not

wish to fitness the marriage ceremonies of their favourite, Ellen

Lawton? Ere the tolling of the bell had ceased, the gray-haired man

was leaning on the finger-worn ball of his staff, in the corner of

his antiquated pew; the hale, healthy farmer came next; and then the

seat was filled with rosy-cheeked boys and girls, till the dignified

matron brought up the rear at the honourable head. The church became

quiet, eager eyes were fastened upon the door. Presently a tall form

entered, that of a handsome man, apparently about thirty years of

age, on whose arm was leaning, in sweet childlike smiling trust, the

young and loved Ellen Lawton, whose rose-cheek delicately shaded the

pale face, and who looked more beautiful in her angel loveliness

than ever before, even to the eyes of the humble villagers, to whom

she ever was but a "thing of beauty" and "a joy for ever." If thus

she looked to familiar eyes, how transcendently beautiful must she

have appeared to him, who this hour was to make her his own chosen

bride, the wife of his bosom, the pride, the priceless jewel of his

heart. They stood before the altar; he cast his dark eye upon

her--she raised hers, beaming in their blue depths, all full of love

and tenderness, and as they met his, the orange blossoms trembled

slightly in her auburn tresses, and the rose-tint, deepened on her

cheek. The voice of the man of God was heard, and soon Frederic

Gorton had promised to "love, cherish, and protect," and Ellen

Lawton to "love, honour, and obey." As it ever is, so it was

_there_, an interesting occasion--one that might well cause the eye

to fill with tears, the heart to hope, fearfully but earnestly hope,

that that young girl's dreams may not too soon fade, that in him to

whom she has given her heart she may ever find a firm friend, a

ready counsellor, a kind and forbearing spirit, a sympathizing

interest in all her thoughts and emotions. On this occasion many

criticising glances were thrown upon the handsome stranger, and many

whispers were circulated.

"I fear," said one of the deacon's good ladies, "that he is too

proud and self-willed for our gentle Ellen;" and she took off her

spectacles, which she wiped with her silk handkerchief, as if she

thought they were wearied of the long scrutiny as her own very eyes.

Is there truth in the good lady's suspicion? Look at Frederic

Gorton, as he stands there in his stateliness, towering above his

bride, like the oak of the forest above the flower at its foot. His

eye is very dark and very piercing, but how full of tenderness as he

casts it upon Ellen's up-turned face! His brow is lofty, and pale,

and stern, but partially covered with long dark hair, with which

lady's finger had never toyed. His cheek was as if chiselled from

marble, so perfect had the hand of nature formed it. His

mouth--another space of Ellen's unpenetrating discernment, would

have been reminded of Shakspeare's

"O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful

In the contempt and anger of his lip."

There was about it that compression, so indicative of firmness,

which, while it commands respect, as often wins love.

A perfect contrast to him, was the fairy thing at his side; gentle

as the floating breeze of evening, trusting as true-hearted woman

ever is, lovely, amiable, and beautiful, she was just one to win a

strong man's love; for there is something grateful to a proud man in

having a delicate, gentle, confiding girl place all her love and

trust in him and making all her happiness derivable from his will

and wish. Heaven's blessing rest upon him who fulfils faithfully

that trust reposed in him, but woe be unto him who remembers not his

vows to love and to cherish!

The marriage service over, the friends of Ellen pressed eagerly

around her, offering their many wishes for her long life and

happiness. The gray-haired man, and aged mother in Israel, laid

their hands on the young bride's fair head, and fervently prayed

"God bless thee;" and not a few there were who gave glances upward

to Frederic Gorton, and impressively said,

"Love as we have loved the treasure God transfers to thee."

The widowed mother of Ellen gazed upon the scene with mingled

emotions. Ellen was her eldest child, and had been her pride, her

joy, and delight since the death of her husband, many years before.

She was giving her to a stranger, whose reputation as a man of

talent, of worth, and honourable position in the world was

unquestioned; but of whose private character she had no means of

acquiring a knowledge. It was all uncertainty if a stern, business

man of the world, should supply the tenderness and devoted love of a

fond mother, to her whose wish had been hitherto scarcely ever

disregarded. Yet it might be--she could only hope, and her trust was

in "Him who doeth all things well."

For the two previous years Ellen had been at a female boarding

school in a neighbouring state, on the anniversaries of which she

had taken an active part in the examinatory exercises. Frederic

Gorton, who was one of the board, was so much pleased with her, that

he made of the teachers minute inquiries in regard to her character,

which were answered entirely satisfactorily--for Ellen had been a

general favourite at school, as well as in her own village.

Afterward he called on her frequently, and on her final return home,

Frederic Gorton, who had ever been so confident in his eternal old

bachelorship, accompanied her, and sought her from her mother as his

bride. Seldom does one so gifted seek favour of lady in vain; and

Ellen Lawton, hitherto unsought and unwon, yielded up in silent

worship her whole heart, that had involuntarily bowed itself in his

presence, and became as a child in reverence.

But Frederic Gorton had lived nearly thirty-five years of his life

among men. His mother had died in his infancy, his father soon

after, and he, an only child, had been educated in the family of an

old bachelor uncle.

The influence of woman had never been exerted on his heart. In his

boyhood he had formed, from reading works of fiction, an idea of

woman as perfection in all things; but as he grew in years and in

wisdom, and learned the falsity of many youthful ideas and dreams,

he discarded that which he had entertained of woman, and knowing

nothing of her, but by her general appearance of vanity and love of

pleasure, he cherished for her not much respect, and regarded her as

an inferior, to whom, he thought in his pride, he at least would

never level himself by marriage. He smiled scornfully, on learning

his appointment as trustee of the female school, and laughingly said

to an old bachelor companion:--

"They will make me to have care of the gentle weak ones, whether I

will or no."

"O, yes," replied his friend, who was somewhat disposed to be

satiric, "classically speaking, '_pulchra faciant te prole

parentum_.' Depend upon it this will be your initiation; you will

surely, upon attendance there, be caught by the smiling graces of

some pretty Venus--but, be careful; remember there is no escape when

once caught. Ah, my friend, I consider you quite gone. I shall soon

see in the morning daily--'Married, on the 12th, Hon. Frederic

Gorton, of M--, to Miss Isabella, Mary, or Ellen Somebody, and

then, be assured, my best friend, Fred, that I shall heave a sigh

_imo pectore_, not for myself only, but for you."

Some prophecies, jestfully uttered, are fulfilled--so were those of

Frederic's friend; and when they next met, only one was a bachelor.

But we will return to that bright morning when the bell had rung

merrily--when Ellen Lawton had returned from the village church to

her childhood home as Ellen Gorton, and was to leave it for a new

home. After entering the parlour, Mr. Gorton said,

"Now, Ellen, we will be ready to start in as few moments as

possible."

"Yes," answered Ellen, "but I wish to go over to Aunt Mary's, just

to bid her good-bye."

"But my dear," answered Frederic, "there is not time;" looking at

his watch.

"Just a moment," persisted Ellen, "I will hurry. I promised Aunt

Mary; she is sick and cannot leave her room."

And, as Frederic answered not, and as Ellen's eyes were brimful of

tears, she could but half see the impatience expressed on his

countenance, and hastily departed.

But, Aunt Mary had innumerable kisses to bestow upon her favourite,

and many words and wishes to utter, brokenly, in a voice choked with

tears; and it was many minutes ere she could tear herself away, and

on her return she met several loiterers from the church, who stopped

her to look, as they said, upon her sweet face once more, and list

to her sweet voice again. She hurried on--Mr. Gorton met her at the

door, and taking her hand, said, sternly,

"Ellen, I wish you not to delay a moment in bidding adieu to your

friends--you have already kept me waiting too long."

There was no tenderness in his voice as he uttered this, and it fell

as a weight upon Ellen's heart, already saddened at the thought of

the parting with her mother and home friends, which must be now, and

which was soon over.

As the carriage rolled away, Ellen grieved bitterly. Mr. Gorton, who

really loved Ellen sincerely and fondly, encircled her waist with

his arm, and said, kindly,

"Do you feel, Ellen, that you have made too great a sacrifice in

leaving home and friends for me?"

"O, no," answered Ellen, raising to his her love-lit countenance,

"no sacrifice could be too great to make for you; but do you not

know I have left all I had to love before I loved you? And they will

miss me too at home, and will think of me, how often, too, when I

shall be thinking of you only! Think it not strange that I weep."

Nevertheless, Mr. Gorton did think it strange. He had no idea of the

tender associations clustering around one's home. He had no idea of

the depth and richness and sweetness of a mother's love, of a

sister's yearning fondness, for they ever had been denied him;

consequently the emotions that thrilled the heart of his bride could

find no response and met with no sympathy in his own. It was rather

with wonder, than with any other sensation, that he regarded her

sorrow. Was she not entering upon a newer and higher sphere of life?

Was she not to be the mistress of a splendid mansion? Was she not to

be the envied of many and many a one who had feigned every

attraction and exerted every effort for the station, she was to

assume; and should she weep with this in view?

Thus Mr. Gorton thought--as man often reasons.

After having proceeded a little distance, they came within view of

an humble cottage, when Ellen said,

"I must stop here, Mr. Gorton, and see Grandma Nichols (she was an

elderly member of the church of which Ellen was a member), and when

I was last to see her, she said, as she should not be able to walk

to to see me married, I must call on her, or she should think me

proud. I will stop for a moment--just a moment," she added, after a

pause, observing he did not answer.

They were just opposite the cottage at that moment, yet he gave no

orders to stop. With a fresh burst of tears, Ellen exclaimed,

"Please, Mr. Gorton, let me see her. I may never see her again, and

she will think I did not care to bid her a last farewell."

But Mr. Gorton said,

"Really, Ellen, I am very much surprised at the apparent necessity

of trifles to make your happiness. You went to see your aunt after I

had assured you there was not time. I wish you to remember that your

little wishes and whims, however important they may scene to you,

cannot seem of such importance to me as to interfere with my

arrangements. What matters it if my bride do not say farewell to an

old woman whom I never heard of, and shall never think of again, and

who will soon probably die and cease to remember that you slighted

her?"

And he laid Ellen's head upon his shoulder, and wiping the tears

from her face, wondered of what nature incomprehensible she was.

But, it _did_ matter to her in more respects than one, that she was

not permitted to call at the cottage. A mind so sensitive as Ellen's

feels the least neglect and the slightest reproof, and is equally

pained by giving cause for pain, as receiving. Besides, how much was

expressed in that last sentence of Mr. Gorton's, accompanying the

denial of her simple request! How much contained in that denial,

too! How plainly she read in it the future--how fully did it reveal

the disposition of him by whose will she saw she was herself to be

hereafter governed! Though her mind was full of these thoughts,

there was no less of love for him--love in Ellen Lawton could never

change, though she wondered, too, how he could refuse what seemed to

her so easy to grant. And so they both silently pursued their way,

wondering in their hearts as to the nature of each other. This,

however, did not continue long; and soon Ellen's tears ceased to

flow, and she listened, delighted, to the eloquent words of her

gifted husband, spoken in the most musical and rich of all voices.

Woman will have love for her husband so long as she has admiration,

and Ellen knew she would never cease to admire the talents and

brilliant acquirements of Frederic Gorton.

After several days travel through a delightfully romantic country,

they reached the town of M--, where was the residence of Mr.

Gorton. It was an elegant mansion, the exterior planned and finished

in the most tasteful and handsome style--the interior equally

so--and furnished with all that a young bride of most cultivated

taste could desire. The eye of Ellen was delighted and surprised,

even to tears, and inaudibly, but fervently in her heart she

murmured, "how devotedly will I love him who has provided for me so

much comfort and splendour, and how cheerfully will I make

sacrifices of my feelings, 'my wishes and my whims,' for him who has

loved me so much as to make me his wife!" and she gazed into her

husband's face through her tears, and kissed reverently his hand.

"Why weep you, my Ellen? Are you not pleased?"

"O, yes; but you have done too much for me. I can never repay you,

only in my love, which is so boundless I have not dared to breathe

it all to you, nor could I."

Gorton looked upon her in greater astonishment than before. Tears he

had ever associated with sorrow; and surely, thought he, here is no

occasion for tears, and he said,

"Well, if you love me, you will hasten to wipe away those tears, and

let me see you in smiles. I do not often smile myself, therefore the

more need for my lady to do so. Moreover, we may expect a multitude

of callers; and think, Ellen, of the effect of any one's seeing the

bride in tears."

Calling a servant to conduct her to her dressing-room, and

expressing his wish for her to dress in her most becoming manner, he

left her.

It is unnecessary to say that Ellen was admired and loved by all the

friends of her husband, even by his brother judges and politicians.

Herbert Lester, the particular friend of Mr. Gorton, whose prophecy

had thus soon been verified, came many miles to express personally

his sympathy and condolence. These he changed to congratulations,

when he felt the influence of the grace and beauty of the wife of

his friend--and he declared that he would make an offer of his hand

and heart, could he find another Ellen.

Meanwhile time passed, and though Ellen was daily called upon to

yield her own particular preferences to Mr. Gorton's, as she had

done even on her bridal day, she was comparatively happy. Had she

possessed less keenness of sensibility, she might have been happier;

or had Mr. Gorton possessed more, that he could have understood her,

many tears would have been spared her. Oftentimes, things

comparatively trifling to him would wound the sensitive nature of

Ellen most painfully, and he of course would have no conception

_why_ they should thus affect her.

Occupied as he was mostly with worldly transactions and political

affairs, Ellen's mind often, in his absence, reverted to the scenes

of her youth, and her childhood home, her mother, and the bright

band of her young sisters; and longings would come up in her heart

to behold them once more.

Two years having passed without her having seen one member of her

family, she one day asked Mr. Gorton if it would not be convenient

soon to make a visit to Chester. He answered that his arrangements

would not admit of it at present--and coldly and cruelly asked her

if she had yet heard of Grandma Nichols' decease. Ellen answered

not, and bent her head over the face of her little Frederic, who was

sleeping, to hide her tears. Perceiving her emotion, however, he

added,

"Ellen, I assure you it is impossible for me to comply with your

wish, but I will write to your mother, and urge her to visit

us--will not that do?"

Ellen's face brightened, as with a beam of sunshine, and springing

to her husband's side, she laid her glowing cheek upon his, and then

smiled upon him so sweetly that even the cold heart of Frederic

Gorton glowed with a warmth unusual.

Seven years passed away, leaving their shadows as the sun does. And

Ellen--

"But matron care, or lurking woe,

Her thoughtless, sinless look had banished,

And from her cheek the roseate glow

Of girlhood's balmy morn had vanished;

Within her eyes, upon her brow,

Lay something softer, fonder, deeper,

As if in dreams some visioned woe

Has broke the Elysium of the sleeper."

Never yet, since that bright bridal morn, had Ellen looked upon her

native village, though scarcely three hundred miles separated her

from it. Now her heart beat quick and joyfully, for her husband had

told her that business would call him to that vicinity in a few

days, and she might accompany him. With all the willful eagerness of

a child she set her heart on that visit, and from morning till night

she would talk with her little boys of the journey to what seemed to

her the brightest, most sacred spot on earth, next to her present

home. And the home of one's childhood! no matter how sweet, how-dear

and beloved the home the heart afterwards loves, it never forgets,

it never ceases most fondly to turn back to the memories, and the

scenes, and the friends of its early years.

One fault, if fault it might be called, among so many excellencies

in Ellen's character, was that of putting off "till to-morrow what

should be done today." This had troubled Mr. Gorton exceedingly,

who, prompt himself, would naturally wish others to be so also, and

notwithstanding his constant complaints, and Ellen's desire to

please him, she had not yet overcome her nature in that respect,

though she had greatly improved. The evening preceding the intended

departure, Mr. Gorton said to his wife,

"Now, Ellen, I hope you will have everything in readiness for an

early departure in the morning. Have the boys and yourself all ready

the moment the carriage is at the door, for you know I do not like

to be obliged to wait."

Almost before the stars had disappeared in the sky, Ellen was busy

in her final preparations. She was sure she should have everything

in season, and wondered how her husband could suppose otherwise,

upon an occasion in which she had so much interest. Several minutes

before the appointed time, Ellen had all in readiness for departure,

the trunks all packed and locked, the children in their riding

dresses and caps; and proceeding from her dressing-room to the front

hall door, she was thinking that this time, certainly, she should

not hear the so oft repeated complaint--

"Ellen, you are always too late!"--when, to her dismay, she met

Georgie, her youngest boy, dripping with mud and water from the

brook, whence he had just issued, where, he said, he had ventured in

chase of a goose, which had impudently hissed at him, which insult

the young boy, in his own conception a spirited knight of the

regular order, could not brook, and in his wrath had pursued the

offender to his place of retreat, much to the detriment of his

dress.

Ellen was in consternation; but one thing was evident--Georgie's

dress must be changed. With trembling hands she unlocked a trunk,

and sought for a change of dress, while the waiting-maid proceeded

to disrobe the child.

Just at this moment Mr. Gorton entered, saying the carriage was at

the door. Various things had occurred that morning to perplex him,

and he was in a bad humour. Seeing Ellen thus engaged with the

trunk, as he thought, not half packed, various articles being upon

the carpet, and Georgie in no wise ready, the cloud came over his

brow, and he said, harshly,

"I knew it would be thus, Ellen--I have never known you to be in

readiness yet; but you must know I am not to be trifled with."

And with this, not heeding the explanation she attempted to make, he

seized his valise and left the room. Jumping into the carriage, he

commanded the driver to proceed.

Ellen heard the carriage rolling away in astonishment. She ran to

the door, and watched it in the distance. But she thought it could

not be possible he had gone without her--he would return: and she

hastened the maid, and still kept watching at the door. She waited

in vain, for he returned not.

The excitement into which Ellen was thrown by the anticipation of

meeting her friends once more, may be readily imagined by those

similarly constituted with her, and the reaction occasioned by her

disappointment, also. Her heart had been entirely fixed upon it, and

what but cruelty was it in her husband to deprive her thus so

unreasonably of so great an enjoyment--to her so exquisite a

pleasure?

In the sudden rush of her feelings, she recalled the last seven

years of her life, and could recollect no instance in which she had

failed doing all in her power to contribute to her husband's

happiness. On the other hand, had he not often wounded her feelings

unnecessarily? Had he ever denied himself anything for her sake, but

required of her sacrifice of her own wishes to his?

The day wore away, and the night found Ellen in a burning fever. The

servant who went for the physician in the early morning, said she

had raved during the latter part of the night. As the family

physician entered the room, she said, mildly,

"O, do not go and, leave me! I am all ready--all ready. Do not

go--it will kill me if you go."

The doctor took her hand; it was very hot; and her brow was terribly

throbbing and burning. He remained with her the greater part of the

day, but the attack of fever on the brain had been so violent that

no attempt for relief was of avail.

She grew worse and about midnight, with the words--

"O, do not go, Mr. Gorton,--do not go and leave me!"--her spirit

took its flight.

And the morning dawned on Ellen in her death-sleep--dawned as

beautiful as that bright one, when the bell rang merrily for her

bridal. Now the dismal death-note's pealed forth the departure of

her spirit to a brighter world. Would not even an angel weep to look

upon one morning, and then upon the other?

The birds, from the cage in the window, poured forth their songs;

but they fell unheeded on the ears they had so often delighted. The

voices of Fred and Georgie, ever as music to the loving heart of the

young mother, would fall thrillingly on her ear no more. She lay

there, still and cold--her dreams over--her hopes all passed by--the

sun of her young life set--and _how_?

People came in, one after another, to look upon her--and wept that

one so young and good should die. They closed her eyes--they laid

her in her grave-clothes, and folded her pale hands--and there she

lay!

And now we leave that chamber of the too-early dead. Mr. Gorton's

feelings of anger soon subsided. In a few hours he felt oppressed

with a sense of the grief Ellen would experience. His feelings

prompted him to return for her. Several times he put his head out of

the window to order the driver to return, but, his, pride

intervening, he as often desisted. Yet his mind was ill at ease. He,

also, involuntarily, reviewed the period of his wedded life. He

recalled the goodness, and patience, and sweetness, which Ellen had

ever shown him--the warm love she had ever evinced for him: and his

heart seemed to appreciate, for the first time, the value and

character of Ellen. He felt how unjust and unkind he had often been

to her--he wondered he could have been so,--and resolved that,

henceforth, he would show her more tenderness.

As he stopped for the night, at a public-house, his resolution was

to return early in the morning. Yet, his business must be attended

to. It was a case of emergency. He finally resolved to intrust it

with a lawyer acquaintance, who lived a half day's ride distant from

where he then was. Thus he did; and, about noon of the following

day, returned homeward. He was surprised at his own uneasiness and

impatience. He had never so longed to meet Ellen. He fancied his

meeting with her--her joy at his return--her tears for her

disappointment--his happiness in restoring _her_ heart to happiness,

by an increasing tenderness of manner, and by instantly gratifying

her wish of a return home.

All day and night he travelled. It was early morning when he arrived

at his own door. He was surprised at the trembling emotions and

quickened beating of his heart, as he descended the steps of his

carriage, and ascended those to his own door. He passed on to the

room of his wife. The light gleamed through the small opening over

the door, and he thought he heard whispers. Softly he opened the

door. O! what a terrible, heart-rending scene was before him!--The

watchers left the room; and Mr. Gorton stood alone, in speechless

agony, before the being made voiceless by himself.

The sensibility so long slumbering within his worldly, hardened

heart, was aroused to the very keenness of torture. And Ellen,

gentle spirit that she was,--how would she have grieved to have seen

the heart she had loved so overwhelmed with grief, regret, remorse,

despair!

"Ellen! my own Ellen!"

But she could not hear!

"I have killed thee, gentlest and best!"

But the kindness of her heart was not open _now_!

"I forgive thee," could not fall from those lips so pale!

"I love thee," could never come upon his ear

again--_never_--"NEVER!" thrilled his soul, every chord of which was

strung to its intensity!

If anything could have added to the grief inconsolable of the man

stricken in his sternness and pride, it was the grief of his two

motherless boys, as they called on their mother's name in vain, and

asked him why she _slept_ so long!

Few knew why Ellen died so suddenly and so young; but, while Mr.

Gorton preserved in his heart her memory and her virtues, he

remembered, and mourned in bitterness and unavailing anguish, that

it was him own thoughtless; but not the less cruel, unkindness, that

laid her in her early grave.

Never came the smile again upon his face; and never, though fond

mammas manoeuvred and insinuated, and fair daughters flattered and

praised, did he wed again; for his heart was buried with his Ellen,

whom he too late loved as he should have loved. His love--"It came

a sunbeam on a blasted flower."

Washington Irving, in his beautiful "Affection for the Dead," says:

"Go to the grave of buried love, and meditate. There settle the

account with thy conscience, for every past benefit unrequited,

every past endearment unregarded. Console thyself, if thou canst,

with this simple, yet futile tribute of regret, and take warning by

this, thine unavailing sorrow for the dead, and henceforward be more

faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the

living!"

MAN AND WOMAN.

AN eloquent, true, and beautiful article from the pen of a woman and

a wife (and no woman not a _wife_, do we believe fully competent to

write on this subject), recently met our eyes in the pages of a

periodical. Its title was "Conjugial Love." The Latin word conjugial

was used by the writer to indicate the true spiritual union of man

and wife in contradistinction to the mere natural union as expressed

in the word conjugal. From this article let us make an extract--

"Man is an angular mathematical form, exactly _true_, but not

beautiful. Woman seizes this form, and from the crucible of her warm

love she moulds the truth into grace and beauty. For man's

understanding deals in outermost truths. But the Lord has blessed

woman with perceptive faculties above the sphere of man's reason,

and while he looks to the outermost relations of things she at a

glance perceives the inmost. Hence she becomes, as it were, the soul

of his _thought_; she is the will and he the intellectual principle;

she is governed and guided by him, while he in all things is

modified by her will, and scarce recognises his own crude thought in

her plastic feminine representation of it; hence he thinks

oftentimes that he acts from her wisdom, forgetting that she has no

wisdom except through him.

"Thus woman dwells in the heart of man, as in some fair and stately

palace, and she looks forth into his garden of Eden, his whole

spirit world of thought; she knows every lofty tree, every blooming

flower and odorous plant and herb for the use of man, and every

singing bird that soars heavenward in her beautiful domain, and she

culls the fairest of flowers and weaves bright garlands, and adorns

the brow of her beloved with his own thoughts, while he even thinks

that she is bestowing treasures out of herself upon him. This gives

to woman a sportive grace, a gentle lovingness, an apparent

wilfulness, a delight in the power which she has through man, while

she knows that he is the link that binds her to Heaven, and thus she

is humble and grateful and yielding in the height of her power. How

beautiful is the life of conjugial partners! The woman flows into

the thought of man like influent life; she knows all things that are

in him, hence she can adapt herself to his every variation; she

calms him when excited, elevates him when he is depressed, regulates

him by her heaven-given power, as a good heart regulates the

judgment. The Lord loves the man through the woman, and loves the

woman through the man, and these two distinct and separate confluent

streams, from the fountain of Divine life, rejoice in their blessed

and beautiful union, as like ever does when it meets its like. And

it is only when the two streams unite that they can reflect the

Divine image; they are noisy, turbulent, and turbid; until the

meeting of the waters of life, and then in a calm, serene, deep, and

beautiful blessedness they flow on so softly and smoothly that the

holy heavens and the Divine sun mirror themselves in the clear

waters; and if night, chill and drear, draws its darkening curtain

around them, soon the silver moon of a trusting faith floods them

with a gentle radiance, and bright stars of intelligence gild the

night's darkness, and they patiently await the dawn of an eternal

day, when their joyous waters will again flow in the _sunshine_ of

heaven."

"When the Lord in His Divine Providence brings the _two_ together,

in this life, that were created the one for the other, their union

is wrought out by slow degrees. The false and evil is to be put off

before the Divine life can ultimate itself--an unceasing

regeneration is going on--a purifying from self-love is the daily

life of two partners. The wisdom which the man has from the Lord,

and the love which the woman has from Him, are ever seeking

conjunction. But the false and the evil that clings to every earthly

being is constantly warring against this Heavenly union; in

conjugial partners, hell is opposed to heaven, and it is only by a

steady looking to the Lord, that Heavenly love can be preserved. The

Lord opens the inmost degree of thought and feeling in the two, and

elevates their love to higher planes, and thus increases their joys

and felicities; and when it is a true spiritual love, an entire

union of heart and mind, then the two have entered heaven, and enjoy

its beautiful blessedness even while their material bodies yet dwell

upon this coarse outer world.

"How wonderful is the wisdom of the Lord! How blessed is His love,

in thus creating two that they may become a _one_! The sympathy, the

gentle affection, the loving tender confidence, that, like magnetic

thrills, makes one conscious of the inmost life of the other, gives

a charm--a fulness of satisfaction--a serene blessedness to

existence, that no isolated being can possibly conceive of, let

external circumstances be what they may.

"Conjugial love is independent of external circumstances; it is

heaven-derived, and receives nothing from the earth. It gives

heavenly joy to all of its surroundings. It is that glorious inner

sunshine of life, that blesses the poor man as boundlessly as the

rich. And how beautiful it is for _two_ to realize that time and

space have nothing to do with their union. In each other they see

eternity; they know from whence their emotions flow, and know that

the fountain is Infinite. The Lord is the beginning and end; to

them, the first and the last. They live _in_ Him, _from_ Him, and

_to_ Him. They love only His Divine image in each other; they seek

to do good to others, as organs of His Divine life. He is the glory

and blessedness of their whole being.

"And if such blissful emotions can be realized in this cold, hard,

ungenial, outer life, what must it be when the two pass into the

conscious presence of the Divine Father, and behold each other not

in angular material forms, and dead material light, but in the

Divine light of Heaven, in Heavenly forms,--radiant in intelligence

glowing in the rosy love of eternal youth--beautiful in the 'beauty

of the Lord?'"

How pure, how wise, how beautiful! Here is the true doctrine, that

man and woman are not equal in the sense so often asserted in these

modern times; that they are created with radical differences, and

that the life of neither is perfect until they unite in marriage

union--one man with one wife.

THE FAIRY WIFE.

AN APOLOGUE.

A MERCHANT married a Fairy. He was so manly, so earnest, so

energetic, and so loving, that her heart was constrained toward him,

and she gave up her heritage in Fairyland to accept the lot of

woman.

They were married; they were happy; and the early months glided away

like the vanishing pageantry of a dream.

Before the year was over he had returned to his affairs; they were

important and pressing, and occupied more and more of his time. But

every evening as he hastened back to her side she felt the weariness

of absence more than repaid by the delight of his presence. She sat

at his feet, and sang to him, and prattled away the remnant of care

that lingered in his mind.

But his cares multiplied. The happiness of many families depended on

him. His affairs were vast and complicated, and they kept him longer

away from her. All the day, while he was amidst his bales of

merchandise, she roamed along the banks of a sequestered stream,

weaving bright fancy pageantries, or devising airy gayeties with

which to charm his troubled spirit. A bright and sunny being, she

comprehended nothing of care. Life was abounding in her. She knew

not the disease of reflection; she felt not the perplexities of

life. To sing and to laugh--to leap the stream and beckon him to

leap after her, as he used in the old lover-days, when she would

conceal herself from him in the folds of a water-lily--to tantalize

and enchant him with a thousand coquetries--this was her idea of how

they should live; and when he gently refused to join her in these

childlike gambols, and told her of the serious work that awaited

him, she raised her soft blue eyes to him in a baby wonderment, not

comprehending what he meant, but acquiescing, with a sigh, because

he said it.

She acquiesced, but a soft sadness fell upon her. Life to her was

Love, and nothing more. A soft sadness also fell upon him. Life to

him was Love, and something more; and he saw with regret that she

did not comprehend it. The wall of Care, raised by busy hands, was

gradually shutting him out from her. If she visited him during the

day, she found herself a hindrance and retired. When he came to her

at sunset he was preoccupied. She sat at his feet, loving his

anxious face. He raised tenderly the golden ripple of loveliness

that fell in ringlets on her neck, and kissed her soft beseeching

eyes; but there was a something in his eyes, a remote look, as if

his soul were afar, busy with other things which made her little

heart almost burst with uncomprehended jealousy.

She would steal up to him at times when he was absorbed in

calculations, and throwing her arms around his neck, woo him from

his thought. A smile, revealing love in its very depths, would

brighten his anxious face, as for a moment he pushed aside the

world, and concentrated all his being in one happy feeling.

She could win moments from him, she could not win his life; she

could charm, she could not occupy him! The painful truth came slowly

over her, as the deepening shadows fall upon a sunny Day, until at

last it is Night: Night with her stars of infinite beauty, but

without the lustre and warmth of Day.

She drooped; and on her couch of sickness her keen-sighted love

perceived, through all his ineffable tenderness, that same

remoteness in his eyes, which proved that, even as he sat there

grieving and apparently absorbed in her, there still came dim

remembrances of Care to vex and occupy his soul.

"It were better I were dead," she thought; "I am not good enough for

him."

Poor child! Not good enough, because her simple nature knew not the

manifold perplexities, the hindrances of _incomplete_ life! Not good

enough, because her whole life was scattered!

And so she breathed herself away, and left her husband to all his

gloom of Care, made tenfold darker by the absence of those gleams of

tenderness which before had fitfully irradiated life. The night was

starless, and he alone.

A BRIEF HISTORY, IN THREE PARTS, WITH A SEQUEL.

PART I.--LOVE.

A GLANCE--a thought--a blow--

It stings him to the core.

A question--will it lay him low?

Or will time heal it o'er?

He kindles at the name--

He sits and thinks apart;

Time blows and blows it to a flame,

Burning within his heart.

He loves it though it burns,

And nurses it with care;

He feels the blissful pain by turns

With hope, and with despair.

PART II.--COURTSHIP.

Sonnets and serenades,

Sighs, glances, tears, and vows,

Gifts, tokens, souvenirs, parades,

And courtesies and bows.

A purpose and a prayer;

The stars are in the sky--

He wonders how e'en hope should dare

To let him aim so high!

Still hope allures and flatters,

And doubt just makes him bold;

And so, with passion all in tatters,

The trembling tale is told.

Apologies and blushes,

Soft looks, averted eyes,

Each heart into the other rushes,

Each yields, and wins a prize.

A gathering of fond friends,--

Brief, solemn words, and prayer,--

A trembling to the fingers' ends,

As hand in hand, they swear.

Sweet cake, sweet wine; sweet kisses,

And so the deed is done;

Now for life's waves and blisses,

The wedded two are one.

And down the shining stream,

They launch their buoyant skiff,

Bless'd, if they may but trust hope's dream,

But ah! Truth echoes--"If!"

THE SEQUEL.--"IF."

If health be firm--if friend be true--

If self be well-controlled,

If tastes be pure--if wants be few--

And not too often told--

If reason always rule the heart--

If passion own its sway--

If love--for aye--to life impart

The zest it does to-day--

If Providence, with parent care,

Mete out the varying lot--

While meek contentment bows to share,

The palace, or the cot--

And oh! if Faith, sublime and clear,

The spirit upwards guide--

Then bless'd indeed, and bless'd for ever,

The bridegroom and the bride!

ELMA'S MISSION.

"EVER, evermore!" repeated a young man, bending with a smile over

the fair face that rested on his breast.

"Yes! evermore!" softly breathed the smiling lips upon which he

gazed, and evermore shone from the melting, heavenly eyes.

"And you believe all these bright fancies you have been telling me

of, darling?" asked the young man.

"Ah! yes--they are truth to me; they dwell in my heart of

hearts--they belong to the deepest and sweetest mysteries of my

being. I gaze out through the glory upon life, and I see no

coldness, no darkness--everything is coloured with bright radiance

from the eternal world. It is happiness that gives me this beautiful

view. I have known that the world was filled, with love, but I have

never so clearly seen it before. And sure I am that if I were to die

now, this same splendour of love would still be poured through my

soul; for it is myself, and I cannot lose it. If you were next week

in Europe, far from me, would not your inner world be illumined with

love and hope?"

"It certainly would!

"And can you doubt the durability, the truth and reality of this

inner-life? Can this clay instrument be of any moment farther than

it serves to develop life, in this, our first school?--we should not

confound the earthly dwelling with the free man who makes it his

temporary home. Ah! Horace, I feel, I am, sure, you will some day

enjoy all these ennobling thoughts with me, and then existence will

also be to you sublime."

An expression of radiant hope flitted over the young man's face, and

he kissed the soft lips and eyes of his betrothed, while he

murmured, "I would suffer the loss of all happiness on earth, I

would bear every stroke the Almighty might inflict, if I

_could_ believe as you do, of a life beyond this. I am no unbeliever,

you know. I read my Bible daily, but beyond this world everything to

me is misty and dark. I shudder at the ghastliness of the grave, and

would forget that I cannot always clasp your warm heart to my own.

You were surely sent to be my good angel, to teach me all that is

gentlest and best in my nature, and this holy love _must_ last

evermore. I have always smiled at the idea of love, at first sight,

but when I first saw your face, Elma, none ever was so welcome; yet

if you had not proved all that your face and manner promised, I

should not have fallen in love. I half-believe matches are made in

Heaven--ours will be Heaven-made, if any are. You think human beings

are made for each other, as the saying is, do you not?"

"Yes!" returned Elma, smiling, "I _hope_ we are made to be partners

in this world, and a better one, but how can I know it? When my

happy womanhood first dawned, I had wild, sweet dreams that here on

earth I and many others would surely meet the true half that

belonged to us--one with whom every thought would find a response. I

have met many whose views are like mine, and yet whose natures are

so different that we could not see each other's souls; perhaps if

they had loved me, I could have seen more clearly--but my rebellious

heart went forth to meet you, although I tried so long to turn

away--although I trembled to think the religion of our natures was

so unlike."

"I once thought, love, that I should never win you--it was your pale

lips and the mournful intensity of your look, when we met after a

long absence, that gave me new hope; and I have often wondered,

Elma, why you gave so unhesitating an assent, when you had for

months at a time avoided me at every opportunity."

"It was because my views had changed in a manner--although still

believing in the fitness of two out of the whole universe for each

other, I began to think that on earth these very two might each have

a mission to others, and others to them, which would more fully call

out their characters, and perhaps develop the dark traits necessary

to be conquered--so that perfect harmony might be evolved from

chaos. It once seemed to me, with the views I held, that it would be

a sin for me to unite my destiny with one who did not sympathize

with me on all points. But the sad fate of Augusta Atwood made me

reflect deeply. She was my bosom friend, and never did mortal go to

the altar with brighter hopes--never did human being love more

unreservedly. She whispered to me as I arranged her hair on the

morning of her bridal:--'This seems to me like the beginning of my

heavenly life--there is not a height or depth of my soul that

Charles's nature does not respond to--I _know_ that we two are truly

one." And so it seemed for two happy years--his character took every

one by surprise, perhaps himself, and now Augusta is a miserably

neglected wife, toiling on like an angel to reap good from her

desolated earth-life. Yet we see that her mighty love was not a true

interpreter. No doubt her lover was sincere at the time in believing

that they not only felt, but thought alike. I have known many

instances, very many, where two, perhaps equally good and true, have

thought themselves fitted for each other and none else; yet on the

death of one, they have found a companion who was still more

especially made for them. Thus we see that this is a matter where

there appears to be little certainty and many mistakes. Doubtless,

there are some few blessed ones who truly find their better--half;

but in this sinful, imperfect state of life, we cannot believe that

we are in an order sufficiently harmonious to have this a sure

thing. Perhaps one-third of the women in the world never even loved

half as well as they felt themselves capable of loving, simply

because no object presented himself who could call forth all the

music of a high and noble nature.

"So many a soul o'er life's drear desert faring,

Love's pure congenial spring unfound, unquaffed,

Suffers, recoils, then thirsty and despairing

Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught."

But, Elma, my child, it is not pleasant to me that you should have a

single doubt that _we_ are not dearer to each other than any other

mortals could ever be in this world, or the beautiful one you love

to dream of."

"I am telling you, Horace, the thoughts that have been in my mind--I

only feel now that you are good and gifted, and I love you more than

I ever dreamed of loving."

"And you, sweet, are the breath of my life. It is heavenly to know

that God has given you, and you alone, to be the angel ministrant of

my oft tempestuous life: you have risen like a star over my cloudy

horizon--may the light of the gentle star shine on my path, until it

leads me unto the perfect day!"

"Only the light of the Sun of Righteousness can do that," returned

Elma; then, with a tear glistening on her lash, she added, "I hope

God will help me to be good and pure, that I may be a medium of

good, and not evil to you."

Most blessedly passed the days to that hopeful maiden; it was a

treasure full of all promise to have, not only the happiness of her

lover, but as she trusted, his best good committed to her charge,

next to God. When she knelt in the morning hour, her prayer was ever

a thanksgiving--she lifted up the gates of her soul that the King of

Glory might come in, and His radiant presence permeated her whole

being--she left to Him the control of her life, all the strange

mysteries of heavenly policy, which she felt and knew would ultimate

in perfecting her too worldly nature; and she went forth,

angel-attended, to her duties, fusing into them this effluent life

that dwelt so richly within her. Every word of kindness and love

that dropped from her soft, coral lips, bore with it a portion of

the smiling life that overflowed her spirit. When she arose, her

constant thought was, "Another day is coming, in which the work of

progress may go on: I may perhaps this day conquer some evil, or do

some humble good, that will fit me to be a still better angel to

Horace, and which shall beautify my mansion in the Heavens."

At length the bridal day came, and fled also like other days, save

that a sweeter brightness enwrapped the soul of Elma; so six months

or more flitted away in delicious dream-life, for outward things

made comparatively slight impression; Elma lived and loved more than

she thought. But one morning reflection and pain came together; the

latter led in the former, a long-forgotten friend, and the young

wife asked herself how far she had travelled onward and upward since

the bridal days, since her path had been all sunshine;--she bowed

her head and wept bitterly. "Not for me, at least," she sighed, "is

constant happiness a friend,--not yet am I fitted to enjoy the

highest harmony of life. 'Therefore, burn, thou holy pain, thou

purifying fire!' It is meet I should be wounded where my deepest

joys are lodged. I see that it is the lash of pain which must drive

me through the golden gates. Yes! I will arise, and thank my Father

that He has not been as unmindful of my eternal well-being as I

would be myself, if left to wander only among flowers of love and

gladness."

And what was this grief that awoke the bride from her blissful

dream? It would seem the merest nothing to the strong man of the

world, to the gay woman who glides, superficially through existence.

But many a young bride will understand how it might be more

sorrowful than the loss of houses and lands. It was the husband's

first frown, his first petulant word; it was the key that opened

Elma's understanding to the true estate of the past. She could no

longer blind her eyes, as she had done, to a certain worldliness in

her husband, and which had also reached her through him. This

morning, that revealed so much, Horace had impatiently exclaimed as

Elma held forth her Bible to him, as usual,--

"I have not time for that now, child!" and hastily kissing her, he

put on his hat, and went forth to his business.

A pale anguish settled on Elma's face as she sunk upon a chair.

"Is this the beginning of sorrows?" she murmured; "he never spoke to

me so before, perhaps he will often do so again. If it had been

about anything else, I think I could have borne it better! Oh God!

is the angel leaving our Paradise?"

And she thought over and over again of this worldliness in her

husband, and his want of the high standard in religion that was so

dear to her; she felt that she was, in a measure, deceived in

him,--surely once he seemed to dwell in an atmosphere that was more

spiritual. Yes! Elma was deceived in him, but Horace had not

deceived her. In the happy glow of his successful love, he had

caught the warmth of Elma's thoughts; they had charmed his

imagination, in a measure commended themselves to his understanding,

and made a temporary impression upon him heart, so that he went out

among men with a more benevolent spirit than he had ever done

before. But truth, to be abiding, must be sought after with an eager

thirst; and it came to Horace crowned with flowers; he condescended

to take the charmer in, and obeyed her for awhile, then she was

forgotten, he thought not why, and he imperceptibly returned to the

real self, which Elma had never before had an opportunity to become

acquainted with.

Three years went by. Horace was a devoted husband, no being on earth

was to him so perfect as his wife--no human being had ever exerted

over him the quiet, holy influence that belonged to Elma. She had

gradually accomplished infinitely more than she suspected, yet many

a time, and oft, had he caused her grieved tears to fall like rain.

Many a time had despairing prayers risen from her soul for him,

while she breathed out to her God a cry for strength. She felt that

she saw through a glass darkly; but she sought with most earnest

heart for every duty, knowing that thus her pathway would lead

continually to a more sure and steady light.

Elma often wondered that so much joy was given to her earthly life;

but she understood the true philosophy, for her every grief was

regarded as a special messenger from the spirit-land, and amid her

tears she looked up, and resolutely answered to the call,

"Excelsior!" She was ever receiving with gratitude the blessings

that clustered about her lot, and, as it were, transmuting all

common things into pleasures, by seeking out a brightness in them.

But a heavier trial was in store for the wife than she had

anticipated. Horace had been very unfortunate in business; he bore

it with more gentleness than Elma had expected, but it wore upon his

spirits; day after day he was busied in settling up, and came home

with a look of sadness and anxiety. One evening he came in with a

brighter look.

"What is the news?" asked his wife, as she read his face.

"I have an offer of a clerkship, at a very good salary, eighteen

hundred dollars a year!"

"We can get along admirably with that!" said Elma, with a bright

smile. "You know we are retrenching our expenses so much, that we

can live on half that, and the rest can go towards your debts. In a

few years you will be able to pay all you owe, will you not?"

"Perhaps so, by exerting every faculty, and living on less than you

propose!"

"Oh! well, we can!" was the eager response. "I'll manage to get

along on almost nothing; as small a sum as you choose to name. Every

trifling deprivation will be an actual delight, that helps to

discharge those debts. It will, indeed!" she added, as Horace smiled

at her enthusiasm.

"I believe you, little one, every word you say!" and, with an air of

cheerful affection, such as he had not shown for weeks, the husband

drew his wife's head upon his breast, and, forgetful of cold

business cares and the world, they were gay, tender, and happy.

It was with a different look that Horace entered his home the next

evening; a shadow fell on Elma's heart when she saw him, and the

evening meal passed in silence.

"What are you thinking of, Horace?" she timidly asked, some time

after, approaching him as he stood by the window, gazing out

gloomily into the star-lighted street.

"I have received a better offer, and have determined to accept it."

It must be known that Horace came quickly to a decision, and then

persevered in it; none knew the vanity of striving to change him,

when fairly resolved, better than Elma; but in small matters he was

yielding as Elma herself. She stood in a fearful silence, looking

into his face, which he had turned towards her.

"I am going to California!" he said, almost sternly, for he feared

Elma's tenderness might unman him.

"Not without me?" she asked, with pleading eyes.

"Yes! Elma, I cannot take you, for I shall be constantly travelling,

and subject to the greatest hardships,--you could not bear it! I

shall be back in a year and a half."

"I could bear anything better than to be left behind--you do not

know as well as I what would be the greatest hardship for me. Ah!

Horace, do not put me to this dreadful trial. Let me go with you,

and you will find that I will not utter a complaint. You can leave

me at some place, while you travel over the roughest country--you

may be sick, and need me. I fear men grow hard and selfish there,

and what you gain in purse, you may lose in what is dearest to me.

'It is not good for man to be alone.'"

"Hush, darling; every word is vain!" answered Horace, clasping her

to his breast, and kissing her with passionate vehemence. For the

first time in his life he wept without any restraint over her. "Do

you think anything but duty would tear me from you? It is my duty to

be just to all men, and to pay what I owe as soon as I can."

"But take me!" sobbed Elma.

"Dear child! you must be reasonable. I know that you fear the

influence about me will not be as angelically pure as your own, and

I love you for that fear. I shall go where no man will care for my

soul as you do; but I shall not forget you, Elma. Now, cheer up, and

show me the ready resolution you have always had at hand."

"I never had such a cruel blow as this before!" returned Elma, in an

entire abandonment of grief. "Oh! take me with you, Horace, and

nothing in the world will be hard for me."

The wife's pleadings were vain, and in a week she parted from her

husband. After he had gone, she won back a spirit of resignation;

indeed, as soon as she found her doom was sealed, she gathered up

her strength, and strove to cheer Horace, whose spirits sunk

miserably when he had no longer to support Elma. She laid out a plan

for her life during her widowhood, as she called it, and this plan

was after the example of One who went about doing good. The weary

time passed slowly, but each day added a little gem to Elma's

heavenly life, and when, at length, she received her husband's last

letter before his return, her thanks gushed forth in gladness, as

they had so often before done, in holy confidence. Part of his

letter ran thus:--

And now, dear love, having told you of the outward success which has

met my efforts, let me tell you a little of the heart that belongs

to you--which you have won from darkness to light. It is filled with

images of hope and love, and a light from your spirit shines through

all--have been ever with me, ever leading me to that 'true light

which lighteth every man that cometh into the world.' I often gave

you pain, my darling, when we were together; it was unintentional,

and sprang from the evil of my nature; and a thousand times, when

you did not suspect it, your gentle look and touch brought to my

spirit better thoughts, and the thoughts brought better words and

deeds. You have been the angel of my life still more during our

separation; for my soul has yearned for your dear presence

constantly, and every day I have said to myself, 'Would this please

Elma?' and when I have been enabled to do a kindness, my heart

glowed at the thought of Elma's approval. Your blessed spirit never

seems so near to me as when I lift up my soul in prayer. I sometimes

fancy your prayers, beloved, have unlocked the Kingdom of Heaven for

me. Good bye, dearest life, we shall soon meet.

HORACE."

And when they met, the joy of their first wedding days seemed

doubled. Elma rejoiced at the discipline she had been through, for

it had better fitted her for the joyful existence that was before

her. It had now become more of a habit for her soul to dwell in a

heavenly atmosphere--she had learned to rely steadfastly upon her

God for the good gifts of her life, and they were showered upon her

abundantly; doubly beautiful, they were shared by a heart in unison.

LIVING LIKE A LADY.

MR. HAMILTON BURGESS was a man of limited means, but having married

a beautiful and amiable woman, he resolved to spare no expense in

surrounding her with comforts, and in supporting her, as he said,

"like a lady."

"My dear Ammy," said Mrs. Burgess, to her indulgent husband, about a

year after their marriage--"My dear Ammy"--this was the name she

called him by _at home_--"you are too kind to me, altogether. You

are unwilling that I should work, or do anything towards our

support, when I actually think that a little exertion on my part

would not only serve to lighten your expenses, but be quite as good

for my health and spirits as the occupations to which my time is now

devoted."

"Oh, you industrious little bee!" exclaimed Mr. Burgess, "you have

great notions of making yourself useful, I declare! But, Lizzie, I

shall never consent to your propositions. I did not marry you to

make you my slave. When you gave me this dear hand, I resolved that

it should never be soiled and made rough by labour--and it never

shall, as long as I am able to attend to my business."

Mrs. Burgess would not have done anything to displease her husband

for the world, and she accordingly allowed him to have his way

without offering farther remonstrance.

But Hamilton's business was dull, and it required the greatest

exertion on his part, and the severest application, to raise

sufficient money to meet the daily expenses of his family.

"My affairs will be in a better state next year," he said to

himself, "and I must manage to struggle through this dull season

some way or another. I will venture to run in debt a little, I

think; for any way is preferable to reducing our household

expenditures, which are by no means extravagant. At all events,

Lizzie must not know what my circumstances are, for she would insist

upon a change in our style of living, and revive the subject of

doing something towards our support."

Mr. Burgess then ventured to run in debt a little; he did not

attempt to reduce the expenses of his housekeeping; he never gave

his wife a hint respecting the true state of his business matters,

but insisted upon her accepting, as usual, a liberal allowance of

funds to meet her private expenses.

Lizzie seemed quite happy in her ignorance of her husband's

circumstances, never spoke again of assisting to support the

establishment, but seemed to devote herself to the pursuit of quiet

pleasures, and to procuring Hamilton's happiness. But Mr. Burgess's

circumstances, instead of improving, grew continually worse. His

venture of "running in debt a little," resulted in running in debt a

great deal. Thus the second year of his married life passed, and the

dark shadows of disappointed hope and the traces of corroding care

began to change the aspect of his brow.

One day a friend said to Hamilton--

"I am surprised at your conduct! Here you are, making a slave of

yourself, while your wife is playing the lady. She is not to blame;

it is _you_. She would gladly do something for her own support, if

you would permit her; and it would be better for her and for you.

Remember the true saying--

'Satan finds some mischief still

For idle hands to do!'"

"What do you mean?" demanded Hamilton, reddening.

"I mean that, _generally speaking_, young wives of an ardent

temperament, when left to themselves, with nothing but their

pleasures to occupy their minds, are apt to forget their husbands,

and find enjoyment in such society as he might not altogether

approve."

"Sir, you do not know my wife," exclaimed Hamilton. "She, thank

Heaven, is not one of those."

"I hope not," was the quiet reply.

Although Hamilton Burgess had not a jealous nature, and would never

have entertained unjust suspicions of his wife, these words of his

friend set him to thinking. He remembered that Lizzie was always

happy, however he might be oppressed with cares; and now he wondered

how it was that she could be so unmindful of everything except

pleasure, while he was so constantly harassed. The consistent Mr.

Hamilton Burgess undoubtedly forgot that he had taken the utmost

pains to conceal his circumstances from his wife.

It was in this state of mind that Mr. Burgess one day left his

business, and went home unexpectedly. It was at an hour when Lizzie

least thought of seeing him, and on this occasion she appeared

considerably embarrassed; nor did Mr. Burgess fail to observe that

she was very tardy in making her appearance in the sitting-room.

On another occasion, Mr. Burgess returned home under similar

circumstances, and going directly to his wife's room, found, to his

astonishment, that he could not gain admittance. After some delay,

however, during which Hamilton heard footsteps hurrying to and fro

within, and whispering, Mrs. Burgess opened the door, and, blushing

very red, attempted to apologize for not admitting him before.

"Who was with you?" demanded Hamilton.

"With _me_?" cried Lizzie, much confused.

"Yes, madam. I heard whispering, and I am sure somebody just passed

through that side door."

"Oh, that was nobody but Margaret!" exclaimed Mrs. Burgess, hastily.

Hamilton could ill conceal his vexation; but he did not intimate to

his wife that he suspected her of equivocation, nor did she see fit

to attempt a full exposition of the matter.

Nothing was said of this incident afterwards; but for many weeks it

occupied Hamilton's mind. All this time he was harassed with cares

of business, and his brow became more darkly shrouded in gloom as

his perplexities thickened. At last the crisis came! Mr. Burgess saw

the utter impossibility of longer continuing his almost profitless

trade, under heavy expenses, which not only absorbed his small

capital, but actually plunged him into debt. But one honest course

was left for him to pursue; and he resolved to close up his affairs,

and sell off what stock he had to pay his debts.

It was at this time that Mr. Burgess saw in its true light the error

of which he had been guilty, in opposing his wife's desire to

economize, and devote a portion of her time to useful occupation.

"Had I allowed her to lighten our expenses in this way," thought he,

"I might not have been driven to such extremities. And what has been

the result of my folly? Why, I have kept her ignorant of our poverty

until the very last, and now the sudden intelligence that we are

beggars, will well nigh kill her!"

Satisfied of the danger, if not the impossibility, of keeping the

secret longer from his wife, Mr. Burgess went home one day, resolved

to break the intelligence to her without hesitation. Entering the

house with his latch-key, he went directly to Lizzie's room, which

he entered unceremoniously. To his surprise, he found on the table a

gentleman's cap, of that peculiar fashion which he had seen worn by

postmen and dandies about town. Anxious for an explanation, he

looked around for his wife; but Lizzie was not in the room. Then

hearing voices in another part of the house, he left the room by a

different door from that by which he had entered, and hastened to

the parlour, where he expected to find Mrs. Burgess in company with

the owner of _that cap_. To his surprise, he found the parlour

vacant, and meeting Margaret in the hall a moment after, he

impatiently demanded his wife.

"She is in the room, sir," said the domestic.

Without saying a word, Hamilton again hastened to Lizzie's room,

where he found her reading a late magazine with affected

indifference!

"Madam," cried he, angrily, "what does this mean? Here I have been

chasing you all over the house, without being able to catch you.

What company have you just dismissed?"

"What company?" asked Lizzie.

"Yes, madam, what company?"

"Do not speak so angrily, dear Ammy. Why are you so impatient?"

"Because I wish to know what gentleman has been favouring you with

such a confidential visit!"

Hamilton remembered other occasions when, on his coming home

unexpectedly, his wife had shown signs of embarrassment; and, added

to this, her present equivocation rendered him violently jealous.

She appeared to shrink from him in fear, and became alternately red

and pale, as she answered--

"There has been no gentleman here to see me!"

"No one?"

"No one, dear Ammy!"

Mr. Burgess was on the point of demanding to know who was the owner

of the cap which he had seen on his wife's table, and which had now

mysteriously disappeared; but emotion checked him, and he paced the

floor in silence.

"This is too much!" he muttered, at length, in the bitterness of his

heart. "I could endure poverty, without uttering a complaint for

myself; I could endure anything but this!"

"Why, Ammy, what is the matter?" cried Mrs. Burgess, in alarm.

"Nothing--only we are beggars!" answered Hamilton, abruptly.

"Have you been unfortunate?" calmly asked his wife, affectionately

taking him by the arm.

"Yes--the most unfortunate of men! I am ruined--we are

beggars--but"--

"Dear Ammy, you must not let this cast you down. Business failures

frequently happen, but they ought never to destroy domestic

happiness. Come, how bad off are we? Are we really beggars?"

"My creditors will take everything," answered Hamilton, gloomily.

"They will not take us from each other," said Lizzie.

Mr. Burgess looked at his young wife with a bitter smile.

"Are you such a deceiver?" he muttered through his teeth. "Can you

talk thus when you have just dismissed a lover?"

"Sir!" cried Mrs. Burgess, a glow of indignation lighting her fair

face. "What do you mean?"

"Don't deny what I say!" replied Hamilton. "You were having an

interview with a gentleman when I came in."

Lizzie trembled with indignation.

"I saw his cap on the table!"

Lizzie laughed outright. "Come here," she said, leading her husband

away.

Hamilton followed her, and she went to a bureau, unlocked a deep

drawer, and opening it, called her husband's attention to its

contents.

It was half full of caps!

Hamilton looked at Lizzie in perplexity. Lizzie looked at Hamilton,

and smiled.

"I suppose that you will now declare that there are twenty gentlemen

in the house," said Mrs. Burgess.

"Lizzie!"' cried her husband, clasping her hands, "I am already

ashamed of my suspicions. I ask your forgiveness. But explain this

matter to me. I am dying in perplexity."

"Well", replied Lizzie, archly, "_I_ made those caps."

"_You_!"

"Certainly; that is, I and Margaret. I kept my work a secret from

you, because you were opposed to my exerting myself, and although

you have come near surprising me more than once, I have carried on

my treasonable designs pretty successfully until to-day."

"But, dear Lizzie, how could you?"

"I can answer that question. I saw pretty clearly into your business

affairs, and I knew that we could not live in this style long. So I

thought I would disobey you. My cousin George, the hat manufacturer,

seconded my designs, and privately sent me caps to make, nearly a

year ago."

Hamilton opened his eyes in astonishment.

"Surprising, isn't it? But this isn't all. You insisted on my

keeping Margaret, when I might just as well have done my housework

myself; I thought I would make her useful, and made her help me work

on the caps. Besides, you were not satisfied if I neglected to use

all the spending money you allowed me, and I pretended to use that,

just to please you. Now, before you scold me for my disobedience,

witness the results of my industry and economy."

Lizzie opened her desk, and displayed to Hamilton's bewildered

sight, a pile of gold which filled him with greater astonishment

than anything else.

"There," continued Lizzie, without allowing him to speak--"there are

three hundred dollars. Of course, this little sum wouldn't make

anybody rich, but I hope it will convince you that a wife's economy

and industry are not to be despised."

"Lizzie! dear Lizzie!"

"Oh, this is nothing--only a sample of what I can do. Come, now,

acknowledge your error, and say that I may have my own way in

future."

Hamilton replied by clasping his wife in his arms.

"There, say nothing more about it," she continued. "Don't think of

your misfortunes, but remember that we can be happy even if we both

have to work hard. Poverty cannot crush us; and I hope I have

already convinced you that work will not make me lose attraction in

your sight."

The young husband's heart overflowed with gratitude and joy.

"How have I misunderstood you, dear Lizzie!" he exclaimed. "You are

worth more to me than southern riches; and now that I know poverty

cannot crush you my mind is at ease. Lizzie, I am so happy!"

"And I may have my way?"

"Yes, always."

"Remember this!" cried Mrs. Burgess, archly.

With a lighter heart than he had felt for many months before,

Hamilton went about the settlement of his business affairs, while

Lizzie devoted herself to perfecting a new system of housekeeping.

When Mr. Burgess came home at night, he was surprised at the

wonderful change which had taken place during his absence.

"Don't scold," said his wife, regarding him with a smile; "you said

I might have my way."

"True--but what have you done?"

"I have been making arrangements to let half the house to Mr.

Smith's family, who will move in next week. They are pleasant

people, and as we had twice as much room as we actually needed, I

thought it best to take them. Then again, we shan't need so much

furniture, and if you like, you can sell Mr. Smith some of what we

have, at a fair price."

Mr. Burgess neither frowned nor looked displeased, nor did he ever

afterwards oppose his wife's designs. He soon found his expenses so

reduced, that, with the fruits of his wife's industry added to his

own, they were able to live quite comfortably and happily; and,

although he soon became engaged in more profitable business, he

never again urged her to indulge in the folly of "living like a

lady."

LADY LUCY'S SECRET.

MR. FERRARS, who sat reading the morning paper, suddenly started

with an exclamation of grief and astonishment that completely roused

his absent-minded wife.

"My dear Walter, what has happened?" she asked, with real anxiety.

"A man a bankrupt, whom I thought as safe as the Bank of England!

Though it is true, people talked about him months ago--spoke

suspiciously of his personal extravagance, and, above all, said that

his wife was ruining him."

"His wife!"

"Yes; but I cannot understand that sort of thing. A few hundreds a

year more or less could be of little moment to a man like Beaufort,

and I don't suppose she spent more than you do, my darling. At any

rate she was never better dressed. Yet I believe the truth was, that

she got frightfully into debt unknown to him; and debt is a sort of

thing that multiplies itself in a most astonishing manner, and sows

by the wayside the seeds of all sorts of misery. Then people say

that when payday came at last, bickerings ensued, their domestic

happiness was broken up, Beaufort grew reckless, and plunged into

the excitement of the maddest speculations."

"How dreadful!" murmured Lady Lucy.

"Dreadful indeed! I don't know what I should do with such a wife."

"Would not you forgive her if you loved her very much?" asked Lady

Lucy, and she spoke in a singularly calm tone of suppressed emotion.

"Once, perhaps, once; and if her fault were the fault of youthful

inexperience,--but so much falseness, mean deception, and mental

deterioration must have accompanied such transactions, that--in

short, I thank Heaven that I have never been put to the trial."

As he spoke, the eyes of Mr. Ferrars were fixed on the leading

article of the Times, not on his wife. Presently Lady Lucy glided

from the room, without her absence being at the moment observed.

Once in her dressing-room, she turned the key, and sinking into a

low chair, gave vent to her grief in some of the bitterest tears she

had ever shed. She, too, was in debt; "frightfully" her husband had

used the right word; "hopelessly" so far as satisfying her

creditors, even out of the large allowance Mr. Ferrars made her; and

still she had not the courage voluntarily to tell the truth, which

yet she knew must burst upon him ere long. From what small

beginnings had this Upas shadow come upon her! And what "falseness,

mean deception, and mental deterioration" had truly been hers!

Even the fancied relief of weeping was a luxury denied to her, for

she feared to show the evidence of tears; thus after a little while

she strove to drive them back, and by bathing her face before the

glass, and drawing the braids of her soft hair a little nearer her

eyes, she was tolerably successful in hiding their trace. Never,

when dressing for court or gala, had she consulted her mirror so

closely; and now, though the tears were dried, she was shocked at

the lines of anguish--those delvers of the wrinkles of age--which

marked her countenance. She sat before her looking-glass, one hand

supporting her head, the other clutching the hidden letters which

she had not yet the courage to open. There was a light tap at the

door.

"Who is there?" inquired Lady Lucy.

"It is I, my lady," replied Harris, her faithful maid. "Madame

Dalmas is here."

Lady Lucy unlocked the door and gave orders that the visiter should

be shown up. With the name had come a flush of hope that some

trifling temporary help would be hers. Madame Dalmas called herself

a Frenchwoman, and signed herself "Antoinette" but she was really an

English Jewess of low extraction, whose true name was Sarah

Solomons. Her "profession" was to purchase--and sell--the cast-off

apparel of ladies of fashion; and few of the sisterhood have carried

the art of double cheating to so great a proficiency. With always a

roll of bank-notes in her old leather pocket-book, and always a

dirty canvass bag full of bright sovereigns in her pocket, she had

ever the subtle temptation for her victims ready.

Madame Dalmas--for she must be called according to the name engraved

on her card--was a little meanly-dressed woman of about forty, with

bright eyes and a hooked nose, a restless shuffling manner, and an

ill-pitched voice. Her jargon was a mixture of bad French and worse

English.

"Bon jour, miladi Lucy," she exclaimed as she entered Lady Lucy's

sanctum; "need not inquire of health, you look si charmante. Oh, si

belle!--that make you wear old clothes so longer dan oder ladies,

and have so leetel for me to buy. Milady Lucy Ferrars know she look

well in anyting, but yet she should not wear old clothes: no

right--for example--for de trade, and de hoosband always like de

wife well dressed--ha--ha!"

Poor Lady Lucy! Too sick at heart to have any relish for Madame

Dalmas' nauseous compliments, and more than half aware of her cheats

and falsehoods, she yet tolerated the creature from her own dire

necessities.

"Sit down, Madame Dalmas," she said, "I am dreadfully in want of

money; but I really don't know what I have for you."

"De green velvet, which you not let me have before Easter, I still

give you four pounds for it, though perhaps you worn it very much

since then."

"Only twice--only seven times in all--and it cost me twenty

guineas," sighed Lady Lucy.

"Ah, but so old-fashioned--I do believe I not see my money for it.

Voyez-vous, de Lady Lucy is one petite lady--si jolie, mais tres

petite. If she were de tall grand lady, you see de great dresses

could fit small lady, but de leetle dresses fit but ver few."

"If I sell the green velvet I must have another next winter!"

murmured Lady Lucy.

"Ah!--vous avez raison--when de season nouveautes come in. I tell

you what--you let me have also de white lace robe you show me once,

the same time I bought from you one little old pearl brooch."

"My wedding-dress? Oh, no, I cannot sell my wedding-dress!"

exclaimed poor Lady Lucy, pressing her hands conclusively together.

"What for not?--you not want to marry over again--I give you

twenty-two pounds for it."

"Twenty-two pounds!--why, it is Brussels point, and cost a hundred

and twenty."

"Ah, I know--but you forget I perhaps keep it ten years and not

sell--and besides you buy dear; great lady often buy ver dear!" and

Madame Dalmas shook her head with the solemnity of a sage.

"No, no; I cannot sell my wedding-dress," again murmured the wife.

And be it recorded, the temptress, for once, was baffled; but, at

the expiration of an hour, Madame Dalmas left the house, with a huge

bundle under her arm, and a quiet satisfaction revealed in her

countenance, had any one thought it worth while to study the

expression of her disagreeable face.

Again Lady Lucy locked her door; and placing a bank note and some

sovereigns on the table, she sank into a low chair, and while a few

large silent tears flowed down her cheeks, she at last found courage

to open the three letters which had hitherto remained, unread, in

her apron pocket. The first, the second, seemed to contain nothing

to surprise her, however much there might be to annoy; but it was

different with the last; here was a gross overcharge, and perhaps it

was not with quite a disagreeable feeling that Lady Lucy found

something of which she could justly complain. She rose hurriedly and

unlocked a small writing-desk, which had long been used as a

receptacle for old letters and accounts.

To tell the truth, the interior of the desk did not present a very

orderly arrangement. Cards of address, bills paid and unpaid, copies

of verses, and papers of many descriptions, were huddled together,

and it was not by any means surprising that Lady Lucy failed in her

search for the original account by which to rectify the error in her

shoemaker's bill. In the hurry and nervous trepidation, which had

latterly become almost a constitutional ailment with her, she turned

out the contents of the writing-desk into an easy-chair, and then

kneeling before it, she set herself to the task of carefully

examining the papers. Soon she came to one letter which had been

little expected in that place, and which still bore the marks of a

rose, whose withered leaves also remained, that had been put away in

its folds. The rose Walter Ferrars had given her on the eve of their

marriage, and the letter was in his handwriting, and bore but a few

days earlier date. With quickened pulses she opened the envelope;

and though a mist rose before her eyes, it seemed to form into a

mirror in which she saw the by-gone hours. And so she read--and

read.

It is the fashion to laugh at love-letters, perhaps because only the

silly ones ever come to light. With the noblest of both sexes such

effusions are sacred, and would be profaned by the perusal of a

third person: but when a warm and true heart is joined to a manly

intellect; when reason sanctions and constancy maintains the choice

which has been made, there is little doubt that much of simple,

truthful, touching eloquence is often to be found in a "lover's"

letter. That which the wife now perused with strange and mingled

feelings was evidently a reply to some girlish depreciation, of

herself, and contained these words:--

"You tell me that in the scanty years of your past life, you already

look back on a hundred follies, and that you have unnumbered faults

of character at which I do not even guess. Making some allowance for

a figurative expression, I will answer 'it may be so.' What then? I

have never called you an angel, and never desired you to be perfect.

The weaknesses which cling, tendril-like, to a fine nature, not

unfrequently bind us to it by ties we do not seek to sever. I know

you for a true-hearted girl, but with the bitter lessons of life

still unlearned; let it be my part to shield you from their sad

knowledge,--yet whatever sorrow or evil falls upon you, I must or

ought to share. Let us have no secrets; and while the Truth which

gives its purest lustre to your eye, and its richest rose to your

cheek, still reigns in your soul, I cannot dream of a fault grave

enough to deserve harsher rebuke than the kiss of forgiveness."

What lines to read at such a moment! No wonder their meaning reached

her mind far differently than it had done when they were first

received. Then she could have little heeded it; witness how

carelessly the letter had been put away--how forgotten had been its

contents.

Her tears flowed in torrents, but Lucy Ferrars no longer strove to

check them. And yet there gleamed through them a brighter smile than

had visited her countenance for many a month, A resolve approved by

all her better nature was growing firm within her heart; and that

which an hour before would have seemed too dreadful to contemplate

was losing half its terrors. How often an ascent, which looks in the

distance a bare precipice, shows us, when we approach its face, the

notches by which we may climb!--and not a few of the difficulties of

life yield to our will when we bravely encounter them.

"Why did I fear him so much?" murmured Lady Lucy to herself. "I

ought not to have needed such an assurance as this to throw myself

at his feet, and bear even scorn and rebuke, rather than prolong the

reign of falsehood and deceit. Yes--yes," and gathering a heap of

papers in her hand with the "love-letter" beneath them, she

descended the stairs.

There is no denying that Lady Lucy paused at the library door--no

denying that her heart beat quickly, and her breath seemed well-nigh

spent; but she was right to act on the good impulse, and not wait

until the new-born courage should sink.

Mr. Ferrars had finished the newspaper, and was writing an

unimportant note; his back was to the door, and hearing the rustle

of his wife's dress, and knowing her step, he did not turn his head

sufficiently to observe her countenance, but he said,

good-humouredly,

"At last! What have you been about? I thought we were to go out

before luncheon to look at the bracelet I mentioned to you."

"No, Walter--no bracelet--you must never give me any jewels again;"

and as Lady Lucy spoke she leaned against a chair for support. At

such words her husband turned quickly round, started up, and

exclaimed,

"Lucy, my love!--in tears--what has happened?" and finding that even

when he wound his arm round her she still was mute, he continued,

"Speak--this silence breaks my heart--what have I done to lose your

confidence?"

"Not you--I--" gasped the wife. "Your words at breakfast--this

letter--have rolled the stone from my heart--I must confess--the

truth--I am like Mrs. Beaufort--in debt--frightfully in debt." And

with a gesture, as if she would crush herself into the earth, she

slipped from his arms and sank literally on the floor.

Whatever pang Mr. Ferrars felt at the knowledge of her fault, it

seemed overpowered by the sense of her present anguish--an anguish

that proved how bitter had been the expiation; and he lifted his

wife to a sofa, bent over her with fondness, called her by all the

dear pet names to which her ear was accustomed, and nearer twenty

times than once gave her the "kiss of forgiveness."

"And it is of you I have been afraid!" cried Lady Lucy clinging to

his hand. "You who I thought would never make any excuses for faults

you yourself could not have committed!"

"I have never been tempted."

"Have I? I dare not say so."

"Tell me how it all came about," said Mr. Ferrars, drawing her to

him; "tell me from the beginning."

But his gentleness unnerved her--she felt choking--loosened the

collar of her dress for breathing space--and gave him the knowledge

he asked in broken exclamations.

"Before I was married--it--began. They persuaded me so many--oh, so

many--unnecessary things were--needed. Then they would not send the

bills--and I--for a long time--never knew--what I owed--and

then--and then--I thought I should have the power--but--"

"Your allowance was not sufficient?"' asked Mr. Ferrars, pressing

her hand as he spoke.

"Oh, yes, yes, yes! most generous, and yet it was always forestalled

to pay old bills; and then--and then my wants were so many. I was so

weak. Madame Dalmas has had dresses I could have worn when I had new

ones on credit instead, and--and Harris has had double wages to

compensate for what a lady's maid thinks her perquisites; even

articles I might have given to poor gentlewoman I have been mean

enough to sell. Oh, Walter! I have been very wrong; but I have been

miserable for at least three years. I have felt as if an iron cage

were rising round me--from which you only could free me--and yet,

till to-day, I think I could have died rather than confess to you."

"My poor girl! Why should you have feared me? Have I ever been

harsh?"

"Oh, no!--no--but you are so just--so strict in all these things--"

"I hope I am; and yet not the less do I understand how all this has

come about. Now, Lucy--now that you have ceased to fear me--tell me

the amount."

She strove to speak, but could not.

"Three figures or four? tell me."

"I am afraid--yes, I am afraid four," murmured Lady Lucy, and hiding

her face from his view; "yes, four figures, and my quarter received

last week gone every penny."

"Lucy, every bill shall be paid this day; but you must reward me by

being happy."

"Generous! dearest! But, Walter, if you had been a poor man, what

then?"

"Ah, Lucy, that would have been a very different and an infinitely

sadder story. Instead of the relinquishment of some indulgence

hardly to be missed, there might have been ruin and poverty and

disgrace. You have one excuse,--at least you knew that I could pay

at last."

"Ah, but at what a price! The price of your love and confidence."

"No, Lucy--for your confession has been voluntary; and I will not

ask myself what I should have felt had the knowledge come from

another. After all, you have fallen to a temptation which besets the

wives of the rich far more than those of poor or struggling

gentlemen. Tradespeople are shrewd enough in one respect: they do

not press their commodities and long credit in quarters where

ultimate payment seems doubtful--though--"

"They care not what domestic misery they create among the rich,"

interrupted Lady Lucy, bitterly.

"Stay: there are faults on both sides, not the least of them being

that girls in your station are too rarely taught the value of money,

or that integrity in money matters should be to them a point of

honour second only to one other. Now listen, my darling, before we

dismiss this painful subject for ever. You have the greatest

confidence in your maid, and _entre nous_ she must be a good deal in

the secret. We shall bribe her to discretion, however, by dismissing

Madame Dalmas at once and for ever. As soon as you can spare Harris,

I will send her to change a check at Coutts's, and then, for

expedition and security, she shall take on the brougham and make a

round to these tradespeople. Meanwhile, I will drive you in the

phaeton to look at the bracelet."

"Oh, no--no, dear Walter, not the bracelet."

"Yes--yes--I say yes. Though not a quarrel, this is a sorrow which

has come between us, and there must be a peace-offering. Besides, I

would not have you think that you had reached the limits of my will,

and of my means to gratify you."

"To think that I could have doubted--that I could have feared you!"

sobbed Lady Lucy, as tears of joy coursed down her cheeks. "But,

Walter, it is not every husband who would have shown such

generosity."

"I think there are few husbands, Lucy, who do not estimate truth and

candour as among the chief of conjugal virtues:--ah, had you

confided in me when first you felt the bondage of debt, how much

anguish would have been spared you!"

A WORD FOR WIVES.

WHAT is it? A little pencil note, crumpled and worn, as if carried

for a long time in one's pocket. I found it in a box of precious

things that Fanny's mother had hoarded so choicely, because Fanny

had been choice of them. I must read it, for everything of Fanny's

is dear to us now. Ah! 'tis a note from a gentleman who was at

school with us at F--, whom Fanny esteemed so much, whom we both

esteemed for his sterling integrity and his gentleness. It is

precious, too, as a reminder of him. I love the remembrance of old

schoolfellows,--of frolicsome, foolish, frivolous, _loving_

schooldays. But let me read. 'Tis mostly rubbed out, but here is a

place.

"You know full well that long since, 'that _dear cousin_' permitted

me to call her by the endearing name of sister; and may I not, when

far away, thinking of bygones, add your name to hers in the sisterly

list? You asked me when I had heard from _the dear one:_ she was

down here a short _hour_ last week, but what was that among so many

who wished to see her?"

Ah! that means me! If I had only known it then! And just now I was

wondering if he _really_ loved me, and perhaps felt almost in my

secret heart to grieve a bit--to murmur at him. I fear I spoke as he

little dreamed then the "_dear one_" would ever do. What shall I do?

I remember him now, in all his young loveliness, in all the

excitability of a first love, and my heart kindles too warmly to

write what I wished.

What if one had told me then that my home would be in his

heart--that my beautiful Alma would be his child! My Alma, my

beautiful babe! how sweetly she nestles her little face in his neck.

She has stolen her mother's place; little thief! I wonder she does

not steal his whole heart to the clear shutting out of her mother!

Little wives! if ever a half suppressed sigh finds place with you,

or a half unloving word escapes you to the husband whom you love,

let your heart go back to some tender word in those first

love--days; remember how you loved him then, how tenderly he wooed

you, how timidly you responded, and if you can feel that _you_ have

not grown unworthy, trust him for the same fond love now. If you

_do_ feel that through many cares and trials of life, you have

become less lovable and attractive than then, turn--by all that you

love on earth, or hope for in Heaven, turn back, and _be_ the

pattern of loveliness that won him; be the "dear one" your

attractions made you then. Be the gentle, loving, winning maiden

still, and doubt not, the lover you admired will live for ever in

your husband. Nestle by his side, cling to his love, and let his

confidence in you never fail, and, my word for it, the husband will

be dearer than the lover ever was. Above all things, do not forget

the love he gave you first. Do not seek to "emancipate" yourself--do

not strive to unsex yourself and become a Lucy Stone, or a Rev. Miss

Brown, but love the higher honour ordained by our Saviour, of

old--that of a loving wife. A happy wife, a blessed mother, can have

no higher station, needs no greater honour.

Little wives, remember your first love. As for me, I see again the

little crumpled note about the "dear one," and I must go to find

love and forgiveness in his arms.

NO JEWELLED BEAUTY.

No jewelled Beauty is my Love,

Yet in her earnest face

There's such a world of tenderness,

She needs no other grace.

Her smiles, and voice, around my life

In light and music twine,

And dear, oh very dear to me,

Is this sweet Love of mine.

Oh, joy! to know there's one fond heart

Beats ever true to me:

It sets mine leaping like a lyre,

In sweetest melody;

My soul up-springs, a Deity!

To hear her voice divine,

And dear, oh! very dear to me,

Is this sweet Love of mine.

If ever I have sigh'd for wealth,

'Twas all for her, I trow;

And if I win Fame's victor-wreath,

I'll twine it on her brow.

There may be forms more beautiful,

And souls of sunnier shine,

But none, oh! none so dear to me,

As this sweet Love of mine.

THE FIRST MARRIAGE IN THE FAMILY.

"HOME!" How that little word strikes upon the heart strings,

awakening all the sweet memories that had slept in memory's chamber!

_Our_ home was a "pearl of price" among homes; not for its

architectural elegance--for it was only a four gabled, brown country

house, shaded by two antediluvian oak trees; nor was its interior

crowded with luxuries that charm every sense and come from every

clime. Its furniture had grown old with us, for we remembered no

other; and though polished as highly as furniture could be, by daily

scrubbing, was somewhat the worse for wear, it must be confessed.

But neither the house nor its furnishing makes the _home_; and the

charm of _ours_ lay in the sympathy that linked the nine that called

it "home" to one another. Father, mother, and seven children--five

of them gay-hearted girls, and two boys, petted just enough to be

spoiled--not one link had ever dropped from the chain of love, or

one corroding drop fallen, upon its brightness.

"One star differeth from another in glory," even in the firmament of

home. Thus--though we could not have told a stranger which sister or

brother was dearest--from our gentlest "eldest," an invalid herself,

but the comforter and counsellor of all beside, to the curly-haired

boy, who romped and rejoiced in the appellation of "baby," given

five years before--still an observing eye would soon have singled

out sister Ellen as the sunbeam of our heaven, the "morning star" of

our constellation. She was the second in age, but the first in the

inheritance of that load of responsibility, which in such a

household falls naturally upon the eldest daughter. Eliza, as I have

said, was ill from early girlhood; and Ellen had shouldered all her

burden of care and kindness, with a light heart and a lighter step.

Up stairs and down cellar, in the parlour, nursery, or kitchen--at

the piano or the wash-tub--with pen, pencil, needle, or

ladle--sister Ellen was always busy, always with a smile on her

cheek and a warble on her lip.

Quietly, happily, the months and years went by. We never realized

that change was to come over our band. To be sure, when mother would

look in upon us, seated together with our books, paintings, and

needle-work, and say, in her gentle way, with only a half-sigh, "Ah,

girls, you are living your happiest days!" we would glance into each

other's eyes, and wonder who would go first. But it was a wonder

that passed away with the hour, and ruffled not even the surface of

our sisterly hearts. It could not be always so--and the change came

at last!

_Sister Ellen_ was to be married!

It was like the crash of a thunderbolt in a clear summer sky! Sister

Ellen--the fairy of the hearthstone, the darling of every

heart--which of us _could_ spare her? _Who_ had been so presumptuous

as to find out her worth? For the first moment, _this_ question

burst from each surprised, half-angry sister of the blushing,

tearful, Ellen! It was only for a moment; for our hearts told us

that nobody could help loving her, who had looked through her loving

blue eyes, into the clear well-spring of the heart beneath. So we

threw our arms around her and sobbed without a word!

We knew very well that the young clergyman, whose Sunday sermons and

gentle admonitions had won all hearts, had been for months a weekly

visiter to our fireside circle. With baby Georgie on his knee, and

Georgie's brothers and sisters clustered about him, he had sat

through many an evening charming the hours away, until the clock

startled us with its unwelcome nine o'clock warning; and the softly

spoken reminder, "Girls, it is bed-time!" woke more than one stifled

sigh of regret. Then sister Ellen must always go with us to lay

Georgie in his little bed; to hear him and Annette repeat the

evening prayer and hymn her lips had taught them; to comb out the

long brown braids of Emily's head; to rob Arthur of the story book,

over which he would have squandered the "midnight oil;" and to

breathe a kiss and a blessing over the pillow of each other sister,

as she tucked the warm blankets tenderly about them.

We do not know how often of late she had stolen down again, from

these sisterly duties, after our senses were locked in sleep; or if

our eyes and ears had ever been open to the fact, we could never

have suspected the _minister_ to be guilty of such a plot against

our peace! That name was associated, in our minds, with all that was

superhuman. The gray-haired pastor, who had gone to his grave six

months previous, had sat as frequently on that same oaken arm-chair,

and talked with us. We had loved him as a father and friend, and had

almost worshipped him as the embodiment of all attainable goodness.

And when Mr. Neville came among us, with his high, pale forehead,

and soul-kindled eye, we had thought his face also "the face of an

angel"--too glorious for the print of mortal passion! Especially

after, in answer to an urgent call from the people among whom he was

labouring, he had frankly told them that his purpose was not to

remain among them, or anywhere on his native shore; that he only

waited the guidance of Providence to a home in a foreign clime.

After this much--bewailed disclosure of his plans, we placed our

favourite preacher on a higher pinnacle of saintship!

But sister Ellen was to be married--and married to Mr. Neville. And

then--"Oh, sister, you are not going away, to India!" burst from our

lips, with a fresh gush of sobs.

I was the first to look up into Ellen's troubled face. It was

heaving with emotions that ruffled its calmness, as the tide-waves

ruffle the sea. Her lips were firmly compressed; her eyes were fixed

on some distant dream, glassed with two tears, that stood still in

their chalices, forbidden to fall. I almost trembled as I caught her

glance.

"Sister! Agnes--Emily!" she exclaimed, in a husky whisper. "Hush! be

calm! _Don't_ break my heart! Do I love home less than--"

The effort was too much; the words died on her lips. We lifted her

to bed, frightened into forgetfulness of her own grief. We soothed

her until she, too, wept freely and passionately, and, in weeping,

grew strong for the sacrifice to which she had pledged her heart.

We never spoke another word of remonstrance to her tender heart,

though often, in the few months that flitted by us together, we used

to choke with sobbing, in some speech that hinted of the coming

separation, and hurry from her presence to cry alone.

Our mother has told us the tidings with white lips that quivered

tenderly and sadly. No love is so uniformly unselfish as a mother's,

surely; for though she leaned on Ellen as the strong staff of her

declining years, she sorrowed not as we did, that she was going.

She, to, was happy in the thought that her child had found that

"pearl of price" in a cold and evil world--a true, noble, loving

heart to guide and protect her.

Father sat silently in the chimney-corner, reading in the family

Bible. _He_ was looking farther than any of us--to the perils that

would environ his dearest daughter, and the privations that might

come upon her young life, in that unhealthy, uncivilized corner of

the globe, whither she was going. Both our parents had dedicated

their children to God; and they would not cast even a shadow on the

path of self-sacrifice and duty their darling had chosen.

To come down to the unromantic little details of wedding preparations;

how we stitched and trimmed, packed and prepared--stoned raisins with

tears in our eyes, and seasoned the wedding cake with sighs. But there

is little use in thinking over these things. Ellen was first and

foremost in all, as she had always been in every emergency, great or

small. Nothing could be made without her. Even the bride's cake was

taken from the oven by her own fair hands, because no one--servant,

sister, or even mother--was willing to run the risk of burning sister

Ellen's bride's cake; and "_she_ knew _just_ how to bake it."

We were not left alone in our labours: for Ellen had been loved by

more than the home-roof sheltered. Old and young, poor and rich,

united in bringing their gifts, regrets, and blessings to the chosen

companion of the pastor they were soon to lose. There is something

in the idea of missionary life that touches the sympathy of every

heart which mammon has not too long seared. To see one, with

sympathies and refinements like our own, rend the strong ties that

bind to country and home, comfort and civilization, for the good of

the lost and degraded heathen, brings too strongly into relief, by

contrast, the selfishness of most human lives led among the gayeties

and luxuries of time.

The day, the hour came. The ship was to sail from B. on the ensuing

week; and it must take away an idol.

She stood up in the village church, that all who loved her, and

longed for another sight of her sweet face, might look upon her, and

speak the simple words that should link hearts for eternity. We

sisters stood all around her, but not too near; for our hearts were

overflowing, and we could not wear the happy faces that should grace

a train of bridesmaids. She had cheered us through the day with

sunshine from her own heart, and even while we are arraying her in

her simple white muslin, like a lamb for sacrifice, she had charmed

our thoughts into cheerfulness. It seemed like some dream of fairy

land, and she the embodiment of grace and loveliness, acting the

part of some Queen Titania for little while. The dream changed to a

far different reality, when, at the door of her mother's room, she

put her hand into that of Henry Neville, and lifted her eye with a

look that said, "Where thou goest will I go," even from all beside!

Tears fell fast in that assembly; though the good old matrons tried

to smile, as they passed around the bride, to bless her, and bid her

good--bye. A little girl, in a patched but clean frock, pushed

forward, with a bouquet of violets and strawberry-blossoms in her

hand.

"Here, Miss Nelly--please, Miss Nelly," she cried, half-laughing,

half-sobbing, "I picked them on purpose for you!"

Ellen stooped and kissed the little eager face. The child burst into

tears, and caught the folds of her dress, as though she would have

buried her face there. But a strong-armed woman, mindful of the

bride's attire, snatched the child away.

"And for what would ye be whimpering in that style, as if _you_ had

any right to Miss Ellen?"

"She was always good to me, and she's my Sunday-school teacher,"

pleaded the little girl, in a subdued undertone.

Agnes drew her to her side, and silently comforted her.

"Step aside--Father Herrick is here!" said one, just then.

The crowd about the bridal pair opened, to admit a white-haired,

half-blind old man, who came leaning on the arm of his rosy

grand-daughter. Farther Herrick was a superannuated deacon, whose

good words and works had won for him a place in every heart of that

assembly.

"They told me she was going," he murmured to himself; "they say 'tis

her wedding. I want to see my little girl again--bless her!"

Ellen sprang forward, and laid both her white trembling hands in the

large hand of the good old man. He drew her near his failing eyes;

and looked searchingly into her young, soul-lit countenance.

"I can just see you, darling; and they tell me I shall never see you

again! Well, well, if we go in God's way we shall all get to Heaven,

and it's all light _there_!" He raised his hand over her head, and

added, solemnly, "The blessing of blessings be upon thee, my child.

Amen!"

"Amen!" echoed the voice of Henry Neville.

And Ellen looked up with the look of an angel.

So she went from us! Oh! the last moment of that parting hour has

burnt itself into my being for ever! _Could_ the human heart endure

the agony of parting like that, _realized_ to be indeed the

last--lighted by no ray of hope for eternity! Would not reason reel

under the pressure?

It was hard to bear; but I have no words to tell of its bitterness.

She went to her missionary life, and we learned at last to live

without her, though it was many a month before the little ones could

forget to call on "Sister Ellen" in any impulse of joy, grief, or

childish want. Then the start and the sigh, "Oh, dear, she's

gone--sister is gone!" And fresh tears would flow.

Gone, but not lost; for that First Marriage in the family opened to

us a fountain of happiness, pure as the spring of self-sacrifice

could make it. Our household darling has linked us to a world of

needy and perishing spirits--a world that asks for the energy and

the aid of those who go from us, and those who remain in the dear

country of their birth. God bless her and her charge! Dear sister

Ellen! there may be many another breach in the family--we may all be

scattered to the four winds of heaven-but no change can come over us

like that which marked the FIRST MARRIAGE.

ONLY A FEW WORDS.

MR. JAMES WINKLEMAN shut the door with a jar, as he left the house,

and moved down the street, in the direction of his office, with a

quick, firm step, and the air of a man slightly disturbed in mind.

"Things are getting better fast," said he, with a touch of irony in

his voice, as he almost flung himself into his leather-cushioned

chair. "It's rather hard when a man has to pick his words in his own

house, as carefully as if he were picking diamonds, and tread as

softly as if he was stepping on eggs. I don't like it. Mary gets

weaker and more foolish every day, and puts a breadth of meaning on

my words that I never intended them to have. I've not been used to

this conning over of sentences and picking out of all doubtful

expressions ere venturing to speak, and I'm too old to begin now.

Mary took me for what I am, and she must make the most of her

bargain. I'm past the age for learning new tricks."

With these and many other justifying sentences, did Mr. Winkleman

seek to obtain a feeling of self-approval. But, for all this, he

could not shut out the image of a tearful face, nor get rid of an

annoying conviction that he had acted thoughtlessly, to say the

least of it, in speaking to his wife as he had done.

But what was all this trouble about? Clouds were in the sky that

bent over the home of Mr. Winkleman, and it is plain that Mr.

Winkleman himself had his own share in the work of producing these

clouds. Only a few unguarded words had been spoken. Only words! And

was that all?

Words are little things, but they sometimes strike hard. We wield

them so easily that we are apt to forget their hidden power. Fitly

spoken, they fall like the sunshine, the dew, and the fertilizing

rain; but, when unfitly, like the frost, the hail, and the

desolating tempest. Some men speak as they feel or think, without

calculating the force of what they say; and then seem very much

surprised if any one is hurt or offended. To this class belonged Mr.

Winkleman. His wife was a loving, sincere woman, quick to feel.

Words, to her, were indeed things. They never fell upon her ears as

idle sounds. How often was her poor heart bruised by them!

On this particular morning, Mrs. Winkleman, whose health was feeble,

found herself in a weak, nervous state. It was only by an effort

that she could rise above the morbid irritability that afflicted

her. Earnestly did she strive to repress the disturbed beatings of

her heart, but she strove in vain. And it seemed to her, as it often

does in such cases, that everything went wrong. The children were

fretful, the cook dilatory and cross, and Mr. Winkleman impatient,

because sundry little matters pertaining to his wardrobe were not

just to his mind.

"Eight o'clock, and no breakfast yet," said Mr. Winkleman, as he

drew out his watch, on completing his own toilet. Mrs. Winkleman was

in the act of dressing the last of five children, all of whom had

passed under her hands. Each had been captious, cross, or unruly,

sorely trying the mother's patience. Twice had she been in the

kitchen, to see how breakfast was progressing, and to enjoin the

careful preparation of a favourite dish with which she had purposed

to surprise her husband.

"It will be ready in a few minutes," said Mrs. Winkleman. "The fire

hasn't burned freely this morning."

"If it isn't one thing, it is another," growled the husband. "I'm

getting tired of this irregularity. There'd soon be no breakfast to

get, if I were always behind time in business matters."

Mrs. Winkleman bent lower over the child she was dressing, to

conceal the expression of her face. What a sharp pain now throbbed

through her temples! Mr. Winkleman commenced walking the floor

impatiently, little imagining that every jarring footfall was like a

blow on the sensitive, aching brain of his wife.

"Too bad! too bad!" he had just ejaculated when the bell rung.

"At last!" he muttered, and strode towards the breakfast-room. The

children followed in considerable disorder, and Mrs. Winkleman,

after hastily arranging her hair, and putting on a morning cap,

joined them at the table. It took some moments to restore order

among the little ones.

The dish that Mrs. Winkleman had been at considerable pains to

provide for her husband, was set beside his plate. It was his

favourite among many, and his wife looked for a pleased recognition

thereof, and a lighting up of his clouded brow. But he did not seem

even to notice it. After supplying the children, Mr. Winkleman

helped himself in silence. At the first mouthful he threw down his

knife and fork, and pushed his plate from him.

"What's the matter?" inquired his wife.

"You didn't trust Bridget to cook this, I hope?" was the response.

"What ails it?" Mrs. Winkleman's eyes were filling with tears.

"Oh! it's of no consequence," answered Mr. Winkleman, coldly;

"anything will do for me."

"James!" There was a touching sadness blended with rebuke in the

tones of his wife; and, as she uttered his name, tears gushed over

her cheeks.

Mr. Winkleman didn't like tears. They always annoyed him. At the

present time, he was in no mood to bear with them. So, on the

impulse of the moment, he arose from the table, and taking up his

hat, left the house.

Self-justification was tried, though not, as has been seen, with

complete success. The calmer grew the mind of Mr. Winkleman, and the

clearer his thoughts, the less satisfied did he feel with the part

he had taken in the morning's drama. By an inversion of thought, not

usual among men of his temperament, he had been presented with a

vivid realization of his wife's side of the question. The

consequence was, that, by dinner-time, he felt a good deal ashamed

of himself, and grieved for the pain he knew his hasty words had

occasioned.

It was in this better state of mind that Mr. Winkleman returned

home. The house seemed still as he entered. As he proceeded up

stairs, he heard the children's voices, pitched to a low key, in the

nursery. He listened, but could not hear the tones of his wife. So

he passed into the front chamber, which was darkened. As soon as he

could see clearly in the feeble light, he perceived that his wife

was lying on the bed. Her eyes were closed, and her thin face looked

so pale and death-like, that Mr. Winkleman felt a cold shudder creep

through his heart. Coming to the bed-side, he leaned over and gazed

down upon her. At first, he was in doubt whether she really breathed

or not; and he felt a heavy weight removed when he saw that her

chest rose and fell in feeble respiration.

"Mary!" He spoke in a low, tender voice.

Instantly the fringed eyelids parted, and Mrs. Winkleman gazed up

into her husband's face in partial bewilderment.

Obeying the moment's impulse, Mr. Winkleman bent down and left a

kiss upon her pale lips. As if moved by an electric thrill, the

wife's arms were flung around the husband's neck.

"I am sorry to find you so ill," said Mr. Winkleman, in a voice of

sympathy. "What is the matter?"

"Only a sick-headache," replied Mrs. Winkleman. "But I've had a good

sleep, and feel better now. I didn't know it was so late," she

added, her tone changing slightly, and a look of concern coming into

her countenance. "I'm afraid your dinner is not ready;" and she

attempted to rise. But her husband bore her gently back with his

hand, saying,

"Never mind about dinner. It will come in good time. If you feel

better, lie perfectly quiet. Have you suffered much pain?"

"Yes." The word did not part her lips sadly, but came with a softly

wreathing smile. Already the wan hue of her cheeks was giving place

to a warmer tint, and the dull eyes brightening. What a healing

power was in his tender tones and considerate words! And that

kiss--it had thrilled along every nerve--it had been as nectar to

the drooping spirit. "But I feel so much better, that I will get

up," she added, now rising from her pillow.

And Mrs. Winkleman was entirely free from pain. As she stepped upon

the carpet, and moved across the room, it was with a firm tread.

Every muscle was elastic, and the blood leaped along her veins with

a new and healthier impulse.

No trial of Mr. Winkleman's patience, in a late dinner, was in store

for him. In a few minutes the bell summoned the family; and he took

his place at the table so tranquil in mind, that he almost wondered

at the change in, his feelings. How different was the scene from

that presented at the morning meal!

And was there power in a few simple words to effect so great a

change as this! Yes, in simple words, fragrant with the odours of

kindness.

A few gleams of light shone into the mind of Mr. Winkleman, as he

returned musing to his office, and he saw that he was often to blame

for the clouds that darkened so often over the sky of home.

"Mary is foolish," he said, in partial self-justification, "to take

my hasty words so much to heart. I speak often without meaning half

what I say. She ought to know me better. And yet," he added, as his

step became slower, for he was thinking closer than usual, "it may

be easier for me to choose my words more carefully, and to repress

the unkindness of tone that gives them a double force, than for her

to help feeling pain at their utterance."

Right, Mr. Winkleman! That is the common sense of the whole matter.

It is easier to strike, than to help feeling or showing signs of

pain, under the infliction of a blow. Look well to your words, all

ye members of a home circle. And especially look well to your words,

ye whose words have the most weight, and fall, if dealt in passion,

with the heaviest force.

THE TWO HOMES.

TWO men, on their way home, met at a street crossing, and then

walked on together. They were neighbours, and friends.

"This has been a very hard day," said Mr. Freeman in a gloomy voice.

"A very hard day," echoed almost sepulchrally, Mr. Walcott. "Little

or no cash coming in--payments Heavy--money scarce, and at ruinous

rates. What is to become of us?"

"Heaven only knows," answered Mr. Freeman. "For my part, I see no

light ahead. Every day come new reports of failures; every day

confidence diminishes; every day some prop that we leaned upon is

taken away."

"Many think we are at the worst," said Mr. Walcott.

"And others, that we have scarcely seen the beginning of the end,"

returned the neighbour.

And so, as they walked homeward, they discouraged each other, and

made darker the clouds that obscured their whole horizon.

"Good evening," was at last said, hurriedly; and the two men passed

into their homes.

Mr. Walcott entered the room, where his wife and children were

gathered, and without speaking to any one, seated himself in a

chair, and leaning his head back, closed his eyes. His countenance

wore a sad, weary, exhausted look. He had been seated thus for only

a few minutes, when his wife said, in a fretful voice,

"More trouble again."

"What's the matter now?" asked Mr. Walcott, almost starting.

"John has been sent home from school."

"What!" Mr. Walcott partly arose from his chair.

"He's been suspended for bad conduct."

"O dear!" groaned Mr. Walcott--"Where is he?"

"Up in his room. I sent him there as soon as he came home. You'll

have to do something with him. He'll be ruined if he goes on in this

way. I'm out of all heart with him."

Mr. Walcott, excited as much by the manner in which his wife

conveyed unpleasant information, as by the information itself,

started up, under the blind impulse of the moment, and going to the

room where John had been sent on coming home from school, punished

the boy severely, and this without listening to the explanations

which the poor child; tried to make him hear.

"Father," said the boy, with forced calmness, after the cruel

stripes had ceased--"I wasn't to blame; and if you will go with me

to the teacher, I can prove myself innocent."

Mr. Walcott had never known his son to tell an untruth; and the

words smote with rebuke upon his heart.

"Very well--we will see about that," he answered, with forced

sternness, and leaving the room he went down stairs, feeling much

worse than when he went up. Again he seated himself in his large

chair and again leaned back his weary head, and closed his heavy

eyelids. Sadder was his face than before. As he sat thus, his

oldest daughter, in her sixteenth year, came and stood by him. She

held a paper in her hand--

"Father,--" he opened his eyes.

"Here's my quarter bill. It's twenty dollars. Can't I have the money

to take to school with me in the morning?"

"I'm afraid not," answered Mr. Walcott, half sadly.

"Nearly all the girls will bring in their money tomorrow; and it

mortifies me to be behind the others." The daughter spoke fretfully.

Mr. Walcott waved her aside with his hand, and she went off

muttering and pouting.

"It is mortifying," spoke up Mrs. Walcott, a little sharply; "and I

don't wonder that Helen feels unpleasantly about it. The bill has to

be paid, and I don't see why it may not be done as well first as

last."

To this Mr. Walcott made no answer. The words but added another

pressure to this heavy burden under which he was already staggering.

After a silence of some moments, Mrs. Walcott said,

"The coal is all gone."

"Impossible!" Mr. Walcott raised his head, and looked incredulous.

"I laid in sixteen tons."

"I can't help it, if there were sixty tons instead of sixteen; it's

all gone. The girls had a time of it to-day, to scrape up enough to

keep the fire going."

"There's been a shameful waste somewhere," said Mr. Walcott with

strong emphasis, starting up, and moving about the room with a very

disturbed manner.

"So you always say, when anything is out," answered Mrs. Walcott

rather tartly. "The barrel of flour is gone also; but I suppose you

have done your part, with the rest, in using it up."

Mr. Walcott returned to his chair, and again seating himself, leaned

back his head and closed his eyes, as at first. How sad, and weary,

and hopeless he felt! The burdens of the day had seemed almost too

heavy for him; but he had borne up bravely. To gather strength for a

renewed struggle with adverse circumstances, he had come home. Alas!

that the process of exhaustion should still go on. That where only

strength could be looked for, no strength was given.

When the tea bell rung, Mr. Walcott made no movement to obey the

summons.

"Come to supper," said his wife, coldly.

But he did not stir.

"Ain't you coming to supper?" she called to him, as she was leaving

the room.

"I don't wish anything this evening. My head aches badly," he

answered.

"In the dumps again," muttered Mrs. Walcott to herself. "It's as

much as one's life is worth to ask for money, or to say that

anything is wanted." And she kept on her way to the dining-room.

When she returned, her husband was still sitting where she had left

him.

"Shall I bring you a cup of tea?" she asked.

"No; I don't wish anything."

"What's the matter, Mr. Walcott? What do you look so troubled about,

as if you hadn't a friend in the world? What have I done to you?"

There was no answer, for there was not a shade of real sympathy in

the voice that made the queries--but rather a querulous

dissatisfaction. A few moments Mrs. Walcott stood near her husband;

but as he did Not seem inclined to answer her questions, she turned

off from him, and resumed the employment which had been interrupted

by the ringing of the tea bell.

The whole evening passed without the occurrence of a single incident

that gave a healthful pulsation to the sick heart of Mr. Walcott. No

thoughtful kindness was manifested by any member of the family; but,

on the contrary, a narrow regard for self, and a looking to him only

to supply the means of self-gratification.

No wonder, from the pressure which was on him, that Mr. Walcott felt

utterly discouraged. He retired early, and sought to find that

relief from mental disquietude, in sleep, which he had vainly hoped

for in the bosom of his family. But the whole night passed in broken

slumber, and disturbing dreams. From the cheerless morning meal, at

which he was reminded of the quarter bill that must be paid, of the

coal and flour that were out, and of the necessity of supplying Mrs.

Walcott's empty purse, he went forth to meet the difficulties of

another day, faint at heart, and almost hopeless of success. A

confident spirit, sustained by home affections, would have carried

him through; but, unsupported as he was, the burden was too heavy

for him, and he sunk under it. The day that opened so unpropitiously,

closed upon him, a ruined man!

Let us look in, for a few moments, upon Mr. Freeman, the friend and

neighbour of Mr. Walcott. He, also, had come home; weary,

dispirited, and almost sick. The trials of the day had been

unusually severe; and when he looked anxiously forward to scan the

future, not even a gleam of light was seen along the black horizon.

As he stepped across the threshold of his dwelling, a pang shot

through his heart; for the thought came, "How slight the present

hold upon all these comforts!" Not for himself, but for his wife and

children, was the pain.

"Father's come!" cried a glad little voice on the stairs, the moment

his foot-fall, sounded in the passage; then quick, pattering feet

were heard--and then a tiny form was springing into his arms. Before

reaching the sitting-room above, Alice, the oldest daughter, was by

his side, her arm drawn fondly within his, and her loving eyes

lifted to his face.

"Are you not late, dear?" It was the gentle voice of Mrs. Freeman.

Mr. Freeman could not trust himself to answer. He was too deeply

troubled in spirit to assume at the moment a cheerful tone, and he

had no wish to sadden the hearts that loved him, by letting the

depression from which he was suffering, become too clearly apparent.

But the eyes of Mrs. Freeman saw quickly below the surface.

"Are you not well, Robert?" she inquired, tenderly, as she drew his

large arm-chair towards the centre of the room.

"A little headache," he answered, with slight evasion.

Scarcely was Mr. Freeman seated, ere a pair of little hands were

busy with each foot, removing gaiter and shoe, and supplying their

place with a soft slipper. There was not one in the household who

did not feel happier for his return, nor one who did not seek to

render him some kind office.

It was impossible under such a burst of heart-sunshine, for the

spirit of Mr. Freeman long to remain shrouded. Almost imperceptibly

to himself, gloomy thoughts gave place to more cheerful ones, and by

the time tea was ready, he had half forgotten the fears which had so

haunted him through the day. But they could not be held back

altogether, and their existence was marked, during the evening, by

an unusual silence and abstraction of mind. This was observed by

Mrs. Freeman, who, more than half suspecting the cause, kept back

from her husband the knowledge of certain matters about which she

had intended to speak with him--for she feared they would add to his

mental disquietude. During the evening, she gleaned from something

he said, the real cause of his changed aspect. At once her thoughts

commenced running in a new channel. By a few leading remarks, she

drew her husband into conversation on the subject of home expenses,

and the propriety of restriction at various points. Many things were

mutually pronounced superfluous, and easily to be dispensed with;

and before sleep fell soothingly on the heavy eyelids of Mr. Freeman

that night, an entire change in their style of living had been

determined upon--a change that would reduce their expenses at least

one-half.

"I see light ahead," were the hopeful words of Mr. Freeman, as he

resigned himself to slumber.

With renewed strength of mind and body, and a confident spirit, he

went forth on the next day--a day that he had looked forward to with

fear and trembling. And it was only through this renewed strength

and confident spirit, that he was able to overcome the difficulties

that loomed up, mountain high, before him. Weak despondency would

have ruined all. Home had proved his tower of strength--his walled

city. It had been to him as the shadow of a great rock in a weary

land. Strengthened for the conflict, he had gone forth again into

the world, and conquered in the struggle.

"I see light ahead" gave place to "The morning breaketh."

LOVE'S FAIRY RING.

WHILE Titans war with social Jove,

My own sweet wife and I

We make Elysium in our love,

And let the world go by!

Oh! never hearts beat half so light

With crowned Queen or King!

Oh! never world was half so bright

As is our fairy ring,

Dear love!

Our hallowed fairy ring.

Our world of empire is not large,

But priceless wealth it holds;

A little heaven links marge to marge,

But what rich realms it folds!

And clasping all from outer strife

Sits love with folded wing,

A-brood o'er dearer life in life,

Within our fairy ring,

Dear love!

Our hallowed fairy ring.

Thou leanest thy true heart on mine,

And bravely bearest up!

Aye mingling love's most precious wine

In life's most bitter cup!

And evermore the circling hours

New gifts of glory bring;

We live and love like happy flowers

All in our fairy ring,

Dear love!

Our hallowed fairy ring.

We've known a many sorrows, sweet!

We've wept a many tears,

And often trod with trembling feet

Our pilgrimage of years.

But when our sky grew dark and wild,

All closelier did we cling;

Clouds broke to beauty as you smiled,

Peace crowned our fairy ring,

Dear love!

Our hallowed fairy ring.

Away, grim lords of murderdom;

Away, oh! Hate and Strife!

Hence, revellers, reeling drunken from

Your feast of human life!

Heaven shield our little Goshen round

From ills that with them spring,

And never be their footsteps found

Within our fairy ring,

Dear love!

Our hallowed fairy ring.

FANNIE'S BRIDAL.

PART I.

IT was to be a quiet wedding. Fannie would have it so; only _his_

relations. She, poor thing, was an orphan, and only spirit-parents

could hover around her on this great era of her life.

The bride entered the large, sunny parlour, leaning upon the arm of

her stately husband. Her white lace robe, and the fleecy veil upon

her head, floated cloud-like around her fragile, almost child-like

form. Peace hovered like a white dove over her pure brow, and a

truthful earnestness dwelt in the dark brown eyes.

On one side of the room nearest the bay-windows,

Where the sunset kept shining and shining between

The old hawthorn blossoms and branches so green,

stood the eight brothers of the groom. All tall, dark, stately men,

pride in ever black glancing eye; the same curl upon every finely

formed lip, harsh upon some, softer upon others, yet still there,

tracing the same blood through all; the same inherent qualities of

the father transmitted to the sons. One brother was a type of all,

differing only as pictures and copies--in the shade and touch.

Upon the opposite aside were seated the five sisters of the groom,

not so like one another. One had blue eyes, another auburn curls,

one a nose retrousse, a fourth was fresh and rosy, a fifth

round-faced; still the same pride had found a resting-place on some

fine feature of each face, and stamped it with the seal of

sisterhood. The same sap ran in all the branches, and each branch

put forth the same leaves.

The thirteen faces had been stern and cold, but when their youngest

brother and his fair bride came in, affection and curiosity softened

their eyes, as for the first time she appeared before them. Some

thought her too delicate, others too young; the sisters, that

Harwood could have looked higher; but all felt drawn to that

shrinking form and pale countenance; each hand had a warm grasp for

hers, each curling lip a sweet smile, and the manly voices softened

to welcome her into their proud family. Gracefully she received all,

happy and joyful as a child. But the first shadow fell with the

sunlight.

"Brothers and sisters," said Harwood pleadingly, "upon this my

wedding day cast aside your bitterness of spirit for ever, and

become as one--"

"Harwood!" replied quickly the elder sister, "upon this--this happy

day, we hide all feelings called forth by the malice and

unbrother-like conduct of our brothers, but only for the present;

we, can never become reconciled."

A silence fell upon all; strange as it may seem, the sisters were

colder and sterner than the brothers. A frown settled upon every

brow; the lips curled with contempt. A storm was tossing the waves,

but peace breathed upon the waters and all was calm. The presence of

the bride restrained angry expressions of feeling.

This was the first knowledge that Fannie had of the family feud;

tears stood in her soft eyes, and the rosy lips trembled; but her

husband's bright glance, and gentle pressure of her hand, reassured

her. There was no more warmth that day--during the ceremony and the

brief stay of the newly married. The sisters gathered around the

young wife, and the brothers around Harwood. Occasional words were

interchanged; but there reigned an invisible barrier, that seemed to

say "so far shalt thou come but no farther."

When the carriage stood at the door and Fannie and Harwood stepped

in, she stretched out her pretty hand and beckoned to the elder

brother and sister; they approached; she took a hand of each, saying

in a trembling voice:

"You both breathe the same air; the same beautiful sunlight shines

upon you; you pray to the same God, both say 'forgive us our

trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us.' Be examples

for those younger--let me join your hands--" But the sister, with a

frown, threw aside the little hand rudely, the brother pressed the

one he held, but laughed maliciously. The carriage drove on, and the

fair head rested sobbing upon the shoulder of her husband. Sadly did

he relate to her the family feud, a quarrel of ten years' standing;

sisters against brothers, resting on a belief of unfairness in the

disposition of the will of a relation. The sisters passed the

brothers upon the street without speaking, refused them admittance

to their house. Harwood being the youngest, was too young to take

part in the quarrel, and had never been expected to do so.

Poor Fannie wept bitterly; but tears more bitter yet were in store

for her.