PART IV.

Day was dawning in the watch room; the lamp was dying away, the

thirteen with pale expectant faces, now shadowed by fear, now

lighted with hope, were motionless. With his face bowed upon his

arms, Harwood had neither looked up nor spoken since Fannie slept.

The old clock had struck each hour from the dial of time into the

abyss of the past. Never before had time seemed to them so precious,

worth so much.

The physician with his fingers upon the patient's pulse had sat all

night; once he placed his hand over her mouth, and rising with a

puzzled look, walked to the window and thrust his head into the

vines; then drawing his hand over his eyes, he resumed his place,

and all was silent again, save the clock with its monotonous tick,

tick, beating as calmly as, though human passions were trifles, and

the passing away of a soul from earth, only the falling of the

niches of eternity.

The sun arose, and a little bird alighting on a spray near the

window, poured a flood of melody into the room. The sleeper smiled;

the doctor could have sworn it was so. Her breath comes more

quickly, you could see it now, fluttering between her lips; she

opened her eyes and fixed them on Harwood; he took her hand and gave

her the cordial prepared by the physician.

"She is saved," was telegraphed through the apartment. The brothers

prepared to go to their duties. The sisters divided, part to go

home, the rest to stay and watch Fannie. Harwood, with a radiant yet

anxious face, could not be persuaded to lie down, but still held the

little hand and counted the life beats of her heart.

"Ah! well!" said the old doctor to the elder brother, as he buttoned

his coat and pressed his hat down upon his head. "Well; there was

one great doubt upon my mind--in spite of all favourable

symptoms--_she was too good for earth_;--it says somewhere--and it

kept coming into my mind all the night long--'Blessed are the

peace-makers, for they shall be called the children of God.'"

THE LOVER AND THE HUSBAND.

IN his "Dream Life," Ik Marvel thus pleasantly sketches the lover

and the husband:--

You grow unusually amiable and kind; you are earnest in your search

of friends; you shake hands with your office boy, as if he were your

second cousin. You joke cheerfully with the stout washerwoman; and

give her a shilling overchange, and insist upon her keeping it; and

grow quite merry at the recollection of it. You tap your hackman on

the shoulder very familiarly, and tell him he is a capital fellow;

and don't allow him to whip his horses, except when driving to the

post-office. You even ask him to take a glass of beer with you upon

some chilly evening. You drink to the health of his wife. He says he

has no wife--whereupon you think him a very miserable man; and give

him a dollar, by way of consolation.

You think all the editorials in the morning papers are remarkably

well-written,--whether upon your side or upon another. You think the

stock-market has a very cheerful look,--with Erie--of which you are

a large holder--down to seventy-five. You wonder why you never

admired Mrs. Hemans before, or Stoddart, or any of the rest.

You give a pleasant twirl to your fingers, as you saunter along the

street; and say--but not so loud as to be overheard--"She is

mine--she is mine!"

You wonder if Frank ever loved Nelly one-half as well as you love

Madge? You feel quite sure he never did. You can hardly conceive how

it is, that Madge has not been seized before now by scores of

enamoured men, and borne off, like the Sabine women in Romish

history. You chuckle over your future, like a boy who has found a

guinea in groping for sixpences. You read over the marriage

service,--thinking of the time when you will take _her_ hand, and

slip the ring upon her finger; and repeat after the clergyman--"for

richer--for poorer, for better--for worse!" A great deal of "worse"

there will be about it, you think!

Through all, your heart cleaves to that sweet image of the beloved

Madge, as light cleaves to day. The weeks leap with a bound; and the

months only grow long when you approach that day which is to make

her yours. There are no flowers rare enough to make bouquets for

her; diamonds are too dim for her to wear; pearls are tame.--And

after marriage, the weeks are even shorter than before; you wonder

why on earth all the single men in the world do not rush

tumultuously to the altar; you look upon them all, as a travelled

man will look upon some conceited Dutch boor, who has never been

beyond the limits of his cabbage-garden. Married men, on the

contrary, you regard as fellow-voyagers; and look upon their

wives--ugly as they may be--as better than none.

You blush a little at first telling your butcher what "your wife"

would like; you bargain with the grocer for sugars and teas, and

wonder if he _knows_ that you are a married man? You practise your

new way of talk upon your office boy: you tell him that "your wife"

expects you home to dinner; and are astonished that he does not

stare to hear you say it!

You wonder if the people in the omnibus know that Madge and you are

just married; and if the driver knows that the shilling you hand to

him is for "self and wife?" You wonder if anybody was ever so happy

before, or ever will be so happy again?

You enter your name upon the hotel books as "Clarence--and Lady;"

and come back to look at it,--wondering if anybody else has noticed

it,--and thinking that it looks remarkably well. You cannot help

thinking that every third man you meet in the hall, wishes he

possessed your wife; nor do you think it very sinful in him to wish

it. You fear it is placing temptation in the way of covetous men, to

put Madge's little gaiters outside the chamber-door at night.

Your home, when it is entered, is just what it should

be--quiet, small,--with everything she wishes, and nothing more than

she wishes. The sun strikes it in the happiest possible way; the

piano is the sweetest toned in the world; the library is stocked to

a charm; and Madge, that blessed wife, is there--adorning and giving

life to it all. To think, even, of her possible death, is a

suffering you class with the infernal tortures of the Inquisition.

You grow twain of heart and of purpose. Smiles seem made for

marriage; and you wonder how you ever wore them before!

NELLIE.

THERE she sat, with both little hands covering her face. It was

twilight, and beyond the little finger glanced a watchful eye

towards the door, to see if Theodore _would_ go. She didn't think he

would. He came back.

"Is the little child crying?" he asked, relentingly, as he took the

pretty fingers, one by one, away from the youthful face, hard as she

tried to keep them there. At last she gave up, and broke into a

merry laugh.

"You little hypocrite!" said her husband, in rather an incensed tone

of voice--men _do_ hate to be gulled into soothing a laughing wife.

"Well! can't I go?" pleaded the enchanting little creature, looking

up into his eyes _so_ beseechingly.

"Why, Nellie, it isn't becoming for you to go without me."

"Yes, it is!" she answered, in a very low way, as if she hardly

dared say it, and at the same time running her forefinger through

the hem of her silk apron. "May I go?" and she lifted up her eyes in

the same beseeching way again.

"Why are you so anxious to go, to-night?"

"O, because!"

"But that is not a good reason!"

"Well, I want to dance a little!"

"Nellie, I can't possibly go with you, to-night. You are very

young--you know nothing of the world and its malice--"

"But I can go with Mr. and Mrs. Williams, next door."

"I can't consent to your going without me, little pet."

Nellie put her apron up to her face, and actually did succeed in

squeezing two tears into her eyes. She instantly dropped her apron

after this was accomplished, and looked reproachfully into her

husband's face. Suddenly a thought darted into her head. "When will

you come home?" she asked, with quiet melancholy of manner.

"I fear not before ten or eleven, dear. Good-bye! I am late, now!"

He went away, and Nellie sat down and soliloquized.

"Business! old business! If there is anything I hate, beyond all

human expression, it is this business. I know it was never intended

there should be such a thing. Adam and Eve were put right in a

garden, and that shows that it was meant we should play around, and

have fun, and live in the country, and cultivate flowers and

vegetables to live on. I have always felt so, and I always shall. I

don't know that I'd be so particular about living in the country;

but the playing part, that's what I'm particular about. If we lived

on a farm, I suppose Theodore would wear cowhide boots, and pants

too tight and short for him, and a swallow-tailed coat. I declare!

I'm afraid I never should have loved him, if I had seen him--in such

gear, although I have said forty times that I should have known we

were created for each other, if we had met under any circumstances;

but I didn't think what a difference clothes make! Isn't he a

magnificent-looking man! Wouldn't anybody have been glad to have got

him? I think it's the most wonderful thing in the world how he ever

thought of such a little giddy thing as I am! Such a great man, and

so much older than I am! Thirty-two years old! No wonder he knows so

much! Well, I must stop thinking of this! 'To be, or not to be, that

is the question!' Shall I go, or shall I not? Would he be very mad

about it, or would he not? Let me see! He won't be home before ten

or eleven. I can dress and go with Mrs. Williams, and then Fred

shall bring me home before ten o'clock; and after a few days, some

time when Theodore is in a most delicious humour, and perfectly

carried away with my bewitchments, I'll gradually disclose the

matter to him, and say I'll never do the like again, and it's among

the things of the past, an error which repentance or tears cannot

efface; but the painful results will never be forgotten, namely, his

look of disapprobation. I wonder if that will do!" Nellie broke into

a low, gay laugh. She was a spoilt child; from her cradle she had

been idolized, and taught that she could not be blamed for anything.

But she buried her face in her hands, and reflected. That day she

had received a note from a young gentleman, saying,

"DEAR ELLEN:--_Will_ you come to the ball to-night? I have not seen

Alice yet. I am on the rack, in excruciating torture. Your family

and your husband don't fancy me, but you have known me from

childhood. You ought to show mercy, rather than cruelty. Will you

come?

FREDERICK ORTON."

Nellie had read the letter, drowned in tears. How would she have

felt, if her family had been so unjustly prejudiced against

Theodore? Wouldn't she have expected some help from dear sister

Alice? And shouldn't she help Alice in her extremity, even if

Theodore should be vexed a little about it? Why did Theodore hate

Fred Orton? He never said so; but she knew he didn't like him.

Nellie wrote to Mr. Orton:

"POOR, DEAR FRED:--I'll come to the ball and speak with you, if I

can. I'll always be your friend, even if my own flesh and blood

don't do you justice. If you only knew how good father and mother

really are, and that they have heard wrong stories about you, you

wouldn't mind it. Your devoted sister

ELLEN."

Nellie, dressed in white, looked like a veritable little angel, and

went to the ball with Mr. and Mrs. Williams. She spoke with Fred,

danced with him, took a letter for Alice, and told him how her

precious sister was almost dying of a broken heart. Then, thinking

she had spoken rather strongly, she added: "You know she feels so

some of the time." When Fred came the second time to ask Nellie to

dance, she thought his motion was slightly wavering. She attributed

it to the agitation of his heart on hearing about Alice, and he led

her out on the floor. His breath was tinctured with brandy. Nellie

grew white, and begged him to take her back to her seat. He

laughingly, but positively refused. "Good gracious!" she mentally

ejaculated, "I shall die with shame to be dancing with a drunken

man, and Theodore not here! I never should have believed the stories

about Fred, if I hadn't been convinced with my own eyes and nose.

Oh! what _will_ Theodore say to me? Oh! if I had only done as he

advised. If I had stayed at home--oh! I am so sorry I came! _Shall_

I ever be able to tell Theodore? Suppose it should make trouble

between us. Oh! I know now that I am _such_ a miserable, wilful,

perverse mortal. I was born to trouble, as the sparks fly upward!"

Nellie besought Mr. Williams to convey her home, the instant her

agonizing dance was over. He did so. She entered the parlour with

beating heart, with green veil on her head, with crape shawl thrown

around her pretty figure. Theodore sat there.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands with a start, and then

standing as motionless as if she had been shot. Theodore glared at

her with a pale face, set lips, and flashing eyes. She said, with

quivering lip, "I shall die, if you are going to look at me that way

long! Oh, dear! I'm so miserable! I'm always getting my own head

snapt off to accommodate other people."

"You have not injured yourself by accommodating me!" responded a

deep, ferocious voice.

"It wasn't for my own gratification that I went, Theodore."

"For whose gratification was it, madam?"--There was a shade less of

ferocity in the tone.

"For my sister's!"

"Why didn't you tell me _why_ you wanted to go, madam?"

"It was a secret between Alice and me; and I rather thought you

liked me, and I might impose on you, as I used to do on the girls at

school that liked me. I don't mean _impose_,"--(Mr. Grenly fairly

banged at the fire,)--"I mean--"

"What do you mean, Ellen Grenly?"

"I thought I could do just as I wished, and you'd make up just as

the girls used to do."

"You thought your husband was like a girl, did you--_did_ you?"

"Yes! I hoped so!"

"Well, madam, you will soon find out that you are married to a man

who is not to be trifled with in this way."

"Oh, gracious Peter! what'll you do with me?"

"I'll send you back to your father's--to your pinafores--to your

nursery--and I'll leave the country for two or three years, until a

divorce can be obtained for separation. You may obtain the divorce,

madam. I shall never want to hold one of your perfidious sex in my

arms again. Women are one vast bundle of folly."

"I am a vast bundle of folly," sobbed Nellie, spasmodically, "but

all of them are not--they're not--I can prove it."

"I desire no proof from a woman of your--of your--of your calibre."

"I never was so sorry for anything in my life, Theodore. If you'll

forgive me this time, I'll try and make you such a good wife. I

won't disregard your advice, nor anything--nor--"

Mrs. Grenly wiped her tears on the corner of her shawl, and took

occasion to look at her husband as she did so.

"You may come here, madam!"

Madam went, knowing the victory was won; her tears were dry in a

moment.

"Nellie Grenly, look me right in the eyes!"

"Yes! there!"

And she concentrated her glorious laughing eyes upon him, trying

very hard not to make a display of rebellious dimples. He began to

doubt whether he had made a judicious request.

"Now, promise me," he said, "that as long as you live, you never

will do anything I disapprove of; because it's clear you are a

perfect baby."

"Oh! I can see myself in your eyes, just as plain as day!"

"Promise me."

"Did you know that your eyes were not all blue, but streaked--and

streaked. What's the nature of the eye, tell me? What are its

functions? You are always talking about duty, and functions, and all

that."

"Ellen!" sternly.

"What?" very sweetly. "Oh! I guess I'll go and get a drink."

"No! you won't stir a step, until you solemnly assure me that you

never will go to any place that I advise you against."

"Oh! I hate to make such a promise."

"The reason I ask it, is because thousands of innocent women have

been misjudged for innocent actions; and I would not have my little

Nellie misjudged, when she is pure as an angel."

"I promise!"

"How did you feel, Nellie, when I threatened a separation?"

"I felt as if you couldn't be coaxed into it."

"Get down, this instant!",

And down went Nellie, with a little delicious peal of laughter. A

profound silence of four minutes continuance.

"I don't know that I care if you come back."

And back went Nellie, keeping her bewitching little mouth closed,

until she could drop her face upon her husband's shoulder, and laugh

to her heart's content.

"Do you know, Nellie, that some men would have sulked a month over

your conduct to-night? Haven't you got an indulgent husband?"

"That I have. You don't thrust wrong constructions on my folly; and

that is the very reason I am going to try and be as good and

innocent as you think me. I feel as if I have been acting _so_

wrongly."

A HOME IN THE HEART.

OH! ask not a home in the mansions of pride,

Where marble shines out in the pillars and walls;

Though the roof be of gold, it is brilliantly cold,

And joy may not be found in its torch-lighted halls.

But seek for a bosom all honest and true,

Where love once awakened will never depart;

Turn, turn to that breast like the dove to its nest,

And you'll find there's no home like a home in the heart.

Oh! link but one spirit that's warmly sincere,

That will heighten your pleasure and solace your care;

Find a soul you may trust as the kind and the just,

And be sure the wide world holds no treasure so rare.

Then the frowns of misfortune may shadow our lot,

The cheek-searing tear-drops, of sorrow may start,

But a star never dim sheds a halo for him

Who can turn for repose to a home in the heart.

A LEAF FROM A FAMILY JOURNAL.

OUR married life had commenced, and this was HOME. As I opened my

eyes in our new abode, the rays of the morning sun were penetrating

the muslin curtains, the air was, fill with the fragrance of

mignionette, and in the adjoining room I heard a loved voice

warbling my favourite air.

On the different articles of furniture lay a hundred things to

remind me the change which had taken place in mode of life. There

lay the bouquet of orange flowers worn by Micelle on our wedding

day; here stood her work basket; a little further on, and my eye

fell on her small bookcase, ornamented with her school prizes and

several other volumes, recent offerings from myself. Thus all my

surroundings indicated that I was no longer alone. Till then in my

independence I had merely skirted the great army of humanity,

measuring all things with regard to my own strength only. I had now

entered its ranks; accompanied by a fellow traveller, whose powers

and feelings must be consulted, and whose tenderness must be

equalled by the protecting love shed around her. A few weeks ago I

should have fallen unnoticed and left no void, henceforward my lot

lay bound in that of others. I had taken root in life, and for the

future must fortify and strengthen myself for the protection of the

nests which would in time be formed beneath my shade.

Sweet sense of responsibility, which elevated without alarming me!

What had Marcelle and I to fear? Was not our departure on the voyage

of life like that of Athenian Theori for the island of Delos,

sailing to the sound of harps and songs while crowned with flowers?

Did not our hearts beat responsive to the chorus of youth's

protecting genii?

_Strength_ said, "What matters the task? Feel you not that to you it

will all be easy? It is the weak alone who weigh the burden. Atlas

smiled, though he bore the world on his shoulders."

_Faith_ added, "Have confidence, and the mountains which obstruct

your path shall vanish like clouds; the sea shall bear you up, and

the rainbow shall become a bridge for your feet."

_Hope_ whispered, "Behold, before lies repose after fatigue; plenty

will follow after scarcity. On, on, for the desert leads to the

promised land."

And lastly, a voice more fascinating than any, added, "Love one

another; there is not on earth a surer talisman; it is the 'Open

Sesame' which will put you in the possession of all the treasures of

creation."

Why not listen to these sweet assurances? "Cherished companions of

our opening career, my faith in you is strong; you, who, like unto

the military music which animates the soldier's courage, lead us,

intoxicated by your melody, on to the battle field of life." What

can I fear from a life through which I shall pass with Marcelle's

arm entwined in mine? The sun shines on the commencement of our

journey; forward over flowery fields, by hedges alive with song,

through ever-verdant forests! Let one horizon succeed another! The

day is so lovely, and the night yet so distant!

While thus occupied with my newborn happiness, I had risen and

joined Marcelle, who had already taken possession of her domestic

kingdom.

Everything must be visited with her; her precocious housewifery must

be admired; her arrangements must be applauded. First she showed me

the little '_salle a manger_,' dedicated to the meals which

would unite us in the intervals of business: to this cause it owed

the air of opulence and brightness which Marcelle had carefully

striven to impart to it. China, silver, and glass, sparkled on the

shelves. Here lay rich fruits half hidden in moss; there, stood

freshly-gathered flowers--everything spoke of the reign of grace and

plenty. From thence we passed into the salon, the closed curtains of

which admitted only a soft and subdued light, which fell on

statuettes ornamenting the consoles, and the gilt frames on the

walls: on the tables lay scattered in graceful negligence, albums,

elegancies of papier mache, and carved ivory; precious nothings

which had constituted the young girl's treasures. At the farther

end, the folds of a heavy curtain concealed the bower, sacred to the

lady of the castle. Here admittance was at first denied me, and I

was obliged to have recourse to entreaty before the drapery was

raised for our entrance.

The cabinet was lighted by a small window, over which hung a blind,

representing a gothic casement of painted glass, the bright colours

of which were now rendered more brilliant by the sunlight which

streamed through. The principal furniture consisted of a pretty

lounging chair and the work table, near which I had so often seen

Marcelle seated with her embroidery when I passed under her aunt's

window. Her pretty flower-stand, gay with her favourite flowers,

occupied the window in which hung a gilt-wire cage, the melodious

prison-house of her pet bird; and lastly, there stood fronting the

window, the bureau, consecrated since her school-days, to her

intimate correspondence.

She showed it to me with an almost tearful gravity. Everything it

contained was a relic, or souvenir. That agate inkstand had belonged

to her elder sister, who died just when Marcelle was old enough to

know and love her; this mother-of-pearl paper-cutter was a present

to her from her aunt, before she became her adopted child; this seal

had belonged to her father! She half-opened the different drawers,

for me to peep at the treasures they contained. In one were the

letters of her dearest school-friend, now married, gone abroad, and

therefore lost to her; in another, were family papers; lower down,

her certificates for the performance of religious obligations,

prizes obtained, and examinations passed--the young girl's humble

patent of nobility!--and last of all, in the most secret corner, lay

some faded flowers, and the correspondence which, with the consent

of her Aunt Roubert, we had interchanged when absent from each

other.

In the contents of this bureau, were united all the touching and

pleasing reminiscences of her former life; they formed Marcelle's

poetic archives, whither she often retired in her hours of solitude.

Often, on my return from business, I found her here, smiling, and

seemingly perfumed by memories of the past.

Ah! thought I, why have not men also some spot thus consecrated to

like holy and sweet remembrances, a sanctuary replete with tokens of

family affection, and relics of youth's enthusiasm? Our ancestors,

in their pride, cut out of the granite rock safe depositories for

the proofs of their empty titles and long pedigrees; is it

impossible for us to devote some obscure corner to the annals of the

heart, to all that recalls to us our former noble aspirations, and

generous hopes?

Time has torn from the walls the genealogical trees of noble

families, but he has left space for those of the soul. Let us seek

the origin of our decisions, our sympathies, our repugnances, and

our hopes, and we shall ever find that they spring from some

circumstance of by-gone days. The present is rooted in the past. Who

has met by chance with some relic of earlier years, and has not been

touched by the remembrances called forth? It is by looking back to

the starting-point, that we can best calculate the distance

traversed; it is in so doing that we feel either pleasure or alarm.

Truly happy is the man who, after gazing on the portrait of his

youth, can turn towards the original and find it unimpaired by age!

These reflections were interrupted by the sound of my father's

voice, which brought us out of Marcelle's retreat to welcome him. He

came to see our new abode, and add his satisfaction to our

happiness. He was a gentle stoic, whose courage had ever served as a

bulwark to the weak, and whose inflexibility was but another name

for entire self-abnegation; he was indulgent to all, because he

never forgave himself, and ever veiled severity in gentleness. His

wisdom partook neither of arrogance nor passion; it descended to the

level of your comprehension, and while pointing upwards, led you by

the hand, and guided the ascent. It was a mother who instructed,

never a judge who condemned.

Though pleased with my choice, and happy at seeing us united, he had

nevertheless refused a place at our fireside. "These first hours of

youth are especially your own," he had said to me with a paternal

embrace; "an old man would throw a shadow over the meridian sunshine

of your joy. It is better that you should regret my absence, than

for one moment feel my presence a restraint. Besides, solitude is

necessary to you, as well as to me--for _you_ to talk of your hopes

for the future, for _me_ to recall remembrances of the past. Some

time hence, when my strength is failing, I will come to you, and

close my eyes in the shadow of your prosperity."

And all my entreaties had been unavailing: the separation was

unavoidable. Now, however, Marcelle sprang forward to meet him, and

led him triumphantly across the room, to begin a re-examination of

its treasures. My father listened to all, replied to all, and smiled

at all. He lent himself to our dreams of happiness, pausing before

each new phase, to point out a hope overlooked before, or a joy

forgotten. While thus pleasantly occupied, time slipped away

unnoticed, until Marcelle's aunt arrived.

Who was there in our native town who did not know Aunt Roubert? The

very mention of her name was sufficient to make one gay. Left a

widow in early life, and in involved circumstances, she had, by dint

of activity, order, and economy, entirely extricated herself from

pecuniary difficulty. Of _her_ might be said with truth, that

"_sa part d'esprit lui avait ete donnee en bon sens_." Taking reality

for her guide, she had followed in the beaten track of life, carefully

avoiding the many sharp flints which caprice scatters in the way.

Always on the move, alternately setting people to rights, and grumbling

at either them or herself, she yet found time to manage well her own

affairs, and to improve those of others--a faculty which had obtained

for her the name of "_La Femme de menage de la Providence_." Vulgar

in appearance, she was practical in the extreme, and results generally

proved her in the right. Her nature was made up of the prose of life,

but prose so clear, so consistent, that, but for its simplicity, it

would have been profound.

Aunt Roubert arrived, according to custom, a large umbrella in hand,

while her arm was loaded with an immense horsehair bag. She entered

the little cabinet, where we were seated, like a shower of

hail:--"Here you are at last," she exclaimed, "I have been into

every room, in search of you, Do you know, my dear, that the chests

of linen have arrived?"

"Very well, I will go and see after it," said Marcelle, who, with

one hand in my father's, and the other in mine, seemed in no hurry

to stir.

"You will go and see after it," repeated Aunt Roubert, "that will be

very useless, for you will find no place to put it in; I have been

over your abode, my poor child, and instead of a home I find a

'_salon de theatre_.'"

"Why, aunt," exclaimed Marcelle, "how can you say so? Remi and his

father have just been through the rooms, and are delighted with

them!"

"Don't talk of men and housekeeping in the same breath," replied

Madame, in her most peremptory tone; "see that they are provided

with a pair of snuffers and a bootjack, and they will not discover

the want of anything else; but I, dear friend, know what a house

should be. In entering the lobby just now, I looked about for a

hook, on which to hang my cloak, and could find nothing, but

flowering stocks! My dear, flowers form the principal part of your

furniture!"

Marcelle endeavoured to protest against the assertion by enumerating

our stock of valuables, but she was interrupted by her aunt.

"I am not talking of what you have, but of what you have not," she

said; "I certainly saw in your salon some little bronze

marmozettes."

"Marmozettes!" I cried, "you mean statuettes of Schiller and

Rousseau."

"Possibly," Aunt Roubert quietly replied, "they may at a push serve

as match holders; but, dear friend, in the fire-place of your office

below, I could see neither tongs nor shovel. On opening the

sideboard, I found a charming little silver-gilt service, but no

soup ladle, so one can only suppose that you mean to live on

sweetmeats; and lastly, though the '_salle a manger_ is

ornamented with beautifully gilt porcelain, the kitchen

unfortunately is minus both roasting-jack and frying-pan! Good

heavens, these are most unromantic details, are they not?" added

she, noticing the gesture of annoyance which we were unable

altogether to repress; "but as you will be obliged to descend to

them whenever you want a roast or an omelette, it would perhaps be

as well to provide for them."

"You are right!" I replied, a little out of humour, for I had

noticed Marcelle's confusion, "but such omissions are easily

rectified when their need is felt."

"That is to say, you will wait until bed-time to order the

mattrass," replied Aunt Roubert; "well, well, my children, as you

will, but now your attendance is required on your linen, which

awaits you in the lobby; I suppose my niece does not propose to

arrange it in her birdcage, or flower-stand; can she show me the

place destined for it?"

Marcelle had coloured to the roots of her hair, and stood twisting

and untwisting her apron-string.

"Ah well! I see you have not thought of that," said the old aunt;

"but never mind, we will find some place to put it in after

breakfast; you know we are to breakfast together."

This was a point Marcelle had not forgotten, and she forthwith led

the way to her breakfast-table.

At the sight of it my father gave a start of pleased surprise. In

the centre stood a basket of fruit, flowers, and moss, round which

were arranged all our favourite dainties; each could recognize the

dish prepared to suit his taste. After having given a rapid glance

round, Madame Roubert cried out,

"And the bread, my child?"

Marcelle uttered a cry of consternation.

"You have none," said her aunt, quietly; "send your servant for

some." Then lowering her voice, she added, "As she will pass by my

door, she can at the same time tell Baptiste to bring the large

easy-chair for your father, and I hope you will keep it. Your gothic

chairs are very pretty to look at but when one is old or invalided,

what one likes best in a chair, is a comfortable seat."

While awaiting the servant's return, Madame Roubert accompanied

Marcelle in a tour round our abode. She pointed out what had been

forgotten, remedied the inconvenience of several arrangements, or

superseded them with better, doing it all with the utmost cheerful

simplicity. Her hints never bordered on criticisms; she showed the

error without astonishment at its having been committed, and without

priding herself on its discovery.

When she had completed her examination, she took her niece aside

with her accounts. Marcelle fetched the little rosewood case which

served her as a cash box, and sat down to calculate the expenses of

the past week. But her efforts to produce a satisfactory balance,

seemed useless. It was in vain that she added and subtracted, and

counted piece by piece her remaining money, the deficit never

varied. Astounded at such a result, and at the amount spent, she

began to examine the lock of her box, and to ask herself how its

contents could have so rapidly disappeared, when Aunt Roubert

interrupted her.

"Take care," she said in one of her most serious tones. "See, how

from want of careful account-keeping you already suspect others;

before this evening is here you will be ready to accuse them. It

always is so. The want of order engenders suspicion, and it is

easier to doubt the probity of others than one's own memory. No lock

can prevent that, my child, because none can shelter you from the

results of your own miscalculations. There is no safeguard for the

woman at the head of a household, like a housekeeping-book which

serves to warn her day by day, and bears faithful witness at the end

of the month. I have brought you such a one as your uncle used to

give me."

She drew it from her bag, and presented it to Marcelle.

It was an account-book bound in parchment, the cover of which was

separated like a portfolio into three pockets, destined for

receipts, bills, and memoranda. The book itself was divided into

several parts, distinguished one from the other by markers

corresponding to the different species of expenditure, so that a

glance was sufficient to form an estimate, not only of the sum

total, but also of the amount of expenditure, in each separate

branch.

The whole formed a domestic budget as clear as it was complete, in

which each portion of the government service had its open account

regulated by the supreme comptroller.

M. Roubert, who had been during his life a species of unknown

Franklin, solely occupied in the endeavour to make business and,

opinions agree with good sense, had written above, each chapter a

borrowed or unpublished maxim to serve as warning to its possessor.

At the beginning of the book the following words were traced in red

ink:--

_"Economy is the true source of independence and liberality."_

Farther on, at the head of the division destined to expenses of the

table:--

_"A Wise man has always three cooks, who season the simplest food:

Sobriety, Exercise, and Content."_

Above the chapter devoted to benevolence:--

_"Give as thou hast received"_

And lastly, on the page destined to receive the amount of each

month's savings, he had copied this saying of a Chinese

philosopher:--

_"Time and patience convert the mulberry leaf into satin."_

After having given us time to look over the book, and read its wise

counsels, Aunt Roubert explained to Marcelle the particulars of its

use, and endeavoured to initiate her in domestic book-keeping.

TRIFLES.

TRULY hath the poet said that, "Trifles swell the sum of human

happiness and woe." Our highest and holiest aspirations, our purest

and warmest affections, are frequently called forth by what in

itself may be deemed of trivial importance. The fragrant breath of a

flower, the passing song of the merry milk-maid, a soothing word

from one we love, will often change the whole current of our

thoughts and feelings, and, by carrying us back to the days of

childhood, or bringing to our remembrance some innocent and happy

state which steals over us like a long-forgotten dream, will

dissipate the clouds of sorrow, and even the still deeper shades of

falsity and evil.

How many of the great events of life have their origin in trifles;

how many deep, heart-felt sorrows spring from neglect of what seemed

to us a duty of little or no account--something that could be done

or left undone as we pleased!

Alas! this is a dangerous doctrine. Let us endeavour to impress upon

the minds of our children that no duty is trifling; that nothing

which can in any way affect the comfort and happiness of others is

unimportant.

The happiness of domestic life, particularly of married life,

depends almost wholly upon strict attention to trifles. Between

those who are united by the sacred tie of marriage, nothing should

be deemed trivial. A word, a glance, a smile, a gentle touch, all

speak volumes; and the human heart is so constituted that there is

no joy so great, no sorrow so intense, that it may not be increased

or mitigated by these trifling acts of sympathy from one we love.

Nearly three months had elapsed since the papers had duly announced

to the public that Mary, daughter of Theodore Melville, had become

the bride of Arthur Hartwell; and the young couple had returned from

a short bridal tour, and were now quietly settled in a pleasant

little spot which was endeared to Arthur by having been the home of

his youthful days. He had been left an orphan at an early age, and

the property had passed into the hands of strangers, but he

continued to cherish a strong attachment for the "old place," as he

termed it, and he heard with joy, some few months before his

marriage, that it was for sale; and without even waiting to consult

his intended bride, he purchased it for their future home. This was

a sad disappointment to Mary, for she had fixed her affections upon

a pretty romantic little cottage, half hid by trees and shrubbery,

which was situated within two minutes' walk of her father's house;

and which, owing to the death of the owner, was offered for sale

upon very favourable terms. In her eyes it possessed every

advantage, and as she mentally compared it with the old-fashioned

dwelling of which Arthur had become the possessor, she secretly

conceived a strong prejudice against the spot where the duties and

pleasures of the new sphere which she was about to enter were to

commence; particularly as it was five miles distant from her

parents, and not very near to any of her early friends.

Some faint attempts were made to induce Arthur to endeavour to get

released from his bargain, and to become the purchaser of the pretty

cottage, but in vain. He was delighted to have become the owner of

what appeared to him one of the loveliest spots on the earth, and

assured Mary that the house was vastly superior to any cottage,

advancing so many good reasons for this assertion, and describing in

such glowing terms the beauty of the surrounding scenery, and the

happiness they should enjoy, that she could not help sympathizing

with him, although her dislike to her future home remained unabated.

The first few weeks of her residences there passed pleasantly

enough, however. All was new and delightful. The grounds about the

house, although little cultivated, were beautiful in the wild

luxuriance of nature; the trees were loaded with rich autumnal

fruits; and even the old-fashioned mansion, now that it was new

painted, and the interior fitted up in modern style, assumed a more

favourable aspect. It was a leisure time with Arthur, and he was

ever ready to accompany Mary to her father's; so that she became

quite reconciled to the distance, and even thought it rather an

advantage, as it was such a pleasant little ride.

But as the season advanced, Arthur became more engrossed with

business. The rides became less frequent, and Mary, accustomed to

the society of her mother and sister, often passed lonely days in

her new home, and her dislike to it in some degree returned. Her

affection for her husband, however, prevented the expression of

these feelings, and she endeavouved to forget her loneliness in

attention to household duties; reading, and music; but these

resources would sometimes fail.

It was one of those bright afternoons in the latter part of autumn,

when the sun shines forth with almost summer-like warmth, and the

heart is gladdened with the departing beauty of nature. Mary was

seated alone in her pleasant parlour, with her books and her work by

her side.

"How I wish Arthur would return early!" she said, aloud, as she

gazed from their open window. "It will be such a lovely evening. We

could have an early tea, and ride over to father's and return by

moonlight; it would be delightful;" and filled with this idea, she

really expected her husband, although it still wanted two hours of

the usual time of his return; and laying aside her work, began to

make some preparations for the evening meal. She was interrupted by

a call from an old friend who lived nearly two miles distant, and,

intending to pass the afternoon at Mr. Melville's, had called to

request Mary to accompany her.

The young wife was in considerable perplexity. She had a great

desire to go to her father's, but she was unwilling to have Arthur

return home and find her absent; and moreover, she felt a strong

impression that he would himself enjoy the ride in the evening, and

would, perhaps, be disappointed if she were not at home to go with

him. So, with many thanks the invitation was declined, the visiter

departed, and Mary returned with a light heart to the employment

which the visit had interrupted.

Janet, the assistant in the kitchen, entered into the feelings of

her mistress, and hastened to assist her with cheerful alacrity,

declaring that she knew "Mr. Hartwell would be home directly,--it

was just the evening for a ride," &c.&c.--this ebullition of her

feelings being partly caused by sympathy with the wishes of her

young mistress, and partly by her own desire to have the house to

herself for the reception of some particular friends, who had

promised to favour her with their company that evening.

But alas! the hopes of both mistress and maid were destined to be

disappointed. The usual time for Arthur's return passed by, and

still he did not appear, and it was not until the deepening

twilight had almost given place to the deeper shades of evening,

that Mary heard his well known step, and springing from the sofa

where she had thrown herself after a weary hour of watching, she

flew to the door to greet him.

"Oh, Arthur!" she exclaimed, forgetful that he was quite ignorant of

all that had been passing in her mind for the last few hours, "how

could you stay so late? I have waited for you so long, and watched

so anxiously. It is quite too late for us to go now."

"Go where, Mary?" was the surprised reply. "I did not recollect that

we were to go anywhere this evening. I know I am rather late home,

but business must be attended to. I meant to have told you not to

expect me at the usual hour."

This was too bad. To think that she had refused Mrs. Elmore's kind

invitation, and had passed the time in gazing anxiously from the

window, when she might have enjoyed the society of father, mother,

and all the dear ones at home; and now to find that Arthur actually

knew that he should not return till late, and might have saved her

this disappointment, it was really very hard; and Mary turned away

to hide the starting tears, as she replied,

"You might have remembered to have told me that you should not be

home till dark, Arthur, and then I could have gone with Mrs. Elmore.

She called to ask me to ride over to father's with her, but I would

not go, because I felt so sure that you would come home early and

take me to ride yourself this pleasant evening."

"You had no reason to expect it," said Arthur, rather shortly, for

he felt irritated at the implied reproach of Mary's words and

manner, and for the first time since their marriage, the husband and

wife seated themselves at the table with unkind feelings busy in

their hearts. Mary remained quite silent, while Arthur vented his

irritation by giving the table an impatient jerk, exclaiming,

"I really wish Janet could learn to set a table straight! I believe

her eyes are crooked."

This was an unfortunate speech, for Mary, in her desire to expedite

Janet's preparations for tea, had herself arranged the table; at

another time she would have made a laughing reply, but just now she

did not feel like joking, and the remark only increased the weight

at her heart.

These grievances may seem very trifling, and indeed they are so; but

our subject is trifles, and if the reader will examine his own

heart, he will find that even little troubles sometimes produce a

state which even the addition of a feather's weight renders

insupportable.

Thus it was with Mary. She made an ineffectual attempt to eat, but

the food seemed to choke her; and rising abruptly, she seated

herself at the piano and commenced a lively tune in order to hide

her real feelings.

There was nothing strange in this. Arthur frequently asked her to

play to him when he felt disposed to remain at the table longer than

she did, and he had often said that he liked the ancient custom of

having music at meals; but this evening music had lost its charm;

the lively tune was not in unison with his state of feeling, and he

hastily finished his supper and left the room. This was another

trial, and the ready tears gushed from Mary's eyes as she left the

piano, and summoning Janet to remove the tea things, she bade her

tell Mr. Hartwell when he came in, that she had a bad headache and

had gone to her own room.

Arthur returned from his short walk in less than half an hour, quite

restored to good humour by the soothing effects of the lovely

evening, and somewhat ashamed that he had been disturbed by so

trifling a cause.

"Perhaps Mary would like to take a walk," he said, to himself, as he

entered the house. "It is not too late for that, and to-morrow I

will endeavour to take the wished-for ride."

He was disappointed when Janet delivered the message, and going up

stairs opened the door of their sleeping apartment; but Mary's eyes

were closed, and fearful of disturbing her, he quietly returned to

the parlour and endeavoured to amuse himself with a book until his

usual hour of going to rest.

The next morning all seemed as usual; for sleep has a renovating

power on the mind as well as the body, and in little troubles as

well as in great.

Husband and wife spoke affectionately to each other, and secretly

wondered how such trifles could have disturbed them; but no allusion

was made to the subject, for the very reason that the unpleasant

feeling which had arisen between them had sprung from so trifling a

cause. The trouble could scarcely be defined, and therefore they

judged it better to say nothing about it. In some cases this is

well, but, generally, it is better to speak openly even of little

difficulties; especially those which may arise in the first part of

married-life, as this frankness enables husband and wife to gain an

insight into all those trifling peculiarities of character which

each may possess, and on attention to which, much of their future

happiness may depend.

Weeks and months passed on, and, apparently, all was going happily

with our young friends. Mary had become more accustomed to passing

some hours of each day alone, and her solitude was frequently

enlivened by a visit from her mother, sister, or some young friend

of her school-girl days. Arthur still appeared devotedly attached to

her, and she certainly returned his affection most sincerely, and

yet both felt that there was a change. It could scarcely be defined,

and no cause could be assigned for it. They would have indignantly

rejected the idea, that they loved each other less than formerly,

but there was certainly less sympathy between them; they were not so

closely united in every thought and feeling as they once had been.

No unkind words had passed on either side, at least none which could

really be regarded as such, for the trifles which had gradually

produced this feeling of separation were almost too insignificant to

call forth absolute unkindness; yet still they did their work slowly

but surely.

Mary was the petted child of indulgent parents. Arthur had early

lost both father and mother, and his childhood had passed with but

little of the genial effects of female influence. He had spent most

of his time at a school for boys, where, although his intellect was

well cultivated, and his morals strictly attended to, there was

little done to call forth those warm affections of which every young

heart is susceptible. And as he grew to manhood, although his

principles were excellent, and his feelings warm and tender, there

was a want of that kindliness and gentleness of manner, and above

all, of that peculiar faculty of adapting himself to the wants of a

female heart, which would not have existed had he been blessed with

the care of a mother, or the affectionate sympathy of a sister.

His acquaintance with Mary before their marriage had been of short

duration, and these traits in his character had passed unobserved

during the excitement of feeling which generally marks the days of

courtship; but as this state passed away, and his usual habits

returned, Mary's sensitive heart was often wounded by trifling

inattentions, although never by wilful neglect. Arthur was fond of

study, and in his leisure hours he would sometimes become so

entirely absorbed in some favourite author, that even Mary's

presence was forgotten, and the evening passed away without any

effort on his part to cheer her evidently drooping spirits. Not that

he was really selfish: it was mere thoughtlessness, and ignorance of

those attentions which a woman's heart demands. If Mary had

requested him to lay aside his graver studies and read aloud in some

work interesting to her, or pass an hour in cheerful conversation,

or listening to music, he would have complied without hesitation,

and, indeed, with pleasure; but she remained silent, secretly

yearning for little acts of kindness, which never entered the mind

of her husband. Another peculiarity which gave the young wife much

pain, was that Arthur never or very rarely uttered words of

commendation or approval. If anything was wrong he noticed it at

once, and requested a change; but if right, he never praised. This

is a common error, and it is a great one. Approval from those we

love is as refreshing to the human heart as the dew to the fading

flower; and to at woman's heart it is _essential_: without it all

kindly affections wither away; the softest, most delicate feelings

become blunted and hard; the heart no longer beats with warm,

generous emotions--it is cold, palsied, and dead.

Even in the most trifling details of domestic life, approval is

encouraging and sweet. The weary wife and mother who has passed

through a day of innumerable little vexations and difficulties, is

cheered by the pleasant smile with which her husband takes his seat

at the tea-and feels new life as she listens to his commendations of

some favourite dish which she has placed before him.

True, it is but a trifle, but it speaks to the heart.

We will give our readers a short specimen of the habit to which we

allude. Breakfast was on the table, and a part of the hot cakes and

smoking ham had been duly transferred to Arthur's plate. He ate

sparingly, and his looks plainly showed that something was wrong.

Presently he said--"Mary, dear, I think you must look a little more

strictly after Janet. She grows very careless; this bread is

decidedly sour, the ham is half cooked, and worse than all,

breakfast is ten minutes too late."

Mary's quiet reply, that she would "endeavour to have it right

another time," was quite satisfactory; pleasant remarks followed,

and Arthur left home with a cheerful good morning.

Another breakfast time arrived. Mary's own personal attention had

secured sweet bread, and she had risen half an hour earlier than

usual to insure that all was done properly and in season.

Punctually the well prepared dishes were placed upon the table,

again Arthur's plate was well filled, and, to do him justice, its

contents were eaten with keen relish; but no look or word of

approval was given to show that he understood and appreciated the

effort which had been made to meet his wishes.

All was right, and therefore there was nothing to say. To some this

might have been satisfactory, but not to Mary. She longed for a word

or smile to show that she had given pleasure.

But it is not to be supposed that all these petty causes of

complaint were on one side. Arthur often felt grieved and somewhat

irritated by Mary's altered manner or moody silence, showing that he

had offended in ways unknown to himself; and there were also times

when her ridicule of his somewhat uncultivated taste granted harshly

on his feelings. Her continued dislike to the "dear old place" was

another source of regret; and before the first year of married life

had expired, feelings had sometimes been busy in both their hearts

which they would have shuddered to have confessed even to

themselves.

Winter and spring had passed away, and summer was again present with

its birds and flowers. Mary was in her garden one lovely afternoon

arranging some favourite plants, when her attention was attracted to

a small cart laden with some strange old-fashioned-looking

furniture, which had stopped at their gate. She at first supposed

that the driver wished to inquire the way, but to her surprise he

carefully lifted a large easy-chair, covered with leather and

thickly studded with brass nails, from the wagon, and brought it

toward the house, bowing respectfully as he approached her, and

inquiring where she wished to have it put.

"There is some mistake," said Mary; "these things are not for us."

"Mr. Hartwell sent them here, ma'am," was the reply; "and here is a

bit of a note for your leddyship."

Mary received the proffered slip of paper, and hastily read the

following lines:--

"You will be pleased, dear Mary, to find that I have at length

discovered the purchaser of my mother's easy-chair, and the old

clock which formerly stood in our family sitting-room, and have

bought them of him for a moderate price. They are valuable to me as

mementos of my boyish days, and you will value them for my sake."

But Mary had a great dislike to old clocks, and leather-bottomed

chairs, and she was little disposed to value them even for Arthur's

sake. She, however, directed the man where to place them, and

returned to the employment which he had interrupted. Arthur's

business demanded his attention until a late hour that evening, and

he had said when he left home that he should take tea in the city.

Mary retired to rest before his return, and nothing was said

concerning the old furniture until the following morning.

Indeed, it seemed so perfectly worthless to Mary, that the

recollection of it had passed from her mind; but it was recalled by

the sudden inquiry of her husband as he finished dressing and

prepared to go down stairs.

"Oh, Mary, dear, where did you have the old chair and clock placed?

Was I not fortunate to find them?"

"Very," replied Mary, with forced interest; "although I hardly know

what you will do with them. I had them put in the shed for the

present."

"In the shed!" exclaimed Arthur; "but you are right, Mary, they need

a little rubbing off; please to let Janet attend to them this

morning, and I will show you the very places where they used to stand

in the parlour. How delighted I shall be to see the old clock in its

accustomed corner, and to seat myself in the very chair where I have

so often sat with my dear mother!"

Mary uttered an involuntary, exclamation of horror.

"Why, Arthur, you do not really intend to place those hideous old

things in our parlour?"

"Certainly I do. I see nothing hideous in them. They are worth all

our fashionable furniture put together. What is your objection to

them, Mary?"

"I have every objection to them," was her almost indignant reply.

"They would form the most ludicrous contrast to the rest of our

furniture."

"I see nothing ludicrous or improper in putting them in their old

places," said Arthur, warmly. "They are dear to me as having

belonged to my parents and I cannot see why you should wish to deny

me the pleasure of having them where I can enjoy the recollections

which they recall."

"Put them in the garret, or in your own little room where you keep

your books, if you like," answered Mary; "but if you have any regard

to my feelings, you will keep them out of my sight. I think the

sacrifice which I make in living in this old-fashioned place is

enough, without requiring me to ornament my parlour with furniture

which was in use before I was born. However, I do not expect much

consideration for my opinions and tastes;" and, overpowered with a

mixed feeling of indignation and regret for the warmth with which

she had spoken, Mary burst into tears.

"You have certainly showed little regard for my feelings," was

Arthur's irritated reply; "and perhaps, I may also say with truth,

what your words imply; I have little reason to expect regard and

consideration;" and hastily leaving the room, he was on his way to

his office before Mary had composed herself sufficiently to descend

to the breakfast room.

"Has Mr. Hartwell breakfasted?" she inquired, with surprise, as she

saw the solitary cup and plate which Janet had placed for her.

"He took no breakfast, ma'am. I think he was in great haste to reach

the office."

"He has a great deal to attend to, just now," replied her mistress,

unwilling that Janet should suspect the truth; but as soon as the

girl left the room, her excited feelings again found vent in tears.

Bitterly did she regret what had passed. It was the first time that

harsh words had been uttered by either and they seemed to have

lifted the veil which had long been drawn over thoughts and feelings

which had tended to dissimilarity and separation.

The year passed in rapid review before her, and she felt that there

was a great and fearful change, the cause of which she could not

define, for she had no distinct charges to bring against Arthur, and

as yet, she attached little blame to herself. The unkind manner in

which she had spoken that morning, was indeed regretted; but this

seemed the only error. It was certainly unreasonable in Arthur to

expect her to yield willingly to such strange whim.

But he no longer loved her, she was sure of this; and proof after

proof of his inattention to her wishes, and neglect of her feelings,

came to her mind until she was almost overwhelmed with the view of

her own misery, which imagination thus placed before her.

And this was the anniversary of their marriage! One short year

before and they had exchanged those mutual vows which then appeared

unchangeable. How soon happiness had fled! And to think that this

climax of their troubles should happen upon this very day, which

ought to have been consecrated to tender remembrances!--this was the

hardest thought of all; but probably, Arthur did not even remember

the day. As these and similar thoughts passed through Mary's mind,

her tears redoubled, and fearful that Janet would surprise her in

this situation, she rose hastily to go to her own room. In doing

this her eye suddenly rested upon a small parcel addressed to

herself, which lay upon her little work-table, and taking it in her

hand she passed quickly up the stairs, just in time to avoid the

scrutinizing eye of Janet, who, shrewdly suspecting that something

was wrong, had resolved to be uncommonly attentive to her young

mistress, in the hope of discovering the cause of the trouble.

Mary locked the door of her own apartment, and observing that the

address on the package was in Arthur's handwriting, she hastily tore

off the envelope, discovering a beautiful edition of a volume of

poems for which she had expressed a wish--unheeded and unheard, as

she deemed it--some days before. Her own name and that of her

husband were written upon the blank leaf, and the date showed that

it was designed as a gift for this very day; a proof that he

remembered the anniversary which she had supposed so entirely

forgotten.

It was but a trifling attention--one of those pleasant little

patches of blue sky which we sometimes see when the remainder of the

heavens is covered with clouds--but it produced an entire revulsion

of feeling. A flood of gentle and tender emotions filled the heart

of the young wife; the faults of her husband now appeared to her as

nothing, while his many virtues stood out in bold relief; she,

alone, had been to blame in the little difficulties which had sprung

up between them, for a playful remonstrance on her part would, no

doubt, have dispelled the coldness of manner which had sometimes

troubled her, and induced him to pay those little attentions which

her heart craved. He had always, in every important matter, been

very, very kind to her, and how often she had opposed his wishes and

laughed at his opinions!

But it was not yet too late; she would regain the place in his

affections which she still feared she had forfeited; and with the

childish, impulsive eagerness which marked her character, Mary

hastened to the shed, and summoning Janet to her assistance, was

soon busily at work on the old furniture, which, an hour ago, she

had so much despised. The old clock-case soon shone with an

unequalled polish, and the chair (sic) seeemed to have renewed its

youth. But where should they be placed? for Arthur had left the

house without designating the spot where they had formerly stood.

"It would be so delightful to have them just where he wished, before

he comes home!" thought Mary, and it was with real joy that she

turned to receive the greeting of a worthy old lady, who was one of

the nearest neighbours, and having lived on the same place for the

last forty years, had undoubtedly been well acquainted with the old

chair and clock, and could tell the very place where they ought to

stand.

This proved to be the case. The lady was quite delighted to meet

such old friends, and assisted Mary in arranging them with the

utmost pleasure.

"There, dear," she exclaimed, when all was completed, "that is

exactly right. It seems to me I can almost see my old friend, Mrs.

Hartwell, in her favourite chair, with her pretty little boy, your

husband that is now, by her side. Poor child! it was such a sad loss

to him when she died; I am glad he has found such a good wife; it is

not every one who thinks so much of their husband's feelings as you

do, my dear."

Mary blushed a little at this somewhat ill-deserved praise, but

thanked her worthy visiter, for her kindness, and exerted herself so

successfully to make her long call agreeable, that the good lady

went home with the firm impression that "'Arthur Hartwell had got

one of the best wives in the country."

The hours seemed long until the usual time for Arthur's arrival; and

with almost trembling eagerness Mary heard his step in the entry.

Her tremulous but Pleasant "good evening," met with rather a cold

return, but she was prepared for this, and was not discouraged. Tea

was on the table, and they sat down. Arthur's taste had been

scrupulously consulted, and the effort to please did not, as was too

often the case, pass unnoticed.

From a desire to break the somewhat awkward silence, or from some

other motive, he praised each favourite dish, and declared he had

seldom eaten so good a supper.

Rising from table, they proceeded as usual to the parlour; and now

Mary was amply rewarded for the sacrifice of her own taste, if

sacrifice it could be called, by the surprise and pleasure visible

in her husband's countenance as he looked around, and by the

affectionate kiss which he imprinted upon her cheek.

"And you will forgive my hasty words, will you not?" Mary whispered

softly as he bent his head to hers.

"They will never again be remembered," was the reply; "and I have

also much to ask your forgiveness for, Mary, for I have thought much

and deeply, to-day, dearest, and I find that I have been very

deficient in many of the most essential qualities of a husband. But

let us sit down together in this old chair, which with me is so

strongly associated with the memory of my dear mother, that it seems

as if her spirit must be near to bless us; and we will review the

past year a little, and you will let me peep into your heart, and

give me a clearer insight into its feelings and wants."

A long and free conversation followed, in which the husband and wife

gained more real knowledge of each other's characters than they had

obtained in the whole of their previous acquaintance. All coldness

and doubt was dispelled, and they felt that they loved more tenderly

and truly than ever before.

"And now, dearest, we will sum up the lesson which we are to

remember," said Arthur, playfully, as the lateness of the hour

reminded them that the evening had passed unheeded away. "_I_ am to

think _more_ of trifles, and you are--"

"To think _less_" added Mary, smilingly. "Let us see who will

remember their lesson the best."

DOMESTIC HAPPINESS.

THERE are certain pairs of old-fashioned-looking pictures, in black

frames generally, and most commonly glazed with greenish and crooked

crown glass, to be occasionally met with in brokers' shops, or more

often, perhaps, on cottage walls, and sometimes in the dingy, smoky

parlour of a village tavern or ale-house, which said pictures

contain and exhibit a lively and impressive moral. Some of our

readers, doubtless, have seen and been edified by these ancient

engravings; and, for the benefit of those who have not, we will

describe them.

The first picture of the pair represents a blooming and blushing

damsel, well bedecked in frock of pure white muslin, if memory

serves us faithfully, very scanty and very short-waisted, as was the

fashion fifty years ago, and may again be the fashion in less than

fifty years hence, for aught we can tell. Over this frock is worn a

gay spencer, trimmed with lace and ornamented with an unexceptionable

frill, while the damsel's auburn curls are surmounted with a hat of

straw fluttering with broad, true blue ribbons, which fasten it in a

true love-knot, under the dimpled chin.

Her companion (for she has a companion) is a young countryman in

glossy boots, tight buckskins, gay flapped waistcoat, blue or brown

long-waisted and broad-skirted coat, frilled shirt, and white

kerchief, innocent of starch, who smiles most lovingly, as with fond

devotion [here, gentle reader, is the moral of the picture], he

bends lowlily, and chivalrously places at the disposal of the fair

lady, hand, arm, and manly strength, as she pauses before a

high-backed stile which crosses the path, leading, if we mistake

not, to the village church. Beneath this picture, reader, in Roman

capitals, are the words:--"BEFORE MARRIAGE."

We turn to the second picture; and there may be seen the same

high-backed stile, the same path, and the same passengers. Painfully

and awkwardly is the lady represented as endeavouring, unaided, to

climb the rails, while beyond her is the companion of her former

walk--her companion still, but not her helper--slowly sauntering on,

and looking back with an ominous frown, as though chiding the delay.

Beneath this picture are the significant words:--"AFTER MARRIAGE."

One could wish these pictures were only pictures; but, in sober

earnest, they are allegories, and too truthfully portray what passes

continually before our eyes: the difference, to wit, between the two

states there presented. Truly, indeed, has it been said, "Time and

possession too frequently lessen our attachment to objects that were

once most valued, to enjoy which no difficulties were thought

insurmountable, no trials too great, and no pain too severe. Such,

also, is the tenure by which we hold all terrestrial happiness, and

such the instability of all human estimation! And though the ties of

conjugal affection are calculated to promote, as well as to secure

permanent felicity, yet many, it is to be feared, have just reason

to exclaim,

"'Once to prevent my wishes Philo flew;

But time, that alters all, has altered you.'

"It is, perhaps, not to be expected that a man can retain through

life that assiduity by which he pleases for a day or a month. Care,

however, should be taken that he do not so far relax his vigilance

as to induce a belief that his affection is diminished. Few

disquietudes occur in domestic life which might not have been

prevented; and those so frequently witnessed, generally arise from a

want of attention to those mutual endearments which all have in

their power to perform, and which, as they are essential to the

preservation of happiness, should never be intentionally omitted."

This witness, dear reader, is true. The neglect of those little

attentions which every married couple have it in their power to show

to each other, daily, hourly, is a sure method of undermining

domestic happiness. Let every married reader bear this in mind, and

reflect upon it; for it is an undeniable truth.

It was a full quarter of a century ago that the writer first saw the

pair of engravings which he has described. They were hanging over

the fire-place of a newly-married cottager. "There," said she,

laughing, as she pointed to the second picture; "you see what I have

to expect."

She did not expect it, though! Such an attentive, kind, and

self-denying lover, as her "old man," as she called him in sport,

had been, would never change into a morose brute, who could suffer

his wife to climb over an awkward stile without help, and scold her

for her clumsiness.

Reader, not many months since we saw poor Mary, prematurely gray and

time-stricken. For years she has been living apart from her husband,

her children scattered abroad in the world, and she is sad and

solitary. And thus it was:--_He_, the trusted one, tired of being

the fond lover of the picture, soon began to show himself the

husband. _She_, the confiding one, stunned by some instances of

neglect, reproached and taunted. He resented these reproaches as

unjust, and to prove them so, redoubled his inattentiveness to her,

absented himself from home, and bestowed his attentions elsewhere.

_She_ copied his example, and by way of punishment in kind, lavished

her smiles and kindnesses in other quarters. _He_--but why go on?

Years--sad years of crimination and recrimination, of provocation,

and bitter reproaches, and suspicion, and mutual jealousy, and

dislike, and hatred, wore away. At length they parted. What became

of the pair of pictures, we often wonder.

"For about two years after I was married," says Cobbett, in his

Advice to a Husband, "I retained some of my military manners, and

used to romp most famously with the girls that came in my way; till

one day, at Philadelphia, my wife said to me, in a very gentle

manner 'Don't do that, _I do not like it._' That was quite enough; I

had never thought on the subject before; one hair of _her_ head was

more dear to me than all the other women in the world, and this I

knew that she knew; but I now saw that this was not all that she had

a right to from me; I saw that she had the further claim upon me

that I should abstain from everything that might induce others to

believe that there was any other woman for whom, even if I were at

liberty, I had any affection."

"I beseech young married men," continues he, "to bear this in mind;

for, on some trifle of this sort the happiness or misery of a long

life frequently turns. If the mind of a wife be disturbed on this

score, every possible means ought to be used to restore it to peace;

and though her suspicions be perfectly groundless--though they be

wild as the dreams of madmen--though they may present a mixture of

the furious and the ridiculous, still the are to be treated with the

greatest lenity and tenderness; and if, after all, you fail, the

frailty is to be lamented as a misfortune, and not punished as a

fault, seeing that it must have its foundation in a feeling towards

you, which it would be the basest of ingratitude, and the most

ferocious of cruelty, to repay by harshness of any description."

"The truth is," adds the same writer, "that the greatest security of

all against jealousy in a wife is to show, to _prove_ by your acts,

by your words also, but more especially by your _acts_, that you

prefer her to all the world; and I know of no act that is, in this

respect, equal to spending in her company every moment of your

leisure time. Everybody knows, and young wives better than anybody

else, that people, who can choose, will be where they like best to

be, and that they will be along with those whose company they like

best. The matter is very plain; and I do beseech you to bear it in

mind. Nor do I see the use, or sense, of keeping a great deal of

company as it is called. What company can a man and woman want more

than their two selves, and their children, if they have any? If here

be not company enough, it is but a sad affair. This hankering after

company proves, clearly proves, that you want something beyond the

society of your wife; and _that_ she is sure to feel most acutely;

the bare fact contains an imputation against her, and it is pretty

sure to lay the foundation of jealousy, or of something still

worse."

Addressed, as these sentiments are, to the husband, they are equally

applicable to the wife; and on the part of domestic happiness, we

urge upon our readers, all, to prove their constancy of attachment,

by mutual kind offices and delicate attentions, in health and in

sickness, in joy and in sorrow; by abstinence from all that may

wound; and by an honest preference of _home_ enjoyments above all

other enjoyments.

But to keep alive this honest preference, there must be,--in

addition to other good qualifications which have heretofore passed

under review,

1. _Constant cheerfulness and good humour._ A wife and mother who is

perpetually fretful and peevish; who has nothing to utter to her

husband when he returns from his daily occupation, whatever it may

be, or to her children when they are assembled around her, but

complaints of her hard lot and miserable destiny; who is always

brooding over past sorrows, or anticipating future evils; does all

she can, unconsciously it may be, to make her hearth desolate, and

to mar for ever domestic happiness. And the husband and father who

brings to that hearth a morose frown, or a gloomy brow; who silences

the prattling tongue of infancy by a stern command; who suffers the

annoyances and cares of life to cut into his heart's core, and

refuses to be comforted or charmed by the thousand endearments of

her whom he has sworn to love and cherish; such a one does not

deserve domestic happiness.

Young reader, and expectant of future domestic bliss take a word of

advice: Be good-tempered. You have not much to try your patience

now; by-and-by your trials will come on. Now, then, is the time to

practise good-temper in the little vexations of life, so as to

prepare you for future days. No doubt there are many little rubs and

jars to fret and shake even you; many small things, not over and

above agreeable to put up with. Bear them you must; but do try and

bear them without losing your temper. If a man have a stubborn Or

skittish horse to manage, he knows that the best way to deal with it

is by gentle, good-humoured coaxing. Just so it is in other things:

kindness, gentleness, and downright good-humour will do what all the

blustering and anger in the world can not accomplish. If a wagon

wheel creaks and works stiff, or if it skids instead of turning

round, you know well enough that it wants oiling. Well, always carry

a good supply of the oil of good temper about with you, and use it

well on every needful occasion; no fear then of creaking wheels as

you move along the great highway of life.

Then, on the part, still, of domestic happiness, would we earnestly

advise a decent, nay, _a strict regard to personal habits,_ so far,

at least, as the feelings of others are concerned. "It is seldom."

writes a traveller, "that I find associates in inns who come up to

my ideas of what is right and proper in personal habits. The most of

them indulge, more or less, in devil's tattooing, in snapping of

fingers, in puffing and blowing, and other noises, anomalous and

indescribable, often apparently merely to let the other people in

the room know that they are there, and not thinking of anything in

particular. Few seem to be under any sense of the propriety of

subduing as much as possible all sounds connected with the animal

functions, though even breathing might, and ought to be managed in

perfect silence." Now, if it were only in inns that disagreeable

personal habits are practised, it would not much interfere with the

happiness of nine-tenths of the people in the world; but the

misfortune is that _home_ is the place where they are to be noticed

in full swing--to use a common expression. Indeed, perhaps there are

few persons who do not, in a degree at least, mar domestic happiness

by persisting in personal peculiarities which they know are

unpleasant to those around them. Harmless these habits maybe in

themselves, perhaps; but inasmuch as they are teasing, annoying, and

irritating to others, they are not harmless. Nay, they are criminal,

because they are accompanied by a most unamiable disregard to the

feelings of others.

To make home truly happy, _the mind must be cultivated._ It is all

very well to say that a man and his wife, and their children, if

they have any, ought to be company enough for each other, without

seeking society elsewhere; and it is quite right that it should be

so: but what if they have nothing to say to each other, as

reasonable and thinking beings?--nothing to communicate beyond the

veriest common-places--nothing to learn from each other?--nothing

but mere animal enjoyments in common? Imagine such a case, reader,

where father, mother, and children are sunk in grossest ignorance,

without knowledge, without intellectual resources, or even

intellectual powers, without books, or any acquaintance with books,

or any desire for such acquaintance! What domestic happiness can

there be in such a case? As well might we talk of the domestic

happiness of a Dog-kennel or sheep-pen, a stable or a pig-stye. And

just in proportion as ignorance predominates, so are the chances of

domestic happiness diminished. Where there is great ignorance, and

contentment with ignorance, there is vice; and vice is not

happiness--it cannot be. Therefore, all other things equal, that

family will have the greatest chance of the greatest share of

domestic happiness where each member of it has the mind to take in,

and the heart to give out, a constant succession of fresh ideas,

gained from observation, experience, and books. Reader, think of

these things.

A SYLVAN MORALITY; OR, A WORD TO WIVES.

"These summer wings

Have borne me in my days of idle pleasure;

I do discard them."

"And, Benedick, love on; I will requite thee,

Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand."

WE have a young relative, about whom we are going to relate a little

anecdote connected with insect history, which requires, however, a

few prefatory words.

At the age of seventeen Emily S. "came out," gilt and lettered, from

the Minerva Press of a fashionable boarding-school, and was two

years afterwards bound (in white satin) as a bride. In the short

period intervening between these two important epochs, she had had a

prodigious run of admiration. Sonnets had been penned on her

pencilled brow, and the brows of rival beauties had contracted at

the homage paid to hers. All this Emily had liked well enough--perhaps

a little better than she ought; but where was the wonder? for besides

excuses general (such as early youth and early training) for loving

the world and the world's vanities, she had an excuse of her own, in

the fact that she had nothing else to love--no mother, no sister, no

home--no home at least in its largest and loving sense. She was the

orphan but not wealthy ward of a fashionable aunt, in whom the selfish

regrets of age had entirely frozen the few sympathies left open by

the selfish enjoyments of youth.

When Emily married, and for a few months previous, it was of course

to be presumed that she _had_ found something better than the world

whereon to fix the affection of her warm young heart. At all events,

she had found a somebody to love _her_, and one who was worthy to be

loved in return. Indeed, a better fellow than our friend F-- does

not live; but though fairly good-looking, and the perfect gentleman,

he was not perhaps exactly the _description_ of gentleman to excite

any rapid growth of romantic attachment in the bosom of an admired

girl of nineteen.

Why did she marry him? Simply because amongst her admirers she liked

nobody better, and because her aunt, who was anxious to be relieved

of her charge, liked nobody so well;--not because he had much to

offer, but because it was little he required.

Soon after their marriage the happy pair set out for Paris.

F-- though his means were slender and tastes retired, made every

effort (as far as bridegroom could so feel it) to gratify his lively

young wife by a stay at the capital of pleasure. After subsequent

excursion, they returned within a year to England, and settled at a

pretty cottage in Berkshire, to which we speedily received a cordial

invitation. It was no less readily accepted; for we were anxious to

behold the "rural felicity," of which we little doubted our friends

were in full possession.

The result, however, of a week's sojourn at their quiet abode, was

the reluctant opinion that, somehow or another, the marriage

garments of the young couple did not sit quite easy; though to point

out the defect in their make, or to discover where they girted, were

matters on which it required more time to form a decided judgment.

One thing, however, was pretty obvious. With her matronly title,

Emily had not assumed an atom of that seriousness--not sad, but

sober--which became her new estate; nor did she, as we shrewdly

suspected, pay quite as much attention to the cares of her little

_menage_ as was rendered incumbent by the limited amount of her

husband's income. She seemed, in short, the same thoughtless

pleasure-loving, pleasure-seeking girl as ever; now that she was

captured, the same volatile butterfly as when surrounded and chased

by butterflies like herself. But her captor? asks some modern

Petruchio--had he not, or could he not contrive to clip her pinions?

Poor F--! not he! he would have feared to "brush the dust" from

off them; and, from something of this over-tenderness, had been

feeding, with the honeyed pleasures of the French capital, those

tastes which (without them) might have been reconciled already to

the more spare and simple sociabilities of a retired English

neighbourhood. He was only now trying the experiment which should

have been made a year ago, and that with a reluctant and undecided

hand.

Poor Emily! her love of gayety had now, it is true, but little scope

for its display; but it was still strongly apparent, in the

rapturous regret with which she referred to pleasures past, and the

rapturous delight with which she greeted certain occasional breaks

in the monotony of a country life. An approaching dinner-party would

raise her tide of spirits, and a distant ball or bow-meeting make

them swell into a flood. On one or two of such occasions, we fancied

that F--, though never stern, looked grave--grave enough to have

been set down as an unreasonable fellow; if not by every one, at

least by that complex "everybody" who declared that his wife was

"one of the prettiest and sweetest little women in the world," and,

as everybody must be right, so of course it was.

Rarely, indeed, had our gentle Benedick beheld the face of his

"Young May Moon" absolutely obscured; but then it had always been

his care to chase away from it every passing or even approaching

cloud; and he would certainly have liked, in return, that its very

brightest rays should have shone on him direct, instead of reaching

him only, as it were, reflected from what in his eyes, certainly,

were very inferior objects.

We had passed some weeks at our entertainer's cottage when rumours

got afloat, such as had not disturbed for many a year the standing

and sometimes stagnant pool of Goslington society. The son of Lord

W--was about to come of age, and the event was to be celebrated by

grand doings; a varied string of entertainments, to be wound up, so

it was whispered, by a great parti-coloured or fancy ball. Rumours

were soon silenced by certainty, and our friends were amongst those

who received an invitation to meet all the world of Goslington and a

fragment of the world of London, about to be brought into strange

conjunction at W--Castle. What shapes! grotesque, and gay, and

gorgeous--ghosts of things departed--started up before the sparkling

eyes of Emily, as she put the reviving talisman into F--'s hand.

No wonder that her charmed sight failed to discover what was,

however, sufficiently apparent, that her husband's delight at the

honour done them by no means equalled hers. Indeed, we were pretty

certain that not merely dissatisfaction, but even dissent, was to be

read in his compressed lip, and, for once, forbidding eye.

Nothing was said then upon the subject; but we saw the next morning

something very like coolness on the part of F-- towards his wife,

which was returned on hers by something very like petulance. Ah!

thought we, it all comes of this unlucky fancy ball! We had often

heard it declared by our friend that he hated every species of

masquerade, and would never allow (though this as certainly before

his marriage) either sister, wife, or daughter of his to attend one.

But, besides this aversion for such entertainments in general, he

had reasons, as we afterwards gathered, for disliking, in

particular, this fancy ball of Lord W--'s. Amongst the "London

World" Emily would be sure to meet several of her quondam

acquaintances, perhaps admirers; and though he was no jealous

husband, he preferred, on many accounts, that such meetings should

be avoided.

The slight estrangement spoken of did not wholly pass away, though

so trifling were its tokens that no eye less interested than our own

might have noticed their existence. Indeed, neither of the parties

seemed really angry with the other, appearing rather to think it

incumbent on them to keep up a certain show of coolness; but

whenever the sunny smile of Emily broke even partially through the

half-transparent cloud, it dissolved in an instant the half-formed

ice of her husband's manner. By mutual consent the subject of the

fancy ball seemed left in abeyance, and while in every circle, for

miles round, it formed the central topic, in ours it was the theme

forbid. Thence we tried to infer that it was a matter abandoned, and

that Emily's better judgment, if not her good feeling, had

determined her to give up her own liking, on this the very first

occasion on which, we believe, her husband had ever thwarted it.