It has been fortunate that most of our greatest men have left no

descendants to shine in the borrowed luster of a great name.

An uncertain currency, that goes up and down, hits the laborer, and hits

him hard. It helps him last and hurts him first.

We no longer attribute the untimely death of infants to the sin of Adam,

but to bad nursing and ignorance.

The granite hills are not so changeless and abiding as the restless sea.

In their struggle with the forces of nature, the ability to labor was

the richest patrimony of the colonists.

Coercion is the basis of every law in the universe--human or divine. A

law is no law without coercion behind it.

For the noblest man who lives there still remains a conflict.

We hold reunions, not for the dead; for there is nothing in all the

earth that you and I can do for the dead. They are past our help and

past our praise. We can add to them no glory, we can give them no

immortality. They do not need us, but for ever and for evermore we need

them.

Throughout the whole web of national existence we trace the golden

thread of human progress toward a higher and better estate.

Heroes did not make our liberties, but they reflected and illustrated

them.

After all, territory is but the body of a nation. The people who inhabit

its hills and valleys are its soul, its spirit, its life. In them dwells

its hope of immortality. Among them, if anywhere, are to be found its

chief elements of destruction.

It matters little what may be the forms of national institution if the

life, freedom, and growth of society are secured.

Finally, our great hope for the future--our great safeguard against

danger--is to be found in the general and thorough education of our

people, and in the virtue which accompanies such education.

The germ of our political institutions, the primary cell from which they

were evolved, was in the New England town, and the vital force, the

informing soul, of the town was the town meeting, which, for all local

concerns, was kings, lords, and commons in all.

It is as much the duty of all good men to protect and defend the

reputation of worthy public servants as to detect public rascals.

Be fit for more than the thing you are now doing.

If you are not too large for the place, you are too small for it.

Young men talk of trusting to the spur of the occasion. That trust is

vain. Occasions can not make spurs. If you expect to wear spurs, you

must win them. If you wish to use them, you must buckle them to your own

heels before you go into the fight.

Greek is perhaps the most perfect instrument of thought ever invented by

man, and its literature has never been equaled in purity of style and

boldness of expression.

Great ideas travel slowly, and for a time noiselessly, as the gods whose

feet were shod with wool.

What the arts are to the world of matter, literature is to the world of

mind.

History is but the unrolled scroll of prophecy.

The world's history is a divine poem, of which the history of every

nation is a canto and every man a word. Its strains have been pealing

along down the centuries, and though there have been mingled the

discords of warring cannon and dying men, yet to the Christian,

philosopher, and historian--the humble listener--there has been a divine

melody running through the song which speaks of hope and halcyon days to

come.

Light itself is a great corrective. A thousand wrongs and abuses that

are grown in darkness disappear like owls and bats before the light of

day.

Liberty can be safe only when suffrage is illuminated by education.

Parties have an organic life and spirit of their own, an individuality

and character which outlive the men who compose them; and the spirit and

traditions of a party should be considered in determining their fitness

for managing the affairs of the nation.

Of Garfield's finished days,

So fair, and all too few,

Destruction which at noonday strays

Could not the work undo.

O martyr, prostrate, calm!

I learn anew that pain

Achieves, as God's subduing psalm,

What else were all in vain.

Like Samson in his death

With mightiest labor rife,

The moments of thy halting breath

Were grandest of thy life.

And now amid the gloom

Which pierces mortal years,

There shines a star above thy tomb

To smile away our tears.

* * * * *

XI.

WHAT I CARRIED TO COLLEGE.

A REMINISCENCE AT FORTY--PICTURES OF RURAL LIFE.

Nobody has brought me a kiss to-day,

As forty comes marching along life's way;

At least, only such as came in a letter,--

And two hundred leagues from home, the debtor!

So out of my life I will dig a treasure,

And feast on a reminiscent pleasure.

Our old New England folks, you know,

Little favor to kissing were wont to show.

It smacked, they thought, too much of Satan,

Whose hook often has a pleasant bate on.

And even as token of purity's passion,

Sometimes, I think, it was out of fashion.

So at least in the home my boyhood knew,

And of other homes, no doubt, it was true.

My grandsire and grandma, of the olden school,

Were strict observers of the proper rule.

And from New-Year on to the end of December,

A kiss is something I do not remember.

It seemed, I suppose, an abomination,

Somewhat like a Christmas celebration,

Or a twelfth-day pudding in English style,

Whose plums are sweet as a maiden's smile.

Hush! fountains New England fathers quaffed at

Were surely something not to be laughed at.

They drank, the heavens above and under,

Eternity's abiding wonder.

And here, I confess, in the joy of the present,

The thought of those days is sacredly pleasant.

Grandma, with the cares of the household on her,

In the morning smoked in the chimney corner.

She hung the tea-kettle filled with water

While still asleep was her youngest daughter.

Ah! there were reasons, good and plenty,

Why she should indulge that baby of twenty.

The rest were all courted and married and flown,

And that little birdie was left alone.

Grandmother, when she had finished her smoking,

Bustled about--she never went poking--

And fried the pork, and made the tea,

And pricked the potatoes, if done to see;

While grandsire finished his chapter of snores,

And uncle and I were doing the chores.

When breakfast was over, the Bible was read,

And a prayer I still remember said.

The old folks in reverence bowed them down,

As those who are mindful of cross and crown.

My uncle and aunt, who were unconverted,

Their right to sit or stand asserted.

And I, I fear, to example true,

The part of a heathen acted too.

But there was always for me a glory,

Morning and night, in that Bible story.

The heroes and saints of the olden time

In beautiful vision moved sublime.

I wondered much at the valor they had,

And in wondering my soul was glad.

My wonderment, I can hardly tell,

At the boldness Jacob showed at the well

In kissing Rachel, when meeting her first;

I wondered not into tears he burst.

Had I been constrained to choose between

That deed at the well and that after-scene

When David and Goliath met,

My heart on the fight would have certainly set.

And yet there was much for a bashful boy

To gather up and remember with joy.

God bless my grandsire's simple heart,

Which made up in faith what it lacked in art,

And led me on to the best of the knowledge

Which years thereafter I carried to college.

Tending the cattle stalled in the "linter,"

Going to school eight weeks in the Winter;

Planting and hoeing potatoes and corn,

Milking the cows at night and morn;

Spreading and raking the new-mown hay,

Stowing it in the mow away;

Gathering apples, and thinking of all

The joys of Thanksgiving late in the Fall--

So passed I the years in such like scenes

Until I had grown well into my teens.

And then, with many a dream in my heart,

I struck for myself and a nobler part;

I hardly knew what, yet some higher good,

Earning and spending as fast as I could;

Earning and spending in teaching and going

To school, what time I to manhood was growing.

My maiden aunt--and Providence

Is approved in its blessed consequence--

That baby of twenty, to thirty had grown,

And from the nest had not yet flown.

And a childless aunt, my uncle's wife,

Had come to gladden that quiet life.

God bless them both, for they were ever

The foremost to second my life's endeavor.

Our aunts sometimes are almost mothers,

Toiling and planning and spending for others.

Aunt Hannah, the maiden; Aunt Emily, wife,--

How they labored to gird me for the strife,

Cheering me on with words befitting,

Doing my sewing and doing my knitting,

And pressing upon me many a token

Whose meaning was more than ever was spoken!

At length the time for parting came--

They both in heaven will have true fame!

They did not bid me good-bye at the stile;

They with me went through the woods a mile.

It was the still September time,

When the Autumn fruits were in their prime.

Here and there a patch of crimson was seen

Where the breath of the early frost had been.

The songs of the birds were tender and sad,

Yet I could not say they were not glad.

Nature's soft and mellow undertone

To a note-like trust in the Father had grown.

And that trust, I ween, in our hearts had sway,

As on through the woods we wended our way.

Meeting and parting fringe life below;

We parted--twenty years ago.

My aunts turned back, and on went I,

Striving my burning tears to dry.

Almost a thousand miles away

Was the _Alma Mater_ I sought that day.

To a voice I turned me on my track,

And saw them both come running back.

"Is something forgotten?" soon stammered I;

And they, without a word in reply,

Caught me in their arms, a great baby of twenty,

And smothered me with kisses not too plenty.

Some joys I had known before that day,

And many since have thronged my way;

But in all my seeking through forty years,

In which rainbow hopes have dried all tears,

I have nothing found in the paths of knowledge,

Surpassing those kisses I carried to college.

* * * * *

XII.

SIR JOHN FRANKLIN.

(BORN 1786--DIED 1847.)

HEROISM ON THE GREAT DEEP--A MARTYR OF THE POLAR SEA.

The life of this great navigator is an epic of the ocean, which will

stir the brave heart for many ages to come.

One day, toward the close of the last century, a young English lad,

named John Franklin, spent a holiday with a companion in a walk of

twelve miles from their school at Louth, to look at the sea from the

level shores of his native country. It was the first time that the boy

had ever gazed on the wonderful expanse, and his heart was strangely

stirred. The youngest of four sons, he had been intended for the

ministry of the Church of England, but that day's walk fixed His

purposes in another direction; and though he knew it not, he was to

serve God and man even more nobly by heroic deeds than he could have

done by the wisest and most persuasive words.

Mr. Franklin was a wise man, and when he found his son bent on a

sailor's life, determined to give him a taste-of it, in the hope that

this would be enough. John was therefore taken from school at the age of

thirteen, and sent in a merchantman to Lisbon. The Bay of Biscay,

however, did not cure his enthusiasm; and so we next find John Franklin

as a midshipman on board the _Polyphemus_, seventy-four guns. These were

stirring times. In 1801 young Franklin's ship led the line in the battle

of Copenhagen, and in 1805, having been transferred to the

_Bellerophon_, he held charge of the signals at the battle of Trafalgar,

bravely standing at his post and coolly attending to his work while the

dead and dying fell around him.

Between these two dates Franklin had accompanied an exploring voyage to

Australia on board the _Investigator_, gaining in that expedition not

only a great store of facts to be treasured up for use in his eager and

retentive mind, but those habits of observation which were to be of the

greatest service to him in after-years. On his return home in another

vessel--the _Porpoise_--Franklin and his companions were wrecked upon a

coral reef, where ninety-four persons remained for seven weeks on a

narrow sand-bank less than a quarter of a mile in length, and only four

feet above the surface of the water!

It was in 1818 that the young lieutenant first set sail for the Polar

Sea, as second commander of the _Trent_, under Captain Buchan. The aim

was to cross between Spitzbergen and Greenland; but the companion

vessel, the _Dorothea_, being greatly injured by the ice, the two had to

return to England, after reaching the eightieth degree of latitude.

A year later lieutenants Franklin and Parry were placed at the head of

expeditions, the latter to carry on the exploration through Baffin's

Bay, and to find an outlet, if possible, by Lancaster Sound. This was

splendidly done, and the North-west Passage practically discovered. The

task of Franklin was more arduous. He had to traverse the vast solitary

wastes of North-eastern America, with their rivers and lakes, to descend

to the mouth of the Coppermine River, and to survey the coast eastward.

The toil and hardship of this wonderful expedition, and the brave

endurance of Franklin and his friend Richardson, and their trusty

helpers, have often been related. They had to contend with famine and

illness, with the ignorance and treachery of the Indians, who murdered

three of the party. The land journey altogether extended over 5,500

miles, occupying a year and six months.

In less than two years after their return to England, Franklin,

Richardson, and Back volunteered for another expedition to the same

region.

In 1825 this second expedition started, Franklin mournfully leaving the

death-bed of his wife, to whom he had been married after his last return

to England. This brave lady not only let him go, though she knew she was

dying, but begged him not to delay one day for her! At New York Franklin

heard of her death, but manfully concealed his grief, and pressed on to

the northern wastes. As before, his object was to survey the northern

shore, only this time by the Mackenzie River, instead of the Coppermine.

This expedition, too, was full of, stirring adventure among the

Esquimaux, though without the terrible hardships and calamities of the

former journey. It was also crowned with great success, leaving in the

end only 150 miles of the coast from Baffin's Bay to Behring Straits

unsurveyed. These, too, were explored in later years by Franklin's

successors, and the great discovery of the North-west Passage completed.

Franklin was now made commander; in 1829 was knighted, and covered with

honors by the University of Oxford and the great learned societies in

England and France. He had married his second wife in 1828--the Lady

Franklin of the later story. In 1832 Sir John Franklin was given the

command of the _Rainbow_, on the Mediterranean station; and so wise and

gracious was his rule, that the sailors nicknamed the sloop "The

Celestial _Rainbow_" and "Franklin's Paradise." But we have no space to

speak of this now, nor of Franklin's wise and gracious government of Van

Diemen's Land, now better known as Tasmania, that succeeded. Lady

Franklin was here his wise and devoted helper in every scheme of

usefulness and benevolence.

Returning to England, he was appointed, in 1845, to the command of an

expedition for the further discovery of the North-west Passage. The

ships _Erebus_ and _Terror_ sailed from England on the 26th of May, and

were seen by the crew of the _Prince of Wales_, a whaler, on the 26th of

July, in Melville Bay, _for the last time_.

Toward the close of 1847 serious anxiety was aroused respecting the fate

of these brave explorers. The brave-hearted, devoted wife of the

commander expended her whole fortune on these endeavors to ascertain

what had become of her husband. It is interesting to note that the

people of Tasmania, Franklin's colony, subscribed the sum of £1,700

toward the expenses of the search.

In the year 1850 it was discovered that the first Winter of the

explorers to the following April, or later (1846), had been spent at

Beechey Island, beyond Lancaster Sound, and that it had been an active

holiday time.

In 1854 an exploring party under Dr. Rae were told by the Esquimaux that

several white men, in number about forty, had been seen dragging a boat

over the ice near the north shore of King William's Land, and that

bodies and skeletons were afterward found on the mainland opposite, by

the banks of the Great Fish River. Many relics of this party were

procured by Dr. Rae from the natives, and being brought to England were

identified as belonging to the Franklin explorers. On this Dr. Rae

received the government reward of £10,000.

In 1859 Lady Franklin bought and fitted the yacht _Fox_, which she

placed under the command of Captain Leopold McClintock. The expedition

set sail from Aberdeen, and, on reaching King William's Land, divided

into three sledging parties, under Lieutenant Hobson, Captain Young, and

McClintock himself. In Boothia several relics were discovered, such as

would be dropped or left behind by men too weak to carry the usual

belongings of a boat or sledge. At Point Victory a cairn, or heap of

stones, was discovered by Lieutenant Hobson, with a paper, inclosed in a

tin case, which too clearly told its sad story. After a memorandum of

progress up to May 28, 1847, "All well," it was added on the same paper:

"April 25, 1848. H.M. ships _Terror_ and _Erebus_ were deserted 22d

April, five leagues N.W. of this, having been beset since 12th

September, 1846. The officers and crews, consisting of 105 souls, under

the command of Captain F.R.M. Crozier, landed here in latitude 69

degrees, 37 minutes, 42 seconds N., longitude 98 degrees 41 minutes W.

Sir John Franklin died on the 11th June, 1847; and the total loss by

deaths in the expedition has been, to this date, nine officers and

fifteen men. Signed, F.E.M. Crozier, Captain and Senior Officer; James

Fitzjames, Captain H.M.S. _Erebus_. And start on to-morrow, 26th April,

1848, for Back's Fish River." From this point two boats, with heavily

laden sledges, seem to have been dragged forward while strength lasted.

One boat was left on the shore of King William's Land, and was found by

Captain McClintock, with two skeletons; also boats and stores of various

kinds, five watches, two double-barreled guns, loaded, a few religious

books, a copy of the "Vicar of Wakefield," twenty-six silver spoons and

forks, and many other articles. The Esquimaux related that the men

dragging the boat "dropped as they walked." The other boat was crushed

in the ice. No trace, but a floating spar or two, and driftwood embedded

in ice, was ever found of the _Erebus_ or _Terror_.

Truly the "Franklin relics," brought from amid the regions of snow and

ice, are a possession of which those know the value who know how great a

thing it is to walk on in the path of duty, with brave defiance of

peril, and, above all, a steadfast dependence upon God.

Mr. William L. Bird, a young man of great promise, deaf from his seventh

year, who died in Hartford, Conn., in 1879, left among his papers a

little poem which well expresses the mood of Lady Franklin in her lonely

years:

THE OCEAN.

I stand alone

On wave-washed stone

To fathom thine immensity,

With merry glance

Thy wide expanse

Smiles, O! so brightly upon me.

Art thou my friend, blue, sparkling sea?

With your cool breeze

My brow you ease,

And brush the pain and care away.

Your waves, the while,

With sunny smile,

Around my feet in snowy spray

Of fleecy lightness dance and play.

So light of heart,

So void of art,

Your waves' low laugh is mocking me.

I hear their voice--

"Come, play, rejoice;

Come, be as happy as are we;

Why should you not thus happy be?"

Alas! I know

That, deep below,

And tangled up in sea-weeds, lies,

Where light dares not

Disturb the spot,

He who alone can cheer my eyes.

O sea! why wear this sparkling guise!

* * * * *

XIII.

ELIZABETH ESTAUGH.

(BORN 1682--DIED 1762.)

A QUAKER COURTSHIP, IN WHICH SHE WAS THE PRINCIPAL ACTOR.

The story of Elizabeth Haddon is as charming as any pastoral poem that

was ever written. She was the oldest daughter of John Haddon, a

well-educated and wealthy Quaker of London. She had two sisters, both of

whom, with herself, received the best education of that day. Elizabeth

possessed uncommon strength of mind, earnestness, energy, and

originality of character, and a heart overflowing with the kindest and

warmest feelings. The following points in her life, as far as necessary

for the setting, of the main picture, are drawn chiefly from the

beautiful narrative by Lydia Maria Child, and almost in her own words.

At one time, during her early childhood, she asked to have a large cake

baked, because she wanted to invite some little girls. All her small

funds were expended for oranges and candy on this occasion. When the

time arrived, her father and mother were much surprised to see her lead

in six little ragged beggars. They were, however, too sincerely

religious and sensible to _express_ any surprise. They treated the

forlorn little ones very tenderly, and freely granted their daughter's

request to give them some of her books and playthings at parting. When

they had gone, the good mother quietly said, "Elizabeth, why did'st thou

invite strangers, instead of thy schoolmates?" There was a heavenly

expression in her eye, as she looked up earnestly, and answered,

"Mother, I wanted to invite _them_, they looked _so_ poor."

When eleven years of age, she accompanied her parents to the yearly

meeting of the Friends, where she heard, among other preachers, a very

young man named John Estaugh, with whose manner of presenting divine

truth she was particularly pleased. Many of his words were treasured in

her memory. At the age of seventeen she made a profession of religion,

uniting herself with the Quakers.

During her early youth, William Penn visited the house of her father,

and greatly amused her by describing his adventures with the Indians.

From that time she became interested in the emigrant Quakers, and began

to talk of coming to America. Her father at length purchased a tract of

land in New Jersey, with the view of emigrating, but his affairs took a

new turn, and he made up his mind to remain in his native land: This

decision disappointed. She had cherished the conviction that it was her

duty to come to this country; and when, at length, her father, who was

unwilling that any of his property should lie unimproved, offered the

tract of land in New Jersey to any relative who would settle upon it,

she promptly agreed to accept of the proffered estate. Willing that

their child should follow in the path of duty, at the end of three

months, after much prayer, the parents consented to let Elizabeth join

"the Lord's people" in the New World.

Accordingly, early in the Spring of 1700, arrangements were made for her

departure, and all things were provided that abundance of wealth or the

ingenuity of affection could devise.

A poor widow, of good sense and discretion, accompanied her as friend

and housekeeper, and two trusty men-servants, members of the Society of

Friends. Among the many singular manifestations of strong faith and

religious zeal, connected with the settlement of this country, few are

more remarkable than the voluntary separation of this girl of eighteen

from a wealthy home and all the pleasant associations of childhood, to

go to a distant and thinly inhabited country to fulfill what she deemed

a religious duty. And the humble, self-sacrificing faith of the parents,

in giving up their child, with such reverent tenderness for the

promptings of her own conscience, has in it something sublimely

beautiful, if we look at it in its own pure light. The parting took

place with more love than words can express, and yet without a tear on

either side. Even during the long and tedious voyage, Elizabeth never

wept. She preserved a martyr-like cheerfulness to the end.

The house prepared for her reception stood in a clearing of the forest,

three miles from any other dwelling. She arrived in June, when the

landscape was smiling in youthful beauty; and it seemed to her as if the

arch of heaven was never before so clear and bright, the carpet of the

earth never so verdant. As she sat at her window and saw evening close

in upon her in that broad forest home, and heard for the first time the

mournful notes of the whippowil and the harsh scream of the jay in the

distant woods, she was oppressed with a sense of vastness, of infinity,

which she never before experienced, not even on the ocean. She remained

long in prayer, and when she lay down to sleep beside her matron friend,

no words were spoken between them. The elder, overcome with fatigue,

soon sank into a peaceful slumber; but the young enthusiast lay long

awake, listening to the lone voice of the whippowil complaining to the

night. Yet, notwithstanding this prolonged wakefulness, she arose early

and looked out upon the lovely landscape. The rising sun pointed to the

tallest trees with his golden finger, and was welcomed by a gush of song

from a thousand warblers. The poetry in Elizabeth's soul, repressed by

the severe plainness of her education, gushed up like a fountain. She

dropped on her knees, and, with an outburst of prayer, exclaimed

fervently; "O Father, very beautiful hast thou made this earth! How

beautiful are thy gifts, O Lord!"

To a spirit less meek and brave, the darker shades of the picture would

have obscured these cheerful gleams; for the situation was lonely, and

the inconveniences innumerable. But Elizabeth easily triumphed over all

obstacles, by practical good sense and the quick promptings of her

ingenuity. She was one of those clear, strong natures, who always have a

definite aim in view, and who see at once the means best suited to the

end. Her first inquiry was what grain was best suited to the soil of her

farm, and being informed that rye would yield best, "Then I shall eat

rye bread," was her answer. But when Winter came, and the gleaming snow

spread its unbroken silence over hill and plain, was it not dreary then?

It would have been dreary to one who entered upon this mode of life from

mere love of novelty, or a vain desire to do something extraordinary.

But the idea of extended usefulness, which had first lured this

remarkable girl into a path so unusual, sustained her through all

trials. She was too busy to be sad, and leaned too trustingly on her

Father's hand to be doubtful of her way. The neighboring Indians soon

loved her as a friend, for they found her always truthful, just, and

kind. From their teachings she added much to her knowledge of simple

medicines. So efficient was her skill, and so prompt her sympathy, that

for many miles around, if man, woman, or child were alarmingly ill, they

were sure to send for Elizabeth Haddon; and, wherever she went, her

observing mind gathered some hint for farm or dairy. Her house and heart

were both large, and as her residence was on the way to the Quaker

meeting-house in Newtown, it became a place of universal resort to

Friends from all parts of the country traveling that road, as well as an

asylum for benighted wanderers.

The Winter was drawing to a close, when, late one evening, the sound of

sleigh-bells was heard, and the crunching of snow beneath the hoofs of

horses as they passed into the barn-yard gate. The arrival of travelers

was too common an occurrence to excite or disturb the well-ordered

family.

Great logs were piled in the capacious chimney, and the flames blazed up

with a crackling warmth, when two strangers entered. In the younger

Elizabeth instantly recognized John Estaugh, whose preaching had so

deeply impressed her at eleven years of age. This was almost like a

glimpse of home--her dear old English home. She stepped forward with

more than usual cordiality, saying:

"Thou art welcome, Friend Estaugh, the more so for being entirely

unexpected."

"I am glad to see thee, Elizabeth," he replied, with a friendly shake of

the hand. "It was not until after I landed in America that I heard the

Lord had called thee here before me; but I remember thy father told me

how often thou hadst played the settler in the woods when thou wast

quite a little girl."

"I am but a child still," she replied, smiling.

"I trust thou art," he rejoined; "and as for these strong impressions in

childhood, I have heard of many cases where they seemed to be prophecies

sent of the Lord. When I saw thy father in London, I had even then an

indistinct idea that I might sometime be sent to America on a religious

visit."

"And, hast thou forgotten, friend John, the ear of Indian corn which my

father begged of thee for me? I can show it to thee now. Since then I

have seen this grain in perfect growth, and a goodly plant it is, I

assure thee. See," she continued, pointing to many bunches of ripe corn

which hung in their braided husks against the walls of the ample

kitchen, "all that, and more, came from a single ear no bigger than the

one thou didst give my father. May the seed sown by thy ministry be as

fruitful!"

"Amen," replied both the guests.

The next morning it was discovered that the snow had fallen during the

night in heavy drifts, and the roads were impassable. Elizabeth,

according to her usual custom, sent out men, oxen, and sledges to open

pathways for several poor families, and for households whose inmates

were visited by illness. In this duty John Estaugh and his friend joined

heartily, and none of the laborers worked harder than they. When he

returned, glowing from this exercise, she could not but observe that the

excellent youth had a goodly countenance. It was not physical beauty;

for of that he had but little. It was that cheerful, child-like,

out-beaming honesty of expression, which we not unfrequently see in

Germans, who, above all nations, look as if they carried a crystal heart

within their manly bosoms.

Two days after, when Elizabeth went to visit her patients, with a

sled-load of medicines and provisions, John asked permission to

accompany her. There, by the bedside of the aged and the suffering, she

saw the clear sincerity of his countenance warmed with rays of love,

while he spoke to them words of kindness and consolation; and then she

heard his pleasant voice modulate itself into deeper tenderness of

expression, when he took little children in his arms.

The next First Day, which we call the Sabbath, the whole family attended

Newtown meeting; and there John Estaugh was gifted with an outpouring of

the Spirit in his ministry, which sank deep into the hearts of those who

listened to him. Elizabeth found it so remarkably applicable to the

trials and temptations of her own soul, that she almost deemed it was

spoken on purpose for her. She said nothing of this, but she pondered

upon it deeply. Thus did a few days of united duties make them more

thoroughly acquainted with each other than they could have been by years

of fashionable intercourse.

The young preacher soon after bade farewell, to visit other meetings in

Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Elizabeth saw him no more until the May

following, when he stopped at her house to lodge, with numerous other

Friends, on their way to the quarterly meeting at Salem. In the morning

quite a cavalcade dashed from her hospitable door on horseback; for

wagons were then unknown in Jersey. John Estaugh, always kindly in his

impulses, busied himself with helping a lame and very ugly old woman,

and left his hostess to mount her horse as she could. Most young women

would have felt slighted; but in Elizabeth's noble soul the quiet, deep

tide of feeling rippled with an inward joy. "He is always kindest to the

poor and the neglected," thought she; "verily, he _is_ a good youth."

She was leaning over the side of her horse, to adjust the buckle of the

girth, when he came up on horseback and inquired if any thing was out of

order. She thanked, with a slight confusion of manner, and a voice less

calm than her usual utterance. He assisted her to mount, and they

trotted along leisurely behind the procession of guests, speaking of the

soil and climate of this new country, and how wonderfully the Lord had

here provided a home for his chosen people. Presently the girth began to

slip, and the saddle turned so much on one side that Elizabeth was

obliged to dismount. It took some time to readjust it, and when they

again started, the company were out of sight. There was brighter color

than usual in the maiden's cheeks, and unwonted radiance in her mild

deep eyes. After a short silence she said, in a voice slightly

tremulous: "Friend John, I have a subject of importance on my mind, and

one which nearly interests thee. I am strongly impressed that the Lord

has sent thee to me as a partner for life. I tell thee my impression

frankly, but not without calm and deep reflection; for matrimony is a

holy relation, and should be entered into with all sobriety. If thou

hast no light on the subject, wilt thou gather into the stillness and

reverently listen to thy own inward revealings? Thou art to leave this

part of the country to-morrow, and not knowing when I should see thee

again, I felt moved to tell thee what lay upon my mind."

The young man was taken by surprise. Though accustomed to that

suppression of emotion which characterizes his religious sect, the color

went and came rapidly in his face for a moment; but he soon became

calmer and said: "This thought is new to me, Elizabeth, and I have no

light thereon. Thy company has been right pleasant to me, and thy

countenance ever reminds me of William Penn's title-page, 'Innocency

with her open face.' I have seen thy kindness to the poor, and the wise

management of thy household. I have observed, too, that thy

warm-heartedness is tempered by a most excellent discretion, and that

thy speech is ever sincere. Assuredly, such is the maiden I would ask of

the Lord as a most precious gift; but I never thought of this connection

with thee. I came to this country solely on a religious visit, and it

might distract my mind to entertain this subject at present. When I have

discharged the duties of my mission, we will speak further."

"It is best so," rejoined the maiden; "but there is one thing which

disturbs my conscience. Thou hast spoken of my true speech; and yet,

friend John, I have deceived thee a little, even now, while we conferred

together on a subject so serious. I know not from what weakness the

temptation came; but I will not hide it from thee. I allowed thee to

suppose, just now, that I was fastening the girth of my horse securely;

but, in plain truth, I was loosening the girth, John, that the saddle

might slip, and give me an excuse to fall behind our friends; for I

thought thou wouldst be kind enough to come and ask if I needed thy

services."

They spoke no further concerning their union; but when he returned to

England in July, he pressed her hand affectionately, as he said:

"Farewell, Elizabeth. If it be the Lord's will I shall return to thee

soon."

In October he returned to America, and they were soon married, at

Newtown meeting, according to the simple form of the Society of Friends.

Neither of them made any change of dress for the occasion, and there was

no wedding-feast. Without the aid of priest or magistrate, they took

each other by the hand, and, in the presence of witnesses, calmly and

solemnly promised to be kind and faithful to each other. The wedded pair

quietly returned to their happy home, with none to intrude on those

sacred hours of human life, when the heart most needs to be left alone

with its own deep emotions.

During the long period of their union, she three times crossed the

Atlantic to visit her aged parents, and he occasionally left her for a

season, when called abroad to preach. These temporary separations were

felt as a cross; but the strong-hearted woman always cheerfully gave him

up to follow his own convictions of duty. In 1742 he parted from her to

go on a religious visit to Tortola, in the West Indies. He died there in

the sixty-seventh year of his age. She published a religious tract of

his, to which she prefixed a preface entitled, "Elizabeth Estaugh's

Testimony concerning her Beloved Husband, John Estaugh." In this preface

she says: "Since it pleased divine Providence so highly to favor me with

being the near companion of this dear worthy, I must give some small

account of him. Few, if any, in a married state ever lived in sweeter

harmony than we did. He was a pattern of moderation in all things; not

lifted up with any enjoyments, nor cast down at any disappointments; a

man endowed with many good gifts, which rendered him very agreeable to

his friends and much more to me, his wife, to whom his memory is most

dear and precious."

Elizabeth survived her excellent husband twenty years, useful and

honored to the last. The monthly meeting of Haddonfield, in a published

testimonial, speaks of her thus: "She was endowed with great natural

abilities, which, being sanctified by the spirit of Christ, were much

improved; whereby she became qualified to act in the affairs of the

Church, and was a serviceable member, having been clerk to the women's

meeting nearly fifty years, greatly to their satisfaction. She was a

sincere sympathizer with the afflicted, of a benevolent disposition, and

in distributing to the poor, was desirous to do it in a way most

profitable and durable to them, and, if possible, not to let the right

hand know what the left did. Though in a state of affluence as to this

world's wealth, she was an example of plainness and moderation. Her

heart and house were open to her friends, whom to entertain seemed one

of her greatest pleasures. Prudently cheerful, and well knowing the

value of friendship, she was careful not to wound it herself, nor to

encourage others by whispering supposed failings or weaknesses. Her last

illness brought great bodily pain, which she bore with much calmness of

mind and sweetness of spirit. She departed this life as one falling

asleep, full of days, like unto a shock of corn, fully ripe."

The town of Haddonfield, in New Jersey, took its name from her; and the

tradition concerning her courtship is often repeated by some patriarch

among the Quakers.

Her medical skill is so well remembered, that the old nurses of New

Jersey still recommend Elizabeth Estaugh's salve as the "sovereignest

thing on earth."

The following beautiful lines from Whittier, though inspired by another,

well apply to this Quakeress of the olden time:

As pure and sweet, her fair brow seemed

Eternal as the sky;

And like the brook's low song, her voice,--

A sound that could not die.

And half we deemed she needed not

The changing of her sphere,

To give to heaven a shining one,

Who walked an angel here.

The blessing of her quiet life

Fell on us like the dew;

And good thoughts, where her footsteps pressed,

Like fairy blossoms grew.

Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds

Were in her very look;

We read her face as one who reads

A true and holy book.

* * * *

We miss her in the place of prayer,

And by the hearth-fire's light;

We pause beside her door to hear

Once more her sweet "Good-night."

* * * *

Still let her mild rebuking stand

Between us and the wrong,

And her dear memory serve to make

Our faith in goodness strong.

* * * * *

XIV.

"CHINESE" GORDON.

IN THE TRENCHES OF THE CRIMEA--PUTS DOWN THE GREAT TAIPING REBELLION IN

CHINA IN 1863-4--HERO OF THE SOUDAN--BEARDS THE MEN-STEALERS IN THEIR

STRONGHOLDS, AND MAKES THE PEOPLE LOVE HIM.

At the present writing (Summer of 1884), General Gordon, who has won the

heart of the world by his brave deeds, is exciting a great deal of

interest on account of his perilous position in Khartoum. A sketch of

his career will be acceptable to not a few readers.

The likeness which accompanies this chapter is from a photograph taken

not long ago at Southampton, England; but no portrait gives the

expression of the man. His smile and his light-blue eyes can not be

painted by the sun. The rather small physique, and mild and gentle look,

would not lead the ordinary observer to recognize in General Gordon a

ruler and leader of men; but a slight acquaintance shows him to be a man

of unusual power and great force of character.

His religious fervor and boundless faith are proverbial--so much so that

some men call him a fatalist; whilst others say, like Festus, "Thou art

beside thyself." Neither of these judgments is true, though it is

certainly true that, from a desire to oblige others, Gordon has

sometimes made errors in judgment that have led him into sad dilemmas.

To say nothing of his second visit to the Soudan, to oblige Ismail

Pasha, and his rash and most dangerous embassy to King John of

Abyssinia, to oblige Tewfik Pasha, we need but allude to his unwise

acceptance of the post of private secretary to Lord Ripon in India. He

was overpersuaded, and to please others he sacrificed himself. To those

who knew him, it was not surprising that almost the first thing he did

on landing at Bombay was to throw up his appointment and rush off to

China, where he was instrumental in preventing war between that country

and Russia.

The active life of General Gordon, who is about fifty years old, may be

divided into the following sections: the Crimea and Bessarabia; China

(the suppression of the Taiping rebellion); Gravesend (the making of the

defenses at Tilbury); and the Soudan. A later and shorter episode occurs

in his visit to Mauritius and the Cape, the latter colony being the only

place in which his great capabilities and high character were

unappreciated.

In the Crimea General Gordon worked steadily in the trenches, and won

the praise of his superior officers for his skill in detecting the

movements of the Russians. Indeed, he was specially told off for this

dangerous duty. Lord Wolseley, then a captain, was a fellow-worker with

Gordon before Sebastopol.

In 1856 Gordon was occupied in laying down the boundaries of Russia, in

Turkey and Roumania, for which work he was in a peculiar manner well

fitted, and he resided in the East, principally in Armenia, until the

end of 1858. During this time he ascended both Little and Great Ararat.

In 1860 he was ordered to China, and assisted at the taking of Pekin and

the sacking and burning of the Summer Palace. This work did not seem to

be much to his taste.

China was the country destined to give to the young engineer the

sobriquet by which he is now best known--"Chinese" Gordon. Here he first

developed that marvelous power, which he still holds above all other

men, of engaging the confidence, respect, and love of wild and irregular

soldiery.

The great Taiping rebellion, which was commenced soon after 1842 by a

sort of Chinese Mahdi--a fanatical village schoolmaster--had attained

such dimensions that it had overrun and desolated a great portion of

Southern China, and threatened to drive the foreigners into the sea.

Nanking, with its porcelain tower, had been taken, and was made the

capital of the Heavenly King, as the rebel chieftain, Hung, now called

himself. His army numbered some hundreds of thousands, divided under

five Wangs, or kings, and the Imperialists were driven closer and closer

to the cities of the seacoast.

In 1863 the British Government was applied to for assistance, and

Captain Gordon was selected to take command of the Imperial forces in

the place of an American adventurer named Burgevine, who had been

cashiered for corrupt practices. The _Ever-victorious Army_, as it was

called, numbered 4,000 men, when the young engineer took the command.

Carefully and gradually he organized and increased it, and as he always

led his men himself, and ever sought the post of danger, he soon

obtained their fullest confidence, and never failed to rally them to his

support.

He wore no arms, but always carried a small cane, with which he waved on

his men, and as stockade after stockade fell before him, and city after

city was taken, that little cane was looked upon as Gordon's magic wand

of victory. He seemed to have a charmed life, and was never disconcerted

by a hailstorm of bullets. Occasionally, when the Chinese officers

flinched and fell back before the terrible fusillade, he would quietly

take one by the arm and lead him into the thickest of the enemy's fire,

as calmly as though he were taking him in to dinner. Once, when his men

wavered under a hail of bullets, Gordon coolly lighted his cigar, and

waved his magic wand; his soldiers accepted the omen, came on with a

rush, and stormed the defense. He was wounded once only, by a shot in

the leg, but even then he stood giving his orders till he nearly

fainted, and had to be carried away.

Out of 100 officers he lost almost one-half in his terrible campaign,

besides nearly one-third of his men. But he crushed the rebellion, and

rescued China from the grasp of the most cruel and ruthless of spoilers.

His own estimate was that his victories had saved the lives of 100,000

human beings.

Then he left China without taking one penny of reward. Honors and wealth

were poured at his feet, but he accepted only such as were merely

honorary. He was made a _Ti-Tu_--the highest title to which a subject

can attain--and he received the Orders of the Star, the Yellow Jacket,

and the Peacock's Feather. When, however, the Imperial messengers

brought into his room great boxes containing £10,000 in coin, he drove

them out in anger. The money he divided amongst his troops. And yet he

might well have taken even a larger sum. One who knew how deeply the

empire was indebted to him, wrote, "Can China tell how much she is

indebted to Colonel Gordon? Would 20,000,000 taels repay the actual

service he has rendered to the empire?"

Gordon returned home to England, and, avoiding all the flattering notice

that was continually thrust upon him, he retired to his work at

Gravesend, where, from 1865 to 1871, he labored at the construction of

the Thames Defenses.

Here he passed six of the happiest years of his life--in active work, in

deep seclusion from the world of wealth and fashion, but in a state of

happiness and peace. His house was school, hospital, and almshouse, and

he lived entirely for others. "The poor, the sick, the unfortunate were

welcome, and never did supplicant knock vainly at his door."

Gutter children were his especial care. These he cleansed and clothed,

and the boys he trained for a life at sea. His evening classes were his

delight, and he read and taught his children with the same ardor with

which he had led the Chinese troops into battle. For the boys he found

suitable places on board vessels respectably owned, and he never lost

sight of his _proteges_. A large map of the world, stuck over with pins,

showed him at a glance where he had last heard from one of these rescued

waifs. "God bless the Kernel," was chalked upon many a wall in

Gravesend; and well might the poor bless the man who personified to them

the life and daily walk of one who "had been with Jesus." To them he was

the "Good Samaritan," pouring in oil and wine; and they blessed and

reverenced him, and gave him a love which he valued more than royal

gifts.

We must, however, hasten on, and see him transferred from Gravesend to

the Danube, and thence to the Soudan. He succeeded Sir Samuel Baker in

the government of these distant territories in Egypt in 1873. The

Khedive Ismail offered him £10,000 a year, but he would only accept

£2,000, as he knew the money would have to be extorted from the wretched

fellaheen. His principal work was to conquer the insurgent slave-dealers

who had taken possession of the country and enslaved the inhabitants.

The lands south of Khartoum had long been occupied by European traders,

who dealt in ivory, and had thus "opened up the country." This opening

up was a terrible scourge to the natives, because these European

traffickers soon began to find out that "black ivory" was more valuable

than white. So they formed fortified posts, called sceribas, and

garrisoned them with Arab ruffians, who harried the country and

organized manhunts on a gigantic scale. The profits were enormous, but

the "bitter cry" of Africa began to make itself heard in distant Europe,

and the so-called Christian slave-dealers found it more prudent to

withdraw. This they did without loss, for they sold their stations to

Arabs, and the trade in human beings went on as merrily as ever. Dr.

Schweinfurth, the African explorer and botanist, visited one of these

slave-dealing princes in 1871, and found him surrounded by an almost

regal court, and possessed of more than vice-regal power. He was lord of

thirty stations, all strongly fortified, and stretching like a chain

into the very heart of Africa. Thus his armies of fierce soldiery, Arab

and black, were able to make raids over whole provinces, and gather in

the great human harvest to supply the demands of Egypt, Turkey, and

Arabia. This famous man was named Sebehr Rahma; and although he was

defeated by Colonel Gordon and sent down to Cairo, he never quite lost

favor at the Egyptian Court, and was not long since appointed commander

in chief of the Soudan, to uphold the power of Egypt against the Mahdi!

The scandals of the slave-trade, combined with the lust of conquest,

were the causes out of which grew the famous expedition of Sir Samuel

Baker to the Soudan. The love of conquest made it pleasing in the eyes

of the Khedive Ismail, and the desire to uproot the infamous slave-trade

obtained for the enterprise the warm approval of the Prince of Wales,

and the hearty co-operation of Sir Samuel Baker, who displayed the

greatest courage and energy in the conduct of the enterprise.

From this first expedition the two succeeding ones of Colonel Gordon may

be said to have arisen. The struggle against the slave-hunters had

developed into a war, and the Khedive began to fear that their power

would grow until his own position at Cairo might become endangered. The

slave-king Sebehr must be destroyed, together with his numerous

followers and satellites.

Gordon was not long in perceiving why he was selected for the office of

governor; for we find him writing home, "I think I can see the true

motive of the expedition, and believe it to be a sham to catch the

attention of the English people." With him, however, it was no sham. He

was determined to do what he was professedly sent to do, viz.: put down

the slave-trade. "I will do it," he said, "for I value my life as

naught, and should only leave much weariness for perfect peace."

How hard he found his task to ameliorate the condition of the wretched

inhabitants, we perceive from such an outburst as this, amongst many

similar: "What a mystery, is it not? Why are they created? A life of

fear and misery, night and day! One does not wonder at their not fearing

death. No one can conceive the utter misery of these lands--heat and

mosquitoes day and night all the year round. But I like the work, for I

believe I can do a great deal to ameliorate the lot of the people."

This spirit of unselfishness and of a sublime charity runs through all

his work. Every man, black or white, was "neighbor" to him, and he ever

fulfilled the command of his Lord, to "love his neighbor as himself."

Against oppression he could, however, be stern and severe. Not a few

ruffians whom he caught red-handed in flagrant acts of cruelty were

executed without mercy. So that the same man who, by the down-trodden

people, was called the "Good Pasha," was to the robber and murderer a

terror and avenger.

When at Khartoum he was on one occasion installed with a royal salute,

and an address was presented, and in return he was expected to make a

speech. His speech was as follows: "With the help of God, I will hold

the balance level." The people were delighted, for a level balance was

to them an unknown boon. And he held it level all through his long and

glorious reign, which lasted, with small break, from February, 1874,

until August, 1879.

During those five years and a half he had traveled over every portion of

the huge territory which was placed under him--provinces extending all

the way to the Equatorial Lakes. Besides riding through the deserts on

camels and mules 8,490 miles in three years, he made long journeys by

river. He conveyed a large steamer up the Nile as far as Lake Albert

Nyanza, and succeeded in floating her safely on the waters of that

inland sea. He had established posts all the way from Khartoum to

Gondokora, and reduced that enormous journey from fifteen months to only

a few weeks. He writes respecting these posts in January, 1879: "I am

putting in all the frontier posts European Vakeels, to see that no slave

caravans come through the frontier. I do not think that any now try to

pass; but the least neglect of vigilance would bring it on again in no

time."

This is only one out of hundreds of instances of the hawk-eyed vigilance

of the governor-general. The vast provinces under his sway had never

been ruled in this fashion before.

One strain runs through all his numerous letters written during the five

years he remained in the Soudan, and that is the heart-rending condition

of the thousands of slaves who were driven through the country, and the

cruelty of the slave-hunters. Were we to begin quoting from those

letters, we should outrun the limits of this sketch. He had broken the

neck of the piratical army of man-stealers, and their forces were

scattered and comparatively powerless. So many slaves were set free that

they became a serious inconvenience, as they had to be fed and provided

for.

And yet there was no shout of joy at the capital, whence he had set out

years before, armed with the firman of the khedive to put an end to the

slave trade. On the contrary, We find him saying: "What I complain of in

Cairo is the complete callousness with which they treat all these

questions, while they worry me for money, knowing by my budgets that I

can not make my revenue meet my expenses by £90,000 a year. The

destruction of Sebehr's gang is the turning-point of the slave-trade

question, and yet, never do I get one word from Cairo to support me."

One more extract:

"Why should I, at every mile, be stared at by the grinning skulls of

those who are at rest?

"I said to Yussef Bey, who is a noted slave-dealer, 'The inmate of that

ball has told Allah what you and your people have done to him and his.'

"Yussef Bey says, 'I did not do it!' and I say, 'Your nation did, and

the curse of God will be on your land till this traffic ceases.'"

This man, Yussef Bey, was one of the most cruel of the slave-hunters,

and renowned for the manner in which he tortured his victims, more

especially the young boys. He also cruelly murdered the interesting and

peaceful king of the Monbuttos, so graphically described in

Schweinfurth's "Heart of Africa."

In June, 1882, Yussef Bey met his deserts, for going out with an army of

Egyptian troops to meet the Mahdi, he and all his men were cut to

pieces, scarcely one surviving.

Much of Gordon's time, during his first expedition, had been occupied in

strengthening the Egyptian posts south of Gondokoro, stretching away

toward the country of King M'tesa. So badly were they organized that it

took him twenty-one months to travel from Gondokoro to Foweira and

Mrooli, his southernmost points. There he found that it would be

impossible to interfere with the rival kings of that region without

becoming involved in a war, and he returned from the lake districts

"with the sad conviction that no good could be done in those parts, and

that it would have been better had no expedition ever been sent."

We conclude our imperfect sketch with the following quotation,

describing General Gordon's resignation:

"I am neither a Napoleon nor a Colbert," was his reply to some one who

spoke to him in praise of his beneficent rule in the Soudan; "I do not

profess either to have been a great ruler or a great financier; but I

can say this: I have bearded the slave-dealers in their strongholds, and

I made the people love me."

What Gordon had done was to justify Ismail's description of him eight

months before. "They say I do not trust Englishmen; do I mistrust Gordon

Pasha? That is an honest man; an administrator, not a diplomatist!"

Apart from the difficulties of serving the new khedive, Gordon longed

for rest. The first year of his rule, during which he had done his own

and other men's work, the long marches, the terrible climate, the

perpetual anxieties, had all told upon him. Since then he had had three

years of desperate labor, and had ridden some 8,500 miles. Who can

wonder that he resented the impertinences of the pashas, whose

interference was not for the good of his government or of his people,

but solely for their own?

But it was not for him to stay on and complain. To one of the worst of

these pashas he sent a telegram which ran, "_Mene, Mene, Tekel,

Upharsin_." Then he sailed for England, bearing with him the memory of

the enthusiastic crowd of friends who bade him farewell at Cairo. It is

said that his name sends a thrill of love and admiration through the

Soudan even yet. A hand so strong and so beneficent had never before

been laid on the people of that unhappy land.

* * * * *

XV

MEN'S WIVES.

BITS OF COMMON SENSE AND WISDOM ON A GREAT SUBJECT.

Homely phrases sometimes carry in them a truth which is passed over on

account of its frequent repetition, and thus they fail to effect the

good they are intended to do. For instance, there is one with reference

to woman, which asserts that she is man's "better half;" and this is

said so often, half in satire and half in jest, that few stop to inquire

whether woman really be so. Yet she is in good truth his better half;

and the phrase, met with in French or Latin, looks not only true but

poetical, and in its foreign dress is cherished and quoted. She is not

the wiser--in a worldly sense--certainly not the stronger, nor the

cleverer, notwithstanding what the promoters of the Woman's Rights

movements may say; but she is the better. All must feel, indeed, that,

if the whole sins of the present world could be, and were, parceled into

two huge heaps, those committed by the men would far exceed those of the

women. We doubt whether any reflective man will deny this. On the other

hand, the active virtues of man, his benevolence and good deeds, might

equal those of woman; but his passive virtues, his patience and his

endurance, would be much smaller. On the whole, therefore, woman is the

much better half; and there is no good man but owes an immense deal to

the virtues of the good women about him. He owes, too, a considerable

deal of evil to their influence, not only of the absolutely bad, for

those a pure man shuns, but the half-good and respectably selfish women

of society--these are they who undermine his honesty, his benevolence,

and his purity of mind.

The influence man receives from woman is of a very mixed character. But

of all the influence which woman has over man, that which is naturally

most permanent, for good or evil, arises from the marriage tie. How we

of the cold North have been able to emancipate woman from the deplorable

depth into which polygamy would place her, it is not easy to say. That

it is a state absolutely countenanced--nay, enjoined--in the Old

Testament, it would be useless to deny. But custom and fair usance are

stronger than the Old Testament; and the Jews, who readily adopt the

laws of the country under which they live, forbid polygamy to their

brethren in Christian lands, whilst they permit and practice it where it

exists, as with the Mahometan and Hindoo. Under its influence the

character of woman is terribly dwarfed. She sinks to nothing where she

would be, as she should be, of half the importance of life at least.

To preserve her position, it will be necessary for all good women to try

and elevate the condition of their sisters. With all of us, "the world

is too much with us, day by day;" and worldly success plays so large a

part in the domestic drama, that woman is everywhere perceptibly

influenced by it. Hence, to return to the closer consideration of the

subject from our own point of view, the majority of men's wives in the

upper and middle classes fall far short of that which is required of a

good wife. They are the wives not made by love, but by the chance of a

good match. They are the products of worldly prudence, not of a noble

passion; and, although they may be very comfortable and very well clad,

though they may think themselves happy, and wear the very look of health

and beauty, they can never be to their husbands what a wife of true and

real tender love would be.

The consequence is that, after the first novelty has passed away, the

chain begins to rub and the collar to gall. "The girl who has married

for money," writes a clergyman, "has not by that rash and immoral act

blinded her eyes to other and nobler attractions. She may still love

wisdom, though the man of her choice may be a fool; she will none the

less desire gentle, chivalrous affection because he is purse-proud and

haughty; she may sigh for manly beauty all the more because he is coarse

and ugly; she will not be able to get rid of her own youth, and all it

longs for, by watching his silver hair." No; and, while there comes a

curse upon her union--whilst in the long, long evenings, in the cold

Spring mornings, and in the still Summer days, she feels that all worth

living for is gone, while she is surrounded by all her body wants--her

example is corrupting others. The scorned lover, who was rejected

because he was poor, goes away to curse woman's fickleness and to marry

some one whom he can not love; and the thoughtless girls, by whom the

glitter of fortune is taken for the real gold of happiness, follow the

venal example, and flirt and jilt till they fancy that they have secured

a good match.

Many women, after they have permanently attached a husband of this sort,

sit down, with all the heroism of martyrs, to try to love the man they

have accepted, but not chosen. They find it a hard, almost an impossible

task. Then comes the moment so bitterly predicted by Milton, who no

doubt drew from his own feeling and experience, when he put into the

mouths of our first parents the prophecy that either man should never

find the true partner of his choice, or that, having found her, she

should be in possession of another. This is far too often true, and can

not fail to be the source of a misery almost too bitter to be long

endured.

It says much for our Anglo-Saxon wives that their constancy has passed

into many proverbs. When a woman really loves the man who marries her,

the match is generally a happy one; but, even where it is not, the

constancy of the wife's affection is something to be wondered at and

admired. No after ill-usage, no neglect, or want of love, will remove

the affection once given. No doubt all women, when they fall in love, do

so with that which they conceive to be great and noble in the character

of the object. But they still love on when all the glitter of novelty

has fallen off, and when they have been behind the scenes and found how

bare and gloomy was the framework of the scene they admired. All

illusions may be gone; the hero may have sunk into the cowardly

braggart; the saint into the hypocritical sinner; the noble aspirant

into a man whose mouth alone utters but empty words which his heart can

never feel; but still true love remains, "nor alters where it alteration

finds." The duration of this passion, the constancy of this affection,

surprises many; but, adds a writer, such persons--

"Know not woman, the blest being

Who, like a pitying angel, gifts the mean

And sordid nature even with more love

Than falls to the lot of him who towers above

His fellow-men; like parasitic flowers

That grow not on high temples, where the showers

And light of heaven might nourish, but alone

Cloth the rent altar and the fallen stone."

There must be some great reason, some combination of feeling, for this.

M. Ernest Feydeau, in a popular story of very bad principles, seems to

hit the right nail on the head. "What woman," he asks, "would not love

her husband, and be ever true to him, without thinking of a lover, if

her husband would give her that which a lover gives her, not alone

attention, politeness, and a cold friendship, but a little of that balm

which is the very essense of our existence--a little love?" Probably

these very bad men, for whom women will so generously ruin themselves,

are, by their nature, soft and flattering; and, after cruelties and

excesses, will, by soft words and Belial tongues, bind to them yet more

closely the hearts of their victims.

The ideal wife has been often painted, but the real far exceeds her.

When Ulric von Hutten wrote to Frederick, he painted such a portrait as

must have made that staunch advocate for the marriage of the clergy glow

with admiration. "_Da mihi uxorem_," he commences. "Get me a wife,

Frederick, after my own heart, such as you know I should like--neat,

young, fairly educated, modest, patient; one with whom I may joke and

play, and yet be serious; to whom I may babble and talk, mixing hearty

fun and kisses together; one whose presence will lighten my anxiety and

soften the tumult of my cares."

It is not too much to say that the great majority of wives equal this

ideal. United to such a woman, a man becomes better. He can never be the

perfect man unless married. With marriage he undertakes those duties of

existence which he is born to fulfill. The excitements of life and of

business, the selfishness of daily existence, diminish; the generosities

of the heart expand; the health of the mind becomes daily more robust;

small repressions of selfishness, daily concessions, and daily trials,

render him better; the woman of his choice becomes his equal, and in

lifting her he lifts himself. He may not be a genius, nor she very

clever; but, once truly married, the real education of life begins. That

is not education which varnishes a man or a woman over with the pleasant

and shining accomplishments which fit us for society, but that which

tends to improve the heart, to bring forward the reflective qualities,

and to form a firm and regular character; that which cultivates the

reason, subdues the passions, restrains them in their proper place,

trains us to self-denial, makes us able to bear trials, and to refer

them, and all our sentiments and feelings to their proper source; which

makes us look beyond this world into the next. A man's wife, if properly

chosen, will aid in all this. The most brilliant and original thinker,

and the deepest philosopher we have--he who has written books which

educate the statesmen and the leaders of the world--has told us in his

last preface that he, having lost his wife, has lost his chief

inspiration. Looking back at his works, he traces all that is noble, all

that is advanced in thought and grand in idea, and all that is true in

expression, not to a poet or a teacher, but to his own wife; in losing

her he says he has lost much, but the world has lost more. So, also, two

men, very opposite in feelings, in genius, and in character, and as

opposite in their pursuits, declared at a late period in their

lives--lives spent in industry and hard work, and in expression of what

the world deemed their own particular genius--"that they owed all to

their wives." These men were Sir Walter Scott and Daniel O'Connell. "The

very gods rejoice," says Menu the sage, "when the wife is honored. When

the wife is injured, the whole family decays; when the contrary is the

case, it flourishes." This may be taken as an eternal truth--as one of

those truths not to be put by, not to be argued down by casual

exceptions. It is just as true of nations as it is of men; of the whole

people as it is of individual families. So true it is, that it may be

regarded as a piece of very sound advice when we counsel all men,

married or single, to choose only such men for their friends as are

happy in their wedded lives. No man can afford to know a broken family.

Quarreling, discord, and connubial disagreements are catching. With

unhappiness at home, no man is safely to be trusted, no woman to be

sought in friendship. The fault may not be his or hers, but it must be

between them. A man and woman must prove that they can be a good husband

and wife before they can be admitted to have proved that they are good

citizens. Such a verdict may seem harsh, but it is necessary and just.

Young people just married can not possibly afford to know unhappy

couples; and they, in their turn, may, with mutual hypocrisy, rub on in

the world; but in the end they feel that the hypocrisy can not be played

out. They gradually withdraw from their friends and acquaintance, and

nurse their own miseries at home.

All good men feel, of course, that any distinctive separation of the

sexes, all those separate gatherings and marks which would divide woman

from man, and set her upon a separate pedestal, are as foolish as they

are really impracticable. You will find no one who believes less in what

certain philanthropists call the emancipation of women than a happy

mother and wife. She does not want to be emancipated; and she is quite

unwilling that, instead of being the friend and ally of man, she should

be his opponent. She feels truly that the woman's cause is man's.

"For woman is not undeveloped man,

But diverse. Could we make her as the man,

Sweet love were slain, whose dearest bond is this--

Not like to like, but like in difference."

The very virtues of woman, not less than her faults, fit her for her

attachment to man. There is no man so bad as not to find some pitying

woman who will admire and love him; and no man so wise but that he shall

find some woman equal to the full comprehension of him, ready to

understand him and to strengthen him. With such a woman he will grow

more tender, ductile, and appreciative; the man will be more of woman,

she of man. Whether society, as it is at present constituted, fits our

young women to be the good wives they should be is another question. In

lower middle life, and with the working classes, it is asserted that the

women are not sufficiently taught to fulfill their mission properly;

but, if in large towns the exigencies of trade use up a large portion of

the female population, it is no wonder that they can not be at the same

time good mill-hands, bookbinders, shopwomen, and mothers, cooks, and

housewives. We may well have recourse to public cookery, and talk about

working men's dinners--thus drifting from an opposite point into the

coming socialism--when we absorb all the home energies of the woman in

gaining money sufficient for her daily bread. Yet these revelations, nor

those yet more dreadful ones which come out daily in some of our law

courts, are not sufficient to make us overlook the fact that with us by

far the larger portion of marriages are happy ones, and that of men's

wives we still can write as the most eloquent divine who ever lived,

Jeremy Taylor, wrote, "A good wife is Heaven's last, best gift to

man--his angel and minister of graces innumerable--his gem of many

virtues--his casket of jewels. Her voice is sweet music--her smiles his

brightest day--her kiss the guardian of his innocence--her arms the pale

of his safety, the balm of his health, the balsam of his life--her

industry his surest wealth--her economy his safest steward--her lips his

faithful counselors--her bosom the softest pillow of his cares--and her

prayers the ablest advocate of Heaven's blessings on his head."

* * * * *

XVI.

WOMEN'S HUSBANDS.

WHAT THE "BREAD WINNERS" LIKE IN THEIR WIVES--A LITTLE CONSTITUTIONAL

OPPOSITION.

It would not be holding the balance of the sexes fairly, if after saying

all that can be said in favor of men's wives, we did not say something

on the side of women's husbands. In these clever days the husband is a

rather neglected animal. Women are anxious enough to secure a specimen

of the creature, but he is very soon "shelved" afterwards; and women

writers are now so much occupied in contemplating the beauties of their

own more impulsive sex that they neglect to paint ideals of good

husbands. There has been also too much writing tending to separate the

sexes. It is plain that in actual life all the virtues can not be on one

side, and all the faults on the other; yet some women are not ashamed to

write and speak as if such were really the case. The wife is taught to

regard herself as a woman with many wrongs, because her natural rights

are denied her. She is cockered up into a domestic martyr, and is bred

into an impatience of reproof which is very harmful and very ungraceful.

If we look about us, we find that in our cities, especially, this is

producing some very sad results. Some of the men are getting very

impatient at the increasing demands of women for attention, for place,

and for consideration; and, on merely selfish grounds, it is hardly

doubtful whether our women in the upper and middle classes do not demand

too much. It is evident that, as society is constituted, man is the

working and woman, generally, the ornamental portion, of it, at least in

those classes to which Providence or society has given what we call

comfortable circumstances. Woman may do, and does do, a great deal of

unpleasant, tiresome work; she fritters away her time upon occupations

which require "frittering;" but beyond that she does not do the "paying"

work. The husband, or houseband, still produces the money. He is the

poor, plain, working bee; and the queen bee too often sits in regal

state in her comfortable hive while he is toiling and moiling abroad.

It results from the different occupations of the two sexes, that the

husband comes home too often worried, cross, and anxious; that he finds

in his wife a woman to whom he can not tell his doubts and fears, his

humiliations and experience. She, poor woman, with little sense of what

the world is, without any tact, may bore him to take her to fresh

amusements and excitements; for, while he has been expending both brain

and body, she has been quietly at home. A certain want of tact, not

unfrequently met with in wives, often sets the household in a flame of

anger and quarreling, which might be avoided by a little patience and

care on the part of the wife.

It is not in human nature for a man who has been hard at work all day to

return to his home toiled and weary, or with his mind agitated after

being filled with many things, and to regard with complacency little

matters which go awry, but which at another time would not trouble him.

The hard-working man is too apt to regard as lazy those who work less

than himself, and he therefore looks upon the slightest unreadiness or

want of preparation in his wife as neglect. Hence a woman, if she be

wise, will be constantly prepared for the return of her husband. He,

after all, is the bread-winner; and all that he requires is an attention

less by far than we should ordinarily pay to a guest. In the good old

Scotch song, which thrills our heart every time it is sung, and makes us

remember, however skeptical we may have grown, the true worth and

divinity of love, the wife's greatest pleasure is that of looking

forward to the return of her husband. She puts on-her best clothes and

her sweetest smile; she clothes her face with that fondness which only a

wife's look can express; she makes her children look neat and

pretty--"gi'es little Kate her cotton gown, and Jock his Sunday coat"

because the husband is returning. There is not a prettier picture

throughout the whole range of literature. How her love breathes forth--

"Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue;

His breath like caller air;

His very foot has music in 't

As he comes up the stair."

And the love which thus colors with its radiant tints the common things

of this life, which makes poverty beautiful, and the cottage richer than

the palace, will be sure to teach the heart which possesses it how to

manage the husband.

In "managing a man"--an important lesson, which some women are very

anxious to impress upon others--immense tact and delicacy are wanted,

but are very seldom found. Wives should remember that they had better,

very much better, never try to manage, than try and not succeed. And yet

all men like to be managed, and require management. No one can pretend

to be the be-all and end-all in a house. It is from his wife that the

husband should learn the true value of things--his own dignity, his

position, and even his secondary position by her side as manageress.

But, if she be wise, she will not make this too apparent. Directly the

voice gets too loud, the tone too commanding, and the manner too fussy,

the unhappy man begins to suspect that he is being "managed," and in

nine cases out of ten sinks into utter imbecility, or breaks away like

an obstinate pig. Both these symptoms are bad, and perhaps the first is

the worst. No true woman can love and reverence a man who is morally and

intellectually lower than herself, and who has driveled down into a mere

assenting puppet. On the other hand, the pig-headed husband is very

troublesome. He requires the greatest care; for whatever his wife says

he will refuse to do; nay, although it may be the very essence of

wisdom, he will refuse it because he knows the behest proceeds from his

wife. He is like a jibbing horse, which you have to turn one way because

you want him to start forward on the other; or he more closely resembles

the celebrated Irish pig, which was so obstinate that his master was

obliged to persuade him that he was being driven to Dublin, when his

back was towards that city, and he was going to Athlone!

One part of management in husbands lies in a judicious mixture of good

humor, attention, flattery, and compliments. All men, as well as women,

are more or less vain; the rare exceptions of men who do not care to be

tickled by an occasional well-turned compliment only prove the rule.

But, in the case of a husband, we must remember that this love of being

occasionally flattered by his wife is absolutely a necessary and natural

virtue. No one needs to be ashamed of it. We are glad enough to own, to

remember, to treasure up every little word of approval that fell from

the lips of the woman we courted. Why should we forget the dear sounds

now she is our wife? If we love her, she may be sure that any little

compliment--an offered flower, a birthday gift, a song when we are

weary, a smile when we are sad, a look which no eye but our own will

see--will be treasured up, and will cheer us when she is not there.

Judiciously used, this conduct is of the greatest effect in managing the

husband. A little vanity does not, moreover, in such cases as these,

prove a man to be either a bad man or a fool. "All clever men," says a

great observer, "are more or less affected with vanity. It may be

blatant and offensive, it may be excessive, but not unamusing, or it may

show itself just as a large _soupçon,_ but it is never entirely absent."

The same writer goes on to say that this vanity should by no means be

injudiciously flattered into too large a size. A wife will probably

admire the husband for what he is really worth; and the vanity of a

really clever man probably only amounts to putting a little too large a

price on his merits, not to a mistake as to what those merits are. The

wife and husband will therefore think alike; but, if she be wise, she

will only go to a certain point in administering the domestic lumps of

sugar. "A clever husband," says the writer we have quoted, "is like a

good despot; all the better for a little constitutional opposition." Or

the same advice may be thus put, as it often is, by a wise and cautious

mother-in-law: "My dear," she would say, "you must never let your

husband have matters all his own way."

A woman who abdicates all her authority, who is not queen over her

kitchen, her chamber, and her drawing-room or best parlor, does a very

dangerous and foolish thing, and will soon dwarf down into a mere

assenting dummy. Now old Burleigh, the wise counselor of Queen

Elizabeth, has, in his advice to his son, left it upon record that "thou

shalt find there is nothing so irksome in life as a female fool." A wife

who is the mere echo of her husband's opinions; who waits for his advice

upon all matters; who is lazy, indolent, and silly in her household;

fussy, troublesome, and always out of the way or in the way when she is

traveling; who has no opinions of her own, no temper of her own; who

boasts that "she bears every thing like a lamb;" and who bears the

breakage of her best china and the desecration of her white curtains

with tobbaco-smoke with equal serenity; such a woman may be very

affectionate and very good, but she is somewhat of a "she-fool." Her

husband will too often first begin to despise and then to neglect her.

She will follow so closely on the heels of her husband's ideas and her

husband's opinions that she will annoy him like an echo. Her genuine

love will be construed into something like cunning flattery; her very

devotion will be mistaken; her sweet nature become tiresome and irksome,

from want of variety; and, from being the mistress of the house, she

will sink into the mere slave of the husband. A wife should therefore

learn to think, to walk alone, to bear her full share of the troubles

and dignities of married life, never to become a cipher in her own

house, but to rise to the level of her husband, and to take her full

share of the matrimonial throne. The husband, if a wise man, will never

act without consulting his wife; nor will she do any thing of importance

without the aid and advice of her husband.

There is, however--and in these days of rapid fortune-making we see it

constantly--a certain class of men who rise in the world without the

slightest improvement in their manners, taste, or sense. Such men are

shrewd men of business, or perhaps have been borne to the haven of

fortune by a lucky tide; and yet these very men possess wives who,

although they are of a lower sphere, rise at once with their position,

and in manner, grace, and address are perfect ladies, whilst their

husbands are still the same rude, uncultivated boors. These wives must

be wise enough to console themselves for their trials; for indeed such

things are a very serious trial both to human endurance and to human

vanity. They must remember that they married when equals with their

husbands in their lowliness, and that their husbands have made the

fortune which they pour at their feet. They will recollect also that

their husbands must have industry, and a great many other sterling good

qualities, if they lack a little polish; and, lastly, that they are in

reality no worse off than many other women in high life who are married

to boors, to eccentric persons, or, alas! too often to those who, with

many admirable virtues, may blot them all by the indulgence in a bosom

sin or an hereditary vice.

The last paragraph will lead us naturally enough to the faults of

husbands. Now, although we are inclined to think that these are greatly

exaggerated, and that married men are, on the whole, very

good--excellent men and citizens, brave men, battling with the world and

its difficulties, and carrying forward the cumbrous machine in its path

of progress and civilization--although we think that, as a class, their

merits are actually not fully appreciated, and that the bachelors (sly

fellows!) get very much the best of it--still, we must admit that there

is a very large class of thoroughly bad husbands, and that this class

may be divided into the foolish, the careless, and the vicious

sub-classes, each of which would require at least a volume to be devoted

to their treatment and castigation. Nay, more than a volume. Archdeacon

Paley notes that St. John, apologizing for the brevity and

incompleteness of Gospel directions, states that, if all the necessary

books were written, the world would not contain them. So we may say of

the faults of foolish husbands; we will, therefore, say no more about

them, but return to the part which the wives of such men ought to play.

In the first place, as a true woman, a wife will be as tender of those

faults as she can be. She will not talk to her neighbors about them, nor

magnify them, nor dwell upon them. She, alas! will never be without her

share of blame; for the world, rightly or wrongly, often dowers the wife

with the faults of the husband, and, seeing no possibility of

interfering and assigning to each his or her share, suspects both.

Moreover, in many cases she will have to blame herself chiefly. We take

it that the great majority of women marry the men that they choose. If

they do not do so, they should do so. They may have been unwise and vain

enough to have been pleased and tickled by the flattery of a fool. When

they have married him, they find him, as Dr. Gregory wrote to his

daughters, "the most intractable of husbands; led by his passions and

caprices, and incapable of hearing the voice of reason." A woman's

vanity may be hurt when she finds that she has a husband for whom she

has to blush and tremble every time he opens his lips. She may be

annoyed at his clownish jealousy, his mulish obstinacy, his incapability

of being managed, led, or driven; but she must reflect that there was a

time when a little wisdom and reflection on her own part would have

prevented her from delivering her heart and her person to so unworthy a

creature.

Women who have wicked husbands are much more to be pitied: In early life

the wives themselves are innocent; and, from the nature of things, their

innocence is based upon ignorance. Here the value of the almost

intuitive wisdom and perception of the gentler sex comes into full play.

During courtship, when this perception is in its full power and vigor,

it should be freely exercised. Scandal and common report, in themselves

to be avoided, are useful in this.

Women should choose men of character and of unspotted name. It is a very

old and true remark--but one may as well repeat what is old and trite

when that which is new would be but feeble repetition at the best--that

a good son generally makes a good husband; a wise companion in a walk

may turn out a judicious companion through life. The wild attempt to

reform a rake, or to marry a man of a "gay" life, in the hope that he

will sow "his wild oats," is always dangerous, and should never be

attempted. A woman who has a sense of religion herself should never

attach herself to a man who has none. The choice of a husband is really

of the greatest consequence to human happiness, and should never be made

without the greatest care and circumspection. No sudden caprice, no

effect of coquetry, no sally of passion, should be dignified by the name

of love. "Marriage," says the apostle, "is honorable in all;"' but the

kind of marriage which is so is that which is based upon genuine love,

not upon fancy or caprice; which is founded on the inclination of

nature, on honorable views, cemented by a similarity of tastes, and

strengthened by the true sympathy of souls.

Love is the tyranny

So blessed to endure!

Who mourns the loss of liberty,

With all things else secure?

Live on, sweet tyranny!

(Cries heart within a heart)

God's blossom of Eternity,

How beautiful thou art!

* * * * *

XVII.

JOHN PLOUGHMAN.

WHAT HE SAYS OF RELIGIOUS GRUMBLERS--GOOD-NATURE AND

FIRMNESS--PATIENCE--OPPORTUNITIES--FAULTS--HOME--MEN WHO ARE

DOWN--HOPE--HINTS AS TO THRIVING, ETC.

John Ploughman's Talk, says the author, Rev. C.H. Spurgeon, the famous

London preacher, "has not only obtained an immense circulation, but it

has exercised an influence for good." As to the "influence for good,"

the reader will judge when he has read the following choice bits from

the pages of that unique book. And we feel sure that he will thank us

for including John among our "Brave Men and Women."

RELIGIOUS GRUMBLERS.

When a man has a particularly empty head, he generally sets up for a

great judge, especially in religion. None so wise as the man who knows

nothing. His ignorance is the mother of his impudence and the nurse of

his obstinacy; and, though he does not know B from a bull's foot, he

settles matters as if all wisdom were in his fingers' ends--the pope

himself is not more infallible. Hear him talk after he has been at

meeting and heard a sermon, and you will know how to pull a good man to

pieces, if you never knew it before. He sees faults where there are

none, and, if there be a few things amiss, he makes every mouse into an

elephant. Although you might put all his wit into an egg-shell, he

weighs the sermon in the balances of his conceit, with all the airs of a

bred-and-born Solomon, and if it be up to his standard, he lays on his

praise with a trowel; but, if it be not to his taste, he growls and

barks and snaps at it like a dog at a hedgehog. Wise men in this world

are like trees in a hedge, there is only here and there one; and when

these rare men talk together upon a discourse, it is good for the ears

to hear them; but the bragging wiseacres I am speaking of are vainly

puffed up by their fleshly minds, and their quibbling is as senseless as

the cackle of geese on a common. Nothing comes out of a sack but what

was in it, and, as their bag is empty, they shake nothing but wind out

of it. It is very likely that neither ministers nor their sermons are

perfect--the best garden may have a few weeds in it, the cleanest corn

may have some chaff--but cavilers cavil at any thing or nothing, and

find fault for the sake of showing off their deep knowledge; sooner than

let their tongues have a holiday, they would complain that the grass is

not a nice shade of blue, and say that the sky would have looked neater

if it had been whitewashed.

GOOD-NATURE AND FIRMNESS.

Do not be all sugar, or the world will suck you down; but do not be all

vinegar, or the world will spit you out. There is a medium in all

things; only blockheads go to extremes. We need not be all rock or all

sand, all iron or all wax. We should neither fawn upon every body like

silly lap-dogs, nor fly at all persons like surly mastiffs. Blacks and

whites go together to make up a world, and hence, on the point of

temper, we have all sorts of people to deal with. Some are as easy as an

old shoe, but they are hardly ever worth more than the other one of the

pair; and others take fire as fast as tinder at the smallest offense,

and are as dangerous as gunpowder. To have a fellow going about the farm

as cross with every body as a bear with a sore head, with a temper as

sour as verjuice and as sharp as a razor, looking as surly as a

butcher's dog, is a great nuisance; and yet there may be some good

points about the man, so that he may be a man for all that; but poor,

soft Tommy, as green as grass and as ready to bend as a willow, is

nobody's money and every body's scorn. A man must have a backbone, or

how is he to hold his head up? But that backbone must bend, or he will

knock his brow against the beam.

There is a time to do as others wish, and a time to refuse. We may make

ourselves asses, and then every body will ride us; but, if we would be

respected, we must be our own masters, and not let others saddle us as

they think fit. If we try to please every body, we shall be like a toad

under a harrow, and never have peace; and, if we play lackey to all our

neighbors, whether good or bad, we shall be thanked by no one, for we

shall soon do as much harm as good. He that makes himself a sheep will

find that the wolves are not all dead. He who lies on the ground must

expect to be trodden on. He who makes himself a mouse, the cats will eat

him. If you let your neighbors put the calf on your shoulders, they will

soon clap on the cow. We are to please our neighbor for his good to

edification, but this is quite another matter.

PATIENCE.

Patience is better than wisdom; an ounce of patience is worth a pound of

brains. All men praise patience, but few enough can practice it; it is a

medicine which Is good for all diseases, and therefore every old woman

recommends it; but it is not every garden that grows the herbs to make

it with. When one's flesh and bones are full of aches and pains, it is

as natural for us to murmur as for a horse to shake his head when the

flies tease him, or a wheel to rattle when a spoke is loose; but nature

should not be the rule with Christians, or what is their religion worth?

If a soldier fights no better than a plowboy, off with his red coat. We

expect more fruit from an apple-tree than from a thorn, and we have a

right to do so. The disciples of a patient Savior should be patient

themselves. Grin and bear it is the old-fashioned advice, but sing and

bear it is a great deal better. After all, we get very few cuts of the

whip, considering what bad cattle we are; and when we do smart a little,

it is soon over. Pain past is pleasure, and experience comes by it. We

ought not to be afraid of going down into Egypt, when we know we shall

come out of it with jewels of silver and gold.

ON SEIZING OPPORTUNITIES.

Some men never are awake when the train starts, but crawl into the

station just in time to see that every body is off, and then sleepily

say, "Dear me, is the train gone? My watch must have stopped in the

night!" They always come into town a day after the fair, and open their

wares an hour after the market is over. They make their hay when the sun

has left off shining, and cut their corn as soon as the fine weather is

ended. They cry "Hold hard!" after the shot has left the gun, and lock

the stable-door when the steed is stolen. They are like a cow's tail,

always behind; they take time by the heels and not by the forelock, if

indeed they ever take him at all. They are no more worth than an old

almanac; their time has gone for being of use; but, unfortunately, you

can not throw them away as you would the almanac, for they are like the

cross old lady who had an annuity left to her, and meant to take out the

full value of it--they won't die, though they are of no use alive.

Take-it-easy and Live-long are first cousins, they say, and the more's

the pity. If they are immortal till their work is done, they will not

die in a hurry, for they have not even begun to work yet. Shiftless

people generally excuse their laziness by saying, "they are only a

little behind;" but a little too late is much too late, and a miss is as

good as a mile. My neighbor Sykes covered up his well after his child

was drowned in it, and was very busy down at the Old Farm bringing up

buckets of water after every stick of the house had been burned; one of

these days, he'll be for making his will when he can't hold a pen, and

he'll be trying to repent of his sins when his senses are going.

FAULTS.

He who boasts of being perfect is perfect in folly. I have been a good

deal up and down in the world, and I never did see either a perfect

horse or a perfect man, and I never shall till two Sundays come

together. You can not get white flour out of a coal sack, nor perfection

out of human nature; he who looks for it had better look for sugar in

the sea. The old saying is, "Lifeless, faultless;" of dead men we should

say nothing but good; but as for the living, they are all tarred more or

less with the black brush, and half an eye can see it. Every head has a

soft place in it, and every heart has its black drop. Every rose has its

prickles, and every day its night. Even the sun shows spots, and the

skies are darkened with clouds. Nobody is so wise but he has folly

enough to stock a stall at Vanity Fair. Where I could not see the fool's

cap, I have nevertheless heard the bells jingle. As there is no sunshine

without some shadows, so is all human good mixed up with more or less of

evil; even poor-law guardians have their little failings, and parish

beadles are not wholly of heavenly nature. The best wine has its lees.

All men's faults are not written on their foreheads, and it's quite as

well they are not, or hats would need very wide brims; yet as sure as

eggs are eggs, faults of some sort nestle in every bosom. There's no

telling when a man's sins may show themselves, for hares pop out of the

ditch just when you are not looking for them. A horse that is weak in

the legs may not stumble for a mile or two, but it is in him, and the

driver had better hold him up well. The tabby cat is not lapping milk

just now, but leave the dairy door open, and see if she is not as bad a

thief as the kitten. There's fire in the flint, cool as it looks: wait

till the steel gets a knock at it, and you will see. Every body can read

that riddle, but it is not every body that will remember to keep his

gunpowder out of the way of the candle.

If we would always recollect that we live among men who are imperfect,

we should not be in such a fever when we find out our friend's failings;

what's rotten will rend, and cracked pots will leak. Blessed is he who

expects nothing of poor flesh and blood, for he shall never be

disappointed. The best of men are men at the best, and the best wax will

melt.

"It is a good horse that never stumbles,

And a good wife that never grumbles."

HOME.

That word _home_ always sounds like poetry to me. It rings like a peal

of bells at a wedding, only more soft and sweet, and it chimes deeper

into the ears of my heart. It does not matter whether it means thatched

cottage or manor-house, home is home; be it ever so homely, there is no

place on earth like it. Green grows the house-leek on the roof forever,

and let the moss flourish on the thatch. Sweetly the sparrows chirrup

and the swallows twitter around the chosen spot which is my joy and

rest. Every bird loves its own nest; the owls think the old ruins the

fairest spot under the moon, and the fox is of opinion that his hole in

the hill is remarkably cozy. When my master's nag knows that his head is

toward home he wants no whip, but thinks it best to put on all steam;

and I am always of the same mind, for the way home, to me, is the best

bit of road in the country. I like to see the smoke out of my own

chimney better than the fire on another man's hearth; there's something

so beautiful in the way in which it curls up among the trees. Cold

potatoes on my own table taste better than roast meat at my neighbor's,

and the honeysuckle at my own door is the sweetest I ever smell. When

you are out, friends do their best, but still it is not home. "Make

yourself at home," they say, because every body knows that to feel at

home is to feel at ease.

"East and west,

Home is best."

Why, at home you are at home, and what more do you want? Nobody grudges

you, whatever your appetite may be; and you don't get put into a damp

bed.

MEN WHO ARE DOWN.

No man's lot is fully known till he is dead; change of fortune is the

lot of life. He who rides in the carriage may yet have to clean it.

Sawyers change-places, and he who is up aloft may have to take his turn

in the pit. In less than a thousand years we shall all be bald and poor

too, and who knows what he may come to before that? The thought that we

may ourselves be one day under the window, should make us careful when

we are throwing out our dirty water. With what measure we mete, it shall

be measured to us again, and therefore let us look well to our dealings

with the unfortunate.

Nothing makes me more sick of human nature than to see the way in which

men treat others when they fall down the ladder of fortune: "Down with

him," they cry, "he always was good for nothing."

"Down among the dead men, down, down, down,

Down among the dead men, there let him lie."

Dog won't eat dog, but men will eat each other up like cannibals, and

boast of it too. There are thousands in this world who fly like vultures

to feed on a tradesman or a merchant as soon as ever he gets into

trouble. Where the carcass is thither will the eagles be gathered

together. Instead of a little help, they give the sinking man a great

deal of cruelty, and cry, "Serves him right." All the world will beat

the man whom fortune buffets. If providence smites him, all men's whips

begin to crack. The dog is drowning, and therefore all his friends empty

their buckets over him. The tree has fallen, and every body runs for his

hatchet. The house is on fire, and all the neighbors warm themselves.

The man has ill luck, therefore his friends give him ill usage; he has

tumbled into the road, and they drive their carts over him; he is down,

and selfishness cries, "Let him be kept down, then there will be the

more room for those who are up."

How aggravating it is when those who knocked you down kick you for not

standing up! It is not very pleasant to hear that you have been a great

fool, that there were fifty ways at least of keeping out of your

difficulty, only you had not the sense to see them. You ought not to

have lost the game; even Tom Fool can see where you made a bad move.

"_He ought to have looked the stable-door;_" every body can see that,

but nobody offers to buy the loser a new nag. "_What a pity he went so

far on the ice!_" That's very true, but that won't save the poor fellow

from drowning. When a man's coat is threadbare, it is an easy thing to

pick a hole in it. Good advice is poor food for a hungry family.

"A man of words and not of deeds

Is like a garden full of weeds."

Lend me a bit of string to tie up the traces, and find fault with my old

harness when I get home. Help my old horse to a few oats, then tell him

to mend his pace. Feel for me and I shall be much obliged to you, but

mind you, feel in your pocket, or else a fig for your feelings.

HOPE.

Eggs are eggs, but some are rotten; and so hopes are hopes, but many of

them are delusions. Hopes are like women, there is a touch of angel

about them all, but there are two sorts. My boy Tom has been blowing a

lot of birds'-eggs, and threading them on a string; I have been doing

the same thing with hopes, and here's a few of them, good, bad, and

indifferent.

The sanguine man's hope pops up in a moment like Jack-in-the-box; it

works with a spring, and does not go by reason. Whenever this man looks

out of the window he sees better times coming, and although it is nearly

all in his own eye and nowhere else, yet to see plum-puddings in the

moon is a far more cheerful habit than croaking at every thing like a

two-legged frog. This is the kind of brother to be on the road with on a

pitch-dark night, when it pours with rain, for he carries candles in his

eyes and a fireside in his heart. Beware of being misled by him, and

then you may safely keep his company. His fault is that he counts his

chickens before they are hatched, and sells his herrings before they are

in the net. All his sparrows'-eggs are bound to turn into thrushes, at

the least, if not partridges and pheasants. Summer has fully come, for

he has seen one swallow. He is sure to make his, fortune at his new

shop, for he had not opened the door five minutes before two of the

neighbors crowded in; one of them wanted a loaf of bread on trust, and

the other asked change for a shilling. He is certain that the squire

means to give him his custom, for he saw him reading the name over the

shop door as he rode past. He does not believe in slips between cups and

lips, but makes certainties out of perhapses. Well, good soul, though he

is a little soft at times, there is much in him to praise, and I like to

think of ope of his odd sayings, "Never say die till you are dead, and

then it's no use, so let it alone." There are other odd people in the

world, you see, besides John Ploughman.

MY FIRST WIFE.

My experience of my first wife, who will, I hope, live to be my last, is

much as follows: matrimony came from Paradise and leads to it. I never

was half so happy before I was a married man as I am now. When you are

married, your bliss begins. I have no doubt that where there is much

love there will be much to love, and where love is scant faults will be

plentiful. If there is only one good wife in England, I am the man who

put the ring on her finger, and long may she wear it. God bless the dear

soul, if she can put up _with_ me, she shall never be put down _by_ me.

HINTS AS TO THRIVING.

Hard work is the grand secret of success. Nothing but rags and poverty

can come of idleness. Elbow-grease is the only stuff to make gold with.

No sweat, no sweet. He who would have the crow's eggs must climb the

tree. Every man must build up his own fortune nowadays. Shirt-sleeves

rolled up lead on to best broad cloth; and he who is not ashamed of the

apron will soon be able to do without it. "Diligence is the mother of

good luck," as Poor Richard says; but "idleness is the devil's bolster,"

John Ploughman says.

Make as few changes as you can; trees often transplanted bear little

fruit. If you have difficulties in one place, you will have them in

another; if you move because it is damp in the valley, you may find it

cold on the hill. Where will the ass go that he will not have to work?

Where can a cow live and not get milked? Where will you find land

without stones, or meat without bones? Everywhere on earth men must eat

bread in the sweat of their faces. To fly from trouble men must have

eagle's wings. Alteration is not always improvement, as the pigeon said

when she got out of the net and into the pie. There is a proper time for

changing, and then mind you bestir yourself, for a sitting hen gets no

barley; but do not be forever on the shift, for a rolling stone gathers

no moss. Stick-to-it is the conqueror. He who can wait long enough will

win. This, that, and the other, any thing and every thing, all put

together, make nothing in the end; but on one horse a man rides home in

due season. In one place the seed grows, in one nest the bird hatches

its eggs, in one oven the bread bakes, in one river the fish lives.

Do not be above your business. He who turns up his nose at his work

quarrels with his bread and butter. He is a poor smith who is afraid of

his own sparks: there's some discomfort in all trades, except

chimney-sweeping. If sailors gave up going to sea because of the wet, if

bakers left off baking because it is hot work, if ploughmen would not

plough because of the cold, and tailors would not make our clothes for

fear of pricking their fingers, what a pass we should come to! Nonsense,

my fine fellow, there's no shame about any honest calling; don't be

afraid of soiling your hands, there's plenty of soap to be had. All

trades are good to good traders. A clever man can make money out of

dirt. Lucifer matches pay well, if you sell enough of them.

You can not get honey if you are frightened at bees, nor sow corn if you

are afraid of getting mud on your boots. Lackadaisical gentlemen had

better emigrate to fool's-land, where men get their living by wearing

shiny boots and lavender gloves. When bars of iron melt under the south

wind, when you can dig the fields with toothpicks, blow ships along with

fans, manure the crops with lavender-water, and grow plum-cakes in

flower-pots, then will be a fine time for dandies; but until the

millennium comes we shall all have a deal to put up with, and had better

bear our present burdens than run helter-skelter where we shall find

matters a deal worse.

Keep your weather eye open. Sleeping poultry are carried off by the fox.

Who watches not, catches not. Fools ask what's o'clock, but wise men

know their time. Grind while the wind blows, or if not do not blame

Providence. God sends every bird its food, but he does not throw it into

the nest: he gives us our daily bread, but it is through our own labor.

Take time by the forelock. Be up early and catch the worm. The morning

hour carries gold in its mouth. He who drives last in the row gets all

the dust in his eyes: rise early, and you will have a clear start for

the day.

TRY.

_Can't do it_ sticks in the mud, but Try soon drags the wagon out of the

rut. The fox said Try, and he got away from the hounds when they almost

snapped at him. The bees said Try, and turned flowers into honey. The

squirrel said Try, and up he went to the top of the beech-tree. The

snow-drop said Try, and bloomed in the cold snows of Winter. The sun

said Try, and the Spring soon threw Jack Frost out of the saddle. The

young lark said Try, and he found his new wings took him over hedges and

ditches, and up where his father was singing. The ox said Try, and

ploughed the field from end to end. No hill too steep for Try to climb,

no clay too stiff for Try to plough, no field too wet for Try to drain,

no hole too big for Try to mend. As to a little trouble, who expects to

find cherries without stones, or roses without thorns! Who would win

must learn to bear. Idleness lies in bed sick of the mulligrubs where

industry finds health and wealth. The dog in the kennel barks at the

fleas; the hunting dog does not even know they are there. Laziness waits

till the river is dry, and never gets to market; "Try" swims it, and

makes all the trade. Can't do it couldn't eat the bread and butter which

was cut for him, but Try made meat out of mushrooms.

If you want to do good in the world, the little word "Try" comes in

again. There are plenty of ways of serving God, and some that will fit

you exactly as a key fits a lock. Don't hold back because you can not

preach in St. Paul's; be content to talk to one or two in a cottage;

very good wheat grows in little fields. You may cook in small pots as

well as big ones. Little pigeons can carry great messages. Even a little

dog can bark at a thief, and wake up the master and save the house. A

spark is fire. A sentence of truth has heaven in it. Do what you do

right thoroughly; pray over it heartily, and leave the result to God.

Alas! advice is thrown away on many, like good seed on a bare rock.

Teach a cow for seven years, but she will never learn to sing the Old

Hundreth. Of some it seems true that when they were born Solomon went by

the door, but would not look in. Their coat-of-arms is a fool's cap on a

donkey's head. They sleep when it is time to plough, and weep when

harvest comes. They eat all the parsnips for supper, and wonder they

have none left for breakfast.

Once let every man say _Try_,

Very few on straw would lie,

Fewer still of want would die;

Pans would all have fish to fry;

Pigs would fill the poor man's sty;

Want would cease and need would fly;

Wives,and children cease to cry;

Poor rates would not swell so high;

Things wouldn't go so much awry--

You'd be glad, and so would I.

* * * * *

XVIII.

CAROLINE LUCRETIA HERSCHEL.

(BORN 1750--DIED 1848)

A NOBLE, SELF-SACRIFICING WOMAN.

March 16, 1750, and January 9, 1848. These are the dates that span the

ninety-eight years of the life of a woman whose deeds were great in the

service of the world, but of whom the world itself knows all too little.

Of the interest attaching to the life of such a woman, whose

recollections went back to the great earthquake at Lisbon; who lived

through the American War, the old French Revolution, the rise and fall

of Napoleon; who saw the development of the great factors of modern

civilization, "from the lumbering post wagon in which she made her first

journey from Hanover to the railroads and electric telegraphs which have

intersected all Europe;" of the interest which such a life possesses,

apart from that which attaches to it as that of a noble,

self-sacrificing woman, who was content to serve when she might have led

in a great cause, but few will be insensible.

Caroline Herschel was born on the 16th of March 1750, and was the eighth

child of ten children. Her father, Isaac Herschel, traced his ancestry

back to the early part of the seventeenth century, when three brothers

Herschel left Moravia through religious differences, they being

Protestant. The father, Isaac, was passionately fond of music, to the

study of which, as a youth, he devoted himself, and, at the time of his

marriage in Hanover, was engaged as hautboy player in the band of the

Guards. When, in the course of time, his family grew up around him, each

child received an education at the garrison school, to which they were

sent between the ages of two and fourteen; and at home the father strove

to cultivate the musical talents of his sons, one of whom, William, soon

taught his teacher, while another, Jacob, was organist of the garrison

church.

Of her very early childhood one gets the impression that Caroline was a

quiet, modest little maiden, "deeply interested in all the family

concerns," content to be eclipsed by her more brilliant and less patient

elder sister, and overlooked by her thoughtless brothers, toward one of

whom, William, she already began to cherish that deep affection which

she maintained throughout their lives. The lives of this brother and

sister, indeed, in this respect, recall to mind those of Charles and

Mary Lamb. When she was five years old the family life was disturbed by

war, which took away temporarily father and sons, and left the little

girl at home, her mother's sole companion. Her recollections of this

time are very dismal, and may be read at length in the memoir by Mrs.

John Herschel, to which we are indebted for much aid. When she was

seventeen her father died, and the polished education which he had hoped

to give her was supplanted by the rough but useful knowledge which her

mother chose to inculcate in her--an education which was to help to fit

her to earn her bread, and to be of great assistance to her beloved

brother William. He had now for some years been living at Bath, England,

from which he wrote in 1772, proposing that his sister should join him

there to assist him in his musical projects, for he had now become a

composer and director. In August of this year she accomplished a most

adventurous and wearisome journey to London, encountering storms by land

and sea, and on the 28th of the month found herself installed in her

brother's lodgings at Bath.

It will be necessary here to speak a little more at length of her

brother's life as she found it when she joined him, as thereafter her

own existence was practically merged in his, and, as she has said

modestly of herself and her service: "I did nothing for my brother but

what a well-trained puppy-dog would have done; that is to say, I did

what he commanded me. I was a mere tool, which he had the trouble of

sharpening." Posterity discredits this self-depreciation, while it

admires it, and Miss Herschel's services are now esteemed at their true

worth. Her brother then, when she came to Bath, had established himself

there as a teacher of music, as organist of the Octagon Chapel, and, as

we have said before, was a composer and director of more than ordinary

merit. This was all a side issue, however. It was but a means to an end.

His music was the goose that laid the golden egg, which, once in his

possession, he turned over to the mistress of his soul--Astronomy.

Every spare moment of the day, we are told, and many hours stolen from

the night, had long been devoted to the studies which were compelling

him to become himself an observer of the heavens. He had worked wonders

of mechanical invention, forced thereto by necessity; had become a

member of a philosophical society, and his name was beginning to be

circulated among the great, rumors of his work reaching and arresting

even royal attention.

At this point his sister arrived, the quiet domestic life she had been

living in Hanover being suddenly changed for one of "ceaseless and

inexhaustible activity" in her brother's service, being at once his

astronomical and musical assistant, and his housekeeper and guardian. Of

the latter, his erratic habits made him in great need. "For ten years

she persevered at Bath," says her biographer, "singing when she was told

to sing, copying when she was told to copy, 'lending a hand' in the

workshop, and taking her full share in all the stirring and exciting

changes by which the musician became the king's astronomer and a

celebrity; but she never, by a single word, betrays how these wonderful

events affected her, nor indulges in the slightest approach to an

original sentiment, comment, or reflection not strictly connected with

the present fact." In an ordinary case this would not be remarkable, but

in the present instance it acquires considerable significance from the

fact that, to our best knowledge, Miss Herschel's was a temperament

which would be strongly affected by the life she was leading, and her

silence as to personal sentiment shows to what an extent she had become

a tool in her brother's hands--rejoicing in his successes, and

sympathizing in his sorrows, but never revealing to what depth of

self-sacrifice she may have been plunged by her voluntary surrender and

devotion to her brother.

As we understand her, Miss Herschel would have been eminently fitted to

fill a position of high domestic responsibility; and no woman of this

sort, who has once dreamed of a home of her own, with its ennobling and

divine responsibilities, can, without a pang, give up so sweet a vision

for a life of sacrifice, although it be brilliant with the cold

splendors of science. Her life with her brother, as has been said, was

one of ceaseless activity in all the capacities in which she served him.

As housekeeper, she occupied a small room in the attic, while her

brother occupied the ground-floor, furnished in new and handsome style.

She received a sum for weekly expenses, of which she must keep a careful

account, and all the marketing fell to her. She had to struggle with

hot-tempered servants, and with the greatest irregularity and disorder

in the household; while her imperfect knowledge of English (this was

soon after her arrival at Bath) added a new pang to her homesickness and

low spirits. Later on, in her capacity as musical assistant, we are told

that she once copied the scores of the "Messiah" and "Judas Maccabaeus"

into parts for an orchestra of nearly one hundred performers, and the

vocal parts of "Samson," besides instructing the treble singers, of whom

she was now herself the first. As astronomical assistant, she has

herself given a glimpse of her experience in the following words: "In my

brother's absence from home, I was, of course, left solely to amuse

myself with my own thoughts, which were any thing but cheerful. I found

I was to be trained for an assistant astronomer, and, by way of

encouragement, a telescope adapted for 'sweeping,' consisting of a tube

with two glasses, such as are commonly used in a 'finder,' was given me.

I was 'to sweep for comets,' and I see by my journal that I began August

22, 1782, to write down and describe all remarkable appearances I saw in

my 'sweeps,' which were horizontal. But it was not till the last two

months of the same year that I felt the least encouragement to spend the

star-light nights on a grass-plot covered with dew or hoar-frost,

without a human being near enough to be within call. I knew too little

of the real heavens to be able to point out every object so as to find

it again without losing too much time by consulting the atlas." And, in

another place, she says: "I had, however, the comfort to see that my

brother was satisfied with my endeavors to assist him, when he wanted

another person either to run to the clocks, write down a memorandum,

fetch and carry instruments, or measure the ground with poles, etc., of

which something of the kind every moment would occur." How successful

she was in her sky-sweeping may be judged from the fact that she herself

discovered no less than eight different comets at various times during

her apprenticeship. Her work was not unattended by danger and accidents,

and on one occasion, on a cold and cloudy December night, when a strip

of clear sky revealed some stars and there was great haste made to

observe them, in assisting her brother with his huge telescope she ran

in the dark on ground covered with melting snow a foot deep, tripped,

and fell on a large iron hook such as butchers use, and which was

attached for some purpose to the machine. It entered her right leg,

above the knee, and when her brother called, "Make haste," she could

only answer by a pitiful cry, "I am hooked." He and the workmen were

instantly with her; but they did not free her from the torturing

position without leaving nearly two ounces of her flesh behind, and it

was long before she was able to take her place again at the instrument.

It would be interesting, if it were but practicable, to give a brief

journal of her life during the fifty years she lived in England, from

the time of her arrival in Bath, August 28, 1772, till the time of her

brother's death, August 25, 1822, after which she returned to Hanover.

We have given enough, perhaps, to suggest the mode and the activity of

her life; but of her brother's marriage, and the trial it brought upon

her in giving up the supreme place she had held in his love and

companionship for sixteen years; of the details of her discoveries, and

the interesting correspondence which accompanied them; of her various

great and noble friends, and her relations with them; of the death of

her brother, then Sir William Herschel, and the terrible blow it proved

to her; of her return to Holland, to the home of another brother; of her

sorrow and disappointment at the changes which had taken place in the

home of her youth during the long years which had brought her to old

age--she was then seventy-two--and to face "the blank of life after

having lived within the radiance of genius;" of the comfort she derived

from the members of her brother's family whom she had left behind in

"happy England;" of the honors which the chief scientific men in the

kingdom bestowed upon her--of all these matters we can do no more than

to simply touch upon them as above, although, if we might refer to them

at greater length, it would be but to increase our admiration and esteem

for one of the strongest, most serviceable, and most faithful women that

ever lived.

She died at eleven o'clock on the night of the 9th of January, 1848, at

the age of ninety-eight; and the holy words were spoken in the same

little chapel in the garrison in which, "nearly a century before, she

had been christened and afterward confirmed." In the coffin with her was

placed, at her request, "a lock of her beloved brother's hair, and an

old, almost obliterated almanac that had been used by her father;" and

with these tokens of the unswerving love and fidelity she had always

borne to parent and brother, she was laid away to rest, leaving the

memory of a noble woman, great in wisdom, and greater in womanliness,

without which, in woman, wisdom is unhallowed.--S.A. CHAPIN, JR., _in

the Christian Union_.

* * * * *

XIX.

PESTIFEROUS LITERATURE.

THE PRINTING-PRESS THE MIGHTIEST AGENCY ON EARTH FOR GOOD AND FOR

EVIL--THE FLOOD OF IMPURE AND LOATHSOME LITERATURE--WHAT CAN WE DO TO

ABATE THIS PESTILENCE?--WHAT BOOKS AND NEWSPAPERS SHALL WE READ?--HOW

PROTECT OUR CHILDREN.

He is a brave man, who, at the right time and in the right place and

manner, lifts his voice against a great evil of the day. Dr. Talmage has

recently done this, with an earnestness like that of the old Hebrew

prophets. His timely words of warning >an not be unfruitful:

"Of making books there is no end." True in the times so long B.C., how

much more true in the times so long A.D.! We see so many books we do not

understand what a book is. Stand it on end. Measure it, the height of

it, the depth of it, the length of it, the breadth of it. You can not do

it. Examine the paper, and estimate the progress made from the time of

the impressions on clay, and then on the bark of trees, and from the

bark of trees to papyrus, and from papyrus to the hide of wild beasts,

and from the hide of wild beasts on down until the miracles of our

modern paper manufactories, and then see the paper, white and pure as an

infant's soul, waiting for God's inscription. A book! Examine the type

of it; examine the printing, and see the progress from the time when

Solon's laws were written on oak planks, and Hesiod's poems were written

on tables of lead, and the Sinaitic commands were written on tables of

stone, on down to Hoe's perfecting printing-press. A book! It took all

the universities of the past, all the martyr-fires, all the

civilizations, all the battles, all the victories, all the defeats, all

the glooms, all the brightnesses, all the centuries, to make it

possible. A book! It is the chorus of the ages--it is the drawing-room

in which kings and queens, and orators, and poets, and historians, and

philosophers come out to greet you. If I worshiped any thing on earth, I

would worship that. If I burned incense to any idol, I would build an

altar to that. Thank God for good books, helpful books, inspiring books,

Christian books, books of men, books of women, books of God. The

printing-press is the mightiest agency on earth for good and for evil.

The minister of the Gospel standing in a pulpit has a responsible

position, but I do not think it is as responsible as the position of an

editor or a publisher. Take the simple statistics that our New York

dailies now have a circulation of 450,000 per day, and add to it the

fact that three of our weekly periodicals have an aggregate circulation

of about one million, and then cipher, if you can, how far up and how

far down and how far out reach the influences of the American

printing-press. I believe the Lord intends the printing-press to be the

chief means for the world's rescue and evangelization, and I think that

the great last battle of the world will not be fought with swords or

guns, but with types and press--a purified Gospel literature triumphing

over, trampling down, and crushing out forever that which is depraved.

The only way to right a bad book is by printing a good one. The only way

to overcome unclean newspaper literature is by scattering abroad that

which is healthful. May God speed the cylinders of an honest,

intelligent, aggressive, Christian printing-press.