Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Keith Edkins and the PG Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.
[Illustration]
* * * * *
[Illustration]
* * * * *
[Illustration: NEW YEAR'S DAY IN FRANCE.]
* * * * *
MODEL COTTAGE.
[Illustration: _A Cottage in the Style of Heriot's Hospital, Edinburgh_.]
The elevation is shown in fig. 1, the ground-plan in fig. 2.
_Accommodation_.--The plan shows a porch, _a_; a lobby, _b_; living room,
_c_; kitchen, _d_; back-kitchen, _e_; pantry, _f_; dairy, _g_; bed-closet,
_h_; store-closet, _i_; fuel, _k_; cow-house, _l_; pig-stye, _m_; yard,
_n_; dust-hole, _q_.
The Scotch are great admirers of this style, as belonging to one of their
favorite public buildings, which is said to have been designed by the
celebrated Inigo Jones. The style is that of the times of Queen Elizabeth,
and King James VI. of Scotland and I. of England.
[Illustration]
* * * * *
GODEY'S
LADY'S BOOK.
PHILADELPHIA, JANUARY, 1851.
* * * *
[Illustration]
THE CONSTANT; OR, THE ANNIVERSARY PRESENT.
BY ALICE B. NEAL.
(_See Plate._)
It has an excellent influence on one's moral health to meet now and then in
society, or, better still, in the close communion of home life, such a
woman as Catherine Grant. She influences every one that comes within the
pure atmosphere of her friendship, and as unconsciously to them as to
herself. She never moralizes, or commands reform. There is no parade of her
individual principle in any way, but she always _acts_ rightly; and, if her
opinion is called forth, it is given promptly and quietly, but very firmly.
Yet, though even strangers say this of her now, there was a time when few
suspected the moral strength of her character. Not that principle was
wanting; but it had never been called forth. She moved in her own circle
with very little remark or comment. She was cheerful, and even sprightly in
her manner, and her large blue eyes, as well as her lips, always spoke the
truth. I do not know that she was ever called beautiful; but there was an
air of _ladyhood_ about her, from the folding of her soft brown hair to the
gloving of a somewhat large but exquisitely-shaped hand, that marked her at
once as possessing both taste and refinement.
I remember that friends spoke of her engagement with Willis Grant as a
"good match," and rather wondered that she did not seem more elated with
the prospect of being the mistress of such a pleasant little establishment
as would be hers, for she was one of a large family of daughters, and her
father's income as a professional man did not equal that of Willis, who was
at the head of one of our largest mercantile houses. But it was in her
nature to take things calmly, though she was young, and all the kindness of
his attentions, and the prospect of a new home, as much as any happy bride
could have done. It _was_ a delightful home--not so extravagantly furnished
as Willis would have chosen it to be, but tasteful, and withal including
many of those luxuries and elegancies which we of the nineteenth century
are rapidly, too rapidly, learning to need. Willis declared that no one
could be happier than they were; and, strange as it may seem, the envious
world for once prophesied no cloud in the future.
But we have nothing to do with that first eventful year of married
life--the year of attrition in mind and character, when two natures,
differing in many points, and these sharpened as it were by education, are
suddenly brought into immediate contact. There were some ideals overthrown,
no doubt--it is often so; and some good qualities discovered, which were
unsuspected before. The second anniversary of the wedding-day was also the
birth-day of a darling child, and the home was more homelike than ever.
Yet Willis Grant was seldom there. It was not that he loved his wife the
less--that her beauty had faded, or her temper changed. She was the same as
ever--gentle, affectionate, and thoughtful for his wishes; and he
appreciated all this. But before he had known her, in those wild idle days
of early manhood, when the spirit craves continual excitement, and has not
yet learned that it is the love of woman's purer nature which it needs,
Willis had chosen his associates in a circle which it was very difficult to
break from, now that their society was no longer essential to him. He was
close in his attention to business; his great, success had arisen from
industry as well as talent; but when the counting-house was closed, there
was no family circle to welcome him, and the doors of the club-house were
invitingly open.
True, it was one of the most respectable clubs of the city, mostly composed
of young business men like himself, who discussed the tariffs and their
effects upon trade over their _recherche_ dinners, and chatted of European
politics over their wine. And this reminds us of one thing that argues
much, if not more than anything else, against the club-house system, that
is so rapidly gaining favor in our cities. It accustoms the young man just
entering life to a surrounding of luxury that he cannot himself
consistently support when he begins to think of having a home of his own.
He passes his evenings in a beautiful saloon, where the light is brilliant,
yet tempered; where crimson curtains and a blazing fire speak at once of
comfort and affluence of means. There are no discomforts, such as any one
meets with more or less, inevitably, in private families--nothing to jar
upon the spirit of self-indulgence and indolence which is thus fostered.
The dinners, in cooking and service, are unexceptionable; and there are
always plenty of associates as idle and thoughtless, and as good-natured,
as himself, to make a jest of domestic life and domestic virtues. And,
by-and-by, there is a stronger stimulus wanted, and the jest becomes more
wanton over the roulette table or the keenly contested rubber; and the wine
circulates more freely as the fire of youth goes out and leaves the ashes
of mental and moral desolation. Ah no! the club-house is no conservator of
the purity of social life, and this Catherine Grant soon felt, as night
after night her husband left her to the society of her own thoughts, or her
favorite books, to meet old friends in its familiar saloons, and show them
that he at least was none the less "a good fellow" for being a married man!
It was all very well, no doubt, to be able to break away from the pleasant
parlor, and the interesting woman who was the presiding genius of his
household, and spend his evenings in the society of gay gallants who talked
of horses and Tedesco's figure, or the gray-headed votaries of the whist
table, who played the game as if the presidency depended upon "following
lead," and each trump was a diamond of inestimable worth, to be cherished
and reserved, and parted with only at the last extremity. Sometimes a
thought of comparison would arise, as he sat with elevated feet beside the
anthracite fire, and gazed steadfastly on his patent leathers. Sometimes
the idle jests and the heartless laughter would jar upon his ear; and the
cigar was suffered to die out as, in thoughts of wife and child, he forgot
to put it to his lips. But the injustice of his conduct, in thus depriving
them of his society, did not once cross his mind, until he was
involuntarily made the witness of a visit between Catherine and a lady who
had been her intimate friend before marriage.
He had returned hurriedly one morning in search of some papers left in his
own room, dignified by the name of study, though it must be confessed that
he passed but little time there. It communicated with Catherine's
apartment, which was just then occupied by the two ladies in confidential
chat.
"And so you won't go to Mrs Sawyer's to-night?" said Miss Lyons, who had
thrown herself at full length upon a couch, and was idly teazing the baby
with the tassel of her muff. "How provoking you are! You might as well be
dead as married! It's well for your husband that I'm not in your place.
Why, every one's talking about it, my child, how you are cooped up here,
and Willis at the club-house night after night. Morgan told me he was
always there, and asked me what kind of a wife he had--whether you
quarreled or flirted, that he was away from you so much."
Had the heedless speaker glanced up from her play with little Gertrude, she
would have seen her friend's face suffused with a slight flush, for the
last was a view of the case entirely new to her. But she said, quietly as
ever--
"'Everybody' might be in better business, Nell; and why is it well for
Willis that you are not in my place?"
"Why? Because I'd pay him in his own coin; he should not have the game all
in his own hands. If he went to the club, I'd flirt, that's all, and we'd
see who would hold out the longer."
"Bad principle, Nelly. 'Two wrongs,' as the old proverb says, 'never make a
right;' and yet I am sorry I said that, for so long as it gives Willis
pleasure, and he is not drawn from his business by it, it is no wrong,
though there is danger to any man in confirmed habits of 'good-fellowship,'
as it is called. No one could see that more plainly than I do, or dread it
more. Of course, when we love a person it is natural to wish to be with him
as much as possible; and I must confess I am a little lonely now and then.
But your plan would never succeed, nor would it be wise to annoy my husband
with complaints. Nothing provokes a man like an expostulation."
"And what do you do, then?"
"Nothing at all but try to make his home as pleasant as possible, and when
he is weary of his gay companions he will return to me with more interest."
"Well, well," broke in her visitor; "Morgan can make up his mind to a very
different state of things. I shall stipulate, first of all, that he must
give up that abominable club-house."
"And do you intend to lay your flirting propensities on the same altar of
mutual happiness?"
Willis did not hear the reply, for he stole softly away, annoyed, as he
thought, at having been a listener to what was not intended for his ears.
But there was a little sting of self-reproach at his selfish desertion of
home, and, more than all, that Catherine should have been blamed for
offences that any one who had known her would never have attributed to her.
"Ah, by the way, Kate," he said that evening, turning suddenly, as she
stood arranging her work-table beneath the gas light, "how about that
invitation to Mrs. Sawyer's? It was for to-night, if I recollect?"
"I sent regrets, of course, as you expressed no wish to go; and, to tell
the truth, I would much rather pass the evening quietly here with you. How
long it is since we have had one of those nice old-fashioned chats! Not
since baby has been my companion."
This was said in a cheerful tone, as a reminiscence, not as a reproach; and
yet Willis felt the morning's uncomfortable sensations return, though he
tried to dispel them by stooping to kiss her forehead. Nevertheless, he
ordered his coat, as the servant came in to remove the tea things, and took
up his gloves from the table. The very consciousness of being in the wrong
prevented an acknowledgment, even by an act so simple as giving up one
evening's engagement.
"And here she comes!" he said, as the nurse drew the cradle from an
adjoining room, so lightly that the little creature did not move or stir in
her sweet sleep. And when his wife threw back the light covering, and said,
"_Isn't she beautiful_, Willis?" as only a young mother could say it, it
must be confessed that he thought himself a very fortunate man to have two
such treasures, and he could not help saying so.
"I love to have the little thing where I can watch her myself; so, when
there is no one in, nurse spares her to me, and we sit here as cosily as
possible. I could watch her for hours. Sometimes she does not move, and
then she will smile so sweetly in her sleep--and only look at those dear
little dimpled hands, Willis!"
And yet Willis took the coat when it came, though with a guilty feeling at
heart. The greater the self-reproach, the more the pride that arose to
combat it; and he drew on his gloves resolutely.
"Don't sit up for me," he said, as he had said a hundred times before; and
in a moment the hall door shut with a clang, as he passed into the street.
Catherine echoed the sound with a half sigh. The morning's conversation
rose to her recollection, and she had hoped, she scarce knew why, that
Willis would remain with her that evening. But she checked the regretful
reverie, and took up the pretty little sock she was knitting for Gertrude,
and soon became engrossed in counting and all the after mysteries of this
truly feminine employment.
Willis was ill at ease. He met young Morgan on the steps, and returned his
bow very coldly. His usual companions were absent, and, after haunting the
saloon restlessly for an hour, he strolled down to his counting-house. He
knew that the foreign correspondence had just arrived, and, as he expected,
his confidential clerk was still at the desk. And here he found, much to
his dismay, that the presence of one of the firm was immediately necessary
in Paris, and that, as the partner who usually attended to this branch of
the business was ill, the journey would devolve on him. He was detained
until a late hour, and as he turned his steps homeward the scene that he
had left there rose vividly to his mind. He hurried up the steps, hoping to
find Catherine still there, but the room was empty, and the fire, glowing
redly through the bars of the grate, was the only thing to welcome him. He
stood a long time, leaning his elbow on the marble of the mantel, and
thought over many things that had happened within the last few years--the
many happy social evenings he had passed at that very hearth; the unvarying
love and constancy of his wife; of his late neglect, for he could call it
by no gentler name; and then came the thought that he must leave all this
domestic peace, which he had valued so little--and who knew what might
chance before he should return? He kissed his sleeping wife and child with
unwonted tenderness, as he entered their apartment, and thought that they
had never been so dear to him before.
It would be their first protracted separation, and Catherine was sad enough
when its necessity was announced to her. But all preparations were
hastened; and, at the close of the week, they were standing together in the
dining-room, the last trunk locked, and the carriage waiting at the door
that was to convey Willis to the steamer.
"And mind you do not get ill in my absence, Kate," he said, as he smoothed
back her beautiful hair, and looked down fondly in her face. "If you are
very good, as they tell children, I will send you the most charming present
you can conceive of, or that Paris can offer, for the anniversary of our
wedding-day. Too bad that we shall be separated, for the first time; but
three months will soon pass away."
And Catherine smiled through the tears that were trembling in her eyes, at
the half sad, half playful words; and a wifelike glance of trustfulness
told how very dear he was.
There is nothing very romantic nowadays in a voyage to Europe. It has
become a commonplace, everyday journey. You step to the deck of the steamer
with less fear and trembling of friends than was once bestowed on a passage
down the Hudson, and before you are fairly recovered from the first shock
of sea-sickness, you have reached the destined port. But, for all that,
longing eyes watch the rapid motion of the vessel as it lessens in the
distance, and many a prayer is wafted to its white sails by the sighing
night-wind. There are lonely hours to remind one that the broad and silent
sea is rolling between us and those we love, and we know that it is
sometimes treacherous in its tranquillity.
It is then we bless the quiet messengers that come from afar to tell us of
their well-being--when, the seal, with its loving device, is pressed to
trembling lips, and the well-known hand recalls the form of the absent one
so vividly. So, at last, the long-looked-for letters came with tidings of
the safe arrival of Mr. Grant at his destination, and the hope that his
return would be more speedy than had been anticipated. A month passed
slowly away, and little Gertrude had been her mother's best comforter in
absence. Every day some new intelligence lighted her bright eyes, and
Catherine could trace another token of resemblance to the absent one. But,
suddenly, the child grew ill, and the pain of separation was augmented as
day by day the mother watched over her alone.
It was her first experience of the illness of childhood, and it required
all her strength and all her calmness to be patient, while sitting hour
after hour with the moaning infant cradled in her arms, unable to
understand or relieve its sufferings, and tortured by the dull look of
apathy which alone answered to her fond or despairing exclamations. She had
forgotten that the birthday of the infant was so near--that first
birthday--and the anniversary which they had twice welcomed so joyfully. At
last the crisis came; the long night closed in drearily, and the physician
told her that, ere morning, there would be hope or despair. Those who have
thus watched can alone understand the agony of that midnight vigil; how
every breath was counted, and every flush marked with wild anxiety. And
Catherine sat there, forgetting that food or rest was necessary to her,
conscious only of the suffering of her child, and picturing darkly to
herself the loneliness of the future, should it be taken from her. How
could she survive the interval that would elapse before her husband's
return? and how dreary would be the meeting which she had hitherto
anticipated with so much pleasure!
She was not to be so sorely tried. The hard feverish pulse gave place to a
gentler beating; the fever flush passed away; and the regular heaving of a
quiet sleep gave token at length that all danger to the child was over.
Then, for the first time, Catherine was persuaded to seek rest for herself,
and all her anxiety was forgotten in a deep and trance-like slumber.
When she awoke there were letters and packages lying beside her bed,
directed by her husband; and after she had once more assured herself that
it was no dream the child was really safe, she opened them eagerly. The
letter announced that the business was happily adjusted, and that his
return might be looked for by the next steamer. Meantime, he said, he had
sent some things to amuse her, and more particularly the choice gift for
the anniversary of their marriage. It was the morning of that very day! She
had not thought of it before. She stooped to place a birthday kiss upon the
fair but wasted little face beside her, and then tore open the envelops.
There were many beautiful things, "such as ladies love to look upon," and
at the last she came to a small package marked, "_For our wedding day_." It
contained a little jewel case; but there was nothing on the snowy satin
cushion but a pair of daintily wrought clasps for the robe of the little
child, marked, "with a father's love;" and then, as she was replacing them,
a sealed envelop caught her eye. There was an inclosure directed to a name
she was not familiar with, and a few lines penciled for herself:--
"DEAR KATE: I have searched all over Paris, and could not find anything
that I thought would please you better than the inclosed, which is my
resignation of club membership. Will you please send it to the president,
and accept the true and earnest love of YOUR ABSENT HUSBAND."
Then he had not been unmindful of her silent regret; he still loved his
home, and the dangerous hour of his temptation was passed! Had she not
great reason for the gush of love and thankfulness that filled her heart
and renewed her strength that happy morning--her child saved, and her
husband, as it were, restored to her? Ere he came, the little one was fast
regaining her bright playfulness, and became a stronger tie between Willis
Grant and his happy home. I do not know that you and I, dear reader, would
have learned the secret of his renewed devotion to his wife, had he not
told Nelly Lyons himself that "Kate's way was the best, and she had better
try it with Morgan, if ever he showed an undue fondness for the club after
their marriage." Of course, the volatile girl could not help telling the
story, and when two know a thing, as we are all aware, it is a secret no
longer.
* * * * *
A PARABLE.
BY JAMES CARRUTHERS.
"It is a marvel," remarked the youth Silas to his companion, "that, after
so many years of unremitting application, favored by the combination of
extraordinary advantages, I should yet have accomplished nothing. Scholarly
toil, indeed, is not without its meet reward. But in much wisdom is much
grief, when it serves not to advance the well-being of its possessor."
"I have remarked, as thou hast," returned the companion of Silas, "how
sorely thou hast been distanced in thy life's pursuit by those who came
after with far less ability and fewer advantages; and, if thou wilt believe
me, have read the marvel. Last noon, while in attendance on the Syrian
race, I observed that the untamed, high-mettled steed, that, in his daring
strength and almost limitless swiftness, scorned his rider's curb, though
traveling a space far more extended than the appointed course, and,
surmounting every hill, left the race to be won by the well-governed
courser that obeyed the rein, and, in the track marked out for his
progress, reached the goal."
* * * * *
[Illustration]
ERAS OF LIFE.
BY MRS. A.F. LAW
(_See Plate._)
BAPTISM
"We receive this child into the congregation of Christ's flock, and do sign
her with the sign of the cross--in token that hereafter she shall not be
ashamed to confess the faith of Christ crucified, and manfully fight under
his banner against sin, the world, and the devil; and to continue Christ's
faithful soldier and servant, unto her life's end."--BAPTISMAL SERVICE OF
P.E.C.
In the house of prayer we enter, through its aisles our course we wend,
And before the sacred altar on our knees we humbly bend;
Craving, for a young immortal, God's beneficence and grace,
That, through Christ's unfailing succor, she may win the victor race.
Water from _baptismal fountain_ rests on a "young soldier," sworn
By the cross' holy signet to defend the "Virgin-born."
May she never faint or falter in the raging war of sin,
And, encased in Faith's tried armor, a triumphant conquest win!
To the Triune One our darling trustingly we now commend,
And for full and _free_ salvation, from our hearts pure thanks ascend.
* * * *
COMMUNION.
"Hail! sacred feast, which Jesus makes--
Rich banquet of his flesh and blood:
Thrice happy he who here partakes
That sacred stream, that heavenly food."
With a bearing meekly grateful, slow approach the _sacred feast_,
And, with penitential gladness, take, by faith, this Eucharist.
Hark! how sweetly, o'er it stealing, come the sounds of pardoning love!
Winning back to paths of virtue all who now in error rove.
Here is food for all who languish, and for those who, fainting, thirst--
Free, from Christ, the _Living Fountain_, crystal waters ceaseless burst!
Come, ye sad and weary-hearted, bending 'neath a weight of woe--
Here the _Comforter_ is waiting his rich blessings to bestow!
None need linger--_all_ are bidden to this "Supper of the Lamb:"
Come, and by this outward token, worship God, the great "I AM!"
* * * *
MARRIAGE
"One sacred oath hath tied
Our loves; one destiny our life shall guide;
Nor wild nor deep our common way divide!"
Choral voices float around us, music on the night air swells;
Hill and dell resound with echoes of the gleeful wedding bells!
Ushered thus, we haste to enter on a scene of radiant joy--
List'ning vows in ardor plighted, which alone can death destroy.
Passing fair the bride appeareth, in her robes of snowy white,
While the veil around her streameth, like a silvery halo's light;
And amid her hair's rich braidings rests the pearly orange bough,
With its fragrant blossoms pressing on her pure, unclouded brow.
Love's devotion yields the future with young Hope's resplendent beam;
And her spirit thrills with rapture, yielding to its blissful dream!
* * * *
DEATH.
"Death, thou art infinite!"
"All that live must die,
Passing through nature to Eternity."
Now we chant a miserere which proclaims the _end of man_--
Telling, in prophetic language, "_Life,"_ at best, "_is but a span!"_
Scarcely treading, slowly enter, reverently bend the knee--
List the Spirit's inward whisper, and from _worldly thoughts_ be free.
Here we view a weary pilgrim, cradled in a dreamless sleep;
Human sounds no more shall reach her, for its spell is "long and deep!"
Gaze upon the marble features! Mark how peacefully they rest!
Anguished thought, and sorrow's heavings, all are parted from that
breast!
Soon on mother earth reposing, this cold form shall calmly lie,
Till, by God's dread trump awakened, it shall mount to realms on high.
* * * * *
FOUR SONNETS TO THE FOUR SEASONS.
BY MARY SPENSER PEASE.
(_See Plate._)
SPRING.
From mountain top, and from the deep-voiced valley,
The snow-white mists are slowly upward wreathing:
Now floating wide, now hovering close, to dally
With sportive winds, around them lightly breathing,
Till, in the quickening Spring-shine through them creeping,
Their gloomy power dissolves in warmth and gladness;
While swift, new tides through Nature's heart-pulse sweeping.
Floods all her veins with a delicious madness.
Warmed into life, a world of bright shapes thronging--
Young, tender leaf-buds in fresh greenness swelling,
Flower, bird, and insect, with prophetic longing,
Pour forth their joy in tremulous hymns upwelling:
Thus, Love's Spring sun dispels all chill and sorrow
With joyful promise of Love's fullest morrow.
* * * *
SUMMER.
Sweet incense from the heart of myriad flowers,
Sweet as the breath that parts the lips of love,
Floats softly upward through the sunny hours,
Hiving its fragrance in the warmth above:
Big with rich store, the teeming earth yields up
The increase of her harvest treasury;
While golden wine, from Nature's brimming cup,
Quickens her pulse to love-toned melody.
Full choiréd praise from countless glad throats break,
More dazzling bright doth gleam night's dewy eyes;
A newer witchery doth the great moon wake;
More mellow languisheth the bending skies:
Thus, through the heart Life's Summer-sun comes stealing,
Spring's wildest promise in Love's fulness sealing.
* * * *
AUTUMN.
Athwart the ripe, red sunshine fitfully,
Like withering doubts through Love's warm, flushing breast,
With wailing voice of saddest augury,
Sweeps from the frozen North a phantom guest.
With icy finger on each yellow leaf
Writes he the history of the dying year.
Love's harvest reaped, the grainless stalk and sheaf--
Like plundered hearts, unkerneled of sweet cheer--
Lie black and bare, exposed to rudest tread:
While still, with semblance of the Summer brave,
Soft, pitying airs float o'er its cold death-bed;
Bright flowers and motley leaves flaunt o'er its grave:
As in Earth's Autumn--so, through weeping showers,
Love sighs a mournful requiem over bygone hours.
* * * *
WINTER.
Locked in a close embrace, like that of Death,
Earth's pulseless heart reposes, mute and chill;
Within her frozen breast, her frozen breath,
In its forgotten fragrance, slumbereth still:
Sapless her veins, and numb her withered arms,
That still, outstretched, stand grim mementos drear
Of her once gorgeous and full-leavéd charms.
Of flower and fruit, all increase of the year:
Voiceless the river, in ice fretwork chained;
Hushed the sweet cadences of bird and bee;
Dumb the last echo to soft music trained,
And warmth and life are a past memory:
Thus, buried deep within dull Winter's rime,
Love dreamless sleeps through the long Winter-time.
* * * * *
LIFE IN THE WOODS.--A SONG.
BY GEO. P. MORRIS.
A merry life does the hunter lead!
He wakes with the dawn of day;
He whistles his dog--he mounts his steed,
And sends to the woods away!
The lightsome tramp of the deer he'll mark,
As they troop in herds along;
And his rifle startles the cheerful lark,
As she carols his morning song.
The hunter's life is the life for me!
That is the life for a man!
Let others sing of a home on the sea,
But match me the woods if you can.
Then give me a gun--I've an eye to mark
The deer, as they bound along!
My steed, dog, and gun, and the cheerful lark,
To carol my morning song.
[Illustration: THE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS]
* * * * *
WHAT IS LIFE?
BY MARY M. CHASE.
One sunshiny afternoon, a little girl sat in a wood playing with moss and
stones. She was a pretty child; but there was a wishful, earnest look in
her eye, at times, that made people say, "She is a good little girl; but
she won't live long." But she did not think of that to-day, for a fine
western wind was shaking the branches merrily above her head, and a family
of young rabbits that lived near by kept peeping out to watch her motions.
She threw bread to the rabbits from the pockets of her apron, and laughed
to see them eat. She laughed, also, to hear the wild, boisterous wind
shouting among the leaves, and then she sang parts of a song that she had
imperfectly learned--
"Hurrah for the oak! for the brave old oak,
That hath ruled in the greenwood long!"
and the louder the wind roared, the louder she sang. Presently, a
light-winged seed swept by her; she reached out her pretty hand and caught
it. It was an ugly brown seed; but she said, as she looked at it--
"Mother says, if I plant a seed, may be it will grow to be a tree. So I
will see."
Then she scraped away a little of the mellow earth, and put the seed safely
down, and covered it again. She made a little paling around the spot With
dry sticks and twigs, and then a thoughtful mood came over her.
That brown seed is dead now, thought she; but it will lie there in the dark
a great while, and then green leaves will come up, and a stem will grow;
and some day it will be a great tree. Then it will live. But, if it is dead
now, how can it ever live? What a strange thing life is! What makes life?
It can't be the sunshine; for that has fallen on these stones ever so many
years, and they are dead yet: and it can't be the rain; for these broken
sticks are wet very often, and they don't grow. What is life?
The child grew very solemn at her own thoughts, and a feeling as if some
one were near troubled her. She thought the wind must be alive; for it
moved, and very swiftly, too, and it had a great many voices. If she only
could know now what they said, perhaps they would tell what life was. And
then she looked up at the aged oaks, as they reared their arms to the sky,
and she longed to ask them the question, but dared not. A small spring
leaped down from a a rock above her, and fled past with ceaseless murmurs,
and she felt sure that it lived, too, for it moved and had a voice. And a
strong feeling stirred the young soul, a sudden desire to know all things,
to hold communion with all things.
Now the day was gone, and the child turned homewards; but she seemed to
hear in sleep that night the whispered question, "What is life?" She was
yet to know.
The seed had been blown away from a pine tree, and it took root downward
and shot green spears upward, until, when a few summers had passed, it had
grown so famously that a sparrow built her nest there, among the foliage,
and never had her roof been so water-proof before. There, one day, came a
tall, fair girl, with quick step and beaming eyes, and sat down at its
root. One hand caressed lovingly the young pine, and one clasped a folded
paper. How she had grown since she put that brown seed into the earth! She
opened the paper and read; a bright color came to her cheeks, and her hand
trembled--
"He loves me!" said she. "I cannot doubt it."
Then she read aloud--
"When you are mine, I shall carry you away from those old woods where you
spend so much precious time dreaming vaguely of the future. I will teach
you what life is. That its golden hours should not be wasted in idle
visions, but made glorious by the exhaustless wealth of love. True life
consists in loving and being loved."
She closed the letter and gazed around her. Was this the teaching she had
received from those firm old oaks who had so long stood before the storms?
She had learned to know some of their voices, and now they seemed to speak
louder than ever, and their word was--"Endurance!"
The never-silent wind, that paused not, nor went back in its course, had
taught her a lesson, also, in its onward flight, its ceaseless exertion to
reach some far distant goal. And the lesson was--"Hope."
The ever-flowing spring, whose heart was never dried up either in summer or
winter, had murmured to her of--"Faith."
She laid her head at the foot of the beloved pine and said, in her heart,
"I will come back again when ten years are passed, and will here consider
whose teachings were right."
It was a cold November day. A rude north wind raved among the leafless oaks
that defied its power with their rugged, unclad arms. The heavy masses of
clouds were mirrored darkly in the spring, and the pine, grown to lofty
stature, rocked swiftly to and fro as the fierce wind struck it. Down the
hill, over the stones, and through the tempest, there came a slight and
bending form. It was the happy child who had planted the pine seed.
She threw herself on the dry leaves by the water's edge, and leaned wearily
against the strong young evergreen. How sadly her eyes roved among the
trees, and then tears commenced to fall quickly from them. She was very
pale and mournful, and drew her rich mantle closely around her to shield
her from the wind. It had been as her lover had said. She had gone out into
the world, had tasted what men call pleasure, had put aside the simple
lessons she had learned in her childhood, to follow _his_ bidding, to live
in the light of _his_ love. Ten years had dissolved the dream. The young
husband was in his grave; the child she had called after him was no more.
Weary and heart-broken, she had hurried back to the home she had left, and
the haunts she had cherished.
She embraced the young pine, tenderly, and exclaimed--
"Oh, that thy lot was mine! Thou wilt stand here, in a green youth, a
century after I am laid low. No fears perplex thee, no sorrows eat away thy
strength. Willingly would I become like thee."
At last she grew calm; and the old question which she had never found
answered to her satisfaction--"What is life?"--sprang up into her mind. All
the deeds of past days moved before her, and she felt that hers had not
been a life worthy of an immortal soul. She heard again the voices of the
trees, the wind, and the stream, and a measure of peace seemed granted to
her. "Endurance--Hope--Faith," she murmured. She rose to go.
"Farewell, beloved pine," she said. "God knows whether I shall see thee
again; but such is my desire. With his help, I will begin a new existence.
Farewell, monitors who have comforted me. I go to learn 'what is life.'"
In a distant city, there dwelt, to extreme old age, a pious woman, a Lydia
in her holiness, a Dorcas in her benevolence. Years seemed to have no power
over her cheerful spirit, though her bodily strength grew less. Great
riches had fallen to her lot; but in her dwelling luxury found no home. A
hospital--a charity school--an orphan asylum--all attested her true
appreciation of the value of riches. In her house, many a young girl found
a home, whose head had else rested on a pillow of infamy. The reclaimed
drunkard dispensed her daily bounty to the needy. The penitent thief was
her treasurer. Prisons knew the sound of her footstep. Alms-houses blessed
her coming. She had been a faithful steward of the Lord's gifts.
Eighty-and-eight years had dropped upon her head as lightly as withered
leaves; but now the Father was ready to release his servant and child. Her
numerous household was gathered around her bed to behold her last hour. On
the borders of eternity, a gentle sleep fell upon her. She seemed to stand
in a lofty wood, beside a towering pine. A spring bubbled near, and soft
breezes swept the verdant boughs. She looked upon the tree, glorious in its
strength, and smiled to think she could ever have desired to change her
crown of immortality for its senseless existence. Then the old
question--"What is life?"--resounded again in her ears, and she opened her
eyes from sleep and spoke, in a clear voice, these last words--
"He that believeth in the Son hath everlasting life. This is the true life
for which we endure the trials of the present. For this we labor and do
good works. A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things he
possesseth; for to be spiritually-minded is life. I have finished my
course; my toil will be recompensed an hundredfold; and I go to Him whose
loving kindness is better than life."
* * * * *
A POETICAL VERSION.
OF A PORTION OF THE SECOND CHAPTER OF JOEL.
BY LADD SPENCER.
In Zion blow the trumpet,
Let it sound through every land;
And let the wicked tremble,
For the Lord is nigh at hand.
Alas! a day of darkness--
A day of clouds and gloom--
Approaches fast, when all shall be
As silent as the tomb!
As the morn upon the mountains,
There comes a mighty train,
The like of which hath never been.
And ne'er shall be again.
A burning fire before them,
And behind a raging flame--
Alas, that beauty so should be
Enwrapt in sin and shame!
The earth doth quake before them,
The sun withdraws its light;
The heavens and earth are shrouded
In darkest, deepest night.
Then weep, ye evil doers,
Let tears of anguish flow;
Your evil deeds have brought you
A load of endless woe!
* * * * *
TAKING BOARDERS.
BY T.S. ARTHUR.
CHAPTER I.
A lady, past the prime of life, sat, thoughtful, as twilight fell duskily
around her, in a room furnished with great elegance. That her thoughts were
far from being pleasant, the sober, even sad expression of her countenance
too clearly testified. She was dressed in deep mourning. A faint sigh
parted her lips as she looked up, on hearing the door of the apartment in
which she was sitting open. The person who entered, a tall and beautiful
girl, also in mourning, came and sat down by her side, and leaned her head,
with a pensive, troubled air, down upon her shoulder.
"We must decide upon something, Edith, and that with as little delay as
possible," said the elder of the two ladies, soon after the younger one
entered. This was said in a tone of great despondency.
"Upon what shall we decide, mother?" and the young lady raised her head
from its reclining position, and looked earnestly into the eyes of her
parent.
"We must decide to do something by which the family can be sustained. Your
father's death has left us, unfortunately and unexpectedly, as you already
know, with scarcely a thousand dollars beyond the furniture of this house,
instead of an independence which we supposed him to possess. His death was
sad and afflictive enough--more than it seemed I could bear. But to have
this added!"
The voice of the speaker sank into a low moan, and was lost in a stifled
sob.
"But what _can_ we do, mother?" asked Edith, in an earnest tone, after
pausing long enough for her mother to regain the control of her feelings.
"I have thought of but one thing that is at all respectable," replied the
mother.
"What is that?"
"Taking boarders."
"Why, mother!" ejaculated Edith, evincing great surprise, "how can you
think of such a thing?"
"Because driven to do so by the force of circumstances."
"Taking boarders! Keeping a boarding-house! Surely we have not come to
this!"
An expression of distress blended with the look of astonishment in Edith's
face.
"There is nothing disgraceful in keeping a boarding-house," returned the
mother. "A great many very respectable ladies have been compelled to resort
to it as a means of supporting their families."
"But, to think of it, mother! To think of _your_ keeping a boarding-house!
I cannot bear it."
"Is there anything else that can be done, Edith?"
"Don't ask _me_ such a question."
"If, then, you cannot think for me, you must try and think with me, my
child. Something will have to be done to create an income. In less than
twelve months, every dollar I have will be expended; and then what are we
to do? Now, Edith, is the time for us to look at the matter earnestly, and
to determine the course we will take. There is no use to look away from it.
A good house in a central situation, large enough for the purpose, can no
doubt be obtained; and I think there will be no difficulty about our
getting boarders enough to fill it. The income, or profit, from these will
enable us still to live comfortably, and keep Edward and Ellen at school."
"It is hard," was the only remark Edith made to this.
"It is hard, my daughter; very hard! I have thought and thought about it
until my whole mind has been thrown into confusion. But it will not do to
think forever. There must be action. Can I see want stealing in upon my
children, and sit and fold my hands supinely? No! And to you, Edith, my
oldest child, I look for aid and for counsel. Stand up, bravely, by my
side."
"And you are in earnest in all this?" said Edith, whose mind seemed hardly
able to realize the truth of their position. From her earliest days, all
the blessings that money could procure had been freely scattered around her
feet. As she grew up, and advanced towards womanhood, she had moved in the
most fashionable circles, and there acquired the habit of estimating people
according to their wealth and social standing, rather than by qualities of
mind. In her view, it appeared degrading in a woman to enter upon any kind
of employment for money; and with the keeper of a boarding-house,
particularly, she had always associated something low, vulgar, and
ungenteel. At the thought of her mother's engaging in such an occupation,
when the suggestion was made, her mind instantly revolted. It appeared to
her as if disgrace would be the inevitable consequence.
"And you are in earnest in all this?" was an expression, mingling her clear
conviction of the truth of what at first appeared so strange a proposition,
and her astonishment that the necessities of their situation were such as
to drive them to so humiliating a resource.
"Deeply in earnest," was the mother's reply. "We are left alone in the
world. He who cared for us, and provided for us so liberally, has been
taken away, and we have nowhere to look for aid but to the resources that
are in ourselves. These, well applied, will give us, I feel strongly
assured, all that we need. The thing to decide is, what we ought to do. If
we choose aright, all will, doubtless, come out right. To choose aright is,
therefore, of the first importance; and to do this, we must not suffer
distorting suggestions nor the appeals of a false pride to influence our
minds in the least. You are my oldest child, Edith; and, as such, I cannot
but look upon you as, to some extent, jointly, with me, the guardian of
your younger brothers and sisters. True, Miriam is of age, and Henry nearly
so; but still you are the eldest--your mind is most matured, and in your
judgment I have the most confidence. Try and forget, Edith, all but the
fact that, unless we make an exertion, one home for all cannot be retained.
Are you willing that we should be scattered like leaves in the autumn wind?
No! you would consider that one of the greatest calamities that could
befall us--an evil to prevent which we should use every effort in our
power. Do you not see this clearly?"
"I do, mother," was replied by Edith in a more rational tone of voice than
that in which she had yet spoken.
"To open a store of any kind would involve five times the exposure of a
boarding-house; and, moreover, I know nothing of business."
"Keeping a store? Oh, no! we couldn't do that. Think of the dreadful
exposure!"
"But in taking boarders we only increase our family, and all goes on as
usual. To my mind, it is the most genteel thing that we can do. Our style
of living will be the same. Our waiter and all our servants will be
retained. In fact, to the eye there will be little change, and the world
need never know how greatly reduced our circumstances have become."
This mode of argument tended to reconcile Edith to taking boarders.
Something, she saw, had to be done. Opening a store was felt to be out of
the question; and as to commencing a school, the thought was repulsed at
the very first suggestion.
A few friends were consulted on the subject, and all agreed that the best
thing for the widow to do was to take boarders. Each one could point to
some lady who had commenced the business with far less ability to make
boarders comfortable, and who had yet got along very well. It was conceded
on all hands that it was a very genteel business, and that some of the
first ladies had been compelled to resort to it, without being any the less
respected. Almost every one to whom the matter was referred spoke in favor
of the thing, and but a single individual suggested difficulty; but what he
said was not permitted to have much weight. This individual was a brother
of the widow, who had always been looked upon as rather eccentric. He was a
bachelor, and without fortune, merely enjoying a moderate income as
book-keeper in the office of an insurance company.
But more of him hereafter.
* * * *