always thus see the dead living? Oh, no! for as melts the fleecy cloud
in to the blue depths of heaven, so passed away the blessed vision; and
seeing but the coffin and the shroud, again arose on the silent air
those tones of despairing anguish: "Woe is me! my sons are dead!"
Then softly and sweetly sounded forth the matin chimes, blending their
holy music with the anguished cries of the bereaved mother. In the
midst of her sorrow, she heard the bells' sweet harmony, and, leaving
her sleepless couch, walked forth into the refreshing air. Morning was
breaking cold and gray over the earth, and the stars were growing pale
at the approaching step of the monarch of the day.
Slowly walks the mourner through the yet sleeping woods, whose flowers
are folded in silence, and whose birds give forth no carols. She
reaches the antique church and enters the sacred doors. A mysterious
light--light that is almost shade--is brooding over the holy aisles,
clothing in shadowy garments the pale images of departed saints;
wrapping in mantle of dimness the carved sepulchres; throwing strange
gleams over the tall white columns; and embracing, with pale arms,
cross and picture, and antique shrine. In the midst of this mysterious
light kneel a silent company; each head is bowed on the clasped hands,
and no sound is heard save a deep, far distant murmuring, like the
voice of the mighty wind when it passes through the leaves of the dark,
old pines, dwelling in some dim, solemn woods.
Suddenly every head is lifted, and the mourner sees in that vast
company friends who had been sleeping long ages in the silent tomb. All
were there again; the friend of her cloudless childhood, who went down
to death's cold chambers in all her stainless beauty, sinking into the
grave as pure as the snow-flake that falls to the earth. And there was
the sister of her home and heart, the tried friend of sorrow's shaded
hours, who, in dying, left a mighty void that time could never fill.
And there were the "mighty dead," they whose footsteps, when living,
tracked the world with light--light that now shed a halo over their
graves. And there were the meek, patient ones of earth, pale martyrs to
sorrow, who struggled hopefully through the dim vapors that surround
the world, and met as a reward the ineffable brightness of heaven. They
were all here, all who had passed from earth amidst a fond tribute of
tears and regrets.
All were here save two, those two the most dearly loved among the
precious company of the dead; and wildly scanning the pale group, the
mother called aloud as she missed her children: "Oh, my sons! my sons!
would that I could see them but once again!"
Then arose a loud voice, and it said: "Look to the east;" and the
weeping mother looked.
Oh! dreadful sight! there, by the sacred altar, rested a block and a
fearful wheel. Stretched on these dreadful instruments of doom, in the
coarse garb of the prison, wrestling fiercely with death in its most
awful form, were two poor youths; and in their wan countenances, where
crime and grief had traced their fearful march, the mother recognized
her lost sons.
Dismayed, heart-sick, despairing, she motionless stands; and the deep
silence is again broken by a voice speaking these words:--
"Mourner, whose every tone is a murmur at Heaven's will, whose every
expression is a doubt of God's love, let this teach thee a mighty
truth. See the dark path of crime they might have trod; see the agony,
the shame, the maternal anguish that might have swept like a desolating
tempest over thy heart; then thank thy God, in a burst of fervent
praise, that he took them in unsullied youth from a world of sin to a
place of safe refuge."
The voice ceased, and darkness fell like a pall on the marble floor;
but through the arched windows came streaming the pale moonlight, and
beneath its holy rays, the mother knelt and prayed.
There fell on her heart a blessed calm, as a voice whispered to the
troubled waves of sorrow, "peace, be still."
And the angel of death stole softly in, and sealed her pale lips
forever, whilst repentance and resignation were breathing from them in
the music of prayer.
Oh, weeping mother! who art hanging garlands of sorrow ever fresh over
thy children's tombs, take to thy bereaved heart, and ponder well, this
"Mother's Lesson!"
* * * * *
TEACHING AT HOME.
LANGUAGE.
AS we are desirous of pointing out in what respects parents
may assist in the education of their children previous to their being
sent to school, we must remind them that it is at home that a child
learns to speak; and that there is, perhaps, nothing which helps more
towards his after instruction than the power of speaking well. There
are sometimes very strange notions on this subject amongst fathers
and mothers. They think, as long as they themselves can understand a
child when it begins to talk, that it is sufficient. They are rather
pleased than otherwise that the baby should have its own names for
the things it wants, and the parent learns to use these words for the
accommodation of the child. Instead of being helped forward in its
progress to plain speaking, it is allowed for several years to express
itself in a strange sort of gibberish, which is only laughed at and
admired by the rest of the family. The mother will tell with a sort
of satisfaction that little Susan can never use the letter S, or the
letter W; and no effort is made by her to conquer the difficulty. She
does not foresee, as most probably will be the case, that this will
be a sort of stumbling-block in little Susan's way when she goes to
school, and that she will pass for a sort of dunce, perhaps, for a
year or two, in consequence of her inability to read as well as other
children of her age. When she stands up in her class and begins to read
her portion of the lesson, she is told by the rest of the children
that they cannot understand a word that she reads; and the patience
of her teacher is sorely tried, in vain attempts to get a few words
distinctly uttered. And when Susan leaves school at last to enter
upon her occupation in life--say that of teacher--it is ten to one
that her imperfect utterance does not stand in her way in getting a
place; for mothers, who are well educated, like that their children
should be with those who speak well, and in the first interview with
Susan, the imperfection in her speech is discovered. The same, perhaps,
with Willy, her brother, who finds himself rejected several times by
persons to whom he offers himself to fill some situation for which he
is perfectly well qualified, only that the gentlemen think he must be
but a rough sort of lad from the countrified way in which he answers
the questions put to him. Clearness and correctness of speech have also
another advantage in securing correctness and clearness of thoughts. A
child who is made to put the right word to everything and to pronounce
it properly--to use the right expression in describing what he sees,
or in telling what he has done--knows and understands better than one
who makes up words or expressions for himself; and a mother or father
can, if they be not very bad speakers themselves, early accustom
their children to choose the right names for things instead of the
wrong in their talk. We all know that in many counties of England,
the people living there have words peculiar to themselves for many
things, different from the way in which they are called in London, or
in the great towns; at the same time that they know quite well what
are the right names and words used by the well educated. From early
habit they like to use these words, which perhaps remind them of their
own childhood or their home in early life; but it would be as well to
remember that to their children it would be an advantage to use the
more correct words and expressions, and therefore worth their while to
make an effort to employ them. It is also of great importance that the
_pronunciation_, or way of sounding words, should be correct. In these
counties, for instance, it is the habit of the people not to sound the
letter H at the beginning of a word; and though this may seem a very
trifling matter, it may on many occasions in life go greatly against a
young person, should he or she talk of a _orse_ or a _ouse_, instead
of a _horse_ or a _house_. The persons so speaking may have learned to
read very correctly, and write well, and be possessed of a good stock
of useful knowledge, and yet with a very large class of persons they
would, from such a slip of the tongue, be set down as ignorant and ill
educated--perhaps even be suspected of a rudeness and vulgarity in
thought and feeling which they were far from being guilty of. To secure
their children against such a disadvantage, it would be worth while for
any parent who knows how to spell, to take care that this important
letter _h_ is sounded in all words which it begins, there being only
two or three words in the English in which it is the custom not to
pronounce it, such as _hour_, _heir_, _honor_, &c., which are soon
learned to be exceptions to the general rule. This habit, it is true,
is peculiar to England; but it shows how carefully proper habits should
be nurtured in childhood.
There is a still more important point for parents to observe in the
language used by their children, and this is the avoidance of all
profane, vulgar, or indecent words. And in this respect the parent is
most particularly the teacher of his child. A father who uses an oath
in the presence of his innocent child, teaches that child to make use
of that expression some day in his turn. A mother who takes the great
name of God in vain, not only sets her child the example of so doing,
but takes away from its young mind some portion of the reverence which
it has hitherto felt towards the Great Being whom it is taught to call
its "Father in Heaven." Too much is it the custom, in the most trivial
events of everyday life, to utter that Name which should never be
pronounced but with reverence and love. It is called upon in moments
of anger and impatience, when the remembrance of His care and love
should lead us to leave the little as well as the great events of life
trustfully in his hands, knowing as we do that all is ordered and ruled
for our good.
* * * * *
DIRECTIONS FOR TAKING LEAF IMPRESSIONS.
HOLD oiled paper in the smoke of a lamp, or of pitch, until it
becomes coated with the smoke; to this paper apply the leaf of which
you wish an impression, having previously warmed it between your hands,
that it may be pliable. Place the lower surface of the leaf upon the
blackened surface of the oil-paper, that the numerous veins, which are
so prominent on this side, may receive from the paper a portion of the
smoke. Lay a paper over the leaf, and then press it gently upon the
smoked paper with the fingers, or with a small roller (covered with
woollen cloth, or some like soft material), so that every part of the
leaf may come in contact with the sooted oil-paper. A coating of the
smoke will adhere to the leaf. Then remove the leaf carefully, and
place the blackened surface on a sheet of white paper, not ruled, or in
a book prepared for the purpose, covering the leaf with a clean slip
of paper, and pressing upon it with the fingers, or roller, as before.
Thus may be obtained the impression of a leaf, showing the perfect
outlines, together with an accurate exhibition of the veins which
extend in every direction through it, more correctly than the finest
drawing. And this process is so simple, and the materials so easily
obtained, that any person, with a little practice to enable him to
apply the right quantity of smoke to the oil-paper, and give the leaf
a proper pressure, can prepare beautiful leaf impressions, such as a
naturalist would be proud to possess.
There is another, and we think a better method of taking _leaf
impressions_ than the preceding one. The only difference in the process
consists in the use of _printing-ink_ instead of smoked oil-paper.
LEAF PRINTING.--After warming the leaf between the hands,
apply _printing-ink_, by means of a small leather ball containing
cotton, or some soft substance, or with the end of the finger. The
leather ball (and the finger when used for that purpose), after the
ink is applied to it, should be pressed several times upon a piece of
leather, or some smooth surface, before each application to the leaf,
that the ink may be smoothly and evenly applied.
After the under surface of the leaf has been sufficiently inked, apply
it to the paper, where you wish the impression; and, after covering
it with a slip of paper, use the hand or roller to press upon it, as
described in the former process.
FARM HOUSE.
[_From "Rural Architecture," published by C. M. Saxton, New York._]
[Illustration]
THIS is a plain and unpretending building in appearance; yet,
in its ample finish, and deeply drawn and sheltering eaves, broad
veranda, and spacious out-buildings, may give accommodation to a large
family indulging a liberal style of living.
By an error in the engraving, the main roof of the house is made to
appear like a double, or gambrel-roof, breaking at the intersection
of the gable, or hanging roof over the ends. This is not so intended.
The roofs on each side are a straight line of rafters. The Swiss, or
hanging style of gable-roof, is designed to give a more sheltered
effect to the elevation than to run the end walls to a peak in the
point of the roof.
By a defect in the drawing, the roof of the veranda is not sufficiently
thrown over the columns. This roof should project at least one foot
beyond them, so as to perfectly shelter the mouldings beneath from the
weather, and conform to the style of the main roof of the house.
The material of which it is built may be of either stone, brick, or
wood, as the taste or convenience of the proprietor may suggest. The
main building is 44 by 36 feet, on the ground. The cellar wall may
show 18 to 24 inches above the ground, and be pierced by windows in
each end, as shown in the plan. The height of the main walls may be
two full stories below the roof plates, or the chambers may run a foot
or two into the garret, at the choice of the builder, either of which
arrangements may be permitted.
The front door opens from a veranda 28 feet long by 10 feet in depth,
drooping eight inches from the door-sill. This veranda has a hipped
roof, which juts over the columns in due proportion with the roof of
the house over its walls. These columns are plain, with brackets, or
braces from near their tops, sustaining the plate and finish of the
roof above, which may be covered either with tin or zinc, painted, or
closely shingled.
The walls of the house may be 18 to 20 feet high below the plates; the
roof a pitch of 30 to 45 degrees, which will afford an upper garret,
or store, or small sleeping rooms, if required; and the eaves should
project two to three feet, as climate may demand, over the walls. A
plain finish--that is, ceiled underneath--is shown in the design, but
brackets on the ends of the rafters, beaded and finished, may be shown,
if preferred. The gables are _Swiss-roofed_, or _truncated_, thus
giving them a most sheltered and comfortable appearance, particularly
in a northerly climate. The small gable in front relieves the roof of
its monotony, and affords light to the central garret. The chimneys are
carried out with partition flues, and may be topped with square caps,
as necessity or taste may demand.
[Illustration: GROUND PLAN.
CHAMBER PLAN.]
Retreating three feet from the kitchen side of the house runs, at
right angles, a wing 30 by 18 feet, one and a half stories high, with
a veranda eight feet wide in front. Next in rear of this, continues a
wood-house, 30 by 18 feet, one story high, with ten-feet posts, and
open in front, the ground level of which is 18 inches below the floor
of the wing to which it is attached. The roof of these two is of like
character with that of the main building.
Adjoining this wood-house, and at right angles with it, is a building
68 by 18 feet, projecting two feet outside the line of wood-house and
kitchen. This building is one and a half stories high, with twelve feet
posts, and roof in the same style and of equal pitch as the others.
_Interior Arrangement._--The front door from the veranda of the house
opens into a hall, 18 by 8 feet, and 11 feet high, amply lighted by
sash windows on the sides, and over the door. From the rear of this
hall runs a flight of easy stairs, into the upper or chamber hall. On
one side of the lower hall, a door leads into a parlor, 18 feet square,
and 11 feet high, lighted by three windows, and warmed by an open stove
or fireplace, the pipe passing into a chimney flue in the rear. A door
passes from this parlor into a rear passage, or entry, thus giving it
access to the kitchen and rear apartments. At the back end of the front
hall, a door leads into the rear passage and kitchen; and on the side
opposite the parlor, a door opens into the sitting or family room; 18
by 16 feet in area, having an open fireplace, and three windows. On
the hall side of this room, a door passes into the kitchen, 22 by 16
feet, and which may, in case the requirements of the family demand it,
be made the chief family or living room, and the last one described
converted into a library. In this kitchen, which is lighted by two
windows, is a liberal open fireplace, with an ample oven by its side,
and a sink in the outer corner. A flight of stairs, also, leads to
the rear chambers above; and a corresponding flight under them, to the
cellar below. A door at each end of these stairs leads into the back
entry of the house, and thus to the other interior rooms, or through
the rear outer door to the back porch. This back entry is lighted by a
single sash window over the outside door leading to the porch. Another
door, opposite that leading down cellar, opens into the passage through
the wing. From the rear hall, which is 16 by 5 feet, the innermost
passage leads into a family bedroom, or nursery, 16 by 14 feet, lighted
by a window in each outside wall, and warmed by an open fireplace, or
stove, at pleasure. Attached to this bedroom is a clothes-closet, 8 by
4 feet, with shelves and drawers. Next the outer door, in rear end of
the hall, is a small closet opening from it, 6 by 4 feet in dimensions,
convertible to any use which the mistress of the house may direct.
Opening into the wing from the kitchen, first, is a large closet and
pantry, supplied with a table, drawers, and shelves, in which are
stored the dishes, table furniture, and edibles necessary to be kept
at a moment's access. This room is 14 by 8 feet, and well lighted
by a window of convenient size. If necessary, this room may have
a partition, shutting off a part from the everyday uses which the
family requires. In this room, so near to the kitchen, to the sink,
to hot water, and the other little domestic accessories which good
housewives know so well how to arrange and appreciate, all the nice
little table-comforts can be got up, and perfected, and stored away,
under lock and key, in drawer, tub, or jar, at their discretion, and
still their eyes not be away from their subordinates in the other
departments. Next to this, and connected by a door, is the dairy, or
milk-room, also 14 by 8 feet; which, if necessary, may be sunk three
or four feet into the ground, for additional coolness in the summer
season, and the floor reached by steps. In this are ample shelves for
the milk-pans, convenience of churning, &c. &c. But, if the dairy
be a prominent object of the farm, a separate establishment will
be required, and the excavation may not be necessary for ordinary
household uses. Out of this milk-room, a door leads into a wash-room,
18 by 14 feet. A passage from the kitchen also leads into this. The
wash-room is lighted by two windows in rear, and one in front. A sink
is between the two rear windows, with conductor leading outside, and a
closet beneath it, for the iron ware. In the chimney, at the end, are
boilers, and a fireplace, an oven, or anything else required, and a
door leading to a platform in the wood-house, and so into the yard. On
the other side of the chimney, a door leads into a bathing-room, 7 by 6
feet, into which hot water is drawn from one of the boilers adjoining,
and cold water may be introduced, by a hand-pump, through a pipe
leading into the well or cistern.
* * * * *
A FEW WORDS ABOUT DELICATE WOMEN.
HOW essential is it to the well-being of a family that the
wife and mother should be cheerful, active, and healthy. Yet, looking
at those classes of the community a little above what may be termed
the laboring class, how frequently we find that the women are ailing,
nervous, and irritable; or, as they would call themselves, "delicate!"
How is this?
"Why," answers one, "some are the children of unhealthy parents, and
the inheritors of their diseases." Where this is the case, the fullest
sympathy and consideration are due; but the number of such would be
only a few in comparison with the class we speak of. We must look
further for the cause.
"Oh," suggests another, "is not the fact of being a wife and mother,
and having the care and management of a family and household, with
perhaps very limited pecuniary resources, quite enough to make women
weak and ailing?" We think not. Such circumstances are trying; but
with some women they have been the means of drawing out unwonted
cheerfulness and energy of character. Allowing, however, that some
women are so tried and harassed by the circumstances of married life
that their health and energy give way; still their number would be
comparatively few, and we must find some other cause for the fact that
there are so many females who call themselves "delicate."
Is it that they have an impression that there is something amiable in
being delicate?
Do they think it is lady-like to be delicate?
Is not this delicacy cultivated by some as a means of drawing more
largely on sympathy, especially the husband's sympathy?
Are not idleness and inactivity often excused or hidden under this
convenient cloak of delicacy?
We think that each of these questions may be correctly answered in the
affirmative, and that the commencement of these errors, with all their
attendant evils, may be traced to the education of the girl.
Years ago, Fanny was a healthy, active, and unaffected child, when her
parents sent her to a boarding-school. For the first few days, feeling
herself among strangers, and away from home, she was pensive and quiet;
but this soon wore away, and she became cheerful and happy again.
She had taken a skipping-rope with her to school, and one evening,
when she was in the full enjoyment of the use of it, the evening bell
rang for the scholars to retire for the night. When Fanny went to say
"good-night" to the governess, she was surprised to hear her say to the
matron: "You will be so good as to give Miss Fanny a dose of calomel,
she is in too robust health; see, her cheeks are like a milkmaid's."
So Fanny had to take calomel, and the next day she was languid and
listless, or, as the governess seemed to consider, "lady-like."
Another time, when playing with a companion somewhat actively in the
playground, they were stopped by a teacher, saying: "Young ladies,
are you not ashamed of yourselves? that is not the way to conduct
yourselves in this establishment. Why, what would be thought of you?
Pray let me see you walk like young ladies."
Fanny wished then that she was not to be called a "young lady" if she
might not play and romp about a little, for she was sure it made her
happy to do so. But it is astonishing what changes may in time be
effected by teaching and example. During the remainder of her stay at
school, Fanny had occasional doses of calomel when too robust health
began to show itself; and she had learned to believe that, to be at all
respected by her fellow-creatures, she must be considered a young lady,
and that all young ladies were of delicate constitutions, and that it
was very unlady-like to be healthy and active.
Poor Fanny! she had not only imbibed these notions, but she had also
lost a great deal of her vigor of constitution, and had become inert
and inactive. When she left school, she returned to the home of her
childhood, where family arrangements were such that her assistance
would frequently have been acceptable to her parents. But when anything
was requested of her, it was attended to in a manner so unwilling and
languid, that they soon ceased to ask anything of her, grieving and
wondering what was become of their cheerful and active Fanny.