diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/69503-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/69503-0.txt | 12369 |
1 files changed, 0 insertions, 12369 deletions
diff --git a/old/69503-0.txt b/old/69503-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 1420b3f..0000000 --- a/old/69503-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12369 +0,0 @@ -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69503 *** - - LOOKING TOWARD SUNSET. - - FROM - - SOURCES OLD, NEW, ORIGINAL, - AND SELECTED. - -[Illustration] - - - - - LOOKING TOWARD SUNSET. - - _From Sources Old and New, Original - and Selected._ - - BY L. MARIA CHILD. - - - “When the Sun is setting, cool fall its gleams upon the earth, - and the shadows lengthen; but they all point toward the Morning.” - JEAN PAUL RICHTER. - - “I am fully convinced that the Soul is indestructible, and that - its activity will continue through eternity. It is like the - Sun, which, to our eyes, seems to set in night; but it - has in reality only gone to diffuse its light - elsewhere.”--GOETHE. - - [Illustration] - - - BOSTON: - HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY. - The Riverside Press, Cambridge. - 1881. - - - - - Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by - - L. MARIA CHILD, - - in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District - of Massachusetts. - - - TWELFTH EDITION. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - TO - - MY DEAR AND HONORED FRIENDS - - MISS LUCY OSGOOD - AND - MISS HENRIETTA SARGENT, - - _This Volume_ - - IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED, - - IN TOKEN OF GRATITUDE FOR THEIR EXAMPLE, - WHICH CONFERS BEAUTY AND DIGNITY ON DECLINING YEARS, - BY ACTIVE USEFULNESS AND KINDLY SYMPATHY - WITH THE HUMAN RACE. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -PREFACE. - - -I occasionally meet people who say to me, “I had many a pleasant -hour, in my childhood, reading your Juvenile Miscellany; and now I -am enjoying it over again, with my own little folks.” - -Such remarks remind me that I have been a long time in the world; -but if a few acknowledge me as the household friend of two -generations, it is a pleasant assurance that I have not lived -altogether in vain. - -When I was myself near the fairy-land of childhood, I used my pen -for the pleasure of children; and now that I am travelling down -the hill I was then ascending, I would fain give some words of -consolation and cheer to my companions on the way. If the rays of -my morning have helped to germinate seeds that ripened into flowers -and fruit, I am grateful to Him, from whom all light and warmth -proceeds. And now I reverently ask His blessing on this attempt to -imitate, in my humble way, the setting rays of that great luminary, -which throws cheerful gleams into so many lonely old homes, which -kindles golden fires on trees whose foliage is falling, and lights -up the silvered heads on which it rests with a glory that reminds -one of immortal crowns. - - L. MARIA CHILD. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - THE FRIENDS _L. M. Child_ 1 - - THE GOOD OLD GRANDMOTHER _Anonymous_ 37 - - THE CONSOLATIONS OF AGE _Zschokke_ 39 - - THE OLD MAN DREAMS _O. W. Holmes_ 44 - - A RUSSIAN LADY 46 - - THE OLD MAN’S SONG _Anonymous_ 51 - - THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH _W. C. Bryant_ 52 - - A CHRISTMAS STORY FOR _Charles Dickens_ 53 - GRANDFATHER - - JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO _Robert Burns_ 60 - - OLD FOLKS AT HOME _L. M. Child_ 61 - - EVERLASTING YOUTH _Edmund H. Sears_ 62 - - LIFE _Mrs. Barbauld_ 68 - - THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE _L. M. Child_ 69 - - THE HAPPIEST TIME _Eliza Cook_ 81 - - ODE OF ANACREON 84 - - CICERO’S ESSAY ON OLD AGE 85 - - THE FOUNTAIN _W. Wordsworth_ 98 - - A POET’S BLESSING _Uhland_ 101 - - BERNARD PALISSY 102 - - OLD AGE COMING _Elizabeth Hamilton_ 123 - - UNMARRIED WOMEN _L. M. Child_ 127 - - THE OLD MAID’S PRAYER _Mrs. Tighe_ 144 - - GRANDFATHER’S REVERIE _Theodore Parker_ 146 - - THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW _Louise C. Moulton_ 149 - - A STORY OF ST. MARK’S EVE _Thomas Hood_ 152 - - WHAT THE OLD WOMAN SAID _Anonymous_ 161 - - THE SPRING JOURNEY _Heber_ 163 - - MORAL HINTS _L. M. Child_ 164 - - THE BOYS _O. W. Holmes_ 184 - - ODE OF ANACREON 185 - - MYSTERIOUSNESS OF LIFE _Mountford_ 186 - - THE GRANDMOTHER’S APOLOGY _Alfred Tennyson_ 189 - - THE ANCIENT MAN _J. P. Richter_ 193 - - MILTON’S HYMN OF PATIENCE _Elizabeth L. Howell_ 210 - - LETTER FROM AN OLD WOMAN _L. M. Child_ 212 - - BRIGHT DAYS IN WINTER _John G. Whittier_ 223 - - THE CANARY BIRD _John Sterling_ 224 - - OLD BACHELORS _L. M. Child_ 225 - - TAKING IT EASY _G. H. Clark_ 238 - - OLD AUNTY _Anonymous_ 241 - - RICHARD AND KATE _Robert Bloomfield_ 250 - - LUDOVICO CORNARO 256 - - ROBIN AND JEANNIE _Dora Greenwell_ 271 - - A GOOD OLD AGE _Mountford_ 273 - - MY PSALM _John G. Whittier_ 276 - - JOHN HENRY VON DANNECKER 279 - - THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES _W. Wordsworth_ 290 - - DR. DODDRIDGE’S DREAM 292 - - THE OLD PSALM-TUNE _Harriet B. Stowe_ 297 - - THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY 300 - - TO ONE WHO WISHED ME SIXTEEN _Alice Cary_ 322 - YEARS OLD - - GROWING OLD _Dinah Muloch_ 324 - - EQUINOCTIAL _Mrs. A.D.T. Whitney_ 334 - - EPITAPH ON THE UNMATED _E. S._ 335 - - A BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT _Convers Francis_ 336 - - AT ANCHOR _Anonymous_ 339 - - NOVEMBER _H. W. Beecher_ 341 - - MEDITATIONS ON A BIRTHDAY EVE _John Pierpont_ 343 - - THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES _H. J._ 346 - - AULD LANG SYNE _Robert Burns_ 362 - - OLD FOLKS AT HOME _L. M. Child_ 363 - - OLD UNCLE TOMMY _M. S._ 364 - - SITTING IN THE SUN _Anonymous_ 377 - - AUNT KINDLY _Theodore Parker_ 379 - - CROSSING OVER _Uhland_ 383 - - A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD _Mrs. Gaskell_ 385 - - TO MY WIFE _Anonymous_ 408 - - THE EVERGREEN OF OUR FEELINGS _J. P. Richter_ 410 - - OUR SECRET DRAWER _Anonymous_ 414 - - THE GOLDEN WEDDING _F. A. Bremer_ 416 - - THE WORN WEDDING RING _W. C. Bennett_ 424 - - HINTS ABOUT HEALTH _L. M. Child_ 427 - - THE INVALID’S PRAYER _Wesley_ 440 - - THE OLD PASTOR AND HIS SON _J. P. Richter_ 441 - - REST AT EVENING _Adelaide A. Procter_ 454 - - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE FRIENDS. - -BY L. M. CHILD. - - “By some especial care - Her temper had been framed, as if to make - A being, who, by adding love to peace, - Might live on earth a life of happiness.” - - _Wordsworth._ - - -In the interior of Maine two girls grew to womanhood in houses -so near that they could nod and smile to each other while they -were making the beds in the morning, and chat through the open -fence that separated their gardens when they went to pick currants -for the tea-table. Both were daughters of farmers; but Harriet -Brown’s father had money in the bank, while Jane White’s father -was struggling hard to pay off a mortgage. Jane was not a beauty, -but her fresh, healthy countenance was pleasant to look upon. Her -large blue eyes had a very innocent expression, and there was -always in them the suggestion of a smile, as if they sung the -first note of a merry song for the lips to follow. Harriet was the -belle of the county; with rosy cheeks, a well-shaped mouth, and -black eyes, that were very bright, without being luminous from -within. A close observer of physiognomy could easily determine -which of the girls had most of heart and soul. But they were -both favorites in the village, and the young men thought it was -a pretty sight to see them together. In fact, they were rarely -seen apart. Their leisure moments, on bright winter days, were -spent in snow-balling each other across the garden-fence; and they -kept up the sport hilariously long after their hands were numb -and red with cold. In the long evenings, they made wagers which -would soonest finish a pair of socks; and merry were the little -crowings over the vanquished party. In spring, they hunted anemones -and violets together. In autumn, they filled their aprons with -brilliant-colored leaves to decorate the mantel-piece; stopping -ever and anon to twine the prettiest specimens in each other’s -hair. They both sat in the singing-seats at meeting. Harriet’s -shrill voice was always heard above Jane’s, but it was defective -in modulation, while music flowed through the warbling voice of -her companion. They often bought dresses alike, with the agreement -that, when the sleeves were worn, the two skirts should be used -to make a new dress for the one who first needed it; and shrewd -observers remarked that Harriet usually had the benefit of such -bargains. Jane waited assiduously upon her mother, while Harriet’s -mother waited upon her. One seemed to have come into the world -to be ministered unto, and the other to minister. Harriet was -prim in company, and some called her rather proud; but Jane was -deemed imprudent, because whatever she said or did bubbled out -of her heart. Their friendship was not founded on any harmonious -accord of character; few friendships are. They were born next door -to each other, and no other girls of their own age happened to -be near neighbors. The youthful heart runs over so perpetually, -that it needs another into which to pour its ever-flowing stream. -Impelled by this necessity, they often shared each other’s sleeping -apartments, and talked late into the night. They could not have -told, the next day, what they had talked about. Their conversation -was a continuous movement of hilarious nothings, with a running -accompaniment of laughter. It was like the froth of whip-syllabub, -of which the rustic took a spoonful into his mouth, and finding it -gone without leaving a taste behind, he searched the carpet for it. -The girls, however, never looked after the silly bubbles of their -bubbling syllables. Harriet thought Jane excessively funny, and -such an appreciative audience was stimulus sufficient to keep her -friend’s tongue in motion. - -“O Hatty, the moon’s up, and it’s as light as a cork!” exclaimed -Jane, springing out of bed in the summer’s night, and looking out -of the window. - -“What a droll creature you are!” replied Hatty; and they laughed -more heartily than they would have done over one of Dr. Holmes’s -wittiest sayings. - -When merriment subsided into a more serious mood, each gave her -opinion whether Harry Blake, the young lawyer, or Frank May, the -young store-keeper, had the handsomest eyes. Jane said, there was a -report that the young lawyer was engaged to somebody before he came -to their village; but Harriet said she didn’t believe it, because -he pressed her hand when they came home from the County Ball, and -he whispered something, too; but she didn’t know whether it would -be fair to tell of it. Then came the entreaty, “Do tell”; and she -told. And with various similar confidings, they at last fell asleep. - -Thus life flowed on, like a sunny, babbling brook, with these girls -of sixteen summers. Fond as they were of recreation, they were -capable, in the New England sense of the term, and accomplished -a great deal of work. It was generally agreed that Harriet made -the best butter and Jane the best bread that the village produced. -Thrifty fathers said to their sons, that whoever obtained one of -those girls for a wife would be a lucky fellow. Harriet refused -several offers, and the rejected beaux revenged themselves by -saying, she was fishing for the lawyer, in hopes of being the wife -of a judge, or a member of Congress. There was less gossip about -Jane’s love affairs. Nobody was surprised when the banns were -published between her and Frank May. She had always maintained -that his eyes were handsomer than the lawyer’s. It was easy enough -for anybody to read her heart. Soon after Jane’s marriage with -the young store-keeper Harriet went to visit an uncle in New -York. There she attracted the attention of a prosperous merchant, -nearly as old as her father, and came home to busy herself with -preparations for a wedding. Jane expressed surprise, in view of -certain confidences with regard to the young lawyer; but Harriet -replied: “Mr. Gray is a very good sort of man, and really seems -to be very much in love with me. And you know, Jenny, it must be -a long time before Harry Blake can earn enough to support a wife -handsomely.” - -A few weeks afterward, they had their parting interview. They -kissed and shed tears, and exchanged lockets with braids of hair. -Jane’s voice was choked, as she said: “O Hatty, it seems so hard -that we should be separated! I thought to be sure we should always -be neighbors.” - -And Harriet wiped her eyes, and tried to answer cheerfully: “You -must come and see me, dear Jenny. It isn’t such a great way to New -York, after all.” - -The next day Jane attended the wedding in her own simple bridal -dress of white muslin; and the last she saw of Harriet was the -waving of her white handkerchief from a genteel carriage, drawn -by two shining black horses. It was the first link that had -been broken in the chain of her quiet life; and the separation -of these first links startles the youthful mind with a sort of -painful surprise, such as an infant feels waking from sleep to be -frightened by a strange face bending over its cradle. She said to -her husband: “I didn’t feel at all as I always imagined I should -feel at Hatty’s wedding. It was so unexpected to have her go off -with that stranger! But I suppose she is the best judge of what is -for her own happiness.” - -The void left by this separation was soon filled by new pleasures -and duties. A little boy and girl came. Then her husband was -seized with a disease of the spine, which totally unfitted him for -business. Jane had acquired considerable skill in mantua-making, -which now proved a valuable assistance in the support of her -family. The neighboring farmers said, “Young Mrs. May has a hard -row to hoe.” But her life was a mingled cup, which she had no -wish to exchange for any other. Care and fatigue were sweetened by -the tenderness and patience of her household mate, and brightened -by the gambols of children, who clung to her with confiding love. -When people expressed sympathy with her hard lot, she answered, -cheerfully: “I am happier than I was when I was a girl. It is a -happiness that I feel deeper down in my heart.” This feeling was -expressed in her face also. The innocent blue eyes became motherly -and thoughtful in their tenderness, but still a smile lay sleeping -there. Her husband said she was handsomer than when he first loved -her; and so all thought who appreciated beauty of expression above -fairness of skin. - -During the first year of her residence in New York, Harriet wrote -every few weeks; but the intervals between her letters lengthened, -and the apology was the necessity of giving dinner-parties, -making calls, and attending to mantua-makers. To Jane, who was -constantly working to nurse and support her dear ones, they seemed -like letters in a foreign language, of which we can study out the -meaning, but in which it is impossible for us to think. She felt -herself more really separated from the friend of her girlhood than -she could have been by visible mountains. They were not only living -in different worlds, but the ways of each world did not interest -the other. The correspondence finally ceased altogether, and years -passed without any communication. - -The circle of Jane’s duties enlarged. Her husband’s parents became -feeble in health; they needed the presence of children, and could -also assist their invalid son by receiving him into their house. -So Frank May and his wife removed to their home, in a country -village of Massachusetts. Her parents, unwilling to relinquish the -light of her presence, removed with them. There was, of course, -great increase of care, to which was added the necessity for -vigilant economy; but the energy of the young matron grew with the -demands upon it. Her husband’s mother was a little unreasonable -at times, but it was obvious that she considered her son very -fortunate in his wife; and Jane thankfully accepted her somewhat -reluctant affection. If a neighbor alluded to her numerous cares, -she replied cheerfully: “Yes, it is true that I have a good deal -on my shoulders; but somehow it never seems very heavy. The fact -is,” she added, smiling, “there’s great satisfaction in feeling -one’s self of so much importance. There are my husband, my two -children, my two fathers, and my two mothers, all telling me that -they couldn’t get along without me; and I think that’s blessing -enough for one poor woman. Nobody can tell, until they try it, what -a satisfaction there is in making old folks comfortable. They cling -so to those that take good care of them, that, I declare, I find -it does me about as much good as it did to tend upon my babies.” -Blessed woman! she carried sunshine within her, and so external -circumstances could not darken her life. - -The external pressure increased as years passed on. Her husband, -her parents, her son, departed from her, one after another. Still -she smiled through her tears, and said: “God has been very merciful -to me. It was _such_ a comfort to be able to tend upon them to the -last, and to have them die blessing me!” The daughter married and -removed to Illinois. The heart of the bereaved mother yearned to -follow her; but her husband’s parents were very infirm, and she had -become necessary to their comfort. When she gave the farewell kiss -to her child, she said: “There is no one to take good care of the -old folks if I leave them. I will stay and close their eyes, and -then, if it be God’s will, I will come to you.” - -Two years afterward, the old father died, but his wife survived -him several years. When the estates of both fathers were settled, -there remained for the two widowed women a small house, an acre of -land, and a thousand dollars in the bank. There they lived alone. -The rooms that had been so full of voices were silent now. Only, as -Jane moved about, “on household cares intent,” she was often heard -singing the tune her dear Frank used to sing under the apple-tree -by her window, in their old courting days:-- - - “The moon was shining silver bright. - No cloud the eye could view; - Her lover’s step, in silent night, - Well pleased, the damsel knew.” - -Sometimes the blue eyes moistened as she sang, but, ere the tears -fell, tender memories would modulate themselves into the tune of -“Auld lang syne.” And sometimes the old mother, who sat knitting in -the sunshine, would say: “Sing that again, Jenny. How my old man -used to love to hear you sing it! Don’t you remember he used to say -you sung like a thrush?” Jenny would smile, and say, “Yes, mother,” -and sing it over again. Then, tenderly adapting herself to the old -woman’s memories, she would strike into “John Anderson, my Jo,” to -which her aged companion would listen with an expression of serene -satisfaction. It was indeed a pleasure to listen; for Jenny’s sweet -voice remained unbroken by years; its tones were as silvery as -her hair. Time, the old crow, had traversed her face and left his -footprints there; and the ploughshare of successive sorrows had cut -deep lines into the once smooth surface; but the beauty of the soul -illumined her faded countenance, as moonlight softens and glorifies -ruins. When she carefully arranged the pillows of the easy-chair, -the aged mother, ere she settled down for her afternoon’s nap, -would often look up gratefully, and say, “Your eyes are just -as good as a baby’s.” It was a pleasant sound to the dutiful -daughter’s ears, and made her forget the querulous complaints in -which her infirm companion sometimes indulged. - -The time came when this duty was finished also; and Mrs. Frank -May found herself all alone in the house, whither she had carried -her sunshine thirty years before. She wrote to her daughter that, -as soon as she could sell or let her little homestead, she would -start for Illinois. She busied herself to hasten the necessary -arrangements; for her lonely heart was longing for her only child, -whose face she had not seen for seven years. One afternoon, as she -sat by the window adding up accounts, her plans for the journey -to meet her daughter gradually melted into loving reminiscences -of her childhood, till she seemed to see again the little smiling -face that had looked to her the most beautiful in all the world, -and to hear again the little pattering feet that once made sweetest -music in her ears. As she sat thus in reverie at the open window, -the setting sun brightened the broad meadows, crowned the distant -hill-tops with glory, and threw a ribbon of gold across the wall of -her humble little room. The breath of lilacs floated in, and with -it came memories of how her little children used to come in with -their arms full of spring-blossoms, filling every mug and pitcher -they could find. The current of her thoughts was interrupted by -the sound of a wagon. It stopped before her house. A stranger with -two little children! Who could it be? She opened the door. The -stranger, taking off his hat and bowing respectfully, said, “Are -you Mrs. Frank May?” - -“Yes, sir,” she replied. - -“Well, then,” rejoined he, “if you please, I’ll walk in, for I’ve -got some news to tell you. But first I’ll bring in the children, -for the little things have been riding all day, and are pretty -tired.” - -“Certainly, sir, bring them in and let them rest, and I will give -them a cup of milk,” replied the kindly matron. - -A little boy and girl were lifted from the wagon and led in. Mrs. -May made an exclamation of joyful surprise. The very vision she had -had in her mind a few minutes previous stood before her bodily! She -took the little girl in her arms and covered her face with kisses. -“Why, bless your little soul!” she exclaimed; “how much you look -like my daughter Jenny!” - -“My name _ith_ Jenny,” lisped the little one. - -“Why, you see, ma’am--” stammered the stranger; he paused, in an -embarrassed way, and smoothed the nap of his hat with his sleeve. -“You see, ma’am--” he resumed; then, breaking down again, he -suddenly seized the boy by the hand, led him up to her, and said, -“There, Robin! that’s your good old granny, you’ve heard so much -about.” - -With a look of astonishment, Mrs. May said to him: “And where is my -daughter, sir? Surely these little children wouldn’t come so far -without their mother.” - -The man again began to say, “You see, ma’am--” but his heart came -up and choked his voice with a great sob. The old mother understood -its meaning. She encircled the two children with her arms, and drew -them closely to her side. After a brief silence, she asked, in a -subdued voice, “When did she die?” - -Her calmness reassured the stranger, and with a steady voice he -replied: “You see, ma’am, your daughter and her husband have been -neighbors of mine ever since they went to Illinois. There’s been -an epidemic fever raging among us, and they both died of it. The -last words your daughter said were, ‘Carry the children to my good -mother.’ I’ve been wanting to come and see my old father, who lives -about three miles from here, so I brought them along with me. It’s -sorrowful news for you, ma’am, and I meant to have sort of prepared -you for it; but somehow I lost my presence of mind, and forgot what -I was going to say. But I’m glad to see you so sustained under it, -ma’am.” - -“I thank God that _these_ are left,” she replied; and she kissed -the little faces that were upturned to hers with an expression that -seemed to say they thought they should like their grandmother. - -“I’m so glad you’re helped to take it so,” rejoined the stranger. -“Your daughter always told me you was a woman that went straight -ahead and did your duty, trusting the Lord to bring you through.” - -“I am forgetting my duty now,” she replied. “You must be hungry and -tired. If you’ll drive to Neighbor Harrington’s barn, he will take -good care of your horse, and I will prepare your supper.” - -“Thank you kindly, ma’am; but I must jog on to my old father’s, to -take supper with him.” - -Some boxes containing the clothing of the children and their mother -were brought in; and, having deposited them, the stranger departed -amid thanks and benedictions. - -Mrs. Harrington had seen the wagon stop at Mrs. May’s door, and -go off without the children. Being of an inquiring mind, she -straightway put on her cape-bonnet, and went to see about it. She -found her worthy neighbor pinning towels round the children’s -necks, preparatory to their supper of brown bread and molasses, -which they were in a great hurry to eat. - -“Why who on earth have you got here!” exclaimed Neighbor Harrington. - -“They are my daughter’s children,” replied Mrs. May. “Bless their -little souls! if I’d have known they were coming, I’d have had some -turnovers ready for them.” - -“I guess you’ll find they’ll _make_ turnovers enough,” replied Mrs. -Harrington smiling. “That boy looks to me like a born rogue. But -where’s your daughter? I didn’t see any woman in the wagon.” - -“The Lord has taken her to himself,” replied Mrs. May, in quivering -tones. - -“You _don’t_ say so!” exclaimed Neighbor Harrington, raising both -hands. “Bless me! if I’d known that, I wouldn’t have come right in -upon you so sudden.” - -They sat down and began to talk over the particulars which the -stranger had related. Meanwhile, the children, in hungry haste, -were daubing their chins and fingers with molasses. The little -four-year-old Jenny was the first to pause. Drawing a long breath, -expressive of great satisfaction, she lisped out, “O Bubby! -_larthiz_ top on bread! what _can_ be gooder?” - -Robin, who was two years her senior, and felt as if he were as much -as ten, gave a great shout of laughter, and called out, “O Granny! -you don’t know how funny Sissy talks.” - -Grandmother went with a wet towel to wipe their hands and faces, -and when she heard what the little Tot had said, she could not -help smiling, notwithstanding the heaviness of her heart. As for -Neighbor Harrington, she laughed outright. - -“You see they are just as well satisfied as they would have been -with a dozen turnovers,” said she. “But this is a sad blow for you, -Neighbor May; coming, too, just at the time when you were taking so -much comfort in the thoughts of going to see your daughter; and it -will be a pretty heavy load for a woman of your years to bring up -these orphans.” - -“O, it’s wonderful how the dispensations of Providence are softened -for us poor weak mortals,” replied Mrs. May. “Only think what a -mercy it is that I have these treasures left? Why, she looks so -much like her dear mother, that I seem to have my own little Jenny -right over again; and I can’t seem to realize that it isn’t so. -You see, Neighbor Harrington, _that_ softens the blow wonderfully. -As for bringing up the children, I have faith that the Lord will -strengthen those who trust in him.” - -“That’s just like you,” rejoined Neighbor Harrington. “You always -talk in that way. You always seem to think that what happens is the -best that _could_ happen. You’re pretty much like this little one -here. If you don’t get tarts and turnovers, you smack your lips and -say, ‘Lasses top on bread! what _can_ be gooder?’” - -The neighbors bade each other a smiling good-night. When Mrs. -Harrington returned home, she told her husband the mournful news, -and added, “Mrs. May don’t seem to feel it so much as I should -think she would.” Yet the good grandmother dropped many tears on -the pillow where those little orphans slept; and kneeling by their -bedside, she prayed long and fervently for support and guidance in -rearing the precious souls thus committed to her charge. - -She had long been unused to children; and they did, as Neighbor -Harrington had predicted, make plenty of turnovers in the -house. Robin had remarkable gifts in that line. Endless were his -variations of mischief. Sometimes the stillness of the premises -was suddenly disturbed by a tremendous fluttering and cackling, -caused by his efforts to catch the cockerel. The next thing, there -was the cat squalling and hissing, because he was pulling her -backward by the tail. Then he was seized with a desire to explore -the pig’s sleeping apartment, and by that process let him out into -the garden, and had the capital fun of chasing him over flowers and -vegetables. Once when the pig upset little Sissy in his rounds, he -had to lie down and roll in the mud himself, with loud explosions -of laughter. Quiet little Jenny liked to make gardens by sticking -flowers in the sand, but it particularly pleased him to send them -all flying into the air, at the point of his boot. When the leaves -were gay with autumn tints, she would bring her apron full and sit -at grandmother’s feet weaving garlands for the mantel-piece; and it -was Master Robin’s delight to pull them to pieces, and toss them -hither and yon. It was wonderful how patiently the good grandmother -put up with his roguish pranks. “O Robin, dear, don’t behave so,” -she would say. “Be a good boy. Come! I want to see how fast you -grow. Take off your boots, and Jenny will take off hers, and stand -even, and then we’ll see which is the tallest.” - -“O, I’m _ever_ so much taller. I’m almost a man,” responded Robin, -kicking off his boots. - -Honest little Jenny stood squarely and demurely while grandmother -compared their heights. But roguish Robin raised himself as much as -possible. To hide his mirth, he darted out of doors as soon as it -was over, calling Jenny after him. Then he gave her a poke, that -toppled her half over, and said, with a chuckle, “Sissy, I cheated -grandmother. I stood tiptoe. But don’t you _tell_!” - -But wild as Robin was, he dearly loved his grandmother, and she -loved him better than anything else, excepting little Jenny. When -Neighbor Harrington said, “I should think that boy would wear your -life out,” she answered, with a smile: “I don’t know what I should -do without the dear little creatures. I always liked to be called -by my Christian name, because it sounds more hearty. There’s nobody -to call me Jenny now. The little ones call me granny, and the -neighbors call me old Mrs. Frank May. But I have a _little_ Jenny, -and every time I hear her name called, it makes me feel as if I -was young again. But what I like best is to hear her tuning up her -little songs. The little darling sings like a robin.” - -“Then she sings like _me_,” exclaimed her ubiquitous brother, who -had climbed up to the open window, holding on by the sill. “I can -whistle most any tune; _can’t_ I?” - -“Yes, dear, you whistle like a quail,” replied his grandmother. - -Satisfied with this share of praise, down he dropped, and the next -minute they saw him rushing down the road, in full chase after a -passing dog. Mrs. May laughed, as she said: “It seems as if he was -in twenty places at once. But he’s a good boy. There’s nothing -the matter with him, only he’s so full of fun that it _will_ run -over all the time. He’ll grow steadier, by and by. He brought in a -basket of chips to-day without upsetting them; and he never made -out to do that before. He’s as bright as a steel button; and if I -am only enabled to guide him right, he will make such a man as my -dear husband would have been proud to own for a grandson. I used -to think it was impossible to love anything better than I loved my -little ones; but I declare I think a grandmother takes more comfort -in her grandchildren than she did in her own children.” - -“Well, you do beat all,” replied Mrs. Harrington. “You’ve had about -as much affliction as any woman I know; but you never seem to -_think_ you’ve had any trouble. I told my husband I reckoned you -_would_ admit it was a tough job to bring up that boy, at your age; -but it seems you don’t.” - -“Why the fact is,” rejoined Mrs. May, “the troubles of this life -come so mixed up with blessings, that we are willing to endure one -for the sake of having the other; and then our afflictions do us so -much good, that I reckon _they_ are blessings, too.” - -“I suppose they are,” replied Mrs. Harrington, “though they don’t -always seem so. But I came in to tell you that we are going to -Mount Nobscot for huckleberries to-morrow; and if you and the -children would like to go, there’s room enough in our big wagon.” - -“Thank you heartily,” replied Mrs. May. “It will be a charming -frolic for the little folks. But pray don’t tell them anything -about it to-night; if you do, Robin won’t sleep a wink, or let -anybody else sleep.” - -The sun rose clear, and the landscape, recently washed by copious -showers, looked clean and fresh. The children were in ecstasies at -the idea of going to the hill behind which they had so often seen -the sun go down. But so confused were their ideas of space, that, -while Jenny inquired whether Nobscot was as far off as Illinois, -Robin asked, every five minutes, whether they had got there. When -they were lifted from the wagon, they eagerly ran forward, and -Robin’s voice was soon heard shouting, “O Granny! here’s lots o’ -berries!” They went to picking green, red, and black ones with all -zeal, while grandmother proceeded to fill her basket. When Mrs. -Harrington came, she said, “O, don’t stop to pick here. We shall -find them twice as thick farther up the hill.” - -“I’ll make sure of these,” replied Mrs. May. “I’m of the old -woman’s mind, who said she always took her comfort in this world as -she went along, for fear it wouldn’t be here when she came back.” - -“You’re a funny old soul,” rejoined Neighbor Harrington. “How young -you look to-day!” - -In fact, the morning air, the pleasant drive, the joyous little -ones, and the novelty of going from home, so renovated the old -lady, that her spirits rose to the temperature of youth, her color -heightened, and her step was more elastic than usual. - -When they had filled their baskets, they sat under the trees, and -opened the boxes of luncheon. The children did their full share -toward making them empty. When Robin could eat no more, he followed -Joe Harrington into a neighboring field to examine some cows that -were grazing. The women took out their knitting, and little Jenny -sat at their feet, making hills of moss, while she sang about - - A kitty with soft white fur, - Whose only talk was a pleasant purr. - -The grandmother hummed the same tune, but in tones too low to drown -the voice of her darling. Looking round on the broad panorama of -hills, meadows, and cornfields, dotted with farm-houses, her soul -was filled with the spirit of summer, and she began to sing, in -tones wonderfully clear and strong for her years, - - “Among the trees, when humming-bees - At buds and flowers were hanging,” - -when Robin scrambled up the hill, calling out, “Sing something -funny, Granny! Sing that song about _me_!” He made a motion to -scatter Jenny’s mosses with his foot; but his grandmother said, -“If you want me to sing to you, you must keep quiet.” He stretched -himself full length before her, and throwing his feet up, gazed in -her face while she sang: - - “Robin was a rovin’ boy, - Rantin’ rovin’, rantin’ rovin’; - Robin was a rovin’ boy, - Rantin’ rovin’ Robin. - - “He’ll have misfortunes great and sma’ - But ay a heart aboon them a’; - He’ll be a credit till us a’; - We’ll a’ be proud o’ Robin.” - -“That means _me_!” he said, with an exultant air; and, turning a -somerset, he rolled down the hill, from the bottom of which they -heard him whistling the tune. - -Altogether, they had a very pleasant day among the trees and -bushes. It brought back very vividly to Mrs. May’s mind similar -ramblings with Hatty Brown in the fields of Maine. As they walked -slowly toward their wagon, she was looking dreamily down the long -vista of her life, at the entrance of which she seemed to see a -vision of her handsome friend Hatty pelting her with flowers in -girlish glee. The children ran on, while older members of the party -lingered to arrange the baskets. Presently Jenny came running back, -and said, “Granny, there’s a carriage down there; and a lady asked -me my name, and said I was a pretty little girl.” - -“Pretty _is_ that pretty _does_,” replied the grandmother. “That -means it is pretty to be good.” Then, turning to Mrs. Harrington, -she asked, “Whose carriage is that?” - -She answered, “It passed us last Sunday, when we were going to -meeting, and husband said it belonged to Mr. Jones, that New York -gentleman who bought the Simmes estate, you know. I guess that old -lady is Mrs. Gray, his wife’s mother.” - -“Mrs. _who_?” exclaimed her companion, in a very excited tone. - -“They say her name is Gray,” replied Mrs. Harrington; “but what -_is_ the matter with you? You’re all of a tremble.” - -Without answering, Mrs. May hurried forward with a degree of -agility that surprised them all. She paused in front of an old -lady very handsomely dressed in silver-gray silk. She looked -at the thin, sharp features, the dull black eyes, and the -wrinkled forehead. It was _so_ unlike the charming vision she -had seen throwing flowers in the far-off vista of memory! She -asked herself, “_Can_ it be she?” Then, with a suppressed, -half-embarrassed eagerness, she asked, “Are you the Mrs. Gray who -used to be Hatty Brown?” - -“That was formerly my name,” replied the lady, with dignified -politeness. - -She threw her arms round her neck, nothing doubting, and exclaimed: -“O Hatty! dear Hatty! How glad I am to see you! I’ve been thinking -of you a deal to-day.” - -The old lady received the embrace passively, and, readjusting her -tumbled cape, replied, “I think I’ve seen your face somewhere, -ma’am, but I don’t remember where.” - -“What! don’t you know _me_? Your old friend, Jenny White, who -married Frank May?” - -“O yes, I remember. But you’ve changed a good deal since I used to -know you. Has your health been good since I saw you, Mrs. May?” - -This response chilled her friend’s heart like an east wind upon -spring flowers. In a confused way, she stammered out, “I’ve -been very well, thank you; and I hope you have enjoyed the same -blessing. But I must go and see to the children now. I thought to -be sure you’d know me. Good by.” - -“Good by, ma’am,” responded the old lady in gray. - -The carriage was gone when Mrs. Harrington and her party entered -the big wagon to return home. Mrs. May, having made a brief -explanation of her proceedings, became unusually silent. It was -a lovely afternoon, but she did not comment on the beauty of -the landscape, as she had done in the morning. She was kind and -pleasant, but her gayety had vanished. The thought revolved through -her mind: “Could it be my shabby gown? Hatty always thought a deal -of dress.” But the suspicion seemed to her mean, and she strove to -drive it away. - -“Meeting that old acquaintance seems to make you down-hearted,” -remarked Mrs. Harrington; “and that’s something new for _you_.” - -“I _was_ disappointed that she didn’t know me,” replied Mrs. May; -“but when I reflect, it seems very natural. I doubt whether I -should have known _her_, if you hadn’t told me her name. I’m glad -it didn’t happen in the morning; for it might have clouded my day a -little. I’ve had a beautiful time.” - -“Whatever comes, you are always thankful it wasn’t something -worse,” rejoined Mrs. Harrington. “Little Jenny is going to be just -like you. _She_’ll never be pining after other people’s pies and -cakes. Whatever she has, she’ll call it ‘Lasses top on bread! What -_can_ be gooder?’ Won’t you, Sissy?” - -“Bless the dear little soul! she’s fast asleep!” said her -grandmother. She placed the pretty little head in her lap, and -tenderly stroked back the silky curls. The slight cloud soon -floated away from her serene soul, and she began to sing. “Away -with melancholy,” and “Life let us cherish.” As the wagon rolled -toward home, people who happened to be at their doors or windows -said: “That is old Mrs. Frank May. What a clear, sweet voice she -has for a woman of her years!” - -Mrs. May looked in her glass that night longer than she had done -for years. “I _am_ changed,” said she to herself. “No wonder Hatty -didn’t know me!” She took from the till of her trunk a locket -containing a braid of glossy black hair. She gazed at it awhile, -and then took off her spectacles, to wipe from them the moisture -of her tears. “And _this_ is my first meeting with Hatty since we -exchanged lockets!” murmured she. “If we had foreseen it then, -could we have believed it?” - -The question whether or not it was a duty to call on Mrs. Gray -disturbed her mind considerably. Mrs. Harrington settled it for her -off-hand. “She did not ask you to come,” said she; “and if she’s -a mind to set herself up, let her take the comfort of it. Folks -say she’s a dreadful stiff, prim old body; rigid Orthodox; sure -that everybody who don’t think just as she does will go to the bad -place.” - -These words were not uttered with evil intention, but their effect -was to increase the sense of separation. On the other hand, -influences were not wanting to prejudice Mrs. Gray against her -former friend, whose sudden appearance and enthusiastic proceedings -had disconcerted her precise habits. When the Sewing-Society met -at her son-in-law’s house, she happened to be seated next to an -austere woman, of whom she inquired, “What sort of person is Mrs. -Frank May?” - -“I don’t know her,” was the reply. “She goes to the Unitarian -meeting, and I have no acquaintance with people of that society. -I should judge she was rather light-minded. When I’ve passed by -her house, I’ve often heard her singing songs; and I should think -psalms and hymns would be more suitable to her time of life. I rode -by there once on Sunday, when I was coming home from a funeral, and -she was singing something that sounded too lively for a psalm-tune. -Miss Crosby told me she heard her say that heathens were just as -likely to be saved as Christians.” - -“O, I am sorry to hear that,” replied Mrs. Gray. “She and I were -brought up under the Rev. Mr. Peat’s preaching, and he was sound -Orthodox.” - -“I didn’t know she was an acquaintance of yours,” rejoined the -austere lady, “or I wouldn’t have called her light-minded. I never -heard anything against her, only what she said about the heathen.” - -Mrs. May, having revolved the subject in her straightforward -mind, came to the conclusion that Neighbor Harrington’s advice -was not in conformity with the spirit of kindness. “Since Mrs. -Gray is a stranger in town, it is my place to call first,” said -she. “I will perform my duty, and then she can do as she pleases -about returning the visit.” So she arrayed herself in the best -she had, placed the children in the care of Mrs. Harrington, and -went forth on her mission of politeness. The large mirror, the -chairs covered with green damask, and the paper touched here and -there with gold, that shimmered in the rays of the setting sun, -formed a striking contrast to her own humble home. Perhaps this -unaccustomed feeling imparted a degree of constraint to her manner -when her old friend entered the room, in ample folds of shining -gray silk, and a rich lace cap with pearl-colored ribbons. Mrs. -Gray remarked to her that she bore her age remarkably well; to -which Mrs. May replied that folks told her so, and she supposed it -was because she generally had pretty good health. It did not occur -to her to return the compliment, for it would not have been true. -Jenny was now better-looking than Hatty. Much of this difference -might be attributed to her more perfect health, but still more it -was owing to the fact that, all their lives long, one had lived -to be ministered unto, and the other to minister. The interview -was necessarily a formal one. Mrs. Gray inquired about old -acquaintances in Maine, but her visitor had been so long absent -from that part of the country that she had little or nothing to -tell, and all she had struggled through meanwhile would have been -difficult for the New York lady to realize. The remark about her -light-mindedness was constantly present in Mrs. Gray’s mind, and at -parting she thus expressed the anxiety it occasioned: “You say you -have a great deal to do, Mrs. May, and indeed you must have, with -all the care of those little children; but I hope you find time to -think about the salvation of your soul.” - -Her visitor replied, with characteristic simplicity: “I don’t know -whether I do, in the sense I suppose you mean. I have thought a -great deal about what is right and what is wrong, and I have prayed -for light to see what was my duty, and for strength to perform -it. But the fact is, I have had so much to do for others, that I -haven’t had much time to think about myself, in _any_ way.” Then, -with some passing remark about the vines at the door, the old -ladies bade each other good-by. - -When Mrs. Harrington was informed of the conversation, she said, in -her blunt way: “It was a great piece of impertinence in her. She’d -better take care of her own soul than trouble herself about yours.” - -“I don’t think so,” replied Mrs. May. “I believe she meant it -kindly. She don’t seem to me to be stern or proud. But we’ve been -doing and thinking such very different things, for a great many -years, that she don’t know what to say to _me_, and I am just as -much puzzled how to get at _her_. I reckon all these things will -come right in another world.” - -During the summer she often saw Mr. Jones’s carriage pass her -house, and many a time, when the weather was fine, she placed fresh -flowers on the mantel-piece, in a pretty vase which Hatty had given -her for a bridal present, thinking to herself that Mrs. Gray would -be likely to ride out, and might give her a call. When autumn came, -she filled the vase with grasses and bright berries, which she -gathered in her ramblings with the children. Once, the carriage -passed her as she was walking home, with a little one in either -hand, and Mrs. Gray looked out and bowed. At last a man came with a -barrel of apples and a message. The purport of it was, that she had -gone with her daughter’s family to New York for the winter; that -she intended to have called on Mrs. May, but had been poorly and -made no visits. - -Winter passed rapidly. The children attended school constantly; -it was grandmother’s business to help them about their lessons, -to knit them warm socks and mittens, to mend their clothes, and -fill their little dinner-kettle with provisions. The minister, the -deacon, and the neighbors in general felt interested to help the -worthy woman along in the task she had undertaken. Many times a -week she repeated, “How my path is strewn with blessings!” - -With the lilacs the New York family came back to their summer -residence. The tidings soon spread abroad that Mrs. Gray was -failing fast, and was seldom strong enough to ride out. Mrs. -May recalled to mind certain goodies, of which Hatty used to be -particularly fond in their old girlish times. The next day she -started from home with a basket nicely covered with a white damask -napkin, on the top of which lay a large bunch of Lilies of the -Valley, imbedded in one of their broad green leaves. She found Mrs. -Gray bolstered up in her easy-chair, looking quite thin and pale. -“I know you have everything you want, and better than I can bring,” -said she; “but I remembered you used to like these goodies when we -were girls, and I wanted to bring you _something_, so I brought -these.” She laid the flowers in the thin hand, and uncovered her -basket. - -The invalid looked up in her face with a smile, and said, “Thank -you, Jenny; this is very kind of you.” - -“God bless you for calling me Jenny!” exclaimed her warm-hearted -old friend, with a gush of tears. “There is nobody left to call me -Jenny now. The children call me Granny, and the neighbors call me -old Mrs. Frank May. O, it sounds like old times, Hatty.” - -The ice gave way under the touch of that one sunbeam. Mrs. Gray -and Mrs. May vanished from their conversation, and only Hatty and -Jenny remained. For several months they met every day, and warmed -their old hearts with youthful memories. Once only, a little of the -former restraint returned for a few minutes. Mrs. Gray betrayed -what was in her mind, by saying: “I suppose, Jenny, you know I -haven’t any property. My husband failed before he died, and I am -dependent on my daughter.” - -“I never inquired about your property, and I don’t care anything -about it,” replied Mrs. May, rather bruskly, and with a slight -flush on her cheeks; but, immediately subsiding into a gentler -tone, she added, “I’m very glad, Hatty, that you have a daughter -who is able to make you so comfortable.” - -Thenceforth the invalid accepted her disinterested services without -question or doubt. True to her old habits of being ministered -unto, she made large demands on her friend’s time and strength, -apparently unconscious how much inconvenience it must occasion to -an old person charged with the whole care of two orphan children. -Mrs. May carefully concealed any impediments in the way, and, -by help of Mrs. Harrington, was always ready to attend upon her -old friend. She was often called upon to sing “Auld Lang Syne”; -and sometimes, when the invalid felt stronger than common, she -would join in with her feeble, cracked voice. Jenny sat looking at -Hatty’s withered face, and dim black eyes, and she often felt a -choking in her throat, while they sang together: - - “We twa hae ran about the braes, - And pu’d the gowans fine.” - -More frequently they sang the psalm-tunes they used to sing when -both sat in the singing-seats with Frank May and Harry Blake. -They seldom parted without Jenny’s reading a chapter of the New -Testament in a soft, serious tone. One day Mrs. Gray said: “I have -a confession to make, Jenny. I was a little prejudiced against you, -and thought I shouldn’t care to renew our acquaintance. Somebody -told me you was light-minded, and that you told Miss Crosby the -heathen were just as likely to be saved as Christians. But you seem -to put your trust in God, Jenny; and it is a great comfort to me to -hear you read and sing.” - -“I have a confession to make, too,” replied Mrs. May. “They told me -you was a very stern and bigoted Orthodox; and you know, when we -were girls, Hatty, I never took much to folks that were too strict -to brew a Saturday, for fear the beer would work a Sunday.” - -“Ah, we were giddy young things in those days,” replied her friend, -with much solemnity in her manner. - -“Well, Hatty dear, I’m a sort of an old girl now,” replied Mrs. -May. “I am disposed to be merciful toward the short-comings of my -fellow-creatures, and I cannot believe our Heavenly Father will be -less so. I remember Miss Crosby talked to me about the heathen one -day, and I thought she talked hard. I don’t recollect what I said -to her; but after I arrived at years of reflection I came to some -conclusions different from the views we were brought up in. You -know my dear Frank was an invalid many years. He was always in the -house, and we read to each other, and talked over what we read. -In that way, I got the best part of the education I have after I -was married. Among other things he read to me some translations -from what the Hindoos believe in as their Bible; and some of the -writings of Rammohun Roy; and we both came to the conclusion that -some who were called heathens might be nearer to God than many -professing Christians. You know, Hatty, that Jesus walked and -talked with his disciples, and their hearts were stirred, but they -didn’t know him. Now it seems to me that the spirit of Jesus may -walk and talk with good pious Hindoos and Mahometans, and may stir -their hearts, though they don’t know him.” - -“You may be right,” rejoined the invalid. “God’s ways are above -our ways. It’s a pity friends should be set against one another -on account of what they believe, or don’t believe. Pray for _me_, -Jenny, and I will pray for _you_.” - -It was the latter part of October, when Mrs. May carried a garland -of bright autumn leaves to pin up opposite her friend’s bed. “It is -beautiful,” said the invalid; “but the colors are not so brilliant -as those you and I used to gather in Maine. O, how the woods glowed -there, at this season! I wish I could see them again.” - -Mrs. May smiled, and answered, “Perhaps you _will_, dear.” - -Her friend looked in her face, with an earnest, questioning glance; -but she only said, “Sing our old favorite tune in bygone days, -Jenny.” She seated herself by the bedside and sang: - - “The Lord my shepherd is, - I shall be well supplied; - Since he is mine, and I am his, - What can I want beside?” - -Perceiving that the invalid grew drowsy, she continued to hum in -a low, lulling tone. When she was fast asleep, she rose up, and, -after gazing tenderly upon her, crept softly out of the room. She -never looked in those old dim eyes again. The next morning they -told her the spirit had departed from its frail tenement. - -Some clothing and a few keepsakes were transmitted to Mrs. May -soon after, in compliance with the expressed wish of her departed -friend. Among them was the locket containing a braid of her own -youthful hair. It was the very color of little Jenny’s, only the -glossy brown was a shade darker. She placed the two lockets side -by side, and wiped the moisture from her spectacles as she gazed -upon them. Then she wrapped them together, and wrote on them, with -a trembling hand, “The hair of Grandmother and her old friend -Hatty; for my darling little Jenny.” - -When Neighbor Harrington came in to examine the articles that -had been sent, the old lady said to her: “There is nobody left -now to call me Jenny. But here is my precious _little_ Jenny. -_She_’ll never forsake her old granny; _will_ she, darling?” The -child snuggled fondly to her side, and stood on tiptoe to kiss the -wrinkled face, which was to her the dearest face in the whole world. - -She never did desert her good old friend. She declined marrying -during Mrs. May’s lifetime, and waited upon her tenderly to the -last. Robin, who proved a bright scholar, went to the West to -teach school, with the view of earning money to buy a farm, where -grandmother should be the queen. He wrote her many loving letters, -and sent portions of his earnings to her and Sissy; but she -departed this life before his earthly paradise was made ready for -her. The last tune she sang was St. Martin’s; and the last words -she spoke were: “How many blessings I have received! Thank the Lord -for all his mercies!” - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE GOOD OLD GRANDMOTHER, - -WHO DIED AGED EIGHTY. - - - O softly wave the silver hair - From off that aged brow! - That crown of glory, worn so long, - A fitting crown is now. - - Fold reverently the weary hands, - That toiled so long and well, - And, while your tears of sorrow fall, - Let sweet thanksgivings swell. - - That life-work, stretching o’er long years, - A varied web has been; - With silver strands by sorrow wrought, - And sunny gleams between. - - These silver hairs stole softly on, - Like flakes of falling snow, - That wrap the green earth lovingly, - When autumn breezes blow. - - Each silver hair, each wrinkle there, - Records some good deed done; - Some flower she cast along the way, - Some spark from love’s bright sun. - - How bright she always made her home! - It seemed as if the floor - Was always flecked with spots of sun, - And barred with brightness o’er. - - The very falling of her step - Made music as she went; - A loving song was on her lip, - The song of full content. - - And now, in later years, her word - Has been a blessed thing - In many a home, where glad she saw - Her children’s children spring. - - Her widowed life has happy been, - With brightness born of heaven; - So pearl and gold in drapery fold - The sunset couch at even. - - O gently fold the weary hands - That toiled so long and well; - The spirit rose to angel bands, - When off earth’s mantle fell. - - She’s safe within her Father’s house, - Where many mansions be; - O pray that thus such rest may come, - Dear heart, to thee and me! - - ANONYMOUS. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE CONSOLATIONS OF AGE. - -TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF ZSCHOKKE’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY. - - -From all I have narrated concerning my good and evil days, some may -infer that I have been on the whole a favorite of fortune; that -I may very well be philosophic, and maintain a rosy good-humor, -since, with the exception of a few self-torments of the fancy, I -have seldom or never experienced a misfortune. But indeed I _have_ -met with what men usually style great misfortunes, or evils, though -I never so named them. Like every mortal, I have had my share -of what is called human misery. The weight of a sudden load has -sometimes, for a moment, staggered me and pressed me down, as is -the case with others. But, with renewed buoyancy of spirit, I have -soon risen again, and borne the burden allotted to me, without -discontent. Nay, more than this, though some may shake their heads -incredulously, it is a fact that worldly suffering has often not -been disagreeable to me. It has weaned me from placing my trust -in transitory things. It has shown me the degree of strength and -self-reliance I could retain, even at that period of life when the -passions reign. I am fully convinced that there is no evil in the -world but sin. Nothing but consciousness of guilt spins a dark -thread, which reaches through the web of all our days, even unto -the grave. God is not the author of calamity, but only man, by his -weakness, his over-estimate of pompous vanities, and the selfish -nurture of his appetites. He weeps like a child because he cannot -have his own way, and even at seventy years of age is not yet a -man. He bewails himself, because God does not mind him. Yet every -outward misfortune is in truth as worthy a gift of God as outward -success. - -In common with others, I have met with ingratitude from many; but -it did not disquiet me; because what I had done for them was not -done for thanks. Friends have deceived me, but it did not make me -angry with them; for I saw that I had only deceived myself with -regard to them. I have endured misapprehension and persecution with -composure, being aware of the unavoidable diversity of opinions, -and of the passions thereby excited. I have borne the crosses -of poverty without a murmur; for experience had taught me that -outward poverty often brings inward wealth. I have lost a moderate -property, which I had acquired by toil, but such losses did not -imbitter me for a single day; they only taught me to work and -spare. I have been the happy father of happy children. Twelve sons -and one daughter I have counted; and I have had to sit, with a -bleeding heart, at the death-bed of four of those sons. As they -drew their last breath, I felt that divine sorrow which transforms -the inner man. My spirit rested on the Father of the universe, -and it was well with me. My dead ones were not parted from me. -Those who remained behind drew the more closely to one another, -while eagerly looking toward those who had gone before them to -other mansions of the Great Father. It was our custom to think of -the deceased as still living in the midst of us. We were wont to -talk about their little adventures, their amusing sallies, and the -noble traits of their characters. Everything noteworthy concerning -_them_, as well as what related to the _living_ members of the -family, was recorded by the children in a chronicle they kept in -the form of a newspaper, and was thus preserved from oblivion. -Death is something festal, great, like all the manifestations of -God here below. The death of my children hallowed me; it lifted -me more and more out of the shows of earth, into the divine. It -purified my thoughts and feelings. I wept, as a child of the dust -_must_ do; but in spirit I was calm and cheerful, because I knew to -whom I and mine belonged. - -At the beginning of old age, I could indeed call myself a happy -man. On my seventieth birthday, I felt as if I were standing -on a mountain height, at whose foot the ocean of eternity was -audibly rushing; while behind me, life, with its deserts and -flower-gardens, its sunny days and its stormy days, spread out -green, wild, and beautiful. Formerly, when I read or heard of the -joylessness of age, I was filled with sadness; but I now wondered -that it presented so much that was agreeable. The more the world -diminished and grew dark, the less I felt the loss of it; for the -dawn of the next world grew ever clearer and clearer. - -Thus rejoicing in God, and with him, I advance into the winter -of life, beyond which no spring awaits me on this planet. The -twilight of my existence on earth is shining round me; but the -world floats therein in a rosy light, more beautiful than the -dawn of life. Others may look back with homesickness to the lost -paradise of childhood. That paradise was never mine. I wandered -about, an orphan, unloved, and forsaken of all but God. I thank him -for this allotment; for it taught me to build my paradise within. -The solemn evening is at hand, and it is welcome. I repent not -that I have lived. Others, in their autumn, can survey and count -up their collected harvests. This I cannot. I have scattered seed, -but whither the wind has carried it I know not. The good-will -alone was mine. God’s hand decided concerning the success of my -labor. Many an unproductive seed I have sown; but I do not, on -that account, complain either of myself or of Heaven. Fortune has -lavished on me no golden treasures; but contented with what my -industry has acquired, - and my economy has preserved, I enjoy that - noble independence at which I have - always aimed; and out of the little - I possess I have been sometimes - able to afford assistance - to others who were - less fortunate. - -[Illustration] - - AN healthy old fellow, that is not a fool, is the happiest - creature living. It is at that time of life only men enjoy - their faculties with pleasure and satisfaction. It is then - we have nothing to _manage_, as the phrase is; we speak the - downright truth; and whether the rest of the world will _give_ - us the privilege, or not, we have so little to ask of them, - that we can _take_ it.--STEELE. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE OLD MAN DREAMS. - -BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. - - - O for one hour of youthful joy! - Give me back my twentieth spring! - I’d rather laugh a bright-haired boy, - Than reign a gray-beard king! - - Off with the wrinkled spoils of age! - Away with learning’s crown! - Tear out life’s wisdom-written page, - And dash its trophies down! - - One moment let my life-blood stream - From boyhood’s fount of fame! - Give me one giddy, reeling dream - Of life all love and flame! - - My listening angel heard the prayer, - And, calmly smiling, said, - “If I but touch thy silvered hair, - Thy hasty wish hath sped. - - “But is there nothing in thy track - To bid thee fondly stay, - While the swift seasons hurry back - To find the wished-for day?” - - Ah, truest soul of womankind! - Without _thee_, what were life? - One bliss I cannot leave behind: - I’ll take--my--precious--wife! - - The angel took a sapphire pen - And wrote in rainbow dew, - “The man would be a boy again, - And be a husband too!” - - “And is there nothing yet unsaid, - Before the change appears? - Remember, all their gifts have fled - With those dissolving years!” - - Why, yes; for memory would recall - My fond paternal joys; - I could not bear to leave them all: - I’ll take--my--girl--and--boys! - - The smiling angel dropped his pen,-- - “Why, this will never do; - The man would be a boy again, - And be a father too!” - - And so I laughed,--my laughter woke - The household with its noise,-- - And wrote my dream, when morning broke, - To please the gray-haired boys. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -A RUSSIAN LADY - -OF THE OLD SCHOOL.[A] - - [A] From Life in the Interior of Russia. - - -Give me your hand, dear reader, and accompany me on a visit to one -of my neighbors. The day is fine, the blue sky of the month of -May is a beautiful object; the smooth young leaves of the white -hazel-trees are as brilliant as if they had been newly washed. -The large, smooth fields are covered with that fine young grass -which the sheep love so much to crop; on the right and left, on -the long slopes of the hills, the rye-grass is waving, and over -its smooth swell glide the shadows of the little flying clouds. In -the distance, the woods are resplendent with the brilliant light; -the ponds glitter, and the villages are bathed in yellow rays. -Innumerable larks fly about, singing and beating their wings in -unison; making their appearance first in one spot, then in another, -they rise lightly from the fields, and again are as quickly lost -in them. The rooks station themselves on the highway, looking up -fixedly at the sun; they move aside to let you pass, or foolishly -fly forward ten paces on the edge of the road. On the slopes beyond -a ravine a laborer is at his plough, and a piebald foal, with its -miserable little tail, dishevelled mane, and long, frail legs, runs -after its mother, and we may just hear its plaintive neigh. We -enter a birch wood, and a fresh and strong odor fills the air; we -reach the gate of an enclosure; the coachman descends, and, while -the horses snort, and the right wheeler plays with his tail, and -rubs his jaw against the pole, he opens the creaking gate, and, -reseating himself, we roll on. - -A village now presents itself, and, after passing five or six -farm-yards, we turn to the right, and descending rapidly, are soon -driving along an embankment. Beyond a pond of moderate extent, and -behind apple-trees and clustering lilacs, an old wooden house is -now visible, painted red, and possessing two chimneys. We drive -along a paling on the left, and pass through a large open carriage -entrance, saluted by the husky barkings of three old worn-out dogs. -My groom gallantly salutes an old housekeeper, who is peeping out -of the pantry through a foot and a half window. We draw up before -the door near the veranda of a gloomy little house. It is the abode -of Tatiana Borissovna. But there she is herself, saluting us from -the window. “Good morning, good morning, Madame.” - -Tatiana Borissovna is a woman of about fifty; she has large -bluish-gray eyes, slightly prominent, a nose inclined to flatness, -cherry cheeks, and a double chin. Her face beams with sweetness -and goodness. She once had a husband, but so long ago that no one -has any recollection of it. She scarcely ever leaves her little -property, keeps up but a slight connection with her neighbors, -seldom invites them to her house, and likes none but young people. -Her father was a poor gentleman, and she consequently received -a very imperfect education; in other words, she does not speak -French, and has never seen even Moscow, not to speak of St. -Petersburg. But, spite of these little defects, she manages all -her affairs in her country life so simply and wisely; she has so -large a way of thinking, of feeling, and comprehending things; -she is so little accessible to the thousand weaknesses which are -generally found in our good provincial ladies,--poor things,--that, -in truth, one cannot help admiring her. Only consider that she -lives all the year round within the precincts of her own village -and estate, quite isolated, and that she remains a stranger to all -the tittle-tattle of the locality; does not rail, slander, take -offence, or choke and fret with curiosity; that envy, jealousy, -aversion, and restlessness of body and mind, are all unknown to -her; only consider this, and grant that she is a marvel. Every day -after eleven o’clock she is dressed in a gown of iron-gray taffeta, -and a white cap with long pure ribbons; she likes to eat, and make -others do the same; but she eats moderately, and lets others follow -her example. Preserves, fruits, pickled meats, are all intrusted to -the housekeeper. With what, then, does she occupy herself, and how -does she fill up her day? She reads, perhaps, you will say. No, she -does not read; and, to speak the truth, people must think of others -than Tatiana Borissovna when they print a book. In winter, if she -is alone, our Tatiana Borissovna sits near a window, and quietly -knits a stocking; in summer she goes and comes in her garden, -where she plants and waters flowers, picks the caterpillars from -her shrubs, puts props under her bushes, and sprinkles sand over -the garden paths; then she can amuse herself for hours with the -feathered race in her court-yard, with her kittens and pigeons, all -of which she feeds herself. She occupies herself very little with -housekeeping. If, unexpectedly, any good young neighbor chances -to look in, she is then as happy as possible; she establishes -herself upon her divan, regales her visitor with tea, hears all -he has to say, sometimes gives him little friendly pats on the -cheek, laughs heartily at his sallies, and speaks little herself. -Are you annoyed, or the victim of some misfortune? She consoles -you with the most sympathizing words, and opens up various means -of relief, all full of good sense. How many there are, who, after -confiding to her their family secrets and their private griefs, -have found themselves so relieved by unburdening their minds, that -they have bathed her hands with their tears. In general, she sits -right before her guest, her head leaning lightly on her left hand, -looking in his face with so much kindly interest, smiling with -such friendly good-nature, that one can scarcely keep himself from -saying, “Ah! what an excellent woman you are, Tatiana Borissovna. -Come, I will conceal from - you nothing that weighs upon my heart.” In her - delightful, nice little rooms, one is so - pleased with himself and everybody, - that he is unwilling to leave - them; in this little - heaven, the weather - is always at - “set fair.” - -[Illustration] - -The happiness of life may be greatly increased by small courtesies -in which there is no parade, whose voice is too still to tease, -and which manifest themselves by tender and affectionate looks, -and little kind acts of attention, giving others the preference -in every little enjoyment at the table, in the field, walking, -sitting, or standing.--STERNE. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE OLD MAN’S SONG. - -TO HIS WIFE. - - - Oh, don’t be sorrowful, darling! - Now don’t be sorrowful, pray! - For, taking the year together, my dear, - There isn’t more night than day. - - ’Tis rainy weather, my darling; - Time’s waves they heavily run; - But, taking the year together, my dear, - There isn’t more cloud than sun. - - We are old folks now, my darling; - Our heads they are growing gray; - But, taking the year all round, my dear, - You will always find the May. - - We’ve _had_ our May, my darling, - And our roses, long ago; - And the time of the year is coming, my dear, - For the long dark nights and the snow. - - But God is God, my darling, - Of night, as well as of day; - And we feel and know that we can go - Wherever He leads the way. - - Ay, God of the night, my darling; - Of the night of death so grim. - The gate that from life leads out, good wife, - Is the gate that leads to Him. - - ANONYMOUS. - - - - -THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH. - -THE BIRTHDAY OF ----. - - - Now be the hours that yet remain to thee - Stormy or sunny, sympathy and love, - That inextinguishably dwell within - Thy heart, shall give a beauty and a light - To the most desolate moments, like the glow - Of a bright fireside in the wildest day; - And kindly words and offices of good - Shall wait upon thy steps, as thou goest on, - Where God shall lead thee, till thou reach the gates - Of a more genial season, and thy path - Be lost to human eye among the bowers - And living fountains of a brighter land. - - WM. C. BRYANT. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -A CHRISTMAS STORY FOR GRANDFATHER. - -BY CHARLES DICKENS. - - -Once upon a time, a good many years ago, there was a traveller, and -he set out upon a journey. It was a magic journey, and was to seem -very long when he began it, and very short when he got half-way -through. - -He travelled along a rather dark path for some little time, without -meeting anything, until at last he came to a beautiful child. So he -said to the child, “What do you here?” And the child said, “I am -always at play. Come and play with me!” - -So, he played with that child the whole day long, and they were -very merry. The sky was so blue, the sun was so bright, the water -was so sparkling, the leaves were so green, the flowers were -so lovely, and they heard such singing-birds, and saw so many -butterflies, that everything was beautiful. This was in fine -weather. When it rained, they loved to watch the falling drops -and to smell the fresh scents. When it blew, it was delightful to -listen to the wind, and fancy what it said, as it came rushing from -its home--where was that, they wondered!--whistling and howling, -and driving the clouds before it, bending the trees, rumbling in -the chimneys, shaking the house, and making the sea roar in fury. -But when it snowed, that was the best of all; for they liked -nothing so well as to look up at the white flakes falling fast and -thick, like down from the breasts of millions of white birds; and -to see how smooth and deep the drift was, and to listen to the hush -upon the paths and roads. - -They had plenty of the finest toys in the world, and the most -astonishing picture-books, all about scimitars and slippers -and turbans, and dwarfs and giants, and genii and fairies, and -blue-beards and bean-stalks, and riches, and caverns and forests, -and Valentines and Orsons: and all new and all true. - -But one day, of a sudden, the traveller lost the child. He called -to him over and over again, but got no answer. So, he went upon -his road, and went on for a little while without meeting anything, -until at last he came to a handsome boy. So, he said to the boy, -“What do you here?” And the boy said, “I am always learning. Come -and learn with me.” - -So he learned with that boy about Jupiter and Juno, and the Greeks -and the Romans, and I don’t know what, and learned more than I -could tell,--or he either; for he soon forgot a great deal of it. -But they were not always learning; they had the merriest games -that ever were played. They rowed upon the river in summer, and -skated on the ice in winter; they were active afoot, and active on -horseback; at cricket, and all games at ball; at prisoners’ base, -hare and hounds, follow my leader, and more sports than I can think -of; nobody could beat them. They had holidays, too, and Twelfth -cakes, and parties where they danced all night till midnight, and -real theatres, where they saw palaces of real gold and silver rise -out of the real earth, and saw all the wonders of the world at -once. As to friends, they had such dear friends, and so many of -them, that I want the time to reckon them up. They were all young, -like the handsome boy, and were never to be strange to one another -all their lives through. - -Still, one day, in the midst of all these pleasures, the traveller -lost the boy, as he had lost the child, and, after calling on him -in vain, went on upon his journey. So he went on for a little while -without seeing anything, until at last he came to a young man. So, -he said to the young man, “What do you here?” And the young man -said, “I am always in love. Come and love with me.” - -So, he went away with that young man, and presently they came -to one of the prettiest girls that ever was seen,--just like -Fanny in the corner there,--and she had eyes like Fanny, and -hair like Fanny, and dimples like Fanny’s, and she laughed and -colored just as Fanny does while I am talking about her. So, -the young man fell in love directly,--just as Somebody I won’t -mention, the first time he came here, did with Fanny. Well! He was -teased sometimes,--just as Somebody used to be by Fanny; and they -quarrelled sometimes,--just as Somebody and Fanny used to quarrel; -and they made it up, and sat in the dark, and wrote letters every -day, and never were happy asunder, and were always looking out for -one another, and pretending not to, and were engaged at Christmas -time, and sat close to one another by the fire, and were going to -be married very soon,--all exactly like Somebody I won’t mention -and Fanny! - -But the traveller lost them one day, as he had lost the rest of his -friends, and, after calling to them to come back, which they never -did, went on upon his journey. So, he went on for a little while -without seeing anything, until at last he came to a middle-aged -gentleman. So, he said to the gentleman, “What are you doing here?” -And his answer was, “I am always busy. Come and be busy with me!” - -So, then he began to be very busy with that gentleman, and they -went on through the wood together. The whole journey was through -a wood, only it had been open and green at first, like a wood in -spring; and now began to be thick and dark, like a wood in summer; -some of the little trees that had come out earliest were even -turning brown. The gentleman was not alone, but had a lady of about -the same age with him, who was his wife: and they had children, who -were with them too. So, they all went on together through the wood, -cutting down the trees, and making a path through the branches and -the fallen leaves, and carrying burdens, and working hard. - -Sometimes they came to a long green avenue that opened into deeper -woods. Then they would hear a very little distant voice crying, -“Father, father, I am another child! Stop for me!” And presently -they would see a very little figure, growing larger as it came -along, running to join them. When it came up, they all crowded -round it, and kissed and welcomed it; and then they all went on -together. - -Sometimes they came to several avenues at once; and then they all -stood still, and one of the children said, “Father, I am going to -sea”; and another said, “Father, I am going to India”; and another, -“Father, I am going to seek my fortune where I can”; and another, -“Father, I am going to heaven!” So, with many tears at parting, -they went, solitary, down those avenues, each child upon its way; -and the child who went to heaven, rose into the golden air and -vanished. - -Whenever these partings happened, the traveller looked at the -gentleman, and saw him glance up at the sky above the trees, where -the day was beginning to decline, and the sunset to come on. He -saw, too, that his hair was turning gray. But they never could rest -long, for they had their journey to perform, and it was necessary -for them to be always busy. - -At last, there had been so many partings that there were no -children left, and only the traveller, the gentleman, and the lady -went upon their way in company. And now the wood was yellow; and -now brown; and the leaves, even of the forest-trees, began to fall. - -So they came to an avenue that was darker than the rest, and were -pressing forward on their journey without looking down it, when the -lady stopped. - -“My husband,” said the lady, “I am called.” - -They listened, and they heard a voice a long way down the avenue -say, “Mother, mother!” - -It was the voice of the first child who had said, “I am going to -heaven!” and the father said, “I pray not yet. The sunset is very -near. I pray not yet.” - -But the voice cried, “Mother, mother!” without minding him, though -his hair was now quite white, and tears were on his face. - -Then, the mother, who was already drawn into the shade of the dark -avenue, and moving away with her arms still around his neck, kissed -him and said, “My dearest, I am summoned, and I go!” And she was -gone. And the traveller and he were left alone together. - -And they went on and on together, until they came to very near the -end of the wood; so near, that they could see the sunset shining -red before them through the trees. - -Yet, once more, while he broke his way among the branches, the -traveller lost his friend. He called and called, but there was no -reply, and when he passed out of the wood and saw the peaceful -sun going down upon a wide purple prospect, he came to an old man -sitting upon a fallen tree. So, he said to the old man, “What do -you here?” And the old man said, with a calm smile, “I am always -remembering. Come and remember with me.” - -So, the traveller sat down by the side of the old man, face to -face with the serene sunset; and all his friends came softly back -and stood around him. The beautiful child, the handsome boy, the -young man in love, the father, mother, and children: every one of -them was there, and he had lost nothing. So, he loved them all, and -was kind and forbearing with them all, and was always pleased to -watch them all, and they all honored and loved him. And I think the -traveller must be yourself, dear grandfather, because it is what -you do to us, and what we do to you. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. - -BY ROBERT BURNS. - - - John Anderson, my jo, John, - When we were first acquent, - Your locks were like the raven, - Your bonnie brow was brent[B]; - But now your head’s turned bald, John, - Your locks are like the snow; - But blessings on your frosty pow, - John Anderson, my jo. - - John Anderson, my jo, John, - We clamb the hill thegither; - And mony a canty[C] day, John, - We’ve had wi’ ane anither: - Now we maun totter down, John, - But hand in hand we’ll go, - And sleep thegither at the foot, - John Anderson, my jo. - - [B] Smooth. - - [C] Merry. - - When thoughtful people sing these admirable verses, they are - apt to long to hear of something _beyond_ the foot of the hill. - This want has been extremely well supplied by Mr. Charles - Gould, of New York, in the following verse:-- - - John Anderson, my jo, John, - When we have slept thegither - The sleep that a’ maun sleep, John, - We’ll wake wi’ ane anither: - And in that better warld, John, - Nae sorrow shall we know; - Nor fear we e’er shall part again, - John Anderson, my jo. - - - - -OLD FOLKS AT HOME. - - - More pleasant seem their own surroundings, - Though quaint and old, - Than newer homes, with their aboundings - Of marble, silk, and gold. - For ’tis the heart inspires home-feelings, - In hut or hall, - Where memory, with its fond revealings, - Sheds a tender light o’er all. - - They love the wonted call to meeting, - By their old bell; - They love the old familiar greeting - From friends who know them well. - Their homesick hearts are always yearning, - When they’re away; - And ever is their memory turning - To scenes where they used to stay. - - L. M. C. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -EVERLASTING YOUTH. - -BY REV. EDMUND H. SEARS.[D] - - [D] From Foregleams of Immortality. - - -Old age, in some of its aspects, is a most interesting and solemn -mystery, though to the outward eye it is merely the gradual waning -and extinction of existence. All the faculties fold themselves up -to a long, last sleep. First, the senses begin to close, and lock -in the soul from the outward world. The hearing is generally the -first to fail, shutting off the mind from the tones of affection -and of melody. The sight fails next; and the pictures of beauty, -on the canvas spread round us morning and evening, become blurred. -The doors and windows are shut toward the street. The invasion -keeps on steadily toward the seat of life. The images of the memory -lose their outline, run together, and at last melt away into -darkness. Now and then, by a special effort, rents are made in -the clouds, and we see a vista opening through the green glades -of other years. But the edges of the cloud soon close again. It -settles down more densely than ever, and all the past is blotted -out. Then the reason fails, and the truths it had elaborated -flicker and are extinguished. Only the affections remain. Happy -for us, if these also have not become soured or chilled. It is our -belief, however, that these _may_ be preserved in their primitive -freshness and glow; and that in the old age where the work of -regeneration is consummating, the affections are always preserved -bright and sweet, like roses of Eden, occupying a charmed spot in -the midst of snows. In old age, men generally seem to have grown -either better or worse. The reason is, that the internal life is -then more revealed, and its spontaneous workings are more fully -manifested. The intellectual powers are no longer vigilant to -control the expression of the internal feelings, and so the heart -is generally laid open. What we call the moroseness and peevishness -of age is none other than the real disposition, no longer hedged -in, and kept in decency, by the intellect, but coming forth without -disguise. So again, that beautiful simplicity and infantile -meekness, sometimes apparent in old age, beaming forth, like the -dawn of the coming heaven, through all the relics of natural decay, -are the spontaneous effusions of sanctified affections. There -is, therefore, a good and a bad sense, in which we speak of the -second childhood. Childhood is the state of spontaneity. In the -first childhood, before the intellect is formed, the heart answers -truly to all impressions from without; as the Æolian harp answers -to every touch of the breeze. In the second childhood, after the -intellect is broken down, the same phenomenon comes round again; -and in it you read the history of all the intervening years. What -those years have done for the regeneration of the soul will appear, -now that its inmost state is translucent, no longer concealed by -the expediencies learned of intellectual prudence. When the second -childhood is true and genial, the work of regeneration approaches -its consummation; and the light of heaven is reflected from silver -hairs, as if one stood nearer to Paradise, and caught reflections -of the resurrection glories. - -But alas! is this _all_ that is left of us, amid the memorials -of natural decay? Senses, memory, reason, all blotted out, -in succession, and instinctive affection left _alone_ to its -spontaneous workings, like a solitary flower breathing its -fragrance upon snows? And how do we know but _this_, too, will -close up its leaves, and fall before the touch of the invader? Then -the last remnant of the man is no more. Or, if otherwise, must so -many souls enter upon their immortality denuded of everything but -the heart’s inmost and ruling love? - -How specious and deceptive are natural appearances! What _seemed_ -to the outward eye the waning of existence, and the loss of -faculties, is only locking them up successively, in order to keep -them more secure. Old age, rather than death, answers strictly to -the analogies of _sleep_. It is the gradual folding in and closing -up of all the voluntary powers, after they have become worn and -tired, that they may wake again refreshed and renovated for the -higher work that awaits them. The psychological evidence is pretty -full and decisive, that old age is sleep, but not decay. The reason -lives, though its eye is temporarily closed; and some future day it -will give a more perfect and pliant form to the affections. Memory -remains, though its functions are suspended for a while. All its -chambers may be exhumed hereafter, and their frescoes, like those -of the buried temples at Meroë, will be found preserved in unfading -colors. The _whole_ record of our life is laid up _within_ us; and -only the overlayings of the physical man prevent the record from -being always visible. The years leave their _débris_ successively -upon the spiritual nature, till it seems buried and lost beneath -the layers. On the old man’s memory every period seems to have -obliterated a former one; but the life which he has lived can no -more be lost to him, or destroyed, than the rock-strata can be -destroyed by being buried under layers of sand. In those hours -when the bondage of the senses is less firm, and the life within -has freer motion; or, in those hours of self-revelation, which are -sometimes experienced under a clearer and more pervading light -from above,--the past withdraws its veil; and we see, rank beyond -rank, as along the rows of an expanding amphitheatre, the images -of successive years, called out as by some wand of enchantment. -There are abundant facts, which go to prove that the decline and -forgetfulness of years are nothing more than the hardening of the -mere _envelopment_ of the man, shutting in the inmost life, which -merely waits the hour to break away from its bondage. - -De Quincey says: “I am assured that there is no such thing as -_forgetting_ possible to the mind. A thousand circumstances may -and will interpose a veil between our present consciousness and -the secret inscriptions of the mind; but alike, whether veiled or -unveiled, the inscription remains forever; just as the stars _seem_ -to withdraw from the common light of day; whereas, we all know that -it is the light which is drawn over them, as a veil, and that they -are waiting to be revealed, when the obscuring daylight shall have -withdrawn.” - -The resurrection is the exact inverse of natural decay; and the -former is preparing ere the latter has ended. The affections, being -the inmost life, are the nucleus of the whole man. They are the -creative and organific centre, whence are formed the reason and -the memory, and thence their embodiment in the more outward form -of members and organs. The whole interior mechanism is complete in -the chrysalis, ere the wings, spotted with light, are fluttering -in the zephyrs of morning. St. Paul, who, in this connection, -is speaking specially of the resurrection of the just, presents -three distinct points of contrast between the natural body and the -spiritual. One is weak, the other is strong. One is corruptible, -the other is incorruptible. One is without honor, the other is -glorious. By saying that one is natural, and the other spiritual, -he certainly implies that one is better adapted than the other -to do the functions of spirit, and more perfectly to organize -and manifest its powers. How clearly conceivable then is it that -when man becomes free of the coverings of mere natural decay, he -comes into complete possession of all that he is, and all that he -has ever lived; that leaf after leaf in our whole book of life is -opened backward, and all its words and letters come out in more -vivid colors! - -In the other life, therefore, appears the wonderful paradox that -the oldest people are the youngest. To grow in age is to come into - everlasting youth. To become old in years is - to put on the freshness of perpetual - prime. We drop from us the _débris_ - of the past, we breathe the - ether of immortality, and - our cheeks mantle - with eternal - bloom. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -LIFE. - - The following lines were by Mrs. Anna Letitia Barbauld, an - English writer of great merit, extensively known as the author - of excellent Hymns, and Early Lessons for Children. She was - born in 1743, and lived to be nearly eighty-two years old. She - employed the latter part of her life in editing a series of the - best English novels and essays, accompanied with biographical - sketches of the authors; and compositions in prose and verse - continued to be her favorite occupation to the last. - - - Life! I know not what thou art, - But know that thou and I must part; - And when, or how, or where we met, - I own to me’s a secret yet. - - Life! we have been long together, - Through pleasant and through cloudy weather. - ’Tis hard to part when friends are dear; - Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear. - Then steal away; give little warning; - Choose thine own time; - Say not Good Night; but in some brighter clime - Bid me Good Morning! - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE. - -BY L. MARIA CHILD. - - -There was a traveller who set out upon a new road, not knowing -whither it would lead him, nor whence he came, for he had been -conveyed thither blindfold, and the bandage had been removed in -his sleep. When he woke up he found himself among all sorts of -pretty novelties, and he ran about hither and thither, eagerly -asking, “What is this?” “What is that?” His activity was untiring. -He tried to catch everything he saw, and hold it fast in his hand. -But humming-birds whirred in his ears, and as soon as he tried to -grasp them they soared up out of his reach, and left him gazing -at their burnished throats glistening in the sunshine. Daintily -painted butterflies poised themselves on such lowly flowers, that -he thought he had but to stoop and take them; but they also floated -away as soon as he approached. He walked through stately groves, -where the sunshine was waltzing with leaf-shadows, and he tried to -pick up the airy little dancers. “They won’t let me catch ’em!” he -exclaimed, petulantly. But on he hurried in pursuit of a squirrel, -which ran nimbly away from him up into a tree, and there he sat on -the high boughs, flourishing his pretty tail in the air. And so the -traveller went along the wondrous road, always trying for something -he couldn’t catch, not knowing that the pleasure was in the pursuit. - -As he went on, the path widened and grew more attractive. Birds -of radiant colors flitted about, and filled the air with charming -variations of melody. Trees threw down showers of blossoms as -he passed, and beneath his feet was a carpet of emerald-colored -velvet, embroidered with a profusion of golden stars. Better than -all, troops of handsome young men and lovely maidens joined him, -all put blindfolded into the road, and travelling they knew not -whither. And now they all set out upon a race after something -higher up than squirrels or butterflies could go. “Look there! -Look there! See what is before us!” they exclaimed. And lo! -they all saw, away beyond, on hills of fleecy cloud, the most -beautiful castles! The walls were of pearl, and rainbow pennons -waved from the gold-pointed turrets. “We will take possession of -those beautiful castles! That is where we are going to live!” they -shouted to each other; and on they ran in pursuit of the rainbows. -But they often paused in the chase, to frolic together. They -laughed, and sang merry songs, and pelted each other with flowers, -and danced within a ring of roses. It was a beautiful sight to see -their silky ringlets tossed about by the breeze, and shining in -the sunlight. But the game they liked best was looking into each -other’s eyes. They said they could see a blind boy there, with a -bow and arrow; and always they were playing bo-peep with that blind -boy, who wasn’t so blind as he seemed; for whenever he aimed his -arrow at one of them, he was almost sure to hit. But they said the -arrow was wreathed with flowers, and carried honey on its point; -and there was nothing they liked quite so well as being shot at by -the blind boy. - -Sometimes their sport was interrupted by some stern-looking -traveller, who said to them, in solemn tones, “Why do you make such -fools of yourselves? Do you know whither this road leads?” Then -they looked at each other bewildered, and said they did not. “I -have been on this road much longer than you have,” he replied; “and -I think it is my duty to turn back sometimes and warn those who -are coming after me. I tell you this road, where you go dancing so -carelessly, abounds with pitfalls, generally concealed by flowers; -and it ends in an awful, deep, dark hole. You are all running, like -crazy fools, after rainbow castles in the air. You will never -come up with them. They will vanish and leave nothing but a great -black cloud. But what you have most to fear is a cruel giant, who -is sure to meet you somewhere on the road. Nobody ever knows where; -for he is invisible. Whatever he touches with his dart turns first -to marble and then to ashes. You ought to be thinking of _him_ and -his dreadful arrow, instead of the foolish archer that you call -the blind boy. Instead of chattering about roses and rainbows, you -ought to be thinking of the awful black pit at the end of the road.” - -His words chilled the young men and maidens, like wind from a -cavern. They looked at each other thoughtfully, and said, “Why does -he try to spoil our sport with stories of pitfalls and invisible -giants? We don’t know where the pitfalls are; and if we go poking -on the ground for them, how can we see the sunshine and the birds?” -Some of the more merry began to laugh at the solemn traveller, and -soon they were all dancing again, or hurrying after the rainbow -castles. They threw roses at each other by the way; and often the -little blind archer was in the heart of the roses, and played them -mischievous tricks. They laughed merrily, and said to each other, -“This is a beautiful road. It is a pity old Howlit don’t know how -to enjoy it.” - -But as our traveller passed on his way, he found that the words of -the lugubrious prophet were sometimes verified. Now and then some -of his companions danced into pitfalls covered with flowers. He -himself slipped several times, but recovered his balance, and said -it would teach him to walk more carefully. Others were bruised and -faint in consequence of falls, and made no effort to rise up. In -the kindness of his heart, he would not leave them thus; but always -he tried to cheer them, saying, “Up, and try again, my brother! You -won’t make the same mistake again.” Cheerful and courageous as he -was, however, he saw the rainbow castles gradually fading from his -vision; but they did not leave a great black cloud, as the solemn -traveller had foretold; they melted into mild and steady sunlight. -The young men and maidens, who had frolicked with him, went off in -pairs, some into one bypath, some into another. Hand in hand with -our traveller went a gentle companion, named Mary, in whose eyes -he had long been playing at bo-peep with the blind boy. When they -talked of this, they said they could still see him in each other’s -eye-mirrors, but now he had put his arrows into the quiver, and was -stringing pearls. Mary brought little children to her companion, -and they were more charming than all the playthings of their former -time. They gazed fondly into the eyes of the little strangers, and -said, “We see angels in these azure depths, and they are lovelier -than the blind boy ever was.” They played no more with roses now, -but gathered ripe fruits, glowing like red and purple jewels, and -planted grain which grew golden in the sunshine. Companions with -whom they had parted by the way occasionally came into their path -again, as they journeyed on. Their moods were various, according to -their experiences. Some still talked joyfully of the ever-varying -beauty of the road. Others sighed deeply, and said they had found -nothing to console them for withered roses, and rainbows vanished. -Sometimes, when inquiries were made about former acquaintances, -the answer was that the invisible giant had touched them, and they -had changed to marble. Then a shadow seemed to darken the pleasant -road, and they spoke to each other in low tones. Some of those who -sighed over withered roses, told of frightful things done by this -invisible giant, and of horrid places whither they had heard he -conveyed his victims. To children who were chasing butterflies, -and to young men and maidens who were twining rose-wreaths, they -said, “You ought not to be wasting your time with such frivolous -pastimes; you ought to be thinking of the awful invisible one, who -is near us when we least think of it.” They spoke in lugubrious -tones, as the solemn traveller had aforetime spoken to them. But -our traveller, who was cheerful of heart, said: “It is not kind to -throw a shadow across their sunshine. Let them enjoy themselves.” -And his Mary asked whether HE who made the beautiful road had -wasted time when HE _made_ the roses and the butterflies? And _why_ -had HE made them, if they were not to be enjoyed? - -But clouds sometimes came over this sunshine of their souls. One -of the little cherub boys whom Mary had brought to her companion -received the invisible touch, and became as marble. Then a shadow -fell across their path, and went with them as they walked. They -pressed each other’s hands in silence, but the thought was ever -in their hearts, “Whom will he touch next?” The little cherub was -not _in_ the marble form; he was still with them, though they knew -it not. Gradually their pain was softened, and they found comfort -in remembering his winning ways. Mary said to her companion: “As -we have travelled along this mysterious road, the scenery has -been continually changing, even as we have changed. But one form -of beauty has melted into another, so gently, so imperceptibly, -that we have been unconscious of the change, until it had passed. -Where all is so full of blessing, dearest, it cannot be that this -invisible touch is an exception.” The traveller sighed, and merely -answered, “It is a great mystery”; but her words fell on his heart -like summer dew on thirsty flowers. They thought of the cherub -boy, who had disappeared from their vision, and the tears dropped -slowly; but as they fell, a ray of light from heaven kissed them -and illumined them with rainbows. They clasped each other’s hands -more closely, and travelled on. Sometimes they smiled at each -other, as they looked on their remaining little ones, running -hither and thither chasing the bright butterflies. And Mary, who -was filled with gentle wisdom, said, “The butterfly was once a -crawling worm; but when it became stiff and cold, there emerged -from it this wingéd creature, clothed with beauty.” He pressed her -hand tenderly; for again her soothing words fell upon his heart -like dew on thirsty flowers. - -Thus lovingly they passed on together, and many a blessing followed -them; for whenever a traveller came along who was burdened and -weary, they cheered him with hopeful words and helped to carry -his load; and ever as they did so a softer light shone upon -the landscape and bathed all things with a luminous glory. And -still the scene was changing, ever changing. The glowing fruit -had disappeared, and the golden grain was gathered. But now the -forest-trees were all aglow, and looked like great pyramids of -gorgeous flowers. The fallen foliage of the pines formed a soft -carpet under their feet, ornamented with the shaded brown of cones -and acorns, and sprinkled with gold-tinted leaves from the trees. -As they looked on the mellowed beauty of the scenery, Mary said: -“The Being who fashioned us, and created this marvellous road for -us to travel in, must be wondrously wise and loving. How gradually -and gently all things grow, and pass through magical changes. When -we had had enough of chasing butterflies, the roses came to bind -us together in fragrant wreaths. When the roses withered, the -grain-fields waved beautifully in the wind, and purple and yellow -grapes hung from the vines, like great clusters of jewels. And now, -when fruit and grain are gathered, the forests are gorgeous in the -sunlight, like immense beds of tulips. A friendly ‘Good morning’ -to something new, mingles ever with the ‘Good night, beloved,’ -to something that is passing away. Surely, dearest, this road, -so full of magical transformations, _must_ lead us to something -more beautiful than itself.” The traveller uncovered his head, -raised his eyes reverently toward heaven, and said: “It is a great -mystery. O Father, give us faith!” - -Before the glowing tints departed from the trees, Mary’s cheek grew -pale, and the light of her eyes began to fade. Then the traveller -shuddered and shivered; for a great shadow came between him and -the sunshine; he felt the approach of the invisible. More and -more closely he pressed the beloved companion, to warm her with -his heart. But her mild eyes closed, and the graceful form became -as marble. No more could he look into those serene depths, where -he had first seen the blind boy shooting his arrows, afterward -stringing pearls, and then as an angel twining amaranthine crowns. -In the anguish of his desolation, he groaned aloud, and exclaimed: -“O thou Dread Destroyer! take me, too! I cannot live alone! I -cannot!” A gentle voice whispered, “Thou art not alone, dearest. -I am still with thee!” but in the tumult of his grief he heard it -not. The children Mary had given him twined their soft arms about -his neck, and said: “Do not leave us alone! We cannot find our way, -without thee to guide us.” For their sakes, he stifled his groans, -and knelt down and prayed, “O Father, give me strength and faith!” - -Patiently he travelled on, leading the children. By degrees they -joined themselves to companions, and went off in pairs into new -paths, as he and his Mary had done. The scenery around him grew -more dreary. The black branches of the trees stood in gloomy relief -against a cold gray sky. The beautiful fields of grain ripening -in the sunshine had changed to dry stubble fluttering mournfully -in the wind. But Nature, loath to part with Beauty, still wore a -few red berries, as a necklace among her rags, and trimmed her -scanty garments with evergreen. But the wonderful transformations -had not ceased. The fluttering brown rags suddenly changed to -the softest ermine robe, flashing with diamonds, and surmounted -by a resplendent silver crown. The magical change reminded our -traveller that his lost companion had said, “Surely a road so full -of beautiful changes must lead to something more beautiful than -itself.” Again he knelt in reverence, and said, “All things around -me are miraculous. O Father, give me faith!” - -The road descended into a deep valley, ever more narrow and dark. -The nights grew longer. The ground was rugged and frozen, and the -rough places hurt the pilgrim’s stiff and weary feet. But when he -was joined by pilgrims more exhausted than himself, he spoke to -them in words of good cheer, and tried to help them over the rough -places. The sunshine was no longer warm and golden, but its silvery -light was still beautiful, and through the leafless boughs of the -trees the moon and the stars looked down serenely on him. The -children whom he had guided sometimes came and sang sweetly to him; -and sometimes, when he was listening in the stillness, he seemed to -hear mysterious echoes within himself, as if from a musical chime -of bells on the other side of a river. - -The shudderings and shiverings he had felt in presence of the cold -shadow became more frequent; and he said to himself, “The Dread -Destroyer is approaching more and more near.” With trembling hands -he uncovered his snow-white head, and looking upward, he said, -“It is a fearful mystery. O Father, give me faith!” Praying thus, -he sank on the cold ground, and sleepiness came over him. He felt -something gently raising him, and slowly opening his eyes, he said, -“Who art thou?” The stranger answered, “I am that Dread Destroyer, -whose shadow always made thee shudder.” - -“Thou!” exclaimed the tired pilgrim, in tones of joyful surprise; -“why _thou_ art an angel!” “Yes, I am an angel,” he replied; “and -none but I can lead thee to thy loved ones. Thy Heavenly Father has -sent me to take thee home.” Gratefully the weary one sank into the -arms of the giant he had so much dreaded. “All things are ordered -in love,” he said. “Thy touch is friendly, and thy voice like -music.” - -They passed a narrow bridge over a dark river. On the other side -was a flowery arch, bearing the motto, “The Gate of Life.” Within -it stood Mary and her cherub-boy, shining in transfigured light. -The child stretched out his hands for an embrace, and Mary’s -welcoming smile was more beautiful than it had ever been in the -happy old time of roses and rainbows. “This is only one more of the -magical transformations, my beloved,” she said. “It is as I told -thee. The beautiful, mysterious road leads to something far more -beautiful than itself. Come and see!” With tender joy he kissed her -and the angel child. There was a sound of harps and voices above -him, singing, “The shadow has departed!” And a cheerful response -came from well-remembered voices he had left behind him on the -road: “We are coming! We are coming!” Through all the chambers -of his soul went ringing the triumphant chorus, “The shadow has -departed!” with the cheerful response, “We are coming! We are -coming!” - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE HAPPIEST TIME. - -BY ELIZA COOK. - - - An old man sat in his chimney-seat, - As the morning sunbeam crept to his feet; - And he watched the Spring light as it came - With wider ray on his window frame. - He looked right on to the Eastern sky, - But his breath grew long in a trembling sigh, - And those who heard it wondered much - What Spirit hand made him feel its touch. - - For the old man was not one of the fair - And sensitive plants in earth’s parterre; - His heart was among the senseless things, - That rarely are fanned by the honey-bee’s wings; - It bore no film of delicate pride, - No dew of emotion gathered inside; - O, that old man’s heart was of hardy kind, - That seemeth to heed not the sun or the wind. - - He had lived in the world as millions live, - Ever more ready to take than give; - He had worked and wedded, and murmured and blamed, - And just paid to the fraction what honesty claimed; - He had driven his bargains and counted his gold, - Till upwards of threescore years were told; - And his keen blue eye held nothing to show - That feeling had ever been busy below. - - The old man sighed again, and hid - His keen blue eye beneath its lid; - And his wrinkled forehead, bending down, - Was knitting itself in a painful frown. - “I’ve been looking back,” the old man said, - “On every spot where my path has laid, - Over every year my brain can trace, - To find the happiest time and place.” - - “And where and when,” cried one by his side, - “Have you found the brightest wave in your tide? - Come tell me freely, and let me learn, - How the spark was struck that yet can burn. - Was it when you stood in stalwart strength, - With the blood of youth, and felt that at length - Your stout right arm could win its bread?” - The old man quietly shook his head. - - “Then it must have been when love had come, - With a faithful bride to glad your home; - Or when the first-born cooed and smiled, - And your bosom cradled its own sweet child; - Or was it when that first-born joy, - Grew up to your hope,--a brave, strong boy,-- - And promised to fill the world in your stead?” - The old man quietly shook his head. - - “Say, was it then when fortune brought - The round sum you had frugally sought? - Was the year the happiest that beheld - The vision of poverty all dispelled? - Or was it when you still had more, - And found you could boast a goodly store - With labor finished and plenty spread?” - The old man quietly shook his head. - - “Ah, no! ah, no! it was longer ago,” - The old man muttered,--sadly and low! - “It was when I took my lonely way - To the lonely woods in the month of May. - When the Spring light fell as it falleth now, - With the bloom on the sod and the leaf on the bough; - When I tossed up my cap at the nest in the tree; - O, that was the happiest time for me. - - “When I used to leap and laugh and shout, - Though I never knew what my joy was about; - And something seemed to warm my breast, - As I sat on a mossy bank to rest. - That was the time; when I used to roll - On the blue-bells that covered the upland knoll, - And I never could tell why the thought should be, - But I fancied the flowers talked to me. - - “Well I remember climbing to reach - A squirrel brood rocked on the top of a beech; - Well I remember the lilies so sweet, - That I toiled with back to the city street; - Yes, _that_ was the time,--the happiest time,-- - When I went to the woods in their May-day prime.” - And the old man breathed with a longer sigh, - And the lid fell closer over his eye. - - O, who would have thought this hard old man - Had room in his heart for such rainbow span? - Who would have deemed that wild copse flowers - Were tenderly haunting his latest hours? - But what did the old man’s spirit tell, - In confessing it loved the woods so well? - What do we learn from the old man’s sigh, - But that _Nature and Poetry cannot die_? - - - - -ODE OF ANACREON. - -TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK. - - - The women tell me, every day, - That all my bloom has passed away. - “Behold!” the lively lasses cry, - “Behold this mirror with a sigh! - Old wintry Time has shed his snows, - And bald and bare your forehead shows.” - I will not either think or care - Whether old Time has thinned my hair; - But this I know and this I feel, - As years advancing on me steal, - And ever bring the end more near, - The joys of life become more dear; - And had I but one hour to live, - That hour to cheerfulness I’d give. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CICERO’S ESSAY ON OLD AGE. - - The following extracts are from a discourse “De Senectute,” - by Cicero, the world-renowned Roman orator, who was born one - hundred and six years before Christ. He is one among many - pleasant proofs that God never leaves himself without a witness - in the hearts of men, in any age or country. Cicero says: - “I have represented these reflections as delivered by the - venerable Cato; but in delivering _his_ sentiments, I desire to - be understood as fully declaring _my own_.” - - -Those who have no internal resources of happiness will find -themselves uneasy in every stage of human life; but to him who is -accustomed to derive happiness from within himself, no state will -appear as a real evil into which he is conducted by the common and -regular course of Nature; and this is peculiarly the case with -respect to old age. I follow Nature, as the surest guide, and -resign myself with implicit obedience to her sacred ordinances. -After having wisely distributed peculiar and proper enjoyments -to all the preceding periods of life, it cannot be supposed that -she would neglect the last, and leave it destitute of suitable -advantages. After a certain point of maturity is attained, marks of -decay must necessarily appear; but to this unavoidable condition -of his present being every wise and good man will submit with -contented and cheerful acquiescence. - -Nothing can be more void of foundation than the assertion that old -age necessarily disqualifies a man for taking part in the great -affairs of the world. If an old man cannot perform in business a -part which requires the bodily strength and energy of more vigorous -years, he can act in a nobler and more important character. -Momentous affairs of state are not conducted by corporeal strength -and activity; they require cool deliberation, prudent counsel, and -authoritative influence; qualifications which are strengthened and -improved by increase of years. Few among mankind arrive at old -age; and this suggests a reason why the affairs of the world are -not better conducted; for age brings experience, discretion, and -judgment, without which no well-formed government could have been -established, or can be maintained. Appius Claudius was not only old -but blind, when he remonstrated in the Senate, with so much force -and spirit, against concluding a peace with Pyrrhus. The celebrated -General Quintus Maximus led our troops to battle in his old age, -with as much spirit as if he had been in the prime and vigor of -life. It was by his advice and eloquence, when he was extremely -old, that the Cincian law concerning donatives was enacted. And -it was not merely in the conspicuous paths of the world that this -excellent man was truly great. He appeared still greater in the -private and domestic scenes of life. There was a dignity in his -deportment, tempered with singular politeness and affability; and -time wrought no alteration in his amiable qualities. How pleasing -and instructive was his conversation! How profound his knowledge of -antiquity and the laws! His memory was so retentive, that there was -no event of any note, connected with our public affairs, with which -he was not well acquainted. I eagerly embraced every opportunity -to enjoy his society, feeling that after his death I should never -again meet with so wise and improving a companion. - -But it is not necessary to be a hero or a statesman, in order to -lead an easy and agreeable old age. That season of life may prove -equally serene and pleasant to him who has passed his days in -the retired paths of learning. It is urged that old age impairs -the memory. It may have that effect on those in whom memory was -originally infirm, or who have not preserved its native vigor -by exercising it properly. But the faculties of the mind will -preserve their power in old age, unless they are suffered to -become languid for want of due cultivation. Caius Gallus employed -himself to the very last moments of his long life in measuring the -distances of the heavenly orbs, and determining the dimensions of -this our earth. How often has the sun risen on his astronomical -calculations! How frequently has night overtaken him in the same -elevated studies! With what delight did he amuse himself in -predicting to us, long before they happened, the several lunar and -solar eclipses! Other ingenious applications of the mind there -are, though of a lighter nature, which may greatly contribute to -enliven and amuse the decline of life. Thus Nœvius, in composing -his poem on the Carthaginian war, and Plautus in writing his two -last comedies, filled up the leisure of their latter days with -wonderful complacency and satisfaction. I can affirm the same of -our dramatic poet Livius, whom I remember to have seen in his old -age; and let me not forget Marcus Cethegus, justly styled the soul -of eloquence, whom I likewise saw in his old age exercising even -his oratorical talents with uncommon force and vivacity. All these -old men I saw pursuing their respective studies with the utmost -ardor and alacrity. Solon, in one of his poems, written when he was -advanced in years, glories that he learned something every day he -lived. Plato occupied himself with philosophical studies, till they -were interrupted by death at eighty-one years of age. Isocrates -composed his famous discourse when he was ninety-four years old, -and he lived five years afterward. Sophocles continued to write -tragedies when he was extremely old. Gray hair proved no obstacle -to the philosophic pursuits of Pythagoras, Zeno, Cleanthes, or -the venerable Diogenes. These eminent persons persevered in their -studies with undiminished earnestness to the last moment of their -extended lives. Leontinus Gorgias, who lived to be one hundred and -seven years old, pursued his studies with unremitting assiduity -to the last. When asked if he did not wish to rid himself of the -burden of such prolonged years, he replied, “I find no reason to -complain of old age.” - -The statement that age impairs our strength is not without -foundation. But, after all, imbecility of body is more frequently -caused by youthful irregularities than by the natural and -unavoidable consequences of long life. By temperance and exercise, -a man may secure to his old age no inconsiderable degree of his -former spirit and activity. The venerable Lucius Metellus preserved -such a florid old age to his last moments, as to have no reason to -lament the depredations of time. If it must be acknowledged that -time inevitably undermines physical strength, it is equally true -that great bodily vigor is not required in the decline of life. A -moderate degree of force is sufficient for all rational purposes. -I no more regret the absence of youthful vigor, than when young I -lamented because I was not endowed with the strength of a bull or -an elephant. Old age has, at least, sufficient strength remaining -to train the rising generation, and instruct them in the duties -to which they may hereafter be called; and certainly there cannot -be a more important or a more honorable occupation. There is -satisfaction in communicating every kind of useful knowledge; and -it must render a man happy to employ the faculties of his mind to -so noble and beneficial a purpose, how much soever time may have -impaired his bodily powers. Men of good sense, in the evening of -life, are generally fond of associating with the younger part of -the world, and, when they discover amiable qualities in them, they -find it an alleviation of their infirmities to gain their affection -and esteem; and well-inclined young men think themselves equally -happy to be guided into the paths of knowledge and virtue by the -instructions of experienced elders. I love to see the fire of youth -somewhat tempered by the sobriety of age, and it is also pleasant -to see the gravity of age enlivened by the vivacity of youth. -Whoever combines these two qualities in his character will never -exhibit traces of senility in his mind, though his body may bear -the marks of years. - -As for the natural and necessary inconveniences attendant upon -length of years, we ought to counteract their progress by constant -and resolute opposition. The infirmities of age should be resisted -like the approaches of disease. To this end we should use regular -and moderate exercise, and merely eat and drink as much as is -necessary to repair our strength, without oppressing the organs of -digestion. And the intellectual faculties, as well as the physical, -should be carefully assisted. Mind and body thrive equally by -suitable exercise of their powers; with this difference, however, -that bodily exertion ends in fatigue, whereas the mind is never -wearied by its activity. - -Another charge against old age is that it deprives us of sensual -gratifications. Happy effect, indeed, to be delivered from those -snares which allure youth into some of the worst vices! “Reason,” -said Archytas, “is the noblest gift which God or Nature has -bestowed on men. Now nothing is so great an enemy to that divine -endowment as the pleasures of sense; for neither temperance, -nor any of the more exalted virtues, can find a place in that -breast which is under the dominion of voluptuous passions. -Imagine to yourself a man in the actual enjoyment of the highest -gratifications mere animal nature is capable of receiving; there -can be no doubt that during his continuance in that state it -would be utterly impossible for him to exert any one power of his -rational faculties.” The inference I draw from this is, that if -the principles of reason and virtue have not proved sufficient to -inspire us with proper contempt for mere sensual pleasures, we -have cause to feel grateful to old age for at least weaning us -from appetites it would ill become us to gratify; for voluptuous -passions are utter enemies to all the nobler faculties of the -soul; they hold no communion with the manly virtues; and they -cast a mist before the eye of reason. The little relish which old -age leaves us for enjoyments merely sensual, instead of being -a disparagement to that period of life, considerably enhances -its value. If age renders us incapable of taking an equal share -in the flowing cups and luxurious dishes of wealthy tables, it -thereby secures us from painful indigestion, restless nights, and -disordered reason. - -But though his years will guard an old man from excess, they by -no means exclude him from enjoying convivial gratifications in -a moderate degree. I always took singular satisfaction in the -anniversaries of those little societies called Confraternities. But -the gratification I received from their entertainments arose much -less from the pleasures of the palate than from the opportunities -they afforded for enjoying the company and conversation of friends. -I derive so much pleasure from hours devoted to cheerful discourse, -that I love to prolong my meals, not only when the company is -composed of men of my own years, few of whom indeed are now -remaining, but also when it chiefly consists of young persons. And -I acknowledge my obligations to old age for having increased my -passion for the pleasures of conversation, while it has abated it -for those which depend solely on the palate; though I do not find -myself disqualified for that species of gratification, also. - -The advantages of age are inestimable, if we consider it as -delivering us from the tyranny of lust and ambition, from angry -and contentious passions, from inordinate and irrational desires; -in a word, as teaching us to retire within ourselves, and look -for happiness in our own souls. If to these moral benefits, which -naturally result from length of days, be added the sweet food of -the mind, gathered in the fields of science, I know of no season of -life that is passed more agreeably than the learned leisure of a -virtuous old age. Can the luxuries of the table, or the amusements -of the theatre, supply their votaries with enjoyments worthy to be -compared with the calm delights of intellectual employments? And, -in minds rightly formed and properly cultivated, these exalted -delights never fail to improve and gather strength with years. - -From the pleasures which attend a studious old age, let us turn to -those derived from rural occupations, of which I am a warm admirer. -Pleasures of this class are perfectly consistent with every degree -of advanced years, as they approach more nearly than any others -to those of a purely philosophical kind. They are derived from -observing the nature and properties of our earth, which yields -ready obedience to the cultivator’s industry, and returns, with -interest, whatever he places in her charge. But the profit -arising from this fertility is by no means the most desirable -circumstance of the farmer’s labors. I am principally delighted -with observing the powers of Nature, and tracing her processes in -vegetable productions. How wonderful it is that each species is -endowed with power to continue itself; and that minute seeds should -develop so amazingly into large trunks and branches! The orchard, -the vegetable garden, and the parterre diversify the pleasures of -farming; not to mention the feeding of cattle and the rearing of -bees. Among my friends and neighbors in the country are several men -far advanced in life, who employ themselves with so much activity -and industry in agricultural business, that nothing important is -carried on without their supervision. And these rural veterans -do not confine their energies to those sorts of crops which are -sown and reaped in one year. They occupy themselves in branches -of husbandry from which they know they cannot live to derive any -advantage. If asked why they thus expend their labor, they might -well reply, “We do it in obedience to the immortal gods. By their -bountiful providence we received these fields from our ancestors, -and it is their will that we should transmit them to posterity with -improvements.” In my opinion there is no happier occupation than -agriculture; not only on account of its great utility to mankind, -but also as the source of peculiar pleasures. I might expatiate -on the beauties of verdant groves and meadows, on the charming -landscape of olive-trees and vineyards; but to say all in one word, -there cannot be a more pleasing, or a more profitable scene than -that of a well-cultivated farm. And where else can a man in the -last stages of life more easily find warm sunshine, or a good fire -in winter, or the pleasure of cooling shades and refreshing streams -in summer? - -It is often argued that old age must necessarily be a state of much -anxiety and disquietude, on account of the near approach of death. -That the hour of dissolution cannot be far distant from an aged -man is undoubtedly true. But every event that is agreeable to the -course of nature ought to be regarded as a real good; and surely -nothing can be more natural than for the old to die. It is true -that youth also is exposed to dissolution; but it is a dissolution -obviously contrary to Nature’s intentions, and in opposition to her -strongest efforts. Fruit, before it is ripe, cannot be separated -from the stalk without some degree of force; but when it is -perfectly mature, it drops of itself: so the disunion of the soul -and body is effected in the young by violence, but in the old it -takes place by mere fulness and completion of years. This ripeness -for death I perceive in myself with much satisfaction; and I look -forward to my dissolution as to a secure haven, where I shall at -length find a happy repose from the fatigues of a long voyage. - -With regard to the consequences of our final dissolution, I will -venture to say that the nearer death approaches the more clearly do -I seem to discern its real nature. When I consider the faculties -with which the human mind is endowed, its amazing celerity, its -wonderful power in recollecting past events, and its sagacity in -discerning the future, together with its numberless discoveries in -arts and sciences, I feel a conscious conviction that this active, -comprehensive principle cannot possibly be of a mortal nature. -And as this unceasing activity of the soul derives its energy -from its own intrinsic and essential powers, without receiving it -from any foreign or external impulse, it necessarily follows that -its activity must continue forever. I am induced to embrace this -opinion, not only as agreeable to the best deductions of reason, -but also in deference to the authority of the noblest and most -distinguished philosophers. - -I am well convinced that my dear departed friends are so far from -having ceased to live, that the state they now enjoy can alone with -propriety be called life. I feel myself transported with impatience -to rejoin those whose characters I have greatly respected and -whose persons I have loved. Nor is this earnest desire confined -alone to those excellent persons with whom I have been connected. -I ardently wish also to visit those celebrated worthies of whom I -have heard or read much. To this glorious assembly I am speedily -advancing; and I would not be turned back on my journey, even on -the assured condition that my youth should be again restored. The -sincere truth is, if some divinity would confer on me a new grant -of life, I would reject the offer without the least hesitation. I -have wellnigh finished the race, and have no disposition to return -to the starting-point. I do not mean to imitate those philosophers -who represent the condition of human nature as a subject of -just lamentation. The satisfactions of this life are many; but -there comes a time when we have had a sufficient measure of its -enjoyments, and may well depart contented with our share of the -feast. I am far from regretting that this life was bestowed on me; -and I have the satisfaction of thinking that - I have employed it in such a manner as not to have - lived in vain. In short, I consider this world - as a place which Nature never intended for - my permanent abode; and I look on my - departure from it, not as being - driven from my habitation, but - simply as leaving an inn. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE FOUNTAIN. - -BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. - - - We talked with open heart, and tongue - Affectionate and true, - A pair of friends, though I was young, - And Matthew seventy-two. - - A village schoolmaster was he, - With hair of glittering gray; - As blithe a man as you could see - On a spring holiday. - - And on that morning, through the grass - And by the steaming rills, - We travelled merrily, to pass - A day among the hills. - - We lay beneath a spreading oak, - Beside a mossy seat; - And from the turf a fountain broke, - And gurgled at our feet. - - “Now, Matthew,” said I, “let us match - This water’s pleasant tune - With some old Border-Song, or Catch, - That suits a summer’s noon. - - “Or of the church-clock and the chimes - Sing here beneath the shade, - That half-mad thing of witty rhymes - Which you last April made.” - - In silence Matthew lay, and eyed - The spring beneath the tree; - And thus the dear old man replied, - The gray-haired man of glee: - - “Down to the vale this water steers; - How merrily it goes! - ’Twill murmur on a thousand years, - And flow as now it flows. - - “And here, on this delightful day, - I cannot choose but think - How oft, a vigorous man, I lay - Beside this fountain’s brink. - - “My eyes are dim with childish tears, - My heart is idly stirred, - For the same sound is in my ears - Which in those days I heard. - - “Thus fares it still in our decay; - And yet the wiser mind - Mourns less for what age takes away, - Than what it leaves behind. - - “The blackbird in the summer trees, - The lark upon the hill, - Let loose their carols when they please, - Are quiet when they will. - - “With Nature never do _they_ wage - A foolish strife; they see - A happy youth, and their old age - Is beautiful and free. - - “But _we_ are pressed by heavy laws; - And often, glad no more, - We wear a face of joy, because - We have been glad of yore. - - “If there is one who need bemoan - His kindred laid in earth, - The household hearts that were his own, - It is the man of mirth. - - “My days, my friend, are almost gone; - My life has been approved, - And many love me; but by none - Am I _enough_ beloved.” - - “Now both himself and me he wrongs, - The man who thus complains! - I live and sing my idle songs - Upon these happy plains; - - “And, Matthew, for thy children dead, - I’ll be a son to thee!” - At this, he grasped my hand, and said, - “Alas! that cannot be!” - - We rose up from the fountain-side; - And down the smooth descent - Of the green sheep-track did we glide, - And through the wood we went. - - And ere we came to Leonard’s Rock, - He sang those witty rhymes - About the crazy old church-clock, - And the bewildered chimes. - - - - -A POET’S BLESSING. - -FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. - - - As I wandered the fields along, - Listening to the lark’s sweet song, - I saw an old man working there, - A laborer with hoary hair. - - “Blessings upon this field!” I said; - “Fruitful by faithful labor made. - And blessings on thy wrinkled hand, - Thus scattering seed along the land!” - - He answered me, with earnest face, - “A poet’s blessing’s out of place; - Likely enough that Heaven, in scorn, - Will send us flowers instead of corn.” - - “Nay, friend,” said I, “my tuneful powers - Wake not to life too many flowers; - Only enough to grace the land, - And fill thy little grandson’s hand.” - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -BERNARD PALISSY[E] - - [E] These facts are gleaned from Morley’s Life of Palissy the - Potter. - - “Call him not old, whose visionary brain - Holds o’er the past its undivided reign. - For him in vain the envious seasons roll, - Who bears eternal summer in his _soul_. - If yet the minstrel’s song, the poet’s lay, - Spring with her birds, or children with their play, - Or maiden’s smile, or heavenly dream of Art, - Stir the few life-drops creeping round his heart,-- - Turn to the record where his years are told,-- - Count his gray hairs,--_they_ cannot make him old!” - - -Bernard Palissy was born in one of the southwestern districts of -France, in 1509; more than three hundred and fifty years ago, and -more than a century before our forefathers landed on Plymouth -Rock. The art of making colored glass, and of painting on glass, -had been for centuries in great requisition, for the windows -of castles and cathedrals. It was considered an occupation so -honorable, that poor nobles sometimes resorted to it without -losing caste; though the prejudices concerning rank were at that -time very strong. The manufacture was generally carried on in the -depths of forests, partly for the convenience of gathering fuel -for the furnaces, and partly to avoid the danger of fire in towns. -Around these manufactories the workmen erected their cabins, and -night and day the red flames of the furnaces lighted up trees -and shrubbery with a lurid glow. It is supposed that Bernard was -born and reared in one of these hamlets, secluded from the world. -The immense forests furnished a vast amount of chestnuts, which -constituted the principal food of the peasantry. Constant labor -in the open air, combined with this extreme simplicity of diet, -formed healthy, vigorous men, free-hearted, simple, and brave. -Whether Bernard’s father, who is supposed to have been a modeller -of glass, was a decayed gentleman, or simply a peasant, is not -known. Bernard, by some means, learned to read and write, which -was not an ordinary accomplishment at that period. He also had a -great talent for drawing, which he improved, either by practice or -instruction. In other respects his education was simply that of -the peasantry around him. In his own account of his early days he -says, “I had no other books than heaven and earth, which are open -to all.” These volumes, however, he studied with lively interest -and the closest observation. He took notice of the growth of plants -and the habits of animals. He soon began to paint on paper the -likenesses of birds, lizards, and trees. As his skill increased, -he made portraits of his mother and the neighbors, and landscapes -containing the houses they lived in. The preparation of colors -for glass early awakened an interest in chemical combinations; -but there were then no books on the subject, and he could only -increase his stock of knowledge by repeated experiments. His -skill in drawing enabled him to produce a variety of new patterns -for glass-work, and this, combined with his knowledge of colors, -rendered his services much more important than those of a common -workman. But the once profitable business was now in its decline. -People began to find out that the exclusion of sunshine was -unwholesome, and that the obstruction of light rendered their -dwellings gloomy. Moreover, windows in those days, being opened on -hinges, were much more exposed to be shattered by storms. To repair -stained or painted glass was an expensive process; and in order to -avoid the frequent necessity of it, people fastened their windows -into the wall, so that they could not be opened. This excluded air, -as well as light and sun-warmth; and gradually colored windows fell -into disuse. - -Bernard’s father was poor, and the profits of his business were too -scanty to yield a comfortable support for his family. Therefore, -the young man, when he was eighteen years old, strapped a scantily -filled wallet upon his shoulders, and marched forth into the -world to seek his fortune. Francis I. and Charles V. were then -devastating half Europe by their wars, and the highways were filled -with military adventurers and crippled soldiers. From these the -young traveller obtained his first glimpses of the violence and -intrigues going on in the world beyond his native forests. - -He was also overtaken by a travelling cloth-merchant, who told -him of many new things. In order to dignify his own calling, he -enumerated many great men who had been employed in trade. Among -others, he mentioned a renowned Athenian, called “the divine -Plato,” by reason of the excellence of his wisdom, who had sold -olive-oil in Egypt, to defray the expenses of travelling there. -“I never heard of Plato,” said Bernard. “O, you are a wild bird -from the forest,” replied the trader; “you can only pipe as you -have been taught by nature. But I advise you to make acquaintance -with books. Our King Francis is now doing so much to encourage the -arts and sciences, that every artisan can become wise, if he makes -good use of his leisure. Our shops may now be our schools.” “Then -I should wish the whole world to be my shop,” rejoined Bernard. “I -feel that earth and air are full of mysteries and wonders; full of -the sublime wisdom of God.” - -So he wandered on, reading, as he had done from childhood, in “the -book of earth and heaven, which is open to all.” - - “For Nature, the old nurse, took - The child upon her knee, - Saying, ‘Here is a story-book - Thy Father has written for thee.’ - - “‘Come, wander with me,’ she said, - ‘Into regions yet untrod; - And read what is still unread - In the manuscripts of God.’ - - “And he wandered away and away, - With Nature, the dear old nurse, - Who sang to him night and day - The rhymes of the universe.” - -If lizards were basking in the sunshine, he stopped to admire -their gliding motions, and prismatic changes of color. If he found -a half-covered snail among the wet mosses, he lingered till he -ascertained that it was gradually making a new shell from its own -saliva. If a stone was curious in form or shape, he picked it up -and put it in his wallet; and oftentimes he would crack them, -to discover their interior structure. Every new flower and seed -attracted his attention, and excited wonder at the marvellous -varieties of Nature. These things are hinted at all through his -writings. He says: “In walking under the fruit-trees, I received -a great contentment and many joyous pleasures; for I saw the -squirrels gathering the fruits, and leaping from branch to branch, -with many pretty looks and gestures. I saw nuts gathered by -the rooks, who rejoiced in taking their repast, dining on the -said nuts. Under the apple-trees, I found hedgehogs, that rolled -themselves into a round form, and, thrusting out their sharp -quills, they rolled over the apples, which stuck on the points, and -so they went burdened. These things have made me such a lover of -the fields, that it seems to me there are no treasures in the world -so precious as the little branches of trees and plants. I hold -them in more esteem than mines of gold and silver.” This loving -communion with Nature was not mere idle dreaming. Always he was -drawing inferences from what he saw, and curiously inquiring into -the causes of things. - -He supported himself by painting glass, and sketching portraits. -He says, in his modest way, “They thought me a better painter than -I was.” If he arrived in a town where a cathedral or an abbey was -being built, he sometimes tarried long to make a variety of rich -patterns for the windows. In other places, he would find only -a few repairs required in the windows of castles or churches, -and so would quickly pass on. To arrange mosaic patterns of -different-colored glass required constant use of rule and compass, -and this suggested the study of geometry, which he pursued with -characteristic eagerness. The knowledge thus acquired made him -a skilful surveyor, and he was much employed in mapping out -boundaries, and making plans for houses and gardens, a business -which he found more profitable than glass-work or portraits. These -various occupations brought him occasionally into contact with -men who were learned in the arts and sciences, according to the -standard of learning at that time, and his active mind never failed -to glean something from such interviews. A French translation of -the Scriptures had been published in 1498. He seems to have had -a copy with him during his travels, and to have studied it with -reverential attention. Thus constantly observing and acquiring, -the young man traversed France, from Spain to the Netherlands, and -roamed through a portion of Germany. Ten years were spent in this -way, during which he obtained the best portion of that education -which he afterward turned to good account. - -He is supposed to have been about twenty-nine years old, when he -married, and settled in the town of Saintes, in the western part -of France. He supported his family by glass-work, portraits, and -surveying. A few years after his marriage, some one showed him an -enamelled cup, brought from Italy. It seemed a slight incident; -but it woke the artistic spirit slumbering in his soul, and was -destined to effect a complete revolution in his life. He says: “It -was an earthen cup, turned and enamelled with so much beauty, that -from that time I entered into controversy with my own thoughts. I -began to think that if I should discover how to make enamels, I -could make earthen vessels very prettily; because God had gifted me -with some knowledge of drawing. So, regardless of the fact that I -had no knowledge of clays, I began to seek for the enamel, as a man -gropes in the dark.” - -In order to begin to comprehend the difficulties he had to -encounter, we must know that only the rudest kind of common pottery -had then been made in France, and even with the manufacture of -that he was entirely unacquainted. If he had been unmarried, he -might have travelled among the potters of Europe, as he had among -the glass-makers, and have obtained useful hints from them; but -his family increased fast, and needed his protection and support. -Tea was not introduced into Europe till a hundred years later; and -there were no specimens of porcelain from China, except here and -there a costly article imported by the rich. He was obliged to -test the qualities of various kinds of clays; what chemical agents -would produce enamel; what other agents would produce colors; -and the action of heat on all of them. He bought quantities of -earthen jars, broke them into fragments, applied to each piece some -particular chemical substance, and tried them all in a furnace. -He says: “I pounded all the substances I could suppose likely to -make anything. Having blundered several times, at great expense, -and through much labor, I was every day pounding and grinding new -materials, and constructing new furnaces, which cost much money -and consumed my wood and my time.” While these expenses were going -on, his former occupations were necessarily suspended; thus “the -candle was burning out at both ends.” His wife began to complain. -Still he went on, trying new compounds, as he says, “always with -great cost, loss of time, confusion and sorrow.” The privations of -his family and the anxiety of his wife gave him so much pain, that -he relinquished his experiments for a while. He says: “Seeing I -could not in this way come at my intention, I occupied myself in -my art of painting and glass-working, and comported myself as if -I were not zealous to dive any more into the secret of enamels.” -The king ordered extensive surveys, and he found that employment -so profitable, that his family were soon at ease again. But that -Italian cup was always in his mind. He says: “When I found myself -with a little money, I resumed my affection for pursuing in the -track of the enamels.” For two years he kept up a series of -experiments, under all manner of difficulties, and always without -success. His wife scolded, and even his own courage began to fail. -At last he applied more than three hundred kinds of mixtures to -more than three hundred fragments, and put them all in the furnace; -resolved that if this experiment proved a failure, he would try -no more. He tells us: “_One_ of the pieces came out white and -polished, in a way that caused me such joy, as made me think I was -become a new creature.” He was then thirty-seven years old. - -He was merely at the beginning of what he aimed to accomplish. He -had discovered how to make the enamel, but he still knew nothing -of pottery, or of the effect which various degrees of heat would -produce on colors. A new furnace was necessary, and he proceeded -to build it, with prodigious labor. Being too poor to hire help, -he brought bricks on his own back from a distant kiln; he made -his own mortar, and drew the water with which it was tempered. He -fashioned vessels of clay, to which his enamel could be applied. -For more than a month he kept up an incessant fire night and day, -and was continually grinding materials in a hand-mill, which it -usually required two men to turn. He believed himself to be very -near complete success, and everything depended upon not letting the -heat of the furnaces go down. In the desperation of his poverty and -the excitement of his sanguine hopes, he burned the garden-fence, -and even some of the tables, doors, and floors of his house. His -wife became frantic, and gave him no peace. She was to be pitied, -poor woman! Not being acquainted with chemical experiments, she did -not know, as _he_ did, that he was really on the point of making a -great and lucrative discovery. She had heard it so long that she -didn’t believe it. They had a large family of children, and while -their father was trying expensive experiments, several of them were -dying of a disease prevalent at that time. It was a gloomy and -trying period for all of them. He says: “I suffered an anguish that -I cannot speak. I was quite exhausted and dried up by the heat of -the furnace. It was more than a month since my shirt had been dry -upon me. I was the object of mockery. Even those from whom solace -was due ran crying through the town that I was burning my floors. -In this way I came to be regarded as a madman. I was in debt in -several places. I had two children at nurse, and was unable to -pay the nurses. Men jested at me as I passed through the streets, -and said it was right for me to die of hunger, since I had left -following my trade. Some hope still remained to sustain me, for -my last experiments had turned out tolerably well, and I thought -I knew enough to get my living; but I found I was far enough from -that yet.” - -The want of means to build sheds to cover his clay vessels was -another great difficulty. After working all day, and late into -the night, sometimes a heavy rain would spoil all his work, -just as he had it ready to bake. He describes himself, on such -occasions, as utterly weak and exhausted, so that walking home he -“reeled like a man drunk with wine.” He says: “Filled with a great -sorrow, inasmuch as having labored long I saw my labor wasted, I -would retire soiled and drenched, to find in my chamber a second -persecution worse than the first; which now causes me to marvel -that I was not consumed by suffering.” - -In the midst of all this tribulation, the struggling artist had -one source of consolation. Jean Cauvin, better known to us as John -Calvin, had been preaching Protestant doctrines in France, and -had given rise to the sect called Huguenots. The extravagance and -licentiousness of society at that period, and the abuses practised -by a powerful and wealthy priesthood, naturally inclined this -pure and simple-minded man to the doctrines of the Reformers. He -became acquainted with an artisan of the same turn of mind, whom -he describes as “simple, unlearned, and marvellously poor.” His -delight was to hear Palissy read the Scriptures. Gradually his -listeners increased to ten, and they formed a little society, which -took turns in exhortation and prayer. One of them is supposed to -have been an innkeeper, who, from religious sympathy, allowed poor -Palissy to take meals at his house on credit. - -He still continued his experiments, and met with successive -disappointments of one kind or another. At last, he thought he -had learned how to adjust everything just right; and confident -of success, he one day put into the oven a batch of vessels, -beautifully formed and painted. But a new misfortune awaited him. -The materials of his furnace contained flints. These expanded -and burst with the great heat, and struck into the vessels while -they were soft, injuring the enamel, and covering the surface with -irregular sharp points. This blow almost prostrated him; for he -had expected this beautiful batch would bring a considerable sum -of money for the support of his family, and put to silence those -that jeered at him. But he was a man of wonderful endurance. He -says: “Having remained some time upon the bed, I reflected that -if a man should fall into a pit, it would be his duty to try to -get out again.” So the brave soul roused himself, and set to -work diligently to earn money, by his old trades of painting and -surveying. - -Having supplied the necessities of his family, he again returned to -his pottery; fully believing that his losses and hazards were over, -and that he could now make articles that would bring good prices. -But new disappointments awaited him. The green with which he -painted his lizards burnt before the brown of the serpents melted; -a strong current of air in the furnace blew ashes all over his -beautiful vessels and spoiled the enamel. He says: “Before I could -render my different enamels fusible at the same degree of heat, I -thought I should be at the door of my sepulchre. I was so wasted in -my person that there was no form nor prominence in the muscles of -my arms or legs; also the said legs were throughout of one size; -so that when I walked, garters and stockings were at once down -upon my heels. I often roamed about the fields, considering my -miseries and weariness, and above all things, that in my own house -I could have no peace, nor do anything that was considered good. I -was despised and mocked by all. Nevertheless, I had a hope, which -caused me to work so like a man, that I often did my best to laugh -and amuse people who came to see me, though within me all was very -sad.” - -At the end of ten years from the commencement of his experiments, -he succeeded in making a kind of ware, of mixed enamels, resembling -jasper. It was not what he had been aiming to accomplish, but it -was considered pretty, and sold well enough to support his family -comfortably. While he was making continual improvements in his -pottery, the Huguenots were increasing to a degree that provoked -persecution. A schoolmaster in a neighboring town, who “preached -on Sundays, and was much beloved by the people,” was brought -to Saintes and publicly burnt. But Palissy and his little band -were not intimidated. They continued to meet for exhortation and -prayer. At first it was done mostly at midnight; but the pure -and pious lives of these men and women formed such a contrast -to the licentiousness and blasphemy prevailing round them, that -they gradually gained respect; insomuch that they influenced the -magistrates of the town to pass laws restraining gambling and -dissipation. So great a change was produced, that, when Palissy -was fifty-one years old, he says: “On Sundays you might see -tradesmen rambling through the fields, groves, and other places, in -bands, singing psalms, canticles, and spiritual songs, or reading -and instructing each other. You might see young women seated in -gardens and other places, who in like way delighted themselves with -singing all holy things. The very children were so well instructed -that they had no longer a puerility of manner, but a look of manly -fortitude. These things had so well prospered that people had -changed their old manners, even to their very countenances.” - -After six years more of successive improvements, making sixteen -years in the whole, this persevering man at last accomplished the -object for which he had toiled and suffered so much. He produced -a very beautiful kind of china, which became celebrated under the -name of Palissy Ware. These articles were elaborately adorned with -vines, flowers, butterflies, lizards, serpents, and other animals. -He had always been such a loving observer of nature that we cannot -wonder at being told “he copied these, in form and color, with -the minute exactness of a naturalist, so that the species of each -could be determined accurately.” These beautiful articles sold at -high prices. Orders flowed in from kings and nobles. The Constable -Montmorenci, a nobleman of immense wealth, employed Palissy to -decorate his magnificent Chateau d’Ecouen, about twelve miles from -Paris. There he made richly painted windows, covered with Scripture -scenes, some of his own designing, others copied from Raphael and -Albert Durer. Vases and statuettes of his beautiful china were -deposited in various places; and the floors of chapel and galleries -were inlaid with china tiles of his painting. Among the groves he -formed a very curious grotto of china. He modelled rugged rocks, -“sloping, tortuous, and lumpy,” which he painted with imitations of -such herbs and mosses as grow in moist places. Brilliant lizards -appeared to glide over its surface, “in many pleasant gestures and -agreeable contortions.” In the trenches of water were some living -frogs and fishes, and other china ones, which so closely resembled -them as not to be easily distinguished. At the foot of the rocks, -branches of coral, of his manufacture, appeared to grow in the -water. A poet of that period, praising this work, says: “The real -lizard on the moss has not more lustre than the lizards in that -house made famous by your new work. The plants look not sweeter in -the fields, and green meadows are not more preciously enamelled, -than those which grow under your hand.” The Constable Montmorenci -built a convenient shop for him, where he worked with two of his -sons. A large china dog at the door was so natural, that the dogs -often barked at it and challenged it to fight. - -Meanwhile, a terrible storm was gathering over the heads of -the Huguenots. Civil war broke out between the Catholics and -Protestants. Old men were burnt for quoting Scripture, and young -girls stabbed for singing psalms. But worldly prosperity and the -flattery of the great could not tempt Palissy to renounce or -conceal his faith. He pursued his artistic labors, though he says, -“For two months I was greatly terrified, hearing nothing every -day but reports of horrible murders.” He would have fallen among -the first victims, had it not been for written protections from -powerful nobles, who wanted ornamental work done which no other man -could do. The horrible massacre of St. Bartholomew occurred when he -was sixty-three years old, but he escaped by aid of his powerful -patrons. The officers appointed to hunt out Huguenots longed to -arrest him, but did not dare to do it in the daytime. At last they -came tramping about his house at midnight, and carried him off -to a prison in Bordeaux. The judges would gladly have put him to -death, but their proceedings were stopped by orders from the Queen -Mother, Catherine de Medicis. Montmorenci, Montpensier, and other -influential Catholic nobles, who had works uncompleted, and who -doubtless felt kindly toward the old artist, interceded with her, -and she protected him; not because he was a good man, but because -the art he practised was unique and valuable. The enamelled -Italian cup, which had troubled so many years of his life, proved -the cause of its being saved. - -The last ten years of Palissy’s mortal existence were spent in -Paris. He had an establishment in the grounds of the Tuileries, -where he manufactured vases, cups, plates, and curious -garden-basins and baskets, ornamented with figures in relief. His -high reputation drew toward him many men of taste and learning, -who, knowing his interest in all the productions of Nature, -presented him with many curious specimens of shells, minerals, -fossils, &c. He formed these into a Museum, where scholars met -to discuss the laws and operations of Nature. This is said to -have been the first society established in Paris for the pure -advancement of science. When he was sixty-six years old, he -began a course of public lectures, which he continued to deliver -annually for ten years. These were the first lectures on Natural -History ever delivered in Paris. The best men of the Capital went -there to discuss with him, and to hear him state, in his simple, -earnest fashion, the variety of curious things he had observed in -travels by mountain and seashore, through field and forest, and -in his experiments on glass and china. Some pedants were disposed -to undervalue his teachings, because he had never learned Greek -or Latin. Undisturbed by this, he cordially invited them to come -and disprove his statements if they could, saying: “I want to -ascertain whether the Latins know more upon these subjects than I -do. I am indeed a simple artisan, poorly enough trained in letters; -but the things themselves have not less value than if they were -uttered by a man more eloquent. I had rather speak truth in my -rustic tongue, than lie in rhetoric.” - -He published several books on Agriculture, Volcanoes, the Formation -of Rocks, the Laws of Water, &c. His last book was written when he -was seventy-one years old. Scientific knowledge was then in its -infancy, but adequate judges consider his ideas far in advance of -his time. A modern French scholar calls him, “So great a naturalist -as only Nature could produce.” There is a refreshing simplicity -about his style of writing, and his communications with the world -were obviously not the result of vanity, but of general benevolence -and religious reverence. He felt that all he had was from God, and -that it was a duty to impart it freely. He says: “I had employed -much time in the study of earths, stones, waters, and metals; and -old age pressed me to multiply the talents God had given me. For -that reason, I thought it would be good to bring to the light those -excellent secrets, in order to bequeath them to posterity.” - -He continued vigorous in mind and body, and was remarked for -acuteness and ready wit. He abstained from theological discussions -in his teachings, but made no secret of the fact that his opinions -remained unchanged. Amid the frivolity, dissipation, and horrid -scenes of violence that were going on in Paris, he quietly busied -himself making artistic designs, and imparting his knowledge -of natural history; recreating himself frequently with the old -pleasure of rambling in field and forest, taking loving observation -of all God’s little creatures. - -He was seventy-six years old, when the king, Henry III., issued -a decree forbidding Protestants to exercise their worship, on -pain of death, and banishing all who had previously practised it. -Angry bigots clamored for the death of the brave old potter. The -powerful patrons of his art again prevented his execution; but -the tide was so strong against the Reformers, that he was sent to -the Bastile. Two Huguenot girls were in prison with him, and they -mutually sustained each other with prayer and psalms. The king, in -his fashionable frills and curls, occasionally visited the prisons, -and he naturally felt a great desire that the distinguished old -Bernard Palissy should make a recantation of his faith. One day he -said to him: “My good man, you have been forty-five years in the -service of the queen, my mother, or in mine; and in the midst of -all the executions and massacres, we have allowed you to live in -your religion. But now I am so hardly pressed by the Guise party, -and by my people, that I am compelled, in spite of myself, to -order the execution of these two poor young women, and of yourself -also, unless you recant.” “Sire,” replied the old man, “that is not -spoken like a king. You have often said you pitied _me_; but now I -pity _you_; because you have said, ‘I am _compelled_.’ These girls -and I, who have our part in the kingdom of Heaven, will teach you -to talk more royally. Neither the Guises, nor all your people, nor -yourself, can compel the old potter to bow down to your images of -clay. I can die.” - -The two girls were burnt a few months afterward. Palissy remained -in prison four years, and there he died at eighty years of age. The -secrets of the Bastile were well kept, and we have no record of -those years. We only know that, like John Bunyan, he wrote a good -deal in prison. The thick, dark walls must have been dismal to - one who so loved the free air, and who valued - trees and shrubs “beyond silver - and gold.” But the martyr was - not alone. He had with him - the God whom he trusted, - and the memories of - an honest, useful, - and religious - life. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -OLD AGE COMING. - - By Elizabeth Hamilton, a Scotch writer, author of “The - Cottagers of Glenburnie,” and several other sensible and - interesting works. She died, unmarried, about fifty years ago, - nearly sixty years old. These lines were written in such very - broad Scotch, that I have taken the liberty to render them in - English, making no changes, except a few slight variations, - which the necessities of rhyme required. - - - Is that Old Age, who’s knocking at the gate? - I trow it is. He sha’n’t be asked to wait. - You’re kindly welcome, friend! Nay, do not fear - To show yourself! You’ll cause no trouble here. - I know there’re some who tremble at your name, - As though you brought with you reproach or shame; - And who of thousand lies would bear the sin, - Rather than own you for their kith and kin. - But far from shirking you as a disgrace, - Thankful I am to live to see your face. - Nor will I e’er disown you, or take pride - To think how long I might your visit hide. - I’ll do my best to make you well respected, - And fear not for your sake to be neglected. - Now you have come, and, through all kinds of weather - We’re doomed from this time forth to jog together, - I’d fain make compact with you, firm and strong, - On terms of give and take, to hold out long. - If you’ll be civil, I will liberal be; - Witness the list of what I’ll give to thee. - First then, I here make o’er, for good and aye, - All youthful fancies, whether bright or gay. - Beauties and graces, too, might be resigned, - But much I fear they would be hard to find; - For ’gainst your daddy Time they could not stand, - Nor bear the grip of his relentless hand. - But there’s my skin, which you may further crinkle, - And write your name, at length, on ev’ry wrinkle. - On my brown locks your powder you may throw, - And bleach them to your fancy, white as snow. - But look not, Age, so wistful at my mouth, - As if you longed to pull out ev’ry tooth! - Let them, I do beseech you, keep their places! - Though, if you like, you’re free to paint their faces. - My limbs I yield you; and if you see meet - To clap your icy shackles on my feet, - I’ll not refuse; but if you drive out gout, - Will bless you for’t, and offer thanks devout. - So much I give to you with free good-will; - But, O, I fear that more you look for still. - I know, by your stern look and meaning leers, - You want to clap your fingers on my ears. - Right willing, too, you are, as I surmise, - To cast your misty powder in my eyes. - But, O, in mercy spare my little twinklers! - And I will always wear your crystal blinkers. - Then ’bout my ears I’d fain a bargain strike, - And give my hand upon it, if you like. - Well then--would you consent their use to _share_? - ’Twould serve us both, and be a bargain rare. - I’d have it thus,--When babbling fools intrude, - Gabbling their noisy nonsense for no good; - Or when ill-nature, well brushed up with wit, - With sneer sarcastic, takes its aim to hit; - Or when detraction, meanest sort of pride, - Spies out small faults, and seeks great worth to hide; - Then make me deaf as ever deaf can be! - At all _such_ times, my ears I lend to thee. - But when, in social hours, you see combined - Genius and wisdom, fruits of heart and mind, - Good sense, good nature, wit in playful mood, - And candor, e’en from ill extracting good; - O, then, old friend, I _must_ have back my hearing! - To want it then would be an ill past bearing. - I’d rather sit alone, in wakeful dreaming, - Than catch the sound of words without their meaning. - You will not promise? O, you’re very glum! - Right hard to manage, you’re so cold and dumb! - No matter.--Whole and sound I’ll keep my _heart_. - Not from one crumb on’t will I ever part. - Its kindly warmth shall ne’er be chilled by all - The coldest breath that from your lips can fall. - You needn’t vex yourself, old churl, nor fret! - My kindly feelings you shall never get. - And though to take my hearing you rejoice, - In spite of you, I’ll still hear friendship’s voice. - And though you take the rest, it shall not grieve me; - For gleams of cheerful spirits you _must_ leave me. - But let me whisper in your ear, Old Age, - I’m bound to travel with you but one stage. - Be’t long or short, you cannot keep me back; - And when we reach the _end_ on’t, you must pack! - Be’t soon or late, we part forever there! - Other companionship I then shall share. - This blessed change to me you’re bound to bring. - You need not think I shall be loath to spring - From your poor feeble side, you churl uncouth! - Into the arms of Everlasting Youth. - All that your thieving hands have stolen away - He will, with interest, to me repay. - Fresh gifts and graces freely he’ll bestow, - More than the heart has wished, or mind can know. - You need not wonder then, nor swell with pride. - That I so kindly welcomed you as guide - To one who’s far your better. Now all’s told. - Let us set out upon our journey cold. - With no vain boasts, no vain regrets tormented. - We’ll quietly jog on our way, contented. - - * * * * * - - “On he moves to meet his latter end, - Angels around befriending virtue’s friend; - Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, - While resignation gently slopes the way; - And, all his prospects brightening to the last, - His heaven commences ere the world is past.” - - GOLDSMITH - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -UNMARRIED WOMEN. - -BY L. MARIA CHILD. - - -Society moves slowly toward civilization, but when we compare -epochs half a century, or even a quarter of a century apart, we -perceive many signs that progress _is_ made. Among these pleasant -indications is the fact that the phrase “old maid” has gone -wellnigh out of fashion; that jests on the subject are no longer -considered witty, and are never uttered by gentlemen. In my youth, -I not unfrequently heard women of thirty addressed something in -this style: “What, not married yet? If you don’t take care, you -will outstand your market.” Such words could never be otherwise -than disagreeable, nay, positively offensive, to any woman of -sensibility and natural refinement; and that not merely on account -of wounded vanity, or disappointed affection, or youthful visions -receding in the distance, but because the idea of being in the -_market_, of being a _commodity_, rather than an individual, is -odious to every human being. - -I believe a large proportion of unmarried women are so simply -because they have too much conscience and delicacy of feeling to -form marriages of interest or convenience, without the concurrence -of their affections and their taste. A woman who is determined -to be married, and who “plays her cards well,” as the phrase is, -usually succeeds. But how much more estimable and honorable is she -who regards a life-union as too important and sacred to be entered -into from motives of vanity or selfishness. - -To rear families is the ordination of Nature, and where it is done -conscientiously it is doubtless the best education that men or -women can receive. But I doubt the truth of the common remark that -the discharge of these duties makes married people less selfish -than unmarried ones. The selfishness of single women doubtless -shows itself in more petty forms; such as being disturbed by crumbs -on the carpet, and a litter of toys about the house. But fathers -and mothers are often selfish on a large scale, for the sake of -advancing the worldly prosperity or social condition of their -children. Not only is spiritual growth frequently sacrificed in -pursuit of these objects, but principles are trampled on, which -involve the welfare of the whole human race. Within the sphere -of my own observation, I must confess that there is a larger -proportion of unmarried than of married women whose sympathies are -active and extensive. - -I have before my mind two learned sisters, familiar with Greek, -Latin, and French, and who, late in life, acquired a knowledge of -German also. They spent more than sixty years together, quietly -digging out gold, silver, or iron from the rich mines of ancient -and modern literature, and freely imparting their treasures -wherever they were called for. No married couple could have been -more careful of each other in illness, or more accommodating toward -each other’s peculiarities; yet they were decided individuals; and -their talk never wanted - - “An animated No, - To brush its surface, and to make it flow.” - -Cultivated people enjoyed their conversation, which was both wise -and racy; a steady light of good sense and large information, with -an occasional flashing rocket of not ill-natured satire. Yet their -intellectual acquisitions produced no contempt for the customary -occupations of women. All their friends received tasteful keepsakes -of their knitting, netting, or crocheting, and all the poor of the -town had garments of their handiwork. Neither their sympathies -nor their views were narrowed by celibacy. Early education had -taught them to reverence everything that was established; but -with this reverence they mingled a lively interest in all the -great progressive questions of the day. Their ears were open to -the recital of everybody’s troubles and everybody’s joys. On New -Year’s day, children thronged round them for books and toys, and -every poor person’s face lighted up as they approached; for they -were sure of kindly inquiries and sympathizing words from them, and -their cloaks usually opened to distribute comfortable slippers, or -warm stockings of their own manufacture. When this sisterly bond, -rendered so beautiful by usefulness and culture, was dissolved by -death, the survivor said of her who had departed: “During all her -illness she leaned upon me as a child upon its mother; and O, how -blessed is now the consciousness that I never disappointed her!” -This great bereavement was borne with calmness, for loneliness was -cheered by hope of reunion. On the anniversary of her loss the -survivor wrote to me: “I find a growing sense of familiarity with -the unseen world. It is as if the door were invitingly left ajar, -and the distance were hourly diminishing. I never think of _her_ -as alone. The unusual number of departed friends for whom we had -recently mourned seem now but an increase to her happiness.” - -I had two other unmarried friends, as devoted to each other, and as -tender of each other’s peculiarities as any wedded couple I ever -knew. Without being learned, they had a love of general reading, -which, with active charities, made their days pass profitably and -pleasantly. They had the orderly, systematic habits common to -single ladies, but their sympathies and their views were larger and -more liberal than those of their married sisters. Their fingers -were busy for the poor, whom they were always ready to aid and -comfort, irrespective of nation or color. Their family affections -were remarkably strong, yet they had the moral courage to espouse -the unpopular cause of the slave, in quiet opposition to the -prejudices of beloved relatives. Death sundered this tie when both -were advanced in years. The departed one, though not distinguished -for beauty during her mortal life, had, after her decease, a -wonderful loveliness, like that of an angelic child. It was the -outward impress of her interior life. - -Few marriages are more beautiful or more happy than these sisterly -unions; and the same may be said of a brother and sister, whose -lives are bound together. All lovers of English literature know -how charmingly united in mind and heart were Charles Lamb and his -gifted sister; and our own poet, Whittier, so dear to the people’s -heart, has a home made lovely by the same fraternal relation of -mutual love and dependence. - -A dear friend of mine, whom it was some good man’s loss not to -have for a life-mate, adopted the orphan sons of her brother, and -reared them with more than parental wisdom and tenderness, caring -for all their physical wants, guiding them in precept and example -by the most elevated moral standard, bestowing on them the highest -intellectual culture, and studying all branches with them, that she -might in all things be their companion. - -Nor is it merely in such connections, which somewhat resemble -wedded life, that single women make themselves useful and -respected. Many remember the store kept for so long a time in -Boston by Miss Ann Bent. - -Her parents being poor, she early began to support herself by -teaching. A relative subsequently furnished her with goods to sell -on commission; and in this new employment she manifested such good -judgment, integrity, and general business capacity, that merchants -were willing to trust her to any extent. She acquired a handsome -property, which she used liberally to assist a large family of -sisters and nieces, some of whom she established in business -similar to her own. No mother or grandmother was ever more useful -or beloved. One of her nieces said: “I know the beauty and purity -of my aunt’s character, for I lived with her forty years, and I -never knew her to say or do anything which might not have been said -or done before the whole world.” - -I am ignorant of the particulars of Miss Bent’s private history; -but doubtless a woman of her comely looks, agreeable manners, and -excellent character, might have found opportunities to marry, if -that had been a paramount object with her. She lived to be more -than eighty-eight years old, universally respected and beloved; and -the numerous relatives, toward whom she had performed a mother’s -part, cheered her old age with grateful affection. - -There have also been many instances of single women who have -enlivened and illustrated their lives by devotion to the beautiful -arts. Of these none are perhaps more celebrated than the Italian -Sofonisba Angusciola and her two accomplished sisters. These -three “virtuous gentlewomen,” as Vasari calls them, spent their -lives together in most charming union. All of them had uncommon -talent for painting, but Sofonisba was the most gifted. One of -her most beautiful pictures represents her two sisters playing at -chess, attended by the faithful old duenna, who accompanied them -everywhere. This admirable artist lived to be old and blind; and -the celebrated Vandyke said of her, in her later years: “I have -learned more from one blind old woman in Italy, than from all the -masters of the art.” - -Many single women have also employed their lives usefully and -agreeably as authors. There is the charming Miss Mitford, -whose writings cheer the soul like a meadow of cowslips in the -springtime. There is Frederica Bremer, whose writings have blessed -so many souls. There is Joanna Baillie, Maria Edgeworth, Elizabeth -Hamilton, and our own honored Catherine M. Sedgwick, whose books -have made the world wiser and better than they found it. - -I am glad to be sustained in my opinions on this subject by a -friend whose own character invests single life with peculiar -dignity. In a letter to me, she says: “I object to having single -women called a _class_. They are _individuals_, differing in the -qualities of their characters, like other human beings. Their -isolation, as a general thing, is the result of unavoidable -circumstances. The Author of Nature doubtless intended that men -and women should live together. But, in the present state of the -world’s progress, society has, in many respects, become artificial -in proportion to its civilization; and consequently the number of -single women must constantly increase. If humanity were in a state -of natural, healthy development, this would not be so; for young -people would then be willing to begin married life with simplicity -and frugality, and real happiness would increase in proportion to -the diminution of artificial wants. This prospect, however, lies in -the future, and many generations of single women must come and go -before it will be realized. - -“But the achievement of _character_ is the highest end that can be -proposed to any human being, and there is nothing in single life to -prevent a woman from attaining this great object; on the contrary, -it is in many respects peculiarly favorable to it. The measure -of strength in character is the power to conquer circumstances -when they refuse to cooperate with us. The temptations peculiarly -incident to single life are petty selfishness, despondency under -the suspicion of neglect, and _ennui_ from the want of interesting -occupation. If an ordinary, feeble-minded woman is exposed to -these temptations, she will be very likely to yield to them. But -she would not be greatly different in character, if protected by a -husband and flanked with children; her feebleness would remain the -same, and would only manifest itself under new forms. - -“Marriage, under favorable circumstances, is unquestionably a -promoter of human happiness. But mistakes are so frequently made by -entering thoughtlessly into this indissoluble connection, and so -much wretchedness ensues from want of sufficient mental discipline -to make the best of what cannot be remedied, that most people can -discover among their acquaintance as large a proportion of happy -single women as they can of happy wives. Moreover, the happiness of -unmarried women is as independent of mere gifts of fortune, as that -of other individuals. Indeed, all solid happiness must spring from -inward sources. Some of the most truly contented and respectable -women I have ever known have been domestics, who grew old in one -family, and were carefully looked after, in their declining days, -by the children of those whom they faithfully served in youth. - -“Most single women might have married, had they seized upon the -first opportunity that offered; but some unrevealed attachment, -too high an ideal, or an innate fastidiousness, have left them -solitary; therefore, it is fair to assume that many of them have -more sensibility and true tenderness than some of their married -sisters. Those who remain single in consequence of too much worldly -ambition, or from the gratification of coquettish vanity, naturally -swell the ranks of those peevish, discontented ones, who bring -discredit on single life in the abstract. But when a delicate -gentlewoman deliberately prefers passing through life alone, to -linking her fate with that of a man toward whom she feels no -attraction, why should she ever repent of so high an exercise of -her reason? This class of women are often the brightest ornaments -of society. Men find in them calm, thoughtful friends, and safe -confidants, on whose sympathy they can rely without danger. In the -nursery, their labors, being voluntary, are less exhausting than a -parent’s. When the weary, fretted mother turns a deaf ear to the -twenty-times-repeated question, the baffled urchins retreat to the -indulgent aunt, or dear old familiar friend, sure of obtaining a -patient hearing and a kind response. Almost everybody can remember -some samples of such _Penates_, whose hearts seem to be too large -to be confined to any one set of children. - -“Some of my fairest patterns of feminine excellence have been of -the single sisterhood. Of those unfortunate ones who are beacons, -rather than models, I cannot recall an individual whose character I -think would have been materially improved by marriage. The faults -which make a single woman disagreeable would probably exist to the -same degree if she were a wife; and the virtues which adorn her in -a state of celibacy would make her equally beloved and honored if -she were married. The human soul is placed here for development and -progress; and it is capable of converting all circumstances into -means of growth and advancement. - -“Among my early recollections is that of a lady of stately -presence, who died while I was still young, but not till she -had done much to remove from my mind the idea that the name of -‘old maid’ was a term of reproach. She was the daughter of Judge -Russell, and aunt to the late Reverend and beloved Dr. Lowell. She -had been one of a numerous family of brothers and sisters, but in -my childhood was sole possessor of the old family mansion, where -she received her friends and practised those virtues which gained -for her the respect of the whole community. Sixty years ago, it -was customary to speak of single women with far less deference -than it now is; and I remember being puzzled by the extremely -respectful manner in which she was always mentioned. If there -were difficulties in the parish, or if any doubtful matters were -under discussion, the usual question was ‘What is Miss Russell’s -opinion?’ I used to think to myself, ‘She is an old maid, after -all, yet people always speak of her as if she were some great -person.’ - -“Miss Burleigh was another person of whom I used to hear much -through the medium of mutual friends. She resided with a married -sister in Salem, and was the ‘dear Aunt Susan,’ not only of the -large circle of her own nephews and nieces, but of all their -friends and favorites. Having ample means, she surrounded herself -with choice books and pictures, and such objects of Art or -Nature as would entertain and instruct young minds. Her stores -of knowledge were prodigious, and she had such a happy way of -imparting it, that lively boys were glad to leave their play, to -spend an hour with Aunt Susan. She read to her young friends at -stated times, and made herself perfectly familiar with them; and -as they grew older she became their chosen confidant. She was, in -fact, such a centre of light and warmth, that no one could approach -her sphere without being conscious of its vivifying influence. - -“‘Aunt Sarah Stetson,’ another single lady, was a dear and honored -friend of my own. She was of masculine size and stature, gaunt -and ungainly in the extreme. But before she had uttered three -sentences, her hearers said to themselves, ‘Here is a wise woman!’ -She was the oldest of thirteen children, early deprived of their -father, and she bore the brunt of life from youth upward. She -received only such education as was afforded by the public school -of an obscure town seventy years ago. To add to their scanty means -of subsistence, she learned the tailor’s trade. In process of time, -the other children swarmed off from the parental hive, the little -farm was sold, and she lived alone with her mother. She built a -small cottage out of her own earnings, and had the sacred pleasure -of taking her aged parent to her own home, and ministering with her -own hands to all her wants. For sixteen years, she never spent a -night from home, but assiduously devoted herself to the discharge -of this filial duty, and to the pursuance of her trade. Yet in the -midst of this busy life, she managed to become respectably familiar -with English literature, especially with history. Whatever she -read, she derived from it healthful aliment for the growth of her -mental powers. She was full of wise maxims and rules of life; not -doled out with see-saw prosiness, but with strong common sense, -rich and racy, and frequently flavored with the keenest satire. -She had a flashing wit, and wonderful power of detecting shams -of all sorts. Her religious opinions were orthodox, and she was -an embodiment of the Puritan character. She was kindly in her -feelings, and alive to every demonstration of affection, but she -had a granite firmness of principle, which rendered her awful -toward deceivers and transgressors. All the intellectual people of -the town sought her company with avidity. The Unitarian minister -and his family, a wealthy man, who happened to be also the chief -scholar in the place, and the young people generally, took pleasure -in resorting to Aunt Sarah’s humble home, to minister to her simple -wants, and gather up her words of wisdom. Her spirit was bright and -cheerful to the last. One of her sisters, who had been laboring -sixteen years as a missionary among the southwestern Indians, came -to New England to visit the scattered members of her family. After -seeing them in their respective homes, she declared: ‘Sarah is the -most light-hearted of them all; and it is only by _her_ fireside -that I have been able to forget past hardships in merry peals of -laughter.’ - -“During my last interview with Aunt Sarah, when she was past -seventy years of age, she said, ‘I have lived very agreeably -single; but if I become infirm, I suppose I shall feel the want -of life’s nearest ties.’ In her case, however, the need was of -short duration, and an affectionate niece supplied the place of a -daughter. - -“Undoubtedly, the arms of children and grandchildren form the most -natural and beautiful cradle for old age. But loneliness is often -the widow’s portion, as well as that of the single woman; and -parents are often left solitary by the death or emigration of their -children. - -“I am tempted to speak also of a living friend, now past her -sixtieth year. She is different from the others, but this -difference only confirms my theory that the mind can subdue all -things to itself. This lady is strictly feminine in all her habits -and pursuits, and regards the needle as the chief implement of -woman’s usefulness. If the Dorcas labors performed by her one pair -of hands could be collected into a mass, out of the wear and waste -of half a century, they would form an amazing pile. In former -years, when her health allowed her to circulate among numerous -family connections, her visits were always welcomed as a jubilee; -for every dilapidated wardrobe was sure to be renovated by Aunt -Mary’s nimble fingers. She had also a magic power of drawing the -little ones to herself. Next to their fathers and mothers, she was -the best beloved. The influence which her loving heart gained over -them in childhood increased with advancing years. She is now the -best and dearest friend of twenty or thirty nephews and nieces, -some of whom have families of their own. - -“A large amount of what is termed mother-wit, a readiness at -repartee, and quickness in seizing unexpected associations of words -or ideas, rendered her generally popular in company; but the deep -cravings of her heart could never be satisfied with what is termed -success in society. The intimate love of a few valued friends was -what she always coveted, and never failed to win. For several -years she has been compelled by ill health to live entirely at -home. There she now is, fulfilling the most important mission -of her whole beneficent life, training to virtue and usefulness -five motherless children of her brother. Feeble and emaciated, -she lives in her chamber surrounded by these orphans, who now -constitute her chief hold on life. She shares all their pleasures, -is the depositary of their little griefs, and unites in herself -the relations of aunt, mother, and grandmother. She has faith to -believe that her frail thread of existence will be prolonged for -the sake of these little ones. The world still comes to her, in her -seclusion, through a swarm of humble friends and dependants, who -find themselves comforted and ennobled by the benignant patience -with which she listens to their various experiences, and gives -them kindly, sympathizing counsel, more valuable to them than mere -pecuniary aid. Her spirit of self-abnegation is carried almost -to asceticism; but she reserves her severity wholly for herself; -toward others she is prodigal of indulgence. This goodly temple of -a human soul was reared in these fair proportions upon a foundation -of struggles, disappointments, and bereavements. A friend described -her serene exterior as a ‘placid, ocean-deep manner’; under it lies -a silent history of trouble and trial, converted into spiritual -blessings. - -“The conclusion of the matter in my mind is, that a woman may make -a respectable appearance as a wife, with a character far less -noble than is necessary to enable her to lead a single life with -usefulness and dignity. She is sheltered and concealed behind her -husband; but the unmarried woman must rely upon herself; and she -lives in a glass house, open to the gaze of every passer-by. To -the feeble-minded, marriage is almost a necessity, and if wisely -formed it doubtless renders the life of any woman more happy. But -happiness is not the sole end and aim of this life. We are sent -here to build up a - character; and sensible women may easily - reconcile themselves to a single life, - since even its disadvantages may - be converted into means of - development of all the - faculties with which - God has endowed - them.” - -[Illustration] - - You are “getting into years.” Yes, but the years are getting - into you; the ripe, mellow years. One by one, the crudities of - your youth are falling off from you; the vanity, the egotism, - the bewilderment, the uncertainty. Every wrong road into - which you have wandered has brought you, by the knowledge of - that mistake, nearer to the truth. Nearer and nearer you are - approaching yourself.--GAIL HAMILTON. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE OLD MAID’S PRAYER TO DIANA. - - By Mrs. Tighe, an Irish author, who wrote more than fifty - years ago, when single women had not attained to the honorable - position which they now occupy. - - - Since thou and the stars, my dear goddess, decree - That, old maid as I am, an old maid I must be, - O, hear the petition I offer to thee! - For to bear it must be my endeavor: - From the grief of my friendships all drooping around, - Till not one whom I loved in my youth can be found; - From the legacy-hunters, that near us abound, - Diana, thy servant deliver! - - From the scorn of the young, and the flaunts of the gay, - From all the trite ridicule rattled away - By the pert ones, who know nothing wiser to say,-- - Or a spirit to laugh at them, give her! - From repining at fancied neglected desert; - Or, vain of a civil speech, bridling alert; - From finical niceness, or slatternly dirt; - Diana, thy servant deliver! - - From over solicitous guarding of pelf; - From humor unchecked, that most obstinate elf; - From every unsocial attention to self, - Or ridiculous whim whatsoever; - From the vaporish freaks, or methodical airs, - Apt to sprout in a brain that’s exempted from cares; - From impertinent meddling in others’ affairs; - Diana, thy servant deliver! - - From the erring attachments of desolate souls; - From the love of spadille, and of matadore voles;[F] - Or of lap-dogs, and parrots, and monkeys, and owls, - Be they ne’er so uncommon and clever; - But chief from the love, with all loveliness flown, - Which makes the dim eye condescend to look down - On some ape of a fop, or some owl of a clown; - Diana, thy servant deliver! - - From spleen at beholding the young more caressed; - From pettish asperity, tartly expressed; - From scandal, detraction, and every such pest; - From all, thy true servant deliver! - Nor let satisfaction depart from her cot; - Let her sing, if at ease, and be patient if not; - Be pleased when regarded, content when forgot, - Till the Fates her slight thread shall dissever. - - [F] Terms used in Ombre, a game at cards. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -GRANDFATHER’S REVERIE. - -BY THEODORE PARKER. - - -Grandfather is old. His back is bent. In the street he sees crowds -of men looking dreadfully young, and walking fearfully swift. He -wonders where all the _old_ folks are. Once, when a boy, he could -not find people young enough for him, and sidled up to any young -stranger he met on Sundays, wondering why God made the world so -old. Now he goes to Commencement to see his grandson take his -degree, and is astonished at the youth of the audience. “This -is new,” he says; “it did not use to be so fifty years ago.” At -meeting, the minister seems surprisingly young, and the audience -young. He looks round, and is astonished that there are so few -venerable heads. The audience seem not decorous. They come in -late, and hurry off early, clapping the doors after them with -irreverent bang. But grandfather is decorous, well mannered, -early in his seat; if jostled, he jostles not again, elbowed, he -returns it not; crowded, he thinks no evil. He is gentlemanly to -the rude, obliging to the insolent and vulgar; for grandfather -is a gentleman; not puffed up with mere money, but edified with -well-grown manliness. Time has dignified his good manners. - -It is night. The family are all abed. Grandfather sits by his -old-fashioned fire. He draws his old-fashioned chair nearer -to the hearth. On the stand which his mother gave him are the -candlesticks, also of old time. The candles are three quarters -burnt down; the fire on the hearth also is low. He has been -thoughtful all day, talking half to himself, chanting a bit -of verse, humming a snatch of an old tune. He kissed his pet -granddaughter more tenderly than common, before she went to bed. -He takes out of his bosom a little locket; nobody ever sees it. -Therein are two little twists of hair. As Grandfather looks at -them, the outer twist of hair becomes a whole head of ambrosial -curls. He remembers stolen interviews, meetings by moonlight. He -remembers how sweet the evening star looked, and how he laid his -hand on another’s shoulder, and said, “_You_ are my evening star.” - -The church-clock strikes the midnight hour. He looks in his locket -again. The other twist is the hair of his first-born son. At this -same hour of midnight, once, many years ago, he knelt and prayed, -when the long agony was over,--“My God, I thank thee that, though -I am a father, I am still a husband, too! What am I, that unto me -a life should be given and another spared!” Now he has children, -and children’s children, the joy of his old age. But for many a -year his wife has looked to him from beyond the evening star. She -is still the evening star herself, yet more beautiful; a star that -never sets; not mortal wife now, but angel. - The last stick on his andirons snaps asunder, and - falls outward. Two faintly smoking brands - stand there. Grandfather lays them - together, and they flame up; the - two smokes are united in one - flame. “Even so let it - be in heaven,” says - Grandfather. - -[Illustration] - - Useless, do you say you are? You are of _great_ use. You really - are. How are you useful? By being a man that is old. Your old - age is a public good. It is indeed. No child ever listens to - your talk without having a good done it that no schooling could - do. When you are walking, no one ever opens a gate for you - to pass through, and no one ever honors you with any kind of - help, without being himself the better for what he does; for - fellow-feeling with you ripens his soul for him.--MOUNTFORD. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW. - -BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. - - - It stands in a sunny meadow, - The house so mossy and brown, - With its cumbrous old stone chimneys, - And the gray roof sloping down. - - The trees fold their green arms round it,-- - The trees a century old; - And the winds go chanting through them, - And the sunbeams drop their gold. - - The cowslips spring in the marshes, - The roses bloom on the hill, - And beside the brook in the pasture - The herds go feeding at will. - - Within, in the wide old kitchen, - The old folk sit in the sun, - That creeps through the sheltering woodbine, - Till the day is almost done. - - Their children have gone and left them; - They sit in the sun alone! - And the old wife’s ears are failing - As she harks to the well-known tone - - That won her heart in her girlhood, - That has soothed her in many a care, - And praises her now for the brightness - Her old face used to wear. - - She thinks again of her bridal,-- - How, dressed in her robe of white, - She stood by her gay young lover - In the morning’s rosy light. - - O, the morning is rosy as ever, - But the rose from her cheek is fled; - And the sunshine still is golden, - But it falls on a silvered head. - - And the girlhood dreams, once vanished, - Come back in her winter time, - Till her feeble pulses tremble - With the thrill of spring-time’s prime. - - And looking forth from the window, - She thinks how the trees have grown - Since, clad in her bridal whiteness, - She crossed the old door-stone. - - Though dimmed her eyes’ bright azure, - And dimmed her hair’s young gold, - The love in her girlhood plighted - Has never grown dim or old. - - They sat in peace in the sunshine - Till the day was almost done, - And then, at its close, an angel - Stole over the threshold stone. - - He folded their hands together,-- - He touched their eyelids with balm, - And their last breath floated outward, - Like the close of a solemn psalm! - - Like a bridal pair they traversed - The unseen, mystical road - That leads to the Beautiful City, - Whose “builder and maker is God.” - - Perhaps in that miracle country - They will give her lost youth back, - And the flowers of the vanished spring-time - Will bloom in the spirit’s track. - - One draught from the living waters - Shall call back his manhood’s prime; - And eternal years shall measure - The love that outlasted time. - - But the shapes that they left behind them, - The wrinkles and silver hair,-- - Made holy to us by the kisses - The angel had printed there,-- - - We will hide away ’neath the willows, - When the day is low in the west, - Where the sunbeams cannot find them, - Nor the winds disturb their rest. - - And we’ll suffer no telltale tombstone, - With its age and date, to rise - O’er the two who are old no longer, - In the Father’s house in the skies. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -A STORY OF ST. MARK’S EVE. - -BY THOMAS HOOD. - - St. Mark’s Day is a festival which has been observed on the - 25th of April, in Catholic countries, from time immemorial. The - superstition alluded to in the following story was formerly - very generally believed, and vigils in the church-porch at - midnight were common. - - -“I hope it’ll choke thee!” said Master Giles, the yeoman; and, as -he said it, he banged his big red fist on the old oak table. “I do -say I hope it’ll choke thee!” - -The dame made no reply. She was choking with passion and a fowl’s -liver, which was the cause of the dispute. Much has been said and -sung concerning the advantage of congenial tastes amongst married -people; but the quarrels of this Kentish couple arose from too -great coincidence in their tastes. They were both fond of the -little delicacy in question, but the dame had managed to secure the -morsel to herself. This was sufficient to cause a storm of high -words, which, properly understood, signifies very low language. -Their meal times seldom passed over without some contention of -this sort. As sure as the knives and forks clashed, so did they; -being in fact equally greedy and disagreedy; and when they did pick -a quarrel, they picked it to the bone. - -It was reported that, on some occasions, they had not even -contented themselves with hard speeches, but had come to scuffling; -he taking to boxing and she to pinching, though in a far less -amicable manner than is practised by the taker of snuff. On the -present difference, however, they were satisfied with “wishing each -other dead with all their hearts”; and there seemed little doubt -of the sincerity of the aspiration, on looking at their malignant -faces; for they made a horrible picture in this frame of mind. - -Now it happened that this quarrel took place on the morning of -St. Mark; a saint who was supposed on that festival to favor his -votaries with a peep into the book of fate. For it was the popular -belief in those days, that, if a person should keep watch at -midnight beside the church, the apparitions of all those of the -parish who were to be taken by death before the next anniversary -would be seen entering the porch. The yeoman, like his neighbors, -believed most devoutly in this superstition; and in the very moment -that he breathed the unseemly aspiration aforesaid, it occurred -to him that the eve was at hand, when, by observing the rite of -St. Mark, he might know to a certainty whether this unchristian -wish was to be one of those that bear fruit. Accordingly, a little -before midnight, he stole quietly out of the house, and set forth -on his way to the church. - -In the mean time, the dame called to mind the same ceremonial; and, -having the like motive for curiosity with her husband, she also put -on her cloak and calash, and set out, though by a different path, -on the same errand. - -The night of the Saint was as dark and chill as the mysteries he -was supposed to reveal; the moon throwing but a short occasional -glance, as sluggish masses of cloud were driven slowly from -her face. Thus it fell out that our two adventurers were quite -unconscious of being in company, till a sudden glimpse of moonlight -showed them to each other, only a few yards apart. Both, through a -natural panic, became pale as ghosts; and both made eagerly toward -the church porch. Much as they had wished for this vision, they -could not help quaking and stopping on the spot, as if turned to -stones; and in this position the dark again threw a sudden curtain -over them, and they disappeared from each other. - -The two came to one conclusion; each conceiving that St. Mark had -marked the other to himself. With this comfortable knowledge, the -widow and widower elect hied home again by the roads they came; and -as their custom was to sit apart after a quarrel, they repaired to -separate chambers, each ignorant of the other’s excursion. - -By and by, being called to supper, instead of sulking as aforetime, -they came down together, each being secretly in the best humor, -though mutually suspected of the worst. Amongst other things on -the table, there was a calf’s sweetbread, being one of those very -dainties that had often set them together by the ears. The dame -looked and longed, but she refrained from its appropriation, -thinking within herself that she could give up sweetbreads _for one -year_; and the farmer made a similar reflection. After pushing the -dish to and fro several times, by a common impulse they divided -the treat; and then, having supped, they retired amicably to rest, -whereas until then they had seldom gone to bed without falling out. -The truth was, each looked upon the other as being already in the -churchyard. - -On the morrow, which happened to be the dame’s birthday, the -farmer was the first to wake; and _knowing what he knew_, and -having, besides, but just roused himself out of a dream strictly -confirmatory of the late vigil, he did not scruple to salute his -wife, and wish her many happy returns of the day. The wife, _who -knew as much as he_, very readily wished him the same; having, in -truth, but just rubbed out of her eyes the pattern of a widow’s -bonnet that had been submitted to her in her sleep. She took care, -however, at dinner to give the fowl’s liver to the doomed man; -considering that when he was dead and gone she could have them, if -she pleased, seven days in the week; and the farmer, on his part, -took care to help her to many tidbits. Their feeling toward each -other was that of an impatient host with regard to an unwelcome -guest, showing scarcely a bare civility while in expectation of his -stay, but overloading him with hospitality when made certain of his -departure. - -In this manner they went on for some six months, without any -addition of love between them, and as much selfishness as ever, yet -living in a subservience to the comforts and inclinations of each -other, sometimes not to be found even amongst couples of sincerer -affections. There were as many causes for quarrel as ever, but -every day it became less worth while to quarrel; so letting bygones -be bygones, they were indifferent to the present, and thought only -of the future, considering each other (to adopt a common phrase) -“as _good_ as dead.” - -Ten months wore away, and the farmer’s birthday arrived in its -turn. The dame, who had passed an uncomfortable night, having -dreamed, in truth, that she did not much like herself in mourning, -saluted him as soon as the day dawned, and, with a sigh, wished -him many years to come. The farmer repaid her in kind, the sigh -included; his own visions having been of the painful sort; for he -dreamed of having a headache from wearing a black hat-band, and -the malady still clung to him when awake. The whole morning was -spent in silent meditation and melancholy, on both sides; and when -dinner came, although the most favorite dishes were upon the table, -they could not eat. The farmer, resting his elbows upon the board, -with his face between his hands, gazed wistfully on his wife. The -dame, leaning back in her high arm-chair, regarded the yeoman quite -as ruefully. Their minds, travelling in the same direction, and at -an equal rate, arrived together at the same reflection; but the -farmer was the first to give it utterance: - -“Thee’d be _missed_, dame, if thee were to die!” - -The dame started. Although she had nothing but death at that -moment before her eyes, she was far from dreaming of her own exit. -Recovering, however, from the shock, her thoughts flowed into their -old channel, and she rejoined in the same spirit: - -“I wish, master, thee may live so long as I!” - -The farmer, in his own mind, wished to live rather longer; for, at -the utmost, he considered that his wife’s bill of mortality had but -two months to run; the calculation made him sorrowful; during the -last few months she had consulted his appetite, bent to his humor, -and conformed her own inclinations to his, in a manner that could -never be supplied. - -His wife, from being at first useful to him, had become agreeable, -and at last dear; and as he contemplated her approaching fate, -he could not help thinking out audibly, “that he should be a -lonesome man when she was gone.” The dame, this time, heard the -survivorship foreboded without starting; but she marvelled much -at what she thought the infatuation of a doomed man. So perfect -was her faith in the infallibility of St. Mark, that she had even -seen the symptoms of mortal disease, as palpable as plague-spots, -on the devoted yeoman. Giving his body up, therefore, for lost, a -strong sense of duty persuaded her that it was imperative on her, -as a Christian, to warn the unsuspecting farmer of his dissolution. -Accordingly, with a solemnity adapted to the subject, a tenderness -of recent growth, and a _memento mori_ face, she broached the -matter in the following question: - -“Master, how bee’st thee?” - -“As hearty as a buck, dame; and I wish thee the like.” - -A dead silence ensued; the farmer was as unprepared as ever. There -is a great fancy for breaking the truth by dropping it gently; an -experiment which has never answered, any more than with iron-stone -china. The dame felt this; and, thinking it better to throw the -news at her husband at once, she told him, in as many words, that -he was a dead man. - -It was now the yeoman’s turn to be staggered. By a parallel -course of reasoning, he had just wrought himself up to a similar -disclosure, and the dame’s death-warrant was just ready upon his -tongue, when he met with his own despatch, signed, sealed, and -delivered. Conscience instantly pointed out the oracle from which -she had derived the omen. - -“Thee hast watched, dame, at the church porch, then?” - -“Ay, master.” - -“And thee didst see me spirituously?” - -“In the brown wrap, with the boot hose. Thee were coming to the -church, by Fairthorn Gap; in the while I were coming by the Holly -Hedge.” - -For a minute the farmer paused; but the next he burst into a fit -of uncontrollable laughter; peal after peal, each higher than the -last. The poor woman had but one explanation for this phenomenon. -She thought it a delirium; a lightening before death; and was -beginning to wring her hands, and lament, when she was checked by -the merry yeoman: - -“Dame, thee bee’st a fool. It was I myself thee seed at the church -porch. I seed thee, too; with a notice to quit upon thy face; but, -thanks to God, thee bee’st a living; and that is more than I cared -to say of thee this day ten-month!” - -The dame made no answer. Her heart was too full to speak; but, -throwing her arms round her husband, she showed that she shared -in his sentiment. And from that hour, by practising a careful -abstinence from offence, or a temperate sufferance of its -appearance, they became the most united couple in the county. But -it must be said, that their comfort was not complete till they had -seen each other, in safety, over the perilous anniversary of St. -Mark’s Eve. - - * * * * * - -The moral this story conveys is one which might prove a useful -monitor to us all, if we could keep it in daily remembrance. Few, -indeed, are so coarse in their manifestations of ill-temper as this -Kentish couple are described; but we all indulge, more or less, in -unreasonable fretfulness, and petty acts of selfishness, in the -relations of husband and wife, parents and children, brothers and -sisters,--in fact, in all the relations of life. It would help -us greatly to be kind, forbearing, and self-sacrificing toward -neighbors, friends, and relatives, if it were always present to our -minds that death may speedily close our intercourse with them in -this world.--L. M. C. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -WHAT THE OLD WOMAN SAID. - - - One summer eve, I chanced to pass, where, by the cottage gate, - An aged woman in the town sat crooning to her mate. - The frost of age was on her brow, its dimness in her eye, - And her bent figure to and fro rocked all unconsciously. - The frost of age was on her brow, yet garrulous her tongue, - As she compared the “_doings now_,” with those when _she_ was young. - “When _I_ was young, young gals were meek, and looked round kind of shy; - And when they were compelled to speak, they did so modestly. - They stayed at home, and did the work; made Indian bread and wheaten; - And only went to singing-school, and _sometimes_ to night meetin’. - And _children_ were obedient _then_; they had no saucy airs; - And minded what their mothers said, and learned their hymns and prayers. - But _now-a-days_ they know enough, before they know their letters; - And young ones that can hardly walk will contradict their betters. - Young women _now_ go kiting round, and looking out for beaux; - And scarcely one in ten is found, who makes or mends her clothes! - But then, I tell my daughter, - Folks don’t do as they’d ought’-ter. - - When _I_ was young, if a man had failed, he shut up house and hall, - And never ventured out till night, if he ventured out at all; - And his wife sold all her china plates; and his sons came home from - college; - And his gals left school, and learned to wash and bake, and such like - knowledge; - They gave up cake and pumpkin-pies, and had the plainest eatin’; - And never asked folks home to tea, and scarcely went to meetin’. - The man that was a Bankrupt called, was kind’er shunned by men, - And hardly dared to show his head amongst his town folks _then_. - But _now-a-days_, when a merchant fails, they say he makes a penny; - The wife don’t have a gown the less, and his daughters just as many; - His sons they smoke their choice cigars, and drink their costly wine; - And _she_ goes to the opera, and _he_ has folks to dine! - He walks the streets, he drives his gig; men show him all civilities; - And what in _my_ day we called _debts_, are now his _lie_-abilities! - They call the man unfortunate who ruins half the city,-- - In my day ’twas his _creditors_ to whom we gave our pity. - But then, I tell my daughter, - Folks don’t do as they’d ough’-ter.” - - FROM THE OLIVE BRANCH. - - - - -THE SPRING JOURNEY. - - - O, green was the corn as I rode on my way, - And bright were the dews on the blossoms of May, - And dark was the sycamore’s shade to behold, - And the oak’s tender leaf was of emerald and gold. - - The thrush from his holly, the lark from his cloud, - Their chorus of rapture sung jovial and loud; - From the soft vernal sky to the soft grassy ground, - There was beauty above me, beneath, and around. - - The mild southern breeze brought a shower from the hill, - And yet, though it left me all dripping and chill, - I felt a new pleasure, as onward I sped, - To gaze where the rainbow gleamed broad overhead. - - O such be _life’s_ journey! and such be our skill - To lose in its blessings the sense of its ill; - Through sunshine and shower may our progress be even, - And our tears add a charm to the prospect of heaven. - - BISHOP HEBER - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -MORAL HINTS. - -BY L. MARIA CHILD. - - -Probably there are no two things that tend so much to make human -beings unhappy in themselves and unpleasant to others, as habits -of fretfulness and despondency; two faults peculiarly apt to -grow upon people after they have passed their youth. Both these -ought to be resisted with constant vigilance, as we would resist -a disease. This we should do for our own sakes, and as a duty we -owe to others. Life is made utterly disagreeable when we are daily -obliged to listen to a complaining house-mate. How annoying and -disheartening are such remarks as these: “I was not invited to the -party last night. I suppose I am getting to be of no consequence -to anybody now.” “Yes, that is a beautiful present you have had -sent you. Nobody sends _me_ presents.” “I am a useless encumbrance -now. I can see that people want me out of their way.” Yet such -observations are not unfrequently heard from persons surrounded -by external comforts, and who are consequently envied by others of -similar disposition in less favorable circumstances. - -No virtue has been so much recommended to the old as cheerfulness. -Colton says: “Cheerfulness ought to be the viaticum of their life -to the old. Age without cheerfulness is a Lapland winter without a -sun.” - -Montaigne says: “The most manifest sign of wisdom is continued -cheerfulness.” - -Dr. Johnson says: “The habit of looking on the best side of every -event is worth more than a thousand pounds a year.” - -Tucker says: “The point of aim for our vigilance to hold in view is -to dwell upon the brightest parts in every prospect; to call off -the thoughts when running upon disagreeable objects, and strive to -be pleased with the present circumstances surrounding us.” - -Southey says, in one of his letters: “I have told you of the -Spaniard, who always put on his spectacles when about to eat -cherries, that they might look bigger and more tempting. In like -manner, I make the most of my enjoyments; and though I do not cast -my eyes away from my troubles, I pack them in as little compass as -I can for myself, and never let them annoy others.” - -Perhaps you will say: “All this is very fine talk for people who -are naturally cheerful. But I am low-spirited by temperament; and -how is that to be helped?” In the first place, it would be well to -ascertain whether what you call being naturally low-spirited does -not arise from the infringement of some physical law; something -wrong in what you eat or drink, or something unhealthy in other -personal habits. But if you inherit a tendency to look on the -dark side of things, resolutely call in the aid of your reason to -counteract it. Leigh Hunt says: “If you are melancholy for the -first time, you will find, upon a little inquiry, that others have -been melancholy many times, and yet are cheerful now. If you have -been melancholy many times, recollect that you have got over all -those times; and try if you cannot find means of getting over them -better.” - -If reason will not afford sufficient help, call in the aid of -conscience. In this world of sorrow and disappointment, every human -being has trouble enough of his own. It is unkind to add the weight -of your despondency to the burdens of another, who, if you knew all -his secrets, you might find had a heavier load than yours to carry. -You find yourself refreshed by the presence of cheerful people. Why -not make earnest efforts to confer that pleasure on others? You -will find half the battle is gained, if you never allow yourself to -_say_ anything gloomy. If you habitually try to pack your troubles -away out of other people’s sight, you will be in a fair way to -forget them yourself; first, because evils become exaggerated to -the imagination by repetition; and, secondly, because an effort -made for the happiness of others lifts us above ourselves. - -Those who are conscious of a tendency to dejection should also -increase as much as possible the circle of simple and healthy -enjoyments. They should cultivate music and flowers, take walks -to look at beautiful sunsets, read entertaining books, and avail -themselves of any agreeable social intercourse within their reach. -They should also endeavor to surround themselves with pleasant -external objects. - -Our states of feeling, and even our characters, are influenced by -the things we habitually look upon or listen to. A sweet singer in -a household, or a musical instrument played with feeling, do more -than afford us mere sensuous pleasure; they help us morally, by -their tendency to harmonize discordant moods. Pictures of pleasant -scenes, or innocent objects, are, for similar reasons, desirable -in the rooms we inhabit. Even the paper on the walls may help -somewhat to drive away “blue devils,” if ornamented with graceful -patterns, that light up cheerfully. The paper on the parlor of -Linnæus represented beautiful flowering plants from the East and -West Indies; and on the walls of his bedroom were delineated a -great variety of butterflies, dragon-flies, and other brilliant -insects. Doubtless it contributed not a little to the happiness -of the great naturalist thus to live in the midst of his pictured -thoughts. To cultivate flowers, to arrange them in pretty vases, -to observe their beauties of form and color, has a healthy effect, -both on mind and body. Some temperaments are more susceptible than -others to these fine influences, but they are not entirely without -effect on any human soul; and forms of beauty can now be obtained -with so little expenditure of money, that few need to be entirely -destitute of them. - -Perhaps you will say, “If I feel low-spirited, even if I do not -speak of it, I cannot help showing it.” The best way to avoid -the intrusion of sad feelings is to immerse yourself in some -occupation. Adam Clarke said: “I have lived to know that the secret -of happiness is never to allow your energies to stagnate.” If you -are so unfortunate as to have nothing to do at home, then, the -moment you begin to feel a tendency to depression, start forth for -the homes of others. Tidy up the room of some helpless person, who -has nobody to wait upon her; carry flowers to some invalid, or read -to some lonely old body. If you are a man, saw and split wood for -some poor widow, or lone woman, in the neighborhood. If you are a -woman, knit stockings for poor children, or mend caps for those -whose eyesight is failing; and when you have done them, don’t send -them home, but take them yourself. Merely to have every hour of -life fully occupied is a great blessing; but the full benefit of -constant employment cannot be experienced unless we are occupied -in a way that promotes the good of others, while it exercises our -own bodies and employs our own minds. Plato went so far as to call -exercise a cure for a wounded conscience; and, provided usefulness -is combined with it, there is certainly a good deal of truth in the -assertion; inasmuch as constant helpful activity leaves the mind -no leisure to brood over useless regrets, and by thus covering the -wound from the corrosion of thought, helps it to become a scar. - -Against that listless indifference, which the French call _ennui_, -industry is even a better preservative than it is against vain -regrets. Therefore, it seems to me unwise for people in the decline -of life to quit entirely their customary occupations and pursuits. -The happiest specimens of old age are those men and women who have -been busy to the last; and there can be no doubt that the decay -of our powers, both bodily and mental, is much hindered by their -constant exercise, provided it be not excessive. - -It is recorded of Michael Angelo, that “after he was sixty years -old, though not very robust, he would cut away as many scales from -a block of very hard marble, in a quarter of an hour, as three -young sculptors would have effected in three or four hours. Such -was the impetuosity and fire with which he pursued his labors, -that with a single stroke he brought down fragments three or four -fingers thick, and so close upon his mark, that had he passed it, -even in the slightest degree, there would have been danger of -ruining the whole.” From the time he was seventy-one years old -till he was seventy-five, he was employed in painting the Pauline -Chapel. It was done in fresco, which is exceedingly laborious, and -he confessed that it fatigued him greatly. He was seventy-three -years old when he was appointed architect of the wonderful church -of St. Peter’s, at Rome; upon which he expended the vast powers -of his mind during seventeen years. He persisted in refusing -compensation, and labored solely for the honor of his country and -his church. In his eighty-seventh year, some envious detractors -raised a report that he had fallen into dotage; but he triumphantly -refuted the charge, by producing a very beautiful model of St. -Peter’s, planned by his own mind, and in a great measure executed -by his own hand. He was eighty-three, when his faithful old servant -Urbino, who had lived with him twenty-six years, sickened and died. -Michael Angelo, notwithstanding his great age, and the arduous -labors of superintending the mighty structure of St. Peter’s, and -planning new fortifications for Rome, undertook the charge of -nursing him. He even watched over him through the night; sleeping -by his side, without undressing. This remarkable man lived ninety -years, lacking a fortnight. He wrote many beautiful sonnets during -his last years, and continued to make drawings, plans, and models, -to the day of his death, though infirmities increased upon him, and -his memory failed. - -Handel lived to be seventy-five years old, and though afflicted -with blindness in his last years, he continued to produce oratorios -and anthems. He superintended music in the orchestra only a week -before he died. Haydn was sixty-five years old, when he composed -his oratorio of The Creation, the music of which is as bright as -the morning sunshine. When he was seventy-seven years old, he went -to a great concert to hear it performed. It affected him deeply -to have his old inspirations thus recalled to mind. When they -came to the passage, “It was light!” he was so overpowered by -the harmonies, that he burst into tears, and, pointing upwards, -exclaimed: “Not from _me_! Not from _me_! but _thence_ did all this -come!” - -Linnæus was past sixty-two years old when he built a museum at his -country-seat, where he classified and arranged a great number of -plants, zoöphytes, shells, insects, and minerals. Besides this, he -superintended the Royal Gardens, zealously pursued his scientific -researches, corresponded by letter with many learned men, taught -pupils, and lectured constantly in the Academic Gardens. His -pupils travelled to all parts of the world, and sent him new -plants and minerals to examine and classify. In the midst of this -constant occupation, he wrote: “I tell the truth when I say that -I am happier than the King of Persia. My pupils send me treasures -from the East and the West; treasures more precious to me than -Babylonish garments or Chinese vases. Here in the Academic Gardens -is my Elysium. Here I learn and teach; here I admire, and point out -to others, the wisdom of the Great Artificer, manifested in the -structure of His wondrous works.” It is said that even when he was -quite ill, the arrival of an unknown plant would infuse new life -into him. He continued to labor with unremitting diligence till he -was sixty-seven years old, when a fit of apoplexy attacked him in -the midst of a public lecture, and so far impaired his memory that -he became unable to teach. - -The celebrated Alexander von Humboldt lived ninety years, and -continued to pursue his scientific researches and to publish -learned books up to the very year of his departure from this world. - -The Rev. John Wesley continued to preach and write till his body -was fairly worn out. Southey, his biographer, says: “When you met -him in the street of a crowded city, he attracted notice, not only -by his band and cassock, and his long hair, white and bright as -silver, but by his pace and manner, both indicating that all his -minutes were numbered, and that not one was to be lost.” Wesley -himself wrote: “Though I am always in haste, I am never in a hurry; -because I never undertake more work than I can go through with -perfect calmness of spirit.” Upon completing his eighty-second -year, he wrote: “It is now eleven years since I have felt any such -thing as weariness. Many times I speak till my voice fails me, and -I can speak no longer. Frequently I walk till my strength fails, -and I can walk no farther. Yet even then I feel no sensation of -weariness, but am perfectly easy from head to foot. I dare not -impute this to natural causes. It is the will of God.” A year -later, he wrote: “I am a wonder to myself. Such is the goodness -of God, that I am never tired, either with writing, preaching, or -travelling.” - -Isaac T. Hopper, who lived to be past eighty, was actively employed -in helping fugitive slaves, and travelling about to exercise a -kindly and beneficent influence in prisons, until a very short time -before his death. When he was compelled to take to his bed, he said -to me: “I am ready and willing to go, only there is so much that I -want to do.” - -Some will say it is not in their power to do such things as these -men did. That may be. But there is something that everybody can do. -Those whose early habits render it difficult, or impossible, to -learn a new science, or a new language, in the afternoon of life, -can at least oil the hinges of memory by learning hymns, chapters, -ballads, and stories, wherewith to console and amuse themselves -and others. A stock of nursery rhymes to amuse little children is -far from being a foolish or worthless acquisition, since it enables -one to impart delight to the little souls, - - “With their wonder so intense, - And their small experience.” - -Women undoubtedly have the advantage of men, in those in-door -occupations best suited to the infirm; for there is no end to the -shoes that may be knit for the babies of relatives, the tidies that -may be crocheted for the parlors of friends, and the socks that -may be knit for the poor. But men also can find employment for -tedious hours, when the period of youthful activity has passed. -In summer, gardening is a never-failing resource both to men and -women; and genial qualities of character are developed by imparting -to others the flowers, fruit, and vegetables we have had the -pleasure of raising. The Rev. Dr. Prince of Salem was always busy, -in his old age, making telescopes, kaleidoscopes, and a variety -of toys for scientific illustrations, with which he instructed -and entertained the young people who visited him. My old father -amused himself, and benefited others, by making bird-houses for -children, and clothes-horses and towel-stands for all the girls -of his acquaintance who were going to housekeeping. I knew an -old blind man, who passed his winter evenings pleasantly weaving -mats from corn-husks, while another old man read to him. A lathe -is a valuable resource for elderly people; and this employment -for mind and hands may also exercise the moral qualities, as it -admits of affording pleasure to family and friends by innumerable -neatly-turned little articles. The value of occupation is threefold -to elderly people, if usefulness is combined with exercise; for in -that way the machinery of body, mind, and heart may all be kept -from rusting. - -A sister of the celebrated John Wilkes, a wise and kindly old lady, -who resided in Boston a very long time ago, was accustomed to say, -“The true secret of happiness is always to have a little less time -than one wants, and a little more money than one needs.” There is -much wisdom in the saying, but I think it might be improved by -adding, that the money should be of one’s own earning. - -After life has passed its maturity, great care should be taken -not to become indifferent to the affairs of the world. It is -salutary, both for mind and heart, to take an interest in some of -the great questions of the age; whether it be slavery or war, or -intemperance, or the elevation of women, or righting the wrongs of -the Indians, or the progress of education, or the regulation of -prisons, or improvements in architecture, or investigation into -the natural sciences, from which proceed results so important -to the daily comfort and occupations of mankind. It is for each -one to choose his object of especial interest; but it should be -remembered that no person has a right to be entirely indifferent -concerning questions involving great moral principles. Care should -be taken that the daily social influence which every man and woman -exerts, more or less, should be employed in the right direction. -A conscientious man feels himself in some degree responsible for -the evil he does not seek to prevent. In the Rev. John Wesley’s -journal for self-examination this suggestive question occurs: -“Have I embraced every probable opportunity of doing good, and -of preventing, removing, or lessening evil?” Such habits of mind -tend greatly to the improvement of our own characters, while at -the same time they may help to improve the character and condition -of others. Nothing is more healthy for the soul than to go out -of ourselves, and stay out of ourselves. We thus avoid brooding -over our own bodily pains, our mental deficiencies, or past moral -shortcomings; we forget to notice whether others neglect us, -or not; whether they duly appreciate us, or not; whether their -advantages are superior to ours, or not. He who leads a true, -active, and useful life has no time for such corrosive thoughts. -All self-consciousness indicates disease. We never think about -our stomachs till we have dyspepsia. The moral diseases which -induce self-consciousness are worse than the physical, both in -their origin and their results. To indulge in repinings over our -own deficiencies, compared with others, while it indicates the -baneful presence of envy, prevents our making the best use of such -endowments as we have. If we are conscious of our merits, bodily or -mental, it takes away half their value. There is selfishness even -in anxiety whether we shall go to heaven or not, or whether our -souls are immortal or not. A continual _preparation_ for eternal -progress is the wisest and the happiest way to live _here_. If we -daily strive to make ourselves fit companions for angels, we shall -be in constant readiness for a better world, while we make sure of -enjoying some degree of heaven upon this earth; and, what is still -better, of helping to make it a paradise for others. - -Perhaps there is no error of human nature productive of so much -unhappiness as the indulgence of temper. Often everything in a -household is made to go wrong through the entire day, because one -member of the family rises in a fretful mood. An outburst of anger -brings a cloud of gloom over the domestic atmosphere, which is -not easily dissipated. Strenuous efforts should be made to guard -against this, especially by the old; who, as they lose external -attractions, should strive all the more earnestly to attain that -internal beauty which is of infinitely more value. And here, again, -the question may be asked, “What am I to do, if I have naturally -a hasty or fretful temper, and if those around me act in a manner -to provoke it?” In the first place, strong self-constraint may be -made to become a habit; and this, though very difficult in many -cases, is possible to all. People of the most ungoverned tempers -will often become suddenly calm and courteous when a stranger -enters; and they can control their habitual outbreaks, when they -are before people whose good opinion they are particularly desirous -to obtain or preserve. Constraint may be made more easy by leaving -the presence of those with whom you are tempted to jangle. Go out -into the open air; feed animals; gather flowers or fruit for the -very person you were tempted to annoy. By thus opening a door for -devils to walk out of your soul, angels will be sure to walk in. -If circumstances prevent your doing anything of this kind, you -can retire to your own chamber for a while, and there wrestle for -victory over your evil mood. If necessary avocations render this -impossible, time can at least be snatched for a brief and earnest -prayer for help in overcoming your besetting sin; and prayer is a -golden gate, through which angels are wont to enter. - - “And the lady prayed in heaviness, - That looked not for relief; - But slowly did her succor come, - And a patience to her grief. - - “O, there is never sorrow of heart - That shall lack a timely end, - If but to God we turn and ask - Of Him to be our friend.” - -There is a reason for governing our tempers which is still more -important than our own happiness, or even the happiness of others. -I allude to its influence on the characters of those around us; -an influence which may mar their whole destiny here, and perhaps -hinder their progress hereafter. None of us are sufficiently -careful to keep pure and wholesome the spiritual atmosphere which -surrounds every human being, and which must be more or less inhaled -by the spiritual lungs of all those with whom he enters into the -various relations of life. Jean Paul said: “Newton, who uncovered -his head whenever the name of God was pronounced, thus became, -without words, a teacher of religion to children.” Many a girl has -formed an injudicious marriage, in consequence of hearing sneering -remarks, or vulgar jokes, about “old maids.” Poisonous prejudices -against nations, races, sects, and classes are often instilled by -thoughtless incidental expressions. There is education for evil -in the very words “Nigger,” “Paddy,” “old Jew,” “old maid,” &c. -It is recorded of the Rabbi Sera, that when he was asked how he -had attained to such a serene and lovable old age, he replied: “I -have never rejoiced at any evil which happened to my neighbor; and -I never called any man by a nickname given to him in derision or -sport.” - -False ideas with regard to the importance of wealth and rank are -very generally, though often unconsciously inculcated by modes of -speech, or habits of action. To treat _mere_ wealth with more -respect than honest poverty; to speak more deferentially of a man -whose _only_ claim is a distinguished ancestry, than you do of -the faithful laborer who ditches your meadows, is a slow but sure -process of education, which sermons and catechisms will never be -able entirely to undo. It is important to realize fully that all -merely conventional distinctions are false and illusory; that -only worth and usefulness can really ennoble man or woman. If we -look at the subject from a rational point of view, the artificial -classifications of society appear even in a ludicrous light. It -would be considered a shocking violation of etiquette for the -baronet’s lady to call upon the queen. The wife of the wealthy -banker, or merchant, cannot be admitted to the baronet’s social -circle. The intelligent mechanic and prosperous farmer is excluded -from the merchant’s parlor. The farmer and mechanic would think -they let themselves down by inviting a worthy day-laborer to -their parties. And the day-laborer, though he were an ignoramus -and a drunkard, would feel authorized to treat with contempt any -intelligent and excellent man whose complexion happened to be -black or brown. I once knew a grocer’s wife, who, with infinite -condescension of manner, said to the wife of her neighbor the -cobbler, “Why don’t you come in to see me sometimes? You needn’t -keep away because my house is carpeted all over.” Hannah More -tells us that the Duchess of Gloucester, wishing to circulate some -tracts and verses, requested one of her ladies in waiting to stop -a woman who was wheeling a barrow of oranges past the window, -and ask her if she would take some ballads to sell. “No indeed!” -replied the orange-woman, with an air of offended dignity. “I -don’t do anything so mean as that. I don’t even sell apples.” The -Duchess was much amused by her ideas of rank; but they were in fact -no more absurd than her own. It is the same mean, selfish spirit -which manifests itself through all these gradations. External rank -belongs to the “phantom dynasties”; and if we wish our children to -enjoy sound moral health, we should be careful not to teach any -deference for it, either in our words or our habits. Mrs. Gaskell, -in her sketch of a very conservative and prejudiced English -gentlewoman, “one of the olden time,” gives a lovely touch to the -picture, indicating that true natural refinement was not stifled by -the prejudices of rank. Lady Ludlow had, with patronizing kindness, -invited several of her social inferiors to tea. Among them was the -wife of a rich baker, who, being unaccustomed to the etiquette -of such company, spread a silk handkerchief in her lap, when she -took a piece of cake; whereupon some of the curate’s wives began -to titter, in order to show that they knew polite manners better -than she did. Lady Ludlow, perceiving this, immediately spread -her own handkerchief in her lap; and when the baker’s wife went to -the fireplace to shake out her crumbs, my lady did the same. This -silent rebuke was sufficient to prevent any further rudeness to the -unsophisticated wife of the baker. No elaborate rules are necessary -to teach us true natural politeness. We need only remember two -short texts of Scripture: “Do unto others as ye would that they -should do unto you.” “God is your Father, and all ye are brethren.” - -Elderly people are apt to think that their years exempt them from -paying so much attention to good manners as the young are required -to do. On the contrary, they ought to be more careful in their -deportment and conversation, because their influence is greater. -Impure words or stories repeated by parents or grandparents may -make indelible stains on the minds of their descendants, and -perhaps give a sensual direction to their characters through life. -No story, however funny, should ever be told, if it will leave in -the memory unclean associations, either physically or morally. - -A love of gossiping about other people’s affairs is apt to grow -upon those who have retired from the active pursuits of life; and -this is one among many reasons why it is best to keep constantly -occupied. A great deal of trouble is made in neighborhoods, from no -malicious motives, but from the mere excitement of telling news, -and the temporary importance derived therefrom. Most village -gossip, when sifted down, amounts to the little school-girl’s -definition. Being asked what it was to bear false witness against -thy neighbor, she replied: “It’s when nobody don’t do nothing, and -somebody goes and tells of it.” One of the best and most genial -of the Boston merchants, when he heard people discussing themes -of scandal, was accustomed to interrupt them, by saying: “Don’t -talk any more about it! Perhaps they didn’t do it; and may be they -couldn’t help it.” For myself, I deem it the greatest unkindness -to be told of anything said against me. I may prevent its exciting -resentment in my mind; but the consciousness of not being liked -unavoidably disturbs my relations with the person implicated. There -is no better safeguard against the injurious habit of gossiping, -than the being interested in _principles_ and _occupations_; if you -have these to employ your mind, you will have no inclination to -talk about matters merely personal. - -When we reflect that life is so full of neglected little -opportunities to improve ourselves and others, we shall feel that -there is no need of aspiring after great occasions to do good. - - “The _trivial_ round, the _common_ task, - Would furnish all we need to ask; - Room to deny ourselves,--a road - To bring us daily nearer God.” - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE BOYS. - -WRITTEN FOR A MEETING OF COLLEGE CLASSMATES. - -BY OLIVER W. HOLMES. - - - Has there any _old_ fellow got mixed with the boys? - If there has, take him out, without making a noise! - Hang the Almanac’s cheat, and the Catalogue’s spite! - Old Time is a liar! We’re twenty to-night. - - We’re twenty! We’re twenty! Who says we are more? - He’s tipsy, young jackanapes! Show him the door! - “Gray temples at twenty?” Yes! _white_, if we please; - Where the snow-flakes fall thickest, there’s nothing can freeze. - - Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake! - Look close,--you will see not a sign of a flake; - We want some new garlands for those we have shed,-- - And these are white roses in place of the red. - - We’ve a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, - Of talking (in public) as if we were old;-- - That boy we call “Doctor,” and this we call “Judge”;-- - It’s a neat little fiction,--of course, it’s all fudge. - - That fellow’s “the Speaker,”--the one on the right; - “Mr. Mayor,” my young one, how are you to-night? - That’s our “Member of Congress,” we say when we chaff; - There’s the “Reverend” What’s his name? Don’t make me laugh! - - * * * * * - - Yes, we’re boys,--always playing with tongue or with pen,-- - And I sometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men? - Shall we always be youthful, and laughing and gay, - Till the last dear companion drops smiling away? - - Then here’s to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! - The stars of its Winter, the dews of its May! - And when we have done with our life-lasting toys, - Dear Father, take care of thy children, the Boys! - - - - -ODE OF ANACREON. - -TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK. - - - I love a mellow, cheerful sage, - Whose feelings are unchilled by age; - I love a youth who dances well - To music of the sounding shell; - But when a man of years, like me, - Joins with the dancers playfully, - Though age in silvery hair appears, - His heart is young, despite of years. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -MYSTERIOUSNESS OF LIFE. - -FROM MOUNTFORD’S EUTHANASY. - - -About the world to come, it ought not to be as though we did not -know _surely_, because we do not know _much_. From the nearest -star, our earth, if it is seen, looks hardly anything at all. It -shines, or rather it twinkles, and that is all. To them afar off, -this earth is only a shining point. But to us who live in it, -it is wide and various. It is sea and land; it is Europe, Asia, -Africa, and America; it is the lair of the lion, and the pasture -of the ox, and the pathway of the worm, and the support of the -robin; it is what has day and night in it; it is what customs and -languages obtain in; it is many countries; it is the habitation -of a thousand million men; and it is our home. All this the world -is to _us_; though, looked at from one of the stars, it is only a -something that twinkles in the distance. It is seen only as a few -intermittent rays of light; though, to us who live in it, it is -hill and valley, and land and water, and many thousands of miles -wide. So that if the future world is a star of guidance for us, it -is enough; because it is not for us to _know_, but to _believe_, -that it will prove our dear home. - - * * * * * - -We live mortal lives for immortal good. And really this world is -so mysterious, that there is not one of its commonest ways but is -perhaps sublimer to walk on than we at all think. At night, when we -walk about and see at all, it is by the light of _other_ worlds; -though we do not often think of this. It is the same in life. There -is many a matter concerning us that is little thought of, but which -is ours, as it were, from out of the infinite. Yes, our lives are -to be felt as being very great, even in their nothingness. Even our -mortal lives are as wonderful as immortality. Is the next life a -mystery? So it is. But then how mysterious even _now_ life is. Food -is not all that a man lives by. There is some way by which food has -to turn to strength in him; and that way is something else than his -own will. I am hungry, I sit down to a meal, and I enjoy it. And -the next day, from what I ate and drank for my pleasure, there is -blood in my veins, and moisture on my skin, and new flesh making -in all my limbs. And this is not my doing or willing; for I do not -even know how my nails grow from under the skin of my fingers. I -can well believe in my being to live hereafter. _How_, indeed, I -am to live, I do not know; but, then, neither do I know how I do -live _now_. When I am asleep, my lungs keep breathing, my heart -keeps beating, my stomach keeps digesting, and my whole body keeps -making anew. And in the morning, when I look in the glass, it is as -though I see myself a new creature; and really, for the wonder of it, -it is all the same as though another body had grown about me in my - sleep. This living from day to day is astonishing, - when it is thought of; and we are let feel - the miracle of it, so, perhaps, that - our being to live again may not - be too wonderful for - our belief. - -[Illustration] - - Though there be storm and turbulence on this earth, one would - rise but little way, through the blackened air, before he would - come to a region of calm and peace, where the stars shine - unobstructed, and where there is no storm. And a little above - our cloud, a little higher than our darkness, a little beyond - our storm, is God’s upper region of tranquil peace and calm. - And when we have had the discipline of winter here, it will be - possible for us to have eternal summer there. - - HENRY WARD BEECHER. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -EXTRACTS FROM - -THE GRANDMOTHER’S APOLOGY. - -BY ALFRED TENNYSON. - - - And Willy, my eldest born, is gone you say, little Ann? - Ruddy and white and strong on his legs, he looks like a man. - “Here’s a leg for a babe of a week!” says doctor; and he would be bound - There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round. - - Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue! - I ought to have gone before him; I wonder he went so young. - I cannot cry for him, Annie; I have not long to stay; - Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away. - - Why do you look at me, Annie? you think I am hard and cold; - But all my children have gone before me, I am so old: - I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest; - Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. - - The first child that ever I bore was dead before he was born: - Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn. - I had not wept, little Annie, not since I had been a wife; - But I wept like a child, that day; for the babe had fought for his life. - - His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain; - I looked at the still little body,--his trouble had all been in vain. - For Willy I cannot weep; I shall see him another morn; - But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was born. - - But he cheered me, my good man, for he seldom said me nay: - Kind, like a man, was he; like a man, too, would have his way; - Never jealous,--not he: we had many a happy year: - And he died, and I could not weep,--my own time seemed so near. - - But I wished it had been God’s will that I, too, then could have died: - I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side; - And that was ten years back, or more, if I don’t forget: - But as for the children, Annie, they are all about me yet. - - Pattering over the boards, my Annie, who left me at two; - Patter she goes, my own little Annie,--an Annie like you. - Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will, - While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill. - - And Harry and Charlie, I hear them, too,--they sing to their team; - Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of dream. - They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed: - I am not always certain if they be alive or dead. - - And yet I know for a truth, there’s none of them left alive; - For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five; - And Willy, my eldest born, at nigh threescore and ten; - I knew them all as babies, and now they are elderly men. - - For mine is a time of peace; it is not often I grieve; - I am oftener sitting at home in my father’s farm at eve: - And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I; - I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by. - - To be sure the preacher says our sins should make us sad; - But mine is a time of peace, and there is grace to be had; - And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease; - And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of peace. - - And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain; - And happy has been my life, but I would not live it again. - I seem to be tired a little, that’s all, and long for rest; - Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. - - So Willy has gone,--my beauty, my eldest born, my flower; - But how can I weep for Willy? he has but gone for an hour,-- - Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next; - I too shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext? - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE ANCIENT MAN. - - TRANSLATED BY L. O. FROM THE GERMAN OF JEAN PAUL RICHTER’S - MEMOIR OF FIBEL, AUTHOR OF THE BIENENRODA SPELLING-BOOK. - - “He is insensibly subdued - To settled quiet. He is one by whom - All effort seems forgotten; one to whom - Long patience hath such mild composure given, - That patience now doth seem a thing of which - He hath no need. He is by Nature led - To peace so perfect, that the young behold - With envy what the old man hardly feels.” - - WORDSWORTH. - - -The stream of Fibel’s history having vanished under ground, like a -second river Rhone, I was obliged to explore where story or stream -again burst forth, and for this purpose I questioned every one. I -was told that no one could better inform me than an exceedingly -aged man, more than a hundred and twenty-five years old, who lived -a few miles from the village of Bienenroda, and who, having been -young at the same time with Fibel, must know all about him. The -prospect of shaking hands with the very oldest man living on the -face of the earth enraptured me. I said to myself that a most -novel and peculiar sensation must be excited by having a whole -past century before you, bodily present, compact and alive, in the -century now passing; by holding, hand to hand, a man of the age -of the antediluvians, over whose head so many entire generations -of young mornings and old evenings have fled, and before whom one -stands, in fact, as neither young nor old; to listen to a human -spirit, outlandish, behind the time, almost mysteriously awful; -sole survivor of the thousand gray, cold sleepers, coevals of his -own remote, hoary age; standing as sentinel before the ancient -dead, looking coldly and strangely on life’s silly novelties; -finding in the present no cooling for his inborn spirit-thirst, -no more enchanting yesterdays or to-morrows, but only the -day-before-yesterday of youth, and the day-after-to-morrow of -death. It may consequently be imagined that so very old a man would -speak only of his _farthest_ past, of his early day-dawn, which, -of course, in the long evening of his protracted day, must now be -blending with his midnight. On the other hand, that one like myself -would not feel particularly younger before such a millionnaire of -hours, as the Bienenroda Patriarch must be; and that his presence -must make one feel more conscious of death than of immortality. -A very aged man is a more powerful memento than a grave; for -the older a grave is, the farther we look back to the succession -of young persons who have mouldered in it; sometimes a maiden is -concealed in an ancient grave; but an ancient dwindled body hides -only an imprisoned spirit. - -An opportunity for visiting the Patriarch was presented by a return -coach-and-six, belonging to a count, on which I was admitted to -a seat with the coachman. Just before arriving at Bienenroda, he -pointed with his whip toward an orchard, tuneful with song, and -said, “There sits the old man with his little animals around him.” -I sprang from the noble equipage and went toward him. I ventured to -expect that the Count’s six horses would give me, before the old -man, the appearance of a person of rank, apart from the simplicity -of my dress, whereby princes and heroes are wont to distinguish -themselves from their tinselled lackeys. I was, therefore, a little -surprised that the old man kept on playing with his pet hare, not -even checking the barking of his poodle, as if counts were his -daily bread, until, at last, he lifted his oil-cloth hat from his -head. A buttoned overcoat, which gave room to see his vest, a long -pair of knit over-alls, which were, in fact, enormous stockings, -and a neckerchief, which hung down to his bosom, made his dress -look modern enough. His time-worn frame was far more peculiar. The -inner part of the eye, which is black in childhood, was quite -white; his tallness, more than his years, seemed to bow him over -into an arch; the out-turned point of his chin gave to his speech -the appearance of mumbling; yet the expression of his countenance -was lively, his eyes bright, his jaws full of white teeth, and his -head covered with light hair. - -I began by saying: “I came here solely on your account to see a man -for whom there can assuredly be little new under the sun, though -he himself is something very new under it. You are now strictly -in your five and twenties; a man in your best years; since after -a century a _new_ reckoning commences. For myself, I confess that -after once clambering over the century terminus, or church-wall of -a hundred years, I should neither know how old I was, nor whether -I was myself. I should begin fresh and free, just as the world’s -history has often done, counting again from the year one, in the -middle of a thousand years. Yet why can not a man live to be as -old as is many a giant tree of India still standing? It is well to -question very old people concerning the methods by which they have -prolonged their lives. How do you account for it, dear old sir?” - -I was beginning to be vexed at the good man’s silence, when he -softly replied: “Some suppose it is because I have always been -cheerful; because I have adopted the maxim, ‘Never sad, ever glad’; -but I ascribe it wholly to our dear Lord God; since the animals, -which here surround us, though never sad, but happy for the most -part, by no means so frequently exceed the usual boundary of their -life, as does man. He exhibits an image of the eternal God, even in -the length of his duration.” - -Such words concerning God, uttered by a tongue one hundred and -twenty-five years old, had great weight and consolation; and I at -once felt their beautiful attraction. On mentioning animals, the -old man turned again to his own; and, as though indifferent to him -who had come in a coach-and-six, he began again to play with his -menagerie, the hare, the spaniel, the silky poodle, the starling, -and a couple of turtle-doves on his bosom; a pleasant bee-colony -in the orchard also gave heed to him; with one whistle he sent -the bees away, and with another summoned them into the ring of -creatures, which surrounded him like a court-circle. - -At last, he said: “No one need be surprised that a very old man, -who has forgotten everything, and whom no one but the dear God -knows or cares for, should give himself wholly to the dear animals. -To whom can such an old man be of much use? I wander about in the -villages, as in cities, wholly strange. If I see children, they -come before me like my own remote childhood. If I meet old men, -they seem like my past hoary years. I do not quite know where I now -belong. I hang between heaven and earth. Yet God ever looks upon -me bright and lovingly, with his two eyes, the sun and the moon. -Moreover, animals lead into no sin, but rather to devotion. When my -turtle-doves brood over their young and feed them, it seems to me -just as if I saw God himself doing a great deal; for they derive -their love and instinct toward their young, as a gift from him.” - -The old man became silent, and looked pensively before him, as was -his wont. A ringing of christening bells sounded from Bienenroda -among the trees in the garden. He wept a little. I know not how -I could have been so simple, after the beautiful words he had -uttered, as to have mistaken his tears for a sign of weakness in -his eyes. “I do not hear well, on account of my great age,” said -he; “and it seems to me as if the baptismal bell from the distant -sanctuary sounded up here very faintly. The old years of my -childhood, more than a hundred years ago, ascend from the ancient -depths of time, and gaze on me in wonder, while I and they know -not whether we ought to weep or laugh.” Then, addressing his silky -poodle, he called out, “Ho! ho! come here old fellow!” - -The allusion to his childhood brought me to the purpose of my -visit. “Excellent sir,” said I, “I am preparing the biography -of the deceased Master Gotthelf Fibel, author of the famous -Spelling-Book; and all I now need to complete it is the account of -his death.” The old man smiled, and made a low bow. I continued, -“No one is more likely to know the particulars of his decease than -yourself; and you are the only person who can enrich me with the -rare traits of his childhood; because every incident inscribed on a -child’s brain grows deeper with years, like names cut into a gourd, -while later inscriptions disappear. Tell me, I pray you, all that -you know concerning the departed man; for I am to publish his Life -at the Michaelmas Fair.” - -He murmured, “Excellent genius; scholar; man of letters; author -most famous; these and other fine titles I learned by heart and -applied to myself, while I was that vain, blinded Fibel, who wrote -and published the ordinary Spelling-Book in question.” - -So then, this old man was the blessed Fibel himself! A hundred and -twenty-five notes of admiration, ay, eighteen hundred and eleven -notes in a row, would but feebly express my astonishment. - -[Here follows a long conversation concerning Fibel, after which the -narrative continues as follows:--] - -The old man went into his little garden-house, and I followed -him. He whistled, and instantly his black squirrel came down from -a tree, whither it had gone more for pleasure than for food. -Nightingales, thrushes, starlings, and other birds, flew back into -the open window from the tops of the trees. A bulfinch, whose color -had been changed by age from red to black, strutted about the -room, uttering droll sounds, which it could not make distinct. The -hare pattered about in the twilight, sometimes on his hind feet, -sometimes on all fours. Every dog in the house bounded forward -in glad, loving, human glee. But the most joyful of all was the -poodle; for he knew he was to have a box with compartments fastened -to his neck, containing a list of the articles wanted for supper, -which it was his business to bring from the inn in Bienenroda. He -was Fibel’s victualler, or provision-wagon. Children, who ran back -and forth, were the only other ones who ministered to his wants. - -In allusion to his pets, he said: “We ought to assist the -circumscribed faculties of animals, by educating them, as far as -we can, since we stand toward them, in a certain degree, as their -Lord God; and we ought to train them to good morals, too; for very -possibly they may continue to live after death. God and the animals -are always good; but not so with man.” - -Aged men impart spiritual things, as they give material things, -with a shaking hand, which drops half. In the effort to gather up -his recollections, he permitted me to quicken his memory with my -own; and thus I obtained a connected account of some particulars in -his experience. He said he might have been about a hundred years -old, when he cut a new set of teeth, the pain of which disturbed -him with wild dreams. One night he seemed to be holding in his -hands a large sieve, and it was his task to pull the meshes apart, -one by one. The close net-work, and the fastening to the wooden -rim, gave him indescribable trouble. But as his dream went on, -he seemed to hold in his hand the great bright sun, which flamed -up into his face. He woke with a new-born feeling, and slumbered -again, as if on waving tulips. He dreamed again that he was a -hundred years old, and that he died as an innocent yearling child, -without any of the sin or woe of earth; that he found his parents -on high, who brought before him a long procession of his children, -who had remained invisible to him while he was in this world, -because they were transparent, like the angels. He rose from his -bed with new teeth and new ideas. The old Fibel was consumed, and a -true Phœnix stood in his place, sunning its colored wings. He had -risen glorified out of no other grave than his own body. The world -retreated; heaven came down. - -When he had related these things, he at once bade me good night. -Without waiting for the return of his ministering poodle, and with -hands folded for prayer, he showed me the road. I withdrew, but I -rambled a long time round the orchard, which had sprung entirely -from seed of his own planting. Indeed he seldom ate a cherry -without smuggling the stone and burying it in the ground for a -resurrection. This habit often annoyed the neighboring peasants, -who did not want high things growing on their boundaries. “But,” -said he, “I cannot destroy a fruit-stone. If the peasants pull up -the tree it produces, it will still have lived a little while, and -die as a child dies.” - -While loitering in the orchard, I heard an evening hymn played and -sung. I returned near Fibel’s window, and saw him slowly turning a -hand-organ, and accompanying the tune by softly singing an evening -hymn. This organ, aided by his fragment of a voice, sufficed, in -its monotonous uniformity, for his domestic devotion. I went away -repeating the song. - -Beautiful was the orchard when I returned the next morning. And the -hoar-frost of age seemed thawed and fluid, and to glisten only as -morning dew on Fibel’s after-blossom. The affection of his animals -toward him rendered the morning still more beautiful, in an orchard -every tree of which had for its mother the stone of some fruit that -he had enjoyed. His animals were an inheritance from his parents; -though, of course they were the great, great, great grandchildren -of those which had belonged to them. The trees were full of -brooding birds, and by a slight whistle he could lure down to his -shoulders this tame posterity of his father’s singing-school. -It was refreshing to the heart to see how quickly the tender -flutterers surrounded him. - -With the infantine satisfaction of a gray-headed child, he was -accustomed to hang up on sticks, or in the trees, wherever the -rays of the sun could best shine upon them, little balls of -colored glass; and he took indescribable delight in this accordion -of silver, gold, and jewel hues. These parti-colored sun-balls, -varying the green with many flaming tints, were like crystal -tulip-beds. Some of the red ones seemed like ripe apples among the -branches. But what charmed the old man most were reflections of -the landscape from these little world-spheres. They resembled the -moving prospects shadowed forth in a diminishing mirror. “Ah,” said -he, “when I contemplate the colors produced by the sunshine, which -God gives to this dark world, it seems to me as if I had departed, -and were already with God. And yet, since He is _in_ us, we are -always with God.” - -I asked him how it happened that, at his age, he spoke German -almost purer than that used even by our best writers. Counting his -birth from the end of his century [the new birth described in his -dream], he replied: “I was somewhere about two years old, when I -happened to hear a holy, spiritual minister, who spoke German with -such an angel tongue, that he would not have needed a better in -heaven. I heard him every Sabbath during several years.” He could -not tell me the preacher’s name, but he vividly described his -manner in the pulpit. He told how he spoke with no superfluity of -words, airs, or gestures; how he uttered, in mild tones, things -the most beautiful and forcible; how, like the Apostle John, with -his resting-place close to heaven, this man spoke to the world, -laying his hands calmly on the pulpit-desk, as an arm-case; how -his every tone was a heart, and his every look a blessing; how the -energy of this disciple of Christ was embedded in love, as the firm -diamond is encased in ductile gold; how the pulpit was to him a -Mount Tabor, whereon he transfigured both himself and his hearers; -and how, of all clergymen, he best performed that which is the most -difficult,--the _praying_ worthily. - -My feelings grew constantly warmer toward this time-worn man, while -I did not require a full return of affection from him any more than -I should from a little child. But I remembered that I ought not -to disturb the evening of his days with things of the world, and -that I ought to depart. I would have him preserve undisturbed that -sublime position of old age, where man lives, as it were, at the -pole; where no star rises or sets; where the whole firmament is -motionless and clear, while the Pole-Star of another world shines -fixedly overhead. I therefore said to him, that I would return in -the evening, and take my leave. To my surprise, he replied, that -perhaps he should himself take leave of the whole world at evening, -and that he wished not to be disturbed when dying. He said that he -should that evening read to the end of the Revelation of St. John, -and perhaps it might be the end with _him_ also. I ought to have -mentioned previously that he read continually, and read nothing but -the Bible, regularly through from the beginning to the end; and -he had a fixed impression that he should depart on concluding the -twentieth and twenty-first verses of the twenty-second chapter of -the Revelation of John: “He which testifieth of these things saith, -Surely I come quickly: Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus. The grace -of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. Amen.” In consequence of -this belief, he was in the habit of reading the last books of the -Bible faster. - -Little as I believed in so sudden a withering of his protracted -after-blossom, I obeyed his latest-formed wish. Whenever a right -wish is expressed by any man, we should do well to remember that -it may be his _last_. I took my leave, requesting him to intrust -me with his testamentary commissions for the village. He said they -had been taken charge of long ago, and the children knew them. He -cut a twig from a Christmas-tree, coeval with his childhood, and -presented me with it as a keepsake. - -In the beautiful summer evening, I could not refrain from -stealthily approaching the house, through the orchard, to ascertain -whether the good old man had ended his Bible and his life together. -On the way, I found the torn envelope of a letter sealed with a -black seal, and over me the white storks were speeding their way -to a warmer country. I was not much encouraged when I heard all -the birds singing in his orchard; for their ancestors had done the -same when his father died. A towering cloud, full of the latest -twilight, spread itself before my short-sighted vision, like a -far-off, blooming, foreign landscape; and I could not comprehend -how it was that I had never before noticed this strange-looking, -reddish land; so much the more easily did it occur to me that this -might be his Orient, whither God was leading the weary one. I had -become so confused, as actually to mistake red bean-blossoms for -a bit of fallen sunset. Presently, I heard a man singing to the -accompaniment of an organ. It was the aged man singing his evening -hymn: - - “Lord of my life, another day - Once more hath sped away.” - -The birds in the room, and those on the distant branches also, -chimed in with his song. The bees, too, joined in with their -humming, as in the warm summer evening they dived into the cups of -the linden-blossoms. My joy kindled into a flame. He was alive! -But I would not disturb his holy evening. I would let him remain -with Him who had surrounded him with gifts and with years, and not -call upon him to think of any man here below. I listened to the -last verse of his hymn, that I might be still more certain of the -actual continuance of his life, and then tardily I slipped away. To -my joy, I still found, in the eternal youth of Nature, beautiful -references to his lengthened age; from the everlasting rippling of -the brook in the meadow, to a late swarm of bees, which had settled -themselves on a linden-tree, probably in the forenoon, before two -o’clock, as if, by taking their lodging with him, he was to be -their bee-father, and continue to live. Every star twinkled to me a -hope. - -I went to the orchard very early in the morning, wishing to look -upon the aged man in sleep; death’s ancient prelude, the warm -dream of cold death. But he was reading, and had read, in his -large-printed Bible, far beyond the Deluge, as I could see by the -engravings. I held it to be a duty not to interrupt his solitude -long. I told him I was going away, and gave him a little farewell -billet, instead of farewell words. I was much moved, though -silent. It was not the kind of emotion with which we take leave of -a friend, or a youth, or an old man; it was like parting from a -remote stranger-being, who scarcely glances at us from the high, -cold clouds which hold him between the earth and the sun. There -is a stillness of soul which resembles the stillness of bodies -on a frozen sea, or on high mountains; every loud tone is an -interruption too prosaically harsh, as in the softest adagio. Even -those words, “for the last time,” the old man had long since left -behind him. Yet he hastily presented to me my favorite flower, a -blue Spanish vetch, in an earthen pot. This butterfly-flower is the -sweeter, inasmuch as it so easily exhales its perfume and dies. He -said he had not yet sung the usual morning-hymn, which followed -the survival of his death-evening; and he begged me not to take it -amiss that he did not accompany me, or even once look after me, -especially as he could not see very well. He then added, almost -with emotion, “O friend, may you live virtuously! We shall meet -again, where my departed relatives will be present, and also that -great preacher, whose name I have forgotten. We meet again.” - -He turned immediately, quite tranquilly, to his organ. I parted -from him, as from a life. He played on his organ beneath the trees, -and his face was turned toward me; but to his dim eyes I knew that -I should soon become as a motionless cloud. So I remained until he -began his morning hymn, from old Neander: - - “The Lord still leaves me living, - I hasten Him to praise; - My joyful spirit giving, - He hears my early lays.” - -While he was singing, the birds flew round him; the dogs accustomed -to the music, were silent; and it even wafted the swarm of bees -into their hive. Bowed down as he was by age, his figure was so -tall, that from the distance where I stood he looked sufficiently -erect. I remained until the old man had sung the twelfth and last -verse of his morning hymn: - - “Ready my course to finish, - And come, O God, to Thee; - A conscience pure I cherish, - Till death shall summon me.” - - * * * * * - - Nothing of God’s making can a man love rightly, without being - the surer of God’s loving himself; neither the moon, nor the - stars, nor a rock, nor a tree, nor a flower, nor a bird. Not - the least grateful of my thanksgivings have been hymns that - have come to my lips while I have been listening to the birds - of an evening. Only let us love what God loves, and then His - love of ourselves will feel certain, and the sight of his face - we shall be sure of; and immortality, and heaven, and the - freedom of the universe, will be as easy for us to believe in, - as a father’s giving good gifts to his children.--MOUNTFORD. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -MILTON’S HYMN OF PATIENCE. - -BY ELIZABETH LLOYD HOWELL. - - - I am old and blind! - Men point at me as smitten by God’s frown; - Afflicted, and deserted of my kind, - Yet I am not cast down. - - I am weak, yet strong; - I murmur not, that I no longer see; - Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong, - Father supreme! to thee. - - O merciful One! - When men are farthest, then thou art most near; - When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun, - Thy chariot I hear. - - Thy glorious face - Is leaning towards me, and its holy light - Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place; - And there is no more night. - - On my bended knees, - I recognize thy purpose, clearly shown; - My vision thou hast dimmed, that I may see - Thyself, thyself alone. - - I have naught to fear; - This darkness is the shadow of thy wing; - Beneath it I am almost sacred; here - Can come no evil thing. - - O, I seem to stand - Trembling, where foot of mortal ne’er hath been; - Wrapped in the radiance from the sinless land. - Which eye hath never seen. - - Visions come and go; - Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng; - From angel lips I seem to hear the flow - Of soft and holy song. - - It is nothing now,-- - When heaven is opening on my sightless eyes, - When airs from paradise refresh my brow,-- - That earth in darkness lies. - - In a purer clime, - My being fills with rapture! waves of thought - Roll in upon my spirit! strains sublime - Break over me unsought. - - Give me now my lyre! - I feel the stirrings of a gift divine; - Within my bosom glows unearthly fire, - Lit by no skill of mine. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -LETTER FROM AN OLD WOMAN, ON HER BIRTHDAY. - -BY L. MARIA CHILD. - - -You ask me, dear friend, whether it does not make me sad to grow -old. I tell you frankly it did make me sad for a while; but that -time has long since past. The _name_ of being old I never dreaded. -I am not aware that there ever was a time when I should have -made the slightest objection to having my age proclaimed by the -town-crier, if people had had any curiosity to know it. But I -suppose every human being sympathizes with the sentiment expressed -by Wordsworth: - - “Life’s Autumn past, I stand on Winter’s verge, - And daily lose what I desire to keep.” - -The first white streaks in my hair, and the spectre of a small -black spider floating before my eyes, foreboding diminished -clearness of vision, certainly did induce melancholy reflections. -At that period, it made me nervous to think about the approaches -of old age; and when young people thoughtlessly reminded me of -it, they cast a shadow over the remainder of the day. It was -mournful as the monotonous rasping of crickets, which tells that -“the year is wearing from its prime.” I dreaded age in the same -way that I always dread the coming of winter; because I want to -keep the light, the warmth, the flowers, and the growth of summer. -But, after all, when winter comes, I soon get used to him, and am -obliged to acknowledge that he is a handsome old fellow, and by no -means destitute of pleasant qualities. And just so it has proved -with old age. Now that it has come upon me, I find it full of -friendly compensations for all that it takes away. - -The period of sadness and nervous dread on this subject, which I -suppose to be a very general experience, is of longer or shorter -duration, according to habits previously formed. From observation, -I judge that those whose happiness has mainly depended on balls, -parties, fashionable intercourse, and attentions flattering to -vanity, usually experience a prolonged and querulous sadness, as -years advance upon them; because, in the nature of things, such -enjoyments pass out of the reach of the old, when it is too late to -form a taste for less transient pleasures. The temporary depression -to which I have alluded soon passed from my spirit, and I attribute -it largely to the fact that I have always been pleased with very -simple and accessible things. I always shudder a little at the -approach of winter; yet, when it comes, the trees, dressed in -feathery snow, or prismatic icicles, give me far more enjoyment, -than I could find in a ball-room full of duchesses, decorated with -marabout-feathers, opals, and diamonds. No costly bridal-veil sold -in Broadway would interest me so much as the fairy lace-work which -frost leaves upon the windows, in an unceasing variety of patterns. -The air, filled with minute snow-stars, falling softly, ever -falling, to beautify the earth, is to me a far lovelier sight, than -would have been Prince Esterhazy, who dropped seed-pearls from his -embroidered coat, as he moved in the measured mazes of the dance. - -Speaking of the beautiful phenomenon of snow, reminds me how often -the question has been asked what snow _is_, and what _makes_ it. I -have never seen a satisfactory answer; but I happen to know what -snow is, because I once saw the process of its formation. I was -at the house of a Quaker, whose neat wife washed in an unfinished -back-room all winter, that the kitchen might be kept in good order. -I passed through the wash-room on the 16th of December, 1835, a -day still remembered by many for its remarkable intensity of cold. -Clouds of steam, rising from the tubs and boiling kettle, ascended -to the ceiling, and fell from thence in the form of a miniature -snow-storm. Here was an answer to the question, What _is_ snow? -This plainly proved it to be frozen _vapor_, as ice is frozen -_water_. The particles of water, expanded by heat, and floating in -the air, were arrested in their separated state, and congealed in -particles. It does not snow when the weather is intensely cold; for -the lower part of the atmosphere must have some degree of warmth, -if vapor is floating in it. When this vapor ascends, and meets a -colder stratum of air, it is congealed, and falls downward in the -form of snow. - -“The snow! The snow! The beautiful snow!” How handsome do meadows -and fields look in their pure, sparkling robe! I do not deny -that the winter of the year and the winter of life both have -intervals of dreariness. The _miserere_ howled by stormy winds is -not pleasing to the ear, nor are the cold gray river and the dark -brown hills refreshing to the eye. But the reading of Whittier’s -Psalm drowns the howling of the winds, as “the clear tones of a -bell are heard above the carts and drays of a city.” Even simple -voices of mutual affection, by the fireside, have such musical and -pervasive power, that the outside storm often passes by unheard. -The absence of colors in the landscape is rather dismal, especially -in the latter part of the winter. Shall I tell you what I do when -I feel a longing for bright hues? I suspend glass prisms in the -windows, and they make the light blossom into rainbows all over -the room. Childish! you will say. I grant it. But is childishness -the greatest folly? I told you I was satisfied with very simple -pleasures; and whether it be wise or not, I consider it great -good fortune. It is more fortunate certainly to have home-made -rainbows _within_, especially when one is old; but even outward -home-made rainbows are not to be despised, when flowers have hidden -themselves, and the sun cannot manifest his prismatic glories, for -want of mediums appropriate for their transmission. - -But Nature does not leave us long to pine for variety. Before the -snow-lustre quite passes away, March comes, sombre in dress, but -with a cheerful voice of promise: - - “The beechen buds begin to swell, - And woods the blue-bird’s warble know.” - -Here and there a Lady’s Delight peeps forth, smiling at me “right -peert,” as Westerners say; and the first sight of the bright little -thing gladdens my heart, like the crowing of a babe. The phenomena -of spring have never yet failed to replenish the fountains of my -inward life: - - “Spring still makes spring in the _mind_, - When sixty years are told; - Love wakes anew this throbbing heart, - And we are never old.” - -As the season of Nature’s renovation advances, it multiplies within -me spiritual photographs, never to be destroyed. Last year I saw -a striped squirrel hopping along with a green apple in his paws, -hugged up to his pretty little white breast. My mind daguerrotyped -him instantaneously. It is there now; and I expect to find a more -vivid copy when my soul opens its portfolio of pictures in the -other world. - -The wonders which summer brings are more and more suggestive of -thought as I grow older. What mysterious vitality, what provident -care, what lavishness of ornament, does Nature manifest, even in -her most common productions! Look at a dry bean-pod, and observe -what a delicate little strip of silver tissue is tenderly placed -above and below the seed! Examine the clusters of Sweet-Williams, -and you will find an endless variety of minute embroidery-patterns, -prettily dotted into the petals with diverse shades of colors. The -shining black seed they produce look all alike; but scatter them in -the ground, and there will spring forth new combinations of form -and color, exceeding the multiform changes of a kaleidoscope. I -never can be sufficiently thankful that I early formed the habit -of working in the garden with loving good-will. It has contributed -more than anything else to promote healthiness of mind and body. - -Before one has time to observe a thousandth part of the miracles -of summer, winter appears again, in ermine and diamonds, lavishly -scattering his pearls. My birthday comes at this season, and so I -accept his jewels as a princely largess peculiarly bestowed upon -myself. The day is kept as a festival. That is such a high-sounding -expression, that it may perhaps suggest to you reception-parties, -complimentary verses, and quantities of presents. Very far from it. -Not more than half a dozen people in the world know when the day -occurs, and they do not all remember it. As I arrive at the new -milestone on my pilgrimage, I generally find that a few friends -have placed garlands upon it. My last anniversary was distinguished -by a beautiful novelty. An offering came from people who never -knew me personally, but who were gracious enough to say they took -an interest in me on account of my writings. That was a kindness -that carried me over into my new year on fairy wings! I always -know that the flowers in such garlands are genuine; for those who -deal in artificial roses are not in the habit of presenting them -to secluded old people, without wealth or power. I have heard of a -Parisian lady, who preferred Nattier’s manufactured roses to those -produced by Nature, because they were, as she said, “more like what -a rose _ought_ to be.” But I never prefer artificial things to -natural, even if they _are_ more like what they _ought_ to be. So I -rejoice over the genuineness of the offerings which I find on the -milestone, and often give preference to the simplest of them all. -I thankfully add them to my decorations for the annual festival, -which is kept in the private apartments of my own soul, where -six angel-guests present themselves unbidden,--Use and Beauty, -Love and Memory, Humility and Gratitude. The first suggests to me -to consecrate the advent of a new year in my life by some acts -of kindness toward the sad, the oppressed, or the needy. Another -tells me to collect all the books, engravings, vases, &c., bestowed -by friendly hands on the preceding birthdays of my life. Their -beauties of thought, of form, and of color, excite my imagination, -and fill me with contemplations of the scenes they represent, -or the genius that produced them. Other angels bring back the -looks and tones of the givers, and pleasant incidents, and happy -meetings, in bygone years. Sometimes, Memory looks into my eyes too -sadly, and I answer the look with tears. But I say to her, Nay, my -friend, do not fix upon me that melancholy gaze! Give me some of -thy flowers! Then, with a tender, moonlight smile, she brings me a -handful of fragrant roses, pale, but beautiful. The other angels -bid me remember who bestowed the innumerable blessings of Nature -and Art, of friendship, and capacity for culture, and how unworthy -I am of all His goodness. They move my heart to earnest prayer -that former faults may be forgiven, and that I may be enabled to -live more worthily during the year on which I am entering. But I -do not try to recall the faults of the past, lest such meditations -should tend to make me weak for the future. I have learned that -self-consciousness is not a healthy state of mind, on whatever -theme it employs itself. Therefore, I pray the all-loving Father -to enable me to forget _myself_; not to occupy my thoughts with my -own merits, or my own defects, my successes, or my disappointments; -but to devote my energies to the benefit of others, as a humble -instrument of his goodness, in whatever way He may see fit to point -out. - -On this particular birthday, I have been thinking more than ever of -the many compensations which age brings for its undeniable losses. -I count it something to know, that, though the flowers offered -me are _few_, they are undoubtedly _genuine_. I never conformed -much to the world’s ways, but, now that I am an old woman, I -feel more free to ignore its conventional forms, and neglect its -fleeting fashions. That also is a privilege. Another compensation -of years is, that, having outlived expectations, I am free from -disappointments. I deem it a great blessing, also, that the desire -for knowledge grows more active, as the time for acquiring it -diminishes, and as, I realize more fully how much there is to be -learned. It is true that in this pursuit one is always coming up -against walls of limitation. All sorts of flying and creeping -things excite questions in my mind to which I obtain no answers. -I want to know what every bird and insect is doing, and what it -is done for; but I do not understand their language, and no -interpreter between us is to be found. They go on, busily managing -their own little affairs, far more skilfully than we humans could -teach them, with all our boasted superiority of intellect. I peep -and pry into their operations with more and more interest, the -older I grow; but they keep their own secrets so well, that I -discover very little. What I do find out, however, confirms my -belief, that “the hand which made them is divine”; and that is -better than any acquisitions of science. Looking upon the world as -a mere spectacle of beauty, I find its attractions increasing. I -notice more than I ever did the gorgeous phantasmagoria of sunsets, -the magical changes of clouds, the endless varieties of form and -color in the flowers of garden and field, and the shell-flowers -of the sea. Something of tenderness mingles with the admiration -excited by all this fair array of earth, like the lingering, -farewell gaze we bestow on scenes from which we are soon to part. - -But the most valuable compensations of age are those of a spiritual -character. I have committed so many faults myself, that I have -become more tolerant of the faults of others than I was when I was -young. My own strength has so often failed me when I trusted to -it, that I have learned to look more humbly for aid from on high. -I have formerly been too apt to murmur that I was not endowed with -gifts and opportunities, which it appeared to me would have been -highly advantageous. But I now see the wisdom and goodness of our -Heavenly Father, even more in what He has denied, than in what He -has bestowed. The rugged paths through which I have passed, the -sharp regrets I have experienced, seem smoother and softer in the -distance behind me. Even my wrong-doings and short-comings have -often been mercifully transmuted into blessings. They have helped -me to descend into the Valley of Humility, through which it is -necessary to pass on our way to the Beautiful City. My restless -aspirations are quieted. They are now all concentrated in this one -prayer: - - “Help me, this and every day, - To live more nearly as I pray.” - -Having arrived at this state of peacefulness and submission, I find -the last few years the happiest of my life. - -To you, my dear friend, who are so much younger, I would say, -Travel cheerfully toward the sunset! It will pass gently into a -twilight, - which has its own peculiar beauties, though - differing from the morning; and you - will find that the night also - is cheered by friendly - glances of the - stars. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -BRIGHT DAYS IN WINTER. - -BY J. G. WHITTIER. - - - Bland as the morning’s breath of June, - The southwest breezes play, - And through its haze, the winter noon - Seems warm as summer’s day. - - The snow-plumed Angel of the North - Has dropped his icy spear; - Again the mossy earth looks forth, - Again the streams gush clear. - - The fox his hillside den forsakes; - The muskrat leaves his nook; - The blue-bird, in the meadow-brakes, - Is singing with the brook. - - “Bear up, O Mother Nature!” cry - Bird, breeze, and streamlet free; - “Our winter voices prophesy - Of summer days to thee.” - - So in these winters of the _soul_, - By wintry blasts and drear - O’erswept from Memory’s frozen pole, - Will summer days appear. - - Reviving hope and faith, they show - The soul its living powers, - And how, beneath the winter’s snow, - Lie germs of summer flowers. - - The Night is mother of the Day; - The Winter of the Spring; - And ever upon old decay - The greenest mosses cling. - - Behind the cloud the starlight lurks; - Through showers the sunbeams fall; - For God, who loveth all his works, - Has left his Hope with all. - - - - -THE CANARY BIRD. - - - Yellow, small Canary bird, - Sweetly singing all day long, - Still in winter you are heard, - Carolling a summer song. - - Thus when days are drear and dim, - And the _heart_ is caged, as you, - May it still, with hopeful hymn, - Sing of joy and find it true. - - JOHN STERLING - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -OLD BACHELORS. - -BY L. MARIA CHILD. - - -The use of the term old bachelor might be objected to, with as -much reason as that of old maid, were it not for the fact that -it has been regarded less contemptuously. Until within the last -half-century, books have been written almost entirely by men. -Looking at the subject from _their_ point of view, they have -generally represented that, if a woman remained single, it was -because she could not avoid it; and that her unfortunate condition -was the consequence of her being repulsive in person or manners. -The dramas and general literature of all countries abound with -jokes on this subject. Women are described as jumping with -ridiculous haste at the first chance to marry, and as being greatly -annoyed if no chance presents itself. To speak of women as in -the market, and of men as purchasers, has so long been a general -habit, that it is done unconsciously; and the habit doubtless -embodies a truth, though few people reflect why it is so. Nearly -all the trades, professions, and offices are engrossed by men; -hence marriage is almost the only honorable means of support for -women, and almost the only avenue open to those who are ambitious -of position in society. This state of things gives an unhealthy -stimulus to match-making, and does much to degrade the true -dignity and purity of marriage. But I allude to it here merely as -explanatory why old maid is considered a more reproachful term than -old bachelor; one being supposed to be incurred voluntarily, and -the other by compulsion. - -There is a germ of vanity, more or less expanded in human nature, -under all circumstances. Slaves are often very vain of bringing an -unusually high price in the market; because it implies that they -are handsome, vigorous, or intelligent. It is the same feeling, -manifested under a different aspect, that makes many women vain of -the number of offers they have received, and mortified if they have -had none. Men, on the contrary, being masters of the field, are -troubled with no sense of shame, if they continue in an isolated -position through life, though they may experience regret. The -kind of jokes to which _they_ are subjected generally imply that -they have been less magnanimous than they should have been, in -not taking to themselves somebody to protect and support. Such a -“railing accusation” is rather gratifying to the pride of human -nature. Instead of hanging their heads, they sometimes smile, -and say, with an air of gracious condescension: “Perhaps I _may_ -some day. I have not decided yet. I want to examine the market -further.” Now it is ten chances to one, that the individual thus -speaking _has_ been examining the market, as he calls it, for a -long time; that he has been to the Fair, and tried to appropriate -various pretty articles, but has been told that they were reserved -for a previous purchaser. He may have been disappointed on such -occasions; and if they occurred when youth was passing away, he may -have been prompted to look in the mirror, to pull out gray hairs, -and ascertain whether crows have been walking over his face. But if -he perceives traces of their feet, he says to himself, “Pshaw! What -consequence is it, so long as I have a full purse and a handsome -house to offer? I shall have better luck next time. There are as -good fish in the sea as ever were caught. One only needs to have -bait on the hook.” And so when a married acquaintance reminds him -that he ought to take a wife, he answers, complacently, “Perhaps -I _shall_. I want to examine the market.” He is the one to confer -support; he need not wait to be asked. There is a dignified -independence in such a position. Hence the term old bachelor is not -so opprobrious as old maid, and no apology is necessary for using -it. - -It is true, the single brotherhood are not without their -annoyances. A meddlesome woman will sometimes remark to a bachelor -friend, in a significant sort of way, that the back of his coat -has a one-eyed look, by reason of the deficiency of a button; -and she will add, in a compassionate tone, “But what else can be -expected, when a man has no wife to look after him?” Another, -still more mischievous, who happens to know of his attending the -Fair, and trying to buy various articles otherwise appropriated, -will sometimes offer impertinent consolation; saying, “Don’t be -discouraged. Try again. Perhaps you’ll have better luck next time. -You know the proverb says, There never was so silly a Jack but -there’s _as_ silly a Gill.” Then again, the French phrase for old -bachelor, _Vieux Garçon_, translates itself into right impudent -English. Why on earth should a man be called the Old Boy, merely -because he has not seen fit to marry? when it is either because he -don’t like the market, or wants to look further, in order to make -sure of getting his money’s worth in the article. - -I have spoken facetiously, but it may well be excused. Women have -for so many generations been the subject of pitiless jokes, rung -through all manner of changes, and not always in the best taste, -that it is pardonable to throw back a few jests, provided it be -done in sport, rather than in malice. The simple fact is, however, -that what I have said of unmarried women is also true of unmarried -men; their being single is often the result of superior delicacy -and refinement of feeling. Those who are determined to marry, will -usually accomplish their object, sooner or later, while those -who shrink from making wedlock a mere convenience, unsanctified -by affection, will prefer isolation, though they sometimes find -it sad. I am now thinking of one, who, for many reasons would -probably be accepted by ninety-nine women out of a hundred. I once -said to him, “How is it, that a man of your domestic tastes and -affectionate disposition has never married?” He hesitated a moment, -then drew from under his vest the miniature of a very lovely woman, -and placed it in my hand. I looked up with an inquiring glance, -to which he replied: “Yes, perhaps it might have been; perhaps it -_ought_ to have been. But I had duties to perform toward my widowed -mother, which made me doubt whether it were justifiable to declare -my feelings to the young lady. Meanwhile, another offered himself. -She married him, and is, I believe, happy. I have never seen -another woman who awakened in me the same feelings, and so I have -remained unmarried.” - -I knew twin brothers, who became attached to the same lady. One -was silent, for his brother’s sake; but he never married; and -through life he loved and assisted his brother’s children, as -if they had been his own. There are many such facts to prove -that self-sacrifice and constancy are far from being exclusively -feminine virtues. - -But my impression is, that there is a larger proportion of -unmarried women than of unmarried men, who lead unselfish, useful -lives. I, at least, have happened to know of more “Aunt Kindlys,” -than Uncle Kindlys. Women, by the nature of their in-door habits -and occupations, can nestle themselves into the inmost of other -people’s families, much more readily than men. The household -inmate, who cuts paper-dolls to amuse fretful children, or soothes -them with lullabies when they are tired,--who sews on buttons -for the father, when he is in a hurry, or makes goodies for the -invalid mother,--becomes part and parcel of the household; whereas -a bachelor is apt to be a sort of appendage; beloved and agreeable, -perhaps, but still something on the outside. He is like moss on -the tree, very pretty and ornamental, especially when lighted up -by sunshine; but no inherent part of the tree, essential to its -growth. Sometimes, indeed, one meets with a genial old bachelor, -who cannot enter the house of a married friend, or relative, -without having the children climb into his lap, pull out his watch, -and search his pocket for sugar-plums. But generally, it must -be confessed that a _Vieux Garçon_ acts like an Old Boy when he -attempts to make himself useful in the house. His efforts to quiet -crying babies are laughable, and invariably result in making the -babies cry more emphatically. A dignified, scholastic bachelor, who -had been spending the night with a married friend, was leaving his -house after breakfast, when a lovely little girl of four or five -summers peeped from the shrubbery, and called out, “Good morning!” -“Good morning, child!” replied he, with the greatest solemnity of -manner, and passed on. A single _woman_ would have said, “Good -morning, dear!” or “Good morning, little one!” But the bachelor was -as dignified as if he had been making an apostrophe to the stars. -Yet he had a great, kind heart, and was a bachelor because that -heart was too refined to easily forget a first impression. - -Bachelors do not become an outside appendage, if they are fortunate -enough to have an unmarried sister, with whom they can form one -household. There is such a couple in my neighborhood, as cozy -and comfortable as any wedded pair, and quite as unlikely to -separate, as if the law bound them together. The sister is a -notable body, who does well whatever her hands find to do; and the -brother adopts wise precautions against tedious hours. He was a -teacher in his youth, but is a miller now. An old mill is always -a picturesque object, standing as it must in the midst of running -water, whose drops sparkle and gleam in sunlight and moonlight. -And our bachelor’s mill is hidden in a wood, where birds love to -build their nests, and innumerable insects are busy among ferns -and mosses. The miller is busy, too, with a lathe to fill up the -moments unoccupied by the work of the mill. He has made a powerful -telescope for himself, and returns to his home in the evening to -watch the changing phases of the planets, or to entertain his -neighbors with a vision of Saturn sailing through boundless fields -of ether in his beautiful luminous ring. He can also discourse -sweet music to his sister, by means of a parlor seraphine. - -I know another bachelor, who finds time to be a benefactor to -his neighborhood, though his life is full of labors and cares. -In addition to the perpetual work of a farm, he devotes himself -with filial tenderness to a widowed mother and invalid aunts, and -yet he is always ready wherever help or sympathy is needed. If -a poor widow needs wood cut, he promptly supplies the want, and -few men with a carriage and four are so ready to furnish a horse -for any kindly service. The children all know his sleigh, and -call after him for a ride. None of his animals have the forlorn, -melancholy look which indicates a hard master. The expression of -his countenance would never suggest to any one the condition of an -old bachelor; on the contrary, you would suppose he had long been -accustomed to look into the eyes of little ones clambering upon his -knees for a kiss. This is because he adopts all little humans into -his heart. - -I presume it will generally be admitted that bachelors are more -apt to be epicures, than are unmarried women. In the first place, -they have fewer details of employment to occupy their thoughts -perpetually; and secondly, they generally have greater pecuniary -means for self-indulgence. The gourmand, who makes himself unhappy, -and disturbs everybody around him, if his venison is cooked the -fortieth part of a minute too long, is less agreeable, and not less -ridiculous than the old fop, who wears false whiskers, and cripples -his feet with tight boots. - -There is a remedy for this, and for all other selfishness and -vanity; it is to go out of ourselves, and be busy with helping -others. Petty annoyances slip away and are forgotten when the mind -is thus occupied. The wealthy merchant would find it an agreeable -variation to the routine of business to interest himself in the -welfare and improvement of the sailors he employs. The prosperous -farmer would find mind and heart enlarged by helping to bring into -general use new and improved varieties of fruits and vegetables; -not for mere money-making, but for the common good. And all would -be happier for taking an active interest in the welfare of their -country, and the progress of the world. - -Nothing can be more charming than Dickens’s description of the -Cheeryble Brothers, “whose goodness was so constantly a diffusing -of itself over everywhere.” - -“‘Brother Ned,’ said Mr. Cheeryble, tapping with his knuckles, and -stooping to listen, ‘are you busy, my dear brother? or can you -spare time for a word or two with me?’ - -“‘Brother Charles, my dear fellow,’ replied a voice from within, -‘don’t ask me such a question, but come in directly.’ Its tones -were so exactly like that which had just spoken, that Nicholas -started, and almost thought it was the same. - -“They went in without further parley. What was the amazement of -Nicholas, when his conductor advanced and exchanged a warm greeting -with another old gentleman, the very type and model of himself; -the same face, the same figure, the same coat, waistcoat, and -neckcloth, the same breeches and gaiters; nay, there was the very -same white hat hanging against the wall. Nobody could have doubted -their being twin brothers. As they shook each other by the hand, -the face of each lighted up with beaming looks of affection, which -would have been most delightful to behold in infants, and which in -men so old was inexpressibly touching. - -“‘Brother Ned,’ said Charles, ‘here is a young friend that we must -assist. We must make proper inquiries into his statements, and if -they are confirmed, as they will be, we must assist him.’ - -“‘It is enough, my dear brother, that you say we should. When you -say that, no further inquiries are needed. He _shall_ be assisted.’ - -“‘I’ve a plan, my dear brother, I’ve a plan,’ said Charles. ‘Tim -Linkinwater is getting old; and Tim has been a faithful servant, -brother Ned; and I don’t think pensioning Tim’s mother and sister, -and buying a little tomb for the family when his poor brother died, -was a sufficient recompense for his faithful services.’ - -“‘No, no,’ replied the other, ‘not half enough; not half.’ - -“‘If we could lighten Tim’s duties,’ said the old gentleman, ‘and -prevail upon him to go into the country now and then, and sleep in -the fresh air two or three times a week, Tim Linkinwater would grow -young again in time; and he’s three good years our senior now. Old -Tim Linkinwater young again! Eh, brother Ned, eh? Why, I recollect -old Tim Linkinwater quite a little boy; don’t you? Ha, ha, ha! -Poor Tim! Poor Tim!’ and the fine old fellows laughed pleasantly -together; each with a tear of regard for old Tim Linkinwater -standing in his eye. - -“‘But you must hear this young gentleman’s story,’ said Charles; -‘you’ll be very much affected, brother Ned, remembering the time -when _we_ were two friendless lads, and earned our first shilling -in this great city.’ - -“The twins pressed each other’s hands in silence, and, in his own -homely manner, Charles related the particulars he had just heard -from Nicholas. It is no disparagement to the young man to say -that, at every fresh expression of their kindness and sympathy, he -could only wave his hand and sob like a child. - -“‘But we are keeping our young friend too long, my dear brother,’ -said Charles. ‘His poor mother and sister will be anxious for his -return. So good by for the present. Good by. No, not a word now. -Good by.’ And the brothers hurried him out, shaking hands with him -all the way, and affecting, very unsuccessfully (for they were poor -hands at deception), to be wholly unconscious of the feelings that -mastered him. - -“The next day, he was appointed to the vacant stool in the -counting-house of Cheeryble Brothers, with a salary of one hundred -and twenty pounds a year. ‘And I think, my dear brother,’ said -Charles, ‘that if we were to let them that little cottage at Bow, -something under the usual rent--Eh, brother Ned?’ - -“‘For nothing at all,’ said his brother, ‘We are rich, and should -be ashamed to touch the rent under such circumstances as these. For -nothing at all, my dear brother.’ - -“‘Perhaps it would be better to say something,’ suggested the -other, mildly. ‘We might say fifteen or twenty pound; and if it -was punctually paid, make it up to them in some other way. It -would help to preserve habits of frugality, you know, and remove -any painful sense of overwhelming obligation. And I might secretly -advance a small loan toward a little furniture; and you might -secretly advance another small loan, brother Ned. And if we find -them doing well we can change the loans into gifts; carefully, and -by degrees, without pressing upon them too much. What do you say -now, brother?’ - -“Brother Ned gave his hand upon it, and not only said it should -be done, but had it done. And in one short week, Nicholas took -possession of his stool, and his mother and sister took possession -of the house; and all was hope, bustle, and lightheartedness.” - -There are Cheeryble old bachelors in real life; genial souls, and -genuine benefactors to mankind. - When they are so, I think they deserve more credit - than married men of similar characters; for - the genial virtues are fostered by - kindly domestic influences, as - fruit is matured and - sweetened by the - sunshine. - -[Illustration] - - The dog in the kennel growls at his fleas; the dog that is busy - hunting does not feel them. - - CHINESE PROVERB. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -TAKING IT EASY. - -BY GEORGE H. CLARK. - - - Admit that I am slightly bald,-- - Pray, who’s to blame for that? - And who is wiser for the fact, - Until I lift my hat? - Beneath the brim my barbered locks - Fall in a careless way, - Wherein my watchful wife can spy - No lurking threads of gray. - - What though, to read compactest print, - I’m forced to hold my book - A little farther off than when - Life’s first degree I took? - A yoke of slightly convex lens - The needful aid bestows, - And you should see how wise I look - With it astride my nose. - - Don’t talk of the infernal pangs - That rheumatism brings! - I’m getting used to pains and aches, - And all those sort of things. - And when the imp Sciatica - Makes his malicious call, - I do not need an almanac - To tell me it is fall. - - Besides, it gives one quite an air - To travel with a cane, - And makes folk think you “well to do,” - Although you are in pain. - A fashionable hat may crown - Genteelest coat and vest, - But ah! the sturdy stick redeems - And sobers all the rest. - - A man deprived of natural sleep - Becomes a stupid elf, - And only steals from Father Time - To stultify himself. - So, if you’d be a jovial soul, - And laugh at life’s decline, - Take my advice,--turn off the gas, - And go to bed at nine! - - An easy-cushioned rocking-chair - Suits me uncommon well; - And so do liberal shoes,--like these,-- - With room for corns to swell; - I cotton to the soft lamb’s-wool - That lines my gloves of kid, - And love elastic home-made socks,-- - Indeed, I always did. - - But what disturbs me more than all - Is, that sarcastic boys - Prefer to have me somewhere else, - When they are at their noise; - That while I try to look and act - As like them as I can, - They will persist in _mister_-ing me, - And calling me a man! - - * * * * * - - True--Time will seam and blanch my brow. - Well, I shall sit with aged men, - And my good glass will tell me how - A grisly beard becomes me then. - - And should no foul dishonor lie - Upon my head, when I am gray, - Love yet shall watch my fading eye, - And smooth the path of my decay. - - Then haste thee, Time,--’tis kindness all - That speeds thy wingèd feet so fast; - Thy pleasures stay not till they pall, - And all thy pains are quickly past. - - Thou fliest and bear’st away our woes, - And, as thy shadowy train depart, - The memory of sorrow grows - A lighter burden on the heart. - - W. C. BRYANT. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -OLD AUNTY. - - The following is a true story. I well remember the worthy old - woman, who sat in Washington Park, behind a table covered with - apples and nuts. I also know the family of the little Joanna, - who used to carry her a cup of hot tea and warm rolls from one - of the big houses in the adjoining Square, and who got up a - petition to the Mayor in her behalf. It is a humble picture; - but a soft, warm light falls on it from poor Old Aunty’s - self-sacrificing devotion to her orphans, and from the mutual - love between her and the children of the neighborhood. - - L. M. C. - - -All the children knew Old Aunty. Every day, in rain or shine, she -sat there in the Park, with her little store of candies, cakes, and -cigars, spread on a wooden box. Her cheerful smile and hearty “God -bless you!” were always ready for the children, whether they bought -of her or not. If they stopped to purchase, she gave right generous -measure, heaping the nuts till they rolled off the top of the pint, -and often throwing in a cake or stick of candy; so generous was her -heart. - -Like all unselfish people, Aunty was happy as the days are long. -Had you followed her home at night, you would have seen her travel -down a poor old street, narrow and musty, and climb the broken -stairs of a poor old house that was full of other lodgers, some -of them noisy, disorderly, and intemperate. When she opened the -creaking door of her one small room, you would have seen the boards -loose in the floor, little furniture, very little that looked like -rest or comfort, like _home_ for a tired body that had toiled -full seventy years, and had once known the pleasure of a cheerful -fireside and a full house. - -But presently you would hear the patter of little feet, and the -music of children’s voices, and little hands at work with the rusty -door-latch, till open it flew. You would have heard two merry -little creatures shouting, “Granny’s come home! Dear Granny’s come -home!” You would have seen them dancing about her, clapping their -hands, and saying, “O we’re so glad, so glad you’ve come back!” -These are the orphan grandchildren, to feed and clothe whom Old -Aunty is willing to walk so far, and sit so long in the cold, and -earn penny by penny, as the days go by. - -She kindles no fire, for it is not winter yet, and the poor can -eat their supper cold; but the children’s love and a well-spent -day kindle a warmth and a light in the good dame’s heart, such as -I fear seldom beams in some of those great stately houses in the -Square. - -With such a home, it is not strange that Aunty liked to sit under -the pleasant trees of the Parade Ground (for so the Park was -called), breathe the fresh air, and watch the orderly people going -to and fro. Many stopped to exchange a word with her; even the -police officers, in their uniforms, liked a chat with the sociable -old lady; and the children, on their way to school, were never too -hurried for a “Good morning, Aunty!” that would leave a smile on -her wrinkled face, long after they had bounded out of sight. - -It was nearly as good as if Aunty had a farm of her own; for it -is always country up in the sky, you know; in the beautiful blue, -among the soft clouds, and along the tops of the trees. Even in -that dismal, musty street, where she lived, she could see the -sunshine, and the wonderful stars at evening. Then all about the -Parade Ground stood the fine great houses of Washington Square; and -leading from it, that Fifth Avenue, which is said to be the most -splendid street in the world,--whole miles of palaces. - -“Don’t I enjoy them all, without having the care of them?” Aunty -used to say. - -When we asked if she didn’t grow tired of sitting there all day, -she would answer, “Sure, and who isn’t tired sometimes, rich or -poor?” - -“But is not the ground damp, Aunty?” - -“I expect it is, especially after a rain; but what then? It only -gives me the rheumatism; and that is _all_ the trouble I have. God -be praised!” - -“But it is so cold now, Aunty; so late in November; and you are so -old; it isn’t safe.” - -“O, but it’s safer than to have my children starve or turn beggars, -I guess. I have my old umbrella when it rains or snows, and them’s -my harvest-days, you see; for there’s a deal of pity in the world. -And besides, the children in that house yonder, often bring me out -a hot cup of tea at luncheon-time, or cakes of good warm bread in -the morning. Let me alone for being happy!” - -But earthly happiness hangs on a slight thread. There came a change -in the city government; Aunty’s good friends among the police were -removed; the new officers proved their zeal by making every change -they could think of. “New brooms sweep clean,” and they swept off -from the Parade Ground, poor Aunty, and all her stock in trade. - -But in one of the houses opposite Aunty’s corner of the Park, lived -a family of children who took especial interest in her; Charlie, -Willie, Vincent, and Joanna, and I can’t tell how many more. It -was they who christened her “Aunty,” till all the neighbors, old -and young, took up the name; it was they who, on wintry days, had -offered her the hot cup of tea, and the warm bread. They almost -felt as if she were an own relative, or a grown-up child given them -to protect and comfort. - -One morning, Joanna looked up from the breakfast-table, and -exclaimed, “There! Aunty is not in the Park; they have sent her -away!” - -The children had feared this change. You may guess how eagerly they -ran to the window, and with what mournful faces they exclaimed -again and again, “It is too bad!” They would eat no more breakfast; -they could think and talk of nothing but Aunty’s wrongs. - -It was a bleak December day, and there the poor old woman sat -outside the iron railing, no pleasant trees above her, but dust and -dead leaves blowing wildly about. Charlie said, with tears in his -eyes, “It’s enough to blind poor Old Aunty.” - -“It’s enough to ruin her candy,” said Joanna, who was a practical -little body. She had a look in her eyes that was better than tears; -a look that seemed to say, “Her candy shall _not_ be ruined. Aunty -shall go back to her rightful place.” - -We did not know about Aunty’s having any _right_ to her old seat; -but we all agreed that it was far better for her to sit near -the path that ran slantwise through the Park, and was trodden -by hundreds and thousands of feet every day; clerks going to -Sixth Avenue, and merchants to Broadway; newsmen, porters, -school-children, teachers, preachers, invalids; there was no end to -the people. Many a cake or apple they had taken from Aunty’s board, -and in their haste, or kindness, never waited for change to the bit -of silver they tossed her. - -In New York every one is in such a hurry that unless you are almost -under their feet they cannot see you. For this reason, on the day -of Aunty’s absence, she had the grief of watching many old friends -and customers go past, give a surprised look at her old seat, and -hurry on, never observing her, though she sat so near. - -A few, who espied Aunty, stopped in their haste to hear her story -and condole with her. The children found her out, you may be sure, -and gathered about her, telling her how much too bad it was; and -how they should like to set the policemen, Mayor and all, out there -on a bench in the dust, for one half-hour; but what could children -do? So they passed on. Some of the fashionable ladies in the Square -stopped to tell Aunty how they pitied her, begged her not to feel -unhappy, and passed on. Only Trouble stood still and frowned at -her; all the rest passed on. - -No, not all; not our little Joanna. She came home with a thoughtful -face, and asked, very energetically, “What do you mean to do about -Aunty? It is a shame that all these rich, strong, grown-up people -on the Square, cannot stand up for the rights of one poor old -woman.” - -We told her the city was richer than the richest, stronger than the -strongest. - -“O,” persisted Joanna, “if we, or any of them, wanted a new -lamp-post, or a hydrant mended, we should muster strength fast -enough. And now, what’s to become of Aunty and her poor children? -that is all I ask.” - -We smiled at Joey’s enthusiasm, and thought it would soon pass -away. When she came home from school that afternoon, with a whole -troop of little girls, we thought it had already passed away. As -they ran down the area-steps, we wondered what amusement they were -planning now. Presently, Joanna came up-stairs, her eyes looking -very bright, and said, “Please give me the inkstand.” - -We asked, “What now, child?” - -“O, do just give me the inkstand!” said she, impatiently. “We are -not in any mischief; we are attending to _business_”; and off she -ran. - -Before very long she appeared again with a paper, her black eyes -burning like stars. “There, mother,--and all of you,--you must sign -this letter, as quick as ever you can. I have made a statement of -Aunty’s case; all the children have signed their names; and now we -are going to every house in the Square, till we have a good long -list.” - -“And what then?” - -“I shall ask father to take it to the Mayor. He won’t be so -unreasonable as to refuse us; no one could.” - -Joanna had written out Aunty’s story, in her own simple, direct -way. She told how this nice, neat, pleasant old person had been -turned out of the Park; how the children all had liked her, and -found it convenient to buy at her table; and how she never scolded -if they dropped papers and nutshells about, but took her own little -pan and brush and swept them away; she was so orderly. She ended -her letter with a petition that the Mayor would be so good to the -children, and this excellent old grandmother, as to let her go back -to her old seat. - -If the Mayor could refuse, we could not; so our names went down -on the paper; and before the ink was dry, off ran Joanna. The -hall-door slammed, and we saw her with all her friends run up the -steps of the neighboring houses, full of excitement and hope. - -Nearly all the families that lived in the great houses of -Washington Square were rich; and some of them proud and selfish, -perhaps; for money sometimes does sad mischief to the hearts of -people. We asked ourselves, “What will they care for old Aunty?” - -Whatever their tempers might be, however, when the lady or -gentleman came and saw the bright, eager faces, and the young eyes -glistening with sympathy, and the little hands pointing out there -at the aged woman on the sidewalk,--while they were in their gilded -and cushioned houses,--they could not refuse a name, and the list -swelled fast. - -At one house lived three Jewesses, who were so pleased with the -children’s scheme, that they not only gave their own names, but -obtained many more. “They are Jews, ma’am, but they’re Christians!” -said Aunty afterwards; by which she meant, it is not _names_, but -_actions_, that prove us followers of the loving, compassionate -Christ. - -So large was the Square, so many houses to visit, that the -ladies’ help was very welcome. They could state Aunty’s case with -propriety; and what with their words and the children’s eloquent -faces, all went well. - -So the paper was filled with signatures, and Joanna’s father took -it to the Mayor. He smiled, and signed his name, in big letters, to -an order that Aunty should return at once to her old seat, and have -all the privileges she had ever enjoyed in the Park; and the next -morning there she was, in her own old corner! - -As soon as she came, the children ran out to welcome her. As she -shook hands with them, and looked up in their pleased faces, we saw -her again and again wipe the tears from her old eyes. - -Everybody that spoke to Aunty that day, congratulated her; and when -the schools in the neighborhood were dismissed, the scholars and -teachers went together, in procession, and bought everything Aunty -had to sell; till the poor old woman could only cover her face and -cry, to think that she had so many friends. If ever you go to the -Parade Ground, in New York, you may talk with old Aunty, and ask -her if this story is not true. - - B. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -RICHARD AND KATE. - -A SUFFOLK BALLAD. - - The following verses were written by Robert Bloomfield, - an English shoemaker, more than sixty years ago, when the - working-classes of England had far more limited opportunities - for obtaining education than they now have. Criticism could - easily point out imperfections in the style of this simple - story, but the consolations of age among the poor are presented - in such a touching manner that it is worthy of preservation. - - - “Come, Goody! stop your humdrum wheel! - Sweep up your orts, and get your hat! - Old joys revived once more I feel, - ’Tis Fair-day! Ay, and _more_ than that! - - “Have you forgot, Kate, prithee say, - How many seasons here we’ve tarried? - ’Tis forty years, this very day, - Since you and I, old girl, were _married_. - - “Look out! The sun shines warm and bright; - The stiles are low, the paths all dry: - I know you cut your corns last night; - Come! be as free from care as I. - - “For I’m resolved once more to see - That place where we so often met; - Though few have had more cares than we, - We’ve none just now to make us fret.” - - Kate scorned to damp the generous flame, - That warmed her aged partner’s breast; - Yet, ere determination came, - She thus some trifling doubts expressed:-- - - “Night will come on, when seated snug, - And you’ve perhaps begun some tale; - Can you then leave your dear stone mug? - Leave all the folks, and all the ale?” - - “Ay, Kate, I wool; because I know, - Though time _has_ been we both could run, - Such days are gone and over now. - I only mean to see the fun.” - - His mattock he behind the door, - And hedging gloves, again replaced; - And looked across the yellow moor, - And urged his tottering spouse to haste. - - The day was up, the air serene, - The firmament without a cloud; - The bees hummed o’er the level green, - Where knots of trembling cowslips bowed. - - And Richard thus, with heart elate, - As past things rushed across his mind, - Over his shoulder talked to Kate, - Who, snug tucked up, walked slow behind: - - “When once a giggling mauther[G] you, - And I a red-faced, chubby boy, - Sly tricks you played me, not a few; - For mischief was your greatest joy. - - “Once, passing by this very tree, - A gotch[H] of milk I’d been to fill; - You shouldered me; then laughed to see - Me and my gotch spin down the hill.” - - “’Tis true,” she said; “but here behold, - And marvel at the course of time! - Though you and I are both grown old, - This tree is only in its prime.” - - “Well, Goody, don’t stand preaching now! - Folks don’t preach sermons at a Fair. - We’ve reared ten boys and girls, you know; - And I’ll be bound they’ll all be there.” - - Now friendly nods and smiles had they, - From many a kind Fair-going face; - And many a pinch Kate gave away, - While Richard kept his usual pace. - - At length, arrived amid the throng, - Grandchildren, bawling, hemmed them round, - And dragged them by the skirts along, - Where gingerbread bestrewed the ground. - - And soon the aged couple spied - Their lusty sons, and daughters dear; - When Richard thus exulting cried: - “Didn’t I _tell_ you they’d be here?” - - The cordial greetings of the soul - Were visible in every face; - Affection, void of all control, - Governed with a resistless grace. - - ’Twas good to see the honest strife, - Who should contribute most to please; - And hear the long-recounted life, - Of infant tricks and happy days. - - But now, as at some nobler places, - Among the leaders ’twas decreed - Time to begin the Dicky-Races, - More famed for laughter than for speed. - - Richard looked on with wondrous glee, - And praised the lad who chanced to win. - “Kate, wa’n’t I such a one as he? - As like him, ay, as pin to pin? - - “Full fifty years have passed away, - Since I rode this same ground about; - Lord! I was lively as the day! - I won the High-lows, out and out. - - “I’m surely growing young again, - I feel myself so kedge and plump! - From head to feet I’ve not one pain. - Nay, hang me, if I couldn’t jump!” - - Thus spake the ale in Richard’s pate; - A very little made him mellow; - But still he loved his faithful Kate, - Who whispered thus: “My good old fellow, - - “Remember what you promised me! - And, see, the sun is getting low! - The children want an hour, ye see, - To talk a bit before we go.” - - Like youthful lover, most complying, - He turned and chucked her by the chin - Then all across the green grass hieing; - Right merry faces, all akin. - - Their farewell quart beneath a tree, - That drooped its branches from above, - Awaked the pure felicity, - That waits upon parental love. - - Kate viewed her blooming daughters round, - And sons who shook her withered hand; - Her features spoke what joy she found. - But utterance had made a stand. - - The children toppled on the green, - And bowled their fairings down the hill - Richard with pride beheld the scene, - Nor could he, for his life, sit still. - - A father’s unchecked feelings gave - A tenderness to all he said: - “My boys, how proud am I to have - My name thus round the country spread. - - “Through all my days I’ve labored hard, - And could of pains and crosses tell; - But this is labor’s great reward, - To meet ye thus, and see ye well. - - “My good old partner, when at home, - Sometimes with wishes mingles tears; - Goody, says I, let what wool come, - We’ve nothing for them but our prayers. - - “May you be all as old as I, - And see your sons to manhood grow; - And many a time, before you die, - Be just as pleased as I am now.” - - Then (raising still his mug and voice), - “An old man’s weakness don’t despise! - I love you well, my girls and boys. - God bless you all!” So said his eyes; - - For, as he spoke, a big round drop - Fell bounding on his ample sleeve; - A witness which he could not stop; - A witness which all hearts believe. - - Thou, filial piety, wert there; - And round the ring, benignly bright, - Dwelt in the luscious half-shed tear, - And in the parting words, “Good Night!” - - With thankful hearts and strengthened love - The poor old pair, supremely blest, - Saw the sun sink behind the grove, - And gained once more their lowly rest. - - [G] A giddy young girl. - - [H] A pitcher. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -LUDOVICO CORNARO. - -DERIVED FROM THE WRITINGS OF CORNARO. - - “I do not woo - The means of weakness and debility; - Therefore, my age is as a lusty winter, - Frosty, but kindly.” - - _Varied from_ SHAKESPEARE. - - -Ludovico Cornaro, descended from a noble family in Venice, was born -in 1462, thirty years before America was discovered. He removed -to Padua, where he married, and late in life had an only child, a -daughter, who married one of the Cornaro family. - -As an illustration of the physical laws of our being, the -outlines of his history are worthy of preservation. He was -wealthy, and indulged in the habits common to young men of his -class. He was fond of sensual indulgences, and especially drank -wine intemperately. The consequence was, that from twenty-five -years of age to forty, he was afflicted with dyspepsia, gout, -and frequent slow fevers. Medicines failed to do any permanent -good, and physicians told him that nothing could restore him but -simplicity and regularity of living. This advice was very contrary -to his taste, and he continued to indulge in the luxuries of the -table, paying the penalty of suffering for it afterwards. At last -his health was so nearly ruined, that the doctors predicted he -could not live many months. At this crisis, being about forty -years old, he resolved to become temperate and abstemious; but -it required so much effort to change his dissipated habits, that -he frequently resorted to prayer for aid in keeping the virtuous -resolution. His perseverance was more speedily rewarded than might -have been expected; for in less than a year he was freed from the -diseases which had so long tormented him. In order to preserve the -health thus restored to him, he observed the peculiarities of his -constitution, and carefully conformed to them in his habits and -modes of living. He says: “It is a favorite maxim with epicures -that whatever pleases the palate must agree with the stomach and -nourish the body; but this I found to be false; for pork, pastry, -salads, rough wines, &c., were very agreeable to my palate, yet -they disagreed with me.” There seems to have been nothing peculiar -in the kinds of food which constituted his nourishment; moderation -as to quantity, and simplicity in modes of cooking, were the -principal things he deemed of importance. He speaks of mutton, -fish, poultry, birds, eggs, light soups and broths, and new wine in -moderate quantities, as among his customary articles of diet. He -is particularly earnest in his praises of bread. He says: “Bread, -above all things, is man’s proper food, and always relishes well -when seasoned by a good appetite; and this natural sauce is never -wanting to those who eat but little; for when the stomach is not -burdened, there is no need to wait long for an appetite. I speak -from experience; for I find such sweetness in bread, that I should -be afraid of sinning against temperance in eating it, were it not -for my being convinced of the absolute necessity for nourishment, -and that we cannot make use of a more natural kind of food.” - -He does not lay down specific rules for others, but very wisely -advises each one to govern himself according to the laws of his own -constitution. He says every man ought carefully to observe what -kinds of food and drink agree or disagree with him, and indulge -or refrain accordingly; but whatever he eats or drinks, it should -be in quantities so moderate as to be easily digested. He grows -eloquent in his warnings against the fashionable luxury, by which -he had himself suffered so severely. He exclaims: “O, unhappy -Italy! Do you not see that intemperance causes more deaths than -plague, or fire, or many battles? These profuse feasts, now so -much in fashion, where the tables are not large enough to hold the -variety of dishes, I tell you these cause more murders than so -many battles. I beseech you to put a stop to these abuses. Banish -luxury, as you would the plague. I am certain there is no vice more -abominable in the eyes of the Divine Majesty. It brings on the body -a long and lasting train of disagreeable sensations and diseases, -and at length it destroys the soul also. I have seen men of fine -understanding and amiable disposition carried off by this plague, -in the flower of their youth, who, if they had lived abstemiously, -might now be among us, to benefit and adorn society.” - -His dissertations on health may be condensed into the following -concise general rules, which are worthy of all acceptance:-- - -Let every man study his own constitution, and regulate food, drink, -and other habits in conformity thereto. - -Never indulge in anything which has the effect to render the body -uncomfortable or lethargic, or the mind restless and irritable. - -Even healthy food should be cooked with simplicity, and eaten with -moderation. Never eat or drink to repletion, but make it a rule to -rise from the table with inclination for a little more. - -Be regular in the hours for meals and sleep. - -Be in the open air frequently; riding, walking, or using other -moderate exercise. - -Avoid extremes of heat or cold, excessive fatigue, and places -where the air is unwholesome, for want of ventilation. - -Restrain anger and fretfulness, and keep all malignant or sensual -passions in constant check. Banish melancholy, and do everything to -promote cheerfulness. All these things have great influence over -bodily health. - -Interest yourself constantly in employments of some kind. - -He gives it as his opinion that anger, peevishness, and despondency -are not likely to trouble those who are temperate and regular in -their habits, and diligent in their occupations. He says: “I was -born with a very choleric disposition, insomuch that there was -no living with me. But I reflected that a person under the sway -of passion was for the time being no better than a lunatic. I -therefore resolved to make my temper give way to reason. I have so -far succeeded, that anger never entirely overcomes me, though I do -not guard myself so well as not to be sometimes hurried away by it. -I have, however, learned by experience that hurtful passions of any -kind have but little power over those who lead a sober and useful -life. Neither despondency nor any other affection of the mind will -harm bodies governed by temperance and regularity.” - -In answer to the objection that he lived too sparingly to make -the change which is sometimes necessary in case of sickness, he -replies: “Nature is so desirous to preserve men in good health, -that she herself teaches them how to ward off illness. When it is -not good for them to eat, appetite usually diminishes. Whether a -man has been abstemious or not, when he is ill it is necessary to -take only such nourishment as is suited to his disorder, and even -that in smaller quantities than he was accustomed to in health. -But the best answer to this objection is, that those who live very -temperately are not liable to be sick. By removing the _cause_ of -diseases, they prevent the _effects_.” - -He also maintains that external injuries are very easily cured, -when the blood has been kept in a pure state by abstemious living -and regular habits. In proof of it, he tells his own experience -when, at seventy years of age, he was overturned in a coach, and -dragged a considerable distance by the frightened horses. He was -severely bruised, and a leg and arm were broken; but his recovery -was so rapid and complete, that physicians were astonished. - -Much of his health and cheerfulness he attributes to constant -occupation. He says: “The greatest source of my happiness is the -power to render some service to my dear country. O, what a glorious -amusement! I delight to show Venice how her important harbor can -be improved, and how large tracts of lands, marshes and barren -sands can be rendered productive; how her fortifications can be -strengthened; how her air, though excellent, can be made still -purer; and how, beautiful as she is, the beauty of her buildings -can still be increased. For two months together, during the heat -of summer, I have been with those who were appointed to drain the -public marshes; and though I was seventy-five years old, yet, such -is the efficacy of an orderly life, that I found myself none the -worse for the fatigue and inconveniences I suffered. It is also -a source of satisfaction to me that, having lost a considerable -portion of my income, I was enabled to repair it for my -grandchildren, by that most commendable of arts, agriculture. I did -this by infallible methods, worked out by dint of thought, without -any fatigue of body, and very little of mind. I owned an extensive -marshy district, where the air was so unwholesome that it was more -fit for snakes than men. I drained off the stagnant waters, and the -air became pure. People resorted thither so fast, that a village -soon grew up, laid out in regular streets, all terminating in a -large square, in the middle of which stands the church. The village -is divided by a wide and rapid branch of the river Brenta, on both -sides of which is a considerable extent of well-cultivated fertile -fields. I may say with truth, that in this place I have erected -an altar to God, and brought thither souls to adore him. When I -visit these people, the sight of these things affords me infinite -satisfaction and enjoyment. In my gardens, too, I always find -something to do that amuses me. It is also a great satisfaction to -me, that I can write treatises with my own hand, for the service of -others; and that, old as I am, I can study important, sublime, and -difficult subjects, without fatigue.” - -His writings consisted of short treatises on health, agriculture, -architecture, etc. In an essay, entitled, “A Guide to Health,” -written when he was eighty-three years old, he says: “My faculties -are all perfect; particularly my palate, which now relishes better -the simple fare I eat than it formerly did the most luxurious -dishes, when I led an irregular life. Change of beds gives me no -uneasiness. I sleep everywhere soundly and quietly, and my dreams -are always pleasant. I climb hills from bottom to top, afoot, with -the greatest ease and unconcern. I am cheerful and good-humored, -being free from perturbations and disagreeable thoughts. Joy and -peace have so firmly fixed their residence in my bosom, that they -never depart from it.” - -In another essay, called “A Compendium of a Sober Life,” he says: -“I now find myself sound and hearty, at the age of eighty-six. My -senses continue perfect; even my teeth, my voice, my memory, and my -strength. What is more, the powers of my mind do not diminish, as I -advance in years; because, as I grow older, I lessen the quantity -of my solid food. I greatly enjoy the beautiful expanse of this -visible world, which is really beautiful to those who know how to -view it with a philosophic eye. O, thrice-holy Sobriety, thou hast -conferred such favors on thine old man, that he better relishes -his dry bread, than he did the most dainty dishes in the days of -his youth! My spirits, not oppressed by too much food, are always -brisk, especially after eating; so that I am accustomed then to -sing a song, and afterward to write. I do not find myself the worse -for writing immediately after meals; I am not apt to be drowsy, and -my understanding is always clearer, the food I take being too small -in quantity to send up any fumes into my brain. O, how advantageous -it is to an old man to eat but little!” - -In a letter to a friend, written when he was ninety-one, the old -man rejoices over his vigor and friskiness, as a boy does over his -exploits on the ice. He says: “The more I advance in years, the -sounder and heartier I grow, to the amazement of the world. My -memory, spirits, and understanding, and even my voice and my teeth, -remain unimpaired. I employ eight hours a day in writing treatises -with my own hand; and when I tell you that I write to be useful to -mankind, you may easily conceive what pleasure I enjoy. I spend -many hours daily in walking and singing. And O, how melodious my -voice has grown! Were you to hear me chant my prayers to my lyre, -after the example of David, I am certain it would give you great -pleasure, my voice is so musical.” - -In an essay, entitled, “An Earnest Exhortation,” he says: “Arrived -at my ninety-fifth year, I still find myself sound and hearty, -content and cheerful. I eat with good appetite, and sleep soundly. -My understanding is clear, and my memory tenacious. I write seven -or eight hours a day, walk, converse, and occasionally attend -concerts. My voice, which is apt to be the first thing to fail, -grows so strong and sonorous, that I cannot help chanting my -prayers aloud, morning and evening, instead of murmuring them -to myself, as was formerly my custom. Apprehensions of death do -not disturb my mind, for I have no sensuality to nourish such -thoughts. I have reason to think that my soul, having so agreeable -a dwelling in my body, as not to meet with anything in it but -peace, love, and harmony, not only between its humors, but between -my reason and my senses, is exceedingly contented and pleased -with her present situation, and that, of course, it will require -many years to dislodge her. Whence I conclude that I have still -a series of years to live in health and spirits, and enjoy this -beautiful world, which is indeed beautiful to those who know how -to make it so by virtue and divine regularity of life. If men -would betake themselves to a sober, regular, and abstemious course -of life, they would not grow infirm in their old age, but would -continue strong and hearty as I am, and might attain to a hundred -years and upwards, as I expect will be my case. God has ordained -that whoever reaches his natural term should end his days without -sickness or pain, by mere dissolution. This is the natural way of -quitting mortal life to enter upon immortality, as will be my case.” - -Once only, in the course of his long life, did Cornaro depart -from the strict rules he had laid down for himself. When he was -seventy-eight years old, his physician and family united in urging -him to take more nutrition; saying, that he required it to keep -up his strength, now that he was growing so old. He argued that -habit had become with him a second nature, and that it was unsafe -to change; moreover, that as the stomach grew more feeble, it -was reasonable to suppose that it ought to have less work to do, -rather than more. But as they continued to remonstrate, he finally -consented to add a little to his daily portion of food and wine. He -says: “In eight days, this had such an effect upon me, that from -being cheerful and brisk, I began to be peevish and melancholy, so -that nothing could please me. I was so strangely disposed, that I -neither knew what to say to others, nor what to do with myself.” -The result was a terrible fever, which lasted thirty-five days, and -reduced him almost to a skeleton. He attributes his recovery to the -abstinence he had practised for so many years. “During all which -time,” says he, “I never knew what sickness was; unless it might -be some slight indisposition, that continued merely for a day or -two.” He gives it, as the result of his long experience, that it -is well for people, as they become aged, to diminish the quantity -of solid food. He also advises that such nourishment as they take -should be less at any one time, and taken more frequently. - -Never had longevity such a zealous panegyrist as this venerable -Italian. He says: “Some sensual, inconsiderate persons affirm that -long life is not a blessing; that the state of a man who has passed -his seventy-fifth year does not deserve to be called life, but is -rather a lingering death. This is a great mistake. And I, who have -experienced the salutary effects of temperate, regular habits, am -bound to prove that a man may enjoy a terrestrial paradise after -he is eighty years old. My own existence, so far from being a -lingering death, is a perpetual round of pleasures; and it is my -sincere wish that all men would endeavor to attain my age, in order -that they also may enjoy that period of life which of all others -is the most desirable. For that reason I will give an account of -my recreations, and of the relish I find in life at its present -advanced stage. I can climb my horse without any assistance, or -advantage of situation, and now and then I make one of a hunting -party suitable to my age and taste. I have frequent opportunities -to converse with intelligent, worthy gentlemen, well acquainted -with literature. When I have not such conversation to enjoy, I -betake myself to reading some good book. When I have read as much -as I like, I write, endeavoring in this, as in everything else, -to be of service to others. This I do in my own commodious house, -in the most beautiful quarter of this noble and learned city of -Padua, and around it are gardens supplied with running waters, -where I always find something to do that amuses me. Every spring -and autumn I go to a handsome hunting-lodge, belonging to me, -in the Euganean mountains, which is also adorned with fountains -and gardens. Then I visit my village in the plain, the soil of -which I redeemed from the marshes. I visit neighboring cities, -to meet old friends, and to converse with architects, painters, -sculptors, musicians, and husbandmen, from all of whom I learn -something that gives me satisfaction. I visit their new works, -and I revisit their old ones. I see churches, palaces, gardens, -fortifications, and antiquities, leaving nothing unobserved from -which either entertainment or instruction can be derived. But what -delights me most is the scenery I pass through, in my journeys -backwards and forwards. When I was young, and debauched by an -irregular life, I did not observe the beauties of nature; so that -I never knew, till I grew old, that the world was beautiful. That -no comfort may be wanting to the fulness of my years, I enjoy a -kind of immortality in a succession of descendants. When I return -home from my journeys, I am greeted by eleven grandchildren, the -oldest eighteen, the youngest two years old; all the offspring -of one father and mother. They all have good parts and morals, -are blessed with the best of health, and fond of learning. I play -with the youngest, and make companions of the older ones. Nature -has bestowed on them fine voices. I delight in hearing them sing -and play on various instruments, and I myself sing with them, for -I have a clearer and louder pipe now than at any other period of -life. Such gayety of spirits has been imparted by my temperate -life, that at my present age of eighty-three I have been able to -write a very entertaining comedy, abounding with innocent mirth and -pleasant jests. I declare I would not exchange my gray hairs, or my -mode of living, with any young men, even of the best constitutions, -who seek pleasure through the indulgence of their appetites. I take -an interest in seeing the draining of marshes and the improvement -of the harbor going on, and it is a great comfort to me that my -treatises on a temperate life have proved useful to others, as -many have assured me, both by word of mouth, and by letter. I -may further add, that I enjoy two lives at once. I enjoy this -terrestrial life, in consequence of sobriety and temperance; and, -by the grace of God, I enjoy the celestial life, which he makes me -anticipate by thought,--a thought so lively, that I affirm the -enjoyment to be of the utmost certainty. To die in the manner that -I expect to die is not really death, but merely a passage of the -soul from this earthly life to an infinitely perfect existence. The -prospect of terminating the high gratifications I have enjoyed here -gives me no uneasiness; it rather affords me pleasure, as it will -be only to make room for another glorious and immortal life. How -beautiful the life I lead! How happy my exit!” - -His prophecy proved true. He lived to be one hundred and four years -old, and passed away without pain, sitting in his elbow-chair. His -wife, - who was nearly as old as himself, survived - him but a short time, and died easily. - They were buried in St. Anthony’s - Church, at Padua, in a very - unostentatious manner, - according to their - testamentary - directions. - -[Illustration] - - When Dr. Priestley was young, he preached that old age was the - happiest period of life; and when he was himself eighty, he - wrote, “I have found it so.” - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -ROBIN AND JEANNIE. - -BY DORA GREENWELL. - - - “Do you think of the days that are gone, Jeannie, - As you sit by the fire at night? - Do you wish that the morn would bring back the time, - When your heart and your step were so light?” - - “I think of the days that are gone, Robin, - And of all that I joyed in then; - But the brightest that ever arose on me, - I have never wished back again.” - - “Do you think of the hopes that are gone, Jeannie, - As you sit by the fire at night? - Do you gather them up, as they faded fast, - Like buds with an early blight?” - - “I think of the hopes that are gone, Robin, - And I mourn not their stay was fleet, - For they fell as the leaves of the roses fall, - And were even in falling sweet.” - - “Do you think of the friends that are gone, Jeannie, - As you sit by the fire at night? - Do you wish they were round you again once more, - By the hearth that they made so bright?” - - “I think of the friends that are gone, Robin; - They are dear to my heart as then; - But the best and the dearest among them all - I have never wished back again.” - - * * * * * - - “We have lived and loved together, - Through many changing years; - We have shared each other’s gladness, - We have wept each other’s tears. - - “I have never known a sorrow - That was long unsoothed by thee; - For thy smile can make a summer, - Where darkness else would be. - - “And let us hope the future - As the past has been, will be; - I will share with thee thy sorrows, - And thou thy smiles with me.” - - ANONYMOUS. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -A GOOD OLD AGE. - -FROM MOUNTFORD’S EUTHANASY. - - -A good old age is a beautiful sight, and there is nothing earthly -that is as noble,--in my eyes, at least. And so I have often -thought. A ship is a fine object, when it comes up into a port, -with all its sails set, and quite safely, from a long voyage. Many -a thousand miles it has come, with the sun for guidance, and the -sea for its path, and the winds for its speed. What might have been -its grave, a thousand fathoms deep, has yielded it a ready way; and -winds that might have been its wreck have been its service. It has -come from another meridian than ours; it has come through day and -night; it has come by reefs and banks that have been avoided, and -past rocks that have been watched for. Not a plank has started, nor -one timber in it proved rotten. And now it comes like an answer to -the prayers of many hearts; a delight to the owner, a joy to many a -sailor’s family, and a pleasure to all ashore, that see it. It has -been steered over the ocean, and been piloted through dangers, and -now it is safe. - -But still more interesting than this is a good life, as it -approaches its threescore years and ten. It began in the century -before the present; it has lasted on through storms and sunshine; -and it has been guarded against many a rock, on which shipwreck -of a good conscience might have been made. On the course it has -taken, there has been the influence of Providence; and it has been -guided by Christ, that day-star from on high. Yes, old age is even -a nobler sight than a ship completing a long, long voyage. - -On a summer’s evening, the setting sun is grand to look at. In his -morning beams, the birds awoke and sang, men rose for their work, -and the world grew light. In his mid-day heat, wheat-fields grew -yellower, and fruits were ripened, and a thousand natural purposes -were answered, which we mortals do not know of. And at his setting, -all things seem to grow harmonious and solemn in his light. - -But what is all this to the sight of a good life, in those years -that go down into the grave? In the early days of it, old events -had their happening; with the light of it many a house has been -brightened; and under the good influence of it, souls have grown -better, some of whom are now on high. And then the closing period -of such a life,--how almost awful is the beauty of it! From his -setting, the sun will rise again to-morrow; and he will shine on -men and their work, and on children’s children and their labors. -But when once finished, even a good life has no renewal in this - world. It will begin again; but it will be in - a new earth, and under new heavens. - Yes, nobler than a ship safely - ending a long voyage, and - sublimer than the setting - sun, is the old age of - a just, a kind, - and useful - life. - -[Illustration] - - A good old man is the best antiquity; one whom time hath been - thus long a working, and, like winter fruit, ripened when - others are shaken down. He looks over his former life as a - danger well past, and would not hazard himself to begin again. - The next door of death saps him not, but he expects it calmly, - as his turn in nature. All men look on him as a common father, - and on old age, for his sake, as a reverent thing. He practises - his experience on youth, without harshness or reproof, and in - his council is good company. You must pardon him if he likes - his own times better than these, because those things are - follies to him now, that were wisdom then; yet he makes us of - that opinion, too, when we see him, and conjecture those times - by so good a relic.--BISHOP EARLE. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -MY PSALM. - -BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. - - - I mourn no more my vanished years: - Beneath a tender rain,-- - An April rain of smiles and tears,-- - My heart is young again. - - The west winds blow, and, singing low, - I hear the glad streams run; - The windows of my soul I throw - Wide open to the sun. - - No longer forward nor behind - I look in hope or fear; - But, grateful, take the good I find, - The best of now and here. - - I plough no more a desert land, - To harvest weed and tare; - The manna dropping from God’s hand - Rebukes my painful care. - - I break my pilgrim staff, I lay - Aside the toiling oar; - The angel sought so far away, - I welcome at my door. - - The airs of Spring may never play - Among the ripening corn, - Nor freshness of the flowers of May - Blow through the Autumn morn;-- - - Yet shall the blue-eyed Gentian look - Through fringèd lids to Heaven, - And the pale Aster in the brook - Shall see its image given;-- - - The woods shall wear their robes of praise, - The south-wind softly sigh; - And sweet, calm days, in golden haze, - Melt down the amber sky. - - Not less shall manly deed and word - Rebuke an age of wrong; - The graven flowers that wreathe the sword - Make not the blade less strong. - - But smiting hands shall learn to heal, - To build, as to destroy; - Nor less my heart for others feel, - That I the more enjoy. - - All as God wills, who wisely heeds - To give or to withhold, - And knoweth more of all my needs - Than all my prayers have told. - - Enough that blessings undeserved - Have marked my erring track,-- - That, wheresoe’er my feet have swerved, - His chastening turned me back,-- - - That more and more a Providence - Of love is understood, - Making the springs of time and sense - Sweet with eternal good,-- - - That death seems but a covered way - Which opens into light, - Wherein no blinded child can stray - Beyond the Father’s sight,-- - - That care and trial seem at last, - Through Memory’s sunset air, - Like mountain-ranges, overpast, - In purple distance fair,-- - - That all the jarring notes of life - Seem blending in a psalm, - And all the angles of its strife - Slow rounding into calm. - - And so the shadows fall apart, - And so the west winds play; - And all the windows of my heart - I open to the day. - - * * * * * - - Over the winter glaciers, - I see the summer glow, - And, through the wild piled snow-drift, - The warm rosebuds below. - - R. W. EMERSON. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -JOHN HENRY VON DANNECKER. - -DERIVED FROM MRS. JAMESON’S SKETCHES, LONGFELLOW’S HYPERION, AND -FROM VARIOUS EUROPEAN LETTERS. - - -This celebrated German sculptor was born in 1758, at Stuttgard. -His father, who was one of the grooms of the Duke of Würtemberg, -was a stupid, harsh man. He thought it sufficient for his son to -know how to work in the stable; and how the gifted boy contrived to -pick up the rudiments of reading and writing, he could not remember -in after life. He had an extraordinary passion for drawing, and -being too poor to buy paper and pencils, he used to scrawl figures -with charcoal on the slabs of a neighboring stone-cutter. When -his father discovered this, he beat him for his idleness; but his -mother interfered to protect him. After he arrived at manhood, -he was accustomed to speak of her with the utmost tenderness and -reverence; saying that her promptings were the first softening -and elevating influences he ever knew. His bright countenance and -alert ways sometimes attracted the notice of the Duke, who saw him -running about the precincts of the palace, ragged and barefoot; but -he was far enough from foreseeing the wonderful genius that would -be developed in this child of one of his meanest servants. - -When John Henry was about thirteen years old, the Duke established -a military school, into which poor boys, who manifested sufficient -intelligence, might be admitted. As soon as he heard of this -opportunity, he eagerly announced the intention of presenting -himself as a candidate. His surly father became very angry at -this, and told him he should stay at home and work. When the lad -persisted in saying he wanted to get a chance to learn something, -he beat him and locked him up. The persevering boy jumped out -of the window, collected several of his comrades together, and -proposed to them to go to the Duke and ask to be admitted into his -school. The whole court happened to be assembled at the palace when -the little troop marched up. Being asked by one of the attendants -what they wanted, Dannecker replied, “Tell his Highness the Duke -that we want to be admitted to the Charles School.” The Duke, who -was amused by this specimen of juvenile earnestness, went out -to inspect the boys. He led aside one after another, till only -Dannecker and two others remained. He used to say afterward that -he supposed himself rejected, and suffered such an agony of shame, -that he was on the point of running away and hiding himself, -when he discovered that those who had been led aside were the -rejected ones. The Duke ordered the successful candidates to go -next morning to the school, and dismissed them. The father did not -dare to resist such high authority, but he was so enraged with his -son, that he turned him out of the house and forbade him ever to -enter it again. But his good mother packed up a little bundle of -necessaries for him, accompanied him some distance on the road, and -parted with him with tears and blessings. - -He did not find himself well situated in this school. The teachers -were accustomed to employ the poorer boys as servants, and he -was kept so constantly at work, that what little he learned was -mostly accomplished by stealth. But he met with one piece of great -good fortune. Schiller, who afterward became world-renowned as a -writer, was at this school. The two boys recognized kindred genius -in each other, and formed a friendship which lasted through life. -When he was fifteen years old, his remarkable talent for drawing -caused him to be removed to the School of Art in Stuttgard, where -he received instruction from Grubel, the sculptor. The next year, -he obtained the highest prize for a statue of Milo, modelled in -clay. The Duke, who had forgotten the bright, ragged boy that -formerly attracted his attention, was astonished to hear he had -carried off the highest honors of the School of Art. He employed -him to carve cornices and ornaments for two new palaces he was -building. Ten years were thus spent, during which he acquired a -great deal of mere mechanical skill and dexterity. But he longed -to improve himself by the sight of noble models; and at last he -obtained leave to travel. The allowance granted him by his ducal -patron was only one hundred and twenty dollars a year. With this -he set off for Paris, where he studied in the galleries of the -Louvre, often going the whole day without food, and in a dress -too shabby to be considered respectable. Those who saw him thus -perseveringly employed, passed by without recognizing the divine -soul that dwelt within the forlorn exterior. He afterward went to -Rome, where for some months, he wandered about among monuments -and ruins, friendless and homesick. But luckily his illustrious -countrymen, Herder and Goethe were there. He was introduced to -them, and their conversation imbued him with higher ideas of Art -than he had ever before received. The celebrated Italian sculptor, -Canova, also became acquainted with him, and often visited him -in his studio. There was but a year’s difference in their ages, -and their friendship became intimate. He remained five years in -Rome, and distinguished himself by the production of several fine -statues. He then returned to his native country, where he married. -At fifty years of age he was considered the greatest sculptor in -Germany. The Grand Duke ennobled him, as the phrase is; though it -seems absurd enough that wearing a ribbon in his button-hole, and -being allowed to put _von_ before the name his genius had rendered -illustrious, could add any nobility to a man like Dannecker. - -His two most celebrated works are Ariadne riding on a panther, and -his statue of Christ. The circumstances under which the latter -was produced are very peculiar. Dannecker was a devout Lutheran, -and he often meditated upon a statue of the Mediator between God -and man as the highest problem of Art. He sought to embody it, -but felt that something was wanting. A child, who was accustomed -to run about his studio, came in while he was at his work. “Who -do you think that is?” said the artist, pointing to his model. -The child looked, and replied: “I don’t know; I guess it is some -great king.” Ah, thought Dannecker, I have made the expression of -power to predominate over love. The search after a perfect ideal -of the Divine and human combined took complete possession of -his mind. Filled with such thoughts, he fell asleep and dreamed -of a face and form transcending anything he had conceived. He -hastened to model it in clay, while the vision was still fresh in -his mind. When it was shown to the child, he at once exclaimed, -“That is the Redeemer. Mother reads to me about him, where he -says, ‘Suffer little children to come unto me.’” This confirmed -Dannecker in the belief that he had been directly inspired from -above. Others regarded it as a dream produced by the intense -activity of his thoughts concentrated upon one subject; but he -always viewed it as an immediate revelation. He was fifty-eight -years old when this sublime vision was presented to him in his -sleep, and for eight years he devoted to it all the energies of -mind and heart. He studied the Scriptures intently, and prayed -for Divine assistance. His enthusiasm was a compound of Religion -and Art. Under this combined influence, he said he felt as if he -were pursued by some irresistible power, which visited him in his -sleep, and often compelled him to rise in the night and embody the -ideas which had been presented to him. When he was sixty-six years -old, the glorious statue was completed. It is clothed in a simple -robe reaching to the feet. The hair is parted on the forehead, and -falls in ringlets over the shoulders. The head is purely moral and -intellectual in its outline. One hand is pressed upon the bosom, -the other extended, and the lips are partially unclosed, as if in -the act of speaking. The expression is said to be a remarkable -combination of majesty and tenderness, exciting involuntary -reverence in all who look upon it. - -Mrs. Jameson visited Dannecker in 1830. The statue was still -standing in his studio. She says: “He told me that the figure had -visited him in a dream three several times, and that he firmly -believed he had been predestined to the work, and divinely -inspired. I shall not easily forget the countenance of the good and -gifted old man, as he leaned on the pedestal, with his cap in his -hand, and his long gray hair waving round his face, looking up at -his work with a mixture of reverence and exultation.” - -This remarkable statue was purchased by the Emperor Alexander, -and is now in Russia. A year after its completion, he made a -colossal statue of the Evangelist John, for the royal chapel at -Rothenberg. He had for many years been Professor of the Fine Arts -at the Academy in Stuttgard, and the instructions he was obliged to -give there, combined with the labors of his studio, kept him very -constantly occupied. Mrs. Jameson again visited him in 1833, when -he was seventy five years old. She says: “A change had come over -him. His trembling hand could no longer grasp the mallet or guide -the chisel. His fine benevolent countenance wore a childish smile, -and was only now and then crossed by a gleam of awakened memory -or thought. Yet he seemed perfectly happy. He walked backward and -forward from his statue of Christ to his bust of Schiller, with an -unwearied self-complacency, in which there was something mournful, -yet delightful. While I was looking at the magnificent head of -Schiller, he took my hand, and trembling with emotion, said, ‘We -were friends from boyhood. I worked upon it with love and grief; -and one can do no more.’ I took leave of Dannecker with emotion. I -shall never see him again. But he is one of those who cannot die. -Canova, after he was a melancholy invalid, visited his studio, and -was so much struck by his childlike simplicity, his pure, unworldly -nature, his genuine goodness, and lively, happy temperament, that -he gave him the surname of _Il Beato_, The Blessed. And surely if -that epithet can with propriety be bestowed upon any mortal, it -is on him whose long life has been one of labor and of love; who -has left behind him lasting memorials of his genius; who has never -profaned to any unworthy purpose the talents which God has given -him, but, in the midst of all the beautiful and exciting influences -of Poetry and Art, has kept, from youth to age, a soul serene, a -conscience and a life pure in the sight of God and man.” - -Longfellow, in his prose-poem called “Hyperion,” thus introduces -the renowned German artist, on a calm Sabbath forenoon:--“Flemming -stole out into the deserted street, and went to visit the veteran -sculptor Dannecker. He found him in his parlor, sitting alone, -with his psalm-book and the reminiscences of his long life. As -Flemming entered, he arose from the sofa and tottered toward him; -a venerable old man, of low stature, and dressed in a loose white -jacket, with a face like Franklin’s, his white hair flowing over -his shoulders, and a pale blue eye. - -“‘So you are from America,’ said he. ‘I have never been in America. -I shall never go there. I am now too old. I have been in Paris and -in Rome. But that was long ago. I am now seventy-eight years old.’ - -“He took Flemming by the hand, and made him sit by his side on -the sofa. And Flemming felt a mysterious awe creep over him, on -touching the hand of the good old man, who sat so serenely amid -the gathering shade of years, and listened to life’s curfew-bell, -telling, with eight and seventy solemn strokes, that the hour -had come, when the fires of all earthly passion must be quenched -within, and man must prepare to lie down and rest till morning. - -“‘You see,’ he continued, ‘my hands are cold. They were warmer -once. I am now an old man.’ - -“‘Yet these are the hands that sculptured the beautiful Ariadne and -the Panther,’ replied Flemming. ‘The soul never grows old.’ - -“‘Nor does Nature,’ said the old man, pleased with this allusion to -his great work, and pointing to the green trees before his window. -‘This pleasure I have left to me. My sight is still good. I can -even distinguish objects on the side of yonder mountain. My hearing -is also unimpaired. For all which I thank God.’ - -“Directing Flemming’s attention to a fine engraving which hung on -the opposite wall of the room, he continued: ‘That is an engraving -of Canova’s Religion. I love to sit here and look at it, for hours -together. It is beautiful. He made the statue for his native town, -where they had no church, until he built them one. He placed the -statue in it. He sent me this engraving as a present. Ah, he was a -dear, good man! The name of his native town I have forgotten. My -memory fails me. I cannot remember names.’ - -“Fearful that he had disturbed the old man in his morning -devotions, Flemming did not remain long; but he took his leave -with regret. There was something impressive in the scene he had -witnessed;--this beautiful old age of the artist; sitting by the -open window, in the bright summer morning; the labor of life -accomplished; the horizon reached, where heaven and earth meet; -thinking it was angel’s music when he heard the church bells -ring; himself too old to go. As he walked back to his chamber, he -thought within himself whether he likewise might not accomplish -something which should live after him;--might not bring something -permanent out of this fast-fleeting life of man, and then sit -down, like the artist, in serene old age, and fold his hands in -silence. He wondered how a man felt when he grew so old, that he -could no longer go to church, but must sit at home, and read the -Bible in large print. His heart was full of indefinite longings, -mingled with regrets; longings to accomplish something worthy of -life; regret that as yet he had accomplished nothing, but had -felt and dreamed only. Thus the warm days in spring bring forth -passion-flowers and forget-me-nots. It is only after mid-summer, -when the days grow shorter and hotter, that fruit begins to appear. -Then the heat of the day brings forward the harvest; and after the -harvest, the leaves fall, and there is a gray frost.” - -Dannecker lived eighty-five years. His last drawing, done when he -was extremely old, represented - an angel guiding an aged man from the grave, - and pointing to him the opening heaven. - It was a beautiful occupation to - console the last days of - this truly Christian - artist’s - life. - -[Illustration] - - When a good man dies,--one that hath lived innocently,--then - the joys break forth through the clouds of sickness, and the - conscience stands upright, and confesses the glories of God, - and owns so much integrity that it can hope for pardon and - obtain it too. Then the sorrows of sickness do but untie the - soul from its chain, and let it go forth, first into liberty - and then into glory. - - JEREMY TAYLOR. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVES. - -BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. - - - That way look, my infant, lo! - What a pretty baby-show! - See the kitten on the wall, - Sporting with the leaves that fall! - Withered leaves--one, two, and three-- - From the lofty Elder-tree! - --See the kitten! how she starts, - Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts, - First at one, and then its fellow, - Just as light and just as yellow! - Such a light of gladness breaks, - Pretty kitten, from thy freaks, - Spreads, with such a living grace, - O’er my little Laura’s face! - Yes, the sight so stirs and charms - Thee, baby, laughing in my arms, - That almost I could repine - That your transports are not mine; - That I do not wholly fare - Even as ye do, thoughtless pair! - And I wall have my careless season, - Spite of melancholy reason; - Will walk through life in such a way, - That, when time brings on decay, - Now and then I may possess - Hours of perfect gladsomeness. - --Pleased by any random toy; - By a kitten’s busy joy, - Or an infant’s laughing eye, - Sharing in the ecstasy. - I would fare like that, or this; - Find my wisdom in my bliss; - Keep the sprightly soul awake; - And have faculties to take, - Even from things by sorrow wrought, - Matter for a jocund thought; - Spite of care and spite of grief, - To gambol with Life’s falling leaf. - - * * * * * - - His sixty summers--what are they in truth? - By Providence peculiarly blest, - With him the strong hilarity of youth - Abides, despite gray hairs, a constant guest. - His sun has veered a point toward the west, - But light as dawn his heart is glowing yet,-- - That heart the simplest, gentlest, kindliest, best, - Where truth and manly tenderness are met - With faith and heavenward hope, the suns that never set. - - HENRY TAYLOR. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -DR. DODDRIDGE’S DREAM. - - -Dr. Doddridge was on terms of very intimate friendship with Dr. -Samuel Clarke, and in religious conversation they spent many happy -hours together. Among other matters, a very favorite topic was the -intermediate state of the soul, and the probability that at the -instant of dissolution it was not introduced into the presence of -all the heavenly hosts, and the splendors around the throne of God. -One evening, after a conversation of this nature, Dr. Doddridge -retired to rest with his mind full of the subject discussed, and, -in the ‘visions of the night,’ his ideas were shaped into the -following beautiful form. He dreamed that he was at the house of -a friend, when he was suddenly taken dangerously ill. By degrees -he seemed to grow worse, and at last to expire. In an instant he -was sensible that he exchanged the prison-house and sufferings -of mortality for a state of liberty and happiness. Embodied in -a splendid aerial form, he seemed to float in a region of pure -light. Beneath him lay the earth; but not a glittering city or -village, the forest or the sea, was visible. There was naught to be -seen below save the melancholy group of friends, weeping around his -lifeless remains. - -Himself thrilled with delight, he was surprised at their tears, and -attempted to inform them of his change; but, by some mysterious -power, utterance was denied; and, as he anxiously leaned over the -mourning circle, gazing fondly upon them, and struggling to speak, -he rose silently upon the air; their forms became more and more -distant, and gradually melted away from his sight. Reposing upon -golden clouds, he found himself swiftly mounting the skies, with a -venerable figure at his side guiding his mysterious movement, in -whose countenance he remarked the lineaments of youth and age were -blended together with an intimate harmony and majestic sweetness. -They travelled through a vast region of empty space, until at -length the battlements of a glorious edifice shone in the distance; -and as its form rose brilliant and distinct among the far-off -shadows that flitted across their path, the guide informed him, -that the palace he beheld was for the present to be his mansion of -rest. Gazing upon its splendor, he replied, that while on earth -he had heard that eye had not seen, nor had the ear heard, nor -could it enter into the heart of man to conceive, the things which -God had prepared for those who love him but, notwithstanding the -building to which they were then rapidly approaching was superior -to anything he had ever before seen, yet its grandeur did not -exceed the conceptions he had formed. - -They were already at the door, and the guide, without reply, -introduced him into a spacious apartment, at the extremity of which -stood a table covered with a snow-white cloth, a golden cup, and a -cluster of grapes, and there he said he must remain, for he would -receive in a short time a visit from the Lord of the mansion, and -that, during the interval before his arrival, the apartment would -furnish him with sufficient entertainment and instruction. The -guide vanished, and he was left alone. He began to examine the -decorations of the room, and observed that the walls were adorned -with a number of pictures. Upon nearer inspection, he found, to -his astonishment, that they formed a complete biography of his own -life. Here he saw, upon the canvas, that angels, though unseen, -had ever been his familiar attendants; that, sent by God, they had -sometimes preserved him from immediate peril. He beheld himself -first as an infant just expiring, when his life was prolonged by an -angel gently breathing into his nostrils. Most of the occurrences -here delineated were perfectly familiar to his recollection, and -unfolded many things which he had never before understood, and -which had perplexed him with many doubts and much uneasiness. -Among others, he was particularly struck with a picture in which he -was represented as falling from his horse, when death would have -been inevitable, had not an angel received him in his arms, and -broken the force of his descent. These merciful interpositions of -God filled him with joy and gratitude; and his heart overflowed -with love as he surveyed in them all an exhibition of goodness and -mercy far beyond all that he had imagined. - -Suddenly his attention was arrested by a rap at the door. The Lord -of the mansion had arrived. The door opened and he entered. So -powerful and so overwhelming, and withal of such singular beauty, -was his appearance, that he sank down at his feet, completely -overcome by his majestic presence. His Lord gently raised him from -the ground, and taking his hands led him forward to the table. He -pressed with his fingers the juice of the grapes into the cup, and -after having drank himself, presented it to him, saying, “This is -the new wine in my Father’s kingdom.” No sooner had he partaken, -than all uneasy sensations vanished. Perfect love had cast out -fear, and he conversed with his Saviour as an intimate friend. -Like the silver rippling of the summer sea, he heard fall from -his lips the grateful approbation: “Thy labors are over; thy work -is approved; rich and glorious is thy reward.” Thrilled with an -unspeakable bliss, that glided into the very depth of his soul, -he suddenly saw glories upon glories bursting upon his view. The -Doctor awoke. Tears of rapture from this joyful interview - were rolling down his cheeks. Long did the - lively impressions of this charming - dream remain upon his mind, and - never could he speak of it - without emotions of joy - and tenderness. - -[Illustration] - - Death can only take away the sorrowful from our affections. - The flower expands; the colorless film that enveloped it falls - off and perishes. We may well believe this; and, believing - it, let us cease to be disquieted for their absence, who have - but retired into another chamber. We are like those who have - overslept the hour: when we rejoin our friends, there is only - the more joyance and congratulation. Would we break a precious - vase because it is as capable of containing the bitter as the - sweet? No: the very things which touch us the most sensibly - are those which we should be the most reluctant to forget. The - noble mansion is most distinguished by the beautiful images it - retains of beings passed away; and so is the noble mind. - - WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE OLD PSALM-TUNE. - -BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. - - - You asked, dear friend, the other day, - Why still my charméd ear - Rejoiceth in uncultured tone - That old psalm-tune to hear. - - I’ve heard full oft, in foreign lands, - The grand orchestral strain, - Where music’s ancient masters live, - Revealed on earth again: - - Where breathing, solemn instruments, - In swaying clouds of sound, - Bore up the yearning, trancéd soul, - Like silver wings around;-- - - I’ve heard in old St. Peter’s dome, - When clouds of incense rise, - Most ravishing the choral swell - Mount upward to the skies. - - And well I feel the magic power, - When skilled and cultured art - Its cunning webs of sweetness weaves - Around the captured heart. - - But yet, dear friend, though rudely sung, - That old psalm-tune hath still - A pulse of power beyond them all - My inmost soul to thrill. - - Those tones, that halting sound to you, - Are not the tones I hear; - But voices of the loved and lost - Then meet my longing ear. - - I hear my angel mother’s voice,-- - Those were the words she sung; - I hear my brother’s ringing tones, - As once on earth they rung; - - And friends that walk in white above - Come round me like a cloud, - And far above those earthly notes - Their singing sounds aloud. - - There may be discord, as you say; - Those voices poorly ring; - But there’s no discord in the strain - Those upper spirits sing. - - For they who sing are of the blest, - The calm and glorified, - Whose hours are one eternal rest - On heaven’s sweet floating tide. - - Their life is music and accord; - Their souls and hearts keep time - In one sweet concert with the Lord,-- - One concert vast, sublime. - - And through the hymns they sang on earth - Sometimes a sweetness falls, - On those they loved and left below, - And softly homeward calls. - - Bells from our own dear fatherland, - Borne trembling o’er the sea-- - The narrow sea that they have crossed, - The shores where we shall be. - - O sing, sing on! beloved souls; - Sing cares and griefs to rest; - Sing, till entranced we arise - To join you ’mid the blest. - - * * * * * - - O, thus forever sing to me! - O, thus forever! - The green bright grass of childhood bring to me - Flowing like an emerald river, - And the bright blue skies above! - O, sing them back as fresh as ever, - Into the bosom of my love,-- - The sunshine and the merriment, - The unsought, evergreen content, - Of that never cold time, - The joy, that, like a clear breeze, went - Through and through the old time! - - J. R. LOWELL - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY. - - [It is well known that all the books of the Middle Ages were - written by monks, and preserved in manuscript; printing being - then an unknown art. These patient scribes had plenty of - leisure, and not unfrequently an eye for artistic beauty, - especially in the gorgeous style. Hence many monastic - manuscripts were richly illuminated, as the phrase is, with - Initial Letters of silver or gold, often surrounded with quaint - devices, painted in glowing tints of blue, crimson, and purple. - Paper was not then invented, and parchment was scarce. Monks - generally held Greeks and Romans in contempt, as heathen, and - therefore did not scruple to supply themselves with writing - material by erasing the productions of classic authors. Early - in the nineteenth century it was announced that Signor Maio, - an Italian librarian, had discovered valuable Greek and Latin - fragments concealed under monkish manuscripts, and that, by - chemical processes, he could remove the later writing and bring - the ancient to the surface. In this way, “The Republic,” of - Cicero, deemed one of his finest works, was brought out from - under a Commentary of St. Augustine on the Psalms of David. - Such parchments are called _Palimpsests_; from two Greek words, - which signify erased and re-written. The discovery was very - exciting to the scholastic world, and many learned men entered - into it with absorbing interest. Several of the books of Livy’s - lively and picturesque History of Rome are lost; and it was a - cherished hope among scholars that they might be discovered by - this new process. This explanation is necessary to help some - readers to a right understanding of the following story, which - is abridged and slightly varied from an English book, entitled, - “Stories by an Archæologist.”] - - -My dear friend, Dubois d’Erville, whose talents might have rendered -him remarkable in any walk of literature, allowed the whole of his -faculties to be absorbed in days, nights, years of research, upon -one special point of literary interest. At school, he had become -imbued with a love for classic authors, which, with regard to -his favorite Livy, kindled into a passion. He sought eagerly for -accounts of discoveries of lost works in _palimpsest_ manuscripts. -Finally, he relinquished all other objects of pursuit, and spent -many years traversing Europe and Asia, visiting the public -libraries and old monasteries, in search of ancient manuscripts. -After a long time, when he was forgotten by family, friends, -and acquaintances, he returned to Paris. Little was known of -his wanderings; but there was a rumor that he formed a romantic -marriage, and that his devoted wife had travelled with him among -the monasteries of Asia Minor, encountering many hardships and -dangers. No one but himself knew where she died. - -When he returned to Paris, he brought with him an only child, a -girl of nineteen. She had memorable beauty, and great intelligence; -but these were less noticed than her simple manners, and tender -devotion to her father, whom she almost adored. He took a suite -of apartments in the third story of a house, which, before the -Revolution, had been the hotel of a nobleman, and surrounded by -extensive gardens. It was in the old and solitary Rue Cassette. The -gardens had been let out to cow-keepers; but within the enclosure -of the house remained some noble trees and flowering shrubs. These -apartments had been selected by his daughter Marcelline, on account -of the graceful branches of the old lime-trees, which reached -close to the windows, and furnished a pleasant shade in summer, -when birds chirped gayly among the green foliage. Even in winter, -a robin would sometimes sing snatches of song, among the naked -branches, as if in return for the crumbs which his pretty patroness -never failed to place on the window-sill. - -Beyond Marcelline’s chamber was a little sitting-room, and then -came a rather large apartment, where Dubois pursued his studies, -surrounded with piles of old vellum, and dusty and worm-eaten -manuscripts of all descriptions. The floor was thus littered in all -directions, except in a small semicircle near one of the windows, -where an open space was preserved for a few chairs and a table. - -They had but one servant, an old woman, who had been cook -in Dubois’s family in the days of his boyhood, and whom he -accidentally met when he returned to Paris. Old Madeleine formed a -pleasant link between the present and the past. Often, when she -passed through his study, he would remind her of some prank he had -played in early days, and ask her if she remembered it, with such -a frank, good-natured smile, that the old servant would smile too; -though there was always a tinge of melancholy in her recollections -of his boyish roguery. Often, when she left the room, she would -shake her head, and mutter to herself, “Ah, young Monsieur Armand -was so good, so kind, so gentle! Only to think that he should leave -all his family and friends, and pass his life nobody knows where! -Ah! it is very mysterious. And the bright, curly hair, that I used -to pat with such fondness, to think that I should never see him -again, till all that is left of it is a few silver locks about his -temples!” She tried to gain from Marcelline some particulars about -her mother; but the young girl had only a vague recollection of a -form that used to press her to her heart, during journeys through -strange countries, and who had long disappeared. She remembered -something of a time when her father’s tall, upright figure suddenly -bent under the weight of some great sorrow, from which it never -rose erect again. Then, when she grew older, they lived for years -in Italian cities, where there were great libraries; whence they -came to Paris. - -Nothing could be more delightful than the affectionate congeniality -between father and daughter. Their favorite pursuits, though -different, had a kind of affinity which rendered their quiet -existence very pleasant. Marcelline had a taste for painting; and -her father’s mania for old manuscripts furnished her with many -opportunities for examining the exquisite miniatures and ornamental -illuminations, with which monkish manuscripts were frequently -enriched. When new manuscripts arrived, which they did almost -daily, her first impulse was to examine whether they contained any -illuminations worthy of note; and if so, to copy them with the -utmost care and accuracy. She had thus formed a very beautiful -collection, in which she felt an interest almost as enthusiastic as -that of her father in his long pursuit of a treasure, which, like -the horizon, seemed always in sight, but was never reached. - -In the midst of the charming, harmonious routine of this little -household, slight contentions would sometimes arise; but they -were sure to end, like the quarrels of lovers, in a renewal of -love. Sometimes a manuscript arrived which contained exquisite -illuminations; but Dubois, thinking it might be a _palimpsest_, -regarded the ornaments as so many abominations, concealing some -treasure of classic literature. So the mediæval romance, with -its matchless miniatures, and intricate borderings, glowing with -gilding, purple, and crimson, would soon disappear beneath the -sponge, soap, and acids of the indefatigable seeker after The Lost -Books of Livy. These occasions were sad trials for Marcelline. She -would beg for a week’s delay, just to copy the most beautiful of -the illuminations. But if Dubois thought he could perceive traces -of erasure under the gorgeous ornaments, he was as impatient as -a miner who fancies he sees indications of a vein of gold. When -Marcelline saw the sponge trembling in his hand, so eager to -commence the work of obliteration, she would turn away with a -painful sense of what seemed to her a cruel desecration. She felt -that the sacrifice was due to the cause in which her father had -enlisted all the energies of his life; but the ruthless destruction -of all those quaint and delicately beautiful works of art caused -her a pang she could not quite conceal. In spite of herself, a tear -would glisten in her eye; and the moment her father perceived it, -his resolution melted. He would place the manuscript in her hand, -and say, “There, there, my child! a whole week if you want it; and -then bring it to me, if you have quite done with it.” Then she -would reply, “No, no, dear father. Your object is too important -to be hindered by the whims of a foolish girl.” He would press it -upon her, and she would refuse it; and as the combat of love went -on, the old man’s eyes would fill with tears. Then Marcelline would -give way, and take the proffered manuscript; and Dubois, with all -the attentive politeness of a young lover, would arrange her desk, -and her pieces of new vellum, and place the volume in a good light. -Not till he had seen her fairly at work at her charming task, -could he tear himself away; and then not without pressing her hand, -and nodding to her, as though they were going to part for some long -period. She would nod too; and then they both nodded together, -smiling at their own affectionate folly, with tears glistening in -their eyes. Then Dubois would go to his study, and among his heaps -of manuscripts, bound and unbound, rolled or folded, he would soon -be immersed in the intricacies of his old pursuit. - -After a while, the even current of their happy life became varied -by the visits of a third person. When old Madeleine came to live -with them, Dubois often questioned her concerning the relatives and -friends he had known in his boyhood. Her answer was, invariably, -“Dead.” It seemed as if all the old he inquired for were dead, -and all the young either dead or scattered. During one of these -conversations, he said, “What has become of Uncle Debaye, who used -to prophesy that I should be a member of the Academy, and one of -the illustrious men of France? Ah, he was a pleasant specimen of -the old bachelor and the _bon vivant_! Where is he?” “He is dead, -too,” replied Madeleine; “but he did not remain an old bachelor and -a _bon vivant_. He married, some two and twenty years ago, and gave -up his old luxurious habits for the sake of supporting his pretty -young wife. He even left off cigars and snuff, to supply her with -little luxuries. She is dead, too. But they had a very pretty -child, little Hyppolite, who is a young man now.” “Then it seems -that I have one relative remaining,” said Dubois; “but I suppose -he has gone off to America, or Australia, or somewhere.” “No, -Monsieur,” rejoined Madeleine, “he is in Paris. He got a situation -out by the Barrière du Trone, where he has two thousand francs a -year, and apartments in the factory to live in besides. I often -meet him on a Sunday, in the gardens of the Luxembourg, and many a -forty sous has he given me.” - -Dubois was pleased to find that he had one relative left, -and Madeleine was commissioned to tell him that his father’s -brother-in-law, his uncle by marriage, had returned to Paris, and -would be glad to see him. The young man came soon after, and father -and daughter were both pleased with their new-found kinsman. He was -not very intellectual or learned; but he was lively, good-natured, -and good-looking. He brought the living, moving world of the -present into those secluded apartments, so entirely consecrated -to the works and thoughts of ages long past. His free-and-easy -conversation, without a single phrase smacking of libraries, or -art-galleries, or any kind of learning, seemed a bright sparkling -stream of young careless life. His uncle listened willingly to -his gossiping anecdotes, told with a certain appreciation of the -comic, in a clear, ringing voice, and with good-natured laughter. -Hyppolite became a very welcome visitor; and, after a while, if he -did not appear on the days when he was regularly expected, a shadow -of disappointment was cast over the little household in the Rue -Cassette. - -Thus things went on for some time. Marcelline daily added to -her collection of exquisite fac-similes, and her father labored -diligently in the cause to which he had devoted his life. He did -not obtain the result he so ardently desired; but his perseverance -was not without reward. On two occasions he discovered works of -great importance, in a literary point of view, covered over with -a mass of old law transactions; and the sums he obtained for them -enabled him greatly to increase his stock of manuscripts. He soon -became so well known to all who dealt in such articles, that every -new importation was offered to him, before it was shown elsewhere. - -Meanwhile Marcelline received increasing pleasure from the visits -of Hyppolite. She began to suspect that the trivial chat uttered -in that fresh young voice, with occasional peals of ringing -laughter, possessed for her a greater charm than the noble words -of her father, always teeming with knowledge and interest of -various kinds. She shrunk from admitting this to herself. She would -not believe it, but she had an uneasy suspicion of it. As for -Hyppolite, his walk of two or three miles, to visit his new-found -relatives, became his greatest pleasure. He found innumerable -opportunities of making the Rue Cassette the shortest cut to one -or other of the distant quarters of Paris, where the business of -his employers carried him, though in fact it was often miles out -of his way. To gratify Marcelline’s peculiar taste, he frequently -brought her ornaments cut from the pages of old illuminated -manuscripts. When asked where he obtained them, he would merely -laugh, and say he would bring some more soon. Dubois began to -remonstrate against the barbarism of mutilating manuscripts in that -way; but Hyppolite would point to the piles of manuscripts from -which he had washed both ornaments and writing, and would put on -such a comic look, and laugh so merrily, that his uncle could not -help laughing, too. - -One calm summer evening, Dubois had gone to the busy part of Paris, -and Marcelline sat at the window, busily employed in copying a -noble group of illuminated letters from a gorgeous manuscript of -the twelfth century, which stood on the desk before her. The window -was open, and the air gently moved the leaves of crisp vellum, with -their antique writing and their curious enrichments. The massive -silver clasps of the great folio hung back and glistened in the -evening light. As the young artist looked up at her model, she felt -tempted to make a drawing of the whole superb volume, instead of -the especial group of letters she was copying. The foliage of the -lime-trees moved gently in the warm evening breeze, and a linnet, -hidden in its recesses, was singing his vesper hymn. Marcelline -felt very happy. The balmy hour, the congenial employment, and -the bright halo of her twenty young years, threw around her an -atmosphere of soft, pure, gentle pleasure. Thoughts of more homely -things mingled with her poetic mood. She thought of the choice -little supper Madeleine was preparing for her father, and she tried -to conjecture when he would arrive. - -The current of her ideas was interrupted by the ringing of the -bell on the landing, and Madeleine announced the arrival of -Monsieur Hyppolite. An uncontrollable thrill lifted her heart -with one great bound. For a moment the illuminated volume, the -sweet summer breeze, the tuneful linnet, and the little supper for -her father, were all forgotten. By a strong effort she recovered -herself, however, and received Hyppolite as usual; perhaps a -little more coolly, for she was inwardly shocked to find that his -presence had power, even for a moment, to obliterate the pleasures -and affections she had always deemed so sacred. He brought two -beautifully illuminated letters, that had evidently formed part -of a very fine Italian manuscript. Being in an unusual style of -art, they attracted her attention, and diverted her thoughts from -the channel they had taken. She reseated herself at her work; -and while he watched her skilful pencil tracing the intricate -interlacings of various and many-colored lines and branches, he -sought to entertain her with his usual light chat. But Marcelline -did not respond so gayly as she was accustomed to do, and he -grew unwontedly silent; so silent, that the song of the linnet -was heard again, and no other sound disturbed the stillness. At -last, Hyppolite, with a great effort, and as if something choked -his usual clear utterance, said, “Marcelline, you must have long -perceived that I--” she rose hastily, exclaiming, “O don’t say that -word! _Don’t_ say it! To break the holy spell of filial affection -which has always bound my heart, would be sacrilege.” But Hyppolite -knelt at her feet, and poured forth the fervid language that comes -to all when the heart is kindled by a first love. Marcelline turned -away her head and wept. The bitter tears, not without sweetness, -relieved the deep trouble of her heart. She resumed her seat, -and told her cousin decidedly, but kindly, that he must never -speak to her of love while her dear father lived; that she could -never allow any earthly affection to come between her and him. -The young man, in the midst of his disappointment, could not but -wish that his uncle might live long; for he truly loved his genial -nature, and regarded his great learning with almost superstitious -veneration. He held out his hand, saying, “My cousin, it is the -hand of friendship.” She pressed it kindly, and gently admonished -him that his visits must be less frequent. After a brief struggle -he resigned himself to her guidance, and recovered his equanimity, -if not his usual gayety. All was peaceful and pleasant when Dubois -returned, and Hyppolite was urged to stay and partake of the choice -little supper. - -The household continued to go on in the old quiet way, varied -occasionally by visits from antiquarians and learned men. On -such occasions, it was charming to hear Dubois descant on his -favorite topics with the enthusiasm and beautiful flow of language -which they always excited. Marcelline was often appealed to in -these discussions; for her intimate knowledge of the beauties -of illumination enabled her to judge the age of a manuscript, -by delicate peculiarities in its ornaments, more readily than -learned men could do by the character of the writing or the nature -of the subject. Hyppolite, who was sometimes present by special -invitation, would sit apart, drinking in every delicate epithet and -daintly selected word uttered by his cousin, as though they were -heaven-distilled drops of nectar. - -One morning, Dubois rushed into his daughter’s apartment, eagerly -exclaiming, “Eureka! Eureka! I have found it! I have found it! My -name will go down to posterity joined with that of Livy! At last -I have found The Lost Books!” Joyfully, he drew his daughter into -his study, and there, spread upon the floor, were several sheets of -vellum still wet from the action of his sponge. The more recent -writing had been removed, and traces of a nearly erased manuscript, -apparently of the tenth century, was gradually becoming more -distinct under the influence of a preparation he had applied. The -old man drew himself up as he pointed to it, and looking proudly at -his daughter, said, “The labor of my life has been well expended. -It will be _my_ great privilege to be the first among moderns to -read the whole of the noble history of Livy; for I believe the -_whole_ is there.” He insisted that Hyppolite should be sent for to -hear the glad tidings. The good-natured youth hastened to the Rue -Cassette, and congratulated his uncle upon his great discovery. He -did not, indeed, understand the importance of the recovered annals, -for he thought we had a tolerably complete history of Rome without -these famous Lost Books, but he cordially sympathized with the joy -of his uncle and cousin. It was a day marked with “a white stone” -in the annals of the quiet little family. In honor of the occasion, -a bottle of the choice wine called Chateaux Margaux, was placed -on the generally frugal little dinner-table, and the sun traced -upon it bright lights and shadows through the branches of the -lime-trees, as if to aid in the celebration. - -Day by day, more pages of the _palimpsest_ were prepared, and the -ancient text developed itself so well, that the exulting Dubois -resolved to invite his most learned friends to a grand evening -reunion, in honor of his discovery. A lithographed circular was -accordingly prepared, and sent round in due form. It brought -together a select party of the knowing ones in such matters. Dubois -was all smiles and urbanity. In the fluent language, of which he -had extraordinary command, he related the successive details of -his discovery. He deemed himself the most fortunate of men. His -heart was running over with enthusiasm. His hearers were charmed -with the copious flood of eloquence that he poured forth without -stint, full of the deepest erudition, yet warmed and embellished by -a pervading gleam of amiable exhilaration, and innocent exultation -over the triumphant result of his life-long labors. The sheets of -the recovered manuscript were placed in a good light, and eagerly -examined through many pairs of glittering spectacles and powerful -microscopes. It obviously related to that portion of Roman history -lost from the books of Livy, but many doubts were expressed -whether it were written by that great historian. Peculiarities of -orthography and style were adduced to prove that the writer must -have been a monk. But Dubois ingeniously converted every objection -into an additional proof that they had before them the identical -Lost Books of Livy. - -The animated discussion was interrupted by the entrance of -Madeleine, who said that two men were at the door, with old -manuscripts to sell. Dubois could never resist the temptation -to examine musty vellum, and he ordered them to be shown in. The -manuscripts did not prove to be of any value; and Madeleine was -very glad to close the door upon the intruders, for she did not -like their looks. A similar impression seemed to have been made on -the company; for several of them remarked that it was hazardous to -introduce men of that stamp into a room filled with books clasped -with silver, and with many other ancient articles of curious -workmanship, some of them in the precious metals. But Dubois -laughed at the idea that anybody would think of robbing a poor -book-antiquarian of his musty treasures, though some of them were -clasped with silver. - -The dimensions of the table were enlarged by piles of huge folios, -and Madeleine spread it with choice viands, in the discussion -of which the style and orthography of Livy were for a while -forgotten. The lively sallies of Hyppolite, his funny anecdotes, -and descriptions of practical jokes, began to entertain the guests -more than their own conversation. His merry, thrilling laugh became -infectious. First, his pretty cousin joined in with her silvery -treble; then Dubois; then all of them. No one, listening to this -hilarious chorus, would have supposed the company consisted of -the most profound scholars that ever enlightened the halls of the -Institute or the Academy. - -Dubois went to sleep that happy night dreaming of new discoveries -among the as yet unrestored leaves of his precious _palimpsest_. He -was wakened very early in the morning by a loud knock at his door, -and heard the voice of old Madeleine crying out, “Monsieur Dubois! -Monsieur Dubois! Get up! Pray get up immediately!” He hurried on -his dressing-gown, and found Madeleine in the middle of his study, -her eyes streaming with tears. The room where he had heaped up so -many treasures, where he had spent so many hours of calm happiness, -where he had the last evening enjoyed so much, was empty. The pile -of folios, the rows of richly-bound manuscripts, with the velvet -covers and silver clasps, his precious _palimpsest_, and even the -bundles of musty vellum, had all disappeared. The window was open, -and the little curtain torn; plainly indicating how the robbers -had obtained entrance into his sanctuary. The linnet was singing -a morning song in the lime-trees, and the early sun checkered -the empty floor with bright light and quivering shadows of the -foliage. It seemed as if the sweet sounds and the brilliant rays -were rejoicing over a scene of gladness, instead of such utter -desolation and wretchedness. - -No words can describe the pangs which wrung the heart of poor -Dubois, thus suddenly and strangely deprived of the treasure which -he had spent all the energies of his life in discovering. For a -moment, his eyes glared with rage, like those of a tiger deprived -of her young. Then he clasped his trembling hands, and fell -heavily, nearly fainting, into his chair. Alarmed by the sound -of his fall, Marcelline came running in. It was long before she -and old Madeleine could rouse him from his lethargy. At last, his -stupefied senses were awakened and concentrated by his daughter’s -repeated assurances that the lost treasure would be recovered if -an immediate pursuit were instituted. “It is not likely,” said -she, “that we shall recover the richly-illuminated manuscripts, in -their valuable bindings; or the carved ivories; or those codices -written in gold upon grounds of purple; but the sheets of that old -_palimpsest_, with its half-obliterated characters, and the old -volume containing the rest of the work, cannot possibly be of use -to anybody but yourself. Those can surely be recovered.” - -A flood of passionate tears came to her father’s relief. His usual -calmness was restored; and after drinking a cup of coffee, urged -upon him by the kind old Madeleine, he hurried forth to give -information to the police, and to make all possible efforts to -recover his treasures. - -Some fragments of parchment were found under the lime-trees, but -no further traces were discovered, till late in the forenoon it -was ascertained that one of the richly-bound manuscripts had been -offered to a dealer for sale. In the afternoon, another clew was -obtained from a waste-paper dealer, who described a quantity of -parchment brought to him that morning, which he had not, however, -purchased. From the description, it appeared that the precious -_palimpsest_ was among these bundles. Dubois’s hopes were kindled -by this information. He was recommended to go to the establishments -of various dealers in such articles in remote quarters of the city, -and, accompanied by the police, he made diligent search. Only one -more remained, and that was close to the Barrière du Trone. - -Arrived at this establishment, Dubois was surprised to see his -nephew mounted aloft at a desk in the inner warehouse; for he had -never inquired concerning the nature of the factory in which he -was employed. As soon as Hyppolite perceived his uncle, he hurried -forward to welcome him, and told him he had intended to call at -the Rue Cassette that day, for he had just obtained possession of -two illuminated letters that he wished to present to Mademoiselle -Marcelline. He took two slips of vellum from his desk; “See,” said -he, “these are very much in the style of that old Roman History you -were exhibiting to the company last night.” - -“Very much in the style!” exclaimed Dubois, his eyes glistening -with delight. “They are identical! Where did you get them?” - -“Our foreman sent them down to me,” rejoined Hyppolite. “We -purchase enormous quantities of old parchment, and frequently a few -painted letters are found in the mass. Our manager, in compliance -with my request, cuts them out and reserves them for me.” - -“Then the vellum from which they were cut is here?” - -“Yes, it is, uncle; but why are you so agitated?” - -Dubois briefly related the circumstances of the robbery; and -wiping the cold perspiration from his brow, he added: “But all -is safe now! I would not walk twenty paces to recover all the -silver-clasped volumes, if I can only hold once more the musty -_palimpsest_ which contains that priceless treasure,--The Lost -Books of Livy!” - -The flush faded from Hyppolite’s ruddy cheek. “There is not a -moment to be lost!” exclaimed he. “Follow me, dear uncle.” - -Away he ran across court-yards, through long warehouses filled -with merchandise, and up flights of stairs, two steps at a bound. -Dubois, highly excited, followed with the activity of youth. They -reached a small room adjoining an enormous mass of lofty chimneys, -from which heavy columns of smoke rolled away before the wind. - -“Where is the lot of old vellum that came this morning?” gasped -Hyppolite, all out of breath. - -A man who was busy checking off accounts, asked, “Do you mean the -lot from which you cut those two letters?” - -“Yes, yes,” replied Hyppolite. “Where is it? Where is it? It is -very important!” - -“Let me see,” said the man. “It was lot number fourteen, purchased -at eight o’clock this morning. We happened to be very short of -vellum, and I gave out that new lot directly.” He opened a creaking -door, and called out, “Pierre! Pierre! what was the number of the -lot you put in last?” - -“Number fourteen,” replied a deep voice within; and the door closed -again, with dinning rattle of rope and weight. - -“It is too late,” said the foreman, turning to Hyppolite. “It went -in at eleven o’clock.” - -“Went _in_? Went in _where_?” exclaimed Dubois, turning first to -Hyppolite, and then to the foreman, with a look of haggard anxiety. - -“Into the boiler,” replied Hyppolite, taking his uncle’s hand. -“This is a gelatine manufactory. We boil down tons of old parchment -every year.” - - * * * * * - -It was long before Dubois recovered from the shock he had -received; but he did finally recover. He began to accumulate fresh -bibliographical treasures around him, and many pleasant evenings -were spent in those old apartments. But his former enthusiasm never -returned. Any new discovery in the field of his research no longer -excited a rapid flow of ardent words, but was merely indicated by a -faint smile. He was always kindly and genial, and was only roused -to an occasional word or look of bitterness when some circumstance -happened to remind him of the treasure he had lost. “To think that -what I had been hunting for all my life should be found only to be -lost in a pot of gelatine!” he would exclaim, indignantly. Then he -would fall into a silence which no one ventured to disturb. But, -with a slight sigh, and a quiver of his gray locks, he would soon -dismiss the subject from his mind, and change the conversation. - -If he ever felt regret at having expended all the energies of his -life among the dim shadows of the past, no one ever heard him -express the feeling. And this was wise; for his habits were too -firmly fixed to be changed. He lived with his dear old volumes as -with friends. The monotony of his life was soothed by a daughter’s -love, and cheered by the kind attentions of his gay young nephew. -His uncommon talents and learning left no traces behind them, -and his name passed away as do the pleasant clouds of twilight. -Hyppolite’s constant love was rewarded by the heart and hand of -Marcelline; and the two - who most reverenced the old man’s learning, - and most tenderly cherished the memory - of his genial character, lived to - talk of them often to each - other, and to teach - them to their - descendants. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -TO ONE WHO WISHED ME SIXTEEN YEARS OLD. - -BY ALICE CARY. - - - Suppose your hand with power supplied, - Say, would you slip it ’neath my hair. - And turn it to the golden side - Of sixteen years? Suppose you dare, - - And I stood here with smiling mouth, - Red cheeks, and hands all softly white, - Exceeding beautiful with youth, - And that some tiptoe-treading sprite - - Brought dreams as bright as they could be, - To keep the shadows from my brow, - And plucked down hearts to pleasure me, - As you would roses from a bough. - - What could I do then? Idly wear, - While all my mates went on before, - The bashful looks and golden hair - Of sixteen years! and nothing more? - - Nay, done with youth are my desires, - Life has no pain I fear to meet; - Experience, with its dreadful fires, - Melts knowledge to a welding heat. - - And all its fires of heart and brain, - Where purpose into power was wrought, - I’d bear, and gladly bear again, - Rather than be put back a thought. - - So, sigh no more, my gentle friend, - That I am at the time of day - When white hair comes, and heart-beats send - No blushes through the cheeks astray. - - For could you mould my destiny, - As clay, within your loving hand, - I’d leave my youth’s sweet company, - And suffer back to where I stand. - - * * * * * - -THE SILVERY HEAD. - - Though youth may boast the curls that flow, - In sunny waves of auburn glow, - As graceful, on thy hoary head, - Has time the robe of honor spread, - And there, O, softly, softly shed - His wreath of snow. - - FELICIA HEMANS. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -GROWING OLD.[I] - -ADDRESSED TO UNMARRIED WOMEN. - - [I] From Miss Muloch’s “Thoughts about Women.” - - -It is a trying crisis in life to feel that you have had your fair -half at least of the ordinary term of years allotted to mortals; -that you have no right to expect to be any handsomer, or stronger, -or happier than you are now; that you have climbed to the summit -of life, whence the next step must necessarily be decadence. The -air may be as fresh, the view as grand, still you know that, slower -or faster, you are going down hill. It is not a pleasant descent -at the beginning. It is rather trying when, from long habit, you -unwittingly speak of yourself as a “girl,” to detect a covert -smile on the face of your interlocutor; or, when led by some -chance excitement to deport yourself in an ultra-youthful manner, -some instinct warns you that you are making yourself ridiculous; -or, catching in some strange looking-glass the face you are too -familiar with to notice much, ordinarily, you suddenly become -aware that it is not a young face, and will never be a young face -again. With most people, the passing from maturity to middle age -is so gradual as to be almost imperceptible to the individual -concerned. There is no denying this fact, and it ought to silence -many an ill-natured remark upon those unlucky ones who insist upon -remaining “young ladies of a certain age.” It is very difficult -for a woman to recognize that she is growing old; and to all, this -recognition cannot but be fraught with considerable pain. Even the -most sensible woman cannot fairly put aside her youth, with all it -has enjoyed, or lost, or missed, and regard it as henceforth to be -considered a thing gone by, without a momentary spasm of the heart. - -To “grow old gracefully” is a good and beautiful thing; to grow -old worthily is a better. And the first effort to that end is to -become reconciled to the fact of youth’s departure; to have faith -in the wisdom of that which we call change, but which is in truth -progression; to follow openly and fearlessly, in ourselves and -our daily life, the same law which makes spring pass into summer, -summer into autumn, and autumn into winter, preserving an especial -beauty and fitness in each of the four. - -If women could only believe it, there is a wonderful beauty even in -growing old. The charm of expression, arising from softened temper -or ripened intellect, often atones amply for the loss of form and -coloring; consequently, to those who could never boast of either of -these latter, years give much more than they take away. A sensitive -person often requires half a lifetime to get thoroughly used to -this corporeal machine; to attain a wholesome indifference both to -its defects and perfections; and to learn at last what nobody would -acquire from any teacher but experience, that it is the _mind_ -alone which is of any consequence. With good temper, sincerity, -and a moderate stock of brains, or even with the two former only, -any sort of a body can in time be made a useful, respectable, -and agreeable travelling-dress for the soul. Many a one who was -absolutely plain in youth, thus grows pleasant and well-looking in -declining years. You will seldom find anybody, not ugly in mind, -who is repulsively ugly in person after middle life. - -So it is with character. However we may talk about people being -“not a whit altered,” “just the same as ever”; the fact is, not -one of us is, or can be, for long together, exactly the same. The -body we carry with us is not the identical body we were born with, -or the one we supposed ours seven years ago; and our spiritual -self, which inhabits it, also goes through perpetual change and -renewal. In moral and mental, as well as in physical growth, it -is impossible to remain stationary. If we do not advance, we -retrograde. Talk of being “too late to improve,” “too old to -learn”! A human being should be improving with every day of a -lifetime; and will probably have to go on learning throughout all -the ages of immortality. - -One of the pleasures of growing old is, to know, to acquire, to -find out, to be able to appreciate the causes of things; this -gradually becomes a necessity and an exquisite delight. We are able -to pass out of our own small daily sphere, and to take interest -in the marvellous government of the universe; to see the grand -workings of cause and effect; the educing of good out of apparent -evil; the clearing away of the knots in tangled destinies, general -or individual; the wonderful agency of time, change, and progress -in ourselves, in those surrounding us, and in the world at large. -In small minds, this feeling expends itself in meddling, gossiping, -scandal-mongering; but such are merely abortive developments of a -right noble quality, which, properly guided, results in benefits -incalculable to the individual and to society. Undoubtedly the -after-half of life is the best working-time. Beautiful is youth’s -enthusiasm, and grand are its achievements; but the most solid -and permanent good is done by the persistent strength and wide -experience of middle age. Contentment rarely comes till then; -not mere resignation, a passive acquiescence in what cannot be -removed, but active contentment. This is a blessing cheaply bought -by a personal share in that daily account of joy and pain, which -the longer one lives the more one sees is pretty equally balanced -in all lives. Young people enjoy “the top of life” ecstatically, -either in prospect or fruition; but they are very seldom contented. -It is not possible. Not till the cloudy maze is half travelled -through, and we begin to see the object and purpose of it, can we -be really content. - -The doubtful question, to marry or not to marry, is by this -time generally settled. A woman’s relations with the other sex -imperceptibly change their character, or slowly decline. There -are exceptions; old lovers who have become friends, or friends -whom no new love could make swerve from the fealty of years; still -it usually happens so. The society of honorable, well-informed -gentlemen, who meet a lady on the easy neutral ground of mutual -esteem, is undoubtedly pleasant, but the time has passed when -any one of them is _the_ one necessary to her happiness. If she -wishes to retain influence over mankind, she must do it by means -different from those employed in youth. Even then, be her wit -ever so sparkling, her influence ever so pure and true, she will -often find her listener preferring bright eyes to intellectual -conversation, and the satisfaction of his heart to the improvement -of his mind. And who can blame him? The only way for a woman to -preserve the unfeigned respect of men, is to let them see that -she can do without either their attention or their admiration. The -waning coquette, the ancient beauty, as well as the ordinary woman, -who has had her fair share of both love and liking, must show by -her demeanor that she has learned this. - -It is reckoned among the compensations of time that we suffer -less as we grow older; that pain, like joy, becomes dulled by -repetition, or by the callousness that comes with years. In one -sense this is true. If there is no joy like the joy of youth, the -rapture of a first love, the thrill of a first ambition, God’s -great mercy has also granted that there is no anguish like youth’s -pain; so total, so hopeless, blotting out earth and heaven, falling -down upon the whole being like a stone. This never comes in after -life; because the sufferer, if he or she have lived to any purpose -at all, has learned that God never meant any human being to be -crushed under any calamity, like a blind worm under a stone. - -For lesser evils, the fact that our interests gradually take -a wider range, allows more scope for the healing power of -compensation. Also our loves, hates, sympathies, and prejudices, -having assumed a more rational and softened shape, do not present -so many angles for the rough attrition of the world. Likewise, -with the eye of faith we have come to view life in its entireness, -instead of puzzling over its disjointed parts, which were never -meant to be made wholly clear to mortal eye. And that calm -twilight, which, by nature’s kindly law, so soon begins to creep -over the past, throws over all things a softened coloring, which -transcends and forbids regret. - -Another reason why woman has greater capacity for usefulness in -middle life than in any previous portion of her existence, is -her greater independence. She will have learned to understand -herself, mentally and bodily; to be mistress over herself. Nor is -this a small advantage; for it often takes years to comprehend, -and to act upon when comprehended, the physical peculiarities of -one’s own constitution. Much valetudinarianism among women arises -from ignorance or neglect of the commonest sanitary laws; and -from indifference to that grand preservative of a healthy body, -_a well-controlled and healthy mind_. Both of these are more -attainable in middle age than in youth; and therefore the sort of -happiness they bring, a solid, useful, available happiness, is more -in her power then than at any earlier period. And why? Because she -has ceased to think principally of herself and her own pleasures; -because happiness has itself become to her an accidental thing, -which the good God may give or withhold, as He sees most fit for -her, and most adapted to the work for which he means to use her -in her generation. This conviction of being at once an active and -a passive agent is surely consecration enough to form the peace, -nay, the happiness, of any good woman’s life; enough, be it ever -so solitary, to sustain it until the end. In what manner such a -conviction should be carried out, no one individual can venture to -advise. In this age, woman’s work is almost unlimited, when the -woman herself so chooses. She alone can be a law unto herself; -deciding and acting according to the circumstances in which her -lot is placed. And have we not many who do so act? There are women -of property, whose names are a proverb for generous and wide -charities; whose riches, carefully guided, flow into innumerable -channels, freshening the whole land. There are women of rank -and influence, who use both, or lay aside both, in the simplest -humility, for labors of love, which level all classes, or rather -raise them all, to one common sphere of womanhood. - -Many others, of whom the world knows nothing, have taken the -wisest course that any unmarried woman can take; they have made -themselves a home and a position; some, as the Ladies Bountiful of -a country neighborhood; some, as elder sisters, on whom has fallen -the bringing up of whole families, and to whom has been tacitly -accorded the headship of the same, by the love and respect of -more than one generation thereof. There are some who, as writers, -painters, and professional women generally, make the most of -whatever special gift is allotted to them; believing that, whether -it be great or small, it is not theirs, either to lose or to waste, -but that they must one day render up to the Master his own, with -usury. - -I will not deny that the approach of old age has its sad -aspect to a woman who has never married; and who, when her own -generation dies out, no longer retains, or can expect to retain, -any flesh-and-blood claim upon a single human being. When all -the downward ties, which give to the decline of life a rightful -comfort, and the interest in the new generation which brightens -it with a perpetual hope, are to her either unknown, or indulged -in chiefly on one side. Of course there are exceptions, where an -aunt has been almost like a mother, and where a loving and lovable -great-aunt is as important a personage as any grandmother. But, -generally speaking, a single woman must make up her mind that the -close of her days will be more or less solitary. - -Yet there is a solitude which old age feels to be as natural and -satisfying as that rest which seems such an irksomeness to youth, -but which gradually grows into the best blessing of our lives; and -there is another solitude, so full of peace and hope, that it is -like Jacob’s sleep in the wilderness, at the foot of the ladder of -angels. - -The extreme loneliness, which afar off appears sad, may prove to be -but as the quiet, dreamy hour, “between the lights,” when the day’s -work is done, and we lean back, closing our eyes, to think it all -over before we finally go to rest, or to look forward, with faith -and hope, unto the coming Morning. - -A life in which the best has been made of all the materials granted -to it, and through which the hand of the Great Designer can be -plainly traced, whether its web be dark or bright, whether its -pattern be clear or clouded, is not a life to be pitied; - for it is a completed life. It has fulfilled - its appointed course, and returns to - the Giver of all breath, pure as - he gave it. Nor will he - forget it when he - counteth up his - jewels. - -[Illustration] - - “Time wears slippers of list, and his tread is noiseless. The - days come softly dawning, one after another; they creep in at - the windows; their fresh morning air is grateful to the lips as - they pant for it; their music is sweet to the ears that listen - to it; until, before we know it, a whole life of days has - possession of the citadel, and time has taken us for its own.” - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -EQUINOCTIAL. - -BY MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY. - - - The Sun of Life has crossed the line; - The summer-shine of lengthened light - Faded and failed,--till, where I stand, - ’Tis equal Day and equal Night. - - One after one, as dwindling hours, - Youth’s glowing hopes have dropped away, - And soon may barely leave the gleam - That coldly scores a winter’s day. - - I am not young, I am not old; - The flush of morn, the sunset calm, - Paling, and deepening, each to each, - Meet midway with a solemn charm. - - One side I see the summer fields, - Not yet disrobed of all their green; - While westerly, along the hills, - Flame the first tints of frosty sheen. - - Ah, middle-point, where cloud and storm - Make battle-ground of this my life! - Where, even-matched, the Night and Day - Wage round me their September strife! - - I bow me to the threatening gale: - I know when that is overpast, - Among the peaceful harvest-days, - An Indian-summer comes at last. - - - - -EPITAPH ON THE UNMATED. - - No chosen spot of ground she called her own. - In pilgrim guise o’er earth she wandered on; - Yet always in her path some flowers were strown. - No dear ones were her own peculiar care, - So was her bounty free as heaven’s air; - For every claim she had enough to spare. - And, loving more her heart to _give_ than lend, - Though oft deceived in many a trusted friend, - She hoped, believed, and trusted to the end. - She had her joys;--’twas joy to her to love, - To labor in the world with God above, - And tender hearts that ever near did move. - She had her griefs;--but they left peace behind, - And healing came on every stormy wind, - And still with silver every cloud was lined. - And every loss sublimed some low desire, - And every sorrow taught her to aspire, - Till waiting angels bade her “Go up higher.” - - E. S. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -A BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT.[J] - - [J] From the Rev. Dr. Francis’s Memoir of the Hon. John Davis. - - -Blessing and blessed, this excellent man passed on to old age; and -how beautiful that old age was, none, who had the privilege of -knowing it, can ever forget. It was the old age of the Christian -scholar and the beloved man. His evening of life could not but be -bright and serene, full of hope, and free from sadness. He had a -kindly freshness of spirit, which made the society of the young -pleasant to him; and they, on their part, were always happy to be -with him, enjoying the good-natured wisdom and the modest richness -of his conversation. His faculties remained clear, active, and -healthy to the last. Advancing years never for a moment closed -the capacity, or abated the willingness, to receive new ideas. -Though a lover of the past and the established, his opinions never -hardened into prejudices. His intellectual vigor was not seen to -moulder under the quiet which an old man claims as his right. Of -him might be said what Solon said of himself in advanced years, -that “he learned something every day he lived”; and to no one could -be better applied the remark of Cicero concerning the venerable -Appius: “He kept his mind bent like a bow, nor was it ever relaxed -by old age.” - -But it was peculiarly his fine moral qualities--his benevolence, -his artlessness, his genial kindness--which shed a mellow and -beautiful light on his old age. No thought of self ever mingled -its alloy with the virtues that adorned Judge Davis’s character. -His reliance on the truths and promises of Christian faith -seemed more confident and vital as he drew nearer to the great -realities of the future. For him, life had always a holy meaning. -A Grecian philosopher, at the age of eighty-five, is said to -have expressed painful discontent at the shortness of life, and -complained of nature’s hard allotment, which snatches man away just -as he is about to reach some perfection of science. Not so our -Christian sage; he found occasion, not for complaint, but rather -for thankfulness, because, as the end approached, he saw more -distinctly revealed the better light beyond. - -He once expressed, in a manner touchingly beautiful, his own -estimation of old age. On the occasion of a dinner-party, at which -Judge Story and others eminent in the legal profession were -present, the conversation turned upon the comparative advantages of -the different periods of life. Some preferred, for enjoyment, youth -and manhood; others ascribed more solid satisfactions to old age. -When the opinion of Judge Davis was asked, he said, with his usual -calm simplicity of manner: “In the warm season of the year it is -my delight to be in the country; and every pleasant evening while -I am there, I love to sit at the window and look at some beautiful -trees which grow near my house. The murmuring of the wind through -the branches, the gentle play of the leaves, and the flickering of -light upon them when the moon is up, fill me with an indescribable -pleasure. As the autumn comes on, I feel very sad to see these -leaves falling one - by one; but when they are all gone, I find - that they were only a screen before my - eyes; for I experience a new and - higher satisfaction as I gaze - through the naked branches - at the glorious stars - of heaven beyond.” - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -AT ANCHOR.[K] - - [K] Author unknown. - - - Ah, many a year ago, dear wife, - We floated down this river, - Where the hoar willows on its brink - Alternate wave and shiver; - With careless glance we viewed askance - The kingfisher at quest, - And scarce would heed the reed-wren near, - Who sang beside her nest; - Nor dreamed that e’er our boat would be - Thus anchored and at rest, - Dear love, - Thus anchored, and at rest! - - O, many a time the wren has built - Where those green shadows quiver, - And many a time the hawthorn shed - Its blossoms on the river, - Since that sweet noon of sultry June, - When I my love confessed, - While with the tide our boat did glide - Adown the stream’s smooth breast, - Whereon our little shallop lies - Now anchored, and at rest, - Dear love, - Now anchored, and at rest! - - The waters still to ocean run, - Their tribute to deliver, - And still the hawthorns bud and bloom - Above the dusky river. - Still sings the wren,--the water-hen - Still skims the ripple’s crest; - The sun--as bright as on that night-- - Sinks slowly down the west; - But now our tiny craft is moored, - Safe anchored and at rest, - Dear love, - Safe anchored, and at rest! - - For this sweet calm of after-days - We thank the bounteous Giver, - Who bids our life flow smoothly on - As this delicious river. - A world--our own--has round us grown, - Wherein we twain are blest; - Our child’s first words than songs of birds - More music have expressed; - And all our centred happiness - Is anchored, and at rest, - Dear love, - Is anchored, and at rest! - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -NOVEMBER. - -BY REV. HENRY WARD BEECHER. - - -We often hear people say, “O, the dreary days of November!” -The days of November are never dreary, though _men_ sometimes -are. There are things in November that make us sad. There are -suggestions in it that lead us to serious thoughts. At that season -of the year, we are apt to feel that life is passing away. After -the days in summer begin to grow short, I cannot help sighing -often; and, as they still grow shorter and shorter, I look upon -things, not with pain, but with a melancholy eye. And when autumn -comes, and the leaves of the trees drop down through the air and -find their resting-places, I cannot help thinking, that life is -short, that our work is almost ended. It makes me sad; but there -is a sadness that is wholesome, and even pleasurable. There are -sorrows that are not painful, but are of the nature of some acids, -and give piquancy and flavor to life. Such is the sorrow which -November brings. That month, which sees the year disrobed, is not -a dreary month. I like to see the trees go to bed, as much as I -like to see little children go to their sleep; and I think there -is nothing prettier in this world than to see a mother disrobe her -child and prepare its couch, and sing and talk to it, and finally -lay it to rest. I like to see the birds get ready for their repose -at night. Did you ever sit at twilight and hear the birds talk of -their domestic matters,--apparently going over with each other -the troubles and joys of the day? There is an immense deal to be -learned from birds, if a person has an ear to hear. Even so I like -to see the year prepare for its sleep. I like to see the trees with -their clothes taken off. I like to see the lines of a tree; to see -its anatomy. I like to see the preparation God makes for winter. -How everything is snugged and packed! How all nature gets ready for -the cold season! How the leaves heap themselves upon the roots to -protect them from the frosts! How all things tender are taken out -of the way, and only things tough are left to stand the buffetings -of winter! And how do hardy vines and roots bravely sport their -bannered leaves, which the frost cannot kill, holding them up clear -into the coldest days! November is a dreary month to some, but to -me it is only sad; and it is a sweet sadness that it brings to my -mind. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -MEDITATIONS ON A BIRTHDAY EVE. - -BY REV. JOHN PIERPONT. - - - Day, with its labors, has withdrawn. - The stars look down from heaven, - And whisper, “Of thy life are gone - Full seventy years and seven!” - - While those bright worlds, by angels trod, - Thus whispering round me roll, - Let me commune with thee, my God! - Commune with thee, my soul! - - Thou, Father, canst not change thy place, - Nor change thy time to be. - What are the boundless fields of space, - Or what are years to Thee? - - But unto me, revolving years - Bring change, bring feebler breath; - Bring age,--and, though they bring no fears, - Bring slower steps, pain, death. - - This earthly house thy wisdom plann’d, - And leased me for a term, - The house I live in, _seems_ to stand - On its foundation firm. - - I hardly see that it is old; - But younger eyes find proof - Of its long standing, who behold - The gray moss on its roof. - - Spirit! thou knowest this house, erelong, - To kindred dust must fall. - Hast thou, while in it, grown more strong, - More ready for the call - - To meet thy Judge, amid “the cloud - Of witnesses,” who’ve run - Their heavenward race, and joined the crowd, - Who wreaths and crowns have won? - - Hast thou, in search of Truth, been true? - True to thyself and her? - And been, with many or with few, - Her _honest_ worshipper? - - E’en truths, wherein the Past hath stood, - Wouldst thou inherit blind? - They’re good; but there’s a _better_ good,-- - The power _more_ truths to find. - - And hast thou occupied that power, - And made one talent five? - If so, then peaceful be this hour! - Thou’st saved thy soul alive. - - Hast thou e’er given the world a page, - A line that thou wouldst blot, - As adverse to an upward age? - God knoweth thou hast not! - - Giver of life and all my powers, - To thee my soul I lift! - And in these lone and thoughtful hours, - I thank thee for the gift. - - Day, with its toil and care withdrawn, - Night’s shadows o’er me thrown, - Another of my years is gone, - And here I sit alone. - - No, not alone! for with me sit - My judges,--God and I; - And the large record we have writ, - Is lying open by. - - And as I hope, erelong, to swell - The song of seraphim, - And as that song the truth will tell, - My judgment is with Him. - - Spirit! thy race is nearly run. - Say, hast thou run it well? - Thy work on earth is almost done; - _How_ done, no _man_ can tell. - - Spirit, toil on! thy house, that stands - Seventy years old and seven, - Will fall; but one, “not made with hands” - Awaiteth thee in heaven. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES. - -BY HER GRANDDAUGHTER. - - -I had a great treasure in my maternal grandmother, who was a -remarkable woman in many respects. She was the daughter of a -planter in South Carolina, who, at his death, left her and her -mother free, with money to go to St. Augustine, where they had -relatives. It was during the Revolutionary War, and they were -captured on their passage, carried back, and sold to different -purchasers. Such was the story my grandmother used to tell me. She -was sold to the keeper of a large hotel, and I have often heard -her tell how hard she fared during childhood. But as she grew -older, she evinced so much intelligence, and was so faithful, that -her master and mistress could not help seeing it was for their -interest to take care of such a valuable piece of property. She -became an indispensable person in the household, officiating in all -capacities, from cook and wet-nurse to seamstress She was much -praised for her cooking; and her nice crackers became so famous -in the neighborhood that many people were desirous of obtaining -them. In consequence of numerous requests of this kind, she asked -permission of her mistress to bake crackers at night, after all the -household work was done; and she obtained leave to do it, provided -she would clothe herself and the children from the profits. Upon -these terms, after working hard all day for her mistress, she began -her midnight bakings, assisted by her two oldest children. The -business proved profitable; and each year she laid by a little, -to create a fund for the purchase of her children. Her master -died, and his property was divided among the heirs. My grandmother -remained in the service of his widow, as a slave. Her children -were divided among her master’s children; but, as she had five, -Benjamin, the youngest, was sold, in order that the heirs might -have an equal portion of dollars and cents. There was so little -difference in our ages, that he always seemed to me more like a -brother than an uncle. He was a bright, handsome lad, nearly white; -for he inherited the complexion my grandmother had derived from -Anglo-Saxon ancestors. His sale was a terrible blow to his mother; -but she was naturally hopeful, and she went to work with redoubled -energy, trusting in time to be able to purchase her children. One -day, her mistress begged the loan of three hundred dollars from -the little fund she had laid up from the proceeds of her baking. -She promised to pay her soon; but as no promise, or writing, given -to a slave is legally binding, she was obliged to trust solely to -her honor. - -In my master’s house very little attention was paid to the slaves’ -meals. If they could catch a bit of food while it was going, -well and good. But I gave myself no trouble on that score; for -on my various errands I passed my grandmother’s house, and she -always had something to spare for me. I was frequently threatened -with punishment if I stopped there; and my grandmother, to avoid -detaining me, often stood at the gate with something for my -breakfast or dinner. I was indebted to her for all my comforts, -spiritual or temporal. It was _her_ labor that supplied my scanty -wardrobe. I have a vivid recollection of the linsey-woolsey dress -given me every winter by Mrs. Flint. How I hated it! It was one -of the badges of slavery. While my grandmother was thus helping -to support me from her hard earnings, the three hundred dollars -she lent her mistress was never repaid. When her mistress died, -my master, who was her son-in-law, was appointed executor. When -grandmother applied to him for payment, he said the estate was -insolvent, and the law prohibited payment. It did not, however, -prohibit him from retaining the silver candelabra, which had been -purchased with that money. I presume they will be handed down in -the family, from generation to generation. - -My grandmother’s mistress had always promised that, at her death, -she should be free; and it was said that in her will she made good -the promise. But when the estate was settled, Dr. Flint told the -faithful old servant that, under existing circumstances, it was -necessary she should be sold. - -On the appointed day, the customary advertisement was posted up, -proclaiming that there would be “a public sale of negroes, horses, -&c.” Dr. Flint called to tell my grandmother that he was unwilling -to wound her feelings by putting her up at auction, and that he -would prefer to dispose of her at private sale. She saw through -his hypocrisy, and understood very well that he was ashamed of the -job. She was a very spirited woman, and if he was base enough to -sell her, after her mistress had made her free by her will, she was -determined the public should know it. She had, for a long time, -supplied many families with crackers and preserves; consequently -“Aunt Marthy,” as she was called, was generally known; and all who -knew her respected her intelligence and good character. It was -also well known that her mistress had intended to leave her free, -as a reward for her long and faithful services. When the day of -sale came, she took her place among the chattels, and at the first -call she sprang upon the auction-block. She was then fifty years -old. Many voices called out, “Shame! Shame! Who’s going to sell -_you_, Aunt Marthy? Don’t stand there! That’s no place for _you_!” -She made no answer, but quietly awaited her fate. No one bid for -her. At last, a feeble voice said, “Fifty dollars.” It came from -a maiden lady, seventy years old, the sister of my grandmother’s -deceased mistress. She had lived forty years under the same roof -with my grandmother; she knew how faithfully she had served her -owners, and how cruelly she had been defrauded of her rights, and -she resolved to protect her. The auctioneer waited for a higher -bid; but her wishes were respected; no one bid above her. The old -lady could neither read nor write; and when the bill of sale was -made out, she signed it with a cross. But of what consequence was -that, when she had a big heart overflowing with human kindness? She -gave the faithful old servant her freedom. - -My grandmother had always been a mother to her orphan -grandchildren, as far as that was possible in a condition of -slavery. Her perseverance and unwearied industry continued unabated -after her time was her own, and she soon became mistress of a -snug little home, and surrounded herself with the necessaries of -life. She would have been happy, if her family could have shared -them with her. There remained to her but three children and two -grandchildren; and they were all slaves. Most earnestly did she -strive to make us feel that it was the will of God; that He had -seen fit to place us under such circumstances; and, though it -seemed hard, we ought to pray for contentment. It was a beautiful -faith, coming from a mother who could not call her children her -own. But I, and Benjamin, her youngest boy, condemned it. It -appeared to us that it was much more according to the will of God -that we should be free, and able to make a home for ourselves, as -she had done. There we always found balsam for our troubles. She -was so loving, so sympathizing! She always met us with a smile, and -listened with patience to all our sorrows. She spoke so hopefully, -that unconsciously the clouds gave place to sunshine. There was a -grand big oven there, too, that baked bread and nice things for -the town; and we knew there was always a choice bit in store for -us. But even the charms of that old oven failed to reconcile us to -our hard lot. Benjamin was now a tall, handsome lad, strongly and -gracefully made, and with a spirit too bold and daring for a slave. - -One day, his master attempted to flog him for not obeying his -summons quickly enough. Benjamin resisted, and in the struggle -threw his master down. To raise his hand against a white man was -a great crime according to the laws of the State, and to avoid a -cruel public whipping, Benjamin hid himself and made his escape. My -grandmother was absent visiting an old friend in the country, when -this happened. When she returned, and found her youngest child had -fled, great was her sorrow. But, with characteristic piety, she -said, “God’s will be done.” Every morning she inquired whether any -news had been heard from her boy. Alas, news did come; sad news. -The master received a letter, and was rejoicing over the capture of -his human chattel. - -That day seems to me but as yesterday, so well do I remember it. -I saw him led through the streets in chains to jail. His face was -ghastly pale, but full of determination. He had sent some one to -his mother’s house, to ask her not to come to meet him. He said the -sight of her distress would take from him all self-control. Her -heart yearned to see him, and she went; but she screened herself in -the crowd, that it might be as her child had said. - -We were not allowed to visit him. But we had known the jailer for -years, and he was a kind-hearted man. At midnight he opened the -door for my grandmother and myself to enter, in disguise. When we -entered the cell, not a sound broke the stillness. “Benjamin,” -whispered my grandmother. No answer. “Benjamin!” said she, again, -in a faltering tone. There was a jingling of chains. The moon -had just risen, and cast an uncertain light through the bars. We -knelt down and took Benjamin’s cold hands in ours. Sobs alone were -heard, while she wept upon his neck. At last Benjamin’s lips were -unsealed. Mother and son talked together. He asked her pardon -for the suffering he had caused her. She told him she had nothing -to forgive; that she could not blame him for wanting to be free. -He told her that he broke away from his captors, and was about to -throw himself into the river, but thoughts of her came over him and -arrested the movement. She asked him if he did not also think of -God. He replied, “No, mother, I did not. When a man is hunted like -a wild beast, he forgets that there _is_ a God.” - -The pious mother shuddered, as she said, “Don’t talk so, Benjamin. -Try to be humble, and put your trust in God.” - -“I wish I had some of your goodness,” he replied. “You bear -everything patiently, just as though you thought it was all right. -I wish I could.” - -She told him it had not always been so with her; that once she was -like him; but when sore troubles came upon her, and she had no arm -to lean upon, she learned to call on God, and he lightened her -burdens. She besought him to do so likewise. - -The jailer came to tell us we had overstayed our time, and we were -obliged to hurry away. Grandmother went to the master and tried -to intercede for her son. But he was inexorable. He said Benjamin -should be made an example of. That he should be kept in jail till -he was sold. For three months he remained within the walls of -the prison, during which time grandmother secretly conveyed him -changes of clothes, and as often as possible carried him something -warm for supper, accompanied with some little luxury for her -friend the jailer. He was finally sold to a slave-trader from New -Orleans. When they fastened irons upon his wrists to drive him -off with the coffle, it was heart-rending to hear the groans of -that poor mother, as she clung to the Benjamin of her family,--her -youngest, her pet. He was pale and thin now from hardships and long -confinement, but still his good looks were so observable, that the -slave-trader remarked he would give any price for the handsome lad, -if he were a girl. We, who knew so well what slavery was, were -thankful that he was not. - -Grandmother stifled her grief, and with strong arms and unwavering -faith set to work to purchase freedom for Benjamin. She knew the -slave-trader would charge three times as much as he gave for him; -but she was not discouraged. She employed a lawyer to write to New -Orleans, and try to negotiate the business for her. But word came -that Benjamin was missing; he had run away again. - -Philip, my grandmother’s only remaining son, inherited his mother’s -intelligence. His mistress sometimes trusted him to go with a -cargo to New York. One of these occasions occurred not long -after Benjamin’s second escape. Through God’s good providence the -brothers met in the streets of New York. It was a happy meeting, -though Benjamin was very pale and thin; for, on his way from -bondage, he had been taken violently ill, and brought nigh unto -death. Eagerly he embraced his brother, exclaiming, “O Phil! -here I am at last! I came nigh dying when I was almost in sight -of freedom; and O how I prayed that I might live just to get one -breath of free air! And here I am. In the old jail I used to wish -I was dead. But life is worth something now, and it would be hard -to die.” He begged his brother not to go back to the South, but -to stay and work with him till they earned enough to buy their -relatives. - -Philip replied: “It would kill mother if I deserted her. She has -pledged her house, and is working harder than ever to buy you. Will -you be bought?” - -“Never!” replied Benjamin, in his resolute tone. “When I have got -so far out of their clutches, do you suppose, Phil, that I would -ever let them be paid one red cent? Do you think I would consent -to have mother turned out of her hard-earned home in her old age? -And she never to see me after she had bought me? For you know, -Phil, she would never leave the South while any of her children or -grandchildren remained in slavery. What a good mother! Tell her to -buy _you_, Phil. You have always been a comfort to her; and I have -always been making her trouble.” - -Philip furnished his brother with some clothes, and gave him what -money he had. Benjamin pressed his hand, and said, with moistened -eyes, “I part from all my kindred.” And so it proved. We never -heard from him afterwards. - -When Uncle Philip came home, the first words he said, on entering -the house, were: “O, mother, Ben is free! I have seen him in New -York.” For a moment, she seemed bewildered. He laid his hand gently -on her shoulder, and repeated what he had said. She raised her -hands devoutly, and exclaimed, “God be praised! Let us thank Him.” -She dropped on her knees, and poured forth her heart in prayer. -When she grew calmer, she begged Philip to sit down and repeat -every word her son had said. He told her all, except that Benjamin -had nearly died on the way, and was looking very pale and thin. - -Still the brave old woman toiled on to accomplish the rescue of her -remaining children. After a while, she succeeded in buying Philip, -for whom she paid eight hundred dollars, and came home with the -precious document that secured his freedom. The happy mother and -son sat by her hearth-stone that night, telling how proud they were -of each other, and how they would prove to the world that they -could take care of themselves, as they had long taken care of -others. We all concluded by saying, “He that is _willing_ to be a -slave, let him be a slave.” - -My grandmother had still one daughter remaining in slavery. She -belonged to the same master that I did; and a hard time she had -of it. She was a good soul, this old Aunt Nancy. She did all she -could to supply the place of my lost mother to us orphans. She was -the _factotum_ in our master’s household. She was housekeeper, -waiting-maid, and everything else; nothing went on well without -her, by day or by night. She wore herself out in their service. -Grandmother toiled on, hoping to purchase release for her. But one -evening word was brought that she had been suddenly attacked with -paralysis, and grandmother hastened to her bedside. Mother and -daughter had always been devotedly attached to each other; and now -they looked lovingly and earnestly into each other’s eyes, longing -to speak of secrets that weighed on the hearts of both. She lived -but two days, and on the last day she was speechless. It was sad -to witness the grief of her bereaved mother. She had always been -strong to bear, and religious faith still supported her; but her -dark life had become still darker, and age and trouble were leaving -deep traces on her withered face. The poor old back was fitted to -its burden. It bent under it, but did not break. - -Uncle Philip asked permission to bury his sister at his own -expense; and slaveholders are always ready to grant _such_ favors -to slaves and their relatives. The arrangements were very plain, -but perfectly respectable. It was talked of by the slaves as a -mighty grand funeral. If Northern travellers had been passing -through the place, perhaps they would have described it as a -beautiful tribute to the humble dead, a touching proof of the -attachment between slaveholders and their slaves; and very likely -the mistress would have confirmed this impression, with her -handkerchief at her eyes. _We_ could have told them how the poor -old mother had toiled, year after year, to buy her son Philip’s -right to his own earnings; and how that same Philip had paid the -expenses of the funeral, which they regarded as doing so much -credit to the master. - -There were some redeeming features in our hard destiny. Very -pleasant are my recollections of the good old lady who paid fifty -dollars for the purpose of making my grandmother free, when she -stood on the auction-block. She loved this old lady, whom we all -called Miss Fanny. She often took tea at grandmother’s house. On -such occasions, the table was spread with a snow-white cloth, and -the china cups and silver spoons were taken from the old-fashioned -buffet. There were hot muffins, tea-rusks, and delicious -sweetmeats. My grandmother always had a supply of such articles, -because she furnished the ladies of the town with such things for -their parties. She kept two cows for that purpose, and the fresh -cream was Miss Fanny’s delight. She invariably repeated that it was -the very best in town. The old ladies had cosey times together. -They would work and chat, and sometimes, while talking over old -times, their spectacles would get dim with tears, and would have to -be taken off and wiped. When Miss Fanny bade us “Good by,” her bag -was always filled with grandmother’s best cakes, and she was urged -to come again soon. - -[Here follows a long account of persecutions endured by the -granddaughter, who tells this story. She finally made her escape, -after encountering great dangers and hardships. The faithful old -grandmother concealed her for a long time at great risk to them -both, during which time she tried in vain to buy free papers for -her. At last there came a chance to escape in a vessel Northward -bound. She goes on to say:--] - -All arrangements were made for me to go on board at dusk. -Grandmother came to me with a small bag of money, which she wanted -me to take. I begged her to keep at least part of it; but she -insisted, while her tears fell fast, that I should take the whole. -“You may be sick among strangers,” said she; “and they would send -you to the poor-house to die.” Ah, that good grandmother! Though I -had the blessed prospect of freedom before me, I felt dreadfully -sad at leaving forever that old homestead, that had received and -sheltered me in so many sorrows. Grandmother took me by the hand, -and said, “My child, let us pray.” We knelt down together, with my -arm clasped round the faithful, loving old friend I was about to -leave forever. On no other occasion has it been my lot to listen -to so fervent a supplication for mercy and protection. It thrilled -through my heart and inspired me with trust in God. I staggered -into the street, faint in body, though strong of purpose. I did -not look back upon the dear old place, though I felt that I should -never see it again. - -[The granddaughter found friends at the North, and, being -uncommonly quick in her perceptions, she soon did much to -supply the deficiencies of early education. While leading a -worthy, industrious life in New York, she twice very narrowly -escaped becoming a victim to the infamous Fugitive Slave Law. A -noble-hearted lady purchased her freedom, and thereby rescued her -from further danger. She thus closes the story of her venerable -ancestor:--] - -My grandmother lived to rejoice in the knowledge of my freedom; -but not long afterward a letter came to me with a black seal. It -was from a friend at the South, who informed me that she had gone -“where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at -rest.” Among the gloomy recollections of my life in bondage come -tender memories of that good grandmother, like a few fleecy clouds -floating over a dark and troubled sea. - - H. J. - -NOTE.--The above account is no fiction. The author, who was -thirty years in slavery, wrote it in an interesting book entitled -“Linda.” She is an esteemed friend of mine; and I introduce this -portion of her story here to illustrate the power of character -over circumstances. She has intense sympathy for those who are -still suffering in the bondage from which she escaped. She is -now devoting all her energies to the poor refugees in our camps, -comforting the afflicted, nursing the sick, and teaching the -children. On the 1st of January, 1863, she wrote me a letter, which -began as follows: “I have lived to hear the Proclamation of Freedom -for my suffering people. All my wrongs are forgiven. I am more than -repaid for all I have endured. Glory to God in the highest!” - - L. M. C. - - * * * * * - - We hear men often enough speak of seeing God in the stars and - the flowers, but they will never be truly religious, till they - learn to behold Him in _each other_ also, where He is most - easily, yet most rarely discovered. - - J. R. LOWELL - - - - - [Illustration] - - - - - AULD LANG SYNE. - - BY ROBERT BURNS. - - - Should auld acquaintance be forgot, - And never brought to min’? - Should auld acquaintance be forgot, - And days o’ lang syne? - - CHORUS. - - For auld lang syne, my dear, - For auld lang syne; - We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet, - For auld lang syne. - - We twa hae ran about the braes, - And pu’d the gowans[L] fine; - But we’ve wandered mony a weary foot, - Sin’ auld lang syne. - - We twa hae paidl’t i’ the burn,[M] - Frae morning sun till dine; - But seas between us braid hae roared - Sin’ auld lang syne. - - CHORUS. - - For auld lang syne, my dear, - For auld lang syne; - We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet, - For auld lang syne. - - [L] Wild daisies. - - [M] Brook. - - - - -OLD FOLKS AT HOME. - - - They love the places where they wandered - When they were young; - They love the books they’ve often pondered, - They love the tunes they’ve sung. - - The easy-chair, so soft and dozy, - Is their delight; - The ample slippers, warm and cozy, - And the dear old bed at night. - - CHORUS. - - Near their hearth-stones, warm and cheery, - Where, by night or day, - They’re free to rest when they are weary, - There the old folks love to stay. - - L. M. C. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -OLD UNCLE TOMMY - -FROM THE CHRISTIAN REGISTER. - - “Let him, where and when he will, sit down - Beneath the trees, or by the grassy bank - Of highway-side, and with the little birds - Share his chance-gathered meal; and finally, - As in the eye of Nature he has lived, - So in the eye of Nature let him die.” - - WORDSWORTH. - - -The morning after the storm was calm and beautiful; just one -of those days so dear to every lover of Nature; for every true -worshipper of our all-bountiful Mother is a poet at heart, though -his lips may often fail to utter the rich experience of his soul. -The air was full of fragrance and the songs of birds. Here and -there a gentle breeze would shower down the drops of moisture from -the trees, forming a mimic rain; every bush and shrub, and each -separate blade of grass, glittered in the morning sunlight, as if -hung with brightest jewels. The stillness was in harmony with the -day of rest, and only the most peaceful thoughts were suggested by -this glorious calm, returning after the tempest. - -The late proprietor of the Leigh Manor had presented a small, -though very perfect, chime of bells to Leighton Church; they had -never been successfully played until now, when the ringers, having -become more skilful, they for the first time pealed a regular -chant; and right merrily did the sound go forth over the quiet -plain. - - To God the mighty Lord, - Your joyful songs repeat; - To Him your praise accord, - As good as He is great. - -“Ah,” said an old man, leaning on his staff, and gazing at the -bells, “how I wish the Masther could a’ heard ye! Well, p’r’aps -he _does_ hear the bonny bells a-praising God. God bless thee, -dear Masther, and have thee forever in his holy keeping!” and -raising his hat reverently from his head, the old man stood with -the white hair streaming back upon his shoulders, leaving unshaded -his upturned countenance, where were visible the traces of many a -conflict and of many a hard-earned victory; the _traces_ only, for -time and living faith had smoothed the deeper marks. As in Nature -this morning you saw there _had been_ storm and fierce strife; but -now all was at peace. The clear blue eye of the aged man shone with -a brighter light than youth alone can give. It was the undying -light of immortality; for, old and poor and ignorant as he was, -to worldly eyes, his soul had attained a noble stature; and as he -stood there with uncovered head, in the June sunshine, there was a -majesty about him which no mere earthly rank can impart. You saw -before you a child of the Great Father; you _felt_ that he communed -in spirit with his God, as with a dear and loving parent; that the -Most High was very nigh unto him. And yet this man dwelt amongst -the paupers of a country almshouse, and men called him insane! But -he was “harmless,” they said; so he was allowed to come and go -about the neighborhood, as he pleased, and no one feared him. - -The little children, as they passed to Sunday School this morning, -stepped more lightly, lest they should disturb him; for he was a -favorite with the “little people,” as he called them. - -When beyond his hearing, they whispered to one another, “I don’t -believe Uncle Tommy is crazy, do you? I never want to plague him; -he’s so kind.” - -“He isn’t a mite like laughing Davy,” said another; “for Davy is -real mischievous sometimes, and Uncle Tommy isn’t a bit; what do -you s’pose folks call him crazy for?” - -“I’m sure I don’t know,” whispered a third, “for he knows _ever so -much_. I guess it’s ’cause he _seems_ as he does now; and nobody -else ever does, do they? That’s what folks laugh at.” - -“Well, it’s too bad,” exclaimed a rosy little girl of nine or ten -summers. “I mean to go speak to him. That’ll wake him up. He’s -always so good to us, I _hate_ to have folks look queer at him, and -make fun of his ways.” - -“Why, Nelly, he don’t care for the laughing.” - -“No matter; I do,” stoutly maintained the child; and going up to -the old man, she softly pulled his clean, patched sleeve, and said, -“Uncle Tommy, if you please, do look here!” - -He did not seem to hear her for a little while; then passing his -hand across his forehead, as if rousing himself, he turned, with a -pleasant, cheering manner, to the children, who had gathered around -him: “Ah! little Nelly, is it you? and all my little people? why -you’re out early this good morning. May the blessing of Our Father -shine through your young hearts, making beautiful your lives, as -the sunshine makes beautiful your fresh young faces!” - -“Uncle Tommy,” said John Anton, “what makes you love the sun so -like everything?” - -Old Tommy smiled at the boy’s eagerness; but looking upward, he -answered: “I love it as the first, brightest gift of Our Father. I -see in it the purest emblem of Him whose dwelling _is_ the light.” -After a moment’s silence, he extended his hands over the children’s -heads, saying fervently, “Pour thy light into their souls, O -Father, that, the eyes of the mind being opened, they may see Thee -in all thy works!” Then taking Nelly by the hand, he asked, if -they were not too soon for school. - -“Yes,” answered she; “for we came to hear the bells chime. It’s so -pleasant, Uncle Tommy, perhaps you will tell us something. Just a -little while, till the teachers come.” - -“O yes, do now, Uncle Tommy, tell us some of the nice stories you -know,” chimed in the whole group. - -“I’ll be still as a mouse, if you will,” coaxed a lively child, -whose ceaseless motion usually disturbed all quiet talk. - -Uncle Tommy patted her curly head, and good-naturedly consented to -gratify them, “if they would try and be good as the flowers in the -meadow yonder.” - -“Yes, yes, we will,” shouted they. - -“Now lean on me, and I’ll help you, Uncle Tommy,” said Nelly, who -usually assumed the charge of him when she found an opportunity. -So, with one hand resting upon her shoulder, and the other -supported by his staff, the old man, who looked older now, as -his hat shaded his face, moved feebly forward, surrounded by the -happy children. They walked a few steps beyond the corner of the -church, and soon came to a projection in one of the buttresses, -that was often used by the people as a seat in summer; hither they -carefully led Uncle Tommy, who could still enjoy his beloved -sunshine, whilst he rested his weary limbs. It was a sight worthy -of an artist’s pencil; the ancient stone church, the venerable man, -the young children, the lofty trees, the birds, the shadows, the -sunlight, and the graves. - -“Sha’n’t I take off your hat,” asked John, “so you can feel warm?” -and away went the hat, to the mutual satisfaction of Uncle Tommy -and the children; for they loved him, and liked to see his white -hair in the bright sunbeams,--“looking exactly like the ‘Mary’s -threads’ on the dewy grass, so silvery and shiny,” Nelly used to -say. - -“What are you going to tell us?” urged the impatient little -Janette, softly. - -He looked all around before speaking; up at the distant blue sky -flooded with light; abroad upon the fields clothed in richest -verdure; at the gently rustling elms; the oaks, the yews, and -hemlocks in the quiet churchyard; the eager living group at his -feet; all were seen in that one comprehensive glance. “It is my -birthday, little people,” said he, at length, smilingly nodding to -them. - -“Why Uncle Tommy,” cried the astonished children, in their -simplicity, “do you have birthdays, like us? We thought you was too -old!” - -“Yes, yes,” said he, shaking his head, “I’m very old, but I -remember my birthdays still. It’s ninety years, this blessed day, -since I came here a wee bit of a baby; and what a blessed Father -has led me the long weary way!” - -“Shall you like to die, Uncle Tommy? Do you want to die?” asked -Nelly. - -“I _want_, dear child, to live just as long as our Father pleases. -I don’t feel impatient to go nor to stay; ’cause that a’n’t right, -Nelly. I want to do exactly as God wills; but I sha’n’t feel sorry -to go when the time comes; all I _wish_ about it is, that the sun -may shine like _now_ when I go home, and that I may _know_ it.” - -Another little boy here joined the group. He was the youngest -son of the Rector. He had only returned home the previous day -to pass the summer vacation, after a six months’ absence. There -was a little shyness at first between the children, which soon -disappeared before the kindly influence of the old man, in whose -eyes all human beings were recognized as the children of God. With -him there were no rich and no poor. - -“Welcome home again, little Herman!” was his greeting, accompanied -by a smile so genial, it went straight to the boy’s heart. - -“Thank you, Uncle Tommy,” said he, shaking hands, cordially. “I am -right glad to be here, I can assure you; and very glad to see you -in your old corner, looking so well. But what were you saying about -‘going home,’ when I interrupted you by coming up? Pray go on.” - -Before he could answer, Janette said, “It’s Uncle Tommy’s birthday, -this is!” - -“Indeed! and how old is he?” asked Herman, looking at the old man -for a reply. - -“Ninety years, thank God,” was the cheerful answer. - -“O what a long, long time to live!” slowly fell from Herman’s lips. -He was a delicate boy, and thoughtful beyond his years, as is -often the case with invalid children; and now he rested his pale, -intelligent face upon his hand, with his eyes fixed on Uncle Tommy, -and thought what a long, long time was ninety years! Then he looked -upon the graves, and wondered whether any of those whose bodies -were lying there knew what an old, old man was still seeing the -sun shine so long after they were gone. There were little graves -and large ones; Uncle Tommy knew almost all of them, and still he -lived on _all alone_; and _they_ had some of them left families. -He wondered on and on; his reverie was short, but crowded with -perplexing thoughts. - -Uncle Tommy put an end to it, by saying, in answer to Herman’s -words, “The time is _only_ long, when I don’t mind our Father’s -will. When I obey, as the sun, and the wind, and all about us in -Nature does, then I’m as happy as a cretur can be; and time seems -just right. But what I was a saying about going home was this; I -a’n’t in a hurry to go, ’cause I’m here so long; nor am I wanting -to stay; only just as God pleases. But when the time _does_ come, -I’ll be glad to go home, after my school time here is over. P’r’aps -just as you feel now, Herman; and I hope when Uncle Tommy has -gone, with the sunshine, out there, you little people will learn -to love the fair works of God our Father, just as _he_ does now. -And don’t forget when you’re a going to be unkind or naughty, that -you little ones, and _all_ the little children, and _all_ the grown -people, are the fairest, noblest of God’s works. And if you think -of Uncle Tommy, when you see the sun shine, and the pretty flowers -and birds, and remember how _he_ loved them, think of him when you -are a going to strike one another, or do any naughty thing, and -remember how often he has told you about the dear Jesus, who took -little children in his arms and blessed them, and told all the -people, great and small, to love God best, and then to love one -another as they loved themselves. Now if you try to think of this, -I don’t believe you’ll be naughty very often; and the fewer times -you’re naughty, the happier you’ll be when you look round on this -dear beautiful world.” - -“But, Uncle Tommy,” said Nelly, “we forget about being good -sometimes, when we get cross, and everybody scolds at us ’cause we -are so naughty; and that makes us act worse, ever so much; don’t -it, Ann?” appealing to a girl about her own age. - -“Yes,” rejoined Ann, “nobody ever says anything about being good, -in the way you do, Uncle Tommy; except in Sunday School, and in -Church; and somehow it don’t seem just the same as when _you_ -talk. Oh, Uncle Tommy, I believe we should always be good children, -if you could only be along with us all the time.” - -“So do I!” “And I!” was heard from the little circle. - -“Dear me!” cried Nelly, impatiently, “how I do wish we had a great -big world, all our own, with nobody ugly to plague us; only just -for Uncle Tommy and us to live in. _Then_ we’d be good as could be. -Don’t you wish so, dear Uncle Tommy?” - -“No, dear children, I wish for no better, or bigger world to live -in, than this. Our Father put us here, and put it in our own -power to be happy; that means, to be good; and if we don’t make -out to do what He wants us to do here, I don’t believe we should -find it half as easy in a world such as folks dream about. It’s -a wrong notion, to my thinking, to s’pose we could behave better -in some other place than in the one where our lot’s cast in life, -or at some other time than the present time going over our heads. -Remember this, dear little people, when you grow up, and don’t wish -for anything it isn’t God’s will you should have. Try all you can -to mind the Lord, who loves you so well; and if trouble and sorrow -come to you, as they do to every human cretur, and you can be sure -it’s not your own doing, then patiently trust in our Father, and -remember what the dear bells say:-- - - ‘For God doth prove - Our constant friend; - His boundless love - Will never end.’ - -You’re little and young, and full of health now, so you don’t know -what I mean, as you will by and by, when you grow older; but you -can _remember_, if you can’t quite take it in, that I tell you, -after trying it for a good many years, I _know_ our happiness -depends a deal more on ourselves than on other people; and it’s -only when we’re lazy, and don’t want to stir ourselves, that we -think other people have an easier time than we do. B’lieve me, -dear children, everybody has the means of being happy or unhappy -in their _hearts_; and these they must take wherever they go; and -these make their home and their world.” - -The bell for school began to ring, and the children sprang to their -feet instantly, saying, “Good by, Uncle Tommy! It’s school-time -now!” “Good by, little ones,” said he. “You go to one school, and -I’ll go to another, among the _dumb_ children of our Lord!” - -Nelly and Ann lingered after the others a moment. “Uncle Tommy,” -said Ann, “we _will_ try to do as you want us to, and remember what -you say.” - -He laid his hands upon their heads, and, looking up to Heaven, -said, “May the Spirit of the dear Lord be with ye, and guide your -tender feet in the narrow way of life! Bless them, Father, with -thy loving presence through their unending life!” - -There was a moment’s pause; then Ann said earnestly, “I love dearly -to have you bless me, Uncle Tommy”; and with a “Good by,” off she -ran to school. - -Nelly stopped a moment. She had nestled close to the old man’s -side without speaking, and now, throwing her arms around his neck -with a real overflowing of her young heart, she kissed his cheek, -and then darted off to join her companions in school. Uncle Tommy -was surprised, for Nelly did not often express her affection by -caresses, as most children do, but by kind deeds. - -The action, slight though it was, touched a long silent chord -in the old man’s memory. The curtain veiling the past seemed -withdrawn, and again he was a child. There was the path from the -village across the church-yard, just as it was when first his -mother had led him to church, a tiny thing clinging to her skirts. -He was the youngest of seven, and the pet; O so long ago! He saw -again before him his young brothers and sisters, full of healthful -glee; then other forms of long-parted ones joined the procession of -years; his sisters’ and brothers’ children; his own cherished wife -and much-loved boys and girls: all gone, long, long years ago; and -he alone, of all that numerous company, remained. “Thou, Father, -hast ever been on my right hand and on my left; very safely hast -thou led me on through joy and sorrow unto this shining day; -blessed be thy holy name!” - -So prayed the old man his last earthly thanksgiving. When the -people were dispersing to their homes after service, one, seeing -him sitting there in the sheltered nook, came to say “Good -morning”; and receiving no answer, he touched his hand. It was -cold. There he sat in the glorious sunshine, his old brown hat -by his side, wreathed with fresh grass and flowers, as was his -custom; but the freed spirit had gone to the Father he so lovingly -worshipped. - -They made his grave in the sunniest part of the church-yard, where -an opening in the trees afforded a lovely view of the village and -the meadows, with the gentle flowing river, along whose peaceful -banks the old man had loved to wander, gathering flowers and leaves -and grasses, and throwing crumbs to the birds, who knew him too -well to fly from him. Here they laid him, at the last, and, instead -of monument or headstone, the children brought sweet flowering -shrubs, and wild brier from the lanes or fields, to plant around -his quiet grave. - -“Uncle Tommy is not _there_,” said the children. “He has gone home. -This is only his poor _body_, here in the ground!” Thus did the -influence of his bright, ever-young spirit remain with the “little -people” long after Uncle Tommy had ceased to talk with them. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -SITTING IN THE SUN. - - - When Hope deceives, and friends betray, - And kinsmen shun me with a flout; - When hair grows white, and eyes grow dim, - And life’s slow sand is nigh run out, - I’ll ask no boon of any one, - But sing old songs, and sit i’ the sun. - - When memory is my only joy, - And all my thoughts shall backward turn; - When eyes shall cease to glow with love, - And heart with generous fire to burn, - I’ll ask no boon of any one, - But sing old songs, and sit i’ the sun. - - When sounds grow low to deafening ears, - And suns shine not as once they did; - When parting is no more a grief, - And I do whatsoe’er they bid, - I’ll ask no boon of any one, - But sing old songs, and sit i’ the sun. - - Then underneath a spreading elm, - That guards some little cottage door, - I’ll dance a grandchild on my knee, - And count my past days o’er and o’er; - I’ll ask no boon of any one, - But sing old songs and sit i’ the sun. - - ANONYMOUS. - - * * * * * - - How far from here to heaven? - Not very far, my friend; - A single hearty step - Will all thy journey end. - - Hold there! where runnest thou? - Know heaven is in thee! - Seek’st thou for God elsewhere? - His face thou’lt never see. - - Go out, God will go in; - Die thou, and let Him live; - Be not, and He will be; - Wait, and He’ll all things give. - - I don’t believe in death. - If hour by hour I die, - ’Tis hour by hour to gain - A better life thereby. - - ANGELUS SILESIUS, A. D. 1620. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -AUNT KINDLY. - -BY THEODORE PARKER - - -Miss Kindly is aunt to everybody, and has been, for so long a time, -that none remember to the contrary. The little children love her; -and she helped their grandmothers to bridal ornaments threescore -years ago. Nay, this boy’s grandfather found that the way to -college lay through her pocket. Generations not her own rise up -and call her blessed. To this man’s father her patient toil gave -the first start in life. When that great fortune was a seed, it -was she who carried it in her hand. That wide river of reputation -ran out of the cup which her bounty filled. Now she is old, very -old. The little children, who cling about her, with open mouth and -great round eyes, wonder that anybody should ever be so old; or ask -themselves whether Aunt Kindly ever had a mother to kiss her mouth. -To them she is coeval with the sun, and, like that, an institution -of the country. At Christmas, they think she is the wife of St. -Nicholas himself, such an advent is there of blessings from her -hand. - -Her hands are thin, her voice is feeble, her back is bent, and she -walks with a staff, which is the best limb of the three. She wears -a cap of antique pattern, yet of her own nice make. She has great -round spectacles, and holds her book away off the other side of -the candle when she reads. For more than sixty years she has been -a special providence to the family. How she used to go forth, the -very charity of God, to heal and soothe and bless! How industrious -are her hands! How thoughtful and witty that fertile mind! Her -heart has gathered power to love in all the eighty-six years of -her toilsome life. When the birth-angel came to a related house, -she was there to be the mother’s mother; ay, mother also to the -new-born baby’s soul. And when the wings of death flapped in the -street and shook a neighbor’s door, she smoothed the pillow for the -fainting head; she soothed and cheered the spirit of the waiting -man, opening the curtains of heaven, that he might look through -and see the welcoming face of the dear Infinite Mother; nay, she -put the wings of her own strong, experienced piety under him, and -sought to bear him up. - -Now, these things are passed by. No, they are not passed by; for -they are in the memory of the dear God, and every good deed she has -done is treasured in her own heart. The bulb shuts up the summer -in its breast, which in winter will come out a fragrant hyacinth. -Stratum after stratum, her good works are laid up, imperishable, in -the geology of her character. - -It is near noon, now; and she is alone. She has been thoughtful all -day, talking inwardly to herself. The family notice it, but say -nothing. In her chamber, she takes a little casket from her private -drawer; and from thence a book, gilt-edged and clasped; but the -clasp is worn, the gilding is old, the binding faded by long use. -Her hands tremble as she opens it. First she reads her own name, -on the fly-leaf; only her Christian name, “Agnes,” and the date. -Sixty-eight years ago, this day, that name was written there, in -a clear, youthful, clerkly hand, with a little tremble in it, as -if the heart beat over quick. It is very well worn, that dear old -Bible. It opens of its own accord, at the fourteenth chapter of St. -John. There is a little folded paper there; it touches the first -verse and the twenty-seventh. She _sees_ neither; she reads both -out of her _soul_. “Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in -God, believe also in me.” “Peace I leave with you. My peace I give -unto you. Not as the world giveth, give I unto you.” She opens the -paper. There is a little brown dust in it, the remnant of a flower. -She takes the precious relic in her hand, made cold by emotion. She -drops a tear on it, and the dust is transfigured before her eyes: -it is a red rose of the spring, not quite half blown, dewy fresh. -She is old no longer. She is not Aunt Kindly now; she is sweet -Agnes, as the maiden of eighteen was, eight and sixty years ago, -one day in May, when all nature was woosome and winning, and every -flower-bell rung in the marriage of the year. Her lover had just -put that red rose of the spring into her hand, and the good God put -another on her cheek, not quite half-blown, dewy fresh. The young -man’s arm is around her; her brown curls fall on his shoulder; she -feels his breath on her face, his cheek on hers; their lips join, -and like two morning dew-drops in that rose, their two loves rush -into one. - -But the youth must wander away to a far land. She bids him take -her Bible. They will think of each other as they look at the North -Star. He saw the North Star hang over the turrets of many a foreign -town. His soul went to God;--there is as straight a road thither -from India as from any other spot. His Bible came back to her; the -Divine love in it, without the human lover; the leaf turned down at -the blessed words of St. John, first and twenty-seventh verse of -the fourteenth chapter. She put the rose there to mark the spot; -what marks the thought holds now the symbol of their youthful love. -To-day, her soul is with him; her maiden soul with his angel-soul; -and one day the two, like two dew-drops, will rush into one -immortal wedlock, and the old age of earth shall become eternal -youth in the kingdom of heaven. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CROSSING OVER. - -FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. - - - Many a year is in its grave, - Since I crossed this restless wave; - And the evening, fair as ever, - Shines on ruin, rock, and river. - - Then, in this same boat, beside, - Sat two comrades old and tried; - One with all a father’s truth, - One with all the fire of youth. - - One on earth in silence wrought, - And his grave in silence sought; - But the younger, brighter form - Passed in battle and in storm. - - So, whene’er I turn my eye - Back upon the days gone by, - Saddening thoughts of friends come o’er me; - Friends who closed their course before me. - - Yet, what binds us, friend to friend, - But that soul with soul can blend? - Soul-like were those hours of yore-- - Let us walk in soul once more! - - Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee! - Take! I give it willingly; - For, invisibly to thee, - Spirits twain have crossed with me. - - * * * * * - - They are all gone into a world of light, - And I alone sit lingering here! - Their very memory is fair and bright, - And my sad thoughts doth clear. - - Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just! - Shining nowhere but in the dark! - What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, - Could man outlook that mark! - - He that hath found some fledged bird’s nest may know, - At first sight, if the bird be flown; - But what fair field or grove he sings in _now_, - That is to him unknown. - - And yet, as angels, in some brighter dreams, - Call to the soul when man doth sleep, - So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, - And into glory peep. - - HENRY VAUGHAN. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD. - -BY MRS. GASKELL. - - -I thought, after Miss Jenkyns’s death, that probably my connection -with Cranford would cease. I was pleasantly surprised, therefore, -by receiving a letter from Miss Pole proposing that I should go -and stay with her. In a couple of days after my acceptance came a -note from Miss Matey Jenkyns, in which, in a rather circuitous and -very humble manner, she told me how much pleasure I should confer -if I could spend a week or two with her, either before or after I -had been at Miss Pole’s; “for,” she said, “since my dear sister’s -death, I am well aware I have no attractions to offer: it is only -to the kindness of my friends that I can owe their company.” - -Of course I promised to go to dear Miss Matey as soon as I had -ended my visit to Miss Pole. The day after my arrival at Cranford, -I went to see her, much wondering what the house would be like -without Miss Jenkyns, and rather dreading the changed aspect of -things. Miss Matey began to cry as soon as she saw me. She was -evidently nervous from having anticipated my call. I comforted her -as well as I could; and I found the best consolation I could give -was the honest praise that came from my heart as I spoke of the -deceased. Miss Matey slowly shook her head over each virtue, as -it was named and attributed to her sister; at last she could not -restrain the tears which had long been silently flowing, but hid -her face behind her handkerchief, and sobbed aloud. - -“Dear Miss Matey!” said I, taking her hand; for indeed I did not -know in what way to tell her how sorry I was for her, left deserted -in the world. - -She put down her handkerchief and said: “My dear, I’d rather you -did not call me Matey. _She_ did not like it. But I did many a -thing she did not like, I’m afraid; and now she’s gone! If you -please, my love, will you call me Matilda?” - -I promised faithfully, and began to practise the new name with Miss -Pole that very day; and, by degrees, Miss Matilda’s feeling on the -subject was known through Cranford, and the appellation of Matey -was dropped by all, except a very old woman, who had been nurse in -the rector’s family, and had persevered, through many long years, -in calling the Miss Jenkynses “the girls”: _she_ said “Matey” to -the day of her death. - - * * * * * - -It seems that Miss Pole had a cousin, once or twice removed, who -had offered to Miss Matey long ago. Now, this cousin lived four or -five miles from Cranford, on his own estate; but his property was -not large enough to entitle him to rank higher than a yeoman; or, -rather, with something of the “pride which apes humility,” he had -refused to push himself on, as so many of his class had done, into -the rank of the squires. He would not allow himself to be called -Thomas Holbrook, Esq. He even sent back letters with this address, -telling the postmistress at Cranford that his name was Mr. Thomas -Holbrook, yeoman. He rejected all domestic innovations. He would -have the house door stand open in summer, and shut in winter, -without knocker or bell to summon a servant. The closed fist, or -the knob of the stick, did this office for him, if he found the -door locked. He despised every refinement which had not its root -deep down in humanity. If people were not ill, he saw no necessity -for moderating his voice. He spoke the dialect of the country in -perfection, and constantly used it in conversation; although Miss -Pole (who gave me these particulars) added, that he read aloud -more beautifully, and with more feeling, than any one she had ever -heard, except the late rector. - -“And how came Miss Matilda not to marry him?” asked I. - -“Oh, I don’t know. She was willing enough, I think; but you know -Cousin Thomas would not have been enough of a gentleman for the -rector and Mrs. and Miss Jenkyns.” - -“Well, but _they_ were not to marry him,” said I, impatiently. - -“No, but they did not like Miss Matey to marry below her rank. You -know she was the rector’s daughter, and somehow they are related to -Sir Peter Arley; Miss Jenkyns thought a deal of that.” - -“Poor Miss Matey!” said I. - -“Nay, now, I don’t know anything more than that he offered and was -refused. Miss Matey might not like him; and Miss Jenkyns might -never have said a word: it is only a guess of mine.” - -“Has she never seen him since?” I inquired. - -“No, I think not. You see Woodley (Cousin Thomas’s house) lies -half-way between Cranford and Misselton; and I know he made -Misselton his market-town very soon after he had offered to Miss -Matey; and I don’t think he has been into Cranford above once or -twice since. Once, when I was walking with Miss Matey in High -Street, she suddenly darted from me and went up Shire Lane. A few -minutes after, I was startled by meeting Cousin Thomas.” - -“How old is he?” I asked, after a pause of castle-building. - -“He must be about seventy, I think, my dear,” said Miss Pole, -blowing up my castle, as if by gun-powder, into small fragments. - -Very soon after, I had the opportunity of seeing Mr. Holbrook; -seeing, too, his first encounter with his former love, after -thirty or forty years’ separation. I was helping to decide whether -any of the new assortment of colored silks, which they had just -received at the shop, would help to match a gray and black -mousseline-de-laine that wanted a new breadth, when a tall, thin, -Don Quixote-looking old man came into the shop for some woollen -gloves. I had never seen the person before, and I watched him -rather attentively, while Miss Matey listened to the shopman. The -stranger was rather striking. He wore a blue coat, with brass -buttons, drab breeches, and gaiters, and drummed with his fingers -on the counter, until he was attended to. When he answered the -shop-boy’s question, “What can I have the pleasure of showing you -to-day, sir?” I saw Miss Matilda start, and then suddenly sit down; -and instantly I guessed who it was. She had made some inquiry which -had to be carried round to the other shop. - -“Miss Jenkyns wants the black sarcenet, two-and-twopence the yard.” -Mr. Holbrook caught the name, and was across the shop in two -strides. - -“Matey,--Miss Matilda,--Miss Jenkyns! Bless my soul! I should not -have known you. How are you? how are you?” He kept shaking her -hand, in a way which proved the warmth of his friendship; but he -repeated so often, as if to himself, “I should not have known you!” -that any sentimental romance I might be inclined to build was quite -done away with by his manner. - -However, he kept talking to us all the time we were in the shop; -and then waving the shopman, with the unpurchased gloves, on one -side, with “Another time, sir! another time!” he walked home with -us. I am happy to say Miss Matilda also left the shop in an equally -bewildered state; not having purchased either green or red silk. -Mr. Holbrook was evidently full with honest, loud-spoken joy at -meeting his old love again. He touched on the changes that had -taken place; he even spoke of Miss Jenkyns as “Your poor sister! -Well, well! we have all our faults”; and bade us good by with many -a hope that he should soon see Miss Matey again. She went straight -to her room, and never came back till our early tea-time, when I -thought she looked as if she had been crying. - -A few days after, a note came from Mr. Holbrook, asking -us,--impartially asking both of us,--in a formal, old-fashioned -style, to spend a day at his house,--a long, June day,--for it was -June now. He named that he had also invited his cousin, Miss Pole; -so that we might join in a fly, which could be put up at his house. - -I expected Miss Matey to jump at this invitation; but, no! Miss -Pole and I had the greatest difficulty in persuading her to go. She -thought it was improper; and was even half annoyed when we utterly -ignored the idea of any impropriety in her going with two other -ladies to see her old lover. Then came a more serious difficulty. -She did not think Deborah would have liked her to go. This took -us half a day’s good hard talking to get over; but, at the first -sentence of relenting, I seized the opportunity, and wrote and -despatched an acceptance in her name,--fixing day and hour, that -all might be decided and done with. - -The next morning she asked me if I would go down to the shop with -her; and there, after much hesitation, we chose out three caps to -be sent home and tried on, that the most becoming might be selected -to take with us on Thursday. - -She was in a state of silent agitation all the way to Woodley. She -had evidently never been there before, and although she little -dreamt I knew anything of her early story, I could perceive she was -in a tremor at the thought of seeing the place which might have -been her home, and round which it is probable that many of her -innocent, girlish imaginations had clustered. It was a long drive -there, through paved, jolting lanes. Miss Matilda sat bolt upright, -and looked wistfully out of the windows, as we drew near the end -of our journey. The aspect of the country was quiet and pastoral. -Woodley stood among fields, and there was an old-fashioned garden, -where roses and currant-bushes touched each other, and where the -feathery asparagus formed a pretty background to the pinks and -gilly-flowers. There was no drive up to the door. We got out at a -little gate, and walked up a straight, box-edged path. - -“My cousin might make a drive, I think,” said Miss Pole, who was -afraid of ear-ache, and had only her cap on. - -“I think it is very pretty,” said Miss Matey, with a soft -plaintiveness in her voice, and almost in a whisper, for just -then Mr. Holbrook appeared at the door, rubbing his hands in -the very effervescence of hospitality. He looked more like my -idea of Don Quixote than ever, and yet the likeness was only -external. His respectable housekeeper stood modestly at the door -to bid us welcome; and, while she led the elder ladies up-stairs -to a bed-room, I begged to look about the garden. My request -evidently pleased the old gentleman, who took me all round the -place, and showed me his six-and-twenty cows, named after the -different letters of the alphabet. As we went along, he surprised -me occasionally by repeating apt and beautiful quotations from -the poets, ranging easily from Shakespeare and George Herbert, -to those of our own day. He did this as naturally as if he were -thinking aloud; as if their true and beautiful words were the best -expression he could find for what he was thinking or feeling. To -be sure he called Byron “my lord Byrron,” and pronounced the name -of Goethe strictly in accordance with the English sound of the -letters. Altogether, I never met with a man, before or since, who -had spent so long a life in a secluded and not impressive country, -with ever-increasing delight in the daily and yearly change of -season and beauty. - -When he and I went in, we found that dinner was nearly ready in -the kitchen; for so I suppose the room ought to be called, as -there were oak dressers and cupboards all round, all over by the -side of the fireplace, and only a small Turkey carpet in the -middle of the flag-floor. The room might have been easily made -into a handsome, dark-oak dining-parlor, by removing the oven, -and a few other appurtenances of a kitchen, which were evidently -never used; the real cooking-place being at some distance. The -room in which we were expected to sit was a stiffly furnished, -ugly apartment; but that in which we did sit was what Mr. Holbrook -called the counting-house, where he paid his laborers their weekly -wages, at a great desk near the door. The rest of the pretty -sitting-room--looking into the orchard, and all covered over with -dancing tree-shadows--was filled with books. They lay on the -ground, they covered the walls, they strewed the table. He was -evidently half ashamed and half proud of his extravagance in this -respect. They were of all kinds; poetry, and wild, weird tales -prevailing. He evidently chose his books in accordance with his own -tastes, not because such and such were classical, or established -favorites. - -“Ah!” he said, “we farmers ought not to have much time for reading; -yet somehow one can’t help it.” - -“What a pretty room!” said Miss Matey, _sotto voce_. - -“What a pleasant place!” said I, aloud, almost simultaneously. - -“Nay! if you like it,” replied he; “but can you sit on these great -black leather three-cornered chairs? I like it better than the best -parlor; but I thought ladies would take that for the smarter place.” - -It was the smarter place; but, like most smart things, not at all -pretty, or pleasant, or home-like; so, while we were at dinner, the -servant-girl dusted and scrubbed the counting-house chairs, and we -sat there all the rest of the day. - -We had pudding before meat, and I thought Mr. Holbrook was going -to make some apology for his old-fashioned ways; for he began, “I -don’t know whether you like new-fangled ways.” - -“O, not at all!” said Miss Matey. - -“No more do I,” said he. “My housekeeper _will_ have things in her -new fashion; or else I tell her, that when I was a young man, we -used to keep strictly to my father’s rule, ‘No broth, no ball; no -ball, no beef’; and always began dinner with broth. Then we had -suet puddings, boiled in the broth with the beef; and then the meat -itself. If we did not sup our broth, we had no ball, which we liked -a deal better; and the beef came last of all; and only those had it -who had done justice to the broth and the ball. Now, folks begin -with sweet things, and turn their dinners topsy-turvy.” - -When the ducks and green peas came, we looked at each other in -dismay. We had only two-pronged, black-handled forks. It is true, -the steel was as bright as silver; but, what were we to do? Miss -Matey picked up her peas, one by one, on the point of the prongs. -Miss Pole sighed over her delicate young peas, as she left them on -one side of her plate untasted; for they _would_ drop between her -prongs. I looked at my host: the peas were going wholesale into his -capacious mouth, shovelled up by his large round-ended knife. I -saw, I imitated, I survived! My friends, in spite of my precedent, -could not muster up courage enough to do an ungenteel thing; and, -if Mr. Holbrook had not been so heartily hungry, he would probably -have seen that the good peas went away almost untouched. - -After dinner, a clay pipe was brought in, and a spittoon; and, -asking us to retire to another room, where he would soon join us, -if we disliked tobacco-smoke, he presented his pipe to Miss Matey, -and requested her to fill the bowl. This was a compliment to a lady -in his youth; but it was rather inappropriate to propose it as an -honor to Miss Matey, who had been trained by her sister to hold -smoking of every kind in utter abhorrence. But if it was a shock to -her refinement, it was also a gratification to her feelings, to be -thus selected; so she daintly stuffed the strong tobacco into the -pipe; and then we withdrew. - -“It is very pleasant dining with a bachelor,” said Miss Matey, -softly, as we settled ourselves in the counting-house; “I only hope -it is not improper; so many pleasant things are!” - -“What a number of books he has!” said Miss Pole, looking round the -room. “And how dusty they are!” - -“I think it must be like one of the great Dr. Johnson’s rooms,” -said Miss Matey. “What a superior man your cousin must be!” - -“Yes!” said Miss Pole; “he’s a great reader; but I am afraid he has -got into very uncouth habits with living alone.” - -“Oh! uncouth is too hard a word. I should call him eccentric: very -clever people always are!” replied Miss Matey. - -When Mr. Holbrook returned, he proposed a walk in the fields; -but the two elder ladies were afraid of damp and dirt, and had -only very unbecoming calashes to put on over their caps; so they -declined, and I was again his companion in a turn which he said -he was obliged to take, to see after his niece. He strode along, -either wholly forgetting my existence, or soothed into silence by -his pipe; and yet it was not silence exactly. He walked before -me, with a stooping gait, his hands clasped behind him, and as -some tree, or cloud, or glimpse at distant upland pastures, struck -him, he quoted poetry to himself; saying it out loud, in a grand, -sonorous voice, with just the emphasis that true feeling and -appreciation give. We came upon an old cedar-tree, which stood at -one end of the house; - - ‘More black than ash-buds in the front of March, - A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade.’ - -“Capital term, ‘layers!’ Wonderful man!” - -I did not know whether he was speaking to me or not; but I put in -an assenting “Wonderful,” although I knew nothing about it; just -because I was tired of being forgotten, and of being consequently -silent. - -He turned sharp round. “Ay! you may say ‘wonderful.’ Why, when I -saw the review of his poems in ‘Blackwood,’ I set off within an -hour, and walked seven miles to Misselton (for the horses were not -in the way), and ordered them. Now, what color are ash-buds in -March?” - -Is the man going mad? thought I. He is very like Don Quixote. - -“What color are they, I say?” repeated he, vehemently. - -“I am sure I don’t know sir,” said I, with the meekness of -ignorance. - -“I knew you didn’t. No more did I, an old fool that I am! till this -young man comes and tells me. Black as ash-buds in March. And I’ve -lived all my life in the country; more shame for me not to know. -Black; they are jet-black, madam.” And he went off again, swinging -along to the music of some rhyme he had got hold of. - -When we came home, nothing would serve him but that he must read -us the poems he had been speaking of; and Miss Pole encouraged -him in his proposal, I thought, because she wished me to hear his -beautiful reading, of which she had boasted; but she afterwards -said it was because she had got to a difficult part of crochet, and -wanted to count her stitches without having to talk. Whatever he -had proposed would have been right to Miss Matey, although she did -fall sound asleep within five minutes after he began a long poem, -called “Locksley Hall,” and had a comfortable nap, unobserved, till -he ended, when the cessation of his voice wakened her up, and she -said, feeling that something was expected, and that Miss Pole was -counting, “What a pretty book!” - -“Pretty, madam? It’s beautiful! Pretty, indeed!” - -“O yes, I meant beautiful!” said she, fluttered at his disapproval -of her word. “It is so like that beautiful poem of Dr. Johnson’s -my sister used to read!--I forget the name of it; what was it, my -dear?” turning to me. - -“Which do you mean, ma’am? What was it about?” - -“I don’t remember what it was about, and I’ve quite forgotten what -the name of it was; but it was written by Dr. Johnson, and was very -beautiful, and very like what Mr. Holbrook has just been reading.” - -“I don’t remember it,” said he, reflectively; “but I don’t know Dr. -Johnson’s poems well. I must read them.” - -As we were getting into the fly to return, I heard Mr. Holbrook -say he should call on the ladies soon, and inquire how they got -home; and this evidently pleased and fluttered Miss Matey at the -time he said it; but after we had lost sight of the old house among -the trees, her sentiments towards the master of it were gradually -absorbed into a distressing wonder as to whether Martha had broken -her word, and seized on the opportunity of her mistress’s absence -to have a “follower.” Martha looked good and steady and composed -enough, as she came to help us out; she was always careful of Miss -Matey, and to-night she made use of this unlucky speech: “Eh, dear -ma’am, to think of your going out in an evening in such a thin -shawl! It is no better than muslin. At your age, ma’am, you should -be careful.” - -“My age!” said Miss Matey, almost speaking crossly, for her, for -she was usually gentle; “my age! Why, how old do you think I am, -that you talk about my age?” - -“Well, ma’am, I should say you were not far short of sixty; but -folks’ looks is often against them, and I’m sure I meant no harm.” - -“Martha, I’m not yet fifty-two!” said Miss Matey, with grave -emphasis; for probably the remembrance of her youth had come very -vividly before her this day, and she was annoyed at finding that -golden time so far away in the past. - -But she never spoke of any former and more intimate acquaintance -with Mr. Holbrook. She had probably met with so little sympathy in -her early love, that she had shut it up close in her heart; and it -was only by a sort of watching, which I could hardly avoid since -Miss Pole’s confidence, that I saw how faithful her poor heart had -been in its sorrows and its silence. - -She gave me some good reason for wearing her best cap every day, -and sat near the window, in spite of her rheumatism, in order to -see, without being seen, down into the street. - -He came. He put his open palms upon his knees, which were far -apart, as he sat with his head bent down, whistling, after we had -replied to his inquiries about our safe return. Suddenly he jumped -up. - -“Well, madam, have you any commands for Paris? I’m going there in a -week or two.” - -“To Paris!” we both exclaimed. - -“Yes, ma’am. I’ve never been there, and always had a wish to go; -and I think if I don’t go soon I mayn’t go at all. So as soon as -the hay is got in I shall go, before harvest-time.” - -We were so much astonished that we had no commissions. - -Just as he was going out of the room, he turned back, with his -favorite exclamation, “Bless my soul, madam! but I nearly forgot -half my errand. Here are the poems for you, you admired so much the -other evening at my house.” He tugged away at a parcel in his coat -pocket. “Good by, miss!” said he; “good by, Matey! take care of -yourself.” And he was gone. But he had given her a book, and he had -called her Matey, just as he used to do thirty years ago. - -“I wish he would not go to Paris,” said Miss Matilda, anxiously. “I -don’t believe frogs will agree with him. He used to have to be very -careful what he ate, which was curious in so strong-looking a young -man.” - -Soon after this I took my leave, giving many an injunction to -Martha to look after her mistress, and to let me know if she -thought that Miss Matilda was not so well; in which case I would -volunteer a visit to my old friend, without noticing Martha’s -intelligence to her. - -Accordingly, I received a line or two from Martha every now and -then; and about November I had a note to say her mistress was “very -low and sadly off her food”; and the account made me so uneasy, -that, although Martha did not decidedly summon me, I packed up my -things and went. - -I received a warm welcome, in spite of the little flurry produced -by my impromptu visit, for I had only been able to give a day’s -notice. Miss Matilda looked miserably ill, and I prepared to -comfort and cosset her. - -I went down to have a private talk with Martha. - -“How long has your mistress been so poorly?” I asked, as I stood by -the kitchen fire. - -“Well, I think it’s better than a fortnight; it is, I know. It was -one Tuesday, after Miss Pole had been here, that she went into -this moping way. I thought she was tired, and it would go off with -a night’s rest; but no! she has gone on and on ever since, till I -thought it my duty to write to you, ma’am.” - -“You did quite right, Martha. It is a comfort to think she has -so faithful a servant about her. And I hope you find your place -comfortable?” - -“Well, ma’am, missus is very kind, and there’s plenty to eat and -drink, and no more work but what I can do easily; but--” Martha -hesitated. - -“But what, Martha?” - -“Why, it seems so hard of missus not to let me have any followers. -There’s such lots of young fellows in the town, and many a one has -as much as offered to keep company with me, and I may never be in -such a likely place again, and it’s like wasting an opportunity. -Many a girl as I know would have ’em unbeknowst to missus; but -I’ve given my word, and I’ll stick to it; or else this is just the -house for missus never to be the wiser if they did come. It’s such -a capable kitchen,--there’s such good dark corners in it,--I’d be -bound to hide any one. I counted up last Sunday night,--for I’ll -not deny I was crying because I had to shut the door in Jem Hearn’s -face; and he’s a steady young man, fit for any girl; only I had -given missus my word.” Martha was all but crying again; and I had -little comfort to give her, for I knew, from old experience, the -horror with which both the Miss Jenkynses looked upon “followers”; -and in Miss Matey’s present nervous state this dread was not like -to be lessened. - -I went to see Miss Pole the next day, and took her completely by -surprise, for she had not been to see Miss Matilda for two days. - -“And now I must go back with you, my dear,” said she; “for I -promised to let her know how Thomas Holbrook went on; and I’m sorry -to say his housekeeper has sent me word to-day that he hasn’t long -to live. Poor Thomas! That journey to Paris was quite too much -for him. His housekeeper says he has hardly ever been round his -fields since, but just sits with his hands on his knees in the -counting-house, not reading, or anything, but only saying, what a -wonderful city Paris was! Paris has much to answer for, if it’s -killed my cousin Thomas, for a better man never lived.” - -“Does Miss Matilda know of his illness?” asked I, a new light as to -the cause of her indisposition dawning upon me. - -“Dear! to be sure, yes! Has she not told you? I let her know a -fortnight ago, or more, when first I heard of it. How odd, she -shouldn’t have told you!” - -Not at all, I thought; but I did not say anything. I felt almost -guilty of having spied too curiously into that tender heart; and -I was not going to speak of its secrets,--hidden, Miss Matey -believed, from all the world. I ushered Miss Pole into Miss -Matilda’s drawing-room; and then left them alone. But I was not -surprised when Martha came to my bed-room door, to ask me to go -down to dinner alone, for that missus had one of her bad headaches. -She came into the drawing-room at tea-time; but it was evidently -an effort for her. As if to make up for some reproachful feeling -against her late sister, Miss Jenkyns, which had been troubling her -all the afternoon, and for which she now felt penitent, she kept -telling me how good and how clever Deborah was in her youth, how -she used to settle what gowns they were to wear at all the parties; -(faint, ghostly ideas of dim parties far away in the distance, -when Miss Matey and Miss Pole were young!) and how Deborah and her -mother had started the benefit society for the poor, and taught -girls cooking and plain sewing; and how Deborah had danced with a -lord; and how she used to visit at Sir Peter Arley’s, and try to -remodel the quiet rectory establishment on the plans of Arley Hall, -where they kept thirty servants; and how she had nursed Miss Matey -through a long, long illness, of which I had never heard before, -but which I now dated, in my own mind, as following the dismissal -of the suit of Mr. Holbrook. So we talked softly and quietly of old -times, through the long November evening. - -The next day, Miss Pole brought us word that Mr. Holbrook was dead. -Miss Matey heard the news in silence. In fact, from the account on -the previous day, it was only what we had to expect. Miss Pole kept -calling upon us for some expressions of regret, by asking if it was -not sad that he was gone, and saying,-- - -“To think of that pleasant day last June, when he seemed so well! -And he might have lived this dozen years, if he had not gone to -that wicked Paris, where they are always having Revolutions.” - -She paused for some demonstration on our part. I saw Miss Matey -could not speak, she was trembling so nervously, so I said what -I really felt; and after a call of some duration,--all the time -of which I have no doubt Miss Pole thought Miss Matey received -the news very calmly,--our visitor took her leave. But the effort -at self-control Miss Matey had made to conceal her feelings,--a -concealment she practised even with me; for she has never alluded -to Mr. Holbrook again, although the book he gave her lies with her -Bible on the little table by her bedside. She did not think I heard -her when she asked the little milliner of Cranford to make her caps -something like the Hon. Mrs. Jamieson’s; or that I noticed the -reply,-- - -“But she wears widows’ caps, ma’am?” - -“O, I only meant something in that style; not widows’, of course, -but rather like Mrs. Jamieson’s.” - -This effort at concealment was the beginning of the tremulous -motion of head and hands, which I have seen ever since in Miss -Matey. - -The evening of the day on which we heard of Mr. Holbrook’s death, -Miss Matilda was very silent and thoughtful; after prayers, she -called Martha back, and then she stood uncertain what to say. - -“Martha!” she said at last; “you are young,”--and then she made -so long a pause, that Martha, to remind her of her half-finished -sentence, dropped a courtesy, and said: “Yes, please, ma’am; -two-and-twenty last third October, please, ma’am.” - -“And perhaps, Martha, you may some time meet with a young man you -like, and who likes you. I did say you were not to have followers; -but if you meet with such a young man, and tell me, and I find he -is respectable, I have no objection to his coming to see you once a -week. God forbid!” said she, in a low voice, “that I should grieve -any young hearts.” - -She spoke as if she were providing for some distant contingency, -and was rather startled when Martha made her ready, eager answer: -“Please, ma’am, there’s Jem Hearn, and he’s a joiner, making -three-and-sixpence a day, and six foot one in his stocking-feet, -please, ma’am; and if you’ll ask about him to-morrow morning, every -one will give him a character for steadiness; and he’ll be glad -enough to come to-morrow night, I’ll be bound.” - -Though Miss Matey was startled, she submitted to Fate and Love. - - * * * * * - - God is our Father. Heaven is his high throne, and this earth - is his footstool; and while we sit around and meditate, or - pray, one by one, as we fall asleep, He lifts us into his - bosom, and our awaking is inside the gates of an everlasting - world.--MOUNTFORD. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -TO MY WIFE. - -ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF OUR WEDDING. - - - Now, Time and I, near fifty years, - Have managed kindly to agree; - Pleased with the friendship he appears, - And means that all the world shall see. - - For, with soft touch about my eyes, - The frosty, kindly, jealous friend - His drawing-pencil deftly plies, - And mars the face he thinks to mend. - - Nor am I called _alone_ to wear - Old Time, “His mark,” in deepening trace; - That “twain are one,” this limner sere - Will print in lines on either face. - - ’Tis not, perhaps, a gallant thing - On such a morning to be told, - But Time doth yearly witness bring, - That--Bless you! _we_ are growing old. - - Together we have lived and loved, - Together passed through smiles and tears, - And life’s all-varying lessons proved - Through many constant married years. - - And there is joy Time cannot reach, - A youth o’er which no power he hath, - If we cling closer, each to each, - And each to God, in hope and faith. - - ANONYMOUS. - - * * * * * - - In the summer evenings, when the wind blew low, - And the skies were radiant with the sunset glow, - Thou and I were happy, long, long years ago! - Love, the young and hopeful, hovered o’er us twain, - Filled us with sad pleasure and delicious pain, - In the summer evenings, wandering in the lane. - - In the winter evenings, when the wild winds roar, - Blustering in the chimney, piping at the door, - Thou and I are happy, as in days of yore. - Love still hovers o’er us, robed in white attire, - Drawing heavenly music from an earthly lyre, - In the winter evenings, sitting by the fire. - - ANONYMOUS. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE EVERGREEN OF OUR FEELINGS. - -EXTRACTS FROM THE GERMAN OF J. P. RICHTER. - - -I oppose, as I would every useless fear in men, the lamentation -that our feelings grow old with the lapse of years. It is the -narrow heart alone which does not grow; the wide one becomes -larger. Years shrivel the one, but they expand the other. Man often -mistakes concerning the glowing depths of his feelings; forgetting -that they may be present in all their energy, though in a state -of repose. In the wear and tear of daily life, amid the care of -providing support, perchance under misdemeanors, in comparing -one child with another, or in daily absences, thou mayest not be -conscious of the fervent affection smouldering under the ashes -of every-day life, which would at once blaze forth into a flame, -if thy child were suffering innocently, or condemned to die. -Thy love was already there, prior to the suffering of thy child -and thyself. It is the same in wedlock and friendship. In the -familiarity of daily presence, the heart beats and glows silently; -but in the hours of meeting and parting, the beautiful radiance of -a long-nurtured flame reveals itself. It is on such occasions that -man always most pleases me. I am then reminded of the glaciers, -which beam forth in rosy-red transparency only at the rising and -setting of the sun, while throughout the day they look gray and -dark. - -A golden mine of affection, of which the smallest glimmer is -scarcely visible, lies buried in the breast until some magic word -reveals it, and then man discovers his ancient treasure. To me, it -is a delightful thought that, during the familiarity of constant -proximity, the heart gathers up in silence the nutriment of love, -as the diamond, even beneath water, imbibes the light it emits. -Time, which deadens hatred, secretly strengthens love; and in the -hour of threatened separation its growth is manifested at once in -radiant brightness. - -Another reason why man fancies himself chilled by old age, is that -he can then feel interested only in higher objects than those which -once excited him. The lover of nature, the preacher, the poet, the -actor, or the musician, may, in declining years, find themselves -slightly affected by what delighted them in youth; but this need -produce no fear that time will mar their sensibility to nature, -art, and love. Thou, as well as I, may indeed weep less frequently -than formerly, at the theatre or at concerts; but give us a truly -excellent piece, and we cannot suppress the emotion it excites. -Youth is like unbleached wax, which melts under feeble sun-beams, -while that which has been whitened is scarcely warmed by them. The -mature or aged man avoids those tears which youth invites; because -in him they flow too hot, and dry too slowly. - -Select a man of my age, and of my heart, with my life-long want -of highland scenery, and conduct him to the valley of the Rhine! -Bring him to that long, attractive, sea-like river, flowing -between vine-clad hills on either side, as between two regions of -enchantment, reflecting only scenes of pleasure, creating islands -for the sake of clasping them in its arms; let also a reflection of -the setting sun glow upon its waters; and surely youth would again -be mirrored in the old man, and that still ocean of infinity, which -in the true and highest heaven permits us to look down. - -Memory, wit, fancy, acuteness, cannot grow young again in old age; -but the _heart_ can. In order to be convinced of this, we need -only remember how the hearts of poets have glowed in the autumn -and winter seasons of life. He who in old age can do without love, -never in his youth possessed the right sort, over which years have -no power. During winter, it is the withered branches, not the -living germs, that become encrusted with ice. The loving heart -will indeed often bashfully conceal a portion of its warmth behind -children and grandchildren; so that last love is perhaps as coy as -the first. But if an aged eye, full of soul, is upraised, gleaming -with memories of its spring-time, is there anything in that to -excite ridicule? Even if it were silently moistened, partly through -gladness, and partly through a feeling of the past, would it not be -excusable? Might not an aged hand presume to press a young hand, -merely to signify thereby, I, too, was once in Arcadia, and within -me Arcadia still remains? In the better sort of men love is an -interior sentiment, born in the soul; why should it not continue -with the soul to the end? It is a part of the attraction of tender -and elevated love that its consecrated hours leave in the heart a -gentle, continuous, distinct influence; just as, sometimes, upon a -heavenly spring-evening, fragrance, exhaled from warm blossoms in -the surrounding country penetrates every street of a city that has -no gardens. - -I would exhort men to spare every true affection, and not to -ridicule the overflowings of a happy heart with more license than -they would the effusions of a sorrowing one. For the youth of the -soul is everlasting, and eternity is youth. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -OUR SECRET DRAWER. - - - There is a secret drawer in every heart, - Wherein we lay our treasures, one by one; - Each dear remembrance of the buried past, - Each cherished relic of the time that’s gone. - - The old delights of childhood, long ago; - The things we loved because we knew them best; - The first discovered primrose in our path; - The cuckoo’s earliest note; the robin’s nest; - - The merry haymakings around our home; - Our rambles in the summer woods and lanes; - The story told beside the winter fire, - While the wind moaned across the window panes; - - The golden dreams we dreamt in after years, - Those magic visions of our young romance; - The sunny nooks, the fountains and the flowers, - Gilding the fairy landscape of our trance; - - The link which bound us, later still, to one - Who fills a corner in our life to-day, - Without whose love we dare not dream how dark - The rest would seem, if it were gone away; - - The song that thrilled our souls with very joy; - The gentle word that unexpected came; - The gift we prized because the thought was kind; - The thousand, thousand things that have no name; - - All these, in some far hidden corner lie, - Within the mystery of that secret drawer, - Whose magic springs though stranger hands may touch, - Yet none may gaze upon its guarded store. - - ANONYMOUS. - - * * * * * - - “How seldom, friend, a great, good man inherits - Honor, or wealth, with all his worth and pains.” - “For shame, dear friend, renounce this canting strain - _What_ wouldst thou that the great, good man obtain? - Place, title, salary,--a gilded chain? - Or throne on corpses which his sword has slain? - Goodness and greatness are not _means_, but _ends_. - Hath he not always treasures, always friends, - The great, good man? Three treasures, love, and light, - And calm thoughts, regular as infant’s breath; - And three true friends, more sure than day and night,-- - Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.” - - COLERIDGE. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE GOLDEN WEDDING. - - The German custom of observing a festival called the Silver - Wedding, on the twenty-fifth anniversary of marriage, and a - Golden Wedding on the fiftieth anniversary, have now become - familiar to us by their frequent observance in this country. - The following description of such an anniversary in Sweden is - from the graceful pen of Fredrika Bremer, in her work entitled - “The Neighbors.” - - -There was a patriarch and wife, and only to see that ancient, -venerable couple made the heart rejoice. Tranquillity was upon -their brows, cheerful wisdom on their lips, and in their glance -one read love and peace. For above half a century this ancient -couple have inhabited the same house and the same rooms. There they -were married, and there they are soon to celebrate their golden -nuptials. The rooms are unchanged, the furniture the same it has -been for fifty years; but everything is clean, comfortable, and -friendly, as in a one-year-old dwelling, though much more simple -than the houses of our time. I know not what spirit of peace and -grace it is which breathes upon me in this house! Ah! in this -house fifty years have passed as a beautiful day. Here a virtuous -couple have lived, loved, and worked together. Many a pure joy has -blossomed here; and when sorrow came, it was not bitter, for the -fear of God and mutual love illuminated the dark clouds. Hence has -emanated many a noble deed, and many a beneficent influence. Happy -children grew up. They gathered strength from the example of their -parents, went out into the world, built for themselves houses, and -were good and fortunate. Often do they return to the parental home, -to bless and to be blessed. - -A long life of integrity, industry, and beneficence has impressed -itself on the father’s expansive forehead, and on his frank, -benevolent deportment. His figure is yet firm, and his gait steady. -The lofty crown is bald, but the venerable head is surrounded by -silver-white locks, like a garland. No one in the city sees this -head without bowing in friendly and reverential greeting. The whole -country, as well as the city, loves him as their benefactor, and -venerates him as their patriarch. He has created his own fortune, -and sacrificed much for the public good; and notwithstanding much -adversity and loss, he has never let his spirit sink. In mind and -conversation he is still cheerful, full of jest and sprightliness. -But for several years his sight has failed him greatly; and at -times the gout troubles his temper. But an angel moves round the -couch to which suffering confines him; his feet are moved and -enwrapped by soft white hands; the sick-chamber and the countenance -of the old man grow bright before his orphan grandchild, Serena. - -In the aged countenance and bowed form of the mother you see an old -woman. But show her something beautiful, speak to her of something -worthy of love, and her mien, her smile, beams from the eternal -youth which dwells immortal in her sensitive spirit. Then you -involuntarily exclaim, “What beautiful age!” If you sit near her, -and look into her mild, pious eyes, you feel as if you could open -your whole soul, and believe in every word she speaks, as in the -Gospel. She has lived through much and experienced much; yet she -still says she will live in order to learn. Truly we must all learn -from _her_. Her tone and manner betoken true politeness, and much -knowledge of life. She alone has educated her children, and she -still thinks and acts both for children and children’s children. - -Will you see in one little circumstance a miniature picture of the -whole? Every evening the old man himself roasts two apples; every -evening, when they are done, he gives one of them to his “handsome -old wife,” as he calls her. Thus for fifty years have they divided -everything with each other. - - * * * * * - -And now the day for their Golden Wedding has arrived. The whole -city and country take an interest in it. It is as if all the people -in the place were related to the old Dahls. The young people -come from east and west,--Dahls here, Dahls there, brave men and -handsome children. A swarm of cousins encounter one another at -every step. Brotherships and friendships are concluded. - -If you wish to learn the true value of marriage,--if you wish -to see what this union may be for two human hearts, and for -life,--then observe, not the wedded ones in their honeymoon, nor -by the cradle of their first child; not at a time when novelty and -hope yet throw a morning glory over the young and new-born world of -home; but survey them, rather, in the more remote years of manhood, -when they have proved the world and each other; when they have -conquered many an error, and many a temptation, in order to become -only the more united to each other; when labors and cares are -theirs; when, under the burden of the day, as well as in hours of -repose, they support one another, and find that they are sufficient -for each other. Or survey them still farther in life. See them -arrived at that period when the world, with all its changes and -agitations, rolls far away from them; when every object around -becomes more dim to them; when their house is still; when they are -solitary, yet they stand there hand in hand, and each reads in the -other’s eyes only love; when they, with the same memories and the -same hopes, stand on the boundaries of another life, into which -they are prepared to enter, of all desires retaining only the one -that they may die on the same day. Yes, then behold them! And, -on that account, turn now to the patriarchs, and to their Golden -Wedding. - -There is, indeed, something worth celebrating, thought I, when I -awoke in the morning. The sun seemed to be of the same opinion, -for it shone brightly on the snow-covered roof of the aged -pair. I wrapped myself in my cloak, and went forth to carry my -congratulations to the old people, and to see if I could be helpful -to Serena. The aged couple sat in the anteroom, clad in festal -attire, each in their own easy-chair. A large bouquet of fresh -flowers and a hymn-book were on the table. The sun shone in through -snow-white curtains. It was peaceful and cheerful in the room. -The patriarch appeared, in the sunny light, as if surrounded by a -glory. I offered my congratulations with emotion, and was embraced -by them, as by a father and mother. “A lovely day, Madame Werner,” -said the old gentleman, as he looked toward the window. “Yes, -beautiful indeed,” I answered. “It is the feast of love and truth -on the earth.” The two old people smiled, and clasped each other’s -hands. - -There was great commotion in the hall, caused by the arrival of -troops of children and grandchildren, who all, in holiday garb, -and with joyous looks, poured in to bring their wishes of happiness -to the venerable parents. It was charming to see these groups of -lovely children cling round the old people, like young saplings -round aged stems. It was charming to see the little rosy mouths -turned up to kiss, the little arms stretching to embrace them, and -to hear the clamor of loving words and exulting voices. - -I found Serena in the kitchen, surrounded by people, and dealing -out viands; for to-day the Dahls made a great distribution of food -and money to the poor. Serena accompanied the gifts with friendly -looks and words, and won blessings for her grandparents. - - * * * * * - -At eight in the evening, the wedding guests began to assemble. In -the street where they lived the houses were illuminated in honor of -the patriarchs, and lamps burned at the corners. A great number of -people, with glad countenances, wandered up and down the street, in -the still, mild winter evening. The house of the Dahls was thrown -into the shade by the brilliancy of those in the neighborhood; but -there was light within. - -Serena met me at the door of the saloon. She wore a white garland -in her light-brown hair. How charming she was in her white dress, -with her kindly blue eyes, her pure brow, and the heavenly smile -on her lips! She was so friendly, so amiable, to everybody! Friends -and relatives arrived; the rooms became filled. They drank tea, -ate ices, and so on; and then there fell at once a great silence. -The two old people seated themselves in two easy-chairs, which -stood near each other in the middle of the saloon, on a richly -embroidered mat. Their children and their children’s children -gathered in a half-circle round them. A clergyman of noble presence -stepped forward, and pronounced an oration on the beauty and -holiness of marriage. He concluded with a reference to the life -of the venerable pair, which was in itself a better sermon on the -excellence of marriage, for the human heart, and for life, than -was his speech, though what he said was true and touching. There -was not a dry eye in the whole company. All were in a solemn, -affectionate mood. - -Meantime, preparations for the festival were completed in the -second story, to which the guests ascended. Here _tableaux_ were -presented, whose beauty and grace exceeded everything I had -anticipated. The last one consisted of a well-arranged group of -all the descendants of the Dahls, during the exhibition of which -a chorus was sung. The whole exhibition gave great and general -pleasure. When the chorus ceased, and the curtain fell, the doors -of the dance-saloon flew open; a dazzling light streamed thence, -and lively music set all the hearts and feet of the young people -in lively motion. - -We sat talking pleasantly together, till supper was served, on -various little tables, in three rooms. Lagman Hok raised his glass, -and begged permission to drink a toast. All were attentive. Then, -fixing a mild, confident gaze on the patriarchs, he said, in a low -voice: “Flowers and Harps were woven into the mat on which our -honored friends this evening heard the words of blessing pronounced -over them. They are the symbols of Happiness and Harmony; and these -are the Penates of this house. That they surround you in this -festive hour, venerable friends, we cannot regard - as an accident. I seemed to hear them - say, ‘During your union you have so - welcomed and cherished us, that - we are at home here, and can - never forsake you. Your - age shall be like your - youth!’” - -[Illustration] - - The wisest man may be wiser to-day than he was yesterday, and - to-morrow than he is to-day. - - COLTON. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE WORN WEDDING RING. - -BY W. C. BENNETT. - - - Your wedding ring wears thin, dear wife. Ah summers not a few, - Since I put it on your finger first, have passed o’er me and you. - And, love, what changes we have seen! what cares and pleasures too! - Since you became my own dear wife, when this old ring was new. - - O blessings on that happy day, the happiest of my life, - When, thanks to God, your low, sweet “Yes” made you my loving wife! - Your heart will say the same, I know; that day’s as dear to you, - The day that made me yours, dear wife, when this old ring was new. - - How well do I remember now your young, sweet face that day! - How fair you were, how dear you were, my tongue could hardly say; - Nor how I doated on you. Ah, how proud I was of you! - But did I love you more than now, when this old ring was new? - - No! No! no fairer were you then, than at this hour, to me; - And dear as life to me this day, how could you dearer be? - As sweet your face might be that day as now it is, ’tis true; - But did I know your _heart_ as well, when this old ring was new? - - O partner of my gladness, wife, what care, what grief, is there - For me you would not bravely face? with me you would not share? - O, what a weary want had every day, if wanting _you_! - Wanting the love that God made mine when this old ring was new! - - Years bring fresh links to bind us, wife,--small voices that are here, - Small faces round our fire that make their mother’s yet more dear, - Small, loving hearts, your care each day makes yet more like to you, - More like the loving heart made mine when this old ring was new. - - And, blessed be God, all He has given are with us yet; around - Our table every little life lent to us still is found; - Though cares we’ve known, with hopeful hearts the worst we’ve struggled - through; - Blessed be His name for all His love since this old ring was new. - - The past is dear; its sweetness still our memories treasure yet; - The griefs we’ve borne, together borne, we would not now forget. - Whatever, wife, the future brings, heart unto heart still true, - We’ll share, as we have shared all else, since this old ring was new. - - And if God spare us, ’mongst our sons and daughters to grow old, - We know His goodness will not let your heart or mine grow cold. - Your aged eyes will see in mine all they’ve still shown to you; - And mine in yours all they have seen since this old ring was new. - - And O, when death shall come at last to bid me to my rest, - May I die looking in those eyes, and resting on that breast! - O, may my parting gaze be blessed with the dear sight of you! - Of those fond eyes,--fond as they were when this old ring was new. - - CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -HINTS ABOUT HEALTH. - -BY L. MARIA CHILD. - - -There are general rules of health, that cannot be too often -repeated and urged, concerning which physicians of all schools are -nearly unanimous. All who are acquainted with the physical laws of -our being, agree that too much food is eaten. As far back as the -twelfth century, the School of Salerno, the first Medical School -established in Europe, published Maxims for Health, among which -were the following: “Let these three things be your physicians; -cheerfulness, moderate repose, and diet.” “Eat little supper, and -you will sleep quietly.” A few years ago, the celebrated French -physician, Dumoulin, in his last illness, said to friends who were -lamenting the loss of his medical services, “I shall leave behind -me three physicians much greater than I am: water, exercise, and -diet.” - -The Rev. Sydney Smith says: “The longer I live, the more I am -convinced that half the unhappiness in the world proceeds from -little stoppages; from a duct choked up, from food pressing in -the wrong place, from a vexed duodenum, or an agitated pylorus. -The deception, as practised upon human creatures, is curious and -entertaining. My friend sups late; he eats some strong soup, then a -lobster, then some tart, and he dilutes these excellent varieties -with wine. The next day I call upon him. He is going to sell his -house in London, and to retire into the country. He is alarmed for -his eldest daughter’s health. His expenses are hourly increasing, -and nothing but a timely retreat can save him from ruin. All this -is the lobster. Old friendships are sometimes destroyed by toasted -cheese, and hard salted meat has led to suicide. I have come to -the conclusion that mankind consume twice too much food. According -to my computation, I have eaten and drunk, between my tenth and -seventieth year, forty-four horse-wagon loads more than was good -for me.” - -The example of Ludovicus Cornaro is a very striking proof of the -advantages of abstinence. Modern physicians agree with him, that it -is particularly wise for people, as they grow older, to diminish -the quantity of _solid_ food. Little should be eaten, especially by -those who do not exercise greatly; and that little should be light -and nutritious. It is also important that food and sleep should be -taken at regular intervals. - -Early rising, and frequent, though not excessive exercise, are -extremely conducive to good health and good spirits. There is now -living in South Kingston, R. I., an old man, named Ebenezer Adams, -who is past ninety, and has never called upon a physician, or taken -a single prescription, in his whole life. He has mowed every season -for the last seventy-five years. The past summer he has raised -with his own hands one hundred and thirty bushels of potatoes, and -harvested them himself; conveying them about three quarters of a -mile, in a wheelbarrow, to his house. He has raised and harvested -forty bushels of corn himself. He has mowed and put up, without the -help of man or beast, six tons of hay. He hauled it on hay-poles of -his own manufacture, and put it in the barn himself. He carries his -corn two miles and a half, two bushels at a time, in a wheelbarrow, -to the mill, himself. Rainy weather, and in winter, he is at work -at his trade as a cooper. His uninterrupted health is doubtless -mainly owing to constant exercise in the open air. - -The Rev. John Wesley, speaking of his remarkable freedom from -fatigue amid the incessant labors of his old age, says: “I owe it -to the goodness of God. But one natural cause undoubtedly is my -continual exercise, and change of air. How the latter contributes -to health, I know not; but it undoubtedly does.” - -The Duke of Wellington, who retained his mental and physical -faculties, in a remarkable degree, to an advanced age, lived with -so much simplicity, that a celebrated cook left his service on the -plea that he had no opportunity to display his skill. He was in the -habit of applying vigorous friction to all his body daily. He slept -on his narrow, iron camp bedstead, and walked briskly, or rode on -horseback, while other gentlemen were sleeping. He made no use of -tobacco in any form. For many years he refrained from the use of -wine, saying he found no advantage from it, and relinquished it for -the sake of his health. - -The Hon. Josiah Quincy is a memorable example of vigorous old age. -He has always been an early riser, and very active in his habits, -both intellectual and physical. For many years, he has practised -gymnastics fifteen minutes every morning, before dressing; throwing -his limbs about with an agility which few young men could surpass. -Believing the healthy state of the skin to be of great importance, -he daily applies friction to his whole body, by means of horse-hair -gloves. He is temperate in his diet, and rarely tastes of wine. He -is careful not to let his mind rust for want of use. He is always -adding to his stock of knowledge, and he takes a lively interest -in public affairs. He is now past ninety; yet few have spoken so -wisely and boldly as he has concerning the national emergencies -which have been occurring during the last ten years. He profits by -a hint he received from the venerable John Adams, in answer to the -question how he had managed to preserve the vigor of his mind to -such an advanced age. “Simply by exercising it,” replied Mr. Adams. -“Old minds are like old horses; you must exercise them if you wish -to keep them in working order.” - -A few years since, the Rev. Daniel Waldo addressed the graduates at -Yale College, on Commencement Day. In the course of his remarks, he -said: “I am now an old man. I have seen nearly a century. Do you -want to know how to grow old slowly and happily? Let me tell you. -Always eat slowly; masticate well. Go to your food, to your rest, -to your occupations, smiling. Keep a good nature and a soft temper -everywhere. Never give way to anger. A violent tempest of passion -tears down the constitution more than a typhus fever.” - -Leigh Hunt says: “Do not imagine that mind alone is concerned -in your bad spirits. The body has a great deal to do with these -matters. The mind may undoubtedly affect the body; but the body -also affects the mind. There is a reaction between them; and by -lessening it on either side you diminish the pain of both. If you -are melancholy, and know not why, be assured it must arise entirely -from some physical weakness, and do your best to strengthen -yourself. The blood of a melancholy man is thick and slow. The -blood of a lively man is clear and quick. Endeavor, therefore, to -put your blood in motion. Exercise is the best way to do it.” - -The homely old maxim,-- - - “After breakfast, work a while; - After dinner, sit and smile; - After supper, walk a mile,”-- - -contains a good deal of practical wisdom. Manual labor in the -forenoon; cheerful conversation, or music, after dinner; a light -supper, at five or six o’clock, and a pleasant walk afterward, -will preserve health, and do much to restore it, if undermined. A -walk at any period of the day does the body twice as much good if -connected with some object that interests the mind or heart. To -walk out languidly into infinite space, merely to aid digestion, as -rich epicures are wont to do, takes half the virtue out of exercise. - -An aged clergyman, who had never known a day’s illness, was asked -how he accounted for it. He replied, “Dry feet and early rising -have been my only precautions.” In “Hall’s Journal of Health” I -find the following advice, of which I know the value by experience: -“If you are well, let yourself alone. This is our favorite motto. -But to you whose feet are inclined to be cold, we suggest that as -soon as you get up in the morning, put your feet at once in a basin -of cold water, so as to come half-way to the ankles; keep them in -half a minute in winter, or two minutes in summer, rubbing them -both vigorously; wipe dry, and hold to the fire, if convenient, -in cold weather, until every part of the foot feels as dry as your -hand, then put on your socks or stockings. On going to bed at -night, draw off your stockings, and hold the foot to the fire for -ten or fifteen minutes, until perfectly dry, and get right into -bed. This is a most pleasant operation, and fully repays for the -trouble of it. No one can sleep well or refreshingly with cold -feet. Never step from your bed with the naked feet on an uncarpeted -floor. I have known it to be the exciting cause of months of -illness. Wear woollen, cotton, or silk stockings, whichever keep -your feet most comfortable; do not let the experience of another be -your guide, for different persons require different articles; what -is good for a person whose feet are naturally damp, cannot be good -for one whose feet are always dry.” - -In Italy, and all the other grape-growing countries of Europe, -people have the habit of drinking wine with breakfast. Cornaro -followed the general custom, and he recommends a moderate use of -wine as essential to old people. But at that remote period there -was less knowledge of the physical laws than there now is. He -confesses that he always found old wine very deleterious to him, -and that for many years he never tasted any but new wine. Sir -Walter Raleigh, who was born only ninety years later than Cornaro, -gives the following sensible advice: “Except thou desire to hasten -thy end, take this for a general rule: that thou never add any -artificial heat to thy body by wine or spice, until thou find that -time hath decayed thy natural heat; and the sooner thou dost begin -to help Nature, the sooner she will forsake thee, and leave thee to -trust altogether to art.” - -The late Dr. Warren, in his excellent little book on the -“Preservation of Health,” bears the following testimony: “Habitual -temperance in regard to the quantity of food, regular exercise, -and abstinence from all stimulants except for medicinal purposes, -would greatly diminish or obviate the evils of age. It is idle to -say that men can and do live sometimes even to great age under -the practice of various excesses, particularly under the use of -stimulants. The natural and sufficient stimulus of the stomach -is healthy food. Any stimulus more active produces an unnatural -excitement, which will ultimately tell in the great account of -bad habits. The old adage, ‘Wine is the milk of age,’ is not -supported by exact observation of facts. For more than twenty -years I have had occasion to notice a great number of instances -of the sudden disuse of wine without mischievous results. On the -contrary, the disuse has generally been followed by an improvement -of appetite, freedom from habitual headache, and a tranquil state -of body and mind. Those who have been educated to the use of -wine do, indeed, find some inconvenience from the substitution -of a free use of water. If, however, they begin by taking the -pure fluid in moderate quantities only, no such inconvenience -occurs. The preceding remarks may be applied to beer, cider, and -other fermented liquors. After the age of sixty, I myself gave -up the habit of drinking wine; and, so far from experiencing any -inconvenience, I have found my health better without it than with -it.” - -Dr. Warren’s exhortations against the use of tobacco are very -forcible. He says: “The habit of smoking impairs the natural taste -and relish for food, lessens the appetite, and weakens the powers -of the stomach. Tobacco, being drawn in with the vital breath, -conveys its poisonous influence into every part of the lungs. The -blood, having imbibed the narcotic principle, circulates it through -the whole system. Eruptions on the skin, weakness of the stomach, -heart, and lungs, dizziness, headache, confusion of thought, and -a low febrile action must be the consequence. Where there is any -tendency to diseases of the lungs, the debility of these organs -consequent on the smoking of tobacco must favor the deposit of -tuberculous matter, and thus sow the seeds of consumption. - -“Snuff received into the nostrils enters the cavities opening -from them, and makes a snuff-box of the olfactory apparatus. The -voice is consequently impaired, sometimes to a remarkable degree. -I knew a gentleman of the legal profession who, from the use of -snuff occasionally, lost the power of speaking audibly in court. -Moreover, portions of this powder are conveyed into the lungs and -stomach, and exert on those organs their deleterious effects. - -“The worst form in which tobacco is employed is in chewing. -This vegetable is one of the most powerful of narcotics. A very -small portion of it--say a couple of drachms, and perhaps even -less--received into the stomach might prove fatal. When it is -taken into the mouth in smaller portions, and there retained some -time, an absorption of part of it into the system takes place, -which has a most debilitating effect. If we wished to reduce our -physical powers in a slow yet certain way, we could not adopt a -more convenient process. The more limited and local effects are -indigestion, fixed pains about the region of the stomach, debility -of the back, affections of the brain, producing vertigo, and also -affections of the mouth, generating cancer.” - -Too much cannot be said in favor of frequently washing the whole -person in cold water, or, if not entirely cold in winter, at least -as nearly so as it can be without producing a chill. It operates -both as a purifier and a tonic. The health in all respects greatly -depends upon keeping the pores of the skin open. Attacks of -rheumatism might often be warded off by this habit. The washing -should be in a warm room, and followed immediately by a smart -rubbing with a coarse towel. - -When wounds, bruises, or cracks in the skin become inflamed and -feverish, there is no application better than a linen rag, doubled -six or eight times, wet with cold water, and bound on with a thick, -dry, cotton bandage, which completely covers it. Inveterate sores -will be healed by a repetition of this application. The same is -true of sore throat; but the wet cloth should be carefully and -completely covered with dry woollen, so as to exclude the air. When -removed, it should be done soon after one rises in the morning; -the throat should then be plentifully sponged with cold water, and -wiped thoroughly dry. There is danger of taking cold after the -application of hot or warm water; but it is not so with the use of -cold water. - -It is a great preservation to the eyesight to plunge the face into -cold water every morning, and wink the eyes in it while one counts -thirty or forty. In order to do this, one must draw in the breath -when about to plunge the head into the water, and hold the breath -while it remains there. It seems difficult to do this at first, -but it soon becomes easy. It is well to repeat the operation six -or eight times every morning. In cold weather, put in warm water -enough to prevent a painful chill. - -Before retiring to rest, great care should be taken to remove -every particle of food from between the teeth with a tooth-pick -of willow, or ivory, and cleanse the mouth very thoroughly by -the use of the brush, and rinsing. It is more important at night -than in the morning; because during sleep an active process of -fermentation goes on, which produces decay. It is an excellent plan -to hold a piece of charcoal in the mouth frequently. It arrests -incipient toothache and decay, and tends to preserve the teeth by -its antiseptic properties. If chewed, it should not be swallowed, -except occasionally, and in small quantities; and it should never -be rubbed on the teeth, as it injures the enamel. - -Old people are generally reluctant to admit that the present -generation is wiser than the past; but in one respect all must -allow that there is obvious improvement. Far less medicine is taken -than formerly; and more attention is paid to diet. Still, people by -no means pay sufficient attention to the good old maxim, “An ounce -of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” Nature gives us kindly -warnings, which we thoughtlessly neglect. When the head aches and -the skin is hot, we often continue to eat hearty food, merely -because we like the taste of it; and the result of this imprudence -is a fever, which might have been easily and cheaply prevented by -living two or three days on bread and water, or simple gruels. - -Fruits are among the best as well as the pleasantest of remedies. -Fresh currants agree with nearly all dyspeptics, and are excellent -for people of feverish tendencies; cranberries also. The abundant -use of apples is extremely conducive to health. The free use -of grapes is said to cure liver-complaints, and to be in other -respects salutary for the system. Linnæus tells us that he was -cured of severe rheumatism by eating strawberries, and that he -afterward habitually resorted to them when he had an attack of -that painful disease. Captain Cook has also recorded, that when he -touched at an island where strawberries were in great profusion, -the crew devoured them eagerly, and were cured of a scorbutic -complaint, which had afflicted them greatly. Lemonade and oranges -are recommended for rheumatism; vegetable acids in general being -salutary for that disease. - Mother Nature is much kinder to us than we are - to ourselves. She loves to lead us gently, - and the violent reactions from which - we suffer we bring upon ourselves - by violating the laws she is - constantly striving to - teach us. - -[Illustration] - - “How shall I manage to be healthy?” said a wealthy invalid to - the famous Dr. Abernethy. “Live on sixpence a day, and earn - it,” was his laconic reply. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE INVALID’S PRAYER - - - O thou, whose wise, paternal love - Hath cast my active vigor down, - Thy choice I thankfully approve; - And, prostrate at Thy gracious throne, - I offer up my life’s remains; - I choose the state my God ordains. - - Cast as a broken vessel by, - Thy will I can no longer do; - But while a daily death I die, - power I can in weakness show; - My patience shall thy glory raise, - My steadfast trust proclaim thy praise. - - WESLEY. - - * * * * * - - Trials make our faith sublime, - Trials give new life to prayer, - Lift us to a holier clime, - Make us strong to do and bear. - - COWPER. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE OLD PASTOR AND HIS SON. - -FROM THE GERMAN OF JEAN PAUL RICHTER. - - -In the little village of Heim, Gottreich Hartmann resided with his -old father, who was a curate. The old man had wellnigh outlived -all those whom he had loved, but he was made happy by his son. -Gottreich discharged for him his duties in the parish, not so -much in aid of his parent’s untiring vigor, as to satisfy his own -energy, and to give his father the exquisite gratification of being -edified by his child and companion. - -In Gottreich there thrilled a spirit of true poetry; and his -father also had, in his youth, a poet’s ardor, of like intensity, -but it had not been favored by the times. Son and father seemed -to live in one another; and on the site of filial and paternal -love there arose the structure of a rare and peculiar friendship. -Gottreich not only cheered his father by the new birth of his own -lost poet-youth, but by the still more beautiful similarity of -their faith. The father found again his old Christian heart sending -forth new shoots in the bosom of Gottreich, and moreover the best -justification of the convictions of his life and of his love. - -If it be pain for us to love and to contradict at the same time, -to refuse with the head what the heart grants, it is all the -sweeter to us to find ourselves and our faith transplanted into a -younger being. Life is then as a beautiful night, in which, as one -star goes down, another rises in its place. Gottreich possessed -a paradise, in which he labored as his father’s gardener. He was -at once the wife, the brother, the friend of his parent; the -all that is to be loved by man. Every Sunday brought him a new -pleasure,--that of preaching a sermon before his father. If the -eyes of the old man became moistened, or if he suddenly folded his -hands in an attitude of prayer, that Sunday became the holiest of -festivals. Many a festival has there been in that quiet little -parsonage, the joyfulness of which no one understood and no one -perceived. The love and approbation of an energetic old man, like -Hartmann, whose spiritual limbs had by no means stiffened on the -chilly ridge of years, could not but exercise a powerful influence -on a young man like Gottreich, who, more tenderly and delicately -formed both in body and mind, was wont to shoot forth in loftier -and more rapid flame. - -To these two happy men was added a happy woman also. Justa, an -orphan, sole mistress of her property, had sold the house which had -been her father’s in the city, and had removed into the upper part -of a good peasant’s cottage, to live entirely in the country. Justa -did nothing by halves; she often did things more than completely, -as most would think at least, in all that touched her generosity. -She had not long resided in the village of Heim, and seen the meek -Gottreich, and listened to some of his spring-tide sermons, ere -she discovered that he had won her heart, filled as it was with -the love of virtue. She nevertheless refused to give him her hand -until the conclusion of the great peace, after which they were to -be married. She was ever more fond of doing what is difficult than -what is easy. I wish it were here the place to tell of the May-time -life they led, which seemed to blossom in the low parsonage-house, -near the church-door, under Justa’s hand; how she came from her own -cottage, in the morning, to order matters in the little dwelling -for the day; how the evenings were passed in the garden, ornamented -with a few pretty flower-beds, and commanding a view of many a -well-watered meadow, and distant hill, and stars without number; -how these three hearts played into one another, no one of which, -in this most pure and intimate intercourse, knew or felt anything -which was not of the fairest; and how cheerfulness and good -intention marked the passage of their lives. Every bench was a -church seat, all was peaceful and holy, and the firmament above was -an infinite church-dome. - -In many a village and in many a house is hidden a true Eden, which -has neither been named nor marked down; for happiness is fond of -covering over and concealing her tenderest flowers. Gottreich -reposed in such tenderness of love and bliss, of poetry and -religion, of spring-time, of the past and of the future, that, in -the depths of his heart, he feared to speak out his happiness, save -in prayer. In prayer, thought he, man may say all his happiness and -his misery. His father was very happy also. There came over him a -warm old age; no winter night, but a summer evening without chill -or darkness; albeit the sun of his life was sunk pretty deep below -the mound of earth under which his wife was lain down to sleep. - -In these sweetest May-hours of youth, when heaven and earth and his -own heart were beating together in triune harmony, Gottreich gave -ardent words to his ardent thoughts, and kept them written down, -under the title of “Reminiscences of the best Hours of Life, for -the Hour of Death.” He meant to cheer himself, in his last hours, -with these views of his happy life; and to look back, through them, -from the glow of his evening to the bright morning of his youth. - -Thus lived these three beings, even rejoicing more deeply in one -another, and in their genial happiness, when the chariots of war -began to roll over the land.[N] Gottreich became another man. -The active powers of his nature, which had heretofore been the -quiet audience of his poetical and oratorical powers, now arose. -It seemed as if the spirit of energy, which hitherto had wasted -itself on empty air, like the flames of a bituminous soil, were now -seeking an object to lay hold of. He did not venture to propose -separating from his father, but he alternately refreshed and -tormented himself inwardly with the idea of sharing the labors and -combats of his countrymen. He confided his wishes to Justa only; -but she did not give him encouragement, because she feared the old -man’s solitude would be too great for him to bear. But at last the -old man himself became inspirited for the war, by Gottreich and -his betrothed; and he said to his son that he had better go; that -he knew he had long desired it, and had only been silent through -love for him. He hoped, with God’s aid, to be able to discharge -his pastoral duties for a year, and thus he also would be doing -something to serve his country. - - [N] The war of 1813, against Napoleon, to secure the - independence of Germany. - -Gottreich departed, trusting to the autumnal strength of his -father’s life. He enlisted as a common soldier, and preached also -wherever he was able. The entrance on a new career awakens new -energies and powers, which rapidly unfold into life and vigor. -Although fortune spared him the wounds which he would willingly -have brought back with him into the peaceful future of his life, in -memory of the focus of his youth, as it were, yet it was happiness -enough to take part in the battles, and, like an old republican, to -fight together with a whole nation, for the common cause. - -At length, in the beautiful month of May, the festivals of victory -and peace began in more than one nation; and Gottreich was -unwilling to pass those days of rejoicing so far from the friends -who were dearest to him. He longed for their company, that his joy -might be doubled; so he took the road to Heim. Thousands at that -time journeyed over the liberated land, from a happy past to a -happy future. But there were few who saw, like Gottreich, so pure a -firmament over the mountains of his native valleys, in which not a -star was missing, but every one of them was bright and twinkling. -Justa had, from time to time, sent him the little annals of the -parsonage. She had written how she longed for his return, and how -his father rejoiced; how well the old man stood the labors of his -office; and how she had still better secrets in store for him. To -these belonged, perhaps, her promise, which he had not forgotten, -to give him her hand after the great peace. - -With such prospects before him, Gottreich ever enjoyed in thought -that holy evening when he should see the sun go down at Heim,--when -he should arrive unexpectedly, to relieve the old man from all -his cares, and begin to prepare the tranquil festivities of the -village. As he was thinking of that day’s meeting, when he should -clasp those fond hearts to his own, and as the mountains above his -father’s village were seen more and more clearly in relief against -the blue sky, the Reminiscences of the best hours of life, which -he had written for the hour of death, echoed and re-echoed in his -soul; and, as he went along, he dwelt particularly upon one among -them, which commemorated the joy of meeting again here below. - -A shower was coming up behind him, of which he seemed to be the -happy messenger; for the parched ground, the drooping flowers, and -the ears of corn had long been thirsting for water from the warm -clouds. A parishioner of Heim, who was laboring in the fields, -saluted him as he passed, and expressed joy that Gottreich and -the rain had both come at last. Soon he caught sight of the low -church-steeple, peeping above the clustered trees; and he entered -upon that tract in the valley where the parsonage lay, all reddened -by the evening sun. At every window he hoped to see his betrothed -one, thinking perchance she might be looking out on the sunset -before the storm came on. As he drew nearer, he hoped to see the -lattice open, and Whitsuntide-brooms in the chief apartment; but -he saw nothing of all this. - -At last, he quietly entered the parsonage-house, and slowly opened -the well-known door. The room was empty, but he heard a noise -overhead. When he entered the chamber, it was filled with a glow -from the west, and Justa was kneeling by the bed of his father, -who was sitting half upright, and looking, with a stiff, haggard -countenance, toward the setting sun before him. One exclamation, -and a clasp of her lover to her breast, was all his reception. -His father stretched out his withered hand slowly, and said, with -difficulty, “Thou art come at the right time”; but without adding -whether he spoke of the preachings, or alluded to their approaching -separation. Justa hastily related how the old man had overworked -himself, till body and spirit had given way together, so that he -no longer took a share in anything, though he longed to be with -the sharers; and how he lay prostrate, with broken wings, looking -upward, like a helpless child. The old man had grown so hard of -hearing, that she could say all this in his presence. - -Gottreich would fain have infused into that old and once strong -heart the fire of victory which was reflected in his own bosom; but -he heard neither wish nor question of it. The old man continued to -gaze steadily upon the setting sun, and at last it was hidden by -the storm-clouds. The landscape grew dark, the winds stood pent, -and the earth was oppressed. Suddenly there came a gush of rain -and a crash of thunder. The lightning flashed around the old man. -He looked up, altered and astonished. “Hist!” he said; “I hear the -rain once more. Speak quickly, children, for I shall soon depart!” -Both his children clung to him, but he was too weak to embrace them. - -And now warm, refreshing fountains from the clouds bathed all -the sick earth, from the dripping trees to the blades of grass. -The sky glistened mildly, as with tears of joy, and the thunder -went rumbling away behind the distant mountains. The sick man -pointed upward, and said: “Seest thou the majesty of God? My son, -now, in my last hour, strengthen my weary soul with something -holy,--something in the spirit of love, and not of penance; for if -our hearts condemn us not, then have we confidence toward God. Say -something to me rich in love of God and of his works.” - -The eyes of the son overflowed, to think that he should read at the -death-bed of his father those Reminiscences which he had prepared -for his own. He said this to him, but the old man answered, -“Hasten, my son!” And, with faltering voice, Gottreich began to -read:-- - -“Remember, in thy dark hour, those times when thou hast prayed to -God in ecstasy, and when thou hast thought on him, the Infinite -One; the greatest thought of finite man.” - -Here the old man clasped his hands, and prayed low. - -“Hast thou not known and felt the existence of that Being, whose -infinity consists not only in his power, his wisdom, and his -eternity, but also in his love, and in his justice? Canst thou -forget the time when the blue sky, by day and by night, opened on -thee, as if the mildness of God was looking down on thee? Hast thou -not felt the love of the Infinite, when he veiled himself in his -image, the loving hearts of men; as the sun, which reflects its -light not on the moon only, but on the morning and evening star -also, and on every little twinkler, even the farthest from our -earth? - -“Canst thou forget, in the dark hour, that there have been mighty -men among us, and that thou art following after them? Raise -thyself, like the spirits who stood upon their mountains, having -the storms of life only about them, never above them! Call back to -thee the kingly race of sages and poets, who have inspirited and -enlightened nation after nation!” - -“Speak to me of our Redeemer,” said the father. - -“Remember Jesus Christ, in the dark hour. Remember him, who also -passed through this life. Remember that soft moon of the Infinite -Sun, given to enlighten the night of the world. Let life be -hallowed to thee, and death also; for he shared both of them with -thee. May his calm and lofty form look down on thee in the last -darkness, and show thee his Father.” - -A low roll of thunder was heard from clouds which the storm had -left. Gottreich continued to read:-- - -“Remember, in the last hour, how the heart of man can love. Canst -thou forget the love wherewith one heart repays a thousand hearts, -and the soul during a whole life is nourished and vivified from -another soul? Even as the oak of a hundred years clings fast to -the same spot, with its roots, and derives new strength, and sends -forth new buds during its hundred springs?” - -“Dost thou mean me?” said the father. - -“I mean my mother also,” replied the son. - -The father, thinking on his wife, murmured very gently, “To meet -again. To meet again.” And Justa wept while she heard how her lover -would console himself in his last hours with the reminiscence of -the days of _her_ love. - -Gottreich continued to read: “Remember, in the last hour, that pure -being with whom thy life was beautiful and great; with whom thou -hast wept tears of joy; with whom thou hast prayed to God, and in -whom God appeared unto thee; in whom thou didst find the first and -last heart of love;--and then close thine eyes in peace!” - -Suddenly, the clouds were cleft into two huge black mountains; -and the sun looked forth from between them, as it were, out of a -valley between buttresses of rock, gazing upon the earth with its -joy-glistening eye. - -“See!” said the dying man. “What a glow!” - -“It is the evening sun, father.” - -“This day we shall see one another again,” murmured the old man. He -was thinking of his wife, long since dead. - -The son was too deeply moved to speak to his father of the -blessedness of meeting again in this world, which he had enjoyed by -anticipation during his journey. Who could have courage to speak of -the joys of an earthly meeting to one whose mind was absorbed in -the contemplation of a meeting in heaven? - -Gottreich, suddenly startled, asked, “Father, what ails thee?” - -“I do think thereon; and death is beautiful, and the parting -in Christ,” murmured the old man. He tried to take the hand of -Gottreich, which he had not strength to press. He repeated, more -and more distinctly and emphatically, “O thou blessed God!” until -all the other luminaries of life were extinguished, and in his soul -there stood but the one sun, God! - -At length he roused himself, and, stretching forth his arm, said -earnestly, “There! there are three fair rainbows over the evening -sun! I must go after the sun, and pass through them with him.” He -sank backward, and was gone. - -At that moment the sun went down, and a broad rainbow glimmered in -the east. - -“He is gone,” said Gottreich, in a voice choked with grief. “But he -has gone from us unto his God, in the midst of great, pious, and -unmingled joy. Then weep no more, Justa.” - - * * * * * - - His youth was innocent; his riper age - Marked with some act of goodness every day; - And, watched by eyes that loved him, calm and sage, - Faded his late declining years away. - Cheerful he gave his being up, and went - To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent. - - That life was happy. Every day he gave - Thanks for the fair existence that was his; - For a sick fancy made him not her slave, - To mock him with her phantom miseries. - No chronic tortures racked his aged limbs, - For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him. - - Why weep ye, then, for him, who, having won - The bound of man’s appointed years, at last, - Life’s blessings all enjoyed, life’s labors done, - Serenely to his final rest has passed,-- - While the soft memory of his virtues yet - Lingers, like twilight hues when the bright sun is set? - - W. C. BRYANT. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -REST AT EVENING. - -BY ADELAIDE A. PROCTER. - - - When the weariness of life is ended, - And the task of our long day is done, - And the props, on which our hearts depended, - All have failed, or broken, one by one; - Evening and our sorrow’s shadow blended, - Telling us that peace has now begun. - - How far back will seem the sun’s first dawning, - And those early mists so cold and gray! - Half forgotten even the toil of morning, - And the heat and burden of the day. - Flowers that we were tending, and weeds scorning, - All alike, withered and cast away. - - Vain will seem the impatient heart, that waited - Toils that gathered but too quickly round; - And the childish joy, so soon elated - At the path we thought none else had found; - And the foolish ardor, soon abated - By the storm which cast us to the ground. - - Vain those pauses on the road, each seeming - As our final home and resting-place; - And the leaving them, while tears were streaming - Of eternal sorrow down our face; - And the hands we held, fond folly dreaming - That no future could their touch efface. - - All will then be faded: Night will borrow - Stars of light to crown our perfect rest; - And the dim vague memory of faint sorrow - Just remain to show us all was best; - Then melt into a divine to-morrow: - O, how poor a day to be so blest! - -[Illustration] - - - - -Transcriber’s Notes - - -Italics are enclosed in _underscores_. - -Hyphenation and spelling inconsistencies were not remedied, as this -book contains the works of many authors. - -Punctuation and quotation marks were used inconsistently and often -poorly printed. Transcribers attempted to correct the poorly -printed ones and obvious unbalanced quotation marks. - -Some attributions were italicized, while others were in small-caps. -Both styles retained here. - -Text tapered in a “V” shape at the end of a chapter usually was -followed by a decorative illustration, but on pages 67 and 97 -of the original book, there was insufficient room for them. For -consistency, Transcriber has added decorative illustrations on -those two pages, by duplicating an existing one from another page. - -The illustration above the first story, “THE FRIENDS,” depicts an -eldery woman comparing the heights of two children. - -The illustration at the very end of the book depicts an eldery -couple at a small table. - -All of the other illustrations are decorative headpieces and -tailpieces. - -The first letter of each story was shown in decorative form. - -Page 284: “in a dream three several times” was printed that way. - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69503 *** |