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New Books 
 
 BY 
 
 Anna Cora Ritchie (Mowatt). 
 
 Fairy Fingers 
 
 The Mute Singer, 
 
 The Clergyman's Wife. 
 
 * # * These volumes are all issued handsomely 
 
 bound in cloth, and will be sent by 
 
 mail, postage free, on receipt 
 
 of price, $1.75, 
 
 BY 
 
 Carleton, Publisher, 
 
 New York. 
 
THE CLERGYMAN'S WIFE 
 
 AND OTHER SKETCHES. 
 
 A COLLECTION OF 
 
 PEN POETEAITS AND PAINTINGS. 
 
 BY 
 
 ANNA CORA RITCHIE (MOW ATT). 
 
 AUTHOR OF "FAIRY FINGERS," "THE MUTE SINGER," "THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
 
 OF AN ACTRESS," "MIMIC LIFE." "TWIN ROSES," " ARMAND," 
 
 "FASHION," &c. 
 
 " Life means, be sure, 
 Both heart and head, — both active, both complete, 
 And both in earnest. Men and women make 
 The world, as head and heart make human life." ACEOBA LllOH. 
 
 <& 
 
 • • • 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 G. W. C&ftZ&TOJY & CO., Publishers. 
 
 LONDON: S. LOW, SON, & CO. 
 MDCCCLXYLI. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by 
 
 MARY G. THOMPSON, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of 
 
 New York. 
 
 J. E. FARWEIX & CO., 
 
 Stereotypers and Printers, 
 
 37 Congress St., Boston. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Clergyman's Wife, 9 
 
 The Beauty of Age, . 24 
 
 The Step-Mother, 29 
 
 Make the Best of It; or, Fairy Gifts, .... 34 
 
 The Sculptor's Triumph, 44 
 
 The Coquette, 63 
 
 The Married Flirt, 70 
 
 An Old Maid, 81 
 
 A Plethora of Happiness, 87 
 
 Angel Children, .' 105 
 
 Anticipations and Realities of a Children's Party, . . 120 
 
 It might be Worse, 136 
 
 Too good a Housewife, 145 
 
 The first Gray Hair, 155 
 
 Charades, 163 
 
 Serena, 183 
 
 He could not say "No." 193 
 
 Who are the Great ? 198 
 
 Prudentia, 206 
 
 Croakers, 213 
 
 The Gaem of Scandal, 220 
 
 Grumblers, 225 
 
 Mrs. Grundy's Mission, 230 
 
 Tactless People, 235 
 
 Original People, 240 
 
 m 
 
 Ml.04.383 
 
8 CONTENTS. 
 
 Nervous People, 245 
 
 Sensitive People, 254 
 
 Passing Words, 259 
 
 Count tour Blessings, • 263 
 
 Spare Moments, 267 
 
 Our Lots in Life, 271 
 
 Responsibility, 276 
 
 The Unadmiring, 280 
 
 The Capacity for Enjoyment, 286 
 
 The Love Of Excitement, 290 
 
 Maidenhood in Love, ........ 295 
 
 Bachelorhood in Love, 304 
 
 Woman-Friendships, 310 
 
 Congeniality, 315 
 
 The Love of the Beautiful, 319 
 
 The Sunny Side, 323 
 
 Black Days, 327 
 
 Bashfulness, 331 
 
 Preaching and Practising, 335 
 
 Forgiving not Forgetting, 339 
 
 Fault-Seekers, 343 
 
 Books, 347 
 
 Long Engagements, ....*.... 350 
 
 Perils of Prosperity, 355 
 
 Manner Mutations, 360 
 
 Kindness, 364 
 
 Looking Back, 369 
 
 Wifely Help, 374 
 
 The Trustful, 377 
 
 Rest, 380 
 
 Golden Links of Kindred, 383 
 
TIIE CLERGYMAN'S WIFE. 
 
 ( T was a fruitful subject for wonder, spec- 
 ulation, and gossip, when Amy Morton 
 bestowed her hand upon Ethan Mildmay, 
 the youthful pastor of an unpretending flock, in a 
 remote New England village. Mr. Mildmay's sal- 
 ary was very small, and his worldly prospects gave 
 no large promise. Moreover, his health was far 
 from robust, for the nervous activity of his mind 
 too often exhausted his physical strength, paled the 
 glow of his unrounded cheek, shadowed his mus- 
 ing eyes by the drooping of weary lids, and left 
 his form too slender for its exceeding height. 
 
 Amy had been delicately nurtured. In the home 
 she left for Ethan's she had been surrounded by 
 every desirable luxury. Her sunny sweetness of 
 temperament made her the gladdening centre of a 
 large social circle. She enjoyed, too, what people 
 are apt indefinitely to call " the world." She took 
 pleasure in travelling, she delighted in merry 
 gatherings, she joined in the dance with spirit, 
 she appreciated literature and art, a fine concert, 
 a good play, a grand opera. The sanctimon- 
 
 (9) 
 
10 The Clergyman s Wife. 
 
 ious pronounced her by no means good enough for 
 a clergyman's helpmate, and the worldly declared 
 her far too shining and attractive for the wife of a 
 poor pastor. 
 
 No striking symmetrical regularity rendered 
 Amy's face or figure remarkable. The latter may 
 be described by the brief designation of " trim." 
 The superlative charm of the former consisted in 
 a pair of deep blue eyes, shaded by singularly 
 black lashes. It was a countenance that involun- 
 tarily reminded you of Wordsworth's lines — 
 
 " Gladsome spirits and benignant looks, 
 
 That for a face not beautiful did more 
 Than beauty for the fairest face could do." 
 
 But Amy's voice had a spell that far surpassed 
 the power of exterior loveliness, for it gave an 
 irresistible assurance of the most varying, most 
 harmonious, most eloquent internal beauty. Those 
 tones were literally spoken -music, and penetrated 
 at once to the heart. When they were sorrowful, 
 their pathos might have drawn tears from a listener 
 who could not comprehend the words uttered, and 
 when they were glad, the gushing, matinalsong of 
 the lark is not more purely joyous. 
 
 Yet Amy's vivacity was never boisterous. It 
 was combined with a soft repose of manner, sugges- 
 tive of reserved power that only waited develop- 
 ment through life's coming demands for action. 
 
 Coleridge declares that ""the perfection of a 
 
The Clergyman s Wife. 11 
 
 woman's character is to be characterless." We 
 think his somewhat startling assertion admits of 
 interpretation. When all the attributes that com- 
 pose a character are in such complete unison that 
 they form a smooth and lovely whole, without the 
 sharp prominence of any one trait, perfection is 
 approached. This coherency, this harmony, this 
 perfect balance characterized Amy's mental organ- 
 ization. 
 
 Amy had only one answer for those alarmed 
 relatives and friends who came, with their worldly 
 reasonings, to convince her of the folly of her choice. 
 An answer full of maidenly, uncalculating sim- 
 plicity. She loved him, she replied ; he was the 
 only man who had the power to inspire her with 
 love ; when he asked her for her heart, he only 
 claimed that which was already his own. 
 
 Amy's attachment was not the capricious, evan- 
 escent, unaccountable emotion which is falsely 
 dignified as " love ; " not that mere physical, sen- 
 suous attraction which makes so many women 
 cling to men they know not why. Amy loved the 
 attributes of her lover's soul, the qualities of his 
 mind and heart that make up the true man and 
 shine through his exterior. She knew what she 
 loved. 
 
 As to Ethan Midmay's ill health, which was 
 urged as one objection to her union with him, it 
 only awakened her tenderness ; and the smiling 
 patience with which bodily infirmities were borne 
 
12 The Clergyman s Wife. 
 
 endeared him more and more, until through his 
 very suffering he became sanctified in her eyes. 
 
 True, he was poor, but she had often heard him 
 say that to every one of God's creatures as much 
 or as little worldly wealth is allotted as can be of 
 spiritual benefit. Much to those whom much 
 would profit in some manner which the all-wise 
 Giver alone comprehends, and little to those who 
 would more rapidly gain spiritual riches through 
 the scantiness of their worldly possessions. He 
 had taught her that there were no such words as 
 accident and chance with God, and that all things 
 were ever working together for the good of those 
 who love the Lord. How then could Ethan's pov- 
 erty be regarded as an evil ? 
 
 Let friends say what they might, Ethan and 
 Amy felt that they were not unsuited. The hap- 
 piness of marriage lies more in the fitness of one 
 being for companionship with another, than in the 
 actual qualities with which either one is endowed. 
 The bond between Ethan and Amy sprang from 
 this mental adaptedness, and caused a transfusion 
 of mind which could not be otherwise than pro- 
 ductive of felicity. One nature seemed the com- 
 plement of the other ; each was incomplete with- 
 out that perfecting counterpart. 
 
 Mr. Mildmay's parsonage was a tiny cottage, so 
 greenly veiled by a network of vines, so closely 
 belted by overshadowing elms, that it looked like 
 a bird's nest peeping out from its leafy canopy. 
 
The Clergyman s Wife. 13 
 
 This picturesque abode was encircled by a small 
 garden. The soil had been so carefully enriched 
 and every inch of ground was under such high cul- 
 tivation, that the narrow circuit yielded a wonder- 
 ful profusion and succession of fruits, vegetables, 
 and flowers. He who labored to implant good 
 seed in human hearts, found his chief relaxation 
 in the culture of this little spot of earth, and a 
 never-failing enjoyment in pondering over and 
 searching out the divine significance of its varied 
 products. 
 
 To this sequestered home, far from the care and 
 clamor of the guileful world, Mr. Mildmay carried 
 his bride. Amy's domestic capabilities were now 
 called into full play. Her knowledge of house- 
 keeping was limited in the extreme, but she had 
 sound sense, aptitude, ready hands, and a will- 
 ing heart. She maintained that any woman of 
 ordinary intellect, who has the will, can become 
 an expert and thrifty housewife, and she soon 
 exemplified the truth of her declaration. 
 
 Her orderly mind systematized and, by conse- 
 quence, lightened all her labors. Household avo- 
 cations were not drudgeries to her ; she idealized 
 them by the remembrance of the comfort they 
 secured for him she loved. 
 
 She had the gift to evoke beauty out of the sim- 
 plest combinations. As you crossed her threshold, 
 the eye was charmed by the most tasteful disposi- 
 tion of furniture, light, color ; by picturesque but 
 
14 The Clergyman s Wife. 
 
 inexpensive adornments ; and you were always 
 greeted by the penetrating aroma of delicate 
 flowers. The little parlor and her husband's 
 study were invariably decked with them. She 
 never spread the table for meals without placing 
 upon it a tiny vase, freshly filled, or a basket of 
 moss inlaid with expanding buds. Dishes of fruit 
 were usually garnished with leaves and scented 
 blossoms. Indeed, Amy had a strong propensity 
 to imitate the fanciful culinary achievements of 
 the fair Imogen, who cut into symbolical shapes 
 the roots she cooked. At least so Ethan used 
 laughingly to tell her when he tasted her pre- 
 serves. Many a jest passed between the pair on 
 the subject of her beautifying touches, for Mr. 
 Mildmay was as cheerful as he was devout, and 
 
 " They sweetened every meal with social glee." 
 
 Amy was soon valued by her husband's parish- 
 ioners. She mingled with them as constantly as 
 her household duties permitted. The qualities of 
 heart and intellect, the cultivation and genial 
 grace that had made her the delight of her former 
 social sphere, rendered her beloved in her new 
 position. Her prompt sympathy, her quick ap- 
 preciation, her cheerful looks, her winning man- 
 ners, the penetrating melody of her voice, elicited 
 spontaneous confidence and won involuntary affec- 
 tion. Every one, but Ethan, was surprised to see 
 how quickly she became acquainted with the most 
 
The Clergyman s Wife. 15 
 
 unapproachable of his flock, how confidingly they 
 talked to her of their hopes and disappoint- 
 ments, their joys and sufferings, their struggles and 
 shortcomings, and with what unwearied interest 
 she listened, sympathized, consoled or advised, in 
 tones of touching sweetness that made her sim- 
 plest words impressive. Thus she effectually 
 aided in her husband's labors for their welfare. 
 
 Mr. Mildmay was not a flowery pulpit declaimer 
 of the sensation school, but there was a persuasive 
 eloquence in the truths he clearly presented to the 
 minds of his hearers which had a more perma- 
 nently healthful, a more regenerating influence, 
 than the most exciting sermon that ever stirred 
 a congregation into enthusiasm for the servant of the 
 Lord, without raising hearts to the Lord himself. 
 The young pastor's mien, his very presence calmed, 
 encouraged, and elevated. He taught, not by pre- 
 ceptive wisdom alone, but by the example of his 
 life, by the broad charity, the love for others by 
 which his Master had said his disciples should be 
 known. Ethan Mildmay was a stranger to the 
 morose bigotry that dwarfs the mental stature of 
 so many pious men. The grandeur of his own 
 spiritual breadth and height enabled him to reach 
 the hearts of not a few whose expanded intellects 
 rendered them inaccessible to a narrower grasp. 
 
 The religion with which he inspired his congre- 
 gation was not made up of mere external observ- 
 ances and empty forms. He taught them that the 
 
16 The Clergyman s Wife. 
 
 truths they heard must sink into their hearts and 
 take form, and spring up, and come blossoming forth 
 in the e very-day acts of their lives. That regen- 
 eration is not the result of a moment's violent excite- 
 ment, but a purifying work that, once commenced 
 in the soul, must gradually, steadily progress through 
 a whole existence. That the religion of a true ser- 
 vant of the Lord, a true member of his church, is 
 made up of Charity as inseparable from genuine 
 Faith as the heat of the sun's rays is from their 
 light. A charity that rejoices in finding good in 
 others, that seeks, (does not wait for, but zealously 
 seeks) opportunities of serving others ; a charity that 
 influences every word man utters ; every thought 
 that flits through his mind ; every purpose of his 
 will ; every movement of his life. 
 
 The piety he commended w r as not a lip-service, 
 chiefly evinced by church-going and external sanc- 
 tity, easily simulated and often hollow, void of all 
 goodness ; it was not the so-called " renunciation 
 of the world," but a life full of good deeds in the 
 midst of the world, the true renunciation in re- 
 nouncing the evil things of this world. 
 
 Mr. Mildmay's congregation had rapidly increased 
 since his marriage. It seemed as though his union 
 with one so thoroughly congenial, so trustful yet so 
 helpful, had rendered his manhood more complete, 
 had imparted to him double strength, double influ- 
 ence, double power for good. 
 
 To his Sunday-school, in particular, Amy lent the 
 
The Clergyman s Wife. 17 
 
 most active assistance. Little children she tenderly 
 loved. To watch and foster the expanding germs 
 that shoot daily in a young child's spirit, was to 
 her an ineffable happiness. What wonder that her 
 heart swelled, almost to rapture, when, in the first 
 year of her wifehood, the precious promise of ma- 
 ternity was accorded her ! How full of grateful, 
 tearfully grateful, delight were her day dreams, as 
 she sat plying her needle upon tiny caps, and 
 dresses, and sacques, and picturing to herself the 
 little wearer, towards whom her heart yearned with 
 the most bounteous love ! 
 
 She felt that the woman to whom the guardian- 
 ship of a child's immortal soul is entrusted, shares 
 the holy office that angels are ever discharging, the 
 guiding of young feet along the paths that lead to 
 heaven. In the words of the greatest, wisest of 
 woman-poets, that 
 
 " A child is given to sanctify 
 A woman ; set her in the sight of all 
 The clear-eyed heavens, a chosen minister 
 To do their business and lead spirits up 
 The difficult, blue heights." 
 
 And now the hour to which Amy had looked 
 forward with so much tender thankfulness, was at 
 hand. That hour was one of more than ordinary 
 danger. For two days her, life was in imminent 
 peril. Her protracted sufferings were borne with 
 womanly heroism, a heroism not less wonderful be- 
 cause it is not rare. On the morning of the third 
 
18 The Clergyman s Wife. 
 
 day a son was born to her. But when she listened 
 for that first, faint wail, so full of music to the 
 newly made mother's ear, there was silence, deep 
 silence in the chamber ! 
 
 She turned her large, blue eyes inquiringly, 
 hopefully, towards those that surrounded her couch. 
 There was no gleam of answering joy in the looks 
 that met hers, every face was blank ! With a 
 stifled cry of anguish, she stretched her feeble hand 
 towards her husband, and her white lips moved 
 inarticulately. 
 
 He folded her tenderly in his arms, he held her 
 close to his swelling heart in the silence of inward 
 prayer. Then as the tremulous motion of the form 
 that quivered in his embrace, slowly subsided, he 
 whispered, " It is God's will, Amy ; shall we oppose 
 our wishes to His wisdom \ " 
 
 It was an earthquake shock to Amy, the sudden 
 vanishing away, the sliding from underneath her 
 feet of a realm of hope, a world of happiness. But 
 her husband's calm, instantaneous, undoubting rec- 
 ognition of his Master's will, infused fortitude into 
 her stricken spirit. She uttered not one lamenta- 
 tion, not one murmur. 
 
 After a while, in a low, trembling tone, she 
 begged that the babe might be placed in her arms. 
 The little, lifeless form, arrayed in the white robe 
 upon which she had expended so many hours of 
 delightful labor, was laid upon a pillow by her 
 side. With what eager eyes she scanned the 
 
The Clergyman s Wife. 19 
 
 features of that cherub face ! They seemed very 
 perfect, very lovely in their marble stillness and 
 whiteness. Again and again she kissed the cold 
 lips that had never breathed, never moved to draw 
 nourishment, and thrill with joy the heart on which 
 that tiny head reposed. For hours she lay gazing 
 on the motionless face, and' holding the icy hands 
 in hers, until she almost fancied they grew warm 
 with returning life. 
 
 At length it was needful to remove the corpse. 
 Then Amy's frame was convulsed with sobs, the 
 fountain of her tears was opened, and they fell in 
 heavy showers upon the withered bud which no 
 such rain could revive. But would not this folded 
 flower, despite its untimely earthly blight, expand 
 in the gardens of the Lord ? Was not the jewel 
 this little, perishing casket contained, set in the 
 crown of eternity % Parted, not lost ; passing 
 through death into life ; wherefore should Amy 
 mourn the babe that had only " gone before 1 " 
 
 Amy recovered her strength more rapidly than 
 was anticipated. In a short time she was able to 
 take her former place in the household, and resume 
 her habitual avocations. Through the house and 
 through the garden, her melodious voice was once 
 more heard, chanting all day ; and if the tones were 
 sadder than of old, they were not less sweet. She 
 seemed but little changed, though at times a cloud 
 of dreamy pensiveness overshadowed her young 
 face. But, in a few months, it was brightened 
 
20 The Clergyman s Wife. 
 
 away, for again that holy promise, which she had 
 welcomed with such ecstasy, was repeated. Now 
 her joy was mingled with strange forebodings, and 
 depressing fears, yet they only seemed to render 
 her yearnings more intense. 
 
 When the hour came, her illness was even more 
 severe, her sufferings were even more protracted ; 
 but, at length, her expectant, happy ears caught 
 the longed-for sound, the cry of an infant's voice ! 
 Very feeble, very low, and yet as distinctly heard 
 by her as the peal of rejoicing bells by a royal 
 mother when a Prince is born ! 
 
 Amy turned to her husband with an uncontroll- 
 able burst of emotion. What was the meaning of 
 that look of anguish % She stretched out her eager 
 arms for the infant. Wrapped in its little woollen 
 blanket it was, at once, laid in her bosom. 
 
 Still no smile in her husband's half-averted eyes, 
 no words of congratulation from his trembling lips. 
 Oh ! it was incomprehensible ! 
 
 She heard the child's faint moans ; she felt the 
 clutch of the small fingers ; the quick throbbing of 
 the thread-like pulses ; he lived ! he breathed ! he 
 was hers ! 
 
 The moans grow fainter and fainter, and then 
 fade into a low, hardly audible murmur — the baby 
 hand relaxes its hold — a strange pallor spreads 
 over the tiny face — the lids drop heavily over the 
 eyes ! What is this 1 The limbs grow rigid — the 
 
The Clergyman s Wife. 21 
 
 lips are white and still — the breath has ceased ! 
 Amy holds a stiffening, freezing corpse in her 
 arms ! 
 
 This trial was far severer than its precedent, for 
 at the very moment when her highest hopes were 
 embraced by reality, she was called to lay them 
 down, once more, on the altar of Faith. 
 
 And that trial did not end here. The voice of 
 one, whose medical skill and wisdom she could 
 not doubt, pronounced that she could never again 
 enfold within her arms a living child of her own — 
 could never be a mother ! That crown of glory she 
 must not even wish to wear, or the rebellious yearn- 
 ing would dim the lustre of a more unfading crown 
 prepared by angel hands for the head that bows 
 with unquestioning, unmurmuring submission to 
 the will divine. 
 
 What \ Should the walls of her secluded home 
 never echo the melody of a child's laugh 1 Should 
 no little feet, gambolling among the flowers, fly to 
 meet her at her coming'? No tiny hand charm 
 away her cares % No lisping tongue thrill her 
 heart with the sound of the sacred word," mother 1 " 
 Should there be no infant soul in which she could 
 plant heavenly seed that might yield a celestial 
 harvest ! No ! no ! no ! Hard, hard indeed, was 
 it to say " amen," and great was the anguish of her 
 truly womanly nature, many were her inward strug- 
 gles, her tears, her prayers. 
 
 She leaned more helplessly than ever before on 
 
22 The Clergyman's Wife. 
 
 her high-hearted husband, and bade him teach her 
 the lesson of resignation ; bade him repeat to her, 
 over and over again, that all which God orders is 
 well. And, with his fond arm about her waist, 
 her head resting on his shoulder, and his kindly 
 voice dropping words of wisdom, like healing balm, 
 upon her lacerated spirit, the teachings were not 
 in vain. She found inexpressible comfort when he 
 talked to her of the state of their two angel boys in 
 their bright home. Upon that theme she dwelt 
 untiringly, and soon her sorrow was hallowed to 
 her. She accepted her fate, and it ceased to be 
 terrible. 
 
 11 The darts of anguish fix not where the sea 
 Of suffering has been thoroughly fortified 
 By acquiescence in the will supreme, 
 For time and for eternity ! " 
 
 Her health was restored very slowly, and she 
 never regained her former strength ; yet she threw 
 berself into active employment as the greatest safe- 
 guard against the melancholy which now and then 
 would steal over her. Gradually the tranquil 
 smiles returned to her lip. Her face had lost some- 
 thing of its joyous look, but had gained a holier 
 expression that told, of the chastening of grief, the 
 bruise of the crushed flower that drew forth greater 
 sweetness. 
 
 The young husband and wife were more united 
 than ever. The link that childhood forges to bind 
 
The Clergyman's Wife. 23 
 
 the hearts of married partners, grew out of their 
 mutual bereavement. Every year they clung to 
 each other with fonder, more helpful, more ab- 
 sorbing love. 
 
 The movement of Amy's life was very calm, but 
 rounded by acts of steady, systematic goodness. 
 Thus was born that heavenly peace which springs 
 from the conscientious discharge of daily duties, 
 even the most trivial, and thus was found the only 
 true nepenthe ! 
 
 Every day she asked herself " Has my existence 
 bettered some other life to-day 1 " " Have I shared 
 my gifts with others ] " " Have I cheered any 
 troubled heart?" "Have I made any burden 
 lighter, any discordant spirits more harmonious I " 
 And few were the days upon which Amy could not 
 answer these soul-searching questions with thank- 
 fulness. When it was not in her power to do much, 
 she was content to do little, if in that little she 
 " did what she could ! " True, she was never fully 
 satisfied with the amount of good achieved, but 
 what large nature ever is \ 
 
 In spite of her heavy bereavement, and the much 
 coveted blessing forever denied, the clergyman's 
 wife was one of the happiest mortals that walked 
 the earth. Could any being adopt Amy's rules of 
 life and not be happy? Truly the Kingdom of 
 God is " within us," and well has it been said, 
 " God has two dwellings ; one in heaven, the 
 other in a meek and thankful heart." 
 
THE BEAUTY OF AGE. 
 
 LL the poets who ever sang have chroni- 
 cled the loveliness of childhood, of youth, 
 of maturity ; but the beauty of old age, not 
 less alluring, not less impressive, and far more rare, 
 has been the source of fewer inspirations. " Beauty 
 in Age 1 " cries Youth, his bright, disparaging eyes 
 flashing dissent. " Beauty, forsooth? The un- 
 equivocal respectability of Age, its wisdom some- 
 times, its claims upon our reverence occasionally, 
 we admit, but infirmity and Decay are the hand- 
 maidens of Age, they were never yet the tire- 
 women of beauty ! " 
 
 Listening to that scoff, an image rises before 
 our mental vision, that rebukes Youth's hasty ver- 
 dict; Age stands forth invested with triune beauty, 
 physical, mental, spiritual ! It is the picture of a 
 Patriarch serenely counting the sands of his eight- 
 ieth winter. A noble presence, with form erect 
 as though Time had felt it fruitless labor and never 
 essayed to bend its stateliness. About the high 
 and meditative brow press silver locks, silken as 
 childhood's tresses. The dark, genial eyes kindle 
 
 (24) 
 
The Beauty of Age. 25 
 
 brightly with every emotion. The lines about the 
 finely curved mouth tell it has been used to smile 
 on iron circumstance, ay, these eighty years ! 
 Every furrow upon that countenance speaks of he- 
 roic battles with misfortune, ending in victories, of 
 perfect faith crowned with the halo of peace, of 
 the sympathetic nature that looks benignly upon 
 all creation. The Patriarch's step has not lost its 
 firmness, nor his voice its full, melodious tones, for 
 his warm, fervent spirit has melted the frost of 
 Age's winter before it could gather on his heart 
 and paralyze his faculties. The movement of his 
 life has ever been rapid, impulsive, energetic, per- 
 severing. His hands more diligently employed in 
 succoring than acquiring, his every blessing shared, 
 his worst enemy pardoned, — well has he earned 
 the rare attributes that distinguish his age. Rich 
 is he in years, aged in no other sense. 
 
 And yet he has suffered more, perhaps, than 
 most men. He has known the sting of treachery, 
 the sharp pinch of penury, the icy touch of ingrati- 
 tude, the agony of bereavement ! A single stroke 
 of Fate has hurled him, in an instant, from the 
 pinnacle of wealth and worldly dignity into the 
 abyss of poverty, embarrassment, and what would 
 have been despair to weaker men. Again and again 
 he has been lifted up, he has achieved great suc- 
 cesses, he has welcomed Heaven's good gifts in 
 abundant showers, and again and again has he been 
 cast down and stripped of all. Prosperity essayed 
 
26 The Beauty of Age. 
 
 with the heat of her meridian sun, Adversity with his 
 freezing winds, to rob him of the mantle of Faith 
 in God's providence. Vain attempt! He only 
 drew its folds more closely about him, and looking 
 upwards, murmured, " It is well ! it is well ! Even 
 as thou wilt, O Lord ! " Herein lies the secret 
 of youthful vigor, of unsubdued buoyancy, of the 
 capacity for enjoyment, of the beauty in age pre- 
 served to an eightieth year. 
 
 Especially we love to recall his face as it looked 
 upon a memorable celebration at which we were 
 permitted to be present. Every heart beneath 
 his hospitable roof beat gladly upon that day. 
 There was a fete in honor of his seventy-eighth 
 birthday. It would occupy too much space to de- 
 scribe the joyous festival ; we will only touch upon 
 the opening scene. The Patriarch sat beside a de- 
 voted wife, surrounded by a host of sons and daugh- 
 ters, grandsons and grand-daughters, who had 
 flocked from their distant homes to gather about 
 him. Many friends, too, were there, some whose 
 dark locks had whitened side by side with his. 
 
 Within a bowery recess, decked with evergreens, 
 and garlanded with festoons of natural flowers, be- 
 hold a group of lovely children, clad in white, 
 with flower-crowned brows and radiant faces. In 
 the centre stands a classic-featured young maiden 
 of but nine summers, holding by the hand a little 
 sister of seven. These are the two youngest of 
 the Patriarch's many daughters, the last roses of 
 
The Beauty of Age. 27 
 
 his long summer. The knot of little ones that en- 
 circle them, down to the golden-haired, blue-eyed, 
 three-year old boy and girl in the corner, who stand 
 with their tiny arms clasped about each other, 
 are his grandchildren. The dark-eyed child, the 
 central star of this youthful galaxy, in a voice, dis- 
 tinct, liquid, and full of genuine pathos, utters the 
 salutatory lines which some elder sister (given to 
 the sin of rhyming, ) has taught her. The verses 
 have no value in themselves, yet happy tears roll 
 slowly down the cheeks of the Patriarch, and fall 
 from the gentle eyes of his wife, as they listen. 
 And friends weep, not merely because the sight 
 moves them, but because, oh ! truly because they 
 feel and are melted by the beauty of that Patriarch's 
 old a«:e. These were the words the little damsel 
 uttered with such touching emphasis : — 
 
 Welcome this festive scene ! — this glad array 
 
 Of smiling faces gathered here ! 
 These friends who join to celebrate the day 
 
 We deem the happiest of the year ! 
 The day so fraught with good — so bless'd of heaven 
 
 And bless'd by thankful hearts on earth — 
 For seventy years and eight the brightest given, 
 
 The day that saw our father's birth ! 
 
 A stately tree he seems, that towers high, 
 
 Its boughs with fruit all richly laden, 
 While spring-time blossoms, such as you and I, 
 ( To her little sister, ) 
 
 Its topmost branches crown and gladden ! 
 Ah ! many blasts — ah ! many tempests loud, 
 
 Have battled round his noble head, 
 And shook the limbs — (the trunk they never bowed — ) 
 
 And desolation round them spread ! 
 
28 The Beauty of Age. 
 
 With every storm the tree but higher sprang, 
 
 As nearer heaven it strove to rise, 
 While birds of hope amid its foliage sang 
 
 Their cheerful anthems to the skies. 
 Well pleased, the Lord of the great vineyard saw 
 
 That tree obedient to his will, 
 And bade his angels guard it evermore 
 
 From gales too rude, from every ill ! 
 
 And when for many years its boughs have flung 
 
 Protecting shade, a refuge sweet, 
 O'er hundreds of the loved ones, old and young, 
 
 Who fondly gather round its feet ; 
 While every heart with grateful love expands, 
 
 Thanksgivings from all voices rise, 
 He'll bid his angel host, with gentlest hands, 
 
 Transplant that tree to paradise ! 
 
 Far distant be that hour ! O'er this rejoice ! 
 
 Devoted wife and children dear ! 
 And friends and kindred, all, with blended voice, 
 
 Call blessings on his opening year ! 
 Let sorrow, cares, be all forgot to-night, 
 
 In honor of this natal day ; 
 With cloudless hearts and brows let all unite, 
 
 And homage to our father pay ! 
 
THE STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ^TEP-MOTHEE, ! Unmusically jars the 
 word upon the ear ! A sense of some- 
 thing harsh and chilling strikes against 
 the heart at the sound. The vision of a place 
 usurped, of children thrust from their father's knee, 
 of old and pleasant ways put aside, and all things 
 rendered strange and new in the familiar home, is 
 conjured up by its utterance. 
 
 Let that not be ! thou who hast borne a step- 
 mother's title with such wondrous grace that it 
 becomes ennobled in thy person. Give it melody, 
 caught from the music of thy accordant life ! Stand 
 forth in the purple light of my thoughts, draped 
 with the sweet and sacred memories which cling 
 about thy lovely presence, that I may paint thee 
 fitly. If the lines be but true, the tinting faithful, 
 the portrait thine, it will wipe away the long 
 reproach from the name of " step-dame," and 
 embalm it in the fragrant aroma of gratitude and 
 reverence and most tender love. 
 
 The waves of twenty years, or more, have melted 
 
 3* (29) 
 
30 The Step-Mother. 
 
 at thy feet upon the shores of time, since first with 
 pleading eyes and timid mien, thou tookest the 
 place a sainted mother left unfilled. Her children, 
 not ungraciously — it may be with forbearing kind- 
 ness — made room for thee beside the crowded 
 hearth ; but could they welcome, even the best of 
 earth, to that dear seat which she of heaven had 
 sanctified ? No voice could call thee " mother ; " 
 the tender epithet seemed sacrilege upon her chil- 
 dren's lips. The stranger was respected as their 
 father's choice ; for his sake valued, not beloved 
 and honored for her own. 
 
 Was not thy gentle spirit sad and ill at ease, 
 sitting among those half-averted faces, sons and 
 daughters of one whose holy footprints thou hadst 
 come to press out with thy faltering feet ? They 
 asked not, knew not ; the hand of him whose wis- 
 dom none dared question, placed thee in their midst ; 
 the inevitable was accepted as the endurable. 
 
 How mild and meek thou wert, how doubtful of 
 thyself, how all unconscious of thy own surpassing 
 virtues ! So unassuming that thou could'st not think 
 the noblest act of thine was better than the common 
 deeds of others. Ever blushing at thyself, the very 
 wit, that flashed upon thy lips, because the bubbling 
 fount within, could not repress its sparkling gush, 
 was uttered in a tone that might escape the ear. 
 Thus, shrinkingly, in thy new orbit didst thou 
 move, thy life with unpretentious goodness rounded. 
 
 Soon, very soon, the holy magnetism that en- 
 
The Step-Mother. 31 
 
 sphered thy soul, was felt within that home. One 
 face turned lovingly thy way, one heart expanded 
 wide to let thee in, one little hand was placed con- 
 fidingly in thine, one guileless head pillowed itself 
 upon thy breast, and sought a mother's lost caresses 
 there. Childhood's pure instinct, that has quicker 
 knowledge of the good and true than older and 
 more dull perceptions, found out maternal throbs 
 in the " step-mother's" heart and proclaimed them 
 with responsive tenderness. The youngest darling 
 of the house, she who had been lifted up to sit 
 upon a mother's death-bed, who had received upon 
 her sinless brow the glorifying halo of a mother's 
 dying smile ; (oh ! precious and mysterious benison 
 that has illumined and enriched her life with mani- 
 fold blessings from that hour to this !) 'Twas she, 
 that little child, who knew and loved thee first ! 
 Quickly another and another face turned towards 
 thee ; another and another heart unclosed to let 
 thee in ; another and another hand grasped thine 
 with warm and trusting clasp, and formed a sacred 
 compact never to be broken. 
 
 What was the talisman that drew those alien 
 hearts until they moved around thine own, harmo- 
 nious as the stars about their sun I When sickness 
 stretched some frail one, of that group, upon the 
 couch of pain, thine was the cooling hand upon the 
 throbbing brow ; thine the voice that fell in sooth- 
 ing cadence on the ear ; thine the patient minister- 
 ing that brought relief and peace. When sorrow 
 
32 The Step-Mother. 
 
 bowed another to the earth, thou wert the first to 
 stoop and lift the fallen head upon thy knees, and 
 bind with skill the bleeding wounds, and kindle up 
 thy smile of hope, until it melted and rolled back 
 the mists from off the clouded spirit. 
 
 O rare combination of high attributes, that formed 
 the setting of that puissant magnet-jewel worn 
 within thy breast ! A forbearing spirit, lenient eye, 
 kindly judgment, quiet dignity, bending humility, 
 life-pervading sweetness of Christian charity ! Sim- 
 ple, womanly, unconscious, but unfailing magic ! 
 
 Ere long there came an hour to test the strength 
 of thy dear witchery, to break the spell, or make it 
 stronger. A baby-daughter came to lift her wail- 
 ing voice and plead for infant suffrages ; to stretch 
 her feeble arms, demanding her full share of the 
 kind father's love ; to look up, wondering, into all 
 those faces gathered round her cradle-bed, and 
 claim them as brothers and sisters. Then was the 
 newly-made mother's triumph perfected ; then was 
 the bond, her gentle hands had woven, tried and 
 cemented. The tiny being that was rocked by 
 throbs of such tumultuous gladness, as it lay upon 
 her breast, was welcomed as no half sister in her 
 step-children's love, but taken wholly, gladly to 
 their unsealed hearts. 
 
 And when another, and another, and another 
 cherub girl was sent to swell the band of sisters, 
 each little hand soon forged a new and shining 
 link, in that long, golden chain, and made it dearer, 
 
The Step-Mother. 33 
 
 as it made its circle wider. And lips that could 
 not frame the hallowed word, when thou didst cross 
 that threshold, called thee " mother " now, and felt 
 it was no wrong to her in heaven ! 
 
MAKE THE BEST OF IT; OR, 
 
 FAIRY GIFTS. 
 
 HE chamber was large and luxurious ; the 
 first rays of morning stole through 
 window curtains of rose-colored silk, and 
 diffused an auroral hue over draperies of finely- 
 wrought lace, that canopied the bed, where a youth- 
 ful mother reposed in that pleasant state of dreamy 
 consciousness when the mind hovers delightfully 
 between waking and slumber. The flushed cheek 
 of a sleeping boy was pressed to her own ; a fair- 
 featured girl nestled closely on the other side ; in 
 the richly decorated cradle, standing near the 
 couch, slumbered a babe, a very pearl in its velvet 
 casket. So, at least, the young Cornelia thought, 
 for she often styled these three precious, human 
 gems, worn with happy pride upon her maternal 
 bosom, her diamond, her ruby, her pearl. 
 
 Few steps had she yet taken upon the journey 
 of life, so few that the waves of time had not 
 rolled far back into the past, the days when she 
 gave credence to the existence of those diminutive 
 " good people " called fairies, and now, in her semi- 
 
 (34) 
 
Fairy Gifts. 35 
 
 somnolence, that half-forgotten faith washed the 
 shores of memory again, and she murmured, dream- 
 ily : " Oh ! if some fairy would bestow upon them 
 each a wondrous gift ! " 
 
 Scarcely had she spoken, when the rose-light, 
 that tinted every object in the room, changed to a 
 mellower dye ; prismatic hues flashed fitfully 
 through the golden radiance, gradually forming 
 themselves into a rainbow of marvellous vividness ; 
 and, as the mother steadfastly gazed, beneath the 
 resplendent arch, a form that seemed fashioned of 
 moonlight, became visible. The serial shape was 
 clad in an amethyst robe, its unbound tresses rolled, 
 like a mantle of molten amber, down to the shin- 
 ing feet ; its luminous brow was crowned with a 
 chaplet of lilies, each lily a living opal. Never 
 had Cornelia beheld a countenance so touching, so 
 indescribably lovely in its holy tenderness ; as it 
 bent over her, the violet iris emitted soft rays which 
 penetrated into her breast, and warmed and glad- 
 dened her heart. 
 
 While she contemplated the celestial presence, 
 in joyful amazement, a voice, like the sound of 
 zephyrs sweeping over an iEolian harp, charmed 
 her ear. 
 
 It said, " Your wish is granted, I am sent to ac- 
 cord one gift to each of these sweet slumberers." 
 
 Rapture rendered the mother speechless. 
 
 " Speak ! What will you choose 1 " asked the 
 unearthly visitant. 
 
36 Make the best of it ; or, 
 
 Then the mother's eyes, which had been riveted 
 upon that beautiful apparition, turned to the boy, 
 her eldest born, the diamond among her jewels ; 
 and, laying her hand fondly on his forehead, she 
 smoothed back the tangled locks from his high, in- 
 tellectual brow. Even at that light touch he start- 
 ed ; his arms were tossed above his head, his at- 
 titude expressed disquiet, his color deepened, then 
 paled again, his lips moved inaudibly ; that he 
 possessed a nervous, ardent temperament, it was 
 easy to divine. 
 
 " Give him genius ! Great genius ! " she mur- 
 mured fondly. 
 
 What delicious perfume stole through the cham- 
 ber ] It was the Fairy's soundless sigh. 
 
 " Ronald shall have genius! " she answered. 
 
 " What gift will you bestow upon your daugh- 
 ter I " 
 
 The mother gazed tenderly upon the little maid- 
 en, slumbering by her side, the ruby of her car- 
 canet. Long, black lashes swept over the bloom- 
 ing cheek of the child, dark, clustering ringlets, 
 waved in shining luxuriance about her snowy tem- 
 ples and throat, a half smile parted the exquisite 
 mouth, the delicate outline of a symmetrical form 
 was visible through the white raiment. 
 
 " She will be a woman ; give her beauty, great 
 beauty ! " said the mother, enthusiastically. 
 
 " Cynthia shall have beauty ! " replied the fairy, 
 and this time her sigh was like the moan of a 
 
Fairy Gifts. 37 
 
 gentle breeze, and again her breath loaded the air 
 with fragrance, like the aroma of a crushed flower. 
 
 " And what gift will you bestow upon this pearl 
 of purity? " she asked, gliding noiselessly towards 
 the cradle. 
 
 Love unutterable beamed from the mother's eyes 
 when they rested upon that snow-drop of infancy. 
 As she hesitated arid pondered, the fairy said, 
 softly, " You have gifted the others, leave the choice 
 of her gift to me." 
 
 " Oh, gladly ! " replied the mother, " but let it 
 not be inferior to theirs." 
 
 " My gift to little Viola," responded the fairy, 
 " is the sweet faculty of making the best of every- 
 thing through life ? Of trials and sufferings, as of 
 pleasures and triumphs, she shall make the best ! " 
 
 The mother half started from her pillow with an 
 exclamation of disappointment and remonstrance, 
 but the golden light faded, the effulgent rainbow 
 vanished, the unsubstantial form melted away ; the 
 roseate dye, reflected from the silken curtains, pre- 
 vaded the room as before. Cornelia was half in- 
 clined to believe that she had slept, and the sudden 
 movement had awakened her from a delicious 
 dream. 
 
 Time passed. In a few years Roland began to 
 be regarded as a prodigy. His talents excited gen- 
 eral wonder and admiration. He drew and painted 
 with surprising ease ; his musical powers seemed 
 a sort of instinct; he was a natural poet, too, and 
 
 4 
 
38 Make the best of it : or, 
 
 verse flowed spontaneously from his lips or pen. 
 Every emanation of his young mind bore the insig- 
 nia of genius, and loud prognostics of future celeb- 
 rity were constantly trumpeted in his ears. But 
 his brain was taxed to the exhaustion of his vital 
 powers, and his health grew feeble. He was 
 morbidly sensitive, untranquil, unsatisfied. Fickly 
 ruled by the feeling of the moment, impulse was 
 his guide ; inclination his law. When the task he 
 had commenced with ardor began to weary, he 
 threw it aside. He performed on several instru- 
 ments, but chiefly by ear ; instruction bored him ; 
 he could not rein down his high-soaring genius 
 with the needful curbs of arbitrary rules. Now 
 and then he made a feeble effort to acquire skill and 
 correctness, but was quickly overcome by fatigue, 
 and often left the instrument in disgust. The 
 necessity for application always disheartened him. 
 He commenced, with enthusiasm, sketches that 
 gave great promise, but seldom finished even the 
 best. The mood had passed away, he said, and he 
 could not work when the spirit was not upon him. 
 He could not force his will, nor conquer his indo- 
 lence. So with his poems ; he dashed them off 
 rapidly, in a species of poetic furor, but the gem- 
 like thoughts, scattered carelessly through these 
 rude inspirations, needed polish to bring out their 
 lustre, and he could not tone down, condense, 
 elaborate ; thus his fatal facility prevented his ever 
 reaching high excellence. 
 
Fairy Gifts. 39 
 
 Not less remarkable, nor less attractive, was Cyn- 
 thia, through her extraordinary beauty ; a beauty 
 that shone forth not merely in her faultless linea- 
 ments, her superb dark eyes, the wealth of her 
 abundant tresses, her statuesque form, but that 
 seemed to permeate her whole being with an 
 unportrayable witchery ; a captivating, elf-like 
 piquancy, heightened by her capricious variability 
 of mood, by the restless grace, which resembled 
 that of a humming bird, fluttering its gorgeous pin- 
 ions before the dazzled vision. When she was 
 pleased, what a laughing sprite she seemed ! And 
 who was able to resist her winsome wiles 1 But 
 alas ! she was very easily displeased, and frowns 
 gave an impish character to her chiselled features, 
 though, strange to say, without destroying their 
 beauty. Yet one thing did seriously impair her 
 charms, and that was her own evident conscious- 
 ness of their power. 
 
 Her disposition, under ordinary circumstances, 
 would have been good, and her abilities excellent, 
 but perpetual flattery weakened her intellect, and 
 rendered her temper captious. She experienced 
 an insatiable craving for adulation, and was listless 
 and dispirited, if, by chance, the unwholesome 
 food were withheld. 
 
 If she encountered any difficulty in the pursuit 
 of a desired object, she was quickly discouraged, 
 and, without the faintest struggle to conquer the 
 obstacle, weakly worried and wept over its exist- 
 
40 Make the best of it ; or, 
 
 ence. She could not endure disappointment in 
 any shape. If a party of pleasure happened to be 
 broken up by the rain, she conducted herself as 
 though she were convinced the weather had been 
 ordered expressly for her annoyance, and fretted all 
 day at the unsuitableness of the atmospheric decree. 
 If she chanced to be engaged upon a piece of sew- 
 ing, embroidery, or knitting, that pleased her, and 
 her thread got knotted, or she took a wrong stitch, 
 or was forced to rip out, or she dropped her knit- 
 ting needles, she grew vexed and pouted, and felt 
 persecuted by some invisible agency, and was 
 miserable for hours. Even at her toilette, when 
 she was contemplating with only too much compla- 
 cency, her fair visage in the mirror, if the glossy 
 hair she was braiding, became tangled, or if she 
 found an unlucky rent in some of her garments, or 
 a disfiguring spot upon her dress, all her sunshine 
 was gone ; ill humor took possession of her ; she 
 was too much out of sorts to partake of the antici- 
 pated enjoyment, and unresistingly yielded herself 
 up to the blue devils, who always seemed lying in 
 wait to entrap her. 
 
 *Little Viola was regarded, by casual observers, 
 as a far more ordinary child than her brother or 
 sister. She was intelligent, but by no means pre- 
 cocious. She acquired by industry and perse- 
 verance, not by intuition. In the place of striking 
 beauty, she possessed, in an eminent degree, the 
 loveliness of innocence and placid content, of glow- 
 
Fairy Gifts. 41 
 
 ing health, and a gloriously developed physique, 
 strong and untainted as her pure spirit. The more 
 thoughtful gazer noted the softness of her deep 
 blue eyes, the serene, yet earnest, expression of 
 her mild countenance, the happy smile that ever 
 lingered about her rosy mouth ; and could not fail 
 to remark that although she lacked the perfect 
 grace of Cynthia's airy, undulating motions, all her 
 movements were purposeful, as though some bright 
 goal to be reached was ever within view. Her 
 light, dancing step seemed the rebound of her leap- 
 ing heart ; her gushing laughter, the echo of her 
 joyous soul ; her melodious voice, the vibration of 
 harmonious chords within. And though no one 
 called little Viola " wonderfully gifted," as they did 
 her brother, or " marvellously beautiful," as they 
 did her sister, yet, little by little, all who knew her, 
 received the impression that she was endowed 
 with some nameless gift, that took the place of, 
 or, rather, that surpassed talent, — some gift that 
 conveyed a sense of superlative beauty. 
 
 Viola set about every undertaking with cheerful 
 zeal, and pursued it with unwearied steadiness. 
 When a difficulty arose, she paused good humoredly, 
 carefully examined into the nature of the obstacle, 
 threw all her might into the effort to overcome it, 
 and, if no remedy could be found, half warbling her 
 cheerful by-phrase, " make the best of it ! " she 
 sought out a way by which the evil might be 
 endured. When she was deprived of an anticipa- 
 
42 Make the best of it ; or> 
 
 ted pleasure, she philosophically endeavored to 
 substitute another, within her reach. A book, some 
 pleasant employment, arranging pressed flowers 
 in her herbarium, adding to her scrap-book, learn- 
 ing a song, sketching a new picture, invariably 
 neutralized the spirit-dampening effects of the 
 unwelcome rain. In short, she accommodated 
 herself to circumstances with such skilful adapta- 
 tion, made the best of the inevitable with such 
 cheerful tact, that no passing event inconvenienced 
 her, no chance disappointment disturbed her 
 equanimity. 
 
 As she grew older, she astonished her parents 
 by correctly executing difficult pieces of music, 
 which had baffled her gifted brother's skill ; and 
 completing pictures he had commenced and thrown 
 by in despair. She inherited, too, his faculty for 
 versification, and though her effusions were always 
 short, the music of the rythm, the concentration of 
 thought, the choiceness of the language, and high 
 finish of her verses, placed them far above his more 
 ambitious, but less perfect, poetic flights. By and 
 by, her parents were startled into the admission that 
 Viola's talents were equal, if not superior, to those 
 of her brother ; and when her sunny, peaceful face 
 was accidentally placed in contrast with Cynthia's 
 fretful, clouded countenance, in spite of the rich 
 coloring and classic symmetry of the latter, Viola's 
 was pronounced the more beautiful. 
 
 " Ah ! " exclaimed the mother, remorsefully, 
 
Fairy Gifts. 43 
 
 when this conviction pressed upon her, " ah ! the 
 Fairy was wiser than I ! She has given my Viola 
 all gifts in one. ' She shall make the best of 
 everything ! ' the good spirit said ; and, blind that 
 I was, I could not see that to make the best of 
 everything was to have no faculty undeveloped, no 
 power wasted ; to let no opportunity be lost, to be 
 conquered by no trial, to pursue the right path 
 steadfastly and unweariedly, to find out the use of 
 the very roughness of the road ! That blessed 
 endowment surpasses the boon of genius and 
 beauty, yet gives birth to both ! Assuredly, no 
 one can know how abundant are God's blessings, 
 (come they in what shape they may,) until he has 
 made the best of every one ! " 
 
THE SCULPTOR'S TRIUMPH. 
 
 >N the palmiest days of art in Florence, 
 one of its grand Dukes made known, by 
 proclamation, that he designed to add to 
 the statues which adorned his palace, a represen- 
 tation of Mary, the pardoned sinner, anointing the 
 Saviour's feet, which she had washed with her 
 penitent tears, and wiped with her flowing hair. 
 The space of three years was allowed for the crea- 
 tion of a chef-d'oeuvre. Three venerable sculptors 
 were appointed judges. At the expiration of the 
 allotted time, they were commissioned to visit the 
 atelier of every artist, who notified them that he 
 had a Mary to offer, and decide what statues were 
 worthy of being sent to the ducal palace for fur- 
 ther examination. There the final selection was 
 to be made, by thirty-four judges. The sculptor 
 whose chisel produced a marble Mary of superla- 
 tive beauty was to receive the sum of <£500 for 
 his labor. But mere gold mattered little, compared 
 to the honor of a triumph which opened a brilliant 
 career to the successful aspirant. 
 
 Need we number the artists who were competi- 
 tors for the invaluable distinction ] 
 
The Sculptor's Triumph, 45 
 
 The day previous to the one fixed for the ex- 
 hibition arrived, the day upon which the three 
 judges made their rounds, and awarded permission 
 for the statues approved to enter the palace on the 
 morrow. 
 
 Many a heart in Florence grew sick with al- 
 ternations of hope and fear. Many an artist's soul 
 was filled with despair as he recognized the vast 
 distance that existed between his actual execution 
 and the sublime heights reached by his ideal con- 
 ception. Many others, gifted with the gigantic 
 self-esteem which is often the blemish of genius, 
 exulted in the certainty of their triumph, and, un- 
 rebuked by a doubt of their surpassing merits, 
 impatiently awaited the coming of the judges. 
 
 In one studio sat a youth who had seen the roses 
 of but twenty-two summers bloom and wither. 
 Though the dawn had scarcely broken, he was 
 dressed with scrupulous care, and his picturesque 
 attire, of black velvet, displayed to advantage his 
 lithely moulded form, and imparted a striking 
 transparency to his colorless complexion. His 
 hollow cheeks bespoke vigils of study and labor ; 
 his dark, deeply sunken eyes, full of restless fire, 
 betrayed a fervid and highly sensitive organization, 
 a temperament at once imaginative and volcanic. 
 His hair of purple blackness, wandered in untaught 
 curls from beneath a velvet cap, shading his expan- 
 sive brow, and eloquent, though too sharply cut, 
 features. 
 
46 The Sculptor's Triumph. 
 
 His studio was somewhat bare. A crimson 
 curtain divided the apartment. As the golden 
 rays of morning began to illumine the chamber, 
 Andrea was roused from his reverie. He rose and 
 bolted the door, a precaution always taken before 
 that curtain was thrown aside. Now, with eager 
 movements, he flung back the crimson folds and 
 again sank into his seat. As he contemplated the 
 treasure disclosed, what rapidly varying expressions 
 chased each other over his countenance, like a 
 changing panorama fitfully reflected in some pellu- 
 cid mirror. 
 
 Before him stood a marble wonder, indeed ! The 
 plaster model was partially visible in the back- 
 ground. In general, sculptors do not themselves han- 
 dle the chisel, except to give a few finishing and em- 
 bellishing touches. The laborious mechanical duty 
 of copying in marble, by close measurement from 
 tjie plaster cast, is usually entrusted to skilful 
 workmen ; but Andrea felt as though his exquisite 
 creation would have been profaned if other 
 eyes rested upon it, other hands touched it dur- 
 ing its incompletion. He had called his Mary 
 into existence out of the snowy block himself. 
 Truth to say, he had manipulated as lightly and 
 tenderly as though he feared the frigid stone were 
 gifted with sensation ; as though he thought, each 
 moment, that it would pulsate with life. Pyg- 
 malion looked not more enamored of the loveliness 
 that had started into shape beneath his touch than 
 
The Sculptor s Triumph 47 
 
 the young, unnoted Florentine sculptor in the 
 presence of the Mary he had evoked ! 
 
 It was a gloriously beautiful form, full of the 
 most exquisite delicacy, the most speaking grace, 
 the most touching purity. The kneeling figure, 
 though ethereally fragile, was rounded to such per- 
 fection that laughing dimples were pressed upon 
 the falling shoulders, the Andalusian feet, the 
 dainty hands. The swell of the expanding bosom, 
 just budding into the fulness of womanhood, was 
 revealed beneath the transparent drapery. The 
 small, poetically shaped head was raised, disclosing 
 the graceful curve of the slender throat ; the up- 
 turned face seemed gazing with inspired devotion, 
 into that of the Saviour. The hair flowed to the 
 ground in rippling waves. One hand held the 
 box of ointment ; the other clasped the clustering 
 tresses, as though in the act of pressing them 
 upon the Redeemer's feet. 
 
 But there was a marked defect in the marble 
 representation, though Andrea saw it not. That 
 face and form inspired the gazer with a sense of 
 the spiritualizing power of perfect chastity. Its 
 loveliness was that of the most unsullied innocence. 
 No trace of sensuous emotion was visible. It was 
 not possible to imagine that one whose soul had 
 been heavy with sin, could ever again wear a look 
 so pure. 
 
 While Andrea sat dreaming before his master- 
 piece, a light tap on the door was thrice repeated, 
 
48 The Sculptor s Triumph. 
 
 as though for a signal. Andrea started up, and 
 his pale countenance flushed with a sudden glow 
 of rapture. Is it the judges he is expecting, so 
 soon after the sunrise ? The bolt is rapidly with- 
 drawn, the door opens, a young girl, followed by a 
 sort of nurse, or gouvernante, enters. 
 
 " Constanza, you have come ! " 
 
 " Did I ever fail you, Andrea] " 
 
 " Never, my good angel, my saint of Inspira- 
 tion'? Come, and let me see if I can dare to look 
 once more upon the copy, and behold it fade into 
 dull, impotent insignificance before the divine 
 original ! " 
 
 Andrea's Mary was not the offspring of his im- 
 agination ; there, before him, beamed that guileless 
 countenance, stood that shape full of artless grace 
 and infantile purity, which he had so faithfully 
 transmitted to marble. But the " lunar beauty of 
 sculpture " could not convey the lustre of those 
 clear, blue eyes, the amber gleaming of the hair, 
 the peach-like hue of the cheeks, the dewy rosiness 
 of the tender lips, the auroral freshness of the 
 whole form. 
 
 Something more than two years previous to the 
 date of our narrative, the maiden's father chanced 
 to see a statuette of St. Catharine modelled by 
 Andrea, and was struck by the genius evinced by 
 its execution. The Duke was not only an expe- 
 rienced judge but a liberal patron of art. He at 
 once purchased the St. Catharine, sought out the 
 
The Sculptors Triumph. 49 
 
 young sculptor, and engaged him to adorn a hall 
 of his palace with has relievos. 
 
 A room was appropriated to Andrea's use, for 
 the prosecution of his work. The Duke and his 
 daughter watched its progress with deep interest. 
 Indeed, Constanza, when her studies were accom- 
 plished, daily wandered to the apartment where the 
 young sculptor was employed. That one as sen- 
 sitive to physical beauty as Andrea, finding it uni- 
 ted to rare mental loveliness, should have become 
 enamored of this paragon of maidenhood, was al- 
 most a matter of course. But Andrea worshipped 
 in respectful silence, and never had the audacity to 
 suppose that his passion had revealed itself in his 
 looks ; never dared to hope that she who inspired it 
 could become conscious of its existence ; never was 
 mad enough to dream for a moment that, if divined, 
 it could ever be returned. 
 
 The bas relievos completed, the sculptor with- 
 drew, full of gratitude to his noble patron, and 
 bearing with him the image of Constanza, indel- 
 ibly stamped on his own soul ! She was the far- 
 off star that henceforth illumined his horizon, 
 though deemed as unapproachable by him, as con- 
 stellations are to mortals. 
 
 What was his astonishment when Constanza, 
 with her faithful attendant, Bettina, who had 
 watched over the motherless young maiden from 
 her infancy, made their appearance at his atelier ! 
 They came again and again ; and Constanza, un- 
 
 5 
 
50 The Sculptor s Triumph. 
 
 conscious as Desdemona of the betrayal of her 
 affection, like Desdemona, was " half the wooer." 
 Andrea's discretion was put to flight ; in an un- 
 guarded moment he poured forth his hopeless pas- 
 sion, asking and expecting nothing but the privi- 
 lege of saying that he loved and despaired, the joy of 
 daring to believe that his love was not spurned. 
 To aspire to the hand of a Florentine lady of high 
 lineage, seemed too wild a vision even for an en- 
 thusiast. But the gentle Constanza thought other- 
 wise. 
 
 " You will be famous one of these days," she 
 timidly said ; " you will win renown equal to that 
 of Michael Angelo, and then my father will not 
 refuse you his child. Genius has a nobility of its 
 own, far higher and worthier than that of ac- 
 cidental descent. We have only to wait — wait 
 for years, perhaps many years ! Wait until clus- 
 tering laurels have crowned your brow, and then 
 you may place the bridal chaplet upon mine." 
 
 So she prattled on in her hopeful, innocent way, 
 and Andrea, against his better judgment, could not 
 forego the happiness of believing her words. 
 
 When the prize for Mary was offered by the 
 Grand Duke, Andrea immediately became one of 
 the competitors. Was it wonderful that he un- 
 consciously communicated to his design the face 
 and form ever present to his mind ! Old Bettina 
 first discovered the resemblance. Then Constanza 
 impulsively proposed to sit as the model for her 
 
The Sculptors Triumph. 51 
 
 lover. How could he refuse ? Day after day, 
 before the house was astir, she and Bettina stole 
 forth, under the pretence of taking a morning 
 walk, and hastened to Andrea's studio. All the 
 young artist's faculties were quickened by love and 
 ambition. All his powers, in the fulness of their 
 strength, were concentrated on this one work, the 
 chef-d'oeuvre which was to earn him fame and win 
 the bright original he was duplicating. 
 
 " Are you content with your Mary, yet? " asked 
 Constanza, looking into his dark eyes and discov- 
 ering the cloud that shadowed them. 
 
 " I am never content with her when you are by ! 
 It is in vain that I have tried to give this hair the 
 soft ripple of yours ! And, oh ! that I could impart 
 to the blank marble the living hues, the changing 
 gold of the locks, the celestial blue of the eyes, 
 the rose-tint of the lips ! The statue looks s*o 
 cold and senseless when you are before me, that 
 I am in despair ! " 
 
 t; Oh ! Andrea, I am sure that it is perfect ! 
 But since you are dissatisfied with your work, I 
 must sit for you once more. It will be the last 
 time, for the judges visit the studio to-day, and to- 
 morrow the statue will be admitted into the pal- 
 ace." 
 
 Before Andrea could reply, Constanza had hur- 
 ried with Bettina into the ante-chamber. In a few 
 moments she re-appeared, looking more angelic 
 than ever, in the spotless white robe, girdled lightly 
 
52 The Sculptor s Triumph. 
 
 around her flexible waist, and flowing into folds 
 that clung to her slight form and revealed its un- 
 dulating outlines. Her long hair enveloped her 
 like a golden cloud. With unstudied ease, she at 
 once threw herself into the attitude of the penitent 
 Mary, and remained motionless. Andrea contem- 
 plated her in almost breathless silence, then took 
 up his chisel and gave a few light touches to the 
 marble, then drew back, and gazed upon the living 
 form, glowing with life and beauty, and upon its 
 inanimate copy. Carried away by an ungovernable 
 emotion, he suddenly flung aside the chisel, and 
 burst into tears. 
 
 Constanza sprang up and hastened to his side, 
 but his agitation was so violent that he seemed un- 
 conscious of her presence. With gentle force she 
 drew away the hands that covered his face, and 
 gathered up her flowing tresses as though to wipe 
 his eyes. Well might the mingled archness and 
 poetry of the action make him smile. 
 
 " Your Mary will win the prize, Andrea ! I am 
 sure of it ! " 
 
 "Will it win both prizes, this above all?" ans- 
 wered Andrea, taking her hand. 
 
 " Yes, one now, and the other in time. Per- 
 haps," she added, laughing, " when there are a few 
 wrinkles here for you to add to your Mary's brow, 
 that the likeness may be retained. But see how 
 the sun is inarching up the heavens ! Come, Bet- 
 tina, it warns us to be on our way." 
 
The Sculptors Triumph. 53 
 
 The attendant and her beloved young mistress 
 retired again and quickly returned, Constanza 
 wearing her usual dress. 
 
 " Farewell, Andrea ; to-morrow morning I will 
 come again to learn what the judges have said. 
 To learn?" she continued, gayly, "why I can 
 prophesy their words, I shall have nothing to learn, 
 only a sweet confirmation to hear. Do not shake 
 your head, I am sure of their verdict ; farewell." 
 
 The leave-taking between the young lovers was 
 hardly as warm as might have been expected. 
 They clasped hands, she with trustful, yet trem- 
 ulous timidity, he with tender reverence. Such 
 had ever been the reserved character of their in- 
 tercourse. 
 
 As the door closed the young sculptor turned 
 again to his Mary. A thousand glaring defects 
 became suddenly apparent to his excited imagina- 
 tion ; all the features were distorted, the lines were 
 faulty, the whole expression was tame, senseless ! 
 He could not endure the sight of his work, and 
 impetuously drew the crimson curtain, vowing that 
 he would not throw back its folds until the judges 
 arrived. 
 
 There was no likelihood of their appearance 
 before noon, yet he did not dare to absent himself 
 from the studio, even to break his fast. He sat 
 with his head leaning on his hands, lost in thought ; 
 and, while he mused, the gates of fancy opened 
 
 5* 
 
54 The Sculptors' Triumph. 
 
 to every fantastic fear that presented itself for ad- 
 mission. 
 
 Hour after hour passed, and now he began to 
 start at every step that approached his door ; his 
 heart palpitated and his breath came thick, but the 
 steps passed carelessly on, as though no one were 
 conscious of his existence. The gairish light be- 
 gan to soften and fade ; surely it must be evening ! 
 Andrea shuddered at the terrible possibility that 
 he had been wholly forgotten. 
 
 A loud rap on the door put to flight this last 
 tormenting fiend. The judges had come. As they 
 entered Andrea thought they glanced around with 
 an expression of undisguised scorn. 
 
 He faltered out, " You are very welcome, it was 
 so late, I almost feared" — 
 
 One of the judges interrupted him, and ans- 
 wered, gruffly, " Yes, we are late, we have made 
 the rounds of the studios, and a fatiguing time we 
 have had of it ; this is the last, we must get 
 through quickly while the light serves." 
 
 His tone expressed not merely impatience, but 
 the conviction that they could meet with no ar- 
 tistic achievement in that locality which would re- 
 quire much examination, or give rise to any pro- 
 longed discussion. 
 
 Andrea seized the crimson curtain with a con- 
 vulsive grasp, threw it aside, and turned away, 
 that he might not see the condemning counte- 
 nances of his merciless critics. Large drops of 
 
The Sculptor's Triumph. 55 
 
 dew started from his brow; a cold tremor ran 
 through his frame ; his heart sank as with the pres- 
 sure of a leaden weight. The door which opened 
 to admit those stern-visaged old men had let out 
 his last hope. His only struggle now was to bear 
 the sentence of condemnation like a man ; his 
 only wish that the interview might be quickly 
 over. 
 
 For a few moments deep silence followed the 
 disclosure of the statue. The stillness was broken 
 by an exclamation from the eldest of the visitors. 
 Andrea turned involuntarily. The features of the 
 old man evinced violent emotion, as with piercing, 
 uncompromising eyes, he intently surveyed the 
 marble form. It was not admiration his coun- 
 tenance expressed, nor disappointment, nor dis- 
 approval, it was absolute horror. 
 
 In the looks of the other two judges the most 
 casual observer could have read wonder and de- 
 light. They whispered together for a moment, 
 then turned to Andrea. 
 
 " It is a noble work, full of power, full of ge- 
 nius ! " exclaimed one of these two, with enthu- 
 siasm. 
 
 " I was never more amazed ! I expected noth- 
 ing like this ! " ejau elated the other. 
 
 " It will be admitted to the exhibition, then 1 " 
 asked Andrea, eagerly. 
 
 "Admitted'?" replied the judge who had first 
 spoken. " Young man, it will win the prize. Is 
 not that your opinion ? " turning to his companion. 
 
56 The Sculptor's Triumph, 
 
 " Decidedly the best thing we have seen yet. It 
 will be the chosen master-piece. Do you not say 
 so \ " said the latter, addressing the eldest of the 
 party, who still stood silently glancing from the stat- 
 ue to Andrea with a troubled gaze. 
 
 " If it should be seen at the exhibition, yes — 
 but" — 
 
 "If, Signor?" interrupted Andrea; "I intend 
 to send it there ; that is, if your permission will be 
 granted." 
 
 " That is yours," said one of the old men, who 
 had seated himself by the table, and was now wri- 
 ting. He held out the order of admission. " Send 
 the statue betimes to-morrow ; the doors will be 
 open by ten." 
 
 Andrea extended his trembling hand for the 
 paper, his lips moved inarticulately ; the quick 
 revulsion from despair to ecstasy had rendered him 
 speechless. He was intoxicated with happiness, 
 yet its suddenness caused him to suffer intensely. 
 At that moment he felt that he knew what the 
 sense of dying with joy must be. 
 
 Two of the judges passed out of the studio. The 
 eldest lingered a moment behind, and whispered to 
 Andrea, in a voice of command ; " Remain here for 
 a short time ; I will return ; I have something of 
 importance to say to you." 
 
 Andrea bowed, smilingly. 
 
 The door closed, and he threw himself upon his 
 knees and gave vent to his gratitude and rapture 
 
The Sculptor s Triumph, 57 
 
 in a vehement burst of thanksgiving. Then he 
 approached the sculptured figure and addressed it 
 passionately, as though it were a living thing, as 
 though it were Constanza herself! 
 
 A step Behind him interrupted his rhapsody. 
 The judge had returned. His face was very grave. 
 
 " Young man," he asked, abruptly, " who posed 
 for that statue ] " 
 
 Andrea started, but did not reply. 
 
 " Who was your model ? " inquired the judge in 
 a still harsher tone. 
 
 Andrea hesitated, then stammered out with un- 
 disguised confusion, " Is it always needful to have 
 a model ? An ideal work, methinks, might " — 
 
 " Do not trifle with me ! " rejoined his ques- 
 tioner, in an authoritative tone. " This is no ideal 
 work. You had a model, and that model was 
 Constanza, only daughter of the Duke . Con- 
 fess it." 
 
 Andrea's look of consternation was an unmis- 
 takable answer. 
 
 " It is well that you do not attempt to deny the 
 fact. The likeness is so striking that it would be 
 impossible for it not to be recognized at a glance. 
 If this statue should appear at the exhibition, all 
 who have ever beheld Constanza, will recognize it 
 as her faithful counterpart. Have you thought of 
 the consequences of such a revelation ? It will be 
 known that she came here in secret ; that she sat 
 as your model ; that love for you could alone have 
 
58 The Sculptor s Triumph. 
 
 moved her to this imprudent act of devotion. Her 
 spotless name will receive an indelible stain. Her 
 proud father, overwhelmed by the public disgrace 
 of his child, will visit his wrath upon her in some 
 fearful manner ; possibly by banishing her to a 
 convent ! You will win the prize, and the road to 
 fame and fortune will be thrown open to you. I do 
 not attempt to conceal from you that such will be 
 the result of your exhibiting that statue ; but the 
 rash girl, through whose devotion you achieved 
 your triumph, will be covered with obloquy ! " 
 
 A thunderbolt had fallen upon Andrea. Hardly 
 less white than the marble shape before him, and 
 as powerless, he listened to these words of doom. 
 
 " I come to warn you," resumed the judge. 
 " And now that you have heard that warning, I 
 would test which is stronger in a young man's 
 breast, the desire for fame, or love for a pure 
 woman ; ay, love, for it is evident that you are 
 enamored of Constanza. I read that in every line 
 of your work." 
 
 Still Andrea gave no sign. 
 
 " I shall know your answer to-morrow, by the 
 absence or presence of that statue at the exhibition. 
 Reflect upon my words. I know Constanza's 
 father well. I leave you to make your choice." 
 
 He bowed slightly, and passed from the room. 
 
 Andrea remained standing, mutely gazing upon 
 the door that closed on the pitiless oracle. Slowly 
 the sculptor turned once more to the marble Mary. 
 
The Sculptor s Triumph. 59 
 
 His agony could not be compressed into speech, or 
 even find vent in groans ; he was stunned, petrified ! 
 His brain was on fire ! A thousand frightful phan- 
 toms passed before his dazzled eyes ! The statue 
 lived, and talked to him ; upbraided him, mocked 
 him, cursed him for its creation ! Myriads of 
 tongues shouted " Shame ! " " Shame ! " " Shame ! " 
 in his ears. 
 
 That night was one of unbroken horror. The 
 morning sun found him in a state of semi-stupe- 
 faction, which had succeeded his excess of phrenzy. 
 Hardly had the amethyst light of dawn touched 
 the statue, when three soft taps sounded on the 
 door ; but he stirred not. They were repeated 
 again and again, but he did not hear. The door, 
 which had not been fastened after the Judge passed 
 out, gently opened. Constanza's airy step gave no 
 sound, but Bettina's heavy tread aroused Andrea. 
 The young maiden uttered a cry as she glanced at 
 his haggard face, drawn into sharp lines ; his wildly 
 glaring eyes, his dishevelled hair, and look of hope- 
 less wretchedness. 
 
 " Oh ! Andrea, has your master-piece been 
 refused ? " 
 
 With almost maniacal vehemence, Andrea re- 
 lated what had occurred. 
 
 " Your disgrace, Constanza ! " he added, wildly ; 
 " that shall never be ! I have vowed that it should 
 not ! Love conquers ambition, and the hope of 
 glory ! Love is stronger than all else ! See ! see ! 
 thus I put an end to temptation ! " 
 
60 The Sculptor s Triumph, 
 
 He seized a heavy mallet, and, with a few blows, 
 the plaster model was shattered ! Constanza tried 
 to stay his arm ; even Bettina interposed, and 
 prayed him to desist ; he heeded neither. For a 
 moment he stood before the exqnisite marble form, 
 over which he had toiled, and hoped, and rejoiced, 
 years. With a heart-bursting cry, and the look of 
 an executioner, he lifted his arm ; it descended, and 
 the lovely head rolled on the ground ! The work 
 of destruction went rapidly on ; the hand that held 
 the box of ointment w\as smitten, the white arm fell, 
 the glorious shape was mutilated ; still the blows 
 were repeated with frantic force. 
 
 Neither Andrea, nor the young girl, nor her 
 attendant, had heard the door open. It was not 
 until a shriek of terror escaped from Bettina, that 
 they beheld two old men standing upon the thresh- 
 old, mute spectators of the scene. 
 
 One was the Judge who had warned Andrea, 
 the other was the father of Constanza ! 
 
 The former, fearing to trust to the sculptor's de- 
 cision, had informed his noble friend of the discov- 
 ery he had made, and hastened with him to Andrea's 
 studio, at an hour too early for the statue to have 
 been sent to the palace. 
 
 The Duke's just indignation melted at the sight 
 of that heroic deed of self-renunciation. He rec- 
 ognized and respected the nobility of spirit that 
 nerved the young sculptor's heart and arm ; the 
 man he would have spurned, an hour before, was 
 
The Sculptor s Triumph. 61 
 
 transformed by that noble act into a hero ; was 
 raised to an equal. 
 
 He strode past the trembling Constanza, and laid 
 his hand on Andrea's arm, just as it was lifted for 
 another blow. 
 
 " Enough ! I would contemplate what is left of 
 this wonderful work, which my friend so highly 
 commends." 
 
 Andrea's excitement suddenly subsided ; his 
 knees knocked together ; a livid hue overspread 
 his countenance, the lids dropped over his glazing 
 eyes, he tottered, and would have fallen, if the pity- 
 ing Judge had not received him in his arms, and 
 tenderly placed him in a chair. 
 
 " Pardon Constanza ! visit no wrath upon her," 
 Andrea murmured, faintly. 
 
 " She is pardoned," answered the Duke, extend- 
 ing his arms to receive her. The weeping girl 
 gratefully clung to his bosom, but with her eyes 
 fixed imploringly upon her half insensible lover. 
 
 " Andrea ! " said the Duke, " you have achieved 
 a greater triumph than if your statue had obtained 
 the prize ; and you have won a friend whose trust 
 in you, the experience of this hour proves that you 
 will never betray." 
 
 ****** 
 
 The Duke had not misjudged the character of 
 the gifted sculptor. Not even his profound pas- 
 sion for Constanza, ever tempted him to return 
 her father's generous confidence with treachery. 
 
62 The Sculptor s Triumph. 
 
 Though he and Constanza often met, it was never 
 again in secret, and Andrea breathed no word of 
 love into the maiden's ear. Time tested, and for- 
 bearance strengthened, their affection. Andrea's 
 powers as a sculptor kept steady pace with his 
 ambition. In a few years he won renown, and, 
 with it, a richer guerdon, for the Duke bestowed 
 upon him the hand of his daughter. But this dear- 
 est triumph was wrought, not by the fame which 
 crowned his genius, but by the glorious victory he 
 had gained over himself. 
 
THE COQUETTE. 
 
 HE admired of many eyes and the beloved 
 of numberless hearts, (male ones, be it 
 understood, for women are strangely 
 chary in bestowing affection upon her,) 
 is Amanda Littleton. See how regally she stands, 
 begirt by her worshipping subjects ! How the ball- 
 room moths, that float around her, sun themselves 
 in the light of her liberally dispensed smiles ! 
 
 " Bright as the sun her eyes the gazer strike, 
 But, like the sun, they shine on all alike." 
 
 As a juggler plays with his glittering balls, she is 
 skilfully sporting with all those hearts, keeping 
 them flying around her, yet attracted to her, pow- 
 erless to break the charmed circle. But the artil- 
 lery, with which she conquers, is so light that it 
 seems cowardice to fly its graceful battery. The 
 arts by "which she ensnares, are so subtle that the 
 wisest of her train can neither analyze nor with- 
 stand them. The favors she tosses as rewards, to 
 this or that suppliant, are so harmless, so equally 
 distributed, that none dare chide her prodigality. 
 
 (63) 
 
64 The Coquette. 
 
 Tis but a languishing look she bestows on that 
 adorer, a triumphant smile on this ; that tender 
 sigh is for another ; something very like a blush is 
 the guerdon of a fourth who is pouring soft flatter- 
 ies into her ear. But even while she listens to his 
 praises, her eyes are wandering afar, she arches 
 her slender throat and glances over her snowy 
 shoulder ; the loadstone of that look attracts 
 another admirer to her side ; and the glance is re- 
 peated, again and again, with victorious result. 
 An indefinable instinct, the fifth sense which 
 belongs to coquetry, invariably warns her whenever 
 a possible captive comes within reach of her 
 enthralment. 
 
 What wondrous power lies concealed within the 
 witching depths of those eyes of hers ! We have 
 watched their play, while her dewy lips mutely 
 kissed each other, and the most impassioned words 
 would have been less eloquent than the unspoken 
 language telegraphed from those human windows. 
 Now they are uplifted with saint-like expression, 
 now musingly half-closed, now the clear orbs dance 
 and flash, now gaze dreamily through liquid lustre ; 
 suddenly the sweeping lashes drop in confusion 
 over the blooming cheek, then are rapidly raised 
 in glad surprise. No need of utterance to convey 
 her real or simulated emotions, with such eyes to 
 say more than lips could fitly syllable. 
 
 But do not imagine that she is always thus silent ; 
 far from it ; and her voice imparts a charm to the 
 
The Coquette. 65 
 
 veriest persiflage by the rare faculty of attuning it- 
 self to the mood of the hearer. At one moment 
 her tones are full of melting sweetness, at another, 
 ringing with mirth ; again gravely subdued, or 
 breaking forth into a gush of silvery, but never 
 loud, laughter ; and now and then as she speaks, 
 her aromatic breath touches the cheek that bows 
 towards her and sets the listener's pulses throbbing 
 in rapturous tumult, 
 
 The very rustling of her dress, as it sweeps 
 along, has an alarum sound, that cries, " follow ! " 
 and truly a motley procession follows at the signal. 
 The modern Alcisthenes walks arm in arm with the 
 high priest of science ; the laureled hero and head 
 with cap and bells loom out, side by side, the Solon 
 of the bench hobbles to keep pace with the springy 
 step of the brainless exquisite. 
 
 Have we conveyed the impression that Amanda 
 owes her fascination to the " fatal gift " of superla- 
 tive beauty ! That is an error. Strictly handsome 
 6he can scarcely be called ; but she is so piquantly, 
 picturesquely irresistible in face, and form, and 
 mien, and ways, that the faultless beauty, who 
 aspires to be a rival in her absence, flies the field, 
 the instant that Amanda appears. Her supremacy 
 lies in a kind of bewildering witchery, which makes 
 itself felt in the very opening and shutting of her 
 fan. the motion of her delicate hand, the transient 
 peeping of her small foot from beneath her ample 
 drapery, the heaving of her alabaster breast, ay, 
 
 G* 
 
66 The Coquette. 
 
 in the very rebellion of that tiny curl which invari- 
 ably breaks the bondage of those glossy braids. 
 Too suggestive of liberty is that recreant " love- 
 lock," which jewelled fingers are constantly 
 thrusting back, or which a toss of the Phidian head 
 sets quivering along with the red rose imprisoned 
 in her soft tresses, and the long spray, tipped with 
 an opening bud, that roams caressingly down her 
 white shoulders. 
 
 But there is no disorder about her toilet, save 
 that which is apparent in the straying of the escaped 
 ringlet, which brings to mind Pope's declaration 
 that " man's imperial race " are ensnared by fair 
 tresses, that beauty draws by " a single hair," and 
 recalls what some other bard has sung about lovers 
 "being tangled in the meshes of Phillis' locks." 
 
 Did we venture to use the word " disorder " in 
 relation to Amanda's toilet ? That expression 
 was singularly inappropriate, for she is attired with 
 such exquisitely elaborate care, that one might im- 
 agine there was no leisure in her day for any other 
 employment than the arraying of her fair person ; 
 not time even for thanks to Him who fashioned the 
 loveliness she delights to deck ; or else we might 
 fancy that she had revived the custom of those 
 courtly belles in days of yore, whose toilets and 
 devotions progressed at the same moment, who 
 worshipped the idol reflected in their mirrors, and 
 their God together ; who gave audience at once to 
 the chaplain and the hair-dresser, and joined in the 
 
The Coquette. 67 
 
 prayers read by the former, while the skilful fin- 
 gers of the latter twined the long ringlets, braided 
 the shining tresses, or laced the broidered boddice 
 over the unsanctified heart. 
 
 But if Amanda pleads not guilty to this grave 
 charge, and is virtuously indignant at the compari- 
 son to those historic dames, those Helens of a laxer 
 age ; we must venture to assure her that there are 
 other respects in which she bears them too strong 
 a resemblance for denial. 
 
 Like them, she is somewhat too generous in the 
 revealing of her charms ; like them, she will listen 
 unreprovingly to words too bold, and grant too 
 much to man's entreaty ; but she is prudent withal ; 
 she always pauses, self-possessed and immovable, 
 on the verge of an indiscretion, for it is not the 
 compulsive ardor of a sensuous nature, but a cold, 
 calculating barter for admiration that urges her to 
 the brink of danger. 
 
 But when some true heart, wholly subdued by 
 her spells, some honorable wooer, thinks he has 
 noted those " weather signs of love," which prog- 
 nosticate a happy suit, and the hour comes for him 
 to ask that question which is the highest tribute he 
 can pay to womanhood, how is Amanda moved by 
 the invitation to " walk the long path " by his side ? 
 Where is the bashful tremor that runs through a 
 responsive heart \ Where is the mantling veil of 
 rose that seeks to enshroud an innocent face from 
 a lover's gaze \ Where is the downcast look of 
 
68 The Coquette, 
 
 maidenly confusion, the stifled breath that with 
 this strange, new joy, should choke her utterance, 
 or turn her words into sobs 1 True, a flush is on 
 her cheek, but it is the exultant flag uplifted at 
 victory. The snowy lid falls over the eye, but it is 
 to hide the glance of triumph. The voice has a 
 faltering cadence, but it is not the accent of wom- 
 anly agitation. 
 
 Amanda feigns a most charming surprise at this 
 unexpected declaration, she murmurs some in- 
 coherent platitudes about friendship, chides her- 
 self for the hardness of her heart, and is zealous, 
 with honied words, to pluck out the sting from her 
 rejection, that she may not wholly lose one of her 
 train. Thus, year after year, she plays her game, 
 with consummate tact and unflagging spirit, and 
 daily counts the hearts she has won, as religiously 
 as a devotee tells the beads of her rosary. 
 
 Strange to say, the French bullion of Amanda's 
 attractions has brighter glitter than the true gold 
 of purer graces, and she holds her empire longer 
 than many a lovelier, worthier contemporary. 
 Two or three generations of lesser belles fade 
 around her before Time lays a destroying finger on 
 her meretricious charms. Even he, the remorse- 
 less, is kept at bay by her witchcraft. 
 
 But, in the end, the law of compensation will not 
 suffer violence. We dare to predict that the ret- 
 ribution of one of two, equally deplorable, fates, 
 is awaiting the conquering Amanda. Either she 
 
The Coquette. 69 
 
 will miss the love of the only man whose affection 
 she could have returned, and will spend her deso- 
 late and uncomforted age in mourning over the 
 vanished triumphs which were her sole happiness, 
 but which can never return ; or else, just as she 
 suspects that her light is beginning to wane, she 
 will allow the most abject of her admirers, after 
 numberless petitions, to swear himself her slave 
 for life. But when he humbly encircles her taper 
 finger with the golden round, the twain will 
 change places. All the chains with which Amanda 
 has manacled others will seem gathered together, 
 and their weight heaped upon her own spirit ; all 
 the arrows she has sped will fly back and transfix 
 her own heart. She will find the slave of yore 
 transformed into the most unsparing of tyrants, 
 and the dethroned sovereign will hopelessly sink 
 into the humblest, dullest, most dejected of cap- 
 tives. 
 
 Hearken, fair Amanda, and be warned ! Sur- 
 render at discretion ! Lay down thine arms at the 
 feet of some worthy suitor, yield thyself up trust- 
 ingly to his mercy, and escape either destiny pre- 
 dicted. 
 
THE MARRIED FLIRT. 
 
 HO calls Melinda Belmont a flirt] She 
 is only as attractive to mankind collec- 
 tively as to the one especial man whose 
 name she bears, whose domicile she graces with a 
 regnant presence powerfully suggestive of femi- 
 nine superiority and masculine nonentity. A flirt, 
 forsooth ? She will resent the title with virtuous 
 indignation. With a majestic uplifting of her 
 queenly head, she will ask you whether a woman, 
 when she honors a man by uniting her destiny with 
 his, necessarily enters into a compact to render 
 herself odious to the rest of his sex 1 
 
 Melinda had not won the name of a coquette 
 before her marriage. A handsome, high-spirited 
 girl, striking in figure, captivating in manner, bril- 
 liant in conversation, and not lacking intellect, she 
 married young. Possibly, she fancied herself in 
 love, or her suitor's delicious flatteries made her in 
 love, with herself, which she mistook for being in 
 love with him ; a very common occurrence ! At all 
 events she evinced no shrewd, cold calculation in 
 choosing among her many admirers ; she neither 
 selected the Crcesus, nor the Adonis, but yielded, 
 
 (7) 
 
The Married Flirt. 71 
 
 in womanly fashion, to the most ardent wooer. An 
 eligible partner, of course, none but eligible men 
 venture into the arena, to struggle for such a prize. 
 Probably, she looked upon marriage as an inev- 
 itable necessity, the unavoidable, and very endura- 
 ble, destiny of womanhood ; and, with only sufficient 
 reluctance to intensify her charms, she permitted 
 the most devout worshipper to claim her as his 
 idol, and enshrine her in his luxurious establish- 
 ment ; though certainly not with the potential un- 
 derstanding that his exclusive adoration could 
 satisfy the needs of her soul. 
 
 Melinda's marriage with Mr. Belmont, if it 
 wrought any change in her deportment towards 
 other gentlemen, only rendered her more thor- 
 oughly at her ease in their society, more alluring, 
 more delightful ! Her sallies of wit gained piqu- 
 ancy, her manner acquired more perfect aban- 
 don, her beauty more brilliant expression. Always 
 wilful and cxigeante, she now grew half-imperious 
 in appropriating devotion, as though she looked 
 upon men in general as more entirely her slaves 
 than before she assumed the unfelt chain which 
 bound her to one man in particular. Consequently 
 the willing vassals became more liberal of those 
 " sweet observances," those nameless indescribable 
 attentions so gratifying to a woman's self-love, be- 
 cause they tacitly exalt her to a pedestal, and lay 
 such harmless tributes upon the altar of her van- 
 ity. 
 
72 The Married Flirt. 
 
 Melinda has an understanding with her con- 
 science which keeps it in well-bred, silent sub- 
 jection. The " still, small voice within " is dumb, 
 though she permits whispered words that might 
 startle ears for which they were not intended ; 
 though she returns telegraphic glances, whose 
 meaning would hardly be translatable ; though she 
 allows the soft pressure of her hand ; or wears 
 upon her proudly heaving bosom, or in the coronal 
 braid that encircles her regal head, the flowers 
 some favored gallant gives her. She will even 
 close her white fingers upon a tiny note, thrust un- 
 seen into her palm ; it may only be " an innocent 
 bit of poetry," it may be a few words which she 
 must have blushed if she had heard uttered, 
 though the color that deepens into a triumphant 
 glow on her cheek can hardly be called a blush. 
 
 An unconquerable impulse makes her desire to 
 turn the head of every man who approaches her, 
 literally to unsettle his mind, and her surpassing 
 charms enable her to carry her will into execution. 
 She is emulous to subdue to her service not one, 
 but all. None are too high, none too low, none 
 too great, none too insignificant for the wide- 
 spreading vine of vanity to twine its tendrils 
 around, with uncliscriminating grasp, and claim as 
 fostering supports. 
 
 Yet among that group of adorers there is always 
 one who is the preferred of the hour. One whom 
 she distinguishes by claiming little services at his 
 
The Married Flirt. 73 
 
 hands, whom she permits to seek for what she 
 wants, to wait upon her, to be useful to her in a 
 thousand pleasant ways. Above all, one who un- 
 derstands that he must renounce the whole sex for 
 her sweet sake, and bask in no woman's smiles, and 
 hang upon no woman's words, but hers. But, by 
 and by, the fickle Melinda grows tired of his as- 
 siduities, discards the favorite, and indulges in all 
 the agreeable excitement of electing his successor, 
 who becomes equally infatuated, equally subser- 
 vient to her will, and, in time, equally wearisome. 
 
 Mr. Belmont, if he sometimes feels Othello pangs, 
 conceals them too carefully ever to be classed with 
 jealous husbands. He is virtually shut out of the 
 charmed circle which his wife's magic draws around 
 her. He sits at a distance, trying to look as though 
 he were occupied with other interests, but secretly 
 drinking in the musical rise and fall of her voice, 
 softened to the low tone of high breeding ; heark- 
 ening to the rippling gushes of her exultant laugh- 
 ter ; listening to her sparkling thoughts, sham 
 jewels dropped into gilt setting of glittering words; 
 admiring the half voluptuous contour of her form, 
 which is strikingly displayed by some picturesque 
 attitude ; smiling inwardly at the captivating 
 changefulness, the bewitching caprices that keep 
 her devotees on the qui vive to watch her varying 
 moods , and weakly glorying in the sensation she 
 creates, the admiration she excites. 
 
 Perhaps Mr. Belmont, who is a man of some 
 
 7 
 
74 The Married Flirt. 
 
 sentiment and more feeling, suppresses a sigh when 
 he remembers that the very fact of calling this 
 peerless being his own, deprives him of the happi- 
 ness of enjoying her society, even of offering her 
 any of the little courtesies which she receives from 
 others with such winning affability, and rewards 
 with such enchanting looks and words. But he 
 would not have his best friend divine that puerile 
 regret for the universe ! Fashion, the bete noire of 
 his imagination, would point her finger and laugh 
 at him ! Unendurable calamity ! 
 
 It is generally admitted that Melinda, as Mrs. 
 Belmont, is far more attractive to gentlemen than 
 she had been as a young girl, more fascinating 
 than any young girl can hope to be ! Yet, be it 
 understood, that she is never guilty of an impru- 
 dence that will risk her reputation, or furnish 
 tempting food for scandal. The disease that gnaws, 
 vulture-like, at her heart, is an insatiable craving 
 for adulation, an unappeasable hunger that would 
 make her barter her birthright of womanhood for 
 Flattery's mess of pottage. 
 
 She would turn with righteous horror from a 
 hapless sister who had lapsed from purity, who 
 bore upon her bowed forehead the brand of shame, 
 upon her pale cheeks the furrows worn by peni- 
 tential tears. Melinda would draw aside her silken 
 garments from the touch of such pollution. She 
 would never suspect that the heart which beat be- 
 neath her velvet bodice was full of sin as foul, of 
 
The Married Flirt. 75 
 
 fouler sin, perchance, since unacknowledged and 
 unrepented of; sin not brought forth into act, be- 
 cause her coldness, not her chastity, warded off 
 temptation ; because the iron shackles of society 
 held her in compulsive restraint. But the bondage 
 is merely external. Place but a window in Me- 
 linda's bosom, and that "rake at heart" cynical 
 Pope finds in woman, will have too vivid an illus- 
 tration! 
 
 How Melinda conducts her household is an en- 
 igma we shall not endeavor to solve. She does 
 not attempt to assume its rule with that matronly 
 dignity which proclaims itself the guiding spirit 
 of the home department. Yet her domestic affairs 
 glide on with tolerable smoothness, the wheels of 
 the machine being oiled with lavish extravagance, 
 with waste sufficient to save half a dozen families 
 from starvation. 
 
 It has been said that the wifely face across the 
 breakfast table is the one most likely to disenchant 
 a husband. Perhaps Melinda has too much tact 
 to run the risk of such a catastrophe. At all 
 events, her husband's morning meal is usually a 
 solitary one. Mrs. Belmont feels dull at the hour 
 when the flowers are brightest, the birds sing 
 sweetest, and Nature's dewy eyes open with their 
 most refreshing smile. Languidly indolent, Me- 
 linda retreats into the chrysalis shell of her wrap- 
 per, and quietly mopes, like any veritable caterpil- 
 lar, in its transition state. But when the day is 
 
76 The Married Flirt 
 
 nearly spent, (alas ! spent to what purpose ?) the 
 papilia comes forth in May-day glory, flies through 
 a round of fashionable visits, or alights among the 
 flowers in her drawing-room, to hold her court at 
 home. 
 
 Mr. Belmont returns from his business to a late 
 dinner, and finds that some of Melinda's friends 
 have dropped in and been invited to remain. A 
 tete-a-tete repast with her husband is an event of 
 rarest occurrence. Anything so prosy should nat- 
 urally be avoided ; and would it not be absurd to 
 waste such an elaborate toilet on him ? How- 
 ever negligent her morning costume, she is now 
 attired with faultless taste. Everything she wears 
 becomes her a mcrveille. Her dress evinces the 
 most exquisite perception of les nuances — for she 
 never accidentally shocks a fastidious eye by the 
 inharmonious mingling of color. At table she has 
 more the air of a guest than hostess, but her hus- 
 band does the honors with evident pleasure ; no 
 wonder, it is almost the only occasion upon which 
 he ceases to be a cipher, if he does not positively 
 " make a figure." 
 
 In the evening she has generally some engage- 
 ment ; she has arranged to attend a concert, the 
 opera, the theatre, a lecture perhaps, or a ball, or 
 a reception. Her husband, if not too much wear- 
 ied by the duties of the day, accompanies her ; but 
 it is not upon his arm she leans ; that would be 
 outre, and so ridiculously Darby-and- Joan like ! 
 
The Married Flirt. 77 
 
 If perchance she remains at home, there are al- 
 ways plenty of visitors, principally young men, 
 who will help her to chase the evening hours. 
 And Melinda plays and sings to them, with her 
 eyes glancing up and down, and now and then 
 resting upon some enraptured listener, who leans 
 over the piano and drinks in the amorous words as 
 though they were addressed to him. Are they 
 not, for the moment ? 
 
 The society of her own sex Melinda cannot 
 abide. She scoffs at female friendships ; talking 
 to a woman bores her more than listening to a ser- 
 mon. Caresses of women, to her, are positively 
 sickening. Their tenderness — bah ! it is all af- 
 fectation, assumed to make them look interesting ! 
 She well knows the pretty dears hate each other 
 heartily, and would rather bite than kiss, if they 
 dared to be natural. 
 
 Melinda is a childless wife. A child's innocent 
 touch would have opened a chamber in her breast 
 and let a saving angel in to tear the false god, Self, 
 from its altar. A child's holy breath would have 
 blown away some of this earth-dust gathered upon 
 her soul, and clogging all its heavenly motions. 
 A child's guileless lingers would have drawn the 
 wife's hand into that of her husband, and turned 
 her face to his by the magnetism of mutual inter- 
 est in one beloved object, at whose feet their sym- 
 pathies could meet and embrace. Yet she rejoices 
 
 7* 
 
78 The Married Flirt 
 
 to be spared the cares of maternity ! As well re- 
 joice that she has foregone salvation ! 
 
 Thus passes Melinda's budding spring and sum- 
 mer bloom. But the canker-worm in the fruit has 
 wrought decay where should be autumnal mellow- 
 ness. Her charms, almost before they reach ma- 
 turity, begin to fleet, in spite of all the detaining 
 art3 of her toilet. Her once worshipped mirror 
 becomes a taunting torment. Years write their 
 record in ungracious lines across her brow, for no 
 noble emotions, no high actions have beautified 
 the chronicle. Inexorable Time quenches the fire 
 of her eyes, and his attendant crows leave the 
 pressure of unsightly feet at the corners. Her 
 features, once so finely cut, grow sharp and harsh. 
 Her " pretty petulance " degenerates into irrita- 
 bility. Her voice has caught a piercing shrillness 
 which strikes the ear like a bayonet's point ; pos- 
 sibly it is that tone which makes her repartee 
 sound so much more cutting, so much less mirth- 
 provoking than of yore. 
 
 There is no longer a flutter of excitement when 
 she enters a crowd. The men who once gathered 
 around her stand aloof, unconscious of her pres- 
 ence, or hover about some younger married flirt, 
 who has jostled her from her pedestal in Vanity 
 Fair. Poor Melinda makes desperate efforts to 
 lure back the recreants, but the very exertion ren- 
 ders her manner forced, distressingly restless, peev- 
 ish, exacting. Her failing assumption of juvenile 
 
The Married Flirt. 79 
 
 airs and graces is painfully ludicrous, it is but an 
 awkward caricaturing of her former self. 
 
 What has the weary, dreary, faded, jaded wreck of 
 brilliant womanhood to fall back upon'? What conso- 
 solation — what refuge is hers ? Is there none to be 
 found in her husband's sheltering arms ] No ; he is 
 tired at last, of his youthful idolatry. In his own house 
 he has never had a snug, quiet corner, an especial 
 arm-chair, where he might sit, in dressing-gown 
 and slippers, with that solace of manhood, a news- 
 paper, in his hand, and he has gradually sought 
 the society of men, the club-room, or the card-table 
 as a substitute for the fireside of home. It is too 
 late for Melinda to turn to him and seek, in his 
 long slighted devotion, repayment for the neglect 
 of the world; too late to find herself rejuvenescent 
 through her husband's love, as Michelet maintains 
 that a woman may be. Her bitterest retribution 
 comes through an instinctive but tardy knowledge 
 that there must be a joy, she never tasted, in re- 
 posing upon one true heart, without fear of 
 change ; a happiness beyond her conception, in 
 hoping for and hoping with, in soothing and being 
 soothed by another self; in clinging to one who 
 needs her, whose life is incomplete without her ; 
 who makes her proudly glad in the consciousness 
 that whatever she may not be to others, she is all 
 in all to him. 
 
 But this comfort shall never be hers ; and the 
 desolate, dethroned sovereign looks with envious 
 
80 The Married Flirt. 
 
 eyes upon the unambitious wife, her youthful con- 
 temporary, who never dreamed of being a belle, 
 whom Melinda scorned for her even, unpretentious 
 ways, but who still retains a lingering freshness, 
 a kindly warmth, a serene vivacity, a soul-renewed 
 loveliness that have preserved a husband's devotion 
 intact, and won from time-tried friends reverence 
 and tenderness in abundance, and now make the 
 nonpareil beauty of other days reflect despairingly 
 upon her wasted opportunities, her hollow and 
 valueless existence, and inwardly murmur, " Oh, 
 that I could change places with her, here and 
 hereafter ! " 
 
AN OLD MAID. 
 
 N old maid ! Was there ever woman so 
 wise that she could hear the obnoxious 
 title applied to herself without a sup- 
 pressed sigh? Though few are the old maids who 
 might not have been wives if they had so willed, 
 the sense of incompleteness, of undeveloped ca- 
 pacities, of unfulfilled duties, perforce will cause a 
 passing pang. 
 
 But who that knows Miriam Pleasance feels that 
 the life of an old maid is necessarily dreary, profit- 
 less, colorless? And is Miriam an old maid? 
 Damsels, in the primrose season of youth, for 
 whom the wedding ring binds, in its charmed cir- 
 cle, the manifold joys of an ideal Elysium, mock- 
 ingly call her so ; happy mothers, about whose 
 necks twine the chubby arms of cherub childhood, 
 keeping "low and wise" the "vines that bear such 
 fruit," pityingly call her so ; broken-hearted wives 
 whose shattered idols prove all clay and ashes, 
 whose pale lips, wreathed in smiles, veil, with 
 Spartan heroism, the vulture preying on their 
 souls, indignantly call her so. But mark how 
 men, intellectual, thinking, feeling men, hesitate 
 
 (81) 
 
82 An Old Maid. 
 
 to apply the ungallant appellation to sweet Mir- 
 iam. Perhaps they are tongue-tied by that vague 
 charm about her which half cheats one into the 
 belief that she carries in her vestal bosom some 
 mystical light, (" the lamp of human love,") and 
 lets fall its radiance on the path she treads, on the 
 hearth where she sits, on the face into which she 
 gazes. Certain it is that all are strangely bright- 
 ened by her presence. 
 
 Man recognizes the magic of a cheerful influ- 
 ence in woman more quickly, and more willingly, 
 than the potency of dazzling genius, of command- 
 ing worth, or even of enslaving beauty. Thus 
 men, in general, value Miriam's especial gift above 
 the more brilliant endowments of her favored sis- 
 ters. 
 
 In stature, Miriam is below the medium height. 
 A form not voluptuously rounded nor charmingly 
 fragile, but a neat, compact little figure, supple 
 and light of motion. Not a single feature of her 
 countenance can be termed beautiful, yet the 
 whole face possesses a mobility, a capacity for 
 rapidly varying expression, an indefinable harmo- 
 ny that produce the effect of beauty. Her white 
 teeth sparkle between flexible lips, her black eyes 
 dance and shine through jetty fringes, her dark 
 hair, fine but not abundant, is knotted with pecu- 
 liar grace at the back of an admirably balanced 
 head. 
 
 Her dress is usually of some neutral tint, a sil- 
 
An Old Maid. 83 
 
 ver gray, a delicate fawn, or a soft dove color, 
 lighted up and relieved by the gleam of crimson, 
 or dark blue, or purple ribbons. 
 
 Then her age ; she has passed the season of 
 youth, of summer perhaps, and is verging upon 
 autumn. A rich, mellow autumn, an autumn full 
 of gorgeous tints, an autumn whose forest leaves 
 turn to scarlet and gold without withering, an au- 
 tumn that makes one think the spring-time could 
 hardly have been so beautiful. True, the dewy, 
 evanescent, morning freshness is gone, but in its 
 place reigns the more lasting, self-renewed fresh- 
 ness of mental and physical vigor. In a word, 
 Miriam has reached and passed the green ascent 
 of thirty-five, and is calmly descending the ver- 
 dant slope beyond. But life has been all gain to 
 her; she has gathered fruits of knowledge, and 
 flowers of beauty, and herbs of balm on the way, 
 and lost nothing she does not think it well to part 
 with, in exchange. 
 
 We have seldom met with an old maid, upon 
 the pages of whose early history there was not 
 some love tale inscribed, some story of unrequited 
 affection, of betrayed hopes, of love sacrificed to 
 duty, or, of the grave's untimely snatching away. 
 But, strange to say, there is no love-tale written 
 upon Miriam's book of life. She could never 
 have been numbered among that large class of 
 maidens who, according to Rasselas, " think they 
 are in love, when in fact they are only idle." Her 
 
84 An Old Maid. 
 
 intellect is too highly cultivated, her penetration 
 too acute, her life too active for her to form an 
 attachment through the mere " besoin d 'aimer" the 
 longing, though often unconscious desire to be 
 loved and protected, which is the secret spring of 
 half the so-called love-matches in the world. A 
 young girl's affections, like graceful tendrils formed 
 to cling, too often twine themselves around the ob- 
 ject nearest and most inviting, with no other vin- 
 dication save that it was near and invited. 
 
 Seeing that to waste true love on anything 
 Is womanly past question." 
 
 But if Miriam unconsciously admits that love is 
 a " grand necessity " of existence, she feels that 
 existence has other necessities. To bestow her 
 heart, her judgment must approve the gift, and 
 she has not encountered the being (though doubt- 
 less such exists) who could win the one with the 
 approval of the other. This is the sole secret of 
 her freedom. 
 
 Had Miriam been thrown upon her own resour- 
 ces to gain a livelihood, her energy of character, 
 and her delight in use, would have impelled her to 
 fill and dignify some of the few intellectual avoca- 
 tions which woman's hands and brains are allowed 
 to grace. Her birth and wealth forbid, yet the 
 current of life, with such an organization, can 
 never become stagnant. Occupation is enjoyment. 
 
An Old Maid. 85 
 
 Her perceptions are keenly alive to discover the 
 work that is spread for her hands, and to do it when 
 found. She religiously believes that there is work, 
 Heaven-allotted, to all, in the great vineyard of the 
 world, and that our work lies jus»t within our grasp, 
 if we will but look for and recognize the task. 
 " Labor is worship ! " says the prophet. " Labor 
 is worship ! " responds every throbbing pulse in 
 Miriam's well-attuned frame. Like the woman of 
 Bethany who poured the perfumed ointment (her 
 humble tribute of love) upon the head of her 
 Lord, she " did what she could ? " What she could % 
 What more could be required of her % Do what 
 we can, as much as we can, all we can ! Oh, how 
 large would be the sum of works of the very 
 humblest, feeblest, poorest, when counted up in 
 the Hereafter, if they only " did what they could ! " 
 Alas ! for the thousand opportunities of minister- 
 ing and comforting thrown daily in our pathway, 
 while we pass by on the other side through sheer 
 unconcern, through " lack of thought " rather than 
 " lack of heart ! " Will they not rise up to con- 
 vict us when we render the account of our steward- 
 ship in the great day. 
 
 With such thoughts ever quickening her to ac- 
 tion, Miriam takes a lively, never failing interest 
 in all things around her. No fellow-creature is in- 
 different to her. She regards all with a tender 
 sympathy, a sympathy which breaks unaware 
 through cold conventionalities, and fraternizes 
 
86 An Old Maid. 
 
 with beings too seldom recognized as members of 
 the human family. Towards the sick, the poor, 
 the sad, the suffering in any shape, her hand is un- 
 hesitatingly stretched out. They need no creden- 
 tials save the stamp of sadness, sickness, poverty, 
 and prompt aid is true aid. She seems endowed 
 with God's special license to console, to translate 
 mysterious sorrows into promised joys, to strengthen 
 the weak, to soften the hard, to reconcile the re- 
 bellious. 
 
 The history of any one day of her life would fill 
 chapters with scenes of anguish, of passion, of 
 hope, of happy consummations, that might adorn 
 the pages of a romance. 
 
 Thus, Miriam, " the old maid," is not less happy, 
 less useful, less beloved than the wife and mother 
 whose heart and hands are full of alternate cares 
 and blessings. Those upon whose path of life the 
 smile of Miriam Pleasance shines, never after speak 
 scornfully of an " old maid." We entertain but 
 one fear for Miriam ; it is that she will not always 
 bear the vestal title around which she has woven 
 such an indescribable charm. 
 
A PLETHORA OF HAPPINESS. 
 
 ISS MERRI WETHER, I believe \ " 
 
 The young lady addressed courtesied 
 assent, and glanced enquiringly at the 
 speaker. Possibly there was an unconscious dash 
 of admiration in that transient survey. The gen- 
 tleman who stood before her was somewhat over 
 six feet in height. His bearing was remarkably 
 manly, a mingling of the soldier and courtier ; 
 perhaps it was rather too stately, but graceful 
 withal. He had large, hazel eyes, a florid com- 
 plexion, faultless mouth and teeth, close-curling, 
 chestnut hair, a moustache and beard of such silk- 
 en luxuriance that it could never have been pro- 
 faned by a razor. 
 
 " I am Angelica Willington's husband," was his 
 reply to the lady's look of interrogation. 
 
 " Mr. Willington ! I am delighted to know you," 
 exclaimed Ruth Merriwether, extending her hand, 
 with hearty cordiality. 
 
 " Not move delighted than Angelica and I were 
 when we heard of your unexpected arrival in 
 Charleston. Angelica is such an invalid that she 
 
 (87) 
 
88 A Plethora of Happiness. 
 
 did not feel able to call, but she charged me to 
 bring you to her at once." 
 
 " I shall be truly rejoiced to see my dear school- 
 mate again," answered Ruth. " But is Angelica 
 an invalid ? How strange ! When we w r ere girls, 
 at school together, — that's little more than six 
 years ago, — she was the very realization of 
 Moore's 
 
 • Young Envoy sent by health, 
 With rosy gifts upon her cheeks.' 
 
 She never had an ache or a pain. What ails her ? 
 What is her disease ? " 
 
 " I really cannot say," answered Mr. Willington, 
 with a sigh ; " and the doctors don't seem to 
 know. Yet, she is never well ; she has lost her 
 strength and spirits, and is a confirmed invalid. I 
 should be eternally indebted to any one who could 
 discover what is the matter with her." 
 
 " Suppose I try to win that debt of endless grat- 
 itude. I have had quite an extensive experience 
 in the sick room. Perhaps I may discover her 
 ailment." 
 
 Mr. Willington's answering smile was one of 
 politeness, not a confiding response to Ruth's prof- 
 fer. He was too courteous to express his lack of 
 faith in the skill of this unimposing physician in 
 crinoline. 
 
 " Angelica is anxiously awaiting you ; my car- 
 riage is at the door ; will you not be ready soon, 
 Miss Merriwether I " 
 
A Plethora of Happiness, 89 
 
 Buth's preparations were few, and rapidly made. 
 The quickness of her movements betokened habit- 
 ual activity. The elasticity of her very step was 
 suggestive of mental energy. Her figure was petite 
 but wonderfully supple, and under the influence 
 of any elevating emotion, seemed to heighten sud- 
 denly. Her face, constantly glowing with anima- 
 tion, often warmed into beauty without possessing 
 a single perfect feature. 
 
 In a few moments she was seated in Mr. Wil- 
 lington's splendid barouche, and drawn rapidly 
 through the streets of Charleston by a pair of 
 horses which were the envy of all connoisseurs of 
 the noble animal. 
 
 Mr. Willington was an opulent planter of South 
 Carolina. The aristocracy of Charleston is per- 
 haps the most exclusive in the United States ; and 
 his birth, education, courtly manners, and remark- 
 ably fine person, rendered him one of its chief or- 
 naments. 
 
 He was a strict observer of the laws of etiquette, 
 and of all social conventionalities and proprieties. 
 His high breeding was especially evinced in his 
 deportment to the gentler sex. There was a sort 
 of chivalric protection, a polite forbearance, a pat- 
 ronizing tenderness in his demeanor towards them, 
 which distinctly proclaimed his own sense of supe- 
 riority, through the very fact of his manhood, and 
 his conviction that these " dear helpless creatures " 
 were not designed to rise out of the sphere of pet- 
 
90 A Plethora of Happiness. 
 
 ted childhood, and could never become equals, or 
 even intelligent companions. " Mind" to him was 
 of masculine gender, and he had no faith in the 
 existence of a " woman of mind" who was not un- 
 feminine. According to his creed, womanhood 
 should ignore aesthetic tastes, and for her to show 
 any disposition 
 
 " To ponder the precipitous sides 
 Of difficult questions, 1 ' 
 
 was a social crime. 
 
 To have discovered some electric sparks of genius 
 accidentally flashing from the lips or the pen of his 
 wife, would have rendered him the most miserable 
 of men. Perhaps he was not very unreasonable 
 in that respect. Genius, with her airy flights, her 
 vivid imagination, her quick sensibilities, her ab- 
 straction, her states of alternate exaltation and 
 melancholy, so incomprehensible to matter-of-fact 
 natures, is too seldom an agreeable fireside com- 
 panion. Men hardly care to see a Sappho or a 
 Corinne sitting opposite to them at the breakfast 
 table. Laurels are a nuisance on the hearthstone 
 of home ; fling them into the flames, or sweep them 
 up with the ashes ! 
 
 Angelica Raymond was the daughter of a Phil- 
 adelphia banker. Mr. Willington met her at New- 
 port, a little less than six years before the period 
 at which we have introduced him to the reader. 
 She was the reigning belle of the season, a sylph- 
 
A Plethora of Happiness. 91 
 
 like beauty, just seventeen, with fair hair, dreamy 
 blue eyes, and no very striking traits of character, 
 The gallant Southerner beheld his beau ideal of 
 womanhood, and fell madly in love with her. An- 
 gelica's heart was soon melted by his ardent woo- 
 ing. She bestowed upon her large circle of ad- 
 mirers the most graceful bow of dismissal, and 
 her hand upon the chivalrous Southerner. 
 
 In the autumn, he carried his bride to his lux- 
 urious home in Charleston, surrounded her with 
 all the appliances of wealth, and gratified her 
 caprices, until she found it a positive effort to think 
 of anv thins: more which she could desire. 
 
 During the five years of her married life, first a 
 little son, and then a daughter had taught her ears 
 the holy music of the word " Mother ! " 
 
 Was she happy % Perhaps she did not ask her- 
 self the question precisely in that form. She was 
 conscious that she was weary, lonely, constantly 
 ennuyee, and she soon pronounced herself to be in 
 feeble health. How many of the lovely valetudi- 
 narians who daily excite our pity are simply lovely 
 idlers ! How often is supposed ill health a pas- 
 time that ends in the retribution of a frightful 
 reality ! 
 
 Angelica had no apparent need for exertion, and 
 she made none. Her children were tenderly cared 
 for by devoted colored domestics, old family serv- 
 ants. Each little one had a " mammy " appropria- 
 ted to its service as soon as it was born, and these 
 
92 A Plethora of Hajjpitiess. 
 
 faithful guardians perfectly idolized their young 
 charges, giving them open preference over their 
 own children. And the little nurslings, with dawn- 
 ing intelligence, learned to love their " mammies " 
 as well, if not better, than their own mother. 
 
 As for Angelica's household arrangements, they 
 were attended to by servants who thoroughly un- 
 derstood their duties, and performed them with 
 pride and pleasure. They would have been 
 shocked, would have thought it a degradation of 
 herself and a rebuke to them, if their young mis- 
 tress had ventured to occupy herself with do- 
 mestic concerns. She gave a few languid orders 
 every morning, and her labors for the day were 
 over. She was fond of her children, because they 
 were lovely and endearing : but she saw them very 
 seldom. She loved her husband with a dependent, 
 leaning, up-looking affection, which threw the very 
 burden of thinking upon another, a species of 
 attachment which is particularly gratifying to such 
 men as Mr. Willington. But of that sweet as- 
 sociation, that constant interchange of thought, that 
 community of feeling in which the charm of mar- 
 riage lies, Mr. Willington and his young wife 
 knew nothing. 
 
 Mr. Willington, though he had not ceased to ad- 
 mire the beauty of Angelica, though he honored 
 her as his wife, the mother of his children, the head 
 of his household, a being that especially apper- 
 tained to him ; though he was proud of her, and 
 
A Plethora of Happiness. 93 
 
 had a positive tenderness for her, never thought of 
 her in the light of a companion, a counsellor, a 
 friend. To be obliged to pass an evening in her 
 drawing-room, unless he was discharging the du- 
 ties of host to a circle of guests, wearied him in- 
 tensely. He found more congenial amusement at 
 his club, at young men's card parties, at horse ra- 
 ces, during the season of that fashionable Charles- 
 ton amusement, anywhere, but at his own fireside. 
 And yet, there sat the being whom he had so ar- 
 dently loved, so passionately worshipped, less than 
 six years before, and who was still the personifi- 
 cation of loveliness, but a lovely nullity ! 
 
 The husband left her in perfect freedom to oc- 
 cupy or amuse herself in any way that she fancied, 
 provided always that she did nothing conspicuous, 
 however good or useful ; nothing that would attract 
 public attention, applause or admiration, except 
 indeed the legitimate admiration to which every 
 beauty is entitled in the ball room. His great fear 
 was, not that some of life's responsibilities might 
 remain unfulfilled, but a dread that the hidden 
 sanctity of his home might be invaded by public 
 comment. He had nothing to fear from An- 
 gelica. Her indolence was an impenetrable shield, 
 no flash of intellect was likely to force its way 
 through that barrier, and betray itself by some 
 startling action. 
 
 Angelica had not seen Ruth Merriwether for 
 nearly six years. The young wife, after her mar- 
 
94 A Plethora of Happiness. 
 
 riage, instead of encountering the fatigues of a 
 journey to the North, had passed her summers at 
 some of the fashionable springs of Virginia, while 
 her husband travelled about, and paid her and the 
 children occasional visits. 
 
 " Here we are ! " exclaimed Mr. Willington, as 
 the carriage drew up before a stately mansion, 
 embowered by groups of magnolia trees, and 
 standing in a spacious garden. Roses, honey- 
 suckle, and jessamine, clambered together up the 
 porch, and their long tendrils, floating in the 
 breeze, formed an archway of natural garlands 
 over the entrance. Ruth sprang from the carriage 
 and ascended the marble steps without noticing 
 Mr. Willington's punctiliously-offered aid ; for, as 
 the equipage stopped, the street door opened, and 
 Angelica stood on the threshold. The friends em- 
 braced warmly. 
 
 44 Come in, let me beg you to come in, Miss Mer- 
 riwether," said Mr. Willington, offering his arm to 
 Ruth. He had a nervous horror of anything so 
 like public display as this womanly greeting, even 
 beneath that screen of blossoming vines. 
 
 Ruth obeyed, but without accepting his arm, for 
 hers was about Angelica's waist. 
 
 They had scarcely entered the drawing-room, 
 when the latter sank into her usual languid, half- 
 reclining attitude upon the sofa. Ruth sat beside 
 her, fondly scanning her face as she chatted mer- 
 rily. 
 
Plethora of Happiness. 95 
 
 The young wife was attired in a rose-colored 
 silk wrapper, trimmed with rows of narrow black 
 velvet, and edged with black lace. The skirt be- 
 neath was of finest embroidery. Her sleeves, open 
 to the shoulders, disclosed her round, white arms. 
 The long, shining ringlets that used to float over 
 her shoulders, were looped up beneath a tiny, 
 Marie Stuart cap of honiton lace. The toilet of 
 an invalid became her. She looked supremely 
 beautiful in spite of the weary, listless expression 
 which quickly returned to her face, and seemed to 
 be its habitual look. The roses that Ruth so well 
 remembered, had somewhat faded from her cheeks, 
 and her eyes were consequently less brilliant. 
 These, and the look of hopeless lassitude which 
 Ruth had never seen upon that countenance before, 
 were the only changes that she could detect. 
 
 Ruth, who had a quick eye for the tasteful and 
 beautiful, glanced admiringly around the room. 
 The floor, of polished oak, reflected objects like a 
 mirror. The luxurious furniture had no northern 
 stiffness and show-aspect; evidently it was all in- 
 tended for use. Pictures and statues, and objects 
 of virtu were intermingled with costly vases filled 
 with the most exquisite flowers, and hanging-bas- 
 kets, from which long branches of the yellow jes- 
 samine waved like a golden drapery, and shed a 
 delicious perfume throughout the apartment. 
 
 Ruth exclaimed with enthusiasm, "What mag- 
 nificent flowers ! I never saw more brilliant col- 
 
96 A Plethora of Happiness. 
 
 ors ! What perfect roses ! That yellow jessamine 
 is gorgeous ! I suppose you gathered these in your 
 own garden \ " 
 
 Angelica looked up as if she had not noticed the 
 floral decorations before. " They are pretty," she 
 answered, with an indifferent air. " I did not 
 gather them, that's Arena's province ; she always 
 keeps the vases and baskets supplied ; she has de- 
 cided taste that way." 
 
 "Have you any commands, Angelica I " asked 
 Mr. Willington. " I will leave you ladies togeth- 
 er. I hope to see Miss Merriwether at dinner 
 time. Good morning." 
 
 As Mr. Willington passed the sofa upon which 
 his wife was lying, he stooped and touched her 
 forehead lightly with his lips, as was his wont on 
 leaving the house for the day. 
 
 Angelica received the caress without returning 
 and apparently without noticing it, for no change 
 of expression passed over her features. Not that 
 the salutation gave her no pleasure, she might 
 have felt wounded if had it been forgotten, but she 
 did not deem it necessary to make the exertion of 
 a response, and her husband evidently expected 
 nothing of the kind. 
 
 " Now, Angelica, dear," said Euth, taking the 
 little white hand, almost heavy with its wealth of 
 sparkling gems, in both of hers, " tell me what ails 
 you?" 
 
 " I can't tell ; I don't know/ 
 
A Plethora of Happiness. 97 
 
 " But do you suffer ? Are you really ill \ " 
 
 " Of course, certainly ! and I have such head- 
 aches ! everything gives me a headache, and I am 
 wretchedly low spirited ! " 
 
 "Low spirited! why, you have everything to 
 make you happy, have you not ? " 
 * " Yes, everything, I believe, everything in the 
 world ! " and she sighed heavily. 
 
 " Perhaps you do not take exercise enough. Do 
 you walk out, or ride out every day, and move 
 about, and occupy yourself with the household 
 matters, and with the little ones ? " 
 
 " I have not the strength for all that, besides it 
 is not needful. The nurses look after the children 
 and are devoted to them. I have admirable ser- 
 vants, they take charge of the household. As for, 
 walking, I don't walk ; what's the use of walking,) 
 when one can drive ? I don't ride because it's too' 
 conspicuous ; but I drive out when the weather is' 
 fine and I am in the mood." 
 
 " How can you expect to feel bright and buoy- 
 ant and well, dear, if you break all physical and 
 mental laws ? It is only by activity, by employment, 
 that you can earn or deserve health, only by the 
 use of your faculties that you can preserve their 
 vigor. We must get you thoroughly interested in 
 something, give you something to do." 
 
 " Something to do ? You wouldn't horrify Mr. 
 Willington by such a suggestion'? Do you sup- 
 pose he would allow his wife to work ? " 
 
98 A Plethora of Happiness, 
 
 " Yes, truly, if he would have her healthful and 
 happy. Did you never hear of a nobleman wood- 
 sawyer 1 Lord Elgin in his Canadian home used 
 to fell and saw trees as industriously as though he 
 were earning his bread. He ivas earning health and 
 strength, which are quite as important as bread . Do 
 you remember a beautiful injunction, concerning 
 labor, from the sweet singer, Fanny Osgood? I 
 heard the lines years ago, and they have haunted 
 me ever since ; they have been to me the song of 
 a good angel, to scare away the demon of idleness ; 
 thus they run — 
 
 " Work for some good, be it ever so slowly, 
 Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly, 
 Labor ! all labor is noble and holy ! 
 Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God." 
 
 " I am afraid I should offer up no prayer, if that 
 was to be the condition," said Angelica, listlessly. 
 " It must be very fatiguing to have the mind con- 
 stantly on the stretch, and always to feel as if there 
 was something that must be accomplished." 
 
 " Not half so tiresome as to have nothing to think 
 of, and nothing to do ; that is the most wearisome 
 work in the world, and wins the poorest reward ; 
 an income of ennui. For my part, I confess that I 
 should be wretched if there was nothing in which I 
 could interest myself; and I am sure that I should 
 not only become (or fancy myself) an invalid, but 
 probably I should be a dreadfully wicked person in 
 
A Plethora of Happiness, 99 
 
 the bargain. I firmly believe in Satan's finding 
 'some mischief still for idle hands to do.'" 
 
 " Ah ! but we have such different temperaments ! 
 You and I are so unlike ! " 
 
 " Perhaps so ; but we are governed by the same 
 unalterable laws." 
 
 " /could not interest myself, as I have heard that 
 you do, in schools for ' ragged children,' and in pro- 
 curing employment for young women ; in sewing 
 societies, and all that sort of thing. I hate what 
 busy people call their ' duties.' I think, generally 
 speaking, the most tedious people in all the world 
 are people who cant do that, or must do this, be- 
 cause it's a ' duty.' " 
 
 " And I think that duty is only another word for 
 methods of earning happiness. Duty is something 
 laid out at interest to bring in an income of pleas- 
 ure. You need not seek your duties in ' ragged 
 schools ' and institutions for the employment of 
 young women, or in ' sewing societies,' all of which 
 seem so distasteful to you ; leave these for the busy 
 hands of old maids — such as I intend to be if I 
 don't change my mind. A wife and mother has 
 abundance of pleasant occupation in the circuit of 
 her own home, if she will but think so, and seek 
 for it diligently. But she must not fold her little 
 hands with a martyr-like expression of patience, as 
 you do now, and close her bright eyes upon all that 
 is beautiful and joy-imparting around her. If she 
 does, her energies will stagnate, — and " — 
 
100 A Plethora of Happiness. 
 
 " Ah ! Ruth, dear, you are so energetic, that's 
 the word ! you always were. But do you know I 
 have heard Mr. Willington say that nothing 
 fatigued and tormented him so much as energetic 
 women ; women who were always on the go, always 
 striving to achieve some great end." 
 
 " Test his words ! Prove whether they are cor- 
 rect, just for variety's sake. Try the experiment 
 of rousing yourself up to some energetic employ- 
 ment, and see whether he will not naturally make 
 more of a companion of the wife whose energies 
 are all alive, than of the pretty doll of whom he 
 must weary, and to whom he thinks he has done 
 his duty by surrounding her with luxuries, and 
 cheating himself into the belief that she is an 
 invalid." . 
 
 " Oh ! he's the best husband in the world ! I've 
 nothing to complain of; he allows me to do just 
 what I please. To be sure, we don't see much of 
 each other ; but I like him to amuse himself. 
 Heigho ! do you ever have the ' blues 1 ' I have 
 them every day." 
 
 " No, indeed. If I had, I should sentence my- 
 self to ' hard labor,' as the punishment, and certain 
 cure of an attack. But, Angelica, I suppose you 
 sometimes walk with Mr. Willington, and read 
 with him, and form plans for the education of the 
 children, or the entertainment of your guests, or " — 
 
 u No, I do not think I do. I can't read much ; 
 it gives me the headache. And when I walk, it is 
 
A Plethora of Happiness. 101 
 
 in the garden, and men don't care to walk in 
 gardens. You must see our garden ; it really is 
 the prettiest that I ever saw." 
 
 " Perhaps you love to take care of flowers," sug- 
 gested Ruth, brightening. 
 
 " No, we have a capital gardener. Uncle Job 
 is very fond of his flowers. It's Arena's place to 
 gather them and make bouquets. You'll find them 
 in every room in the house, as a matter of course." 
 
 " But I should think you would at least like to 
 cull and arrange the flowers yourself. That must 
 give you pleasure." 
 
 " Why should I take the trouble when I have 
 some one to do it for me ? " 
 
 Ruth, who had preserved great serenity during 
 this conversation, though she was shocked and 
 grieved at her friend's deplorable state of mind, 
 now became fairly roused. She answered in a 
 tone so earnest and excited that it startled Angelica 
 out of her lethargy. 
 
 "Why should you take the trouble to enjoy? 
 Truly, that you may not lose the capacity for en- 
 joyment which God has given you as a reward for 
 the healthful use of your faculties ! Why should 
 you take the trouble to think, to feel, to sympa- 
 thize ? Because, without thought, without feeling, 
 without sympathy, you must become a living clog, 
 a vegetable nonentity, a breathing petrifaction ! 
 Because the mental paralysis which is gradually 
 falling upon your spirit, would deprive soul and 
 
 9* 
 
102 A Plethora of Happiness. 
 
 body of their noblest powers ! Ah, Angelica ! I 
 laughingly said to your husband that I should dis- 
 cover the disease under which you are laboring, 
 and I hardly thought to keep my word so easily. 
 Your ailment is a plethora of happiness, a surfeit 
 of good gifts. You have not paid your tribute of 
 gratitude to the lavish Giver of these blessings, by 
 putting them to use. You have not made them 
 reach others ; they have not radiated from you, as 
 their centre, and fallen brightly on a wide circle 
 extending around you, and they turn to curses, to 
 disease, and weigh upon you like a nightmare. 
 Privation would teach you their value. Sorrow 
 would perhaps restore the tone to your mind, re- 
 invigorate your body, and bring back the conscious- 
 ness of happiness which, for the time being, you 
 have lost." 
 
 Angelica listened as though the weary spell un- 
 der which she was bound had suddenly been 
 broken. She was no longer reclining upon the 
 sofa, but sitting up erect and strong. Her lips 
 quivered and her blue eyes dilated, as she gazed 
 upon Ruth's beaming countenance, and drank in 
 her words. When the latter ceased speaking 
 there was a pause of a few seconds ; then Angelica 
 replied, with an emotion which animated her 
 whole frame and illumined her countenance with 
 a higher beauty than it had ever yet known : 
 
 " Ruth, I wish I could feel as you do ! " 
 
A Plethora of Happiness. 103 
 
 Years passed before Angelica and Ruth met 
 again, for the latter was only travelling through 
 Charleston, and left the next morning. But, what 
 small events influence a life ! What casual words 
 sounding in the ears, and echoed over and over 
 again in the memory, affect a whole existence ! 
 The history of nations shows the wonderful agency 
 of trifles in working out important ends. A basin 
 of water spilled on Mrs. Masham's gown, led to 
 the removal of Marlborough, and so to the peace 
 of Utrecht, which had its influence upon all Eu- 
 rope. An idle boast of the Duke of Buckingham, 
 caused a terrible war between England and 
 France. 
 
 The accidental visit, the unpremeditated admo- 
 nition of Ruth Merriwether, changed the whole 
 current of Angelica's life. When she felt op- 
 pressed by that sense of weariness and dejection 
 which had long weighed upon her spirit, Ruth's 
 voice exclaiming, " a plethora of happiness ! " 
 would ring mockingly in her ears. " A plethora 
 of happiness, a surfeit of good gifts." Yes, it was 
 true, she acknowledged it to herself; that was her 
 disease. She had nothing to desire, and she had 
 lost the very consciousness, the faculty of happi- 
 ness. When once she commenced to reflect, she 
 noticed that her husband found no enjoyment at 
 his own home, that he sought his pleasures else- 
 where ; and she said to herself, " A doll, not a 
 companion, he wearies of me ; Ruth said he 
 would." She observed that her little ones clung 
 
104 A Plethora of Happiness. 
 
 to their " mammies " in preference to her, and 
 Buth's words would sound in her ears again. 
 
 Those words had been a new revelation to An- 
 gelica ; they had placed in her hands the golden 
 key which unlocked the secret of her lassitude, 
 and languor, and depression. 
 
 For some time after she became cognizant of her 
 own state, the evil seemed aggravated by being 
 comprehended ; but the dangerous illness of her 
 little son wakened the mother in her heart, and 
 gave her a motive for exertion. She hung over 
 his bed day after day, and forgot her ennui, her ail- 
 ments, her low spirits, in ministering to the little 
 sufferer. Then followed a thrill of joy, amounting 
 to ecstasy, when the sweet invalid's first signs of 
 returning health gladdened her maternal eyes. 
 
 " Ruth was right, again. Sorrow was good for 
 me. I was suffering from a plethora of happiness," 
 she inwardly exclaimed. 
 
 That conviction and that confession were the 
 heralds of a happy change. It was not effected in 
 an hour or in a day ; it was hardly perceptible at 
 first, but was gradually felt throughout the house- 
 hold, by children, servants, friends, dependants, — 
 most of all, by Angelica's husband. 
 
 Ah ! no one divined how simple was the magic 
 that wrought this wonderful metamorphosis ! A 
 few passing words of truth, dropped from the 
 kindly lips of a friend, and the discovery of an ail- 
 ment which proved to be only " a plethora of hap- 
 piness." 
 
ANGEL CHILDREN. 
 
 O whom is the hour of twilight so sweet 
 as to children'? Too tired to play, and 
 yet unreconciled to the nightly trial of 
 heing put to bed, children, half the world over, 
 have simultaneously raised their tender voices, and 
 consecrated this hour to story-listening. 
 
 At twilight, five sisters were cosily gathered 
 around the dear paternal hearth. " Sisser, tell me 
 a tory ! " said little Virginia, climbing on my knee 
 and circling my waist with her tiny arms until the 
 dimpled hands met, and then nestling her curly 
 head upon my shoulder, " Tell me a pretty tory ! " 
 
 There is no refusing our petted Jenny. 
 
 " What must the story be about, Jenny ? " 
 
 "Oh, about fairies and dood children." 
 
 " Shall I tell you about three little sisters whom 
 I knew, who are all angels now, and shall I tell 
 you of a heavenly dream I once had about them ? " 
 
 " Yes, about angels ; angels will do as well as 
 fairies." 
 
 " Well, then, listen. One Christmas morning I 
 was sitting in church amongst a number of cher- 
 
 (105) 
 
106 Angel Children. 
 
 ished friends ; the church was gayly decorated with 
 evergreens ; the Star of Bethlehem shone on the 
 eastern wall ; the Sunday School children had 
 sung an exquisite hymn, written for the occasion ; 
 our beloved pastor, in his holiest mood, had spoken 
 words of promise and encouragement ; had breathed 
 upon us ' soft rebukes in blessings ended ; ' around 
 him were hopefully happy faces, but amongst the 
 cheerful crowd I missed one dear, familiar coun- 
 tenance. A father sat surrounded by his children, 
 but their mother was absent. She was at home 
 watching over a little daughter who was very ill. 
 The family lived a short distance from the city, 
 and after service I drove out to see the sick child. 
 Among my Christmas presents was a basket made 
 of moss and filled with green-house flowers, — 
 camelias, heliotropes, orange blossoms, jasmines, 
 roses, etc. The handle, too, was woven of flowers, 
 embedded in moss. I thought the refreshing sight 
 of the flowers might do little Clara good, so I 
 stopped on the way for this lovely floral gift. At 
 the door of Clara's home I was greeted by a host 
 of little ones, and first they took me into the par- 
 lor, where stood a Christmas tree, so tall that it 
 nearly reached from the floor to the ceiling. The 
 spreading branches were loaded with gifts, and 
 waxen lights were scattered about amongst the 
 smaller boughs. The children delightedly exhib- 
 ited their abundant Christmas presents, and they 
 led me up stairs to their mother's room. As they 
 
Angel Children. 107 
 
 entered there, every one trod softly, and the gay 
 voices were hushed to whispers. On a small 
 couch, at the foot of her mother's bed, lay little 
 Clara, a patient, gentle child, about seven or eight 
 years old. She was lying so motionless that you 
 might have thought her some beautiful statue ; her 
 thin, tiny hands were as white as the sheet on 
 which they were extended ; her countenance had 
 an alabaster hue, and her large dark eyes were 
 looking fixedly upwards towards the ceiling, as 
 though they could see more than we saw. The 
 mother sat near the bed, her face blanched with 
 apprehension, and around her eyes were red cir- 
 cles that showed she had been weeping, perhaps 
 the whole of that Christmas night. Little Clara 
 did not notice us when we entered, nor did she 
 answer when I spoke to her, but when I brought 
 the mossy basket to the bedside, she feebly lifted 
 up her shadowy hand and laid it on the flower- 
 woven handle, and looked in my face and smiled 
 one angelic smile of thanks. 
 
 " The next morning the Christmas tree still 
 stood in the parlor, but in the chamber above lay 
 a little coffin ; within reposed the earthly form of 
 a lovely child, bestrewed with flowers, but the an- 
 gels had borne away little Clara to her eternal 
 home. 
 
 " Lizzy was the name of one of Clara's younger 
 sisters. She was called after a most beloved friend 
 of her parents. Lily was the pet name by which 
 
108 Angel Children. 
 
 she always went. Lily was her father's especial 
 darling, the sunlight of his home and his heart. 
 The moment he entered the house, she flew into 
 his arms ; wherever he went, she was at his side, 
 her baby hand. seldom out of his; if he w r ere sad, 
 she comprehended it in a moment, and would 
 charm away his gloom with her merry prattle, her 
 arch, infantile graces ; if he were gay, she was 
 full of wildest sport. When he was out of the 
 house, Lily seemed a different being ; all was sel- 
 dom well with her until he returned ; at night she 
 slept in his arms, and in the morning, though the 
 world called him a grave, wise man, they frolicked 
 together like children. If such a thing could be, 
 Lily was almost too dear to her father, and he to 
 her. Not long after Clara was summoned away, 
 little Lily fell sick. Father and mother watched 
 her night and day with breaking hearts ; but her 
 Heavenly Father had called her ; he sent his mes- 
 senger to gather this fair flower also, and, as she 
 lay on the bosom of her earthly father, the beau- 
 teous blossom was plucked. 
 
 " The youngest child of all, the baby, the sweet- 
 est, brightest little creature, was called Anna. She, 
 too, was named after a dear friend. Before Christ- 
 mas came again, little Anna sickened, as did her 
 sisters. How her mother clasped her to her yearn- 
 ing breast, and prayed the Lord to spare this one, 
 her baby, her latest born, whose joyous presence 
 had enabled her to bear the parting from her 
 
Angel Children. 109 
 
 other little ones ! The Lord knew best what was 
 good for little Anna ; his heavens needed this 
 bright infant also, and he called her to be one of 
 his angels ! 
 
 " I had taken a far-off journey after the Christmas 
 morning when I saw Clara, and the next time I 
 beheld my dear friends, the traces of great suffer- 
 ing, the agonies of that treble grief, were visible 
 in their countenances. The mother's face, in par- 
 ticular, was full of deep and settled sorrow. She 
 talked much of her darlings. She took me to the 
 room where I had last seen little Clara on that 
 Christmas morning, to the nursery where I had 
 played with Lily and Anna, and showed me three 
 white brackets on the walls, supported by cherub 
 heads. One stood in the mother's room, and held 
 the toys of little Clara, — those she had loved best, 
 had played with last ; the other stood in the father's 
 study, and held the silver cup of little Lily, her 
 toys, and the objects she had last touched ; the 
 third stood in the nursery, and held Anna's silver 
 cup and baby remembrances. Each bracket had 
 been decked by the fond mother with a wreath of 
 white flowers. As she took up the toys, one by 
 one, and told me little anecdotes concerning them, 
 the tears rained down her cheeks and choked her 
 utterance. The remaining children looked up 
 daily to these toy-covered brackets, and felt that 
 some portion of the room was still devoted to 
 their departed little sisters. Among these sacred 
 10 
 
110 Angel Children. 
 
 treasures were three daguerreotypes. One repre- 
 sented Clara, lying upon the bed where I last saw 
 her, with flowers scattered over her pillow ; it was 
 taken after her spirit had fled. Lily's daguerreo- 
 type showed a handsome, arch-looking little girl, 
 with a tiny basket in her hand, and a pair of fine 
 dark eyes fixed on something very earnestly and 
 lovingly ; I should say it must have been her 
 father's face. Baby Anna's eyes were closed ; she 
 lay amongst flowers, with a few buds clasped in 
 her round, chubby hands. She seemed in a blessed 
 sleep, but when that picture was taken, little Anna 
 had awakened in ' a brighter morn than ours ! ' 
 
 " I thought very often of those three little sis- 
 ters, all summoned away between Christmas and 
 Christmas, and one day I had a dream in which I 
 saw them all ; and this was the dream : — 
 
 A DKEAM OF HEAVEN. 
 
 " I saw a garden so luxuriant with flowers and 
 foliage, that it seemed as though 
 
 ' The very rainbow showers 
 Had turned to blossoms where they fell, 
 And sown the ground with flowers V 
 
 " Branches, covered with bloom, leaned towards 
 each other, and twined themselves together in 
 natural bouquets. From the trees hung crimson 
 and purple and amber-colored fruit, pomegran- 
 
Angel Children. Ill 
 
 ates, figs, plums, and many others, such as I had 
 never seen, and their names I did not know. 
 These bright-hued fruits appeared transparent, and 
 through the clear juice sparkled the polished seeds 
 and stones, like precious gems. 
 
 " In the centre of the garden rose two trees with 
 widely spreading branches, covered with snow- 
 white blossoms. Grape vines clambered up the 
 trunks of each tree and wound themselves in 
 graceful festoons through the boughs. The soft 
 air wafted the floating tendrils of one vine to the 
 topmost branches of the opposite tree, until they 
 formed a leafy bower. From its arch hung clus- 
 ters of golden grapes, glistening through wreaths 
 of pearl-like bloom. Within the bower I saw a 
 mossy mound. Violets, anemones, lilies of the 
 valley, and the blue eyes of the ' forget-me-not ' 
 peeped through the velvet covering, making a 
 richly variegated and living broidery. The mound 
 appeared in the shape of a seat, half rustic and 
 half regal. 
 
 " The flowers in this garden exhaled an aroma so 
 penetratingly delicious, that they seemed to be 
 sending up perpetual thanksgivings for their 
 bright existence, while diamond dew-drops glit- 
 tered like costly gifts on their expanding bosoms. 
 The atmosphere was singularly pure, exhilarating, 
 life-stirring. The sky shone resplendent with the 
 softest, most roseate hues of early morning. 
 
 " A group of angelic children gambolled through 
 
112 Angel Children. 
 
 the garden. Some had chaplets on their heads, 
 and some had garlands twined about their bosoms, 
 or girdles of tiny leaves mingled with violets and 
 rose-buds, wound around their waists ; and some 
 had woven bracelets of flowers and bound them on 
 their arms, and then fastened the flowery manacle 
 to the arm of an infantile companion ; these pairs 
 were always seen together, they seemed as one, 
 each as half of the other, and only when united 
 forming a complete whole. The children were 
 sporting with a white lamb, decking his pure 
 throat with leafy chains, embracing and kissing 
 him. 
 
 " Near the joyous crowd stood an angel, clad in 
 vesture that had the whitely varying hues of an 
 opal ; the hem was wrought with stars of gold, the 
 zone was clasped beneath her breast with a single, 
 ruby, heart-shaped. A fillet of pearls encircled her 
 head, one large ruby shone in the centre, and emitted 
 such a stream of roseate rays, that they formed a 
 halo above her brow. From beneath the pearly 
 band her hair flowed loosely to her knees, not in 
 ringlets, but in shining waves that looked like a 
 veil of woven amber. The perfect beauty, the 
 mild effulgence of her countenance no language 
 could describe. It was turned towards the children, 
 and 1 noticed that when she smiled upon them, 
 her face grew so radiant that a beam of light 
 seemed to strike on their heads and illumine their 
 hair. She watched them in their sports ; they were 
 
Angel Children. 113 
 
 gathering flowers, and, strange to say, when they 
 plucked the blossoms from the stems, other blos- 
 soms instantly appeared in their places, no stem 
 was ever left bare. As the children sprang over 
 the mead, the flowers only bowed their heads, and 
 rose up brighter, and fresher, and sent out a more 
 exquisite perfume at their infant touches. 
 
 " And now the angel-girl, with a gliding step, 
 drew near the bower and seated herself on the 
 mossy throne. She lifted her beautiful arm and 
 took from the branch of the tree on her right 
 hand a harp, cut out of a single pearl, with strings 
 of silver and gold. The light touch of her fingers 
 drew forth such an ecstatic sound that it thrilled 
 through the band of sporting children ; with one 
 accord they turned their faces towards her, flew to 
 the bower, and gathered themselves closely about 
 her knees. The white lamb followed them and laid 
 down softly at the angel-girl's feet. As her fingers 
 ran through the silvery strings, she sang the hymn 
 of the angels, when the Saviour was born, when 
 the star shone in the East, and the shepherds 
 watched their flocks by night, ' Glory to God in 
 the highest, and on earth peace, good will towards 
 men ! ' Her voice was so softly, liquidly melo- 
 dious that it seemed but the speaking tone of the 
 golden and silver strings. As she sang, birds, 
 with gorgeous plumage, lit upon the trees that 
 formed her bower, and when she paused, they 
 
 warbled a chorus. When she resumed her hymn 
 10* 
 
114 Angel Children. 
 
 of praise, they joyfully fluttered their brilliant 
 wings, and it seemed as though a sparkling shower 
 of gems was rained into the balmy air. Then the 
 angel laid down her harp and the children caressed 
 her, and resumed their sports with greater gladness 
 than ever. She sat still in her bower, but watched 
 them with loving eyes. Very soon they returned 
 to her, as though they were weary of feeling her 
 so distant from them. Then she spoke to them 
 tenderly, but it was in angelic language, which has 
 a softer, more flowing sound than any human 
 tongue. She told them of the Saviour upon earth, 
 the earth from which they came, and that he was 
 once a little child on that earth himself, and that 
 he had taken little children in his arms and 
 blessed them, and said to his disciples, ' Suffer 
 little children to come unto me, and forbid them 
 not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.' As 
 she spoke, the children looked up and saw a rain- 
 bow arching itself over the garden, and their hearts 
 were filled with delight ; they appeared to under- 
 stand something as they gazed on that heavenly 
 bow, that I cannot explain. 
 
 " Suddenly the angel paused and said ' Hark ! ' 
 then turned her face towards one side of the gar- 
 den, where I beheld a golden gate. Beside the 
 gate stood an angel of wondrous loveliness, she 
 seemed to be watching. And now she opened the 
 gate, and, as it flew back, it gave forth a sound of 
 joy and triumph. Beyond the gate there was a 
 
Angel Children. 115 
 
 dense mist, and in the distance, through the dark 
 way, appeared a third angel, leading a child, a 
 timid, bewildered little girl. As they passed the 
 gate, the flowers all flashed with new brightness 
 and breathed out a sweeter fragrance, the garden was 
 flooded with a more golden light, the trees seemed 
 to bend their boughs, hung with jewel-like fruit, 
 as though they invited the new guest to pluck them, 
 the bright-plumaged birds sent forth one long note 
 of glad greeting, and the face of the angel-girl in 
 the bower shone like the morning star. 
 
 " The angel that led the little child was very 
 beautiful ; but in her countenance there was a se- 
 rious sweetness, as though she had gazed on the 
 sorrow of others until it had cast a shadow on her 
 angelic beatitude. 
 
 1 Her dress seemed -wove of lily leaves, 
 It was so pure and fine,' — 
 
 and all about her there was a strange whiteness. 
 She was the Angel of Death. As she drew near, 
 I recognized the little girl, it was Clara ! My little 
 friend Clara, whom I had seen lying on her couch, 
 so wan and ill, that Christmas morning ! Clara, as 
 she entered the garden, looked around joyfully, and 
 her step grew quicker and lighter. The Angel of 
 Death led her to the sister angel, sitting in the 
 bower. She folded her arms around Clara and 
 pressed her to her bosom with a loving welcome, 
 
116 Angel Children. 
 
 and Clara felt as though she knew her, and her 
 kiss seemed just like the fond kiss of her own 
 mother. Then Clara turned to the group of happy 
 children, who received her as a companion. They 
 embraced her in turn, and it seemed to her as 
 though she had long known and loved them all. 
 Then the little lamb leaped up against her, and 
 she caressed it and stroked its snowy wool. Soon 
 the children led her away to show her their gar- 
 den. I could not hear what they said, but the 
 sound of their joyous laughter came to me, and I 
 knew Clara's voice above the others, she never 
 laughed so happily upon the earth. I saw her new 
 companions take her to a lovely lake. Upon its 
 crystal waters grew lilies even larger than the 
 Victoria Regia, of which you have heard that upon 
 'its leaf a child can stand securely. As the chil- 
 dren came to the edge of the lake, the lilies floated 
 towards them and touched the shore. Then some 
 of the little ones put out their tiny, white feet 
 into the lily-cups, all among the quivering yellow 
 stamens, and sat down in the snowy bowls, and the 
 inner leaves seemed to fold around them to hold 
 them safely, and the outer leaves spread themselves 
 like sails ; and so they floated about the lake, clap- 
 ping their hands with gleeful shouts. 
 
 " I cannot tell how long a time passed, for in 
 that world there is no time that is counted as with 
 us, but it seemed only a short period, when the 
 angel-girl gathered the children around her again 
 
Angel Children. 117 
 
 and said, ' Hark ! another young child is coming 
 from the earth ! ' And the angel at the gate threw 
 open the golden portals, and again they gave forth 
 the melodious sound, and in the distance was seen 
 the Angel of Death, leading a little girl through 
 the dark way, and, as they entered the gate, again 
 the flowers flashed with new brightness and sent 
 forth their sweetest odors, and the light grew more 
 golden, and the rainbow-hued birds flew about 
 with songs of joy, and the trees bent their boughs 
 laden with luscious fruit. The gate closed, and I 
 could see that the little girl bore something in her 
 hand ; it was a lily-branch. As she drew near the 
 bower, little Clara suddenly bounded forward and 
 caught her in her arms, crying out, ' It is Lily ! my 
 little sister Lily ! ' Lily clasped her arms tightly 
 about Clara, and no longer looked frightened, and 
 Clara took her to the angel and to her own young 
 companions, and they all welcomed her with de- 
 light. 
 
 " The time was very short when there came again 
 the musical sound of the opening of the golden gate ; 
 the flowers, the birds, the air, the trees, all gave 
 their greeting. The Angel of Death passed through 
 the dark valley into the heavenly garden, carrying 
 an infant very carefully and tenderly on her bosom. 
 She drew near Clara and laid the infant in her 
 arms. The baby opened her eyes as though from 
 a sweet sleep, and knew Clara, and laughed out 
 right merrily ; and she saw Lily and stretched out 
 
118 Angel Children, 
 
 her little arms to twine them round her neck, and 
 Clara and Lily rejoiced over the coming of baby 
 Anna. Indeed there was more joy amongst all the 
 children at her arrival than they had felt before, 
 for she had passed through that golden gate so 
 young she had fewer earthly stains about her. 
 
 " c Let us crown her with flowers ! ' said one. 
 fc Let her play with our white lamb ! ' said another. 
 'Let us take her to sail in the lily-boats ! ' cried 
 another. ' Let us ask our dear guardian to sing 
 to her ! ' Little Anna was tenderly laid on the lap 
 of the guardian angel, and the hearts of the three 
 sisters overflowed with perfect joy. 
 
 " That angel was once on this earth, a heavenly, 
 minded girl. She had loved young children very 
 dearly, and, when she died, her occupation in 
 heaven was to instruct and watch over the children 
 and infants who came from earth to that paradisia- 
 cal garden. If the mother, who mourned so deeply 
 over her three lost treasures, could but have seen 
 them there y would she not have exclaimed — 
 
 Content, 
 
 Our love was well divided ; 
 Its sweetness following where they went, 
 Its anguish stayed where I did. 
 
 Well done of God to halve the lot, 
 And give them all the sweetness ; 
 
 To us the empty room and cot — 
 To them the heaven's completeness. 
 
Angel Children. 119 
 
 ' To us these graves — to them the rows 
 
 The mystic palm trees spring in ; 
 To us the silence in the house, 
 To them the choral singing ! ' 
 
 " And how does Jenny like the story % " I asked. 
 
 Jenny looked up with thoughtful eyes. " But 
 do you believe that little Clara and Lily and Anna 
 went to a garden like that, when they died, and 
 were taught by an angel, and were so very happy ? " 
 
 " I do believe so ! " 
 
THE ANTICIPATIONS AND REALITIES 
 
 OF 
 
 A CHILDREN'S PARTY. 
 
 RS. SYLVESTER had a passion for chil- 
 dren. She entertained certain strange 
 sentiments concerning them, at which her 
 friends marvelled and smiled aside. She cherished 
 favorite theories concerning the holy atmosphere 
 that surrounds childhood, the guardian angels that 
 follow in children's steps, and fold invisible arms 
 around their tiny forms to shield them from dan- 
 ger, the unseen hands that guide them, the un- 
 earthly voices that teach. The music of a child's 
 jubilant laugh, though it sounded in the distant 
 streets, and she knew not from what voice it rang, 
 found an involuntary echo in her heart and upon 
 her lips. The soft touch of a child's clinging fin- 
 gers sent a thrill of pleasure through her frame. 
 Not the stars in their blue canopy, nor the flowers 
 on their emerald beds, nor the glitter of precious 
 stones, nor the noblest triumphs of the chisel or 
 the brush, were half so beautiful in her sight as 
 childhood's innocent eyes, glowing cheeks, dewy 
 
 (120) 
 
The Anticipations and Realities of 121 
 
 lips, and furrowless brow, upon which she saw 
 God's superscription of purity legibly written. In 
 short, Mrs. Sylvester was what the world called 
 romantic A rather vague term, which means, in 
 this instance, that she was inclined to look upon 
 all creation in its poetical aspect ; to throw an 
 ideal halo around the common-place, and was so 
 pertinaciously resolved to behold only the beauti- 
 ful, that she too often ignored its desirable alliance 
 with the practical and useful. 
 
 Mrs. Sylvester was not very kindly affected to- 
 wards those mothers who unhesitatingly avowed 
 that their maternal duties pressed heavily upon 
 them, that their cares outweighed their joys, that 
 their children in infancy trod on their feet, and in 
 youth trampled over their hearts ; in fact, that they 
 themselves strongly resembled that old woman in 
 the shoe, commemorated in the classics of the 
 nursery, who had so many little ones she never 
 knew what to do. Mrs. Sylvester was uncharitable 
 enough to assert that such mothers could not be 
 good Christians, although they knelt devoutly at 
 the communion-table, and were shining lights in 
 the high places of the church. But be it remem- 
 bered, Mrs. Sylvester had no children of her own, 
 and her inexperience made her all the more repre- 
 hensible in judging her child-ridden neighbors. 
 
 Mrs. Sylvester, however, had young sisters. 
 
 Her Virginia home was distant from the paternal 
 
 mansion, and great was her pride and joy when 
 11 
 
122 A Children s Party. 
 
 those fondly-beloved, juvenile sisters paid her their 
 first visit. She was in high glee at the obvious 
 propriety of giving a children's party. Accord- 
 ingly invitations were sent out in the most thought- 
 lessly liberal manner. Mrs. Sylvester's circle of 
 acquaintance chanced to be very extensive, and 
 the " little folks " of many households were bid- 
 den without any reference to age or number. 
 
 But though Mrs. Sylvester's social circle was 
 large, and her intentions vaguely grand, her house 
 was small, very small, a mere cottage, and where 
 she purposed to locate the children within doors, 
 she had no very definite idea. On one side of the 
 cottage there was a spacious dell-shaped garden, 
 Mrs. Sylvester's especial delight, and here the chil- 
 dren might ramble about, and play games and 
 make merry, and partake of refreshments until 
 evening drew nigh. 
 
 Mrs. Sylvester had literally ordered the house 
 to be " turned out of doors," to make room for the 
 youthful assemblage, and the apartments had been 
 ruthlessly dismantled of furniture. In the large 
 dining-room, (the only room by which the term 
 " large " could, by a stretch of courtesy, be ap- 
 plied,) a magic lantern was to be exhibited. Mrs. 
 Sylvester had procured this lantern from Paris for 
 the express amusement of her young friends, but 
 the lens being very powerful and designed for a 
 long hall, it played as appropriate a part in Mrs. 
 Sylvester's dining-room, as the Vicar of Wake- 
 field's family painting in his parsonage. 
 
A Children s Party. 123 
 
 It was early in May. The day for the much- 
 talked-of party came. The weather was magnifi- 
 cent. The cool, vernal air was laden with the per- 
 fume of opening blossoms, and the rays of the sun 
 were tempered by flying clouds. 
 
 When Mrs. Sylvester had finished her prepara- 
 tions, had plundered her own garden and the gar- 
 dens of her neighbors, to convert the cottage into 
 a bower of roses ; had seen that the magic lantern 
 was trimmed and the glasses in order, and had 
 profusely decked the supper-table, she sat down 
 and revelled in thought over the pleasure in store 
 for her. How lovely the children would look ! 
 With what gladsome feet they would bound over 
 the green turf and gravel walks ! How pleasant 
 it would be to hear their merry peals of laughter, 
 to watch their harmless gayety, and to feel that 
 they owed their innocent enjoyment to her ! 
 Surely those bright human flowers, in their rose- 
 colored, and violet, and lily-white raiment, would 
 adorn the garden with a living loveliness surpass- 
 ing all the floral beauty it had known before. 
 
 Five o'clock arrived. That was the hour at 
 which the tiny guests were bidden. The young 
 sisters were dressed and ready, and Mrs. Sylvester, 
 as she stood with one fair-featured little maiden on 
 either side of her, indulged in some gratified re- 
 flections relative to their unsurpassable sweetness 
 and beauty, which it would not have been good 
 taste to communicate to the mothers of the ex- 
 pected visitors. 
 
124 The Anticipations and Realities of 
 
 The hour had scarcely sounded when the first 
 carriage drew up, and the open windows revealed 
 closely packed, delighted faces within. Mrs. Syl- 
 vester received the children at the gate, introduced 
 them to her sisters, and, under the escort of the 
 latter, dispatched them to the garden. They had 
 taken but a few steps when another and another 
 carriage deposited its goodly load, and the little 
 sisters had to be recalled, and the ceremony of in- 
 troduction repeated. Again dismissed, they were 
 not half way to the bower in the centre of the gar- 
 den, before they were summoned back ; and this 
 happened again and again, until the children be- 
 gan to pour in with such torrent-like rapidity that 
 presentation was perforce abandoned. 
 
 Mrs. Sylvester was in raptures as she contem- 
 plated the groups of beaming faces around her. 
 The brows of some were encircled with chaplets 
 of natural flowers, and the bright ringlets beneath 
 were lustrous with the smoothing of a fond moth- 
 er's hand. Some children wore garlands fastened 
 from their shoulders, which gave a most pictu- 
 resque effect to white attire ; the waists of others 
 were girdled with fresh ivy, and their dresses 
 looped with opening buds ; others carried bou- 
 quets in their hands and on their bosoms. All 
 eyes were feasted upon flowers, and every breath 
 of air was redolent with delicious odors. The little 
 girls were graceful in the extreme, with that sweet 
 demeanor, blushingly modest yet not awkwardly 
 
A Children s Party. 125 
 
 shy, half timid, half composed, and altogether cap- 
 tivating, so peculiar to Virginia maidens. And 
 there was a dove-like softness in their clear eyes, 
 and the stamp of refinement upon their beauty, 
 which greatly heightened its charm. 
 
 A little later the boys arrived, of course not in 
 carriages, like their dainty, satin-slippered sisters. 
 They came as though in deputations, ten or twelve 
 together, to keep each other in countenance. 
 There was the decided look of " Young America 
 Fear Nothing " in the faces of these embryo states- 
 men and rulers of the land, an air which conveyed 
 the impression that they felt an invisible flag of 
 freedom eternally waving over their heads. Their 
 physiques were wonderfully fine, and their manners 
 characterized by that bold self-reliance and laugh- 
 ing scorn of the dominion of womanhood, which 
 ripens, in maturer years, into bravery, tenderness, 
 and chivalric protection. 
 
 Mrs. Sylvester felt somewhat less at ease when 
 these incipient politicians and lawgivers, of various 
 sizes and ages, hurried past her with a slight bow, 
 or an unconcerned shake of the hand, and congre- 
 gated together on one of the verdurous slopes of 
 the garden, apart from the girls yet overlooking 
 them, and Mrs. Sylvester nervously fancied, with 
 eyes that meditated mischief. But to this startling, 
 intrusive idea she would not give a moment's en- 
 tertainment. 
 
 The rush of boys continued, now and then 
 11* 
 
126 The Anticipations and Realities of 
 
 broken by a fresh arrival of young ladies, some- 
 what less infantine than the early comers, — among 
 those were babies in the arms of nurses. There 
 were at least a hundred children assembled, and 
 the human stream still flowed cottageward. 
 
 Mrs. Sylvester could not leave her post to start 
 the anticipated games, but she deputed some young 
 ladies to undertake this task, charging them to in- 
 vite the boys to join in the sports and mingle with 
 the girls. Task? It proved a task indeed; one 
 not to be accomplished by any feminine agency. 
 To engage in games with girls did not comport 
 with the precocious dignity of Young America. 
 The little maidens made several futile attempts at 
 " puss in the corner,'' and " tag," and " Mason and 
 Dixon's line," etc., but the crowd was too great, 
 and the games were hopelessly abandoned. 
 
 Mrs. Svlvester began to get agitated and con- 
 fused as she watched these failing efforts, from her 
 station at the gate ; but her attention was soon 
 taken off by new comers. 
 
 By and by, during a few moments' ebb in the 
 current, she turned her eyes again towards the 
 garden, that garden which she tended with so much 
 care, every tree, and shrub, and flower of which 
 she knew and loved. What a scene met her as- 
 tonished gaze ! Some of the boys had tied the 
 long grass, just ready for the scythe, into knots, 
 and, as the little damsels bounded unsuspiciously 
 over the turf, one after another stumbled and fell, 
 
A Children s Parti/. 127 
 
 rolling down the green slopes, staining their white 
 dresses, and scattering the rose-leaves from their 
 crushed garlands. Ah, lovely little maidens! when 
 you have wandered, with these very boys, out of 
 the gardens of childhood, happy are ye if they lay 
 no snares in your verdant pathway, to trip your 
 heedless feet, and shake the roses of hope and joy 
 from your brows ! 
 
 Another recreant band is bending down the 
 supple young fruit-trees, and swinging from the 
 branches, sending show T ers of tiny green apricots, 
 peaches, and pears through the air. 
 
 Another set is running and leaping over the 
 blossoming shrubs and bushy young trees. Some 
 boys clear them with wonderful bounds, some miss 
 the leap and fall into the midst of fig-trees and 
 young quince-trees, that give promise of much 
 fruit. That boy yonder, with the bright black 
 eyes, flashing through his elfin locks, has alighted 
 in the very centre of a beautiful pomegranate bush ; 
 another has tumbled into the outspread arms of a 
 splendid English bay, and an audible crashing of 
 branches accompanies the feat; a third, — no, he 
 clears that luxuriant crape-myrtle with marvellous 
 agility. It was hardly a leap ; his well-knit form 
 darted, flying through the air. High flights attend 
 that boy hereafter ! 
 
 But what are those two lawless urchins yonder, 
 doing ] Good gracious ! they are climbing up the 
 wire trellis that forms the sides of the summer- 
 
128 The Anticipations and Realities of 
 
 house, and in their ascent dragging away the jes- 
 samine, and rose, and honeysuckle vines with 
 which it is draped. What can they be seeking? 
 oh, horror! they are surely bent on reaching and 
 robbing the tiny bird-house, where four happy 
 wrens are brooding over their young. The male 
 birds are wildly flying over the heads of the mis- 
 chievous twain, uttering doleful prayers for mercy; 
 Mrs. Sylvester echoes their cries, as she deserts 
 her post and runs to their protection. She had 
 borne, with a sort of distracted patience, the loss 
 of the fruit, the destruction of favorite trees, the 
 trampling of bushes, but this threatened robbery 
 of the birds' nests broke the spell, and put forbear- 
 ance to flight. 
 
 The young rebels scrambled down, and took to 
 their heels as she approached, and their resonant 
 laughter was the only answer to her remon- 
 strances. 
 
 Then she rushed about, appealing to this boy 
 and to that, to spare the fruit, the trees, the shrubs, 
 the birds. They desisted for a moment, but their 
 sports were resumed the instant her back was 
 turned. She was growing dizzy and bewildered ; 
 the turbulent waves of boyhood were swelling up 
 around her, and threatened to bury, a thousand 
 fathoms deep, all her beautiful visions of child- 
 hood. But had she not wished that the children 
 would enjoy themselves 1 And these boys were 
 only enjoying themselves in the fashion most con- 
 genial to their sex. 
 
A Children's Party. 129 
 
 She overheard one merry imp whispering to 
 another, " Law me, Jim, aint Mrs. Sylvester in a 
 stew!" — not a very classic expression, but em- 
 phatically descriptive of her state, as her burning 
 cheeks and simmering eyeballs could testify. She 
 had fancifully compared the children in the gar- 
 den yonder, to flowers, and, carrying out the sim- 
 ile, she now felt herself to be a full blown, walk- 
 ing peony, with scarlet complexion and quivering 
 leaves. 
 
 The frightened girls, some bruised by their falls, 
 some with their dresses soiled and torn, some 
 with tears glistening in their sweet eyes, were 
 grouped together as far as possible from their piti- 
 less tormentors. What was to be done? The 
 spirit of mischief had been let loose, and could 
 only be trapped and put in bonds by some skilful 
 ruse. 
 
 Mrs. Sylvester, when a little presence of mind 
 returned, remembered that refreshments (in ac- 
 cordance with another of her romantic ideas,) were 
 to be handed about in the open air. This would 
 only aggravate existing evils ; but refreshments 
 might bait the trap to lure the young destroyers 
 out of their conquered territory. 
 
 She returned to the house, and sent a messenger 
 to say that cake and lemonade awaited the com- 
 pany within doors. What a rush of flying feet to- 
 wards the cottage followed that announcement! 
 But the stratagem had succeeded. The garden 
 
130 The Anticipations and Realities of 
 
 was empty, the hall and dining-room thronged in 
 a moment. All the boys were in advance, and 
 held the best positions to be served, for the little 
 girls had walked quietly, their arms around each 
 other's waists, and with steps that betrayed no in- 
 decorous haste. 
 
 The room was so crowded that it was hardly 
 possible for the servants to pass with their trays. 
 No need for them to make the attempt. They had 
 scarcely appeared with the cake and lemonade, 
 when the nearest boys charged upon them, and in 
 a moment, as if by magic, every cake had disap- 
 peared, every glass was drained. The waiters were 
 replenished again, and again, and again, but the 
 result was the same. The young gentlemen evi- 
 dently thought that the good things of this world 
 belonged by right to their lordly sex. 
 
 Mrs. Sylvester, in great excitement, now sent the 
 servants with their empty salvers from the apart- 
 ment, and, providing herself in the next room with 
 one large dish piled high with cakes, determined 
 to help the little girls herself. She innocently 
 imagined that gentle expostulations with the boys 
 would have some weight, — the cakes had more ! 
 In the sudden plunge of greedy, masculine hands, 
 the contents of the dish were sent flying through 
 the air, or emptied beneath her feet. Forcing a 
 laugh, a piteous, serio-comic laugh, that sounded 
 like the explosion of certain airy castles inhabited 
 by visionary children, she disappeared, filled the 
 
A Children s Party. 131 
 
 dish once more, and returned, holding it high above 
 her head. How her arm came down, she neither 
 saw nor knew ; but it was down, in a second, and 
 the dish cakeless in another. 
 
 Now there was a clamor for lemonade. Some 
 gallons had been exhausted, yet the cry rose on 
 every side, " Mrs. Sylvester, I've had no lemonade ! " 
 " I've had no lemonade ! " " Nor I ! " " Nor I ! " 
 « Nor I ! " 
 
 According to the general assertion nobody had 
 tasted lemonade, though so many gallons had disap- 
 peared. 
 
 Mrs. Sylvester, almost beside herself, employed 
 four persons to make lemonade as rapidly as eight 
 hands could squeeze lemons and crush sugar. 
 When a large stone jar of the beverage was full, 
 she undertook to serve the lemonade herself, en- 
 treating that the young ladies might be helped 
 first. 
 
 " So they ought to be. I want some for a girl ! " 
 shrieked Youug America. 
 
 " And so do I ! " 
 
 "And so do I!" 
 
 " And so do I, too, for a girl ! " was responded 
 on every side. 
 
 Mrs. Sylvester filled the glasses of these gallant 
 young men very full. They were emptied in a mo- 
 ment, and returned for more. And now the general 
 cry was, " This is for a girl ! " " This is for a girl ! " 
 and a brimming glass followed the words. 
 
132 The Anticipations and Realities of 
 
 Mrs. Sylvester involuntarily made the reflection 
 that the girls were singularly thirsty, for they im- 
 bibed the refreshing beverage even faster than the 
 boys. Just then she noticed some of the urchins 
 nudging each other, their eyes sparkling with mis- 
 chief, and she caught the sound of suppressed 
 giggling. Following the course of the next glass, 
 that she might see to what girl it was offered, she 
 beheld a young rogue carry it a few steps, then 
 turn his back to her, gulp down the contents, and 
 with the last swallow cry out, " for a girl ! more 
 for a girl ! " 
 
 The lemonade was exhausted, for the present, 
 but busy hands were concocting fresh gallons. 
 
 Meanwhile it was not dark enough for the magic- 
 lantern to be exhibited, and the young gentleman 
 who had amiably promised to assume the duties of 
 showman had not arrived. The lamp contained 
 camphene, or burning fluid, of which Mrs. Sylves- 
 ter had the greatest horror. But she must set aside 
 her idle fears, the lantern was the only resource 
 to save the garden from complete destruction. The 
 room must be darkened with blinds and sashes, and 
 the pictures displayed. 
 
 Tremblingly, doubtingly, nervously, and with the 
 conviction that she was vanquished by her liliputian 
 enemies, Mrs. Sylvester began the necessary prepa- 
 rations. She scanned the faces of the youths with 
 searching eyes, and then selected three or four of 
 the least boisterous boys, three or four who looked 
 
A Children s Party. 133 
 
 as though they would not be ashamed to lay their 
 heads upon a mother's or a sister's shoulder, and 
 confide their griefs or aspirations, and these boys 
 she requested to aid her. In fact she allowed 
 them to select the glasses and conduct the exhibi- 
 tion, while she devoted herself to keeping the lan- 
 tern steady and preventing the pressure of the 
 crowd from upsetting that frightful lamp, a calam- 
 ity momentarily threatened. 
 
 To bring benches into the room, as Mrs. Syl- 
 vester had intended, was quite out of the question. 
 The children must stand at the sides of the apart- 
 ment or sit upon the floor. The circle of light on 
 the sheet extending from the ceiling to the ground, 
 and the popping up of little heads, and the crowd- 
 ing and pressing into the centre of the room of 
 little figures, continually mingled dark shadows 
 with the bright colored pictures. In spite of this 
 blemish there was much clamorous laughter and 
 many exclamations of delight, but they failed to 
 communicate the faintest pleasure to the ears of 
 poor, weary Mrs. Sylvester. She was watching 
 the lamp, and trembling all over at an ominous 
 bubbling of the fluid, which she did not compre- 
 hend. Every moment she grew more uneasy, and 
 after about an hour and a half of terror for her 
 young guests, as well as herself, she suppressed a 
 number of glasses and informed the juvenile au- 
 dience that the exhibition was over. 
 
 What was to be done with the children until 
 12 
 
134 The Anticipations and Realities of 
 
 supper was ready ? The garden was free from 
 invasion, for it was quite dark, and Mrs. Sylvester, 
 when she looked out and saw there was no moon 
 rising, felt truly thankful. The crowd was too 
 dense within doors for games to be attempted. 
 Mrs. Sylvester was beginning to feel that this 
 horrible nightmare of children, weighing upon 
 her spirit, would never come to an end, when she 
 heard the notes of her piano. A friend, who to 
 Mrs. Sylvester's fevered imagination seemed as 
 though she had dropped from the clouds to her 
 rescue, just as she was completely conquered, had 
 struck up a dance. That was precisely what the 
 children desired. Their little feet were ready for 
 dancing ; besides, when a dance was in question, 
 the young gentlemen condescended to think that 
 girls were not altogether a nuisance. They did 
 very well for partners ! Alas ! how many of these 
 hereafter will choose partners, not companions ! 
 Sets were made up in the dining room, in the entry, 
 in the parlor, and Mrs. Sylvester, with a lightened 
 heart, left them gayly footing it to music while she 
 looked after supper. 
 
 She had provided, she th6ught, a bountiful sup- 
 ply of everything, but now her mind began to 
 misgive her, and she sent domestics in haste for 
 more ice cream, more oranges, more " pop kisses," 
 more everything, and " as much as they could 
 carry" was her vague and extravagant injunction. 
 
 An old family servant of color suggested that 
 
A Children 's Parti/. 135 
 
 all the doors of the supper room should be guard- 
 ed, save one, that he should stand at that, and 
 admit none but young ladies : this arrangement 
 was triumphantly carried into effect. The boys 
 clamored for admission in vain ; " Uncle Henry" 
 lectured them roundly, and almost fought them 
 back. The little girls were helped in peace, and 
 very merry and happy they looked. When " Un- 
 cle Henry " gave the order, they quietly made 
 their exit at one door and in rushed the boys at 
 the opposite ! 
 
 But we will spare Mrs. Sylvester's feelings, 
 should her eye ever fall upon this faithful narra- 
 tive, and, as the novelists say, " draw a veil over 
 that scene ! " We really believe Mrs. Sylvester was 
 weak enough to draw one, in the shape of a cam- 
 bric handkerchief, over her face ; and we know 
 she at that moment heartily repented all the un- 
 charitable words and thoughts of which she had 
 been guilty towards those mothers who groaned 
 under the weight of a too abundant supply of little 
 ones, and she came to the melancholy conclusion 
 that probably there was only one place in which 
 there could not be too many children congregated, 
 for their own perfect joy and the happiness of 
 others, and that was — heaven ! 
 
IT MIGHT BE WORSE. 
 
 ISHOP HALL said, " For every bad 
 there might be a worse ; and when a 
 man breaks his leg, let him be thankful it 
 is not his neck." Into what insignificance a mis- 
 fortune, we bewailed as unendurable, suddenly 
 sinks when compared with the crushing calamity 
 that desolates the home of a friend! The hill-fire, 
 whose far-shining signal light warns an army of 
 the approach of a foe, fades into a mere rush-candle 
 when contrasted with the angry jets of liquid flame 
 leaping from the heart of Vesuvius, and threaten- 
 ing incalculable destruction. Beauty is heightened 
 or eclipsed, size magnified or diminished, color 
 changed, sound altered, the sense of pain or pleas- 
 ure intensified or deadened, by contrast. 
 
 We were once forcibly struck by the philosophy 
 of a friend who had disciplined herself, whenever 
 she was assailed by a crowd of tantalizing vexa- 
 tions, or oppressive troubles, to compare her trials 
 with the severer affliction of some greater mourner, 
 and to ejaculate, mentally, " It might be worse ! 
 With that reflection came a sense of thankfulness 
 that she had been spared a superlative evil ; pa- 
 
 (136) 
 
It might be Worse. 137 
 
 tience and cheerfulness ensued, and she was pre- 
 served from falling into the common, egotistical 
 error of believing that the cross allotted to herself, 
 was heavier than that borne by any other shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 This friend was asked in what manner she first 
 contracted the above mentioned consoling habit; 
 in answer, she related the following anecdote : 
 
 Her early youth was rich in promised joys and 
 present blessings ; but to this hope-blossoming 
 calm, succeeded a sudden whirlwind of trials ; the 
 loss of fortune, the treachery of trusted friends, the 
 death-menacing illness of the nearest and dearest, 
 her own failing health, combined with the absolute 
 necessity of daily encountering severest toil. She 
 had been struggling with this accumulation of sor- 
 rows for a couple of years or more. She was 
 weary of her ceaseless exertions, dispirited, full of 
 repining, fearful of the future, thankless for the 
 past, and fully convinced that her fate in life was 
 the hardest ever apportioned to mortal. She had 
 become a total stranger to that happy philosophy 
 which 
 
 " bids the heart whose sun is low, to borrow 
 
 A smile upon the credit of a golden morrow. 1 ' 
 
 At this period she was sojourning in a western 
 city, to which her duties summoned her. There 
 she constantly visited a charming family, at whose 
 fireside Peace and Content seemed to have raised 
 
 12* 
 
138 It might be Worse. 
 
 indestructible altars. But our friend says the 
 sphere of joyous serenity by which that home was 
 pervaded, made her more impatient when she con- 
 trasted her own restless, wandering, unsatisfactory 
 life with the calm existence of that dwelling's in- 
 habitants. 
 
 The lovely children of the hostess became much 
 attached to this frequent guest. They flew to meet 
 her, like a flock of pigeons, whenever she came, 
 hung around her with a fondness that soothed her 
 aching heart, and prattled about her continually 
 in her absence. Several times, while she was 
 talking to these beloved little ones, she noticed, 
 half hidden by an open door, a figure that seemed 
 to be watching her. If she moved, to obtain a 
 nearer view, the form invariably disappeared. Day 
 after day her curiosity was excited by this myste- 
 rious presence. Politeness closed her lips, for it 
 was hardly possible that the mother and children 
 should not be aware of what she was so conscious. 
 Indeed, several times, when she had related some 
 hair-breadth escape encountered in her travels, a 
 low sound, like a murmur of sympathy, or a sup- 
 pressed groan, came from the direction of the con- 
 cealed shape. 
 
 At length, curiosity conquered our friend's sense 
 of courtesy, and one day she turned to her hostess 
 and said, " You know I am lamentably supersti- 
 tious, and at this very moment my imagination is 
 almost worked up into believing that there is some 
 
It might be Worse. 139 
 
 unearthly visitant near us. Do not think me very 
 rude, though I fear I am, but, pray, do tell me who 
 that is yonder ; I can just see the waving of a 
 white dress, and I have wondered over and over 
 again, to whom it belonged." 
 
 The words were hardly spoken when an excla- 
 mation of pain struck upon her ear, and the slen- 
 der form of a young girl, covering her face with 
 her hands, was distinctly seen hurrying away. 
 
 A dead silence ensued. The mother looked 
 deeply distressed, the children turned to her but 
 did not speak. 
 
 " Poor Ellen ! " at last she exclaimed, " what a 
 pity you have noticed her! She took so much 
 pleasure in listening to you and watching you." 
 
 "Ellen? Who is she? Is she one of the 
 family?" 
 
 " Yes ; my husband's daughter by his first mar- 
 riage, a young girl of sixteen. She — she is 
 an — " and the speaker hesitated and added in 
 a tone of tender pity, " an invalid, one sorely 
 afflicted." 
 
 " But will she not come into the room and be 
 introduced, if she cares to see me? I would like 
 to know her ; do ask her to come." 
 
 "No — she cannot — she would rather not — 
 it would not be possible to induce her," replied 
 the lady, with an embarrassed air. An instant 
 afterwards she turned the conversation. 
 
 At our friend's next visit, and the next, and the 
 
140 It might be Worse, 
 
 next, there was no dress floating to and fro be- 
 hind that door, no sound which betrayed an un- 
 seen listener. But this unknown Ellen was con- 
 stantly present to her imagination. Why did she 
 appear no more ? What was the mystery attached 
 to her 1 Why could she not be seen ? Tormented 
 by these interrogatories of a curious spirit, the vis- 
 itor ventured to ask her hostess how Ellen was. 
 
 " About the same," she replied, gravely ; " she 
 is not likely to be any better." 
 
 " Is her disease hopeless, then f " 
 
 " Yes, perfectly so ; " and she conversed on other 
 subjects. 
 
 A few days afterward the hall door chanced to 
 be open when our friend called, and she entered 
 the house without ringing or knocking. As she 
 appeared, a young girl fled along the entry and 
 rapidly mounted the stair. Surely the step was 
 not that of one enfeebled by a hopeless illness. 
 The form was very fragile, but did not lack a cer- 
 tain elastic grace. The face was partially covered 
 by a white bandage, leaving only the eyes and 
 brow visible. A pair of frightened blue eyes and 
 a low brow, over which the brown hair was care- 
 fully smoothed. Was this Ellen ? 
 
 The guest told her hostess of the accidental 
 meeting, and, taking courage, urged her to con- 
 fide the nature of Ellen's affliction to one who 
 already felt an indescribable interest in the youthful 
 recluse. With no little reluctance the lady com- 
 plied. 
 
It might be Worse. 141 
 
 Owing to the death of Ellen's mother, the child 
 was entrusted to a* wet nurse. This unprincipled 
 woman artfully concealed from the father and the 
 physician that she was a victim to scrofula. The 
 infant was a lovely, healthy little girl, of fine 
 promise ; but the milk by which she was nourished, 
 diseased, poisoned her blood. Its effects culmi- 
 nated when she reached her fourteenth year. 
 Just at the age when a young maiden begins to 
 value her personal appearance, the venom imbibed 
 in infancy developed itself in a cancer in the nose, 
 an affection of the throat which impaired her 
 speech, and a disease of the eyes which threatened 
 blindness. Her sufferings were intense beyond 
 description. She was forced to submit to the most 
 torturing medical, treatment, and after a time the 
 disease was in a measure checked. Her sight was 
 restored, her throat better ; but the palate had been 
 completely destroyed, and her voice had a guttural, 
 discordant sound ; her nose was partly eaten away ; 
 and the disfigurement of her whole countenance 
 so shocking, that she was hardly recognizable. It 
 might well make the beholder think, with a shud- 
 der, of the story of Acco, (of classic memory,) 
 who went mad when she viewed her own hideous- 
 ness in a looking-glass, and almost fear that the 
 same fate misdit befall Ellen. 
 
 She lived in total seclusion ; she fled from stran- 
 gers, and had a mortal horror of any eye resting 
 upon her ; and if she w r ent into the street, she was 
 so closely veiled that she could scarcely breathe. 
 
142 It might be Worse. 
 
 She heard her young sisters describing enjoy- 
 ments which she could never share. She saw 
 them grow in beauty, while her lamentable de- 
 formity increased. She was morbidly sensitive to 
 her own condition, and keenly felt the irremediable 
 blight that had fallen upon her whole existence. 
 
 The constant prattling of the children about 
 their favorite guest had awakened Ellen's interest, 
 aod she so earnestly longed to see her, that, at last, 
 with their connivance, she had stolen from her re- 
 tirement, and concealed herself behind a door of 
 the drawing-room, to hear and see unperceived. 
 
 After listening to this piteous story, our friend 
 warmly entreated that she might be allowed to 
 make Ellen's acquaintance, might behold and con- 
 verse with her. The poor sufferer was with diffi- 
 culty persuaded to grant this request, but at length 
 she was led into the room by her tender and de- 
 voted step-mother, who placed Ellen's hand in that 
 of the stranger. 
 
 Oh ! what a terrible revealing of the possible 
 miseries to which humanity may be exposed, was 
 this young girl's history to that stranger ! 
 
 Ellen's mercurial temperament heightened her 
 affliction. She had quick sensibilities, ardent en- 
 thusiasm, a strong desire to love and be loved, 
 to mingle with her fellow-beings, to shine, to en- 
 joy, and yet life's commonest gifts to humanity, 
 were all denied her ! Still she was not wholly 
 miserable. The seeds of piety, early inseminated 
 
It might be Worse. 143 
 
 in her mind, sprang up and bore fruit which nour- 
 ished her spirit, and prevented the mental starva- 
 tion of utter despair. 
 
 And one happiness at last was granted her ; one 
 unhoped-for friendship became hers. She quickly 
 formed a strong, an almost idolizing, attachment to 
 the stranger, whose visits to the house were hence- 
 forth especially her own. When Ellen and her 
 new friend were compelled to part, the wretched 
 girl threw herself into that friend's arms, sobbing 
 violently, and caught the hand lifted to dry her 
 tears, and placed upon it a ring of gold, with a 
 heart in the centre, saying, * ; Oh ! look at it often. 
 Think of me often ! often ! often ! " 
 
 It was strange to hear that harsh, hollow voice, 
 tremulous with emotion, and uttering such touching 
 words, strange to see the dim, restless eyes so full 
 of love and tears. 
 
 Think of her often ! Who could have forgotten 
 her "? The whole life of the being, on whose hand 
 that ring had been placed, was changed by her 
 intercourse with this stricken girl. As she gazed 
 upon the simple token, she said to herself again 
 and again, "Ellen! Ellen! what are my sorrows, 
 contrasted with yours ? W T hat are my sufferings, 
 sacrifices, privations, compared to the dreary blank 
 of your joyless existence I I will never dare to re- 
 pine or rebel again ! When I think of Ellen, I 
 will always remember how much worse my trials 
 might have been ! " 
 
144 It might be Worse. 
 
 Ellen's devotion to her friend strengthened even 
 until the hour of her death, which took place some 
 years later. They corresponded faithfully, and in 
 her letters Ellen poured out her full heart. After 
 the lapse of a few years, they met once more. The 
 storms had blown over the head of one, time had 
 soothed some of her sorrows, success had rewarded 
 her exertions, many a wound had healed, and many 
 a broken link of friendship had been re-united ; 
 but the unmitigated gloom that surrounded Ellen 
 was imprevious to a single ray of joy. She grew 
 feebler and feebler, her sufferings and her disfig- 
 urement increased, until the one joyful hour when 
 her Master bade her fling off the poor, mangled, 
 earthly garment of her soul and stand before his 
 presence, robed in the eternal loveliness of her 
 pain-purified spirit. 
 
 Her memory was greenly preserved in the heart 
 of her friend, the thought of Ellen blunted the 
 sting of many an arrow, lifted the weight from 
 many a burden, and taught her, with each new 
 trouble, to reflect, " It might be worse ! " 
 
TOO GOOD A HOUSEWIFE. 
 
 ,HAT a lovely looking bride was Khoda 
 Fielding ! What a spring-like aspect 
 she had ! What an embodiment of 
 bloom and freshness she seemed ! That round, 
 smooth face, tinted like an apple blossom, that 
 furrowless brow, (somewhat too low and narrow, 
 but redeemed by rich clusters of chestnut curls,) 
 those cloudless eyes and velvety lips, theirs was the 
 beauty of untried youth ; beaute du diable, as it is too 
 expressively called by the French. Then Rhoda 
 was so artless, so frank-hearted, so unsophisticated ! 
 just what Edmund Fielding most admired in woman- 
 hood. Charmed by the glittering surface of the 
 stream it was but natural that he never dived be- 
 neath, to note what shells, or pebbles, lay within 
 its channel, ready to be cast up by the surging tide 
 of matrimony. He had yearned for the first, pure, 
 uncalculating affection of a guileless maiden, and 
 that he had won. A man of cultivated mind and 
 highly intellectual tastes, he expected to find in his 
 youthful wife a plastic, genial and appreciating 
 companion ; but whether Rhoda's mental attributes, 
 
 13 (145) 
 
146 Too Good a Housewife. 
 
 and the precepts instilled by a very ordinary mother, 
 had fitted her for such companionship were ques- 
 tions never asked. That mother had but one 
 distinguishing characteristic, she was a thrifty and 
 notable housewife ; in all other respects the term 
 " common-place " described her so fully that her 
 portrait can demand no additional touches. 
 
 Rhoda was flattered by Mr. Fielding's election, 
 she admired his tall and handsome person, she 
 was proud of his acquirements, and the slight touch 
 of awe with which his stately manners, and evident 
 superiority, inspired her, only heightened her affec- 
 tion ; for, womanlike, her heart was stirred by an 
 irresistible impulse to look up fondly to what was 
 higher than herself, to love what she could lean 
 upon as stronger and cling to as worthier. 
 
 The newly married pair were starting on their 
 wedding tour as I bade them adieu. Four years 
 rolled on before we met again. 
 
 Rhoda was now the mistress of an imposing 
 mansion, pleasantly located in one of our largest 
 Northern cities. The drawing room which I en- 
 tered, to await her appearance, had an air of cold 
 luxury, rather than of habitable comfort. Costly 
 chairs and sofas stood primly ranged against the 
 walls, looking as though they forbade you to stir 
 them. A few albums and show-books were laid, 
 in a set way, upon the centre table, but no volume 
 that appeared as though it were ever read, was 
 visible. Though I had called at the usual visiting 
 
Too Good a Housewife. 147 
 
 hour, sometime elapsed before Rhoda ascended 
 from the lower domestic regions, where she had 
 been occupied by her menage. 
 
 She saluted me with " I'm right glad to see you ! 
 I was so busy, but I didn't mind being interrupted 
 by you ! " 
 
 This assurance rather discomposed me, for it 
 suggested a doubt which would not otherwise have 
 intruded itselfinto my mind. 
 
 Ehoda ran on : " This housekeeping takes up so 
 much time, you know; and I always look after 
 things myself." 
 
 I placed in her hand a bouquet of fragrant, 
 freshly gathered flowers. 
 
 " You're very good," she said, taking them in a 
 half careless, half reluctant manner. There was 
 no expression of pleasure in her tone, and her 
 doubtful look at the floral offering communicated a 
 secret misgiving that, had not politeness withheld 
 her, she would have flung the odorous blossoms 
 out of the window. She fidgeted a moment, then 
 rose hastily, and, with considerable bustle, pro- 
 cured a glass of water, remarking as she inserted 
 the stems, " I don't usually allow flowers in this 
 room ; they're such untidy things, they drop about 
 so, and make such a litter." . 
 
 As she spoke she carefully gathered up the fallen 
 leaves of a full-blown damask rose, and threw them 
 into the street, with an action which seemed to say, 
 " unclean ! " Her mien impressed me with a fear 
 
148 Too Good a Housewife. 
 
 that even thus, through over solicitude, she had 
 cast the flowers of her life away, and left the bare 
 stalk of utility unadorned by foliage of taste, or 
 bloom of beauty. There was a working-day air 
 about her too strongly en evidence. Her dress was 
 simple and serviceable, but it lacked the tasteful- 
 ness which makes simplicity charming. Her hair 
 was neatly arranged, but becomingness evidently 
 had not been taken into consideration. With the 
 freshness of her countenance much of its loveli- 
 ness had passed away ; what remained was obscured 
 by total disregard of accordant colors and graceful 
 arrangement of drapery. Her olden look of frank 
 inexperience was displaced by a careworn, fussy 
 expression. Her buoyancy had changed to restless- 
 ness. You saw at once that she magnified the 
 most insignificant mole hills in her path into moun- 
 tains of trial, and, veritably, had become a female 
 Don Quixote in battling with domestic wind- 
 mills. 
 
 Just as she seated herself once more beside me, 
 the loud yell of an infantine voice made her start 
 up and exclaim " That's Jim ! he has knocked his 
 head again ! he's always knocking that dreadful 
 head of his. He'll be the death of me ! " and she 
 rushed out of the room. 
 
 By and by, she returned, dragging after her a 
 robust little boy, whose shining face and moist hair 
 testified to a recent hurried ablution. 
 
 " I told you Jim had knocked his head, he's al- 
 
Too Good a Housewife. 149 
 
 ways knocking his head, or cutting his fingers, or 
 lighting papers in the fire and nearly burning him- 
 self and his little sister up ! I never get a mo- 
 ment's peace with the two ! " 
 
 "Have you no nurse then] " I asked. 
 
 " Oh, of course, I've a nurse ; but I've no faith 
 in servants, I never trust them ; as to their having 
 any idea of responsibility, it's out of the ques- 
 tion ! " 
 
 As she spoke, a neat-looking Irish girl, appeared 
 at the door, and said, t; Baby's awake, ma'am ; may 
 I take her up ? " 
 
 " No, don't touch her ! " answered Khoda, almost 
 fiercely ; " I'll see to her myself. Excuse me a 
 moment ; " and off she flew again, with Master 
 Jim making desperate plunges at her gown, and 
 roaring lustily as he pursued her. 
 
 The interval that now elapsed seemed very long. 
 I earnestly desired to have a pleasant chat with 
 Ehoda, to ask her numberless questions about her- 
 self, her husband, and our mutual friends, but the 
 object of my visit seemed likely to be frustrated. 
 At last Hhoda reappeared with a plump, cherry- 
 cheeked little girl in her arms. She did not ex- 
 hibit "baby" with that proud maternal delight 
 which it is always beautiful to witness, but as 
 though she felt overwhelmed by the cares and 
 troubles of motherhood, and quite unconscious of 
 its joys. She told me what dreadful nights she 
 passed with her infants, she recounted all the hor- 
 
 13* 
 
150 Too Good a Housewife. 
 
 rors of teeth-cutting, described the numerous in- 
 fantine diseases by which the young ones had been 
 attacked (illustrating the effects of various treat- 
 ment by biographical anecdotes) ; related what 
 difficulties she encountered in keeping the scape- 
 graces tidily dressed ; mourned over their unrea- 
 sonable proclivity to soil bibs and tear frocks, and 
 lamented their unnatural partiality for dirty hands 
 and daubed faces. 
 
 The history of her nursery grievances had 
 evidently not reached its climax, when Master Jim 
 rushed into the room bawling out, " Ma, cook says 
 she wants more butter for the pudding, and she 
 wants you to know the coal's nearly out ! " 
 
 "Dear me! dear me! how annoying!" ejacu- 
 lated Rhoda, with a face as full of distress as if 
 she had heard of some actual calamity. " What 
 cart loads of butter that cook uses ! And what a 
 quantity of coal she burns ! I'm always talking to 
 her about her fire ! It's blazing hot, I warrant, at 
 this blessed moment. You must excuse me a mo- 
 ment ; I'm glad to see an old friend, you know, but 
 household matters must be looked after ; business, 
 as the men say, business before pleasure. I'll be 
 back in a minute." 
 
 Away she went once more, and I heard her 
 calling to the nurse to relieve her of the baby. A 
 loud shrieking announced when the exchange was 
 made, and that was followed by the vigorous ex- 
 ercise of somewhat older lungs. Master Jim must 
 
Too Good a Housewife. 151 
 
 have again indulged in that constitutional pro- 
 pensity for knocking his head. Then I could dis- 
 tinguish Rhoda's voice pitched in a high key, it 
 sounded very like scolding ; and how shrill that 
 voice had grown ! It was positively discordant, 
 and once we all used to think it so sweet ! Another, 
 longer interval ensued, and then Rhoda entered 
 the room once more ; panting from her exertions. 
 She was in the act of putting her purse, pencil and 
 tablets in her pocket. 
 
 " You see I put down everything I spend," she 
 began, without apologizing for her absence, " and 
 such a time as it takes me ! What with the chil- 
 dren, and the servants, and the housekeeping, I've 
 enough to do ; I get no time to myself! " 
 
 " Not even to read a little, now and then," I 
 ventured to suggest. 
 
 " Oh, dear, no ! I never get a chance to open a 
 book. Edmund does all the reading. He com- 
 plains bitterly that I don't keep up with the litera- 
 ture of the day ; men are so unreasonable, you 
 know ; as if I had time for literature with a house, 
 and four servants, and two children ! " 
 
 " But might he not read to you in the eve- 
 ning? " 
 
 " That's just what he proposed, but I'm called 
 out of the room so often, it interrupts him, and 
 makes him nervous ; and then I've so much cut- 
 ting out and planning to do, besides sewing, that I 
 can't listen. Then Edmund's always plaguing me 
 
152 Too Good a Housewife. 
 
 to go with him and hear some lecturer, or go to a 
 concert, or somewhere or other ; but it's quite out 
 of the question, I can't spare the time. But he 
 can't understand it ; you know, men never have 
 any thought ! He says he wishes I'd hire another 
 servant and so be able to go out with him, now and 
 then. Isn't he unreasonable ] As if I hadn't 
 servants enough to plague me. Then, you know, 
 men are so selfish. Would you believe it? while 
 I'm slaving at home, he actually goes to places of 
 amusement without me, and says he needs recrea- 
 tion ! But the idea of tormenting me to engage 
 another servant ! Why, do you know my Kate 
 and Martha both have 'followers,' and I had to go 
 down yesterday evening and turn the men out of 
 the kitchen ! Of course, these ' followers ' get 
 their suppers here, and that's the reason there's 
 always so little cold turkey left, and the hams don't 
 last longer." 
 
 Rhoda rattled on in the same strain as long as 
 my visit lasted ; the rule and guardianship of her 
 house and children wholly engrossed her mind, ab- 
 sorbed all her ideas. I talked to her of our old 
 friends. She had not seen them, she had no time 
 to visit. I related what had occurred to this one 
 and that. She scarcely listened to the information. 
 I spoke of music of which she was once so fond ; 
 her sweet singing Mr. Fielding had especially ad- 
 mired ; she had quite given up music, she said ; she 
 never sang except to put the children to sleep. I 
 
Too Good a Housewife. 153 
 
 tried to turn the conversation to the topics of the 
 day ; Ehoda might as well have lived in Kamtchatka, 
 for all she knew about them. I sought for subject 
 after subject that might interest her, but with no 
 success. Her thoughts could not wander out of 
 the little, narrow sphere of her household, and yet 
 only dwelt upon its vexations, not its blessings ; its 
 responsibilities, not its comforts. 
 
 Other visits brought but a repetition of the in- 
 cidents of this. I saw Mr. Fielding, he looked 
 dissatisfied, desponding, disheartened. The instant 
 he entered the house, Ehoda invariably poured into 
 his ears a long history of her domestic " bothers," 
 made up of complaints about the smallness of the 
 loaves brought by the baker ; suspicions that the 
 butcher cheated ; discoveries that the cook sold the 
 dripping ; vexations at the breakage of china ; 
 followed by a minute account of the misdemeanors 
 of the servants ; the naughtiness of the children ; 
 the accidents they had met during the day ; (the 
 number of knocks received by Master Jim's head 
 being religiously counted ;) and Rhoda's own fears 
 for their health and morals. If, after a series of 
 patient and considerate replies, her husband ven- 
 tured to introduce other topics, she charged him with 
 want of feeling and a disregard of her troubles ; 
 or else paid no attention to what he was saying. 
 She met his entreaties that she would walk out 
 with him, by saying that she -had shopping to do, 
 and would go if he would promise to be very patient. 
 
154 Too Good a Housewife. 
 
 The walk only extended half a mile down Broad- 
 way, yet it consumed three hours, chiefly passed 
 in shops. 
 
 Marriage had been a bitter disappointment to 
 Mr. Fielding. He had looked for a companion, 
 and found a housekeeper and nursery-maid. 
 Hhoda could not comprehend that he needed the 
 society of one who could sympathize with and ap- 
 preciate him, and that men demand appreciation 
 almost more than they desire affection. She be- 
 lieved herself very thoughtful of his well being, 
 and honestly considered that she discharged her 
 whole duty towards him by keeping his house in 
 order (no matter through what scuffling and scram- 
 bling), by superintending the cooking of his meals ; 
 and being irreproachable on the linen, button, and 
 stocking question. 
 
 As a natural sequence of his mistake, Mr. 
 Fielding will, in time, seek his pleasures away 
 from his home, and grow more and more indepen- 
 dent of his wife's society. She will feel herself 
 neglected, and join that large band of female rai- 
 lers who denounce matrimony, and bemoan the 
 miserable fate of wives in general, and their own 
 destiny in particular. And should she be asked 
 the reason for this change in her husband's senti- 
 ments towards her, she would probably answer, 
 with the air of an injured saint, that it was all be- 
 cause she was "too good a housewife ! " 
 
THE FIRST GRAY HAIR. 
 
 FEEL that I am growing old for want 
 of somebody to tell me that I am looking 
 as young as ever. Charming falsehood ! 
 There is a vast deal of vital air in loving words." 
 This was the passage that Millicent Beauregard 
 read from Landor. Her eyes wandered off the 
 volume, and a troubled look stole over their Juno- 
 like irids. Her delicate, white hand was pressed 
 upon the open page, and the faintest contraction, 
 the merest soupgon of a frown shadowed her ample 
 brow. Some chord of sympathy with the writer 
 was touched, and its vibration started a train of 
 unwonted reflections. 
 
 u Growing old ! " when was that sound musical 
 to the ears of womanhood'? Millicent could not, 
 even by a stretch of courtesy, be called " young," 
 nor in her " full bloom," yet we have some scru- 
 ples about proclaiming the exact date of her birth- 
 day. She had long passed the season when the 
 transient blossoms of an American woman's spring- 
 time wither, and the briefly expanded rose leaves 
 of her summer fall. Yet Millicent possessed so 
 
 (155) 
 
156 The First Gray Hair. 
 
 large a store of internal freshness and buoyancy, 
 her mental powers evinced so little decadence, — 
 Time had dealt so leniently with her face and form, 
 she was so wonderfully bien conserves, that the 
 inevitable necessity of t; growing old," and — far 
 worse — of looking old, had not intruded itself 
 upon her contemplation. Yet, even by the poet's 
 measurement of existence, which says : 
 
 "We live in deeds, not vears — in thoughts, not breaths — 
 In feelings, not in figures on the dial. 
 We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives 
 Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best I " 
 
 And counting her life by its events, emotions, 
 actions, by what she had suffered, enjoyed, endured, 
 achieved, it had not been short ; for hers was not 
 one of those empty, passive, purposeless lives that 
 glide on from youth to age without leaving land- 
 marks on the road, to warn or guide others who 
 may pass that way. 
 
 " Growing old for want of somebody to tell me 
 that I am looking as young as ever ! " wrote 
 Landor. ''Looking as young as ever!" sighed 
 Millicent ; " why that was once a familiar greet- 
 ing to my ears ; and Landor is right, truly : its 
 flattery was rejuvenating. But, methinks, no one 
 has told me, of late, that I am ' looking as young 
 as ever.' Was it a mere chance omission, or 
 am I " 
 
 She broke off abruptly, and stifled a half sigh, 
 
The First Gray Hair. 157 
 
 that crushed, in its turn, a rising regret. What 
 said the reflecting truth-teller yonder'? She closed 
 the book, walked up to the large mirror that stood 
 between the windows of her chamber, and scanned 
 her own countenance with uncompromising earn- 
 estness, resolved to detect every footprint years 
 had left in their journey. Those cheeks, she re- 
 membered when their dimpled fulness was suffused 
 with a soft auroral tint. Now their hue was that 
 of a rose pressed in a book, their roundness was 
 gone, their dimples had deteriorated into some- 
 thing which was a near approach to wrinkles. 
 The eyes, they had lost their brilliancy, had sunken 
 strangely, and what dark rings encircled them ! 
 There were lines, light but distinct, stretching 
 across the brow, curving softly about r the mouth, 
 and more sharply around the eyes. Suddenly the 
 vision of the furrowless countenance that glass 
 once mirrored rose before her. The same visage, 
 but in its girlhood, a fair, unwritten page. 
 
 It is not upon the smooth, blank scroll of stori- 
 less youth that we ever find the highest, most 
 eloquent loveliness. As mind and heart develop 
 and mature, feelings and thoughts chronicle their 
 histories upon the countenance, and give new play 
 and more varied expression to the features ; lines 
 of beauty may be read that were not visible before, 
 a past is traced upon the face as well as a present ; 
 
 often a poem is inscribed there in the most touch- 
 u 
 
158 The First Gray Hair. 
 
 ing characters with which poetry was ever re- 
 corded. 
 
 But Millicent made no such reflection, she saw 
 what lustre her countenance had lost, not what 
 charms it had gained ; and though she was more 
 free from vanity than handsome women in general, 
 she had womanly weakness enough to be shocked 
 at the sudden discovery. 
 
 Almost involuntarily she lifted the comb that 
 fastened her hair ; it fell around her in luxuriant 
 masses of shining darkness. It had always been 
 one of her especial beauties, praised by lovers and 
 sung by poets ; how could she help smiling to see 
 its length, abundance, hue unchanged? She took 
 up the comb that was lying temptingly upon the 
 toilette, and drew it musingly through one long 
 tress that swept over her shoulder. What glittejs 
 so brightly from out the glossy blackness? A 
 single thread gleams whitely through the whole 
 length of the lock, a thread of silver, yes, dis- 
 tinctly, unmistakably silver, a gray hair, the first 
 gray hair ! Millicent drew it out slowly, thought- 
 fully, shall we dare to say sadly 1 
 
 Unwelcome monitor ! It spoke of decay, of the 
 wearing out and crumbling to dust of this mortal 
 frame ! But that sorrowful voice only proceeded 
 from the unillumined depths of this lower sphere ; 
 a more melodious tone sounded higher up and told 
 of the exchange of that perishable form for one 
 befitting the changeless youth of eternity, and 
 
The First Gray Hair. 159 
 
 bade her remember that death was but a grander 
 development of life. 
 
 Millicent's existence was affluent in blessings, 
 she was not weary of the world in which she had 
 filled a useful, happy, and honorable place. Wind- 
 ing the silver thread about her finger she sank 
 into the chair where she had sat while reading, 
 and was soon lost in a deep reverie. 
 
 Was she indeed " growing old ? " Yes, here 
 was a gray hair, at last! Women ten, fifteen, 
 twenty years her junior, had sighed over their 
 whitening locks, while upon her favored head no 
 winter had left its trace of snow, here was the first, 
 faint track! She, too, was "growing old," then! 
 Granted! And, after all, why should the knowl- 
 edge cause her such a pang? It was only the 
 first spasmodic shock, imparted by the recognition 
 of the fact, which it was hard to bear. 
 
 What if age was slowly stealing upon her, had 
 not. her existence been enriched by the "honor, 
 love, obedience, troops of friends," which Shaks- 
 peare tells us should be ours when our " May of 
 life falls into the sere and yellow leaf." Was 
 there not truth in the words of the philosopher 
 who declared that a woman of really noble attri- 
 butes resembles a viol which gains softness and 
 mellowness of tone with years'? Had not each 
 year, that stole a portion of her youth away, left 
 some more valuable gift in its place ? 
 
 Was there not a vast store of precious images 
 
160 The First Gray Hair. 
 
 garnered up in the treasury of her heart? Had 
 she not found pleasure in pondering upon their 
 beauty ? Did she not delight in dreaming over the 
 past, which memory always chronicled in poetry ? 
 Did she not find profit in looking back upon the 
 steps she had taken, and in noting whither each 
 one led, and thus in recounting to herself (haply, 
 now and then, to others) the story of her own life? 
 
 Was it not a happiness to have watched the 
 working out of the great ends which sprung from 
 causes that once appeared to her so mysterious? 
 to have seen the completed painting of pictures 
 which she never imagined could grow out of those 
 tints on the palette of life ? to have beheld the 
 perfected embroidery on the tapestry of existence, 
 over which she had marvelled during its incom- 
 pletion, never divining from the groundwork of 
 inharmonious threads, what noble design could be 
 wrought? 
 
 And, heart-warming reflection ! with every year 
 had not her sphere of love grown wider ? Had not 
 her affections radiated further out from herself? 
 Had not her interests in others been more extended 
 and more hopeful? Then too, had she not more ties 
 in that better land to which many of her beloved 
 ones had led the way, ties that linked her to that 
 world as the loved who remained attached her to 
 this, until she felt that she had a home in both, 
 and dear ones awaited her there as here ! 
 
 Next came the startling query, which all shall be 
 
The First Gray Hair. 161 
 
 asked ; " What use hast thou made of thy time % " 
 Millicent pondered upon the work she had been 
 made an instrument to accomplish ; she was not 
 content with its amount, though others might have 
 deemed it large. She sighed over her own insuffi- 
 ciency, over the good she might have done which 
 she had left undone, over precious hours wasted 
 and golden opportunities neglected. And now 
 she was " growing old ! " " Growing old ! " What 
 then ] Age ought to bring wisdom that would teach 
 her soul larger movements, and give it more glori- 
 ous fruition. There was time for nobler toil ere 
 God measured the task. That would not be, 
 
 Until the day's out, and the labor done ! 
 
 If Millicent could have seen the expression of 
 her own face, sublimed by holy aspiration, she 
 would have known that there was an imperishable 
 beauty which takes the place of the soft bloom, 
 the brilliant tints, the smoothness and roundness 
 which time destroys ; a beauty that will clothe the 
 spirit with eternal youth in the life to come. 
 
 Millicent still sat thoughtfully winding the long, 
 shining hair about her finger, and smiling at the 
 passing dread that had seized her, at the startling 
 discovery that she might be ci growing old." 
 
 " Why, what an idle bugbear," she exclaimed, 
 " we make of years ! With what silly horror we 
 shrink from the thought of blanched locks ! If they 
 are only white records of white deeds, the ' silver 
 
 14* 
 
162 The First Gray Hair. 
 
 crown of age ' should be deemed more beautiful 
 than ' the golden circlet of youth/ True, Vanity 
 cries out against gray hair, but that is simply be- 
 cause she is ignorant. Nature (from whom art 
 learnt all her beautifying secrets) sent the snowy 
 frame to soften faces which have been despoiled of 
 their fresh coloring, and to render their losses less 
 apparent. We have heard Landor's groan over 
 ' growing old,' but if I mistake not, there is a more 
 consolatory voice breathing from some healthier 
 pages at hand." 
 
 She approached a small hanging library, filled 
 with choice volumes, her favorite text books, 
 selected Hillard's " Italy," and, after a rapid turn- 
 ing over of leaves, redolent with the fragrant 
 memories of that "land of the sun," read aloud 
 " growing old seems to depend much upon the 
 temperament, and somewhat upon the will. With 
 an active mind and warm heart all that is dark and 
 unlovely in age may be kept off very long, if not 
 to the end." 
 
 "To the end — ay — to the end — so shall it 
 be!" responded Millicent, replacing the volume, 
 while an expression of serene satisfaction played 
 over her fine features, a look which strongly con- 
 trasted with the troubled shadow that obscured 
 their beauty when that wail of Landor's set her 
 musing. 
 
CHARADES, 
 
 HE amusement of acting charades has long 
 been popular in Europe, and is becoming 
 more and more in vogue among young 
 people in this country. The dialogue is sometimes 
 improvised, but, when it is written and committed 
 to memory, the performance is much smoother and 
 more entertaining. Each syllable of the word, 
 chosen to be divined, should compose the subject 
 of one scene, and the whole word the subject of the 
 closing scene. 
 
 The answer to the following charade, written for 
 some young friends who delight in these evening 
 games, is a word of three syllables. 
 
 ACTING CHARADE — IN FOUR SCENES. 
 
 SCENE I — (FIRST SYLLABLE.) 
 
 Madam Dishuplivre, . . . . A travelling authoress. 
 
 PenPoint, Her Secretary. 
 
 Bessie Blooming, A chambermaid. 
 
 Scene — Hotel on Long Island. 
 
 (Enter Bessie, ushering in Madam Dishuplivre, followed by Penpoint. 
 Madam D. is attired in a fantastic travelling-dress. Penpoint os- 
 tentatiously carries open tablets of an extraordinary size. 
 (163) 
 
164 Charades. 
 
 Bessie. Best hotel on the Island, Marm, — every 
 recommendation one can desire. Take a seat, do 
 take a seat, Marm, and make yourself at home. 
 Delighted to wait on you. 
 
 Madam Dishuplivre. — What intolerable forward- 
 ness ! Why, the girl has quite an air of equality ! 
 But I suppose similar specimens are scattered over 
 this American hemisphere by way of placards to 
 show that it's a " land of liberty." Liberties enough 
 they take, I perceive. u Best hotel on the Island ? " 
 Hotel ! It's a positive profanation of the word. 
 Oh ! the horrors of travelling ; that plus triste des 
 amusemens, as Madame de St'ael calls it. But hor- 
 rors pay, that's one consolation ; they make one's 
 book sell. Surely no one would have the courage 
 to contemplate travelling in America, but for the 
 sake of writing a book. Penpoint, write that I 
 was strongly urged by a barmaid, in a hotel of the 
 highest standing, to take a seat and make myself 
 at home. 
 
 Penpoint (writing.) — Yes, Madam and would it 
 not be well to add that she sat down first in the 
 hope of putting you at your ease, by setting the 
 example 1 A little innocent coloring, you know, 
 is necessary to give brilliancy to the picture. 
 
 Madam D. — Excellent! Penpoint, excellent! 
 You are an invaluable scribe. But this keen sea 
 breeze has had quite an awakening effect upon my 
 appetite. What have you got in the house, child, 
 that can be quickly served up \ 
 
Charades. 165 
 
 Bessie. — A power of good things, Marm. It's 
 mighty fortunate the clam man's just been by, and 
 left some whopping clams, and fine, fat eels ; first- 
 rate eels ! 
 
 Madam I). — Eels ? Eels ? Slimy, squirming 
 eels? I writhe at the thought! I am mentally 
 skinned ! Penpoint, write that in the first Ameri- 
 can hotels, no food can be procured but eels, twirl- 
 ing, writhing eels ! 
 
 Penpoint (writing). — Nothing — but — live eels — 
 for — food. Shall I not make some distant allu- 
 sion to snakes at the same time ? I hear there are 
 plenty of garter-snakes hereabouts. I've no doubt 
 some of the eels will prove cooked-up snakes. 
 Shan't I add snakes ? They are a decided improve- 
 ment upon eels. 
 
 Madam D. — By all means. I am perfectly 
 certain that snakes will be offered to us. 
 
 Bessie. — What rooms do you want, Marm ? 
 Missus is very flustered, helping with dinner at 
 this hour, but I'll take your orders. You can have 
 all the conveniences in the world here. Nothing 
 to equal them, no, not for forty miles round ! 
 
 Madam D. — Don't talk so fast, child, you stun 
 me with your clatter. Penpoint, write that all 
 American women speak with the rapidity of steam- 
 locomotives. (Penpoint writes.) 
 
 Bessie (aside). — Speak so fast, indeed ! As if a 
 body can't speak to suit one's-self ! But I suppose 
 they've never been in these parts before, and don't 
 
166 Charades. 
 
 know no better. I'll excuse them. It's no use 
 being spiteful with ignorance. 
 
 Madam D. — Let me have a private parlor imme- 
 diately. 
 
 Bessie. — Private parlor 1 Well I guess our 
 parlor's private enough for any one, any how. We 
 haint got but one parlor, but that's respectable and 
 private enough, as you calls it, I should say. It's 
 mighty nice, I can tell you. It's got first-rate 
 horse-hair furniture, and a picture of Washington 
 and his family on the walls. All the folks that 
 comes down here, goes into that parlor, for we 
 haint got no other, so it's private enough for them 
 all ; just the thing to suit you, Marm. 
 
 Madam D. — What a barbarous place! Posi- 
 tively the child don't know what a private parlor 
 means ! I must sit in a public room to be stared at 
 by the whole world ! And that's the custom. I 
 suppose the women in this country have no sense 
 of modesty and no idea of retirement. 
 
 Penpoint. — 111 make a note of that, Marm. 
 Shall I not add that bed-rooms are generally let to 
 three families at once ? 
 
 Madam D. — Certainly ! No doubt it's the fact. 
 What bed-rooms have you got, child ? 
 
 Bessie. — First-rate bed-rooms, Marm. There's 
 the President's room, that's our best bed-room. 
 You see we call it the President's room, because 
 President Tyler slept there once, his own self ! I 
 assure you he did, Marm. It was years ago, long 
 
Charades. 167 
 
 before he came to be President, but he got to be 
 President afterwards ; so it's the President's room 
 all the same. I'm sure you'll feel proud of sleep- 
 ing there. I heard grandmother say she remem- 
 bered very well he got an awful rheumatism be- 
 cause the walls had cracks, and the windows are so 
 loose, so there's no mistake about his sleeping there ! 
 You can see the self-same cracks yet, plain as day- 
 light. 
 
 Madame D. — Here's a recommendation, to be 
 sure ! Put down every word, Penpoint. Here's 
 interesting matter indeed ! Ah ! Penpoint, this 
 country will be the death of me ! I shall not 
 survive, as that embryo president did ! You will 
 take back my last sighs to England, and bear wit- 
 ness that it was for her beloved sake, it was to 
 enlighten her, that I plunged into the darkness of 
 these caverns of ignorance, and undertook the 
 pilgrimage through which 1 became a martyr ! 
 
 Penpoint — (aside.) — Illuminating candles, for 
 which the English reading public are expected to 
 pay handsomely ! 
 
 Bessie. — AYhat odd folks! I never saw their 
 like before ! From their talk I should think they'd 
 come out of the woods, and didn't know nothing of 
 decent society. I'm sure I can't understand half 
 they say, so they must have come from quite far in 
 the backwoods. If you please, Marm, 111 show 
 you the President's room ; first-rate room, and you'll 
 find this in all respects the best hotel on the Island. 
 
168 Charades. 
 
 Madam D. — Hotel ! I'm in despair ! But it 
 must be endured for the sake of the book. Go on, 
 child ! Lead the way to your cave of iEolus ! 
 
 (Exeunt omnes.) 
 
 Scene II. — (Second Syllable.) 
 (Enter Bessie with dusting-brush. She dusts the furniture very busily.) 
 
 Bessie. — Well, it's work enough I have in this 
 house, and the old dragon that keeps it is always 
 telling me it's good for young bones to run about ! 
 It's injurious to old ones in consequence, I suppose, 
 since she's so fond of just doing nothing but sit still 
 and gossip. I forgot about dusting this room, and 
 if she finds it out, she'll have so much to say that I 
 shall feel as choked as if all the dust in the room 
 were in my throat. 
 
 (Enter Penpoint.) 
 
 Penpoint. — Good morning, my little Gothic 
 Venus ! 
 
 Bessie. — Good morning, sir. I don't understand 
 no outlandish languages, sir. If you'd say all 
 your words in English, I'd know what you meant. 
 
 Penpoint. — What ravishing simplicity ! W T hat's 
 your name, child ] 
 
 Bessie. — My name's Bessie Blooming, and I 
 aint been a child for ever so many years. 
 
 Benpoint. — Lovely unsophistication ! And what 
 are you doing here, blooming Bessie, and Bessie 
 Blooming 1 
 
 Bessie. — I'm dusting, sir, (swinging her brush 
 
Charades. 169 
 
 very near him,) and a- trying to get all the trouble- 
 some things a-floating about out of the room, sir. 
 
 Penpoint. — Take care Bessie, pretty Bessie, 
 take care of my eyes. 
 
 Bessie. — Please take care of them, your own 
 self, sir. They're in harm's way here, sir, (still 
 swinging her brush.) 
 
 Penpoint — So they are, indeed ! And when 
 Harm carries the weapon of a dusting brush, it's 
 dangerous, I acknowledge. The eyes are looking- 
 after you, pretty Bessie. 
 
 Bessie. — Thank them kindly, sir; but there's 
 plenty to look after me ; more than I want, anyhow. 
 Missus is looking after me every few minutes, and 
 Master comes plaguing me, and he says he's only 
 looking after me, and 1 can't bear to be looked 
 after. So, sir, if you please to leave me to my dust- 
 ing, I'd much prefer it to being looked after. 
 
 Penpoint (aside.) — Really, the child has wit ; an 
 unexpected article in America ; I'm quite charmed 
 with her. How old did you say you were, Bessie ? 
 
 Bessie. — Old enough to know better than to tell 
 my age, sir. 
 
 Penpoint. — Ah, you have arrived at those years 
 of discretion ! You've a very pretty hand, bloom- 
 ing Bessie. 
 
 Bessie (curtsying). — Yes, sir I heard grand- 
 mother say so once, when she saw me box cousin 
 Ned's ears for his sauciness. I beg you won't put 
 my name hind part first, sir, and — 
 
 15 
 
1 70 Charades. 
 
 ( Voice behind the scenes.) — Where's that Bessie 1 
 Where's that lazy girl ? 
 
 Bessie. — Oh, law ! there's Missus. She'll kick 
 up a dust if she finds me here with you. I'll be off 
 and leave the field to the enemy, as old Jack, the 
 lame soldier, says. 
 
 (Exit, running, Penpoint follows.) 
 
 Scene III. — (Third Syllable.) 
 Enter Liza and Miss Haughtbn. Liza rustically dressed, a broad fiat 
 on her head, and a bashet on her arm. Miss Houghton attired in 
 the height of fashion, wearing a demitrain, and carrying an exceed- 
 ingly small parasol. 
 
 Liza. — I'm glad you're ready at last, Miss 
 Haughton. I've been waiting full two hours to 
 hear that you were dressed. I didn't expect you 
 were going to make such a dashing turn-out. All 
 your fine clothes will be ruined in our country roads, 
 and there'll be nobody to see you but the peacocks, 
 who'll die with envy, perhaps. There will be a 
 new flounce upon your trailing skirt, but it will be 
 a mud flounce. The sun is up so high I'm afraid 
 you'll find it a warm walk after the wild flowers 
 you want to gather. It's grown quite late. 
 
 Miss H. — You don't call this late ? I don't be- 
 lieve I was ever up so early in my life before. Why, 
 it's hardly nine o'clock. 
 
 Liza. — But the sun rises at five, and the flowers 
 are sweetest while the dew is upon them. Now I 
 don't believe you ever saw the sun rise in your life. 
 It's the most glorious sight in the world. 
 
Charades. 171 
 
 Miss H. — You're much mistaken. I've often 
 seen it rise before I went to bed at all ; but I was 
 too sleepy to notice the especial beauty of the exhi- 
 bition ; one gets very tired after a ball. 
 
 Liza. — I suppose you never lived long in the 
 country. 
 
 3iiss H. — Lived there X I should die there if I 
 made the attempt. This is the first time that I've 
 passed four-and-twenty hours out of the city and I 
 begin to get weary already ; it's dreadfully dull. 
 
 Liza. — Then I suppose you don't know any- 
 thing about the country. I wonder if you'd know 
 a cherry-tree from a pear-tree, if they were in blos- 
 som? 
 
 Miss H. — Possibly not. 
 
 Liza. — You're not in earnest I Are you, really ? 
 You make me laugh. Wouldn't- you really know 
 a cherry-tree in bloom ] 
 
 Miss H. — I presume I know as much of these 
 unimportant distinctions as most town-bred young 
 ladies, and quite as much as is necessary. 
 
 Liza. — Don't be provoked, Miss Haughton, but 
 indeed it's very funny. I half -believe you're joking. 
 Do you really know nothing at all about those beau- 
 tiful trees out yonder, nothing at all 1 Nor about 
 the flowers, or the lovely harvest-fields % Please, 
 look out of that window. Tell me if you know 
 what's growing in that field. 
 
 Miss H. — Of course I know what that is, well 
 enough. I had my best bonnet trimmed with wheat 
 
1 72 Charades. 
 
 last year ; it was all the fashion ; and really the 
 artificial wheat was very superior in appearance to 
 the natural. 
 
 Liza. — Why, so it is wheat, to be sure. But 
 what's that in the next field ? 
 
 Miss H. — Really you amuse yourself by asking 
 the most absurd questions ; that's grass, of course. 
 
 Liza (laughing). — Grass 1 Grass ? You call 
 that grass ? Don't be angry, Miss Haughton, but I 
 really can't help laughing. To call rye grass ! 
 You actually don't know a field of rye when you see 
 it ! But let's set out for our walk. I fancy that I 
 shall have the pleasure of teaching you a great 
 many things by the way. Grass indeed ! Oh, 
 that's too funny ! 
 
 (Exit, laughing, Miss Haughton follows.) 
 Scene IV. — (Whole Word.) 
 
 Rachel, j> 
 
 T > Orphan sisters. 
 
 Linda, C r 
 
 Rosa, Daughter of landlady. 
 
 Hubert. 
 
 Linda is lying upon a couch in a loose white wrapper, a morning-cap 
 
 on her head. At the foot of the bed Iiachel is sitting before a small 
 
 desk, jointing. She is very plainly dressed, in sombre colors.) 
 
 Linda. — Are you not weary, Rachel? You are 
 always working, while I can only look at you and 
 wish that prayers and blessings could lighten your 
 toil. 
 
 Rachel. — No, dear Linda, I am seldom weary. 
 I am fond of painting, and long habit renders 
 constant occupation almost necessary to my com- 
 
 
 
Charades. 173 
 
 fort ; I have no time for regrets and sinful murmurs 
 while I am busy. And you do help me and make 
 my labors lighter when you smile on them. 
 
 Linda. — You have sacrificed your hopes, your 
 happiness, your prospects in life, to toil for me, 
 and how shall I ever repay you ? 
 
 Rachel. — By being contented and cheerful, by 
 forgetting the past, by bearing your sufferings pa- 
 tiently, by believing that they would not be per- 
 mitted by Divine Providence unless they were good 
 for you, and by trying to be less sad ; that will be 
 ample reward for me. 
 
 Linda. — Ah, you are sad at heart, yourself, 
 Rachel, though you conceal it so well. Sometimes, 
 when I wake suddenly, I see the big tears stealing 
 down your pale cheeks ; and though you soon 
 smile again when you find me watching you, I 
 never hear you laugh now. And you had such a 
 merry laugh once ! Hubert used to call it the 
 chime of silver bells. Dear Hubert! I wonder 
 where he is now. 
 
 Rachel. — Linda, sister, do not talk of him. I 
 can bear all things but the remembrance of by- 
 gone days and to hear you speak of Hubert. 
 
 Linda. — Only answer me one question, and I 
 will never mention his name. I do not ask why 
 you parted, but tell me if there is no hope that you 
 will ever meet again. 
 
 Rachel. — None, not the faintest ; let that suffice. 
 The stern hand of Circumstance, the commanding 
 
 15* 
 
174 Charades. 
 
 voice of Duty, parted us. If you would not make 
 my heart bleed afresh, if you would not destroy 
 the courage that sustains me, do not name Hubert 
 again. 
 
 Linda. — Forgive me, I will not. What are 
 you painting now ? 
 
 Rachel. — The figure of Charity, in the garb of 
 a nun, succoring a poor widow. 
 
 Linda. — I am afraid I shall never like any of 
 your pictures as well as the last, in which you 
 painted me lying upon this couch and yourself 
 beside me, as you ever are, and the angel of Hope 
 hovering over our heads, and pointing to the rain- 
 bow which shone through the open casement. I 
 should like to see that picture again. Has it gone 
 yet? 
 
 Rachel. — I sent it away last night. But I hear 
 that my head of Jupiter has not been sold yet, 
 and you are sadly in need of the comforts which I 
 thought its sale would procure. Besides, our kind 
 landlady's rent for this room is just due, and she 
 will need the money, for she is almost as poor as 
 we are. You look tired ; try to sleep. I am work- 
 ing upon a critical part of the picture, and ought 
 tp give it my whole attention. 
 
 Linda. — I am tired. I will try to sleep awhile. 
 Do wake me if you feel lonely. 
 
 (Composes herself to sleep. A short interval, during which Rachel 
 paints industriously. Enter Rosa.) 
 
 Rosa. — Rachel ! dear Rachel ! ah, you are al- 
 
Charades. 1 75 
 
 ways so busy ! It's so tiresome, that you've time 
 for nothing but work, work, work ! 
 
 Rachel. — Hush ! Linda sleeps ; do not rouse 
 her. 
 
 Rosa. — Is she better to-day 1 Mother requested 
 me to ask if she could do anything for her. 
 
 Rachel. — Has she not done enough in receiving 
 homeless orphans, penniless strangers, beneath her 
 roof? 
 
 Rosa. — She never thinks about that. Do stop 
 painting for a few moments, Kachel. Your fingers 
 are the nearest approach to perpetual motion that 
 I ever saw. Do talk awhile ; you'll find talking 
 very refreshing, I always do. 
 
 Rachel. — If I were a poet now, I might paint 
 with my breath ; but as I am not, I must use my 
 fingers, for I have no time to spare. 
 
 Rosa. — Did you not promise to tell me some 
 day how you came to be poor, and why you are so 
 sad ? Tell me now ; (seating herself upon a low 
 stool at her feet,) I feel just in the mood to listen. 
 Tell me, too, about that Hubert of whom Linda 
 talks so often. 
 
 Rachel. — I will keep my promise, Eosa ; though 
 keeping it may give me too much pain to afford 
 you pleasure. The story is an every-day one, and 
 I will make it as short as possible. My father was 
 a wealthy London merchant. My sister and I were 
 his only children. Our mother died when we were 
 very young. Six years ago, when Linda was just 
 
176 Charades. 
 
 twelve, she was attacked by a disease of the spine. 
 At that time we lived in great splendor. When I 
 entered society, I soon had many, so-called, ad- 
 mirers ; my father's reputation for wealth ensured 
 me those. I rejected suitors whose prospects were 
 far more certain than my father's. Perhaps, Rosa, 
 you can divine the reason ? 
 
 Rosa. — Of course I can, you loved somebody 
 else, and that somebody else was Hubert. 
 
 Rachel. — And Hubert loved me with all the de- 
 votion of which only a noble, unselfish heart is 
 capable. He was poor, he had not yet found an 
 advantageous opportunity of engaging in business. 
 My father objected to our marriage, that was nat- 
 ural enough. Yet after a time he could not resist 
 my supplications, and I was betrothed to Hubert. 
 How I gloried in the thought that he would be en- 
 riched by me ! But he never intended that should 
 be the case, and diligently sought some remunera- 
 tive occupation. Our days of happiness were few. 
 My father's affairs became entangled, his health 
 gave way, in a few months he was a bankrupt. 
 
 Rosa. — And Hubert ? 
 
 Rachel. — His devotion only increased. He fol- 
 lowed us to the humble retreat where we had hid- 
 den ourselves, he implored me to fulfil my prom- 
 ise and become his wife, that he might share with 
 me the scared duty of ministering to my broken- 
 hearted father and invalid sister. I resolutely re- 
 fused. I would not fasten a burden upon his 
 
Charades, 177 
 
 young, untried shoulders, which must weigh him to 
 the earth. His entreaties were all in vain. There 
 was no hope of a brighter future for me, and I 
 would not darken coming years to him. He begged 
 that, for three years at least, I would consider the 
 tie between us still binding. I would not even 
 consent to that. We parted, I laid down love upon 
 the altar of Duty, as thousands have done before, 
 thousands will do again ! My father's proud heart 
 could not bear the sight of his children reduced to 
 penury ; he never recovered from the blow ; in a 
 few months we were orphans, and without the means 
 of support. I always had a taste for painting, and 
 fortunately it had been highly cultivated. I off- 
 ered my work for sale and found purchasers who 
 gave a trifling compensation, barely enough to sup- 
 ply us with bread, for the labor of many days. 
 We were forced to reduce our expenses as much 
 as possible. An apparent chance, as you know, 
 made us acquainted with your kind mother, who 
 gave us this hospitable shelter for a sum much 
 smaller, I fear, than she can afford. 
 
 Rosa. — And you never saw, never heard from 
 Hubert again ] 
 
 Rachel. — Never ! I, myself forbade him to 
 write, and gave him no address. Four years have 
 rolled away, he is dead, perhaps, or married, mar- 
 ried to one who loves him, one whose face has 
 banished the image of Each el from his heart. 
 
 Rosa. — I will not believe that. I am sure he 
 
178 Charades. 
 
 could never marry another after loving you, But, 
 Rachel, I forgot to tell you that the picture of 
 Linda and yourself, with Hope flying over your 
 heads, has been so much admired ! I went this 
 morning to Mr. Semple's in Regent Street to see if 
 it was sold, and Mr. Semple said that a young gen- 
 tleman who saw it declared it was the most beau- 
 tiful thing he had seen for a long while ! But, ah ! 
 he didn't buy it right straight off, as I think he 
 should have done. He wanted first to know the 
 name and address of the person who painted it. 
 Mr. Semple would not give it without your per- 
 mission, so he sent me to ask you. 
 
 Rachel. — I hope the picture may bring a fair 
 price for Linda's sake ! Besides, I feel that it is 
 my chef-d'oeuvre. I can do nothing better than that, 
 my heart guided my fingers. 
 
 Rosa. — But may I give Mr. Semple your ad- 
 dress ? 
 
 Rachel. — Why should he want it ? 
 
 Rosa. — Have you been dreaming all this time ? 
 Why, for the gentleman who admired the picture 
 so much. Perhaps he wants to engage you to 
 paint another. I promised to be back by twelve 
 o'clock and let him know. 
 
 Rachel. — It's just twelve. Give my address, of 
 course. I would rather remain unknown, but I 
 must not consult my own pleasure and convenience, 
 when daily bread for that dear one is to be earned. 
 But I have been idling away precious moments I, 
 must go to my Charity. 
 
Charades. 179 
 
 Rosa. — I wish Charity would come to you in- 
 stead. But I must run and let Mr. Semple know 
 — it is only a step — just round the corner. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Rachel. — How light-hearted she seems ! And 
 once I was as joyous, but I must not think of that. 
 I should not be what I am, unless it were the will 
 of God, and unless it were good for me to be thus. 
 I repeat that great truth over and over again every 
 day, every hour, that its remembrance may give me 
 patience and courage. 
 
 Linda (waking.) — Are you there, sister ? I 
 have had the sweetest dream. I thought I was 
 talking to Hubert. 
 
 Rachel — Then you have slept well \ 
 
 Linda. — Very sweetly — and you have been 
 working all the time ] 
 
 Rachel. — No, indeed, I have been shamefully 
 idle. I have been gossiping with Rosa. Here she 
 comes again. 
 
 (Enter Rosa, running.) 
 
 Rosa. — Rachel! Rachel! dear Rachel! I have 
 such joyful news ! The gentleman has bought the 
 picture ! I saw him, and he asked me about you 
 and Linda. He knew your names and he cried 
 like a child, when he was looking at the picture 
 and listening to my talk ! oh, he did ! 
 
 Rachel. — He knew our names, Rosa. 
 
 Rosa. — Indeed he did — right well. 
 
 Linda. — It was Hubert ! I know it was Hu- 
 
180 Charades. 
 
 bert ! Had he dark hair, Rosa, and clear, blue 
 eyes, and was he tall and manly? 
 
 Rosa. — Yes, his hair was dark, and his eyes 
 were blue ; I noticed them as they were swimming 
 in tears. He was very thin and very pale. 
 
 Rachel. — Can it really be he? If so, where 
 shall I fly I I cannot see him. 
 
 Rosa. — But Rachel, he is coming here directly. 
 
 Rachel. — I cannot see him — it is impossible ! 
 Hasten, Rosa, and tell him we must not meet. 
 
 Linda. — Do not say that — let me, at least, see 
 Hubert once more — it will make me quite well 
 again. 
 
 ( Enter Hubert.) 
 
 Hubert. — Rachel ! 
 
 (Eacliel gives him an imploring glance, and retreats from Mm.) 
 
 Rachel. — You should have spared me this, 
 Hubert. If you hope to have me ever regain that 
 serenity and peace of mind which I have lost, 
 leave me — leave me — I implore you ! 
 
 Hubert. — Rather let me never leave you more. 
 I have happy news, Rachel. Do not refuse to look 
 upon me when I tell you that, if your affection is 
 unchanged, we part no more. 
 
 Rachel. — Hubert — 
 
 Hubert. — Tell me only that you ha\5e not 
 changed. 
 
 Rachel. — Can you ask 1 
 
 Hubert. — Then all is well. When I parted 
 
Charades. 181 
 
 from you, Rachel, ' I determined not to despair 
 while health and strength were left me. Through 
 the advice of friends I went to the East Indies. 
 It would take me long to recount all that oc- 
 curred during my sojourn there. I trust it may 
 be the theme of many a fireside-talk. In four 
 years I returned independent — rich. I sought 
 you at your former home, but strange faces met 
 me, and I could get no tidings of you. Day and 
 night I searched for you and found no clue to your 
 place of abode, until I saw that picture of Linda 
 and yourself; I knew by whose hand it was 
 painted — and — and I am here, Rachel ! Here 
 to ask you to repeat what you once promised me 
 in happier — ah ! no, not in happier days, for I had 
 not then been the artisan of my own fortunes — I 
 was not then worthy to become the protector of 
 such a woman. 
 
 Rachel. — Hubert ! Hubert ! (throwing herself 
 in his arms). 
 
 Rosa. — Oh ! I'm so happy ! And so I guess 
 they all are ! 
 
 Rachel. — I once gloried in the thought of en- 
 riching you Hubert, now I must rejoice even more 
 in receiving all from you. 
 
 Hubert. — You do enrich me with yourself. You 
 are a treasure no earthly wealth can equal. And, 
 Linda, you will let me be your physician, as well 
 as your brother ? 
 
 Linda. — I thought you were never going to 
 
 16 
 
182 Charades. 
 
 speak to me. Dear Hubert, I have longed more 
 than any one else to see you. 
 
 Rosa. — She's talked of you often enough — 
 oftener, a great deal, than any one else — I can 
 tell you that. Oh ! I'm so glad ! I'll burn that 
 drawing-desk to-morrow morning. Rachel's busy 
 fingers shall have a holiday — that they shall ! I'll 
 hide all the brushes and paints for a year. 
 
 Rachel. — But you must not forget that the hap- 
 piness of this hour has been won by toil. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 (Answer to charade — Industry.) 
 
SERENA. 
 
 HE is ever welcome ! Welcome at all 
 hours, welcome in all seasons ! When 
 the hour is one of darkness, her coming 
 dissipates its heaviest shadows ; when the season is 
 one of joy, her presence increases its fulness ; she 
 brings Heaven's sunshine in the doors with her ! 
 To depict a balmy, all-pervading atmosphere, to 
 paint a deliciously soothing aroma, would be tasks 
 not more difficult than to define the nameless, soul- 
 penetrating charm that hangs around Serena, as 
 perfume about a flower. To sit beside her, to be 
 near her, communicate an internal satisfaction 
 wholly indescribable. It is not because she is al- 
 ways so cheerful, for many a gayer friend has not 
 the same exhilarating power. Serena's influence 
 is at once tranquillizing and enlivening. A sense 
 of quietude, brightness, harmony, accompanies 
 her. At the sound of her voice, the gentle pres- 
 sure of her hand, the soft beaming of her face, 
 calmness falls upon the restless, courage is infused 
 into the disheartened, peace comes to the troubled, 
 
 (183) 
 
184 Serena. 
 
 discordant Ate is put to flight from the most de- 
 mon-possessed household. 
 
 All reserve melts away when we converse with 
 Serena. We confide in her involuntarily ; yet she 
 never seems curious, never desires to know more 
 than we are disposed to impart, never, by a random 
 question, touches upon a painful or humiliating 
 subject, never tears open a healing wound, never 
 hunts for the skeleton hidden in our closets. We 
 are not fearful of wearying her by recounting the 
 history of our vexations and disappointments, she 
 makes them her own, for the moment, hearkening 
 with patient interest while we pour out all our sor- 
 rows. And how many a full heart has been 
 lightened of its oppressive burden by talking away 
 its grievances to some mild and sympathizing lis- 
 tener ! 
 
 We are not afraid of letting her behold our 
 weaknesses, our errors, nay, our grave misdeeds. 
 We are sure that she will bestow pity and spare 
 censure. Rahel said rightly, " he alone is worthy 
 to be called a friend to whom we dare show our- 
 selves as we are." Serena is so lenient and so 
 compassionate that we almost venture to believe 
 she herself has erred as sadly as we. Thus we 
 gain courage to rise from the mire, into which some 
 false step has plunged us, humbly to wash our gar- 
 ments in tears of penitence, and dare to hope that 
 we may stand as upright, and as purified from stain, 
 as she. 
 
Serena. 185 
 
 Serena possesses a delightful faculty of con- 
 forming herself to the mood in which she finds us, 
 even while she is changing that mood to a wiser 
 and better. Call it tact, good nature, charitable 
 forbearance, what you will, she never jars the 
 mournful with her gayety, she never throws a 
 shadow over the mirthful by her seriousness, she 
 never scoffs at the self-created miseries with which 
 the fretful martyrize themselves, she never ex- 
 cites the irritable by misplaced opposition, she 
 never tortures the nervous by ridicule ; — she com- 
 prehends all, makes allowances for all, and for- 
 bears to rebuke the unhappy state which she is 
 softening or dispelling. Possibly, Serenas virtues 
 are not greater than those which adorn thousands 
 of other women, but her virtues are none latent, 
 are ever in full activity — ever go out of her at 
 the touch of a needing hand, at the sound of a sup- 
 plicating voice ; and truly 
 
 " If our virtues 
 Did not go forth of us, ' twere all alike 
 As if we had them not. " 
 
 She magnetizes to the surface all the best qual- 
 ities that slumber deep in our spirits, and renders 
 our evil propensities quiescent without making us 
 lose a consciousness of their existence. We never 
 feel as though there is such large capacity for 
 goodness within us as when we sit within her 
 sphere. And yet, paradoxical as it may seem, we 
 
 16* 
 
186 Serena. 
 
 never regard our own attributes with so much hu- 
 mility. 
 
 No misfortune ever assailed us which the holy 
 alchemy of her mind could not transmute to good. 
 She impresses us with the conviction that circum- 
 stance is but another name for the will of Heaven ; 
 that hope has been rightly interpreted by the queen- 
 poet of the age as " belief in God, " and that a 
 cheerful acquiescence to circumstance, and a belief 
 in God which keeps hope alive, expand the soul 
 and bring it into a state to admit the blessings 
 which our gracious Master dispenses according to 
 our capacity to receive. 
 
 There are always pleasant words dropping from 
 her lips, that strike upon the kindly strings of the 
 heart until they vibrate with an involuntary re- 
 sponse. But we cannot analyze the manifold lit- 
 tle ways by which she stirs some pulse of pleasure 
 within us, even when we are perversely resolved 
 to sit in the gloom of thankless discontent. It is 
 impossible to define the apparently insignificant 
 agencies by which she produces these agreeable 
 results ; because, as Coleridge says, — " the happi- 
 ness of life is made up of minute fractions ; the lit- 
 tle, soon-forgotten charities of a kiss, a smile, a 
 kind look, a heartfelt compliment in the disguise 
 of playful raillery, and the countless other infini- 
 tesimals of pleasurable thought and genial feel- 
 ing." 
 
 And yet Serena is by no means one of those for- 
 
Serena. 187 
 
 tunate beings whose own lot can be called thor- 
 oughly happy. Though she is so placid and sunny, 
 she has not enjoyed an existence of uninterrupted 
 felicity. Far from it ; she has known bitter disap- 
 pointments — pinching privations — heart- convuls- 
 ing sorrows. But they have not crushed her elas- 
 tic nature ; they have not soured its instinctive 
 sweetness ; and the very patience and heroism with 
 which she has borne her burdens have fitted her to 
 impart to others the secret of endurance. Her 
 own anguish has taught her a tender, helpful sym- 
 pathy with all sufferers, all mourners. She can- 
 not look upon a fellow-traveller, lying prostrate 
 upon the great human high-road, and pass by on 
 the other side, without stopping to greet, to raise, 
 to pour oil into the bleeding wounds. But, do not 
 imagine that she has, even now, an ample share of 
 worldly blessings ; measured by the gauge of what 
 contents others, her portion is poor, but of every 
 blessing, even the smallest, she is conscious ; for 
 every one, even the most common-place, she is 
 thankful ; and thus, her humble store seems to her 
 as sufficient and as inexhaustible as were the never- 
 failing meal and oil to the hospitable widow of Sa- 
 repta. 
 
 Serena has not forgotten her own chastening 
 afflictions, but she never repines, never broods over 
 them, seldom even alludes to them. Her cheer- 
 fulness is not simply a matter of temperament ; it 
 it has been cultivated upon principle. She vali- 
 
188 Serena. 
 
 antly wages war against morbid melancholy ; she 
 looks upon its indulgence as a positive sin. There 
 is a passage in " A Woman's Thoughts about Wo- 
 men, " which we never read without calling Serena 
 to mind. The author says, iC If women did but 
 know what comfort there is in a cheerful spirit ! 
 How the heart leaps up to meet a sunshiny face, 
 a merry tongue, an even temper, and a heart which 
 either naturally, or, what is better, from conscien- 
 tious principle, has learned to take all things on 
 their bright side ; believing that the Giver of life, 
 being all-perfect Love, the best offering we can 
 make to Him is to enjoy to the full what He sends 
 of good, and bear what He allows of evil. Like a 
 child who, when once it thoroughly believes in its 
 father, believes in all his dealings with it, whether 
 it understands them or not. " Even so the hearts 
 of all who know her, leap up towards Serena. 
 
 We are acquainted with many women who take 
 pleasure in being voluntarily useful ; but Serena 
 likes, what most people detest, to be made use of; 
 to be unceremoniously looked upon as a ready help- 
 er. When there is sickness in the home of a 
 friend, she is petitioned to watch night and day be- 
 side the couch of pain, and she never grows weary 
 of her vigils. When there is work to be done in 
 haste, preparations for mourning, or for festivity, 
 her active, willing hands are, as a matter of course, 
 called upon to aid. When there is discord in a 
 household, she is summoned to be an umpire be- 
 
Serena. 189 
 
 tween the disputants. When there is sorrow, she 
 is sent for to cheer and counsel. When there is 
 misfortune and need, her assistance is unhesitatingly 
 asked and promptly given, to the full extent of her 
 narrow means. It never occurs to Serena that her 
 willingness to serve sometimes causes her to be 
 imposed upon ; she does not account it imposition 
 to be expected to lend all the help she is able to 
 offer. 
 
 It is often difficult to repress a smile at the nat- 
 ural way in which Serena takes out her needle, 
 thimble, and scissors, (which she always carries, 
 accompanied by a well supplied, little pincushion, 
 in that capacious pocket of hers,) and speeds the 
 work of some Martha like friend whom she is 
 casually visiting. When her hostess remonstrates, 
 Serena says, truly, that it gives her pleasure, to aid, 
 that she finds work promotes conversation and is 
 less wearisome than sitting with one's hands 
 folded. 
 
 The perfect melody that pervades Serena's soul, 
 has communicated its music to her voice, and her 
 sweet singing lulls to sleep many a pain, and 
 soothes many an ear, wearied by the clamor of the 
 world. Her touching carols gush forth at our bid- 
 ding as though she never thought them of sufficient 
 value to be withheld from common use. And then 
 that beautifully modulated voice, rich in its pathetic 
 sweetness, liquid in its joyous clearness, is often 
 used in reading aloud. Her rapidly varying into- 
 
190 Serena. 
 
 nations give a living presence to the characters, 
 emotions, imagery portrayed, and reach the highest 
 climax of art in making the listener forget alike 
 reader and author, in the reality of the scene, or 
 interest of the subject. For that reason we never 
 tire of her reading, though we have often listened 
 for hours without pause. 
 
 We once said to her when she was exerting her- 
 self with unremitting zeal to serve and console one 
 who was almost a stranger, who had no claim save 
 that of being a struggler upon life's turbulent sea, 
 
 " Eeally you take too much trouble for " 
 
 Serena looked up with an indescribable expression 
 in her mild, hazel eyes, — it was not a reproachful 
 look, yet it sank deeper than any reproach — and 
 answered gently, ' ; I never find anything that I can 
 do, too much trouble, it never seems to me trouble at 
 all. I struck that word out of my Lexicon years 
 ago." 
 
 We never think of thanking Serena for what she 
 does ; thanks seem out of place because they are 
 so inadequate. We never talk to her of gratitude, 
 nor ever utter praises ; she expects neither, de- 
 sires neither. On one occasion, when a heart over, 
 flowing with thankfulness poured itself out before 
 her, we heard Serena laughingly reply, " You might 
 as well thank the brash, in the hand of a noble artist, 
 for painting a picture, instead of thanking the artist 
 himself. I am but as a brush, a weak instrument 
 in the divine hand, which uses you, and uses me, 
 
Serena. 191 
 
 according to our willingness and quality, and finds 
 the best of us but rude brushes, unfit for the grand 
 designs which it strives to trace out through our 
 imperfect touches." 
 
 There is nothing in Serena's quiet demeanor 
 which proclaims her better than others ; there is 
 none of that self-complacency which wakes antag- 
 onistic feelings ; none of that conscious superiority 
 which impels us to dispute its claims. We are 
 sure she is never thinking of herself, and it is her 
 thinking of others that makes us think of her. 
 When her opinions differ from ours, she never im- 
 plies, by word or look, that those she holds are 
 indubitably right, and ours as indubitably wrong. 
 If we gradually arrive at the conclusion that she is 
 right, it is because she has such a modest, but 
 lucid mode of conveying her convictions, that we 
 cannot fail to recognize the heavenly halo around 
 the brow of Truth. 
 
 We do not know whether artistic judges call 
 Serena beautiful ; but to us her face is lovely be- 
 yond all picturing. We never tire of dwelling 
 upon the soft lights of her eyes, the changing 
 expressions of her lips, melting one into another 
 with eloquent transitions. It may be a foolish fan- 
 cy, but she always seems to us as if she wore an 
 unfading hearts-ease, in her white bosom, and as 
 though that symbol, plainly visible to our sight, 
 gave a beauty far surpassing that of rarest gems, 
 to her attire. 
 
192 Serena. 
 
 O ! true sister of charity, bound by unerring im- 
 pulses, stronger than all vows, would that thy wel- 
 come feet might find their way into the homes of 
 all whom we love ; that thy serene countenance 
 might leave its image in the mind of all who need 
 to learn how much strength can be allied to 
 tranquillity ! 
 
 
 
HE COULD NOT SAY "NO." 
 
 ONSTANTLY petitioned; invariably im- 
 posed upon ; mercilessly laughed at ; 
 what a life of torment Mr. Stillwell leads ! 
 and all through his incapacity to utter that little 
 word " no." He has tried, and given up in help- 
 less despair ; a negative always dies unspoken upon 
 his tongue. Possibly that affirmative smile, which 
 perpetually expands his mouth, is the great draw- 
 back. How can lips that are always smiling t; yes " 
 contract themselves to form " no % " The expression 
 of Mr. Stiilwell's countenance reminds us of a pic- 
 ture of Garrick which represents him wooed by 
 Comedy on one side, and tragedy on the other ; or 
 of Byron's poetical simile, " a pendulum betwixt a 
 smile and tear ; " for Mr. Stillwell ever wears a 
 look of yielding good humor conflicting with sup- 
 pressed sadness. 
 
 His horror of refusing and fear of offending, 
 have totally annihilated his power of discriminating 
 between individuals. Everybody has, or seems to 
 have, an entrance to his heart, his house, his purse. 
 As a natural consequence, everybody makes use of 
 
 17 (193) 
 
194 He could not say " No." 
 
 him ; everybody ridicules him ; and, because his 
 favors are so general, nobody is grateful to him. 
 He is reputed to enjoy a large income, yet his bach- 
 elor establishment gives no evidence of comfort, 
 though much of waste. His home is the head- 
 quarters of his self-elected bosom friends, whose 
 extravagance could only be kept in check by that 
 small monosyllable of denial which Mr. Still well is 
 unable to pronounce. These attached companions 
 eat his dinners, drink his champagne, ride his horses, 
 borrow his money (who would not be tempted to 
 borrow from a man who never said " no ? "), and 
 parade the streets arm-in-arm with him, rubbing 
 their fine broadcloth (purchased with his means), 
 against the rusty coat he does not feel rich enough 
 to cast aside for a better. 
 
 People never imagine that his time can be of 
 any value, and appropriate as much of it as proves 
 agreeable to themselves. When he is passing from 
 one locality to another, in the greatest haste, some 
 political, or philanthropic, or religious friend inva- 
 riably seizes him by the button hole, to discuss a 
 vexed question, and obtain his opinion. His opin- 
 ion, forsooth ! As if there could be a doubt of his 
 opinion ? Of course it coincides with that of the 
 person who addresses him. The affirmative ele- 
 ment of which his nature is composed, prevents 
 his arguing a point, or contradicting an assertion, 
 or disagreeing in any shape. The button-hole 
 friend has scarcely released him, he has hardly 
 
He could not say " No" 195 
 
 taken a few hurried steps onward, before he is 
 waylaid by an advocate of the other side of the 
 anxious question ; and now he is floated upon a 
 stream of verbiage, through all the intricate chan- 
 nels of the troubled waters. What can he do but 
 yield himself up to the current'? He is of this 
 man's mind as he was of the other man's mind, and 
 lays no claim to any mind of hi«s own. But the 
 blowing hot and cold to suit the temperature of his 
 haranguers, entails serious consequences. The 
 opposite parties meet ; each claims Stillwell as an 
 ally ; both attack him ; both buffet him about, and 
 both end in denouncing him as an enemy. Thus, 
 though he never differs with anybody, and wastes 
 his life in fruitless efforts to conform himself to 
 every one's views, he is always giving offence 
 through the discovery of his inconsistency, and 
 does not even enjoy the empty reward of popularity. 
 It is curious to watch how naturally people 
 impose upon him. With what singular clairvoyance 
 they discover his inability to articulate a negative. 
 In a crowded stage coach he is instinctively selected 
 by an overburdened mother, to hold on his knee 
 some fractious descendant, famous for rasping shins. 
 At the opera he is always asked if he is willing to 
 accommodate Mrs. or Miss somebody by exchang- 
 ing his choice seat for one where he can neither 
 hear nor see. In the cars he is invariably the first 
 person required to stand, that others may sit in 
 comfort. At a party of pleasure he is sure to have 
 
196 He could not say "No." 
 
 all the pains, through the care of the crockery and 
 the juveniles. When he spends an evening in 
 company he is always asked to escort a lady home, 
 generally the least interesting person present, and 
 the one that lives at the greatest distance. Young 
 damsels coolly send him on all sorts of trouble- 
 some and unreasonable errands, and scarcely give 
 him thanks in return. Why should they ? He is 
 so good-natured, they say, he never refuses to do 
 anything, and it is so much a matter of course to 
 call upon him ! But in spite of that unvarying, 
 stereotyped smile with which Mr. Stillwell greets 
 these requests, we are quite sure that he is secretly 
 conscious of the persecution he endures ; he knows 
 very well that people evince no consideration for 
 him, but alas ! never suspects that it is simply be- 
 cause he has no consideration for himself. 
 
 Mr. Stillwell not only suffers from the ill-treat- 
 ment of his multitudinous friends, but — what is 
 far worse — he is frequently afflicted with self- 
 reproach, for he is often led to sanction acts which 
 he despises, and walk in ways that he abhors, 
 merely because he can not answer " No " to the 
 tempter. 
 
 "More of courage is required 
 This one word to say, 
 Than to stand where shots are fired 
 In the battle fray ! 
 
 " Use it fitly and yell see 
 Many a lot below, 
 May be schooled and nobly ruled, 
 By power to utter ' No.' " 
 
He could not say " No." 197 
 
 Though Mr. Stillwellis approaching the meridian 
 of his days, as we have said, he is yet a bachelor. 
 Probably his horror of the dread " no," has pre- 
 vented his running the risk of hearing it from lips 
 which smiled on him. If some pitying maid or 
 widow, should ever chance to avail herself of the 
 privilege of leap-year, Mr. Still well's settled aver- 
 sion to the negative may eventually secure him a 
 partner, who, for the rest of his life, will answer 
 " no " for him, and thus defend him against his 
 tormentors, and lead him to the turn in that long, 
 briery lane, through which he is so sadly journey- 
 ing. That is the one hope left for him. Would 
 he be the first man who had found his salvation 
 through a woman ? 
 17* 
 
WHO ARE THE GREAT? 
 
 HUE greatness," says Kogers, " consists 
 in doing what deserves to be written, 
 and writing what deserves to be read, 
 and in making mankind happier and better for 
 your life." Judged by this pure standard, how 
 few, and yet how many, are great ! Few whose 
 deeds the loud clarion of Fame has trumpeted 
 throughout the world — many whose lives have 
 never been chronicled save in the books of record- 
 ing angels ! 
 
 Not always the great, and not alone the great, 
 are the " plenipotentiaries of the intellect," 
 though their brows may be circled with undying 
 laurels, and their lyres may sound from age to age. 
 Not alone the great are they who have lashed 
 mens passions into the strife of war, and triumph- 
 antly swayed the destinies of nations, overthrown 
 kingdoms, or founded republics. Not alone the 
 great are they who, in the pathless heavens, or 
 beyond the trackless seas, have pointed out new 
 worlds. Not alone the great are they who have 
 wrought the miracles of science into familiar 
 
 (198) 
 
Who are the Great? 199 
 
 things — wafted messages through the viewless 
 air, or sent them beneath the fathomless ocean. 
 These may have achieved what deserves to be 
 written, and may have written what deserves to be 
 read, and may have made mankind happier and 
 better for their lives, and therefore they may have 
 earned the title of " great." And if their great- 
 ness be genuine, the hollow-voiced applause and 
 the undiscriminating homage of mankind are not 
 their dearest guerdon. 
 
 But among earth's lowliest sojourners there are 
 some as great or greater, to the unseen eyes that 
 are always watching, always judging, always pity- 
 ing or approving. 
 
 Wert thou not of that holy number, sweet, pale- 
 faced Joan Lynn? No poet has woven into high- 
 sounding verse the story of thy daily martyrdom ; 
 but thy toils, and privations, and uncomplaining 
 gentleness are written in golden characters where 
 angel eyes may read. 
 
 Yet Joan's life is but an every-day history, after 
 all ; a series of common-place pictures, unrelieved 
 by the glow of poetic light or the stir of romantic 
 incident. 
 
 Joan, in her fifteenth year, was the eldest of five 
 in a motherless household. Household, forsooth ! 
 We use a large word to express the single room 
 that sheltered five children and their father. A 
 child herself, Joan had a wife's cares and a mo- 
 ther's duties. Ailing herself, she tended those 
 
200 Who are the Great? 
 
 suffering little ones with untiring watchfulness. 
 Ignorant herself, she taught those who would have 
 had no teaching else. Wretchedly poor, she soft- 
 ened to them the pangs of poverty. Feeble in 
 body, she performed the labor of the strong. 
 With aching eyes, and over-strained limbs, and 
 weary head, she toiled alone, from day to day. 
 She cooked, she scrubbed, she washed, she sewed ; 
 she did all that had to be done, and she did all 
 well. 
 
 Her attenuated little form was bowed with the 
 weight of its premature burdens ; her busy little 
 hands were feverish from their ceaseless activity ; 
 upon her little, pinched, and sunken face want 
 was inscribed in legible letters, with patience soft- 
 ly written beneath. 
 
 If she had beauty she knew it not. If she had 
 intellect she was only conscious of the gift because 
 it was of use, even in her slavish avocations. If 
 comforts and enjoyments, granted to her neighbors, 
 were denied her, she had scarcely time to think of 
 the deprivation. She never asked why poverty, 
 and toil, and rags were her portion, while other 
 young maidens, tricked out in the gewgaws of the 
 world, jostled her on the road. 
 
 She had seen children returning home from 
 pleasant country rambles, with wild flowers in 
 their hands, and with their baskets, or aprons, filled 
 with bright green mosses, and other sylvan treas- 
 ures. She had heard them talk of their sports 
 
Who are the Great? 201 
 
 under the grand old trees in the woods ; of acorn 
 cups, and pine cones, and ripe nuts, among the 
 withered leaves ; of the songs of the birds ; "" of 
 gambols, bare-footed, in the brook ; and she had 
 turned her wistful, admiring eyes upon the delicate 
 flowers, and given an involuntary sigh, as though 
 to inhale their breath ; and she had longed to lay 
 her hot hands on the cool, fresh moss, and won- 
 dered if she would ever ramble in a wood, or lis- 
 ten to the birds' singing ; and felt a thrill of pleas- 
 ure as she pictured to herself the refreshing de- 
 light of resting her weary feet in the clear, cold 
 water of the brook. But these were only passing 
 thoughts, not unaccompanied by a faint hope; 
 they never degenerated into repinings. 
 
 It seemed natural that life should be the most 
 wearisome, the most detestable burden to Joan. 
 Yet there was a soft, inner light, a moon-like radi- 
 ance beaming through those meek, hazel eyes, 
 that said it was not so. Sit beside her, and talk 
 to her, as she rapidly plied her needle, and thought 
 aloud, in her sweet, ingenuous way, and you felt 
 that it was not so. It appeared impossible that 
 this poverty-stricken, over-tasked, half-starved 
 child should know the pulse of pleasure, should 
 recognize the existence of happiness ; yet to joyful 
 emotions she was not wholly a stranger. 
 
 A very trivial incident opened a fountain of de- 
 light in her miserable home. She was sitting by 
 the window at twilight, combing the tangled locks 
 
202 Who are the Great? 
 
 of a little sister, wlien an open carriage slowly 
 passed her humble door. Within reclined a fair 
 young girl, whose seraph face seemed literally 
 framed in her shining, golden tresses. She was 
 arrayed in white, and her countenance was as hue- 
 less as her vesture. Her attitude bespoke unmis- 
 takable feebleness. One hand drooped over the side 
 of the carriage, and held a sprig of rare geranium. 
 Her lustrous eyes, which had the glance of those 
 that look not long upon earthly things, turned 
 for a moment on Joan. Either the motion of the 
 horses shook the branch from her grasp, or she 
 dropped it intentionally, impelled by Joan's wistful 
 gaze. The little maiden saw where the green 
 sprig fell, and darted into the street, and gathered 
 it up, her face glowing with thanks, as she looked 
 after the young girl, who, by some inexplicable 
 kind of magnetism, had turned her head, and once 
 more fixed her gentle eyes on Joan. The unearth- 
 ly whiteness t of the face, the pure garments, the 
 pitying smile hovering about the pale lips, made 
 Joan feel as if an angel had passed her way, and 
 greeted her with this token of love, and vanished. 
 Very tenderly she planted the slip in an old 
 broken bowl, and she watered, and sunned, and 
 watched it ; and in time it grew vigorously, and 
 shot out spreading branches and finely-cut leaves ; 
 and by-and-by it put forth clusters of rose-colored 
 flowers, shaded with more vivid auroral tints ; and 
 great was Joan's exultation. 
 
Who are the Great? 203 
 
 How often she would pause in her work to bury 
 her wan face among the leaves, and inhale their 
 rich perfume ! And then, for a moment, she 
 seemed to herself to be walking in those woods of 
 which the children told, and paddling in the cool 
 brook, or sitting on the velvety moss, listening to 
 the songs of the birds. The little geranium bush 
 was garden, and wood, and brook and bird to her. 
 She had that joy. 
 
 Joan found a daily pleasure, too, in the noisy, 
 troublesome, motherless children, whose caresses 
 soothed and comforted her. Tiny Jamie, the 
 youngest, was always sick, but he was a quiet, pa- 
 tient little sufferer, and she loved him all the better 
 because he needed so much love and care. The 
 others were restless and boisterous, and cried oft- 
 en, and lustily, but she only rejoiced that they 
 showed such strength of limbs and lungs. She 
 sat still sewing, or knelt scrubbing, or strained her 
 poor, weak back washing, but gambolled with 
 them in heart, as they gambolled around her. 
 When she taught them the little that she knew, 
 she felt a mysterious increase of knowledge, as 
 though she herself received unconscious teachings. 
 When they lay in the sweet sleep of thoughtless 
 childhood, it rested her to see them rest. So she 
 had joys through them. 
 
 Then, too, she loved that sad-hearted, weak, 
 sinful man whom she called " father." Her young 
 brain was always busy planning ways to lift him 
 
204 Who are the Great? 
 
 out of the temptation into which he had fallen, 
 through the grief which seeks to drown itself in 
 oblivion. Upon some days she was successful, and 
 then the golden light of hope illumined, to her 
 eyes, their squalid little room, until it shone as a 
 palace chamber at a festival. This was her crown* 
 
 At length, when Winnifred, Joan's younger 
 sister, was old enough, and was strong enough, 
 through the strength imparted by Joan's example, 
 to take her place, a voice, unheard by other ears, 
 whispered the tired maiden that she might lay her 
 burden down ; that her lowly labors were ended, 
 and there was more joyful work for her to do 
 up higher. Then her weary hands dropped help- 
 lessly to her side, her thin face grew ashen in its 
 pallor, and the soft light faded slowly out of her 
 heavy eyes. 
 
 As she lay upon the hard couch, from whence 
 she was never more to rise, she pointed to her one 
 treasure — her beautiful geranium bush — and it 
 was placed by her side. It chanced at that period 
 to be covered with the most magnificent flowers 
 that it had ever borne. She smiled as her dim 
 eyes rested upon them, and bright visions rose once 
 more before her internal sight ; but they were no 
 longer of the gardens of earth ! And, hovering 
 above the roseate blossoms, she saw the face of 
 the fair girl who had been sent to drop the only 
 flowers that ever gladdened her path, and to flit 
 
Who are the Great? 205 
 
 by nameless and unknown. The countenance 
 was surely that of an angel. Through Joan's brief 
 life, that face alone had helped her to conceive 
 what angel faces might be. 
 
 Falling peacefully asleep, Joan departed — it 
 might be to behold that lovely and familiar visage 
 nearer still. She had accomplished her destiny 
 and finished her work. She had written no books 
 that would send her name down to posterity, had 
 sung no songs which future ages would sing, had 
 achieved nothing glorious in the realms of art, had 
 made no marvellous discoveries, had earned no 
 fame ; but she had set a great example, which 
 might profit others as much as literature, or artis- 
 tic creations, or the wonders of science, or the 
 deeds of the famous. 
 
 Had she not answered Eogers' definition of true 
 greatness ? Had she not done what deserves to 
 be written % If she could have written, would it 
 not have been what deserves to be read ? Had she 
 not made others better and happier for her life, in 
 spite of its narrow sphere I And therefore was 
 not the obscure child of toil one of the Great \ 
 
 18 
 
PRUDENTIA. 
 
 E call her Prudentia ; not that it is the 
 name written on her brow with holy, 
 baptismal waters, but because the word 
 expresses her individuality. In the hereafter, when 
 we receive new names, as we enter the great eter- 
 nal land, will not those appellations typify our at- 
 tributes ] It is perhaps some vague, internal pre- 
 figuring of that true name-giving which impels 
 certain minds to bestow upon their associates pet 
 names, nick-names, names suggestive of charac- 
 ter. And this spontaneous prompting makes us 
 style the wise and thoughtful mother of a certain 
 orderly little household, " Prudentia." 
 
 How is it that Prudentia, with a purse so shal- 
 low, conducts the affairs of her home department 
 with such seeming ease and comfort ? No painfully 
 obvious " managing" is apparent. Her system en- 
 tails no constant thrusting of her economy in one's 
 face, no holding forth about the necessity of saving, 
 and no parade of poverty, which, by the bye, is just 
 as vulgar as the boast of riches. Parade of pover- 
 ty ? Yes, we use the expression advisedly ; for the 
 
 (206) 
 
Prudentia. 207 
 
 proud at heart, who ape humility, the naturally 
 mean, who would excuse their niggardliness, the 
 designing, who would lure others into lavishness 
 from which they may derive benefit without shar- 
 ing the expense, each, from different motives, pa- 
 rade their poverty by the constant ejaculations of, 
 "too poor!" "hard times!" "can't afford!" But 
 these are words seldom syllabled by Prudential 
 lips. 
 
 We have studied Prudentia, conned that fair 
 human book in which her rules of life are writ- 
 ten, and we think the mode by which she makes 
 the " two ends " of that zone which girdles her re- 
 sources " meet " without leaving a hiatus of debt, 
 may possibly benefit some of her young sisters in 
 the world's vast family. Doubtless there are a 
 few among them who would gladly deserve the 
 name we bestow upon her, if they only knew the 
 art by which it could be won. It is for these alone 
 that we throw out a few hints which may serve as 
 a clew to Prudentia's secret. 
 
 In the first place, Prudentia, when she feels dis- 
 posed to make a purchase, pauses and asks herself 
 the important questions, " Is it actually needed 1 " 
 " Can we do without it?" If the voice within re- 
 plies, " It can be dispensed with," she is made 
 aware that the article was desired to gratify taste/ 
 or promote comfort, or perhaps give pleasure, and 
 not because it was urgently requisite. Before she 
 relinquishes or appropriates the wished-for object 
 
208 Prudentia. 
 
 she puts another query to her inner self: " Is there 
 nothing positively necessary which must be fore- 
 gone if I permit myself this gratification I " The 
 answer to that second inquiry always decides 
 whether it is wise, prudent, right, to allow herself 
 (or others, far dearer than herself,) the proposed 
 indulgence. 
 
 She never buys anything simply because it is 
 " so cheap !" and she " may want it sometime or 
 other." She expects every gold, or silver, or even 
 copper coin within her tiny purse to bring its full 
 value in exchange. Yet she often pays high pri- 
 ces for articles of good quality, because she knows 
 they will long outlast inferior materials and are 
 cheaper in the end. 
 
 She never wastes anything, never throws airy- 
 thing away. Articles that have done faithful ser- 
 vice in one form are metamorphosed by her magi- 
 cal touches into some new shape. The ingenuity 
 with which these changes are wrought out excites 
 our wonder. Unfaded bits of an old carpet grow 
 into footstools and bedside rugs; the well-worn 
 dress re-appears in neat aprons ; stockings that 
 had " said their prayers " are razeed down, and 
 become quite fresh on tinier feet ; chintz window 
 curtains which, in their advanced age, cannot stand 
 the betrayals of too strong light, resume their good 
 looks when produced as furniture covers ; scraps, 
 and odds and ends of all kinds, serve for pretty 
 patch-work. But we forbear to swell the list of 
 
Prudentia. 209 
 
 Prudentia's skilful transformations. After all, she 
 is but obeying one of the great laws that rule the 
 universe. Does not all creation wear new forms 
 and assume new uses every hour that the world 
 travels on its starry way? Does not the very hum- 
 blest withered leaf enrich the ground upon which 
 it falls, and nourish the new flower springing from 
 the bosom of the earth ? When Prudentia can find 
 no further employment for articles that have un 
 dergone various transmutations in her own house 
 hold, they are carefully stored away for the needy, 
 who never knock at her door in vain. 
 
 When she has anything to accomplish which 
 seems very desirable, but which will cause a large 
 outlay (we mean large for her), she first sits down, 
 and literally, in accordance with the Scripture in- 
 junction, " counts the cost " before she attempts to 
 rear the fabric. 
 
 She is in the highest degree scrupulous in re- 
 gard to debt. She makes no bill that can be rea- 
 sonably avoided. When she permits herself to 
 have an account, it is always under circumstances 
 which actual necessity, rather than convenience, 
 renders allowable. She keeps a memorandum of 
 everything she spends and everything she owes. 
 She bears each obligation incurred constantly in 
 her mind, fixes the time and the mode of its dis- 
 charge, and often cancels it before payment is so- 
 licited. She would not allow herself, or the members 
 of her household, a luxury while a single creditor 
 
 18* 
 
210 Prudentia. 
 
 waited his due. She is by nature liberal as the 
 sunshine ; she experiences a supreme degree of 
 internal delight in bestowing charity — promoting 
 the comfort or pleasure of others — especially in 
 giving presents ; but even this bountiful and beau- 
 tiful impulse she controls when she owes a debt 
 for which no provision has been made. She says 
 to herself, " This money is not mine, it belongs to 
 my creditor. It would be a happiness to be able 
 to use it or to give it away, but how can I use or 
 give that which, strictly speaking, is not my 
 own \ " 
 
 Then in her management within doors, how often 
 her tact supplies the place of luxury ! She plans 
 her breakfasts, and dinners, and suppers with such 
 forethought! She knows that an uncostly dish, 
 skilfully prepared, will be as palatable as an ex- 
 pensive delicacy ; and to ensure that the former 
 will prove an acceptable substitute for the latter, 
 she superintends its cooking herself. Her simple, 
 daintily concocted " Brown Betsey," or clear, well- 
 flavored cornina, leave no desire for rich calves' 
 feet jelly and blanc mange ; and her unextravagant 
 but Italian-cooked macaroni is often preferred to 
 the most dainty entremets. 
 
 Then, as regards her own dress and the dresses 
 of her children : their exquisitely fitting clothes, 
 of well assorted colors, though of simplest materi- 
 als, are more graceful and becoming than the 
 rustling silks and dashing satins of many a friend 
 
Pruclentia. 211 
 
 wnose prospects in life are by no means as promis- 
 ing as her own. But we all know that taste and 
 neatness of attire will at any time surpass rich- 
 ness. 
 
 Strangers look at her and exclaim : " It is per- 
 fectly wonderful how Prudentia gets on with only 
 one servant ! And her house always looks so nice ; 
 her drawing room and library are pervaded by such 
 an atmosphere of taste ! And how comfortably she 
 lives ! How prettily she and her children are al- 
 ways dressed ! Her husband's income must be 
 small, and yet she does not seem to be always 
 economizing, and raking, and scraping, and man- 
 aging, as some people who talk of nothing else. 
 I wonder what her secret is % " 
 
 Her secret lies in deserving the name of Pru- 
 dentia. 
 
 She is not afraid of work in any of its phases. 
 Her own white and beautifully moulded hands 
 lend their aid to the rough, strong ones of her ser- 
 vant, when such help is needed, and hands never 
 worked more deftly and rapidly than Prudentia's. 
 As for the toil, she looks upon it as a matter of 
 course that all her moments are to be used, and 
 feels it no hardship to be constantly employed. 
 All labor is sweetened by her pleasant thoughts 
 and the remembrance of the bright smile that will 
 flash over a beloved countenance, and beam lus- 
 trously out from a pair of dark, loving eyes, when 
 her husband enters his cheerful home. 
 
212 
 
 Prudentia. 
 
 " A simple, earnest life that tireless toils, 
 Is music in God's ear. " 
 
 And such music ascends to heaven every day out' 
 of the harmonious movements of Prudentia's ex- 
 istence. 
 
CROAKERS. 
 
 ^HIGHLY proper, and pious, and thor- 
 oughly unexceptionable person is our 
 worthy friend, Mrs. Rueful — but oh! 
 the depressing influence of her' presence ! Un- 
 questionably she must carry an invisible supply of 
 " low spirits " bottled up and stored in her reti- 
 cule ! The cork is extracted by the first word she 
 utters, and the " blue demons " escape, and com- 
 placently light down upon her neighbors' hearts, 
 and grow heavier and heavier, where they sit, un- 
 til content, and hope, and mirth, are crushed out 
 by their incubus-like weight. Nor do the impish 
 band take their leave when she departs ; once in- 
 troduced they are apt to haunt the new abode un- 
 til it becomes a familiar resting-place. 
 
 Well may one dread the visitations of good Mrs. 
 Rueful, who leaves such enemies to peace behind 
 her ! She glides into your home with tread so light 
 that you think, perforce, upon noiseless footfalls in 
 the chambers of sickness and sorrow. The steady 
 gloom of her countenance reminds you of an au- 
 tumn sky, when the clouds thicken and darken 
 
 (213) 
 
214 Croakers. 
 
 with the menace of " falling weather " of incalcu- 
 lable duration. She takes your hand with start- 
 ling gravity, sits down beside you with a sigh, looks 
 inquiringly and compassionately into your face 
 with misty, smileless eyes. She speaks to you in 
 a voice soft and plaintive, that often drops into a 
 a dolorous whisper, and gives you a sensation of 
 vague uneasiness. Her touch sends through your 
 veins a cold, foreboding shudder ; her gaze com- 
 municates an indefinable conviction that you must 
 be an object of pity. You may not exactly " think 
 of your sins " when Mrs. Rueful appears, but you 
 involuntarily think of your griefs — if you have 
 any — and who has none % 
 
 Mrs. Hueful is a prophetic reader of faces, and 
 she is constantly discovering some direful presage 
 in those of her acquaintances. She groans at the 
 sight of a countenance beaming with gayety, for 
 she is certain it will shortly be clouded with sor- 
 row. She dreads to hear a joyous laugh, for she 
 knows that, in the natural course of events, it 
 must be followed by a sob of anguish. She es- 
 chews mirth because it is the forerunner of afflic- 
 tion. If she sees a friend in a high state of health, 
 she solemnly assures him that he is threatened 
 with a fit of illness. In vain the amazed hearer 
 declares that he never felt better in his life ; she 
 tells him that is precisely the way people feel just 
 before they are stricken down ; and finally per- 
 suades him into fancying that the rose on his 
 
Croakers. 215 
 
 cheek is a hectic flush, his robustness the sign of 
 alarming plethora, his vivacity the excitement of 
 fever, and his general healthfulness a premonitory 
 symptom of disease. 
 
 Mrs. Eueful always has a " pet sorrow " of her 
 own ; she could not live without one ! She nurses 
 this darling grief, hugs it to her heart, tricks it 
 out with lugubrious semblances, parades it before 
 the public eye, exaggerates it, and now and then 
 changes it for a lesser or a greater trouble ; but 
 without an incurable woe she could not exist ! 
 Her strong-minded, matter-of-fact friends affirm 
 that her mighty miseries resemble the sorrows of 
 my Lord Plumcake ; that a goodly share of this 
 world's blessings has been awarded her, and that 
 she ought to be a very grateful, contented, happy 
 person. But Mrs. Eueful is vexed to the heart at 
 such an assertion. How can she be happy, she 
 inquires, in a tone of irritable reproach, when she 
 knows that countless calamities are in store for 
 her % when she is haunted by hydra-headed shad- 
 ows of anticipated misfortune ? by numberless 
 swords suspended from hairs over her hapless 
 head? by perpetual earthquakes rumbling omi- 
 nously beneath her very feet % 
 
 Mrs. Eueful's sun is under a constant eclipse, 
 and she fairly revels in the dark side of creation. 
 If a friend is ill, her imagination unceremoniously 
 lays him in his coffin ; for no figure of Hope sits 
 at the gate of her heart to open its portals to the 
 
216 Croakers. 
 
 possibility of his recovery. And when, now and 
 then, her prediction is verified, and a beloved one 
 is freed from anguish, and called to joy, Mrs. Rue- 
 ful makes the most of the affliction. She never 
 bates an inch of the strictest forms of conventional 
 mourning. She is frantic! in her lamentations, and 
 encourages the most violent demonstrations of grief 
 in others. She recoils from the faintest approach 
 of consolation. Her gaze is bent steadfastly down- 
 ward to the grave, and the mouldering ashes that 
 lie there ; her eyes resolutely refuse to look up- 
 wards and contemplate the enfranchised spirit, re- 
 joicing in its newly awarded felicity. The " garb 
 of woe" is her favorite attire, a knell is the sweet- 
 music to her ears ; and if she wore an ornament to 
 correspond with her most cherished state of mind, 
 it could only be a miniature death's head, or cross- 
 bones, fantastically wrought. And yet she will tell 
 you that she has made open profession of Chris- 
 tianity, and that she believes in Heaven ! Certes, 
 she never acts as though any of her departed friends 
 had gone there. 
 
 The dread of accidents keeps Mrs. Rueful in a 
 perpetual fever of anxiety or chill of terror. She 
 never thinks of ships without shipwrecks ; steam- 
 boats always conjure up an image of bursting boil- 
 ers, and dismembered limbs flying through the air ; 
 railroads are synonymous with crushed heads and 
 mangled bodies ; every mode of locomotion is the 
 medium of lurking peril, every place of rest the 
 
Croakers. 217 
 
 abode of a concealed danger. Mrs. Rueful firmly 
 believes that earthquakes and tornadoes will spread 
 to every part of the world, and no being living 
 will escape their destroying fury. When war 
 commences, she is certain that it will extend over 
 the whole globe, and that peace can never be re- 
 stored. She is sure that lightning always strikes. 
 She is constantly on the look-out for fatal epidem- 
 ics, and beholds cholera and yellow fever taking 
 rapid strides toward her own especial habitation. 
 No locality is salubrious, no haven safe. Country 
 roads, to her, are infested by imaginary snakes, 
 phantom mad dogs, and shadowy crazed bulls ; 
 and city streets teem with risks too manifold to 
 enumerate. Robbers dog her steps by day. and 
 shake her shutters at night. She burns her own 
 home and the houses of her friends (in fancy) at 
 least once per week, and determinedly buries her- 
 self and them in the ruins. To be sure, they all 
 rise again, phce nix-like, from the ashes, but only 
 to go periodically through the same illusory proc- 
 ess of annihilation. 
 
 She has no faith in palmy days and prosperous 
 times ; indeed, she totally ignores prosperity. To 
 her thinking, trade never thrives, professions mean 
 beggary, art is at a dead stand-still, literature is, 
 and ever will be, stagnant. The rich are on the 
 verge of bankruptcy, the poor are daily growing 
 poorer; everything and everybody is going to 
 speedy destruction. 
 
 19 
 
218 Croakers. 
 
 Then, Mrs. Rueful has such a propensity to 
 dream ! And she teaches others to dream ; and 
 she interprets their visions and her own, and the 
 prognostics always bode evil. Good omens there 
 are none ; there is no " good time coming," ac- 
 cording to her creed. It is useless to remind Mrs. 
 Rueful that in these days of spiritual disorder, 
 dreams are chiefly the whisperings of fantastical 
 spirits, and that if there are any exceptions to this 
 rule, there is no accredited, infallible, heaven- 
 illumined expounder given to the world. Mrs. 
 Rueful will quote Scripture to prove that dreams 
 are of more importance than positive realities, and 
 will give you abundant instances testifying to the 
 dexterity of the key by which she opens those 
 secret chambers of marvel, and drags forth their 
 hidden skeletons. 
 
 Mrs. Rueful's faith in signs and wonders exceeds 
 that of any ancient Roman. It is a rock upon 
 which she leans with the complacent conviction 
 that it can never be shaken. The spilling of salt, 
 breaking of looking-glasses, ticking of death watch- 
 es, sitting down of thirteen at table, forming of 
 winding sheets in candles, passing under ladders, 
 lowing of cows, moaning of dogs, etc., etc., are not 
 trivial and accidental occurrences, but events, to 
 her mind, pregnant with coming calamity. She 
 is always peering into the future, always predict- 
 ing, always foreseeing ; and not only seeing 
 " through a glass darkly," but beholding all the 
 world covered with sable. 
 
Croakers. 219 
 
 In short, Mrs. Rueful is a walking cloud, in fe- 
 male guise ; a perambulating wet-blanket of wo- 
 manhood, whose especial vocation it is to convince 
 the world that life is but a compound of miseries, 
 a thing made up of groans and sighs, a burden ever 
 accumulating in weight, until it breaks the back that 
 bears it ; and that disasters and afflictions are the 
 only rational anticipations in which humanity can 
 safely indulge. 
 
 Is there no philanthropist who will undertake 
 the task of reasoning with Mrs. Rueful ? Will no 
 one prove to her that if any man ever actually en- 
 countered one half the evils he dreaded, and ex- 
 pected, and fretted over, no man's fardel would be 
 endurable'? Will no one tell her that there is 
 wealth, which can meet no bankruptcy, in a pa- 
 tient spirit ] that a serene temperament is an aegis 
 impenetrable to misfortune \ that a trustful nature 
 is a weapon in the hand of Faith to disarm Sor- 
 row ? Will no one persuade our doleful -vis aged 
 friend that there is religion in a contented heart, 
 and gratitude in a cheerful face, and that he upon 
 whom Heaven smiles approvingly, will reflect the 
 brightness of that radiant token upon all the 
 world % 
 
THE GAME OF SCANDAL. 
 
 AVE you ever played at " Scandal," 
 friend ? Pure must the heart be that feels 
 no sudden pang of conscience at that 
 bomb-like question. But the startling query, in this 
 instance, mildly refers to a game called "Scandal" 
 the delight of juveniles ; ' too joyous to be very wise." 
 Yet is there wisdom and warning enough in the 
 game itself to force the conclusion that its origin 
 was in the brain of some sage satirist, who hid a 
 sober moral with a sportive mask. 
 
 The players sit in a row ; the one at the head 
 whispers to his neighbor a communication concern- 
 ing some absent friend ; the neighbor whispers the 
 news, as he hears it, to the one next to him, who 
 conveys the intelligence, still in a whisper, to the 
 one nearest ; thus it is imparted again and again 
 until it reaches the end of the line. As the sen- 
 tence is transmitted from mouth to mouth, it is 
 unintentionally, unavoidably altered ; the words 
 have been incorrectly caught by the listening ear ; 
 with each repetition they undergo a change ; by 
 the time the sentence has travelled to its journey's 
 
 (220) 
 
The Game of Scandal 221 
 
 close it has passed through so many strange muta- 
 tions that it bears not the slightest resemblance to 
 the original phrase. Every one is requested, be- 
 ginning at the last hearer, to declare what informa- 
 tion concerning Mr. or Mrs. or Miss 
 
 was confided to him, and lo ! through these singu- 
 lar transitions, the harmless assertion has become a 
 monstrous slander ! This " scandal " was obviously 
 the offspring of inadvertent, unconscious misrepre- 
 sentation. As the story is traced back through all 
 its crooked paths, the most hilarious merriment is 
 excited by its odd metamorphoses. 
 
 The young play this game in jest, for the sake 
 of the mirth it awakens ; their seniors are playing 
 it in sober, fatal earnest, all the world over, and 
 like them, for the sake of mere amusement. Ay, 
 playing it daily without self-reproach — playing it 
 without dreaming that they are " coiners of scandal 
 and clippers of reputation ; " playing it without 
 reflecting that their game can produce more danger- 
 ous consequences than the sport of the children ! 
 ■ Let us not confound these comparatively innocent 
 scandalmongers with that venomous class whose 
 adder-stings are aimed with malicious purpose, 
 whose Upas breath withers the freshest flowers of 
 Innocence with its invisible touch ; whose defiled 
 hands stir up the mud in purest streams of life ; 
 whose splenetic natures are constantly goaded by 
 Envy and armed with the deadly weapons of Hatred. 
 Against those, the sagest poet that the sun ever 
 
 19* 
 
222 The Game of Scandal. 
 
 shone upon, tells that there is no segis that can pro- 
 tect even the immaculate. 
 
 " No might, no greatness in mortality- 
 Can censure 'scape — back-wounding calumny 
 The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong 
 Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue ? " 
 
 Since the world has no social Perseus who can 
 lift an invincible sword to slay those Gorgons, they 
 are not our theme. 
 
 To them the players in the world's great game 
 of " scandal " bear little resemblance. The latter 
 are vivacious, courteous, agreeable, respectable 
 members of society. If the whole truth must be 
 spoken, we are bound to admit that these graceful 
 babblers are chiefly of the gentler sex. 
 
 Since the world began, women must have had an 
 especial gift of speech, for the very name of " Eve," 
 according to Buxtorf s Hebrew Lexicon, is derived 
 from a root which signifies " to talk ; " thus her 
 temptations to indulge in idle strictures must be 
 greater than those of her more taciturn brother. 
 
 But the amiable newsmongers, who are playing 
 this " game of scandal " with honied lips and smi- 
 ing eyes, mean no harm. Theirs are random 
 arrows shot in sport, yet the shaft scathes, be the 
 hand by which it was aimed ever so white ! Some 
 charming, giddy-pated creature, with unbridled 
 levity of tongue, gives breath to a good story (not 
 particularly good natured), about a certain poor, 
 
The Game of Scandal. 223 
 
 dear friend of hers ; the news is whispered in the 
 ear of the next neighbor, kind " Mrs. Clackitt," and 
 being imperfectly heard, or not thoroughly under- 
 stood, undergoes an unintentional change (as in 
 the famous game we have cited). Mrs. Clackitt, 
 with eager volubility, confides the secret to the first 
 person she meets, good Mrs. Grim. Mrs. Grim 
 chances to be of a satirical turn of mind, and the 
 Tale assumes a sarcastic countenance ; it is wafted 
 onward until it reaches Miss Balm, a very humane 
 and tender-hearted gossip ; in her sympathetic 
 bosom it is weighed down with such a pressure of 
 pity, that the features of the travelling Story are 
 smoothed into new shape. A few more steps on- 
 ward, a few more pleasant touches from rosy lips 
 and snowy hands, and the original lineaments are 
 wholly obliterated. 
 
 But is this all ? What becomes of the heroine 
 of the game % How will she break loose from the 
 tangled web woven by mere idle talk \ Whither 
 will she fly from the stabbing of inconsequent 
 tongues \ If her lacerated reputation ever heal, 
 will not those wounds leave a disfiguring scar for 
 life! 
 
 Fairest prospects have been hopelessly blighted, 
 strongest ties of friendship dissevered, love trans- 
 formed to hate, hearts broken, homes made desolate 
 through the daily playing of this merry game of 
 " scandal " at our firesides, in our walks, in our 
 social gatherings. The most zealous player, having 
 
224 The Game of Scandal. 
 
 no evil end in view, if told that he has dealt a blow 
 to a friend, or done a neighbor a wrong, would 
 meet the charge, indignant and aghast. Yet the 
 game goes on bravely from day to day ! We all 
 play it, quite innocent of malice ; give a buffet 
 to the flying tale to send it onward, half expiring 
 with laughter at the quaint, fantastic shapes it 
 assumes. 
 
 Without presuming to don the solemn robes of 
 the social reformer, which might float with as little 
 grace as the usurped lion's skin in the fable, may 
 we not venture to suggest an antidote to the bane 
 of this popular, death-dealing game ? We fear it 
 is one almost too simple to strike ; yet simplest 
 herbs have counteracted deadliest poisons. It lies 
 in resolutely setting our faces against crediting any 
 injurious rumor by the reflection that the story is, 
 in all probability, an illustration of the marvellous 
 metamorphoses wrought by that magical game of 
 " scandal " which we, and all the world, are merrily 
 playing. 
 
GRUMBLERS. 
 
 ANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN, in one 
 of those tales of marvel, by which he has 
 wrought an attractive setting of fiction 
 around a gem of truth, describes a magical mirror 
 of diabolical invention, which distorted and rendered 
 hideous the fairest objects it reflected. When the 
 mirror was fractured, certain individuals gathered 
 up the fragments and made spectacles of them, and 
 henceforth viewed all creation through a perverted 
 medium. 
 
 These are the malcontents of the present day. 
 An unbroken frown keeps the gloomy glasses fixed 
 across their brows. And the fault-finding instinct 
 is quickened to such a degree in the wearers that 
 they daily endure a self-imposed martyrdom. Let 
 them walk through the smoothest, greenest, choicest 
 paths of life, the thorns of discontent are always 
 piercing their feet, and all the burs in the lanes are 
 sure to cling to their garments. Let the sun shine 
 ever so brightly, no light is received into their ray- 
 less eyes, and yet they discover and magnify all the 
 motes in its beams. They move about with lugu- 
 
 (225) 
 
226 Grumblers. 
 
 brious countenances and ascetic speech, as though 
 a perpetual nightmare sat upon their souls. They 
 pour the cold water of their presence upon the 
 faintest flame of enthusiasm that dares to betray its 
 existence, and seem to be tortured by a frantic de- 
 sire to extinguish all the Promethean fire in the 
 world. 
 
 Southey paints a genial class of beings who are 
 " willing to be pleased, and thankful for being 
 pleased, without thinking it necessary that they 
 should be able to parse their pleasure, like a lesson, 
 or give a rule or reason why they are pleased." 
 The grumblers, in a precisely opposite spirit, set 
 out upon their compulsory journey through life. 
 They start with the conviction that the universe 
 holds nothing that is worthy to excite pleasure, and 
 consequently form a religious determination that 
 they will not be cheated into a pleasurable sensa- 
 tion. 
 
 They are especially subject to all skyey influences, 
 and the weather is an everlasting source of discom- 
 fort to them. There is always too much rain falling, 
 or the sky is too clear, the drought too protracted, 
 the cold too bracing, or the heat too debilitatiug. 
 
 If some more contented and confiding spirit 
 meekly points out that rain may benefit the crops, 
 or promote the verdure of the clover fields ; that the 
 drought may be needful just at that season to dry 
 up certain marshes and prevent disease ; and mildly 
 suggests that the Omnipotent Being, whose laws of 
 
Grumblers. 227 
 
 order have ruled the universe for so many ages, and 
 have kept the countless stars in their orbits, yet 
 have allowed no sparrow to fall to the ground by 
 chance, may possibly know, in His infinite presci- 
 ence, somewhat better than narrow-visioned, 
 sense-circumscribed mortals, when it is well for the 
 rain to descend or the sun to shine ; the grumbler 
 shakes his head ; he is inaccessible to any such 
 weak and visionary argument. He entertains the 
 belief that he could have ordered many of these 
 matters more judiciously and more satisfactorily for 
 men's comfort. He is quite convinced that all the 
 pumpkins should have grown upon oak trees, and 
 the little acorns upon the earth. 
 
 It never occurs to him that there is even a tinge 
 of profanity in this rebellious and egotistic spirit ; 
 for the grumbler is often a profoundly pious man. 
 But fault-finding with his All-wise Master, and 
 railing at his inoffensive neighbor, are no sins ac- 
 cording to his creed. He ignores the existence of 
 Charity's veiling cloak, and eagerly bares the sus- 
 pected shoulder of a companion that he may reveal 
 the hidden brand which affords him a sufficient 
 pretext to 
 
 " Abhor 
 In Christ's name meekly." 
 
 Besides these Don Quixote malcontents, who are 
 waging perpetual war with shadows and distorted 
 realities, there exists an inferior race of grumblers, 
 
228 Grumblers. 
 
 a petty, fretful, carping set, who expend the 
 whole strength of their intellects in quarrelling 
 about trifles, and magnifying straws of resistance 
 into iron bars of opposition. They are afflicted 
 by the most subtle and intangible torments, and 
 pass their lives in ceaseless lamentation over their 
 hourly and irremediable trials. Their clothes can 
 never by any persuasion be induced to fit ; all the 
 gnats in the world are in league to sting them ; they 
 never fail to stumble over the smallest stone in their 
 way, and their waspish buz zings of discontent tor- 
 ture the ears of serener beings without respite. 
 
 One of the strangest phases in the lives of these 
 grumblers, is the miraculous change often effected 
 by a great affliction ; the beneficent influence of a 
 positive calamity. It suddenly awakens them to 
 the sense that there is something in the world more 
 important than their own discomfort and the short- 
 comings of their neighbors. They rise up from 
 the pressure of a heavy sorrow as though strength- 
 ened by its very weight, and fling off all lesser cares 
 as the lion shakes the dewdrops from his mane. 
 By a single effort they arm themselves against all 
 the minor miseries that agonized their lives, and, 
 endure the actual affliction with marvellous patience. 
 The irritable, i contentious grumbler, who groaned 
 at the tickling of a feather, and half-expired at the 
 prick of a pin, bows meekly beneath the hard blow, 
 and seems for the first time to be impressed with 
 the conviction that the stroke was dealt by a Hand 
 
Grumblers. 229 
 
 divine. Especially " sweet are the uses of Adver- 
 sity " to such temperaments, and on them the very 
 greatest blessing we can invoke is " May a heavy, 
 but chastening misfortune, fall quickly upon their 
 heads ! " 
 
 20 
 
MRS. GRUNDY'S MISSION. 
 
 >T is a favorite theory of an eccentric spec- 
 ulator upon men and manners, that " all 
 sorts of people" are needed to make up the 
 social elements of a habitable and agreeable world ; 
 that the greater the variety of temperaments, cus- 
 toms and opinions, congregated upon the globe, the 
 more likelihood there is of the arrival of that " good 
 time " which Mackay has tunefully predicted as cer- 
 tainly " coming." Moreover, the moralizing indi- 
 vidual, above mentioned, maintains that every man, 
 woman, and child — though the man may be com- 
 monplace, the woman insignificant, the child un 
 enfant terrible — has, in that same pleasant world, 
 his or her especial " mission." We use the much 
 ridiculed expression very reluctantly, and with a 
 painful consciousness that it has hopelessly fallen 
 from its high position in the English vocabulary. 
 
 Upon reflection, we are inclined seriously to agree 
 with the philosophic theorist who puts forth the 
 views, concerning the world's requisite occupants, 
 which we have quoted. 
 
 The supernal powers, whose appointed office it 
 
 (230) 
 
Mrs. Grundy s Mission. 231 
 
 is to constantly influence men's actions, must re- 
 quire an endless variety of media to effect the good 
 works of which they are the invisible agents. Un- 
 like temperaments must be acted upon in a dissim- 
 ilar manner, and diverse instruments must be used 
 to carve different materials. 
 
 If the rarest diamond be unskilfully polished, the 
 brilliancy of which it is capable will not be called 
 forth. The full lustre of the Koh-i-noor was only 
 revealed after the labor of weeks and the use of a 
 horse-power of vast strength to effect its cutting. 
 There are brilliant minds whose highest sparkle 
 can only be developed by an equally powerful, yet 
 fine and laborious, process. 
 
 Wordsworth has given us an illustration of a 
 wholly opposite class in the matter-of-fact Peter 
 Bell. Peter, into whose heart nature could never 
 find a way, although he " roved amid her vales and 
 streams, green woods and hollow dells," — Peter, 
 who could not look " from nature up to nature's 
 God," who saw in the primrose by the river's brim 
 a yellow primrose and " nothing more," needed the 
 shock of a dead man's ghastly face upturned to him 
 in the clear stream, and the lesson taught by an 
 ass's patient, loving watchfulness over his drowned 
 master, to stir a pulse of his emotional nature, or 
 lift his heart towards the Omnipotent who endowed 
 that ass with its strange instinct of devotion. 
 
 Had not this poor ass a " mission " to perform for 
 Peter % And had not Peter, after the awakening of 
 
232 Mrs. Grundy's Mission. 
 
 his spirit through this humble medium, his " mis- 
 sion " to discharge among his hardened comrades ? 
 
 We are apt to look at the odd, inharmonious, 
 placeless individuals that float through the great 
 stream of existence, and irreverently wonder why 
 they were sent to occupy space in a world which 
 they seemed unfitted either to benefit or adorn, 
 and where they are evidently not in the least at 
 home. But be sure, they all have their " mission." 
 We may laugh at them, or turn our backs on them, 
 or dread them because they invariably render the 
 locality which they inhabit, uncomfortable, but 
 angel-hands are bending even these unshapely 
 waifs into the performance of use. 
 
 Take, for instance, the much-abused, much-feared, 
 ever-shunned, yet ubiquitous Mrs. Grundy. We 
 admit that she is a very offensive, meddling person ; 
 that she is impertinently clairwyante in discovering 
 more of people's affairs than they know themselves ; 
 that she is a perfect Draco in crinolines for laying 
 down cruel laws ; that she creates most admired 
 confusion by her interpretations of seemingly harm- 
 less actions ; that she boldly startles young maidens 
 with the news of their betrothal before the favored 
 lover has spoken ; that she unceremoniously lifts 
 the cap from the smoothed locks of the unconsoled 
 widow, and places a bridal chaplet in its place ; 
 that she frightens the miser with stories of his 
 hoarded wealth, and confounds the prodigal enter- 
 tainer with hints of his suspected poverty ; that she 
 
Mrs, Grundy's Mission. 233 
 
 publishes the charily concealed privations andpinch- 
 ings, and scrapings of the strugglers to " keep up 
 appearances," and makes known all the vanity, and 
 ingratitude and malice, envy and hatred that come 
 within her ken, and doubles the actual amount — 
 in short, that she is a very indecorous and trouble- 
 some individual ; yet even Mrs. Grundy has an 
 unquestionable " mission." 
 
 Many a shrew softens her shrill tones, lest they 
 should reach Mrs. Grundy's quick ears. Many a 
 husband puts a check upon unseemly inclinations 
 from the fear that Mrs. Grundy should trumpet 
 his lapses to the world. Many a youth and many 
 a maiden, whose feet no reverence for God's com- 
 mands could preserve from wandering in the " prim- 
 rose path of dalliance," is frightened back into the 
 beaten ways of safety and propriety by the dread 
 of Mrs. Grundy's finger pointed at them — the shiv- 
 ering fear that seizes them at the thought of being 
 arraigned before Mrs. Grundy's awful tribunal. 
 
 We are indebted to the continual surveillance, the 
 invisible perambulations of Mrs. Grundy in our 
 most secluded haunts, for the outside respectability 
 of at least one- third of the community. There are 
 consciences to which no avenues have ever been 
 discovered, save the unseen pathway that Mrs. 
 Grundy fearlessly treads. 
 
 Therefore are w T e impressed with the conviction 
 that our theoretic friend has arrived at a wise con- 
 clusion ; that it does take an incongruous medley 
 20* 
 
234 Mrs. Grundy s Missio?i. 
 
 of characters, minds, and hearts, to make up a tol- 
 erably respectable world ; that every man has his 
 u mission ; " that consequently Mrs. Grundy, with all 
 her imperfections on her head, has been intrusted 
 with one of the most important " missions," and 
 that the garrulous old lady, who exerts such un- 
 bounded power in regulating the affairs of the 
 universe, instead of being denounced and hunted 
 out of " good society," ought to be canonized as a 
 public benefactress. 
 
TACTLESS PEOPLE. 
 
 E believe it is generally admitted that the 
 most agreeable associates, in the every- 
 day intercourse of society, are those who 
 put us in a good humor with ourselves. Tactless 
 people have a wonderful faculty of effecting the 
 very opposite. However well tuned may be the 
 instrument they touch, their rough, inconsequent 
 fingers always strike some jarring string. Wound- 
 ed sensibility exaggerates their bluntness into in- 
 sult ; Confusion enters the doors where they pass 
 in ; Discord follows in their steps. 
 
 There is an anecdote told of a certain officer who, 
 having lost an arm in battle, ever after judged of 
 the high breeding and good nature of the persons 
 presented to him, by noticing whether their eyes 
 wandered to the empty coat-sleeve. He knew that 
 those who appeared perfectly unconscious of his 
 loss, were influenced by considerate delicacy ; 
 while those whose eyes were constantly turned to 
 the former locality of the deficient member, had 
 souls of a rude texture, insensible to fine percep- 
 tions or sympathetic emotions. Tactless people 
 
 (235) 
 
236 Tactless People. 
 
 belong to this last mentioned order of beings, and 
 seem to possess an especial gift for spying ont and 
 pitilessly dragging to light, imperfections which 
 politeness ignores. 
 
 Their scrutinizing eyes are ever upon a voyage 
 of discovery ; and who does not shrink from their 
 merciless scanning 1 Who has not felt that 
 
 " Being observed 
 When observation is not sympathy, 
 Is just being tortured " ? 
 
 Yet from this torture we need never hope to es- 
 cape while a member — especially a feminine mem- 
 ber — of the tactless family is present. Be sure 
 that her lynx eyes will detect the first unwelcome 
 thread of silver that winds its shining way among 
 raven locks, and will as certainly proclaim the un- 
 suspected intruder. But she makes the announce- 
 ment with no malicious intent ; she is quite un- 
 conscious of wounding one yet unreconciled to the 
 sore necessity of growing old. Your tactless friend 
 seems physically unable to avoid personalities. Let 
 a pair of smiling lips disclose pearls of strikingly 
 unnatural whiteness and regularity, and she is im- 
 mediately impelled to descant upon false teeth. 
 She unfailingly discusses the angularity and want 
 of grace of meagre people before those who are 
 vainly seeking flesh in cod liver oil, and every 
 other known promoter of rounded outlines ; and 
 she invariably expresses her disgust for unseemly 
 
Tactless People. 237 
 
 rotundity before unfortunates who are martyrizing 
 themselves by futile efforts to reduce their unsym- 
 metrical proportions, through compression and 
 starvation, or to conceal them by manifold arts of 
 the toilette. 
 
 Tactless people are especially given to criticize 
 dress. Woe to the hapless fair one who has been 
 forced by poverty into some little untasteful expe- 
 dient, or who bears about her a darn, or a slight 
 fracture, which she nervously hoped might escape 
 notice. Beyond all peradventure, a pair of re- 
 buking, tactless eyes will forthwith fasten upon 
 the imperfection. 
 
 Beware, too, of the hands of the tactless. They 
 are human magnets to attract and draw out de- 
 fects. If a vase of flowers is turned to the wall to 
 hide an unsightly crack, if a cushion is arranged 
 on a sofa to conceal an unlucky rent, if a curtain 
 is adjusted over a window to veil a broken pane, 
 if a footstool is carefully placed over an oil stain 
 on the carpet, their hands, as if by instinct, drag 
 away the friendly screen, and reveal the hidden 
 offence. 
 
 As for French gold, and plated silver, and paste 
 diamonds, and imitation lace, dyed silks, cleaned 
 gloves, and other genteel shams and expedients, 
 there is not the faintest chance that they will pass 
 current with your tactless guest. If, perforce, her 
 lips are silent, the close investigation and the sig- 
 nificant glances of her tell-tale eyes quickly an- 
 nounce that she is not duped by the imposture ! 
 
238 Tactless People. 
 
 Then, if there is a sore subject to any one pres- 
 ent, it is always stumbled upon (though with no 
 unkind intention) by these tactless people^ They 
 will discourse about profligate sons and thankless 
 daughters before sorrowing parents, and rail at 
 unworthy husbands before heart-broken wives, 
 and bemoan the wretchedness of marriage before 
 ill-matched partners. If a girl has been jilted, 
 they innocently endeavor to entertain her with an 
 account of the wedding of a gay young friend. If 
 a sick child lies gasping in its mother's arms, the 
 consolation they offer is a history of the deaths 
 they have known from just such illnesses. They 
 are very much surprised if an impression slowly 
 reaches them that they have created confusion or 
 occasioned distress. They assure you they had no 
 such design ; and doubtless they had none- It 
 was only the absence of that sixth sense, called 
 " tact," which rendered them so obnoxious as 
 companions, and which will always cause their 
 presence to be dreaded and shunned. 
 
 Singularly enough, their own sensibilities are 
 remarkably acute. No one can be more quickly 
 wounded than they, if their blunt speeches are re- 
 torted, and the arrows sent back hit their own 
 vulnerable points. 
 
 Do we estimate ' ' tact " too highly in thinking it 
 a positive virtue, one of the indispensable elements 
 of an agreeable character ? Was it not Dr. John- 
 son who said that politeness was " benevolence in 
 
Tactless People. 239 
 
 trifles " ] If politeness be the offspring of good 
 feeling evinced in social minutiae, tact as certainly 
 springs from the amiability which is thoughtful to 
 spare others pain. 
 
 Many a woman, endowed with noble attributes, 
 and rich in sterling virtues, has passed through 
 life little beloved, little appreciated, and seldom 
 sought after, because she was lamentably deficient 
 in this one conciliating, harmonizing quality of 
 tact; because she always rendered those with 
 whom she associated discontented with themselves, 
 and that engendered discontent with her. 
 
 A writer who has evidently weighed the im- 
 portance of the social art of making one's-self 
 acceptable to others, by rendering others pleased 
 with themselves, jocosely advises a man who has 
 failed in inspiring a woman with love for him, 
 " to fill her above the brim with love for herself," 
 assuring him that all which " runs over will be 
 his." That counsellor understood the value of the 
 word " tact." 
 
ORIGINAL PEOPLE. 
 
 ^|S|||kUT forth an original book, an original 
 (JlmKk pl^y? an original achievement in art, an 
 ^^p^ original invention of science, and what a 
 clamorous welcome echoes throughout Vanity Fair ! 
 What grandiloquent praises are trumpeted from the 
 lips of its graceful booth-keepers ! Taking their 
 cue from some outside oracle, what enthusiasm, 
 what powers of appreciation, what critical acumen 
 they display ! But, usher into the presence of 
 " Good Society," (the presiding genius of that po- 
 lite mart), " an original person " — oh ! that is quite 
 different ; an intolerable innovation, a social nui- 
 sance ! " Good Society " is shocked that the in- 
 truder bears so little resemblance to the charming 
 creatures whom she has stamped and moulded, and 
 curtailed of too luxuriant physical and mental 
 proportion. She scans the singular individual with 
 questioning and disapproving eyes ; and of what a 
 number of crimes, according to her code, she finds 
 him guilty ! His fervid nature has melted the 
 smooth, waxed mask of polished simulation, and 
 revealed strongly marked lineaments, deep lines, 
 
 (240) 
 
Original Peojjle. 211 
 
 and uncompromising coloring. He has sought out 
 the stature of his own soul, and found it was not 
 just the measure of any other man's. He has 
 burst the straight jacket of cramping convention- 
 ality, that his vigorous faculties might have free 
 play ; he has walked out of the verdureless, even- 
 trodden path (leading to nothing) which myriads 
 of feet are trampling with unprogressive, tread- 
 mill motion ; he has rent asunder what Aurora 
 Leigh calls " the violent bands of social figments ; " 
 he has dared to think for himself, to judge for him- 
 self, to act for himself, and not by the arbitrary 
 law some feebler spirit has established. 
 
 Convicted of these delinquencies, " Good So- 
 ciety " brands him with the terrible stigma of " ec- 
 centric," " odd," " mad." And how quickly her 
 hand-maiden, Eidicule, points at him her scornful 
 finger, greets him with her dread laugh, and pur- 
 sues him with her caustic jests. Eccentricity is 
 such a fair subject for merriment ! such an offence 
 to good taste ! such a parlor monster ! Let us 
 have none of it in these mincing, kid-glove, danc- 
 ing-shoe days. 
 
 They are not at all dull, then, those stereotyped 
 transcripts of commonplace humanity whom we 
 encounter at every turn of this same popular Van- 
 ity Fair] They are not at all wearisome, then, 
 those men and women led by the tinkling of cus- 
 tom's bell-wether ; those fashion-plate patterns of 
 one another in dress ; those etiquette-book copies 
 21 
 
242 Original People. 
 
 of each other in manners ; those living illustrations 
 of propriety, who have been taught to move with 
 the same motion, speak in the same tone, think 
 the same thoughts, crowd down their souls into 
 the same narrow actual, and shut the door against 
 the contemplation of any high possible ? Then, 
 too, we must account them very wise in their con- 
 clusion that, although an act may be good, may be 
 of importance to mankind, may be a deed which 
 justice or honor dictates, yet, if it would " look 
 singular," if it has not been done by some of their 
 set before, oh, shocking ! it is to be shunned and 
 denounced ! What pleasant, profitable compan- 
 ions they make, these repetition people ! What 
 great actions, and great benefits, and great exam- 
 ples, the world may hope for from them ! They 
 have escaped the dreadful imputation of eccentric- 
 ity ; is not that the summum bonum of a man's or 
 woman's existence X 
 
 Shall we venture to remind them that as not a 
 tree, not a leaf, not a flower, not a blade of grass, 
 is fashioned by the Divine hand precisely similar 
 to any other, so not a single human being is cre- 
 ated without distinctive features and character- 
 istics ; and that by the attempt of those servile 
 copyists to conceal or obliterate the wonderful 
 spiritual and physical individuality given to each, 
 they tacitly rebuke the infinite diversity of the 
 Creator's works'? 
 
 Shall we also dare to hint to them that as the 
 
Original People. 243 
 
 " eccentricities of genius" is a common expression, 
 it may possibly suggest the inference that where 
 there is most genius there is usually most original- 
 ity of thought, consequently, originality (or eccen- 
 tricity) of expression, manner, and action'? Thus 
 may we not arrive at the potential deduction that 
 original (or eccentric) people are usually persons 
 endowed with uncommon capacities, if not gifted 
 with positive genius ? 
 
 For ourselves, we have the bad taste to avow 
 that contact with thoroughly original spirits is to 
 us refreshing and enlivening in the highest de- 
 gree. How their presence wakens, stirs up a 
 sluggish, dead-alive coterie ! How they infuse 
 new ideas, new pulses, new vitality into lower, 
 duller, more torpid organizations ! How they re- 
 invigorate the great social artery, by a process 
 which resembles the physical practice, patent in 
 other days, of injecting buoyant, healthy blood into 
 the flaccid veins of the feeble and dying ! These 
 original minds force us to think, startle us into 
 feeling, make us ashamed of our own insignifi- 
 cance, inspire us to search out the purposes of our 
 being, cry "Excelsior ! " in our ears, impel us on- 
 ward in the path of progress ; and so, we bid them 
 all hail ! We would not exchange one hour in 
 the society of these strong and strengthening na- 
 tures for a lifetime wasted, basking in the mean- 
 ingless smiles, and listening to the pretty nothings 
 
244 
 
 Original People. 
 
 of the most charming duplicate, of the most per- 
 fect model " Good Society " ever stamped with 
 her superlative praise of " uneccentric, unexcep- 
 tionable ! " 
 
NERVOUS PEOPLE. 
 
 ^RVES — weak nerves, excitable nerves, 
 unstrung nerves, — what an absurdity 
 they appear to granite minds and iron 
 frames ! Muscles, bones, and sinews are hard 
 realities ; but nerves have only a vapory and un- 
 substantial existence, in the estimation of men and 
 women of nerve. Very paradoxical in sound, but 
 not less veritable ! You remind them that through 
 these delicate conductors the sovereign brain trans- 
 mits its will to the subject body, and they gravely 
 admit that nerves are actually the fine, intangible 
 media of this vital communion ; but try to convince 
 them that the disturbance of the electric current 
 conveyed through the channel of the nerves pro- 
 duces that painful condition styled nervousness, 
 and they start back to their former skeptical stand- 
 point, and maintain that nerves are imaginary nui- 
 sances, and that nervousness is merely the fanciful, 
 hypochondriacal state to which feeble intellects 
 are prone. Consequently, all. phases of nervous- 
 ness excite in these insensate unbelievers impa- 
 tience, ridicule, or anger. 
 
 21* (245) 
 
246 Nervous People. 
 
 A friend once remarked to us, with a sigh, " It 
 is a terrible epoch in our lives when we first dis- 
 cover that we have nerves. But who treats us 
 more tenderly on account of the sad revelation? 
 If our hearts, lungs, brains were out of order, we 
 should receive a fabulous amount of compassion ; 
 but only nerves — nonsense ! their ailment is vi- 
 sionary." Yet one might as well expect to pro- 
 duce sweet sounds from a harp with loosened strings 
 as to evoke the true music of life from a frame 
 with nerves unstrung. 
 
 Mrs. Wilton starts, turns pale and trembles at 
 a sudden sound ; or is seized with such a spasm 
 of terror at some supposed danger, that she quiv- 
 ers from head to foot ; or is so completely over- 
 powered by some temporary responsibility, that 
 she wholly loses her presence of mind ; or is so 
 much agitated by finding herself in an unexpect- 
 ed crowd, that she cannot collect her thoughts to 
 reply coherently to a single question. All the sym- 
 pathy she receives from people whose insensibility 
 has gifted them with a large amount of social 
 aplomb , is conveyed in the half contemptuous ejacu- 
 lations, " Poor thing ! She is so nervous! How 
 silly ! " Not one of these stolid individuals makes 
 the humane reflection, " How wretchedly uncom- 
 fortable she must feel ! " Not one of them pitying- 
 ly asks, " What great shock, or what accumulated 
 troubles, convulsing or wearing upon her nerves, 
 have rendered them so sensitive 1 ?" 
 
Nervous People. 247 
 
 And yet a high degree of habitual nervousness 
 can almost always be traced to the nerve-shattering 
 of some heavy blow, or the unnerving strain of 
 protracted anxiety, or the exhaustion of long-con- 
 tinued ill health. 
 
 A train of pallid martyrs starts up at that as- 
 sertion, and glides in slow procession through the 
 halls of our memory. We sketch the portraits of 
 one or two whose images have left a touching im- 
 pression. 
 
 Kind-hearted Mrs. Meanwell, one of the most 
 exemplary of women, is a victim to nervous mal- 
 aise ; she is perfectly conscious that her restless 
 discomfort annoys her neighbors, and she makes 
 the most desperate efforts to control or conceal her 
 sufferings. Their origin is somewhat moving. 
 
 A few years ago, Mrs. Meanwell chanced to pay 
 a visit to her husband's office. The untidy condi- 
 tion of his surroundings disturbed her housewifely 
 mind. Probably she had not arrived at Fanny 
 Fern's lamentably true conclusion that men like 
 dirt ; consequently, soap, water, and a scrubbing 
 brush appeared to her indispensable agents for pro- 
 moting Mr. Me an well's comfort. His office was lo- 
 cated in the lower story of a capacious building oc- 
 cupied by men engaged in various kinds of business. 
 Mrs. Meanwell accidentally heard that in a remote 
 room, in the highest story, resided the cleaners of 
 the establishment. With the promptness and en- 
 ergy which always characterized her, she at once 
 
248 Nervous People. 
 
 mounted to their apartment. No answer was given 
 to her knock. She opened the door ; the room 
 was vacant ; she entered and resolved to await the 
 arrival of its inmates. She was searching for some 
 book which might help her to while away a te- 
 dious interval, when a man's voice roughly accost- 
 ed her, and inquired what she was doing there. 
 She was not a little startled by his rude tone ; and, 
 on turning to reply, his savage and suspicious look 
 confused and alarmed her so much that she expe- 
 rienced a strong inclination to betake herself to 
 flight. While she was stammeringly making her 
 errand known, he commenced examining the apart- 
 ment, and after hastily opening a box upon the ta- 
 ble, seized her by the arm, exclaiming, " You are 
 a thief ! You came here to steal ! You stole my 
 sixty dollars ! " 
 
 A thief! That well born, highly educated lady, 
 whose liberal, helpful hands were always ready to 
 aid and to give, accused of taking what was 
 not her own 1 no wonder that the very suggestion 
 struck her dumb ! She could only gaze upon him 
 in mute and terrified amazement. He repeated 
 with greater violence his accusation, and ordered 
 her to restore the money. As soon as utterance 
 returned, she indignantly told him her name and 
 the object of her presence in his apartment. Pay- 
 ing no regard to her statement, he coolly ordered 
 a comrade to summon a policeman. The officer 
 soon appeared. Mrs. Meanwell protested her in- 
 
Nervous People. 249 
 
 nocence of the charge brought against her, but her 
 excessive alarm gave her the appearance of guilt. 
 Instead of listening to her explanations, the officer 
 made a jest of her attempts at self-defence, saying, 
 "Oh! I know all about that; of course you are 
 innocent ; light-fingered ladies always are ! And 
 they are always civil spoken and finely dressed — 
 feathers, flowers, gimcracks, and all that sort of 
 thing. That's the way they carry on their game. 
 But you can't come over me with any of that gam- 
 mon ! If you take my advice you will give up the 
 money at once and try to make some compensation 
 to this man to hush up the matter ; you're off to 
 the Tombs if you don't." 
 
 In vain Mrs. Meanwell told him she could not 
 give up what she did not possess ; in vain she en- 
 treated that her husband or father might be sent 
 for ; the officer refused to grant any such favor 
 until she had been taken before the authorities. 
 She was almost beside herself at the contemplation 
 of her own unprotected condition, at the probabili- 
 ty that force would be used if she declined to ac- 
 company the officer, and at the thought of the 
 shame* and publicity to which she would be ex- 
 posed. At this crisis the wife of her accuser en- 
 tered the room, and, examining an old pitcher 
 where she had hidden the money, found it undis- 
 turbed. Mrs. Meanwell waited to hear no apolo- 
 gies, but quickly availed herself of her regained 
 liberty. She hardly knew how she reached her 
 
250 Nervous People, 
 
 home, and was found on the floor motionless and 
 speechless. Her half frantic alarm , and the over- 
 powering agitation to which she had been subject- 
 ed, prostrated her physique , and produced the un- 
 controllable nervousness to which she had ever 
 since been a martyr. Shall we laugh at sufferings 
 which had such an unprovoked origin 1 Shall we 
 pronounce them " silly," " imaginary," " weak," 
 and turn from them with contempt ? 
 
 The nervousness of Mrs. Gordon, a very lovely 
 English lady, is even more distressing tban that of 
 Mrs. Mean well, and was the consequence of a far 
 more appalling mental convulsion. Mrs. Gordon 
 had been married but a few months, when her 
 husband preceded her to Paris to prepare a sump- 
 tuous home for the reception of his bride. A 
 month later she left Southampton to join him at 
 Havre. The steamer in which she embarked was 
 wrecked, at night, during a violent storm. Many 
 of the passengers were lost. Mrs. Gordon, with 
 several gentlemen, escaped in a small boat. For 
 two nights and a day they were tossed about at the 
 mercy of the waves, without provisions, without 
 protection from the cold, almost without hope of 
 ultimate safety. It is not difficult to imagine the 
 phrenzied terror of a delicately nurtured woman, 
 suddenly thrown into a position of so much peril, 
 surrounded by strangers of the opposite sex. On 
 the second day a new calamity was added to those 
 they had already encountered : the boat sprung a 
 
Nervous People. 251 
 
 leak and foundered. Only two of its occupants were 
 saved ; the young wife was one. She had not at any 
 time lost consciousness, and remembered distinct- 
 ly being dragged from the water by her long, abun- 
 dant hair. She was soon restored to her agonized 
 husband, but the states of horror and despair she 
 had undergone had unbalanced her mind, and at 
 first it was feared that her reason would be wholly 
 clouded. This misfortune was warded off by the 
 watchful, never failing tenderness and the judicious 
 treatment of her husband. 
 
 It was several years after her fearful accident 
 that we became acquainted with her. Her abode 
 was one of great magnificence. Countless enjoy- 
 ments were within her reach; the most- soothing 
 influences encompassed her, and a husband who 
 made her comfort and happiness the chief object 
 of his life, watched over her. Yet her nervous- 
 ness was the most pitiable we ever witnessed. It 
 would evince itself at the most unexpected mo- 
 ments in startling ways : by a deep groan, a sup- 
 pressed shriek, a sudden leaping from her seat and 
 clinging to the nearest support, by wild exclama- 
 tions, and fits of terror, as though some awful 
 scene were enacted before her eyes. She was still 
 very beautiful, and, in spite of her nervous ail- 
 ment, her manners, when composed, had a charm- 
 ing grace. Previous to her accident, she had been 
 a robust girl, dowered with the English boon of 
 immaculate health. She was not considered ex- 
 
252 Nervous People. 
 
 ceedingly sensitive, nor peculiarly timid. She had 
 a fine and highly cultivated intellect, and more 
 than ordinary strength of character. Could any 
 tender nature regard the state of nerves produced 
 by such a terrible catastrophe as a subject for ridi- 
 cule ] Could it excite scorn or impatience in any 
 feeling heart % 
 
 But these are instances in which very violent 
 causes, easily traced back to an originating source, 
 have produced the morbid discomfort of nervous- 
 ness. There are thousands of cases which, though 
 perhaps less remarkable, appeal as forcibly to our 
 sympathy. We have seen a woman, naturally joy- 
 ous and high-spirited, thrown into a state of ner- 
 vousness, bordering upon insanity, by the sight of 
 little coffins, one after another, borne from her 
 home, until she stood as desolate as Niobe. We 
 have seen a strong-hearted wife gradually robbed 
 of all control over her nerves, through protracted 
 vigils beside the pillow of a beloved partner, over 
 whose couch the angels of Life and Death were 
 fiercely battling. And when, to such a sorrow, 
 was added the presence of outer cares — the un- 
 certainty of supplying the dear sufferer with all 
 his needs, the dread of threatened destitution, the 
 horror of a widow's single-handed struggle with 
 the world, after those dying eyes had been closed 
 for the last time by the kiss of her fond lips, — is 
 it marvellous that the misery of life-long nervous- 
 ness should be the result of such trials ? We have 
 
Nervous People. 
 
 253 
 
 seen — but why multiply examples of hourly oc- 
 currence ? Every one who pauses to note, will 
 find them scattered in abundance around him. 
 But can any kindly spirit, who is once induced to 
 search out the causes of the grievous condition 
 styled nervousness, ever regard its most tormenting 
 phases as a theme for skepticism, anger, or mirth ? 
 As well might we pronounce the knell-like cough 
 of the consumptive unreal, vexatious, or absurd! 
 
SENSITIVE PEOPLE. 
 
 LMOST with their earliest breath the tor- 
 tures of the sensitive begin ; in the very 
 dawn of their existence, the first fore- 
 boding signs of shrinking and of suffering are ap- 
 parent. The bright eye of infancy will suddenly 
 fill with tears, the rosy lip curl and quiver, the soft 
 cheek flush through wounded feeling. A chiding 
 word, a mocking laugh, has pierced the tender 
 soul ; it recoils instinctively from blame or ridi- 
 cule, ay, even before the child knows the meaning 
 of the words. Who can note these touching indi- 
 cations of. acute sensibility, without a sigh at the 
 thought of the rude blasts, the beating rain, the 
 pinching frosts, that must blow about, and pros- 
 trate, and wither that delicate shoot of humanity, 
 in Its upward struggle through life I 
 
 Now and then these sensitive natures are dulled 
 and hardened by contact with the world ; now and 
 then, through severe self-discipline, they learn to 
 resist the cruel blow ; or to draw, with resolute 
 hands, the veil of seeming indifference over the 
 bleeding wound, and hide the throes of anguish 
 
 (254) 
 
Sensitive People. 255 
 
 from the most penetrating gaze. But more fre- 
 quently their sensitiveness increases, until it be- 
 comes a daily, hourly instrument of torment. It is 
 usually coupled with an imaginative temperament, 
 and more than half the hurts it receives are fan- 
 cied, or not dealt with intention. Sensitive people 
 are always ready to be wounded, always expecting 
 to be wounded, always attracting casual shots their 
 way, and often draw down unpremeditated smiting 
 by their evident anticipation of the stroke. 
 
 Though the possessors of these highly sensitive 
 organizations may excite our tenderest sympathy, 
 though they may win our love, and must move our 
 pity, yet they are not pleasant companions. Their 
 constant distress disturbs the general serenity ; 
 their imaginary wrongs destroy all harmony, and 
 the effort to guard them from random arrows pre- 
 vents all freedom of communion. If a humorous 
 anecdote is related, satirizing peculiarities of char- 
 acter which they chance to consider their own, 
 they are certain the raconteur meant to be person- 
 al ; if they perceive a knot of friends conversing 
 in a low tone, they are sure the conversation is 
 about them ; if they are not treated with distin- 
 guishing attention, they fancy themselves slight- 
 ed ; if they receive particular consideration, they 
 imagine that they are pitied and patronized ; if an 
 opinion of theirs is combated, they color with 
 mortification ; if they are brought forward in any 
 conspicuous manner, they are pale with alarm ; in 
 
256 Sensitive People. 
 
 short, they can never agreeably make one of a so- 
 cial circle, and contribute to the general enjoy- 
 ment by that ease and self-forgetfulness which is 
 the charm of refined intercourse. 
 
 And yet, though their companionship is so un- 
 satisfactory, these sensitive spirits are almost al- 
 ways rich in lovable attributes ; their sympathies 
 are quick, so quick, alas! that they are often 
 wasted ; their affections are ardent, so ardent that 
 they are too readily excited and too easily betray- 
 ed ; they are delicate instruments, iEolian harps, 
 from w r hich even a passing wind can draw forth 
 strains of tender or mournful melody. But this 
 lamentable sensitiveness is not the evidence of 
 weak minds, nor of dwarfed intellects. Eull-statured 
 souls, lavishly dowered, have ever been the most 
 vulnerable to petty arrows — arrows which, though 
 hurled by despicable hands, have fallen with the 
 violence of thunder-bolts upon these finely moulded 
 and receptive natures. Sensitiveness is often the 
 handmaiden of Genius, and gives sweetness to the 
 world's approval, even as it imparts poison to the 
 dispraise of fools ; lending to both a fictitious value 
 and an undue power. 
 
 It is fabled that when the bosom of the nightin- 
 gale is pressed against a thorn she sings most me- 
 lodiously ; and often it is the poet's susceptibility 
 to suffering, his very crisis of pain, that becomes 
 his inspiration ; his most glorious songs gush forth 
 with the crucifixion groan ; his brightest flowers 
 
 
Sensitive People. 257 
 
 of thought are tinged with heart's blood. Even 
 his most charming sports of fancy have been pro- 
 duced under the writhing of such mental agony as 
 only sensitive spirits are capable of experiencing. 
 We all know that Hood, the prince of humorists, 
 convulsed the world with laughter when he was 
 tortured by the deepest melancholy, and that Cow- 
 per's mirth-provoking John Gilpin was produced 
 under a state of dejection that bordered on insani- 
 ty. He, himself, compares the entrance of that 
 poem into his brain, to a harlequin intruding him- 
 self into the gloomy chamber occupied by a corpse. 
 . One sensitiveness of great minds has always been 
 inexplicable to us : the sensitiveness to censure. 
 Censure which pierced the heart of the philo- 
 sophic Newton ; which slew Racine and Keats ; 
 which drove the Italian Tasso and the English 
 Collins mad. Alas ! how could they have forgot- 
 ten that only insignificance escapes condemnation ; 
 that he who outstrips others in ascending the hill 
 of Fame, becomes the most tempting target to be 
 shot at by every puny archer beneath. 
 
 And in these days, as in those of Keats and Col- 
 lins, noble minds groan and writhe under the lash 
 of rebuke, often lifted by unworthy hands, by Mal- 
 ice, by Envy, by Eevenge. And the more appar- 
 ent the sensitiveness of the great, the more fre- 
 quently and violently they are assailed. Better 
 far to cover Sensibility with the armor of Tact, 
 and conquer Censure as Julius Caesar did of old. 
 
 22* 
 
258 Sensitive People. 
 
 When Catullus satirized him, the hero disarmed 
 the satirist by cordially inviting him to supper, as 
 if in recognition of an act of friendship. 
 
 Possibly the pains which spring from a high 
 degree of sensitiveness, are the meet alloy to the 
 intense pleasures that emanate from the possession 
 of glorious gifts, and thus Sensitiveness may be 
 the fitting attendant of Greatness ; but to lesser 
 minds we dare venture to say, struggle against a 
 morbid sensibility until your claims to Genius 
 entitle you to pardon for the weaknesses of Genius. 
 
PASSING WOfiDS. 
 
 .PASSING word, mere sounding breath, 
 how light its import seems ! how "big with 
 fate " it often proves ! Not alone words 
 that are the voice of daily thoughts, but words that 
 are only the utterance of a transient emotion, for- 
 gotten soon as felt ; words that are but an idly 
 spoken impulse melt not away with the air that 
 holds them, but assume mysterious shapes of good 
 or evil, to influence and haunt the hearer's life. 
 
 These passing words are seed scattered per- 
 chance by liberal, perchance by inconsequent 
 hands ; though lightly, unpremeditatedly dropped, 
 if they fall upon receptive minds, upon open, fer- 
 tile soils, they strike vigorous roots, germinate in 
 silence and darkness, and, before we know that 
 they are planted, bring forth grapes or thistles. 
 Blessed are they whose paths on earth may be 
 tracked by the good seed sown in passing words ! 
 
 A passing word of truth may be likened to an 
 ostrich egg chance-laid in sand. Warmed by the 
 sun alone, without the help of brooding wings, un- 
 tended and unwatched, the noble bird bursts, in 
 
 (259) 
 
260 Passing Words. 
 
 due season, from its shell. Even so that living 
 truth, dropped without thought, unfostered, save 
 by heaven's quickening heart, may rise betimes in 
 glorious growth. 
 
 A casual word of praise has colored a whole ex- 
 istence ; that single word, that passing breath, 
 touching the bended bow of Destiny, has given 
 direction to the arrow's flight, has decided the fu- 
 ture career of the man ; even as a mother's kiss 
 of approval made Benjamin West a painter. 
 
 A word of kind encouragement has imparted to 
 latent powers an impetus that made some shrink- 
 ing soul thrill, palpitate, expand with the sense of 
 its own undeveloped capabilities, the consciousness 
 of what it might achieve, the prescience of what 
 it would become. 
 
 An earnest word of guidance has woven a gold- 
 en thread, strong and bright, in the web of a life. 
 
 A tender word — oh ! it has fallen like manna, 
 and nourished and revived the hungry, pining 
 heart ; it has softened sorrows no poured-out gold 
 could soothe ; it has healed wounds no Galen's 
 skill could reach ; it has lifted up prostrate heads 
 no Titan's "trength could raise ; it is the talismanic 
 pearl of all speech. 
 
 A soft word, that turns away wrath ; how great 
 is its might ! It has warded off the cutting as- 
 saults of a sharp tongue, even as a polished shield 
 causes the keenest weapon to glance aside. It has 
 disarmed -more enemies than the sword ever con- 
 quered. 
 
Passing Words, 261 
 
 A hopeful word ; how potent is its holy exor- 
 cism ! It has drawn down a sudden stream of sun- 
 shine into souls that were dungeons of darkness, 
 and by that single heavenly ray, has put to night 
 the destroying demons of despair. 
 
 But oh ! a bitter word, impulsively spoken, un- 
 remembered an hour after, has it not sunk deep 
 into the hearer's mind, and turned the sweet wa- 
 ters of memory to Marah 1 
 
 Terrible is the power of a passing word of an- 
 ger. It has divided hearts that had been " twin 
 as 'twere, in love inseparable ; " its fiery breath 
 has forged a flaming sword to guard the Gate of 
 Friendship, that they who walked in the garden 
 of old might never enter more. 
 
 "Angry words are lightly spoken, 
 
 Bitterest thoughts are rashly stirred, 
 Brightest links of life are broken, 
 By a single angry word." 
 
 A word of idle slander, of thoughtless dispar- 
 agement, has irretrievably blasted a spotless name, 
 and defiled the pure vesture of Innocence. 
 
 A contemptuous word, a word of unsympathiz- 
 ing rebuke, carelessly uttered, has hardened a fall- 
 en spirit, and confirmed it in obstinate evil doing. 
 
 Ever fresh in our remembrance, ever heeded 
 and revered, be the solemn admonition: 
 
 " Speak not harshly ; much of care 
 Every human heart must bear ! 
 
262 Passing Words. 
 
 Enough of shadows darkly lie 
 Veiled within the sunniest eye. 
 By thy childhood's gushing tears, 
 By the griefs of after years, 
 By the anguish thou dost know, 
 Add not to another's woe ! " 
 
 On the lips of women, at least, let us find spon- 
 taneous words of truth, hope, tenderness, praise, 
 guidance ! Kind words to their utterance should 
 be familiar as their very breath. The oftener they 
 speak them the more readily they will spring to 
 their tongues, the more naturally they will drop 
 from their lips, until their mouths resemble (at 
 least, to the eyes of angels,) that of the pure-heart- 
 ed maiden of fairy-tale memory, whose lips let fall 
 diamonds, pearls and flowers, whenever she spoke; 
 for Pascal says : " Kind words have been styled 
 the flowers of existence ; they make a paradise of 
 home, however humble it may be ; they are the 
 jewelry of the heart, the gems of the domestic cir- 
 cle, the symbols of human life." 
 
COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS. 
 
 OUNT your blessings ! " Mine are soon 
 counted," answers a discontented voice, 
 "I have so few — or, rather, none to 
 count ! " And that voice is the echo of how many 
 complaining hearts ! 
 
 It is startling to note how seldom people are 
 conscious of their actual, indisputable blessings. 
 Not that they are ignored through positive and 
 perverse ingratitude, but partly from sheer want 
 of reflection, partly because custom steals the val- 
 ue from the boon which we habitually receive. 
 And yet, how bountifully those simple daily bless- 
 ings are showered down upon the poorest, hum- 
 blest, saddest of us all ! And what loud lamenta- 
 tions we send up, to beat against the pearly gates, 
 when the least heeded, the least prized, the very 
 commonest, is denied ! 
 
 Those who groan under the burden of multiform 
 sorrows, are usually so absorbed in their personal 
 afflictions, that they let the scales God placed in 
 every human hand (to show his benefactions over- 
 weigh man's self-sprung woes) drop from their 
 
 (263) 
 
264 Count Your Blessings, 
 
 nerveless grasp, and forget to balance the good 
 gifts granted, against the seeming evil permitted. 
 
 Those who have no highly exciting joys, and 
 yet no heavy griefs, often lose the sense of price- 
 less blessings, in the stupefying movement of a 
 monotonous existence. 
 
 Those upon whose heads the golden rays of 
 prosperity descend in unbroken floods, who have 
 few wishes, and no needs, ungratificd, are fre- 
 quently less cognizant than all others of the opu- 
 lent store of benefits poured out upon them. 
 
 Yet can any of us call to mind a single being so 
 superlatively miserable that in his saddest past, 
 most sorrowful present, most menacing future, he 
 can count up no blessings which demand the un- 
 costly, quiescent, easy gratitude of mere recog- 
 nition ] 
 
 It is a heart-expanding practice, daily to sit 
 down and ponder over, and sum up, the manifest 
 blessings which have been accorded us, and which 
 we could not unmurmuringly forego. How great 
 will even those who cry out that they have re- 
 ceived few, or none, find their allotted share ! 
 Try the experiment, doubter, and see if this be 
 not so ! 
 
 That which we would miss, if Ave did not pos- 
 sess, that which we would find fault if we were 
 deprived of. that which we enjoy, even though un- 
 consciously, justice commands us to class under 
 the head of blessings. Instance a few of the least 
 
Count Your Blessings. 265 
 
 rare. If the day is bright, the air is bracing, or 
 balmy, are not those blessings ? Do you not rebel 
 when they are denied? If pleasant sleep has vis- 
 ited your pillow, is not that a blessing ] Would 
 you not have murmured if you had tossed on your 
 couch all night in slumberless unrest I If you are 
 free from mere bodily pain, is not that a blessing \ 
 Would you not complain if you suffered] If you 
 are spared mental anguish, is not that a greater 
 blessing ? would you not make a piteous plaint if 
 it had to be endured ? If you have food and shel- 
 ter for the day, and some hope of it for the mor- 
 row, are not those blessings ? lacking them, would 
 you not be wretched % If you have parents, or 
 children, wife, husband, lover, friend, to make you 
 rich in affection, is not love a blessing ? would you 
 not be miserably poor in spirit without \ If you 
 feel the refreshing charm of a good book, a noble 
 poem, a delicious piece of music ; if you have lis- 
 tened to an eloquent discourse that has made some 
 grand truth clear to you; if you have enjoyed the 
 society of a pure-hearted or intellectual person ; 
 if you have received a passing token of kindness 
 from a friend, a letter from some beloved but ab- 
 sent one, a helpful admonition from some wise 
 counsellor, are not those undeniable blessings, 
 though such trivial, every-day occurrences \ If 
 you have been permitted to serve some needy 
 brother, to comfort some suffering sister, or if you 
 have simply accomplished the work which was set 
 
 23 
 
266 Count Your Blessings. 
 
 for your hands upon that day to do, are not those 
 higher blessings still 1 And yet they are but a 
 few, a very few, of the myriad blessings which 
 might be enumerated as so common, and so liberal- 
 ly dispensed, that we seldom think of giving them 
 their true name, and, every hour of our lives, pass 
 them by without thanks, without thought, without 
 recognition. 
 
 Oh ! then, you who would escape the sin and 
 penalty of ingratitude to Heaven, resolve that it 
 shall be one of the daily duties of your life, one of 
 its indispensable employments, to seek out and 
 sum up each day's blessings, and grave them inef- 
 faceably upon your memory. The very habit will 
 multiply their number, will increase their value, 
 will wake some grateful pulse in the most thank- 
 less heart, and draw down some ray of light 
 through the darkest gloom that can encompass the 
 most troubled spirit. 
 
SPARE MOMENTS. 
 
 PARE moments are the gold-dust of 
 time ! " Like a chime of silver bells 
 those words ring in our ears as we hover 
 about thee, gentle-hearted Mabel, — violet that 
 perfumes all the house ! — and watch thee, arid 
 marvel at thee, day after day. Marvel at the spirit 
 of accomplishing that seems thy helpful, yet unob- 
 trusive attendant ; at the soundless motions of that 
 invisible but inseparable companion, as she walks 
 by thy side, and lends her cunning to thy hands, 
 and infuses her spirit of achieving into thy brain. 
 Our Mabel is never fussy, never bustling, never 
 hurried. She never flies, with a whirlwind rush, 
 from occupation to occupation, and creates a tor- 
 nado-like atmosphere around her. She never goes 
 pantingly about, her quickened breath and hasten- 
 ed step giving the impression that she is driven by 
 the whip of some pursuing, inexorable Duty. In 
 short, she never seems oppressively busy. You 
 never hear from her pleasant lips the ejaculation, 
 " so much to do ! " as an excuse for neglecting 
 this or that matter which ought to have received 
 
 (267) 
 
268 Spare Moments. 
 
 attention ; or as a reason for refusing a service to 
 a friend ; or for declining to aid in some project 
 for the general advantage ; or for joining in some 
 harmless amusement ; or for allowing herself what 
 she styles "indulgence w T ork " — work for the 
 gratification of taste, belonging rather to the 
 school of fancy than of use. Yet Mabel achieves 
 more than anybody else in her home circle. She 
 plans more, begins more ; plenty of us plan and 
 begin, but most of us linger on that threshold, 
 while she finishes, and passes quietly on to new 
 tasks. 
 
 Mabel seldom talks of what she means to do, or 
 what she has done. She does not flauntingly 
 thrust her superior industry in the faces of her as- 
 sociates, who, if not positively indolent, yet lack 
 her wonderful faculty of accomplishing. She does 
 not, in the faintest degree, resemble those excita- 
 bly energetic individuals who are always crying 
 out to their neighbors, (if not in words, quite as 
 audibly by their deeds,) " How idle and useless 
 you are, and how busy and valuable I am ! Why 
 do you not take pattern of me % " 
 
 Indeed, Mabel would be quite startled if any 
 one suggested, in her presence, that she was a 
 model for others. She is wholly unconscious that 
 her delicate feet are making " footprints in the 
 sands of time," into which other feet may profit- 
 ably tread. 
 
 Occupation does not seem to weary her any 
 
Spare Moments. 269 
 
 more than the lustrous stars are wearied by moving 
 regularly and harmoniously in their appointed 
 cycles ; while the dolce far niente of the Italians 
 would be more fatiguing to her than the most un- 
 inviting labor. 
 
 But it was not this circumstance, strange as the 
 fact appears, which excited our admiration and 
 wonder. The puzzling question is, how comes it 
 that her work always brings forth a richer fruition 
 than the industry of others 1 To all appearance, 
 she moves less quickly than some of her compan- 
 ions. Certes, her needle does not fly faster, nor 
 her pen run more fleetly, nor her eyes speed over 
 the pages of a book more rapidly than theirs. 
 Nor are her feet swifter, nor have her hands a 
 more quicksilver motion. Still, when scanning 
 eyes take a silent account of what has been 
 achieved each day, it is always placid, unpreten- 
 tious Mabel who can show the largest positive re- 
 sults. How and why is this ? 
 
 For a space that question remained unanswered 
 in our mind. But, watching our sweet Mabel as 
 she glided noiselessly through her day, we pluck- 
 ed the secret out of this mystery. It lay in Ma- 
 bel's use of her " spare moments," little " odds and 
 ends" of time, intervals between anticipated events, 
 pauses which people generally allow to slip by un- 
 filled, while they are waiting for what is about to 
 happen; the summons to a meal not punctually 
 served ; the arrival of a belated friend ; the com- 
 
 23* 
 
270 Spare Moments. 
 
 ing of a dilatory carriage ; the opening of the 
 mail ; the cessation of unwelcome rain ; or a hun- 
 dred similar daily occurrences. It is Mabel's thor- 
 ough appreciation of the value of time, and the 
 economical employment of these usually neglect- 
 ed, uncounted moments, which enable her thus to 
 surpass others in undertaking largely, and accom- 
 plishing proportionately ; and have revealed to us 
 the full interpretation of that poetically expressed 
 but practical truth, "Spare moments are the gold- 
 dust of time." 
 
OUR LOTS II LIFE. 
 
 ^F I had only been born in some other po- 
 sition ! If I had the advantages that my 
 
 friend has ! If I had been endowed 
 
 with such talents as so and so possesses ! If I had 
 enjoyed as uninterrupted prosperity as such and 
 such a one ! If I had been allowed as much leis- 
 ure as this or that person ! If I were not torment- 
 ed by so many petty vexations ! If I had not been 
 bowed down by such heavy trials, ah ! then, in- 
 deed, I might have been a very different being 
 from what I am ! Then I should have been full 
 of hope and spirit, full of patience and thankful- 
 ness ; then I should have accomplished great ends 
 in life ; then I should have filled a worthy place 
 in the world ; yes, then I should have been quite 
 contented ! " Is not that the daily complaint of 
 thousands, sometimes loudly spoken, often unut- 
 tered, though deeply felt % 
 
 To murmur against our lots in life, as though 
 they had been distributed by some blind chance, 
 is the very commonest of the darling sins which 
 we hug to our thankless hearts ; the favorite de- 
 
 (271) 
 
272 Our Lots in Life. 
 
 fence of our indolence and wilfulness, our slow 
 steps in the path of progress, our casting down of 
 appointed fardels on the road, crying out that they 
 are greater than we can bear. And yet, while we 
 are sending up this heaven-upbraiding wail, how 
 startled and shocked we would be at the assertion 
 that we had no faith in the existence of a Supreme 
 Being. But if we do really believe in that All- 
 potent Ruler, can we imagine that the destinies 
 of those creatures he fashioned to be recipients of 
 his bounty (a " God of Love " could not have cre- 
 ated them for any other purpose), are mere acci- 
 dents, independent of his will and providence, 
 though subject to his cognizance? He who, in 
 his inmost soul, believes in chance, believes not 
 in God at all. 
 
 However unequal, and apparently unjust, may 
 seem the distribution of worldly gifts, of talents, 
 of success, of happiness, if there be truth in the 
 assertion that a sparrow falls not to the ground 
 without the knowledge of our Heavenly Father, 
 that the very hairs of our head are numbered, an 
 immutable law of wisdom must rule over the most 
 insignificant, as over the most important events of 
 our lives. That law, through all its mysterious 
 workings, can only have for its end the promotion 
 of our eternal happiness. How, then, shall we 
 escape the conviction that every one, during this, 
 his probationary life, is allowed just the amount 
 of success and prosperity, is subjected to just the 
 
Our Lots in Life. 273 
 
 degree of trial and temptation, is placed in pre- 
 cisely the situation, which will develop his true 
 character, bring out his evils through exciting 
 causes, that he may become aware of and conquer 
 them, and call forth his noble attributes, that they 
 may be perfected by use ; and thus that he may 
 be fitted to enjoy the highest possible felicity here 
 and hereafter ? 
 
 Different organizations need to pass through 
 different ordeals, that the dross may be separated 
 from the gold. 
 
 How often a temper that was very sweet and 
 lovable, during years of smooth prosperity, when 
 it encounters unexpected opposition, or is per- 
 plexed by harassing cares, will evince an irritabil- 
 ity and bitterness of which it seemed incapable ! 
 But if it learn to resist the influences by which its 
 amiability was disturbed, its sweetness returns, is 
 redoubled, and lastingly confirmed. 
 
 How often a disposition appears very lavish of 
 benefactions until the generous impulse is sudden- 
 ly checked by the necessity of undergoing personal 
 privation, in order to give ! But if, in time, joy 
 in bestowing is re-awakened, despite of self-sacri- 
 fice, then generosity becomes real and rock- 
 founded. 
 
 How often a heart that is soft and loving while 
 other hearts beat in unison with its own, while 
 tenderness and appreciation keep its pulses warm, 
 when exposed to neglect, misrepresentation, cold- 
 
274 Our Lots in Life. 
 
 ness, grows hard and frigid ! But unless the ice 
 melt again, and the tender affections, even in a 
 chilling atmosphere, regain their ascendency, the 
 apparent love and gentleness of that nature was 
 spurious. 
 
 Not a trial is sent but as a regenerating and 
 perfecting agent. From the death -like stroke of 
 affliction, from the deep humiliation which covers 
 us with sackcloth and ashes, from the misfortunes 
 that strip us of all, the spirit that can be purified 
 rises stronger and gladder, with upward-looking 
 eyes and chastened heart. 
 
 Those terrible bereavements, the snapping of 
 those holy links that convulse our spirits and cast 
 us prostrate on the earth, in despair, are only per- 
 mitted to give birth, through this agonizing trav- 
 ail, to some new and holier state ; to produce 
 some great calm growing out of the mind's tem- 
 pest, when the voice of the Lord has spoken to the 
 raging waters and the wild winds of the soul, and 
 said, "Peace! Be still!" 
 
 But all these heavenly ends are frustrated if we 
 destroy the possibilities of happiness implanted 
 within us, by idle repining ; if we cast away the 
 mental and physical instruments apportioned for 
 our use, saying, " They are blunted, they are not 
 as noble as another man's, they are unmeet for 
 us ; " in short, if we murmur at our lots in life. 
 
 However exposed or barren, however lowly or 
 obscure, is the corner allotted to us in our Lord's 
 
 
 
Our Lots in Life. 275 
 
 vineyard, we should not have been placed exactly 
 in that locality, unless it were the fittest spot for 
 our toil and advancement. We must not rebel 
 because another seems more fortunately situated, 
 or better prepared to bring the ground he tills to 
 fruition ; we must not complain because those who 
 have not borne with us the heat and labor of the 
 day, receive wages as large as ours. Unless just 
 such work were needed for our development, it 
 would not be placed beneath our hands ; unless 
 just such toil were required for theirs, it would 
 not be entrusted to them. Do the work, and 
 leave the sequel to God ! When the servants who 
 have been faithful over little, or over much, re- 
 ceive their rewards, the mystery of our seemingly 
 unequal lots will assuredly be revealed to us. 
 
RESPONSIBILITY. 
 
 AM afraid to undertake it ; the responsi- 
 bility is too great. I never incur a re- 
 sponsibility that can be avoided ! " Such 
 was the hesitating reply of one whom the popular 
 voice pronounced kind of heart and blameless of 
 life, when a friend suggested to her a charitable 
 action not easy of accomplishment. The deed was 
 one which necessarily would have entailed some 
 trouble, demanded some exertion, and have been 
 attended with some annoyance if its result proved 
 unfortunate. But if a happy fruition crowned her 
 efforts, her whole existence must have been per- 
 vaded with a sense of internal and lasting satisfac- 
 tion, as the chosen instrument for such a noble 
 work ; one record would have been written upon 
 her book of life, which could have conjured up 
 consoling thoughts in her hour of bitterest sor- 
 row ; one memory would have been hers, that 
 might have shed celestial light even upon her 
 death-bed. And yet the dread of responsibility 
 could make her shrink and turn aside, and try to 
 forget that she might have lifted the burden from 
 
 (276) 
 
Besp on sib ility. 277 
 
 bowed and aching hearts, yet did not touch it with 
 a finger ! 
 
 " Never incur a responsibility that can be avoid- 
 ed ! " What a selfish, heartless declaration! 
 What a shallow resolution ! Cold and narrow 
 and of fossil hardness is the life of those who keep 
 their palms clean, not of evil and its consequences, 
 but of responsibility and its risks. Such beings 
 take but the one talent from the hand of their 
 Lord, which is bounteously opened to bestow ten, 
 because, forsooth, the ten would involve greater 
 responsibility. Nay, they hide even that one in 
 the earth, to escape the poor responsibility of put- 
 ting it out to usury. 
 
 Truly, with what measure we mete it shall be 
 measured to us ; good measure, shaken together, 
 pressed down and running over, if such we give ; 
 but we have no power to bestow without incurring 
 responsibility. The bountiful measure of good 
 gifts, present and future, is for those who, nothing 
 doubting, assume great and holy responsibilities, 
 and discharge them with steadfast confidence. 
 True, the more responsibilities we are content to 
 accept, the larger the number that will flow in 
 upon us, as though they were endowed with a 
 self-increasing principle ; but each one faithfully 
 discharged brings its compensating joy, and if the 
 responsibilities sometimes seem endless, the hap- 
 piness they purchase will also prove inexhaustible. 
 
 Blessed are those hands to whom much is con- 
 
 24 
 
278 Responsibility, 
 
 fided, and who receive the charge undismayed. 
 Heaven-blessed ! for their work is a daily laying 
 up of treasure above. The prudent man, the 
 timid skeptic, the thoughtless worldling, will ac- 
 cuse them of rashness, perchance will utter lam- 
 entations over their insanity ; what matter ? 
 Conviction and experience quickly teach these 
 large-hearted, fearless laborers that new power is 
 imparted with every fresh burden trustingly ac- 
 cepted ; for there is a mysterious strength born of 
 perfect trust, incomprehensible to those who never 
 trusted unreservedly. 
 
 Landor says, " We should bring out of every 
 man and every creature as much utility as we 
 may." Happy are they who apply the injunction 
 to themselves, and, seeking to develop their own 
 utmost utility, never evade a responsibility. 
 
 Shrink not from responsibility, oh, young maid- 
 en, just entering, with faltering feet and unworn 
 heart, upon the slippery paths of life ! Tread 
 firmly, and stretch out thine arms to receive it 
 with loving embrace ! The very willingness to ac- 
 cept the burden will prevent its weight from bow- 
 ing you earthward. But, with that willingness, 
 be not " infirm of purpose," a gleaner only in the 
 fields of imagination. Let your resolves go forth 
 into positive acts. Heed the poet's warning, not 
 to make of good intentions a Jacob's ladder, upon 
 which your wishes mount to the skies, whilst you 
 lie slumbering beneath : 
 
Responsibility. 279 
 
 " Alas ! we make 
 A ladder of our thoughts, where angels step, 
 But sleep ourselves at the foot ; our high resolves 
 Look down upon our slumbering acts." 
 
 The responsibilities assumed will oppress and 
 grieve you sometimes, that is inevitable ; they will 
 not less surely gladden your heart in its hour of 
 heaviness by the remembrance that you have glad- 
 dened others, that you have achieved something 
 in your day, that you have fulfilled your part in 
 the great scheme divine, which allots to every cre- 
 ated being a separate share of labor, of responsi- 
 bility, of rest, of reward. 
 
THE UNADMIRING. 
 
 k MONG social nuisances, defend us from 
 those pitiable beings who, through some 
 deficiency in their mental conformation, 
 some lack of vital heat, of acute sensibility, of 
 quick perception, are totally deprived of the facul- 
 ty to appreciate and the power to admire ! Show 
 them a fine statue, and it is stone and marble, 
 chiselled curiously, but conveying no idea, awaken- 
 ing no emotion. Exhibit an exquisite painting, 
 the chef-d'oeuvre of some grand old master ; it is to 
 them merely color upon canvas, and a great sur- 
 plus of darkish paint. Cull them a fragrant ex- 
 otic ; it is " a nice enough smelling thing ; " but 
 the poor flower, withered by contact with that un- 
 congenial touch, is quickly flung aside. Point out 
 a living landscape, replete with the highest forms 
 of pastoral beauty, verdant wood and flashing 
 stream, gently swelling hill and dimpling valley, 
 with the background of a gorgeous sunset, paint- 
 ing the horizon with purple, and crimson, and 
 gold; the landscape is to them but trees, and wa- 
 ter, and the sun going down red enough to augur 
 
 (280) 
 
The Unadmiring. 281 
 
 a " hot clay " to-morrow. These specimens of 
 soul-curtailed humanity seem to carry in their 
 hands a disenchanting wand, and, at its waving, 
 leaf, blossom and fruit fall from the tree of life, 
 and the bare, unsightly stalk is left behind ; the 
 beauty and poetry of all creation vanish, and hard, 
 positive, unspiritual prose alone remains. 
 
 You who are sensitive to sympathetic impres- 
 sions, to what Swedenborgians call " spheres," 
 avoid these apathetic beings as you would shun 
 infection ! Strange and sad to say, there is con- 
 tagion in the lethargic atmosphere by which they 
 are surrounded. Associate with them, and they 
 insensibly steal away from you the power of ap- 
 preciation and admiration which they themselves 
 lack. 
 
 Mr. Quenchum goes with you to hear a world- 
 renowned orator. As you listen with rapt atten- 
 tion, his words conjure a panorama, pulsating 
 with life and glowing with vivid hues, before your 
 eyes. You soon become excited by his bursts of 
 eloquence, melted by his pathos, fired by his en- 
 thusiasm, elevated by his lofty sentiments. You 
 turn with an ejaculation of delight towards 
 Quenchum, and discover that a hideous aperture 
 has taken the place of his mouth, and unmistaka- 
 ble weariness looks out from its yawning depths. 
 Abashed at your own state of delectation, you 
 timidly ask what he thinks of the eminent speaker. 
 He shrugs his shoulders, tells you the man is fair 
 
 24* 
 
282 The TJnadmiring. 
 
 enough as times go, but there are no Ciceros now- 
 a-days ; declares it is a bore that people talk so 
 long and make so much noise ; wishes that fellow 
 would have done with his bombast ; and adds that 
 he has a deal of mannerism and affectation, while 
 his gestures are entirely too violent ; it quite fa- 
 tigues one to see them ! Your ardor suddenly 
 cools ; you begin to ask whether that which ap- 
 peared to you, a moment before, as finished grace, 
 may not be mannerism and affectation ; whether 
 those gestures are not too vehement ; whether that 
 voice is not too loud ; and whether there is not a 
 touch of bombast in the discourse. You have be- 
 gun to criticise, to question the grounds for your 
 enjoyment ; the oration no longer carries you 
 away ; you are half ashamed or afraid to recognize 
 its beauties, while sitting beside Quenchum. 
 
 Next, Quenchum accompanies you to the opera. 
 It is to hear a prima donna who has gathered lau- 
 rels in both hemispheres, and received the ap- 
 proving nod of crowned heads, the applause of 
 sceptred hands. The opera represented is one of 
 Bellini's noblest inspirations. You believe it 
 physically impossible that any o;ne can be insensi- 
 ble to its soul-stirring strains. Ah ! you know 
 little of the impervious texture of Quenchum's 
 soul. Bellini is as incomprehensible to him as the 
 riddle of the Sphinx. Just as your heart gives an 
 inward echo to the " bravo " that resounds on 
 every side, Quenchum coolly exclaims, " How ab- 
 
The Unadmiring. 283 
 
 surd ! The idea of men and women shouting away 
 in that mad style about what they are going to do 
 or what they have done, and talking to each other 
 by bawling in that heathenish fashion ! There 
 certainly is nothing more monstrous than an 
 opera! Men poisoning themselves and singing, 
 stabbing themselves and singing, going to battle 
 or to execution singing, eating, drinking, getting 
 married or getting killed, singing ! It's highly 
 amusing, but precious nonsense ! " 
 
 " But," you answer, hesitatingly, and beginning 
 to perceive some element of the ludicrous in the 
 performance which just now awakened your rap- 
 ture, ;i but what a glorious voice Madame 
 
 has ! Is it not perfect melody % Such power and 
 such sweetness combined ! Don't you like her 
 voice I 
 
 " Oh ! I dare say her voice is good enough ; it's 
 not particularly disagreeable ; it's very so-so ; but 
 there are no great singers now-a-days." 
 
 Startled by such a denouncing assertion, you 
 venture to remark, " Perhaps you do not care for 
 music ; perhaps you have no — no — no ear." 
 
 " No ear % Why, I suppose I can hear all that 
 din (meaning a magnificent chorus) as plainly as 
 anybody else." 
 
 Of course Quenchum has no ear ; none of the 
 family of Nil Admirantem have musical ears or 
 artistic eyes ; if they had, they could not be scions 
 of that pulseless race. 
 
284 The Unadmiring. 
 
 Quenchum annihilates your prima donna, as he 
 extinguished your orator. 
 
 Anon you find yourself travelling with Quench- 
 um. He is one of a party crossing the Blue Ridge 
 of Virginia. The grandeur of that august chain 
 of mountains strikes you with admiring awe. The 
 picturesque and sublime are so wonderfully min- 
 gled that you almost hold your breath as you con- 
 template Nature in this imposing robe of majesty. 
 Quenchum sits back in the stage-coach, which is 
 ascending the winding road up the mountain's side, 
 glances out of the window to see what you " are 
 making such a fuss about," and remarks that " it 
 may all be very h'ne, but a level road would be far 
 preferable, the coach would travel so much faster, 
 and get out of these tiresome mountains more 
 quickly ! " 
 
 You visit the Natural Bridge and Weyer's 
 marvellous cave, and other noteworthy places. 
 Quenchum pronounces the bridge a tolerable 
 specimen of nature's handiwork, but he don't 
 think it remarkably high, nor by any means per- 
 fect in its form, nor, indeed, extraordinary in any 
 way. The cave he pronounces a " downright 
 swindle ! " He can discover none of the beautiful 
 sculpturing with which you are all enchanted ; he 
 cannot make out Solomon's throne, with its oriental 
 canopy, nor the falls of Niagara, nor the statue of 
 Washington, nor the garden of Paradise ; and 
 frigidly asserts that these subterranean wonders 
 are the most " unmitigated humbugs." 
 
The Unadmiring. 285 
 
 Go where you will, it is all the same. Quench- 
 um yawns when everybody else admires ; Quench- 
 um is weary when they are enraptured ; and just 
 as their enthusiasm is roused to the highest pitch, 
 Quenchum is found to be asleep. But his un- 
 idealizing presence is felt by the whole party. 
 His companions are half afraid or ashamed to 
 praise the works of God himself, since Quenchum 
 finds so little to reverence and so much to censure 
 in what God has achieved. 
 
 Can such a man worship ? Are not all his de- 
 votional feelings stifled by the heavy atmosphere 
 of apathy that envelops his spirit ] Paley tells us 
 that the unconscious enjoyment of the mere sense 
 of being, is to his mind one of the most convincing 
 proofs of God's goodness. Can God seem good to 
 one who perceives nothing good, nothing enjoy- 
 able in his own existence, or in the works of the 
 Supreme Being ? 
 
 If men carry with them to the other world, as 
 they surely must, the traits that compose their 
 characters in this, Quenchum's emotionless nature 
 must be an eternal blasphemy, an everlasting 
 curse. What would heaven be to such a man 1 
 Would he not find the supernal regions a very tire- 
 some locality, the songs of seraphs " so-so," and 
 the company of angels a complete nuisance 1 
 
THE CAPACITY FOR ENJOYMENT 
 
 iBATITUDE emanates from the sense of 
 guileless enjoyment, as perfume rises 
 from the flower. The sombre shadow 
 of premature decay rests upon the youngest being, 
 the instant that he ceases to enjoy. The child en- 
 joys involuntarily, unreasoningly ; its spontaneous 
 gladness gushes forth like the matin song of the 
 lark, and, like the lark's carol, it is an unconscious 
 hymn of thanks for the capacity it has received. 
 But as childhood merges into youth, youth into 
 manhood, how often the blessed faculty of enjoy- 
 ment decreases until it is wholly lost ! 
 
 Pity the man from whom it has departed, for its 
 absence speaks of mental and physical abuse ; of 
 unholy indulgence that vitiates the taste, of satiety 
 that palls the appetite, of sin that destroys the 
 powers. All the bloom of his existence has been 
 rudely brushed away. The finest chords of his 
 spirit have become voiceless. Touch them with 
 the finger of Nature, of Art, of Feeling, they give 
 forth no sound. The dust of life's prosaic cares 
 collects upon his heart, until no wind of heaven, 
 
 (286) 
 
The Capacity for Enjoyment 287 
 
 however fragrant or refreshing, can disperse the 
 ashy heap. Can this be in accordance with the 
 laws of order] Is not the highest happiness 
 promised as the guerdon of the greatest goodness % 
 What would avail the offered gift, without the ca- 
 pacity to receive the boon 1 It was manifestly de- 
 signed that we should guard and cultivate this 
 Heaven-bestowed faculty for enjoyment. In a 
 healthful, grateful, coherent mind, it may be pre- 
 served, increased, matured from year to year, even 
 to the very sunset of existence. The objects by 
 which it is awakened vary, the species of enjoy- 
 ment itself changes ; but the expanding of the 
 soul to pleasurable sensations remains. 
 
 Mark how quickly the man who wraps himself 
 up in mere business avocations, and walks plod- 
 dingly, with head bent earthward, to his labors, 
 loses his taste for the beauties of nature, for litera- 
 ture, for music, for the arts, for all elevating and 
 refining pursuits. See how he carries to his fire- 
 side a dull and joyless influence, which even the 
 smiles of a tender wife and the prattle of lovely 
 children cannot counteract. With him the ca- 
 pacity for enjoyment is not merely uncultivated, 
 but stifled ; nipped in the bud. It has never been 
 permitted to force a single blossom through the 
 sheath of circumstance. And when in a few years 
 the man acquires the great wealth for which he 
 bartered this precious faculty, when rest invites 
 him, and even prudence bids him relax his labors, 
 
288 The Capacity for Enjoyment. 
 
 that his risks may cease, where are his resources 
 against weariness ? Not all his gold can purchase 
 back the lost capacity for enjoyment. 
 
 Do not imagine that by enjoyment we mean the 
 frittering away of life in the pursuit of trivialities 
 commonly termed pleasure, but the recognition, 
 the appreciation, of the thousand daily blessings 
 that are spread before our careless eyes. Work 
 itself, and the performance of every-day duties, are 
 allied to enjoyment in a cheerful nature — or at 
 least they give to enjoyment the zest that hunger 
 imparts to the simplest food. 
 
 No man loses the capacity to enjoy sooner than 
 the luxurious idler. Listless inactivity is an incu- 
 bus upon the soul, that gradually deadens its pow- 
 ers, until at last a pleasant emotion becomes an 
 unhoped-for though much coveted event, a positive 
 thrill of rapture, an occurrence barely possible. 
 Thus the mind of the world-worn blase is involun- 
 tarily closed up against the influent heavens, from 
 whence all pure enjoyment descends. 
 
 The selfish man impairs this faculty not less in- 
 evitably. He substitutes a cold and spurious 
 gratification for the genuine emotion, and too 
 surely discovers that the retributive pang and 
 penalty united to the former, can never be es- 
 caped. 
 
 True happiness must be communicated. It is 
 intensified and increased in proportion to its par- 
 ticipation with others. The greater the number 
 
The Capacity of Enjoyment, 289 
 
 of recipients, the deeper, purer, and more inef- 
 fable the joy experienced by the communicator. 
 Can angels know a higher felicity than the bliss 
 of initiating the redeemed into their own states of 
 beatitude ? 
 
 Happiness would not be so rare, so fleeting, nor 
 should we pursue the fugitive through so many 
 forbidden paths, if the healthy eapacity for enjoy- 
 ment were cultivated as an actual, essential virtue. 
 The mental powers would be preserved in peren- 
 nial freshness, the poetry of existence would not 
 be stripped away with the blossoms of youth, En- 
 nui would not be the presiding genius in so many 
 households, nor ingratitude for simple blessings 
 the dominant sin of so many hearts. 
 
 25 
 
THE LOVE OF EXCITEMENT 
 
 DELINE ARDEN is but eighteen. Do 
 not judge her too harshly if nerves high- 
 ly strung, and a temperament at once 
 impressible and impetuous, manifest themselves in 
 contrarious moods, multiform inconsistencies, and 
 a state of unrest that craves incessant excitement. 
 Deprived of that impetus, she sinks down power- 
 less, her energies quenched, her mind a stagnant 
 pool. What wonder that she hails as an angel's 
 touch any hand that " troubles the waters," as 
 those of Bethesda were stirred of old ! She hard- 
 ly asks whether the welcome disturber be a spirit 
 of good or evil ; she is rewakened, revivified in 
 the rushing vortex ; that is enough. 
 
 Her vehement nature constantly demands strong 
 and rapid emotional changes. When her feet are 
 in swift pursuit of some inspiring object, when her 
 veins swell with their leaping current, when her 
 thoughts kindle with flashes of enthusiasm, when 
 her heart is thrilled with acute feeling, called forth 
 by some actual incident, some ideal personation, 
 or evoked from the pages of some highly- wrought 
 
 (29) 
 
The Love of Excitement. 291 
 
 fiction, then only she seems to herself to exist. 
 Excitement is to her the vital spark, the breath of 
 life. It is a phantom which she chases through 
 every path the demon haunts. She dances after 
 it in the ball-room ; she diligently seeks for it in 
 places of public entertainment; she looks for it 
 even in the temple of Love ; she hopes to find it 
 in the very church of God. Yes, she will alike 
 desecrate devotion to man and worship for her 
 Creator, bv regarding them as sensation mediums. 
 Thus she yields to the fascinations of the " tender 
 passion," not for the sake of love, but of emotion ! 
 She indulges in what has aptly been styled ; ' re- 
 ligious dissipation," not for the sake of piety, but 
 of excitement ! 
 
 And yet, let her pursue the Protean shadow 
 where she will, it treacherously melts from her 
 grasp when found, and leaves her exhausted by 
 the race, depressed by the inevitable re-action, her 
 mental and physical faculties collapsed until new 
 and powerful stimulus rouses them into some fresh 
 activity, alas ! only to be followed by equally pros- 
 trating results. 
 
 Adeline's friends mourn over her short- comings, 
 and, making no allowance for the errors conse- 
 quent upon her fervent temperament, predict the 
 most frightful fruition from this insatiable passion 
 for excitement. In vain they warn her of the 
 precipice towards which she is hurrying ! The 
 very danger heightens her enjoyment ! In vain 
 
292 The Love of Excitement. 
 
 they would forcibly restrain her as she rashly 
 presses on ; while they contemplate the abyss into 
 which she may be plunged with shuddering hor- 
 ror, she stands upon its brink in reckless exulta- 
 tion ! 
 
 True, her delirious infatuation is sufficiently 
 alarming ; but why not seek a more attainable 
 remedy than that of a miraculous metamorphosis 
 of her whole nature, through menacing counsels 
 and compulsive restrictions ! 
 
 Her sensibilities are keen, do not strive to blunt 
 them ; if you succeed, you will only make her 
 hard and dull, exchanging one evil for another. 
 Rest is distasteful to her ; do not force her into re- 
 pose which produces lethargic stagnation. Mo- 
 notony stupefies her ; do not hope to train her 
 rapid feet into the slow and even round of a hum- 
 drum existence. But turn the rushing, bubbling 
 current of her thoughts and acts into a pure chan- 
 nel, where the stream may dance and sparkle still, 
 yet minister to some use. Substitute for the allur- 
 ing phantom which she now chases, some real and 
 holy shape. Give the needful stimulus to her 
 gasping energies through some engrossing occupa- 
 tion. Excite her interest in doing good — in com- 
 municating happiness — in promoting noble ob- 
 jects. If her heart be unvitiated, her very love 
 for excitement may be made to lean to virtue's 
 side — may become a powerful agent in achieving 
 glorious ends. 
 
 
The Love of Excitement. 293 
 
 Has not this same unsatisfied passion for excite- 
 ment impelled women into paths as full of bene- 
 faction as those consecrated by the hallowing steps 
 of a Florence Nightingale, a Miss Dix, or a Grace 
 ■ Darling % It is not too much to say that we have 
 known instances in which it has produced these 
 happy results ; and, were it fitting, we could cite 
 them to vindicate an assertion as true as it is bold. 
 
 That very disquiet — that sleepless activity which 
 we condemn in Adeline — is but the curbless im- 
 pulse of a vigorous spirit to do something, to feel 
 something, to be conscious of its own powers of 
 thought, feeling and action. That ceaseless leap- 
 ing forward, and leaping upward, which belong to 
 such temperaments is not in itself an evil. The 
 same up-springing, unslumbering motion causes all 
 creation to palpitate, and expand, and fructify. 
 
 Let us not then rashly rebuke the restless excit- 
 ability of an untrained and ardent nature. Let us 
 not say to such a being as Adeline : " You shall 
 forego all these varied excitements for which you 
 yearn — which you seem to need to render your 
 life agreeable — nay, endurable ! You shall not 
 partake of amusements which you find so exhilar- 
 ating. You shall not read books which engross 
 you so entirely. You shall not enjoy the society 
 of those who have such power over your emo- 
 tions ! " 
 
 Instead of these admonitions and restrictions, 
 give her wholesome and invigorating, ay, and suf- 
 
 25* 
 
294 The Love of Excitement. 
 
 ficiently stimulating mental nourishment. Do not 
 deny her amusements, but see that they are ration- 
 al, that they are intellectually or physically profit- 
 able. Supply her with books of deep interest, but 
 let their pages be so pure that they can awaken 
 none but holy thoughts, and impart none but high 
 aspirations. Place her in the midst of agreeable 
 associates, but be certain that they are beings 
 whose influence will aid in moulding and balanc- 
 ing her character. And, above all, furnish her 
 with agreeable employment. Let her exuberant 
 activity expend itself in work ! work ! work ! To 
 such as she, the most aidant and remediant of 
 agents ! Lethe and nepenthe combined ! Mark, 
 if the result does not prove that this very love of 
 excitement, the curse and destruction of many a 
 richly dowered spirit, can, through wise direction, 
 be made the medium of developing, perfecting, and 
 beautifying a disposition in which it is inherent. 
 
 
MAIDENHOOD IN LOVE. 
 
 } N nature, what flower puts on its most 
 brilliant hues, or expands in its fullest 
 perfection, before the sun's caressing 
 warmth and tingent light call forth the hidden pos- 
 sibilities of its species \ In womanhood, what 
 character assumes its most radiant coloring, or de- 
 velops its highest beauty before its mysterious ca- 
 pabilities are evoked by the electric touch of love ? 
 We do not use the word lightly. We do not al- 
 lude to that weather-vane of fancy which turns 
 with every accidental breath ; that evanescent pen- 
 chant which leans wherever novelty attracts ; that 
 passing passion which evaporates like morning 
 dew — which belongs to the morning season of im- 
 pressible temperaments. It is only upon a pure, 
 holy, and lasting emotion that we can bestow the 
 name of love without fear of desecration. 
 
 That love enters reverently into the inmost sanc- 
 tuary of a maiden's heart, fills her mind with one 
 sovereign image, rises like a sun in the firmament 
 of her soul, and imbues her whole world of 
 thought and feeling with its own tints. Then falls 
 
 (295) 
 
296 Maidenhood in Love. 
 
 the beautifying veil of moss upon the roses of her 
 youth. The soft bloom diffuses itself over the 
 grapes for life's vintage. Hope's whispering voice 
 of promise makes perpetual music in her ears. 
 The golden haze of anticipation envelops her fu- 
 ture in misty glory. She moves in an atmosphere 
 of festal joy. All germs of goodness, and strength, 
 and loveliness, lying dormant in the depths of her 
 spirit, are quickened. Her very existence seems 
 suddenly enlarged. 
 
 Often she is unconscious of this marvellous rev- 
 olution. She does not pause to analyze her own 
 tumultuous sensations. Though the sound of a 
 coming step, his well-known step, makes her 
 pulses throb with almost painful pleasure ; though 
 his lightest tone thrills her, even when the words 
 are unheard ; though at the mention of his name, 
 coupled with praise, she smiles unaware, and vain- 
 ly seeks to repress the involuntary blush, she hides 
 from herself, as long as possible, that love throbbed 
 in her pulses, thrilled her with that voice, woke 
 that smile, and conjured up that blush. 
 
 But when the tender knowledge presses upon 
 her, when the sweet confession has once been 
 drawn from her, when she has once yielded up her 
 heart, how lavishly she pours out its whole wealth b 
 Like Juliet, her " bounty is as boundless as the 
 sea, her love as deep," and the more she gives the 
 larger grows her store, until love and bounty both 
 prove infinite. Like Portia, unambitious in her 
 
Maidenhood in Love, 297 
 
 wish for her own aggrandizement, yet, for her lov- 
 er's sake, she fondly desires to be " trebled twenty 
 times herself, a thousand times more fair, ten 
 thousand times more rich." And while she be- 
 stows so profusely, and desires to possess in greater 
 abundance that she may have the power to im- 
 part more munificently, how little she demands in 
 return ! Yes, little, if we set aside the playful, or 
 coquettish exactions of her inborn, womanly ca- 
 price. Is it not little to be trustingly content with 
 mere words ; to be satisfied with assurances that 
 she is beloved ; to require no actions, no sacrifices 
 as proofs of that passion 1 And what loving wo- 
 man demands any ] even at the moment when an 
 irresistible impulse prompts her to offer the 
 strongest evidences of her own self-abnegating, 
 unmeasured, unbartered aifection. Sometimes she 
 even appears to rejoice in the trials that test the 
 strength of her devotion ; to glory in the oppo- 
 sition that proves its powers of resistance. No 
 ordeal seems too great for her heroism to tempt. 
 Wrapped in Love's protecting banner, she knows 
 that she will pass through victoriously. 
 
 It is strange to see how quickly she merges her 
 own identity into that of the man whom she loves ; 
 how involuntarily she lays aside her own volition, 
 and looks with his eyes, and reflects his thoughts, 
 and unknowingly illustrates to him the truth of 
 Coleridge's declaration, that " love is the comple- 
 tion of our being in another." 
 
298 Maidenhood in Love 
 
 Passing strange is it too, to behold a young 
 maiden upon whom affection has been richly 
 poured from her cradle, who has literally been the 
 idol of her home, turn from all these life-long wor- 
 shippers to a comparative stranger, and cling to 
 him with a tacit declaration that the love of all is 
 outweighed by the love of one ; that the very blame 
 of that one is more precious than the praises of all 
 others. 
 
 Strange, indeed, to find her ready to make any 
 sacrifice, to renounce any happiness, to forego any 
 advantage, that she may share his future. Alas ! 
 too often to see her willing to wound the tenderest 
 of mothers, the truest of fathers, to save that 
 stranger an hour's pain, or give him a moment's 
 pleasure. At the first blush this reckless, unrea- 
 soning, all-absorbing devotion seems unnatural ; 
 and yet it is in strict accordance with Nature's un- 
 alterable law. Love — true Love is the supreme 
 ruler ; the omnipotent sovereign over the heart's 
 whole empire, and all human affections are but its 
 subjects. 
 
 True love ] Where is the Ithuriel spear that will 
 teach us to recognize this God-blessed Love from 
 the " Puck of Passion " ? Bring the one, great, un- 
 failing touchstone, and try the thousand pleasant 
 cheats we irreverently call " love," and how few 
 will not melt at the touch, or assume some meaner 
 form, and take some lower title ! The only test of 
 love is its immutability. The heavenly spark kin- 
 
Maidenhood in Love. 299 
 
 died by the Divine Hand shares the immortality of 
 that great source from whence all love descends. 
 The flame cannot expire. 
 
 " From heaven it came to heaven returneth." 
 
 Thus, Love cannot recede, it cannot stand still ; 
 it must obey the law of eternal progression, must 
 advance onward and upward, must grow stronger, 
 broader, purer, with every hour of its existence. 
 If it falter, languish, cool, it is not love, — never 
 was love, — never can become love. 
 
 The most exquisite illustration which we have 
 ever met, of the affluent love of a high-souled wo- 
 man, is that given by Mrs. Browning in her Portu- 
 guese Sonnets. Surely, a truer, fuller love-utter- 
 ance never rang out from woman's heart and lips ! 
 Yet Mrs, Browning has only painted, with start- 
 ling force and unsurpassable eloquence, the emo- 
 tions which thousands of women who love have, 
 either consciously or unconsciously, experienced ; 
 though few women, if any, have been gifted with 
 her miraculous power of breathing forth her in- 
 most soul in rythmic concord of sweet sounds. 
 What woman who has loved, oris capable of loving, 
 will find our quotations too ample 1 
 
 The sonnets are addressed by the (supposed) 
 Portuguese lady to her lover. She portrays to him 
 how entirely by love, "The face of all the world 
 is changed," to the eyes of her who loves ; how 
 beautifully she is " taught the whole of life in a 
 new rhythm." How even 
 
300 Maidenhood in Love. 
 
 1 1 The name of country — heaven — is changed away 
 For where thou art or shall be — there or here." 
 
 She tells him that 
 
 " The widest land 
 Doom takes to part us, leaves thy hand in mine 
 With pulses that beat double. What I do 
 And what I dream include thee, as the wine 
 Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue 
 God for myself, he hears that name of thine 
 And sees within mine eyes the tears of two." 
 
 She shows him how worthy of acceptance is the 
 love of the most humhle ; how beautiful is mere 
 love itself; how impossible it is that there should 
 be anything low in love, even when the lowliest 
 love ; how God accepts the Jove of the meanest 
 creatures, because they love. How through her 
 love, she stands transfigured and glorified in her 
 lover's presence, and 
 
 " How that great work of love enhances nature's." 
 
 She pleads that he may not love her for her de- 
 serts, which she accounts poor, and says : 
 
 " If thou must love me, let it be for naught 
 Except for love's sake only. Do not say 
 I love her for her smile — her look — her way. 
 Of speaking gently — for a trick of thought 
 Which falls in well with mine, and certes brought 
 A sense of pleasant ease on such a day — 
 For these things in themselves, beloved, may 
 Be changed, or change for thee — and love so wrought, 
 May be unwrought so. Neither love me for 
 Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry — 
 
Maidenhood in Love. 301 
 
 Since one might well forget to weep who bore 
 Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby. 
 But love me for love's sake, that evermore 
 Thou mayest love on through love's eternity." 
 
 She gives him a lock of hair, the first she ever 
 gave to man, the lock where he will find pure the 
 kiss her mother gave her when she died ; and tells 
 him that " the soul's Eialto hath its merchandise," 
 and she " barters curl for curl upon that mart," 
 and claims a lock from his brow to lay upon her 
 heart, where it shall lack no natural heat until that 
 heart grows cold in death. 
 . The womanly adjuration "tell me you love 
 me ! " is one familiar to the ears of all men who 
 have been devotedly loved. Few of them can have 
 failed to discover that a woman is never tired of 
 being told what she knows so well. The Portu- 
 guese lady, with the same earnest yearning to hear 
 what she already believes, exclaims : 
 
 *■* Say over again, and yet once over again 
 
 That thou dost love me ! " 
 
 And adds in vindication of her longing to hear 
 that sweet assurance, 
 
 " Who can fear 
 Too many stars, though each in heaven should roll ? 
 Too many flowers, though each should crown the year? 
 Say thou dost love me — love me — love me — toll 
 The silver iterance — only minding, dear, 
 To love me also in silence, with thy soul." 
 
302 Maidenhood in Love. 
 
 She turns to her letters and musingly loosens 
 the string that bound them, and lets them drop 
 upon her knees. Though they are but " dead pa- 
 per, mute and white," to her they seem " alive and 
 quivering" against her tremulous hands. She ten- 
 derly reminds him what this said, and what that ; 
 a simple thing, and yet it made her weep. And 
 she tells him how she " sank and quailed " 
 when she read the one which held those words, 
 " Dear, I love thee ! " and how the ink of another 
 had paled by lying upon her fast-beating heart. 
 
 Then, with that vague sense of fear which every 
 woman feels at the contemplation of yielding up 
 all for one, she asks him, solemnly : 
 
 " If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange 
 And be all to me ? Shall I never miss 
 Home-talk and blessing, and the common kiss 
 That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange 
 When I look up, to drop on a new range 
 Of walls and floors — another home than this ? 
 Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is 
 Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change ? " 
 
 With reverent words, almost with holy awe, she 
 dwells upon the memory of his first kisses. 
 
 " First time he kissed me, he but only kissed 
 The fingers of this hand wherewith I write, 
 And evermore it grew more clean and white, 
 Slow to world greetings — quick with its ' oh, list! ' 
 When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst 
 I could not wear here plainer to my sight, 
 Than that first kiss. The second passed in height 
 
Maidenhood in Love. 303 
 
 The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed, 
 
 Half falling on the hair. O, beyond meed ! 
 
 That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown, 
 
 With sanctifying sweetness did precede. 
 
 The third upon my lips was folded down 
 
 In perfect, purple state ! Since when, indeed, 
 
 I have been proud, and said — ' My love, my own ! ' " 
 
 She tries to measure that which is measureless 
 — her love for him. 
 
 " How do I love thee, let me count the ways ; 
 I love thee to the depth, and breadth, and height, 
 My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 
 For the ends of being and ideal grace — 
 I love thee to the level of every day's 
 Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. 
 I love thee freely, as men strive for right, 
 I love thee purely, as they turn from praise ; 
 I love thee with the passion put to use 
 In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith; 
 I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 
 With my lost saints — I love thee with the breath, 
 Smiles, tears of all my life ! — and if God choose, 
 I shall but love thee better after death! " 
 
 After that inspired outburst of woman's perfect 
 love, what word can be added ? 
 
BACHELORHOOD IN LOVE. 
 
 >F we place beside our slight, imperfect 
 sketch of " Maidenhood in Love," its cor- 
 responding pendant of Bachelorhood in 
 Love, be it understood, that the latter, ruder por- 
 trait is designed solely for the contemplation of our 
 fair young sisters throughout the land. Their lov- 
 ers may naturally raise an outcry against this un- 
 ceremonious lifting of the finely painted masks 
 which they assume for the courting field, as punc- 
 tiliously as knights of old, who battled for ladye 
 love, let down their vizors for the tournament. 
 But the alarmed wooers have little to fear from our 
 revelations. Though we should unsparingly tear 
 from their faces the charming counterfeit, every 
 love-blinded maiden would refuse to recognize the 
 beloved one's lineaments beneath ; would cling to 
 the bewitching mask, and fondly pronounce it the 
 veritable countenance. 
 
 And yet, gentle sister, the mask your suitor 
 wears, though it may be impalpable to you, is not 
 less a reality. The exalte state of mind produced 
 by his very passion, causes — nay, compels him to 
 
 (304) 
 
Bachelorhood in Love. 305 
 
 practice deception ; often an unintentional decep- 
 tion — sometimes an unconscious deception — al- 
 ways a fascinating deception — but not the less de- 
 ception, though you believe so trustingly in its illu- 
 sions. What is stranger still, your admirer, while 
 his infatuation lasts, honestly imagines himself to 
 be all that he seems to be to you, who look at him 
 through the idealizing medium of love. And the 
 universe holds no such idealizer as the glamor of 
 this same love. Neither man nor woman is sus- 
 ceptible of an emotion into which the poetical ele- 
 ment is so largely infused as love. There is no 
 beautifler in creation so subtle and marvellous in 
 its workings as love. Your lover sees his own 
 image mirrored in your eyes, and is enchanted with 
 the flattering reflection. No wonder ; all the 
 harsh lines are softened — the most insignificant 
 features acquire character — the most sombre col- 
 oring glows with fervid hues. He may be a dull 
 man, but your presence animates him ; he may be 
 coldly taciturn, but, by your side, his silence is el- 
 oquent ; he may be rough and insensate, but to 
 you he is all gentleness and feeling ; he may be 
 proud and self-sufficient, but at your feet he is 
 humble and self-forgetful ; he may be prosaic to 
 the last degree, but there is voiceless poetry in his 
 devotion to you. However narrow his nature, it 
 expands at your touch ; however frigid his temper- 
 ament, it grows impassioned beneath your smile ; 
 however superficial his emotions, they are intensi- 
 
 26* 
 
306 Bachelorhood in Love. 
 
 fled by your response ; however great his failings, 
 they melt into the background in your sight ; 
 while every attractive attribute of mind or person 
 which he actually possesses, is magnified and 
 thrown into bold relief. 
 
 How elated you become by the ardor with which 
 he pursues you! What obstacles will he not com- 
 bat, what stratagems will he not use, what victo- 
 ries will he not gain over u that unspiritual god" 
 called Circumstance, to win you ! And how de- 
 lightfully he fosters your love of rule by making 
 you feel your boundless power over him. He may 
 be a despot to all others, but he glories in becom- 
 ing the slave of your wishes ; he even makes laws 
 of your wildest whims. He is enraptured by your 
 most trifling token of favor, and deeply wounded 
 by your lightest displeasure ! A transient smile, a 
 passing word, is to him a rich guerdon ; a cold ex- 
 pression, an averted look, is a transfixing sword ! 
 How charmingly he gratifies your vanity by plac- 
 ing you high above all other women, and discover- 
 ing traits and gifts that you never imagined were 
 yours ! And how entrancing you find the sphere 
 of congeniality that encompasses you both, and 
 draws you closer and closer in ecstatic union ! 
 You are amazed that his tastes are in such com- 
 plete harmony with yours ; that his views of life, 
 his hopes and aims accord so entirely with your 
 own ; that there is such perfect sympathy between 
 you ! How can you fail of life-long happiness 
 
Bachelorhood in Love. 307 
 
 linked with one who is so thoroughly your count- 
 erpart — your completing self? You never dream 
 that the sweet seeming of this temporary similar- 
 ity may only have been wrought through that 
 delusive magnetism men miscall love. 
 
 But when the inspiring excitement of pursuit is 
 over, when the hope of gaining and the fear of 
 losing no longer fan love's flame, when the sober 
 realities of life take the place of rapturous antici- 
 pations, when the fancied angel descends from the 
 clouds to which her lover's imagination lifted her, 
 and softly takes her wingless place by his hearth- 
 stone, then, fair sister, prepare to see the mask 
 which you resolutely ignored, drop at your feet ! 
 Nerve yourself to behold all that is unreal in the 
 past vanish away. Be strong to bear the knowl- 
 edge, if you have drawn a blank in the great blind- 
 fold lottery. Thank God, with a never-slumber- 
 ing, never-exhausted gratitude if you have received 
 that rare and sumless prize which will make you 
 rich in heart, beyond fear of bankruptcy, during 
 your whole existence. 
 
 When you pass from the delicious trance of 
 courtship into the clairvoyant state of matrimony, 
 if the apparent sympathies which existed between 
 you and your lover gradually fade, if the accordant 
 traits mysteriously disappear, if his fervor subside, 
 or evince itself only by a fitful fondness, if his ad- 
 miration cool, or can only be roused by some un- 
 wonted stimulus, if indifference close his eyes toy 
 
308 Bachelorhood in Love. 
 
 your malaise, or leave him unmoved by your suf- 
 fering, if he see you without seeing, and hear you 
 without noting, if he seek any companionship, be 
 it of man or woman, in preference to yours, if he 
 regard you merely as a pretty toy, a useful orna- 
 ment in his home ; then you have been cheated 
 with a blank, and God's mercy alone can soften 
 your desolate doom, and strengthen you against 
 besetting temptations, and save you from the de- 
 stroying sin of filling that miserable void in your 
 aching, yearning, unsatisfied heart, with some se- 
 cret and unhallowed idol. 
 
 Young maiden, standing beneath Hope's arch- 
 ing rainbow, with its glory reflected upon your fur- 
 rowless brow, and its light in your earnest eyes, 
 you turn away doubtingly, yet fearingly, from 
 this disheartening but every-day picture. See, we 
 place another before your wishful gaze ; another, 
 as real but more rare. Your lover's transports are 
 over, but they are succeeded by a thoughtful ten- 
 derness that unfailingly prefers your well-being to 
 his own ; his ardor changes to a steady devotion 
 that daily increases in strength ; he ceases to talk 
 to you of his love, because it has become too deep 
 to find, or require expression ; but his actions are 
 more eloquent than his most impassioned words 
 have ever been. He lifts you in his strong arms 
 above the angry waves that dash around his own 
 feet ; he takes you as a dove into his warm bosom, 
 and shelters you from the rude winds that fiercely 
 
Bachelorhood in Love. 309 
 
 assail him ; lie is never, for a moment, oblivious 
 of your tastes, wishes, comforts ; he turns to you 
 with a longing need for your presence ; he is sol- 
 itary without you, and nev r lonely when you are 
 near ; your companionship which was a luxury, 
 grows an absolute necessity ; he pours the history 
 of his triumphs and failures into your ears without 
 a doubt that you will help to bear the latter as wil- 
 lingly as you share the former ; he thinks you as 
 attractive when bowed down and overshadowed by 
 sorrow as when uplifted and radiant with joy ; he 
 lingers by your side when you are prostrated by 
 sickness, as gladly as when you are glowing with 
 health ; he fears death because it will part him 
 from you, and prizes life because you live ! The 
 great Dispenser has entrusted to your keeping, to 
 wear proudly, in the face of the world, the very 
 choicest of all the earthly jewels in his vast treas- 
 ury ! 
 
 A pair of speaking eyes ask, " How shall we 
 know when it is this gem of price, or its cunning 
 imitation, which a lover offers for our accept- 
 ance 1 " Alas ! we have no answer for that ques- 
 tion. She who receives must pray for the power 
 herself to distinguish between the precious stone 
 and its glittering counterfeit. 
 
WOMAN-FRIENDSHIPS. 
 
 XL the world gives ready credence to tne 
 possibility of friendship between man 
 and man ; some people are even inclined 
 to believe that the immutable attachment of Ores- 
 tes and Pylades, of iEneas and Achates, may be 
 repeated among men in these inconstant, modern 
 times ; but the devotion of woman to one of her 
 own sex, the sincerity with which she clasps the 
 hand or presses the lip of woman, the genuineness 
 of her self-sacrifices daily made for a beloved sis- 
 ter, are subjects of a vast amount of skepticism. 
 Philosophic writers, poets, wits, have openly de- 
 clared their disbelief in the existence of the strange 
 phenomena of woman-friendships. Even Diana 
 Mullock, who has written so many lines of woman 
 which bear the impress of truth and wisdom, who 
 has solved so many of the enigmas inseparable from 
 woman's nature, gravely shakes her head when 
 she touches upon " female friendships," and calls 
 up such a doubting host of " ifs " and " buts " to 
 usher in the possibility of perfect love between 
 
 (310) 
 
Woman-Friendships. 311 
 
 women, that we inevitably draw the inference that 
 she sides with the unbelievers. 
 
 On the other hand, Shakspeare, that " intellectual 
 miracle," (as he has been called), whose seer-like 
 vision pierced deeper than the eyes of grosser 
 mortals, — Shakspeare, whose magic plummet 
 sounded the unreached, uncomprehended depths 
 of the human soul, reveals the hearts of women 
 united by adamatine links. 
 
 Instance the clinging fondness of Helena and 
 Hermia, in u Midsummer Night's Dream : " 
 
 " We, Hermia, like two artificial gods, 
 Have, with our needles, created both one flower, 
 Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, 
 Both warbling of one song, both in one key, 
 As if our hands, our sides, voices and minds, 
 Had been incorporate, So we grew together, 
 Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, 
 But yet a unison in partition ; 
 Two lovely berries moulded on one stem ; 
 So with two seeming bodies, but one heart, 
 Two of the first, like coats in heraldry, 
 Due but to one, and crowned with one crest. 1 ' 
 
 We have another illustration of woman-friend- 
 ship, in its consummate beauty, portrayed in the 
 passionate, protecting love of Beatrice for Hero, in 
 " Much Ado About Nothing ; " and in " As You 
 Like It," a still stronger picture in the self-re- 
 nouncing, absolute devotion for Rosalind of the 
 gentle Celia, who startles her wrathful father with 
 the declaration : 
 
312 Woman-Friendships. 
 
 " if she be a traitor, 
 
 Why so am I ; we still have slept together, 
 Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together; 
 And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans, 
 Still we went coupled and inseparable ! " 
 
 When the implacable duke banishes Rosalind, 
 Celia replies : 
 
 " Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege, 
 I cannot live out of her company ! " 
 
 Shakspeare against the world ! for who knew 
 the world one half so well ? 
 
 Not only are we impressed by the conviction 
 that his glowing portraitures of woman-friendship 
 are life-drawn ; not only have we perfect faith in 
 the possibility of a thoroughly unselfish, all-absorb- 
 ing attachment between two women, but we enter- 
 tain the belief that there are certain female minds 
 so constituted that a tender friendship with one of 
 the same sex is positively indispensible to happiness. 
 Such natures experience an irresistible impulse to 
 confide in one who, enlightened by her own 
 yearnings and failings, can understand feminine 
 wants and frailties ; who can look upon feminine 
 insufficiencies, not from a strong, manly, but a 
 weak, womanly point of view. 
 
 A woman may be the most irreproachable of 
 wives to the best of husbands, and yet feel a void 
 in her affections, a chamber in her large heart un- 
 filled ; a something needful lacking, if there be no 
 
Woman- Friendships. . 813 
 
 Celia into whose ear she can pour the history of 
 her joys and sorrows, to whom she can turn for 
 advice, and lenient judgment, and comprehending 
 sympathy. 
 
 There are trivial domestic difficulties, petty an- 
 noyances, perplexing positions, which no woman 
 of tact will trouble and bewilder her husband by 
 relating to him. If he is a man of decided intel- 
 lect, he will not attach any importance to these 
 small crosses, will not even understand these mi- 
 nor miseries, and the wife is thrown back upon her 
 own resources, vexed and disheartened by her fail- 
 ing attempt to enlist his aid or sympathy. If he 
 is a man of limited mental powers, he will be more 
 annoyed than she, and will only increase her vexa- 
 tions without disentangling a single thread of the 
 fine web of dilemmas into which she is snared. 
 But to a sympathetic female companion, a woman 
 may enter into all the details of these insignificant 
 trials, and, clasping a friend's hand, she may search 
 for and discover the clue that can guide her out of 
 her domestic labyrinth. 
 
 The hio-her love, the love for man, neither ab- 
 sorbs nor forbids the lower, the friendship for wo- 
 man. They are distinct, emotional capacities, 
 which may be co-existent in one heart. They are 
 evidences of a rich, spiritual organization. If they 
 dwell together in pristine purity, one affection 
 strengthens rather than weakens the other. 
 
 Who can deny that two women, through a mys- 
 
 27 
 
314 Woman- Friendships. 
 
 terious affinity, may become, and recognize each 
 other as sisters in heart \ Who can doubt that 
 there is a bond of sisterhood between their spirits, 
 as real and as strong as the tie of blood between 
 sisters % And if this be true, must not that inter- 
 nal kinship outlive even the dissevering stroke of 
 death, and proclaim them true sisters in the great 
 hereafter ? But in this lower sphere, what name 
 can we give to their attachment but that of " wo- 
 man-friendship 1 " 
 
CONGENIALITY. 
 
 <^P|^ONGENIALITY! what is it but the ge- 
 ||py|§\ nial sense of appreciation, united to sym- 
 ^^^ pathy, for which all the world is yearn- 
 ing % And well may mankind seek that inspiring, 
 rejoicing influence. In a congenial atmosphere 
 even a dull, contracted nature is vivified and en- 
 larged, while a spirit that has height and breadth 
 expands and develops beyond its own recognition. 
 All its powers are vitalized and strengthened and 
 called into their most puissant activity. The pulses 
 beat tunefully, the brain has a sparkling clearness, 
 discordant emotions are quiescent, a delicious se- 
 renity pervades the whole being, and the mantle of 
 universal love envelops all creation. 
 
 That state, sublimed and perfected, hereafter 
 must be the condition of the blessed, for heaven 
 and its " many mansions " could not exist, unem- 
 braced by a sphere of absolute congeniality. 
 
 When a highly sensitive organization is thrown 
 into unavoidable contact with uncongenial associ- 
 ates, a sensation of repulsion is experienced, fol- 
 lowed by mental paralysis. All the utterances of 
 
 (315) 
 
316 Congeniality. 
 
 the heart are suddenly repressed, and eloquence 
 itself becomes as tongue-tied as Cordelia. Frosty 
 flakes creep through the shuddering veins, melted 
 icicles drop upon the scintillations of wit, until not 
 a spark flies up. And if this state of torpid 
 wretchedness be prolonged, it reproduces the in- 
 quisitional torture of the iron cell that slowly but 
 obviously contracted about a captive, until his very 
 identity was crushed out. 
 
 Therefore is it that all hearts here below are 
 longing for and seeking a joy-giving, peace-confer- 
 ring sympathy. Soaie never find it through a long 
 life, and grow skeptical of its existence ; some 
 hastily snatch at every spurious semblance, and 
 soon sorrowfully discover that they have grasped 
 at shadows ; while the happier few receive all 
 their conscious strength from the sweet certainty 
 that they are journeying onward and upward en 
 rapport with kindred spirits. 
 
 But, for this soul-refreshing congeniality to exist 
 between individuals, similitude of character is not 
 essential. Mental dissimilarity is often a more po- 
 tent agent in its creation. A mind of great mag- 
 nitude will stoop to look for sympathetic throbs in 
 some lower, poorer nature. A weak or timid heart, 
 that needs support, finds congeniality in contact 
 with a strong, vigor-imparting intellect. A rest- 
 less, nervous temperament delights in all peaceful 
 and tranquillizing associations. A doubting spirit 
 often attaches itself to one full of earnest faith. 
 
Congeniality. 317 
 
 Thus, when the attributes, lacking in one spiritual 
 conformation, are supplied by the abundance of 
 another, a harmonious whole and perfect congeni- 
 ality is the result. 
 
 But, proportionate to the happiness communi- 
 cated by the satisfied sense of congeniality, is the 
 danger with which its flattering counterfeit menaces. 
 The mind whose thoughts we imagine to be in uni- 
 son with ours, the heart that we believe is vibrat- 
 ing to our own with a quick comprehension of our 
 aspirations, our disappointments, our griefs, our 
 joys, has the power to obtain a fatal command 
 over our judgment and volition. 
 
 Willis was not far from the truth in declaring 
 that a woman is always in danger when she feels 
 herself " comprehended." Certain it is that the 
 false and scheming gain their surest foothold in her 
 confidence by successfully simulated congeniality, 
 and the persuasive appearance of understanding 
 the movement of that inner life to which no com- 
 mon eyes can penetrate. Sympathy is the talis- 
 manic watch-word by which they pass the sentinels 
 of Reason and enter the unguarded citadel of her 
 affections. 
 
 To discover and touch with magical dexterity 
 those delicate, invisible, sympathetic chords, is the 
 secret of public power. Through them the multi- 
 tude is fired, swayed, subdued ; through them the 
 crowd reacts upon the master mind by which it is 
 kindled and controlled, and invests that mind with 
 
 27* 
 
318 
 
 Congeyiiality. 
 
 tenfold might. The lustre of the most radiant in- 
 tellect may be wholly extinguished by the saturat- 
 ing agency of uncongenial surroundings, or it may 
 be brightened to inspiration, by the receptive 
 power of sympathy. 
 
 
THE LOVE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 HE love of the beautiful is of celestial or- 
 igin. It is the holy offspring of an af- 
 fection for the good and true. The 
 myriad phases of earthly beauty that spring up in 
 life's humblest pathways, are visible symbols of 
 the infinite, ineffable beauty of diviner spheres. 
 How affluent is the exuberant earth in revelations 
 of loveliness ! They burst into life beneath our 
 feet, in 
 
 " The bright mosaics that with storied beauty 
 The floor of Nature's temple tesselate " — 
 
 they beat the air with iris-tinted pinions above our 
 heads, stretch out enchanting vistas before our 
 eyes, dance on the crest of the impetuous water- 
 fall, slumber upon the bosom of the tranquil 
 stream, gaze at their own images in the mirror of 
 the glassy lake, look down from the effulgent stars, 
 unfurl their orient-hued banners at the waving of 
 Aurora's hand, shoot their meteoric lights before 
 wondering eyes, arch the prismatic bow in the 
 blue canopy above, start into life whenever Nature 
 
 (319) 
 
320 The Love of the Beautiful. 
 
 lifts her sceptre, an undisputed sovereign ; sparkle 
 in every quivering dew-drop, pulsate through the 
 great artery of all creation. And day and night, 
 these glorious witnesses of Beauty's all-pervading 
 existence are chanting in chorus, " Love the beau- 
 tiful, for those immortal fountains, whence all pu- 
 rity descends, are beauty's well-spring ! " And the 
 poet lifts his voice to echo the universal hymn, and 
 
 sings, 
 
 "thus was Beauty sent from heaven, 
 
 The lovely ministress of Truth and Good 
 In this dark world ; for Truth and Good are one, 
 And Beauty dwells in them, and they in her, 
 With like participation. Wherefore, then, 
 O sons of earth ! would ye dissolve the tie ? " 
 
 But the world is not embellished by Beauty 
 which prodigal Nature alone unfolds ; her hand- 
 maiden Art develops the beautiful with emulating 
 skill, and when she weds a pure creation to a no- 
 ble use, her brow is radiant with Nature's bor- 
 rowed crown ! The vivid reflex of the painter's 
 genius mirrored upon our walls ; the triumph of 
 the sculptor's chisel reared in our homes, are not 
 mere tasteful, profitless luxuries. There is a soul- 
 refining power in their familiar contemplation ; 
 they quicken those higher sensibilities which time 
 is making a constant effort to deaden ; they find 
 avenues to the dormant heart hitherto undiscov- 
 ered ; they lift the daily thoughts out of the mo- 
 
The Love of the Beautiful. 321 
 
 notorious round of petty solicitudes, out of the mire 
 of commonplace cares which so quickly destroy the 
 freshness of the spirit ; they fill the mind, through 
 the eye, with elevating images, with visions of se- 
 rener realms, until the clamor and tumult of this 
 world sound afar off. Thus inspired, Art shares 
 Nature's glory when she achieves the beautiful, 
 and lays the offering upon a Heaven-dedicated 
 altar. 
 
 There is a class of beings who seem especially 
 gifted with beautifying eyes. 
 
 " With prompt embrace all beauty to enfold." 
 
 They have an unconscious power of idealizing 
 whatever they look upon in nature, in art, in hu- 
 manity. They deck the granite hardness of reali- 
 ty with the tender and clinging ivy of sentiment, 
 and cover the sharp angles of bare facts with the 
 velvety mosses of imagination. With them there 
 is ever an under-current of poetry flowing beneath 
 life's turgid stream of tritest prose. They are the 
 world's true poets, though perchance, they cannot 
 lay claim to the smallest foothold of territory in 
 Parnasus, and have never been impelled by the 
 stirring of the " divine afflatus," to pen an inspira- 
 tion. They are they true artists, though they paint 
 no pictures, for they have the artist-instinct throb- 
 bing within, and a living panorama of graceful 
 forms, symmetrical outlines, and glorious scenes is 
 
322 The Love of the Beautiful. 
 
 ever passing in long procession before their mental 
 vision. Better still, they are constantly moved by 
 an irresistible impulse to make Beauty and Use clasp 
 hands. As Linnaeus constructed a dial out of flow- 
 ers, and, by the expanding and closing of delicate 
 blossoms, told the time of day as accurately as if it 
 had been chronicled by the intricate machinery of 
 a watch, so the passing hours of those who inherit 
 this beautifying temperament are marked by the 
 blooming and folding of life's choicest flowers. 
 
THE SUMY SIDE. 
 
 HERE could be no shadow were there no 
 light, no eclipse were there no luminary 
 to be obscured, no dark side to things 
 spiritual and natural, were there no bright ; and 
 the former implies and testifies to the existence of 
 the latter. 
 
 " Let the night be ne'er so dark, 
 The moon is surely somewhere in the sky ! " 
 
 To discover that moon beneath its thickest 
 shroud, to have perfect faith in the reality of this 
 sunny side to all creation, to seek it out with un- 
 flagging hope, to draw it forth from the gloomiest 
 abyss, until it rise radiant as Truth from the depths 
 of her fabled well, — oh ! that is one of the most 
 joy-imparting, peace-producing, of all life's se- 
 crets. 
 
 Doubtless, Dr. Johnson meant to convey a very 
 impressive counsel when he said that the habit of 
 looking at the best side of every event was " far 
 better than a thousand pounds a year," but we 
 think he made a very low estimate of the value 
 
 (823) 
 
324 The Sunny Side. 
 
 of that blessed faculty which lines all the clouds 
 with silver. 
 
 Wealth cannot be computed by our actual pos- 
 sessions, but by the exorbitance or moderation of 
 our desires ; nor happiness gauged by the enjoy- 
 ments within our grasp, but by those after which 
 we aspire. Sunny temperaments smilingly deem 
 whatever they receive sufficient, and neither their 
 affluence nor their felicity have regard to pounds 
 and pence, weights and measures. To them Pov- 
 erty wears the graceful robes of Content, and 
 would look no fairer in the diadem of luxury. To 
 them the stream of sorrow is like that fountain of 
 Anletus, which rose salted from the earth, but 
 sweetened in its course, for their grief can have no 
 lasting taste of bitterness. There is a clear, blue 
 firmament in their souls where the star of Hope 
 always shines, piercing the most noisome vapors 
 that ascend from a pestilential world beneath. 
 
 Alas ! how few is the number of these bright 
 and brightening natures ! How countless are the 
 hosts of those who resolutely turn their eyes from 
 the golden lights gleaming through the darkness 
 of life's picture ; who, with irrational perversity, 
 augment all its shadows ! who, when calamities 
 threaten, experience all their anguish in anticipa- 
 tion ; who, when sorrows really arrive, magnify 
 their sum ; and who, even when griefs are re- 
 moved, cling to their sombre remembrance, and 
 torture themselves with evoking phantoms of de- 
 parted wo ! 
 
The Sunny Side. 325 
 
 Sometimes this morbid tendency of the mind to 
 " take trouble on interest," to multiply its actual 
 amount, and conjure up its vanished ghosts, is in- 
 herent and hereditary. Then it gives birth to a 
 demon, difficult, indeed, to exorcise, for his feet 
 are planted among the deepest fibres of the heart, 
 and his murky form rises in giant strength, and 
 possesses the soul as a lawful home. Religion, 
 Reason and Philosophy must unite in a powerful 
 triad, and w T age fierce war against the fiend before 
 he can be cast out, and life's sunny side can be re- 
 vealed to the spirit he has enslaved. 
 
 Sometimes this despondency of character is the 
 offspring of sheer ingratitude, and a disregard of, 
 or disbelief in, the perpetual guidance of an over- 
 ruling Providence. Then is the daily punish- 
 ment it entails no heavier than its sin, and the sun- 
 ny side shall never be disclosed to these unthank- 
 ful hearts until they are cleansed and illumined. 
 
 Sometimes this mental gloom springs from pure- 
 ly physical causes. DTsraeli takes a very prosaic, 
 but common sense and useful view of the subject, 
 when he says, " Our domestic happiness often de- 
 pends upon the state of our biliary or digestive or- 
 gans, and the little disturbances of conjugal life 
 may be more efficaciously cured by the physician 
 than the moralist." Happily the bilious mists that 
 veil the sunshine from the eyes of this dismal class 
 of beings may be dispelled by a few strokes of the 
 cabalistic pen, and the sufferer find an open sesame 
 
 28 
 
326 The Sunny Side. 
 
 to the sunny region conveyed in a medical pre- 
 scription. 
 
 Oh ! if we only believed that on the stormiest 
 sea, in the dreariest night, the mysterious finger of 
 Divine Providence is always pointing to some faint, 
 far-off, beacon flame, which will grow larger and 
 larger the more steadily we gaze, and become 
 brighter and brighter as Faith takes her seat at the 
 helm and guides our bark nearer and nearer, until 
 we behold a luminous harbor of consolation rising 
 out of the chaotic gloom, from how much hopeless 
 anguish we should be shielded ! If we could only 
 be convinced that the saddest event has its sunny 
 side, how many hours of groping in despairing 
 darkness we should escape ! If we would only 
 resolutely use our eyes to search for that sunny 
 side, how many tears they would be spared ! If 
 we could only accept the interpretation of the term 
 happiness, which supposes it (in the words of Di- 
 ana Muloch) " to consist in having our highest 
 faculties most highly developed, and in use to their 
 fullest extent," how quickly we should be num- 
 bered with the dwellers upon that glorious sunny- 
 side of the earth ! 
 
BLACK DAYS. 
 
 AVE you ever known days that were 
 black? Have you ever known days in 
 which everything went wrong, as though 
 some invisible hand turned your whole life topsy- 
 turvy 1 Did you ever get up in the morning after 
 the manner which the juveniles style " wrong side 
 foremost " ? Did you stub your toes with the first 
 step you took] Did your strings tangle them- 
 selves into Gordian knots, your buttons fly off like 
 rockets, your hooks mysteriously vanish, just when 
 you were in the greatest hurry ? Did glass and 
 china break spontaneously beneath your most care- 
 ful touch ? Did the dress you fancied short, mag- 
 ically lengthen itself to make you stumble ? Did 
 every sharp instrument you handled, pierce or cut 
 you, of its own accord ? Did some undiscoverable 
 individual throw your neatly-arranged work into 
 confusion, and abstract the book in which you 
 were deeply interested ? Did the pen spatter, and 
 scratch, and obstinately blot the paper, when you 
 attempted to write? Did the current of your 
 thoughts, which usually flowed with pleasant free- 
 
 (327) 
 
328 Black Days. 
 
 dom, suddenly become stagnant \ Did the persons 
 you least wished to see, force themselves into your 
 presence, and those you loved best remain absent] 
 Did you labor with more than wonted zeal, yet ac- 
 complish nothing 1 Did it seem as though some 
 evil genius walked in your steps, and flung stones 
 in your path, and turned all your actions awry, and 
 made all your efforts failures, until you grew cross- 
 er and crosser, and became quite unbearable to 
 yourself, to say nothing of being unendurable to 
 others ? With your equilibrium destroyed, all 
 your purposes defeated, your spirits not dampened 
 merely, but drowned, did you not emphatically call 
 the day black ? 
 
 Such unbalanced days, when life seems all a 
 game of cross purposes, will come to most of us, 
 and how is their unholy spell to be broken ? Tru- 
 ly a momentous question ! Very often the pres- 
 ence of some being gifted with a strong heart, ge- 
 nial temperament, and sympathetic nature, will 
 chase all the shadows, restore serenity to the ruf- 
 fled temper, and evoke order out of confusion, — 
 even as the voice, the look, of one single angel can 
 put to flight a legion of evil spirits. But it is not 
 always that visitants, happily endowed with this 
 calming, cheering, demon-exorcising power, enter 
 in, and tinge our overhanging clouds with the 
 splendor of their own internal sunshine. 
 
 Oftener, far, if we would not succumb to the 
 depressing influences that weigh upon us in these 
 
Black Days. 329 
 
 black days, we must valiantly take up arms our- 
 selves to war against the invisible enemy. If, in 
 the midst of the labor that is proving futile — the 
 duty that we are illy performing — the annoyances 
 that are goading us with needles, we could only be 
 induced to pause and ponder, and look our own 
 mood steadily in the face, we might gain a speedy 
 victory over a host of these Liliputian tormentors. 
 A state of gloom is always an unthankful, un- 
 godly state. Sometimes it is produced by some 
 physical derangement ; sometimes it springs out 
 of some hidden discontent, some haunting disap- 
 pointment, some foreboding of menacing misfor- 
 tune, and sometimes it is untraceable to any 
 source. If its origin be physical, is it not incum- 
 bent upon us to use every attainable means to re- 
 store the health of the body, that the sanitary tone 
 of the mind may return ] If discontent or disap- 
 pointment have thrown this sable pall over the 
 spirit, will it not be lifted by the remembrance 
 that all events in life are Heaven-ordered, and no 
 apparent failure or sorrow is permitted that cannot 
 become an instrument of spiritual advancement? 
 If the black day's heaviness proceed from some 
 threatening evil, will it not be dispelled by the re- 
 flection that it is folly to suffer in anticipation the 
 anguish of an affliction which we may possibly be 
 spared % If the incapacitating depression have no 
 traceable origin, will not the dusky phantom van- 
 
 28* 
 
330 Black Dap. 
 
 ish when brought before the bar of Common 
 Sense ? 
 
 Could we only force ourselves to remember that 
 a day full of these contrarieties is a day wasted, 
 and will leave a page, dark as our own gloom, 
 upon that life-chronicle, to every leaf of which an- 
 gel fingers will point, every line of which we must 
 read in the hereafter, before we take the places 
 prepared for us, or rather, which we are daily pre- 
 paring for ourselves — could we only remember 
 this, the weakest of us would find strength to shake 
 off the incubus, and no black day, however gloom- 
 ily it began, would end in darkness. 
 
BASHFULNESS. 
 
 OW often bashfulness passes for humili- 
 ty — for a painful want of self-apprecia- 
 tion — for a modest undervaluation of 
 one's own merits ! Yet the self- consciousness 
 which gives rise to bashfulness almost always 
 springs from sensitive self-esteem, a latent love of 
 approbation, a nervous dread that others will not 
 rate us as highly as we prize ourselves ! 
 
 What is it but self-consciousness which prevents 
 a bashful person from entering a room without fan- 
 cying that all eyes are turned upon him ? What 
 is it but self-consciousness which makes him fearful- 
 ly certain of attracting attention if he ventures to 
 move ? What is it but self-consciousness which 
 impresses him with the conviction that all ears are 
 quickened to listen to the unmeaning words that 
 hesitatingly fall from his lips ? What is it but self- 
 consciousness which causes him to commit any num- 
 ber of awkward blunders while he is speculating 
 on the judgment that will be passed upon his most 
 insignificant actions \ 
 
 People are bashful because they cannot ignore 
 
 (331) 
 
332 Bash fulness. 
 
 their own personality, cannot put self aside, and 
 act as though neither others nor they themselves 
 were thinking of their individual existence. 
 
 Bashful persons never behave naturally, because 
 they are never unconscious of their own deport- 
 ment. They never shine in conversation, because 
 they are haunted by the fear that they cannot do 
 justice in language to the ideas which are strug- 
 gling for utterance. They never appear to advan- 
 tage, because they are tortured by the instinctive 
 knowledge that in-spite of being very sensible, so- 
 ber-minded individuals, they are always hovering 
 upon the borders of the ridiculous. If you laugh 
 with them, they imagine that you laugh at them. 
 If you sympathize with them, you cause them mor- 
 tification. If you forbear to notice them, you 
 wound them by your supposed indifference. They 
 have a morbid horror of publicity, and yet they 
 constantly become conspicuous, simply by never 
 forgetting themselves. 
 
 Goldsmith, in his portrait of Charles Mario w, 
 illustrates a species of bashfulness, which only ex- 
 ists in the presence of equals and superiors, and 
 degenerates into positive insolence and unbridled 
 freedom when thrown in contact with inferiors. 
 Here self-consciousness is the moving principle 
 again. Charles Marlow was frightened into the 
 most absurd exhibitions of bashfulness by the 
 dread of making an unfavorable impression upon 
 those whose opinion he valued ; but, being totally 
 
Bashf idness. 333 
 
 indifferent to the appreciation of a hotel keeper, or 
 a bar maid, before them, the bashful youth, who 
 could not lift his eyes to the face of a lady, and 
 had not courage to address a few civil sentences to 
 her respected father, was transformed into a very 
 monster of egotism, arrogance, and impertinence. 
 
 When we use the word bashfulness, we do not 
 mean to confound the term with genuine diffi- 
 dence, self-distrust, modesty ; nor do we allude to 
 the charming timidity which flings a roseate veil 
 over the conscious cheek of youth. The shame- 
 facedness of bashfulness is not diffidence or self- 
 distrust, for it does not distrust its own intrinsic 
 worth, it only distrusts that others will fully recog- 
 nize that worth. It is not modesty or humility, for 
 it does not humbly estimate itself, it is only fearful 
 of the undervaluing estimation of others. 
 
 True modesty is retiring, shrinking, humble, but 
 it is at the same time self-possessed, composed, un- 
 conspicuous. A modest man does not commit the 
 blunders of his bashful brother, because he is not 
 confused by failing efforts to seem what he is not. 
 He does not conceive himself to be a brilliant per- 
 son, or desire others to believe so, and does not 
 comport himself as though brilliancy were expect- 
 ed of him. He does not fancy that he is of suffi- 
 cient consequence to be remarked or remarkable. 
 He goes on his way, if observed, unconscious of 
 observation ; if neglected, indifferent to neglect. 
 He does not think of himself at all and consequent- 
 
334 Bashfulness. 
 
 ly does not imagine that others are thinking of 
 him. If his hidden merits are accidentally discov- 
 ered, the blush that suffuses his cheek is not one 
 of painful bashfulness, but of startled humility and 
 pleasant surprise. His manner evinces that he 
 neither demands nor expects consideration, and 
 consequently it has a conciliating tendency, inclin- 
 ing the world, so niggardly to those who claim 
 their rights, to give modest worth its fullest due. 
 Let the bashful man contrast his experiences 
 with those of the truly modest man, and he cannot 
 close his eyes to the great truth that the secret 
 cause of his social discomfort is a torturing self- 
 consciousness, and that the cure lies in ceasing to 
 speculate upon what others are thinking of him — 
 in ceasing to think of himself at all. 
 
PREACHING AND PRACTISING. 
 
 E who can take advice is sometimes supe- 
 rior to him who can give it," said a dis- 
 tinguished author. Change the '« some- 
 times " to often and we tread one step nearer to the 
 truth. It costs so little labor to give precepts and 
 monitions ; it is so natural to enact the task-master 
 and apportion every man's duty ; so pleasant to 
 play the sign-post, and point out the road that 
 others are bound to follow, while we travel upon 
 the primrose-path ourselves ! 
 
 There was never yet an honest counsellor, how- 
 ever wise or eloquent, who could not have ex- 
 claimed with Portia : "I can easier teach twenty 
 what is good to be done, than be one of the twenty 
 to follow mine own teaching ! " Seneca found it 
 agreeable to set forth the advantages of poverty, 
 while he was writing upon a table of gold ; Steele 
 delighted to laud temperance with the fumes of the 
 grape careering through his brain. Sterne vented 
 his tender-heartedness by a touching lamentation 
 over a donkey, and the same hand with which he 
 inscribed his pathetic plaint, fell heavily upon the 
 
 (335) 
 
336 Preaching and Practising. 
 
 trembling frame of his wife. But do we cite these 
 as rare instances of preaching versus practising ? 
 Would it be difficult to select from the most ap- 
 proved of the social lawgivers, and sapient teach- 
 ers of the present day, luxurious Senecas, who 
 trumpet all the charms of penury ; double-seeing 
 Steeles, who wreathe with laurel the brows of So- 
 briety ; and brutal Sternes, who move the multi- 
 tude to weep over the wrongs of the brute crea- 
 tion ? 
 
 " In sooth we've fallen on an age of talk, 
 We halloo to each other of reform, 
 And make the shouts suffice." 
 
 Assuredly it is not difficult to be a saint in 
 words. Heaven would be abundantly peopled if 
 its crystal gates new open at the blast of righteous- 
 sounding breaths ! 
 
 Perhaps we are very presumptuous, yet we dare 
 to cherish the conviction that there exists a more 
 attolent influence than all 
 
 " The full- voiced rhetoric of these master minds ; " 
 
 one which hourly, but silently, lifts up the hearts 
 of men. We hold to the belief that the most per- 
 suasive, impressive, effectual preachers are those 
 whose daily lives are sermons, though we hear no 
 homilies from their lips. In their own persons 
 they exemplify the grandeur of pure aspirations, 
 
Preaching and Practising. 337 
 
 the beauty of goodness, the nobleness of self-sacri- 
 fice. They show that obedience to the harshest 
 decrees of duty may become a pleasure. They 
 demonstrate the value of time by such cheerful 
 use of every moment, that conscience-stricken In- 
 dolence, sitting in their presence, becomes op- 
 pressed by her own idleness, and deems it heavier 
 than the weight of labor. They inspire the weak 
 of purpose with reverence for the strength of zeal, 
 by their earnestness. They illustrate the glory of 
 self-conquest, by their victory over those evil pas- 
 sions which are the " foes of a man's own house- 
 hold ; " and prove how sweet is the peace which 
 comes after such holy warfare, by their serenity. 
 They pass through the world encompassed by an 
 atmosphere of purity and power so potent and so 
 subtle, that it penetrates into closed hearts, which 
 no less delicate agency could reach, and melts their 
 iciness, and softens their hardness, and breathes 
 the very breath of life into souls that seemed dead. 
 Therefore have Ave more faith in the puissant min- 
 istry of these voiceless preachers than in the most 
 sensation-seeking, revival-rousing exhortation that 
 was- ever thundered from the lips of eloquence ; 
 for it is not possible to deny that 
 
 " Nearer the stars 
 The world is lifted up by noble lives ; 
 It is the men who in the silence work, 
 Nor seek the notice of the vulgar eye 
 29 
 
338 
 
 Preaching and Practising. 
 
 That, like the coral insect, unobserved, 
 Piling the reef and building with its death, 
 Isles bright as Paradise, and strong to face 
 The storms of centuries, lift up the age 
 Above the idle froth and foam of time. 1 ' 
 
FORGIVING NOT FORGETTING. 
 
 OU have wronged me — I forgive you — 
 but I cannot forget," was Mrs. Flintwell's 
 reply to Miss Abbie Lightly, who came 
 to her a suppliant for pardon. 
 
 Abbie was thoughtless, impulsive, unsettled in 
 character. All that was evil within her floated up 
 to the surface, bubbling and babbling, and readily 
 stimulated into action. But there was a golden 
 vein of virtue lying beneath the froth and foam of 
 her effervescent nature. When the passing excite- 
 ment, which prompted light speech and rash act, 
 subsided ; when she sat in the calm seclusion of 
 her own chamber, the good angel, Reflection, 
 softly entered in, and, with sad visage, raised a 
 magic mirror before her eyes, and showed her in- 
 consequent deeds flitting by in long procession, and 
 sorrowfully rehearsed her short-comings and their 
 sequence. And Abbie gazed upon that reproach- 
 ful presentment, and listened to that gentle, re- 
 gretful tone, and was moved to contrition ! Better 
 still, she rose up courageously and went to the one 
 against whom she had sinned. Though her spirit 
 
 (339) 
 
340 Forgiving not Forgetting, 
 
 was proud it was also generous, and she humbled 
 herself meekly to confess her fault, and penitently 
 to implore forgiveness. 
 
 Even so she had gone to Mrs. Flintwell. She 
 owed her a debt of gratitude which should have 
 sealed her lips when bitter and maligning thoughts 
 rose to her unbridled tongue ; yet she had spoken 
 ill of her ; she had given a malicious interpreta- 
 tion to fair-seeming conduct, and assigned inter- 
 ested motives to actions which bore the appear- 
 ance of noble self-sacrifice. 
 
 Mrs. Flintwell's manners lacked all softness ; 
 there was about her a hard solidity, a ramrod up- 
 rightness of mind and deportment. She was stern 
 in her honesty, blunt in her truthfulness ; her un- 
 compromising integrity often caused her to be 
 rude, for she regarded suavity merely as graceful 
 hypocrisy. She possessed kind feelings, and was 
 actuated by a strong desire to serve her fellow- 
 creatures ; but, unhappily, she was not blessed 
 with one particle of tact which could prompt her 
 to use that considerate delicacy which renders ser- 
 vices acceptable. 
 
 Her favors were conferred in such a decided, 
 pointed way, and so obviously from a sense of 
 right, rather than from tenderness or sympathy, 
 that those whom she desired to benefit, experi- 
 enced an inclination to reject the proffered aid, and 
 struggle on, rather than receive help so unlovingly 
 tendered. 
 
Forgiving not Forgetting. 341 
 
 Mrs. Flintwell always walked in the straight and 
 narrow way, however sharp the stones ; no flowery 
 considerations ever lured her into some more 
 tempting by-road. She had no patience with those 
 w T hose feet were too weak, or whose evil inclina- 
 tions were too strong to tread the same flinty path. 
 
 When Abbie went to her in contrite mood, Mrs. 
 Flintwell listened frigidly to her confession, and 
 replied in an icy tone, " You have wronged me — 
 I forgive you, but I cannot forget ! " 
 
 Their social position caused the two ladies con- 
 stantly to meet. Abbie was always treated by 
 Mrs. Flintwell with marked coldness and distrust. 
 Her air seemed to say, " I know you ; I am 
 keeping watch over your doings ; I am guarding 
 against you." Her whole manner showed that the 
 recollection of the wrong she had received was 
 ever fresh in her memory ; that, in her own lan- 
 guage (language so often used by those who say — 
 ay, and think they pardon,) she had forgiven, but 
 not forgotten. 
 
 Not forgotten 1 Then the wrong is registered, 
 not wiped out ! If thus chronicled, if unblotted 
 out, then, assuredly, it is not forgiven, however she 
 who pardons with her lips only, may try to cheat 
 herself into the belief that she has actually par- 
 doned. Put no faith in such forgiveness. There 
 is no pardon that forgives, yet forgets not. 
 
 To pardon truly, internally, the very memory of 
 the wrong should be gradually obliterated, and if 
 
 29* 
 
342 Forgiving not Forgetting. 
 
 the stirring of some chance chord calls up an in- 
 voluntary remembrance, it will quickly be silenced 
 and cast out of the thoughts. Let us not flatter 
 ourselves into the convenient belief that we gener- 
 ously, and with Christian leniency, forgive the in- 
 juries we receive (and who is so insignificant that 
 he receives none ? ) if we keep a strict account of 
 their sum and magnitude. Not one single one of 
 them is fully pardoned until it has been plunged 
 beneath the waters of Lethe ! 
 
FAULT-SEEKERS. 
 
 S T is easier to cavil than to applaud — 
 easier to carp than to appreciate. The 
 voice of praise is low and feeble, for it 
 issues from the generous and discriminating few ; 
 its tone is readily drowned by the loud cries of con- 
 demnation roared from the lips of the captious 
 million. No talent, no taste, no information are 
 requisite to qualify the self-constituted censor for 
 his office. 
 
 * ' A man must serve his time to every trade 
 Save censure — critics all are ready made," 
 
 « 
 
 says the poet. These surgeons of literature pass 
 through no college, and earn no diplomas, to es- 
 tablish their right to cut and slash, dismember and 
 decapitate the fair offsprings of mightier minds. 
 Walter Scott aptly designates them as " tinkers 
 who, unable to make pots and pans themselves, 
 set up for menders of them." 
 
 In art, as in literature, their eyes search out 
 defects alone, and are as blind to beauties as bats 
 
 (343) 
 
344 Fault- Seekers. 
 
 to sunshine. In the wonders of Science they 
 behold not the marvels she has achieved but the 
 desirable ends she has failed to compass. 
 
 Their indulgence of this fault-finding passion 
 gradually renders them skeptical of the existence 
 of all genius and greatness, all truth and triumph. 
 They believe in nothing but the earth's imperfec- 
 tions and man's short- comings. 
 
 But it is in the every-day contact with humanity 
 that this condemning, hypercritical spirit proves 
 most tormenting and most disastrous. The consti- 
 tutional fault-seeker never makes a new acquaint- 
 ance without tearing the unlucky individual's 
 character to pieces, to search out all its crooked 
 turns, sharp angles, and weak points. If the na- 
 ture he is dissecting chance to be one enriched 
 with many virtues, — virtues which the ready cen- 
 sor never himself possessed, — he tries to drag it 
 down to his own level, by pronouncing its graces 
 assumed and its goodness spurious. If, on the 
 other hand, it be a temperament full of faults, he 
 glories over their discovery, and points them out 
 with compassionless zeal. He never admits, as 
 excuse, the plea of inherited evil, the lack of early 
 discipline, the contagion of forced association ; and 
 he never dreams that he is prone to the same fail- 
 ings himself, but lifts up his eyes and hands and 
 thanks Heaven, that he is " not such a man." Not 
 a foible escapes his keen scrutiny ; he drags the 
 merest weaknesses into broad light ; magnifies 
 
Fault- Seekers. 345 
 
 them into vices, unsparingly judges and condemns 
 the culprit, and wholly forgets that he is making a 
 merciless law by which he will be judged in turn. 
 
 Is it thus that the angels with their pure eyes, 
 look down upon mortals ? Those eyes pierce the 
 coarse veil of flesh, and gaze into the depths of the 
 spirit ; therefore all our imperfections they must 
 surely see ; but upon these their holy contempla- 
 tion never dwells. They seek out the hidden 
 gems of the mind, and toilingly remove the sur- 
 rounding ore of evil, and gently polish the least 
 valuable jewel, with the attrition of circumstance, 
 until all its sparkle is developed. They search 
 out and foster every little, weak, struggling germ 
 of goodness, give it the sunshine of their celestial 
 smiles, and when it droops, as though about to die, 
 pour upon it the refreshing rain of their pitying 
 tears. They look upon a man's virtues as the 
 Heaven-ordered flowers in the garden of his heart, 
 on his faults, as the weeds, sown by an enemy, that 
 must be rooted out with tenderest hands, for fear 
 that some delicate violet of promise may be 
 plucked up with the nightshade beside which it 
 grew. 
 
 Should it not be the perpetual aspiration of that 
 man who hopes to associate with angels hereafter, 
 to make this, his preparatory life, approach as 
 nearly as possible to the lives of the wished-for 
 companions of his future ? If he would cultivate 
 the angelic within himself (which alone can bring 
 
346 
 
 Fault- Seekers. 
 
 him in communion with angelic existences), he 
 must cast out the spirit of fault-seeking, and sub- 
 stitute in its place that loving gaze which beholds 
 the least precious gem of worth, though buried 
 deep beneath beneath the mire of impurity — that 
 holy vision which discovers the feeblest shoot of 
 virtue, though overshadowed by the 
 weeds of folly. 
 
 flaunting 
 
 
BOOKS. 
 
 Y library was dukedom large enough," 
 said the majestic Prospero ; and to a 
 true lover of books a choice library is a 
 kingdom of countless opulence and measureless 
 extent. At the feet of its sovereign a Golconda 
 opens, and from its teeming mines he may gather 
 gems of knowledge to circle his own brow with a' 
 diadem more lustrous than the crowns of princes. 
 No wizard's wand in olden days ever wrought 
 such marvels as the mighty conjuring of quaint 
 John Guttenberg's unsightly types ! As we gaze 
 upon the transcript of master minds, spread before 
 us by their dark impress, what spectral forms start 
 from the magic pages ! The solitary room is peo- 
 pled with shapes that came not in at the doors. 
 The great man, whose bones lie mouldering in 
 yonder churchyard, stands beside us, a dear, fa- 
 miliar friend. The buried beauty floods the cham- 
 ber with the golden radiance of her smile. Elec- 
 tric flashes of wit play around us from mouths that 
 have long been flesliless. The silence is made 
 musical with tones of pathos, of mirth, of counsel, 
 
 (347) 
 
348 Books. 
 
 of approval, all issuing from those living leaves. 
 The poet says, " aspire ! " the sage, " be wise!" the 
 martyr, " be heroic ! " the divine, " be humble ! " 
 Bare walls are suddenly hung with glowing pic- 
 tures of human life. Time and space are annihi- 
 lated. A gentle companion softly takes our hand 
 in his, and leads us over mountains and across 
 seas, up dizzy heights, down cavernous abysses, 
 through labyrinthine gardens, into loathsome dun- 
 geons ; nay, he even soars with us to the pearly 
 gates, beyond the blue expanse, and reveals a 
 momentary glimpse of the celestial realms they 
 inclose. 
 
 It may be that we opened the volume whence 
 all this enchantment comes forth, weary and dis- 
 heartened, and seeing only the dark and tangled 
 threads in the web of life ; but we close it, after 
 that strange wandering, that mysterious commun- 
 ing, refreshed and strengthened. Some of the 
 ends of the knotted skein have been found, and 
 the shapes they were designed to broider upon 
 Fate's tapestry are discovered. We have assumed 
 a new armor of courage, while consorting with 
 courageous spirits. We grow valiant for life's 
 battle, because we have witnessed victories and 
 talked with conquerors. 
 
 Benjamin Franklin, when he was a boy, met 
 with a book entitled " Essays to do Good ; " of 
 which he says, '' it gave me such a turn of think- 
 ing as to have an influence on my conduct through 
 
Books. 349 
 
 life ; for I have always set a greater value on the 
 character of a doer of good than any other kind of 
 reputation ; and, if I have been a useful citizen, 
 the public owes the advantage of it to that book." 
 There can be no doubt that the lives of thousands 
 are influenced by the books they peruse at a period 
 when the mind is like an unwritten page, and of 
 wax-like impressibility. A breath from some 
 chance volume may fill the sails of the human 
 ship, just launched on the broad ocean of exist- 
 ence, and give the first impetus towards a harbor 
 of safety or the engulfing maelstrom. 
 
 O, how often have the pure lips of maidenhood 
 quaffed from the Circe- cup of an evil book until 
 the entrancing poison coursed through young veins 
 beyond the power of antidote, and the health of 
 the spirit was hopelessly broken ! Give us, then, 
 fearless and honest critics, who will distinguish the 
 fair-seeming nightshade from the innocent flowers 
 of fiction. Let the Censor's broad fan diligently 
 winnow away the light and profitless chaff of lite- 
 rature, and disclose the wholesome wheaten treas- 
 ure beneath, which yields fit nourishment for the 
 expanding intellect. He who performs this sacred 
 duty, achieves a double good, for he surely in- 
 creases our reverence for books ; and can we revere 
 them too much, when our very religion comes to 
 us embalmed in the holy pages of an inspired 
 volume % 
 
 30 
 
LONG ENGAGEMENTS. 
 
 TIEN the heart surrenders, confirm the 
 blushing promise quickly at the altar's 
 foot ! " is the adjuration of every enam- 
 ored suitor, eager for the climax of the wedding- 
 ring. 
 
 But the maiden who reflects will respond with 
 no hasty " amen " to that fond prayer. Reflects? 
 does not King Oberon still walk the earth, per- 
 forming as fantastic and amazing feats with his 
 magical flower as in the days of Bully Bottom ? 
 And did woman ever reflect after the fairy monarch 
 had stolen upon her slumbers and pressed the 
 juice of his purple blossom upon her folded lids 1 
 The portals of her heart open with her eyes, when 
 the latter have once received that mystic flower's 
 touch, and the eyes take in and the heart en- 
 thrones the being first looked upon. Let him 
 wear what shape he may, he is transformed and 
 glorified to her vision by Love's glamor. That 
 moment Reason is unceremoniously thrust out of 
 doors. In vain she clamors to be heard, and 
 warns the infatuated fair one against precipitancy ; 
 
 (350) 
 
Long Engagements. 351 
 
 in vain she reminds her that her happiness is 
 more easily perilled than man's ; that her suscepti- 
 bilities are keener, that her sufferings will be 
 greater, that her risks are a thousand-fold more 
 numerous. Love fashions a fool's-cap out of his 
 madrigals to bind it upon Reason's brow, and from 
 that hour she passes for Folly. 
 
 Goldsmith's " Citizen of the World " quaintly 
 remarks that " marriage has been compared to a 
 game of skill for life ; it is generous, then, in both 
 parties to declare that they are sharpers in the be- 
 ginning. In England, I am told, both sides use 
 every art to conceal their defects from each other 
 before marriage, and the rest of their lives may be 
 regarded as doing penance for their former dissim- 
 ulation." 
 
 Is this a malicious slander or a rudely-expressed 
 truth 1 Are not lovers, all the world over, zeal- 
 ously engaged in cheating each other l Does not 
 the very state of mental exaltation, produced by an 
 absorbing affection give birth to unpremeditated 
 deception 1 Nay, has not love, in the dawn of its 
 existence, a beautifying influence upon the whole 
 constitution of man's soul ? Are not common- 
 place minds elevated and rendered poetic by its re- 
 fining power ] What, then, must be its effect 
 upon spirits of finer mould! 
 
 The period of an open, prosperous betrothal is 
 the blossoming season of life. The sun of a pure 
 passion calls forth the fairest flowers upon every 
 
352 Long Engagements. 
 
 tree, and the air is filled with the melody of birds 
 carolling joyful promises from the branches. In 
 the sunshine of bright illusions, the exhilarating 
 atmosphere of alternate hopes and fears, the 
 heart glows and swells and takes in all creation 
 with unwonted tenderness ; the dullest prospects 
 are tinged with orient hues ; the simplest inci- 
 dents communicate a thrill of joy ; Nature puts on 
 her gala dress to welcome the enamored pair 
 wherever they wander, and shakes down odorous 
 tributes upon their heads from every bough. 
 
 And it is well. It is better for the soul, even 
 when love is misplaced, to give a boundless devo- 
 tion, than to entertain a tame affection for an ob- 
 ject worthy of the whole wealth of the heart. 
 
 The man of her choice is always a hero to a 
 woman who loves heartily ; and her fond fancy in- 
 vests him with an abundance of captivating attri- 
 butes, which possibly have not the most shadowy 
 existence out of her imagination. On the other 
 hand Shakspeare tells us that to men " women are 
 angels wooing." But O ! the bitter disenchant- 
 ment if, in the glare of Hymen's torch, the ideal 
 charms vanish away, the mantle of glory falls from 
 the hero's shoulders, and the " angel " at whose 
 shrine the lover devoutly worshipped, stands 
 before him a most terrestrial being, full of failings, 
 wants, caprices, inconsistencies ! 
 
 Unconsciously his eyes must then forget 
 
Long Engagements. 353 
 
 " The gentle ray 
 They wore in courtship's smiling day " — 
 
 his voice must lose 
 
 " The tones that shed 
 A tenderness round all they said" — 
 
 the roses of her bridal chaplet must either and 
 leave a martyr's crown of thorns upon the brow 
 they encircled. 
 
 The probation of a long engagement is the 
 surest talisman against this rude dissolving of the 
 spell that surrounds lovers. During the interval 
 their various phases of character are revealed by 
 unforeseen chances — by life's inevitable muta- 
 tions ; and, being discovered at this blissful period 
 when no life-shackle makes endurance compulsory, 
 even grave faults and temper-trying peculiarities 
 are readily tolerated and excused. Mental angu- 
 larities are worn away and rounded off to a grace- 
 ful smoothness, by the attrition of constant associa- 
 tion. Their souls become attuned to the same 
 key. The indispensable lesson of mutual forbear- 
 ance is conned betimes. Love has leisure allowed 
 him to build his temple upon the rock of perfect 
 trust which no storm can shake. The flashing 
 flame of enthusiam, by which its shrine was illum- 
 ined at consecration, is gradually replaced by that 
 steady, holy light, which fiercest gales cannot ex- 
 tinguish. Good spirits have whispered to the 
 
 30* 
 
354 Long Engagements. 
 
 wife-elect that she will need Martha's executive 
 hands, and Mary's appreciating soul, to keep those 
 altars swept and garnished, and have murmured in 
 her partner's ear that he must reigD within those 
 walls with Solomon's wisdom and Jacob's patience. 
 Thus the prolonged betrothal is often the tuneful 
 prelude to a harmonious union, with no harsh dis- 
 cords to disturb its life-long melody. 
 
 
PERILS OF PROSPERITY. 
 
 ERILS of prosperity ! " Oh, all very 
 fine ! but I should like to experience 
 those perils a little," cries an incredulous 
 young friend, quoting from that precocious juve- 
 nile who made the same answer to his mother, 
 when she told him that he must abstain from cer- 
 tain amusements which she accounted full of sin 
 and peril. 
 
 We all want to experience alluring perils for 
 ourselves, especially those of prosperity. Seem- 
 ingly, they must be very pleasant to encounter. 
 Who denies that they are] But even the sense of 
 long-protracted pleasure palls and wearies. Unin- 
 terrupted prosperity tries the spirit more severely 
 than continuous adversity. You shake your curly 
 head, youthful doubter. You cannot believe that 
 those fair-seeming apples which you hunger to 
 taste, may, like those gathered on the Dead Sea 
 shore, leave only ashes upon your eager lips. Yet 
 we give you high authority for our assertion. 
 Listen to what Jeremy Taylor said : " No man is 
 more miserable than he that hath no adversity ; 
 
 (355) 
 
356 Perils of Prosperity. 
 
 that man is not tried whether he be good or bad ; 
 and God never crowns, those virtues which are 
 only faculties and dispositions." 
 
 It is indisputable that those individuals who 
 have been permitted a long period of unshadowed 
 prosperity, seldom prize their own rich store — are 
 seldom conscious of its opulence — are often as 
 poor in real enjoyment, (we might say poorer) than 
 those who have known great reverses. Shak- 
 speare tells us " they are as sick that surfeit with 
 too much, as they that starve with nothing ; " and, 
 in truth, they lose the appetite, and the power of 
 tasting, which gives to the hungry man's simplest 
 food its keen relish. 
 
 Let the sun always shine and the tired eye will 
 soon be dazzled by its ceaseless glare, and be 
 blinded to objects rendered beautiful by its radi- 
 ance. " The rays of happiness, like the light, are 
 colorless when unbroken," writes Longfellow. 
 Untempered sunshine withers the fruits of the in- 
 tellect, as of the orchard. Clouds, and cooling 
 shadows, and refreshing rain, are as needful for 
 mental as for natural growth. Without them the 
 soil is parched and hardened, and its fairest prod- 
 ucts wither. Ambition is dwarfed by prosperity, 
 which leaves nothing to seek, nothing to desire. 
 The energies droop like wilted leaves. The soul 
 grows lethargic and feeble, and is in peril of being 
 stricken with what has forcibly been styled a 
 " moral coup de soleil" That cornucopia which 
 
Perils of Prosperity. 357 
 
 Hercules tore from the brow of Achelous, when he 
 attacked him in the shape of an ox, and which the 
 Goddess of Plenty carries, filled with fruits and 
 flowers, grows a very tiresome symbol to the sa- 
 tiated minions of fortune. They would gladly re- 
 store the horn to the ox's brow, if it would only 
 toss up some enlivening and exciting incident, to 
 break through the dreary monotony of their exist- 
 ence. 
 
 We are half inclined to believe that none of us 
 enjoy any happiness fully, intensely, until we have 
 been deprived of it for a season ; or, at least, until 
 we have learned its value by threatened loss. 
 
 There is a saying, (a French one, if we do not 
 mistake.) that, " it is very easy to be amiable when 
 one is happy." A state of unwonted happiness 
 may temporarily expand the heart, and give birth 
 to that merely external, smiling, social complai- 
 sance which passes for amiability ; but habitual 
 prosperity is not calculated to foster the sympa- 
 thetic tenderness which deserves the name of ami- 
 ability. Prosperity is apt to render us selfish, and 
 unaware of, and uncareful for, the ills and priva- 
 tions of others. This is partly because we do not 
 comprehend ; we are not impressed by the con- 
 templation of evils we have not ourselves endured. 
 We see them only as in a picture — a very sad 
 picture, perhaps, but one that quickly fades out of 
 our memory, because no painful reality has been 
 imparted to it through our own remembered expe- 
 riences. 
 
358 Perils of Prosperity. 
 
 Observe how seldom those who have enjoyed 
 unvarying prosperity are considerate or compas- 
 sionate. Note a wayside beggar, seated on the 
 cold stones, starvation written upon his pallid face, 
 his skeleton-like hand mutely extended for alms. 
 Mark, how the pampered child of Fortune will 
 rustle her rich silks, and sweep her soft velvets 
 carelessly by him, with an abstracted look, or pos- 
 sibly with a slight shudder. But see how the 
 weary, wan, poorly-clad seamstress stops and gives 
 from her narrow store a mite, which will deprive 
 her of some comfort she can ill forego. She 
 knows the meaning of that look of misery, and 
 spontaneously answers the voiceless appeal. Her 
 humble gift may be injudicious, probably it is so, 
 since it is given without due inquiry, but it was not 
 on this ground that her opulent sister withheld a 
 donation which would not have curtailed her least 
 valued luxury. It was because she had not felt 
 the gnawing fangs of want ; because sorrow had 
 not breathed upon and melted the ice in her soul ; 
 because prosperity had fossilized her heart. Well 
 might the monitor-dramatist cry out : 
 
 " Take physic, Pomp ! 
 Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, 
 That thou mayest shake the superflux to them, 
 And show the heavens more just. 1 ' 
 
 Could we still hope for, still seek for, still pray 
 for this unclouded prosperity, if we believed that 
 
Perils of Prosperity. 359 
 
 it threatened mental paralysis, which must deprive 
 us of all consciousness of our abundant blessings 1 
 if we were certain that it would render us callous 
 to the sufferings of others, if our eyes were once 
 fully opened to half its spiritual perils ? Has not 
 adversity better and sweeter uses 1 Have not the 
 dormant energies of many a mind, which grew 
 weak and sluggish in the Dead Sea calm of pros- 
 perity, been electrified into action by the awaken- 
 ing shock of misfortune, the stimulus of sorrow? 
 Has not many a helpless child of luxury risen up 
 transformed by the imperative necessity for exer- 
 tion, until she marvelled at the unimagined great- 
 ness of her own powers % Shall we then deem 
 that perilous amount of prosperity which would 
 stunt our intellects or harden our hearts, a desir- 
 able boon'? Shall we not rather welcome even 
 adversity, if it open our spirits to all softening and 
 holy influences ; if it develop our faculties to their 
 fullest, broadest, highest capacity ! 
 
MANNER MUTATIONS. 
 
 ,"R. and Mrs. Lipscome, to all appearance, 
 are a very pleasant, polite, socially orna- 
 mental couple ; everything pertaining to 
 them is as unexceptionable as their attire, that is, 
 when you meet them in " company costume ; " but 
 O ! the difference, if you chance to behold them 
 in undress ! See Mrs. Lipscome in the morning, 
 in her breakfast wrapper, (not a particularly neat 
 or tasteful one,) before those rebellious brown 
 locks are bandolined into stiff smoothness, or cast 
 into the bondage of braids, and ere her somewhat 
 ample proportions have been compressed into 
 wasp-like outlines, and draped in faithful illustra- 
 tion of the last Parisian fashion plate, — and her 
 mind is as much en deshabille as her person. She 
 moves about in a careless, ungainly way ; her ac- 
 tions are almost vulgar ; her voice is loud or 
 sharp ; her language verges upon coarseness ; she 
 is brusque, nay, positively uncivil ; in fact, she 
 might easily be mistaken for one of her own " hired 
 helps." 
 
 But observe her, a few hours later, receiving 
 
 (360) 
 
Manner Mutations. 361 
 
 visitors in her own drawing-room, or a guest her- 
 self at the residence of a friend ; what a metamor- 
 phosis ! Her manners have undergone the same 
 mutation as her raiment ! Whose bearing can be 
 more decorous than hers % Look at the graceful 
 attitude in which she sits ! See with what con- 
 scious dignity she walks ! Listen to her voice, 
 softened to the low tone of good-breeding ! Mark 
 how choice are her expressions ! How highly 
 proper are the sentiments to which she gives utter- 
 ance ! With the adornment of her person, her 
 character is becomingly apparelled, and both are 
 charmingly revealed together. Strange to say, this 
 illusive sheen and enamel are such admirable coun- 
 terfeits that they pass for genuine brilliancy and 
 polish. She almost makes you doubt that you ever 
 heard her use the unrefined phrases that shocked 
 your ears, perhaps that very morning ; or that you 
 really beheld her bustling about, scolding the chil- 
 dren, flying at the servants, snubbing her husband, 
 and going into " tantrums " over the fracture of 
 china. The destruction of all the porcelain treas- 
 ures of Sevres could not ruffle those fine feathers 
 which she now wears so complacently, or make 
 her forget the role for which she is so elaborately 
 costumed. 
 
 Mr. Lipscome's deportment is subject to the 
 same singular variability, dependent upon his toi- 
 lette. In his shabby business suit, or in his faded 
 dressing-gown and well-worn slippers, he is un- 
 
 31 
 
362 Manner Mutations. 
 
 couth as Caliban, oblivious of all forms, familiar to 
 rudeness with his friends, and almost savage to his 
 wife. The usual locality of his feet we forbear to 
 mention, and his favorite postures are not suffi- 
 ciently classic to be described in history. He self- 
 ishly consults no one's comfort but his own, and 
 when the latter is interfered with, his indignation 
 finds vent in utterances too profane to be regis- 
 tered. But when Mr. Lipscome is "gotten up" 
 for a soiree, lo ! % the transformation ! His patent- 
 leather boots are not more highly polished than 
 his demeanor. The elegance of his attire is almost 
 eclipsed by the refinement of his deportment. He 
 is not merely respectful to the gentler sex, but ac- 
 tually reverential ; zealous in promoting their 
 pleasure, and lavish of all those petits soins by 
 which man expresses to woman his tender guar- 
 dianship as a superior, and his flattering devotion 
 as an inferior. Mr. Lipscome's grum silence gives 
 place to a voluble persiflage which passes for 
 agreeable conversation ; and, as for any of the ir- 
 reverent ejaculations with which he interspersed 
 his discourse, when he wore a rusty outside, there's 
 magic in that black suit, and those white kid 
 gloves, to suppress such emphasis altogether. 
 But let him put away his dress-coat, and be sure 
 he will carefully lay his good breeding in laven- 
 der, by its side. 
 
 It is not difficult to solve the mystery of this 
 marvellous mutation of manner with change of ap- 
 
Manner Mutations. 363 
 
 parel. When an actor is attiring himself for the 
 stage, we well know, that at the moment he en- 
 dues himself with the costume suited to his part, 
 the spirit of personation comes upon him ; he 
 readily imagines himself to be the individual he is 
 " making himself up " to represent. The Lips- 
 comes are only players on the world's great stage, 
 — bedizened puppets of the hour, — admirable 
 shams, robed to enact the parts of lady and gentle- 
 man. You meet them every day under many 
 names, and never suspect the imposture. See 
 them en deshabille and you may always discover the 
 cheat. Were the characters they assume their 
 own, refinement, good breeding, grace, would be 
 apparent in any attire, however simple, or hum- 
 ble, or even disordered. 
 
KINDNESS, 
 
 O do a kindness kindly, to confer a favor 
 with such tact and delicacy that the re- 
 cipient will not be oppressed by a sense 
 of obligation, is an art. Wherefore is it one so 
 little cultivated by the kind spirits of this world? 
 
 There are persons who are quick to execute 
 praiseworthy actions, who take pleasure in works 
 of beneficence, yet who always perform them in a 
 hard, cold way, as though impelled by the prompt- 
 ings of compulsive duty alone. 
 
 Individuals of another class bestow their good 
 gifts more graciously, but evidently expect a due 
 acknowledgment ; they have the air of requiring 
 " so much for so much," and their undisguised de- 
 mand for a full measure of thanks often anni- 
 hilates the very existence of gratitude. You see, 
 at a glance, that they are laying their kind deeds 
 out at usury, and hope for a large income of re- 
 ward ; perhaps in the shape of a wide reputation 
 for goodness ; perhaps from the return of some 
 greater benefit than the one conferred ; perhaps 
 
 (364) 
 
Kindness. 365 
 
 through the gratification of assuming an air of su- 
 periority in the character of benefactor. 
 
 The kindness of another order of temperaments 
 is impulsive, whimsical and spasmodical ; the ef- 
 fervescing exuberance of a pleasant state of 
 mjnd ; a transient excitement which quickly ex- 
 hausts itself. Wearied of well-doing, these uncer- 
 tain friends soon exclaim, " I've done enough ! " 
 Enough ! as if a poor, feeble mortal, though he 
 use his best energies for the promotion of his 
 neighbor's welfare, can ever arrive at a period 
 when, through the greatness of his deeds, he may 
 fold his hands and say, 4; I've done enough ! " 
 
 There is an old proverb which warns us that the 
 last person from whom we should expect to receive 
 a favor is the one upon whom we have liberally 
 bestowed favors. And it is not unusual for per- 
 sons to experience a positive aversion towards 
 those who have done them great services ; an 
 aversion they struggle against, they are ashamed 
 of, they despise themselves for entertaining, and 
 yet are ever keenly conscious of feeling. Is not 
 this very often the consequence of the manner in 
 which the services have been rendered ? 
 
 Nothing so thoroughly destroys the beauty of 
 an s act of kindness as the desire for, or even the 
 expectation of, gratitude. And yet nothing is 
 more common. 
 
 The poet Rogers tells us that " to bless is to be 
 blest ; " and true kindness instinctively communi- 
 
 31* 
 
366 Kindness. 
 
 cates to those whom we are permitted to benefit, a 
 consciousness of the happiness we ourselves derive 
 from the power of benefaction placed in our un- 
 worthy hands, makes them sensible of the blessed- 
 ness which springs from that power's exercise, re- 
 veals to them the indebtedness we cherish towards 
 those who are the recipients of its use. 
 
 Kant, in the spirit of veritable charity, declares 
 that the way to love the neighbor is to do good to 
 him first, and we shall love him after as the ton se- 
 quence of having done good to him. When kind- 
 ness is genuine in the soul, when it strikes deep 
 roots and is nourished by a holy source, there is 
 always an increased sense of affection experienced 
 towards those who have needed and received kind- 
 nesses at our hands. 
 
 Effectual, widely- extended kindness, does not 
 alone consist in the performance of tangible and 
 undeniable services to others. Kind looks, and 
 words, and gentle, kindly ways may be of incalcu- 
 lable benefit. Natures grow hard and rough 
 through .the absence of a surrounding atmosphere 
 of permanent kindness, and are softened and hu- 
 manized by the influence of habitual, persistent 
 gentleness and consideration. When the angel of 
 kindness enters a heart where it can take up its 
 abode, it looks through the eyes of the man, and 
 speaks with his voice, and moves with his motions, 
 and guides his hands and his feet, and stretches 
 out his arms to clasp the whole world in charity's 
 
Kindness. 367 
 
 warm embrace ; and this, every day of his life and 
 every hour of his day. Good works become the 
 delight of his existence, and the very idea of re- 
 muneration, of reward in any imaginable shape 
 (save that of internal satisfaction) would diminish 
 the happiness he enjoys. 
 
 " Ye are not your own !" said St. Paul. If God 
 demanded from us at any moment all that he has 
 given, what should we have left? What physi- 
 cal, mental, spiritual attributes would remain ? 
 Would not our very existence cease ? Can the 
 truth of the apostle's assertion need a stronger 
 demonstration than is found in the answer to these 
 queries I If we are not ' ; our own," the power to 
 serve, the capacity to comfort, the faculty to " be 
 kind," are not ;; our own," but are among the pre- 
 cious gifts entrusted to us by the great Giver, as 
 the ten talents were placed in the keeping of the 
 faithful servant. What right have we then to 
 claim the return even of gratitude, since we are 
 using that which is not " our own," but our Mas- 
 ter's ? since we are only the media chosen for dis- 
 pensing that Master's beneficence ? since we must 
 render up an account of the equitable and liberal 
 distribution of all that has been placed in our 
 hands'? With the conviction that we are not 
 " our own," ever present, who could ask a return 
 for the kindnesses he is Heaven-commissioned to 
 bestow, and which are not " his own," albeit they 
 are distributed through his agency ] If a thought 
 
368 Kindness. 
 
 of gratitude, a hope of compensation, once spring 
 up in the mind, the kindness with which they are 
 associated is spurious, and its true name is interest, 
 gain, whim, or self-love. How many of the acts, 
 upon which we complacently bestow the appella- 
 tion of " kind," will not suddenly change their 
 shape and title beneath the touch of that Ithuriel- 
 like test] 
 
 
LOOKING BACK. 
 
 HO does not cling to the past; to the 
 days when we were what we are no 
 longer? Who, that has taken weary 
 steps on the great high road of mortality, does not 
 love to plunge beneath the lava and ashes of life's 
 volcanic throes, and disinter the buried images of 
 childhood, of days when existence was full of flat- 
 tering auspices, 
 
 " "When the heart promised what the fancy drew," 
 
 and the most delusive dreams wore the shape of 
 reality 1 
 
 The visions of the past rise before us, softened 
 and mellowed by the hues — the idealizing touch, 
 of memory. Bygone hours catch a fictitious radi- 
 ance in their flight. Their flowers were brighter, 
 their grass greener, their waters more sparkling, 
 their gala days more exhilarating than those of 
 any possible present, or hoped-for future. If there 
 were dark shadows, or harsh coloring, in those 
 pictures, they dissolve out of the violet mists of re- 
 membrance. Time, who flings the veil of oblivion 
 
 (369) 
 
370 Looking Back. 
 
 over " the weariness that's gone," floods the mind 
 with the reflected light of vanished joys. 
 
 Few are the beings to whom "looking back" 
 can bring no comfort. When life is dismantled of 
 the garlands of youth, the gems of beauty, the 
 drapery of imagination, memory restores what 
 years have stolen. The spirit, bruised by the 
 blows of sorrow, and bowed with weight of cares, 
 looks back upon the days when opening life 
 showed, through the rosy lens of hope, the long 
 vista of a pathway amid pleasant groves and bow- 
 ery shades, and musingly gathers the fallen blos- 
 soms of the past, to cover some dark, soul-pros- 
 trating pit-fall of the present. 
 
 The frame may cease to know the pulse of re- 
 joicing, and yet recollections of departed gladness 
 will bring back a smile to the faded countenance, 
 a happy thrill to the heavy heart. Most truly 
 says the poet, — 
 
 " And often, glad no more, 
 We wear a face of joy because 
 We have been glad of yore. 1 ' 
 
 We have heard the love of " looking back " con- 
 demned. The lips of the worldly-wise have said, 
 " close the page and seal the book, and look not 
 back upon what has been, but ever forward to 
 what shall be." But is not the future corrected 
 by the past I What are the painful lessons of 
 
Looking Back. 371 
 
 experience worth, if we do not contemplate their 
 teachings \ 
 
 Nothing that keeps the mind impressible, that 
 opens it to mild and touching influences, is harm- 
 ful, and retrospection has a softening power over 
 the most flint-like natures. 
 
 Hearts that seemed almost dead to hope or feel- 
 ing have leapt and palpitated at the sound of some 
 old strain, some ballad's familiar words. Eyes that 
 were dimmed by oft-shed tears have kindled at the 
 sight of some withered flower, some faded relic 
 that conjured up the shapes, the voices, the aspi- 
 rations of other days. 
 
 Many a wife who has seen the choice of her 
 youth lapsing from virtue until her heart insensi- 
 bly turned against him, and the hand which should 
 have been stretched out to lure him back into the 
 paths of honor, was paralyzed, has felt her dead 
 affections vivified and awakened by the remem- 
 brance of the happy hours of her betrothal, her 
 bridal days, evoked by some olden token, some 
 letter full of loving words which chanced to be 
 turned over in the search after other things. Her 
 tenderness has been rekindled and her strength 
 renewed by these trifles, which forced her to "look 
 back," more potently, than by all the reasoning 
 and chiding to which stern Duty and rebuking 
 Conscience subjected her. 
 
 How many instances are there of minds which 
 have wandered into the fantastic realms of mad- 
 
372 Looking Back. 
 
 ness, summoned home in an instant, by the touch- 
 ing of some electric chord of the past, which 
 caused the spirit to " look back," and thus attuned 
 the jarring strings and brought sweet order out of 
 the wild confusion of the brain ! 
 
 One of the most beautiful and melting illustra- 
 tions of the beneficent wonders wrought by "look- 
 ing back," is given by Moore, in his exquisite alle- 
 gory of " Paradise and the Peri," when he portrays 
 a man, whose soul is heavy with manifold crimes, 
 watching the gambols of an innocent child. At 
 the sound of the vesper bell the boy starts up from 
 his couch of flowers and sinks upon his knees, his 
 hands fervently clasped and his pure brow and 
 eyes lifted heavenward. A long-silent string vi- 
 brates in the heart of the wretched man ; he re- 
 calls the days when he knelt with a prayer on his 
 lips, — lips that were as sinless as those of that 
 little child ; his whole life of guilt rises in terri- 
 ble review before him, the first tears of penitence 
 quench the evil fire of his eyes and wash his guilt- 
 stained cheeks — he kneels ! he prays ! 
 
 Who can doubt that the soul has eternal memo- 
 ry ? Every man carries about him invisible tablets 
 which are his " book of life." The work of every 
 day is indelibly graven upon a new page. The 
 records may seem to be obliterated in this world, 
 but every line must be read in that sphere where 
 there is nothing covered that shall not be revealed, 
 nothing hid that shall not be known. But even on 
 
Looking Back. 373 
 
 this earth the leaves long closed, the book long 
 sealed, may be suddenly opened by some marvel- 
 lous and inexplicable agency, by the sudden shock 
 of a life-peril, by strong mental excitement, by the 
 spiritualizing effect of long illness, or by the sound 
 of the approaching footsteps of the great Sum- 
 moner. To those who foster the habit of " look- 
 ing back," the chronicles of that wondrous book 
 furnish a key to the enigma of all the tangled 
 threads in life's web, and the finger of Divine 
 Providence is every hour revealed in their mysteri- 
 ous unwinding 
 
 32 
 
WIFELY HELP. 
 
 HEN Columbus braved the perils of un- 
 known seas to add America to the world, 
 it was the white hand of a woman that 
 fitted him for his venturesome voyage of discovery. 
 So woman equips man every day for the voyage of 
 life. Woman as man's helper rises to her " pecu- 
 liar and best altitude." He represents the intel- 
 lect, she the mind-governing heart. Power apper- 
 tains to him, but influence, more subtle and pene- 
 trating than power — another name for power in 
 its most delicate and all-pervading form — belongs 
 to her. 
 
 Sheridan said " it is by woman that nature 
 writes upon the heart of man," and what hand can 
 trace such glorious inscriptions upon that book, 
 when it is sacredly hers, as a wife's % Was there 
 ever man, however great his moral strength, how- 
 ever exalted his intellectual height, whose powers 
 could not be increased by a wife's aid, or enfeebled 
 by the down-dragging weight of her unsympa- 
 thetic opposition? The man to whom she is 
 united (when that union is not a mere, formal 
 
 (374) 
 
Wifely Help. 375 
 
 mockery,) draws inspiration from the magnetic 
 breath of her appreciative praises. If he is fortu- 
 nate, her enthusiasm gives sweetness to his suc- 
 cesses ; — if he is struggling, her heroism in bat- 
 tling with difficulties, infuses courage into his 
 soul ; — if his steps are dogged by the evil spirit of 
 failure, her cheerful patience softens the disheart- 
 ening persecutions of the demon. When he re- 
 turns troubled and fretful to his home, her tact ig- 
 nores his ill humor until he forgets it himself; — 
 when he is unreasonable she smiles, unseen, at his 
 grave contradictions, and allows him to chide her 
 for supposed caprice. She bears with his failings 
 as no one else can or will bear with them ; — she 
 well knows that endurance is her own especial 
 gift, and not his, and deems his peevishness and 
 impatience, when he is suffering, a matter of 
 course, though double the amount of pain would 
 not extract from her a murmur or a groan. She 
 comprehends how much the peace and happiness 
 of life — married life in particular — depend upon 
 trifles as light as air, and strives to guard him 
 against petty domestic vexations, less endurable to 
 some temperaments than actual afflictions. She 
 never forgets that the absence from its proper 
 place of the tiny but all important button, the 
 mislaying of the indispensable closet keys, the 
 necessity of waiting for an unpunctual meal, may 
 imperil a man's affection, or unfit him for his most 
 important avocations, particularly if they are of an 
 intellectual or artistic character. 
 
376 Wifely Help. 
 
 Let the wife only understand and have faith in 
 her true position, that of woman " the helper," and 
 she needs neither great gifts, nor an expansive 
 mind, nor extraordinary beauty to be always charm- 
 ing to her husband, and, while she walks by his 
 side, to 
 
 " Fill all the stops of life with music." 
 
 In being literally his " help-meet " she becomes the 
 beautifier and healer of his life. If the parasitic 
 vine about the oak-tree, to which she is so often com- 
 pared, be truly her emblem, it is because she binds 
 together the broken boughs, and drapes with 
 verdurous loveliness the withered branches. 
 
THE TRUSTFUL. 
 
 HE trusting, as a general rule, are the 
 trustworthy. Those who " think no 
 evil " are usually those who least deserve 
 that evil should be thought of them. Ignorant of 
 heart-treason, never looking for wrong from 
 others because never doing wrong to others, never 
 doubting because never deceiving, trustfulness is 
 inherent in their natures. 
 
 Suspicion that vaguely roams abroad is the off- 
 spring of Deception, hidden in the generating 
 warmth of our own hearts at home. An uncon- 
 scious judging of others by ourselves, a measuring 
 by our own height, and coloring by our own com- 
 plexion, actuate the whole universe. There are 
 no foibles which w r e so quickly detect in the con- 
 cealed depths of other spirits as those with which 
 our eyes are most familiar when their mental 
 vision is turned inward. 
 
 Lavater warns us to " shun the man who never 
 laughs, who dislikes music and the glad face of a 
 child." The counsel implies that mirth, and har- 
 mony, and innocence are strangers to such a being. 
 
 32* (377) 
 
378 The Trustful 
 
 Upon the same principle should we avoid the man 
 who mistrusts the motives of his fellow men, who 
 always suspects that selfishness is the secret spring 
 of every fair-seeming action, who mistakes cour- 
 tesy for policy, who disbelieves in the genuineness 
 of Virtue until she has passed through some fiery 
 ordeal with unscathed garments, and thus proved 
 her supernal origin. 
 
 " Treat your friends as though they might one 
 day become your enemies," is the advice of these 
 graduates of wisdom's worldly school ; but he who 
 darkens the genial sunshine of friendship by the 
 shadow of this anticipated enmity, is incapable of 
 becoming a disinterested friend. His admission of 
 the possibility of change in another reveals the in- 
 stability of his own sentiments. 
 
 When we speak of trusting natures we do not 
 mean temperaments that arc simply credulous, 
 that, without reflection or discrimination, impul- 
 sively accept all offered hands, and believe all 
 uttered professions, from a sort of quick-swallowing 
 credulity, as capacious as Garagantua's mouth. 
 By the trustful we designate those who are not 
 given to causeless misgivings, who confide, where 
 they love, with an unquestioning, uncalculating 
 simplicity, a gentle reliance, which sometimes 
 evokes sincerity even out of falsehood. Their 
 trustfulness is often an unconscious shield, which 
 turns aside the weapons of the wiley, and makes 
 Deception blush and lay down her arms, as a giant 
 
The Trustful. 379 
 
 ashamed to waste strength or stratagem upon de- 
 fenceless infancy. 
 
 True, these trusting natures suffer much in life's 
 combat. Disappointment deals them crushing 
 blows ; they find many of their idols made of clay ; 
 many a seeming oak, against which they lean, 
 proves a broken reed ; many a flower, cherished in 
 their bosoms, exhales poison. They shrink, 
 appalled, from the harsh lessons of Experience, 
 who teaches them how few in the world resemble 
 themselves ; yet their very trustfulness is its own 
 compensation. 
 
 It is the province of poets to condense truths in 
 music that haunts the mind with its ringing 
 changes. Among these haunting truths, wedded 
 to melodious verse, are Fanny Kemble's lines : 
 
 " Better trust all, and be deceived, 
 
 And weep that trust and that deceiving, 
 Than doubt one heart that if believed 
 Had blest one's life with true believing. 
 
 Oh, in this mocking world, too fast 
 
 The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth, 
 
 Better be cheated to the last, 
 
 Than lose the blessed hope of truth." 
 
REST. 
 
 OW does the world, in general, define 
 rest] Is it not as a'state of perfect qui- 
 etude and absence from all occupation? 
 as a folding of the hands and reposing of the 
 limbs ? as a waking slumber I Certes, this rest, 
 when it succeeds great and prostrating physical or 
 intellectual labor, is refreshing and delicious ; but 
 is it the only, is it the most restoring, the most in- 
 vigorating rest ? We think not. 
 
 Change of employment, that turns the current 
 of thought and action into new channels, often en- 
 sures more effectual delassement. Rest to earnest 
 spirits, to well-developed minds, comes not in the 
 shape of indolence ; to them idleness would only 
 generate a new form of weariness. Pleasurable 
 activity, the summoning of unworn faculties into 
 play, impart to energetic temperaments the rest 
 they could never find in a dormant suspense of 
 their powers. When their attention is engrossed 
 by eager pursuit of some desirable object, they ex- 
 perience no sense of toil ; when they are engaged 
 in congenial occupation, especially when it has 
 
 (380) 
 
Rest 381 
 
 been preceded by that which was distasteful, they 
 are resting ; and though they work, their exertion 
 fatigues them no more than it wearies a flower to 
 expand its leaves, drink in the dew, absorb the 
 sunshine ; or a swan to float upon the crystal 
 stream ; or a fish to glide beneath the shining 
 waters ; or a bird to skim through the perfumed 
 air ; or a lamb to sport in flowery meads. 
 
 That disease of sluggish and imperfect organiza- 
 tions, that pleasant do nothing (save when it is 
 the sequence of doing much, and thus needful to 
 repair physical waste and exhaustion,) is the se- 
 verest and most difficult of all labor ; is positive 
 torment to spirits whose healthful impulse bids 
 them be 
 
 " Up and doing, 
 Life's heroic ends pursuing." 
 
 This unnatural stagnation withers their intel- 
 lects as a mental simoom ; it produces a conscious 
 paralysis, and makes the struggling mind fight in 
 impotent agony to use its sense-blunted instrument, 
 the body. A giant chained, warring with fetters 
 that gnaw into his flesh, is as much at rest as these 
 rich, exuberant natures under compulsory quies- 
 cence. Their very gift of strength, their very ca- 
 pability for action, when unused, become burdens 
 and entail misery. 
 
 When it is said of the " blessed " who enter 
 that spirit world, 
 
382 Rest. 
 
 4 'Outside the limits of our space and time, 
 Whereto we are bound," 
 
 that they shall " rest from their labors," it could 
 never be meant that they should endure perpetual 
 repose, and endless lethargic inactivity. They 
 shall rest from their warfare against the evil incli- 
 nations over which they have gained a victory, as 
 the conqueror rests with laurelled brows after he 
 has triumphed over his foes. They labor and are 
 weary no more, but the rest they enjoy is congen- 
 ial employment, a happy ministry, an untiring use 
 of faculties quickened, heightened, perfected in 
 that atmosphere where no work will be in vain; 
 where our hearts will not ache, as now, over brave 
 attempts defeated by circumstance ; where no good 
 purpose will be allied to infirm execution ; where 
 deeds will keep pace with aims ; where noble 
 labor will be followed by glorious fruition ! The 
 poet's soul spoke with the voice of inspiration 
 when it said : 
 
 "I count that heaven itself is only work 
 To a surer issue," 
 
 but work which knows no distaste, no coercion, 
 no waste of power, no exhaustion ! Work which 
 carries in its bosom the truest, most delightful 
 rest ! 
 
GOLDEN LINKS OF KINDRED. 
 
 LESSED is the home that holds in its 
 midst one central magnet, about which 
 thronging hearts, reddened by the same 
 blood, move with never-failing attraction ! When 
 golden links of kindred, circling that human load- 
 stone, are strong, and bright, and many, who can 
 measure the wealth of love that lies within their 
 holy compass ] With every shining fetter added 
 to the precious round, new joys spring into exis- 
 tence ; new interests bind us to sacred memories 
 of the past, or sweet associations of the present ; 
 new affections bend us earthward, towards those 
 who come to make earth dearer, or lift us heaven- 
 ward, with those who ascend to the skies. 
 
 The commonest events of life, events of every 
 day occurrence to all humanity, send an electric 
 thrill of pain or pleasure through that far-reaching 
 chain of kinship, and, stirring sympathetic pulses, 
 draw the bond of union closer. 
 
 A little child opens its sinless eyes upon the 
 day, behold, another link put forth for tender lips 
 to kiss into brightness, for loving arms to wel- 
 
 (383) 
 
384 Golden Links of Kindred. 
 
 come, for swelling hearts to give room, for voice- 
 less benedictions to cover ! 
 
 A youth, or maiden, stretches out a hand, with 
 heart within, and lo ! another link is clasped by a 
 wedding ring, upon the kin-bound chain, and nup- 
 tial gifts, and festive gatherings, and fond congrat- 
 ulations greet its admission ! 
 
 The angel of Death descends, and singles out 
 the purest link, and softly bears it to a home invis- 
 ible. Tears of agony must flow, and grief-wrung 
 hearts must ache ; but tears that fall from many 
 eyes, weeping together, lose their bitterness ; and 
 heavy hearts that lean on o:ic another find their 
 load of sorrow lightened. 
 
 Other, less mournful, partings come ; some of 
 the close-knit band must make their homes on for- 
 eign shores ; but ocean cables are less strong and 
 true than bonds of union that no seas can sever ; 
 and rapture grows out of the very pangs of ab- 
 sence, when wanderers return, with tiny links 
 hanging, like diamond pendants, from their own. 
 
 Birth, marriage, death, parting, meeting ; these 
 are but trite and e very-day events, yet through the 
 golden links of kindred they send a current of 
 emotion that stirs many hearts, and makes epochs 
 in many lives ! ' O, keep the links pure and bright, 
 however wide the chain, and burdens of sorrow 
 will be lessened, because shared, and sources of 
 joy will swell in number because they reach as far 
 as blood extends ! 
 
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