THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA Rare Book Room GIFT OF John W. Beckman /V//V Page 212. THE YOUNG LADY'S HOME, BY MRS. LOUISA C. TUTHILL. AUTHOR OF " I WILL BE A LADY," " I WILL BE A GENTLEMAlf,' "MY WIFE," ETC. "A traveller betwixt life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill, A perfect woman, nobly planned To warn, to comfort, and command ; And yet a spirit still, and bright, With something of an angel light." WORDSWORTH. PHILADELPHIA: LINDSAY & BLAKISTON, Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1848, by LOUISA C. TUTHILL, in the clerk's office of the District Court of the United States for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. STEREOTYPED BY J. FAGAN. (2) CONTENTS. INTRODUCTION. PAGE LEAVING SCHOOL 7 CHAPTER I. FORMATION OF CHARACTER 12 CHAPTER II. MENTAL CULTURE 15 CHAPTER III. MEMORY 22 CHAPTER IV. IMAGINATION 35 CHAPTER V. JUDGMENT 43 CHAPTER VI. HISTORY 48 CHAPTER VII. NATURAL SCIENCE 55 CHAPTER VIII. ENGLISH LITERATURE , 57 (iii) iv CONTENTS. CHAPTER IX. COMPOSITION 65 CHAPTER X. MODERN LANGUAGES - 70 CHAPTER XI. CULTIVATION OF TASTE 73 CHAPTER XII. PHYSICAL EDUCATION . , 78 CHAPTER XIII. POLITENESS 83 CHAPTER XIV. WOMAN'S HOME INFLUENCE 90 CHAPTER XV. A DAUGHTER'S DUTY 103 CHAPTER XVI. A SISTER'S INFLUENCE 120 CHAPTER XVII. THE ECONOMY OF HOME T 149 CHAPTER XVIII. DRESS 163 CHAPTER XIX. CONVERSATION 168 CHAPTER XX. EMPLOYMENT OF TIME , . . .178 CONTENTS. V CHAPTER XXI. FRIENDSHIP 187 CHAPTER XXII. ACTING FROM GENERAL PRINCIPLES 191 CHAPTER XXIII. PREJUDICE 198 CHAPTER XXIV. CONSISTENCY OF CHARACTER 207 CHAPTER XXV. MARRIAGE 212 CHAPTER XXVI. THE CLAIMS OF SOCIETY 261 CHAPTER XXVII. READING THE SACRED SCRIPTURES 281 CHAPTER XXVIII. THE STANDARD OF CHRISTIAN CHARACTER 286 CHAPTER XXIX. CHRISTIAN DUTY. CHEERFULNESS 299 CHAPTER XXX. CHRISTIAN DUTY. FORGIVENESS AND FORBEARANCE, SELF- DENIAL, SELF-GOVERNMENT, PRAYER 309 CHAPTER XXXI. CHRISTIAN USEFULNESS 318 CHAPTER XXXII. CONCLUSION 325 1* "There are few individuals whose education has been conducted, in every respect, with attention and judgment. Almost every man of reflection is con- scious, when he arrives at maturity, of many defects in his mental powers, and of many inconvenient habits, which might have been prevented or remedied in hia infancy or youth. Such a consciousness is the first step towards improvement ; and the person who feels it, if he is possessed with resolution and steadiness, will not scruple to begin a new course of education for himself. It is never too late to think of the improvement of our faculties." DCG.VLD STEWAPvT. (Yi) THE YOUNG LADY'S HOME, INTRODUCTION. LEAVING SCHOOL. " Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, Some little friendship formed and cherished here | And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems With golden visions and romantic dreams." ISABELLA, CLARA, GERALDINE. SCENE. A room, with dresses, bonnets, books, music, fyc., scattered about in dire confusion; the three young ladies employed in packing their travelling boxes and portmanteaus. Isabella. Home ! home ! Done with school- for ever ! Delightful! Isn't it, girls, perfectly delightful to be free as air ? I will not carry home these hateful, hum- drum books. Hedge's Logic ! a hedge of thorns ! (throwing it across the room.) Brown's Philosophy, you take up too much room. Cruel Colburn's Sequel, how many bitter tears you have cost me ! I hope never to see your ugly faces again. Clara. But, Isabella, are you going to give up study entirely ? What will you do with yourself when you get home ? CO 8 THE YOUNG LADY'S HOME. Isabella. Make the most of my little self, create a sensation, make a dashing debut. You know I am eighteen, and I am coming out as soon as I get home. Clara Wilton, that reproving look does n't become you, dear ! You have toiled and moiled for the gold medal, and have gained it. What good will it do you ? Per- haps you intend to wear it on all occasions, suspended by its yard of blue ribbon around your neck, as the In- dians do the great silver medals given them by their kind father, the President. Clara. Isabella, I value a good education for its own sake. The medal may testify to my parents that I have appreciated the advantages they have generously bestowed. I shall give it to my mother. Isabella. Well, my parents don't care a sous about all these sober studies that Goody Blue has bored us with ; they know it gives one a sort of reputation to be educated by Mrs. Z., so here I 've been these four years. They expect me to come out with eclat, and I do mean to produce a wonderful sensation. I believe I shall throw the rest of these books overboard to-day, on my way to New York, just out of spite for the trouble they have given me. Geraldine. I shall be half-inclined to join you, for I do not know what good they will ever do me. What use shall I ever make of the mathematics and phi- losophy? '- . V Clara. You will not find them useless ; you may be disposed to resume them by yourself, after you have been home awhile. Geraldine. J>en doute. I am going to Europe with my father and mother, to finish my education. We LEAVING SCHOOL. 9 shall reside a year or two in Paris, and I shall come home parfaitement Franqaise. Clara. Parfaitement Franqaise, to reside in this country and be a good, useful American woman ! Geraldine (laughing). A good, useful American woman ! How that sounds to ears polite ;" absolutely vulgar. I seek for something more recherche, more ele- gant than that. I go abroad to obtain that retenue, that abandon of manner, that cannot be acquired in this half- civilized land. Isabella. And to be laughed at for your abandong, as you call it, which will sound very droll to French " ears polite." Geraldine. That is another object in going to Paris, to acquire a true Parisian accent. I shall not venture to speak in foreign society until I have had a master some months. When I return, two years hence, you shall have no occasion to laugh at my French. Isabella. -The French are so ridiculous they are enough to make a milestone laugh. What are you going to do, Clara ? Clara. I expect to continue my studies, that I may more perfectly understand them. I hope to be useful to my mother, who has kindly promised to teach me domestic economy ; so long as life lasts, there will be knowledge to which I have not attained, virtues to be perfected, and good to be done ; " vulgar" as it sounds, my highest aim is to be a good, thorough-going Ameri- can woman. Isabella. Spoken like our old country schoolmistress herself! Pity you could not have mounted her high cap and green spectacles for the occasion. Keally, she never made a bettor preachment in her life. 10 THE YOUNG LADY 7 S HOME. Clara. Well, girls, be merry if you will at my sober notions, but let us part kindly; we may never meet again. Geraldine. You will both write to me, girls ? Clara. I will, with pleasure, if you will let me know your father's foreign address before you sail. Isabella. I doubt if I shall have time to write to either of you. I have formed a thousand plans for next winter. I am still to have a music-master, and must practise at least three hours a day, or I shall never rival the Hamil- tons and the Moores, who, papa writes me, play so ex- quisitely that all the world are in love with them. Here comes an Atlas in the midst of my music-books, like a clown in genteel society ; stay where you are, I am not going to take you to town with your betters. Shall I put up my French Testament ? No ; I '11 make you a present of it, Clara, and one of these days you may give it, with my compliments, to you know who, that ministerial personage who often glides before your imagination. Clara. That personage is all in your own imagina- tion, Isabella ; but I thank you for the gift, and if I ever have an opportunity shall present it, with your compliments, if you will promise to officiate as bride's- maid on that occasion. Isabella. Delightful! I'll come, unless I am led to the hymeneal halter before you. Geraldine. Invite me too, Clara ; I shall perhaps have just returned from Europe. Clara. And will then be, I fear, un peu trop Fran- gaise. Geraldine (coldly). C'est possible. LEAVING SCHOOL. 11 Isabella. Write to me, Clara, now and then, from your hermitage, and tell me how you endure it; but don't bore me with too much grave advice. Clara. I will write to you both (holding out her hand Idndly to Geraldine) ; forgive me for seeming to reject your kindness. I thought some whiskerandoed Fran- $ais might claim you for his bride, long before the time to which you alluded. Geraldine. You are forgiven. I know how dearly you love your own country ; that is your prejudice ; mine is the other way ; I would give half my expecta- tions to have been born in France. Isabella. And I would rather have been bom in New York, than in any other place on the wide earth. Clara. And I am only proud of being an American. North or south, east or west, makes no difference ; every inch of the United States is home to me. Hark ! There goes Mrs. Z.'s bell, the last time we shall hear it. Who would have thought that any possible associa- tion could have made that shrill, tingling bell interesting ! The last time, the last time ; it makes any sound mournful. [Exeunt omnes. CHAPTER I. FORMATION OF CHARACTER. " Reason frowns on him who wastes that reflection on a destiny independent of him, which he ought to reserve for actions of which he is master." SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH. WHEN a young man has finished his collegiate course of education, he enters immediately upon the study of the profession, or into the business, which he is to pur- sue. He looks forward with eager anticipation to the time when his name shall be honored among his fellow- men, or his coffers overflow with wealth, or when he shall be the messenger of rnercy, and win many from the error of their ways. His course of study is still plainly marked out. He does not waste time in the choice of a pursuit, for his natural talents, the habitual bias of his mind, or the wishes of friends, have already decided the question. Not so with a young lady. Having passed through the usual studies at school, in a desultory manner, generally too desultory to produce a disciplined, well- balanced mind, she considers her education finished, or continues it without any special object in view. Perhaps, my young friends, you have been absent for years from the home of your childhood ; its gayer vis- ions have flitted away; life begins to assume a sober reality. Casting a mournful glance of retrospection, you inquire, Of what value is the little knowledge acquired, (12) FORMATION OF CHARACTER. 13 if I go no farther? Like an armory in time of peace, arranged with much attempt at display, it seems brilliant and useless. You have, indeed, been collecting the weapons for life's warfare ; their temper is not yet tried, but the strife has already begun. This is the season for castle-building. How fascinat- ing the rainbow visions that flit before a vivid imagina- tion, yet how dangerous the indulgence ! Exhausted with these wanderings wild, lassitude and ennui succeed. " Fancy enervates, while it soothes the heart. And, while it dazzles, wounds the mental sight; To joy each heightening charm it can impart, But wraps the hour of woe in tenfold night." As their only resource, many young ladies in town rush with eagerness into society, drowning reflection in the all-absorbing career of fashionable gayety, filling up its brief intervals with novel-reading. They whose home is in the country are disgusted with this working- day world, " and its plain, good folks. Their refined edu- cation has unfitted them for cordial companionship with their friends and neighbours, whose useful common sense they cannot appreciate, and whose virtues, unadorned by the graces of polished life, they cannot admire. Too often, making no effort to settle themselves to the em- ployments that should now devolve upon them, they live in a world of their own creation, or find one equally well fitted to their taste in the contents of the nearest circulating library. Instead of wasting this precious period in fascinating dreams of future happiness, in enervating idleness, or unsatisfying gayety, let me urge upon you, my kind readers, the importance of the present golden moments. Sheltered beneath the paternal roof, guarded from out- 2 14 THE YOUNG LADY 7 S HOME. ward evil by the vigilance of love, the perplexing cares and overwhelming anxieties of life are not yet yours. You now enjoy the best possible opportunity to gain a knowledge of yourself, your disposition, habits, preju- dices, purposes, acquirements, deficiences, principles. Much may have been done for you by parents and teachers ; the strength of the foundation they have laid will be tested by 'the superstructure, which must be built by yourself. Cheerfully, then, commence that self- education, without which all other education is compara- tively useless. Shrink not from your high responsibili- ties ; He who has encompassed you with them will give you strength for their fulfilment. Has He not showered benefits upon you with unsparing hand ? Your country, is it not a blessed one? Parents, kindred, friends, talents, and the means for improving them, com- petence, wealth, does not your heart overflow with gratitude to the Giver? Even now, he grants you that quiet home, where you may prepare yourself for another, with more tender affections and more solemn responsi- bilities, and for another still beyond, and not very far distant, a home in heaven. Woman's lot may be deemed a Jowly one, by those who look not into the deeper mysteries of human life ; who know not the silent, resistless influences that mould the intellectual and moral character of mankind. Wo- man's lot is a high and holy one ; and she " who fulfils the conditions required by conscience takes the surest way of answering the purposes of Providence." Con- scientiously and cheerfully, then, go on with your own education, mental, physical, and moral. CHAPTER II. MENTAL CULTURE. " Past and future are the wings, On whose support, harmoniously conjoined, Moves the great spirit of human knowledge." WORDSWORTH. THE traveller, resting for a moment upon a com- manding eminence, views with interest the ground he has already passed over. The sunny hills and green vales still smile upon him ; the rugged pathways, the fearful precipices, the deep rivers, are lessened to insig- nificance in the distance ; the road seems short and easy ; taking courage from past success, he presses onward with cheerful hope and renewed energy. Thus, my young friends, let us take a review of the past, and, seeing what progress you have already made, find encouragement for new efforts and unfaltering perse- verance. You have " been tutored in several desperate sci- ences." After the usual course of elementary studies, you have pursued, to some extent, the mathematics. You have often wondered, while puzzling over a propo- sition in geometry, or a problem in arithmetic or alge- bra, what possible advantage you could derive from it ; if you have no mathematical genius, the task was borne with little patience. The direct advantage you may (15) 16 never perceive ; for if you go abroad, you will not meas- ure Alpine heights, or if you stay at home, you will not calculate eclipses ; but indirectly, you will be benefited through life, by that increase of power in mind itself which this study has undoubtedly produced. If it has unfortunately happened, through your own negligence, or that of your instructers, that your mind wants discipline, it is by no means too late to remedy the defect. If you have leisure which no other duty imperiously demands, go through with the first six books of Euclid's Geometry, by yourself, if possible ; if not, with the aid of a friend or teacher. What you submit to at first as a task, may soon become a source of pleas- ure ; whenever it does so, the point is gained ; you have learned to fix the attention, and to reason with clearness and precision. Mental philosophy. Doubtless this has proved an agreeable study ; if only learned, however, from a mea- gre class-book, it is not sufficient. Read Stewart's Philosophy, and make a careful analysis of it. Let me recommend another very useful little work, now some- what out of fashion, Watts on the Mind. This still re- tains its place in some seminaries, but in general has been supplanted by more recent publications. Your main object at this time must be, to acquire a knowledge of your own mind, its capabilities and wants ; make a thorough investigation, take its " gauge and dimensions." Acuteness of sensation and quickness of perception depend originally upon organization ; yet even these may be greatly increased, as we see in the case of the blind, whose other senses become so vigilant and discriminat- ing. Attention, close, habitual attention, stimulated by MENTAL, CULTURE. 17 necessity, thus increases the blind man's sense of hear- ing, of touch, and even of smelling -and taste. Atten- tion is a faculty much under the control of the will ; upon its careful cultivation, the concept! ve faculty, the memory, and the judgment all depend. To ascertain whether this faculty has been favorably developed, we must inquire what are our habits of reading, of study, and of thought. The hasty, indiscriminating perusal of the host of an- nuals, scrap-books, and pamphlets that crowd the centre- table not only vitiates taste, but is destructive to atten- tion. A literary souvenir may be taken up during a morning call, if your friend keep you waiting half an hour or more, while she makes her elaborate toilet, and if your habits of attention are good, the time will not be entirely lost ; an engraving, or a flower, may afford sub- jects for attention and reflection, and even well-chosen furniture and its neat and tasteful arrangement may give you a lesson in housekeeping. To the well-regulated mind no time nor place can be destitute of suggestive objects of profitable thought. But to return to reading. Does your mind fix with a firm grasp upon every leading thought ? Can you become so completely absorbed as to be unconscious, page after page, whether you are in the body or out of the body ? And this, not in the en- trancing pages of a novel alone, but in history or philos- ophy. Or do you revel in fairy-land, while your eyes glide over the pages without conveying a single idea to the mind ? The story has often been told of the mis- chievous wag, who moved back from day to day his friend's mark in the book he was reading. The poor fellow, opening honestly at the mark each day, read over 18 and over the same pages, till at length, a gleam of recol- lection coming over his mind, he exclaimed, " Well, it really seems to me, as if, somehow, I must have read this before." In a moral point of view, attention to what is passing around us is a duty. How often may we deceive others in matters of consequence, if we walk blindfolded through the world. How complicated, how perplexed, is the narrative of a heedless person, even when he is describ- ing an event of which he has been an eyewitness ! It is next to impossible for such an one to carry on a clear, consecutive train of thought. Truth is often violated, or, at least, the veracity of conversation is doubtful, where this defect exists in a high degree. Like the dubious man described by Cowper, " His evidence, if he were called by law To swear to some enormity he saw, For want of prominence and just relief, Would hang an honest man, and save the thief Useless in him alike both brain and speech, Fate having placed all truth above his reach ; His ambiguities his total sum, He might as well be blind, and deaf, and dumb." The faculty of attention is often impaired for life by habitual reverie. When you are employed with your needle, fair reader, you are often building chateaux d'Es- pagne, and may think it hard to be denied the delicious enjoyment. The trifling mechanical employment of the fingers is a gentle promoter of thought, and many an hour may pass most profitably to mind in this manner, if your thoughts are rightly directed. Recall some book that you have studied ; analyze it ; compare it with what- ever else you may have read on the same subject. Or take MENTAL CULTURE. 19 some subject of practical moment, contentment, for example ; arrange in order all the reasons you have for it, count over the rich blessings that cluster around you, until your heart overflows with gratitude. Attention, we know, must form the basis of memory ; difference of taste and sentiment produces difference of association of ideas. Three young ladies may have studied the history of the reign of Elizabeth of England. The manners, dress, and fashion of those days interested the first. The second dwelt with delight upon the character of the men of genius who immortalized that reign. While the third was most attracted by the character and con- duct of Elizabeth herself. Some one asks in their presence, "Will the reign of Victoria rival that of Elizabeth ?" The picture before the mind's eye of the first is the chivalric cavalier, with silken suit and em- broidered cloak, bowing to his lady-love, who rejoiceth in broad ruff and stiff brocade, assaulting her heart with euphuistic compliment. The second asks, Where is the Burleigh to guide the counsels, or the Spenser and the Shakspeare to glorify this reign ? The third immediately draws a parallel between the education and early char- acter of the royal maidens. And so far all is well ; each follows her taste, but her attention has probably been too exclusively fixed upon her favorite subjects. The first, when asked about Sir Anthony Cook and his daughters, does not remember that such persons existed. The second might laugh outright, if asked how Elizabeth was apparelled, and how many dresses she had in her ward- robe at the time of her death. Inquire of the third how the Spanish Armada was arranged for battle, she 20 remembers nothing in connection with it, excepting the royal heroine riding down the ranks and haranguing the soldiers. If your attention has been thus despotically ruled by your peculiar tastes and partialities, it is high time to correct the error. Read first the index of a book, and know what are the topics of most practical value ; what knowledge it contains of which you are ignorant ; what that you ought to be most anxious to fix in memory. Mark such subjects with your pencil, and in the course of reading rivet your attention upon them. Absence of mind has been so long considered a mark of genius, that few take pains to avoid the pernicious habit. It is one of the infirmities of great minds, and is almost unpardonable, even when associated with the overpowering splendor of superior talents. It is no pos- itive proof of genius ; the weakest minds are prone to extreme absence. This is very different from the power of abstraction, which belongs, in a preeminent degree, only to minds of the highest order. It is peculiarly in- convenient for women to be absent-minded. The thou- sand and one daily cares and employments, which must each receive due attention in a well-ordered household, render it necessary for a woman to have her thoughts always about her. Suppose, at the head of her dinner- table, she falls into a fit of absence ; her guests are neglected, the servants are at fault, and make dozens of blunders in consequence of hers, and when at last she comes back again, she resumes the conversation where it had been dropped, ten minutes before, much to the amusement or embarrassment of her guests, and her own and her husband's mortification. An absent-minded woman cannot be uniformly polite. She may be kindly MENTAL CULTURE. 21 disposed and perfectly well-bred, yet she will pass her most intimate friend in the street without speaking to her ; take the most convenient and comfortable seat at a neighbour's fireside, appropriated to an aged and infirm member of the family; fix her eyes in church upon some one until the person is exceedingly annoyed and embarrassed ; interrupt conversation by remarks entirely irrelevant, and commit many other peccadilloes while under this temporary alienation of mind, which would shock her, at another time, as offending against the plain- est rules of propriety. CHAPTER III. MEMORY. "When I plant a choice flower in a fertile soil, I see nature pres- ently to thrust up with it the stinging nettle, the poisonous hemlock, the drowsy poppy, and many such noisome weeds, which will either choke my plant, with excluding the sun, or divert its nourishment to themselves; but if I weed but these at first, my flower thrives to its goodness and glory." WARWICK. MEMORY, glorious treasure-house of mind! Earth, with all its pageantry, shall pass away, but memory shall survive, endless source of bliss or woe. We cannot realize the full import of this truth; if we could, very different would be our pursuits. Locke says, " Memory is of so great moment, that where it is wanting all the rest of our faculties are in a great measure useless ; and we, in our thoughts, reason- ings, and knowledge, could not proceed beyond present objects, were it not for the assistance of memory, where- in there may be two defects ; first, that it loses the idea quite, and so far it produces perfect ignorance. Sec- ondly, that it moves slowly, and retrieves not the ideas that it has, and are laid up in store, quick enough to serve the mind upon occasions. This, if it be in a great degree, is stupidity ; and he who, jrough this default in his memory, has not the ideas that are really preserved there, ready at hand when need and occasion call for them, were almost as good be without them quite, since they serve him to very little purpose." The vague ideas in a weak mind are at best " the base (22) MEMORY. 23 less fabric of a vision," and time's effacing finger soon obliterates them. In order that an idea should be re- tained, it is necessary that the attention should be fixed upon it, and the conception of it perfect. We are not aware how many of the thoughts of others, that we have labored to fix in our minds, passed rapidly away because we did not perfectly understand them ; the conception of them was incomplete, yet, as we had the shadow of an idea, we were satisfied ; it was too much trouble to examine it thoroughly until it assumed a definite form, and would thus have retained a " local habitation" in memory. Instructers cannot know whether children perfectly comprehend what they learn. We probably all remember having recited lessons very glibly, and having received the commendations of our teacher, when we knew no more of the true meaning of the lesson than if it had been in Hebrew. You are now old enough to be emancipated from the rote-system, that thraldom of mind which enchains all its faculties, and so weakens them that for a long time they cannot act with natural energy. Minds of much quickness and vivacity are prone to take ideas in this vague, confused manner, and all their knowledge, while they do so, will be superficial. They should check their too rapid thoughts until they become distinct and true, and patiently go over a subject until they are certain the conception of it is complete. Stewart tells us, the qualities of a good memory are susceptibility, retentiveness, and readiness. By the first, he means easiness of impression ; as the wax yields to the. signet, so should the mind take the perfect impress of every subject ; but not like the wax, which so easily melts away, leaving not a trace ; the mind should retain its images like sculptor's marble, and, 24 moreover, should be quick to produce them when they are needed. Classification is a powerful auxiliary to memory. In a well-ordered mind, every new fact is immediately re- ferred to its proper place, just as in botany a newly-dis- covered plant is set down in its class and order ; and if the genus is already known, it forms a new species under it. If you once acquire the habit of placing every idea in its category, a chain will be formed over which mem- ory will pass like electricity. Look into your own mind, and see if every thing lies there in a heterogeneous mass. It may appear, at first sight, as does this terrene sphere to uninquisitive igno- rance, a mass of rough materials, thrown together without order or arrangement. The scientific geologist reduces the whole to order. He discovers the regular strata of rocks covering the globe, and demonstrates the uniformity of the series, from the imperishable granite to the crumbling sandstone upon its surface. Lay down first principles, as the granite foundation upon which you are to build the whole superstructure of knowledge. Habits of correct association of ideas aid memory. It is not our intention to go into the depths of mental philosophy, but only to suggest a few practical hints, in simple language, that you may be induced to pursue the subject much farther. Ideas are so associated in the mind, that the presence of one suggests another. The associations in common, uninstructed minds are those of time and place, resemblance and contrast. The following couplet of Swift's may serve as an illustration of the first; others, from Shakspeare, will undoubtedly occur to your minds. MEMORY. 25 4 Yes," says the steward, " I remember when I was at my Lady Shrewsbury's, Such a thing as this happened, just about the time of gooseberries /" More philosophical associations are those of cause and effect, premises and conclusion, genus and species, &c. To assist memory, and to form a habit of philosophi- cal association, it is of use to arrange a Mnemonica, or commonplace-book, and to write down under the sepa- rate divisions what you most wish to retain. All know- ledge may be said to consist of FACTS, SENTIMENTS, and PRINCIPLES ; and this may furnish a simple classifi- cation for such a Mnemonica. Divide a blank book into three parts, reserving one half or two thirds for the first part, and the remainder divide equally for the two after parts. I. FACTS. Allow two or three pages under this division for eatu of the following subdivisions; namely, 1. RELIGIOUS. 2. POLITICAL. 3. LITERART. 4. SCIENTIFIC. 5. PRACTICAL. 6. MILITARY. These may be extended much farther. II. PRINCIPLES. 1. AXIOMS. 2. GENERAL TRUTHS. 3. CAUSE, OR ORIGIN. 4. ELEMENTS, OR CONSTITUENT PA.BTS. III. SENTIMENTS. 1. RELIGIOUS. 2. MORAL. 3. POETICAL. 3 26 Such a Mnemonica will be found very useful ; but do not rely too much and too long upon it. Memory is like a true friend, the more you confide in her the better she serves you. Various systems of artificial memory have been in- vented, but they are of doubtful utility. It is far better to form habits of correct classification, than to depend upon the arbitrary and often ridiculous associations of systems of mnemonics. Feinagle's system has been one of the most celebrated. The foundation of it is in locality, or the association of place. He divides a room into compartments ; sides, ceiling, and floor are each divided into nine parts. " In order to remember a se- ries of words, they are put in the several squares or places, and the recollection of them is assisted by asso- ciating some idea of relation between the objects and their situation ; and, as we find by experience that whatever is ludicrous is calculated to make a strong im- pression upon the mind, the more ridiculous the associ- ation the better. To illustrate this idea, Mr. Feinagle places the names of certain sensible objects in the differ- ent compartments, and connects the ideas of their images by some story, so as to make it almost impossible to forget the order in which they are arranged." All this complicated apparatus is first to be fixed in the memory. In the first square you have a pump, perhaps ; in the second, a monkey; in the third, a fool's cap, and so on. If you wish to remember a sermon, enter into your mnemonical room, hang the first division of the dis- course upon the pump-handle, place the second on the monkey's head, and the third in the fool's cap. By these arbitrary and ludicrous associations, you are to MEMORY. 27 fix them in memory. Surely, there can be no real utility in such an absurd system. The memory of words and the memory of ideas are very different. Numerous instances of wonderful memory of the first kind are given. Seneca, in his youth, could repeat two thousand words, in their order, after hearing them once. Joseph Scaliger could re- peat the contents of whole books in foreign languages. Kl op stock, the German poet, when a boy at school, could recite the whole of Homer's Iliad. An English- man once came to Frederick the Great, of Prussia, for the purpose of giving him some specimens of his extra- ordinary memory. Frederick sent for Voltaire, who read to his Majesty a pretty long poem, which he had just finished. The Englishman was concealed in such a manner as to be able to hear every word that was said. When Voltaire had concluded, Frederick remarked thai a foreign gentleman would immediately repeat the same poem to him, and therefore it could not be original. Voltaire listened with astonishment to the stranger's declamation, and then fell into a great rage and tore the manuscript in pieces. When Frederick informed him of his mistake, the Englishman again dictated to Voltaire the whole poem, with perfect correctness ! It is impossible for us now to discover whether these efforts were owing to a naturally strong memory, which had been habitually exercised, or to artificial memory : probably to the former. The memory of events and of ideas may be good, when that of words is very defective. Both should be cultivated in due proportion. It is better to enrich the memory with a fine sentiment, or a beautiful piece of poetry, than to doom it to banishment in your portfolio. 28 THE YOUNG LADY J S HOME. which is, generally, only one way of consigning it to oblivion. It has been often asserted, that a very superior memory is seldom found in connection with invention, or with uncommon judgment. A memory of words may not be ; but that which depends upon powerful conception, or philosophical arrangement, may be very tenacious of ideas, even where there is genius of the highest order, or the most consummate judgment. " Maria Gaetana Agnesi, a lady of extraordinary genius and most extensive acquirements, was bom at Milan, on the 15th of May, 1718. Her father, Pietro Agnesi, of Milan, was royal feudatory of Monteveglia and its dependencies ; and being a man of some rank and consequence, he was disposed, from paternal affec- tion, to provide suitably for the education of his infant daughter, who gave the most striking indications of tal- ent. From her tenderest years she discovered a won- derful aptness, and a vehement desire for acquiring lan- guages. Under the direction of proper masters, she studied at the very same time the Latin and Greek, the French and German; and while the rapidity of her progress excited universal astonishment, such were the prodigious powers of her memory that she could easily pursue these diversified objects without feeling the small- est degree of confusion. When yet scarcely nine years old, this surprising child delivered a Latin oration, to prove that the cultivation of letters is not inconsistent with the female character, before an assembly of learned persons, invited to her father's house. " At the age of eleven, the young Agnesi could, not only read Greek, and translate it instantly into Latin, but ..ould even speak that refined language, and with the same MEMORY. 529 ease and fluency as if it had been her native tongue. Nor did these acquisitions absorb her whole attention ; a nobler field was opened to the exercise of her mental faculties. She now began to read Euclid's Elements, and proceeded in algebra fcs far as quadratic equations. Thus prepared, she advanced with ardor to the study of natural philosophy ; but, not content with the sober truths there unfolded, she soared to the heights of met- aphysics, and engaged in the most abstruse and intricate disquisitions of that contentious science. " After the young lady had attained the age of four- teen, her father, anxious to forward her ardor for im- provement, and willing to gratify her ambition for literary distinction, invited occasionally to his house a number of persons, the most respectable in Milan by their rank and learning. In the midst of this grave auditory, Donna Agnesi made her appearance, and without re- signing the native delicacy of her sex, she maintained a new thesis on various difficult parts of philosophy, and handled the arguments with such dexterity and com- manding eloquence, as singly to vanquish every oppo- nent that entered the field of controversy. These dis- putations were carried on, all of them, in the Latin lan- guage, which she spoke with the utmost ease, purity, and copious elegance. Every thing conspired to heighten the impression produced on the admiring spectators. In the full bloom of youth, her person agreeable, her manner graceful, an air of gentleness and modesty gave irresistible charms to her whole demeanour. "Such, for several years, was the great theatre of her glory. But having nearly completed the circle of philosophy, and exhausted the chief topics of discus- sion, she resolved at length to close that career with a 3* 30 THE YOUNG LADY ? S HOME. solemnity suitable to the occasion. In the year 1738, at the age of twenty, Agnesi made her last brilliant dis- play before an august assembly, composed of the most learned and illustrious of the Milanese nobility, the senators, and foreign ministers, with the most distin- guished professors in all the branches of science and literature. The substance of these philosophical con- ferences was afterwards published in a quarto volume, in Latin. " Agnesi now bent her whole attention to the culture of mathematics ; and without guide or assistance, she composed a very useful commentary on L'Hospital's Conic Sections, which is said still to exist in manuscript. In the sublimer departments of that science, her studies were directed by the matured experience of Rampinelli, Professor of Mathematics in the University of Pisa; but she soon gave proofs of her amazing proficiency in digesting a complete body of the modern calculus. This excellent work, entitled, "Analytical Institutions for the Use of the Italian Youth," appeared in 1748, in two volumes, quarto, and was highly esteemed by the judges, and justly regarded as exhibiting the fullest and clearest views of the state of the science at that period. She was, in consequence, elected by acclamation a member of the Institute of Science of Bologna ; and the Pope farther conferred on her the title of Professor of Mathematics in the University of that city. " But Agnesi was already sated with literary fame. That sun which in its ascent had shone forth with such dazzling radiance was, through the rest of its course, shrouded in clouds and darkness. The fever of genius had preyed on her rnind, and the high fit of excitement was quickly succeeded by a hopeless depression of MEMORY. 31 spirits. She repelled the seductions of human learning, and abandoned for ever her favorite mathematical pur- suits. Renouncing the vanities of this world, she with- drew from society,-embraced a life of religious seclusion, and sunk by degrees into the languor of religious melan- choly. She studied nothing but Hebrew, and the rhap- sodies of the Greek fathers of the Church. For up- wards of twenty years she denied all access to strangers. Indulging that gloomy temper, she retired into a con- vent, and assumed the habit of a blue nun. She sought to forget the world, and was herself forgotten." tuseness of moral feeling. I hope, Isabella, you will not be so dishonorable nor so unprincipled. Is. Don't speak so seriously. I believe the best way is not to trouble myself about the matter. Jlunt S. You are right ; and think as little about it, too, as possible. Make yourself worthy of love, and you will be contented in any situation. You have now to set yourself earnestly about improving your own char- acter, lest you bring some of the evils upon another which you wish to avoid yourself. MARRIAGE. 219 Is. Well, with the terror of bad husbands before my eyes, I shall, at least, not marry without the consent of my father, and the approbation of my prudent aunt. Let me see (holding up her fingers and counting upon them), I have predetermined not to marry, First, the infidel. Secondly, the immoral man. Thirdly, the silly Narcissus, who would make me blush for him every moment. Fourthly, the old man, rich or poor. Fifthly, the old no, the young curmudgeon, for there are misers young and old ; and the young will grow worse and worse every year, till he will out-Elwes Elwes, so I '11 none of him. Sixthly, the extravagant idle man, who will soon be at his money's end and his wit's end. Seventhly, the furious, passionate tyrant. Eighthly, the morose, sour creature, who would turn the cream in my coffee by looking at it. Ninthly, have I counted all? Do give me a ninth and a tenth to make up the deca- logue. I know there are a dozen more that would come upon the proscribed list, if I could only remember them. Aunt S. Don't puzzle yourself, child, to muster any more. You will think me prejudiced, perhaps, in favor of my own condition, because I seem to you so happy. It is not so. As I look toward the downhill of life, it is a melancholy thought, that I am alone ; that I do not hold the first place in any human heart. Is. (fondly embracing her). But you have the love of everybody, dear Aunt Susan, and a home wherever you are ; next to my father, I love you better than any- body in the wide world. The next week, a little packet was handed to Isabella by Aunt Susan's waiting-maid. It contained an affec- THE Yorxo LADY'S HOME. *ote, intimating that her dear niece had iaKM them, a touch of tin MI endeavored to portray for her benefit in the STORY OF AGXES FLEMING, T * 1 ' 1 Fiji Thesonhad with tempered bcdfiancy, and now a soft and lovely twi- ngjht 8MC.c.mlSj, mvnng all to come forth to revel in the bland and balmy atmosphere of Jane, Voices of mirth are on the breeze, that tefl of rosy health and joyous Bat who is she, lone watcher in that snail Eeriest chamber? A bedstead stands in one fines spread over k do not correspond with the plain foraibne of the apartment. Here lies the only son of his mother, and she is a widow." Bat why goes he not i that covers his face, and read the answer there, lookout opon morning's TheddMteqpdimi no more be fifted. Tne ear, so readj to listen to the sfcghtest soond of joy or grief from that loved mother, is Who can measore the depth of agony in that lonely mover's htart, as she gazes on the remains of her noble hoy? How 1 i HM are the features of that &ce in their calm repose! From the air and Wry k wkh scrapoloas care. PRIDE. 221 There is a fearful composure in her manner ; it is not the composure of Christian resignation. Agnes Fleming was an only child. A tender mother and a careful nurse watched over her infancy and early childhood ; but when she left the nursery, her education was entirely given over to her father. The young Agnes, gifted with a mind of no common order, received with avidity the knowledge which her father poured into it from his own deep, full fountain. Not only her intel- lectual culture devolved upon her father, but her whole moral culture. Mrs. Fleming never interfered. Her husband exercised over her that sorcery which the famous Leonora Galligai was accused of employing with Mary de Medici, namely, the power which great minds have over weak ones. She was never known to dissent from him in opinion ; his infallibility was unquestionable. The rapid development and the astonishing progress of Agnes encouraged and delighted Mr. Fleming; his new employment rendered a life, which had formerly been monotonous, varied and interesting. His own fac- ulties, aroused from a lethargy which the indolent habits of a man of wealth^ without occupation, had induced, started with the freshness, force, and accumulation of an ice-bound river loosened from its thraldom. Agnes, like the genial influence of spring, had freed them from their frozen uselessness. Mr. Fleming possessed all those traits of character which, hi the eyes of the world, are most brilliant and fascinating. His chivalrous devo- tion to woman would have done honor to the most palmy days of knight-errantry ; and his graceful courtesy, ro- mantic generosity, and " high sense of honor," could only have been equalled by the chevalier tc sans peur et scms reproche." If, however, you sought for correct 19* 222 principles as the foundation of this character, you would seek in vain ; there lay pride, indomitable pride. Wealth, as such, he despised; family distinction was quite another thing. Descended from a long line of gentlemen, who had possessed station and rank in Eng- land, he neither despised, nor affected to despise, these distinctions. He dwelt upon them with exultation to Agnes; but it was not his intention to make her proud of these alone ; from her earliest years, he instilled into her mind that it was disgraceful to be vicious, that she should avoid falsehood, meanness, and every thing akin to it, because they were beneath the dignity of human nature. For the honor of her sex, she must be refined, well-bred, and elegant ; for the honor of her family, she must be intelligent, noble-minded, and generous ; above all, she must have that pride of character that would enable her to dignify any station, or to bear up under the frowns of fate. From such works as Pope's Essay on Man and Cicero's Offices, as she advanced in age, he taught her morality and virtue. His plan was to give Agnes a masculine education, without destroying the sensibility and delicacy of the female character ; perhaps he thought nature had done enough in making them a part of her physical constitution, and they therefore needed no fos- tering care. At the age of twelve, she had read through Virgil, the ^Eneid, Bucolics, Georgics, and all, and could recite Eclogue after Eclogue with admirable flu- ency. She was more familiarly acquainted with Jupiter and Neptune, Mars and Apollo, Juno, Minerva, and Venus, than with any living beings out of her own home ; for it was a part of Mr. Fleming's system to keep Ag- nes entirely secluded until she had finished her education. To give vigor to body and mind, she was allowed active, PRIDE. 223 and even athletic, exercises. With her father, she could take long rides on horseback, play ball, pitch quoits, and roll ninepins, and when he left her to amuse herself, she could climb trees and rock on their topmost branches, and build bridges over her favorite little rivulet. As Agnes increased in years, she displayed an inde- pendence of mind, that would not have yielded to any tutor but one possessing the strength and decision of her father. As it was, they often disagreed, and their long and animated discussions sometimes aroused a storm of passion, upon which the placid mildness of Mrs. Fleming acted like oil upon the tempestuous waves. The philosophical, mathematical, and classical educa- tion of Agnes had not entirely destroyed her intuitive sense of the beautiful in nature. Her rambles among the hills and woods about her father's dwelling were her greatest pleasure ; but they cherished a love of solitude and reverie, which had been produced by being denied communion and companionship with those of her own age. Mr. Fleming was a firm adherent to the church of his ancestors, although there were few of its members in the part of the country where he resided, and its solemn services were there seldom performed. When Agnes was about sixteen, her father mentioned to her that the right reverend bishop of that diocese would soon visit the little church, about ten miles distant, for confirmation, and that he wished her to be prepared for the holy rite. Agnes very innocently asked what preparation was necessary. The Catechism, the Creed, and the Lord's Prayer, was the reply. The two latter she knew by heart ; but of the former she was entirely ignorant. "How did this happen?" he exclaimed, surprised and 224 THE YOUNG LADY's HOME. half angry ; he then remembered that it was his own fault, for he had wished to teach every thing himself. "It is strange that I should have forgotten it; but you have time enough now to commit it to memory, daughter, and I wish you to begin this very day." Agnes's mind was too inquisitive not to be arrested by a study so new, so different from her usual course ; she made many inquiries of her father ; but they were an- swered in such a way as to check, without satisfying her curiosity. Dressed in a simple robe of white, with her dark hair floating upon her shoulders, as in childhood, Agnes knelt to take upon herself those solemn baptismal vows, that had remained as if forgotten by her sponsors. " And many a blooming, many a lovely cheek, Under the fear of God, turns pale ; While on each head his lawn-robed servant Lays an apostolic hand, and with prayer Seals the covenant." Agnes had been awed, but not with the holy fear of God ;" the solemnity, the beauty, of the scene had excited emotion, but not religious emotion ; it was natu- ral sensibility. So little had she been instructed in the Christian religion and Christian duty, that she doubt- ed not the propriety of taking upon herself those solemn vows which she was unprepared to fulfil. If there was a pang of conscience produced by a glimpse of her un- \vorthiness, it was stifled by the consideration, that she had endeavored to be such as her father wished ; he was her guide and her exemplar. She arose from that sa- cred service, with a half-mournful, half-joyous feeling, that she was no longer a child. From this period, until Agnes had arrived at the age PRIDE. 225 of seventeen, Mr. Fleming devoted himself, with more than his usual zeal, to the completion of that education which had hitherto so gratified his ambition. She was mistress of almost as many languages as the learned Elizabeth Smith, and in mathematics could enjoy New- ton and Laplace. As for accomplishments, as they arp usually termed, Agnes had not many to boast ; upon an old harpsichord, which had been in the house from time immemorial, she could play by ear all the tunes she ever heard her nurse sing, and that was the extent of her musical science. Although this was proof enough of genius to have induced almost any parent to cultivate it, Mr. Fleming would not do it, because he must for that purpose have employed a teacher in the house, or spared Agnes from home. To avoid this, he had taught her the elements of drawing, with the rules of perspect- ive ; but she had neither genius nor taste to pursue the art ; he even taught her to dance, with the aid of a dark Orpheus, who, if he did not draw the bow of a Pagani- ni, excited equal wonder and envy among contemporary musicians of his own color. Agnes did not dance with remarkable grace; this was no disappointment to Mr. Fleming, for he was not anxious that she should. He had never allowed her to be complimented about her personal appearance; her mirror might have told her that it was fine; but Agnes was "too proud to be vain." The time arrived for Agnes to make her debut. A splendid ball, given by the members of a hunting club in the neighborhood, was chosen as the suitable occa- sion. The company were mostly assembled, when Mr. Fleming walked into the ball-room, with 'hie elegant daughter leaning upon his arm. He was yet in the full 226 glory of manhood ; time's rough hand had not been laid unkindly upon a single trait of manly beauty. The air, the lofty bearing, of father and daughter were striking- ly alike, and there was also a strong resemblance in countenance ; the expanded nostril, that gives an animat- ed, spirited expression, was a remarkably characteristic feature in both faces. As Agnes knew nothing of the world, excepting from books and the conversation of her father, a scene so trying to a novice might have disconcerted her ; but the desire to do honor to her father, and the consciousness of her own superiority, enabled her to maintain perfect self-possession. For some time, no one approached to beg an introduction ; the effort she had made to over- come the timidity, natural to every young woman, had given more than usual coldness and hauteur to her de- meanour, and an expression of face as far from agreeable as could well be conceived. A bachelor, who was a friend of Mr. Fleming, near his own age, too, but who still flourished as a young man, at length solicited her hand for the dance, and led her to the head of the room. The delighted father could not keep his eyes from his idolized child. He unconsciously kept time with his foot, as she moved through the dance, and when she stopped, his gaze was fixed upon her alone. Fearing that this might be observed, he endeavoured to turn off his attention, and to converse with a gentleman who stood near ; but his eye would occasionally wander to the object of attraction. Suddenly he thought he per- ceived a change in her countenance ; it w r as deeply flushed ; but that might be from the exercise of dancing ; but then her eyes were flashing with indignation, and the curl of her lip denoted any thing rather than pleasure. PRIDE. 227 *"' * Mr. Fleming grew anxious, excited, and Agnes at length cast an imploring look towards him, as if for protection, while her partner was bowing and smiling as if he were saying the most polite and agreeable things imaginable. Mr. Fleming could bear suspense-no longer ; he walked up to his daughter, and said, " Agnes, for Heaven's sake tell me what ails you ; are you ill ?" Not ill," she replied, "but offended. Will you lead me to a seat? Mr. has insulted me." Mr. Fleming turned a fierce look upon the bachelor, and was about to say, I must ask for an explanation in another place ; but the unsuspecting man grinned in his face so provokingly, that he lost all self-command, and knocked him down. The dancing ceased, and great was the commotion in the ball-room. While some were inquiring into the cause, and others assisting the fallen man to arise, Mr. Fleming left the apartment with Agnes, and, ordering his carriage, was soon on the way homeward. The agitated father inquired what Mr. had said, that offended her so deeply. She replied, that she was ashamed to mention the gross flattery that he had addressed to her. That it was " an insult to her understanding to suppose that she was so vain as to be delighted with such silly compliments." The flattery was such as most men address to young ladies, ridiculous, it is true, and often disagreeable ; but so much the custom of the world, that only Agnes's ignorance of its cus- toms, and her pride made her deem it insulting. Mr. Fleming was exceedingly chagrined that he had been so hasty, but had the generosity not to blame Agnes, or we might say the justice, for the seclusion from so- ciety, the high cultivation of mind, the pride and inde* 228 THE YOUNG LADY's HOME. pendence of character, the want of vivacity, softness, and gentleness that unfitted her for the light gayety of a ball-room, had all been owing to himself. Tears were unfrequent visiters in Agnes's eyes ; but now they flowed freely, from anger and mortification. It was in vain that her father endeavored to soothe her wounded pride, by telling her that men were much addicted to the language of compliment, that perhaps her modesty had exaggerated its impropriety, that he was gratified that she had so much nobleness of mind as to be above the meanness of vanity. She would not be con- soled. < Mr. thought her a fool, and everybody else would think her the same, because she had no self- command." The next morning a friend of the ill-treated bachelor waited upon Mr. Fleming, to " demand satisfaction." Mr. Fleming was not willing to offer any apology. " Time, place, and weapons" were therefore agreed upon ; his nice sense of honor would not permit him to refuse a challenge. It was decided that the meeting should be at sunset, in a sequestered spot about two miles distant. Agnes was called into her father's library to hear the result of her resentment. With surprising calmness, her father spoke of the possible consequences ; the necessity that his wife should at present remain in igno- rance of the whole matter ; for, in consequence of in- disposition and an exceedingly nervous temperament, she had not been informed of the events of the preced- ing evening. He then gave her various directions about his affairs, recommending the continuance of his faithful agent in his present situation, and naming to her the gen- tlemen he had appointed as executors to his will, PRIDE. 229 Agnes loved her father as deeply as she was capable of loving; but she heard this without fainting, and even without tears. She blamed herself as the cause, but never once thought of entreating her father to refrain from vindicating his honor. She firmly believed that he would escape unhurt, and hoped Mr. would come off with a very slight wound. The proud father, press- ing her to his heart, called her his noble, heroic girl, and, imprinting a kiss upon her high forehead, bade her farewell. Agnes sat at the window, watching with intense anxi- ety for her father's return. The stars came out one by one upon the clear sky, until the host of heaven was marshalled in glorious array. She listened to catch the faintest sound, all was silent but the tumultuous beat- ing of her heart. The very stars, in their pure and lovely light, filled her with awe ; a fearful dread of ap- proaching evil brought her to an agonizing sense of dependence upon Almighty power. She sunk into the attitude of devotion, with her hands convulsively clasped, but she could not pray. A low, distant sound sum- moned her to the window ; nearer and nearer it came, until the slow motion of a carriage could be distinctly heard. O, he is wounded ! he is wounded ! thought Agnes, and breath and motion seemed suspended. Soon she heard heavy footsteps and suppressed voices in the hall below ; then came a shriek so loud and piercing, that it thrilled through her frame like electricity. In an instant she was in the hall. There lay the lifeless form of her father, covered with blood ; her mother rushed by her a raving maniac. The unusual noise in the hall had startled Mrs. Fleming ; she opened the door of the parlour, and the first object that caught her eye was the 20 230 corpse of her husband! In that wild shriek reason vanished, and memory passed into dark oblivion. She never recovered. ******* And Agnes is alone. She sits with arms folded upon the marble table, her eyes fixed upon its curious mosaic, yet she sees it not. The soft light that comes through the window of the vaulted ceiling falls upon her face, revealing the change that grief has wrought ; the deadly paleness where the roses of health glowed upon cheek and lip ; the thin nostril, expanding with every breath ; the dark eyes that flashed with dazzling lustre, dull and sunken in their sockets ; yet that countenance has not the calm, subdued expression that sorrow often produces. Around her are the records of the wisdom of past ages, arranged with scrupulous care in their beautiful cases of polished rose-wood. The marble busts of men of immortal genius seemed mounted as sentinels over the treasures of learning and science. An Apollo, in his sublime majesty, looks from a pedes- tal in one corner ; a Minerva decorates the opposite corner ; while the others are ornamented with a group of the Graces, and Cupid and Psyche. Appropriate dec- orations these, for the library of the Tusculan villa, and the cold philosophy that Agnes is endeavoring to cultivate, is such as might have suited Cicero's daugh- ter. As she looks at the splendid portrait of her father, which the artist's skill has rendered so like life that it seems to be reading her every thought, does not self-accusation make her shrink from that eagle eye ? Does she not feel that the pride of intellect, which led her to construe into an insult the trifling of a man of fashion, laid that father into the self-murderer's PRIDE. 231 grave? No, she gazes upon it almost with adoration, and glories in a death so noble, in defence of his honor and his daughter's delicacy. So deeply, so firmly, had Agnes imbibed her father's opinions with regard to du- elling, that she would have deemed it craven cowardice to refuse a challenge. And now, where so large a portion of her life had been spent in the pursuit of knowledge, day after day she sits with her father's favo- rite books before her, endeavoring to find consolation or temporary forgetful ness. The kind nurse, who had been retained since her infancy as a companion and an assistant to her mother, has just returned from a distant journey. There, far away from home and kindred, her mother lies in a lonely grave ; the skill of physicians, and the most tender treatment had failed to restore reason ; a feeble constitution could not sustain the shock, and in three months from that awful event she was no more. Agnes was now the sole heiress to an immense fortune. The neighbors and acquaintances of her parents had called to offer condolence, and had been refused admit- tance ; after a while they called again, dropped their cards, and then left Agnes to her chosen solitude. She now saw no one but the servants, and the excel- lent nurse, who was tenderly and devotedly attached, and now watched over her with maternal care. Agnes was a kind, considerate, and even a gentle mistress. Her pride never exhibited itself to her inferiors ; it would have been beneath her lofty character to treat them with contempt. The first time that Agnes visited her father's library after his death, she found a letter addressed to herself, in which he revealed to her his favorite plan. His 232 nephew, George Stanley, was at an university, where he had nearly completed his education. It had been his intention, on his return, to receive him into his fam- ily, with the hope that he might become attached to Agnes, and a union take place which would make up to him the want of fortune on his own part ; no intima- tion of this scheme had ever been given to Stanley. Mr. Fleming conjured his daughter to receive him in the same way that he would have done, and if they were mutually pleased, as he had not left him even a legacy, he hoped the consummation would be such as he fervently desired. A request made in such a manner, Agnes felt bound in honor to fulfil. George had occasionally been the playmate of her childhood, the only one, and therefore remembered with some interest and pleasure. Some months passed away in the same monotonous manner with Agnes, when she was aroused to exertion by the arrival of her cousin George. The idea that she must make herself as agreeable as possible was not exactly suited to Agnes's taste ; however, she was com- pelled to make the effort. Pearson, as the nurse was called, must do the honors of the house, and receive him as her guest. George Stanley was a gay, impulsive young man, whom a collegiate education had not cured of a passion for hunting and fine horses. Agnes was spared for a while from having much of his society, by the attrac- tions the neighborhood offered for his favorite amuse- ments. Remembering, however, her former fondness for riding on horseback, he urged her to accompany him, and this exercise, so beneficial to the health arid spirits, brought back to Agnes a portion of her former PRIDE 233 vivacity. She endeavoured to discover if she had made a favorable impression upon her cousin, and if the progress she was making in his good opinion were such as to encourage hope. O, what a sacrifice of maidenly pride ! She, who of all women " Would be wooed, and not unsought be won," must " stoop to conquer." She suspected that he liked her fine horses better than her fair self; more- over, if she could have seen into the depths of his heart, she would have discovered that he had never once thought or cared whether she liked him or not. After a visit of a few weeks, Stanley, finding it rather dull, made the apology of business in town, and left Ag- nes to the enjoyment of her former solitude. Nurse Pearson grieved to see her dear young lady relapsing again into gloom, and wondered that any hu- man being could be insensible to such transcendent ex- cellence : her anxious eye could discover nothing but indifference in the manner of Stanley ; but in her dar- ling foster-child she thought her shrewdness had de- tected an emotion that she probably wished to conceal. No such emotion, however, existed. The strong de- sire of Agnes to fulfil the last request of her venerated father had deceived the good woman, and perhaps Agnes herself was deceived by it into a belief that she was not indifferent to her cousin. It is not necessary to dwell upon the mortification she felt at the sudden departure of Stanley. It is certain that she was not lowered in her own estimation by it, and one source of consolation was, that he was not capable of appreciating her merit. Again Agnes resorts to the library, and her father's 20* 234 eyes are bent upon her, she fancies, with kind appro- bation. His generous intentions towards his nephew had been frustrated by the young man's own want of taste and discernment. One evening, at twilight, as she sat in the loneliness of this beloved sanctum sanctorum, " musing upon the checkered past, a term much darkened by untimely woes," she heard the approach of a horseman, and almost immediately the door of the library opened, and in rushed George Stanley. The unceremonious en- trance, and familiar manner in which he saluted her, abashed the startled girl ; in that place, too, where he had never been permitted to enter before. "You did not expect me, coz, hope my coming again don't displease you, taken lodgings at the hotel two miles off, nearest place I could find to put my head in, got a fine horse, come to you in five min- utes, come every day." There was a bold audaciousness in Stanley's manner, from which Agnes shrunk with disgust. What could it mean? She was compelled to treat him with polite- ness, though every pulse in her body throbbed with indignation. "Why, my sweet coz, my pretty Agnes, here you sit moping among the gods and goddesses, looking almost as pale as their marble selves. And there is the old gentleman himself, if the dim twilight don't deceive me. I should think you would die with the blues. Come," continued he, seizing her hand, let us take a stroll about the grounds. You have played Niobe here quite long enough." The dim light alone prevented George from seeing the flush of indignation upon his cousin's face, the con- PRIDE. 235 temptuous curl of the Jip, and that most superlatively proud lifting of the head and flashing of the dark eyes. She withdrew her hand, but could not speak. " Have I taken you so by surprise, that you can't find voice to welcome me ? How is Pearson ? Good creature, I hope she is as charming as ever." " We will go and find her if you please," was the brief reply. ****** Two weeks had passed since this interview, and Agnes was betrothed to the man whom she despised. That Stanley had learnt from some source, which she could not discover, her father's intentions, and her wish to fulfil them, she could not doubt. Never for a moment did she flatter herself that he loved her ; she believed, that, deserving his respect and esteem, they must be yielded as her right ; what more could she wish? The eremite seclusion, in which Agnes passed the year that intervened between her betrothal and nuptials, was spent in endeavouring to fortify her heart against all misgivings. Nature had not gifted her with uncom- mon sensibility, and the stern, masculine education she had received was not calculated to increase it ; yet, woman's nature would at times assert its rights, and the repugnance she felt to an union in which her heart bore no share, it was difficult to quell. In her mind, the distinctions between virtue and vice were such as had been fixed by the Latin and English classics. She never brought her motives before the tribunal of an enlightened conscience, never trembled in view of the sinfulness of her heart in the sight of a Holy Being. 236 THE YOUNG LADY'S HOME. Before the altar where Agnes had received the im- position of hands from the reverend minister of God, she kneels, again to take upon herself solemn vows, which she is unprepared to fulfil. A benumbing apathy seized her, like one in a bewildered dream ; she could not articulate the words that made rift- a wife. But the ceremony was over, and Stanley handed her to the car- riage which was to take them to town. Arrangements had been made by him for spending the winter in such a manner, as to impress every one with an exalted opin- ion of his wealth and taste. Agnes, as the mistress of a splendid mansion, was compelled to receive crowds of strangers, for whom she could not feel the least interest. Her manners, cold, repulsive, and haughty, rendered her an object of univer- sal dislike. This mortified Stanley, whose greatest ambition was to be popular among his own set, the elite of the town. "Wife," said he, "I cannot see what good your dignity and magnificent airs will ever do you or me in town ; I advise you to lay them aside until you can play them off again among the sages and goddesses of the old library where you were educated." The shrug with which this inelegant speech was utter- ed expressed sovereign contempt, and the peculiar em- phasis upon the last word was such a reflection upon the generous man to whom he ow r ed so much, that it sent a sharp pang to the very heart of the indignant Agnes. She did not reply, but laid it up " for the re- membering of after years." In society she was cold and reserved, because she had no sympathy with the people whom she met ; knowing nothing about the subjects that interested them, PRIDE. 237 and caring less. Occasionally, some one who had heard that she was a literary woman would venture a remark about the last novel or play, or ask some such unmeaning question as, "Are you fond of poetry?" or, " Which do you like best, Italian or Spanish liter- ature ?" Dressed in a splendid velvet, or embroid- ered satin, with her hair arranged in the most tasteful manner, and profusely ornamented with diamonds, at the request of her vain husband, Agnes would stand in a drawing-room, leaning against a column, with an air as abstracted and mournful as Lady Macbeth's in the sleep-walking scene, and her lofty mien and carriage bore a striking resemblance to a tragedy queen at a masquerade. Stanley she seldom saw, excepting on these occasions ; he was engrossed by a continual round of dissipation. With a lively pleasure, that was an unwonted visitant to the heart of Agnes, she left town, to return to her much-loved home. She had long known that Stanley was worse than indifferent ; he had openly manifested positive dislike ; but she maintained towards him that outward respect due to her own dignity and his situation as her husband. Notwithstanding the rough jokes about the library and its grave society, Agnes found more happiness in returning to it than she had enjoyed else- where. Nurse Pearson's ardent warmth of affection, too, was like a ray of sunshine upon the frozen sterility of her heart. The summer was quickly over, and Agnes feared she should be again compelled to return to town; to her glad surprise, Stanley readily consented to her re- maining at what he now termed his country-house. After calling upon the faithful agent, whom Agnes, at 238 THE YOUNG LADY'S HOME. her father's request, had retained, for large sums of money, to be forwarded as soon as possible, he return- ed, to prepare to appear- at the approaching races with great eclat. ****** A new vein was struck in Agnes's heart, when she became a mother. The fountain of tenderness, which had long been sealed, gushed with pure and renovating freshness. For a while, the stream of affection was unsullied by earthly mixture. But as she gazed upon her lovely boy, she thought he was like her idolized father, and she would educate him to be such as he and all the world would admire. Visions of his greatness floated before her imagination, her ambition would at length be satisfied, that education which had been ridiculed should be transferred to her son, her pride would be gratified by seeing her own mind reflected by another, who would shine with transcendent lustre be- fore the world. She named him after his grandfather, Alfred Fleming. On receiving news of the birth of his son, Stanley wrote to Agnes, expressing his joy, and requesting that the child might be named George. He pleaded his nu- merous engagements in town as an apology for not paying her a visit, and promised to be home early in the spring. The next day, Agnes despatched a messenger for the nearest clergyman, and for two of her acquaint- ances to stand as godfather and godmother for her son. Before evening he was baptized, and named Alfred Fleming. During the winter, Stanley occasionally wrote to Agnes, making many inquiries about his little George, PRIDE. 239 vvnich were dutifully answered, without mentioning the child by name. Spring had long donned her loveliest robes, and was about yielding her sweet reign to her warmer sister, before the tardy husband was ready to return to his neglected wife and child. It was not possible for the father to resist the sweet influence of his beautiful boy. A bright smile played around the infant's lovely mouth, as he looked into his face, and glowed warm to his heart ; for his sake, the mother was met with cordial kindness. It seemed as if the horizon of Agnes could never remain long unclouded. Stanley had been home three days, and the boy's name had not been mentioned. He was brought into the parlour one morning after break- fast, and was amusing his father with some infantile pranks that he had already learned. "Clap your hands, Alfred," said his delighted mother. He was in the act of putting his little dimpled hands together, when a loud exclamation from Stanley changed his merry laugh to a scream of terror. "What did you call the boy? His name is George," said Stanley in a thunder-toned voice. "His name is Alfred Fleming," quietly replied Ag- nes. "No such thing. I named him George ; you know, Madam, I did. How durst you call him by any other name? From this time henceforth and for ever, see that he is so called, or, by Jove " Agnes interrupted him. "That name was given him in the holy sacrament of baptism, and cannot be taken from him." "Then he shall be unbaptized, for I forbid that he shall retain that hated name." 240 " To the noble-hearted man who bore that honored name, you are indebted, Sir, for house, home, every thing that you possess," replied Agnes, no longer able to control herself. " Yes, his cunning plan of robbing me of what I had a right to expect from him, drew me into the snare. On my return to town after my first visit to you, Madam, I learned from one of the executors of his will what he expected of me ; that I should marry his daughter, whom his foolish notions had so spoiled that probably no one else would take her. I was the victim of my own generosity; for, pitying you, I have brought all this upon myself; but I have not sold myself into bond- age. I will be master here." So saying, Stanley flung out of the house, and during several days after, spoke not a word to Agnes, nor inquired for the child. This shocking altercation had raised the spirit of Agnes to its utmost height ; she determined never to call her boy by any other name than the one she had given him. In this she was seconded by Nurse Pear- son, who venerated his grandfather. A message from the father, in the most imperative terms commanding the servants to call the young master, George, was therefore totally disregarded. About a week after this matrimonial quarrel, Agnes had been out taking an airing with her child and nurse. As the carriage drove up the avenue leading to the house, she caught a glimpse of some one at work upon the wing that was used for the library. As she drew nearer, she perceived that several men were employed in pulling it down, and had already made some progress in the work of destruction. Agnes alighted from the carriage, and entering the house, flew to her father's PRIDE. 241 beloved library. What a scene of confusion ! books, prints, statues, pictures, globes, all were removed from their places, and men were employed carrying them as fast as possible to an old lumber-room. She ordered them to desist. They replied that they were obeying the directions of Mr. Stanley, who was about to build a new wing, and make some other alterations. Then I countermand his orders. Leave your sacrilegious work immediately." There w r as energy and power in the manner of Agnes, that could not be resisted. The men on the exterior came down, and those within walked off amazed and intimidated. " Here at least I will be mistress," said Agnes, wrought up almost to frenzy ; and seeing her father's portrait, which had not yet been disturbed, she apostrophised it in language that was almost impious. When the first fury of the tempest that raged in the mind of the unhappy wife had subsided, she commenced replacing some of the scattered books ; while thus in- tently occupied, Stanley entered the apartment, and de- manded who had ordered his workmen to leave the business about w r hich he had employed them. Agnes, with assumed calmness, replied, " That her father's library should remain as he left it, for his .grand- son, and she had not thought there w r as a man living who could be so mean and so debased, as to show such ingratitude as he had done to his benefactor." It is useless to dwell upon the tornado that followed. Stanley was naturally violent and impulsive ; his rage knew no bounds ; after dashing in pieces several busts, and raving for a while like a madman, he snatched up his fowling-piece, which happened to lie near him, and, whistling for his dogs, went off into the neighboring 21 242 THE YOUNG LADY's HOME. woods, as if in pursuit of game. He had not been ab- sent an hour, \vhen one of his dogs, a sagacious pointer, came running home at full speed. He barked, whined, and tugged at the coat of one of the servants, till he be- came alarmed, and calling another man, they followed the dog. They reached a swamp covered thickly with bushes, and penetrated with some difficulty to the spot where the pointer led. Suddenly, the other dog set up a terrible howl; they reached the spot, there lay Stanley with his fowling-piece beside him, discharged in such a way as to shatter his head and face in the most shocking manner. The men ran back, the coroner was summoned, the inquest holden, and th^ verdict given, "Killed by the accidental discharge of a fowl- ing-piece." A surgeon had been called, but arrived after the body was removed. On examining the wounds he was seen to shake his head and pronounce the word " accidental," in a manner that implied a fearful doubt. ****** In a quiet little village more than eight hundred miles from her home, lives a widow with her bright and beau- tiful boy. Old Nurse Pearson regards him with won- der and delight as he reads aloud to his mother ; five years have changed him, from an infant in her arms, to this prodigy of learning. Agnes, before she left home, had restored every thing in her house to the same condition in which it was left by her father. She had then caused it to be shut up, and leaving it, with all her affairs, to the care of her faithful agent, determined that it should never again be opened, until Alfred Fleming was of age to take pos- session of the mansion of his ancestors. The small, plain house that she now occupied the PRIDE. 243 villagers had dignified with the name of u the widow's cottage." There was nothing about it that indicated wealth ; but when Agnes walked out, leading Alfred by the hand, her proud step and striking air led them to say, " She has seen better days." Her object in re- moving so far from her native home was twofold, that Alfred should know nothing of the melancholy events of former years, and that, believing himself to be in pos- session of a bare competency, he should exert himself to become distinguished by his talents. She determined to educate him in the same manner as she had been educated herself, until he should go to the University. Her father's noble spirit, his high and honorable senti- ments, his pride of family and pride of character, her heart throbbed with exultation, when she thought how perfectly they would be reflected by the brilliant creature who bore his name. The curiosity of the good people of the village had been exercised, in vain, upon the inhabitants of the widow's cottage. Nurse Pearson maintained the only intercourse which was kept up between the two pow- ers, and this amounted only to the buying of some of the necessaries of life. The occasional arrival of boxes, hampers, and barrels, containing the productions of a different climate, which had undergone the closest scru- tiny as they passed through the long street of the vil- lage, gave them the information, that the widow came from afar, and that her name was Mrs. Fleming. A let- ter through the little post-office three or four times a year was subjected to a still more close inspection ; but no new facts were obtained. Mrs. Fleming, for Agnes chose to be called by that name alone, had for two years been thus the object of 244 insatiable curiosity, which now, " mocking the meat it fed on," was ready to do or dare any thing for more substantial aliment. Agnes would not subject herself to the necessity of taking an humble seat in church, nor of being obliged to any of the villagers for a more elevated one ; she therefore never attended public worship. Nurse Pear- son went occasionally, and at Christmas there was a fifty-dollar note among the charitable offerings ; on other festivals, ten or twenty-dollar notes made their appear- ance. This was a sort of expiation, which soothed the conscience of the donor, for never entering the conse- crated place of worship. The lawyer's, doctor's, and merchant's wives were the magnates of the village. Over their tea, they had consulted again and again whether the widow 7 was a suitable person for them to patronize. The plainness, and almost meanness, of the house she occupied, had hitherto decided them to the negative side of the ques- tion ; those fifty and twenty-dollar gifts brought them over to the affirmative ; they must know more about the ivoman, or they should die, like Aunt Charity, of curiosity. Accordingly, the three ladies, dressed in their " best bib and tucker," went one morning " to make a call." When they arrived at the humble door, they tittered among themselves, before they lifted the black, old- fashioned knocker, to think that persons of their re- spectability should be seen knocking at such an humble habitation. "Never mind," said one, "if any of our acquaintances from town should happen to see us, they would think we were out on some charitable visit." The door was opened by a tidy-looking Irish girl, PRIDE. 245 who, on their inquiring for Mrs. Fleming, showed them into a small, neat parlor. The only movables that be- tokened wealth in the occupant of the house, were a bookcase filled with books in splendid bindings, and a full-length portrait of a gentleman. He did not look upon them with a remarkably complacent air of wel- come ; his large, dark eyes staring them full in the face, seemed to ask why they had intruded upon his retire- ment. They were awed to silence by his dignity, and began wondering what apology they should offer to the woman; but before they had decided, she entered the room. A widow's cap, of the finest lawn, set off to advantage the regular oval face and Grecian features of Agnes ; the black dress, which fell in rich and ample folds around her tall figure, was relieved by a collar and cuffs of the same material as the cap, which seemed to add to the pure complexion of a beautiful throat and ex- ceedingly delicate hands. Agnes had resolved to wear a widow's weeds as long as she lived. Whether she wore them as hair-cloth is worn, for penance, is con- jectural. The lawyer's wife was to introduce the other ladies ; but so great became her embarrassment at the entrance of Mrs. Fleming, that she quite forgot to act as mistress of ceremonies ; so they all made their lowest courtesies, and sat down again. They then looked and nodded at each other, to begin conversation, but the lofty and re- pulsive manner in which they had been received, so dis- concerted them, that, it was some time before even the lawyer's wife could say, "A very pleasant day, ma'am." Agnes looked as if she wondered whether they were a committee on the weather sent to announce to her the important fact. Another pause. The mer- 21* 246 THE YOUNG LADY'S HOME. chant's wife began in an affected tone, "I think, ma'am, you must have found it lonesome here these two years, among us strangers ;" and gaining courage at the sound of her own voice, though her neighbors could scarcely recognise it, she went on, "I have taken a great fancy to your delightful little boy, and have tried to coax him with apples, and nuts, and gingerbread, to come into our house ; but he is very shy." The other ladies joined in, " He is a sweet little fellow." Mrs. Fleming bowed, and her countenance relaxed a little from its stern gravity, as if to thank them for their good opinion of her son. The ladies by this time had recovered in part their self-possession, and apologizing for not introducing each other, named themselves as Mrs. This, That, and The Other, the lawyer's, doctor's, and merchant's wives, of the village of . Mrs. Fleming, at this information, did not express surprise or pleasure at their wonderful condescension, but asked "the cause to which she owed the honor of their visit." The doctor's wife now acted as spokeswoman ; she had studied her part beforehand. " We seldom call upon people who bring no letter of introduction, and that is the reason we have not called upon you before ; but from what we have seen of you and your little boy, we thought as how you might have been in better cir- cumstances, and so was still entitled to the best society." Although this speech had been recited before, to the sat- isfaction of the other ladies, it now sounded peculiarly inappropriate ; they blushed and hemmed, and winked at the doctor's wife ; but she went through with it. Mrs. Fleming thanked them for their infinite condescension, but said she did not go into society. PRIDE. 247 Another pause that was truly "awful." But the merchant's wife determined that she would gain some- thing from this visit ; making a bold push, as she called it, scarcely daring however to turn her eyes toward the stately picture, she inquired, "Pray, ma'am, is that the likeness of your husband ?" From the day of Stan- ley's death to the present moment, no allusion had ever been made to him, either by Agnes herself, or by any other person in her presence. She grew fearfully pale, and in a voice whose deep tones were thrilling, replied, "It is not ;" then, after a moment's pause, added, "If you wish for any farther information, allow me to call my woman." She arose and withdrew. The discomfited ladies completely stumbled over each other as they rapidly retreated out of the house, the merchant's wife casting a furtive glance at the picture, to be quite sure that it had not stepped forth to chastise her impertinence. V What lofty airs !" "Did you ever see the like?" "What pride!" "What insolence!" "How pro- voking!" "There is something mysterious about all this !" Such were the exclamations of the angry vis- iters on their way homeward. Their curiosity was stim- ulated to agony, their invention taxed to the utmost to make discoveries ; just then, there happened to stop a load of those boxes and barrels, that had hitherto thrown the only light upon the subject. They were directed to the care of a small grocer, a still, quiet man, who had no wife ; no other inference is to be drawn from this, than that the ladies were not acquainted with him. In the eagerness of their desire for information, they step- ped into the little shop, and inquired for cloves and nut- megs. Flattered by the politeness of his new customers, 248 the man was very carefully doing up the small bundle of spices, when one of them turned and said, " You have the care of Mrs. Fleming's business ?" "I have, ma'am." " Do you know where she came from ?" " I do not ; these barrels and boxes are consigned to my care by a merchant in New York. All that he told me was, that the lady was worth a power of money. That her father and husband died very suddenly, and that she now goes by her maiden name." All this was "strange, 'twas passing strange, 'twas pitiful, 't was wondrous pitiful" ; they were astonished that they had not heard it before. Home they went to the lawyer's house, and before they parted at ten o'clock that night, they had concocted out of it a most horrible story, which, before the week ended, was in the mouth of every man, woman, and child in the village, except- ing only the tenants of "the widow's cottage." About a fortnight after "the call," the Irish servant- girl, who had been sent from New York, when Mrs. Fleming first arrived in the village, and had continued with her, presented herself in the parlor, without being summoned. Engaged in her morning's task of instruct- ing Alfred, Mrs. Fleming did not for some time lift her eyes from the book over which they were leaning. " If you please, ma'am, I 've something to say," said the girl. Well, Kathleen, what is it?" " I 've come to give warning ; I wish to leave, ma'am." " To leave me, Kathleen ! What has displeased you.?" PRIDE. 249 'Tis not that I'm displeased, at all, at all. A kind misthress have you been to me." " Well, then, why do you wish to leave ?" " Becaase, becaase, for the life of me I don't know how to tell it ; but I don't like to live on ill-gotten money." " I do not understand you, Kathleen ; I believe you to be perfectly honest." "And it's not me, ma'am, that's not honest. They do say such things of you, that I dare not stay longer under the same roof." "And where are you going to live, Kathleen?" " Up at the big white house yonther, with the law- yer's lady." This, in part, unravelled the mystery. Doubtless, some spiteful revenge for the ill-received visit, thought Agnes, and she merely said, " Well you may go im- mediately; your wages were paid last evening." Kathleen's great blue eyes were overflowing with tears, as she dropped a low courtesy, and said, "Fare you well, Master Alfred ; God bless your swate face, and dear kind heart !" As soon as she left the room, Alfred turned, with wondering looks, to his mother; "What does she mean, mamma?" " I cannot tell you, my child ; I did not understand the poor, foolish creature, at all." " Why did you not ask her, then, dear mamma?" " Because, my child, it was beneath me ; I have too much pride to condescend to ask an explanation of a servant. Let us now go on with our lesson." The mysterious manner in which Kathleen had spoken implied a great deal. Alfred was troubled at 250 the remembrance of it. He loved his mother tenderly ; but yet, like every one else, felt awed in her presence ; he durst not question her farther, but he made many in- quiries of Nurse Pearson, which were cautiously evaded. The child felt that something was wrong. Mrs. Fleming requested Nurse Pearson to go out and find another servant ; adding, that some mischievous person had been frightening poor Kathleen. Nurse had learnt the whole story from the girl, but feared to speak of it. It was a serious undertaking for Nurse to go among even the poorest villagers. Although she had been the dispenser of Mrs. Fleming's bounty among them, they looked frightened when she appeared, and refused, with one consent, to live with that wicked woman. It was in vain that the good \voman reasoned, ridiculed, and besought ; they applied the proverb, " Like master, like man," and dismissed her very un- ceremoniously from their doors. The only one whom she could find to fill Kathleen's place was a poor deaf and dumb girl, who had just returned to her indigent parents, from one of those benevolent institutions where the light of knowledge is poured into the minds of these unfortunate beings. Bulah, for that was her name, was duly inducted into office, although Nurse could only communicate with her by natural signs. She had a re- markably sweet and earnest face, wonderfully attractive to Alfred ; even Mrs. Fleming was won by it to treat her with uncommon gentleness. Mrs. Fleming devoted herself entirely to Alfred, and well did he repay her efforts. He was a child of un- common sensibility and fine talents. He loved her with all the ardor of his affectionate nature, and looked up to her with unbounded reverence. Having known only his PRIDE. 251 mother and Nurse Pearson, he was exceedingly shy and bashful, and Mrs. Fleming was alarmed for the conse- quences, when he should be compelled to mingle with the world. Bulah had been some months in the house, when Nurse was taken ill. The physician was called, and pronounced her, at once, in great danger. Mrs. Flem- ing nursed her with the greatest possible tenderness, for many weeks, assisted only by Bulah. She knew that there was now no hope of her recovery, yet was unwill- ing to impart the fearful tidings to her humble, faithful friend. One evening, much exhausted with fatigue, she went to her room to sleep for a few hours, that she might be prepared to watch through the night. Alfred was left, with Bulah, to sit by the sick woman. Nurse called him to her bed-side, and looked anxiously in his face. "Pearson," said he, "are you going to heaven? Bulah says she hopes you are." Poor Nurse was astonished that the dumb should tell him this. Alfred explained, that, since she had been ill, he had been often left alone with Bulah, who had taught him the finger alphabet, and many of the signs used by mutes. " She says, dear Nurse, that if you are good, you will go to that beautiful place, where Christ lives, with the holy angels." Do they think, Alfred, that I shall die soon ?" " Very soon," was the child's simple reply. There was a pause for some minutes, and then a deep groan : O, I am afraid to die !" Alfred spelt, on his little fingers, the mournful words to Bulah, who replied, "Tell her that Jesus Christ died to save sinners." 252 Alfred, in a voice of tender solemnity, repeated the words. "0, I am a poor, ignorant creature!" exclaimed the alarmed Nurse. " Who will tell me what to do ?" " But mother is not ignorant," said Alfred. " She knows every thing." "Alas! I fear she does not know the way of sal- vation." " Bulah does, though, for she learnt it in her Bible. She reads it every day, two or three times, and when I asked her what made her love it so much, she said, it taught her the way of salvation." " And has the dumb been taught to speak, and the child to understand these things, that I might not go down to the grave without warning?" " I can bring Bulah's Bible, and read to you, Nurse. Shall I ?" Nurse thanked him, and he brought the well-worn book. "What shall I read, Nurse?" "Ask Bulah." The dumb girl found the fifty-first Psalm. With a sweet, solemn voice, Alfred read those breathings of penitential woe, those earnest cries for mercy; while the deep sighs and streaming tears of the nurse attested that her heart went up to the mercy-seat with the inspired Psalmist. " And now, Nurse, Bulah says you are tired, and I must not read to you any longer ; but we will come again, and I will ask her what I shall say then. Good bye till I see you to-morrow." And, kissing Nurse's forehead, Alfred left the room. When Mrs. Fleming returned, and was seated by PRIDE. 253 Nurse Pearson, to watch with her through the long night, the poor woman fixed her eyes anxiously upon her, saying, " Do you think I shall recover?" " I hope so," was the brief reply. Nurse made no farther inquiry, but remained a long time silent, apparently engaged in fervent devotion. Mrs. Fleming then heard her faintly articulate the words, " Jesus Christ died for sinners." She arose, and, stoop- ing over her, asked if she wished for any thing. The dying woman lifted her hand, and indistinctly murmured, Tell Alfred," Heaven," Prepare," and sank into insensibility. Mrs. Fleming summoned Bulah immediately, and sent her for the physician. When he arrived, Nurse Pearson was no more. He had been very kind and attentive during her illness, and now relieved Mrs. Fleming from all care of the burial of her faithful nurse. By the advice of the physician, who observed that Alfred was painfully diffident, Mrs. Fleming urged him to mingle with some of the boys of his own age, who played upon the village green. The doctor's own son, of his age, was brought to " the widow's cottage," and they were made acquainted. Alfred's timidity gradually gave way, so that he frequently joined in their merry sports and gambols. Mrs. Fleming was one of those who never mention the dead. Alfred was told by her, with kindness, but decision, that he must never speak of Nurse Pearson more, as it was too painful to think of her now. She repeated the unconnected words, the last words of the dying woman, saying that she did not know what they meant. I know, I know," said Alfred, with joyful anima- 22 254 THE YOUNG LADY 5 S HOME. tion. She meant that she was going to heaven, and that we must all prepare to go there." " I hope so ; but we will say no more about it ; it is a very painful subject." It was a cool evening in autumn. The leaves were already rustling with every breeze, sounding like the low, melancholy requiem of the departing year, filling with solemnity the thoughtful mind, and with sadness the im- aginative. Mrs. Fleming sat by her little window, waiting for Alfred, who was at play upon the green. Gloomy thoughts oppressed her heart ; the past, so full of dark events, would intrude. She endeavored to chase away these recollections; but twilight and autumn are impor- tunate prompters to sober contemplation. In vain Ag- nes tried to summon cheerful visions of the future ; she endeavored to laugh at what she considered weakness of mind and superstition. She was startled from her reverie by the hasty approach of Alfred ; his face was bruised and scratched, his neat ruffle stained with blood, clothes covered with dust, and eyes red and swollen with crying. Mrs. Fleming, intensely alarmed, endea- vored to learn what was the matter, but in vain ; neither threatenings, entreaty, nor commands could prevail upon Alfred to give the least explanation. For the first time in his life he was guilty of an act of disobedience to his mother, and went from her, sobbing under the weight of her displeasure. While Alfred was playing with the boys upon the green, a ball was knocked by one of them against a window, and broke a pane of glass. The owner came out to inquire, and the boy who knocked the ball pointed to Alfred, saying, "It was his ball that broke your window." Alfred replied, "I did not break it, Sir, but I can pay for it." So saying, he took out a little PRIDE. 255 silk purse, and emptying the contents into the man's hand, told him to take his pay. He did so, and returned the remainder. Among the silver was a large ancient gold coin, which Mrs. Fleming had given him upon his ninth birthday, for a pocket-piece. The boy who had accused him of breaking the window was angry, as they who are in the wrong usually are, and, as soon as the man had entered the house, said to Alfred, "I won- der how you came by all that money." " My mother gave it to me," said Alfred, gently. "Well, everybody knows your mother killed your grandfather, and your father, too, and came off with all their money." " Take back that lie," said Alfred. " It is not a lie ; take that, you coward !" said the boy, giving him a blow. Alfred endeavored only to act upon the defensive, but he was much smaller than his antagonist, and was soon thrown upon the ground and severely beaten. The majority of the boys were of course with the victorious party, and as the unoffend- ing Alfred slowly dragged himself from the playground, they shouted, Don't come here showing your money again ; your mother is a proud woman ; ask her who killed Cock Robin." This was followed by a burst of laughter. When Alfred had walked some distance from them, he sat down by the side of the road, and gave vent to his wounded feelings in heart-rending sobs and burning tears. His mother, his beautiful, his learned, his per- fect mother, what could all this mean ? He remem- bered Kathleen's words; they must have meant the same thing. He bravely resolved that his injured mother should know nothing about it, whatever it might cost him ; and with that resolution he arose and went home. 256 Alfred was a changed being; the "iron had entered into his soul." He could no more be persuaded to play with the boys. Since the death of Nurse Pearson, he \vas no longer left alone with poor Bulah, although she continued faithfully to serve his mother. He would sit thoughtful and abstracted for hours, and the large tears would roll down his rosy cheeks. Mrs. Fleming had several times surprised him with his eyes sorrowfully fixed upon the portrait of his grandfather, and when he was observed he turned suddenly away. She had often spoken to him of the character of her father, and pre- sented him to Alfred's youthful mind as the model for imitation, the highest standard of excellence. He had another standard upon which he pondered. His studies no longer interested him. The suspicion at length arose, that some one had poisoned her child's mind with the calumny that she knew had for a long time been circulated in the village. The very looks of the young and the old told her that she was an object of suspicion and dislike. Instead of humbling, this exalted her in her own estimation, and a deep sense of injustice increased the misanthropy that had been creeping upon her for years. Alfred's health was rapidly failing. Mrs. Fleming entreated him to ramble abroad with her, although the weather was cold ; and with much reluctance he con- sented. If he saw any of his former companions in the street, he would persuade his mother to cross over to the other side to avoid them. He had done this several times, when one day the boy who had beaten him so un- mercifully determined he should not so escape ; he yelled, in a triumphant voice, "Coward, are you afraid I shall fight you again for telling me I lie ? Who killed your father?" Alfred grasped his mother's hand and PRIDE. 257 trembled exceedingly, but made an effort to continue conversation as if he had not observed the savage con- duct of the ruthless boy. The conflicting emotions in Mrs. Fleming's mind were terrible. Anger, contempt, astonishment, and pride raged in her bosom ; above them all, pride at length rose predominant. She had never spoken to Alfred of his father, she could not do it now. She could not endure the self- degradation of defending her conduct to her child, of denying such a horrible crime. Her step was more firm, her bearing more lofty, than ever ; the scorn that darted like lightning from her eyes, and played about her mouth, rendered her countenance absolutely fearful. Alfred, as he caught a glimpse of it, shuddered as if he had seen a serpent in his path. There was now an impassable gulf between mother and child. Alfred never cherished a momentary belief that his mother was guilty of crime. His deepest sor- row was, that she should suffer from such calumny. But then there was mystery, inscrutable mystery, and day after day he dwelt upon it ; he pondered, con- jectured, and despaired of solving it. Meantime his health was rapidly declining. Mrs. Fleming resolved to quit a place where she had met with such cruel injustice ; but before she could make arrangements for leaving, Alfred was so ill as to demand all her attention. The most skilful physician, from a distant town, was sum- moned as counsel with the kind physician of the village. The disease baffled their skill to discover its cause or remedy. Mrs. Fleming, to cheer him, painted bright pictures of future happiness in this world. She told him of his beautiful house and its splendid furniture, of the immense wealth he would inherit. He smiled a 22* 258 THE YOUNG LADY'S HOME. sweet and radiant smile, for his treasures were laid up in heaven. His affectionate Bulah was sometimes al- lowed to sit by his bedside, and with her he held high and holy communings. Mrs. Fleming had not allowed one despairing thought to cross her mind. She believed that returning spring and change of scene would restore her darling boy to perfect health. He faded as fades the young and beautiful tree, stricken at the root, its branches fair and green to the last. The rose had deepened upon his cheek, but it was the false, deluding hectic of consumption, and the brilliancy of the eyes told of the presence of that fell destroyer of the young and lovely. Subdued to the gentleness of the lamb, and taught by the Spirit of Truth to look beyond this world with a holy religious hope, to be released from such a world, so cold and cruel, was joy to Alfred, except when he thought of his desolate mother. Stern and repulsive to all but him, he was now the only being whom she loved. Once, and only once, did Alfred speak to his mother of his departure. " Do you remember, dear mamma, Nurse's last words ? ' Heaven !' < Prepare !' That heaven will soon be my home. Jesus Christ has gone before me, and I am not afraid. Dearest mother, prepare for death." He died ! His mother alone stood by his death-bed, and closed his eyes for their last sleep. ****** And there she sat, watching her dead. A gentle knock at the door was thrice repeated before it gained attention. Mrs. Fleming arose and opened it mechan- ically. It was a clergyman, a venerable man, a father in Israel. Bulah had run for him, and in her mute, but exjyessive language communicated the melancholy sit- uation of the desolate widow. He had often met Mrs. PRIDE. 259 Fleming in his walks, but, as she never was seen within the church, could not consider her as his parishioner. He had regarded her with pity, even while she remind- ed him of the words of the wise man, "Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall." He walked to the bed-side, and, leaning over that blighted flower, the large tears rolled over his venerable face. He turned, took the widow's hand, and said, "Daughter, the Lord hath touched thee." He spoke in tones of sweet, affectionate, soothing kind- ness, then, kneeling, made a touching appeal in her behalf to the God of mercy. The unwonted sounds melted the icy apathy that benumbed her soul, and Agnes wept. Few, however, were the words that the good man uttered, his own heart was too full. On parting, he commended her to the compassionate friend of the widow of Nain ; that merciful Saviour who had " broken to heal and make whole." On leaving the house the good minister went home to his wife and daughter, and pleading with them the cause of the widow, whom they, like the other villagers, had feared and avoided, persuaded them to go to her house and perform every act of kindness that her situa- tion demanded. That heart, which had exalted itself in prosperity, had enveloped itself, fold after fold, with pride at neg- lect and suspicion, had hardened under calumny and injustice, and frozen to dull apathy under the last mis- ery, now melts with penitential sorrow. The worm of the dust that had lifted up its head, saying, " I am per- fect, who shall condemn me?" exclaims with Job, " I have heard of Thee by the hearing of the ear, but now mine eye seeth Thee. Wherefore I abhor my- 260 self and repent." " The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." ****** " Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down like a flower." " Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust." " I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, Write, From henceforth, blessed are the dead which- die in the Lord. Even so, saith the Spirit ; for they rest from their labors." " The last deep prayer was said," the last green sod laid over the grave of the sainted Alfred ; and the rev- erend man took the bereaved desolate one and the poor Bulah to his own home. Agnes told him all her story. He knew the sinful- ness of the human heart, he knew the world, and believ- ed the melancholy tale. She deplored her inordinate pride. " Daughter, it was a grievous fault, and griev- ously have you answered it." "And she is sometimes happy now But yet her happiness is not Such as the buoyant heart may know, And it is blended with her lot To chasten every smile with tears, And look on life with tempered gladness, That undebased by human fears Her Hope can smile on Memory's sadness, Like sunshine on the falling rain, . < Or as the moonlight on the cloud. "Her ear is ope to sorrow's call, Her ready hand lends aid to all Who claim her love and care ; She scatters blessings like the dew, And waiteth for her summons, where The pure in heart their love renew." CHAPTER XXVI. THE CLAIMS OF SOCIETY. "I 'm weary of the crowded ball ; I 'm weary of tie mirth Which never lifts itself above the grosser things of earth ; I 'rn weary of the flatterer's tone ; its music is no more, And eye and lip may answer not its meaning as before ; I'm weary of the heartless throng, of being deemed as one Whose spirit kindles only in the blaze of fashion's sun. Away ! I will not fetter thus the spirit God hath given, Nor stoop the pinion back to earth that beareth up to Heaven." WHITTIEU. i IF a claim be made upon the purse or the real estate of any one, immediately the questions are asked, What right has the person to make this claim ? What is the extent of it ? It must be defined precisely, and estab- lished legally, before it will be allowed. " The claims of society" is a phrase that is iterated and reiterated, and everybody acknowledges that it has a great deal of meaning, excepting only the misanthrope and the an- chorite ; while it is extremely difficult to decide the extent of those claims, differing, as they do, in almost every individual case. Then what do we mean by society ? Not our own family-circle, the very heart's core, nor the next cir- cle, consisting of kindred and intimate friends, nor still the next, which may be termed the circle of benev- olence, but the outer circle, widening and still widen- ing till lost in the vanishing distance. And this, at first sight, seems terra incognita ; yet its geography and to- (261) 262 THE YOUNG LADY'S HOME. pography are tolerably well understood, although the boundary-lines are not quite settled, and remain, as did our north-eastern, the subject of contention and ani- mosity. Every town and village is thus divided into sets, determined chiefly by the station, intelligence, wealth, gentility, and fashion of their members ; and my lady-reader will doubtless think it quite superfluous to have taken all this pains to come at the simple fact, that " the claims of society" are the rightful demands of the set to which she belongs, and the strangers who may be introduced to that set. Beside general benevo- lence and good-will, she does not acknowledge any claims from other sets or coteries. In town, what are the claims of the set or circle denominated society ? Bowing in the street and at public places, making cere- monious calls, giving and attending dinner and evening parties. In the country they are much the same ; for every little village apes, to the full extent of its ability, the manners and customs of the town. It has often been said, that the character of a nation can be determined by its amusements ; by this criterion individual character can be ascertained with satisfactory precision. Custom reconciles to the greatest absurdi- ties, and even the most revolting cruelties. By way of amusement, the Roman women could watch with in- tense interest the sanguine gladiatorial exhibition, and behold the infuriated wild beast let loose upon the mis- erable captive, and tear in pieces the holy martyr. The ladies of Christian Europe, in the boasted days of chivalry, could look with joyous delight upon the tour- nament, where the gallant knight-errant was not alone exposed to hard blows, wounds, and overthrow, bitt to death itself; for the interest of the scene was of course THE CLAIMS OF SOCIETY. 263 enhanced, when, in defence of the boasted charms of their ladie-loves, the wise and valiant knights challenged each other to mortal combat. The dark-eyed daugh- ters of Spain grace with their dignified presence the horrid bull-fights ; and the fair dames of England often become as excited as the gentlemen, by the pleasures of a horse-race ; and (pardon the propinquity) the lady-squaws of the American Indians are delighted spectators of the savage war-dance. Custom must have amazing power, thus to change the very nature of \voman. If the amusements of our own country are disgraced by no such revolting features, yet there may be some, which, if custom did not cast upon them a very becom- ing light, would look absurdly grotesque, or frightfully ugly- The immoral influence of the theatre is so generally acknowledged, that it seems unnecessary to dwell upon it here. The minds of the pure and the virtuous revolt from a delineation of the crowds that enter its polluted walls, and the shocking scenes that are presented as lessons in this school of vice. Its defenders talk much of its " holding the mirror up to nature," and thus teaching morality ; the author of the phrase is guiltless of the intention, or the act of supporting, by word or works, the pseudo-morality of modern theatres. Lord Londonderry, in his visit to Russia, was much surprised at the splendor and neatness of the ladies' dresses at the court of the autocrat ; not a wrinkle nor accidental fold; they all looked fresh from the light fingers of the modiste. On inquiry, his Lordship learnt that they were all brought from Paris, the mart of fashion for the world, and that the same dress was 264 never worn twice. A lady, who had three daughters in society, told him, that their dresses each cost two hundred roubles for an evening ; the ornaments were not included. Many of the nobles are compelled to mortgage their estates to live in the style they are ex- pected to maintain. This display is for the purpose of giving imposing splendor and elegance to a court, ambitious to vie with other European courts in refine- ment and taste as \vell as magnificence. In our repub- lican country, where there is no such apology, there is, nevertheless, an universal passion for display. Are we falsely accused of it by foreigners, as the ruling passion ? " Wend ye with the world to-night ?" The elegant mansion is blazing in the full effulgence of gas-light. Its anxious mistress takes a last survey of the splendidly decorated apartments, and then a last look at herself in a mirror, before which a giantess might have arranged her paraphernalia, from top-knot to shoe-tie. The foot falls soft upon the luxurious carpet, whose flowers seem scattered fresh from Flora's munificent hand. The rich and beautiful hangings of blue damask might have been thrown by the Graces over those golden arrows ; a Sybarite would have luxuriated upon the velvet-covered divan, and a sultana have coveted the embroidered cushions for her harern-throne. Flowers, whose parent buds dipped their pure petals in the Nile, whose fragrance floated upon the breezes of Ja- pan, or were wasted upon the dull sense of the Chinese, fill the air with mingled perfume. Oranges hang amid their dark leaves in exuberant profusion, tempting to the eye, but as unsatisfying to the taste, as bitter, as the "grapes of Gomorrah," presenting to the lady THE CLAIMS OF SOCIETY. 265 of the mansion an apposite emblem. These splendid preparations were to have astonished some of her most fashionable acquaintances, who, instead of giving eclat to her brilliant assembly, have pleaded " a previous engagement," and grace a rival party in an adjoining street. The very, very persons who, of all the world, she had exerted herself most to please and to win, have deserted her in this her hour of anticipated triumph. With a heavy heart she chooses the most becoming at- titude and eligible position for the reception of those ac- cepting guests whom she felt constrained to invite, but does not feel exceedingly desirous to see. The rooms are filled, crammed like a drum of figs, the heat intolerable, dresses are crumpled and torn, or cannot be seen to any advantage. "Is it not strange the So and So's are not here ?" " Mrs. B is at home' to-night." "O, I understand. Well, there are the Flingos and the Flareups ; who would have expected to meet them here ? I declare, there is not a creature of my acquaintance in the rooms but yourself." Music and compliments. Then a push for the dan- cing-room, floor beautifully chalked, but " so small you might as well get up a set of quadrilles in a bathing- tub." A rush and a crush for tho supper-room. To the table, loaded with its splendid garniture of plate, porcelain, and glass, every clime has contributed its del- icacies, and the purple vintage from many a sunny hill supplied the sparkling and glowing wines. " Can you see any thing?" "Nothing but the top of a pyramid, which I am no more likely to reach at this moment than the pyramid of Cheops." " Pray take something." "Thank you, I never taste any thing in a party." "One grape only?" "Not for the world!" " Chick- 23 266 THE YOUNG LADY'S HOME. en-salad or lobster-salad, Sir, or do you prefer a bit of the pate de fois gras ?" Everybody has tried to see and be seen, and neither wonder nor admire, and made their most graceful conge. The sound of the last carriage has died away, and the lady of the mansion retires to her own chamber. With the aid of Asmodeus we will enter, or perhaps Mephistopheles would give more efficient aid in revealing the lady's secret communings with her own heart. " I have discharged the claims of society to their full satis- faction. How much have I promoted the happiness of our circle ? I have been the means of increasing their kindly feelings towards each other, of allaying the envy and jealousy with which they have hitherto been tormented. By discussing their plans of usefulness, they have caught new ardor from the electric spark of sym- pathy. They will be cheered by these healthsome hours of recreation for the duties of the morrow. How sweet, how refreshing, will be my conscience-satisfied sleep!" Ha! did we hear aright? Mephistopheles must have played us false ; for look at that care-worn, regretful countenance, as she lays aside her costly orna- ments before the faithful mirror ; such is not the expres- sion of " perfect peace." And you, fair reader, what are your reflections, as you rattle over the pavement on your way homeward ? " I have been amused and instructed by the conversa- tion of the evening. I was so happy to meet dear friends and pleasant acquaintances, and hold with them that kind, cordial intercourse, that makes the heart glow with benevolence and complacency. How extremely kind it was for Mrs. to bring her friends together for an evening of unalloyed enjoyment, at such an ex- THE CLAIMS OF SOCIETY. 267 pense of time and money ! What fine taste and generous hospitality ! How perfectly well she can afford it ! How invigorating to body and mind is the healthful exer- cise of the dancing-room ! How cheerfully shall I lay my head upon my pillow, with this delightful conscious- ness of a well-spent evening!" Has Mephistopheles played us false again ? The question is not, whether large parties are morally wrong. It would require a nice casuist to decide that to be wrong for two hundred, which is not wrong for twenty. We would merely inquire, whether parties, large or small, usually effect the object for which they are, or ought to be, designed ; namely, to promote cheerfulness, social feeling, intelligence, kindness, and healthful recreation. Wearied with the racking toil of business, or the wear and tear of a profession, or the discord of politi- cal life, or the intense application of the scholar, men need, occasionally, a rarer atmosphere for the lighter play of thought ; a fresh field, where mind may be di- verted awhile from those deep-worn channels through which it rushes so impetuously. They seek it in the society of " the gentler sex," where the weightier mat- ters of life are not to be brought upon the carpet. Thus seeking refreshment and renewal of strength, they re- quire subjects for conversation in society not altogether destitute of material for intellectual exercise ; and in their companions, something better than dull inanity or flippant insipidity. Another advantage which they ought to expect from female society is, that the harsher fea- tures of their characters, and the ruggedness of their tempers, may be softened ; it is neutral ground, where rival politicians may dismiss those bitter feelings and that violent animosity too often engendered by party strife, where the money-making may forget their worldliness, and the unsuccessful their disappointments. Every American woman should be familiarly ac- quainted with the history of her own country, its consti- tution and form of government. She should know that the stability and permanency of a republic depends upon the intellectual, moral, and religious character of the people; upon this broad principle she must act, and endeavor to induce everybody to act, over whom she exercises influence. To enter as a fiery partisan into the contentions of political opponents is unbecoming the delicacy and dignity of female character. Men talk much of a conservative principle. We trust we shall not be accused of presumptuousness if we name one : A high moral and intellectual character in the women of our country, that shall make them true patriots, preserv- ing a consistent neutrality, and exerting their influence for the good of the whole. Leaving government, and all its multifarious concerns, to those to whom the all- wise Creator has delegated authority, let us be content with that influence which is "pure, peaceful, gentle, without partiality, and without hypocrisy." Let not a meddlesome spirit, in matters that do not concern you, mar the pleasures of social intercourse. Must they, who fly to your society for relief from the jarrings of men, be teased with the perpetual din ? Has the miasma of politics infected the whole moral atmo- sphere ? Is there no elevated ground, where they can breathe a purer air, and escape for a while into a serene and tranquil region ? We remember, some time since, hearing a gentleman say of a great statesman, who was his intimate friend, that, in the society of an amiable and THE CLAIMS OF SOCIETY. 269 interesting young lady whom he admired, " he was like a great mountain by the side of a little flower, and forgot that he was a mountain." A man possessing political influence is sometimes, in society, beset by a swarm of female philanthropists, urging their claims, or, as they call them, the claims of humanity, of benevolence, &c. " Now, Sir, you can- not refuse me that slight favor." "Do vote, for my sake, on my side; I shall be superlatively grateful." What is a gallant man to do? If he drive off this swarm, like the fox in the fable, another more clamorous may succeed, until he is robbed of every drop of enjoy- ment in society. And is it certain that every politician has principle enough to withstand these fair petitioners, when they urge him contrary to his own better judg- ment? A sage and potent Senator, one of the most polite and elegant men in the world, once confessed that he left the Senate-chamber, when a vote was taken on a question in which a splendid woman of his acquaintance was deeply interested, because he could not vote against her while her dark eyes were fixed upon him from the gallery. True, it was a question of no great importance to the welfare of the country, and involved no party in- terests ; but his opinion and his- vote were sacrificed to his chivalrous gallantry. These female politicians, among themselves, in the heat of debate, become as furious, and almost as noisy, as a throng of sailors brought up to the ballot-box ; the spectator almost fears that they will come to pulling caps, or some other pugnacious demonstration of ire. If ad vised to leave an arena where the fiercer passions are thus excited, they will, peradventure, accuse the adviser of tameness of spirit, want of intellectual power, or of a 23* 270 THE YOUNG LADY*S HOME. just appreciation of the rights of woman* Happily, the great majority of the women of our country, in spite of female demagogues, still appreciate the right to move in the calm, sequestered sphere which Heaven in mercy or- dained for them, far removed from the heated, murky atmosphere of politics. Beware of those who would tempt you from this sphere, as Satan tempted Eve from Eden. Do they not say to you, that you occupy an humble, subordinate degraded station ? That man de- nies you equality of rights, "Why, but to awe? Why, but to keep ye low and ignorant, His worshippers?" Hapless, deluded Eve, when she had fallen into irreme- diable ruin by these wiles, began to plume herself upon the attainment of Jier rights, and to reason upon the propriety of keeping to herself the " odds of knowledge in her power, without a partner!" "And perhaps A thing not undesirable some time Superior ; for, inferior, who is free ?" Mother of mankind ! Adam's fervent advice to thee may still apply to thine erring daughters : "0 woman, best are all things as the will Of God ordained them ; his creating hand Nothing imperfect or deficient left Of all that he created ; much less man, Or aught that might his happy state secure, Secure from outward force ; within himself The danger lies, yet lies within his power ; Against his will he can receive no harm. But God left free the will ; for what obeys Reason is free; and reason be made right, But bid her well beware, and still erect; Lest, by some fair-appearing good surprised, She dictate false, and misinform the will To do what God expressly hath forbid. THE CLAIMS OF SOCIETY. 271 Not then mistrust, but tender love, enjoins, That I should mind thee oft; and mind mou me. Seek not temptation then, which to avoid Were better. Wouldst thou approve thy constancy, approve First thy obedience. For God towards thee hath done his part; do thine." If some men seek society for relaxation from, severe mental application, there are others who consider it as only one mode of that amusement, which is the occupa- tion of their lives. These prefer that frivolity and non- sense should reign with undisputed sway in ladies' soci- ety. That in the giddy whirl, not only sober thought, but the very semblance of thought, should be annihi- lated. They are contented with the whip, and care not for the cream, of conversation, which, in conscience, is light enough ; and it must be confessed, that many young ladies show a very accommodating spirit in yielding to their taste. Because pedantry is odious, and blues are voted ri- diculous, there is no reason why modest learning and real intelligence should be proscribed. Women often mingle in society, to escape for a while from petty cares, and merely mechanical employments, which would oth- erwise be so monopolizing, that by constant devotion to them they would be rendered selfish and narrow-minded. After giving up their studies, when school-education is completed, they have but little leisure for gaining know- ledge, while men of education find no resting-place. It is too late in the day to revive the time-worn, hackneyed dispute about the mental equality of the .sexes ; let it rest in the tomb of the Capulets. In mixed society, they may meet on terms of equality ; they do not come together to make invidious comparisons; they expect 272 no admirable Crichton, nor astonishing Maria Agnesi, to contend for an intellectual prize, to be borne off in tri- umph. But neither should the ultra-refinement of society de- stroy that individuality of character which gives zest to human life. It is this refining and polishing process, reducifig all natures to a seeming resemblance to a fash- ionable standard, that renders society dull, vapid, and unprofitable. The whole works of creation may, by some peculiar characteristics, be ranked in classes ; yet no two of any species are in all respects similar. So it is with the lords of all created things, upon this well ordered earth; there are peculiarities and associations of qualities, which mark the individual character of each human being. He who comes to the warfare of life armed by his own suspicious nature against all deceit will never be thrown off his guard ; whilst the confiding and unsuspecting, though experience may have obliged them to don the armor of prudence, will still leave crev- ices through which the arrows of the designing may pierce to the very heart. Upon the thorn-bush blos- soms the rose in its native simplicity ; cultivation may vary its size and beauty, ad infinitum^ but still it is a rose ; the dahlia by its side may rival it in brilliancy, but not in delicate texture and delicious perfume. Thus modest sensibility and warmth of heart may stand in so- ciety side by side with keen wit and sparkling vivaci- ty. The collision of different characters will bring out difference of opinion, without destroying the harmony of society. Here, as in the economy of the material universe, there is a centripetal and centrifugal force. The man of cool temperament checks his passionate friend ; the charitable repairs the evil done by the cen- THE CLAIMS OF SOCIETY. 273 sorious ; the timid and diffident .are encouraged by the bold and daring; the man of persevering common sense puts into execution the plans devised by the less patient man of genius. Each should avoid the affectation of characteristics which he does not. possess. As the coun- teracting muscles of the arm, by acting different ways, perfect their usefulness, so these varieties of character give energy and power to society. If all go into society, as to a mental masquerade, where each is acting a studied part, how much both of utility and pleasure must be lost ! We should lose the agreeable surprise arising from the discovery of a vein of golden ore, where we had only seen common clay ; of striking out a latent spark of genius, which seclusion had hidden even from its possessor ; of seeing the warm tear of benevolence in the earnest eye of one deemed cold and calculating. No man's self-love would permit him to view his exact counterpart with good feelings ; for though we love to see our opinions reflected by our friends, who could bear to be mirrored forth by thou- sands to whom he was indifferent ? Preserving, then, that individuality of character which gives delightful variety to society, all should bring to it affability, good-sense, good taste, and kind feeling. The literature of the day, improvement in the arts, discoveries in science, the important events that are tak- ing place in the world, the efforts being made for the dif- fusion of knowledge and religion, these, and a thou- sand other interesting topics, men might talk about in the society of ladies, without lowering their own minds, or elevating beyond their capacity those of their auditors, or rather colloquists ; for it is assumed, that here they meet on terms of perfect equality. If it be said, that by 274 courtesy it is left for the ladies to take the lead, then they are to blame if they find no higher themes for en- tertainment than fashions, beauty ,*dress, manners, flat- tery, and scandal. Making large allowance for their fondness for these topics, candor must acknowledge, that modesty in many instances, and the fear of ridicule in others, deter them from bringing forward other less trifling subjects, in which they are deeply interested. Cicero says of silence, " There is not only an art, but an elo- quence in it" ; let then your silence be eloquent, when- ever frivolous or unsuitable subjects are introduced ; it is often the only delicate way in which you can manifest disapprobation. Acknowledging that society has claims, and that you are to maintain kind and friendly relations with the circle to which you belong ; yet neither these claims, nor your love of display, nor your fondness for amusement, should lead you to the sacrifice of personal happiness and of principle. The frequent demands upon the purse, from young ladies who wish to make a splendid appearance in society, are often reluctantly answered by the purse-bearer, and should, if justice were heeded, not seldom, be denied. While debts are unpaid, and the hire of the laborer is withheld, conscience should not let any one remain at ease and self-satisfied in magnificent apparel. The old fable of the daw in peacock's feathers might, in such a case, be admirably exemplified, were the milliner, man- tua-maker, and jeweller each to claim their own share of a fashionable belle's gay adornings. And the fine horses and splendid equipage, which a fond father, to gratify a daughter's pride, has raised by the magic wand of credit, might, if touched by the sword of justice, be THE CLAIMS OF SOCIETY. 275 transformed like Cinderella's, into rags, mice, and a pumpkin-shell. It is urged in defence of the luxuries of the rich, that they are the support of the poor. Some political economists deny this. Be that as it may, no one can deny that the extravagancy of the reputed rich greatly increases the misery and sufferings of the poor. The pale sempstress or mantuamaker, who has toiled all day for you, goes, perhaps, like Kate Nickleby, to the home of indigence and sorrow unpaid, to weep over the woes she cannot relieve by her untiring industry ; while you, fair reader, array yourself, with a light heart and gay smile, in that dress which her skill has wrought into its graceful elegance. Could you wear it cheerfully, if you knew her to be suffering for the reward of her labor ? Certainly not ; yet you, and thousands of others, forget that every dollar is usually wanted immediately, by those who thus earn their daily subsistence. It may be said in self-defence, that a young lady sel- dom knows the extent of her father's pecuniary resources. That may be ; yet, if she receive a regular allowance, she can be certain that no one suffers directly through her ; and if not, she should never employ work-women without knowing positively, beforehand, that she can pay them as soon as their work is done. Justice should be satisfied before pride. Benevolence must not be set aside for more vociferous but less worthy claimants. Vanity may sometimes De denied an additional flower or feather without disparage- ment ; fashion be boldly confronted, in a dress un pen passe, worn for charity's sake ; and pleasure's frown need not be dreaded, if, instead of wreathing her roses around your own brow, you sometimes extract from them the balm of consolation. X 276 THE YOUNG LADY'S HOME. Does society claim an exorbitant share of time? This sacrifice is often yielded as if demanded by that " necessity that knows no law." The hours spent in society are but a small proportion of the time thus yielded ; previous preparation for these hours makes a far more exorbitant demand. Tasteful embroidery and fine needlework afford pleasant occupation to young ladies ; but when employed solely for the decoration of the person, they may be treacherous monopolizers. One young lady has been known to spend two months upon the trimming to a ball-dress ; and another, a half year upon an embroidered satin dress. Patient, persevering industry, which, applied to better purposes than the gra- tification of vanity and selfishness, would deserve high encomium; and, perhaps, after all this pains-taking, society would have been as well pleased without the trim- ming and embroidery. The choice of a dress for a single evening often costs many hours of meditation, and distracting doubts between rival colors, many more. The toilet demands much time ; to all these, add the time spent abroad in shopping, and the time in society, they make up a large amount, leaving but a meagre modicum for home and its duties. Fashionable morning visits. Who has not uttered her testimony against them as time-stealers, and stupid ones, too ? yet who would say, they can be entirely dispensed with ? Not she who hopes during her round of visits to leave more cards than viva voce compliments ; nor even she who would gladly make more cordial and less un- meaning visits. Do you sacrifice health to the claims of society? We have, in a former chapter, alluded to the danger of exposure after standing or dancing for hours in heated THE CLAIMS OF SOCIETY 277 rooms. If all the young and lovely who have thus been hurried to their graves could be summoned to bear tes- timony to those who still expose themselves in this man- ner, the cloud of witnesses would strike terror and dis- may to many a gay and thoughtless heart. Dancing may be a healthsome and delightful exercise at home, or where there is ample verge and pure free air ; but in the cramped confines of the drawing-room and the crowded ball-room, where the exhausted atmosphere renders respiration difficult and laborious, such exercise cannot be beneficial. No wonder the Chinese, on seeing the efforts of English gentlemen and ladies under these cir- cumstances, exclaimed with exultation, " We hire our dancing done in China." Late hours at night, continued for a length of time, give a sallowness to the complexion, indicating that health is on the wane. The restorative virtues of morn- ing air seldom lend their aid to freshen the departing bloom ; the fatigue and exhaustion of a night of gayety are frequent preludes to a morning headache and a train of attendant evil sprites. " Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul, In each fine sense so exquisitely keen, On the dull couch of luxury to loll, Stung with disease, and stupefied with spleen? "0, how canst thou renounce the boundless store Of charms which Nature to her votary yields! The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields ; All that the genial ray of morning gilds, And all that echoes to the song of even, All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, And all the dread magnificence of Heaven ! O, how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven?" And cheerfulness, too ; are not her smiles often sacri- 24 278 THE YOUNG LADY S HOME. ficed ? The sadness arising from physical suffering is not the only sadness induced by devotion to the claims of society. Disappointment and disgust often take the place of anticipated enjoyment ; " The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy !" Some imprudent word uttered, some unintentional se- verity, or some supercilious slight, frequently embitters the recollection of an evening. There is, too, a heart- lessness, a coldness, in society, that chills the ardor of a warm, ingenuous nature, and sends back the current of kindness, until it is finally frozen to apathy. The severe scrutiny and unsparing criticism bestowed upon a novice are often painfully endured ; blushing at the conscious- ness of her own awkwardness, and vexed to be thus sub- jected to ill-natured remark, she might exclaim, with one of Miss More's pastoral damsels in the " Search after Happiness," " Are these the beings called polite ? Is this the world of which we want a sight ?" Domestic happiness is sometimes sacrificed. A happy fireside is forsaken for the mingled crowd. Sacrifice as it is, it must sometimes be made ; but not too frequently, lest the taste should become vitiated, and the quiet enjoyment of home no longer be yours. Habits thus formed will not readily yield to a new situation and new circumstances. Woe to the man whose wife is thoroughly imbued with the spirit of party-going and party-giving! His house can scarcely be called his own ; in it, he is a mere movable, that must submit, like other furniture, to be tossed to and fro, for the accommodation of so- ciety. This extreme fondness for display at home and abroad in gay wives, this entire want of home-feeling THE CLAIMS OF SOCIETY. 279 and quiet contentment, have driven a fearful number of husbands to the theatre and the gambling-table, to dis- sipation and ruin. When the winter campaign is finished, travelling and watering-places take all the world of fashion from home. The sacrifice of comfort here is immense. Alas for our country, her old-fashioned firesides, her rural pleas- ures, her comfortable homes ! If those families who are forced during the summer months to leave town, or an unwholesome climate, would but expend the same amount of money now spent in travelling, year after year, upon the purchase of a neat country-house, with a few surrounding acres, how greatly would their com- fort and usefulness be increased ! It delights the imagi- nation to revel amid the quiet little Edens that might thus be created by the hand of taste in every " bosky dell," and by the side of the wide clear rivers of our beautiful country. A taste for horticulture and the planting of trees, among the gentlemen, would har- monize with the ladies' taste for flowers, grottoes, and fountains. We are not so Utopian in our day-dreams, as to believe this would quite bring back the Golden Age ; but we do believe that the sterling worth and domestic enjoyment of the men and women of other days would be renewed, and our country, already old in luxury and vice, be rejuvenated. And the claims of society ! how would they be thus answered ? Much better than they now are by the itinerating mania that has seized all ranks. Those families, whose places of residence are permanently in the country, would be better contented to remain there, if citizens and stran- gers were half the year their neighbours. Social inter course between them might be placed upon a rational 280 THE YOUNG LADY J S HOME. and agreeable footing ; but it is quite preposterous thus to speculate upon what might be if, and if, and he who dares to attack the usages of society may chance to meet with as cordial a reception as Spenser's man, Talus, who went about the world with his iron flail. And is there no sacrifice of principle ever made to keep on good terms with society? Do you never meet there the dissipated, the vicious, from whom your whole soul revolts ? But you say, even these must not be given up entirely. Certainly not, if you can do them any good. The influence exerted upon them by ladies' society should be a strong, decided moral influence. Yet how can this be if you may not show, even by a look, that you disapprove of their characters ? Until society has a sanative power through your instrumentality, it will not retard their progress in dissipation. A fearful respon- sibility thus devolves upon ladies who are leaders in society. If things good and holy are allowed to be ridi- culed there ; if the parsons, the righteous , the sanctimonious, as the ministers of religion and its professors are jeer- ingly termed, are made the target for their light missiles ; if they are allowed to look upon the wine when it is red," and quaff it while it sparkles, unreproved, until reason vanishes and folly reigns, what happy influence do you exert ? You lend the most powerful aid in accel- erating their downward course. But it need not be, and it is not always thus. We hope and believe better things of you, kind readers, in this day of more enlightened morality and quickened sensibility. Be it your noble privilege to elevate still higher the standard of morals. God grant you a clear perception of what is due to society, and the power to benefit it, without the sacrifice of economy, time, health, cheerfulness, domestic happiness, and religious principles ! CHAPTER XXVII. READING THE SACRED SCRIPTURES. " We mourn not that prophetic skill Is found on earth no more ; Enough for us to trace thy will In Scriptures' sacred lore." HEBER. OF all knowledge, the most important to man is that which unaided reason seeks in vain, and philosophy, in her boldest flights, could never reach, the knowledge of the character of the Supreme Being, and our rela- tions to him. Without divine revelation, not a ray of light illumines the past or gilds the dark future ; man stands alone, a mournful mystery to himself; but, bless- ed be God! in the moral, as in the natural world, he saidj Let there be light, and there was light." The Old Testament reveals the Creator, his wis- dom and goodness in calling forth from chaos this beau- tiful world, and furnishing it with magnificent richness for a habitation for man, the creation of man in the image of his Maker, his departure from the law of holiness, and the direful consequences of his guilt ; pro- claims pardon to the penitent, and restoration to the Divine favor through a Redeemer. It tells of the fear- ful increase of sin and horrible depravity, by a mon- strous race polluting the earth, until at length the right- eous judgment of God swept them from the face of it by an universal deluge ; while praise for saving mercy as- 24* C 281 ) 282 cends from one only family, who float securely upon the world of waters. It proclaims a covenant between God and one whom he condescends to style his friend, and his special love and favor to his descendants, to whom he promulgates the moral law ; confirming by mira- cles, his authority, and by prophets keeping alive from generation to generation the hope of that Saviour " in whom all the families of the earth should be blessed." Through its sacred pages are profusely scattered the sweetest, purest strains of poetic fancy, and the sub- limest effusions of heaven-born eloquence. Its imper- ishable literature has inspired the noblest efforts of human genius. What other book contains such aston- ishing, such inexhaustible materials for thought and investigation ? Bring to it all the treasures of know- ledge to aid in its explanation and illustration. Profane history, ancient and modern, will throw light upon the prophecies, Eastern travels offer striking illustrations from existing customs and manners, and delineate Scrip- ture geography with satisfactory precision. Search and compare Scripture with Scripture. Where there is ob- scurity that you cannot penetrate, resort to critical commentators, and where there are difficulties that you cannot solve, have recourse to the pious and the learn- ed ; but at the same time use the reason which God has given you for this noble purpose, the deep, daily study of his Holy Word. The New Testament is the authentic record of the long promised Redeemer's miraculous birth and spot- less life ; his death, resurrection, and ascension to heaven ; the efforts of the witnesses of these events to make them known to the world, and the success of their labors ; their letters to the converts to Christianity, READING THE SACRED SCRIPTURES. 283 explaining its doctrines and enforcing its duties ; ending with a sublime apocalypse of the thrilling scenes that shall precede the dissolution of the world, the terrors of the judgment-day, and a heart-cheering vision of the mansions of blessedness. We should each know for ourselves, the evidences on which belief in these stupendous truths is founded. It is not designed to enter here at length into the evi- dences of Christianity. Chalmers, Erskine, and Paley, on this subject, are earnestly recommended to your seri- ous and attentive perusal. The New Testament depends upon the evidence of testimony and internal evidence, or its adaptation to the wants and condition of man. Upon the strength of the first argument, our belief mainly rests. The writers of the New Testament, were they intelligent, honest, and true witnesses ? They were plain, sensible men, who had no other motive in writing, but to make known truths which would expose them to contempt, persecution, and death, in obedience to the command of their crucified Master ; they exhib- ited their authority as Christ's witnesses by working mira- cles, which were seen and known by thousands of their fellow-men, in full possession of their senses and their reason. The knowledge of these events has been trans- mitted to the present time, in the same way that other historical truths have been ; namely, by written testi- mony. No one ever doubted that there was such a man as Alexander the Great, or that he had such a friend as Parmenio, or that he conquered the Persian monarch, Darius. We believe these things as firmly as if they had occurred in some distant land, in our own day; the length of time that has elapsed does not invalidate the 284 testimony of the historian. No history in the world is so well supported by testimony as the history of Jesus Christ. A number of eye-witnesses have given their separate but concordant narrations of the same events, and the severe scrutiny that has been exercised upon them has only laid open the immovable basis upon which they rest. These brief hints have been given, merely to lead your minds to a thorough investigation of this subject. The second argument, namely, whether the truths re- vealed are adapted to the condition of man comes home to every heart. Look into your own ; are its yearnings after happiness satisfied with any thing that earth affords ? What shall purify and elevate its affections? What moral power do you possess to escape from wretched- ness ? What human philosophy will afford consolation in death, and hope of a blissful immortality? The Bible ! The Bible alone reveals the mystery of man's being, his fallen, sinful state, and the means of restora- tion ; points out the path of duty, and opens wide the golden gates of immortality. The Bible, then, my young friends, must be your text-book of duty, your guide in self-education. But you must come to the reading of it with one petition, uttered with the earnest- ness of the last cry of a drowning man : "God be merciful to me a sinner!" "You must flee to it as the only refuge of the lost, as well as the only remedy of the unholy." Then, the same Spirit which inspired " holy men of old" to write its solemn truths will ren- der it to you "a pillar of fire by day and a pillar of cloud by night," to guide you through life's wilderness to the promised land. In this age of sectarianism and heresy, cling closely READING THE SACRED SCRIPTURES. 285 to the Bible. Consider it more honorable than any sec- tarian appellation to be called "a Bible Christian." In the stillness and solitude of evening, before you throw yourself upon the protecting care of Divine Lbve, read its glorious promises. By the rosy light of morn- ing, study its holy precepts, to regulate your thoughts, animate your love, and fortify your heart against tempta- tion. Imbibe its principles, so that they shall run through the whole tenor of your conduct, form the very warp upon which your life is woven. You need not fear that you will become too well acquainted with the blessed book. To adopt the eloquent language of another, "If all the minds now on earth could be concentrated into one, and that one applied the whole of its stupendous energies to the study of this si|^gle book, it would never apprehend its doctrines in all their divine purity ; its promises in their overpowering fulness ; its precepts in their searching extent ; even that glorious mind, sufficient to exhaust the universe, would onlj dis- cover that the Scriptures were inexhaustible." CHAPTER XXVIII. THE STANDARD OF CHRISTIAN CHARACTER. "At kind distance still Perfection stands, like happiness, To tempt eternal chase." WHEN Corregio first saw the paintings of Raphael, his heart throbbed with exultation, and he exclaimed, "I, too, am a painter!" An artist of our own country was once standing with folded arms, gazing with intense delight up5n a beautiful picture ; the question was asked, "Do you ever expect to equal that?" He turned quickly, his dark eye flashing with the enthusiasm of genius, and replied, " My aim is perfection." Would such an one be daunted by the ridicule of those who have no taste for his art, or his ardor cooled by the sober advice of the utilitarian, who declares it to be a most unprofita- ble employment ? They no more retard his progress, than the " dewy cobwebs on the morning grass" retard the journey of the early traveller. The painter's ardor, his devotedness, his perseverance, call forth unbounded praise from all lovers of the art ; they know that such concentration of power, such unity of purpose, will pro- duce surpassing excellence. All the world acknowledge that " it is good to be zealously affected in a good cause," excepting only the best of all causes, the cause of religion. Among those who are professedly Christians, the di- (286) THE STANDARD OF CHRISTIAN CHARACTER. 287 versity of character is immense. The heart may be right, where there are errors in judgment, and the under- standing may be enlightened and convinced, while the heart remains untouched. It is, nevertheless, to this cloud of witnesses" that the young look for example. The poetical religionist, admires the beauty and the thrilling grandeur of many parts of the Bible. Its won- derful truths exercise the intellect, and give unbounded scope to the imagination. His taste is charmed with the bold rhetorical figures, and the beautiful imagery with which it abounds. He is not insensible, perhaps, to the noble examples of moral sublimity there exhibited. He admires, too, the splendid actions of illustrious men of every age and country, "the lofty deeds and daring high" of the patriot, the philanthropy of a Howard or a Wilberforce, the dauntless courage of a Luther and a Knox, but with the same kind of admiration that might be bestowed upon equal energy and intellec- tual power directed to entirely different purposes. It is the admiration of greatness of character, of a gran- deur and power which belong, in a superior degree, to Milton's Satan and Goethe's Mephistopheles. It is possible he may sometimes admire what is called the beauty of virtue, but it is not "the beauty of holiness." To him there is nothing picturesque, nothing interesting, in the daily life of the serious, humble, unobtrusive Christian ; nothing to excite the imagination, or charm the overwrought feelings, in such an one's self-denying duties. If such a Christian, however, were brought to the stake, and endured, with unyielding fortitude, the agonies of martyrdom, then he would become worthy of admiration. Or it is possible that the magnanimity or the moral courage of a Christian might strike the poet- 288 THE YOUNG LADY 5 S HOME. ical religionist with awe, as Milton's Satan, at the grave rebuke of the cherub Zephon, struck with his angel countenance, " severe in youthful beauty," "Felt how awful goodness is, and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely." Rousseau could admire the beauty and moral grandeur of Christianity, and could even pen an eloquent enco- mium upon that Saviour whose divinity he denied, and whose precepts he daringly violated. He says, " The majesty of the Scriptures strikes me with astonishment, and the sanctity of the gospel addresses itself to my heart. Look at the volumes of the philosophers ; with all their pomp, how contemptible do they appear in comparison to this ! Is it possible that a book, at once so simple and so sublime, can be the work of man ? Can he, who him- self is the subject of its history, be a mere man ? Was his the tone of an enthusiast, or an ambitious sectary ? What sweetness ! What purity in his manners ! What an affecting gracefulness in his instructions ! What sublimity in his maxims ! What profound wisdom in his discourses ! What presence of mind ! What sagacity and propriety in his answers ! How great the command over his passions ! Where is the man, where the phi- losopher, who could so live, suffer, and die, without weakness and without ostentation ?" Madame de Stael, in her works, discovers the same admiration, the same enthusiasm, for the grand and the beautiful in religion, while it is not uncharitable to be- lieve that she never felt its power. The worshipper of nature may be called a poetical religionist, and even the glorious achievements of art call forth, in such a mind, similar emotion. But this is not religion, unless adoring love of the Creator mingle THE STANDARD OF CHRISTIAN CHARACTER. 289 with admiration of his works. Another gifted being, whose whole life was a practical demonstration of his impiety, could worship nature with enthusiast zeal. "The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains. Beautiful! I linger yet with Nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man ; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learned the language of another world. I do remember me, that in my youth, When I was wandering upon such a night I stood within the Coliseum's walls 'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome. "And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon All this, and cast a wide and tender light, Which softened down the hoar austerity Of rugged desolation, and filled up As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries ; Leaving that beautiful which still was so, And making that which was not, till the place Became religion, and the heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old." To the young, such a religion often appears like an angel of light, while true religion robed in the garb of humility with the tears of penitence upon her cheek, meekly bearing the cross, and trampling under foot the glittering gold and dazzling gauds of earth, has no " comeliness," and is " despised and rejected." Nearly allied to the poetical, is the sentimental re- ligionist. Sentimentalism, on any subject, is to be dep- recated ; but where it is substituted for genuine Chris- tian sensibility, it is deplorable. A young lady may be melted to tears by the eloquence of a favorite preacher. Music has the same effect. The sorrows and sufferings of her fellow-beings call forth sighs innumerable, and touching expressions of sympathy and commiseration ; 25 290 but her fee-ings are too delicate, her sensibility too exqui- site, to allow her to come in contact with actual misery. The luxury of emotion in which she indulges is not willingly exchanged for the performance of the ordinary duties of life. It is nunlike and saintlike to look pen- sive, and have the eyes surcharged with unshed tears ; but are they caused by broken-heartedness for sin ? Does she not more frequently weep over the weakness and degradation of human nature than over its sinfulness ? The purity, the loveliness, of religion, she can eloquent- ly describe, while, perhaps, the warfare within, and that spirituality that this religion requires, are utterly incom- prehensible. By this morbid sensibility, the tone of re- ligious character is destroyed. It softens, but it also enervates and saddens; it " imparts poison in an odor; slays with a jewelled scimitar." "An ardent spirit dwells with Christian love, The eagle's vigor in the pitying dove 'T is not enough that we with sorrow sigh, That we the wants of pleading man supply, That we in sympathy with sufferers feel, Nor bear a grief without a wish to heal; Not these suffice ; to sickness, pain, and woe, The Christian spirit loves with aid to go, Will not be sought, waits not for want to plead, But seeks the duty, nay, prevents the need, Her utmost aid to every ill applies, And plans relief for coming miseries." Unlike the poetical and the sentimental, the harsh, severe religionist holds no communion with nature. He fears to look upon the beauties profusely showered upon field and forest, mountain and vale. He seldom lifts his eyes to " the moon walking in brightness," or yields to "the sweet influences of the Pleiades," lest his admira- tion of the heavenly host should touch that sensibility THE STANDARD OF CHRISTIAN CHARACTER. 291 which he thinks it duty to repress. He forgets that the same hand which wrote the law amid the thunders of Sinai lighted up those glorious orbs, and tinted with its beautiful hues even the delicate flower that he tramples beneath his feet. When this magnificent world was fin- ished, the Almighty Creator pronounced it " very good,' 7 and in his holy word calls upon all men to " praise his wondrous works." Moses, David, Solomon, and the prophets looked upon nature with a loving and poetic eye, and found types of things spiritual in things mate- rial. Our blessed Saviour himself drew his similes and illustrations from the natural objects around him, and a garden was his chosen place for retirement and holy meditation. The Christian of cultivated mind and refined taste may have a keen and delicate perception of beauty in all its infinite variety. " He looks with admiration on the fair, the rich, the magnificent, in architecture ; on the master-sketch, the coloring, the light and shade, of the painter ; on the transforming power and decorative taste of the sculptor. He gazes with a child's rejoicing on the bud and the blossom, on the flower and the leaf; on the gaudy butterfly, the glittering scales of the fish, and the dazzling plumage of the bird. He gazes with a poet's feeling, if not with a poet's eye, on the cheer- ful landscape of morning, and the pensive scenery of evening, on the beauty and serenity of the lake and the woodland. He gazes with a religious awe upon the deep silence of the heavens, and the calm majesty of the ocean, on the gloom of the forest, on the fury of the storm, on the savage rush of the cataract, and the solemn grandeur of the mountain." But not alone in the magnificence of nature does the Christian rejoice; 292 THE YOUNG LAD\ 's HOME. the Almighty Creator has flung abroad over the wide earth tokens of his wisdom and goodness, which cause the pious heart to glow with admiration and love. This is beautifully exemplified in a simple description of a passage around a dangerous precipice, written for a juvenile magazine. The traveller says : The river in the valley below seemed, in the distance, like a white silken thread ; and the bare, barren, perpendicular rock was frightful to behold. < Be steady,' said the guide who went before me, < and keep your eye on the rock. 7 I went on, scarcely daring to draw my breath, grasping with my hands every projection that I could lay hold of, for the shelf on which we stood was only a few inches wide. I asked the guide if we had almost passed the danger, but he was silent as the grave ; not a word es- caped him. A slip, a false step, a breath of air, would almost have been sufficient to have plunged me headlong down the fearful steep. Now and then our feet displaced the small, loose pieces of granite which lay on the ledge we stood upon ; they fell over, but we never heard them strike against the rock, it was so perpendicular. I felt that my life was held in a balance, and that none but the High and Holy One could preserve me. At last we came to a spot where the path was much broader, so that we could all stand comfortably upon it ; and here we paused a minute, that I might recover a little from the fear I had endured. In this place I observed a small, beautiful, dazzling blossom, on a plant which grew from a crevice in the rock. It was a lovely little flower, and gave me wondrous comfort, for it told me that God was on the edge of the precipice with us. The flower was his divine workmanship ; so I plucked it and placed it in my bosom. THE STANDARD OF CHRISTIAN CHARACTER. 293 "In that eventful hour My heart had failed with fear: But, gazing on the lovely flower, I felt that God was near." This deep consciousness of the benevolence of the Supreme Being renders the beautiful in his works ever emblematic of himself. Henry Martyn could rejoice in his Almighty perfections, even when "a single leaf" was the only visible type ; and the world of beauty, that lies beyond the ken of unaided sight, revealed by the microscope, fills the mind of the pious contemplatist with adoring wonder. Earth sends up her perpetual hymn of praise to the Creator, and dull and gross must be that heart in which there is no response. Strong, earnest faith in the invisible will not degrade things vis- ible ; to those who " dwell in the house of the Lord to behold the beauty of the Lord and to inquire in his tem~- ple" a single dew-drop may be a memento of his wis- dom, benevolence, arid mercy. Of another class of religionists, whom Miss More calls " the phraseologists," she says : "These are as- siduous hearers, but indifferent doers ; very valiant talk- ers for the truth, but remiss workers. They are more addicted to hear sermons, than to profit by them. They always exhibit in their conversation the idiom of a party, and are apt to suspect the sincerity of those whose higher breeding and more correct habits discover a bet- ter taste. The language of these technical Christians indisposes persons of refinement, who have not had the advantage of seeing religion under a more engaging form, to serious piety, by leading them to make a most unjust association between religion and bad taste. With them, words are not only the signs of things, but things them- selves." 25* 294 These " phraseologists " would have all Christians, however differing in natural, individual character, come under their flattening machine. The sanguine must be- come phlegmatic, the cheerful must wear a sad counte- nance, the impulsive must never act without cold calcula- tion, the young must have the sobriety of the aged, and the heart beating warm with generous sensibility must be cooled down to the zero of their thermometer. They deal much in denunciation and condemnation, and spend their strength in endeavoring to proselyte to their own sect, but do not like to commune with their own hearts and be still. Another class, differing but little from the last, would keep the mind in a continual state of excitement. Fer- vor, with them, is the alpha and the omega. Devotional retirement, solemn self-examination, does not suffi- ciently excite their zeal ; they must keep it up to a white heat, by the sympathy of others. They are in danger of sometimes mistaking mere animal feeling for religious fervency. They are in danger of saying in ac- tion, if not in words, to those who are more calm, and would have every thing done " decently and in order, " * "Stand by, for I am holier than thou." They may be following the ignis-fatuus of their own heated imagina- tions, instead of the leadings of an unerring guide. They may, by this over-excitement of feeling, envelope in perpetual mist that strait and narrow path which they sincerely wish to pursue. Very different from these zealots are the cool moral- ists. They are extremely careful not "to be righteous overmuch." They have a fearful dread of enthusiasm. They keep on good terms with the world, by complying with most of their customs, and practically acknowledge THE STANDARD OF CHRISTIAN CHARACTER. 295 the wisdom of their maxims. The timid sailor-boy, who for the first time climbs to the top of the mast, keeps his eye downward; he dare not "look up aloft." These moralists, with their eyes fixed upon the earth, can they go "onward and upward, and true to the line ?" Dear reader, are you " bending a pinion for the deep- er sky?" Look to Him who said, "Learn of me, for I am meek and lowly of heart." Christ is the only perfect standard of human character. Many bright ex- amples of the beauty of holiness you may meet to cheer you on your heavenward course, and they will grow brighter and brighter as they increase in their likeness to this perfect standard. Many you will find, who bear his divine lineaments but imperfectly ; we may mourn over \heir imperfections, but still more over our own. Though weak, erring, sinful, and conscious, of it all, still your aim must be perfection. That " faith, which is the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen," by uniting you to Christ, will give you a blessed hope of forgiveness through his merits and blood-bought atonement; but love for that character which was holy, harmless, and undefiled will lead you to imitation. " Whatsoever things are pure, lovely, and of good report," will then adorn your Christian charac- ter. It is not enough to enlist under the banners of the cross. The Captain of your salvation must have your entire allegiance ; you must put on the whole panoply of faith for the conflict that awaits you. The perfect soldier must go through a course of severe discipline, he must never slumber at his post, he must never com- municate with the enemy, his weapons must be untar- nished, bright, and ever within his reach. Above all, 296 THE YOUNG LADY's HOME. he must have no will but the will of his commander ; his obedience must be perfect. The Christian warfare is chiefly within. You may have enemies without, who assail you with ridicule or with false reasoning, but the kingdom of heaven is to be built up in your own heart, and there .are your worst enemies. If no traitors lurk within, you may defy the puny weapons that are hurled by the outer foes. The ridicule of the thoughtless, the gay, the dissipated, dare to look it in the face, and its terrors, like those of a painted mask, will vanish. Do you shrink abashed from their commonplace taunting? They tell you " there is no reason for being so starched and prim." That "you make yourself very disagreea- ble by being so rigid." " Religion should not make you gloomy." "There is no use in making so much pa- rade about it." If you are intimidated by such attacks, you will lose ground, which it will be very difficult to retain. Retreat not an inch. It is your duty to make religion as engaging as possible, to be kind, to be courteous, to be gentle, to be forbearing ; at the same time, to be courageous, to be firm. Think not that the pure and holy example of Jesus Christ is too exalted for your imitation. One object of his divine mission was to exhibit the capabilities of hu- man nature for moral excellence, and the loveliness and purity of human affections, unsullied by sinfulness. His character, in some of its most striking traits for imitation, has been beautifully delineated by an elegant female writer of our own country in the following lan- guage : "In the character of our Saviour, the mind and the heart rest satisfied ; the more it is studied, the more holy and beautiful it becomes. Does the mind ask for THE STANDARD OF CHRISTIAN CHARACTER. 297 submission, seek it in his childhood, while he was sub- ject to his parents ; for youthful dignity, see him stand- ing in the midst of the temple, sublime in youth and power, reasoning with the doctors and lawyers, with a wisdom which astonished even those who questioned him on subjects which had been to them the study of a lifetime. Does it ask for humility and forbearance, find him washing his disciples' feet and sitting at the same board with publicans and sinners ; for true and gentle chanty, listen to his voice when he says to the sinful woman, < Woman, where are thine accusers? Go in peace, and sin no more.' Does it ask a heart full of gentle and domestic sympathy, follow him to the grave of Lazarus, or to the bier of the widow's son; for benevolence, let the mind dwell for a moment on the cleansed leper, on the blind restored to sight, and on that heart-stirring scene where he stood in the midst of the multitude, while the sick man was let down through the roof, that he might heal him ; for firmness, go to the wilderness where the Son of God fasted and was sorely tempted forty days and forty nights ; for energy, wit- ness it in the overthrowing of the money-tables, while those who had desecrated the temple were cast forth from the place they had polluted ; for wisdom, read it in every act of his life, and in every line of his Sermon on the Mount ; for prudence, see it in his answer given to the chief priests, when they brought him the tribute- money ; fa? patience, forgiveness, and all the gentle attri- butes that form the Christian character in its perfection, follow him to the garden ; witness his prayer and his agony of spirit ; dwell on his patient and gentle speech when he returned from that scene of pain, and found even his disciples asleep ; reflect on his meekness and 298 forbearance when the traitor's lip was on his cheek ; on the hand so readily extended to heal the ear of the maimed soldier. Go with him to the place of trial, and to that last fearful scene which caused the grave to give up its dead, and the solid earth to tremble beneath the footsteps of his persecutors. Dwell upon his life and upon every separate act of his life, and the soul must become imbued with a sense of its truth, beauty, and holiness." Happy Martha and Mary, to be allowed the blessed privilege of receiving such a guest ! Where is the aus- terity that piety sometimes assumes at the fireside ? Where the pharisaic severity that says, "I thank Thee that I am not as other men are," while mingling in the social circle ? Love and tenderness beam from his countenance, as he encourages the humble Mary to sit at his feet ; and even in his reproof to the bustling Mar- tha, there is no unkindness ; he would relieve her from being "cumbered with much serving." This glorious guest you may still welcome to your hearts, and in the attitude of an humble, earnest, docile learner, study his perfect character, until your own shall be transmuted, by a divine alchemy, to a complete resemblance. CHAPTER XXIX. CHRISTIAN DUTY. CHEERFULNESS. 'Sunbeam of summer ! 0, what is like thee? Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea! One thing is like thee, to mortals given, The faith, touching all things with hues of heaven." IT is a common saying, that youth has few trials ; and so it may appear to those persons, who, amid the cares and turmoil of after life, look back upon this comparatively tranquil period. Yet how many of the young are ready to exclaim, in bitterness of heart, " If this be the happiest portion of existence, would that I could die !" Can we expect uniform cheerfulness in those who, with keen sensibilities, unsupported by the strength and fortitude of maturer years, and devoid of religious prin- ciple, are discovering each day more and more of the trials of life ? The thoughtless, in the pride of health and spirits, excited by gay visions of future pleasure, may pass many a merry hour; but their joy is as differ- ent from real cheerfulness, as the music of a ball-room from " the minstrelsy of leaf and bird." Reflective and feeling minds must suffer from sympathy, experi- ence, or anticipation. Kind parents seek to conceal from an idolized child the sorrow that is preying on their hearts, and thank Heaven that, shielded from trials like theirs, she basks in the sunshine of happiness. But does not the (299) 300 THE YOUNG LADY'S HOME. quick eye of the affectionate daughter perceive the least shadow that rests on faces so dear ? Yet she is aware that to believe her a participator would add to their pain, and therefore appears as unconscious as they would wish her in reality to be. As their footsteps die away, how fades that bright smile that afforded them such pure pleasure, while her busy mind hurries over all possible sources of their distress, and perhaps fastens on a cause greater than the true one. Day after day, she watches each shade of expression on their countenances, and a frown on her father's brow, or pensiveness in her mother's eye, adds to the heaviness of her heart, from her incapability to afford comfort or relief. Or, it may be, health has been refused to some dear member of the family circle. Who feels more keenly for the sufferings of the poor invalid, than the tender- hearted sister? Is it nothing to watch the bodily anguish of those we love, to know that the happiness of all who are nearest and dearest to us is bound up in one frail life, and then mark the wasting form and failing strength ? If sympathy may thus be the cause of sorrow, expe- rience must teach even the young many a bitter lesson. Variously clad, the skeleton still dwells in every man- sion. The unworthiness of those whom nature teaches us to cherish with untiring affection is a source of incal- culable misery. This sorrow asks not pity from the world, and may be hid beneath forced spirits an-d a gay smile, or betray itself in the careworn cheek and sunken eye. While sin reigns, this spring of unhappiness will exist, and religion only can remove its bitterness. The unsuspecting innocence of youth often lays itself open to calumny, and many, wounded by injustice, for CHRISTIAN DUTY. 301 which they were unprepared, early have the seeds of misanthropy implanted in their hearts. And evil pas- sions in their own hearts assault the young with a thou- sand temptations. If these are submitted to, misery must ensue ; if not, the struggle will be obstinate and painful. To form good habits is more difficult than to maintain them, and this should be the task of the young. But there is one trial common to all. Death is in the world. This thought is enough to scatter the roses from the most blooming cheek, and dim the brightest eye. The first loss of a near friend is an era in life. It seems to awaken us from the dream we had so long indulged, to open to our view the realities of the un- seen world. A tie is formed between us and the Invis- ible, and now a familiar form appears to us among the unknown ones of that spirit-land. The heart can hardly believe that the friend on whom it had lavished such affection, with whom all its plans of bliss for life were blended, is indeed removed, and shrinks back from forming any bond which can be so suddenly, so entirely, annulled. It had given its affection with a fulness and confidence, unlike the trembling insecurity of those whom years have reft of many dear ones ; and this confidence has been completely destroyed. Then first is realized the truth, that the lost cannot return to us, that we must go to them. Too often this bright world is then viewed, not as a sphere where we have allotted duties to perform, but a dreary void, where they are not ; and we look up to heaven with delight, not because it is our Father's mansion, but because they are there. Happy are those who have learnt from their first affliction to set their hearts on things above ! Anticipated trials are a class of troubles which meet 26 302 THE YOUNG LADY'S HOME. with little sympathy, but must often cloud the brow of the thoughtful and imaginative. The propensity to look forward is natural, and is, in our lighter moments, a source of pleasure ; but there are times when the dark side of the picture will present itself. Even with the flush of delight, when we anticipate the acquisition of some long-desired object, blends the idea of melan- choly changes that must occur ere our wishes are ful- filled. If our own lives are spared to any length, we must see the decay, if not the death, of our best friends. For the moment, the grief at such calamities is ours, without the strength to sustain it which mercifully ac- companies real trials. The first gray hairs that steal around the brow we venerate, carry a chill to the heart, for they remind us, that, when age has set its seal upon that brow, the strong mind we reverenced may be broken down, and the firm tread changed for the tot- tering step of infancy. O, who can anticipate without emotion the helpless second childhood of the honored and loved ! But we must sustain the departure, as well as the decay, of many of these dear ones. How fraught with wretchedness is this idea ! It seems, indeed, " easier to die for those we love, than to live without their vanished light," and we cannot believe a ray of joy will fall upon us when these stars are set. To a woman, the view of the future must be a source of deep anxiety. The uncertainty where her home will be, is more trying, because her greatest happiness or misery will centre within that home. How must she, the timid and retiring, shrink from the idea, that a time may come when she must stand alone and unprotected, a solitary woman, a forsaken wife, or a desolate widow. The possibility of such an event steals upon those who, CHRISTIAN DUTY. 303 to all outward appearances, have the greatest prospect of happiness. "O prophet heart; thy grief, thy power, To all deep souls belong, The shadow in the musing hour, The wail in the mirthful song." Such are some of the trials to which the young of our sex may be subjected, even in the bosom of their own kind families. To those arising from misplaced or hopeless affection, we will not advert. They who have felt them know their bitterness ; and may those who have not, long remain in ignorance ! A thousand little perplexities and contrarieties are common to all, and of daily occurrence. Though small in themselves, by their frequency they may injure the temper and impair the happiness. Yet, after this terrible array of possible and probable trials, we would assert that uniform cheerfulness is im- peratively a Christian duty. The worldling may turn away from trouble ; the philosopher look upon it with calmness ; but the Christian only can smile upon it. Turn now to your blessings and privileges, and see how far they outnumber privations and sorrows. Nay, were your lot all darkness, with no ray of hope for this life, the possibility of attaining immortal happiness were enough to fill your heart with gratitude. How have you ever deseived the kindness that has reared you, made you capable of enjoyment, and surrounded you with blessings? Do you not fear if in the midst of these you indulge in repining, something may be taken from you, whose loss will make all you have ever suf fered before, seem as nothing ? You acknowledge, per- haps, the claims of gratitude, and desire to fulfil them, 304 but cannot maintain your composure when the pressure of trouble is upon you. It will require great effort to attain that even tenor of mind ; but still it is possible. Many suppose that persons of naturally excitable disposi- tions can easily preserve uniform cheerfulness ; but this is far from the truth, for they have constantly the double task of guarding themselves from elevation or depres- sion of spirits. There is continual danger that they will incur the charge of inconsistency, by the appear- ance of levity or thoughtless mirth. But such should not despair, for if they can properly regulate their unruly spirits, they will become an honour to the cause of reli- gion, and a blessing to those around them. Cheerfulness may be essentially promoted by the cul- tivation of a firm trust in the providence of God, active benevolence, and a constant sense of the realities of the world to come. All evils, excepting those attendant on our own sins, whether coming through the instrumentality of our fel- low-beings, or what are called the chances of life, are inflicted by the hand of God. Let us bear this con- stantly in mind, with his assurance that all things work together for good to those who love him. If it be as- certained that we are of those who love him, we have no reason to fear, whatever they may be, that our trials will result in any thing but our best good. Your cheer- fulness, then, should be founded on the belief that you are one of that number, to whom the Ruler of all, has vouchsafed so many promises of his care and protection. It is sometimes difficult to realize that the most trivial events are ordained by the Omnipotent, yet he often brings from them the most important results. Some slight occurrence will suggest to our minds a thought CHRISTIAN DUTY. 305 followed by a train of others, producing a material change in our conduct. Trace in your lives and your hearts the steps by which you have been benefited, and you will see, that what at the time seemed to be trials have proved blessings. With the firm persuasion that every affliction is intended for some beneficent end, study, as it were, the purposes of God, and see how you can aid in rendering his chastening useful to yourself. Is a wish denied, think what evils might have resulted had it been gratified. Are those who are nearly con- nected with you unworthy of respect, and the inflicters of continual pain ? Here is a special call upon you to let your light shine, to exercise kindness and forbear- ance, to avoid those faults which produce such misery, and to place your affections more strongly on that Friend who knew no sin. Do not seek to forget or veil from yourself the extent of your trials. Nothing can produce a more unhappy frame of mind, than that caused by turning away from an evil, yet carrying the conscious- ness of its existence like a load upon the heart. View, then, your situation in all its bearings, and school your- self with divine assistance, till you can exclaim, with deep sincerity, " Thy will be done!" From all anticipations of future suffering, perfect faith alone can secure us. How often in the Bible we are exhorted to refrain from anxiety as to what may befall us, and encouraged to cast all our care upon the Lord ! If you have consecrated yourself to Him, you have placed yourself entirely at his disposal, do you fear that your confidence has been misplaced ? Many of the evils you dread will never happen, and if they do, your Almighty Father has promised, that " as your day is, so shall your strength be." The fear of death may 26* 306 have obtained dominion over you, but it may be con- quered by fixing your eyes on Him who will guide you through the dark valley himself has trod, and who will receive you in his everlasting arms. Trusting in the wisdom and love of an Almighty Friend, what is there in your present afflictions or future prospects to cloud the sunshine of Christian cheerfulness ? The cultivation of active benevolence is of great as- sistance in promoting this virtue. Selfishness is always a cause of misery, and the more disinterested we can become, the more our happiness is increased. The mind that continually dwells upon its own thoughts and feelings will inevitably become gloomy ; but, when it looks away from itself, finds a healthful glow of satisfac- tion. How many, almost heart-broken, have engaged in works of philanthropy, and found, in their prosecution, that cheerfulness which they feared had for ever fled from them ! The consciousness of being the instru- ment of good, of adding to the sum of human happi- ness, if only by a kind word, will drive away sad thoughts. When you compare what you deem trials with those of the poor and ignorant, you will learn to blush for your ingratitude. Education has opened to you a thousand sources of pleasure, and competence and station have given you the means of enjoying them. See what bitterness is mingled in every cup, and until you can find one with whom, in every respect, you would wish to exchange, deem not yourself unhappy. Let your life be a succession of efforts for the happi- ness of others, and you will never complain of being miserable. But a habit of looking forward to our brighter inherit- ance is the greatest solace amidst the cares of our pres- CHRISTIAN DUTY. 307 ent condition. Who heeds the inconveniences of a wintry journey, when at its close he finds himself in the bosom of his dearest friends ? How very slight should every evil appear, while the hope of that blest state re- mains to cheer us! "It will not matter a hundred years hence," is a common saying, but it is not the lan- guage of Christian resignation, or founded in truth. Every trial, if improved, will help us on our way to that rest, where we hope, when ages have elapsed, we may dwell. The sainted spirits that stand around the throne, who "have through great affliction trod," will not con- sider as of little importance any chastening, which, by purifying their hearts, may have aided in preparing them to sing the song now swelling forth, of " Worthy is the Lamb." Christian cheerfulness is a valuable auxiliary to Chris- tian morals. They who witnessed that of the ancient martyrs were induced to seek the cause which could produce such effects, and in our day many may be thus led to the fountain from which such happiness appears to be derived. Those young persons who profess our holy religion, should engage in its duties, not as if they were tasks, but pleasures and privileges, and manifest to the world that it is their chief enjoyment, as well as their chief obligation, to worship God. The spirit of love should beam forth from their countenances, and dis- play itself in their actions, in a kind word to the old, or a smile of encouragement to the child. Contradict, then, by your daily walk and conversation, the erroneous idea, that piety is too gloomy for the bright period of youth. It is the peculiar duty of woman to maintain a cheerful heart. Protected from the trials and cares to which the 308 other sex are exposed, to her they turn for comfort and consolation. And nobly does she afford it in the time of darkness and affliction ; but too often in apparent prosperity, instead of cheering those who are annoyed with a thousand nameless vexations, she adds to their perplexities and cares. How lovely does she appear to whom all in the domestic circle turn for sympathy in their joy, and who, with winning kindness, beguiles them from their sorrow ! The little one, tottering on the floor, clears his discontented face and breaks into a merry laugh, as he catches the reflection of her sweet smile. The poor, too, pray that God may bless her, whose presence is ever to them such a rich blessing. Cherish, then, in the spring-time of life, that cheerfulness which is the bloom and effluence" of Christianity, and its fragrance shall be shed around your declining years, and linger, when the spirit is fled, in a sweet smile, over the face that even in death it can make lovely. CHAPTER XXX. CHRISTIAN DUTY. FORGIVENESS AND FORBEARANCE; SELF-DENIAL, SELF-GOVERN- MENTj PRAYER. "Wisdom is humble, said the voice of God. 'T is proud, the world replied. Wisdom, said God, Forgives, forbears, and suffers, not for fear Of man, but God. Wisdom mistrusts itself, and leans on Heaven." ALTHOUGH happily sheltered from the rough encoun- ter of the world, yet you may not altogether escape un- kindness and injustice. Your motives may be misun- derstood or misinterpreted ; envy may watch you with spiteful eye ; jealousy be inquisitive and quick-sighted to your faults; and malice vent itself in contemptuous sneers and calumnious words. And what are you to oppose to these hateful passions? Forbearance and forgiveness. It was the saying of a wise heathen, "Reform an injurious person if you can ; if not, remember your pa- tience was given you to bear with him ; that the gods patiently bear with such men, and sometimes bestow upon them health, and fame, and fortune." Christian morality goes farther, commanding not only forgiveness, but the exercise of kindness, towards those who have injured us ; to do good to those who hate us, thus call- ing into exercise the noblest effort of which human na- (309) 310 ture is capable, the fulfilling of the law of holiness, " Love your enemies." If your enemies misunderstand your motives, it mat- ters little if they are such as you can lay open to the eyes of Him who sits as a "refiner and purifier." If you are led, by their severity, to a clearer discernment of your own motives, to a closer scrutiny into your own conduct, they in effect serve you better than your flatterers, even better than your friends. "You will form your own character, nor can your enemies pre- vent it. Their calumny will injure you less than you imagine." Injuries, real or supposed, are not to be met with a haughty and contemptuous spirit. Loathing and dis- daining meanness and sinfulness, avoid transferring your hatred to the beings who are guilty of them. Hatred, malice, and all evil passions, burn themselves with the firebrands they throw, poison themselves with their own deadly mixtures. They whose bosoms are haunted by these demons should not meet with condemnation alone ; they should call forth the deepest commiseration. When you can "pray for those who despitefully use and per- secute you," not generally, but individually, it is the surest proof that they are entirely forgiven. The Chris- tian's heart should bound to offer forgiveness, even to those offending ones who will not ask it. Blessed in- deed is that spirit, which, in humble imitation of the divine Redeemer, can say, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." But not alone towards enemies is the spirit of Chris- tian forbearance to be exercised. Such, alas! is fallen human nature, that the best and loveliest of earthly friends have their darker shades of character. We CHRISTIAN DUTY. 311 should be foolishly employed in endeavouring, day after day, to count the spots upon the glorious sun ; to dweL upon the faults of those whom we love would be equal folly. Habitually to interpret their motives kindly, to make charitable allowances for their weakness, to use every favorable opportunity to draw forth their excel- lence, to endeavor to correct their faults by example and by advice, unostentatiously offered ; this is the task of Christian forbearance. Excessive sensitiveness to unkindness or to dislike should not be suffered to mar your happiness. This may arise from morbid sensibility, or from pride. In either case, you will be disturbed by "A something light as air, a look, A word unkind or wrongly taken," from the friends whom you fondly love, and weeks of dejection be the consequence. No better remedy can be prescribed, than a cordial, wholesome kindliness of manner on your own part, which will most probably call forth the same manner from your friends. Practise that true Christian courtesy, recommended by the Apostle Paul, and so beautifully exemplified by our blessed Saviour in all his social intercourse. This courtesy exhibits itself from day to day, in those "thousand decencies" that give to life its sweetness. If, notwith- standing your own kindliness, you have true friends who are deficient in courtesy, their want of suavity should not alienate you ; with this unfortunate deficiency, their hearts may be kind and benevolent. Habituate yourself to their unpleasing manners, and steel yourself against them ; a rough rind often incloses fruit that is sweet and nutritious. The sensitiveness that leads you to entertain sus- 312 picions of your friends may arise from pride ; their neg- lect or apparent unkindness may have been accidental, and you must exercise severe censorship over yourself to overcome this tormentor. There is need of forbear- ance towards persons who differ from you in opinion. A dogmatical, bigoted spirit will never win any one to the truth. Error may be maintained with the utmost pertinacity, even when it is seen to be error, if those who oppose it do it in an ungracious, obnoxious manner. When endeavouring to manifest your firm adherence to right principles, Christian forbearance demands that you should not " be puffed up," nor " behave yourself un- seemly." To the obstinacy of error you must oppose a spirit "kind, gentle, easy to be entreated," without sacrificing an iota of truth. The question is often asked by the young, " How can I practise the duty of self-denial ?" An enlightened con- science will alone lead to the answer. The endless dif- ferences in the condition and circumstances of individuals render it impossible to offer rules that will be universally applicable. A sordid, selfish Christian ! This is an utter impossibility. The very foundation of the Chris- tian character is that love which is self-denying, self- sacrificing. A mother's love, a mother's self-denial, are often spoken of as strong and wonderful ; but this is a law of her nature ; she cannot break it without be- coming, in the eyes of all beings, a monster. A selfish mother! Who does not burn with indignation at the very idea ? The law of the Christian's nature is love, and how can it exist where selfishness reigns ? Can He, whose whole mortal pilgrimage was a series of self-denying labors, ending with the sacrifice of his life upon the ignominious cross, can He recognize his CHRISTIAN DUTY. 313 own image in a sordid, selfish, grasping being, whose thoughts are bent upon the display of beauty or wealth, and self-glorification ? Not a single revolution of the earth takes place, with- out affording you many opportunities for self-denial. Vanity makes large demands upon your time and money ; examine how many things, that minister solely to her gratification, you can strike off and make over to another account. It is very trying to you to be thought less intelligent, less generous, less worthy, than you really are ; still more so, to be accused of what you are not guilty ; you may practise self-denial, by patiently leaving these erro- neous opinions to be rectified just when Divine Provi- dence shall afford you the opportunity ; by being con- tented, without administering rebuke in any other way than by becoming more worthy and more humble. The Lord of glory, adored by cherubim and seraphim, made himself, for your sake, a man of no reputation ; it is a small matter to deny yourself the praise of men, if thereby you become more assimilated to him in meek- ness and lowliness of heart. It is possible that pride is the very plague-spot in your heart, which the chastening mercy of your Heavenly Father is thus eradicating, that the beauty of holiness may be perfected. Love, peace, joy, cannot maintain their kindly companionship, where selfishness wields her tyrannic sceptre. The gratification of your own taste, the exhibition of your accomplishments, and even your highest intellectual pursuits, you may be called upon to sacrifice for the good of others. If there is unity of principle in your mind, these opportunities, whenever they occur, will call Into exercise Christian self-denial. It is not alone the 27 314 great occasions of life, where heroic magnanimity that will dazzle every beholder can be shown, that will test the strength of your principles. " It is easier to die like a martyr than to live like a Christian." It is easier to bestow a large amount of time and money upon a popular charity, cheered by the world's applause, than to practise some silent, simple act of self-denial from day to day, for the good of a friend, for which, perchance, you receive nothing but blame from that very friend. The mountain cataract dashes down the precipice with deafening roar, and sends up its iris- bedecked spray, exciting wonder and admiration, while the nameless little river pursues its noiseless way, im- parting freshness and beauty to overhanging trees and water-loving plants, till it loses itself in the larger stream which bears its tributary waters onward to the ocean. The task of self-government has been already com- menced if you have entered upon the Christian warfare, and you find it no easy task. The passions have the mastery in minds not controlled by philosophy or by the religion of Jesus Christ. Precepts and prohibitions are of little avail, unless the whole soul is brought under the dominion of holiness as a governing principle. No tem- per is so perfectly sweet, as not to require watchfulness ; there is not a sinful being in the universe, who does not need to set a guard over all the avenues to temptation. The Apostle does not say, " Be not angry;" for there are occasions when it would be as impossible to prevent the momentary emotion of anger, as it would be to stay the mantling blood, whose " ready play" crim- sons the cheek of wounded modesty. He says, " Be angry and sin not ; let not the sun go down upon your CHRISTIAN DUTY. 31b wrath." Anger may glance into the breast of a wise man, but it, "rests in the bosom of fools." Self-government is, of course, a much more difficult task for the irritable, the passionate, the sanguine, than for the naturally amiable. The disposition which a hap- py few possess resembles the climate of some sweet island of the Pacific Ocean, where no violent storms ever agitate the mild and uniform temperature ; while others are like our West Indies, where the hurricane and tornado are frequent visitants. If you possess an equa- ble flow of animal spirits, it is impossible for you to conceive of the difficulty of restraining arid controlling an impetuous, impulsive temperament. The Apostles St. John and St. Paul exemplified this natural difference in temperament. The beloved disciple must have possessed an angelic sweetness of disposition, a kindliness, and a beautiful equanimity, which rendered him the soothing, gentle friend, upon whose bosom the Saviour could lean at the social board ; he maintained in old age the same characteristics, and when he could no longer write or preach the blessed gospel, his benign countenance ex- pressed the fulness of his heart as he went about, say- ing, "Little children, love one another." St. Paul, fiery, impatient, and sanguine, "When he would do good, evil was present with him ;" yet what fervent zeal, what self-sacrificing devotedness, what watchful- ness, what fearless and persevering ardor, resulted from such a temperament, brought, by divine grace, into sub- jection to the law of holiness! Like an avalanche ar- rested in its course of devastation, and made a monu- ment of glory and beauty upon some lofty eminence, stands the Apostle Paul. With such an example in view, let none despair. If the crown of glory is won 316 THE YOUNG LADY's HOME. through intensity of strife, will it be less brilliant ? When it shall be cast down at the foot of His throne whose grace was sufficient aid for the final victory, will the song of " Worthy is the Lamb " flow with faint and feeble love from such a redeemed spirit? No; these are the sealed servants of the Lord, " who have come out of great tribulation," and triumphantly joyous will be their song, when "God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." All other Christian duties will be performed with little pleasure, and with faint, remitted effort, without habitual performance of the first of Christian duties, prayer. Unless this be to you the very gate of heaven, where you delight to linger, you will not have that fulness of evi- dence of things not seen, which is the life of religion. Where else can you catch a glimpse of the glory of heaven, but in the sanctuary and in the closet, where this world, with its dangerous allurements, is shut out, and the soul holds communion with its Maker and Re- deemer ? A devotional spirit is the best guard against temptation, and the surest pledge of fidelity to your Lord and Master. The true ends and design of prayer are " to impress deeply upon the mind a sense of the pres- ence of God, our dependence on, and accountableness to, him ; suitably to dispose and prepare the mind for the reception of divine favors ; to draw down upon us, as the means divinely constituted, the blessings which we may from time to time need ; and to accustom ourselves beforehand to the exercises of heaven." To the altar of grace you may go, and lay open freely all your hopes, joys, desires, fears, disappointments. plans of usefulness, temptations, and sorrows." His ear is open when the morning dawns, when the sun sheds CHRISTIAN DUTV. 317 his noontide beams, and when night comes on, with her starry train. The peerless prophet Daniel knew this, when he knelt three times a day to worship the God of his fathers in a strange land, in defiance of the idolatrous king who had threatened death as the consequence. You, who have no monarch's frown to dread, is there still no tyranny of fear that keeps you at a distance from the mercy-seat ? Are you bowing to another idol that your own heart has set up ? May conscience lead you back to the altar of the Lord your God, and his Holy Spirit henceforth be your guide and inspirer to that " effectual fervent prayer which availeth much !" 27* CHAPTER XXXI. CHRISTIAN USEFULNESS. " The dews came down unseen at even-tide, And silently their bounties shed, to teach Mankind unostentatious charity. With arm in arm, the forest rose on high, And lesson gave of brotherly regard." A MORE favorable opportunity than the one you now enjoy for usefulness, in the wide circle of benevolence, may not present itself during your whole life. Not yet encompassed by those many cares that may shut you out in a measure from this wide circle, you may now learn the luxury of doing good. It is possible that you have fancied this period of your life would be one of dreamy leisure. The stirring spirit of the age allows not the Christian to be a secluded con- templatist. Much as there is holy and heavenly in calm retirement and lonely meditation, they cannot be indulged in freely, and for a length of time, without encroaching upon other imperious duties. There is little danger, however, that the young Christian, at this eventful era, should spend too much time in this manner ; yet there may possibly be here and there an individual, feeling so strongly the necessity for habitual introspection, and the difficulty of keeping a peaceful, quiet frame of mind while mingling much with human beings, as to be solici- tous to preserve tranquillity by retirement. But your (318) CHRISTIAN USEFULNESS. 319 divine Exemplar, although occasionally retiring to a mountain for prayer, and to a garden for meditation and communion with his Heavenly Father, spent his life in active benevolence. One of the old divines says, " Doing no harm is the praise that might be bestowed upon a stone." The Christian virtues are not all pas- sive, the Christian life must be active, energetic, en- terprising. " The God of glory walks his rounds, From day to day, from year to year, And warns us each, with awful sound, No longer stand ye idle here." If you have expected romantic excitement and. inter- est in the circle of benevolence, you have not entered upon it with right feelings. The stimulus will soon be exhausted. Instead of the woodbine- wreathed cottage, with its neat and rosy tenants, grateful and good, the poor to whom charity may lead you will have none of these graceful accompaniments. You may find in the abodes of poverty much to disgust a refined taste ; in the gross manners and vulgar ignorance of their inmates, some things to alarm your scrupulous delicacy. You may find them ungrateful, and not seldom in our country, with that spirit of independence which sorely feels the necessity of receiving alms. You have discharged but a small part of the duty of benevolence to the poor by bestowing money. To the sick, you may afford the ministry of consolation ; you may make with your own hands, those little delicacies that their situation requires, and, while you do good to the perishing body, your gentle kindness may open their hearts to receive the more able ministrations of the ap- pointed messengers of mercy. You may stand by the 320 bed of death, and calm the spirit that is passing away with the blessed promises of the Saviour. Let your Bible be a constant companion in these visits. Select, beforehand, such passages as will be applicable to the condition of the poor, the sick, and the afflicted, and read to them with that solemnity and earnestness that firm faith inspires. To those in health, you may render assistance in various ways. The poor woman who goes out to daily labor may not have time for the making of her children's clothes, when she can earn them ; or may not have ingenuity enough to cut them. You can often render relief in this way, where it would be deemed al- most an insult to offer pecuniary aid. It is always well to encourage this spirit of honorable independence and self-respect in the poor. There is a numerous class to whom you may be useful, by seeking out employment for them. Alas! how many are driven to despair be- cause they cannot find occupation, how many fall into vice and ruin ! Benevolent societies, which on the whole do so much good, might sometimes do more, by furnishing work for the poor than by doing it for them. There is much to be learned, with regard to the man- ner in which you should approach those whose station in life is different from your own. Delicacy, as well as Christian meekness, suggests that a proper regard should be paid even to your dress and demeanour, when you go to the abodes of indigence and misery. The contrast is already too striking between your condition and those to whom you offer sympathy and assistance ; health, competence, and cheerfulness, sickness, want, and sor- row ; remember the weakness of human nature, and you will not make the contrast still more repulsive by a gay, luxurious exterior, when you go upon errands of mercy. CHRISTIAN USEFULNESS. 321 It may seem absurd to some young ladies even to pro- pose that their dress, on such occasions, should be pecu- liarly neat, but very plain and simple ; but it is hoped there are others who will deem it not beneath their notice. In your manners, avoid, by all means, a display of condescension. Remembering that all mankind are your brethren, and that God, in his providence, has given you those things wherein you differ, go to the home of the destitute with a heart filled with fervent gratilude, deep humility, and Christian love. Your sympathy will then go from the heart and reach the heart ; your gifts will be received without pain, because the giver will be loved and respected. If your manners, on the contrary, are haughty, cold, and repulsive, necessity may compel the acceptance of proffered charity, but the whole heart of the recipient of your bounty will revolt, no gratitude will be felt toward yourself. Your manners must be gentle and kind, simple and sincere, and thus possess the dignity that will insure respect. To the glorious efforts of the present day for the dif- fusion of Christianity, you may lend your aid. What cheering, what astonishing intelligence is wafted by every breeze from each quarter of the globe! China, long impregnable China, is opening her imperial gates to Christian men: Persia, Hindostan, Greece, Africa, the whole world is missionary ground. You may say, despondingly, "And what can I do?" Gain in- formation from every accessible source, and, while you take a general interest in the missionary cause, adopt some particular object as your own, in which you will take a special interest ; for this, spare all that you can do all that you can. By this concentratior. of effort 3*22 you will accomplish more, than if your benevolence were entirely diffusive. Classic Greece will have pecu- liar attractions for some, " the Celestial Empire " for others, and even degraded, miserable Africa will not be forgotten. Console yourself with the words of the philanthropist Howard, "In God's hands no instru- ment is weak." Leave yourself in his hands, that he may work with you for his glory, and the extension of his kingdom. If there be but a " willing mind," he may so employ you that at last you may receive the joyful sentence, "Well done, good and faithful servant!" The Sunday school affords a pleasant field of useful- ness. To meet, from Sabbath to Sabbath, a class whose young affections you have gained, and into whose minds you have poured the best of all knowledge, and to see their faces brighten with pleasure at your ap- proach, is indeed' a sweet satisfaction. But it is also a solemn responsibility. These are immortals, upon whose plastic minds you are leaving an impress for good or for evil. You will need heavenly wisdom and prudence to guide you in this labor of love. It is your duty to look after the welfare of those who are thus committed to your trust on other days besides the holy day of teaching. Visit them occasionally at their homes ; endeavor to gain the good-will of their pa- rents, and to call in their aid to deepen and fasten any good impressions that you may be enabled to make upon their children. If you do not immediately see the fruits of your labor, patiently wait for the grace of God to ripen the seeds you have sown ; and labor on, in full faith that he will, in his own good time, bring forth an abundant harvest. All who are faint-hearted, when they consider the CHRISTIAN USEFULNESS. 323 trifling apparent results of their labors in the field of Christian usefulness, may be encouraged by the follow- ing remarks from one of the most powerful writers* of this or any other age. "The state of the matter is very simple. The Su- perior Cause of man's being made wise to salvation, in appointing a system of means to be put, by human ac- tivity, in operation towards this effect, has connected certainly and inseparably with that system some por- tion of the accomplishment of this sovereign good, which would not take place in the absence of such application of means ; only he has placed this certainty in the sys- tem of operation, as taken generally and comprehen- sively ; leaving, as to human foresight, an ?4?icertainty with respect to the particular instances in which the de- sired success shall be attained. His subordinate agents are to proceed on this positive assurance, that the suc- cess shall be somewhere, though they cannot know 7 that it will be in one case or in the other. < In the mornino- O sow thy seed, and in the evening withhold not thy hand ; for thou knowest not whether shall prosper this or that.' There unquestionably gleams forth, through the plainer lines and through the mystical imagery of prophecy, the vision of a better age, in which the ap- plication of the truths of religion to men's minds will be irresistible. And what should more naturally be inter- preted as one of the dawning signs of its approach, than a sudden wide movement at once to clear their intel- lects, and bring the heavenly light to shine close upon them? Let them regard as one great undivided econ- omy and train of operation these initiatory efforts, and * Foster. 324 all that is to follow, till that time when < all shall know the Lord ;' and take, by anticipation, as in fraternity with the happier future laborers, their just share of that ultimate triumph. Those active spirits, in the happier stages, will look back with this sentiment of kindred and complacency to those who sustained the earlier toils of the good cause, and did not suffer their zeal to languish under the comparative smallness of their suc- cess." These brief hints on Christian usefulness are design- ed merely to lead your minds to full and conscientious inquiry ; the happiness of an immortal spirit cannot be foun.l in selfish gratification. CHAPTER XXXII. CONCLUSION. LETTEB FROM MRS. CLARA G TO ISABELLA . You going on a mission ? You, my dear Isabella, a 1 single woman," going to be a teacher of heathen chil- dren ? Pardon me, it makes rne smile to think of it. Glad am I that your warm heart is interested in so ex- cellent a cause; but yet, " But yet is as a jailer to bring forth some monstrous malefactor," but yet, allow me to say, that your education and mode of life have not fitted you for the arduous undertaking. Brought up in the lap of luxury, neither your physical nor your mental constitution, renders you a suitable person to en- dure the trials of the missionary life. I fear it is not alone the sun-light of an awakened conscience that has led you to this decision; your fervid imagination, dear Isabella, has had much to do in the case; you must look at it with the clear eye of sober reason. Bright revealings of a future world have dawned upon you ; joy and hope have sprung up, and a noble disdain of earth has for a time taken possession of your ardent mind. But, dear Isabella, the self-denying, much- enduring missionary must be clad in the whole Chris- tian panoply ; must possess stability , and firmness, and courage, to encounter hardships, danger, and death itself. If you are prepared for martyrdom, you are prepared for a missionary. Thanks be to God, few of 28 ( 325 ) 326 those who now take " their lives in their hand" and go to the heathen are called to offer them up on the altar of missionary zeal; yet, they have need of the very firmest faith, the most undaunted courage ; for even that last trial, if need be, may come. If God, in his all- wise providence, has not fitted you nor me, my dear friend, for this calling, which seems so glorious and beautiful, let us be grateful that there are many whom he has chosen and called, whose self-denying labors will meet their reward, we trust, on earth ; if not, it is secure in heaven. Since the death of your lamented father has left to you the uncontrolled disposal of a large fortune, you have the means of extensive usefulness at home. It will require much wisdom and piety to be a judicious steward of your Lord's bounty. Faithful, laborious, and intelligent endeavors will enable you to do as much good I had almost said as heart could wish ; but when would the heart, touched with compassion for the woes of the human race, be satisfied ? I would not have you, dear Isabella, a visionary reli- gionist, carried away with the romance of religion, and knowing little of its reality; there is a "fatal facility wherewith imaginative spirits pass over from the solid ground of piety and virtue, to the illusory region of en- thusiastic excitement." I know your generous nature, and believe I have not relied upon it too far in thus giving free scope to can- dor. My love for you, and undoubting faith in the sin- cerity of your motives, have prompted me to exercise freely the privilege of early and long-tried friendship. Come, my own Isabella, and make us a visit ; we will then discuss these matters at leisure. Mr. G CONCLUSION. 327 joins with me in urging that you do us the pleasure without delay. Yours, I trust, in the best of all bonds, Christian love. CLARA G . ISABELLA TO AUNT SUSAN. You will be surprised and pleased, my dear good aunt, at the change a few weeks have effected in my resolves and purposes. Clara is the same kind, judi- cious friend as ever. Her arguments, ably supported by Mr. G , have convinced me I can do good at home. I am not yet wise and prudent enough for a missionary. Another project of mine, of which you have not heard, they cordially approve. I will tell you the whole story. A few days before I left home, as I went into a store in street, I caught a glimpse of a face that I thought \vas a familiar one, but it was immediately averted. The lady who thus attracted my attention was dressed in a rich, but faded, lilac silk, and a soiled bonnet, whose flowers were in " the sere and yellow leaf." She had a shabby, foreign air, which led me to conclude I never could have claimed the acquaintance of such an impersonation of forlornity. She was mak- ing some trifling purchase ; the sound of her well-known voice startled me, it was my quondam friend, Ger- aldine M , now Mrs. W . Dear aunt, I had not seen her since the marriage morning, when we part- ed at the church-door, and you cannot conceive what a shock it gave me. Not wishing for a scene in the shop, I waited until she had completed her purchase. 328 and then followed her into the street. She walked rapidly, so^that I was obliged to call, " Geraldine, Geraldine." She turned, and such a haggard, woe- stricken face met my eye, that I started back, about to beg pardon for my mistake, when she reassured me, by saying, " Isabella, I thought you would not wish to recognize me, and hurried away." I held out my hand, but for a moment could not speak. We walked on together, until we came to a mean-looking house, where Geraldine hesitated, blushed, and at length invited me to walk in, if it would not be " too great a con- descension." I excused myself, saying, that I w r ould call the next day, and should have done so before, had I known that she was in town. I had heard, some time since, of Mr. M 's fail- ure, and that, notwithstanding his own misfortunes, he continued to refuse to see Geraldine. I called the next day, but she was not at home ; again I called, and re- ceived the same message from a dirty little servant-girl, who looked at my card as if such a curiosity had never come into her hands before. I requested our good minister to make inquiries about W , and learn, if possible, how he supported his family. He did so, and informed me that they had very recently returned from Italy, where they had resided since their marriage, and had taken one room in the boarding-house where I at- tempted to call. The elegant, the splendid Geraldine M reduced to such extremity ! They are very poor. W has been a dissipated gambler, but would now gladly be employed in any honest way for a support. He has been unkind, too, very unkind, to Geraldine. God forgive and amend him ! And now, my dear aunt, conscience would not let CONCLUSION. 329 me rest until I had done something for them. Through the merciful providence of God, I was spared from the fate of Geraldine. You remember my girlish fancy for W . Rejoice with me that he never suspected it ! Besides, you know I was a witness of the marriage, and in that way an abettor of Geraldine's disobedience to her parents. I have consulted Mr. G , and through his agency have purchased a snug little farm, with a pretty cottage upon it, which is to be secured to Geraldine. I wished not to be known in this affair; but Clara, with her straightforward honesty, insisted that it would give Geraldine less pain than to be indebted to an unknown benefactor. Mr. G <- has had the kindness to write to W and his wife, and (how shall I be sufficiently grateful?) they have accepted the offer with thankful- ness. W says, his father was a plain farmer, who educated him at college for a profession ; but instead of reaping the advantage of a collegiate education, he set up for a gentleman. So you see, aunt, this idea of a farm was a lucky Yankee guess. He says farther, that both Geraldine and himself will gladly escape from a place so fraught with painful associations as . They will be within two miles of our excellent friends, Mr. G and Clara. With their example and advice, what may they not become ? And what a beautiful ex- ample of conjugal happiness do I behold from day to day ! The most cheerful piety adorns their life, the most active usefulness exalts it. Happy in each other's society, to fulfil the apostolic injunction "to be given to hospitality" must cost them no little self-sacrifice. Yet they do fulfil it to the utmost. How sweet, how delightful, is their kind attention to me ! Who can leave 28* 330 this happy home, without having been made wiser and better? Yet believe me, dear Aunt Susan, my resolu- tion is firm. I shall emulate your goodness in single blessedness. I must have your assistance and your counsel, in dispensing "judiciously," as my much-loved friend says, "the ample fortune that the Almighty Disposer has intrusted to my stewardship." Our home, too, may be a happy one, dearest aunt, "For in thy heart there is a holy spot, As 'mid the waste an isle of fount and palm For ever green ! The world's breath enters not, The passion-tempests may not break its calm." And my impulsive, impetuous spirit shall be calmed ; for, with God's blessing, I will learn self-government. "I am weak, but he is mighty," and, with his holy guidance, I hope to pass safely through the world, to mv heavenly home. With all my faults, love me ? dear aunt, pray for ini> and expect soon to see your ISABELLA. THE END. LINDSAY & BLAKISTON'S PUBLICATIONS A CHOICE SELECTION OF PROSE QUOTATIONS. TREASURED THOUGHTS FROM FAVOURITE AUTHORS, COLLECTED AND ARRANGED BY CAROLINE MAY, MDITOR OF "THE AMERICAN FEMALE POETS, "The 'treasured thoughts' that come from thence, Are not for vain display ; But sterling coins for free expense, The use of every day : A currency for inner life To keep its revenue, Of joy and sorrow, love and strife. In balance straight and true." A neat 12mo. volume. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. This 's a collection of miscellaneous extracts, which betoken a cultivated taste and extenaiv* reading. They embrace choice paragraphs from the writings of Bishop Hall, Dr. Johnson, D'Israeli, Lord Bacon, Southey, Carlyle, Bishop Taylor, Coleridge, Schiller, Goethe, Irving, Chalmers, Jeremy Taylor, Macauley, Charnock, Adam Smith, Bethune, Lowell, Hannah More, Caroline Fry, Mrs. Sigourney, Mrs. Jameson, Miss Edgevvorth, Miss Jewsbury. The extracts are alphabetically arranged, and will be found invaluable as a book of reference. The volume is neatly bound, and its typographical execution does great credit to the publishers. The Sun. cultivated by the habit of refreshing her spirit from the richest and purest fountains. The namei of Taylor, dear old Jeremy Taylor! Fuller, Izaak Walton, Coleridge, Goethe, Korner, Lowell, Car- lyle, Thomas a Kempis, and a host of other glorious spirits, men and women, shed some of their The editor of these choice extracts gives the public a proof of her excellent taste, evidently The namei Lowell, Car- . , .. _ r ome of their selectest beams of light upon these pages. We cannot too often or too lovingly commune with tha York Christian Observer. They are literally thoughts, and memorable ones, too. The reader has but to turn to the paire indicated, and find what Barrow, Jeremy Taylor, Hooker, old Fuller, Coleridge, Carlyle, and other thinkers, believed and felt on things of universal and absolute interest. The lanre class of readers who like Tupper's "Proverbial Philosophy," and books of the kind, will find this book of "Trea- ured Thoughts" a delightful and instructive companion. Home Journal. A genuine treasury of what deserve to be " treasured thoughts," is eiven IP 'his beautiful volume. The selections are from the rich stores of the best writers of pure English, from the earliest period, up to and including those of the present day. Each passage contains some valuable thought or bit of Christian philosophy, or s;>me pointed anecdote with a tine moral Miss May gives evidence of very extensive reading:, and of reading, too, with profit. Her selections all indicate a high moral sense, as well as n delicate and refined taste. Her book will be found to perform the office of library, without the labour of searching for good things through whole ranges of shelves. Reared in the seclusion of a refined domestic life, pervaded by an atmosphere of religion and flne literary taste, we know what of necessity must be the character of Miss May's " Treasured Thoughts," and that they were really so to their gentle guardian. So it has proved to be. No olume of " Elegant Extracts." edited on the spur of the moment, and " for a consideration" but eollection of years, selected with judgment, and sincere admiration for the noble ttuths or delinat* Mntiments which the vass;ves contain Saturday Gaxeilr LINDSAY & BLAKISTON PUBLISH THE AMERICAN FEMALE POETS BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES, BY CAROLINE MAY. AN ELEGANT VOLUME, WITH A HANDSOME VIGNETTE TITLE, AND PORTRAIT OF MRS, OSGOOD, The Literary contents of this work contain copious selections from the writings of Anne Bradstreet, Jane Turell, Anne Eliza Bleecker, Margaret! V, Faugercs, Phillis Wheatley, Mercy \Varren, Sarah Porter, Sarah Wentworth Morton, Mrs. Little, Maria A. Brooks, Lydia Huntley Sigourney, Anna Maria "Wells, Caroline Gil- man, Sarah Josepha Hale, Maria Jimes, Jessie G. M'Cartee, Mrs. Gray, Eliza Follen, Louisa Jane Hall, Mrs. Swift, Mrs. E. C. Kinney, Marguerite St. Leon Loud, Luella J. Case, Elizabeth Bogart, A. D. Woodbridge, Elizabeth Margaret Chandler, Emma C. Embury, Sarah Helena Whitman, Cynthia Taggart, Elizabeth J. Eames, &c. fcc, &c* The whole forming a beautiful specimen of the highly cultivated state ol the arts in the United States, as regards the paper, topography, and binding in rich and various styles. EXTRACTS FROM THE PREFACE. One of the most striking characteristics of the present age * the number of female writers, especially in the department -f belles-lettres. This is even more true of the United States, than of the old world ; and poetry, which is the lan- guage of the affections, has been freely employed among us to express the emotions of woman's heart. As the rare exotic, costly because of the distance from which it is brought, will often suffer in comparison of beauty and fragrance with the abundant wild flowers of our mea- dows and woodland slopes, so the reader of our present volume, if ruled by an honest taste, will discover in the effu- sions of our gifted countrywomen as much grace of form, and powerful sweetness of thought and feeling, as in the blossoms of woman's genius culled from other lands. LINDSAY & BLAK1STON PUBLISH THE BRITISH FEMALE POETS: WITH BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES, BY GEO. W. BETHUNE. &N ELEGANT VOLUME, WITH A HANDSOME VIGNETTE TITLE, AND PORTRAIT OF THE HON. MRS, NORTON, The Literary contents of this work contain copious selections from the writings of /time Boleyn, Countess of Arundel, Queen Elizabeth, Duchess at Newcastle, Elizabeth Carter? Mrs. Tighc, Miss Hannah More, Mrs. Hcinans. Lady Flora Hastings, Mrs* Amelia Opic, Miss Eliza. Cook, Mrs* Southey, Miss Lowe, Mrs.lVorton* Elizabeth B. Barrett, Catharine Parr, Mary Queen of Scots, Countess of Pembroke, Lady Mary \Vortley Montague, Mrs. Grc ville, Mrs. Barbauld, Joanna Baillie, Letitia Elizabeth London, Charlotte Elizabeth, Mary Russell Mitford, Mrs. Coleridge, Mary Ho\vitt, Frances Kenible Butler, &.C. &C. fcc. The whole forming a beautiful specimen of the highly cultivated state of the arts in the United States, as regards the paper, typography, and binding in rich and various styles. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. In the Department of English poetry, we have long looked for a spirit cast in nature's finest, yel most, elevated mould, possessed of the most delicate and exquisite taste, the keenest perception cf the innate true and beautiful in poetry, as opposed to their opposites, who could give to us a pure collection of the British Female Poets ; many of them among the choicest spirits that evei graced and adorned humanity. The object of our search, in this distinct and important mission, is before us ; and we acknowledge at once in Dr. Bethune. the gifted poet, the eloquent divine, and the humble Christian, one who combines, in an eminent degree, all the characteristics above alluded to. It raises the mind loftier, and makes it purified with the soul, to float in an atmosphere of spiritual purity, to peruse the elegant volume before us, chaste, rich, and beautiful, without anil within. The Spectator We do not remember to have seen any previous attempt to form a poetical bouquet exclusively from gardens planted by female hands, and made fragrant and beautiful by woman's gentle culture. We know few men equally qualified with the gifted Editor of this volume for the tasteful and ludidous selection and adjustment of the various flowers that are to delight with their sweetness, soothe with their softness, and impart profit with their sentiment. The volume is enriched witii Biograpnical Skelcnes of some sixty poetesses, each sketch being followed with specimens charac- ts;:stic of her style and powers of verse. In beauty of typography, and general getting up, th* tt'lume is quite equal to the best issues of its tasteful and enterprising publishers. Episcopal Recorder. It is handsomely embellished, and may be described as a casket of gems. Dr. Bethune, who Himself a poet of no mean genius, has in this volume exhibited the most refined taste. The work may be regarded as a treasury of nearly all the best pieces of British Female Poets. Inquirer. This volume, which is far more suited for a holyday gift than many which are prepared expressly for the purpose, contains extracts from all the most distinguished English Female Poets, selectod wiln the laste and judgment which we have a right to expect from the eminent divine and highly gifted poet whose name auorns the title page. It is a rare collection of the richest gerns. Haiti- ttore American. Dr. Bethune has selected his materials with exquisite taste, culling the fairest and sweetort Bowers from the extensive field cultivated by the British Female Poets. The brief Biographical Notices add much interest to the volume, and vastly increase its value. It is pleasant to hud Hard- working and close-thinking divines thus recreating themselves, and contributing by their racr**- tious to the refinement of the age. Dr. Bethune has brought to his task poetic enthusiasm, and ?culy perceution of the pure and beautiful N. Y. Commercial. LINDSAY & BLAKISTON PUBLISH WATSON'S .--*-, DIOTIONARY OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS CONSISTING OP ELEGANT EXTRACTS ON EVERY SUBJECT, COMPILED FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS, AND ARRANGED U N D I 8 APPROPRIATE HEADS, BY JOHN T. WATSON, M. D., WITH NINE SPLENDID ILLUSTRATIONS ON STEEL, INCLUDING The Noontide Dream, Contemplation, Modesty, The Thunder-Storm. The Village Tomb-Cutter, The Parting Wreath, Bereavement, The Bashful Lover, Love and Innocence. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. We may safely recommend this book as a collection of some of the most beautiful conception! elegantly expressed, to be found in the range of English and American poetry. Saturday Conner We regard this as the best book of a similar character yet published. Germantown Telegraph In this Dictionary of Quotations every subject is touched upon ; and, while the selection has been carefully made, it has the merit of containing the best thoughts of the Poets of our own day, wluch no other collection has. U. S. Gazette, The selections in this book are made with taste from all poets of note, and are classed under l,Teat variety of subjects. Presbyterian. The Quotations appear to have been selected with great judgment and taste, by one well acquainted with whatever is most elegant and beautiful in the whole range of literature. Christian Observer. A volume exhibiting industry and taste on the part of the compiler, which will often facilitate r searches in the mines of gold whence it was dug.Maysville Eagle. In his arrangement, the compiler hns assisted the immortal Shakspeare his deserved pre-eminence, and illumined his pages with the choicest beauties of the British Poets. Herald. We do not hesitate to commend it to our poetry-loving readers, as a book worth buying, and wort* wading. Clinton Republican. The extracts display great care and taste on the part of the editor, are arranged in chronologi-ai wder, and embrace passages from all the poets, from the earliest period of our literature to the jire- *>ti. time. State Gazette. This book will be read with interest, as containing the best thoughts of the best poets, and is con- venient for reference, because furnishing appropriate quotations to illustrate a vast variety of subjects. Old Colmy Memorial We iew it as a casket filled with the most precious gems of learning and fancy, and so nrranjre^ to /vcinate, at a glam e, the delicate eye of taste. By referring to the index, which is arranged ID alphabetical order, you can find, in a moment, the best ideas of the most inspired poets of this country H tvell as L'uDpe, u[on any desired subject. Chroniclt. LINDSAY & BLAKISTON HAVE JUST PUBLISHED THE WOMEN OF THE SCRIPTURES, EDITED BY THE REV. H. HASTINGS WELD; WITH ORIGINAL LITERARY CONTRIBUTIONS, BY DISTINGUISHED AMERICAN WRITERS: BEAUTIFULLY ILLUSTRATED BY TWELVE SUPEKB ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL, BY J, SARTAIN, PHILADELPHIA, FROM ORIGINAL DESIGNS, EXPRESSLY FOR THE WORK, BY T, P, ROSSITER, NEW YORK! INCLUDING Miriam, Eve, Sarah, Rachel, Hannah, Ruth, Queen of Sheba, Sh una mite, Esther, The Syrophenicia* Martha, The Marys. Elegantly Bound in White Calf, Turkey Morocco, and Cloth Extra, with Gilt Edges. PREFACE. THE subject of this book entitles it to a high place among illustrated olumes. The execution, literary and artistic, will, we are confident, be found worthy of the theme ; since we have received the assistance ot authors best known in the sacred literature of our country, in presenting, in their various important attitudes and relations, the WOMEN OF TH* SCRIPTURES. The contents of the volume were prepared expressly for it, with the exception of the pages from the pen of Mrs. Balfour; and for the republication of her articles, no one who reads them will require an apology. The designs for the engravings are original; and the Publishers trust that in the present volume they have made their best acknowledgment for uie favour with which its predecessors have been received. The whole, they oeiieve, will be found no inapt memento of those to whom St. Peter refer* the sex for an enyainpie : " ''IP holy women, in the old time." LINDSAY & BLAKISTON HAVE RECENTLY PUBLISHED, SCENES IN THE LIFE OF THE SAVIOUR, t BY THE POETS AND PAINTERS: C OBTAINING ANY GEMS OF ART A W D G-E2TXU8, ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE SAVIOUR'S LIFE AND PASSION, EDITED BY THE REV. RUFUS GRISWOLD. THE ILLUSTRATIONS, WHICH ARE EXQUISITELY ENGRAVED ON STEEL, BY JOHN SARTAIN, ARE : Walking on the Sea, by Henry Richter ; The Ten Lepers, by A. Vandyke ; The Last Supper, by Benjamin West ; The Women at the Sepulchre, by Philip Virt. The Holy Family, painted by N. Poussin ; The Saviour, by Paul Delaroche ; Christ by the Well of Sychar, by Emelie Signol ; The Daughter of Jarius, by Delonne ; THE LITERARY CONTENTS, COMPRISING SIXTY-FOUR POEMS, ARE BY Milton, Ilemsviis, Montgomery, Keljle, Mrs. Sigonrney, Miss L.aas don, Dale, Willis, Bulftnch, Betliune, Longfellow, Whittier, Croly, Klopstocls, Mrs* Osgood, Pierpoiit, Crosswell, and other celebrated Poets of this and other Countries* The volume is richly and beautifully bound in Turkey Morocco, gilt, whita talf extra, or embossed cloth, gilt edges, sides and back. We commend this volume to the attention of those who would place a Souvenir in the hands of their friends, to invite them in the purest strains of poetry, and by the eloquence of art, to study the Life of the Saviour. Christ. Oba. The contents are so arranged as to constitute a Poetical and Pictorial Life of the Saviour, and we can think of no more appropriate gift-book. In typo- graphy, embellishments, and binding, we have recently seen nothing more tasteful and rich. North American. We like this book, as well for its beauty as for its elevated character, ft is just such an one as is suited, either for a library, or a parlour centre-table j and no one can arise from its perusal without feeling strongly the sublimity %nd enduring character of the Christian religion. Harrisburg Telegraph. This is truly a splendid volume in all its externals, while its contents are richly worthy of the magnificent style in which they are presented. As illus- trations of the Life and Passion of the Saviour of mankind, it will form an appropriate Souvenir for the season in which we commemorate his coming tpon earth. Neal's Gazette. p f