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THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
IS PUBLISHED
EVERY THURSDAY MORNING
By WILLIAM 11. CHAMBERS,
EDITOR 4XD FROrP.IETOR-
Office on Randolph street.
VESPERS.
!!■ father Supreme! Thou lugh and Holy one,
To thee we bow ;
Now, when the labor of the day is done,
Devoutly, now.
From ace to aee unchanging, rtill the same,
All-good thou art;
Hallowed forever De thy reverend name
In ever}’ heart!
When the glad morn upon the hills were spread,
Thy smile was there ;
Now, as the darkness gathers overhead,
. We leel thy care.
Night spread? her shade upon another day
So o’er our f Is, Thy love, we humbly pray,
A veil may ca t.
Silence and Bicep, o'er hearts by eaitn distrest,
Now sweetly ideal;
So every fear that struggle* in the breast
Shall faith conceal.
Thou through the dark wilt watch above our sleep
With eye of love;
And thou wilt wake us, when the sunbeams peep
The hills above.
O, may each heart its gratitude express
As life expands;
And find tiro triumph- of it* happiness
In tby commands.
THE KINGS OF THE SOIL.
Black sin may nertle below a crest,
And crimes below a erown :
A* good hearts beat ’r.eath a fustian vest,
As under a silken gown.
Shall tales be told of the chief- who sold
Their sinews to crush and kill.
And never a word be sung or heard
Os the men who reap and till ?
I bow in thanks to the sturdy throng
Who greet the voung mom with toil;
And the burdens I give my earned song
Shall be this—The Kings of the Soil!
Then sing lor the Kings wno have no crown
But the blue sky o’er their head—
Never Sultan nor Dey had such power as they
To withhold or to offer bread.
Proud ships may hold hoth silver and gold,
The wealth of a di taut strand ;
But hips would rot, and ho valued not,
Were there, none to till the land.
The wildest heath, and the wildest brake,
Are rich as the richest fleet;
For they gladden the wild birds when they wake,
And give them food to eat.
And with willing hand, and spade and plough,
The gladdening hour shall come,
When that which is called “the waste land” now,
Shall ring with the “Harvest Home I”
Then sing for the Kings who have no crown
But the blue sky o'er their head—
Never Sultan nor Dey had such power as they
To withhold or to offer bread.
ffliisttllmtonz,
A WIFE’S FIRST GRIEF.-
I$Y JOSEPH E. CHANDLER.
Who that has sat down in measureless
content, and enjoyed the pleasures which
full gratification supplied, has not at times
felt rising in the mind the painful inquiry,
“How long will this last? What will occur
to disturb the happiness which is now vouch
safed?” I never had an animal to which I
was particularly attached—and I never had
one, from a cat to a horse, to which I was
not strongly attached —that I did not occa
sionally pause in my use or caresses of it, and
ask, “What will occur to deprive me of it—
accident, escape or death?”
In the midst of social enjoyment, when the
duty of sustaining the amusement or the con
versation has devolved upon another, how
often will the enquiry arise, “How long will
this last ?” No sign of rupture is presented,
no token of dissolution is observable ; but
there must be a rupture, there will be a disso
lution. How will it come, and when ?
I confess that such anticipations are not
always the evidence of a well balanced
mind; too often they come from a morbid
state of feeling, that frequently produce the
very evils they suggest. The anticipation of
evil is not so much the result of unhappy ex
perience, as the consequence of a want of
self-sustaining power.
Years ago it was my chance to he near a
young woman, at the moment on which she
was taking leave of a lover. She stood a
moment and watched his departure, until by
turning a corner he was concealed from her
sight.
“Can it last ?” said she to herself. “And
why not ? if he loves me now, when my sta
tion and consequently mv manners are less
desirable than his, surely he must love me j
more, when I have had the advantage of his ;
association, and have constantly improved by
that intercourse.”
She passed onwards. I heard no other
words, but her steps indicated a heart at j
ease, or if disturbed, it was the commotion of
inexpressible pleasure.
“Can it last? and if not, when will it fail? i
How will its diminution manifest itself?” |
These were queries which arose in my mind ;
often, as I thought of the approaching nup
tials. And once* a few days after the mar- j
riage, I saw her leaning against the trunk of
a tree which was then in full blossom. She [
was evidently connecting her own new
estate with the lovely hopefulness of the j
branches above her, and as she raised her j
eyes again, it was evident that she was think
ing of the future, which was radiant with
hope. For one moment a cloud seemed to
pass over her face: it was rather doubt than
pain.
She looked again at the tree and its mu
nificence of bloom; the cloud passed from
her face, and she came away in evident de- !
light.
That was a spring of disappointment, as I
remember; a frost destroyed the early vege
tation, and entirely mined the blossoms on
the tree at which she had been looking. No
fruit was borne.
It was, I apprehend, my own infirmity that !
led me to think more of changes which
might come across the path ot the newlv
married person, than anything in her condi
tion ; for though I subsequently saw where
the danger lurked, yet then it was with me
only the foreshadowing of a somewhat mor
bid sensibility, contrived to anticipate enough
to make the present gloomy with apprehen
sions of the future. So I watched. Blessed
be the race of croakers, whose stomachs are
constantly conjuring up a cloud to darken
their minds, and who are too unselfish to let
any one pass without the benefit of their
overshadowing forebodings. I watched this
ease, for the first exclamation which 1 have
recorded of this young woman had touched
a chord of melancholy in my own disposition,
and so I was anxious to see “how long it
would last;” how long the peace, joy, and
domestic felicity would continue. It did not
VOL. 11.
seem to me that the disturbance could origi
’ nate with her.
The husband was fond of amusements;
and he kept and used a good gun and some
j well trained dogs But though these drew
him occasionally from his home, yet the fine
disposition of the wife found in the dumb hut
j sagacious companions of her husband, ob
jects of regard. She learned to like them,
I and as became their gentle nature, they loved
j her, joyed in her caresses, and seemed to have
a sober resolve to watch over her safety, and
|to secure it even at the cost of their lives. I
confess that I was disappointed at this, hav
! ing anticipated the equanimity of the wife,
and thus have provoked reprisals from the
!husband.
It was not long before some event—l think
j it was the ordinary result of “security,” the
! miserable pride of trying to make one’s self
, considerable in jeopardizing the peace and
| comfort of a family by going “security” for a
] man, in whom others could not have had con
| fidence, or they would not have asked se
! eurity—that swept from the husband a con-
I siderahle portion of the property which had
I made his condition better than the wife’s be
! fore marriage.
“And here,” said I, “it will cease to last.”
! I hope that my feelings were of the right
kind ; I think now that they were only those
of curiosity. Some people seem to desire an
evil that they have foretold—l think I only
j desired to know how the loss of property was
to affect the wife.
Her husband was the first to tell her of the
misfortune.
“I am sony, my dear,” said the quiet wife,
“sorry, indeed. It will compel you to do
much of the work which you have hired oth
ers to perform. Do not let the loss of vour
property mortify you, nor suffer yourself to
dwell on the error, if it was an error, of the
act by which the loss occurred.”
“But you—you, my dear wife ”
“It will not,” said she, “essentially affect
me; it will not add to my labors or my anx
iety. I must look after the household affairs
whether we have one farm or two.”
The wife shed no’ tears. She was sorry
that her husband should lose the special
distinction consequent upon some property
more than others possessed; but it was a
pardonable feeling in her, that the loss of
property placed her more upon his level, and
removed something of the appearance of dif
ference between them.
This, then, was not much of a grief.
“It lasts yet.”
The sudden death of the first born child, a
beautiful hoy, was the next disturbing cause.
I was not in the house during the short sick
ness of the child, hut I attended the funeral,
and followed the body from the antique house
of mourning to the church-yard. When the
clods fell upon the coffin, I thought the heart
of the mother would hurst. She leaned
over to look into the resting-place of her
child, and the arm of a friend seemed neces
sary to prevent her from “going unto him.”
And I said, “It lasts no longer.”
The friends and neighbors led her hack
to her husband. The gentle look of affec
tionate sympathy which he gave her as he
placed her arm within his and drew her to
wards him, that she might lean on his manly
strength, showed me my mistake.
The mother had suffered, but the affection,
nay, the happiness of the wife was complete.
Could a mother be happy, returning from
the yet unsodded grave of her only child ?
Death had softened her heart, and fitted it
for the ministration of new affection. The
father had .suffered in the death of the boy as
well and as much as she, and yet at the mo
ment of deepest anguish he had hushed
his own grief that he might sustain her in her
sorrow. The mother mourned, but the wife
rejoiced. How beautiful and beautifying for
the moment had sorrow become. It seemed
to me as if affection had never before pos
sessed such charms; it needed affliction to
make- it apparent, as the sunlight pouring
through crevices into a darkened chamber
becomes visible only by the floating particles
that reflect the iugushing rays.
The affairs of the couple were not so pros
perous as the virtues, the industry, the econ
omy, and the womanly excellence of the wife
seemed to deserve, yet she never repined. 1
think one or two instances of excess on the
part of the husband drew largely upon the
forbearance of the wife, but as even the ex
cess was accompanied with expressions of
affection—they, though maudlin, seemed to
compensate. The feeling, then, was rather
slight apprehension for the future than grief
for the present!—sorrow and deep mortifica
tion might have been felt. But these few in
stances, joined with some unaccountable de
cay of means did not disturb the happiness
of the wife, a happiness which seemed to me
a perpetual joy.
Was the woman apathetic ? Had she no
sensitiveness ? Was she made to go through
life with a gentle laugh, and drop into the
grave with a smile ? Her anguish at the
death of her son proved the contrary.
The loss of property, to one who had been
poor before, seamed to produce no grief;
and let the reader remember, or if he had not
known the fact, let him now learri it, that the !
loss of property is more bitterly felt by those
who have from poverty risen to possession,
than it is by those, who, from infancy to the
disaster had always been rich.
The loss of property produced no grief.
The death of her child led to anew affec
tion for, and an enlarged joy in her husband.
His unfrequeut but still obvious departure
from sobriety, long unattended with rudeness
or neglect, did not offend the pride of the
wife.
“It will last always,” said I.
“I must mourn as a mother,” thought she ;
“I must abate a portion of my social state,
and I may, once in a long time, be mortified
by some low indulgence in my husband, but
fixed, deep, permanent grief, as a wife, it is
proh hie I am to be spared, as a comparison
of my own constitution with that of my hus
band, shows that in the course of nature I
shall be spared the misery of mourning for
his death, and be saved from the solitary
woes of widowhood.”
The loss oi property rendered necessary
more labor on the part of the husband, and
that labor kept him more from home than
formerly ; but the gentle welcome of the wife
cheered* the toil-worn husband, and her deli
cate caress changed the gloom settling on
on his brow into smiles of satisfaction. There
was, perhaps, more pleasure in the efforts
which she was making, to produce the evi
dence of gratification in her husband, than
CEI)c Southern Sentinel.
there was in the mere exchange of smiles of
welcome and thanks. The wife grew proud
of her influence to bring him back to enjoy
ment, she felt anew consequence when she
found that she could not only reciprocate
smiles but dispel frowns, not only share in
the pleasures of home, hut dismiss the pains.
How holy is the office of a good wife, and
how pure must be her sentiments, to derive
the highest gratification by producing the
happiness of another.
It was late in a summer afternoon, and by
appointment the husband ought to have re
turned two or three hours before. The noise
of revelry had for a long time disturbed the
outer edge of the village in which the dwel
ling was situated—some vulgar frolic,
hitherto kept in a distant part of the country,
had been adjourned to that neighborhood—
but the way of the husband on his return did
not lie in that course. The wife had gone
out frequently to watch for his approach, and
to meet him with a smile of welcome—that
smile w’hich makes home delightful, which
attracts and retains. She looked anxiously to
the left, and stretched her eyes along the
road in hope that some token of his approach
would be presented; there was none. Even
the dogs that had followed her out failed to
give notice of his coming. She leaned over
the railing with distrustful hope—he would
come soon, and would repay her for all her
anxiety by extraordinary evidence of affec
tion. She summoned up for her consolation
the thousand kindnesses of her husband, his
constant and changeless love, his resistance
of those errors that marred the domestic hap
piness of so many families; and like a true
w’ife, she suffered the lustre of her own puri
ty, excellence and affection to gild the char
acter and constancy of her husband.
She was started from her revery of delight
and charity by an unusual outbreak of noisy
debauchery from the wretched drinking
house below. She leaned forward, and stood
fixed in horror at the sight.
Her husband was in the midst of the riot
ous host, in sickening, disgusting familiarity
with an abandoned one of her own sex.
She stepped hack until an angle of her
own house concealed from her the painful
scene. A thousand previous matters that
had scarcely excited a thought became then
of importance, in the explication which was
given in what she had seen. She raised her
apron to her eyes, but there were no tears;
her hands dropped on the fence before her;
a feeling came over her heart such as she had
not before experienced.
She had felt as a woman, regret for the loss
of property —the mother had mourned the
death ot her child—and anxiety had been
felt for some slight errors in her husband;
but property could be regained by labor, or
relinquished without effort—every dream of
the mother gave back to her heart her beloved
child and refreshed her with a spiritual inter- 4
course: and every waking thought that
turned toward the dead one was lustrous with
the sense of his heavenly intercourse, and
consoling in the promise of a future union—
the errors of a husband, that do not imply
dishonor, nor exhibit themselves as evidences
of waning affection, may be mended or en
dured ; but when the heart is suddenly over
whelmed with the evidence of shame, insult,
dishonor, when all the purity of woman’s
thoughts is outraged with the proofs of guilt,
and all the years of her charity and enduring
love are dishonored by the unerring token of
ingratitude and infamy, and the confiding,
consoling, the truthful wife becomes the wit
ness of the destruction of her domestic peace,
despair sweeps over the heart like the blast
ings of a simoon; and then, all the cherished
sorrows of the daughter, all the poignant an
guish of the mother, are lost in the over
whelming torrent of “The Wife’s First Grief.”
A SKATER CHASED BY A WOLF.
[A fearful incident in American country
life is vividly sketched in “Evenings at Don
aldson’s Manor.” In the winter of 1844, the
relator sallied forth one evening, to skate on
the Kennebec, in Maine, by moonlight, and,
having ascended that river nearly two miles,
turned into a little stream to explore its
course :]
“Fir and hemlock of a century’s growth,
(he says) met overhead, and formed an
archway radiant with frostwork. All was
dark within ; but I was young and fearless,
and, as I peered into an unbroken forest that
reared itself on the borders of the stream, I
laughed with very joyousness; my wild hur
rah rang through the silent woods, and I stood
listening to the echo that reverberated again
and again, until all was hushed. Suddenly
a sound arose—it seemed to me to come
from beneath the ice; it sounded low and
tremulous at first, until it ended in one wild
yell. I was appalled. Never before had
such a noise met my ears. I thought it more
than mortal; so fierce, and amidst such an
unbroken solitude, it seemed as though from
the tread of some brute animal, and the blood
rushed back to my forehead with a bound
that made my skin burn, and I felt relieved
that l had to contend with things earthly, and
not of spiritual nature, —my energies returned,
and I looked around me for some means of
escape. As I turned my head to the shore I
could see two dark objects, dashing through
the underbrush at a pace nearly double in
speed to my own. By this rapidity, and the
short yells which they occasionally gave, 1
knew at once that these were the much
dreaded grey-wolf.
I had never met with these animals, but,
from the description given of them, I had
very little pleasure in making their acquaint
ance. Their untameable fierceness, and the
untiring strength which seem part of their
nature, render them objects of dread to every
benighted traveller.
There was no time for thought; so I bent
my head and dashed madly forward. Nature
turned me towards home. The light flakes
of snow spun from the iron of my skates, and
I was some distance from my pursuers w hen
their fierce howl told me I was still their
fugitive. I did not look back: I did not feel
afraid, or sorry, or glad; one thought of home,
of the bright faces awaiting my return, of
their tears if they never should see me again,
and then every energy of body and miud was
exerted for escape. I was perfectly at. home
on the ice. Many were the days that I had
spent on my good skates, never thinking that
at one time, they would be my only means
of safety. Every half minute an alternate
yelp from my ferocious followers made me
only too certain that they were in close pur
suit. Nearer and nearer they came; I heard
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, MARCH 13, 1831.
their feet pattering on the ice nearer still,
until I could feel their breath and hear their
sniffling scent Every nerve and muscle in
my frame was stretched to the utmost tension.
The trees along the shore seemed to
dance In the uncertain light, and my brain
turned with my own breathless speed, yet
still they seemed to hiss forth their breath
with a sound truly horrible, when an invol
untary motion on my part turned me out of
my course. The wolves close behind, una
ble to stop, and as unable to turn on the
smooth ice, slipped and fell, still going on far
ahead; their tongues were lolling out, their
white tusks glaring from their blood}’ mouths,
their dark, shaggy breasts were fleeced with
foam, and, as they passed me, their eyes
glared, and they howled with fury. The
thought flashed on my mind that by this
means I could avoid them, viz: by turning
aside whenever they came too near; for
they, by the formation of their feet, are una
ble to run on the ice except in a straight line.
At one time, by delaying my turning too
long, my sanguinary antagonists came so
near that they threw the white foam over my
dress, as they sprang to seize me, and their
teeth clashed together, like the spring of a
foxtrap. Had my skates failed for one in
stant, had I tripped on a stick, or caught my
foot in a fissure in the ice, the story I am
now telling would never have been told.
I thought all the chances over; I knew
where they would first take hold of me if I
fell; I thought how long it would he before
I died, and then there would be a search for
the body that would already have its tomb;
for oh ! how fast man’s mind traces out all
the dread colors of death’s picture, only
those who have been so near the grim original
can tell. *
But I soon came opposifc the house, and
my hounds—l knew their deep voices—
roused by the noise, hayed furiously from the
kennels. I heard their chains rattle; how 1
wished they would break them ! and then I
should have protectors that would be peers
to the fiercest denizens of the forest. The
wolves, taking the hint conveyed by the dogs,
stopped in their mad career, and after a mo
ment’s consideration, turned and fled. I
watched them until their,dusky forms disap
peared over a neighboring hill. Then, taking
off mv skates, wended my way to the house,
with feelings which may he better imagined
than described. But even yet I never see a
broad sheet of ice in the moonshine without
thinking of that snuffling breath, and those
fearful things that followed me so closely
down the frozen Kennebec.”
[As an appropriate appendix to the above,
we will quote the subjoined perilous inci
dents in the life of the late Bishop Bascom,
which occurred, lvhen, in early life, his “cir
cuit” embraced the wild and unsettled fron-
Lers of Virginia, Kentucky, and Ohio :]
/ He was once followed several miles by a
large panther, which threatened at every
bound to spring upon him, and from which
he was rescued by reaching the cabin of a
settler. At another time, he had gone some
distance from the house of a friend, where he
was stopping, into the forest, where he was
lying quietly perusing a book, and, uncon
scious of all danger, under the broad spread
ing branches of a tree, when he heard the
voice of a man crying to him, and telling him
to lie still till lie fired, on the peril of his life.
Quickly glancing his eye in the direction
whence the sound proceeded, he saw his
friend, with his rifle elevated and pointing
towards the branches of the tree under
which he was lying. Perfectly familiar with
backwoods life, Dr. Bascom knew that some
dreadful danger was hovering over him, and,
with the least perceptible motion of his body,
he instantly turned his gaze upward, when
he saw on the limb of the tree, not more than
twenty feet above him, a majestic panther,
whisking his tail, and just ready to leap
upon him. This was a fearful moment!
What nerve it required to retain his self-pos
session, and thus save his life! for the least
motion on the part of Dr. Bascom, would
have haste ned the spring of the panther, and
sealed his fate forever! and in that fearful
moment, when death seemed inevitable, with
a self-control and cour ige truly wonderful,
he lay perfectly quiet, till the keen crack of
the rifle was heard, and the ferocious beast,
pierced by the unerring aim of the back
woodsman, fell lifeless by liis side.
[From the Boston Atlas.]
AUDUBON, THE NATURALIST.
It is now somewhat more than twenty years
since Mr. Audubon first became known to
the world, both as a naturalist, and yet more
as a painter of nature, in the latter of which
he stood far higher than in the other. He
made the first public demonstration of his
truly wonderful powers, as a painter of na
ture, in the city of Edinburgh. He there ex
hibited a collection of some two or three hun
dred paintings of birds—most of which have
been since made familiar by his plates—and
announced his intention to commence the
publication of his great work on American
ornithology. Looking back from this point,
when success would seem to justify him, we
can hardly appreciate the boldness—the rash
ness even of his undertaking. Unknown, un
friended, with a fortune not equal to one
fourth part of the immense cost of his great
work, it is hard to conceive of an enterprise
partaking more of the impossible and incred
ible.
It will be r jmembi r ;d that nothing l efore or
since, undertaken in natural history, will bear
any comparison with it, costing as the work
did a thousand dollars for a single copy, and
involving a cost of nearly two hundred thou
sand dollars to the artist. Encouraged by
the success he met with in Scotland and En
gland, he returned to his native country, first
made known to it by the fame he had won
abroad. There he was received with open
arms, and notwithstanding the high cost of
his work, New England vied with Old En
gland in the number of his patrons. No
where was he more admired or encouraged
than in our own Boston—“the Athens of our
V estera world,” as he himself gratefully
called her. Among his warmest friends and
most liberal and open-handed benefactors,
was the late lamented Dr. George Parkman
The success of his undertaking exceeded
his most sanguine expectations, and the large
number of his subscribers promised not only
a full remuneration of all expenses, but even
an immense profit To render it more deserv
ing its success, expeditions were planned and
fitted out, successively, to Labrador, to Flor
ida, to Texas, and to the base of the Rocky
Mountains, yielding abundant and interesting
fruits to reward his persevering researches. —
Returning from these perilous ami laborious
I excursions, he was to encounter new and un
! expected difficulties—not among wild beasts
or uncivilized Indians, but amid civilized men.
| The commercial convulsions of 1837 had
swept over both Europe and America, and
nearly one-half of the subscribers upon whom
he had depended to enable him to sustain
the great expenses of his work, availed them
selves of the crisis to withdraw their subscrip
tions.
Instead of rewarding him by a noble re
! muneration, his work, if he went on with it,
would sweep from him the last dollar of the
little remnant of his fortune. He did not
hesitate. He persevered, and completed one
of the proudest monuments man ever erected
to his own immortal fame, —a work estab
lishing his reputation as the best painter of
nature of any age. So the best judges of
Europe have pronounced him, and so all
must admit him to bo who have ever studied,
with the eye of an artist, such pictures as
those of the great-footed hawk (Falo pere
grinus,) the Brown Thrush, the Virginia
Partridge, the Wild Turkey, with its brood
of young, and many more I might name.
The publication of this great work would
have left Mr. Audubon penniless, hud not his
friends encouraged him to publish a smaller
edition, which proved quite successful. ‘Hie
work upon the mamalia of North America,
| published since in his own name, but which
! owes much to his gifted and devoted sons,
j who, in a spirit of filial piety, have placed up
| on their father’s brow laurels justly their own,
has also been quite successful in every re
spect; and it is to be hoped that tho smaller
edition, now in the course of publication, may
receive, as it deserves, the wide-extended fa
vour of the American public.
Mr. Audubon died in the home lie had
chosen for himself in his old age, beautifully
situated, on the banks of the Hudson River,
in tho upper part of this city, surrounded by a
large and affectionate family, at the age of
70. Although possessed of a naturally ro
bust, athletic, and iron constitution, which
hardly a century would be expected to over
throw, his long, constant and great exposure
to hardships undermined his health, and
brought old age prematurely upon him. For
the last two years his once vigorous intellect,
and his once active and powerful mind have
been gradually giving way to the destroying
powers of time, and preparing his friends for
the privation which has at last come upon
them.
SHAKSPEARE’S MIRROR FOR WOMEN.
BY MARY COWDEX CLARKE.
As, in the tall glass called Psyche, a lady
gains a full length view of herself, so that
no point of person or dress may be left dis
regarded, so in Shakspeare’s mirror, a woman
may obtain a psychological reflex of her na
ture that may aid her to its spotless array,
and to the utmost perfection in adornment of
which it is susceptible.. She may learn how
to preserve its intrinsic graces of purity and
innocence, at the same time that she is in
structed how to deck it with becoming orna
ment of accomplishment and refining culture.
She may be taught to perceive how native
charms are heightened by suavity of demean
or ; how a fine understanding and a capacious
mind are set off by modest bearing; how ex
ternal beauty is enhanced by sweet manners
and cheerful ease; how intellect and sense
consort with placability, forbearance and
affectionate submission ; how gaiety of heart
and the gift of wit are tempered with gentle
ness ; how highest dignity shows itself most
truly in courtesy, generosity, charity, kind
ness. From the lady of the highest rank, to
the humblest among women—from her who
is “crowned the most imperial monarch” to
her who “does the meanest chores,” we all
may read in his respective delineations our
feminine resemblance. From the virtuous
majesty of a Hermione or a Katharine of
Arragon, down to the homely coarseness of
an Audrey or a Mopsa, each essentially bears
the generic stamp of woman. His sceptred
queens, his princesses, his duchesses, his gen
tlewomen, his yeomen’s wives, his young
maidens, his serving damsels, his country
wenches, his hostesses, his most delicate
lady, his most blushing girl, his most reserv
ed vestal, his arrantest coquette, his wildest
spirited sparkler, his sedatest thinker, his most
loving and loveable female impersonation,
or bis vilest and most odious one, however in
finitely they may vary, have all one feature
in common—they are preeminently womanly
in all they do or say. The wit of Rosalind and
Beatrice, the ambition of Lady Macbeth, the
conjugal faith of Imogen, the wickedness of
Goneril and Regan, the constancy of Helina,
the reticence of Cordelia, the intellect of
Portia, the wiles of Cleopatra, the innocence
of Miranda, the charm of Viola, the gentle
ness of Desdemona, the sanctity and moral
purity of Isabella, the anguish of Constance,
the maternity of Volumnia, the shrewishness
of Katharine, the affection of Celia, the flip
ancy of Lucretia, the passionate love of Juliet,
the sprightliness of Nerissa, the insanity of
Ophelia, are all markedly contrasted as day
and night; but they are all in themselves and
in their action and circumstances true to the
spirit of womankind.
THE EVERY-DAY MARRIED LADY.
The every-day married lady is the inventor
of a thing which few foreign nations have as
yet adopted in their houses or languages.
This thing is “comfort.” The word cannot
well be defined ; the items that enter into its
composition being so numerous, that a de
scription would read like a catalogue. We
all understand, however, what it means, al
though few of us are sensible of the source
of enjoyment. A widower has very little
comfort, and a bachelor none at all—while a
married man, provided his wife be an every
day married lady—enjoys it in perfection.
But he enjoys it unconsciously, and, there
fore, ungratefully : it is a thing of course —a
necessary, a right of the want of which he
complains without being distinctly sensible of
its presence. Even when it acquires sufficient
intensity to arrest his attention, when his fea
tures and his heart soften, and he looks round
with a half smile on his face, and says, “This
is comfort!” it never occurs to him to inquire
where it all comes from. His every-day wife
is sitting quietlyin the corner: it was not
she who lighted the fire, or dressed the din
ner, or drew the curtains; and it never oc
curs to him to think that all these, and a
hundred other circumstances of the moment,
owe their virtue to her spiriting; and that
the comfort which enriches the atmosphere,
which sparkles in the embers, whieh broods
in the shadowy parts of the room, which
glows in his own full heart, emanates from
her, and encircles her like an aureola.
Never Give a Kick for a Hit.—l
learned a good lesson when I was a little
girl, says a lady. One frosty morning l was
looking out of the window into my father’s
barn-yard, where stood many cows, oxen and
horses, waiting to drink. The cattle all stood
verv still and meek, till one of the cows, in
attempting to turn round, happened to hit her
next neighbor; whereupoh the neighbor kick
ed and bit another. In five minutes the whole
herd were kicking each other with fury. My
mother laughed, and said, “see what comes of
kicking when you are hit.” Just so, I have
seen one cross word set a whole family by
the ears some frosty morning. Afterward,
if my brothers or myself were a little irritable,
site would say, “take care, my children, re
member how the fight in the barn-yard began.
Never return a kick fora hit, and you will
save yourselves and others a great deal of
trouble.”—London Child't Companion.
A DkvtiiUkll,—A pretty story is told of
the casting of the bell for the church of St.
Magdalen, at Breslau. When the metal was
just ready to bo poured into the mold, the
chief founder went to dinner, and forbade
bis apprentice, under the pain of death, to
touch the vent by which the metal was con
veyed. The youth, curious to see the opera
tion, disobeyed orders ; the whole of the met
al ran into the mold ; and the enraged mas
ter, returning from his meal, slew the appren
tice on the spot. On breaking away the
mold, he found that he had been too hasty,
for the bell was cast as perfectly as possible.
When it was hung in its place, the master had
been sentenced to death by the sword for the
murder of his apprentice, and ho entreated
the authorities that he might be allowed to
hear it once before he died. His petition
was granted, and the bell has since been
rung at every execution.
ftlorat mtb BcLgious.
[From the American Sentinel.]
A JUST MAN.
BY REV. MR. GILES.
A just man is always simple. He is a man
of direct aims and purposes. There is no
complexity in his motives, and thence is no
jarring or discordancy in his character. He
wishes to do right, and in most cases he does
it; he may err, but it is by mistake of judg
ment, and not by perversity or intention.
The moment his judgment is enlightened his
action is corrected. Setting himself, always,
a clear and worthy end, he will never pursue
it by any concealed or unworthy means.
We may carry our remarks, for illustration,
both into private and public life. Observe
such a man in his home: there is a charm
about him which no artificial grace has ever
had the power to bestow; there is a sweet
ness, I had almost said, a music in his man
ners, which no sentimental refinement has
ever given.
His speech, ever fresh from purity and rec
titude of thought, controls all that are within
its hearing, with an unfelt and resistless
sway. Faithful to every domestic, and to
his religion and his God, he would no more
prove recreant to any of home than
be would to blaspheme the Maker in whom
he believes, or than he should forswear the
Heaven in which he hopes. Fidelity and
truth to those bound by love and nature to
his heart, are to him most sacred principles ;
they are in the last recesses of his moral being,
they are imbedded in the life: and to violate
them, would seem to him as a spiritual extir
mination, the suicide of his soul. Nor is such
a man unrewarded, for the goodness that he
so largely gives, is largely paid back to him
again; and though the current of his life is
transparent, it is not shallow; on the con
trary, it is deep and strong. The river that
fills its channtd, glides smoothly along in the
power of its course; it is the stream which
scarcely covers the raggedness of its bed, that
is turbulent and noisy. With all this gentle
ness, there is exceeding force; with all this
meekness there is imperative command; but
the force is the force of wisdom; and the
command is the command of love. And yet
the authority that rules so effectually, never
gathers an angry or an irritable cloud over the
brow of the ruler; and this swa} T ANARUS, which ad
mits of no resistance, does not repress one
honest impulse of nature, one moment of the
soul’s high freedom, one bound of joy from
the heart’s unbidden gladness, in the spirits
of the governed.
NOT AFRAID TO DIE.
Not long since, I was walking home,
when very unexpectedly it began to rain, and
the people who were in the road ran as fast
as they could to find shelter. Soon there
came towards me a girl, drawing a little cov
ered wagon as quickly as she could manage
it. The wagon and whatever was in it was
covered quite over with a large shawl, but I
heard a merry laugh from under the shawl,
and then another girl came up behind and
lifted up a corner, and I saw two little boys
underneath. They had been covered over to
keep the rain from them. They were quite
in the dark, and could not see where they
were going, but they knew who it was that
was drawing them, and they were not afraid.
When a child that loves God is very ill and
seems to be going to die, he is not afraid,
though his eyes grow dim, and darkness
comes over him; for he knows who is lead
ing him, and that God is taking him home;
so he is not afraid.
THE DANGER OF PROSPERITY.
As long as the waters of persecution are j
upon the earth, so long we dwell in the ark ;
but where the land itself is dry, the dove itself
will be tempted to a wandering course of life,
never to return to the house of her safety.
Many are not able to suffer and endure
prosperity; it is like the light of the sun to a
weak eye,—glorious, indeed, in itself, but not
proportioned to such an instrument
In the tomb of Terentia, certain lamps
burned under ground many ages together;
but as soon as ever they were brought into
the air, and saw a bigger light, they went out
never to be re kindled. So long as we are
in the retirement of sorrow, of want, of fear,
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i of sickness, or of any sad accident, we are
burning and shining lamps; but when God
! comes with his forbearance, and lifts us up
from the gates of death, and carries ns abroad
’ into the open air, that we may converse with
i prosperity and temptation, we go out in dark
ness ; and we cannot be preserved in light
’ and heat, but by still dwelling in the regions
of sorrow. —Jeremy Taylor.
A COMFORT.
The presence of Christ can turn a dark
1 night into a night much to be remembered,
j Perhaps it is time to be sleeping, but the
November wind is out, it riots orer the misty
I hills, and dashes the rain-drift on the rattling
j casement, and howls in the fireless chimney .
J it has awakened the young sleeper la the
I upper room, and when his mother enters, she
finds him sobbing out his infant tears, or,
! with beating heart, hiding from the noisy
I danger in the depths of his downy p3Jo.
j But she puts the candle on the table and sits
: down beside the bed, and she goes on to ex
plain the mysterious source of Lis terror.
“That hoarse loud roaring is the brook
, tumbling over the stones, for the long pour
ing rains have filled it to the very brim. I:
is up on the green to-night, and had the eow
slips been in blossom they would all have
been drowned. Yes, and that thump at the
window. It is the old cedar at the comer of
the house; and as the wind tosses its stiff
branches, they bounce and scratch on the
panes of glass; and if they were not verv
small, they would be broken to pieces.
And then she goes on to tell how this very
night there are people out in the pelting blast,
whilst her little hoy lies warm in his crib, in
side of his curtains; and how ships may be
upset on the deep sea, or dashed to pieces on
rocks so steep that the drowning sailors can
not climb them. And then, perhaps, sire
ends with breathing a mother's prayer. r he
drops asleep beneath the cradle hymn.
As one whom his mother comforteth, the
Lord comforted) his people, Isa. Ixvi. 13. It
is in the dark and boisterous night of sorrow
j or apprehension, that the Savior reveals him
self nigh. And one of the first things he
; does is to explain the subject matter of the
| grief, to show its real nature and amount. I:
is but a light affliction ; it lasts but for a mo
! meat. Wait till morning, and yoa will s*- 5
j the extent of it. And during those qub:
| hours, when the heart is soft, the Savior
| lessons sink deep. And, last of all, by this
j comforting visit, the Savior unspeakably en
dears himself to that soul. Paul and Silas
never knew him so well, nor loved him so
much, as after that night which they passed
in the Macedonian prison.
NO. 11.
THE POWER OF A TEAR.
M iss Bremer says, “In the dreadful year of
famine here, (Delacarlia,) 1838, there came to
me one day a Dalman, from another parish,
and said to me, ‘Sell me a few tons of straw,’
The man was one of those great stalwart
figures, which you seldom see, except here;
yet he had evidently suffered for want of
food. He had drawn his hat, with its broad
brim, deep over his face. ‘I cannot sell the
straw,’ said I, at his entreaty; ‘I have not
more than I shall need for myself, and the
poor of my own parish.’ ‘Sell but one ton,’
implored he. ‘Not even that can I,’ I replied:
‘that which I have left I must carefully pre
serve lor myself and mv people.’ ‘Half a
ton, then,’ persisted the Dalman, pressingly.
‘lt grieves me,’ said I, ‘but not a single half
ton can I spare thee.’ The huge fellow took
a step nearer to me, said not a word, but lifted
his hat above his brow, and gazed fixedly
upon me; he let me see that he wept. The
sight of this anguish I could not sustain.
‘Come with me,’ said I, ‘thou shalt have
what thou wilt.’ He followed me, and got
the straw that lie wanted. ‘lf this were for
myself/ he said, ‘I should have not probably
been here; for if we suffer and endure want,
it is no more than our sins deserve, and wo
can, and ought to hear it; but the* poor ani
mals—what can they have done amiss?’ ”
THE SWEARER AND HIS DYING SON.
During a protracted meeting in Kentucky,
a gentleman of some note called upon his
m'nister. Ho wished to connect hin self with
the church on the following Sabbath. He
had been remarkably profane; but the Lord
had been merciful to him, and he was now, as
as he had hoped, a converted man. The
case was this: He once had a lovely
boy, an only son; this beloved child
gave evidence of early piety. When,
perhaps, not more than nine years of
age, he was laid upon a sick and dying bed.
He talked sweetly about Jesus, and much
about Heaven. On one occasion, when near
his end, he called his father to Lis bed-sWe,
and, with great respect and affection, said,
“Papa, I wish to make one request of you
before I die.”
“What is it, my darling ?” said the weeping
father, bending over his beloved and now
dying child.—“O, my dear son. your father is
willing to do any thing in the world for you ;
what do you wish me to do ?”
“Papa,” said the dying child, “dear papa,
if you please, don’t swear any more.”
The father, as he narrated the affecting in
cident, wept—tears rolling down his cheeks.
| “O, sir,” said he to the minister, “I never had
i any thing come with such power to my soul
j before, as this language of my dying boy,
j ‘Papa, dear papa, if you please, don’t swear
any more.’ Sir, it was blessed to my soul.”
The next day that man was seated at the
table of the Lord ; and may we not suppose
that when he comes to die, his cherub boy
will hover over his dying bed, and be the first
to welcome his happy spirit home to glory
and to God?
Hints for Parents. —Never allow a
child to be uncourteous and disrespectful, in
language or behavior, to yourself or others.
Cultivate the affections with greater care
than you would nurse a house plant; they
afford more pleasure in the domestic circle,
and their frailty demands your utmost atten
tion. Allow no influences in your family
but those that are gentle and kind.
OCT Four good mothers, says the Jewish
Chronicle, have given birth to four bad daugh
ters. Truth has produced hatred; success,
pride; security, danger; and familiarity, con
tempt ; and, on the contrary, four bad moth
ers have produced as many good daughters,
for astronomy is the offspring of astrology ;
chemistry, of alchemy ; freedom, of oppres
sor) ; patience, of long suffering.