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/Si^'W7x®' I1 1 i^=^z-«TcVx v ®l m Bl r n W I I if fl I pl®" jMiiJl lfth 11 w rWiifWW M IJL4« 3^^w ' l tti I'valißWr ‘ J- ‘ 1 **"* w **—— — r X • IOH NJ 11. X»C XLS. Editor and Proprietor. Ij. VI K<S INJIA. P'KKNJCH. Literary Editor. fairies’ department. BY MRS. L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. tr~ All letter? intended for Mm». French must be : addreMed to her at McMinnville Tenn. Who V RY L. VIRiIKIA FRKKCII. Look around thee! day by day. see ye not the *ign Being* of a nobler life minister to thine ; In thy home perchance they live, ever in thy \ie\v. Pause a moment seltishness,—ask thy spirit -who iSee.k the signtt earnestly , note the token well. Fold it in thy heart »f horrts. evermore to dw. 11. Beady arc the willing teet, busy are the hands, fathering along Life's shore all the shinning -amh; Toiling o'er a desert way, often w earily • going every day, ever cheerily: Thinking, ever thinking what is best to do. Shrinking, never shrinking if it be./or Gleaning up the gulden grains from the sheaf of Time. Singing in her heart the while many a merry chime: Poring over volumes, adding to her store Know lodge afterward to use as aft'ection's lore: In her good hearts crucible turning druM to gold. Garnering within iis depths treasures never told. Joying with the light of In ut in the halls of ninth, j We,-ping with the desolate around the darkened hearth : Laughing with the lit*le ones in the woodland wild. Crooning patient Jullabys to the fretted child : Seeking for the wanderer, mourning for the lost, Calming down the anguish of the spirit tempest-t<*t. Failing in her duty oft. erring day by day. in her deep humility kneeling still to pray : Asking for the purpose pnre. and the spit it strong Which shall lead her to the right, guard her from the wrong— Dreaming of the beautiful.—bearing with the rod.— Striving to be dutiful, both to thee and God 1 Earnest in Lor counseling, pointing thee the way, Penitent if from the right should her footsteps stray : € jnning o’er life’s lessons ever hopefully, Often disappointed when she seeks thy sympathy; IxKjking to -Our Father” with an earnest taust, Though her idols, day by day, crumble into dust. cheering thy despondency—gathering the bloom. And beauty of another world to dissipate thy gloom : Soothing thee in suffering—with attentive ear Li.-t'ning to thy murmuring?—hoping thru* thy fear • Working for thee constantly with a purpose high. When thy spirit’s strength is low. whisj>ering "unly try ’ Bringing consolation for thy wretchedness when she, Weary, worn, and w retched too the comf rted should be Always when thy troubhd soul seems a fount of tears. Bearing too the weight of woe which thy spirit bears ; But wh«*n cold and careless words turn her soul to stone | Covering up her stricken heart, bleeding on alone. Keeping all her love fur thee as a “thing apart.” Daring Drath to rend the links woven round her heart: Paucing on the threshhuld of a Paradise above, Tu pray for one last blessing on the object of her love: Thanking God the Giver, t hroughout Eternity, For aii the strength, and life, and love, which she has spent I for TUBE ’ Luuk ar<>und thee Selfishness—see ye nut the 'ign ? Being* of a better life minister to thine; lu thy home perchance they dwell, ever in thy view, Pause a moment in thy course —ask thy spirit “w ho • ' If thou find>*t it guard it well, lighten all its cares. Knowing thou d«»st “entertain an angel unaware* !*’ I Tom-Boys. BY L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. Somebody -ays “ the song of the Clerk is y»*t unsung,*’ and so perhaps is the praise of ■ that “peculiar institution,’’ the “Tom-boy.'' I Nevertheless, it is one that by old and endeared association commends itself to our love—one that by our cognizance of its beneficial influ ences, demands for itself our unqualified sane- I lion. Why is it that the “Tom-boy” has al- I ways been considered a title of reproach, and that, a- a class, it is one forever persecuted 1 and berated ? Simply because it has become a custom with us to consider that there is no de- ' velopment for the young, but the mental—that our young daughters do not need beautiful forms, but only “loves of bonnets” .and dress- I e-, and that little Jennie and Jessie must not ■ upon any account be children, but tiny nirniny ' priminy xromtn — just mamma in duodecimo. ; J'ht? is a mistaken idea, and as its cunsequen- ' ces are so sad to our sex, it is high lime that | - mothers were finding it out. Now is the lime : to commence a good work which is vehemently called for, and where shall we begin with a better prospect of success, than herein South- • ern now that the South has struck for ( indeptndtnee in all things ? We have thousands of beautiful women, indeed this Southern land ■ is proverbial for the beauty of its ladies— | bright-eyed daughters of the Sun. But high I health brings the best of beauty, and though ; the health of .Southern women is, on an aver- | age, better than that of zlgenerally, I -till it needs yet a higher standard. want J Keallhy as well as lovely women. Some | one says that our young men need wha* is i tersely termed “back-bone”—but they do not ! need it so much as our young ladies need stam ina. And in this new era of freedom and I »tii-ngth and vitality which is about to dawn ■ upon the South, shall we not have a renewal ; ot “back-bone” for one sex, and an increase I of vitality and “vim” for the other? We be lieve it will be so. We think that mothers will, one of these days, waken up to the belief that their pretty daughters are not mere automatons ' upon which to hang jewelry and doll rags, and whose especial mission is t j murder music and ‘ French, and be married. We think that some ! of these days they will remember that their daughter’s lung- are no better adapted to bear • tight dressing, and the putrid air of coarse and heated rooms, without injury, than is the > breathing apparatus of their sons. We be- | lieve that ere long they wili consider that if a 1 restricted physical education, enfeebled health, | delicate, nervous system, and abov<- all, au ; aiiide**, yarpoisdeui arc things not very well calculated to bring out the genius, and build up the social status of their sons, neither are they depended on to do this for their daugh li'f-. Nay, we even go so fai “ahead of our lime” as to imagine we can discern the dawn ing of a day when mothers will encourage their daughters to effort, exercise, industry and energy, thus giving them health, vigor and vital force, with the power of expanding into a glorious womanhood; in a word we think we even foresee the coming day when little girls will be encouraged to become real, bona fide, flesh and blood “ Tom-Loyx /” what an imagination we have, to be sure ! Let it be distinctly understood that our idea of a “Tom-boy” does not necessarily include rudeness, uncouth manners, or “outlandish ways” generally, by no means. Undine was a Tom-boy in her way—yet what away it was! so delicate, and frolicsome, and Aiiel like! Our Tom«boy is not an Undine, however. She is an earnest, eager, impulsive, bright-eyed, glad hearted, liviny and real specimen of the yetiun femiritr. If her laugh be a little too fre quent, and her tone a trifle too emphatic, wo are willing to overlook these for the sake of the true life, and the exultant vitality, to which I they are the “escape-valves," and indeed we ’ rather like this “high pressure" nature which ! must close off its superfluous “steam" in such ' ebullitions. The glancing eye, the glowing i cheek, the fresh, balmy breath, and the lithei ; graceful play of the limbs, tell a tale of health ful and vigorous physical development, which lis Nature’s best beauty. The soul and the I mind will be developed also, iu due time, and i we shall have before us a oom, in the high- 1 ! est sense of the term. I The "Tom-boy" is beautiful iu her way she jis wise also in away peculiarly her own. She ! knows the names of all the cows, can ride the | horses to water, without saddle or bridle, a la | Joan d'Are, can tell you what the spade, shov !el and hoe were made for; he can hunt lien’s i nests, feed the young turkeys, knows the foli ' age of all trees, and can tell you to a certainty ; whereabout on the bluff the first blue violets '■ blow, and where, amid the thin grass iu the I meadow, the wild strawberries ripen. She 1 can describe to you the different fish that ' haunt her favorite "branch," for she’s caught i the silvery “shiners” many a time ; she can i inform you when the young brood in the blue ' bird’s nest will be ready to fly, for that house i hold is under her especial protection ; and her ! naive countenance is full of the visions of the ‘ \ weather seer, as site explains to you that it is ; I “certain to rain to-morrow" for the “pink- ! I eyed pimpernel" has cl sed, and there is a i j deep sough from the South among the moun" | tain pines. When the “Tom-boy” has sprung up to a I j healthful and vigorous womanhood, she will I be ready to take hold of the duties of life, to ' I ' ; become a worker in the great system of hu- ; - inanity. She will not sit down to sigh over ! I the ‘ work given her to do,” to simper non- | ' sense, languish iu ennui, or fall sick at heart ! by the way-side ; but she wili ever be able to I i take up her burden of duty, while nature, hu- | , inanity, society, systems, &c. will be subjects | I for her analyzation and improvement. In her ’ head there will be sound philosophy, in her i thoughts boldness and originality, in her heart ! Heaven's own purity, and the “world will be i better that she has lived in it.” The. beautiful I idea that ••Life is real—life is earnest — And the grave is nos its goal. - ’ ■ will be the soul of all her actions-—she will ! early realize that woman, the world’s great ! verb was not created merely “to be,” but “to j do” also—and too often, alas ! “to suffer.” i But to this, her allotted task, she will bring j health, vigor, strength, energy and spirit, and ’ these will afford her both the power and the ' tfldwrance, without which her whole life muet J become, (in some respects, at least,) that sad | dost of woman's destinies— a failure. May the day yet come when the world will ; learn to appreciate this or.e of our “fiwt 1 loves”—this vital embodiment of freshness, i grace, sincerity, simplicity and nature— the i “Tom-boy.” Written for the Crusader. Siinimer. BY .'IKS. MARIA ABJISTKOXG. " 'Till beauty all, and grateful song arxuud, Joined to tiie low of kine, and numerous bleat of flocks thick—nibbling through the clover vale. Vnd shall the hymn be marred by thankless man. Most favored, who with voice articulate ; Should lead the chorus of the lower world ? Shall lie so soon, forgetful of the Hand That hu«ho I the thunder, and serenes th.- sky. Extinguished feel that spark the tempest waked That sense of power exceeding far his own, i Ere yet his feeble heart has lost its fears'” [TAonqwou. Roses fleshly blooming hold up their blush ; ing faces to the genial rays of the summer sun I —the dew-drops upon the petals, like diamonds i glitter, while their fragrance is watted upon j the bland summer breeze. The merry mock- I ing bird, the champion of all the woodland songsters that twitter around our Southern j homes, tunes his harp to chord with every wild | of the forest. Just now lie sings the | plaintive song of the lonely whippoor-will which i carries us back into the past, and reminiscen j ces of our early days, flash upon our mental i vision with the swiftness of electricity, and j ere we have Contemplated the scene presented i to us, the mocking bird carols some merry chorus, which unconsciously bears us away up on the pinions of thought, and we are absorb ed in some sweet reverie in which we delight to linger. Often when listening to our bird of variations, have we wished a cage could be i hung upon the veranda, and the charming bird could be lured into it. But the idea of mak- • a prisoner of a creature so lovely, banishes the thought. And we would not for any con sideration deprivesjiim of'-his summer home i in the old poplar tree, I the and the ' yellow tulip v The wheat ripens for the harvest, and the I reapers go forth to gather the grain, to fill up i the empty barns and garners. The tall grns:- is holding up ils little capsule- and inviting the scythe to gather the newly mown hay. Ripe berries arc hanging upon the green bush es, offering a rich harvest to the birds and j children -all ready to make nice pies for the 1 harvest men. What a delightful season of the I year is the beginning of summer. Our < limate is delicious. The exhilarating air is filled with the element- of health and enjoyment. .Since the days of the antidiluvi ; ans probably no fields and forests were greener I or more delightful to behold than those we look I upon to-day. Herb, and flower, and tree, and | all the garnishing of ihi-: beautiful world, arc as fresh ami fair now, as in the days of yore, I when Columbia’s soil boasted the sunshine of : freedom and happiness. Nature cliange.- 1 not; her laws are immutable. But rnnn, vain, sin ful man, regards not the laws of God, “and followeth not in the paths in which He hath l trodden.” lie suffers ambition to blindfold ; him, and lead him contrary to the dictates of conscience and reason, and to gratify his am bition amj thirst for fame, Umpires ami King t i doms are laid waste, and their institutions arc : | buried in ruins. i j Although the summer sun beams brightly j , • upon our southern homes, and nature wears, I j perhaps, as green a garb as she did in the days ! of Adam, eresin had made afoot-print upon the i green earth ; yet there is a sadness even about I ; our sweet flowers that bloom so lovely around 1 i our doors, and upon our garden walks. They | i tell us too plainly of the greatness and goodness ! of an offended God, and remind us of the happy I I summers which have glided sweetly into the past, i Then our little boys, a happy trio, each filled ! , his own chair at the table. Now, the eldest ’ s of the three, although iu his “teens,” is in - the tented field, in the Southern army Ere a the summer solstice peeps again over this f world, our fireside soil may have been drench li ed with blood, and our sons laid away beneath Atlanta, Gra., Thursday Morning, August 22, 1861. the green sod, in the soldier’s grave. But we still have a lingering hope, that some good an gel will bear aloft the olive branch of peace, and the God of battles will draw aside the dark curtain that mantles our nation, and the light of peace, liberty and happiness beam forth brighter than ever. And still We’ll bow before no despot's guilty throne. But bend the knee to God, and him alone! July, 18G1. [This superb poem by Mrs. Rosa Vektnek Johnson, is well worthy of its subject. “The Beautiful" is always loved, and very many of us find its most radiant manifestation in the heart and soul of which this is an emanation.] 1 Ljovc thr Ueiiutiful. I love the beautiful! 0 let me find A pithway for my spirit, where, on high, The midnight stars their shining leaves have twined And hung a wreath of glory round the sky Blossom of light ! whose beamy petals seem Dripping with silver or with amber dew, Whi’e trembling o’er me, how 1 love to dream That troops of angels tend the gardens where ye grew ! And when along the fur horizon's verge The twilight clouds lie bright as fairy land. 1 love to watch the ocean billows surge, And seem to break upon that purple strand : When the lull moon seems wafted by tiie waves. Onward and upward, gently to the skies. As some vast gem, upheaved from ore tn caves, knd cast upon the dim blue shores of paradise. Ami when the night with sable drapery seems Hiding the whole immensity of space, 1 love to watch the morn, with pencil beams, Ou the vast canvas of the darkness trace A picture of the universe, the lines So dim at first, Hoods fields, and mountains gray, Then brightening, till ear h’s panorama shines, Made perfect through the gilded vistas of tin day. M“fii seems to lean her easel on the skies, And, from the fountains of the sunlight there Stealing bright drops to mix her matchless dyes, Paints with her magic hand, till, passing fair. A picture hides that canvas dark and vast. Whose Ged-created hues man still once inure Will strive to imitate, but, foiled at last, Can only look upon it, wonder, and adore. Vp to the storm clouds 1 have often gazed. When far aloft their gloomy grandeur grew, And thought they were like huge volcanoes raised, To bound an ocean beautiful and blue; Then when the thunder's ißufiled bells were tolled, And from those phantom outers leaped the glare Os the red lightning, lo! itFhot floods rolled Like lava sweeping down the pathways of the air. 1 love the beautiful! O let me go Into the forest's stilly depths afar, Where, in the dark, ten thousand flre-fiies glow. Like atoms wafted from some shattered star— Where there is stillness so profound it til Is The soul with silence, and we almost start To hear the dew which Memory distils, Dropping upon the folded blossoms of the heart. I love to see the ruddy life-blood gush Up from the heart’s full fountains, and then steal Over the brow of beauty, in a blush (Os lovely innocence, the rosy seal;) And by -thu voice of love’s impassioned v<»w. To see a lofty n i%ni o gently stirred, As gently as theasp*'s graceful bough Is shaken by the song of some wild forest-bird. 1 love to watch the host of butterflies, To which the breezes of the spring gave birth. Like mimic angels floating from the skies To awake the myriad of the earth : Stirring the leaves on every graceful stem, To find the honey in its perfumed bowl, As a fair woman seeking for the gem Os genius hidden stll within her child’s pure soul. 1 love the beautiful ! The gushing swell, The low lament, the soft, unceasing wail Os music sweeping through an ocean shell, Unto my listening fancy tells a tale Os some lost Peri who once made her home Within that mystic cell so passing fair, Her fading beauty flushed its pearly dome, And her departing spirit left its death-song there. Up to the West, where scattered fragments shine Os day’s rich banquet, I would love to go; When the red light, like rosy rippling wine From evening's sapphire goblet seems to flow. There would I quaff the splendor she distils, And then amid her cloudy realms explore. The caves of light that rift those purple hills, And ’mid their wonders seek the sunset’s golden ore. On fancy’s sea I launch my spirit-boat, With airy sails, by Hope and Memory wrought, And o'er its mystic billows onward float To cruise among the haunted isles of Thought. Some verdant in the tropic clime of Joy, Ami some begirt by Sorrow’s frozen zone; Yet who their solemn beauty would destroy. Or break the sacred spell of silence round them thrown. I love the beautiful! I stand, in dreams, Beneath that arch of glory which the sun, Reaping the rich abundance of his beams, Abovo the fountains of the rain has spun ; And gazing down into their crystal springs, Ami up to where that misty circle falls, My spirit chained with beauty, folds her wings, And lingers spell-bound in the rainbow's glistening TSiat Pain I That Pain ! No matter where the seat of snfi’ering may be, if it were located in some part of the body we fancy we could en dure it better. The wart on our friend’s nose —how he it were upon his wrist.* .The guished place, how much less anxiety it would cost him about the scar it will leave. That rheumatic twinge in his right arm—if it had only been the opposite member how much easier he could write his weekly statistics. The gout in the toe—how the twinge disables him from active exercise. And then how often we wish ourselves somebody else, but oureelces.— If we had that man’s purse, how benevolent we would be ! If we could discharge our li abilities, how much more amiable we should become? />’«? for that anxiety, how happily our life would glide along ! But, friend, the very thing you would remove may be the very discipline you need ; so iron out your wrink les, try ami think kindly, ami act. kindly, and so make everybody love you if you are an in valid, or a debtor, or any sort of sufferer.— L‘ t it be said, “God bless him, he is a good fellow, only a little unfortunate!” Douginu Till'; Besi'onsiini.ity.—“.Sir,” said Ficryfaee, the lawyer, to an unwilling witness, “Sir, do you ay upon your oath that Blimp, kins is a dishonest man ?” “I ilid not. say anybody had ever accused him of being a dishonest man, did I ?” replied I’ipkins. “Does the Court understand you to say, wit ness, that the plaintiff's reputation is bad !’’ said the judge, merely putting the question to I keep his eyes open. “1 didn’t say it. was good, I reckon.” “Sir,” cried Fieryface, “sir, upon your oath —mind, your oath—you say that Blimpkins is a rogue, a thief, and a villain'” “You say so,” was Pipkin’s answer. “Havn’t you said so?” inquired the law yer. “Why, you’ve said it, and what’s the use of . my repeating it?” replied Pipkins. “Sir,” thundered Fieryface, the Demosthe j nean, “Sir, I charge you upon your oath, do : you or do you not say Blimpkins stole things?” “No sir,” was the cautious reply of Pip kins, “1 never said Blimpkins stole things; but. 1 do Hay he’s got n way of finding tilings I that nobody has lost." [Never, from man or woman, American or foreign, have we met with an article more wholly and thoroughly /<> am- mind than the following genuine utterance of a genuine wo man. We endorse its every word—fully free ly, gladly, and most, heartily. It is as brill iant as it. is true, and may God bless the brave heart from which it emanated :] How Should Women Write ? BV MA UY E. HR'AS. If one of our respectable Norman or Saxon ancestors of the beer-swilling and fox-hunting era could be exhumed and resuscitated, and in formed of the changes that have metamor phosed the world since his time, when eating, drinking and fighting formed, for the higher classes, the sum total of existence —at what point of the recital, think you, would his in credulity and indignation reach its climax ? His belief in the supernatural might induce him to accept spirit rappings, and tolerate gas light and even steam engines. Balloon navi gation might call forth only a doubtful stare, and the Atlantic cable be received as the thou satid and second Arabian tale; but when the narrator coolly informed him that the women of the nineteenth century were in the habit of writing books, it is probable that he would no longer brook such an insult to his understand ing, and would put an end to being laughed at, by relieving himself of the offender’s pres ence in a manner that is still fashionable down east. The idea of women writing books ! There were no prophets in the days of King John to predict an event so far removed from probabil ity. The women of the household sat by their distaffs, or toiled in the fields, or busied them selves in roasting and brewing for their guz zling lords. If ever a poetic vision or a half defined thought floated through their minds, they sang it out to their busy wheels, or mur mured it in rude sentences to lull the babes upon their bosoms, or silently wove it into their lives to manifest itself in patient love and gentleness And it was all as it should have been ; there was need for nothing more. Physical labor was then all that was required! of woman, and to “act welljier part” mcana but to perform the domestic duties which word given her. Life was less complex then, than now—the intellectual paid of man’s twofolil nature being but unequally developed, whild the absence of labor-saving implements ded a greater amount of manual toil as well as from women. Il is differciil now. Modern . i ' ■w i e r ■i. I. ,'i Iu . hi ] ' '■ ‘ 1 ' 1 V.' 0.1 1: i . . : ill' I There now >!■: leiigih an I breadth The o', I ~rac! lhe erary rem tins of a dead age. will generation thai is pressing so ward. They want books, imbued strong vitality aud energy of the And, as it is a moving, hurrying, changnfl time, with new influences and opinions con stantly rising like stars above the horizon, men want books to keep pace with their prog ress—nay, to go before and guide them, as the pillar of fire and cloud did the Israelites in the desert. So they want books for every year, for every month—mirrors to “ catch the manners living as they rise, lenses to concentrate the rays of the new stars that dawn upon them.” There is a call for workers, and women, true to her mission as the helpmeet for man steps forward to take her part in the intellectual la bor, as she did when only manual toil was re quired at her hands. The pen has become the mighty instrument of reform and rebuke; the press is the teacher and the preacher of the world, and it is not only the privilege, but. the duty of woman, to aid in extending this influ ence of letters and in supplying the intellectu al demands of society, when she has been en dowed with the power. Let her assure herself that she has been called to the task, and then grasp her pen firmly with the stimulating con scousncss that she is performing the work as signed to her. *.4 Thus is apparent, what has been gradually admitted, that it is woman’s duty to write—but • how and what; This is yet a mooted question. Men, after much demur and hesitation, have giv(*n woman liberty to write, but they cannot yet consent to allow them full freedom. They may flutter- ouWof the cage’, but it must be with clipped wings; they may hop about the sniooth-sbaven lawn, but must, on no account, fly. With metaphysics they have nothing to do ; it is too deep a sea for t heir lead to sound ; nor must they grapple with those great social and moral problems with which every strong soul is now wrestling. They must not go be yond the surface of life, lest they should stii the impure sediment, that lurks beneath. They may whiten the outside of the sepulchre, bul must not soil their kidded hands by essaying to cleanse the inside of its rottenness and 'lead men’s bones. « ■ Nature, indeed, is given them to fustianizc over—and religion allowed them as their cbicl capital—the orthodox religion, that says its I prayers out of a prayer-book, and goes f< . church on Sabbaths, but on no account lh< higher, truer religion, that, despising cant and I hypocrisy, and scorning hollow forms and con vcntualisms, seeks to cure, not to cloak. th< plague spots of society—the self-forgetting * self-abnegating religion, that shrinks not. iron > following in the steps of t’hrist, that curls no - its lip at. the touch of poverty and shame, noi fears to call crime hy its right, name, though i I wear a glided mask, nor to cry out earnestly I and bravely, “Away with it ! Away witl it !” No! Not such religion as this. It is tin feminine; women have no business with i ’ whatever, though they may ring changes a: often as they please upon the “crowns of gold’ the “jasper walls,” and “seraph harps.” 1 Having prescribed these bounds to the fe H male pen, men arc the first to condemn her eff orts as tame and commonplace, because the’ luck earnestness and strength. If she writes of birds, of flowers, sunshine and id umne■ ymtm, as did Amelia Welby, nose; 1 are elevated superbly, and the effusions nr said to smack of bread and butter. If love, religion, and domestic obligation J are her theme, as with Mrs. llentz, “numb' pamby” is the word contemptuously applied ti her productions. If, like Mrs. Southworth, sh > reproduces Mrs. Radcliffe in her posibilily « scorning romances, her nonsensical clap-tra.] ns said to he “ beneath criticism ;” aud if, will r ; Tally Pepper, she gossips harmlessly of fash e I ion and the fashionables, of the opera and e Laura Keene’s, of watering places, lectures, - and a railroad trip, she is “2«>/<”-ed aside as - silly and churlish, while those who seek to go - beyond the boundary line, are put down with e the stigma of “th any-minded.” Fanny Fern, who, though actuated by no fixed purpose, was yet more earnest than the majority of her sis -1 terhood, heard the word hissed iu her ears whenever she essayed to strike a blow at the root of social sin and inconsistency, and had whatever there was of noble and philanthropic impulse in her nature annihilated by the epi ! r nurled'at her like poisoned arrows. It will not do. Such dallying with surface . bubbles as we find in much of our periodical ; literature, might have sufficed for another age, r but not for this. We want a deeper troubling 1 of the waters, that we may go down into the . pool and be healed. It is an earnest age we ! live in. Life means more than it did in other j days; it is an intense reality, crowded thick j with eager, questioning thoughts and passion- - ate resolves, with burning aspirations and ag , onized doubts. There are active influences at - work, all tending to one grand object—moral, ; social, and physical advancement. The peu ; is the compass needle that points to this pole, f j Shall woman dream on violet banks, while this > great work of reformation is needing her tal- - ents and her energies ? Shall she prate pretti l ly of moonlight music, love, and flowers, while - the world of stern, staring, pressing realities i of wrong and woe, of shame and toil, sur rounds her ? Shall she stifle the voice in her ! soul for fear of being sneered at as strony min • ded, and shall her great heart throb and heave, - as did the mountain of Ksop, only to bring ■ forth such insignificant mice—such produc tions—more paltry in purpose than iu style and conception—which she gives to the world I' as the offspring of her brain ? , It will not long be so. Women are already forming brighter standards for themselves, ! learning that genius has ne sex, and that, so i the truth be told, it matters not whether the ! pen by a masculine or a female [ |l^active, earnest, fearless spirit of u '..111 lures they de'lin- Ji Literature '■HU; "I lecling the age ‘ l: i ■ ..J v u n i- >1 ■i IG' ii.-'. wliich c 'li i. I i.'iiiic.ii -■ ""in■ .mi :!"■ , - i:imi Ji. : . dsEyn “IW3? ‘ 1 ■•■■ t uli l L'i 11' tln'Hilgl v. li" f ru ui'i. Til l-, ev- n B honest, their pinions e times, often appear contradictory. This, the r discerning reader will readily understand. He s will know, that in ascending the ladder upon e whose top the angels stand, the prospect, wi ., dens and changes continually, as newer heights c are won. Emerson, indeed, tells us that “ a g foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. With consistency, a great soul has simply nothing to do. Speak what you think c now in hard words; and to-morrow, speak e what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, p though it contradict everything you said to e This is strong—perhaps too unqurlificd, but even inconsistency is better than the dull don key-like obstinacy which refuses to move from 1- J J If one position, though the wooing spirit of in- H quiry beckon it, onward, and winged specula tion tempt it to scale the clouds. Still, there should be in writing, as in act ing, a fixed and distinct purpose to which cv erythiug should tend. If this be to elevate and ( refine the hunwin race, the purpose will grad ually aid unconsciously work out its own ac-' c coniplishment. Not, indeed, through didactic homilic only; every image of beauty or sub „ limity crystallized in words, every philosoph- I, ic truth and every thought that has a tenden „ cy to expand the mind, or enlarge the range I of spiri ln al vision, will aid in advancing this 0 be as oil to the lamp we carry to light, the footsteps of others.- q As to the subjects that should be written up „ on : they are many and varied ; there is no exhausting them, while nature teems with r beauty, while men live and act and love and „ suffer ; while the murmurs of the great ocean !l of the/nf/zii'fc, come to us in times when the <r soul is stillest, like music that is played too j far oil for us to catch the tune. Broad fields of thought lie before us traversed indefed by ;c many feet, but each season brings fresh fruits jf to gather and new flowers to crop. is Genius, like light, shines upon all things— <l upon the muck heap, as upon the gilded cupo ie la. A gentleman of high literary attainments d criticising a story which appeared in this pa -- per last year from the pen of a gifted young ic girl, condemned it, because the principal char » actors were drawn from low life, and the wri tn ter had carried her readers into scenes of shame >t and misery, of which a woman should be or ir seem lo be ignorant. As if it were not to low it and middle life, that novelists must go to find y individuality of character—the varnish of h conventualisni having so effectually glossed over iho.se squared and planed blocks of hu H inanity, that go to build up what, is called the it “higher circles,” that no peculiarity or differ ls cnee in the grain can be observed. I" As to the wrong aud wretchedness which the novelist lays bare—it will not, be denied that such really exist in this sin-belengured world. Wherefore shrink aud cover our eyes when these social ulcers are probed ? Better earnestly endeavor to eradicate the civil, than seek to conceal or ignore its existence. Bo ~s sure, this will not prevent if eating deeperjjiid deep ir into the heart. Genius, when true and earnest., will not be IS circumscribed. No power shall say to it— “ thus far shall thou go and no farther.” Its [ 0 province is in part to daguorrolype the shift -1(. ing influences, feelings nnd tendencies, at work in the age in which it exists—aud sin ip and grief and suffering, as well as hope aud Ih love and joy and star eyed aspiration, pass across its pages, as phantoms across the char med mirror of the magician. Genius thrills along “ the electric chain, wherewith we are darkly bound,” from the highest to the lowest link of the social ligature ; for true genius is Christ-like ; it scorns notliiny ; calls nothing that God has made common, or unclean, be cause of its great yearning over mankind, its longing to lift them up from the sordid things ot sense in which they grovel, to its own high er and purer intellectual or spiritual atmos phere. The noblest woman of us all, Mrs. Elizabeth Browning, whom, I hold to have written, in “ Aurora Leigh,” the greatest book of this century—the greatest, not from the wealth of its imagery or the vigor of its thoughts, but because of the moral grandeur of its purpose—Mrs. Browning, I say, has not shrunk from going down (with her purity en circling her, like the halo around the Savior’s head,) to the abodes of shame and degrada tion for materials to aid in elucidating the se rious truths she seeks to impress, for sorrow ful examples of the evils for which she endea vors to find some remedy. She is led to this, through that love which is inseparable from the higher order of genius. That noblest form of genius, which generates the truest poetry— the poetry of feeling rather than of imagina tion—warm with human life, but nucolored by voluptuous passion—is strongly connected with love. Not the sentiment which dan;es through the world to the music of marriage bells, but that divine, self-ignoring, universal love, of which the inspired Apostle wrote so burningly, when, caught up in the fiery chari ot of the Holy Ghost, he looked down upon the selfish considerations of common humani ty. The love (or charity) “ which bearcth all things—endurcth all things, which suffereth long and is kind”—the love, which, looking to heaven, stretches its broad arms to enfold the whole human brotherhood. This is the love, which, hand in hand with genius, is yet to work out the redemption of society. I have faith so believe it; and some times, when the tide of hope and enthusiasm is high, I have thought that woman, with the patience and the long suffering of her love, the purity of her intellect, her instinctive sym pathy and her soul of poetry, might be God’s chosen instrument in this work of gradual re formation, this reconciling of the harsh con trasts in society that jar so upon our sense of. harmony, this righting of the grevious wrongs and evils over which we weep and pray, this final uniting of men into one common broth erhood, by the bonds of sympathy and aff ection. It may be but a Utopian dream, but the faith lis better than hopelessness it is elevating and to believe it. It is well to aspire, mjJie aspiration be unfulfilled. It is better Rt up at the stars, though they dazzle, Wown at the vermin beneath our feet. Rich nnd Cxootl. The Richmond “Whig” received the follow ing by “special electric telegraph,” and of course published it exclusively : J MESSAGE OF OLE DABE TO THE FEDERAL CON GRESS, 4th JULY, 1861. Representatives, Seuuturs all, Capitol swift at my call. suin' thing important I" 'I > national hltw ; hither to run the machine, in Scotch cap anti in full Lincoln green, s the devil to pay in the whole d d concern, fiom Cameron, Seward, and Chase you wili learn. Yet, though everything here of a burst-up gives warning, I'm certain you'll put it all right in the morning. So, to do as J tell you, be on the alert, For the s fictitious, and nobody's hurt. I have started no war of invasion, you know, Let who will preteud to’ deny it—that's so. But I saw from the White House an impudent rag. Which they tpld me as Jeff. Davis’ flag, A waving Insulting my Government, flouting the sky, Above my Alexandria, (isn’t it Bates? Retrocession's a humbug; what rights have the States?) So I o’dered young Ellsworth to take the rag down Mrs. Lincoln, she craved it to make a new gown— But young Ellsworth, he kinder got shot in the race, And came back in a galvanized burial case; But then Jackion, the scoundrel, he got his desert— The panic's fictitious, aud nebodjTs hurt. It is true I sent steamers which tried for a week To silence the rebels down there at the Creek; But they had at Gauie Point about fifty Rifled cauuou set up iu a line ou the shore, And six thousand Coufcderatos practised to fire 'em, (Confound these Virginians, we never can tire ’em !) Who made game of our shooting, and crippled our fleet, So we proudly ordered a hasty retreat, With decks full of passengers— dead heads, indeed— ‘•-Fjjr whom of fresh coffins there straightway wasiiQcfl. And still later, at Gresham’s they killed In command of the Freeborn—'twas devilish mH<l. of all this, the rebellion's a spirt. The pmc’fl lictitiouß, and nobody’> FHirt. Herewith I to submit the report . * Os Butle r , the General concerning the sport They ha<l at Gi cat Bethel, near Jjm tress Monroe, With Hill and 1 Miqjrudor some Ami here let me say, a more reckless r- . I never have known than this Col. Magruder. He has taken the Comfort from Old Point, And thrown his peninsular plans out of j dnt, While in matters of warfare, to him Gen. Butler Would scarce be thought worthy to act as a sutler. And the insolent rebels will call to our faces ThcJight at Gr«<at Bethel the “New Market Races.”’ Then supercede Butler at once with whoever Can drive this Magjuider dean into the river, An<l I shall feel confident still to assert, That the panic's fictitious, and nobody's huit. 'Tis my province, perhaps, herein briefly to state The state of my provinces—surly of late. Missouri and Marylan I—one has the paw Os my Lyon upon her; anti one has the law, Called martial, proclaimed through her borders and cities. Both are crushed—a Big Thing, 1 make bold to say it is. St Louis is silent, aud duirfb, They hear but the monotone roll of my drum. In iho latter vile seaport I ordered Cadwallader To manacle Freedom, and though the crowd followed her Locked up in McHenry, she’s safe, it is plain, With Merryman, Habeas Corpus and Kane. And as for that crabbed old dotard, Judge Tauey, For much, 1 would ikHihim on board of the Pawnee. And make his decisionW little more curt, For the panic's fictitious, and nobody's hurt. And now I'll just «ay what I’d have you lo do. In order to put your new President through. First, three hundred million is wanted by Chast— i lie cannot run longer the Government’s face: Ami Cameron wants , for the use of old Scott, Some four hundred thousand more men than he’s g »t. Then sixty new iron-plate ships to stand shells Are loudly demanded (must have 'em) by Welles: I For England, the bully, won’t stand our blockade, [ And insists that we shall not embarrass her trade. But who fears the British ? I’ll speedily tune 'em, 1 Assure as my name is E Pluribus Uuum; For I am myself the whole United States— i Constitution ami Laws, (if you doubt it ask Bate*. . The star-spangled banner's my holiday shirt— I Hurrah for Abu Lincoln, there’s nobodvhuirt ! Very Pressing.—A young girl who had be i come tired of single blessedness, wrote to her • true wwain as follows •• i “ Deer Gim, cum rite off es yu air cummin ■ at awl. Ed. Collings is insistin ihat 1 shall I hav him, &he hugs & kisses me so kontinuerly i that I can’t holed owt tiflleh longer but wil I have 2 kaviJSn. I BKTZEY. VOL XXVI- ; NEW SERIES VOL. VI. NOU2. IKK3IS per annum, in advance. Tom, Dick and Harry; . i ~r How Deacon G Kept Fax* Day. I I It was not “Fast Day 1 ’ this year or last, but it was in my grandfather’s time, when “Fast Days” were Fast days, and no sham about it. When people rose with long faces at the com mand of the Governor, ate little or no break fast, dated not think of dinner, and scarcely ever, except they were sick,” which a good many were (and no wonder) got no supper.- Young people then did not make their arrange ments for riding and visiting, or going to fairs ’ or concerts in the evening; but young and old went “to meeting” morning and afternoon, • and to lecture in the vestry in the even ing. i It was long enough ago tor the elderly peo ple to be able to relate stories to which their own fathers and mothers had been eye wit nesses, of ancient witches then still alive and muttering their enchantments with impunity, since the Revolution had swept away all the old laws and proclamations against them Deacon G ’s own great uncle had once been bewitched for twenty years, during which time he had been held down in his bed by invisible tormentors who racked his bones and pinched his flesh, and pulled at every nerve' in his body, (only that he di 1 not know he had nerves) just like—exactly like— neuralgia does now I How much this generation has gained by learning scientific terms, and repudiating the invisible powers of the air. Deacon G , of course, never professed to believe that the “evil-eyed” could still exert their power; but somehow he could not divest himself of a lingering fear, for which be could not fully account, that some demonic agency was concerned in it. It happened too, that he lived in the most north-eastern corner of Mas sachusetts, in a town where the witches had ' once held most surprising revels, and all the legendary lore of the place was redolent of the supernatural. It is no wonder then that > Deacon G retained something of the old superstition in his nature, though he was ashamed openly to confess it. i Now Abner G. was not a deacon in reality, ■ and before we go farther we must clear the church militants of the aspersion which might f. otherwise grow out of the use of this title, i but he had once come so near to being chosen s deacon, and was so much chagrined at his de feat, that his neighbors, and especially the boys, spontaneously fixed upon him the cov eted title, partly to sooth his wounded ambi i tion, and partly in covert railery at his taking I his failure so much to heart. But if not a deacon, he was just as strict in ' the observance of the Sabbath, and particular- > ly “Fast days,” as any of those who occupied the honorable official scats immediately under the big Bible in the meeting house. The deacon, then, besides his reputation for sancti- - ty was also a knight of the order of St. Cris s pin, and though he had for several years dis carded the lapgtone and the awl as a personal exercise, he still employed several men, and always two or three, apprentices, to carry on. his craft iu a little ten foot frame building he called his shop. The apprentices, as was common in those times boarded with their master ; and many were the pranks that these young rascals played the deacon, almost al ways managing to elude detection. Fast day was always a terror to these lads, for_Jjfiaid£S > being obliged to listen to two long sermons extra, in the week, it was jiot particularly pleasant to hungry, growing boys, to be put upon the shortest possible allowance, even for one day in the year. Besides his workshop, which was a few rods from the house, Deacon G. had a little kitchen garden, which he worked himself, and where he kept, also, a dozen or two 'fowls, which I were a constant source of tribulation to the good man, and the means of many a practical joke among, the boys who were forever letting them out,, stealing the hens’ eggs, rousing them at night and alarming the old man, with encounters with robbers of the hen roost. Through the early spring of the year IS—, these apprentices, who deserve no better and shall get no better from us, than Dick and Harry, had observed the Deafetn to be particularly a plump little black hen, feeding her with unusual offering her the tit-bits of the kitchen, seeing that good fresh water was always at her coop-door, and otherwise manifestinAi special regard for this sable feathered jUThe spring and the aaJSkial Fast was appointed—the boys began to feel hungry in anticiJSdjpn, and for days before hand, va ribus foraging expeditions had be'en planned and executed, by which a goodly store of pies, crambcrs andJJread hail conveyed from aid to the apprentices’ secret reservoir. They had meditiUed a-descent up on the hen roost, but how*to cook a Johicki* should they steal one, was a problem still un i solved on the evening before Fast. * ■ experiment was to be tried; an old coWed woman who lived in the neighborhood, was bribed into the promise of cooking one for them, if they would bring her one, too. About 11 o’clock Wednesday evening, Tom was set to keep the coast clear. Dick was to make the descent on the hen-roost, and Harry wes to receive the plunder from his hands, and convey it to Dinah. Creeping down the back stairs and. cautiously making his way to the hen-house, he was surprised to find the door ~ unhasped, but feeling now confident of success, he leaned forward to the coop—struck his head against something which was not a post, and seemed to have a warm breath. Fright ened almost out of his senses, without waiting to see who or what it was, he ran back to his companions, with less care and more speed than he had left them, declaring that old Deacon G ’s spirit was sitting atop of the hen coop, in the form of a big black dog, which had breathed fire and brimstone in his face; and as to going back, he wouldn't for all the chicken pot-pies in the county. Rating him for his cowardice, but yet unwilling to test his story themselves, they all three retired to their beds, considerably crest-fallen, and without the prospect of a dinner for the morrow. The morrow—Fast day came, and the boys were not a little surprised to observe when the hens were fed (for these were not included in s- the Fast day regulations) that the little black ■r favorite was missing. Deacon G. seemed to bo very much tjoubWßr so light here Stadlhere, n but she was no where to be found, and had not II the church bells beguu to ring, and ull-obliged y to prepare for meeting, the investigationw'ould 11 doubtless have been more thorough. < ..“That Mack dttg musWiave eaten it,” whis pered Dick. Don t believe there was any there—guess Dinah thought she would come and help her self,” said Harry. “1 11 run in as I go to meeting and find out,” said Tom. Dinah was accordingly visited, threatened and cross examined, but she declared her in nocence, and they were compelled to believe her. Now the Deacon always kept his workshop locked, except during work hours. He had a habit, too, of going in there alone sometimes to sharpen up tools; sometimes, as he said himself, to pursue his devotions undisturbed, and as he was not unfrequently heard singing, with a kind of barrel-organ voice, some well known psalm tune, he was fully credited. On this same Fast day he visited the shop both early in the morning and at the noon recess : which was not particularly strange; but when after the afternoon service, he again retired to the shop, Tom took it into his head that he should like to know- whether the Deacon was actually as devoutly employed as was the general opinion. It was evident his master meant to stay there sometime, for he had kindled a fire which looked as though he meant to stay there til! “lecture time.” Betaking him»elf to the top of the house, Tom applied himself to the observation of the interior of the shop, by the aid of a pocket spy-glass, through which he was enabled to see his old master intent on a very curious oc cupation for Fast day—it was no other than watching with evident satisfaction a boiling pot, which hung over the fire, and which Tom began to suspect, contained something more than was legitimate for a Fast day supper.— Hastening from his post of observation he found Harry and communicated to him his suspicions. “It is the black hen, I’ll be bound,” exclaim ed the latter, “and if it is, we will have it yet.” “Why, how can we possibly get it ? “Come with me, and I will shew you ; but wait, I must get my hook and line. Now, then, come and help me get the ladder out of the barn, and I will get up on the top of the shop. The chimney is straight as a die, and we’ll see what can be done. I shall have to watch my chance when he ain’t looking, and you must signal me from the top of the house.” “Agreed,” said Tom ; “and poor Dick, we must give him some for the fright he got last night.” It was now getting dark; Harry was soon peering down the shop chimney. He had not long to wait; the old man took out his jack knife, tried its edge, and then got up and went toward the grindstone and began to sharpen it. Tom waved his handkerchief. Harry’s hook descended, in a moment more, up came the pot; Dick and Tom came to the rescue, now that the prize was fairly in their hands, two of them hastily replaced the ladder—and the third hurried the long pursued dinner up to their own bed-room ; and having fared so slenderly all day, they soon demolished the contents, and then, boy-like, sunk the pot and bones in the well. But how the Deacon did stare when on com ing again to the fire-place he found pot, din ner, and all gone. The door had been locked; the windows were close shut, and even the lower wooden slide shutters drawn. No hu man hands could have taken it. Shaking with fright he attempted to unlock the door and es cape ; but his hands almost refused to do their office; but finally succeeding, he rushed out into the open air,—which partly revived his courage,—especially as he was downright hun gry too. Finally, he mustered up spirits enough to venture in once more, and see if he had not been mistaken ; but no, the dinner was surely gone ; —“the devil has flown away with it, I do believe,” he exclaimed, “I al ways heard tell that black cats and black hens were unlucky, but who’d a thought the thing would have flown up the chimney ?” “Mr. G ••! Mr. G. !” called out a shrill female voice, “it’s a most lecter time; ye’d be gettin’ ready.” Deacon G. was uncommonly silent that night, and he never made any farther inqui ries after the black hen, or was ever known to go into his shop after dark, or on a Fast day. But I have heard it related that whenever a brood of chickens are hatched among his fowls, that he invariably picked out the black ones, if there were any, and without mercy subjected them to the old ; —■ that is, put them into a pond near by, saying, “if they be witches, then they’ll float, and I’ll sifle wring their necks ; and if they ain’t, why tlftn I suppose they’ll drown like other nat’ral chickens, which it ain’t at all likely they be, or how could they* tty up the chimndy with an iron pot, and they dead and bilea too !” Nluke the Best of Everything. A cheerful and excellent man, whose face sunshine wherever he went, was asked why it was that he always seemed to be in such good spirits ? “ Oh,” says he, “ I make the best of everything.” That’s it, we thought, and you are a wise man too, and how admira ble it would be if all the long-faced, gloomy, grumbling, fretful ones would only follow your example. Make the best of everything, would be a very appropriate motto for everybody, in all places and in all possible circumstances.— Have you met with a misfortune, don’t aggra vate your grief by repining, scolding or des pairing, but m.ake the best of every thing that is left, and with a stout heart go to work cher ily, and wl|o knows how soon you may re trieve all your losses? Is your husband a sour krout of a man, who comes home from his business with a sad and disfigured counte nance, worn out and cross with perplexities and cares in mercantile life, never mind, make the best of it—you know he has a good, kind heart under all that- disagreeable exterior, so catch him in the entry before he can get off his overcoat, and throw your arms around his neck, and give him such a tremendous kiss that he will be compelled to laugh in spite of him self. Are the children sick, irritable, a irrita ting? arc they forward, pert, ungrateful ? Are they disobedient, careless, sometimes stupid— O, parents make the best of it—remember how much better they are than neighbor Thomp s%’s children, and ’Squire Clark’s son who ran away to sea, almost breaking the heart of his mother! No matter who you are, and what your circumstances are, if you want to pass along through the world in comfort,.make the best of every filing and carry a peasant face. .. - •? - • ♦-♦ Friends are queer things. When you need 'Them tßy are not to be found ; but when you do not, they are as thick around you as flies about a sugar hogshead.