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About Richards' weekly gazette. (Athens, Ga.) 1849-1850 | View Entire Issue (Nov. 10, 1849)
’ ■?■ ‘ ‘ ‘ “ s ’ ‘ Turns; PER AW HI IX ADVANCE. — —• ■ A AOfll'MM fAIKiLI m&’A&L, n .„mwm IQ iiH'SMTBM, W M’i'S USB SCUMS. MB TO fiSHMH. ImL3CMCS. For Richards’ Weekly Gazelle. AUTUMN FLOWERS. BY CLARA MORETON. Oh graceful flowers, fading flowers, 1 love ye but too well, And I sigh to see vc dying In forest and in and 11. I grieve that so much lovlincss So soon should pass away, — That things so bright, so pure, so fair Should have so brief a stay. Your dying breath is floating now Across the gra-sv lawn ; And as 1 drink the sweet perfume, 1 dream of days agonc,— Os phildh-toJ’s free and happy days, When not a care I knew ; And flowers sprang beneath my feet, Fresh with Life's early dew. Ah ! where are now those beauteous fluwers and Where now their radiant bloom ! Could aught so lovely leave no trace, Nor memories save of gloom and I wou’d they were the only flowers That fad and by my side ! The only ones that day by day Low drooped their heads and died! Oh, would they were the only ones ! My heart bents sad and slow, When I think of forms so cherished, In days so long ago. For now when e’er my heart doth yearn To all those racin'ries “Id, I see alone the grass-grown graves, Wher sleep those forms so cold. Ah ‘ ever thus the beautiful Will fade from earth away ; And ever thus will sad hearts mourn Above the buried clay. And when so e’er the fair, frail flowers Droop low their heads and die, I cannot quell the rising thought, Or check the rising sigh ; And therefore in the autumn time, When comes the cruel frost, I think me more of other days, Os the oarlv loved and lost. IfSIE IB©EJM(§[![&♦ %y-y A VERY_WOMAN. BY S. M., THE AUTHOR OF THE MAIDEN AUNT. ‘Fertile in expedients!’ said Clara Capel to herself, as she stood alone at the break fast-table with a spoon filled with tea-leaves carefully poised in her hand, on its way from the caddy to the tea-pot. The life of Sully lay open on the table beside her, and was the immediate cause of her solilo quy. 1 Fertile in expedients!’ thought she, *it is always the same. All great men arc so, whether statesmen, or generals, or au thors. They don’t make a handsome, tidy, Comfortable theory in their own minds, and then throw away everything they meet kvith because it does not exactly suit the hlace they have got ready’ for it; but they take the world as they find it, and having got their materials they improve here and correct there, they invent this and beautify that and combine all, till at last they have built up a great edifice to the glory of God ; and the irregularity and variety, the dreamy lights and doubtful shadows, are, in tact, the beauty of it.’ (Clara was pleased with her illustration, and so paused to polish it a little ere she proceeded.) ‘To give up laboring because the persons, or the sys tems, by whom and Under which you have to labor, are not ideally perfect, is very much as if an artist were to give up paint ing because his oil-colors did n’t smell of otto of roses, and were apt to soil his fingers. ‘Make the best of it!’—that is the motto of all practical greatness—and what a best it is sometimes! How infinitely and won derfully the result transcends the means ! Well, and the bainc sort of mind which, when the proportions are large, is fit to rule the world must be necessary, though with small proportions, for the guidance of a iamily, or a course of every-day duties. Gs that I atn quite sure. And this is a woman’s business, not to sit down as I do and grieve inwardly because she cannot do what she would, but to do what she can, and that cheerfully. Goethe says, <lt is well for a woman when no work seems too hard for her or too small, when she is able to forget herself and to live entirely in others.’ Why am I not thus? I can be, and by God’s help I will be. Unselfishness and energy, these are the great secrets, and these are within everybody’s reach. I may i i ii choose, the life and centre of this home ol mine—the one who helps all, the | one to whom all appeal. I may bring or- J der and even elegance out of all this con j fusion, by descending to details and going \to work heartily. Why should I be ashamed to do so ? The heroine of a ‘ Swedish novel goes into the kitchen to j dress beef-steaks for her husband’s dinner, j and yet is capable of discussing aesthetics I in a manner that few English women could equal. One would not be less liked and admired—(here it must be confessed that a particular person was in Clara’s thoughts, though she gave mental utterance to no name) —for such exertions, but rather more. | Men, especially, never think so highly of j a woman as when she contributes to the | comfort of others; and how can she con | tribute, to the comfort of others, if her most I active bodily exertion is to dance the polka? But this must be all real. It must be done, ! not thought aboutand the disagreeables ! and the failures, which one must needs en counter, must be laughed at and overcome. Then how charming it will be when 1 see my work, and feel that I hold the family together, and that they all look to me and have recourse to me; and that by sacrific ing my own particular wishes and tastes I am able to sustain them all, and to make J tnem all happy!” Clara closed her hands together in the enthusiasm awakened by this idea, and the contents of the teaspoon went fluttering over the white table-cloth, not omitting to sprinkle the open butter-dish which stood near. ‘lsn't my mistress’ breakfast rcaJy yet, Miss Clara?’ asked a somewhat untidy looking maid, as she entered the room, car rying an empty tray, and followed by the the master of the house and sundry other members of the family ; ‘ she has been waiting for it this quarter of an hour.’ Clara looked bewildered at this sudden summons from her castle in the air. ‘ Why, the tea isn't even made!” cried Mr. Capel, indignantly. ‘ Really, Clara, it is very tiresome. Books,’ with a wrath ful glance at the volume of Sully, ‘are exceedingly well in their way; but it is one of the worst characteristics of a regular blue-stocking to be dreaming over a book when she ought to be making hetseif use ful. Half-past nine o'clock, too, and the children’s breakfast not ready yet. If this goes on I shall have Julia installed as housekeeper in future; she may, perhaps be better, and it’s quite certain she couldn’t be worse!’ ‘ lam very sorry, papa,’ said Clara, meek ly, the ready tears gathering in her eyes. ‘O! it’s easy to be very sorry,’ returned her father, as he sat down and began cut ting bread and butter with great vehemence: ‘ but the fact is, you don’t care for such things—ycu never think about them— your head is full of other matters; and as long as you have your German and your music it’s nothing to you that your mother has to wait for her breakfast. If you gave one twentieth part of the thought which you bestow on u sonata by Beethoven to the comfort of your family, it would be better for all of us!’ How unjust we are to each other! and yet scarcely to be condemned, for the action is all we can see; and when the action belies the thought how can we form a right judgment? And who is there so perfectly disciplined that his habitual actions do in deed represent his inward aspirations? Clara was naturally timid ; she attempt ed no self-defence, but hurriedly and ner vously proceeded with the business of breakfast. She made tea, conscious that the water had ceased to boil, but afraid to expose the fact by ringing the bell for a fresh supply. Quietly and silently she provided tile children with their bread and milk, distributed the steaming cups to her older brother and sister, and finally placed the strongest beside her father, who vouch safed no acknowledgment of the attention, his temper not being improved by’ the dis coverey that he was spreading tea-leaves upon the bread with his butter. Then, while the servant and tray still waited, she was hurrying out into the garden, leaving her own meal untasted, when her brother stopped her : ‘ Where, in the name of won der, arc you going, Clara ?’ ‘Only to gather a nosegay, to send up with mamma’s breakfast,’ replied she, apologetically, as she paused on the threshold. ‘A nosegay!’ cried Mr. Capel, with an indescribable mixture of wrath and con tempt, while George and Julia could not restrain their laughter, and the younger members of the fami y observed that re strained and awkward silence natural to children, when a disturbance is going on among their elders. ‘A nosegay! upon my word and honoi, Clara, you are too provoking. Just come back and sit down, will you? I hate this confused uncomfort able way of having one’s breakfast—it is wretched—it puts me out for the whole day. And your mother waiting all this while! She would much rather have a cup of tea, than all the nosegays in the world. It will be time enough to think of the graces of life when you have learned a little better to fulfil the commonest duties.’ I This closing sarcasm was quite too much i tor poor Clara ; and as she resumed her seat and her occupation, her tears fell fast. She tried hard to restrain them, and cau tiously screened them from her father's ob servation behind the urn. Then followed sundry of those small, quiet kindnesses, which are always forthcoming when any member of an aliectionate family is in trouble, however deserved. George an 1 Julia exerted themselves to maintain a forced conversation, and the former kep; j vigilant watch over the sugaring an I cream- - ingof his father’s cup, in order to repait any oversight, without drawing attention to it; Emily silently supplied her sister’s plate with bread and butter; and little Annie, who understood nothing except that Clara was crying about flowers, stole round to her side with a rosebud, just gathered from ; her own garden, soft and fresh as her own 1 smiling lips, and quietly slipped the offering j into Clara’s hand. Mr. Capel was angry enough to feel his indignation rather increased than abated by the evident distress of the culprit; it seemed to reproach him for a severity which justice had entirely’ demanded, and by aggravating his discomfort, aggravated (also bis ire. He pushed his plate fioin him, saying, in a kind of finale tone of in tense disgust, ‘A wietched breakfast, in deed !’ then sharply rebuked Emily for spilling her bread and milk on the carpet, and trod hard on the toes of the family spaniel, who spent his life in an abortive attempt to commit suicide by thrusting him self under the the feet of each member of the household in succession, but who being a favorite, was generally praised and petted for this, as though the natural place of dogs was wherever human feet were about to be planted; and if the dog escaped being trampled on, and the human being escaped a full, it was a wonderful exercise of skill and affection on the part of the former, and he deserved high commendation for it.— I’onto howled aloud ; and Emily, who was very tender-hearted, and whose nerves were somewhat affected by the preceding scene, burst into a violent flood of tears; little Annie, as a matter of course, roaring, with all her might, for sympathy. The Capels were universally pronounced a very happy family; nevertheless, this specimen of their domestic felicity was by no means solitary of its kind. Mr. Capel could scarcely be blamed for seizing his hat, and rushing forth to his office in a passion; however, he was by no means a fundamentally ill-natured man, only a little hot-tempered and fussy; so he came back again in five minutes, and made, his peace with Clara, kissing her, and telling her ‘only to be a little more thoughtful in future, and these unpleasant scenes would n’t happen.’ He then patted Emily’s head, and bade her not be such a little goose; neither did he oinit to stroke l’onto, as he passed out for the second time, l’oor Clara, with swollen eyes and aching forehead, betook herself, work in hand, to her mother’s bedside, there to reflect upon this first specimen of her powers as leader and life of a family. I suppose it will be thought that my heroine was a very weak, inconsistent, self indulgent young lady, whose good resolu tions evaporated in soliloquies, or had just solidity enough for the construction of a castle in the air. We must, theiefore, en deavor to give an idea of her character and position, which, as generally happens, were, in the first instance, peculiarly un suited to each other; whether she ever succeeded in solving ihegreat problem how bring them into harmony, remains to be seen. She was nineteen years old, and the eldest of seven children; her mother was a confirmed invalid, who never left her bed till noon, and then only to be moved to a sofa; a gentle, uncoinjilaining sufferer she was, somewhat weak both in will and intellect, but full of tenderness, and beloved by all who knew her. Mr. Capel was, as we have seen, a good kind of man, hot-headed and warm-hearted, de- licient in cultivation, but not in natural capacity, a rigid disciplinarian by fits and j starts, and consequently, the man, of all j others, to produce utter conftsion in his I household. Seven children and a sickly j wile taxed to the utmost the moderate in come which he made as a lawyer in a country town, and the perpttual struggle of a naturally liberal disposition, compelled to live and make live upon insufficient means, was qnite enough, when not con verted by self-discipline in:o a means of improvement, to account for the growing irritability of his character George, a j promising youth of eighteen, and the delight I of his elder sister’s heart, was intended for j holy orders; he was amiable and clever, i even elegant in mind, but somewhat ine-o-, j lute; there was about him a feminine want j of self-dependence, combined with an oc-1 j casional obstinacy of purpose, so sudden j j and disproportionate that it seemed to uiise j I from a secret suspicion of his particular, j L 1 feet and a desire to prove to himself that ,it had no real existence. As it often hap ‘ pens in such cases, he was apt to overdo | | the cure, and to apply it at wrong times; j j lie was like a person who coddles himself i ail the summer when he is quite well, and j I goes out without a bat on the first frosty j | morning. Os course, he catches so violent! a cold that he must needs stay in-doors for he next six months. Julia was a pretty good-humored cornu on-place girl of sixteen, very ready with small-ta k, and passionate ly fond of partners. She was popular ; wherever she went, and was just the sort j of person to be habitually quoted by gen- j tieintn as an example, to prove that it was , quilt unnecessary for a woman to have a mind. i The two little boys, Frank and Hugh, j haJ rosy, smiling faces, hands never clean, ; and shoe-strings never tied. They got on j very well at the day-school, thought it was | great fun to call their master ‘Dick,’ when he was quite out of hearing; invariably slammed the doors in summer, and left them wide open in winter; and always had in their pockets a knife, a piece of string, six marbles, two broken slips of wood, a rusty nail, the leaf of a Latin grammar, an ounce of toffy, some crumbs of bread and cheese, a hai 1 ball, and an ‘apple. Emily was a rather self-sufficient lady of nine years, who thought it great j promotion to put back her hair with combs and wear worked coilars. She was a vig orous stickler for the rights of woman, i which she not unfrequently attempted to obtain from her brothers by personal vio lence, being always ready with the true English sentiment, ‘ How cowardly to touch a girl!’ if the smallest retort were attempted. To say the truth, the two schoolboys suflered many; an instance of grievous tyranny at her hands, which they ; bore the better because they had not opened ; their eyes to the fact. Little Annie, with her earnest bine eyes, sweet shy, maimers, and pretty loving ways, was the pet, the plaything, and the sunshine of the whole household. Clara herself was the genius of the family, and as inoffensive a genius as it would be possible to find auywheie. i She bad been a precocious child, having learned all her letters before she was two years old, and composed a decided rhyme before she was four; neither had her tal ents evaporated as she grew up. She play ed very well, and sang with much feeling; she had a great aptitude for languages, was fond of reading, fonder of thinking, fondest of dreaming. She was very shy, and did not please in general society ; she was un comfortably conscious that her abilities were overrated, and believed lieiself to be destitute of those attractions which perhaps \ most women covet more than ability. In person she was interesting rather than pretty, having much intelligence and sweet . ness of countenance without regularity of feature, so she believed herself ugly, and tried to persuade herself that she was care i less of admiration : yet she had much grace of manlier, a musical voice, and a euplival ! ing smile, and if she had not often made herself repulsive out of the fear of being so, she might have been as popular as her I sister. She had a most warm, loving, ten i der heart, a gentle, timid temper, a strong though quiet will, great natural reserve, great anxiety to he luveJ, boundless aspira tions after excellence. She was at once enthusiastic and indolent, sadly deficient in continuous energy, yet never slothful. She felt herself useless, and despised her self for being so, and was almost ashamed to set about curing herself of the faults j peculiar to what is called a ■ woman of geni us,’ because she was not certain that she was one. She had ail kinls of ideal pic tures before her eyes which she was im patient to realize ; but she was obliged to be architect and mason in one, and she did not know the simplest rules of construction. She was the person of all others most like ly to be misjudged by those who did not J thoroughly understand her; for, with an | original and striking character, keen j thoughts and decided opinions, she had so | little natural presence of mind that she of j ten appeared to have no character at all, j and she was so self distrustful that she | sometimes disclaimed an opinion almost in j the moment of uttering it, lest it shoulJ j turn out to be wrong. She saw all the ! evils around her with a perception almost i morbidly acute; anJ she was too busy | with self-contempt for the sorry part she 1 had played in the family drama, to think tor a moment of criticizing her fellow-act* I ors. SuJJculy she had waked up to the consciousness of all this, having hitherto jived, ha.f-studiously, half-dreatnily, indul- j ged in all her inclinations, both by the love I ol her parents and the pride which they fell in her talents; and while frequently re gretting and feeling teased by the civil liis orJets of the little commonwealth, content ing herself with the notion that she never could amend them, as it was useless for her to try to be practical. This, however, was but a vague half-expressed thought, although it was decidedly acted upon, and the evils were perpetually growing, and at last her eyes opened. Sorrowfully and earnestly her heart accused it.-ell before God, and then took refuge from its own re proaches in the intensity of a fresh resolu tion. No one suspected what was going on in her mind, and numberless were the little difficulties unconsciously thrown in her way; not a lew, also, were the helps lent to her as unconsciously. Indeed, shel began to think that it only depended upon herself to turn every difficulty into a help, | the steeper the path the sooner you reach 1 Hie summit, if only you have strength and breath for the ascent. Clara thought she had strength and breath, and should they fail her she knew where and how to renew them. Her purpose burned within her with a fervor, almost a passion, which those only can understand who are in the habit of feeling much which they never betray, and who, believing with all their hearts that the will has jiower over life and cir cumstance, and soul, are yet conscious, even to agony, of its practical impotence. The words, ‘conquer self!’ were ringing l in her ears, throbbing in her heart and j brain, blinding and deafening her for the | time to all outward sights and sounds.— With an almost terrified hope that she should ensure their fulfilment, she repeated them inwardly as she knelt at the altar on the following Sunday, her whole spirit be ing (so to speak) in the attitude of a vow though her lips pronounced no deliberate pledge. And afterwards during the even ing luxury of a walk with the children, w hen they, bounding away in all directions, left her to solitary meditation, she calmly reviewed and sealed her resolution. How strange and how happy is the effect of even the most transient intercourse with nature! upon a heart, wounded and erring, and yet; desirous of good. How it soothes agita tion, and softens pain, and creates life a fresh, and in a nobler inuuld ! And this work is done not merely by gorgeous skies or lovely moonlights, by bright waleis looking up. like children into the solemn faces of mountains, or sleeping under the shadowy guardianship of overhanging wooJs, by the glory and the beauty ol earth; it is done likewise by her simplest and quietest pictures, by her cheapest and most unpretending gifts. The sight of one dark-leaved tree rocking slowly against uj dim heaven; the mere aspect of one gieen j field is often enough to change and subdue I the whole course of thought. Is it not, perhaps, because these creations are fresh; and uumarred from Cod’s hands that they so spec lily affect us; because in this they j transcend man, in whom there is so much! of personal and of evil that the workman- \ ship of Cod is, as it were, disguised, and j only to be discovers I by careful search ! j The blade of grass which we pluck is what; its Creator intended it to be ; who shall \ dare say so much as this of himself, or 01, any other ? Clara was very happy, so long as she was busy with reveries of the future, ami! generalizations of duty; but she was far too mucli in earnest to rest in these, and on the Monday morning she determined lobe gin her new work heartily. She asked herself the question, ‘how !’ and the sub lime of thought instantly became the ridic ulous of action. She would superintend their very indifferent cook in the prepara tion of dinner, and she would make herselt a gown ! Her mother had presented her with one on her last birthday, which lay useless in a drawer because she had not yet been able to save enough out of her scanty allowance to pay the dressmaker. How easy it is to look upon life as a whole j —how very i.iificulttoencoun;,r tsdetails! j Clara got upthree hours earlier than usual : . and when the housemaid descendei to her morning toils, she found the field preoccu pied with shapeless segments of calico and unmeaning strips of silk, and a va„t array of variously contorted wisps of paper which were afflicted with a mental hallucination. ; and believed themselves to be patterns. — Her young mistress stood in the miJst, ; considerably flushed and somewhat despon dent, having as yet achieved no visibleeml j but the scattering of an immense multitude | of minute pieces of thread and sewing-silk ! upon the surface of the drugget. She now ’ submitted, with rather an ill-grace, to be ; hunted from room to room by the mu h 1 worried domestic, being finally di-possess j ed of the parlor only just in time to gather | up her museum of materials with all haste, and tlmiat them at random into a closet, to make way for breakfast. Af.er that mea: she resumed her labors, varying them by an occasional excursion into the kitchen, which so amazed the cook th it she ha . not self-possession enough to organize any immediate j>!an of resistance. The coufu ! sion of the apartment was at its height, when a knock at the door announced a visitor, and Mr. Archer entered. This was a gentleman who had been known to the Capel family for some years. He was good, clever, agreeable, and slightly satiri cal ;at thirty-six a confirmed old baclieloi in all his v ays and thoughts; everywhere much liked, and everywhere a little fear ed; a great admirer of Julia, with w hom lie flirted in the easy, frank, comfortable way peculiar to his class, but by no means so fond of Clara, who was afraid of him, and whom be hal never taken the trouble jto know. In person he was gentlemanlike and pleasing, without being handsome ; but he was afflicted with lameness, the conse quence of a fall from his horse in college days. He assumed complete indifference to this defect, spoke of it openly, nay, even jesteJ upon it, but in reality, and in. secret, he was conscious of it, even to painfuluess. believed himself (absurdly enough) unac cejitable to any woman by reason of it. and, though he never betrayed, by look oi manner, the slightest sensitiveness when any allusion was ma le to it, and, though his own freedom of expression ralher en couraged such allusions in persons ol coarse feeling, yet there can be no doubt that all such words inflicted their wounds, and that the delicacy w hich avoided them was among the surest claims to his regard. When a man speaks of himself—except it be in the clo.-e and holy confidence of a true friendship, wherein falsehood is im possible and disguise absurd—disirust him ! Either consciously or unconsciously, be sure that he is throwing a-.d a veil to put on a mask. ‘Well, Sappho !’ cried Mr. Archer, as he entered the room, and came tu a dead halt, in front of a mysterious coil of pink lib bon, upon which C ara had some vague, undeveloped designs; ‘in the name of wonder, what does this portend ? Private theatricals, of course?—and you are mis tress of the robes! What costume will you provide for me V There is no saying how much good Mr. Archer might have done Clara if he had discarded that objectionable habilof calling her Sappho. As it was, in every conver-j sation which took place between them, there was an unhappy little basis of irrita tion on her part to begin with, which caus ed her to consider his most innocent re marks sarcastic, and, not unnaturally-, dis posed him to think unfavorably o! her temper. She now answeied hint as grave ly as if no joke had ever been ma le since the deluge : ‘Mamma does not approve of private theatricals. Tam only making a dress.’ He assumed a demure expression of countenance ‘ I beg your ladyship's pardon.* said he, with a profound bow, and tbeu turned to Julia, who came forward with laughing cordiality, holding a hook up be fore his eyes, and assuring him that she had ‘read it all through—every word oi it!’ Mr. Archer was in the habit of lending Julia books, which she real, or professed to read, chiefly with the object of discus sing them afterwards with him. To say | die truth, her reading was a very desultory j kind of skimming; but, as C ara alway -tudie l them in good earnest, her sistei ! generally contrived to pick up enough knowledge about them, to carry her efl'.-c ----i tively through a conversation,as readers ol ! reviews aie often known to pass for profi ] cients in the literature of the day. Tilt* present volume had not, however, taxed j her powers of endurance very heavily—it i was Tennyson’s poems. He took it from her hand, and turned j the leaves: 11 And which is your favorite ?” a-ked he ; “ Lock ley Ha 1, of cour-e—•ev erybody chooses Locksley Hall, on a first reading. What a colorist he isi The Ve netian of poets.’’ “ But I like this, very much,’’ said Julia, looking over his shoulder, and laying her finger upon the name “Love and Duty.” He read it—at first carelessly, and as if about to /pass fiorn it again: but the pas sionate music laid strong hold upon him, and he could not leave it unfinished. Fur furrowing i to light ibe mounded rack 1 eyon l the fair g ecu Held aui eaiteru ten. lie closed the book, uttering the two last lines aloud as he did so, with a prolonged emphasis, just a little exagerated, in or ler to save himself from being laughed at by making it look as if he were half in joke. “Just a glimpse of light at the end,” said he; “a promise of dawn—giving one a faint hope that this most unlucky couple might, perhaps, he happy afiur all Dry you know, Miss Julia, I should not have expecteJ you to choose this poem for a favorite.” “ Why not?” inquired the young lady. He looked doubtfully at her. “It is so very sentimental,’’ said he with a half smile. “ 1 think I am very-sentimental,” an swered Julia, a little aflronted. “Besides,” pursued Mr. Archer, “don’t you th nk the verses ate wrongly named • Love anJ Duty?’ Would it not have been more in accordance with duty if ihe young man hal held Ins tongue about bis love, seeing that, for some reason or other, the obstacles to its prevailing were insurmount able (” Julia di I not very well know what to say, so she gave him a bright look and a smile, which implied that she hal a vast deal in her mind on the subject, but thought it better not to express it. Clara remarked, bluntly, “That is a masculine view of du ly, and therefore, of course, selfish.” “How so?” a-ked Mr. Archer. Some special interference of his gooJ genius pre vented him from saying Sappho, and con sequelly Clara, forgetting her shyness in her feeing for the poem, replied without hesita“on. “Because she con’d feel no serurty that she was beloved till she was actualy told so; no woman could; and not to give her that security would be to deprive her of her only comfort in the after desolation.” Julia lookel up once more with her ex pressive smile: “that is exactly what 1 think,” sai l she. Mr. Archer answered her , not —Clara, thinking the smile a great deal more eloquent than the speech, and giving it sud ciedit for the substance of all that it shadowed forth. “You ate per fectly right,” said he, “but it is anew view to me.” Then he opened the book once more and read the lines hall unconscious ly— Wa- it not woll Once to h ivo rpokei ?—it cu J i.o but be well? “Come, 1 shall retort upon you; isn’t this a feminine view of duty, an I there fore, of course, loquacious ? All women think that it cannot hut he well to speak, under any circumstances.” “What a shame!” exclaimed Julia— Clara went quietly back to her work with a look of contempt. She had not the gift of trilling. Presently, however, she looked up with a brightening sac visitor had arrived —Mr. D.icre. (We will in form the reader in confidence that we have -ome reason for supposing D.icre to be the name which was left blank in Claia'sopcn* ing soliloquy.) lie was also one among the family intimates, and moreover Clara's especial friend, though there was nothing between them partaking of the nature of a flirtation. They had the same tasie.-,gen erally the same opinions; he had consid erable genius, which she indisputably overrated, he was elegant in his inodes of thinking, feeling, and l.ked few things better than a conversation with her. As to his character , that is, the com bination of will, temper, heart, and habits, which are somewhat more important than tneie intellect, it lacked stability, and was without that nameless ascendency which seems to be the special mark of a high manly nature, and by virtue of which it stands elect, guiding and subduing tfco.se I whose merely intellectual gifts may per haps he superior to its own. T >is ueli ciency, however, C'aia did not feel; per haps she was scarcely aware of it: v. > not criticize most strictly those to ■■ we stau I the nearest. Clara could spc>. and speak freely-, to Mr. of s'ib;t in which, in her own family circle . j unong her other acquainlancc, s.!enc>* practical, y enforced upon her, not by want of comprehension, perhaps, but by vant of sympathy. The shyest and most veseiveJ nature is precisely that which most enjoy ■* the rare privilege of speaking —rare to it because it needs so peculiar a combinaiiow
