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[Selected for the Field and Fireside.]
THE CHANGE!) CROSS.
BY REQUEST.
It was a time of sadness, and my heart
Although it knew and felt the better part, •
Was wearied with the conflict and the strife,
And all the needful discipline of life.
And while I strove to view them given to me
As wholesome tests of Faith and Love to be ;
It seemed as if I never eonld be sure.
That faithful to the end, I should endure.
And thus no longer trusting to Mis might.
Who says we walk by Faith and not by sight:
Doubting, and almost yielding to despair,
The thought arose, My “cross’’ I cannot bear.
Surely, thought I, my cross must heavier be
Than those of others whom I daily see ; t
Oh ! if I might some other burden choose,
Methtnks I should not fear my “crown” to lose.
A solemn silence reigned on all aronnd,
K'en nature's voices uttered not a sound ;
The evening shadows seemed of peace to tell,
And sleep upon my wearied spirit fell.
I slept; when suddenly a heavenly light
Burst full upon my wondering, raptur’d sight.
Angelic beings thronged in myriads there.
And angel-voices filled th’ harmonious air !
Then Osa more glorious than all to see
To whom, in reverence others bent the knee,
Came gently near me as I trembling lay,
And whispered: '‘Follow me l I am the way.
Instant I rose: Ho led mo far above.
To where, beneath a canopy of love.
Crosses of every shape and size were seen,
Smaller and larger than my own had been.
And one there was, most boauteous to behold,
A little cross with jewels set in gold :
“Ah 1 this,” methought, “ I can with comfort wear; 1
Sure this will bo an easy cross to bear !"
Then stooping down, this cross I quickly took.
When, lo ! at once my frame beneath it shook !
Light though it seemed, and beautiful to sec,
It far too heavy proved, that cross for me.
“ Not this, not this 1” I cried, then sought again i
A cross whose weight would bring me less of pain.
And ono by one I passed them slowly by ;
Again a lovely one attracts my eye !
Fair flowers around its sculptur'd form entwined.
Beauty and grace appeared In it combined ;
Wondering I gazed, and as I gazed the more,
Stranger it seemed that all had passed it o’er.
I stooped, when quickly, to my touch revealed,
I knew the sting those beauteous leaves concealed;
Sharp thorn* lay hid beneath those flowers so fair!
Sorrowing, I said, “ this cross I cannot bear.”
And thus it was, with every cross I tried;
Not one that I would choose could be espied !
Weeping, I laid each heavy burden down ;
Then gently whispered lie—‘No cross, no crown.'
At length to Him, I turned my fainting heart,
Me knew its sorrows, bade its doubts depart;
‘Be not afraid He said, “but trust to trie,
\ My perfect love shall now be shown in thee 1”
Then with bright new-born faith and willing mind,
I turned again, my earthly cross to find :
With forward steps, and turning not aside.
Lest worrying fears and doubts again betide.
Seeking, in the prepared appointed way,
Willing to hear and ready to obey,
I spy a cross, and quick to seize it move,
’ Tunis writ all o'er with btested words of lore !
With eager joy I raised it from the rest.
And gratefully acknowledged it the best,’
The only one of all the many there,
That I could feel was meant for me to boar.
And while I thus my chosen cross confessed,
Brightness celestial seemed on it to rest;
Ana ns I bent, my burden to sustain,
It was, I knew, my oxen old cross again !
But ah 1 how beauteous was it now to me—
Now I had learned its preciousness to sec !
No unbelieving doubts disturb me now:
The cross lie puts on me, is best I know I
Oh yes ! henceforth my one desire shall be.
That lie who knoics me best shall choose for me,
And so what'er Ills love sees good to send.
I’m sure ’tis best— because He knows the end /
—
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
ESSAY ON BOYS.
BY MRS. M. A. M CRIMMOX.
Science flourishes in this enlightened age. "We
have new systems of Grammar, Geography, and
Arithmetic, which can be steamed into the ten
der mind in a marvelously short time. We have
French, Music and everything else “ without a
master.” Hundreds spend their lives in investi
gating the structure of the earth; some in clas
sifying shells and fishes; others, in the study of
flowers and birds; while not a few find pleas
ure in groping around about ponds and pools, in
quest of bugs. Some delight in rambling through
old ruins; prowling about dilapidated tombs, or
prying into Egyptian mummies. There are oth
ers, again, whose chief bliss lies in old coins, and
antiquated medals; —the end being, doubtless, to
to discover what kind of currency Noah used in
tine Ark.
But who, of all these seekers after truth, de
vote one minute in the day, to the study of God’s
fairest, brightest, noblest work—tho children ?
We are curious to know how the embryo ex
pands into a plant; we examine the plumule
and radical; but do we over strive,to learn how
the embryo mind matures into noble and per
fect manhood? Are we ever careful lest a rude
touch of ours should distort the young soul, in
its tender twig, and leave it a crooked, disjointed
thing forever? We agree with intellectual phi
losophers—that the infant mind is as a pure
white sheet of paper; but are we in earnest
about preserving that purity untarnished ? Do
we not, rather, lay our world-soiled hand upon
the spotless mind, knowing that no after time can
wipe away the stain ? We must plead guilty to
these charges. We know they are true.
What are the first lessons which nurses, pa
rents and friends conspire to teach most chil
dren? Wo answer without hesitation —pride,
revenge, deceit, and lying. For instance, is not
the child, as soon as'he can understand, told a
hundred things r a day, which are known to be
false? And, as we daily seo grown people so
much influenced by example, is it not probable,
nay, is it not certain, that the weak child will
be thus influenced?
Perhaps this accounts satisfactorily for the
fact that with, so many, lying is tho first use
that is made of the faculty of speech; and com
pels the philosopher,however charitably disposed,
to concur with Falstaff in his sneering criticism
—“ How this world is given to lying!”
Without detaling farther proof, is it any won
der that evil seeds spring up under such cul
ture? Is not the wonder, rather, how any
good can "find root, where evil is so festered?
How many parents begin to teach their chil
dren self-control at two or three years of age ?
So far from it, we hear them continually ex
claim—“ Do not let him cry; he might take a
fit." “Yes, ho must have it—go and get his
grand pa’s razor—you know he had that last
fit, just after a hearty cry." “ Poor little dear,
we had to give him so much candy last night,
because he cried for tho morn, that he is sick,
and must have the razor, but mind, do not let
him cut himself.”
This kind of pampering is carried on, till the
little fellow gets large enough to go to school,
and then the teacher, without affection for his
person, or regard to former treatment, must flog
instruction into him as best he can. Younger
members of the family have by this time usurp
ed his prerogative to kick, scream, and put his
foot in the butter dish; and he is turned out,
like a year-old calf, lo take things as he finds
them.
As time advances, he begins to feel a curiosity
to understand the nature of things around him.
He desires to know where horses go when they
die—makes inquiry on the subject But no one
has time to be troubled with him, a great un
mannerly fellow, who is always cracking his
whip in the house, and making a muss on the
80FXKBEN »JKL» An VmXSXOX.
carpet; so he is sent away, with his nonsense,
whip, and muss, before he makes little sis’
who has screamed herself !to sleep, and is con
sequently almost “ sick.” At one time he is seiz
ed with an unconquerable longing to know
what kind of hats the children in the moon
wear. He steals up behind his father, who is
sitting leisurely reading a newspaper, with his
chair leaning back, and does not honor little
Harumscarum with so much as a look. The
little fellow gets impatient and gives tho chair a
gentle (?) pull, to attract his father’s attention;
bntalas! his muscles are not accustomed to
gentle movements—and over goes father, chair,
paper, spectacles and all. He receives a good
drubbing, with the cheering information that he
is the worst little wretch unhung; and so, he
never learns the style of the hats of the boys
in the moon.
Poor boys 1 they do knock over the chairs,
step on the baby’s toes, and spill water on their
sister’s new silks, when company is about. It
is equally true, that they tumble up work bas
kets ; abstract their mother’s balls of cord, for
their own private use; scatter their books and
slates on the parlor floor, and shoot marbles at
the little darkies’ heads; but for all that, there
is nothing so noble, or so interesting, as those
same boys, if you can once get the windows of
their hearts open. Let us try one. Mind, you over
look his awkward ways—keep your eyes off his
hands, for he don't know where to put them;
do not notice his slouched hat, but sit down,
and win his confidence, by mending his kite or
fishing line, and you will find he has, after all,
a large heart hid beneath his torn jacket. Yes,
a heart full of warm sympathies and generous
impulses; a heart, with tender and poetic senti
ments, concealed within its unopened folds, and
a head, (though he never voluntarily combed it
in his life) full of beautiful dreams and sweet im
aginings.
Awkward though ho be, and full of mischief;
my heart yearns towards such a boy. I love
his free untrammeled air; his genuine inde
pendence ; his utter ignorance of the little de
ceits of society. I love to trace the connection
between his boyish ways, and that strong will
and iron nerve, that characterize the most per
fect type of manhood. Truly boyology is an
interesting study—far more so, to my humble
taste, than all the ichthyologies, ornithologies,
and bugologies in the world. I had rather help
him make bird traps, watch him dam up the
branch, or listen to his boyish loves and hopes,
than feast (?) on the sublimest ideas of Miss Fin
iky, or Mr. Sanctimony in the parlor, the phil
osophers and philosophists, male and female, of
our lecture rooms.
But all admit that a boy, left to grow up like
a weed, makes but a sad specimen of the man.
Discipline is therefore essential to train him up
in the way he should go, and it becomes a sub
ject of no little importance, what kind of dis
cipline is best calculated to effect the desired
end. There are various opinions on this subject.
Christ said “Feed my lambs,” —not break them
—tame them, beat them or yoke them—but 'feed
them'' Givo them mental and spiritual food,
which will repress the evil, and develop the good
in their natures.
They must be made to love to do right, and
fear to do wrong. Experience will teach him, in
after life, that every one must suffer the conse
quences of his own actions. Then, would it not
be a wholesome discipline to allow him to learn
that lesson, in the same way, while yet a boy ?
Suppose, for instance, he is careless of his books
or elothes, would not depriving him of such
things, (to some extent,) teach him their value
more effectually, than a scolding or a whipping ?
The best cure for a truant, is confinement at
home, and steady work, until school becomes
attractive. The surest way to correct idleness
and neglect of duty, is to deprive the offender of
some of his pocket money; or some holiday ex
cursion, which will demonstrate what he cannot
learn too soon, that money and recreation are
only for the diligent. Such a course will teach
him the legitimate connection between cause
and effect. It will convince him more thorough
ly than all the scolding and abuse which could
be heaped upon him, .that every one must suffer
for his own misdeeds. His faults will be in this
way corrected without the heart-burning, and
bitterness attending corporeal punishment. He
will be acting from principle—he will be acquir
ing a moral character —he will respect himself
and love his rulers.
There are cases, however, in which severe
measures are necessary, and then they should
be resorted to with firmness. Whenever a boy
finds that he can coax or trick you out of an in
fliction of deserved punishment, your authority
becomes a nullity, your discipline a farce. Cor
rection, then, that it may prove beneficial, must
be administered kindly, firmly, and privately. —
There is nothing gained, and everything lost, in
needlessly wounding the feelings of the delin
quent, when endeavoring to correct his faults.
Just let him see that you respect his feelings,
and regard his happiness, though you swerve
not from your purpose ; and you will have won
a place in his esteem and affection which is more
than half the victory.
I once knew a passionate, high spirited boy,
who was particularly disinclined to acknowledge
a fault—though his faults were many. His
mother was never heard to scold him ; but she
often took him with her, to a private room, shut
the door, and remained there, sometimes, for
hours, 110 one knew what passed in those pri
vate interviews, but it was observable that the
boy was as gentle as a lamb for sometime after
wards. In extreme cases, when he had been
uncommonly refractory,—she waited till he had
retired to bed, and then, when all was still and
quiet, and he enjoying that serenity which pre
cedes sleep, she would go softly to his bed-side,
and laying her hand gently upon his head, tell
him, in a kind, but firm tone, of his error. This
expedient never failed. He now bids fair to
make a superior man. Blessings on his noble
mother!
Os all the systems of family government, “mo
ral suasion,” has been the most abused. Its ad
vocates are usually those who have no govern
ment at all; and call this nothing—moral sua
sion ; suasion, minus the moral, would express
the idea exactly. I once knew a brilliant ex
ample in point; a boy, eight years old, the only
son of a gospel minister, a wild, turbulent, fel
low. who, with proper management, would have
made a fine boy. He came, with his parents, to
gether with another minister and his wife, to my
father’s house. They arrived late, and very soon
they went to tea. Before his father could ask a
blessing, he screamed out; “ Give me some of
that chicken—l want some 1” “ Wait, Sammy,
my son," said his father, in an under tone; but
he roared the louder —“Now you wont give me
anything to eat, and I will have some chicken.”
His mother pacified him with a pieoe of cake,
and the blessing was asked. After awhile, he
screamed to a lady, opposite to him : “ There,
you have gone and took the biggeßt piece, and
that was the piece I wanted.” A lump of su
gar reconciled him to this loss, and we managed
to get through supper.
When bed time came, the old family Bible was
brought out, and Sammy’s father invited to lead
in prayer. All was as stiU as the grave. His
mother called him to come in, before her husband
commenced reading. “I am not a coming,” he
screamed, from the passage. Ilia mother per
suaded and coaxed him; until at last he shout
ed “ Well!”—and bolting in like a young thun
der cloud, he planted himself directly in front of
his tn’JLcr; and, with a hand on each hip ex
<laimed: “ well, I’ll stay, if you will promise
me not to pray long.”
“Sit down, Sammy,” said the father; but he
squalled in reply, “ No, I am not a going to set
down, till you tell me whether you are going to
pray long —tell me now; for lam going back, if
you are going to pray long—so now tell me
quick—l want to know!” His mother, at this # -
crisis, whispered something in his ear—probably
the desired information; for he seated himself
with a chuckle; as much as to say—“ I’ve made
him doit”
This is no fancy sketch; but a real occurrence.
The question arises—were these parents feed
ing Christ’s lamb ; or were they raising him for
the gallows? Had that father, in his
investigations, ever seen the words of Solomon
—“ He that spareth the rod hateth his son ”? or
read the story of Eli’s sons, and of the “wrath
of God" concerning his house, “because his sons
made themselves vile, and he restrained them
not"?
The school-room is, very often, the scene of
the darkest phase of a boy’s life—not from an
over-tasked brain so much, as the harshness of
teachers and the too long continued confine
ment, with deprivation <f exercise in the open
air. The country, the free air of heaven, —the
wild woods, green mleadows, and running
streams, are the boy’s paradise. And it is well; for
they are as essential to fiis health and happiness,
his perfect physical development in a word, as
the food he eats. We ljttle dream “ what weary
hours tells he o'er,” sitting for long days, cramp
ed up in one position, While his eyes and his
thoughts] are far out it the dark green woods,
where the sun sparklesj and the breezes play.
What a pity that scludastic instruction cannot
be united with wholesome exercise, and home
discipline 1 After a morning spent at home in
useful labor, or out (oor amusements, how
sweet would study be, it home, with a mother’s
gentle voice, and loving smile, to tell him of a
thousand things his banks but barely mention.
Then there might be truth m the phrase “ Labor
ipse vohtptas." Georgia is beginning to feel an
interest commensurate with the importance of
the subject in the education of her daughters.—
Let them in return carefully educate their own
sons, and a glorious era will soon dawn upon
our society.
We argue very justty, that woman, having to
mold the young mind, must be cultivated for
the task; but since man exerts an influence
equally powerful on tine mind of woman, is it not
of some moment that bis finer qualities, his bet
ter nature, be also cultivated? The stronger
intellect, or will, if you please, must rule the
weaker, and woman, with all her finer percep
tions, her quicker wit. and more delicate moral
nature, will rise or fall according to the standard
of her husbaud. How, then, can she remain pure
and refined, when wedded to a case-hardened,
morally-besotted husband ? She may, perchance,
raise him a little, but he will assuredly degrade
her much; and, as her degradation tells on her
children, should not boys receive as gentle, as
tender nurturing in their youth, as girls?—
Many persons, who would screen their daughters
from an impure thought, allow their boys to
witness moral pollutions that would make a wo
man shudder. What does it matter how their
young minds are contaminated with vile asso
ciations? They are only growing up ,that they
make money—“let them see the world.” But
we would humbly suggest, that such money
making machines, in the shape of men, make
fashionable] and even worse women, and such
women incumber the earth with a weak, useless,
and corrupt offspring.
Every impression made on the young mind,
leaves its impress on tho character ; since char
acter is formed from experience, and experience
from the little events of every day life. Is it a
hght matter, then, what our boys see, and hear,
and do ? It is not.
But to return to schools, for we have digressed.
What better plan could be devised to make a
brute of a boy tliar to treat him daily, as if he
were a brute ? I once attended a school—a
large popular school —where a class of small
boys and girls were just commencing the study
of Arithmetic ; and instead of a nice little pri
mary work, written to suit their understandings,
they were plodding over Davies’. Every eve
ning this class was called up to cipher
on the black-board, with nothing but Davies’
hard rules to guide them. They were not born,
as you may well imagine, with Arithmetic in
their heads; so they knew nothing about
it till they were taught. I wish I could raise
my voice, and show how that Christian (?) teach
er screamed at those children, for not knowing,
by inspiration, how their sums should be done.
“ Add it up,” he would whoop, as some little
trembler peeped timidly at him, to know what
to do. Again he would shriek—“ What are you
doing there, you numbskull; don’t you know
you have got to carry one ? I’ll knock yon
over, if you do that again.” (Whoop-third;)—
“Hilloa, there Jim, how did you get that?—
Can’t you talk to me sir ? I’ll see if I can make
you. (Shakes him violently) “Does nought ad
ded to one make two ? There, take that, and
that” —(beats him over the head) ‘Naught and
one makes two, does it ? Ha, lia, ha 1 Look at
him now—look at the simpleton !”
A deep blush dyed the little fellow’s pale
cheek; large tears gathered in his eyes, and his
head drooped on his heaving breast, as he saw
himself the ridicule —the butt of the school. A
low sob shook his little sister’s frame, and she
buried her face in her book. I longed to throw
my arms around him and whisper in his ear:
“ One and nought is only one, Jimmy,” but I
dared not
Are the feelings of those whom Jesus took in
nis arms and blessed, of no value ? Is it noth
ing, when their hearts are crushed and trodden
under foot by tyrants who are paid to educate
them ? “Os such is the kingdom of Heaven,”
said the blessed Christ, and of a truth, “ the
kingdom of Heaven sufferetli violence” at our
hands. Ohl when will we fear to mar, with a
rude touch of ours, the chords of a pure young
spirit ? When will we reflect that the boys
whom we now despise, will soon be the rulers of
our nation ? When will we learn that by our
examples of cruelty we are delivering to demons
the souls sent among us to be schooled for hea
ven? God bless the boys I They are tho hope
of the world. How many miniature Washing
tons, Franklins and Newtons, are among them,
we know not, but again we say, "Godbless them.”
——
Coaxing and caressing are mere innocent strat
agems ; but cringing and fawning are a species
of dumb hypocrisy.
t• I am*
When the ceremonies of religion are scoffed
at, it will not bo long before its principles will be
detested.
.qp-v. tt J f. ■#' ""V~ j;
GROWING OLD.
“Without doubt” says a venturous essayist
in Chambers Edinburgh Journal, addressing
himself to ladies on this most delicate of sub
jects, “without doubt it is a trying crisis in a
woman's life—a single woman’s particularly—
when she begins to suspect she is not so young
as she used to be; that, after crying * wolf ever
since the respectable maturity of seventeen —as
some young ladies are fond of doing, to the ex
treme amusement of their friends—the grim
wolf, old age, is actually showing his teeth in
the distance; and no courteous blindness on the
part of these said friends no alarmjof her own, can
neutralise the fact that he is, if still far off, in
sight. And, however charmingly poetical he
may appear to sweet fourtecn-and-a-half, who
writes melancholy verses about * I wish I were
again a child,’ or merry thrce-and-twenty, who
preserves in silver paper ‘my first gray hair,’ old
age, viewed as a near approaching reality, is
quite another thing.
“To feel that you have had your fair half, at
least, of the ordinary term of years alloted to
mortals; that you have no right to expect to be
any handsomer, or stronger,-or happier than you
are now; that you have climbed to the summit of
life, whence the next step must necessarily be
decadence; aye, though you do not feel it—
though the air may be as fresh, and the view
as grand—still, you know that it is so. Slower
or faster, you are going down hill. To those who
go 4 liand-in hand,’
‘And sleep thegither at the foot,’
it may be a safer and sweeter descent; but I am
writing for those who have to make the descent
alone.
“It is not a pleasant descent, at the begin
ning. When you find at parties you are not
asked to dance as much as formerly, and your
partners are chiefly stout, middle-aged gentle
men and slim lads who blush terribly, and re
quire a great deal of drawing out; when you are
1 deared’ and patronized by stylish young chits,
who were in their cradle when you wore a
grown woman; or when some boy, who was
your plaything in petticoats, has tho imperti
nence to look over your head, bearded and
grand, or even to consult you on his love af
fairs. When you find your acquaintance deli
cately abstaining from the term 4 old maid’ in
your presence, or immediately qualifying it by
an eager panegyric on the solitary sisterhood.—
When servants address you as 4 Ma’m, instead of
‘Miss ;’ and if you are at all stout and comforta
ble-looking, shopkeepers persist in pressing up
on your notice toys and perambulators. ,
44 Rather trying, too, when in speaking of
yourself as a 4 girl’—which, from long habit you
unwittingly do—you detect a covert smile on
the face of your interlocutor; or, led by chance
excitement to deport yourself in an ultra-youth
ful manner, some instinct warns you that you
are making yourself ridiculous.
44 There is no denying the fact, and it ought
to sdence many an ill-natured remark upon
‘mutton dressed lamb-fashion,’ ‘young ladies of
a certain age,’ and the like—that with most peo
ple the passing from maturity to middle age is
so gradual as to be almost imperceptible to the
individual concerned. It is very difficult for a
woman to recognise that she is growing old,
and to many—nay, to all more or less—this re
cognition cannot but be fraught with considera
ble pain.
44 The most sensible woman cannot fairly put
aside her youth, all it has enjoyed, or lost, or
missed—its hopes and interests, omissions, and
commissions, doings and sufferings—satisfied
that it is henceforth to be considered
entirely as a thing gone by—without a
momentary of the heart Young people forget
this as completely as they forget tha( they them
selves may ono day experience the same, or they
would not be so ready to laugh at even the fool
isliest of the foolish old virgins, who
deems herself juvenile long after everybody else
has ceased to share in the pleasing delusion,
and thereby makes both useless and ridiculous
that season of early autumn which ought to be
most peaceful, abundant, safe and sacred time
n a woman’s whole existence. They would not,
with the proverbial harsh judgment of youth
scorn so cruelly those poor little absurdities, of
which the unlucky person who indulges there
in is probably quite unaware—merely dresses
as she has alwavs done, and carries on the
harmless coquetries and minauderies of her
teens; unconscious how exceedingly ludicrous
they appear in a lady of—say forty! Yet in
this sort of exhibition, which society too often
sees and enjoys, any honest heart cannot but
often feel that of all the actors engaged in it, the
one who plays the least objectionable and dis
graceful part is she who only makes a fool of
herself. .
“ Yet why should she doit? Why cling so
desperately to the youth that will not stay; and
which, after all, is not such a very precious or
even a happy thing ? Why give horself such a
world of trouble to deny or conceal her exact
age, when either half her acquaintance must ei
ther know it or guess it, or be supremely indif
ferent about it ? Why appear dressed —undress-
ed cynics would say—after the pattern of her
niece, the belle of the ball; annoying the eye
with her beauty either half withered, or long
overblown, and which in its prime would have
been all the lovelier for more concealment?
44 In this matter of dress, a word or two. —
There are two styles of costume which ladies
past their premiere jeunesse are most prone to
fall into; one hardly knows which is the worst.
Perhaps, though, it is the ultra juvenile—such as
the insane juxtaposition of a yellow skin and
white tarlatane. It may be questionqd wheth
er at any age beyond twenty a ball costume is
really becoming ; but after thirty, it is the very
last sort of attire that a lady can assume with
impunity. It is said that you can only make
yourself look younger, by dressing older than
you are ; and truly I have seen many a woman
look withered and old in the customary evening
dress which, being unmarried, she thinks neces
sary to shiver in, who would have appeared fair
as a sunshiny October day, if she would only
have done nature the justice to assume, in her
autumn time, an autumnal livery. If she would
only have the sense to believe that flimsy, light
colored gowns, fripperied over with trimmings,
only suit airy figures and active motions ; that a
sober-tinted substantial gown and a pretty cap,
will any day talce away ten years from a lady’s
appearance. Above all, if she would observe
this one grand rule of the toilet, always advisa
ble, but after youth indispensable —tnat though
good personal ‘points’ are by no means a war
rant for undue exhibition thereof) no point that
is positively unbeautiful ought ever, by any pre
tence of fashion or custom, to be shown.
44 The other sort of dress, which, it must be
owned,' i 3 less frequent, is the dowd ystyle.
People say, though not very soon, “ Oh, I am
not a young woman now; it does not signify
what I wear.’ Whether they quite believe it,
is another question; but they say it, and act
upon it when laziness or indifference prompts.
Foolish women! they forget that if we have
reason at any time more than another to mind
our 4 looks,’ it is when our looks are departing
.jr **.,,*■ ji
from us. Youth can do almost anything in the
toilet—middle age cannot; yet is none the less
bound to present to her friends and society the
most pleasing exterior she can. Easy it is to
do this when we hare those- about us who love
us, and tako notice of what we wear, and in
whose eyes we would like to appear gradous
and lovely to the last, so far as nature allows;
not easy when things are otherwise. This,
perhaps, is the reason why we see so many un
married women grow careless and ‘ old-fashion
ed’ in their dress— ‘ What does it signify?—no
body cares.'
“ i think a woman ought to care a little for
herself—a very little. Without preaching up
vanity, or undue waste of time over that most
thankless duty of adorning one’s self for no
body’s pleasure in particular, is it not still a
right and becoming feeling to have some respect
for that personality which, as well as our soul,
Heaven gave us to make the best of? And is
it not our duty—considering the great number
of uncomely people that are in the world—to
lessen it by each of us making herself as little
uncomely as she can ?
“ Because a lady ceases to dress youthfully,
she has no excuse for dressing untidily. Neat
ness invariably; hues carefully harmonised, and,
as time advances, subsiding into a general unity
of tone, softening and darkening in color, until
black, white, and grey alone remain, as the
suitable garb for old ago; these things are every
woman’s boundeu duty to observe as long as
she lives.
“ That slow, fine, and yet perceptible change
of mien and behavior, natural and proper to ad
vancing years, is scarcely reducible to rule at all.
It is but the outward reflection of an inward
process of the mind. We only discover its full
effect by the absence of it, as noticeable in a
person who has such very ‘young’ manners, who
falls into raptures of enthusiasm, and expresses
loudly every emotion of her nature. Such a charac
ter, when real, is unobjectionable, nay, charming,
in extreme youth; but the great improbability
of its being real, makes it rather ludicrous, if not
disagreeable, in mature age; then the passions
die out, or are quieted down, the sense of hap
piness itself is calm, and the fullest, tenderest
tide of which the loving heart is capable, may be
described by those ‘still waters’ which ‘run
deep.’
“ To ‘grow old gracefhlly’—as one, who truly
has exemplified her theory, has written and ex
pressed it—is a good and beautiful thing; to
grow old worthily, a better. And the first ef
fort to that end, is not only to recognise, but to
become personally reconciled to the fact of
youth’s departure ; to see, or, if not seeing, to
have faith in, the wisdom of that which we call
change, yet whlfch is in truth progression; to
follow openly and fearlessly, in ourselves and
our own life, the same law which makes spring
pass into summer, summer into autumn, autumn
into winter, preserving an especial beauty and
fitness in each of the four.
“ Yes, if women could only believe it, there
is a wonderful beauty even in growing old.—
The charm of expression arising from softened
temper or ripened intellect, often amply atones
for the loss of form and coloring; and, conse
quently, to those who never could boast either
of these latter, years give much more than they
take away. Many a one, who was absolutely
plain in youth, thus grows pleasant and good
looking in declining years. You will hardly
ever find anybody, not ugly in mind, who ia re
pulsively ugly in person after middle life.”
■■ lal » ■
STATISTICS OF ITALY.
In the present disturbed state of the Italian Pe
ninsula the old order of things being broken
up, and very important political changes being
on the eve of accomplishment, involving a new
distribution of territories and populations, we
think that the following statistical information,
extracted from th eAnnuario Statistico Italiano for
the year 1858, and from other works, will have
especial interest for our readers generally.
The total population of Italy is 27,107,047 in
habitants.
Os these 19,913,304 live under the govern
ment of Italian princes; and 7,193,743 obey a
foreign government.
Italy possesses a greater number of large
cities that almost any country of equal extent.—
There are in the peninsula, nineteen cities of more
than 50,000 inhabitants each; and of these, eight,
namely, Rome, Naples, Palermo, Venice, Flor
ence, Milan, Genoa, and Turin exceed 100,000
inhabitants.
In Religion the population is very unequally
divided, there being found
Roman Catholics,. .27,028,874
Protestants, 36,676
Jews, .41,497
Os the Roman Catholic Bishopries in the whole
of Europe, 553 in number, Italy alone possesses
25G, nearly one half.
The regular and secular clergy of both sexes
number in Italy 189,000, bearing to the whole
population the proportion of 1 to 142.
It is in Sicily, of all Christendom, that the clergy
bears the greatest proportion to the secular pop
ulation, the clergy (priests, monks, and nuns)
numbering 36,366, or 1 for every 69 of the in
habitants.
There are about 300 Journals published in
Italy; of which number the Sardinian States,
though containing but one fifth of the popula
tion possess 117. _ -
In July, 1858, there were in Italy 1757 Kilo
metres (1,091 J English miles) of raihoays com
pleted, and 2,339 Kilometres, (1,447£ miles) in
course of construction, and 634 Kilometres (394
miles) for which concessions had been granted
but not yet commenced. ’ ~
Silk is one of the principal productions of
Italy. Its average annual value is 215,000,000
francs ($40,205,000); of this amount Lombardy,
which is only one fifteenth part of Italy produces
one-fifth.
The aggregate revenue of the Italian States is
about 600,000,000 francs ($112,200,000.)
The aggregate public debt is 2,000,000,000
francs ($374,000,000.)
The territory of Italy is divided among the
following Princes: -
Sardinia. Piedmont, Vlct. Einsn. 11. accession 1849.
Lombard v, Venice, Fran. Joseph L “ 1848,
Tuscany, Leopold 11. “ 1324.
Parma, Robert “ 1854.
Modena, Massa Francia V. “ 1856,
States of the Church, Pius IX. “ 1348.
Two Sicilies, Ferdinand 11. “ 1880.
Monaco, Charles Honore “ 1850.
The extent of territory and population of the
several Italian states are as follows.
Kd. of Sardinia 28.830 sq. miles 5,407,542 popu'n.
Kd. of Two Sicilies, 41,521 “ 9,517,040 “
G. Dy. of Tuscany, 8,712 “ “
Dy. Modena and Massa 2,078 “ *04,518
Prpty. of Monaco, 6# “ T.OOO *
Dnehy of Parma, 9,184 u
Papal States 17,048 “ |J®4.6«B l
Lomb, Ven. Kdtn. 1 i.OOO 5,000,000
Ban. Marino. Rep. 80 8,000
AsrxoxoMEßS have given the rate of solar
light one hundred and ninety-two thousand five
hundred miles in a second. ,
131