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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