Front Cover
 Front Matter
 Half Title
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 The children's first walk...
 The boy and his garden
 The summer sun
 The eider-duck and the bird of...
 Lessons in the fields
 Easy studies
 The good daughter
 The sick
 The poor
 Early recollections
 The good sister
 The true friend
 The happy family
 Letter to the females of Greec...
 Hope and memory
 The sleepless labourers
 Female energy
 The wife of the intemperate
 "I have seen an end of all...
 Mrs. Elizabeth Rowe
 Mrs. Jerusha Lathrop
 Mrs. Hannah More
 Mrs. Martha Laurens Ramsay
 Back Cover

Title: The girl's own book
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00002239/00001
 Material Information
Title: The girl's own book
Physical Description: 191 p., <1> leaf of plates : col ill. ; 13 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Sigourney, L. H ( Lydia Howard ), 1791-1865
Ramage, J ( Lithographer )
Thomas Nelson & Sons ( Publisher )
Publisher: E. Nelson and Sons
Place of Publication: London
Publication Date: 1852
Subject: Children's poetry   ( lcsh )
Girls -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile literature   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile literature   ( lcsh )
Family -- Juvenile literature   ( lcsh )
Children's poetry -- 1852   ( lcsh )
Embossed cloth bindings (Binding) -- 1852   ( rbbin )
Bldn -- 1852
Genre: Children's poetry   ( lcsh )
Embossed cloth bindings (Binding)   ( rbbin )
Spatial Coverage: England -- London
Statement of Responsibility: by Mrs. L.H. Sigourney
General Note: Frontispiece colored and lithographed by J. Ramage.
Funding: Brittle Books Program
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00002239
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002237514
oclc - 45759712
notis - ALH8001

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    Front Matter
        Front Matter
    Half Title
        Page i
    Title Page
        Page ii
        Title Page 2
    Table of Contents
        Page iii
        Page iv
        Page v
        Page vi
        Page vii
        Page viii
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
    The children's first walk together
        Page 21
        Page 22
    The boy and his garden
        Page 23
        Page 24
    The summer sun
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
    The eider-duck and the bird of paradise
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
    Lessons in the fields
        Page 31
        Page 32
    Easy studies
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
    The good daughter
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
    The sick
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
    The poor
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
    Early recollections
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
    The good sister
        Page 57
        Page 58
        Page 59
        Page 60
        Page 61
    The true friend
        Page 62
        Page 63
    The happy family
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
    Letter to the females of Greece
        Page 69
        Page 70
        Page 71
    Hope and memory
        Page 72
        Page 73
    The sleepless labourers
        Page 74
        Page 75
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
        Page 86
        Page 87
        Page 88
        Page 89
        Page 90
        Page 91
    Female energy
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
    The wife of the intemperate
        Page 97
        Page 98
        Page 99
        Page 100
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
    "I have seen an end of all perfection"
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
    Mrs. Elizabeth Rowe
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 111
    Mrs. Jerusha Lathrop
        Page 112
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
    Mrs. Hannah More
        Page 119
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
    Mrs. Martha Laurens Ramsay
        Page 126
        Page 127
        Page 128
        Page 129
        Page 130
        Page 131
        Page 132
        Page 133
        Page 134
        Page 135
        Page 136
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
        Page 140
        Page 141
        Page 142
        Page 143
        Page 144
        Page 145
        Page 146
        Page 147
        Page 148
        Page 149
        Page 150
        Page 151
        Page 152
        Page 153
        Page 154
        Page 155
        Page 156
        Page 157
        Page 158
        Page 159
        Page 160
        Page 161
        Page 162
        Page 163
        Page 164
        Page 165
        Page 166
        Page 167
        Page 168
        Page 169
        Page 170
        Page 171
        Page 172
        Page 173
        Page 174
        Page 175
        Page 176
        Page 177
        Page 178
        Page 179
        Page 180
        Page 181
        Page 182
        Page 183
        Page 184
        Page 185
        Page 186
        Page 187
        Page 188
        Page 189
        Page 190
        Page 191
    Back Cover
        Back Cover
Full Text




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Yet ere the careerof life be dim.
On thy young spirnt' wings,
Now in thy morn forget not Him,
From whom each pure thought springs.

So in the onward vale of tear,
"Where'er thy path may be,
When strength hath bowed to evil years,
He will remember the ."




Education, ... ... ... ... 9
Memory, ... ... ... ... ... 13
Order, ... ... ... ... ... 18
The Children's First Walk Together, ... ... 21
The Boy and his Garden, ... ... ... 23
The Summer Sun, ... .. ... ... 26
The Eider-Duck and the Bird of Paradise, ... 28
Lessons in the Fields, ... ... ... 31
Easy Studies, ... ... ... ... 33
Obedience, ... ... ... ... ... 37
The Good Danghter, ... ... ... 40
The Sick, ... ... ... ... .. 45
The Poor, ... ... ... ... ... 48
Early Recollections, ... ... ... ... 63
The Good Sister, ... ... ... ... 57
The True Friend, .. ... ... ... 2
The Happy Family, ... ... ... ... 64
Letter to the Females of Greece, ... ... 69
Hope and Memory, ... .. .... ... 72
The Sleepless Labourers, ... ... ... 74
Sunday-Salt, .. .. ... ... 78
Dreams, ... .. ... ... 8


Perseverance, ... ... ... ...
Female Energy, ... .. ... ... 2
The Wife of the Intemperate, ... ... ... 97
I have Seen an End of all Perfection," ... 104
Mrs. Elizabeth Rowe, ... ... ... 108
Mrs. Jerusha Lathrop, ... ... ... 112
Mrs. Hannah More, ... ... ... ... 119
Mrs. Martha Laurens Ramsay, ... ... 126

Teacher's Excuse, ... ... ... ... 137
The Lady-Bug and the Ant, ... ... ... 138
The Ark and Dove, ... .. ... 139
To a Dying Intant, ... ... ... ... 141
Procrastination, ... ... ... ... 142
The Sabbath, ... ... ... ... 143
Morning Thoughts, ... ... ... .. 144
Birth-Day Requests, ... ... ... ... 146
Exhibition of a School of Young Ladies, ... 147
Child at the Mother's Grave, ... ... ... 148
On Meeting Pupils at the Communion Table, ... 150
Death of a Sunday-School Scholar, [ .. ... 151
SSailor's Hymn, ... ... ... ... 152
A Father and his Motherless Children, ... ... 158
Scholar's Tribute to an Instructor, ... ... 154
Remember Me, ... ... ... ... 16
Recollections of an Aged Pastor, ... ... 167
Gratitude, ... ... ... ... ... 159
To an Absent Child, .. ... ... ... ... 161
The Sixth Birth-Day, ... ... ... 162


The Fireside,

Louisa, ... ...
The Absent Father, ...
Burial of the Indian Girl, ...
The Creator Ever Present, ...
The Village, ...
The Emigrant's Daughter, ...
The Mourner, ...
Farewell of the Soul to the Body,
The Babe and the Forget-me-not,
The Old Watch, ...
Butterfly in a School-room, ...

... ... ... ... 163

... 165
... 167
... 168
... ... 170
... ... 172
... ... 174
... ... 176
... ... 178
... 182
... 185
... 186

The Orphan, ... ... ... ... 187
The Ploughing of the Sword, ... ... ... 189
Life, ... ... ... ... ... 190


FOR the young of my own sex this volume
has been framed, on the principle of com-
bining, with the accomplishment of reading,
sentiments that are feminine in their charac-
ter, and knowledge that enters into the ele-
ments of woman's duty. May it be to them
as the voice of a friend, and continue to speak
words of instruction and love, long after the
hand that prepared it shall moulder in the
L. H. S.



WHAT is a good education? We hear much about
it. Who will tell us what it is? Every child in
school expects to obtain it. But it is necessary
that they should first know what it means.
Is it to get lessons well, and to excel in every
study? This is a part, but not all. Some make
great progress for a time, and then become in-
dolent. Others are distinguished while they go
to school-but when they leave it, cease to im-
Is it a knowledge of books? Yes, and some-
thing more. It is possible to possess learning,
and be ignorant of necessary things. There was
a lady who read many books, yet did not know
if her dress was in a proper condition, and could
not always find her way home, when she went
Is it to cultivate the intellect? This is not
enough. It must also strengthen the moral prin-
ciples, and regulate the affections. It must fit for
the peculiar duties that devolve upon us. It must

keep in just balance, and bring forth to health-
ful action, all the powers that the Creator has
given us.
A good education is that which prepares us for
our future sphere of action. A warrior or a states-
man, requires a different kind of training from a
mother, or the instructress of a school. A lady
who has many accomplishments, yet is deficient
in the science of housekeeping, has not been well
A good education makes us contented with our
lot. This was what an ancient philosopher said
made him happy in an obscure abode, and when
he was alone talked with him. A restless and
complaining temper, proves a bad education.
A good education is a fortune in itself. Ido not
mean that it will always secure wealth. But it
brings something better than the gold that perishes.
For this may be suddenly lost. Fire may consume
it. Water may overwhelm it. The tempest may
destroy it. The thief may take it away.
But that knowledge which enriches the mind,
which moderates its desires, which teaches to make
a right use of time, and to promote the happiness
of others, is superior to the elements. Fire, air,
earth, and water, have no power over it. It can
rule them as servants. It fears neither rust nor
robber. It walks with us into the vale of years, and
does not leave us till we die.
What a great evil is ignorance We can see
this by the state of those countries where it pre-
vails. The history of past times will show us how
miserable were their inhabitants-how unfit to
judge for themselves-how stubborn in wicked-
ness-how low in their pleasures-how ready to be
the prey of the designing.
Look at the man who can neither read nor write.
How confused are his ideas! How narrow his
conceptions I How fixed his prejudices! How
dependent is he on others to convey his senti-

ments, and to interpret their own How liable to
mistakes! How incapable of forming just and
liberal opinions!
Ignorance has been truly called the mother of
error. When Galileo first taught the true motion
of the earth round the sun, he was treated as
a criminal, and thrown into a dungeon. When
Columbus revealed his plan of searching for an-
other continent, he was threatened with imprison-
When Captain Smith was taken by the North
American Indians, and sent a letter to his distant
friends, the chiefs met to consult about the mys-
tery of this speaking leaf," and thought that the
man who wrote it was a magician, and must be
If defects in intellectual education lead to such
evils, defects in the education of the heart are still
more deplorable. Look at the child whose moral
principles have been neglected. Has he a regard
for truth ? Does he shrink at dishonesty? Is his
conscience quick to warn him of a wrong motive?
Does he obey his parents? Does he love his
teachers? Is he anxious to understand and keep
the law of God?
A good education is another name for happiness.
We all desire to be happy, and should be willing
to take pains to learn how. He who wishes to ac-
quire a trade or a profession, to build a house, or
to cultivate a farm, or to guide a vessel over the
sea, must expect to work as an apprentice, or to
study as a scholar.
Shall we not devote time and toil to learn how to
be happy? It is a science which the youngest
child may begin, and the wisest man is never weary
of. If we attain the knowledge of many languages,
and the fame of great learning, yet fail in that
which makes the heart happy and the life good,
our knowledge is but sounding brass, and a tink-
ling cymbal.

The objects to be kept in view by all who seek
a good education, are to discharge every duty,
to make others happy, and to love good things.
May they not be compared to three steps leading
to a beautiful house where you wish to go ? Each
one that you ascend, brings you nearer to the
The temple of happiness in this world, is the
temple of goodness. And the temple of happi-
ness in the world to come, is heaven. There, all
the good of every nation meet and dwell together
forever. These temples communicate with each
other, and a right education is the way of entrance
to both.
The different parts of a good education may be
called the alphabet of happiness. And from this
alphabet is formed a language for angels. That is
but a lame education, which stops short of a higher
I seem to hear some little voice asking, When
will a good education be finished? Will it be
finished when we have done going to school, or
are grown up women ?" I tell you it will never
be finished, until you die. He alene who bids the
pulse stop, and the cold heart lie still in the bosom,
is able to say, "it isfinished."
This whole life is but one great school. From
the cradle to the grave we are all scholars. The
voices of those we love, and the wisdom of past
ages, and our own experience, are our teachers.
Afflictions give us discipline. The spirits of de-
parted saints whisper to us-" Come up hither."
God's holy Word is our code of laws. He com-
mands us there to "give him our heart, to remem-
ber him in the days of our youth." May we go to
his heaven, as to our father's home, when school
is done, and the little hour-glass of our days and
Lights shall be turned no more.



"I FORGOT to get my lesson this morning," said a
pupil to her teacher. Did you forget to come to
breakfast?" "No, maain, I did not." Then
your body has a better appetite for food than your
mind for knowledge.
"If you were sick, you would not wish for
breakfast. You would avoid the sight of food.
Perhaps your parents would send for a physician.
He would give you medicine. He would seek to
remove the causes that had destroyed your appe-
tite. What medicine will you take to restore the
health of your mind?
Did you not take some pains to prepare your-
self for breakfast? You arose, and washed, and
dressed, and said your prayers, and were ready to
take your seat at the table. Did you bestow
equal care on the lessons of the day? For it
seems you can remember to take pains when you
I cannot remember the sermon," said a boy to
his father, and my Sunday-school lesson is too
long." How came you to remember the story
that was told you the other evening, and the
adventures of Robinson Crusoe, which I heard
you relate? It seems you can recollect what you
like, even if it is long. Am I to conclude that
you prefer amusement to religious instruction ?"
Why did you not rise and place a chair for
your grandfather when he came in?" said a lady
to a little girl. "I forgot it, mother." "How
came you to remember to ask me for a new dress
yesterday?" Because you told me last summer
that I should have it this spring?"
Have I not also told you to pay this mark of
respect to your aged grandfather whenever he en-
tered the room? Yet you forget it, though it has
been often repeated. But you remembered the


promise of a new dress which was made six months
ago. Is the love of dress stronger than the love of
Memory furnishes a key to unlock the secret
cabinet of feeling and principle. It reveals the
hidden springs of character. If you forget moral
duties, the memory of the heart is to blame; for
the heart has a memory as well as the mind. Is
the memory of your heart diseased? Seek to that
great Physician who made the heart.
Memory is a criterion of moral taste. For if we
naturally cherish those trains of thought which
best please us, and if those which are most fre-
quently cherished leave the deepest impressions,
then what we remember best will show the capa-
city and temper of our mind.
We see one possessing an accurate knowledge
of historical facts, with their dates and eras, and
we say he has a taste for history. Another re-
members narrative or poetry, and we say he has a
taste for works of imagination. Another remem-
bers fashions, amusements, pieces of scandal. Do
they not each know that, to an attentive observer,
they are holding up a mirror of their mind?
But if it is true that we can remember what we
please, and when we please, can we also remember
as much as we please? Not without labour. The
quantity of wnat we remember depends as much on
industry as the quality does on the taste and turn
of mind.
Do you find it difficult to remember what you
study? Quicken the motive. If a horse is dull,
the rider toucnes him with the spur. Believe that
your memory may be equally under your own
control. But you must take pains to acquire that
Think of the loss that you sustain in devoting
time to the acquisition of knowledge, yet suffering
that knowledge to escape. Suppose a farmer,
after labouring through the season, should neglect

to mow his grass, or to reap his wheat after it had
ripened, or to gather his corn into the granary.
Suppose a merchant should neglect to balance the
accounts of the year, or to call in what was due,
or to invest his surplus money where it would be
safe and profitable? Would you not say that
both the farmer and the merchant were exceed-
ingly unwise? Yet you are more so, if you go to
school and neglect to store the treasures of know-
ledge. For to you there can be no second season
of youth, in which to glean the sheaves you have
neglected to gather, or the gold which should have
been locked in memory's store-house for the winter
of age.
Sometimes you say that you cannot remember.
Is it true? If it is, you will always be inferior to
those who can. You will be ruled by them, as a
blind person is subject to those who see. Are
you willing it should be so? If not, open the eyes
of your mind, and take good heed of what is writ-
ten in useful books, and of all that passes in the
temple of science.
It is not to scholars alone that the retentive
power is important. Think of a housekeeper
without a memory, running hither and thither,
forgetting her own directions, and not able to find
the articles which she daily needs. Would not her
servants take advantage of her, and even her
neighbours despise her?
Is it, indeed, true that you have no memory?
Then your mind is a cripple. Put it on crutches,
and do with it as well as you can. But do not
proclaim its infirmities. Do not say I have forgot-
ten, and feel no shame. You do not like to have
your faults published; at least, you are not bound
to proclaim them yourself.
Let us rather believe that you have a good
memory, or, at least, that you will take pains to
make it so. If you desired a boy to be active and
healthy, would you confine him to the house and

to walk always on a carpet? Would you not say
to him. Go and climb the rocks, and work in the
open air." So, give your memory daily exercise,
and do not shrink from that which is severe.
When you read or hear what you wish to re-
member, think of nothing else. Fix your atten-
tion till you have done studying or listening.
Think it over. and repeat it to yourself till it is
well committed. If it is a lesson, be prepared to
recite it without mistake. If it is a lecture or a
sermon, or anything addressed to the ear, speak of
it to others till it is rendered familiar to yourself.
Every night, before you sleep, review what you
have learned through the day. At the close of
every week, call memory to account for what you
have entrusted to her. Make brief hints in a
note-book of the most important subjects, for
future use. At the close of each month compare
its gatherings with those of its predecessor.
At the close of the year, or on your birth-day,
read attentively in your note-book what you have
treasured through that year. Summon memory
to draw the hints out at large, and embody them
in language. Make a new note-book for the com-
ing year, and write it neatly and legibly, that you
may read it easily if you live to be old, and your
eyes are dim.
You need not confine this habit of writing brief
notes, or texts for memory, to the time that you
attend school. It would be well to continue it
through life; for as long as we live, we have the
privilege of being learners, and this life is a school
in which we fit for a higher state of being.
The hints which you will thus accumulate will
furnish good subjects of conversation with your
family when you have one, and aid you in teach-
ing your children. They will be as the book of
recipes to a housekeeper, to which she refers for
the comfort of those she loves. They will supply
memory with texts from which she may preach

many a profitable sermon, when her pulpit is the
arm-chair by the fireside, and her audience a group
of listening grandchildren.
When you find in your lessons, or in books that
you read, trains of thought that are difficult to
remember, class them with some recollections
that are similar, or even in contrast. Associate
them with some numerical statement. Cluster
them like grapes, when you give them into the
hand of memory. Like pearls on a string, they
will be less liable to be lost than when scattered
I once heard a little girl say, "I have just
learned that Jupiter has four moons. Now, I will
remember it by joining it with other things that
have in them the number four. There are four
seasons, four middle states, four asteroids, or little
planets, and the other thing of fJur shall be the
moons of Jupiter." The child had discovered the
principle of numerical association, which is a great
help to memory.
Romulus slew his brother Remus," said a little
boy, and Cain slew his brother Abel. The first
born of Eden and the first king of Rome were
fratricides. One will make me remember the
other." Here was resemblance or similitude in
fact, assisting the memory. Contrasted images
may also be so associated as to adhere strongly to
Count no toil too great that will give vigour to
memory. She is to walk with you as a companion
through life. It is important that she be healthful
and fit for her work. She is the keeper of know-
ledge. The wealth of the mind is in her casket.
She has power over the fountains of pleasure and
of pain.
But she has still a higher office. Her smile
can give confidence in goodness, and enter as sun-
shine into the soul. Yet dread her frown, if you
persist in wrong deeds or feelings. She is a fear-

ful reprover. She is in league with conscience,
and has power to lift its scourge.
Memory is the informer at the bar of judgment.
If she slumbers here, she will awake there. She
will stand forth and bear witness of you, when the
dead, small and great, stand before God, and the
books are opened, and all shall be judged from the
things that are written in the books, according to
their works."

" MOTHER, will you please to tell me if you have
seen my thimble?" Martha, I thought you had
a place for your thimble." So I have, dear mo-
ther, but it does not happen to be in the place."
To have a place for things, and not keep them in
it, is like having wise laws, and paying no regard
to them. A nation will not be the better for its
laws, unless it enforces them; nor a child for being
told its duty, unless it tries to obey.
Martha's fault was a want of order. Her work-
ing materials were scattered about the house. She
was obliged to spend much time in searching for
them. When the school bell rang, some of her
books could not be found. Perhaps her bonnet, or
shawl, or gloves, were mislaid.
She felt ashamed to be so often inquiring for
what she ought to have kept in their own place.
So she sometimes went without necessary articles,
and was unprepared at school, or looked slovenly
in the street.
She was a little girl of a good disposition. But
this fault occasioned her to be much blamed; and
instead of being cheerful with a consciousness of
right conduct, she was often disgraced and un-
When she grew up, she carried these careless

onnRl. 19
habits into her housekeeping. Though she had a
kind heart, there were disorder and discomfort in
her family. Nothing was in its right place. Her
work was done by the hardest, for want of the pro-
per materials.
She was always in a hurry. This is an evil
which comes upon those who have not the spirit of
order. Her countenance, which used to be plea-
sant, soon wore a troubled and bewildered expres-
sion. Wrinkles came over her forehead before it
was time to be old.
Though she was naturally amiable, this sad fault
spoiled her temper. Her children imitated her, and
kept none of their things in the right place. One
would be heard complaining that a hat or cloak
could not be found, and another bewailing a lost
doll, or broken playthings.
The mother fretted loudly at her little ones for
faults that grew out of her own want of order.
She had a cousin, whose name was Mary. They
lived near each other, and were of the same age.
When they were young, they often played together,
and sat on the same bench at school.
Mary took good care of all that was entrusted
to her. When she had done sewing, her needle
was returned to the needle-case, and her thimble
and scissors to the work-basket. Her knitting was
neatly rolled, and replaced in its bag.
Her garments were folded, and laid in the
drawers and trunks where they belonged. Her
bonnet was hung in the spot allotted to it, as soon
as she entered the house, and her school-books laid
on that part of the shelf which she was permitted
to call her own.
At school, her pens and ink were in good order,
and she never blotted her paper or her desk. She
had no need to borrow; and if it had been dark,
she could have laid her hand upon all her things,
for she remembered their places, and knew that
they were there.

20 ornDr
She had fewer things than her cousin Martha,
because her parents were not so rich. But she
had more that were ready for use. Her clothes
lasted longer, and looked more neatly; for she had
been taught to mend them the moment that they
needed it, and to fold each garment when she took
it off at night.
When she had a house of her own, every article
in it had a place, and all who used it were required
to put it there. One of her first rules to her chil-
dren when very young, was, "a place for every-
thing, and everything in its place." And she
obliged them to obey this rule. So her family
were in order, and its daily labour went on like
Her countenance was pleasant and peaceful, like
one who does right; and though she was not so
handsome as Martha, it was more agreeable to look
at her, because she was never in a hurry.
Her quietness of mind seemed to proceed from
a sense of justice, or of doing her duty even to in-
animate things; for we owe a duty to every article
in our possession, and to every utensil with which
we work-the duty of keeping them in order and
good condition.
Sometimes, when I have called on these cousins,
and found one fretting and bustling about, and the
other placid and happy in her industry, it has re-
minded me of a picture that I once saw when I
was a child.
It was called the picture of the sisters of Bethany.
You will remember that their names were the
same as those of the two cousins, Martha and Mary.
One, with a complaining, care-worn face, seemed
indeed cumbered with much serving;" the other
wore that sweet, peaceful smile, which said plainer
than words, that she had chosen the good part."
And in visiting many families, both in the city
and country, I have observed that order and in-
dustry were the two hands by which a housekeeper

takes hold of her work, and makes the members of
her household comfortable.

THEY passed together, out of their father's gate, a
little girl and boy. Their quick steps were short
and unequal, as if they had trodden only on the
nursery carpet, or the smooth gravel walk of the
They took their way along the village street. It
was bordered with fresh grass. They were pleased
that it swelled into little mounds, and again de-
scended; and they thought every hillock was a
They admired the daisies and king-cups; and
when a robin flew by, they said, Bird, are these
your flowers? May we pick some of them." Then
they discovered a small brook, that went gurgling
along, and stood wondering upon its pleasant
The sister's arm was over the neck of her bro-
ther. She was the eldest one. And tenderly she
watched over him. If the swift wheel rushed by,
or the wide-horned ox seemed to press too near, or
the dog with open mouth paused as if regarding
him, the same motherly care sat upon her sweet
brow, as will hereafter take root there, when she
rocks the cradle of her own babe.
The bold, beautiful boy was glad to be free. He
often looked back, till he saw that neither nurse
nor servant followed. Then he tossed his white
arms high over his head, and shouted out his first
joy of liberty.
But there was an eye that followed them. It
never lost sight of them a moment, until they

seemed but-as specks, far away among the green
It was the eye of a mother, and in her heart she
said, Can any evil come to those so fair and in-
nocent? Will not their very purity be their pro-
tection ? Surely angels will bear them up in
their hands, lest they dash their foot against a
Then she mused further, and continued speaking
though none were near to answer. Not long,
not long, can ye travel thus together, so lovely, so
unharmed. There are snares and thorns for every
pilgrim in the path of life.
Neither may ye walk thus, side by side, loving
aswith oneheart. Ye must be divided. Whocan
tell your different paths? None, save He to whom
the mother ever lifteth her heart.
"But at one point ye will arrive-at the lonely
tomb. There will ye lie down, and rise up no
more. Whether on the wide waters, or the far
western prairies, where the bear, and the hunter,
and the fur-trader dwell; or beneath Indian skies,
where the gold ripens; or amid the rude northern
seas, where the harpooner pierces the whale-to
one place ye must come-to the grave, your last
"Little daughter, what shall be thy lot? To
love, and to bear life's burdens with a troubled. yet
faithful spirit? Methinks I see theenursing thine
own infant, as I have nursed thee, stooping down
to catch its fervent breath, as I have watched
sleepless by thy side when sickness came.
Wilt thou sit at last, with thy thin, white
locks, teaching lessons of wisdom to thy children's
children? Wilt thou lift thy dim eye to heaven,
and charge them to seek Him early who giveth
strength when flesh and heart fail, and when the
tottering feet enter the dark valley of the shadow
of death?
Or art thou to be cut down in thy blossom, in

the faint green of thine unfolding leaves? Shall
thy mother lay thee in thy last cold bed, and come
nightly to weep there? Shall the hands that
cherished thee in the cradle plant a young white
rose on thy turf pillow, an emblem of thy simple
innocence? Who can tell?"
The mother looked upward, and said, "Thou,
God, knowest." And when she had prayed, there
came a trusting smile over her countenance, which
seemed to say that her dear ones were his, and
that he loved them, and would do no wrong to
them or to her.
Then she heard the sweet voices of her children
returning, like the chirping of young birds who
have newly ventured from their nest. And she
went forth to welcome them, and kissed their
bright, ruddy cheeks, rejoicing in them, and in
Him who gave them.


A CHILD held in his hand a slight, leafless shoot.
It was like a supple, green wand. Yet it had been
newly cut from the parent tree, and life was secretly
stirring in its little heart.
He sought out a sheltered spot in the piece of
ground that he called his own. He planted it there
in the moist earth. He came often to visit it,
and when the rains of summer were withheld, he
watered it at the cool hour of sunset.
The sap, which is the blood of plants, began to
circulate through its tender vessels. A tiny root,
like a thread, crept downwards. Soon, around
the head, there burst forth a garland of pale green
Seasons passed over it, and it became a small tree.
As fast as its branches came forth, they drooped
downwards to the earth. The cheering sun smiled

on them, the happy birds sang to them; but they
drooped still.
Tree, why art thou always sad and drooping?
Am I not kind unto thee? Do not the showers
visit thee, and sink deep to refresh thy root?
Hast thou a sorrow at thy heart ?" But it answered
not. And as it grew on, it drooped lower and
lower. For it was a weeping willow.
The boy cast a seed into his soft garden mould.
When the time of flowers came, a strong budding
stalk stood there, with coarse serrated leaves.
Soon there came forth a full red poppy, glorying
in its gaudy dress.
At its feet grew a purple violet, which no hand
had planted or cherished. It lived lovingly with
the wild mosses, and the frail flowers of the grass,
not counting itself more excellent than they.
Large poppy, why dost thou spread out thy
scarlet robe so widely, and drink up the sunbeams
from my lonely violet?" But the flaunting flower
replied not to him who planted it.
It unfolded its rich silk mantle still more
broadly, as though it would fain have stifled its
humbler neighbour. Yet nothing hindered the
fragrance of the meek violet, nursing its infant
The little child was troubled, and at the hour
of sleep he told his mother of the tree that con-
tinually wept, and of the plant that overshadowed
its neighbour. She took him on her knee, and
spoke so tenderly in his ear, that he remembered
her words when he became a man.
"There are some who, like thy willow, are
weepers all their lives long, though they dwell
in pleasant places, and the fair skies shine upon
them. And there are others, who, like the poppy
that thou didst reprove, are haughty in heart, and
despise the humble, whom God regardeti."
Be thou not like them, my gentle child. But
keep rather in thy heart the sweet spirit of the

lowly violet, that thou mayest come at last to that
blessed place which pride cannot enter and where
weeping is never known."


THE eastern sky is rich with prevailing light.
What a beautiful saffron colour marks the hori-
zon. Now, it spreads more widely around. In
one spot there is peculiar brightness. A few rays
shoot up, as heralds of some distinguished guest.
Then the glorious sun appears, the eye of the
It is not to our earth alone that he dispenses light
and heat. Other planets rejoice in his brightness.
Moving around these are still smaller bodies, like
children with their parents. The sun has a large
and beautiful family. Is he not like a patriarch
with his eleven children, and his eighteen grand-
He sits on the chief seat among them, cheering
them with his gifts. Do you know some bountiful
person making the hearts of others glad? Have
you a benevolent friend whose warm smile makes
you -happy ? They may be compared to the sun
"rejoicing in the east." Let them also remind
you of Him who made the sun, in whom the
outgoings of the morning and of the evening re-
Hark, the birds sing. Some soar high with a
graceful movement, into the clear, blue sky. The
flowers, sparkling with dew, lift their bright eyes
to their Benefactor. A fresh and grateful odour
goes up from the green forests. Every plant and
leaf seems to partake of a new joy.
There was a statue in ancient Egypt called the
statue of Memnon, which was said at sunrise to
utter an articulate sound. So ought the must

silent and cold heart, to speak forth praise for the
gift of every pleasant morning.
Turn to your protector in heaven, who has given
you the repose of sleep. Kneel and thank him
for his care. Many through this day will suffer
pain and sickness. Ask him to keep you in health
and usefulness. Many will weep over dying
friends. Ask him to hold in life those whom you
Some, ere the setting of this sun, will fall into
temptation. Ask him to preserve you in the path
of duty and of peace. Some will be taken out of
the world. Should you be of that number, ask
him to make you fit to enter heaven. He alone is
able to do these things for you. His blessing is
like the sun to the plants of virtue in your soul.
Be sure to rise with the sun. Do not let him
surprise you in bed. Pay him the respect to get
up and meet him. Let your morning hours be in-
dustriously spent. Dr. Franklin said, "If you lose
an hour in the morning, you may run all day and
not overtake it." How true it is Hours have
wings," said another wise man.
See, it is noon. The sun lhs reached the meri-
dian. The groups of children returning from school
feel the heat. The labouring ox is permitted to
rest awhile, as well as his master. The horses in
the stage-coach pant, and are glad to draw near the
tavern. The cows like to stand in the quiet stream.
How refreshing are the shady trees. What a com-
fort is the pure, cool water.
Now, the little Chinese child sleeps on the breast
of its mother. There are no men working in the
rice plantations. The boats which are used instead
of houses lie motionless on the rivers, with their
many twinkling lights. The littleonests utter no
chirping sound. All is still. For it is midnight
in China, when it is noon-day here.
The sun's journey is half completed. Is your
own work for the day half finished, and well done?


Look up to your Father in heaven, for continued
aid. Good works must be begun, continued, and
ended in him." It is not enough to ask his favour
in the morning, and then forget him through the
day. Evening, and morning, and at noon will I
pray," said David the king of Israel.
But the sun is at the west. He is about to for-
sake us. What a glorious show of clouds, purple
and crimson and gold colour. They are his part-
ing tokens, to remember him by, till he comes
again. How they change, and mingle and kindle,
and fade. Not the proudest monarch goes to rest
under such a brilliant canopy.
Twilight is a lovely season. It is a little stop-
ping place, between day and night. It is a shady
cell for thought to enter. It is the cleft of a rock,
where we may hide from the company of cares. A
Scotch writer says, it is the quiet time, when the
shuttle stands still, before the lamp is lighted."
Now the last ray of light has faded. Sleep begins
to unfold her curtain. The birds go to their cham-
bers among the green boughs. They close the
wearied wing, and their little ones slumber beneath
it. The domestic fowls prepare for the coming
night. The hen goes to its porch in the barn, and
the turkeymounts the branches of the trees, rock-
ing with every wind.
Soon itwill be time for us to retire. The active
limb, and the thinking brain, need repose. But
we will not go to rest, till we have examined our
own conduct. We will talk with ourselves, seri-
ously and alone.
Where have we been this day? What have we
learned, that in the morning we knew not ? Who
have shown us kindness? To whose comfort have
we added ? What have we spoken that we ought
not to have said ? What have we left undone, that
we ought to have done ?
We will not rest in our bed, till we have answered
these questions. We will not lie down, like the

burdened camel, with any wrong thing for which
we have not asked forgiveness of God, or with the
memory of any mercy for which we have neglected
to thank him, lest our sleep should not be sweet,
nor our hearts healthful, nor the next rising sun
our friend.

THE Eider-Duck is a fine bird. It is brown or
white, and sometimes of other colours. It has a
black crest on its head, like a little crown. If it
lives to be old, its bright plumage turns gray.
It is found in countries near the poles. It does
not fear the cold, for it is covered with a soft, warm
down. He who gave fur to the bear, and a coat of
wool to the sheep, clothed this bird with a downy
robe, that it might resist the winter.
It is fond of its young, and takes kind care of
them. The mother-bird builds a good nest, and lines
it with the down from her own breast. She plucks
it off, and willingly bears the pain, that her little
ones may be warm and sheltered.
The eider-down is much valued. It is an article
of commerce. It is used for the covering of beds,
and to stuff cloaks and hoods, and to trim other
articles of clothing.
People are so desirous to get it, that they some-
times tear in pieces the nest which the poor bird
has lined for her young. This they call the live
down, and prefer it to what they pluck from the
birds after their death. They also climb high
rocks, to obtain their eggs for eating.
The eider-duck is found in great numbers, amid
the perpetual snow and ice of Greenland, Iceland,
and Norway. Sometimes they are seen in the
neighbourhood of our great lakes, and in the north-
ern parts of the United States.

A father was once walking with his little son.
He carried a gun upon his shoulder. Suddenly he
pointed it at something upon a rock above his head.
It was a large bird who seemed hard at work,
spreading out her wings, and bowing down her
head, and leaping up.
Dear father; what is she doing?" Tearing
the down from her breast, to make a soft bed for
her little ones." "Does it not give her pain?"
"Yes, but she loves them better than herself."
The boy gazed earnestly at the eider-duck.
" Father, how long is it since we moved into this
new cold country?" "Two years, my son."
I remember the first winter that we came here.
My mother took us children to see the only neigh-
bour that we had. It was a long way to walk, and
soon after we left to return home, it began to snow.
The feet of the youngest girl tottered with
weakness. So, my mother took her in her arms.
She toiled on with her through the storm, and
against the wind. She took the only shawl from
her shoulders and wrapped it around the child,
pressing her close to her bosom.
Ah how glad were we to see, at last, the lonely
light streaming from our own window. It seemed
like a star of heaven. When we got home, the little
one was warm, but our poor mother was cold and
faint and sick.
She had deprived herself of her own covering,
that the child might be sheltered. And she did
not complain, because she loved the child. Was
she not a good mother?"
The father did not answer. And when the son
looked up, he saw that there was a tear in his eye.
Is not the eider-duck a good mother ? See, she
bares her own breast for her little ones. Dear
father, let her live." So the father had compassion
on the mother-bird, and spared her that she might
take care of her young.
The Bird of Paradise differs from the eider-duck,

by living only in warm climates. It is never found
many degrees from the equator. Its plumage is
exceedingly beautiful. The side feathers of the
wing float out to a great length, and are of various
brilliant colours.
They principally inhabit New Guinea, and the
Spice Islands. They pass and repass, in flocks of
thirty or forty, conducted by a leader. They are
very careful to consult the state of the wind, and
always move against it, in order to preserve their
voluminous train of feathers in good order.
Sometimes the wind suddenly changes. Then
their sweeping plumage becomes entangled, and
the pride of their glorious beauty is their over-
throw. They fall to the ground and are taken by
the natives, or into the water and are lost.
They are all distinguished by their splendid
attire. They differ from the eider-duck, as the
fashionable lady does from the domestic and de-
voted mother. It is only for ornament that they
are prized by the inhabitants of the east. The
nobles of Persia, Surat, and the East Indies, are
anxious to obtain them to wear upon their turbans.
There are twelve or fifteen different species. The
most elegant of these is called the Great Bird
of Paradise. It is of a cinnamon colour, with a
throat of golden yellow, and the body is small. It
measures two feet from the bill to the extremity of
its floating train.
The natives had a tradition that they dwelt in
the sky, and never touched the earth till their last
hour. Some travellers mention, that to prevent
the detection of this error, they are so cruel as to
cut off their feet ere they sell them. It is this
species of the bird of paradise which has sometimes
been called the footless fowl of Indian fable."



WHEN I was a child, I knew an old, gray-haired
man. Years had brought him wisdom, and he was
kind as well as wise. So I loved him, and rejoiced
when I saw him coming towards me, leaning upon
his staff.
Once, as he talked with me, he said, I know a
way to be happy. I learned it in the fields." Then
I entreated him to teach it also to me. But he
answered, Go forth into the fields, among living
things, and learn it there for thyself."
I went forth, and looked attentively upon all
that moved around. But no voice spake, and no
eye regarded me. So I returned to the aged man,
and when he asked what I saw in the fields, I re-
plied :-
"I saw the brook flowing on among sweet
flowers. It seemed to be singing a merry song.
1 listened, but there were no words to the music.
The sparrow flew by me with down in her beak,
wherewith to line her nest, and the red-breast with
a crumb she had gathered at the door, to feed her
chirping young.
The ducklings swam beside their mother in the
clear stream. The hen drew her chickens beneath
her wings, and screamed to the soaring hawk. The
spider threw out threads like lines of silver. She
fastened them from spray to spray, and ran lightly
on the bridge made from her own body.
The snail put his horned head through the door
of his house of shell, and drew it suddenly back.
The ant carried in her pincers a grain of corn, and
the loaded bee hastened to her hive, like a labourer
to his cottage.
"The dog came forth, and guarded the young
lambs. They frisked fearlessly by the side of their
mothers, who with serious faces were cropping the
tender grass. All seemed full of happiness.

"I asked of them the way to happiness. But they
made no reply. Again and again I exclaimed,
' which of you will teach me the way to be happy ?'
And only echo answered, repeating, happy, happy,'
but not telling me how to become so."
Hast thou looked upon all these," said the aged
man, and yet received no instruction ? Did not
the brook tell thee, it might not stay to be idle, but
must haste to meet the river, and go with that to
the ocean, to do the bidding of ocean's king?
Did it not say to thee, that it found pleasure
by the way, in refreshing the trees that stretched
their roots to meet it, and in giving drink to the
flowers that bowed themselves down to its face,
with a kiss of gratitude ?
Thou didst see the birds building their nests
among the cool, green branches, or flying with food
to nourish their unfledged young. And couldst
thou not perceive, that to make others happy is
The young duck gave diligence to learn of its
mother the true use of its oary feet, and how to
balance its body in the deep waters. The chicken
obeyed the warning to hide itself under the shelter-
ing wing, though it was ignorant of the cruelty of
the foe from which it fled.
And did they not bid thee seek with the same
obedience the lessons of thy mother, who every
day teacheth thee, and every night lifteth up a
prayer that thy soul may escape the destroyer, and
live for ever?
"The spider's silken bower was swept away,
and she began another without murmuring or
despondence. The snail willingly put forth all
her strength to bear her house upon her back;
and the ant cheerfully toiled on with a load of
corn to her winter storehouse.
"Thou sawest that the bee wasted not the
smallest drop of sweetness that lingered in the
huney-cups, or among the bells of the flowers.

And came there no voice to thee from all these
examples of patience, and prudence and wisdom?
Thou didst admire the shepherd's dog protect-
ing the helpless, and zealously doing the bidding
of his master. How couldst thou fail to under-
stand that faithful continuance in duty is happi-
ness ?
From all these busy teachers came there no
precept unto thee? When each gave thee lessons,
wert thou deaf to their instruction? Did not the
fields lift their hands, and tell thee that industry
was happiness, that idleness was an offence both
to Nature and to her God ?"
Then I bowed down my head upon my bosom,
and my cheek was crimson with shame. Because
I had not understood the lessons of the fields, and
was ignorant of what even birds and insects
But the man with hoary hairs comforted me.
So, I thanked him for his tenderness and wisdom.
And I took his precepts into my heart, that I
might weigh them and find if they were true.
And though I was then young, and now am old,
1 have never had reason to doubt that these les-
sons of the fields were good, and that to do the
will of the Creator is happiness.

I HEARD two girls, as they conversed. One said
" I am sure I should not like to attend your
school. You flave longer lessons than I choose
to learn. Besides, I think they give you too hard
studies. I always prefer easy studies, and short
Afterwards, as I reflected, I could not help say-
ing to myself-" Now, I am afraid, that this lover
of short lessons, and easy studies-if she lives to

grow up, and have the care of a family, will choose
only easy things, and become indolent, and negli-
gent in her duties.
I am afraid that when she is a woman, and
any difficult thing presses on her, as it surely
must, she will be discouraged, or perhaps unami-
able. For a love of ease leads to selfishness, and
selfishness to an unhappy disposition and wrong
I once heard an excellent old lady say to her
grandchildren, If you will do nothing but what
is easy, you will be neither a good mother, or a
good housekeeper. Your children will be ne-
glected, and your house out of order. You will
complain of bad help, and no help, for the care that
is necessary to make domestics faithful at their
post, and contented to remain there, you certainly
will not be willing to take.
The little girl," said she, who will not learn
to do this, or that, because it is hard, will be apt
to belong to that class, who do not like to keep
house, and must go to board, to live easy. But in
trying to escape what they call troubles, they lose
all those pleasures of home, which make parents
respectable and children happy."
The scholar, who loves only easy studies, and
short lessons, if she carries those habits of mind
into future life, will be in danger of becoming
either a vixen or a drone. When cares and crosses
meet her, she will murmur under their burden, or
decline the labour that they impose.
It is a loss to know how to do nothing but what
is easy. Strength of intellect is acquired by con-
quering hard studies, and strength of character by
overcoming obstacles. She who is not willing to
contend with difficulties, is not fitted for this world.
The being who best knows for what end we were
placed here, has scattered in our path something
besides roses.
Especially is it a fault in our sex, to like only

easy things. Our business is to seek the happiness
of others rather than our own. Selfishness, in us,
is sin; for it wars with the design of our Creator.
And none can oppose his will, and be happy.
Avoid, therefore, the determination to choose
short lessons, and easy studies, lest the habits thus
cherished, should make you a self-indulgent and
helpless woman. Gird yourself up to the race of
life. Resolve that whatever your duty to God
and man requires, you will perform diligently and
The females of ancient Rome had a power of
endurance, and a contempt of hardships, which
caused them to be respected, even in a rude age.
The daughters of our republic, ennobled as they
are by higher knowledge, and a purer faith,
ought surely not to be less energetic, or less
The increased advantages of education, now
enjoyed by the young, heighten the expectations
of their friends, and their responsibilities to God.
Their minds are no longer fettered, or held in
darkness. Every talent finds fitting employment
in the broad fieldof Christian duty and benevolence.
Time was, when the temple of Science was
barred against the foot of woman. Heathen
tyranny held her in vassalage, and Mahometan
prejudice pronounced her without a soul. Now,
from the sanctuary which knowledge and wisdom
have consecrated, and from whence she was so
long excluded, the interdict is taken away.
How wiil she receive the permission? How
will she prize the gift? Will she loiter at the
threshold of this magnificent temple? Will she
amuse herself in the outer courts, with those
brief and gaudy flowers, which spring up where is
no deepness of earth ?" Will she advance a few
steps, and boast of her own attainments, and twine
the garland of vanity around her brow, and be
satisfied with ignorance?

Or will she press to the inmost shrine of the
temple of knowledge, among those patient and
zealous worshippers, whose "candle goeth not out
by night?" Dear young friends, who are favoured
with the privileges of education, these questions
are for you.
On those of mature age, habit has fastened her
chains, and set a seal on character. With you it
is the forming period, the time of hope. Allure-
ments to indolence and vanity surround you.
Rise above them, Fix your standard high. Take
for your models the wisest and best of your sex.
Be active, while the dews of the morning are
fresh around you. Soon, the sun will oppress you
with its noon-day heat. It will find you toiling in
steeper paths, and wearied beneath heavier bur-
dens. Then you will wish to be refreshed with
the rich fruits of a refined intellect. May you not
have to take up the lamentation, Mine own vine-
yard have I not kept."
The time must soon come, should your days be
prolonged, when you will be young no more. Life
will then be like a twice-told tale." The present
will be disrobed of novelty, and the future of its
charm, and the mind will turn for solace to the
gatherings of the past. Furnish now your intel-
lectual store-house for that day of need.
Be willing to labour for knowledge, to learn
long lessons, and to encounter difficult studies.
Seek it with a tireless spirit, and so use it, that all
within the sphere of your influence may rejoice in
your mental and moral excellence and be quick-
ened by your example to seek for glory, honour,
immortality, eternal life."



NEXT to your duty to God, is your duty to your
parents. He has made them your guides, because
they are wiser than you, and love you better than
any other earthly friends. You cannot always
understand the reason of their commands. It is
not necessary that you should. If you live to be
as old as they are, you will perceive that their
restraints were for your good.
Think of the miseries of orphanage. The
greatest loss that can befall a child, is to be
deprived of pious and affectionate parents. While
such blessings are continued to you, never be so
ungrateful as to distress them by disobedience.
It is but a slight payment for all their watching
over your infancy, their care for your comfort,
and patience with your errors, to do faithfully and
cheerfully the things that they desire.
When your parents are absent, observe their
commands with the same fidelity as if they were
present. The child who obeys only when under
the eye of a superior, has not learned obedience.
He, who seeth at all times, and in every place, is
displeased with those who deceive their parents.
He hath promised to reward those who honour
their father and their mother."
The principle of obedience, is the principle of
order and happiness. If there were no subordina-
tion in families, what comfort would be found
there? If pupils refused to obey the directions of
their teachers, what benefit could they receive
from their instructions? If in nations, the laws
were disregarded, what safety would there be for
the people ?
Let the principle of obedience be rooted in love.
Take pleasure in obeying the commands of your
superiors. Even if you should have an opposing
wish, let there be no reluctance of manner or

countenance. I doubted the obedience of a child,
whom I once heard say to his mother, I will go,
when I have done one or two little things."
But when I heard afterward, the mother asking
earnestly, "did you do as I bade you?" I knew
that he was not an obedient child, though I did
not hear his answer. For if obedience had been
habitual, his mother would not have felt it neces-
sary to inquire if he had regarded her commands.
She would not have feared that he had neglected
them, if his heart had been in his duty.
It is ill-treatment of our dearest friends, to yield
to their wishes with a frowning brow, or a dies-
greeable deportment. Convince your parents and
instructors by your attentions and alacrity, that
you are thankful for the trouble they take in ad-
vising and directing you.
No greater evil could happen to the young, than
for their older and wiser friends to withdraw their
control, and abandon them to their own inexperi-
ence. If your superiors gave you a piece of gold,
you would doubtless express your gratitude. But
when they impart to you of their wisdom, they
give you that which is of more value than gold.
When you are in school, feel it a privilege to be
there, and give your time and thought to the em-
ployments which your teachers mark out for you.
Keep all their rules. Consider it dishonourable to
break them. Make the wishes of your instructors
your own, and then you will acquire knowledge,
with pleasure to yourself and to them.
Treat old persons with respect. This is too apt
to be forgotten by the young, though the Bible
commands to rise up before the face of the old
man, and honour the hoary head." We should
fear to be irreverent to those whom the Almighty
has enjoined us to honour.
The natives of this country were observed by
our ancestors to be exemplary in their treatment
of the aged. The young rose up and gave place to

them. They bowed down reverently before them.
They solicited their opinion, and listened atten-
tively till they had done speaking.
The young men of the forest stood silent in their
councils, when the gray-haired chieftains opened
their lips. We should not be willing to have the
untutored Indian surpass us in a duty so graceful.
You remember that when a hoary-headed man
once entered a thronged assembly in Athens, and
there was no seat, the young people were so rude
as to laugh at his embarrassment. But when he
was in a similar situation at Sparta, the young
arose and made room. The Athenians know
what is right," said he, but the Spartanspractise
May it never be said of us, that we understand
our duties, but disregard the obligations they im-
pose. Whenever you meet an old person, remem-
ber the command of God, and treat him with re-
spect. Years have given him experience, and
experience is worthy of honour. Withhold not
the reverence that is his due, The hoary head
is a crown of glory, if it be found in the way of
Show respect to magistrates, and to all who are
in places of authority. There would be fewer
mutinies and revolutions, if children were trained
up in obedience. Distinguish yourselves by sub-
mission and deference towards all whose station or
virtues claim them as their due. It was said of
Washington by his mother, that his first lesson
was to obey." Those best know how to direct
others who have themselves been taught subordi-
By'faithfully discharging your first and earliest
obligations, you will be prepared to act well your
part in future life. You will maintain good order
in your own families, and honour just government
in the land. And if you live to be old, and have
only a few gray hairs where your bright locks now

grow, you will deserve from the young the same
cheerful obedience and grateful respect which you
have yourself shown to your superiors.


ELLEN'S mother died when she was scarcely thir-
teen years old. Her only brother had died the
winter before. Her two sisters were married, and
had removed to so great a distance, that she seldom
heard from them. She was quite alone with her
When her mother died, she felt as if she never
could be happy again. But when she saw her
father looking so sad, she thought it was her
duty to try to comfort him; and when he came in
tired from his work, she would set a chair for him,
and get him whatever he wanted, and speak plea-
bantly to him, as her mother used to do.
She remembered how her mother made bread,
and was ambitious to make it in the same way.
She proportioned the articles just as she had seen
her do. When she kneaded the dough, she used all
the strength in her little arms. She took great pains
to have it light, and to bake it well, and when she
placed on the table the first loaf that she had evwr
made, she could not help weeping for joy, to hear
her father say, Child, this tastes like your
mother's bread."
She had often assisted in churning, but had never
taken the whole charge of making butter. But
she was anxious to try. She was careful to keep
her milk-pail and pans very clean and sweet. In
working over the new butter, she patiently re-
moved every drop of butter-milk, because she had
heard her mother say that this was necessary in
order to have it good.
The neighbours were pleased with the industry

of the little girl, and encouraged her in her house-
keeping. She could not but miss her mother sadly,
and many times a day grieved for her loss. But
she went by herself to weep, for she said, I will
not make my poor father more sad by my sorrow.
He has enough of his own to bear."
When winter evenings came, she swept the
hearth neatly, and placed the light on the little
stand, and sat down by his side with her needle.
Her mother had thoroughly instructed her in plain
sewing, and while she mended or made garments,
her father read aloud to her. He began to be com-
forted by the goodness of his daughter, and she
perceived that the tones of his voice grew more
cheerful in the evening prayer, and when he bade
her good-night.
Her father worked hard every day. She had
often heard her mother say that they were poor,
and must economize. So, as she grew older, she
studied how to save expense. She knew that her
mother made several very comfortable dishes with
but a little meat. So she learned to prepare soup
in the same way. Also, by putting thin layers of
meat, with little pepper and salt, and some broken
pieces of bread in a small pot, with plenty of
vegetables from their own garden, and covering
them close until all was thoroughly stewed, a very
nourishing dish was ready when her father came
home to dinner.
They had near the door a tree of nice sweet
apples. Some of these she pared and laid in a deep
pan, mingling them with a few sour apples to pro-
duce a pleasant flavour, and covered the whole
with a thick crust, which she broke after it was
baked, and plunged into the warm apple-sauce.
This made a kind of pie of which her father was
He also liked puddings, and she learned to make
several cheap and good ones. Among them was
one she sometimes called the "Saturday pudding,"

because she baked it on Saturdays, that they might
have it for a Sunday dinner, cold in the summer,
and in the winter warmed on the coals; for they
were not accustomed to cook on that day, as they
both felt it a privilege to go to church.
She made this simple pudding by picking over
and washing a gill of rice, to which she added a
spoonful or two of brown sugar, and after letting
it soak a while in three pints of milk, baked it. She
felt it a pleasure to learn everything, however
small, that would make her father comfortable, and
a duty to do it prudently.
Her mother had been accustomed to sell what
butter they could spare to a lady in the neighbour-
hood. Ellen continued to do so, and the lady ex-
pressed herself much surprised that so young a
girl should make so fine butter, and send it in such
neat order. If she ever felt fatigued with her la-
bours, she would recollect her mother's example,
and always be pleasant and cheerful when her
father came home.
She had been early taught to knit and to spin,
and remembered to have heard her mother say that
stockings made from wool which was carded in the
house, lasted much longer than that which was
prepared at the factories, because the machine cut
the wool so fine, as to impair its strength. She
wished to avail herself of this knowledge, but found
she could not succeed in preparing such smooth
rolls as she had seen her mother spin.
So she took the wool to a neighbour who was
experienced in such work, and offered, if she would
teach her how to prepare it, to sew for her until
she was satisfied with the payment. That I will,
my good girl," said she, or anything else you
wish me to help you about, for we all love you for
taking such care of your father. Your wrists are
not strong enough yet to break and card this long
wool, and I shall be glad to have you make an
apron for my baby."

After the rolls were made, she spun them into
very even yarn, and having heard her father say
that he thought stockings were warmer and set
closer for being seamed, she finished him two pair
of long ones for winter, by knitting two stitches
plain, and seaming the third, and was delighted to
jee how entirely they pleased him.
Having an active mind, she began to think of
some improvement in economy, and proposed that
he should purchase from a man for whom he
worked, a lamb or a sheep; "for it can get its
living with the cow," said she, and we can use
its wool for stockings, and then you will not be
obliged to buy."
But, with all her prudence, she was not covetous,
and many a little pair of thick stockings did she
knit for poor children, and many a neatly mended
garment which she thought they could spare, did
she carry to the sick; for economy and generosity
are often found together.
When Ellen grew to be a young woman, she
was a favourite with all. The old and thoughtful
respected her for her obedience and affection to her
only parent, who no longer felt lonely, so comfort-
able and cheerful had she made his home. She
was also quite admired, for she had a good person,
a healthful complexion, and the open smile of one
who is in the habit of doing right, and feels happy
at heart, which is the truest beauty.
When her young friends visited her, though she
was fond of society, she did not forget that her first
duty was to her father. However agreeable they
were, as soon as the appointed time for his family
devotions came,.she would say in the gentlest man-
ner, My father has been long used to retire at
nine." And those who were the most unwilling
to leave her, could not but respect her for attention
to his wishes.
She was addressed by a deserving young man,
who had known her merits from childhood. To

his proposal she replied, My father is growing
infirm, and is able to work but little. I feel it my
duty to take care of him as long as he lives. It
might be a burden to others. It is a pleasure to
Ellen, it will be no burden to me. Let me
help you in supporting him. Most gladly will I
work for all." She saw that he was sincere, and
they were married. Her husband had a small
house and a piece of ground on which he laboured.
She kept everything neat and in order, and was
always pleasant and cheerful. I have now two
motives," she said, "to be as good as I can-a
husband and a father."
Ellen's little children loved their hoary grand-
father. She taught them by her own example how
to treat him with respect. The warmest corner
was always for him. When they saw her listening
to all he said with reverence, they never thought
of interrupting him, or disregarding his remarks.
As he was deaf, she raised her voice when she
spoke to him, in a steady, affectionate tone, and
they learned to do the same.
As they grew older, they read the Bible to him
daily, for his eyesight failed. His explanations
were a treasure to them. Especially was he pleased
when any of them learned to repeat by heart some
of the Psalms of David. "For these," he said,
"have been my songs in the house of my pil-
Teachers, and others, who saw the children of
Ellen, observed that they had better manners than
others of the same age. They acquired them, in a
great measure, from their constant propriety of de-
portment to their venerable grandfather. To pay
respect to age is a benefit both to the manners and
character of children. It is an advantage to them
to live under the same roof with a pious old person,
provided they show them that reverence which the
Bible commands.

Ellen reaped a part of the reward of her filial
duty in seeing her children made better, and her
father happy. In his last sickness all waited upon
him. When he was no longer able to raise his
head from the clean pillow where it was laid, he
thanked God who had put it into the heart of his
daughter to nourish him with a never-failing kind-
ness, and he blessed her and her husband, and their
little ones.
Death came for him, and his eyes grew dim, and
they were no longer able to warm his feet and
hands. Ellen raised him up in his bed, and sat
behind him, and wrapped her arms tenderly around
him, for she saw that he shivered. And most
touching was it to hear him say, as he leaned his
head upon her shoulder for the last time, The
Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord make his
face to shine upon thee; the Lord lift up the light
of his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace."


As sickness is, at some time or other, the lot of all,
it is well to learn, while young, how to treat those
who are sick, and how to conduct when we are
ourselves so. The care of the sick is peculiarly
the business of our sex. Therefore even little girls
should be trained to wait upon them, and to sym-
pathize in their sufferings.
Sickness is an evil, not only because it brings
pain, but because it prevents us from being useful.
We should consider good health as a precious gift
from our heavenly Father, and avoid any impru-
dence by which it is endangered. If we are neces.
sarily exposed to cold, we should guard ourselves
with thick clothing, especiallyabout the feet. Shun
the folly of wearing thin stockings in winter, or
thin shoes when the streets are wet.

Sickness that comes through imprudence is at-
tended with self-reproach. We have no right to
sport with our health. This wonderful frame,
fashioned by an Almighty hand, this temple of the
immortal spirit, was not intended for us to mar and
deface as fashion or folly dictate. We should im-
part the earnest indications of ill-health to those
who have the care of us, as a slight remedy taken
in season often prevents a formidable complaint.
When you are seriously sick, give yourself up
entirely to those who have the care of you. Take,
without objection, whatever they bring you, how-
ever unpleasant to the taste. Sickness is not a time
to gratify the palate, but to learn patience. Thank
those who perform any service for you, however
small. Do not add to their fatigue any more than
you can help. If you see them standing long by
your bed, request them to take a seat.
If you have watchers, urge them to take refresh-
nlent in the course of the night, and, if possible, to
get some repose. These attentions are pleasant to
those who nurse you, and help to turn your
thoughts from self, for selfishness is too prone to
intrude into the chamber of sickness. Consider
your physician as your friend. Tell him frankly
all he asks, and submit to his remedies without
Open your mind to cheering thoughts, and keep
your heart full of hope, for they promote recovery.
Spread your case before the Great Physician, and
ask his blessing on every remedy. When you are
well again, remember that you are under a renewed
weight of gratitude to Him, and to those who have
watched over you, and shown you kindness, and
from your own sufferings learn to pity others who
The first thing tobe considered in your treatment
of the sick, is to avoid whatever might disturb
them. This seems a slight attainment, and yet is
not always understood even by professed nurses.


A child should be taught to avoid loud noises and
laughter, heavy footsteps, and careless shutting of
doors, when any one is sick in the house. And the
more delicate attentions of shading the light from
the face, or the lamp from the eye, and avoiding,
in the warming of drinks, or the arrangement of
the fire, every sudden and shrill sound, should be
familiar to all in attendance.
Move with the greatest quietness around the
chamber of the sick; and when you speak to them,
do so with a pleasant smile, and a soft, low tone.
When you carry any little delicacy to an invalid,
arrange it with perfect neatness, and if you can,
with taste. These little circumstances are observed
by them, and have a cheering effect. If you send
them fruit or sweetmeats, dispose them so as to
make an agreeable appearance. If you lay anose-
gay upon their pillow, let it be fresh and beautiful;
and so place every flower that its form and colour-
ing may be most easily discerned.
Remember the sick poor. Learn to make pro-
per drinks or nourishing broths for them with
vour own hands. Visit them, and ascertain if
their clothing and beds are comfortably provided,
and converse with your parents and older friends
respecting their situation. Such habits are valu-
able in the young, and should be cherished by those
who have the charge of their education, as far as
circumstances will admit.
I once knew a little girl, wh6, when her mother
had a headache, would glide around the house like
a shadow, with her finger on her lip, to remind the
other children to be silent. I have seen her, when
her aged grandmother could not sleep for nervous-
ness, pass within the curtains, and press for a long
time her temples, with a soft, gentle hand, and then
breathe low in her ear the simple tones of lulling
music, till she was composed to slumber. And I
joyed to see in her thus early the elements of
woman's purer and better nature.

It is well that kind sympathies should take deep
root in the heart of young females. For our sex
should ever bear about with them a nursing ten-
derness for all who suffer. In ancient times,
ladies of high rank and wealth used to go to hos-
pitals and almshouses to visit the sick. Bending
over their wretched beds, they did not shrink to
perform kind offices for the most miserable. The
" blessing of him who was ready to perish came
upon them." Let none of us feel that we are too
young to do something for the comfort of the sick.


Tna sacred Scriptures say, The poor we have
always with us." It is the duty of the young, as
well as those who are grown up, to study the best
means of relieving them. The kind feelings, the
benevolent sympathies, that are thus called forth,
bless the giver as well as the receiver.
If you see a child in the winter shivering and
thinly clad. make some inquiry into his situation.
Perhaps you will find that his parents are burdened
with too large a family to make all comfortable, or
that his mother is a widow, or that he is an orphan.
Then, if you can do anything for his relief, or excite
others to do so, it will be the means of increasing
your own happiness.
It is a good plan to repair neatly your cast-off
garments, and now and then to knit a pair of coarse
stockings, and to lay aside a part of any money
that may be given you, to be in readiness for
the claims of the poor. Never feel unwilling to
give whatever you can spare, but consider the
tfvour on your side, so great is the pleasure of
The young should always solicit the advice of
their parents, or older friends, in their charities.

The judicious relief of the poor requires more
knowledge of mankind than those whose years are
few can be expected to possess. Above all, never
boast of anything you give. It is an offence against
the nature of true charity, which "vaunteth not
itself, is not puffed up."
Let me tell you of the girls of a school, who pitied
the poor, and formed themselves into a society for
their relief. They had only Saturday afternoon
for recreation during the week, and they resolved
to meet at that time, and devise means how they
might best be assisted. Their parents gave per-
mission, and their teacher allowed them to meet
in the school-room.
There, I have often seen them busy with their
needles, their bright eyes sparkling with happiness,
and their sweet voices consulting about their plans
of charity, like a band of sisters. And I blessed
them in my heart, and besought that the Spirit of
grace and consolation might ever dwell among
them. For they were my own scholars, and I
loved them as children.
They were not soon weary in well-doing. Many
garments were repaired and made, many pairs of
stockings knit, many books distributed among the
ignorant. They established a monthly contri-
bution, and decided, that the money which they
devoted to it should be the fruit of their own
They employed themselves with their needles,
and received from the friends for whom they worked,
a regular price, which was sufficient for their chari-
ties. That this new labour need not interfere with
their appointed lessons, or their necessary recrea-
tions, they rose an hour earlier in the morning, and
thus secured time for all.
Their society was regularly organized, and among
its officers were four almoners, who, in distributing
their bounty, visited the houses of the poor, and
made report respecting them. An interesting

child, who was deaf and dumb, once accompanied
these almoners. In her strong language of signs
and gestures, she related what she had seen in an
abode of poverty.
It was a small, low room," said she. "The
stairs were dark and broken. The snow through
which we had walked was deep, and my feet felt
very cold. But there was not fire enough to warm
them. No. I could have held in one of my hands
those very few, faint coals. And there was no
The sick woman lay in a low bed. If she sat
up she shivered, and she was covered with scant
and thin clothing. Her pale baby threw up its arms
and cried. But there was no physician there. Then
the father came in, having in his hand some pieces
of pine which he had picked up. He laid them on
the fire. But how soon were they burned up and
His wife spoke to him, and when he answered
she looked sorry. Because I was deaf and dumb I
knew not what they were saying. So I asked my
friend. And she told me the poor woman said to
her husband, Have you not bought a piece of
candle?' When he answered, 'No, I have no
money,' she said, with sadness, 'Must we be in
the dark another long, cold night, with our sick
baby? "
As the tender-hearted child went on to describe,
in her own peculiar dialect, the smiles that came
suddenly over the faces of the sorrowing poor, at
the unexpected bounty which she aided in bearing,
tears of exquisite feeling glistened in her eyes; for
her heart was awake to every generous sensibility,
though her sealed lips were precluded from their
One of the best modes of assisting the poor, is
through their own industry. To give them work,
and pay them promptly and liberally, is far better
than to distribute alms, which may sometimes

THE POOn. 51
encourage idleness, or be perverted to vice. It
also saves that self-abasement which minds of sen-
sibility suffer at receiving charity.
To remove ignorance, is an important branch of
benevolence. Study the art of explaining, in simple
and kind words, their duty to those who fall into
error for want of instruction. To distribute useful
and pious books among those who are able to read,
is an excellent form of bounty. They should be
plainly written. A part of your money for the poor
will be well devoted to their purchase.
Read the books, that you intend to distribute,
attentively before you buy them. Be sure that
there is nothing in their contents but what is
intended to benefit the reader. Make a list of
such books, with your opinion respecting them.
Mention why you think they will be useful, and
then you can give a reason for recommending
them to others, who may desire to instruct the
The biographies of those who have been distin-
guished for usefulness or piety, are excellent to
awaken the spirit of imitation. If you are not
able to purchase many, get one, and let it be easy
of comprehension. If you are not able to give it
away, lend it, and when it is returned, converse
with the persons who have read it, and try to
impress on their hearts the examples most worthy
of being imitated.
Thus, by the gift or the loan of books, you may
be scattering around you the seeds of usefulness
and piety. You may do more lasting good than by
the gift of clothing or money, which soon pass
away, and may be misused. When you relieve
the wants of the body, always remember the soul;
for how greatly will it add to your happiness, when
you grow up, to know that you have enlightened
the mind of but one child, and assisted in making
him wiser and better.
Do nothing charitable from vanity, or a desire

of having your good deeds known and applauded.
Let your motives be, obedience to your Creator,
and love for those whom he has created. They are
all his family. He has breathed life into their
bosoms. He watches over them. He has given
them immortal souls.
Some have black or olive complexions, some are
red like the roving tribes of our forests, and others
white. But he hath made of one blood all who
dwell upon the face of the whole earth." They
inhabit different climes, but the same sun gives
them warmth, the same clouds send down rain to
refresh them.
Some wrap themselves in furs, or dig subter-
ranean cells, to shelter themselves from the cold of
winter; others, in slight garments of cotton or
silk, can scarcely endure the parching heat of their
long summers. Some feed upon the rich fruits
that a tropical sun ripens; others hunt the flying
animals through the forest for their sustenance.
Some drink the juice of the palm-tree, some press
the liquor from the grape, some refresh themselves
at the fountains of pure water. Some slumber in
their quiet homes, and others upon the tossing,
treacherous sea. Yet the same fatherly hand pro-
vides for all.
He who called all mankind forth from the dust
of the earth, views them as one large family, seated
at one common table, and soon to lie down in one
wide bed, the grave. We see, perhaps, but one
little corner of the table. We see varieties of
dress, complexion, and rank, and suffer our feel-
ings to be affected by these changeful circum-
We behold one exalted upon a high seat, and we
say, "he is more excellent than his neighbour."
From those who hold the lowest places, or gather
up the crumbs under the table," perhaps we turn
away. Do we forget the great Father of all, who

appointed their stations, who looketh only on the
It must be pleasing to him who hath called him-
self in his Holy Scriptures a God of love, that
all his large family should regard each other as
b ethren and sisters. Let us think of our fellow-
creatures, as under the care of that merciful Parent
from whom all our blessings proceed, and let our
good deeds to those who are less fortunate than
ourselves, have root in love.


THE years of my childhood passed away in con-
tentment and peace. My lot was in humble and
simple industry; yet my heart was full of gladness,
though I scarcely knew why. Iloved to sit under
the shadow of the rugged rocks, and to hear the
murmured song of the falling brook.
I made to myself a companionship among the
things of nature, and was happy all the day. But
when evening darkened the landscape, I sat down
pensively; for I was alone, and had neither brother
nor sister.
I was ever wishing for a brother who should be
older than myself, into whose hand I might put
my own, and say, Lead me forth to look at the
solemn stars, and tell me of their names." Some-
times, too, I wept in my bed, because there was no
sister to lay her head upon the same pillow.
At twilight, before the lamps were lighted, there
came up out of my bosom, what seemed to be a
friend. I did not then understand that its name
was Thought. But I talked with it, and it com-
forted me. I waited tor its coming, and whatso-
ever it asked of me, I answered.
When it questioned me of my knowledge, I said,

" I know where the first fresh violets of spring
grow, and where the lily of the vale hides in its
broad green sheath, and where the vine climbs to
hang its purple clusters, and where the forest nuts
ripen, when autumn comes with its sparkling
"I have seen how the bee nourishes itself in
winter with the essence of flowers, which its own
industry embalmed; and I have learned to draw
forth the kindness of domestic animals, and to tell
the names of the birds which build dwellings inmy
father's trees."
Then Thought inquired, What knowest thou of
those who reason, and to whom God has given do-
minion over the beasts of the field, and over the
fowls of the air?" I confessed, that of my own race
I knew nothing, save of the parents who nurtured
me, and the few children with whom I had played
on the summer turf.
I was ashamed, for I felt that I was ignorant.
So I determined to turn away from the wild herbs
of the field, and the old trees where I had helped
the gray squirrel to gather acorns, and to look at-
tentively upon what passed among men.
I walked abroad when the morning dews were
lingering upon the grass, and the white lilies
drooping their beautiful heads to shed tears of joy,
and the young rose blushing, as if it listened to its
own praise. Nature smiled upon those sweet
children, that were so soon to fade.
But I turned toward those whose souls have the
gift of reason, and are not born to die. I said, If
there is joy in the plant that flourishes for a day,
and in the bird bearing to its nest but a broken
cherry, and in the lamb that has no friend but its
mother, how much happier must they be, who are
surrounded with good things, as by a flowing river,
and who know that, though they seem to die, it is
but to live for ever."
I looked upon a group of children. They were

untaught and unfed, and clamoured loudly with
wayward tongues. I asked them why they walked
not in the pleasant paths of knowledge. And they
mocked at me. I heard two who were called friends,
speak harsh words to each other, and was aftrighted
at the blows they dealt.
I saw a man with a fiery and a bloated face. He
was built strongly, like the oak among trees; yet
his steps were weak and unsteady as those of the
tottering babe. He fell heavily, and lay as one
dead. I marvelled that no hand was stretched out
to raise him up.
I saw an open grave. A widow stood near it,
with her little ones. They looked downcast, and
sad at heart. Yet, methought it was famine and
misery, more than sorrow for the dead, which had
set on them such a yellow and shrivelled seal.
I said, What can have made the parents not
pity their children when they hungered, nor call
them home when they were in wickedness ? What
made the friends forget their early love, and the
strong man fall down senseless, and the young die
before his time?" I heard a voice say, Intem-
perance. And there is mourning in the land, be-
cause of this."
So I returned to my home, sorrowing; and had
God given me a brother or a sister, I would have
thrown my arms around their neck, and entreated,
" Touch not your lips to the poison cup, and letus
drink the pure water which God hath blessed, all
the days of our lives."
Again I went forth. I met a beautiful boy
weeping, and I asked him why he wept. He an-
swered, Because my father went to the wars
and is slain-he will return no more." I saw a
mournful woman. The sun shone upon her dwell-
ing. The honeysuckle climbed to its windows,
and sent in its sweet blossoms to do their loving
message. But she was a widow. Her husband
had fallen in battle. There was ioy for her no more.

I saw a hoary man, sitting by the wayside.
Grief had made furrows upon his forehead, and
his garments were thin and tattered. Yet he asked
not for charity. And when I besought him to tell
me why his heart was heavy, he replied faintly,
" I had a son, an only one. From his cradle, I
toiled, that he might have food and clothing, and
be taught wisdom.
"He grew up to bless me. So all my labour
and weariness were forgotten. When he became
a man, I knew no want; for he cherished me, as I
had cherished him. Yet he left me to be soldier.
He was slaughtered in the field of battle. There-
fore mine eye runneth down with water, because
the comforter that should relieve my soul returns
no more."
I said, Show me, I pray thee, a field of battle,
that I may know what war means." But he an-
swered, Thou art not able to bear the sight."
" Tell me, then," I entreated, "what thou hast
seen, when the battle was done."
I came," he said, at the close of day, when
the cannon ceased their thunder, and the victor
and vanquished had withdrawn. The rising moon
looked down on the pale faces of the dead. Scat-
tered over the broad plain were many who still
struggled with the pangs of death.
They stretched out the shattered limb, yet
there was no healing hand. They strove to raise
their heads, but sank deeper in the blood which
flowed from their own bosoms. They begged in
God's name that we would put them out of their
misery, and their piercing shrieks entered into my
Here and there horses, mad with pain, rolled
and plunged, mangling with their hoofs the dying,
or defacing the dead. And 1 remembered the
mourning for those who lay there-of the parents
who bad reared them, or of the young children
who used to sit at home upon their knee."

Then I said, Tell me no more of battle or of
war, for my heart is sad." The silver-haired man
raised his eyes upward, and I kneeled down by his
And he prayed, "Lord, keep this child from
anger, and hatred, and ambition, which are the
seeds of war. Grant to all that own the name of
Jesus, hearts of peace, that they may shun every
deed of strife, and dwell at last in the country of
peace, even in heaven."
Hastening home, I besought mymother, Shel-
ter me, as I have been sheltered, in solitude, and in
love. Bid me turn the wheel of industry, or bring
water from the fountain, or tend the plants of the
garden, or feed a young bird and listen to its song,
but let me go no more forth among the vices and
miseries of man."


THE village-bell tolled. Groups of people were
seen slowly assembling at the funeral call. The
hearse stood before the door of a small house with
a vine-wreathed porch. There the minister lifted
up his solemn voice in supplication, that the living
might be supported in their bitter parting with the
dead. A feeble wail from the chamber mingled
with his prayer. It was the moan of the young
infant, from whom its mother had been suddenly
When the mournful family returned from the
grave, the oldest daughter folded the babe in her
arms, and pressed its little face long to hers. Tears
flowed fast down her cheeks, as she said, I will be
a mother to you, my poor little one." And the
upward glance of her eye told, that her heart was
asking of her Father in heaven, wisdom to supply

to it the place of that good parent whom he had
taken to himself.
What will poor Mr. Allen do, now he has lost
his wife?" said one of the neighbours. "He is not
able to hire a nurse, and to hear the poor baby
crying all the time the minister was at prayer, was
quite heart-rending." Do you not know," said
her friend, that Lucy, the eldest girl, has under-
taken the care of it? It is truly wonderful to see
one so young preparing its food so well, and waking
patiently in the night to feed it, and so anxious to
learn how to nurse it when it is sick. We must go
in and encourage her."
Lucy Allen was very careful to mingle the milk
for the babe in just proportion, and to give it at
regular intervals. She washed and dressed it early
in the morning, with the greatest tenderness, and
lulled it to rest at the proper hours. She sat by
her sad father through the long winter evenings.
The babe lay sleeping in its cradle by their side.
If it awaked, she rocked and lulled it with a tender
voice, and her father blessed her.
It was a beautiful sight, to see that fair young
girl, week after week, nourishing the feeble infant.
Sometimes, when her gay companions urged her
to go with them and spend the evening, she would
say, The baby is not quite well, and I am afraid
to leave it so long." 0, you will make a mope
of yourself for that baby. I daresay it can do well
enough a while without you." But Lucy would
excuse herself by saying, that her father looked
lonely, and since her dear mother's death, she took
more pleasure in being at home with him, than in
going out as formerly.
The babe inclined to cry and be fretful. Lucy
said it was irritable, because it was unwell, and as
it grew stronger, it would grow more quiet. And
so it proved. She attended to its health, and after
a few months, its fits of crying abated. It grew
lively, and began to have a ruddy cheek. She

always spoke to it in a cheerful voice, and looked
at it with a smile, for she saw that this seemed to
make it happier; and said, Poor, dear child, it
has no mother to comfort it, and all I can do is so
much less than she would have done, that I feel
sorry for it."
Lucy had not been accustomed to be disturbed
in her rest. When she was kept waking a great
part of the night, as she sometimes was, while the
babe was getting teeth, she could not help feeling
tired and weak in the morning. But she never
complained. She remembered how patiently her
mother had nursed the others in their sicknesses,
and tried to imitate her. And when the little one
began to walk, and when the first word it lisped
was her name, and when it stretched forth its arms
to her, as to a mother, she felt more than repaid
for all her toil.
But it was not the care of the infant alone, that
exercised Lucy's affection and patience. She had
two other sisters and brothers, to whom she tried
to fill a mother's place. The sister next to herself
in age, was about thirteen, and assisted much in the
work of the family. She was not, however, always
amiable, and was sometimes jealous that Lucy in-
tended to rule her. But, by mildness and kindness,
she succeeded in convincing her that she had only
her good in view, and induced her to try to regu-
late her temper and improve her character.
The two brothers were eleven and nine years
old. Lucy took great care that they should have
their lessons ready for school, and that they should
be there in season, and neatly dressed, with clean
hands and faces. She charged them not to keep
company with bad boys, and gave them the same
advice about truth and honesty, and respect for
age, and reverence for the Sabbath, which her
pious mother had given to her.
One morning the youngest boy came running
in-" Sister Lucy, I have cut my finger dreadfully.

I did it in cutting a thick board with father's sharp
knife." She instantly produced the basket in which
she kept lint, and soft pieces of old linen, and salve,
and cotton bats for burns, and proceeded to do it
up skilfully. But the tears flowed afresh. Does
it pain you much, little brother?" Yes. But
the worst of it is, father told me not to touch that
knife, and I am afraid to tell him."
You have done very wrong to disobey your
father. But you must own to him exactly how it
was. Faults are made worse by concealment. I
remember an old schoolmistress, who used to tell
us, Speak truth, and let the sky fall.' And it was
right advice, because God is a God of truth, and
requires truth of all who hope to live in heaven at
Her little brother promised her that he would
confess his fault. But she saw that he was very
much afraid, and remembered that her father was
sometimes inclined to be severe, and her heart
yearned towards the child. So she went out to
meet him, when she saw him coming home, and
told him that her little brother had done wrong,
but had suffered in consequence, and seemed peni-
tent. The boy confessed his fault, and the father
forgave his disobedience for the sake of Lucy's in-
The youngest girl was scarcely six, Between
herself and the babe there had been another, who
died, and she, in consequence of this, had been
much indulged. Lucy felt the great importance
that her moral training should have vigilant atten-
tion. She used towards her great gentleness and
firmness, and was always consistent, so that her
word was relied on and respected. Soon the child
became obedient, and being very affectionate,
grew happy, and every day more attached to her
The principal fault of the little sister was thought-
lessness. Lucy took great pains to teach her to


attend, and to remember. She was very apt to
meet with accidents, to tear her clothes, or to lose
her little possessions. Lucy never upbraided her,
for she said this was the way to make children bad-
tempered or deceitful. But she steadily exerted
herself to make her think what she was about, and
to put things in the right place.
The second sister would often speak harshly to
the little one, when any accident befell her through
what seemed to be her own carelessness. But Lucy
begged her not to do so, and said, To scold at a
child, makes them learn to scold also, if they dare;
and if they dare not, frightens them into false-
hood." So the child, when she tore her frock or
her apron, brought it trustingly to Lucy's needle,
and heeded, out of gratitude, the advice that she
gave her.
The father was greatly comforted by Lucy's
goodness. When he told her so, she felt that it was
an over-payment for all her toil. Her brothers and
sisters, as they grew up, blessed their good sister.
Whenever she was in doubt respecting her duty to
them, she asked herself, What would my dear
mother have done? If the duty was difficult, she
retired to her chamber, and prayed to Him from
whom is all our sufficiency, and He gave her the
strength that she needed.
All who knew Lucy Allen admired her conduct.
The mothers wished for such a daughter, and the
young for such a friend. She was considered more
beautiful than those who flaunted in fine dress, or
sought for fashionable amusement; for the warmest,
purest affections beamed in her face, and they are
the true beauty of the heart. But happy as she
was, in the love of all the good, she felt the highest
thrill of pleasure when the babe that she had reared
to a healthful and fair child, came to her with all
its little joys and sorrows, saying, thqt "better
than all the world beside, it loved its dear sister-



YoNGo persons are fond of agreeable society. A
lonely room, or a solitary evening, does not suit
their cheerful temperament. They are willing to
bear fatigue, the heat of the summer's sun, or the
storm of winter, to meet a pleasant companion.
They naturally wish to obtain a friend, in whom
they can confide. They read much of the pleasures
of friendship, and are anxious to possess a treasure
which the wise and good extol.
Shall I tell you of a pleasant companion, and a
true friend, who is always near, and whose ac-'
quaintance may be readily secured? Should you
ever live far from neighbours, or be divided from
your parents and relatives, such an acquisition
would be highly valuable.
First, let me describe this friend to you. She is
exceedingly like yourself. Her eyes and the tones
of her voice are the same. When you are good
and happy, she smiles also. In your sorrows she
sympathizes. She makes your joys her own.
You perceive that she has the qualities of a good
friend. In one respect, she will be better to you
than any other. The dearest friends die and leave
us. We mourn in desolation over their graves.
But the friend of whom I speak, has the assurance
of living as long as you do, and at your own
death-bed will be nearer to you than the nearest
She might say to you in the beautiful language
of Ruth, Whither thou goest, I will go; where
thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my
people, and thy God my God; where thou diest, I
will die, and there will I be buried; the Lord do
so to me, and more also, if aught but death part
thee and me."
Will you be introduced to this friend? She has
some peculiarities, of which it is but right to inform

you. When you try daily to improve, and are
industrious, and affectionate, and pious, she is in
good health. But when you fail in your duties,
she is sick and sad, and no common physician can
understand her case, or give her medicine.
If you persist in doing wrong, she has a way of
hanging a heavy weight in your breast, which
those who have felt it say is a severe punishment.
She is said also to have some tendency to jealousy,
and not to like the presence of a third person at her
particular interviews.
But though she wishes exclusive attention during
the period devoted to her, she is not unreasonable
in her claims upon your time. Half an hour out
of the twenty-four will content her. And she
chooses this half hour should be the last before
retiring, when the business of the day is done.
She requires that you should be punctual to
meet her at the appointed time, and frank in re-
plying to all the questions she may see fit to pro-
pose. And now, will you cultivate an intercourse
with this personage? It will certainly do you no
harm. Can this be said of all with whom you
Those who have made the greatest progress in
her intimacy, acknowledge that the beginning was
rather awkward, for she is averse to flattery, and
apt to blame what is wrong. But as they perse-
vere, it becomes delightful, and her smile is a rich
reward for every toil.
If you wish to enlarge the circle of your ac-
quaintance by such a friend, tell her so. Promise
to conform to her modes of conversation. Sit down
alone, and wait for her, when the cares and em-
ployments of the day, like shut roses, are drinking
the dews of slumber.
While you meditate, she is near. When you
hear a still voice, like a soft breath passing over
your cheek, be ready to answer with truth, such
questions as the following :-" Did you rise early

this morning? and were your first thoughts turned
to Him who protected you through the night, and
is alone able to sustain you through the day ?
Have you realized the value of time, and la-
boured to improve it? Have you been obedient
to your parents and teachers, and respectful to the
"Have you been affectionate to your brothers,
sisters, and companions, and tried to promote the
comfort of all with whom you dwell ? Have you
instructed the ignorant, or relieved the poor, or
shown kindness to the sick and sorrowful ?
Have you been patient when you were disap-
pointed, and restrained your temper when you were
provoked? Did you repress vanity, and, 'in all
lowliness of mind, esteem others better than your-
Have you preserved a cheerful countenance
and manners, and tried to make all around you
happy ? Shall your last act, before you retire to
rest, be, to thank the Almighty Father for all his
mercies, and implore his aid to advance daily in
wisdom and piety?"
Happy are you if you can answer these questions
in the affirmative. The True Friend who proposes
them is your own heart. Make it your nightly
monitor. It will strengthen you in the race of
virtue, and its payment is the approval of con-
science. that pure gold which rust cannot corrupt,
nor robber take away.


I oncE passed several months under the roof of a
farmer. It was to me one of the pleasantest and
most profitable visits I had ever made; for I Sw
continually around me, that industry, economy,


and contentment, which make every rational house-
hold happy.
The whole family rose before the sun. After an
early breakfast, every one proceeded to the busi-
ness of the day. The farmer and his sons went
with their workmen to the field. The swift
strokes of the churn were heard, changing the
rich cream to the golden-coloured butter. I was
never weary of watching the progress of the
cheese, from its first consolidation to its reception
in the press, and its daily attentions in the dairy.
Above stairs, the sound of the loom and the
flight of the shuttle, allured me. There, various
fabrics for the comfort of the family were wrought
out, from the carpet on which they trod, to the
snowy linen that covered their beds, and the firm
garments from the fleece of their sheep, in which
they fearlessly braved the cold of winter.
But my delight was especially in the spinning-
room. There the wheels turned swiftly with
merry music. The step of the spinner was light,
and her face cheerful, as she drew even threads
from the fair white roll, or the blue one that was
to furnish stockings for the father and brothers.
Masses of yarn, assorted according to its various
texture and destination, hung upon the wall. Each
one was pleased to add to the store her new skeins.
The flying reel told audibly the amount of every
spindle, and pronounced when the useful task of
the day was done. This seemed to me the kind of
industry, which, mor ethan any other, promoted
cheerfulness and health.
The daughters of the family had blooming and
happy countenances. They used their strength
freely in domestic toils, and when they went out
to any distance, rode well and fearlessly on horse-
back. They seemed never to have any nervous
complaints, or to need a physician. Exercise, and
the healthful food on which they fed, and their
own happy spirits, were their medicines.

The mother superintended all that concerned
them with a serious dignity. She taught them
every necessary employment, by first taking part
in it herself, and then deputing it to them. She
induced them to consider the interests of their
father as their own, and instructed them by her
own example how to lessen his expenses.
She sent to market, in the best order, the sur.
plus of her dairy, and poultry-yard, and loom. It
was her ambition, that the finer parts of the ward-
robe of herself and family should be thus procured.
It pleased her better, than to make demands upon
the purse of her husband.
Her eldet daughters desired to have some money
of their own, to purchase such books as they liked,
and to assist the poor. She encouraged their de-
sign, and gave them a room in which to rear the
silk-worm. There they were seen busily tending
that curious insect, whose changes from the little
egg like a mustard-seed, to the cell of silken tapes-
try where it gathers up its feet to die, show the
wonderful hand of that Being, who is excellent in
Their small skeins of silk, tastefully arranged
for sale, imitated the colours of the rainbow; and
they were delighted to find how soon the wand of
industry could convert the mulberry leaf to silk,
and the silk to gold. They also aided their younger
brothers in a pursuit which interested them-the
care of bees.
Rows of hives were ranged in a sunny and genial
spot. Beds of flowers, and fragrant herbs, were
planted to accommodate the winged chymists. The
purest honey gave variety to their table, and the
superflux, with the wax that was made from the
comb, were among the most saleable articles of
their domestic manufacture.
The long winter evenings in the farmer's house
were delightful. More healthy and happy faces I
have never seen. Yet there was perfect order.


For the parents, who commanded respect, were
always seated among the children. And in he
corner, in the warmest place, was the silver-haired
grandmother, with her clean cap, who was counted
as an oracle.
The father, or his sons, read aloud such works
as mingle entertainment with instruction. The
females listened with interest, or made remarks
with animation, though their busy hands directed
the flight of the needle, or made the stocking grow.
The quiet hum of the flax-wheel was held no in-
terruption to the scene, or to the voice of the
The neighbour coming in, was greeted with a
cordial welcome, and a simple hospitality. Rows
of ruddy apples, roasted before the fire, and various
nuts from their own forest trees, were an appro-
priate treat for the social winter evening, where
heart opened to heart.
Sometimes the smaller children clustered around
the grandmother's chair, begging her for a story.
She told them of the days when she was young
like them, and of the changes that her life had
known. Especially, she loved to tell of the lessons
of her parents, and of the obedience with which
she regarded them.
They taught me," said she, "to work, and
not to be ashamed of industry. I had a com-
panion, about my own age, who once spent a few
months ata city boarding-school. When she came
home, it was observed that she was ashamed to be
seen doing the same useful things, by which the
family were supported.
Her mother directed her to go and milk the
favourite cow, which she had so long been accus-
tomed to do before she went to school, that it was
called her own. While she was doing it, a neigh-
bour came into the barn-yard, and she was so much
afraid of being seen, that she hid her head under
the cow till she was almost smothered.

"Whenever my mother thought I was not
pleased with humble occupations, or plain clothing,
she would say, Child, don't hide your head under
the cow.' And this made me so much ashamed,
that I willingly did whatever she thought best.
And now, children, never be ashamed of honest
industry, for it is more foolish than to hide your
heads under a cow in a warm day."
Thus, by simple stories, would she instruct them
in the various duties of life. Especially would she
warn them to fear God, and keep his command-
ments. At the stated hour of retiring, a sweet and
solemn hymn, in which every voice joined, gave
praise to the Almighty Preserver.
Then the great Bible, taken from the place
where it was carefully kept, was laid before the
father of the family. He reverently read a portion
from its sacred pages, and then in prayer com-
mitted his beloved household to the care of Him
who never slumbers.
During my visit to this well-regulated family, I
was often led to reflect on the peculiar advantages
of a farmer's lot. He is the possessor of true inde-
pendence. Sheltered from those risks and re-
verses, which in crowded cities await those who
make haste to be rich, he feels that patient in-
dustry will ensure a competent support for himself
and family.
His children are a part of his wealth. They are
a capital, whose value increases every year that
they remain with him. If he incurs misfortune,
they join and help him out, instead of hanging
round his neck like millstones, to sink him into
deeper waters.
The habits which prevail in his family, the do-
mestic industry, the love of home, the order and
simplicity cherished there from ancient times, pro-
mote the true excellence of the female character.
Many of our most illustrious men have been the
sons of farmers, and traced the elements of their

distinction to the hardihood and discipline of agri-
cultural nurture.
During my visit to this happy family, when I
looked round upon the healthful faces of its grow-
ing members, their patient diligence, their mode-
rated desires, their cheerful subordination to their
parents, and saw those parents, not wasting their
strength in the idle ceremonies of fashionable life,
but true-hearted and hospitable, independent and
pious-I said, this is the true order of nobility for
a republic, and if the virtue that upholds it should
fly from the pomp of cities, she will be found shel-
tered in safety and honour, amid the farm houses
of our land.


WHEN Greece was passing through the revolution,
by which it gained freedom from the Turkish yoke,
great pity was felt in the United States, for the
sufferings of its inhabitants. Especially was the
sympathy of our females excited, for the miseries
that the war brought upon their own sex.
They were represented in continual terror of
their Turkish oppressors, often forced from their
own homes, scarcely clothed, and wretchedly feed-
ing, with their children, upon the snails and meagre
herbage of the barren mountains whither they were
The letters of Dr. Howe, now the Principal of
the Institution for the Blind, in Boston, powerfully
described their sorrows and their patience. His
residence in Greece had rendered him familiar
with the evils which he related, and his appeal to
the bounty of his native land was not in vain.
Vessels were freighted with provisions and
clothing, and trusty agents sent out to distribute
them. Not only in the larger cities, but in the

villages of our country, the spirit of benevolence
was awake and active. The cry of Greece seemed
to enter into every ear.
Donations were given. Contributions were ga-
thered. Ladies formed societies, and consulted how
the money thus collected might be best disposed of
for the benefit of Greece. Even the poor believed
that they had a garment to spare, and brought it
with tears for the poorer women of Greece.
Cloth was purchased, and garments cut out, for
those of every age, from the infant to the hoary-
headed. The little girls from the schools forgot to
play on their holidays, and sat down to work for
the children of Greece.
Ladies of the greatest wealth plied their needles
industriously, that the unfortunate Greeks might
be clothed. Their servants also came, offering a
part of their wages. They sat down by their side,
working for the same charity.
It was like one great sisterhood, in which narrow
distinctions were forgotten. Such was the spirit
of harmony breathed into every heart, it would
seem that we were debtors to the Greeks, and not
they to us. It was the happiness of benevolence.
There is no other like it.
The little ones partook of it, and their smile
was brighter, while they learned the luxury of
doing good. Their voices were tender and sweet,
as they said to each other, Greece hungered, and
we gave her food; she was naked, and we clothed
In one of the cities of New England, when the
boxes of apparel and the barrels of provisions were
rrady to be sent, it was suggested that a letter
should accompany them. One was accordingly
written, and translated into modern Greek.
It was received and read by those desolate
women with the weeping of joy. And it affords a
lesson to those who have nothing else to give, that
the kind words of affectionate sympathy are balm

to the afflicted heart. Here is a copy of the letter
to the females of Greece.
"HARTFORD, Cony., March 12, 182.
SISTERS AND FRIENDS,-From our years of
childhood, the land of your birth has been the
theme of our admiration. With our brothers and
husbands, we early learned to love the country of
Hlrmer and of Solon, of Aristides and Herodotus,
of Socrates and of Plato.
That enthusiasm which the glory of ancient
Greece enkindled in our bosoms, has kept alive a
fervent friendship for her children. We have seen
with deep sympathy the horrors of Turkish domi-
nation, and the struggle so long and nobly sus-
tained, for existence and for liberty.
The communications of Dr. Howe, since his re-
turn from your afflicted clime, have made us more
intimately acquainted with your personal suffer-
ings. His vivid descriptions have presented you
to us, seeking refuge in caves and dens of the
earth, listening in terror for the footsteps of the
destroyer, or mourning over your dearest ones
slain in battle.
Sisters and friends, our hearts bleed for you.
Deprived of parents and protectors by the fortune
of war, and continually in fear of evils worse than
death, our prayers are with you, in all your wan-
derings, your wants, and your woes.
In this vessel (which may God send in safety to
your shores) you will receive a portion of that
bounty with which he hath blessed us. The poor
among us have contributed according to their
abilities. Our children have added their gifts and
their industry, that your children might have
bread to eat, and raiment to put on.
Could you but have seen the faces of our little
ones brighten, and their eyes sparkle with joy, as
they gave up their holiday sports, that they might
work with their needles for Greece,-could you

have beheld those females who earn a subsistence
by labour, gladly casting a mite into your trea-
sury, or taking hours from their repose, that you
might have an additional garment,--could you
have witnessed the active benevolence inspiring
every class of our community, it would cheer for a
moment the darkness and misery of your lot.
Inhabitants, as we are, of a part of one of the
smallest of the United States, our donations must
of necessity be more limited than those from the
larger and more wealthy cities. But such as we
have, we give in the name of the dear Saviour,
with our blessings and our prayers.
We know the value of sympathy, how it girds
the heart to bear, how it plucks the sting from sor-
row. Therefore we have written these few lines
to assure you, that in the remote parts of our
country, as well as in her high places, you are re-
membered with pity and wiih love.
Sisters and friends,-we extend across the ocean
our hands to you, in the fellowship of Christ. We
pray that his cross, and the banner of your land,
may together rise above the crescent and the
minaret,-that your sons may hail the freedom of
ancient Greece restored, and build :, :ain the waste
places which the oppressor hath trodden down,-
and that you, admitted once more to the felicities
of home, may gather from past perils and adver-
sities, a brighter wreath for the kingdom of


A BABE lay in its cradle. A being with bright
hair, and a clear eye, came and kissed it. Her
name was Hope. Its nurse denied it a cake, for
which it cried; but Hope told it of one in store for
it to-morrow. Its little sister gave it a flower, at

which it clapped its hands joyfully, and Hope pro-
mised it fairer ones, which it should gather for
The babe grew to a boy. He was musing at
the summer twilight. Another being, with a sweet,
serious face, came and sat by him. Her name was
Memory. And she said, Look behind thee, and
tell me what thou seest."
The boy answered, I see a short path, bordered
with flowers. Butterflies spread out gay wings
there, and birds sing among the shrubs. It seems
to be the path where my feet have walked, for at
the beginning of it is my own cradle."
"What art thou holding in thy hand?" asked
Memory. And he answered, a book which my
mother gave me." "Come hither," said Memory,
with a gentle voice, and I will teach thee how to
get honey out of it, that shall be sweet, when thy
hair is gray."
The boy became a youth. Once, as he lay in
his bed, Hope and Memory came to the pillow.
Hope sang a merry song, like the lark when she
rises from the nest to the skies. Afterwards, she
said, "Follow me, and thou shalt have music in
thy heart, as sweet as the lay I sung thee."
But Memory said, "He shall be mine also.
Hope, why need we contend? For as long as he
keepeth Virtue in his heart, we will be to him as
sisters, all his life long." So, he embraced Hope
and Memory, and was beloved of them both.
When he awoke, they blessed him, and he gave
a hand to each. He became a man, and Hope
girded him every morning for his labour, and
every night he supped at the table of Memory, with
Knowledge for their guest.
At length, age found the man, and turned his
temples white. To his dim eye, it seemed that the
world was an altered place. But it was he him-
self who had changed, and the warm blood had
grown cold in his veins.

Memory looked on him with grave and tender
eyes, like a loving and long-tried friend. She sat
down by his elbow-chair, and he said to her,
'* Thou hast not kept faithfully some jewels that I
entrusted to thee. I fear that they are lost."
She answered mournfully and meekly, It may
be so. The lock of my casket is worn. Sometimes
I am weary, and fall asleep. Then Time purloins
my key. But the gems that thou gavest me when
lite was new, see I I have lost none of them. They
are as brilliant as when they first came into my
Memory looked pitifully on him, as she ceased
to speak, wishing to be forgiven. But Hope began
to unfold a radiant wing which she had long worn
concealed beneath her robe, and daily tried its
strength in a heavenward flight.
The old man lay down to die. And as the soul
went forth from the body, the angels took it. Me-
mory ascended by its side, and went through the
open gate of heaven. But Hope paused at the
threshold. There she expired, like a rose faintly
giving forth its last odours.
A glorious form bent over her. Her name was
Immortal Happiness. Hope commended to her
the soul, which she had followed through the world.
"Religion," she said, planted in it such seeds as
bear the fruit of heaven. It is tline forever."
Her dying words were like the music of some
breaking harp, mournful but sweet. And I heard
the voices of angels saying, Hope that is born of
the earth must die, but Memory is eternal, as the
books from which men are judged."


THOSE who conduct important trades, or laborious
manufactories, prefer such assistants as possess

bodily vigour, and can endure fatigue. Some
occupations, it is necessary to continue during a
part of the night Yet even the strongest labourers
cannot long bear this system, unless they take ad-
ditional sleep during the day. Did you ever hear
of labourers who never slept? And yet-there are
two such. They labour for you.
Say you, that you have never seen such labour-
ers? Yet they propel the most curious machinery
for your benefit. Listen can you not hear them
at their work? Their workshop is within you.
Look, and see what there is about you, that does
not need repose. The hands are obliged to rest
from their toil. The limbs stretch themselves out,
and relax their wearied muscles. The strained
eye closes upon its tasks. The ear shuts up its
The thinking brain retires within its curtained
cells. The tongue ceases to do the bidding of the
soul. The head seeks its pillow, and the strong
man lies as powerless as the nursing-babe. But
these two sleepless labourers remit not their toil.
They complain of no weariness. They accept of
no relaxation. They stand upon the wall of life
sentinels who never put off their armour, watch-
men who are never relieved.
Other labourers require supervision. The mer-
chant holds his clerk accountable, and the master
his servant. The head manufacturer has an eye
to his machinery, the farmer goes to the field with
his men, the teacher is watchful that his rules may
be brought to bear upon his scholars. The hand
depends for its dictates upon the ruling mind; the
foot, like an erranri-boy, waits its orders where to
go; the eye and the ear gather into its garners.
The sleepless labourers trouble the mind for no
directions. They require not to be told what their
work is, or to be questioned whether they have
done it. It is the custom to reward with increased
wages, those servants who perform severe labour,

and to give high salaries to such agents as fill diffi-
cult and responsible stations. What payment is
accorded to these labourers, who wake and work
while we sleep, without whose aid we are not able
to draw a single breath ?
I grieve to say, that the fashion of our sex has
dealt hardly by them. She seems not to have ap-
preciated their services. She impedes them in
their mysterious toil. She binds them with tight
ligatures, so that they do their work in pain.
Sometimes they even faint and sicken at her
cruelty. You will, ere this, have discovered that
the indefatigable servants of whom we have spoken,
are the Heart and Lungs.
I think I hear you say, with an honest warmth,
that these sleepless labourers shall be better treated;
that the lungs, which blow the bellows of life, and
the heart, which feeds it with fuel, till the ice of
death comes, shall not be painfully compressed by
the busk, or fettered by the corset. It is undoubt-
edly possible to hold yourselves erect, without
bringing hurtful engines to bear upon the seat of
vitality. Would it not be a noble resolution to
undertake to do so?
We shudder, when we think how frequently the
slightest injury to the lungs proves fatal; how soon
death enters, when their most delicate air-valves
are broken. We think with wonder of the force
with which the heart operates, sending continually
the whole mass of blood to the smallest veins, and
the most remote arteries, working at the rate of
one hundred thousand strokes every twenty-four
hours, and continuing this sleepless labour, some-
times for eighty or ninety years, without wearing
out. Shall we dare to embarrass these agents of
Almighty power?
The slightest ligatures are capable of troubling
these faithful labourers. How dangerous then
must be the tight-lacing which is sometimes so
rashly hazarded. Not the lungs and the heart

alone are thus injured. The stomach is oppressed
in its important task of digestion, the brain clouded
by obstructed circulation, and irregular transmis-
sion of blood, and the spine perverted from its
great purpose of giving stability to the frame.
We counted the Turks as barbarians, when they
broke down the sculptured columns of the Greeks,
and destroyed those works of art, which for ages
had been admired. What shall they be called, who
deface the architecture of their Maker? If he has
placed in the recesses of this clay temple, servants
to whom he has committed a wonderful work for
our benefit, if he has commanded them to labour
without sleep, without wages, without troubling
us for orders, and to be as symbols of his own
untiring care-shall we arrest their progress? tie
them up at their posts? compel them to toil in pain ?
do all in our power to frustrate their fidelity and
his benevolence?
We will not do this, though it be the fashion.
These sleepless labourers shall not be incommoded
by us. The Giver of our breath shall not thus be
mocked. The blood which he has poured into our
veins, shall flow freely in the channels which he
hath ordained. It shall not be forced by our rash-
ness, to burst its flood-gates, or to be imprisoned
in its citadel, or to stir up the brain to mutiny and
We will not, though others do it, obstruct the
free action of the lungs, or press upon the heart,
in its mysterious laboratory. We dare not in-
terrupt the intricate and exquisite machinery of
God. We are afraid to do so, lest He who is the
Former of our bodies, the Father of our spirits,
should make his abused goodness the instrument
of our punishment, and bid the ill-treated organs
take vengeance on us, and the sleepless labourers
become our foes, and shorten the life they were at
first appointed to guard.



THE uses of salt are various. You all know that
it improves the taste of food, that it helps to pre-
serve meat from putrefaction, and is favourable to
health. It is also used in the fusion of metals, in
the manufacture of glass, and sometimes to quicken
the fertility of cold and barren soils.
It is agreeable to domestic animals. It is espe-
cially salutary to those that feed on grass. The
careful farmer gives it statedly to his flocks and
herds. It is pleasing to see the sheep and the
cows, the oxen and horses, each eagerly receiving
their portion of what seems the dessert to their
simple meal.
Wild animals discover where the earth is im-
pregnated with salt. There they gather in throngs,
to taste the luxury. In our Western States, there
are multitudes of such spots, which are called
licks. Thither also the hunters repair, and lie in
wait for their prey.
In eastern countries, lions imitate this cunning
of the hunters. Fountains are there scarce, and
they make their dens in marshy places, to seize
tile animals who resort thither to drink. This
was so often the case in Palestine, that some of
the Hebrew poets called the lion, the wild beast
of the reeds." There, like the hunter at the salt-
licks, he lay crouched in his lair, and when the
' hart came panting for the water-brooks," or
other feeble animals hasted to quench their thirst,
he was ready to devour them.
Since salt is so necessary to man, the Creator
has distributed it with a liberal hand. It mingles
with seas and oceans-it rises in the form of
rocks-it is found in mines-it covers, for miles,
the surface of some regions-it breaks forth in
briny fountains from the bosom of the earth.
IRock salt is sometimes of a pure white, and some-


times variously coloured. In Africa, are many
mountains of entire salt. In the kingdom of
Tunis, is one composed of red and violet colour.
Great masses of solid salt, cover the summit of
mountains which bound the desert on the west of
There is a village in Spain, situated at the base
of a rock of salt, five hundred feet in height, and a
league in circumference. Most of this is white,
though some is of a fine blue. At Halle, in the
Tyrol, are ranges of salt-rocks, worked by means
of galleries cut into them.
Historians have said that dwellings were anci-
ently built of rock-salt in Lybia. They are still
found in Arabia, and other parts of the globe. In
the vast salt-mines of Poland, houses and chapels
exist, and when illuminated by torches have a
magnificent appearance. You remember the pa-
lace of ice built by an Empress of Russia, which
was so brilliant when the lamps were lighted in
the evening.
The salt-mines, near Cracow in Poland, have
been wrought for six hundred years, and still pro-
duce six thousand tons annually. The excava-
tions extend for miles, and near two thousand
labourers are employed there. Different parts of
the Carpathian mountains, and of Siberia, are also
rich in veins of salt.
The mines of Salzburg, in Austria, are more
than a thousand feet in depth. Their subterranean
expanse is dazzling with crystals of the most bril-
liant hues, and, now and then, the waters of a lake,
where boats conveying visitants glide, sparkle in
the torchlight, as if overhung by a fret-work of
Salt is scattered in masses, over America and
Asia, as well as over Africa and Europe. Innu-
merable fountains of brine spring up throughout
the globe, whence salt is manufactured for the
inhabitants, and for commerce. Many parts of the

United States are rich in these. You have doubt-
less heard of the very productive ones at Salina, in
the State of New York.
Salt is a source of revenue in various regions.
The Emperor of Austria is said to derive 100.000
annually from his mines of salt. There are various
ways of preparing it, from sea-water, from salt-
lakes, and springs. It is sometimes boiled, and
sometimes made in the open air by solar evapora-
Bay-salt is what is made by the heat of the sun.
It is of two kinds; the first drawn from sea-water,
the second from springs or lakes. Marine-salt is
extracted from the water of the sea by boiling.
Fishery-salt is made by slow evaporation, and is
known by its large and coarse crystals.
The white salt of Normandy, has been quite a
source of gain to France. It is prepared by suf-
fering the rising tide to flow into reservoirs, where,
after partial evaporation, it filters through straw
into vessels placed for it. It is then boiled, with
continual stirring, and purified by draining through
large osier baskets.
But, my dear young friends, I think I hear you
say, Was not the title of this essay Sunday-salt?
We have been told of rock-salt, and bay-salt, and
marine-salt, and fishery-salt, and the white-salt of
Normandy, but not a word about what we expected
to hear described. Now what can Sunday-salt
mean ?" I am just going to tell you.
I was once attending the lectures of a professor
who, among other means of acquiring information,
had travelled in Europe. He said, that when he
was in Scotland, he observed what might often be
seen in his own country, that the salt obtained by
the action of fire, instead of the heat of the sun,
was sometimes injured by haste in the process.
By a too rapid evaporation, many foreign and
earthy substances are apt to be left behind. In

Scotland, the manufacturers of salt continue their
labours until twelve on Saturday night. They
then kindle a large fire under it, and retire to their
The crystallization going on more slowly than
usual during the Sabbath, those impurities which
cause bitterness, are separated and exhaled. The
material thus elaborated, is of superior excellence.
It commands a higher price in the market, and is
sold by the name of Sunday-sat.
After I had heard the learned professor's de-
scription of Sunday-salt, it occurred to me that we
might make it ourselves, though in a different
way. The cares and pursuits of the week some-
times, like fierce fires, overheat the soul, and
render it turbid. Might we not so avoid them,
one day in seven, and so cultivate different trains
of thought, as to have Sunday-salt of our own?
If we take the time which God reserves to him-
self for our own employments-if, like the unbe-
lieving Israelites, we go forth to gather our daily
food on the Sabbath-what we consider gain will
prove a mixture of trouble. It will be like what
our blessed Saviour calls, salt that has lost its
savour; wherewith shall it be salted ?"
The Almighty hath said, remember the Sab-
bath-day to keep it holy." We cannot disobey
him and be happy. We cannot sweep manna
from the earth on this consecrated season, and
prosper. But we may make Sunday-salt, in the
laboratory of a meek and prayerful spirit.
May we not carry with us throughout the week,
this Sunday-salt, to purify our lives and conversa-
tion ? It may sometimes be in danger of dissolving
in the humid atmosphere of the planet that we in-
habit. But may we not preserve it in the casket
of a watchful soul? Let us try.
Can we sell our Sunday-salt. Yes; at the gate
of heaven. The saints who have entered there,

" through much tribulation," will tell you that it
was the puritying principle in the rough sea of life.
Angels know its value-it will bring the gold of

WHAT flights does the imagination take during the
hours of sleep! While the body slumbers, she
climbs the cliff, or hangs over the abyss, or poises
her pinion on the storm-cloud, or robes herself with
the rainbow, and listens at the gate of heaven.
Sometimes she takes memory with her, dragging
her along, like a half-wakened companion.
Then distant friends are brought near. The lost
return 1:om the dead. The scenes of early days
are retouched, and buried feelings kindle anew in
the heart. Still, memory performs her office im-
perfectly, and reluctant to be withdrawn from sleep,
relapses into it again. Then, unbridled fancy re-
vels alone, and so bold and bright are her visions,
that the waking eye would fain prolong them, and
wishes to turn from the tame reality of life.
Some hold it trifling and visionary, to speak of
dreams. But, because they have been abused by
superstition and ignorance, are they never to be
approached with clear and rational thought? They
occupy a formidable portion of our little span of
life. They are sources of pleasure or of pain.
Dreams sometimes cast their shadows over our
waking hours. Our feelings through the day may
partake of their coloring. We rise from frightful
visions exhausted as by positive labour or suffer-
ing. If there is any regimen which will modify
their character, and give them the aspect of happi-
ness, it would be desirable to know it.
Is it of no consequence whether we are to spend
a third part of our lives in the midst of fancied ter-
rors, or of delightful imagery? Whether we are

to be borne on airy wings over varied regions, re-
joicing in their beauty, and holding converse with
the lovely and beloved? or, whether we are to
shiver among nameless dangers, harassed by fright-
ful spectres, and startled by fiery clouds above, and
an impassable gulf below ?
Do not consider dreams altogether as idle vaga-
ries of the brain. Respect them, and they will be
your friends. But I hear you ask, is there really
any way of procuring pleasant dreams? I have
heard those who were wiser than myself say there
was; and I should like to give you some ancient
rules, which have been recommended as means of
insuring them.
1st. Preserve equanimity of temper. Indulge,
during the day, in no angry, envious, or vengeful
feeling. Do not disturb or quicken the current of
blood through the heart, by any violent emotion.
A regular pulse, and a calm, even circulation of
blood and spirits, are favourable both to pleasant
dreams and to longevity.
2d. Avoid compression in dress. Let the lungs
and heart, the stomach and spine, be unfettered to
perform the functions appointed by their Creator.
To tie up labourers, and then exact their services,
resembles the unjust and cruel policy of ancient
Egypt, in demanding brick without straw.
3d. Be temperate in all things. Permit nothing
to pass into your stomach which is calculated to
disorder it. Avoid high-seasoned meats, rich
sauces, unripe fruits, and stimulating drinks.
Even of plain and proper food do not take an un-
due quantity, but desist before the appetite is fully
satiated. Some judicious physicians direct that
nothing should be eaten between meals, or after
the regular supper. Remember that the stomach
is the key-stone of the frame, and do not abuse it,
for this cannot be long done with impunity.
4th. Have your sleeping-room pure and well
ventilated. Air it every morning after rising, and

84 DREAiS.

strip the clothes from your bed for some time be-
fore it is made. Perform, when possible, a general
ablution, before retiring, that the pores of the skin
may be unchecked in their important office during
sleep. If you can do nothing more, wash your
face, hands, and neck, and comb your hair. Let
your position be unconstrained, when you rellgn
yourself to sleep, and your face entirely uncovered,
and a free circulation of air secured in the apart-
5t1. Be kind, affectionate, and benevolent, to
those with whom you associate. Do all the good
in your power. Preserve cheerfulness of spirits,
voice, and manner. Keep a conscience void of
offence towards God and towards man." The hap-
piness of dreams will repay your efforts.
6th. If aught evil has been harboured in your
bosom throughout the day, cast it forth ere you
sleep, by penitence and prayer. Lay your head on
your pillow, at peace with all the world. Close
your eyes with a smile on your countenance, and
resign yourself to the spirit of sweet C.reams, and
to the ministry of angels.
Do not lightly condemn these rules, my dear
young friends, though they may seem antiquated.
Test them for one year, before you decide against
them. Then, if you should find that they fail in
producing such dreams as you desire, you will be
convinced that they help to confer the mole durable
treasure of a good life.
One more thought about dreams. Do they not
help to prove the soul's immortality? Its clay
companion is weary, and lies down to rest. But
with a tireless strength it wakes, it wanders, it ex-
patiates, it soars. Thus sleep, which has been
called the brother of death," brings us proof that
we're to live for ever.
Glorious truth I breathed to us in dreams, as well
as written upon the pages of inspiration. We are
to live for ever. Though we seem to be swallowed


up in the grave, we shall rise again. May we so
keep God's commandments, that our eternal abode
shall be in those mansions where there is no more
sleep, because there can be no weariness or wo,
and where the brightest dream of earth's prompt-
ing fades in darkness before the full and fearless
certainty of bliss.


Two little girls, whose names were Emma and
Ann, lived near each other, and attended the same
school. They were frequently together, and their
parents encouraged the intimacy. In winter, they
might often be seen leading each other through the
snow, and in summer cultivating the little spot of
ground that was allowed them. As the gardens of
their fathers were divided only by a slight fence,
they could easily converse, or exchange the flowers
that they reared.
Their parents wished to give them a good edu-
cation, and sent them to the best schools that the
place afforded. Both were anxious to excel in
their studies, but Emma acquired knowledge with
far greater ease than her companion. She quickly
comprehended a new subject, and readily com-
mitted long lessons to memory. Confidence in her
own powers gave her promptness of manner, and
she was invariably distinguished at all public ex-
Ann learned slowly, and was diffident. She was
sometimes silent, through fear of being wrong,
and made her friends ashamed of her appearance of
ignorance. She would plod for hours over her
appointed tasks, and often return home her eyts
swollen with weeping, at having missed in the reci-
tations. Her mother once said to her, "I am dis-
tressed at seeing you so unhappy. You have nut

the capacity of Emma, and must be willing to see
her take a higher rank than yourself.
But I will give you a recipe, which, if it can-
not procure for you brilliant talents, will aid you
to make the best use of such as are entrusted to
you. When you attempt anything difficult, say,
' I willpersevere,' and ask assistance of your Father
in heaven. Thank him for the gifts of reason and
understanding, and entreat him for a heart to love
your friend as sincerely when she excels you, as
at any other time: for you cannot expect to make
progress in a good cause, if your spirits are agitated,
or envious at another's success."
The little girl kissed her mother, and promised
to obey her directions. That night, after she was
in bed, she reflected so much upon them, that
although she had as usual said her prayers, she
arose, and again kneeling, implored strength to
persevere. Now, when her tasks were difficult,
she no longer wept, but by patient study and
laborious repetition, endeavoured to conquer
them. It was not long before her improvement
was obvious, both to her instructor and associates.
Strict mental discipline gave her an interesting
deportment, while the consciousness that she pos-
sessed no genius of which to boast, guarded her
humility. At length, a difficult Latin lesson was
assigned to her class. It contained many words
to be sought out in the dictionary, and much idiom
and transposition. The recitation was to be im-
mediately on entering the school in the morning,
and those who sustained it without mistake, were
to be rewarded by commencing the study of Vir-
gil. The others were to review an elementary
Ann's heart died within her, as she heard Emma
exclaim, Pray, appoint us a longer lesson. This
will be no trial at all. It will not occupy me half
an hour." But Emma had begun to feel the pride
of talents. She had been praised by her friends


more than was prudent. She had begun to remit
her efforts, and to fancy that her reputation as a
scholar was established.
The evening in which the lesson was to be
learned her mother had company. She found it
pleasant to sit with them, as they applauded her
remarks and said she had a great deal ot wit. Her
mother thought she detected some pertness in her
conversation, and advised her to go to her book.
But she excused herself till the morning. When
morning came, having retired later than usual, she
did not feel like rising early, and then in a great
hurry, and half dressed, hastened to her lesson.
Now, though Emma was blessed with a very
quick perception, she had but little patience.
When anything really difficult occurred in her
lessons, she was very apt to throw them by, or to
prevail on her father to assist her. But he was
now absent. With dismay. she now heard the
clock strike for school, while she was yet unpre-
pared. Hasting along, with her hat and shawl
half on, dropping first one glove, then the other,
and studying all the way down the street, she fre-
quently stumbled, and once fell entirely down.
She took her seat in the class with a beating
heart, but determined to put the best face on the
matter. One or two hesitations, she managed to
pass off with her usual address, but just as her
spirits were beginning to rise with the hope of
victory, she made several absolute and prominent
mistakes. The truth was, that notwithstanding
her fine talents, she was not a thorough scholar.
She valued herself upon her rapid translations,
but in grammatical accuracy, was inferior to many
whose want of genius she ridiculed.
Covering her face with her hands, she burst into
tears. All hope of being raised to a higher class,
was for that time swept away. But what irritated
her feelings, even more than her own defeat, was
to hear Ann giving her answers with entire cor-

rectness and precision, and finally to see her in-
eluded in the honorary band. Complaining of a
headache, she hastened home, and when Ann, in
her kindness and simplicity of heart, called to ask
after her health, she could scarcely bring her
mind to speak to her, so bitter was her disappoint-
Now, when Ann, the preceding evening, had
gone from school with her dreaded lesson, she at
first felt disposed to weep. But recollecting her
promise to her mother, she said, I will persevere."
She scarcely staid for supper, so much did she
fear that the allotted time would be insufficient
for her slow mind. Her mother, perceiving how
intensely she laboured, said, "I should wish to
assist you, dear Ann, were I acquainted with the
language in which you study. Yet this would
only be doing you an injury. Strength of mind
comes from vanquishing obstacles, and knowledge
painfully gained, is not easily lost."
The little girl, looking meekly up, answered, I
think God will help me to persevere." She wished
to sit up very late, but her mother forbade it, on
account of her eyes. So, she laid her books under
her pillow, and with the day-light resumed her
studies. Many difficulties occurred in the lesson,
but she reflected as she went to school, that she
had done all in her power to overcome them, and
that this would comfort her, if she lost the desired
When she found herself among the fortunate
band, she felt surprised, as well as delighted, and
thanked in her heart Him who had helped her to
persevere. But Emma's pride was so much hurt,
that it affected her friendship, and sometimes when
she saw Ann coming to meet her, would turn away,
and whisper to some of her companions, that "tie
dull expression of that girl's face, made her shock-
ingly nervous."
The appointed time now approached for a recita-

tion of poetry and dialogue, to which their teacher
had given them permission to invite their parents
and a few friends. Here Emma consoled herself
with the hope of a complete triumph over Ann.
Pursuits that required little labour, she was very
willing to undertake. For this exhibition, she
anxiously prepared, and her fine elocution and
confident manners, attracted admiring attention,
while her diffident friend was wholly undistin-
Ann joined with so much good humour and sin-
cerity in the praises of her friend, that Emma for-
got her coldness, and harmony was again restored..
During the whole of her continuance at school, she
continued to excel in those accomplishments which
tend to display, and to avoid the studies which re-
quired application. The advances which she made,
though sometimes great, were irregular, and the
promise which she had prematurely given, was
but imperfectly fulfilled.
Ann, who early acquired the name of a dull
scholar, carefully treasured her laborious gains,
and through perseverance, surpassed all expecta-
tion. A premium was offered for the greatest pro-
ficiency in arithmetic and geometry. I am sure
of it," thought Emma, for I have been so long in
algebra, that such simple studies are but A B C to
me." So, by a few occasional efforts, she would
distance all competitors, and then suffer her mind
to be amused with trifles, or to relapse into indo-
But the prize was to be obtained by the strictly-
computed improvement of several months, and not
by a few desultory performances. So, sh. was
appointed to see it won by the indefatigable Alfn
with the high approbation of her instructor. She
consoled herself under the disappointment, by say-
ing, that "the premium was no criterion of talent,
but merely given to encourage the plodders of the
school, among whom she had not the least ambi-
tion to appear."

Ann, by following the judicious directions of her
mother, at length attained a highly respectable
rank in all her studies. When she left school, she
carried with her the same perseverance which had
been there so serviceable. She had been taught
that education was valuable, not merely for the
knowledge it imparts, but for the habits of mind it
creates, and the principles of action it confirms, and
she endeavoured to prove in domestic life, that
hers had not been in vain.
It was her pleasure to sit with her work-basket
or book, by the side of her widowed mother, cheer-
ing her solitary hours. But Emma soon became
so absorbed in gay and fashionable amusements,
that useful employment was irksome. She said,
'- she thanked her stars, she was blessed with suffi-
cient sense not to be a mope while she was young."
When she married, it was her ambition to make
a showy appearance. Rational economy, she had
neither patience to study, nor self-control to prac-
tise. It involved such petty details, that it seemed
to her beneath the notice of a liberal and refined
intellect. The regulation of her children's temper
and character was sadly neglected, from 'that dis-
position to avoid trouble which she had long in-
When faults were disclosed that required imme-
diate attention, she was too prone to put them
aside, as she did her difficult lessons at school. She
complained of them as too troublesome for her to
contend with, or comforted herself with the indo-
lent hope, that "all would come right at last."
But it was not long ere she was constrained to say,
that "if she was to bring up another family, her
first course would be to teach them that order, in-
dustry, and perseverance, which she had herself
never learned."
In a few years after their marriage, the affairs
of her husband became seriously embarrassed.
Then she was greatly astonished and distressed.

She was too helpless to do anything for his relief.
With the science that prevents the wasteful ex-
penditure of servants, provides for the comfort,
ut not profusion of a table, or prolongs the exist-
ence of a wardrobe, she was wholly unacquainted.
Of these habits of persevering industry, which
she had ridiculed in her friend Ann, she now felt
the need. How often did she lament her early
neglect of that application and self-control which,
in woman's sphere of duty, are more valuable than
those talents which dazzle, and demand admiration
as their daily food.
But Ann found the discipline to which she had
been subjected in childhood an excellent prepara-
tion for domestic duty. When she encountered
difficulties, she was not dismayed. She knew in
whom she had trusted, and that He would aid her
to persevere. The fortune of her husband was not
large. But by a consistent economy, she was able
to secure every comfort, and to remember the
It was now a matter of less consequence, than
when at school, which of the two ladies could boast
of the quickest perception or the most brilliant in-
tellect; but it was clear to every observer, whose
house was the seat of the greatest order, comfort,
and happiness. Ann still felt a sincere interest in
the welfare of her early friend Emma, and visited
her as often as was in her power, seeking to extend
encouragement, or to impart sympathy.
Ann's widowed mother had become infirm, and
given up her own house, to reside with her. This
excellent daughter had no higher pleasure than to
study her wishes, and try to repay a small part of
the debtof gratitude, incurred in infancy and child-
hood. Often would she say, with an affectionate
smile, If there is any good thing in me, I owe it
to your counsel, and to His grace who enabled me
to persevere."
And when the old lady, with her silver locks

shading her venerable temples, bending from her
e:asy-chair, would tell her listening grandchildren,
by what means their dear mother became all that
was excellent, the little creatures, gathering closer
to her side, would say, with affecting earnestness,
" We, too, will learn to persevere."


IT is a pity that females should ever be brought up
in a helpless manner. It is a still greater pity,
when they think it not respectable to be indus-
trious; for then principles, as well as habit, have
become perverted. They ought to feel that their
endowments qualify them for activity, and their
duty demands it.
Our sex should begin, while young, to take an
interest in the concerns of the family, and daily to
do something for its comfort. They should come
promptly and cheerfully to the aid of the mother in
her cares. They should inform themselves of the
amount of the yearly expenses of the household,
and keep an accurate account of their own.
Why should young girls bewilling to be drones
in the domestic hive? In several families of the
highest respectability, the daughters supply by
their own industry, the resources of their charity.
This they do not from necessity, but because it is
pleasant to them, that their gifts to the poor should
.be the fruit of their own earnings.
No female should consider herself educated, until
she is mistress of some employment or accomplish-
ment, by which she might gain a livelihood, should
she be reduced to the necessity of supporting her-
s5lf. The ancient Jews had a proverb, that whn-
ever brought a child up without a trade, bound it
apprentice to vice.
Who can tell how soon they may be compelled


to do something for their own maintenance. How
many families, by unexpected reverses, are reduced
from affluence to poverty. How pitiful and con-
temptible, on such occasions, to see females help-
less, desponding, and embarrassing those whom it
is their duty to cheer and aid.
"I have lost my whole fortune," said a merchant,
as he returned one evening to his home. We
can no longer ride in our carriage; we must leave
this large house. The children can no longer go
to expensive schools. What we are to do for a
living I know not. Yesterday, I was a rich man.
To-da, there is nothing left that I can call my
Dear husband," said the wife, "we are still
rich in each other, and our children. Money may
pass away, but God has given us a better treasure
in these active hands, and loving hearts." "Dear
father," said the little children, do not look so
sober. We will help you to get a living."
"What can you do, poor things?" said he.
" You shall see, you shall see," answered several
cheerful voices. It is a pity, if we have been to
school for nothing. How can the father of eight
healthy children be poor? We shall work and
make you rich again."
I shall help," said the youngest girl, hardly
four years old. I will not have any new frock
bought, and I shall sell my great wax doll." The
heart of the husband and father, which had sunk
in his bosom like a stone, was lifted up. The
sweet enthusiasm of the scene cheered him, and his
nightly prayer was like a song of praise.
He left his stately house. The servants were
dismissed. Pictures, and plate, and rich carpets
and furniture, were sold, and she who had been so
long the mistress of the mansion shed no tear.
"Pay every debt," said she, "let no one suffer
through us, and we may yet be happy."
He took a neat cottage, and a small piece of

ground, a few miles from the city. With the aid
of his sons, he cultivated vegetables for the market.
He viewed with delight and astonishment, the eco-
nomy of his wife, nurtured as she had been in
wealth, and the efficiency which his daughters soon
acquired under her training.
The eldest ones assisted her in the work of the
household, and instructed the younger children.
Besides, they executed various works, which they
had learned as accomplishments, but which they
found could now be disposed of to advantage. They
embroidered with taste, some of the ornamental
parts of female apparel, which were readily sold
to merchants in the city.
They cultivated flowers, and sent bouquets to
market, in the cart that conveyed their vegetables.
They plaited straw, they painted maps, they exe-
cuted plain needlework. Every one was at their
post, busy and cheerful. The cottage was like a
I never enjoyed such health before," said the
father. And I was never as happy before," said
the mother. We never knew how many things
we could do when we lived in the great house,"
said the children, and we love each other a great
deal better here. You call us your little bees, and
I think we make such honey as the heart feeds on."
Economy, as well as industry, was strictly ob-
served. Nothing was wasted. Nothing unneces-
sary was purchased. After a while, the eldest
daughter became assistant teacher in a distin-
guished female seminary, and the second took her
place, as instructress to the family.
The little dwelling, which had always been kept
neat, they were soon able to beautify. Its con-
struction was improved, and vines and flowering-
trees were planted around it. The merchant was
happier under its woodbine-covered porch in a
summer's evening, than he had been in his showy

"*We are now thriving and prosperous," said
he, "shall we return to the city?" "Ahl no,
no!" was the unanimous reply. "Let us remain,"
said the wife, where we have found heath and
contentment." Father," said the younget, all
we children hope you are not going to be rich
For then," she added, "we little ones were
shut up in the nursery, and did not see much of
you or mother. Now, we all live together; and
sister, who loves us, teaches us, and we learn to be
industrious and useful. We were none of us as
happy when we were rich, and did not work. So,
father, please not to be a rich man any more."
The females of other countries sometimes make
far greater exertions than they are accustomed to
do in our own. It would seem that they were
more athletic, and able to endure fatigue. This
may probably arise from their being inured to
more severe exercise, especially those of the poorer
Joanna Martin, the wife of a day-labourer in
England, was left a widow with six small children,
and not a shilling for their support. The parish
officers, perceiving it to be a case of great distress,
offered to take charge of them. But the good
mother resolved to depend only upon the Divine
blessing, and her own industry
The life on which she entered was one of extreme
hardship. She rose at two in the morning, and
after doing what she could to make her little ones
comfortable, walked eight, and sometimes ten miles,
to the market-town, with a basket of pottery-ware
on her head, which she sold, and returned with the
profits before noon.
By this hard labour, and the greatest economy,
she not only gained food and clothing for her chil-
dren, but in the course of a year saved the sum of
about seven dollars. Then, finding herself under
the necessity of quitting the cottage where she had

lived, she formed the resolution of building one for
Every little interval of time, which she could
spare from her stated toils, she devoted to working
upon the tenement which was to shelter her little
ones, and, with the assistance of a good God,"
said she, I was able at last to finish my cottage."
It was small, but comfortable, and might remind
those who saw it of what Cowper calls the peas-
ant's nest."
After several years, Joanna, by persevering in
her industry and prudence, acquired enough to
purchase a cart and a small pony. Now," said
she, with delight, I can carry pottery-ware to
the different towns round about, and drive a pretty
brisk trade, for I begin to feel that I cannot walk
thirty miles a day quite so well as when I was
She lived to advanced age, respected for her
honesty, patient diligence, and maternal virtues.
It was pleasant to observe the self-approbation and
simplicity with which she would say, when quite
old, "To be sure I am not very rich, but what I
have is all of my own getting. I never begged a
halfpenny of any soul. I brought up my six chil-
dren without help from the overseers of the parish,
and can still maintain myself without troubling
them for assistance."
Many instances of the most laudable efforts to
obtain a support, might be mentioned among the
females of our own country. The disposition to be
active in various departments of usefulness, ought
to be encouraged in the young, by those who have
charge of their education. The office of a teacher,
is one of the most respectable and delightful to
which they can aspire.
To instruct others is beneficial to the mind. It
deepens the knowledge which it already possesses,
and quickens it to acquire more. It is beneficial
to the moral habits. It teaches self-control. It

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