SILENT THOUGHT.

On returning from the tailor's, as has been seen, she laid her bundle of work upon the bed, and seated herself with a thoughtful air, resting her head upon her hand. The more she thought, the more she seemed disturbed; and finally arose, and commenced walking the floor slowly. Suddenly pausing, at length, she sighed heavily, and went to the bed upon which lay her work, took it up, unrolled the bundle, and seating herself by the table, entered once more upon her daily toil. But her mind was too much disturbed, from some cause, to permit her to pursue her work steadily. In a little while she laid aside the garment upon which she had begun to sew, and, leaning forward, rested her head upon the table, sighing heavily as she did so, and pressing one hand hard against her side, as if to relieve pain. A tap at the door aroused her from this state of abstraction. As she turned, the door was quietly opened, and the woman she had seen at the tailor's, a short time before, entered. She started to her feet at this unexpected apparition, and gazed, with a look of surprise, inquiry, and hope, upon her visitor.

"Can it be Mrs. Gaston? But no! no!" and the young creature shook her head mournfully.

"Eugenia!" exclaimed Mrs. Gaston, springing forward, and instantly the two were locked in each other's arms, and clinging together with convulsive eagerness.

"But no, no! It cannot be my own Eugenia," said Mrs. Gaston, slowly disengaging herself, and holding the young woman from her, while she read over every feature of her pale, thin face. "Surely I am in a strange dream!"

"Yes, I am your own Eugenia Ballantine! my more than mother! Or, the wreck of her, which a wave of life's ever restless ocean has heaved upon the shore."

"Eugenia Ballantine! How can it be! Lost years ago at sea, how can she be in this room, and in this condition! It is impossible! Andyet you are, you must be, my own dear Eugenia."

"I am! I am!" sobbed the maiden, leaning her head upon the bosom of Mrs. Gaston, and weeping until the tears fell in large drops upon the floor.

"But the sea gives not up its dead," said Mrs. Gaston in a doubting, bewildered tone.

"True—but the sea never claimed me as a victim."

"And your father?"

The maiden's face flushed a moment, while a shade of anguish passed over it.

"At another time, I will tell you all. My mind is now too much agitated and confused. But why do I find you here? And more than all, why as a poor seamstress, toiling for little more than a crust of bread and a cup of water? Where is your husband? Where are your children?"

"Three years ago," replied Mrs. Gaston, "we removed to this city. My husband entered into business, and was unsuccessful. He lost everything, and about a year ago, died, leaving me destitute. I have struggled on, since then, the best I could, but to little purpose. The pittance I have been able to earn at the miserable prices we are paid by the tailors has scarcely sufficed to keep my children from starving. But one of them"—and the mother's voice trembled—"my sweet Ella! was not permitted to remain with me, when I could no longer provide things comfortable for my little ones. A few short weeks ago, she was taken away to a better world. It was a hard trial, but I would not have her back again. And Henry, the dear boy, you remember—I have been forced to let him go from my side out into the world. I have neither seen nor heard from him since I parted with him. Emma alone remains."

Mrs. Gaston's feelings so overcame her at this relation, that she wept and sobbed for some time.

"But, my dear Eugenia!—my child that I loved so tenderly, and have so long mourned as lost," she said, at length, drawing her arm affectionately around Miss Ballantine, "in better and happier times, we made one household for more than five pleasant years. Let us not be separated now, when there are clouds over our heads, and sorrow on our paths. Together we shall be able to bear up better and longer than when separated. I have a room, into which I moved a week since, that is pleasanter than this. One room, one bed, one fire, and one light, will do for two as well as one. We shall be better able to contend with our lot together. Will you come with me, Eugenia?"

"Will I not, Mrs. Gaston? Oh! to be once more with you! To have one who can love me as you will love me! One to whom I can unburden my heart—Oh, I shall be too happy!"

And the poor creature hung upon the neck of her maternal friend, and wept aloud.

"Then come at once," said Mrs. Gaston. "You have nothing to keep you here?"

"No, nothing," replied Eugenia.

"I will get some one to take your trunk." And Mrs. Gaston turned away and left the room. In a little while, she came back with a man, who removed the trunk to her humble dwelling-place. Thence we will follow them.

"And now, my dear Eugenia," said Mrs. Gaston, after they had become settled down, and their minds had assumed a more even flow, "clear up to me this strange mystery. Why are you here, and in this destitute condition? How did you escape death? Tell me all, or I shall still think myself only in the bewildering mazes of a dream."

(To be continued.)

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BY WILLIE EDGAR TABOR.

SOMETIMESthere steals across the heartA quietness of flow,Where gentle memories form a part,And bid in mythic tableaux startThe scenes of long ago—Too holy and too heavenlyFor open utterance or fear.Across the mirror of the soul,A gorgeous, a transcendent whole,They pass—a train of silent thought,With spirit, bliss, and pleasure fraught.Then shut we out the world from view,And all its mundane care;Our hearts baptized with fresh'ning dew,Which we from seraph regions drew;Our minds with ambient air.We love to linger very long(As on some ancient harper's song,Floating through corridors of time,In all the majesty of rhyme),And silent thought alone expressThe acme of our happiness.These whispers language cannot tell:E'en imagery bows lowBefore the task; its gentle spell(Like zephyrs in some elfin dell)Will o'er the spirit flow.And moments pass unheeded byAs visions to the spirit's eyeOpen their prospects, and lay plainTheir tracery of joy or pain.With bliss or wo forever fraught,Within the halls ofSILENT THOUGHT.

SOMETIMESthere steals across the heart

A quietness of flow,

Where gentle memories form a part,

And bid in mythic tableaux start

The scenes of long ago—

Too holy and too heavenly

For open utterance or fear.

Across the mirror of the soul,

A gorgeous, a transcendent whole,

They pass—a train of silent thought,

With spirit, bliss, and pleasure fraught.

Then shut we out the world from view,And all its mundane care;Our hearts baptized with fresh'ning dew,Which we from seraph regions drew;Our minds with ambient air.We love to linger very long(As on some ancient harper's song,Floating through corridors of time,In all the majesty of rhyme),And silent thought alone expressThe acme of our happiness.

Then shut we out the world from view,

And all its mundane care;

Our hearts baptized with fresh'ning dew,

Which we from seraph regions drew;

Our minds with ambient air.

We love to linger very long

(As on some ancient harper's song,

Floating through corridors of time,

In all the majesty of rhyme),

And silent thought alone express

The acme of our happiness.

These whispers language cannot tell:E'en imagery bows lowBefore the task; its gentle spell(Like zephyrs in some elfin dell)Will o'er the spirit flow.And moments pass unheeded byAs visions to the spirit's eyeOpen their prospects, and lay plainTheir tracery of joy or pain.With bliss or wo forever fraught,Within the halls ofSILENT THOUGHT.

These whispers language cannot tell:

E'en imagery bows low

Before the task; its gentle spell

(Like zephyrs in some elfin dell)

Will o'er the spirit flow.

And moments pass unheeded by

As visions to the spirit's eye

Open their prospects, and lay plain

Their tracery of joy or pain.

With bliss or wo forever fraught,

Within the halls ofSILENT THOUGHT.

A STORY FROM A GERMAN BALLAD.

BY ELMA SOUTH.

'TWASnight, the star-gemmed and glittering, when a bereaved mother lay tossing on her bed in all the feverish restlessness of unsanctified sorrow. Sleep had fled far from her weary eye-lids; and her grief-burdened heart refused to send up from its troubled fountains the refreshing stream of prayer.

The deep stillness that rested on the hushed earth was broken by those saddest of all sounds, the bitter wailings of a mother weeping for her children, and "refusing to be comforted because they are not."

"Oh, woe, woe is me!" was the piteous cry of that breaking heart, and the piercing sound went up to the still heavens; but they looked calmly down in their starry beauty and seemed to hear it not.

And thus slowly passed the long, weary hours of the night, and naught was heard save the solemn chiming of the clock, telling, with iron tongue, that man was drawing hourly nearer to the quiet grave.

And as the mourner lay listening to Time's slow, measured strokes, Memory was busy with the images of the loved and lost. Again they were before her in all their youthful beauty; she heard their gleeful voices and felt their fond caresses. The night wind swept coolingly into the casement, and, as it touched her throbbing brow, it seemed like the soft kisses of her loving children.

Poor mourner! Could earth furnish no magic mirror in which thou couldst always thus see the dead living? Oh, no! for as melts the fleecy cloud in to the blue depths of heaven, so passed away the blessed vision; and seeing but the coffin and the shroud, again arose on the silent air those tones of despairing anguish: "Woe is me! my sons are dead!"

Then softly and sweetly sounded forth the matin chimes, blending their holy music with the anguished cries of the bereaved mother. In the midst of her sorrow, she heard the bells' sweet harmony, and, leaving her sleepless couch, walked forth into the refreshing air. Morning was breaking cold and gray over the earth, and the stars were growing pale at the approaching step of the monarch of the day.

Slowly walks the mourner through the yet sleeping woods, whose flowers are folded in silence, and whose birds give forth no carols. She reaches the antique church and enters the sacred doors. A mysterious light—light that is almost shade—is brooding over the holy aisles, clothing in shadowy garments the pale images of departed saints; wrapping in mantle of dimness the carved sepulchres; throwing strange gleams over the tall white columns; and embracing, with pale arms, cross and picture, and antique shrine. In the midst of this mysterious light kneel a silent company; each head is bowed on the clasped hands, and no sound is heard save a deep, far distant murmuring, like the voice of the mighty wind when it passes through the leaves of the dark, old pines, dwelling in some dim, solemn woods.

Suddenly every head is lifted, and the mourner sees in that vast company friends who had been sleeping long ages in the silent tomb. All were there again; the friend of her cloudless childhood, who went down to death's cold chambers in all her stainless beauty, sinking into the grave as pure as the snow-flake that falls to the earth. And there was the sister of her home and heart, the tried friend of sorrow's shaded hours, who, in dying, left a mighty void that time could never fill. And there were the "mighty dead," they whose footsteps, when living, tracked the world with light—light that now shed a halo over their graves. And there were the meek, patient ones of earth, pale martyrs to sorrow, who struggled hopefully through the dim vapors that surround the world, and met as a reward the ineffable brightness of heaven. They were all here, all who had passed from earth amidst a fond tribute of tears and regrets.

All were here save two, those two the most dearly loved among the precious company of the dead; and wildly scanning the pale group, the mother called aloud as she missed her children: "Oh, my sons! my sons! would that I could see them but once again!"

Then arose a loud voice, and it said: "Look to the east;" and the weeping mother looked.

Oh! dreadful sight! there, by the sacred altar,rested a block and a fearful wheel. Stretched on these dreadful instruments of doom, in the coarse garb of the prison, wrestling fiercely with death in its most awful form, were two poor youths; and in their wan countenances, where crime and grief had traced their fearful march, the mother recognized her lost sons.

Dismayed, heart-sick, despairing, she motionless stands; and the deep silence is again broken by a voice speaking these words:—

"Mourner, whose every tone is a murmur at Heaven's will, whose every expression is a doubt of God's love, let this teach thee a mighty truth. See the dark path of crime they might have trod; see the agony, the shame, the maternal anguish that might have swept like a desolating tempest over thy heart; then thank thy God, in a burst of fervent praise, that he took them in unsullied youth from a world of sin to a place of safe refuge."

The voice ceased, and darkness fell like a pall on the marble floor; but through the arched windows came streaming the pale moonlight, and beneath its holy rays, the mother knelt and prayed.

There fell on her heart a blessed calm, as a voice whispered to the troubled waves of sorrow, "peace, be still."

And the angel of death stole softly in, and sealed her pale lips forever, whilst repentance and resignation were breathing from them in the music of prayer.

Oh, weeping mother! who art hanging garlands of sorrow ever fresh over thy children's tombs, take to thy bereaved heart, and ponder well, this "Mother's Lesson!"

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LANGUAGE.

ASwe are desirous of pointing out in what respects parents may assist in the education of their children previous to their being sent to school, we must remind them that it is at home that a child learns to speak; and that there is, perhaps, nothing which helps more towards his after instruction than the power of speaking well. There are sometimes very strange notions on this subject amongst fathers and mothers. They think, as long as they themselves can understand a child when it begins to talk, that it is sufficient. They are rather pleased than otherwise that the baby should have its own names for the things it wants, and the parent learns to use these words for the accommodation of the child. Instead of being helped forward in its progress to plain speaking, it is allowed for several years to express itself in a strange sort of gibberish, which is only laughed at and admired by the rest of the family. The mother will tell with a sort of satisfaction that little Susan can never use the letter S, or the letter W; and no effort is made by her to conquer the difficulty. She does not foresee, as most probably will be the case, that this will be a sort of stumbling-block in little Susan's way when she goes to school, and that she will pass for a sort of dunce, perhaps, for a year or two, in consequence of her inability to read as well as other children of her age. When she stands up in her class and begins to read her portion of the lesson, she is told by the rest of the children that they cannot understand a word that she reads; and the patience of her teacher is sorely tried, in vain attempts to get a few words distinctly uttered. And when Susan leaves school at last to enter upon her occupation in life—say that of teacher—it is ten to one that her imperfect utterance does not stand in her way in getting a place; for mothers, who are well educated, like that their children should be with those who speak well, and in the first interview with Susan, the imperfection in her speech is discovered. The same, perhaps, with Willy, her brother, who finds himself rejected several times by persons to whom he offers himself to fill some situation for which he is perfectly well qualified, only that the gentlemen think he must be but a rough sort of lad from the countrified way in which he answers the questions put to him. Clearness and correctness of speech have also another advantage in securing correctness and clearness of thoughts. A child who is made to put the right word to everything and to pronounce it properly—to use the right expression in describing what he sees, or in telling what he has done—knows and understands better than one who makes up words or expressions for himself; and a mother or father can, if they be not very bad speakers themselves, early accustom their children to choose the right names for things instead of the wrong in their talk. We all know that in many counties of England, the people living there have words peculiar to themselves for many things, different from the way in which they are called in London, or in the great towns; at thesame time that they know quite well what are the right names and words used by the well educated. From early habit they like to use these words, which perhaps remind them of their own childhood or their home in early life; but it would be as well to remember that to their children it would be an advantage to use the more correct words and expressions, and therefore worth their while to make an effort to employ them. It is also of great importance that thepronunciation, or way of sounding words, should be correct. In these counties, for instance, it is the habit of the people not to sound the letter H at the beginning of a word; and though this may seem a very trifling matter, it may on many occasions in life go greatly against a young person, should he or she talk of aorseor aouse, instead of ahorseor ahouse. The persons so speaking may have learned to read very correctly, and write well, and be possessed of a good stock of useful knowledge, and yet with a very large class of persons they would, from such a slip of the tongue, be set down as ignorant and ill educated—perhaps even be suspected of a rudeness and vulgarity in thought and feeling which they were far from being guilty of. To secure their children against such a disadvantage, it would be worth while for any parent who knows how to spell, to take care that this important letterhis sounded in all words which it begins, there being only two or three words in the English in which it is the custom not to pronounce it, such ashour,heir,honor, &c., which are soon learned to be exceptions to the general rule. This habit, it is true, is peculiar to England; but it shows how carefully proper habits should be nurtured in childhood.

There is a still more important point for parents to observe in the language used by their children, and this is the avoidance of all profane, vulgar, or indecent words. And in this respect the parent is most particularly the teacher of his child. A father who uses an oath in the presence of his innocent child, teaches that child to make use of that expression some day in his turn. A mother who takes the great name of God in vain, not only sets her child the example of so doing, but takes away from its young mind some portion of the reverence which it has hitherto felt towards the Great Being whom it is taught to call its "Father in Heaven." Too much is it the custom, in the most trivial events of everyday life, to utter that Name which should never be pronounced but with reverence and love. It is called upon in moments of anger and impatience, when the remembrance of His care and love should lead us to leave the little as well as the great events of life trustfully in his hands, knowing as we do that all is ordered and ruled for our good.

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HOLDoiled paper in the smoke of a lamp, or of pitch, until it becomes coated with the smoke; to this paper apply the leaf of which you wish an impression, having previously warmed it between your hands, that it may be pliable. Place the lower surface of the leaf upon the blackened surface of the oil-paper, that the numerous veins, which are so prominent on this side, may receive from the paper a portion of the smoke. Lay a paper over the leaf, and then press it gently upon the smoked paper with the fingers, or with a small roller (covered with woollen cloth, or some like soft material), so that every part of the leaf may come in contact with the sooted oil-paper. A coating of the smoke will adhere to the leaf. Then remove the leaf carefully, and place the blackened surface on a sheet of white paper, not ruled, or in a book prepared for the purpose, covering the leaf with a clean slip of paper, and pressing upon it with the fingers, or roller, as before. Thus may be obtained the impression of a leaf, showing the perfect outlines, together with an accurate exhibition of the veins which extend in every direction through it, more correctly than the finest drawing. And this process is so simple, and the materials so easily obtained, that any person, with a little practice to enable him to apply the right quantity of smoke to the oil-paper, and give the leaf a proper pressure, can prepare beautiful leaf impressions, such as a naturalist would be proud to possess.

There is another, and we think a better method of takingleaf impressionsthan the preceding one. The only difference in the process consists in the use ofprinting-inkinstead of smoked oil-paper.

LEAFPRINTING.—After warming the leaf between the hands, applyprinting-ink, by means of a small leather ball containing cotton, or some soft substance, or with the end of the finger. The leather ball (and the finger when used for that purpose), after the ink is applied to it, should be pressed several times upon a piece of leather, or some smooth surface, before each application to the leaf, that the ink may be smoothly and evenly applied.

After the under surface of the leaf has been sufficiently inked, apply it to the paper, where you wish the impression; and, after covering it with a slip of paper, use the hand or roller to press upon it, as described in the former process.

[From "Rural Architecture," published by C. M. Saxton, New York.]

Rural farm house scene

THISis a plain and unpretending building in appearance; yet, in its ample finish, and deeply drawn and sheltering eaves, broad veranda, and spacious out-buildings, may give accommodation to a large family indulging a liberal style of living.

By an error in the engraving, the main roof of the house is made to appear like a double, or gambrel-roof, breaking at the intersection of the gable, or hanging roof over the ends. This is not so intended. The roofs on each side are a straight line of rafters. The Swiss, or hanging style of gable-roof, is designed to give a more sheltered effect to the elevation than to run the end walls to a peak in the point of the roof.

By a defect in the drawing, the roof of the veranda is not sufficiently thrown over the columns. This roof should project at least one foot beyond them, so as to perfectly shelter the mouldings beneath from the weather, and conform to the style of the main roof of the house.

The material of which it is built may be of either stone, brick, or wood, as the taste or convenience of the proprietor may suggest. The main building is 44 by 36 feet, on the ground. The cellar wall may show 18 to 24 inches above the ground, and be pierced by windows in each end, as shown in the plan. The height of the main walls may be two full stories below the roof plates, or the chambers may run a foot or two into the garret, at the choice of the builder, either of which arrangements may be permitted.

The front door opens from a veranda 28 feet long by 10 feet in depth, drooping eight inches from the door-sill. This veranda has a hipped roof, which juts over the columns in due proportion with the roof of the house over its walls. These columns are plain, with brackets, or braces from near their tops, sustaining the plate and finish of the roof above, which may be covered either with tin or zinc, painted, or closely shingled.

The walls of the house may be 18 to 20 feet high below the plates; the roof a pitch of 30 to 45 degrees, which will afford an upper garret, or store, or small sleeping rooms, if required; and the eaves should project two to three feet, as climate may demand, over the walls. A plain finish—that is, ceiled underneath—is shown in the design, but brackets on the ends of the rafters, beaded and finished, may be shown, if preferred. The gables areSwiss-roofed, ortruncated, thus giving them a most sheltered and comfortable appearance, particularly in a northerlyclimate. The small gable in front relieves the roof of its monotony, and affords light to the central garret. The chimneys are carried out with partition flues, and may be topped with square caps, as necessity or taste may demand.

GROUND PLAN and CHAMBER PLAN

Retreating three feet from the kitchen side of the house runs, at right angles, a wing 30 by 18 feet, one and a half stories high, with a veranda eight feet wide in front. Next in rear of this, continues a wood-house, 30 by 18 feet, one story high, with ten-feet posts, and open in front, the ground level of which is 18 inches below the floor of the wing to which it is attached. The roof of these two is of like character with that of the main building.

Adjoining this wood-house, and at right angles with it, is a building 68 by 18 feet, projecting two feet outside the line of wood-house and kitchen. This building is one and a half stories high, with twelve feet posts, and roof in the same style and of equal pitch as the others.

Interior Arrangement.—The front door from the veranda of the house opens into a hall, 18 by 8 feet, and 11 feet high, amply lighted by sash windows on the sides, and over the door. From the rear of this hall runs a flight of easy stairs, into the upper or chamber hall. On one side of the lower hall, a door leads into a parlor, 18 feet square, and 11 feet high, lighted by three windows, and warmed by an open stove or fireplace, the pipe passing into a chimney flue in the rear. A door passes from this parlor into a rear passage, or entry, thus giving it access to the kitchen and rear apartments. At the back end of the front hall, a door leads into the rear passage and kitchen; and on the side opposite the parlor, a door opens into the sitting or family room; 18 by 16 feet in area, having an open fireplace, and three windows. On the hall side of this room, a door passes into the kitchen, 22 by 16 feet, and which may, in case the requirements of the family demand it, be made the chief family or living room, and the last one described converted into a library. In this kitchen, which is lighted by two windows, is a liberal open fireplace, with an ample oven by its side, and a sink in the outercorner. A flight of stairs, also, leads to the rear chambers above; and a corresponding flight under them, to the cellar below. A door at each end of these stairs leads into the back entry of the house, and thus to the other interior rooms, or through the rear outer door to the back porch. This back entry is lighted by a single sash window over the outside door leading to the porch. Another door, opposite that leading down cellar, opens into the passage through the wing. From the rear hall, which is 16 by 5 feet, the innermost passage leads into a family bedroom, or nursery, 16 by 14 feet, lighted by a window in each outside wall, and warmed by an open fireplace, or stove, at pleasure. Attached to this bedroom is a clothes-closet, 8 by 4 feet, with shelves and drawers. Next the outer door, in rear end of the hall, is a small closet opening from it, 6 by 4 feet in dimensions, convertible to any use which the mistress of the house may direct.

Opening into the wing from the kitchen, first, is a large closet and pantry, supplied with a table, drawers, and shelves, in which are stored the dishes, table furniture, and edibles necessary to be kept at a moment's access. This room is 14 by 8 feet, and well lighted by a window of convenient size. If necessary, this room may have a partition, shutting off a part from the everyday uses which the family requires. In this room, so near to the kitchen, to the sink, to hot water, and the other little domestic accessories which good housewives know so well how to arrange and appreciate, all the nice little table-comforts can be got up, and perfected, and stored away, under lock and key, in drawer, tub, or jar, at their discretion, and still their eyes not be away from their subordinates in the other departments. Next to this, and connected by a door, is the dairy, or milk-room, also 14 by 8 feet; which, if necessary, may be sunk three or four feet into the ground, for additional coolness in the summer season, and the floor reached by steps. In this are ample shelves for the milk-pans, convenience of churning, &c. &c. But, if the dairy be a prominent object of the farm, a separate establishment will be required, and the excavation may not be necessary for ordinary household uses. Out of this milk-room, a door leads into a wash-room, 18 by 14 feet. A passage from the kitchen also leads into this. The wash-room is lighted by two windows in rear, and one in front. A sink is between the two rear windows, with conductor leading outside, and a closet beneath it, for the iron ware. In the chimney, at the end, are boilers, and a fireplace, an oven, or anything else required, and a door leading to a platform in the wood-house, and so into the yard. On the other side of the chimney, a door leads into a bathing-room, 7 by 6 feet, into which hot water is drawn from one of the boilers adjoining, and cold water may be introduced, by a hand-pump, through a pipe leading into the well or cistern.

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HOWessential is it to the well-being of a family that the wife and mother should be cheerful, active, and healthy. Yet, looking at those classes of the community a little above what may be termed the laboring class, how frequently we find that the women are ailing, nervous, and irritable; or, as they would call themselves, "delicate!" How is this?

"Why," answers one, "some are the children of unhealthy parents, and the inheritors of their diseases." Where this is the case, the fullest sympathy and consideration are due; but the number of such would be only a few in comparison with the class we speak of. We must look further for the cause.

"Oh," suggests another, "is not the fact of being a wife and mother, and having the care and management of a family and household, with perhaps very limited pecuniary resources, quite enough to make women weak and ailing?" We think not. Such circumstances are trying; but with some women they have been the means of drawing out unwonted cheerfulness and energy of character. Allowing, however, that some women are so tried and harassed by the circumstances of married life that their health and energy give way; still their number would be comparatively few, and we must find some other cause for the fact that there are so many females who call themselves "delicate."

Is it that they have an impression that there is something amiable in being delicate?

Do they think it is lady-like to be delicate?

Is not this delicacy cultivated by some as a means of drawing more largely on sympathy, especially the husband's sympathy?

Are not idleness and inactivity often excused or hidden under this convenient cloak of delicacy?

We think that each of these questions may be correctly answered in the affirmative, and that the commencement of these errors, with all their attendant evils, may be traced to the education of the girl.

Years ago, Fanny was a healthy, active, and unaffected child, when her parents sent her to a boarding-school. For the first few days, feeling herself among strangers, and away from home, she was pensive and quiet; but this soon wore away, and she became cheerful and happy again. She had taken a skipping-rope with her to school, and one evening, when she was in the full enjoyment of the use of it, the evening bell rang for the scholars to retire for the night. When Fanny went to say "good-night" to the governess, she was surprised to hear her say to the matron: "You will be so good as to give Miss Fanny a dose of calomel, she is in too robust health; see, her cheeks are like a milkmaid's." So Fanny had to take calomel, and the next day she was languid and listless, or, as the governess seemed to consider, "lady-like." Another time, when playing with a companion somewhat actively in the playground, they were stopped by a teacher, saying: "Young ladies, are you not ashamed of yourselves? that is not the way to conduct yourselves in this establishment. Why, what would be thought of you? Pray let me see you walk like young ladies."

Fanny wished then that she was not to be called a "young lady" if she might not play and romp about a little, for she was sure it made her happy to do so. But it is astonishing what changes may in time be effected by teaching and example. During the remainder of her stay at school, Fanny had occasional doses of calomel when too robust health began to show itself; and she had learned to believe that, to be at all respected by her fellow-creatures, she must be considered a young lady, and that all young ladies were of delicate constitutions, and that it was very unlady-like to be healthy and active.

Poor Fanny! she had not only imbibed these notions, but she had also lost a great deal of her vigor of constitution, and had become inert and inactive. When she left school, she returned to the home of her childhood, where family arrangements were such that her assistance would frequently have been acceptable to her parents. But when anything was requested of her, it was attended to in a manner so unwilling and languid, that they soon ceased to ask anything of her, grieving and wondering what was become of their cheerful and active Fanny.

Not being aware of Fanny's idea's about ladyism, and not perceiving that the mind wanted curing more than the body, her parents consulted the family doctor, who said that he could not perceive there was much the matter with her; he, however, recommended fresh air and exercise, and suggested that perhaps a few weeks by the seaside might do her good. Now, this latter advice Fanny liked very much; it added to her importance as a lady that she should be taken to the seaside because she was in delicate health. However, as Fanny meant to be delicate, she was as much so on her return as before, until at last it became an allowed fact in the family that Fanny was "so delicate" that she was left to do pretty much as she pleased.

Time passed on, and Fanny became a wife, and, with a vague idea that she was to secure to herself the affections of her husband, just in proportion that she made demands upon his sympathy, her elegant ailings became more numerous than ever, and she has fully established her claim to be classed among "delicate women."

Perhaps the custom of giving calomel to destroy health, as if it were a weed too rank to be allowed to grow, is not very much practised; but other injurious customs are taught and practised which as certainly injure health.

The custom of confining the body in tight stays, or tight clothes of any kind, is exceedingly hurtful to the health of both body and mind. A girl has learned a very bad lesson, when she has been taught that to gain the admiration of her fellow-creatures, she must, even to the endangering of health and life, distort her figure from that which nature has made, to something which fashion presumes to dictate as more admirable.

The custom of preventing the active use of the limbs, and free exercise of the body generally, and restricting every movement to the artificial notions of boarding-school propriety, is attended with mental and physical evils of all sorts. While a child is forbidden to take the bodily exercise which nature would impel her to do, the humors grow thick and stagnate for want of motion to warm and dilate them; the general circulation is impeded; the muscles stiffen, because deprived of their necessary moisture; obstructions take place, which produce weakness in every animal function; and nature, no longer able to discharge the morbid matter which constantly accumulates from all her imperfect operations, gradually sickens, and the child is either carried to a premature grave, or continues an existence of physical and mental languor and listlessness; and another is added to the class of "delicate women."

We cannot be far from right in saying thatalmost all the mental and physical ailings of "delicate women" may be traced to a defective education. And those who are now engaged in training girls, whether at home or in schools, cannot too seriously consider the weight of responsibility resting upon them. Upon their management depend much of future health, and, consequently, the usefulness and happiness of those committed to their charge.

As requisites to the promotion of bodily vigor, we will mention:—

A strict attention to personal cleanliness, which children should be taught to cultivate, because it is healthy and right that they should be clean, and not because "it would look so if they were dirty!"

The use of apartments that are well ventilated.

Frequent and sufficient active bodily exercise in the open air.

Entire freedom from any pressure upon the person by the use of tight clothes.

A sufficiency of nourishing and digestible food.

And, in winter, the use of such firing as is needed to keep up a healthful warmth.

All these will tend to promote health, but we shall have no security against "delicate women" unless there be also added the cultivation of mental health.

For this, it is necessary that girls should be taught to cultivatemental purity and mental activity, by sufficient and well-regulated exercise of the mind.

Habits of benevolence, contentment, and cheerful gratitude should be inculcated, both by precept and example, to the exclusion of selfishness.

And, above all, should be strongly impressed upon the mind the necessity of the strictest integrity, which will lead to the abhorrence of every species of affectation, which is, indeed, only a modified sort of deceit.

Girls should also be early taught that they are responsible beings; responsible to God for the right use of all the mercies bestowed upon them; and that health is one of the chief of earthly blessings, and that it is their duty to value and preserve it.

But much is learnt from example as well as from precept; therefore, let no affectation of languid airs in a teacher give a child the idea that there can be anything admirable in the absence of strength. We do not wish that girls should cultivate anything masculine; for an unfeminine woman cannot be an object of admiration to the right judging of either sex. But a female has no occasion to affect to be feminine; she is so naturally, and if she will but let nature have its perfect work, she will, most likely, be not only feminine, but also graceful and admirable.

The school studies of girls should be so arranged that they may afford mental food and satisfaction; otherwise, as soon as the lesson hours are over, they will, most likely, turn with avidity to any nonsense they can learn from foolish conversation, or to reading some of the trashy books of the day, to the injury of all mental and moral health, and the almost certain production of "delicate women."

To those who are already women, and are unfortunately classed among the "delicate," we would say: For the sake of your husbands, and all connected with you, strive resolutely to lose your claim to such an unenviable distinction. If you are conscious of the least feeling of satisfaction in hearing yourself spoken of as delicate, be assured it is a degree of mental disease that allows the feeling. If you ever suppose that you gain your husband's sympathy by weakness, remember you might gain more of his esteem and satisfied affection by strength. Fifty years ago, it was well said that, "To a man of feeling, extreme delicacy in the partner of his life and fortune is an object of great and constant concern; but asemblanceof such delicacy, where it does not really exist, is an insult on his discernment, and must ultimately inspire him with aversion and disgust." It is not for us to say how many put on the semblance of delicacy as a covering for idleness, or from any of the weak motives that prompt such an affectation—conscience will whisper where this is the case—and happy will it be for the household of any one who can be roused from such a pitiable state.

Could woman only know how many husbands are bankrupt because their wives are "delicate;" how many children are physically, mentally, and morally neglected and ruined, because their mothers are "delicate;" how many servants become dishonest and inefficient, because their mistresses are "delicate"—the list would be so appalling that possibly we might hear of an Anti-delicate-ladies Association, for the better promotion of family happiness and family economy.

Meanwhile, let each listen to her own conscience and the dictates of her better judgment, and remember that health is a gift of God, and we cannot slight a gift without also slighting the Giver.

THE GLEANER Painted by F Poole

BY RICHARD COE.

(See Plate.)

NOTthe raven's glossy wingIs so beautiful a thingAs thy locks of jet-black hair,Maiden, all so bright and fair!And a soul of beauty liesIn the midnight of thine eyes;And a sweet, expressive graceSitteth meekly on thy face,Like unto a statue seenOf some gentle, loving queen!Whatsoe'er thy name or station,Thine, sweet maid, 's a blest vocation;'Neath the dome that God hath spreadAll above and round thy head;Taking in the healthful breezeFrom the mountain-tops and trees;Thou dost toil from day to day,Knowing that "to work's to pray!"Conscious of reward well wonAt the setting of the sun.From thy thought-revealing browStrength of intellect hast thou;In the harvest-fields of ThoughtMighty minds of old have wrought;Thou hast followed in their way,Gleaning richly day by day:Gems of purest ray sereneIn the intervals betweenConstant toil and needful rest,Thou hast garnered in thy breast.In the brighter fields above,'Neath the beaming eye of Love,While the heavenly reapers stand,Each with sickle in his hand,Thou shalt take thy final restOn the Master's kindly breast;Ever, evermore to beBlest throughout eternity;Never, nevermore to roamFrom thy gladsome Harvest Home!

NOTthe raven's glossy wing

Is so beautiful a thing

As thy locks of jet-black hair,

Maiden, all so bright and fair!

And a soul of beauty lies

In the midnight of thine eyes;

And a sweet, expressive grace

Sitteth meekly on thy face,

Like unto a statue seen

Of some gentle, loving queen!

Whatsoe'er thy name or station,Thine, sweet maid, 's a blest vocation;'Neath the dome that God hath spreadAll above and round thy head;Taking in the healthful breezeFrom the mountain-tops and trees;Thou dost toil from day to day,Knowing that "to work's to pray!"Conscious of reward well wonAt the setting of the sun.

Whatsoe'er thy name or station,

Thine, sweet maid, 's a blest vocation;

'Neath the dome that God hath spread

All above and round thy head;

Taking in the healthful breeze

From the mountain-tops and trees;

Thou dost toil from day to day,

Knowing that "to work's to pray!"

Conscious of reward well won

At the setting of the sun.

From thy thought-revealing browStrength of intellect hast thou;In the harvest-fields of ThoughtMighty minds of old have wrought;Thou hast followed in their way,Gleaning richly day by day:Gems of purest ray sereneIn the intervals betweenConstant toil and needful rest,Thou hast garnered in thy breast.

From thy thought-revealing brow

Strength of intellect hast thou;

In the harvest-fields of Thought

Mighty minds of old have wrought;

Thou hast followed in their way,

Gleaning richly day by day:

Gems of purest ray serene

In the intervals between

Constant toil and needful rest,

Thou hast garnered in thy breast.

In the brighter fields above,'Neath the beaming eye of Love,While the heavenly reapers stand,Each with sickle in his hand,Thou shalt take thy final restOn the Master's kindly breast;Ever, evermore to beBlest throughout eternity;Never, nevermore to roamFrom thy gladsome Harvest Home!

In the brighter fields above,

'Neath the beaming eye of Love,

While the heavenly reapers stand,

Each with sickle in his hand,

Thou shalt take thy final rest

On the Master's kindly breast;

Ever, evermore to be

Blest throughout eternity;

Never, nevermore to roam

From thy gladsome Harvest Home!

BY ROSA MONTROSE.

IHAVEa little nephew,He is scarcely three years old,With eyes of heaven's deepest blue,And ringlets palely gold;His mouth, a velvet rosebud red,All hung with honey-dew;But sweeter far our darling's lipsThan rose that ever grew!I ne'er have found so dear a child,Or one so strangely fair,Or saw on infant brow like hisThe mind that's slumb'ring there!And oftentimes he utters things,Confounding wise and old;And from his baby lips we hearWhat wisdom bath not told!He's like a breath of summer air—A dew-drop pure and bright,That falls from Evening's closing eye,To kiss the morning light:A ray of sunshine, soft and warm—A straying golden beam—A silver singing rivulet—Or joyous dancing stream!He is the treasure of our heart—The sunlight and the joy;He'll lisp to you the names he bears,Sweet, lovely, darling boy!And when he comes with pleading words,My work is laid away,Or classic volume closed at once,To join him in his play.His voice is like a tiny lute,And when he sweetly sings,You'd think he was an angel, andBe looking for his wings!And oft I clasp him to my heartWith strange foreboding fearThat he's a straying seraph childGod only lends us here!Such thoughts as these intruding come,For in this world of oursThe loveliest things the soonest droop;The fairest human flowersAre ever first to pass away,The first to fade and die—Thus teaching us our treasures shouldBe sought beyond the sky!But we will love our "angel boy,"And never cease to prayThat seraph forms may guide him here,But call him not away!And hope that till life's closing breath,As on his infant brow,So Intellect and InnocenceMay blend as pure as now!

IHAVEa little nephew,

He is scarcely three years old,

With eyes of heaven's deepest blue,

And ringlets palely gold;

His mouth, a velvet rosebud red,

All hung with honey-dew;

But sweeter far our darling's lips

Than rose that ever grew!

I ne'er have found so dear a child,Or one so strangely fair,Or saw on infant brow like hisThe mind that's slumb'ring there!And oftentimes he utters things,Confounding wise and old;And from his baby lips we hearWhat wisdom bath not told!

I ne'er have found so dear a child,

Or one so strangely fair,

Or saw on infant brow like his

The mind that's slumb'ring there!

And oftentimes he utters things,

Confounding wise and old;

And from his baby lips we hear

What wisdom bath not told!

He's like a breath of summer air—A dew-drop pure and bright,That falls from Evening's closing eye,To kiss the morning light:A ray of sunshine, soft and warm—A straying golden beam—A silver singing rivulet—Or joyous dancing stream!

He's like a breath of summer air—

A dew-drop pure and bright,

That falls from Evening's closing eye,

To kiss the morning light:

A ray of sunshine, soft and warm—

A straying golden beam—

A silver singing rivulet—

Or joyous dancing stream!

He is the treasure of our heart—The sunlight and the joy;He'll lisp to you the names he bears,Sweet, lovely, darling boy!And when he comes with pleading words,My work is laid away,Or classic volume closed at once,To join him in his play.

He is the treasure of our heart—

The sunlight and the joy;

He'll lisp to you the names he bears,

Sweet, lovely, darling boy!

And when he comes with pleading words,

My work is laid away,

Or classic volume closed at once,

To join him in his play.

His voice is like a tiny lute,And when he sweetly sings,You'd think he was an angel, andBe looking for his wings!And oft I clasp him to my heartWith strange foreboding fearThat he's a straying seraph childGod only lends us here!

His voice is like a tiny lute,

And when he sweetly sings,

You'd think he was an angel, and

Be looking for his wings!

And oft I clasp him to my heart

With strange foreboding fear

That he's a straying seraph child

God only lends us here!

Such thoughts as these intruding come,For in this world of oursThe loveliest things the soonest droop;The fairest human flowersAre ever first to pass away,The first to fade and die—Thus teaching us our treasures shouldBe sought beyond the sky!

Such thoughts as these intruding come,

For in this world of ours

The loveliest things the soonest droop;

The fairest human flowers

Are ever first to pass away,

The first to fade and die—

Thus teaching us our treasures should

Be sought beyond the sky!

But we will love our "angel boy,"And never cease to prayThat seraph forms may guide him here,But call him not away!And hope that till life's closing breath,As on his infant brow,So Intellect and InnocenceMay blend as pure as now!

But we will love our "angel boy,"

And never cease to pray

That seraph forms may guide him here,

But call him not away!

And hope that till life's closing breath,

As on his infant brow,

So Intellect and Innocence

May blend as pure as now!

BY W. S. GAFFNEY.

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